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alltoolewis · 3 days ago

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Sports car- Lewis Hamilton

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summary- Since joining Ferrari, Lewis has grown close to all members of the Leclerc family including Charles's sister. Despite knowing she's forbidden, he offers to take her to the gala where the tensions begin to rise in his sports car...

I LOVE THIS HOWEVER IT IS VERY STEAMY!!! PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION!!!

You’ve always lived in someone else’s shadow.

Not because you were invisible — quite the opposite. As Charles Leclerc’s younger sister, you became part of the Leclerc legacy before you even understood what that meant. In Monaco, people knew your last name before they knew your first. At family dinners, relatives discussed your future in terms of your brother’s next podium. Even at school, teachers smiled at you like they expected greatness — or at least headlines.

You didn’t hate it. You loved Charles. But you learned early that silence was easier than explaining who you were beneath the family name.

So you built a career on the sidelines. Quietly brilliant. A digital strategist for Formula 1 media — someone who belonged in the paddock without drawing attention. You were everywhere and nowhere, a lens behind the lens. And that’s exactly how you preferred it.

Until him.

Lewis Hamilton doesn’t enter rooms. He arrives. He doesn’t speak; he commands attention. And somehow, in a sport obsessed with youth and fresh talent, he still walks like he owns every corner of every track.

You never intended to notice him. Older. Untouchable. Far too famous. But notice him you did — and that changed everything.

It started with a glance across a crowded paddock. A glance that held weight. Electricity. The kind of look that rewrites personal histories in a single breath. He didn't smile. Didn't wave. Just saw you — really saw you — in a way no one ever had before. Not as someone's sister. Not as a background figure. But as you.

The first time you actually spoke was three weeks later. You were rushing through the Ferrari garage with a tablet full of content schedules, head down, focused on deadlines. You didn't see him until you collided — shoulder to chest, your tablet clattering to the concrete.

"Shit, sorry—" You dropped to your knees, scrambling for the device.

"Easy." His voice was lower than you expected. Warmer. He crouched beside you, picking up the tablet before you could reach it. "No damage done."

You looked up. Met his eyes properly for the first time. They were darker in person, more intense. The kind of brown that held secrets.

"Thanks." You reached for the tablet, but he didn't immediately hand it over.

"You're Charles's sister." Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered without the usual reverence people used when connecting you to your brother.

"Guilty." You tried for lightness, but it came out flat.

"I'm Lewis."

As if you didn't know. As if everyone in this garage — in this sport — didn't know exactly who he was. But something in the way he said it made it feel like an introduction between equals. Like he was offering you his name, not his reputation.

"I know who you are." You finally took the tablet from his hands, fingers brushing briefly. "Everyone knows who you are."

"But I don't know who you are." He stood, extending a hand to help you up. "Beyond the obvious family connection."

You hesitated. Took his hand. Let him pull you to your feet.

"I'm nobody important."

"I doubt that." His smile was slight, knowing. "Nobody unimportant moves through this world the way you do."

That moment — that single, electric moment — became the first thread in a tapestry you never expected to weave. You didn't know then how profoundly Lewis Hamilton would unravel everything you thought you understood about yourself, about visibility, about the quiet spaces you'd carved so carefully between the headlines.

You didn't fall. Not immediately. Not obviously. But something shifted in that moment — a tectonic realignment of your carefully constructed universe. You felt it in the way your pulse quickened, in the subtle electricity that lingered where his hand had touched yours. This was different. This was unexpected. This was the beginning of something that would rewrite every narrative you'd ever told yourself about who you were supposed to be.

And that it did...

The connection deepened in stolen moments. Brief conversations in empty corridors. Shared glances across crowded press conferences. Text messages that started professional and slowly became personal. Lewis had a way of asking questions that made you forget to guard your answers — about your work, your thoughts on the sport, your dreams that had nothing to do with racing.

You found yourself looking forward to race weekends not for Charles's results, but for the possibility of running into Lewis. The way he remembered details from conversations weeks old. How he listened when you spoke, really listened, like your words mattered more than the noise surrounding them.

"You see things differently," he told you one evening after a particularly chaotic qualifying session. You were both lingering in the paddock long after most people had left, the setting sun casting everything in golden light. "You notice what others miss."

"Occupational hazard," you deflected, but your heart was racing.

"No." He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "It's who you are."

The almost-kiss happened in Singapore. Rain had delayed practice, and you'd found shelter in an empty hospitality suite. Lewis appeared like he always did — as if the universe had conspired to put him exactly where you needed him to be. The conversation flowed like wine, intimate and intoxicating. When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn't pull away.

"We shouldn't," you whispered, even as you leaned into his touch.

"I know," he replied, but neither of you moved.

The space between you crackled with possibility. With want. With everything you'd been denying for months. But as his thumb traced your cheekbone, reality crashed back. The cameras. The headlines. The inevitable comparisons. Lewis Hamilton's Mystery Woman. Charles Leclerc's Sister in Secret Romance.

You stepped back.

"I can't be another story, Lewis. I can't be the girl who fell for the famous driver. I won't disappear into someone else's narrative again."

The hurt in his eyes was immediate, but so was the understanding. He'd watched you navigate this world, seen how carefully you'd constructed your independence. He knew what you were protecting.

"I would never ask you to disappear," he said quietly.

"You wouldn't have to ask. It would just happen." Your voice cracked slightly. "I've spent my whole life being someone's sister. I won't spend the rest of it being someone's secret."

So you pulled back. Created distance. Kept your conversations professional, your glances brief. But the want remained, simmering beneath every interaction. The way his jaw tightened when you laughed at another driver's joke. How your breath caught when he said your name. The careful space you both maintained, electric with everything you weren't allowing yourselves to feel.

You were falling — had already fallen — but you refused to let yourself land.

The Ferrari gala changed everything.

You'd managed three weeks of careful distance. Three weeks of professional smiles and conversations that never strayed beyond work. Three weeks of pretending your heart didn't skip when Lewis entered a room. It was working — or at least, you'd convinced yourself it was working.

But Monaco's grandest hotel had other plans.

"What do you mean there's no room?" Charles frowned at his phone, Alex beside him looking equally confused. "We booked the car service weeks ago."

You stood in the hotel lobby, evening gown already on, makeup perfect, watching your carefully laid plans dissolve. The Ferrari gala was in an hour. The venue was twenty minutes away. And apparently, the luxury car service had overbooked.

"They can send another car in forty-five minutes," Charles continued, running a hand through his hair. "But we'll be late. Really late."

"Go without me." You forced a smile, already calculating backup options. "I'll figure something out."

"Absolutely not." Alex shook her head. "We're not leaving you behind."

"I could call—"

"No need."

The voice came from behind you, warm and familiar. You turned to find Lewis approaching, car keys spinning around his finger. He looked devastating in his tuxedo — all sharp lines and confident elegance. Your carefully constructed composure wavered.

"Problem solved," he continued, those dark eyes finding yours. "I was heading there anyway."

Charles looked between you and Lewis, something unreadable flickering across his face. "You sure? We don't want to impose."

"No imposition." Lewis's smile was easy, casual. But when he looked at you, there was something deeper. A question. An invitation. "What do you say?"

You should have said no. Should have waited for the delayed car service, shown up fashionably late rather than risk twenty minutes alone with Lewis Hamilton in an enclosed space. Should have protected the distance you'd worked so hard to maintain.

Instead, you heard yourself saying, "That would be great. Thank you."

Charles kissed your cheek, whispered "have fun" in your ear with a knowing look that made your stomach flip. Alex squeezed your hand. And then they were gone, leaving you alone with Lewis in the marble lobby.

"Shall we?" He offered his arm, perfectly gentlemanly.

You took it, trying to ignore the way your skin burned where you touched him.

The car was exactly what you'd expected — sleek, expensive, powerful. A reflection of its owner. Lewis held the passenger door open, his hand briefly touching the small of your back as you settled into the leather seat. The contact lasted less than a second, but it sent electricity shooting up your spine.

He slid into the driver's seat with fluid grace, the engine purring to life. The first few minutes passed in careful silence, Monaco's glittering streets sliding past the windows. You focused on the view, on anything except the way Lewis's hands looked on the steering wheel, the subtle scent of his cologne filling the small space.

"You look beautiful tonight," he said quietly, eyes still on the road.

Your breath caught. "Lewis—"

"I know." His voice was rough. "I know we agreed to keep things professional. But sitting here, with you looking like that..." He glanced at you briefly, and the want in his eyes made your heart race. "I'm only human."

The car slowed at a red light. In the sudden stillness, the tension became unbearable. You could feel him looking at you, could sense the careful control he was maintaining. When you finally met his gaze, the air between you crackled.

"This is exactly what I was afraid of," you whispered.

"What? That we'd be alone together? That I'd tell you how stunning you look? That I'd want to pull over and kiss you until we both forget why we're fighting this?"

Your pulse thundered. "Yes."

The light turned green. Lewis accelerated smoothly, but his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"Then we're both afraid of the same thing," he said.

The rest of the drive passed in charged silence, broken only by the occasional comment that danced dangerously close to flirtation. When Lewis mentioned how the dress brought out your eyes, you countered by telling him his tuxedo was "almost unfairly handsome." Each exchange felt like a small rebellion against your own rules.

By the time you arrived at the venue, the tension had wound so tight you could barely breathe.

The Ferrari gala was everything you'd expected — opulent, crowded, buzzing with the energy of Monaco's elite mixed with Formula 1's biggest names. You found your assigned table quickly, settling between Charles and your parents, grateful for the familiar buffer of family conversation.

But across the room, at the drivers' table, Lewis Hamilton was impossible to ignore.

It started innocently enough. A glance in his direction during the welcome speech. He happened to be looking back, and for a moment, the crowded ballroom faded away. He raised his champagne glass slightly — a subtle toast meant only for you. You looked away quickly, cheeks warming.

Ten minutes later, during the appetizer course, you caught him watching you again. This time, when your eyes met, he smiled. Not the polished, public smile he wore for cameras, but something private. Intimate. The kind of smile that made your stomach flutter and your resolve weaken.

"You okay?" Charles leaned over, following your gaze. "You seem distracted."

"Fine," you lied, forcing your attention back to your plate. "Just tired."

But it was impossible to stay focused on your family's conversation when Lewis kept drawing your attention like a magnet. When he laughed at something Lando said, you found yourself watching the way his whole face lit up. When he stood to greet someone, you noticed how the tuxedo fit perfectly across his shoulders. When he ran a hand through his hair, you remembered how it felt when those same fingers had brushed your cheek in Singapore.

The worst part was that he seemed equally distracted. You'd catch him looking during your father's story about Monaco's early racing days. During your mother's animated discussion of charity work. During Charles's analysis of the upcoming race weekend. Every time your eyes met, the air seemed to thin, the noise of the gala fading to background static.

"Excuse me," you murmured during the main course, needing air, needing space, needing to escape the magnetic pull of Lewis's attention. "I'll be right back."

You made your way toward the terrace, weaving through tables of glamorous guests, but you could feel his eyes following your movement across the room.

The terrace was quiet, cool marble beneath your heels, the Monaco night spread out like a glittering canvas. You knew he would follow. It wasn't a question of if, but when.

Three minutes later, the glass door slid open behind you. No hesitation. No pretense. Just Lewis, closing the distance between you with the same deliberate grace he brought to everything.

"You're running," he said. Not an accusation but an observation.

"Always," you replied, turning to face him. The Monaco night framed him perfectly — city lights glinting off his skin, the sharp lines of his tuxedo cutting a silhouette that was equal parts danger and desire. "Running is what I do best."

He took another step closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle notes of his cologne. Close enough that one more step would mean touching. "Not always," he said softly. "Sometimes you stand perfectly still. And those are the moments that change everything."

He was right. And in that moment, with Monaco's nighttime skyline as witness, you knew you were about to make a choice that would rewrite everything.

Your hand reached out — almost involuntarily — and touched the lapel of his tuxedo. Not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Just contact. Connection. A point of no return.

"Lewis—" your voice was barely a whisper, "—we can't."

But even as you said it, you both knew the word "can't" had lost all meaning. The space between wanting and doing had collapsed, and there was nothing left but pure, electric possibility.

His hand covered yours where it rested against his chest. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Simply acknowledging the electricity between your skin.

"Watch me," he said, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was everything you'd imagined and nothing you'd prepared for. Soft at first, tentative, like he was asking permission even as he took it. But when you didn't pull away — when you leaned into him instead — it deepened. His lips moved against yours with practiced confidence, tasting like champagne and promises you weren't sure you could keep.

Your free hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape. He made a sound — low, appreciative — that sent heat spiraling through your chest. His other hand settled at your waist, thumb tracing small circles through the silk of your dress.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. "I've been thinking about doing that for months," he murmured, voice rough with want.

"Lewis." Your pulse was racing, every nerve ending alive. "We can't do this here. Anyone could see—"

"My room," he said immediately, the words barely more than breath against your lips. "Come back with me. Please."

The please undid you. Not a demand but a request, vulnerable in its honesty. You could see the want in his eyes, but also the question. The choice was entirely yours.

You thought about the gala still happening inside. About Charles and your parents at the table, probably wondering where you'd gone. About the careful distance you'd maintained, the professional boundaries you'd constructed.

Then Lewis's thumb brushed across your lower lip, and all those careful considerations scattered like leaves in the wind.

"I can't," you said, stepping back from his touch. The words felt like glass in your throat. "Not your room. Not tonight."

The disappointment that flickered across Lewis's face was immediate and devastating. His hand dropped from your waist, jaw tightening as he processed your rejection. For a moment, he looked like he might argue, might push back against your boundaries the way he pushed his car to its limits.

Instead, he nodded once, sharp and final. "Of course. I shouldn't have—"

"Wait." The word escaped before you could stop it. Lewis paused, hope and wariness warring in his expression. You glanced back toward the gala, toward the golden light spilling from the ballroom windows, then back to him. "Your car."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "My car?"

"You're not leaving the gala completely. Not with so much time left." Your heart hammered against your ribs as you spoke, each word a small rebellion against your better judgment. "But we could... we could have privacy. Just for a few minutes."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed immediately by something darker, hungrier. "Are you sure?"

You weren't sure of anything except the way your body responded to his proximity, the way every careful rule you'd constructed seemed meaningless when he looked at you like that.

"Lead the way," you whispered.

The walk back through the gala required careful choreography. Lewis left first, weaving through tables with the easy confidence of someone simply making social rounds. You waited three minutes — counting each second — before following a different path toward the exit.

You almost made it undetected.

"Going somewhere interesting?"

Alex's voice stopped you cold just steps from the terrace doors. She was standing near the bar, champagne flute in hand, eyebrow arched in that knowing way that meant you were absolutely caught.

Your heart hammered as you glanced around, confirming no one else was paying attention. Charles was deep in conversation with Ferrari executives. Your parents were laughing at something with the Binotto family. The coast was clear except for Alex's sharp, amused gaze.

You pressed a finger to your lips — the universal gesture for please keep this between us — and gave her your most pleading look.

Alex's smile was pure mischief. She raised her champagne glass in a mock toast, mouthed "have fun," and turned back to the bar as if nothing had happened.

Relief flooded through you as you slipped out into the Monaco night, but it was quickly replaced by anticipation. Lewis was waiting by the valet stand, car keys already in hand, looking like sin in a perfectly tailored tuxedo.

"Ready?" he asked, and the single word carried the weight of everything you were about to cross.

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and followed him into the night.

The valet brought Lewis's car around with practiced efficiency, the sleek machine purring in the Monaco night. Lewis moved to the passenger side, opening your door with the same careful attention he'd shown all evening. But as you approached the car, reality crashed over you like a cold wave.

"This is insane," you breathed, stopping just short of the open door. "Lewis, I can't— we can't do this. Charles trusts me. He trusts you. And here I am, sneaking around behind his back like some kind of—"

"Hey." Lewis's voice was gentle but firm as he stepped closer. "Look at me."

But you couldn't stop the words tumbling out, months of suppressed anxiety finally finding their voice. "He's going to find out. Someone's going to see us, or Alex is going to say something, or—God, what am I even doing? This is so disrespectful to him, to our family, to—"

Lewis's hands found your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones as he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. "Breathe," he said softly.

"I am breathing, I'm just—"

He kissed you. Soft, brief, just enough to quiet the spiral of panic in your chest. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Charles loves you. More than racing, more than winning, more than anything in this world. And you know what he wants most for you?" Lewis's thumb traced along your jaw. "He wants you to be happy. To find someone who sees how extraordinary you are."

"But—"

"No buts." His smile was tender, understanding. "We're not betraying anyone by feeling this. We're not disrespecting Charles by wanting each other. We're just... human."

His hands slid down to yours, fingers intertwining. "If you want to go back inside, we go back inside. If you want me to drive you home and pretend this never happened, I'll do that too. But don't run because you're afraid of what other people might think. Run because it's what you want."

The choice hung between you, suspended in the warm Monaco air. Lewis waited, patient and sure, while you wrestled with every careful boundary you'd ever constructed.

Finally, you stepped toward the car. "Help me in?"

His smile was radiant as he guided you into the passenger seat, his hand warm and steady at your elbow. The leather was soft against your skin, the interior intimate and shadowed. When Lewis closed the door and walked around to the driver's side, you felt the last of your resistance crumble.

This was happening. You were letting it happen.

And for the first time in months, that felt exactly right.

Lewis started the engine but didn't drive anywhere. Instead, he found a secluded spot in the venues's private parking area, tucked between shadows where the valet lights couldn't reach. The sudden quiet felt intimate, charged with possibility.

"Come here," he said softly, and you found yourself sliding across the leather seat until you were close enough to feel his warmth.

His first kiss was feather-light, barely a whisper against your lips. Testing. Asking permission. When you didn't pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand cupping your cheek with reverent gentleness.

"You're trembling," he murmured against your mouth.

"I'm nervous," you admitted, the honesty surprising you both.

"We don't have to—"

"I want to." The words came out stronger than you felt. "I want this. I want you."

Something shifted in his expression then, heat replacing the careful tenderness. His next kiss was hungrier, more demanding, and you met it with equal fervor. Your hands found the lapels of his tuxedo, pulling him closer, and he responded by threading his fingers through your hair.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed against your neck, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone. "I've wanted this for so long."

The careful control you'd maintained for months began to fracture. Your usual composure, your measured responses, your need to be perfect and untouchable — it all started to dissolve under his touch. When his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear, you made a sound you'd never made before, breathy and wanting.

"Lewis," you gasped, and his name on your lips seemed to undo something in him too.

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice rough with desire.

The question hung between you, heavy with implication. This was your moment to retreat, to pull back into the safe space of almost-but-not-quite. Instead, you surprised yourself by meeting his gaze directly, letting him see the want you'd been hiding for months.

"I want you to stop treating me like I might break," you said, voice steadier than you felt. "I want you to stop being so careful with me."

His eyes darkened at your words, pupils dilating in the dim light. "You sure about that?"

Instead of answering with words, you kissed him with a passion that had been building for months, pouring all your suppressed desire into the contact. Your teeth caught his lower lip, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound sending heat spiraling through your chest.

This time, when his hands moved to your waist, there was nothing gentle about it. His grip was firm, possessive, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, rapid and strong, matching the frantic rhythm of your own pulse.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said against your lips, and for the first time, you let yourself believe it might be true.

Your hands moved to his bow tie, fingers working at the silk knot with surprising steadiness despite the way your pulse hammered. The fabric came loose under your touch, and Lewis's breath hitched as you pulled it free, letting it fall forgotten to the car floor.

"Back seat," he said, voice rough with want, and you didn't hesitate.

The transition was clumsy, graceless in the way that real desire always is. Your dress caught on the gear shift, his knee knocked against the steering wheel, and you both laughed breathlessly at the awkwardness of it all. But then you were in the spacious back seat, and the laughter died as the reality of what was happening settled over you both.

Lewis's jacket came off first, your hands pushing it from his shoulders while he worked at the tiny buttons running down your spine. Each one he freed sent a shiver through you, his knuckles brushing against your skin as the silk loosened.

"You're sure?" he asked one more time, even as his fingers traced the newly exposed line of your back.

"Stop asking," you breathed, reaching for his shirt. "I'm sure."

The crisp white cotton parted under your hands, revealing the lean muscle beneath. You'd seen him shirtless in countless photos, magazine covers, social media posts — but this was different. This was intimate, private, yours to touch and explore without the barrier of cameras or crowds.

His skin was warm under your palms, and when you pressed your lips to his collarbone, he made a sound that sent heat pooling low in your belly. The careful control he'd maintained all evening was finally cracking, and you could see it in the way his hands shook slightly as they found the zipper of your dress.

"Beautiful," he murmured as the silk pooled around your waist, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in the dim light. "So fucking beautiful."

The reverence in his voice made you bold. You arched into his touch as his hands mapped the newly revealed skin, your own fingers working at his belt with determined focus. The leather came free, and Lewis groaned when your hand brushed against him through the fabric of his trousers.

"Christ," he breathed, head falling back against the leather seat. "You're going to kill me."

But his hands were moving too, sliding the dress down your hips until it joined the growing pile of expensive fabric on the car floor. The cool air against your heated skin made you gasp, and Lewis took advantage of your parted lips to kiss you again, deeper this time, hungrier.

You were both breathing hard now, the windows beginning to fog from the heat you were generating. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint sounds of the gala continuing, but it felt like another world entirely. Here, in the intimate darkness of Lewis's car, there was nothing but want and touch and the electric connection that had been building between you for months.

His mouth moved lower, trailing hot kisses down the column of your throat. You arched beneath him as he found the sensitive hollow at the base of your neck, his tongue flicking against your pulse point in a way that made you gasp his name.

"So responsive," he murmured against your skin, the vibration of his voice sending shivers through you.

When his lips moved lower still, lavishing attention on the swell of your breasts, your hands tangled in his hair, holding him close. He took his time, worshipping you with a patience that bordered on torturous, his mouth and tongue drawing sounds from you that you'd never made before.

"Lewis, please—" you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for.

But he seemed to know. His kisses moved lower, across your ribs, your stomach, each press of his lips like a brand against your heated skin. When he settled between your thighs, his dark eyes met yours in the dim light.

"Still sure?" he asked, though his hands were already sliding up your legs, thumbs tracing maddening circles on your inner thighs.

You could only nod, words lost to the anticipation building in your chest. And then his mouth was on you, and coherent thought became impossible.

The first touch of his tongue made you cry out, your back arching off the leather seat. He worked you with the same focused intensity he brought to everything else, learning what made you gasp, what made you writhe, what made you forget your own name.

"God, you taste incredible," he said against you, the words sending vibrations through your core that made you tremble.

Your hands fisted in his hair as he continued his ministrations, building you higher and higher until you were balanced on the edge of something overwhelming. The sounds you were making would have embarrassed you if you'd been capable of caring about anything beyond the sensation of his mouth on you.

Your thighs trembled against his shoulders as he found a rhythm that had you gasping his name like a prayer. The careful, methodical way he explored you — tongue tracing patterns that made your vision blur — spoke to the same precision he brought to the track. Every flick, every gentle suction, every moment where he pulled back just enough to make you whimper in protest.

"Don't stop," you managed, voice breaking on the words. "Please don't—"

He hummed against you in response, the vibration making your hips buck involuntarily. His hands moved to hold you steady, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs with just enough pressure to ground you even as he sent you spiraling higher.

The tension coiled tighter in your belly, every nerve ending alive and singing under his attention. You could feel yourself getting close, that familiar tightening that promised release, and Lewis seemed to sense it too. His pace intensified, tongue working against you with devastating accuracy.

"That's it," he murmured, pulling back just long enough to speak before diving back in with renewed focus. "Let go for me."

The command in his voice, rough with his own desire, was what finally pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, back arching as you cried out his name into the heated air of the car. He worked you through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks rolled through your body, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you came back down.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction and want. "You're incredible," he said, voice rough as he kissed his way back up your body.

You pulled him up to you, tasting yourself on his lips as you kissed him deeply, your hands already reaching for the waistband of his trousers. "Your turn," you breathed against his mouth.

You kissed your way down his body, tongue tracing the intricate ink that decorated his skin. Each tattoo told a story — victories, losses, moments that had shaped him into the man beneath you now. Your lips followed the compass rose on his chest, the script along his ribs, the geometric patterns that wound around his bicep.

"Fuck," he breathed as your mouth moved lower, his hands tangling in your hair. "You don't have to—"

But you wanted to. Wanted to worship him the way he'd worshipped you, wanted to draw those same desperate sounds from his lips. When you finally took him in your mouth, his reaction was immediate and devastating.

"Christ," he gasped, head falling back against the seat. "Your mouth—"

You worked him slowly at first, learning what made him groan, what made his hips buck involuntarily. He was generous with his praise, voice rough with pleasure as he told you how good you felt, how perfect you were, how long he'd dreamed of this moment.

The power of reducing someone so controlled, so commanding, to breathless gasps and whispered pleas was intoxicating. You could feel him getting close, his breathing ragged, muscles tense beneath your hands.

"Stop," he said suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. "I want to be inside you when I come."

The raw honesty in his voice made heat pool low in your belly all over again. You moved back up his body, straddling his hips, both of you breathing hard in the steamy confines of the car.

"Are you sure?" he asked, hands settling on your waist as you positioned yourself above him.

Instead of answering with words, you sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch until you were fully seated in his lap. The stretch was perfect, overwhelming, exactly what you'd been craving without even knowing it.

"God," you breathed, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you.

His hands roamed your back, soothing and possessive at once. "You feel incredible," he murmured against your ear. "So perfect."

When you finally began to move, it was with a rhythm that built slowly, deliberately. Each roll of your hips drew soft sounds from both of you, the leather seat creaking beneath you as you found your pace. Lewis's hands guided your movements, helping you find the angle that made you both gasp.

The windows were completely fogged now, the outside world invisible beyond the steamed glass. There was nothing but this — the slide of skin against skin, the sound of your breathing mingling in the heated air, the way Lewis looked at you like you were everything he'd ever wanted.

"You're so beautiful like this," he whispered, voice strained with pleasure as you moved above him. "So fucking perfect."

His words sent electricity through you, spurring you to move faster, to take him deeper. The praise fell from his lips like a prayer — telling you how incredible you felt, how he'd never wanted anyone the way he wanted you, how watching you take your pleasure was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Lewis," you gasped, feeling that familiar tension building again, stronger this time with him buried deep inside you.

"I know, baby," he breathed, one hand sliding between your bodies to find that sensitive bundle of nerves. "I can feel you getting close. Come for me again."

The combination of his touch and his words and the perfect angle of him inside you was devastating. Your rhythm faltered as the pleasure built, becoming erratic, desperate.

"That's it," he encouraged, his own breathing ragged now. "Let me feel you."

When your second orgasm hit, it was even more intense than the first. You cried out his name as you shattered around him, your body clenching and pulsing in waves that seemed to go on forever. The sight and feel of you coming undone above him pushed Lewis over the edge too.

"Fuck, I'm—" he groaned, pulling you down for a desperate kiss as his own release claimed him, his body tensing beneath you as he spilled himself deep inside you with a broken cry of your name.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat despite the cool Monaco night. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the aftershocks slowly faded, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

"That was..." he started, then trailed off with a breathless laugh.

"Yeah," you agreed, not trusting yourself with more words yet.

For a long moment, you stayed like that — wrapped around each other in the steamy confines of his car, hearts gradually slowing to normal rhythms. Reality would intrude soon enough, but for now, there was only this perfect, stolen moment of intimacy.

Not worried about sneaking back into the gala. or your brothers reaction. It was just you and him.

#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagines #lewis hamilton blurb #lewis hamilton smut #lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton imagine #formula one #f1

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geminiwritten · 2 months ago

Text

perfect storm ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: you and jake have a messy history and have been comfortably hating each other for the past few years, until all hell breaks loose when you're brought in as the newest member of maverick's special detachment (enemies to lovers)

notes: okay, i'm starting to think that i really should work at work instead of write... like, is it unethical? anyways, idc!!! have some enemies to lovers! i'm not feeling as strong about this, despite the fact that i've chosen writing over sleep and work for the past few days... but i really hope y'all like it and i hope it lives up! please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, angst, miscommunication, jake is an asshole, allusions to sex (18+ ONLY PLEASE), bad weather / storm descriptions, a written plane crash, and frequent mention of plane crashes! let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 12439

your callsign is angel

“Alright, listen up.” Maverick stands at the front of the room, his trademark leather jacket draped over his shoulders and his hands firmly planted on his hips. “You received your official briefing this morning, but we’re going to go over a few things now.”

The chatter that had filled the room falls to an abrupt silence as the aviators, now fully attentive, settle into their chairs—every eye on their captain.

“Let’s start with the basics. Just like the last operation, this mission is classified. You’ve all been reassigned from your standard duties to continue training as part of this special operations detachment. Not all of you will deploy, but everyone will undergo training and remain in reserve if you’re not selected. We’ve got a bit more time to prepare this go-around, but don’t mistake that for leniency. This mission is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, with brand new challenges ahead.” He pauses, his gaze sharpening as he locks eyes with Mickey and then Bob. “Our weapons systems officers will be key to our success.”

Natasha raises her hand, waiting for Maverick to acknowledge her before speaking. “Will the same pilots from the last mission be prioritised?”

Maverick shakes his head firmly. “No. There’s no favouritism or preference. Selection will be based on performance during training. We’ll see who excels in the specific skills needed for this mission.”

Bob leans forward. “Will Omaha and Halo be returning to the detachment?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Maverick replies. “As you’re all aware, Omaha and Halo were urgently recalled to their original squadrons and will not be returning. But rest assured, arrangements have been made to bring in a top-tier replacement.”

Jake tilts his head, a frown forming as confusion plays across his face. “Replacement, sir? Singular? If this mission hinges on WSOs, shouldn’t we be getting a pair to replace Omaha and Halo?”

What Jake is really asking—without being blatantly obvious—is why they’d bring in another pilot to compete with him for mission lead.

Maverick’s signature smirk, the one that gets him both in and out of trouble, curls at the corners of his lips. “You’re not wrong, Hangman," he says, voice steady. “Which is why I’ve decided that Coyote”—he glances at the man sitting beside Jake—“will no longer be flying solo.”

Javy’s eyes widen, brows lifting in surprise as a grin tugs at his lips. “I get a WSO?”

Just outside the training room door, a knot of nerves begins to coil in your stomach, but you don’t let them show. Nerves are nothing new to you—unwanted, but familiar. You’ve learned how to manage them. When your heart starts to race at the thought of something trivial, like walking into a room full of the country’s best naval aviators, you remind yourself what real fear feels like. Like being strapped into the back seat of a fighter jet, spinning out of control, wondering if you’ll ever see your family again. That’s fear. This? This is just another challenge.

The admiral standing beside you smiles, but it’s an awkward fit for his hard-lined face. “They’re ready for you now.” He gestures toward the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. Maverick is your captain, but… well, he can be a bit trying. Exceptionally skilled, and somehow always managing to dodge death, but trying.”

A light laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Duly noted. Thanks, Admiral Simpson.”

His smile tightens as he gives you a terse nod. “Cyclone,” he corrects, his tone sharp. As he turns to walk away, he glances back over his shoulder. “Good luck, Angel.”

You take a steadying breath, roll your shoulders back, and step through the door into the training room—where ten sets of eyes, and one captain you’ve already met, turn to face you.

“This,” Maverick announces with a grin, “is Angel.”

Jake fucking Seresin—because of course it’s him—shoots up from his chair like he’s been launched, disbelief written all over his face. His scowl is thunderous as he whips toward Maverick. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Maverick’s smile drops instantly, confusion flickering across his face before it hardens into something closer to disappointment. He may not be a by-the-book kind of CO, but he’s not about to tolerate open insubordination first thing on a Monday morning.

Your heart slams in your chest, each beat pounding hot blood through your veins. Anger simmers under your skin, but unlike Jake, you don’t let it take the wheel. Instead, you plaster on the sweetest, most radiant smile you can summon—one worthy of your callsign.

From the front row, Natasha snorts. “Oh, man. This is going to be fun.”

“Lieutenant Seresin,” Maverick snaps, voice sharp. “Sit. Down.”

“Mav,” Jake says, clearly abandoning any trace of professionalism, “you don’t understand-”

“I understand perfectly,” Maverick cuts in, his scowl deepening. “Now take your seat. That’s an order.”

Jake drops into his chair stiffly, posture ramrod straight, jaw clenched so tight you can see it working from across the room.

“Good.” Maverick’s gaze shifts to you, his tone softening. “Take a seat, Angel. I take it you already know a few of my aviators.”

You nod and start forward, willing your legs to move. “Yes, sir.”

You offer quiet hellos to Harvard, Yale, and Fritz as you pass them, and Reuben and Mickey each get a subtle fist bump. Bradley throws you a wink as you slide into the open seat beside him, and Natasha and Bob twist in their chairs to whisper excited greetings your way. Across the aisle, Javy leans forward past Jake’s stone-still form to offer you a smile—though there’s a flicker of nervousness behind his eyes.

“Alright,” Maverick claps his hands together, “let’s go over the mission parameters.”

You do your best to focus on what your captain is saying, but it’s difficult with Jake shooting you dirty looks every few minutes. When Maverick announces that you’ll be flying as Javy’s WSO, it clicks—that’s why he looked so nervous before. Still, you’re more relieved than anything. As long as you’re not stuck in a jet with Jake at the controls.

After nearly an hour of mission briefing and discussing operational challenges, Maverick finally decides that it’s time to fly.

“Phoenix,” he calls as the group begins to file out. “Hang back a sec.”

Natasha gives you a curious glance but stops, turning back to the captain. You continue out the door with Bob, only half-listening as he talks about the last special detachment training. Something about SAM evasion drills and low-level ingress routes.

Once the room clears, Maverick crosses his arms and lets out a heavy sigh. “Can you explain whatever the hell that was?”

Natasha’s concern fades instantly, replaced by a smirk. “You mean Hangman and Angel?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you ask one of them?”

He looks up, visibly exasperated. “Did you see the way they were glaring at each other? I’d get two completely different versions of the same disaster.”

Natasha laughs quietly. “Fair.”

He waits, arching a brow—inviting her to keep going.

“To be honest, I don’t know the full story,” she says. “But it goes back to TOPGUN. She was his WSO. They were… kind of legendary. Unbeatable, from what I’ve heard. There were even rumours about the two of them dating.”

Maverick’s expression shifts—mild curiosity now threading through his frown.

“Rooster swears she’s the only woman Hangman ever really wanted but couldn’t have,” Natasha continues. “But I think he saw her as a threat and convinced her to fly with him just to keep her close.”

Maverick’s frown deepens. “So, what happened?”

“One of their last flights before graduation, Hangman pulled something reckless—overconfident, stupid. The usual. He got them into some serious trouble. They lost control and had to eject, both ending up in the hospital.”

Maverick doesn’t interrupt, just listens, arms still crossed.

“They refused to speak to each other after that. It got so bad during the investigation that they almost got court-martialled—they kept arguing during the hearing. I’m pretty sure the crash was ruled pilot error on their records.”

He lets out a low whistle. “And they still graduated?”

“With conditions,” she says. “They were given a choice—suspension or assignment to the same fleet squadron.”

That earns a blink. “Who gave that ultimatum?”

Natasha grins. “Admiral Kazansky.”

Maverick actually chuckles at that, despite himself. “Of course he did. So, they chose to patch things up?”

“Yes… and no. According to Coyote, they’ve coexisted by pretending the other doesn’t exist. That’s why Hangman was so eager to join this detachment—he was planning to request reassignment after it ended, and I’m pretty sure she is the reason why.”

Maverick’s amusement fades. A pale look crosses his face as the reality sets in. “What have I done?”

Natasha’s grin widens. “Sir, you’ve just set us up for the most entertaining training cycle in Navy history.”

The roar of jet engines fills the comms, and the sky outside is a dizzying patchwork of clouds and sunlight as Maverick's jet cut across the HUD like a ghost—fast, erratic, and unpredictable.

Javy’s a solid pilot, but you can feel the tension in his movements. “He’s all over the place,” he says, “I can’t get a clean shot.”

“You won’t,” you reply, voice steady. “That’s the point. Don’t chase—bleed his energy.”

Javy exhales sharply through his mask, trying to keep up. Maverick flips his jet inverted, slicing low over the water. Javy follows, but you're already moving, fingers dancing over the console. The radar pulses with activity, tracking Maverick’s erratic manoeuvres.

“I’ve got tone in five… hold steady,” you say, fighting a smirk under your mask. “Three… two…” A sharp beep echoes through the headset, and you let that smirk stretch across your lips. “Fox Two. Guns, guns, guns.”

“Holy shit,” Javy gasps.

On the HUD, Maverick’s jet flashes red—the simulated kill confirmed.

“Nice shooting, Angel,” Maverick says over the comms, a hint a laughter in his tone.

“Anytime, Captain.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he adds. “I was going easy on you.”

“Bullshit,” Bradley pipes up from somewhere in the sky. “You were scrambling, Mav.”

“Yeah, alright,” Maverick says with a chuckle. “Now get your asses on the ground. I want Pheonix, Bob, and Hangman up here.”

You let out a breath of relief as Javy guides the jet back to base, the landing smooth and controlled. The jet powers down, and you run through a quick check before climbing out. The second your boots hit the tarmac, you yank off your helmet, sweat dripping from your brow, and turn to Javy, who is grinning like an idiot.

“I can’t believe you just shot Maverick,” he says. “None of us have ever done that.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Really? Maybe he was going easy then.”

“Oh, he was,” Jake says, his voice sliding down your spine like ice. “You’re not that good, Angel.”

You round on him, jaw tight. “I’m better than you, Bagman.”

He lets out a laugh—sharp and mocking. “Says who?”

You shrug, masking the anger bubbling beneath your skin with false nonchalance. “I don’t know. Ask your friends—or, sorry—friend. Singular. Because I’m pretty sure Coyote’s the only one who can stand you, and even he’d admit I’ve got you beat.”

Javy chuckles under his breath but shifts awkwardly. “Hey, leave me out of-”

Jake cuts in before he can finish, cockiness dripping from every word. “You know, you really shouldn’t obsess over my social life. Maybe try having one of your own. Or better yet, get yourself a date. Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.”

His words stick in your skin like pins in a voodoo doll—sharp and cruel. He always knows exactly what to say to really get to you.

“Fuck you, Seresin,” you snap, before shouldering past him and storming toward the hangar.

Your eyes sting, and your throat burns with the threat of tears, but you force it all down. You won’t cry. Not here. Not today. Not because of him.

Instead, you take a hard turn into the locker room—the men’s locker room—and head straight for Jake’s stuff. His name is stitched on the inside of his clothes, which you scoop up along with everything else he owns—socks, boots, the whole lot. You carry it all around the corner to the showers, drop it into a stall, crank the cold water, and walk out without a backward glance.

A few minutes later, you’re in the waiting room with the others, tension still buzzing under your skin but your expression cool. Natasha, Bob, and Jake are in the air now—you can hear their comms crackling over the speaker.

Maverick’s voice cuts through the static like a knife. “Hangman, if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll ground you myself.”

You smile to yourself, satisfaction blooming like a flower in your chest.

The next week passes in much the same way. You do your best to avoid Jake, but apparently, he didn’t get the memo. At first, you think it might have something to do with how much time you’re spending with Javy, but it quickly becomes clear—he’s just really enjoying getting under your skin.

You argue almost every day. Most of the time, someone has to step in to break it up. But it’s never like that first day again. The fights stay surface-level—petty jabs over gear, disagreements about drills, snide little comments. It’s stupid, juvenile, and relentless. Still, you’re grateful that none of it gets personal again. Because it still hurts to think about what he said on your first day.

By Friday, you’re right back in the same room where it all started, sitting through an updated mission briefing from Maverick. You try to focus, but your attention keeps drifting. Jake is sitting across the aisle from you, whispering snide remarks about this morning’s drill—childish jabs you can’t help but respond to.

He leans in slightly. “Hell of a move back there. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

You glare at him. “Yeah? That part where you nearly clipped your wingman was real smooth.”

He scoffs under his breath. “At least I was actually doing something instead of riding shotgun in the backseat again.”

Your head snaps toward him, heat flaring in your chest. “Why don’t you just-”

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “Both of you—cut it out.”

You freeze. So does Jake. Slowly, the entire room turns toward the back, every pair of eyes locked on you, and none more intense than Maverick’s furious glare.

“Everyone else—you’re dismissed. Hangman. Angel. You’re staying behind to help with inventory, and you’re not leaving until you sort out whatever the hell this is. I don’t care if it takes all weekend.”

You both know better than to argue. There’s a heavy silence as everyone else stands, shuffling out with awkward glances and murmured goodbyes. You sink lower into your chair, dreading whatever’s coming next.

Neither of you speak as Maverick leads you down into the hangar, where maintenance crews are busy running post-flight checks on the jets. The air smells like jet fuel and frustration.

He stops to speak briefly with a technician before handing Jake a clipboard thick with paperwork. “You’re logging and checking all the equipment used this week. Everything. Make sure it’s clean, accounted for, and stored properly.”

He meets both your eyes with a dry, unimpressed stare. “Don’t kill each other…” He pauses. “Or do. I don’t care. Just as long as you’re not still bickering on Monday morning.”

And with that, he turns and walks away.

The two of you quickly fall into an unspoken agreement to work in silence. You start with the flight suits and G-suits, then move on to spare helmets and oxygen masks. There’s the occasional grumble or muttered complaint, but for the most part, you both keep your heads down and your mouths shut.

It’s about an hour into your assigned torture when Jake drifts away from where you’re double-checking the spare survival kits. He doesn’t say a word as he crosses the hangar, heading toward a short row of rusted lockers shoved into the back corner—right where most of the gear you’ve been sorting through came from. Two of the lockers hang open and empty, but the one in the middle is sealed shut with a heavily rusted lock.

Jake gives it a jiggle, then a harder tug. Nothing. You glance over, ready to tell him to stop wasting time, but your own curiosity is starting to itch.

Against your better judgment, you rise from your crouch and wander toward the tool pile a tech left behind earlier. You grab a pry bar and walk it over to Jake.

“Here,” you say simply, handing it over.

He quirks an eyebrow, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re helping him. But he takes it without a word. You nod toward the locker, silently urging him to get on with it.

Jake wedges the bar into the seam and heaves. There’s a horrible screech of metal grinding against metal, and the door practically explodes outward. You yelp and instinctively jump behind him, your hands landing on his back as if he could shield you from whatever haunted relic might burst out of the spooky locker.

When nothing attacks, you quickly step away, cheeks burning. Jake looks over his shoulder, cocky grin already forming—but for once, he spares you the teasing.

“When do you think this thing was last opened?” he asks, using the pry bar to hold the warped door fully open.

You peer inside and snort. “Judging by the Barry Williams photo taped in there? I’m going to guess sometime before Mav even joined the Navy.”

Jake chuckles—and for once, it’s not smug or biting. It’s warm. Deep. It rumbles through his chest like thunder and coils around you like smoke, pulling you toward him despite the apprehension roiling in your gut.

He steps closer, pulling out his phone to shine a light into the dim locker. It’s mostly empty: a few cobwebs, a protein bar wrapper, a single sock, and the faded photo of Barry Williams.

Jake picks up the wrapper. “Wow. They really thought this was health food?”

You laugh softly, taking the pry bar from his hand. As he keeps inspecting the wrapper, you use the bar to hook the sock, trying to lift it gently. But it doesn’t drape—it holds its shape, stiff and unbending.

“Gross,” you mutter, balancing the hardened fabric on the end of the bar.

Jake glances up, his eyes widening. “Is that thing... solid?”

You drop the sock onto the floor. It hits with a soft thud and stays exactly how it landed: twisted and grotesquely preserved.

“Yup.”

Jake lets out a snort. “Do you think it’s full of-”

“Please don’t say it.”

“Jizz,” he says gleefully.

You groan and shove the pry bar back into his hands, fake gagging as you walk away from the scene of the crime.

Jake eventually wanders back over to the survival kits, apparently satisfied with having quenched his thirst for mystery. The two of you settle into what could almost be called a companionable silence—rare for you both.

About half an hour later, one of the techs approaches, his face smudged with grease and sweat.

“Most of us are headin’ out,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Lance is still workin’ outside. If you need anything, give him a shout. Security’ll be doing their first walkthrough in about an hour. You can stay as late as you want, as long as your overtime’s cleared.”

You snort and shake your head. “Oh, this isn’t overtime.”

“It’s punishment,” Jake adds dryly.

The man tilts his head, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “What’d you do?”

There’s a beat of awkward silence before Jake replies, “Captain got sick of us arguing.”

The tech raises his brows, glancing between you with an amused glint in his eye. “That so? Wouldn’t’ve guessed. You two looked mighty cosy pokin’ around that locker earlier.”

You glance over at Jake, only to find his gaze already locked on yours. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, blooming across your cheeks. You quickly duck your head and return to sorting the gear.

Jake lets out an awkward chuckle. “Sorry about that. Curiosity got the better of me.”

The man waves a hand dismissively. “Ain’t no thing. Have a good night.” And with that, he ambles off.

“Cosy,” Jake mutters, cracking open another kit.

You roll your eyes, weariness softening your usual edge. “Don’t think I’ve ever been cosy with you, Seresin. Friends, maybe. But never cosy.”

You keep your eyes on the kit, missing the flicker of something—hurt, maybe—that crosses his face.

“Friends, maybe?” he repeats quietly. “If I remember correctly, we were very much friends.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice flat. “We were.”

Another few minutes of silence tick by, broken only by the shuffle and scratch of your work. You’re almost finished with the survival kits when Jake speaks up again.

“You know it’s not true, right?”

Your brows knit together as you look up slowly, meeting his green gaze. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but I’ve always assumed you’re lying about having a massive-”

“Not that,” he cuts in, almost growling, irritation flashing across his face before something softer—something almost sad—takes over. “I mean about why I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer. Phoenix told everyone it was because I was threatened by you, but that’s not true.”

“Oh.” Your frown fades. “I know.”

He cocks his head. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder and pack up the last kit, dusting your hands on your pants. “Like I said, we were friends back then, Jake. I know you weren’t trying to screw up my career. You saw that I had potential to be a great WSO—and you were right. I am.”

You can’t bear the look on his face. It’s too open, too honest—too much like the way he used to look at you right before a flight. Right before you both climbed into the jet and he’d promise to keep you safe.

You straighten up and turn toward the checklist Jake left nearby, grabbing it and pretending to study it. Anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “We’re almost done. Just a few miscellaneous items and we’re out of here.”

Jake pushes to his feet and puffs his chest out, as if trying to shove all the emotion down and replace it with ego. “Alright. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here.”

You barely sleep all weekend. You’re too strung out, too confused, and—annoyingly—still thinking about Friday night. Why the hell was Jake nice to you? You know you both need to get your shit together and start acting like adults, but he didn’t need to go dredging up the past like that.

Every time you close your eyes, you see his face. The one you used to love. The one you used to daydream about kissing. But that was years ago. Any feelings you had for Jake Seresin died the moment you heard his voice through your headset that day—that calm, reckless voice telling you that it didn’t matter if he made it out alive, as long as you did.

By Monday morning, you wake up in a cold sweat for the third night in a row, sheets twisted and soaked. Your head is a mess and your chest is tight, so you do the only thing you can think of that might help.

You throw on your workout gear and head to the gym, ready to exorcise some demons.

The gym on base is unusually quiet for a Monday morning, and you decide that it’s a blessing—you’ll get your pick of equipment without having to wait for others to finish. You set yourself up on a treadmill first, hoping that getting your blood pumping will distract from your turbulent thoughts. Sliding your headphones over your ears, you pick an upbeat playlist and start marching along to the beat.

Most of the other early risers are packed into the weights section—well away from you, thank God.

But then, Jake’s words from last week creep back into your mind: Maybe if you found some loser to fuck you, you wouldn’t be so tightly wound all the damn time.

You grimace. You hate to admit it, but there is a nugget of truth in there. Maybe you do need a release. Maybe that would help you stop fantasizing about strangling—or worse, kissing—Jake Seresin every time he so much as breathes near you. You’ve fought too hard for your spot here. You’re not about to let Jake, or your traitorous body, screw it up.

Your gaze strays toward the weights section again, casually scanning the candidates like you're hosting your own imaginary version of The Bachelor.

First up: a beefy guy with a shiny bald head, a thick goatee, and a death grip on the bench press bar. He’s grunting so loudly you can hear it over your music. Definitely not your type—hard pass.

Next contestant: a scrawny dude slouched on a bench, hoodie up, thumbs flying across his phone screen. The impressive-looking weights at his feet are a hilarious mismatch to his weedy physique. He’s either a sleeper-build legend or seriously overestimating himself.

Your treadmill beeps, announcing another mile. You bump up the incline and glance back up just in time to spot someone more promising.

Sitting at the lat pulldown machine is a guy with dirty blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a smirk you can feel from across the room. He’s broad-shouldered, strong without looking like he eats steroids for breakfast, and he pulls down the heavy bar with ease. That little smirk screams trouble—and you love trouble. A cocky, pretty boy who can back it up? Now that is your kryptonite.

After a few more minutes of half-assed walking while planning your opening line, you see him leave the machine and wander toward the water bubbler.

It’s now or never.

You jump off the treadmill, loop your towel around your neck, and start sauntering over, practicing your most casual, I-don't-care-but-also-maybe-marry-me smile.

But then you see him.

And you stop dead in your tracks.

In the far corner of the gym is a man doing deadlifts, shirtless. His dark blond hair is sweaty and spiked up like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Tight grey shorts—painted on by Satan himself—cling to him like they were designed for the express purpose of making you lose your religion.

You only get flashes of his reflection in the mirror, but it's enough to short-circuit your brain. Broad back, taut glutes, rippling arms. Every single inch of him looks carved by someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and wanted you to suffer.

You forget all about Water Bubbler Guy. About why you even began walking this way. You stand there, completely paralysed, mouth dry, heart hammering, one singular, shameful thought blaring through your mind:

I want to lick him clean. I want to taste him like a cat in heat. Forget cold showers. Forget dignity. Just sign my soul over now.

The tremendous grunting of Goatee Guy jolts you out of your impure thoughts. You blink once—twice—before your gaze snaps back to the guy at the water bubbler. He smirks at you like he knows exactly what you’d been planning to do just minutes ago.

But not anymore. Sorry, buddy.

You give him a tight, awkward smile before scurrying over to the free weights section. You drop your stuff in a heap and unroll a rubber mat, all while stealing glances at the man still doing deadlifts—your future husband.

You still can’t see him properly. He keeps his back to you—which you’re not entirely mad about—and continues heaving that heavy bar off the ground like it's nothing. It has to be close to four hundred pounds, easy. Which means, yes, he could definitely lift you. Throw you around. Pin you down until you’re squirming.

God. Stupid Seresin was right. You do need to get laid.

You spend the better part of the next hour watching him like a creep. Subtlety is dead and buried. He never strays from his corner, which frustrates you—because it would be so much easier to accidentally make eye contact if he’d just wander past. Instead, you’re stuck hovering like a predator, practically salivating.

Eventually, you give up on trying to telepathically tell him to walk your way and decide to hit the showers before maybe—maybe—approaching him afterward. What’s the worst that could happen? You accidentally propose? Even if you crash and burn, odds are you’ll never see him again since you've never seen him here before.

You pack up the weights you’d been pretending to use and make your way toward the showers. After a quick (cold, very cold) rinse and a change into fresh clothes, you walk back out.

Your eyes immediately dart to the corner where they’d been glued all morning, but he’s gone.

Panic sparks low in your gut as you scan the gym, your pace quickening toward the centre of the room for a better vantage point. You’re so focused on searching that you don’t even notice what’s right in front of you—until you plough right into a firm chest.

You stumble back, an apology on the tip of your tongue—but then you realise exactly who you just ran into.

“Ugh.” You glare up at a very shirtless Jake Seresin, cocky grin firmly in place. “It’s you.”

He chuckles, deep and smug. “You really do know how to make a man feel special. It’s honestly a mystery why you’re still single.”

You roll your eyes. “Shove it up your ass, Seresin, I’m-”

The words get stuck in your throat as your gaze drops.

Shirtless, yes. And wearing a criminally tight pair of grey shorts.

No. Fucking. Way.

Silence stretches thick between you before Jake tilts his head, amusement dripping from every pore. “Cat got your tongue?”

Yes. A cat in heat.

You wrench your gaze back up to his face. “No.”

Without another word, you shoulder past him and bolt for the exit.

The second you step outside, you suck in a gasping breath like you’ve just broken the surface of deep water. Your stomach twists, nausea clawing up your throat.

There’s no fucking way you just spent the entire morning fantasizing about Jake fucking Seresin.

You try to avoid Jake for the rest of the day, which proves absurdly difficult—he’s like a bad smell you can’t escape. It makes you wonder if he caught you creeping on him at the gym. You weren’t exactly subtle. But if he did notice, he’s keeping it close to his chest.

By lunchtime, you’re so desperate for a reprieve that you decline the invitation to join your friends in the mess hall, opting instead for a little peace and quiet in the training room. Unfortunately, Maverick isn’t a mind reader, and he’s completely oblivious to your silent plea for solitude.

“You alright, Angel?” he asks, sliding into a seat across the aisle from you.

You glance up from your phone, hoping he didn’t notice that you had Tinder open. “Yeah, I’m good.”

There’s a brief pause before he chuckles to himself, shaking his head softly. ��You know, I’ve heard a lot of callsigns, but yours always makes me hesitate.”

Your brows pinch together. “Really? There’s definitely worse out there… for example, Maverick. Ugh.” You can’t help it—being a smartass is in your blood.

He laughs again, tilting his head with a fond smile. “I don’t mean it’s bad. There are worse. But ‘Angel’—it’s so... affectionate. Forgive me, but I’m not exactly used to calling my lieutenants pet names.”

You snort, watching as Maverick’s face turns a soft shade of red. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I guess I’m just so used to it, I stopped thinking of it as something affectionate.”

He leans back in his chair, considering you for a moment. You feel a little too seen under that sharp gaze. Maverick is smart—almost obnoxiously so—and you’re not naive enough to think he doesn’t see straight through you.

“So it was affectionate,” he says finally, cutting through the silence. “At some point, at least.”

You sigh, warring internally about how much to share. The usual, abbreviated version you tell everyone else seems… somewhat insufficient right now.

“Yeah,” you admit. “It was actually Ja—uh, Hangman who called me Angel first. We met at the Academy. He tried some stupid pickup line on me, and I told him—rather colourfully—where to stick it.” You pause, chest aching as you drag the memory out of the dark corner you’d shoved it into. “He thought it was hilarious. Said I looked like an angel but swore like a sailor.”

Maverick chuckles softly, but his expression gives nothing away. You can’t tell if he’s judging you, or simply wondering how you and Jake could have fallen so spectacularly apart.

“Then, when I decided to become a WSO, people started calling me ‘The Avenging Angel’,” you add. “Because I was good at it. That’s usually the story I stick to. I don’t like admitting who really gave me the name.”

Maverick nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. You two clearly have a complicated history. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

You offer him a tight smile, grateful he isn’t pushing, though you aren’t sure what else to say.

“I’m not big on advice,” he says after a beat. “And I’m not going to pretend to know you better than I do. But I’ve known Hangman a little longer—and if you’ll let me, I’ll tell you one thing. Take it however you want.”

You nod once, fingers fidgeting anxiously with your phone in your lap.

“I once had a back-seater who kept me grounded when I needed it most,” Maverick says, pushing slowly to his feet. “And I’d give anything to have him still flying with me.”

Your breath catches. You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Unfortunately,” Maverick adds, offering a small, soft smile, “there’s nothing I can do to get my back-seater back.”

Then he turns and walks out, leaving you frozen in your seat, staring after him like he just dropped a nuclear bomb.

Did Maverick just tell you—in the most roundabout, emotionally devastating way possible—that Jake misses having you behind him? That you still matter to him?

You blink back the sting of tears.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The afternoon passes in a blur, and before you know it, Maverick announces that it’s time for some outdoor team-building—something everyone is far too excited about. You’re not sure why until he tells everyone to change into their “beach clothes” and then leads the group down to the sand, where Bradley and Reuben are quick to start setting up a volleyball net.

The sun is blazing, and the energy is electric. Everyone is stretching and practicing, casually tossing jabs at each other as they get the trash-talking started early.

Maverick decides that the WSOs will be paired with their pilots—so you’re with Javy—and the solo flyers are free to pick their partners. Jake teams up with Billy, callsign Fritz, while Mav steps in as Bradley’s partner.

The first teams to play are Reuben and Mickey versus Jake and Billy. The rest of the group settles around the court, all eager to watch and prep for their own games. The competition is fierce, and the excitement is palpable as Mav twirls the white ball on his finger and shouts out the rules.

But then, the worst thing imaginable happens.

Jake takes off his fucking shirt.

You hadn’t even noticed that the other guys had already opted to go shirtless under the blazing sun, but the second Jake peels off his white cotton t-shirt, your eyes lock onto him like a magnet.

You can feel your mouth go dry, your heart rate spiking, like a predator eyeing its first meal in days. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you.

Look away, you fucking idiot, before someone notices!

But you can’t. You can’t look away. You’re still seeing the guy from the gym—before you knew who he was—and now, against the backdrop of the beach, he looks absolutely obscene. His tan skin gleams in the sun, and his sunglasses sit low on his nose, giving him that effortlessly cocky look that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“Hey,” Javy appears beside you, nudging an elbow into your ribs. “You’re good at this game, right?”

You snort, tearing your eyes away from Jake. “I haven’t played since high school.”

Javy chuckles. “Well, shit. Let’s just hope we’re not up against Hangman and Fritz. Those two are more competitive than they have the right to be.”

You laugh again, letting your eyes slide back toward the game, landing immediately on the hot, tan man you hate yourself for fantasizing about. But you can’t help it—he’s fucking magnetic.

And, of course, he’s fucking good too. He knows how to play volleyball like a pro, and despite the stiff competition from Reuben and Mickey, Jake and Billy eventually prevail.

The rest of the group erupts into laughter and cheers as Jake does a victory lap around the court—cocky bastard. Mav then tells you and Javy to flip a coin with Natasha and Bob to see who goes next. Your heart pounds in your throat as the coin spins in the air, and when it lands on heads, you curse under your breath—you’re up.

The sun feels twice as hot as you stand across from Jake, grateful for your sunglasses that hide the very hungry look you know is threatening to spread across your face. This is Jake—annoying, cocky, careless Jake. There’s nothing special about him just because he was carved by the gods... right?

You wriggle your feet in the sand, trying to shake off the way your body is betraying you, and decide to take a little of Maverick’s advice. Maybe it’s time to stop hating Jake Seresin and at least try to be civil.

Jake gets into his stance just on the other side of the net, and then he tips his chin forward. His sunglasses slide down his nose just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those piercing green eyes. And then he fucking winks at you. The audacity.

He throws the ball into the air, his body coiling as he leaps up after it, slamming the ball over the net toward your partner behind you. Your stomach flips. This bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

Javy whacks the ball back, and Billy returns it with equal intensity. You barely have time to think before you’re leaping up and spiking the ball back onto their side. It’s clearly Jake’s to save, but for some inexplicable reason, he freezes. He just stands there, staring at you like you’ve grown a second head, as if he can’t believe you just pulled that off.

It wasn’t that impressive. In fact, you’re pretty sure you hit the net, which would be a foul in a real game—but this is just a friendly match.

The ball hits the ground, and Billy throws his hands up in disbelief. “Dude, what the hell? I thought you had that.”

Jake snaps out of his daze, his head jerking toward Billy like he’s just been slapped. “Shit, sorry.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face as you turn to Javy. “Did you see that?”

“Fuck yeah, I did!” he exclaims, beaming back at you.

You rush over to him and deliver a high-five so hard it stings, but you don’t care. You just scored on Jake.

You glance back over at him, jutting your bottom lip out exaggeratedly. “You okay, Seresin? Cat got your tongue?”

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they narrow as he tips his head forward. “Oh, it’s on!” he growls. “You’re about to lose those wings, Angel!”

A giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Bring it!”

The game wears on, and your confidence begins to wane—because, yeah, Jake is good. Really good. But that only fuels your competitive fire. You’re sprinting, jumping, leaping without worrying about how you look. All that matters is keeping that ball off your side. You hit the sand twice, and your knees are starting to burn, but it’s worth it. You’re in it now.

You and Javy are almost perfectly in sync, anticipating each other’s moves without a second thought. After every point, you share a high five or—at one point—a painfully awkward chest bump, but it’s worth it for the rush.

The fatigue starts to creep in after about fifteen minutes, but you know the game is nearly over. So, when Jake sends a ball sailing just out of reach, you spring as high as you can, throwing your entire body into the jump. Your fingertips brush the ball, just enough to send it back over the net.

You brace yourself for the inevitable thud of hitting the sand again, but instead, two strong hands catch you by the waist, pulling you into a solid, muscular chest. You do hit the sand, but with far less force than you anticipated.

And then, you tumble right on top of Javy. The two of you land in a heap, laughter spilling out of you like it’s been building up all day. Sand is everywhere, covering both of your faces as you giggle uncontrollably.

You hear Billy’s frustrated shout from across the court, and you realise that your dramatic save just scored you another point.

“Are you okay?” you ask, climbing off Javy.

He’s still chuckling and shaking sand out of his hair as he takes your hand to let you help him up. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“Yeah, I had a pretty soft landing,” you reply, winking playfully at him before you can even think about it.

When you turn back to your competitors, wearing a cocky smirk that could rival Jake’s, you’re met with a pair of blazing green eyes. Jake’s glare is nothing short of stormy, his sunglasses now perched on top of his head, eyes flicking between you and Javy.

Wow, he really does not like losing.

The next few volleys are borderline dangerous. Jake is putting everything he has into each hit—swinging hard and fast, directing every single ball straight at Javy. He’s darting all over the court, barely allowing Billy to touch the ball, sending it slicing through the air with a vengeance.

Five minutes later, Jake and Billy are declared the winners, but Javy is wiped out. Not because of the loss, but because he’s exhausted from dodging and saving himself from Jake’s ruthless shots.

Maverick calls for a break, giving Jake and Billy some downtime while Natasha and Bob face off against Brigham and Logan.

Billy shoots both you and Javy a teasing grin, offering a little jab about doing better next time before grabbing a water bottle and heading over to chat with Bradley. The two of them stand at the edge of the water watching Reuben and Mickey try their hand at body surfing on the small waves rolling toward the shore.

Javy grabs a cold bottle of water from the cooler before flopping down beside you in the sand. “That was intense,” he sighs.

You nod, taking a long drink of your own water. “Yeah. Hangman doesn’t like losing.”

Javy chuckles, his grin a little knowing. “In more ways than one, apparently.”

You frown, opening your mouth to ask what he means, but Javy cuts you off with a subtle shake of his head as Jake approaches. His dark sunglasses are back in place, concealing any trace of emotion written on his face.

You’re sitting next to the cooler, so you decide to extend a small olive branch. You pick up a bottle of water and offer it to him.

He takes it without a word and starts to walk away, effectively snapping your olive branch.

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’?” you call after him, unable to stop the words before they slip out.

He spins on his heel and strides back toward you, his broad shadow swallowing you whole. “Thank you? Right. For what? Doing something nice? I’m not in the habit of handing out gratitude to people who only pretend to care when it’s convenient for them.”

Your heart races as the words sink in. The heat of the moment rushes to your head, and you rear back, suddenly feeling too small beneath his towering presence. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You are,” he snaps, voice sharp and low. “I can’t escape you. The academy, flight school, TOPGUN… then you had to run your fucking mouth and get us deployed together. This detachment was the best thing to happen to my career, and then you had to come in and fuck it all up. As usual.”

The sting of his words lands like a slap across the face. Your heart beats louder in your chest, and the bridge of your nose burns. Your vision blurs, but you rapidly blink away the tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“As soon as we’re done here,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping even lower, “I’m getting reassigned and getting the fuck away from you. For good.”

“Good,” you bite back, scrambling to your feet. “The further you are from me, the better. Because I fucking hate you, Jake Seresin.”

It’s a cheap shot, but it feels like the truth. You’ve never felt as hollow as you do in this moment, realizing that your past and what you once meant to each other still haunts you. He knows exactly where to hit to make it hurt.

“Woah, woah,” Maverick’s voice cuts through the tension as he rushes over. “What’s going on? I thought you two-”

“It’s fine, Mav,” you cut him off, voice cold. “It’s nothing.”

Without waiting for a response, you turn and storm off, your feet digging into the sand with every furious step. You have no destination in mind, only the burning need to get away from him. You swipe the back of your hand across your cheek, feeling the dampness of your skin and realizing too late that you’ve been crying this whole time. How fucking embarrassing.

Later that night, Maverick sends out a message to everyone to let you all know that training will start a bit later tomorrow. Something that you’re grateful for, because you don’t fall asleep until well past midnight. You spend the hours crying and wallowing, allowing your mind to spiral, and ultimately giving way too much of your time to the thought of Jake Seresin.

By morning, you’re feeling a little better and a lot stronger, fully prepared to ignore the hell out of him for the next few weeks.

At 9 AM, you’re all gathered in the training room, waiting for Maverick to finish his meeting with the admiral. Everyone is there except one—Javy. And the absence of your pilot is making you more nervous than you’d like to admit.

“Hey,” Nat says quietly, twisting in her chair to face you. “You feeling better?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, heaps. Yesterday was just... a bit of a shit show.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “We’re all entitled to a meltdown, especially with the kind of assholes we have to deal with.”

You offer her a tight, appreciative smile. “Tell me about it.”

She turns back around just as Maverick breezes through the door, his face tight with tension.

“Alright, listen up,” he says, standing at the front of the room. “You’ve probably noticed by now that Coyote is absent. That’s because, during a particularly intense game of volleyball”—his gaze flicks sharply toward Jake—“he hurt his back. The doctors have recommended that he not fly until further assessment, so unfortunately, he’s out.”

Your stomach drops and your heart starts pounding as a wave of anxiety washes over you.

“Angel,” Maverick continues, his gaze shifting to you. “This means you’ll be Hangman’s back-seater.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room, and your heart jumps into your throat. This has to be some kind of joke. This can’t be real.

“Mav.” Jake leans forward, his posture stiff and tense. “This isn’t a good idea. I can’t fly with-”

“You can and you will fly with her,” Maverick interrupts, his voice hard and final.

You don’t look away from Jake, studying his profile with desperate eyes, searching for even a hint that he’s on board with this—like Maverick said he would be. But his face is stone cold, and you’re starting to think that Maverick might have been full of shit when he told you that Jake misses his back-seater.

“That’s all,” Maverick says, his voice slicing through the stillness in the room. “Now, let’s hit the skies.”

Downstairs in the locker room, your hands shake as you tug your flight suit on and drag the zipper up to your collarbone. You haven’t been this nervous since your first flight after the crash—but you managed then, and you’ll manage now. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t flown with Jake in years. You’re good at your job and he’s good at his. As long as you can both be mature, this will be fine.

Jake’s already seated in the jet when you approach, head bowed over his controls. He doesn’t flinch when you climb up and strap into the back seat. He doesn’t even move—until it's time to follow the ground team’s signals toward the runway.

You focus on steadying your breathing, the rumble of the engine thrumming through your body. When you glance up at the familiar helmet in front of you, a wave of aching nostalgia crashes over you, stealing the air from your lungs.

Once you level out in the sky, you take a gulp of oxygen from your mask.

Maverick’s voice crackles through the headset: “Enemy fighter inbound. Take him out. Work together.”

You snap to attention, eyes locking on your radar, fingers flying over the controls with perfect precision.

“Talk to me, Fritz,” Jake says coolly. “Where is he?”

“I don’t see him yet,” Fritz responds. “Angel, anything on radar?”

And then—Maverick’s jet appears on your radar. Fast. Slippery. Impossible to pin down.

“I see him, but he’s bouncing all over the place,” you say.

Jake dives after him instantly, and you resist the urge to look up—you have to trust him.

“I’ve got him,” Jake says. “Fritz, on your left.”

The g-forces shove you into your seat as Jake throws the jet into a tight, reckless turn.

“Hangman, wait—follow my lead,” you snap.

Jake scoffs. “No. Just be quiet and let me do my job.”

You grit your teeth and swallow your retort.

“Hangman, on your six,” Fritz warns, a beat too late.

Jake yanks the jet into a hard, inverted climb. Your stomach flips, chest compressing painfully.

Maverick isn’t playing fair. He’s a blur across your radar, pulling turns that would rip lesser pilots apart. Your fingers dance across your controls, tracking him as best you can.

“He's coming up behind us, Hangman,” you call urgently. “Evade, evade.”

Jake finally hesitates.

“Left, now! Then roll!” you bark.

And this time—he listens.

The jet swings in a sharp, vicious arc. You spot a window, heart hammering against your ribs.

“He’s right behind me, guys,” Fritz says, his voice strained with panic.

“Hangman, right!” you yell. “Hold steady! I’ll have tone in four... three... two…”

The shrill beep fills your helmet, and adrenaline floods your veins.

“Fox two. Guns, guns, guns!” you shout.

The HUD flashes red. Maverick is hit.

“Nice move,” Maverick’s voice comes over the comms, surprisingly warm. “Very impressive flying.”

You sag back in your seat, heart still racing.

Flying with Jake used to be your favourite thing in the world.

And God help you—you’re starting to realise it still might be.

Back on the ground, the others are buzzing. They can’t stop raving about how good you were—how insane it is that you managed to catch Maverick with the way he was flying.

Harvard and Yale are next up in the sky with Bradley, and Hondo tells you and Jake to go clean up before the afternoon briefing. Apparently, the admiral himself will be joining for a mission update.

You’re just about to push into the women’s locker room when Jake’s hand slaps against the door, stopping you cold. You hadn’t even realized he was right behind you until he’s there—towering over you, close enough that you can smell the sun and sweat on his skin.

“You—uh,” he starts, voice low and rough, like it’s been scraped raw. His free hand drags through his hair, mussing it up. “You were damn good up there.”

You blink up at him, heart thudding. “Um. Thanks. You too.”

You try to slide past him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans in a little closer—close enough that you feel his chest against yours when you inhale too deeply. Your whole body locks up, wired so tight it’s a miracle you’re still standing.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he mutters, voice dipping even lower. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. It was... way outta line. And if you like Coyote... that’s fine.”

You raise an eyebrow, the tension snapping something sharp inside you. “Thanks for the permission,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Especially coming from the guy who told me to find some loser to fuck in the first place.”

You pause just long enough to see the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

“But for the record?” you add, voice soft but cutting. “I’m not interested in Coyote. He’s got a little too much Hangman in him for my liking.”

You expect him to lash back, but he doesn't say a word. He just stares at you—hungry, furious, starving—like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless.

“Move,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I’m hot and sticky and I need a sho-”

Before the words are fully out of your mouth, he grabs you.

His fingers wrap around your bicep, pulling you against him and then pinning you against the wall. He cages you there with his body, pressing so close that there’s not a sliver of air between you. You can feel every hard plane of him, the heat pouring off his skin.

“You drive me fucking crazy, Angel,” he growls, voice low and ragged, the sound vibrating through your chest.

You gasp, back arching instinctively toward him.

His mouth hovers just a breath from yours—so close you can almost taste him. His gaze drops to your lips, then flicks back up to your eyes, desperate and agonizing and wrecked.

“Do you have any idea?” he murmurs, the rough edges of his voice catching. “How fucking hard it is to be around you?”

His thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorising the shape of you. Your skin burns under the touch, your whole body tightening with the need to just lean in—just once—before it’s too late.

Your mind is scrambling, unable to catch up with whatever the fuck is going on. I mean, yeah, you know you drive him crazy—but not in this way. Not in a way that should make him look at you with that much hunger in his eyes.

“Jake, I-”

The sound of footsteps shatters the moment.

He tears himself away from you like he’s ripping off his own skin, turning and disappearing through the next door without a word.

You sag against the wall, dizzy and aching, as Reuben strolls past and raises a curious brow. You can’t even summon the energy to pretend you’re fine.

Because for the first time in a long time, you know you’re absolutely, dangerously not.

The next three days feel like you’re an extra on The Walking Dead. You can barely eat, barely sleep, and even breathing feels like a conscious effort—and half the time, you forget to. Every time you see Jake, your chest tightens, your lungs constrict, and your limbs seem to forget how to function. You stand there, frozen, like you’ve forgotten how to be human. But then he walks right past you, as if you don’t even exist.

How he went from being molten hot to freezing cold is beyond you. And it’s almost tearing you apart.

Everyone can feel it—the thick tension that’s building between you two. It’s suffocating. Even over the comms during flight drills, you can’t ignore the electricity crackling between you. It’s as if the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for the moment when everything explodes.

Maverick has noticed it too. You haven’t even come close to catching him again during the drills. It’s like you’re both on autopilot—doing your jobs, but barely.

It’s finally Friday, and you and Jake are the last to fly today. You should be focused—laser-focused—on the radar in front of you, tracking the mission as Jake does the high-speed manoeuvres Maverick instructed. But you can’t. Your eyes keep drifting toward the horizon.

The sky was clear and sunny this morning, but now it’s turning ominous. You know there’s a storm coming tomorrow, but today was supposed to stay clear. Yet here you are, watching the sky darken, thick clouds rolling in like a slow-moving freight train.

“Angel?” Jake’s voice snaps you back into the cockpit.

“Yeah?” You blink, shaking yourself out of the daze. “Sorry, can you repeat?”

“Do you see Mav?”

“Not yet.” You hesitate, weighing up whether or not you should say something about the storm. But when you twist in your seat, you catch sight of the darkening clouds creeping toward you.

“Jake,” you murmur, your voice low, “the sky looks bad.”

The jet shifts into a turn, angling toward the oncoming storm.

“Shit.” Jake curses under his breath. “Mav, are you seeing this?”

“Yeah, I am,” Maverick responds, his voice tight.

You tune out the next few seconds of chatter as Mav asks control if they need to call it off. The jet begins to shake slightly, the turbulence picking up, and Jake curses again as the wind buffets the jet, pushing you off course.

You want to speak up and tell him that you’re scared. The words are sitting on the tip of your tongue, but then the memory hits you—the one from that day before the crash, when you told Jake, your best friend, that you were afraid.

“You’re gonna alright, Angel,” Jake’s voice comes through your headset, as calm as it has no right being. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it only makes your stomach twist in knots. Those aren’t the words you wanted to hear then, and they're not what you want to hear now.

The jet lurches again, and you grip the armrests, knuckles going white. Your chest tightens and you struggle to breathe.

“Control has called it,” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms. “Bring it back to base immediately.”

“Copy that,” Jake replies, his voice steady but edged with a tension you can’t ignore.

You try to focus on the instruments, but the jet is shuddering, veering off course as the storm grows closer. The sky is turning an almost unnatural shade of grey, and you’re pretty sure you can see a flicker of lightning in the distance.

“Jake,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Tell me we’re going to be okay. Both of us.”

There’s a long pause before his voice comes through the comms, low and firm. “We’re gonna be okay, Angel.”

You keep your eyes trained on the instruments as the jet wobbles its way back toward base. You’re moving slower than usual, every inch of the plane hesitant as it fights against the unsteady weather. Over the comms, you hear Maverick speaking with control, his voice calm and confident as he lands, having been much closer to base than the two of you.

Just when you think you might be able to breathe a little easier, a downburst hits, and the jet is slammed by violent turbulence. A scream tears from your throat as the plane pitches up and down, lurching wildly in the storm. You’re thrown against the harness, the seatbelt biting into your skin as your body is tossed around like a ragdoll.

Jake’s voice cuts through the chaos, but you can barely hear him over the deafening shrieks of the wind and the thunderous shakes of the jet. His words are broken and distorted, lost between the gusts of wind and the violent rocking of the plane.

You glance up just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning slice through the dark clouds ahead, and the jet jerks again, diving into a deadly spin.

“Jake!” you shout, panic rising in your chest. “We need to eject!”

His voice is strained, barely audible, but you catch the tail end of what sounds like him saying he can save the plane—save you—but you know it’s too late.

“Eject now!” Maverick’s voice crackles through the comms, urgent and commanding. “Eject, eject!”

“Jake!” you scream, the fear in your voice raw and desperate.

“Okay,” he says, his voice a rasp. “Eject!”

You brace yourself, gritting your teeth as the plane continues to be tossed around like it’s made of paper. You have no choice but to trust in the training, the equipment, and Jake.

Then, with a frantic press of the button, you eject.

The world explodes into chaos. A rush of wind roars in your ears, the pressure so intense it feels like your bones are being hollowed out. For a heartbeat, everything is spinning, and then the world falls silent. Your stomach drops as you’re weightless, free-falling through the air.

You force your eyes open, the blurring motion of the storm clouded sky making it hard to focus. But then, with a violent jerk, your parachute deploys, the canopy snapping open above you, catching the air and slowing your descent just enough to ease the shock of it all.

Being picked up and rushed to the hospital is a complete blur. The only clear memory you have is giggling like a lunatic in the back of the ambulance when you hear a huge crack of thunder. Like... yeah, you were just in the sky.

Once they’ve got you in a bed, hooked up to machines, your mind slips into a half-conscious state. You're too full of adrenaline to fall asleep, but exhausted and in shock enough to let your eyelids drift shut. You hear the doctors discussing your condition—something about you being fine but clearly sleep-deprived. Rude.

The thing that snaps you back to full consciousness is the sound of Jake’s frantic voice. Cracking and desperate as he argues with the doctors.

“I told you, I’m fine!” he exclaims. “Look! I’m standing, breathing, walking. I need to see her. Let me see her or you’re going to be the one in a hospital bed!”

You shift higher in the bed, and the beeping of your heart monitor increases its pace.

“Oh, thank God,” Jake sighs, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and something you can't quite place as he rushes into your room.

The nurses at the door scowl at him, but they don’t try to stop him.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks, stepping quickly to the side of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand, hesitates, and instead places both palms on the bed railing beside you.

“I’m fine,” you say softly, your voice still rough. “Just sleep-deprived, apparently.”

His smile is shaky, watery, and the sight of it makes your chest ache as you look at the earnest, green-eyed boy you haven’t seen in years. The real Jake Seresin.

“What are you sorry for?” you ask after a beat of silence.

His brows furrow, and he hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Um... you know, the whole plane crash thing... back there. Do you—did you bump your head?”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “No. I told you, I’m fine. Just sleep-deprived—which is something you should be apologizing for. Not losing control of a jet in a storm. That wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

He opens his mouth, likely ready to protest, to say something about how he should’ve seen it coming sooner, but then he stops himself. His eyes soften, and he tilts his head slightly. “Why do I need to apologize for your lack of sleep?”

You snort loudly, a very unladylike sound. “Because of that shit you pulled the other day. Cornering me near the locker rooms and telling me that it’s hard to be around me. But not like ‘hard’ because you hate me, but like... I make you hard or something ridiculous.”

You feel your cheeks burn at the thought.

He chuckles, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Oh. That.”

“Yeah,” you say. “That.”

Another awkward silence falls between you, and both of you glance away, unable to meet each other’s gaze thanks to the thick and unholy tension hanging in the air.

Your chest tightens as your heart tears itself in two. One half wants to forgive him for everything, to beg him to be your friend again and forget the years of unadulterated loathing. But the other half refuses to give in, holding onto the hurtful things he said and did—especially what he said before the first crash.

Huh. Now you get to sulk about not one, but two plane crashes with Jake Seresin.

Jake clears his throat, breaking the thick silence. “Do you want to know the real reason I encouraged you to become a weapons systems officer?”

You glance at him, your brow furrowing. “We had this conversation last week, Jake. Are you sure you didn’t bump your head?”

He rolls his eyes. “I said the real reason.”

You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “So it is because you were intimidated by my massive talent. I knew it.”

He closes his eyes for a beat, inhaling like he’s summoning patience. “Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to be intensely heartfelt right now.”

You bite your lip to keep from giggling, not sure if it’s the painkillers or lingering adrenaline making everything feel strangely buoyant. “Sorry. Force of habit to annoy you. I’ll shut up. Please, enlighten me.”

He grips the bed railing so tightly his knuckles turn white. When he looks back up at you, the intensity in his green eyes steals all the air from your lungs—and every ounce of humour drains away under the weight of his stare.

“The reason I encouraged you to become a WSO is because I knew you’d be good—and I knew we’d be good together. And if we proved that, we’d most likely be deployed together.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

It feels like you've just been ripped from your jet again, but this time you’re not free-falling—you’re caught in the storm, spinning helplessly out of control. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and thanks to the rapid beeping of the monitor beside you, it’s not exactly subtle.

Jake’s eyes flick toward the machine, a quick flash of amusement crossing his face, but when he meets your gaze again, his smile is small and fragile. “I was scared to lose you, and then that stupid crash happened. I knew I’d screwed everything up. I knew you’d hate me for ruining your record, but I-”

“Wait.” You sit up straighter, twisting toward him. “Is that why you think I was mad? Because of the mark on my record?”

He blinks, confused. “That’s... not why?”

You stare at him, shock crashing through you. For years—years—you've carried this anger, this bitterness between you. And he never even knew the real reason why.

“Jake...” You hesitate, emotion swelling tight in your chest. “I wasn’t mad about the crash being labelled pilot error. I mean, sure, it sucked, but that’s not why I couldn’t speak to you afterward.”

His eyes widen, the colour draining from his face. “What?”

“God, this is going to sound so stupid.” You drag a hand over your face. “The reason I was angry was because of what you said before we almost died. You told me it didn’t matter if you survived—as long as I did.”

A heavy silence settles over you both, broken only by the too-loud beeping of your heart monitor.

“I just...” You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “I hated that you thought so little of yourself. That you could leave me behind and think I would be fine. That I could just go on like you never existed. You scared the hell out of me, Jake. And when we ejected and I couldn’t find you... I didn’t know if you were alive. I thought-” You stop, throat closing up.

Jake’s chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths, his hands trembling slightly where they grip the rail.

“When I saw you again, I wanted to forgive you. I knew I would... eventually. But then, before the hearing, you told me to-”

“Stop acting like you're better than everyone else and get a fucking grip,” he says, voice hoarse, repeating the ugly words that had haunted you.

You nod, forcing yourself to look at him.

“I thought you hated me,” he mutters. “When you wouldn’t talk to me... I thought you hated me because of the crash. I thought I'd wrecked everything. I convinced myself you didn’t want me around anymore. I thought I’d lost you.”

A flash of anger sparks in your chest.

“So instead of just asking if I was okay, you made sure you lost me by being a prick?”

Jake’s brow furrows, a flush creeping up his neck into his cheeks. “You didn’t talk to me for three fucking weeks after we almost died! What was I supposed to think?”

“Maybe that I needed space?” You throw your hands up. “Maybe that I was a little rattled and trying to figure out how to breathe again? But no—you assumed that I hated you, so you just decided to hate me back.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, frustration practically vibrating off him. When he leans in closer, his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes your heart stutter—and the monitor beside you makes sure everyone hears it.

“Don’t you get it?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

You can barely breathe.

“I never fucking hated you,” he says. “I’m in love with you.”

A nurse freezes at the door, shooting a concerned look toward the screaming heart monitor, but you barely notice.

Jake’s voice softens, but it still hits like a punch. “That’s why I couldn’t stand seeing you with Coyote.”

He pulls back like he’s preparing to walk away, but before he can, you grab his hand. Without thinking, you’re up on your knees, yanking him back toward you. There's a clatter behind you as your movement tugs at the cords and machines, but none of it matters.

Jake stares at you, stunned, like he’s bracing for you to shove him away.

But you don’t. You reach for his face, holding him between your palms like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. You barely have time to catch your breath before crashing your mouth into his.

The second your lips meet, it's like a dam breaks. Jake's hands find your waist, steadying you as you cling to him, desperate and trembling. He kisses you back with a rawness that speaks of years of confusion, anger, and longing all tangled together. His mouth is warm and familiar, yet new all at once—like you’re discovering something you’ve been searching for without even knowing it. For a moment, there’s nothing else: not the heart monitor blaring, not the nurses whispering at the door, not the ache still lingering in your bones. There’s only Jake, and the way he kisses you like he’s terrified to let you go again.

But then a god-awful alarm explodes through the room, startling the two of you apart.

One of the nurses rushes in, heading straight for the heart monitor. She presses a few buttons before turning to you with a spectacularly unimpressed glare.

Your cheeks burn as you sink back into the bed, trying to sit properly. “Sorry.”

She gives you a deadpan stare, then starts untangling the cords from around you. “I can see you're feeling much better. I’ll remove these to avoid any... further incidents.” She fiddles with the machines, then adds, “And I’ll page the doctor to clear you for discharge.”

You nod sheepishly. “Thank you.”

Then she turns her death stare on Jake. “You still need to be examined, so please return to your room.”

Jake flashes her his most charming, boyish grin. “But I—”

“Now.”

You have to hold your breath to keep from laughing, but Jake doesn't even try. He chuckles low and deep, then leans over you again, his presence swallowing the space between you. He kisses you—firm and possessive—right on the mouth. Then at the corner of your lips. Then your cheek. Your jaw. Finally, he breathes against your ear, voice a delicious threat:

“When we get out of here, I'm gonna be the loser who fucks you ‘til you finally unwind.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you breathless and blushing like a maniac, while the very exasperated nurse pretends she didn’t hear a damn thing.

END.

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