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CALLSIGN CUPID

Summary: When Jake Seresin realizes he’s in love with his best friend—you—he does what any emotionally repressed Navy pilot might do: sets you up with other guys instead. But after three bad dates, a paper airplane, and one squad-intervention later, Jake finally stops playing Cupid—and starts being honest.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x reader

Word count: 13.6k

A/N: This was in fact loosely inspired by “10 things i hate about you” but it was also inspired by this one book i read a very long time ago that kinda had the same vibe, not sure what the name was it was at least 5-6 years ago but i still think about it sometimes 💔 also omg?? i think this is the longest thing i’ve ever written! just a disclaimer this was written almost 2 months ago, it was apart of my test subjects before i released “honor & duty”. ALSO MIGHT LOWK MAKE A HANGMAN MULTIVERSE TOO??

Warnings: Second person POV, slow burn, mutual pining, slight sa scene (just a bit of inappropriate touching), jealousy, bad date scenarios (including one with a taken guy), light swearing, emotional tension, one knee-drop romantic gesture, meddling squad behavior, and one very flustered Hangman trying his best.

There were a few things you’d come to accept as non-negotiable truths during your time at Top Gun:

Coffee tasted best when stolen from Rooster’s thermos.

Phoenix and Fanboy would always argue like siblings during preflight.

And Jake Seresin—Hangman himself—couldn’t mind his own damn business to save his life.

You were midway through a morning briefing, half-listening to Cyclone run through upcoming mission simulations, when Jake leaned over just enough to whisper out of the side of his mouth.

“You know, I heard Supply Guy is single again.”

You didn’t even turn your head. “And I heard you should shut up before Cyclone catches you talking.”

Jake grinned, unbothered. “Just trying to help. I’d hate for your roster to run dry.”

You gave him a side-glare sharp enough to slice steel.

Across the room, Phoenix stifled a laugh.

The air in the briefing room was its usual mix of cold coffee, jet fuel, and pure, unfiltered sarcasm. Jake Seresin lounged in a rolling chair near you, boots kicked up onto the empty seat beside him, arms crossed over his chest like he hadn’t a care in the world. His sunglasses were still on. Inside. Because, of course, they were.

“Y’know, Hangman,” Rooster drawled from the front row, “it’s called a briefing. You’re supposed to look at the screen, not just bask in your own reflection.”

Jake tipped his sunglasses down just enough to make eye contact. “I multitask.”

“You can’t spell ‘team’ without ‘me’,” Fanboy muttered, not even looking up from the protein bar he was dissecting with a spork.

“Not how spelling works,” Payback shot back, smirking.

In front of him, you were half-paying attention, flipping through a file with one ear tuned into the mission rundown and the other eavesdropping on the squad’s banter. Bob sat next to you, pressed shoulder to shoulder like always, posture straight and focused—but when Hangman piped up again, you felt Bob shift subtly beside you, like he was biting back a grin.

“Some of us,” Jake said, lifting his voice just a little, “don’t need to memorize the brief. We are the plan.”

“You are insufferable,” Phoenix replied flatly, finally turning toward him with a look that could’ve knocked a lesser man on his ass.

“Didn’t hear a no,” Jake replied with a wink.

Coyote groaned. “I swear to god, if this is how today’s going to go…”

It was how today was going to go.

You’d all been grounded the past week for maintenance drills and mission prep, so the tension in the squad was ramping up like coiled wire. Too much time on the ground made everyone itchy. Especially pilots.

By the time the briefing was about to end, you were already winding down from the tactical talk, scribbling a note in your logbook. Bob leaned toward you, voice quiet.

“You flying lead today?”

You nodded. “Rooster’s wing, but I’ve got lead. Try not to make me look bad.”

His smile was small but genuine. “You could fly solo and still make us all look bad.”

“Flattery gets you… nothing,” you teased, “Except maybe some snacks in the ready room.”

Bob’s face lit up like you’d just promised him classified intel and a hug.

-

Cyclone dismissed you all fifteen minutes later, and as you filed out into the hallway, Jake was still going.

“I’m just saying, I’ve got a gift. A sixth sense for chemistry.”

“Oh yeah?” Rooster asked, slapping Jake’s shoulder. “That why you’re still single?”

“That’s a choice,” Jake shot back, fixing the collar of his flight suit. “I’m out here doing the Lord’s work. Playing Cupid.”

Fanboy groaned. “God, not this again.”

“You don’t even believe in monogamy,” Phoenix said, crossing her arms as she walked backward in front of you all.

“I believe in giving people a little push,” Jake replied. “Like matchmaking. Strategically. For morale.”

“Since when do you care about morale?” Coyote snorted.

Jake pointed at you. “Since she’s been moping around base like she lost a bet.”

“I haven’t been moping,” you argued, though you knew exactly what he was referencing. One shitty date with a comms officer and suddenly Hangman was acting like he needed to fix your whole life.

“You’ve been quiet,” Bob added from your other side, his tone gentle. “Quieter than usual.”

“I’m allowed to have quiet days.”

Jake leaned in again, smirking. “Or maybe you just need someone to make some noise in your life.”

Phoenix punched his arm. “Back off, Casanova.”

-

The pre-flight was smooth. You were zipping up your G-suit when Jake wandered over to your jet, dragging Coyote along like an accessory.

“Need help strapping in, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning against the wing like a car salesman trying too hard.

You gave him a flat look. “Only if you want a wrench to the temple.”

Coyote snorted.

“I was just saying,” Jake continued, completely undeterred, “you’re the picture of confidence. Someone should be here to appreciate it.”

“Jake,” Bob called from a few feet away, arms crossed as he leaned against your jet’s ladder. “You hit on her one more time and the plane might spontaneously combust just to escape the cringe.”

“Ohhh,” Rooster added as he approached, dragging his helmet in one hand. “Burned by Baby on Board. Rough morning for you, Seresin.”

Jake grinned lazily. “Hey, you all mock now, but when I’m the best man at her wedding? You’ll wish you were as charming.”

You raised a brow. “You volunteering?”

“Best man? Groom? I’m flexible.”

You groaned. Bob muttered under his breath, “Flexible like your ego.”

-

You all made your way toward the flight deck, helmets in hand, the morning sun bouncing off the tarmac. The simulation was in forty-five minutes, and you were itching to get in the air—partially because it was the one place where Jake couldn’t talk your ear off.

The air was different on base lately.

It wasn’t just the hotter-than-usual summer, or the fact that everyone had started sneaking ice pops from the freezer in the officer’s lounge. There was something else. A shift.

Everyone was restless. The mission load had eased slightly, giving you all more downtime. And when Top Gun pilots had too much downtime? Stupid things happened.

Betting pools. Pranks. Unnecessary competitions.

And, in this case: matchmaking.

Jake’s obsession had started as a joke—something he said after your third bad date in two months. But now, it was gaining momentum. He’d already made one match between a junior lieutenant and a flight mechanic (they’d gone on two coffee dates and then ghosted each other, but Jake claimed it was a success). And now, unfortunately, you were in his line of fire.

But what you didn’t know—what none of you knew—was that the boys had made a bet.

It started that night. A few hours after debrief, Rooster invited the squad over for drinks and poker.

-

Rooster’s house smelled like beer and leftover pizza, and Jake was already two whiskeys in when the idea started forming.

“Admit it,” he said, shuffling cards with a flourish. “I could get her a date that lasts longer than a week.”

“You think you could find her the right guy?” Fanboy asked, incredulous. “You’re the worst person to set anyone up.”

“I have charm.”

“You have trauma,” Payback muttered.

Jake smirked, unfazed. “I’m serious. She’s just… picky. And I know her type.”

Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what’s her type?”

Jake sipped his drink. “Someone with a sense of humor. Smart, but not arrogant. Good with their hands. Probably someone in uniform.”

“So… you,” Rooster said dryly.

Everyone laughed.

Jake rolled his eyes. “No. She’d hate dating me.”

“You sure?” Bob asked quietly, brows lifted.

Jake hesitated. “Yeah. She’d kill me before the first appetizer.”

“Let’s make it interesting,” Fanboy said, leaning forward. “Twenty bucks each. You pick someone—set her up. If it lasts more than five dates, you win. If not? We keep the cash.”

“Make it fifty,” Jake challenged.

The boys stared at him.

“Confident much?” Coyote said.

Jake shrugged. “She’s my friend. I know what she needs.”

The pot grew to $300. Jake grinned.

-

You had no idea what you’d just become the center of.

But the next morning, when Jake asked casually if you’d ever considered dating that guy from supply again, you should’ve known something was up.

The next morning broke clear and sharp over the base, the sun spilling golden through the narrow slats of your blinds. You were still half tangled in the remnants of a restless sleep when your phone buzzed with a text.

Jake: “Hey. So… you ever thought about dating supply?”

You blinked, sitting up, the question feeling more like a prank than a genuine suggestion. Jake Seresin, your self-appointed Cupid, was already in full swing.

You typed back with a dry smile:

You: “You’re starting early.”

-

The squad gathered for the morning briefing in the usual cramped room, the air thick with anticipation and the faint smell of burnt coffee. Cyclone was rattling off last-minute mission details when Jake sidled up next to you again, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.

The morning sun had barely crept above the hangar roof when the squad gathered for the day’s briefing. The cramped room hummed with quiet anticipation, punctuated by the rustle of flight suits and the faint buzz of comm chatter filtering through the air vents. Cyclone’s voice was all business, drilling through the mission simulation details like a machine.

But no one was really paying full attention—not you, and certainly not Jake Seresin.

Leaning against the wall beside you, Jake’s eyes gleamed with that familiar spark of mischief. “Alright, today’s the day,” he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips. “My matchmaking game is officially live.”

You rolled your eyes but fought a smile. Jake had been on this ridiculous kick since last night at Rooster’s, practically bursting with excitement over the stupid bet with the boys. You weren’t sure whether to be amused or mildly concerned.

“Seriously, dude, give it a rest,” you muttered, but he just shrugged and turned back to the briefing.

-

Once dismissed, the squad filtered out toward their jets, the metallic clang of helmets and gear blending with the distant roar of engines warming up. The familiar adrenaline spike coursed through your veins as you slid into your cockpit, fingers expertly running over the controls. Flying was always your sanctuary—the one place where Jake’s antics faded into white noise.

That was until your comm crackled with Rooster’s voice, thick with mock warning. “Hey, Hangman, keep your eyes on your wingman today. No matchmaking during maneuvers. We’ve got enough chaos as it is.”

Jake’s tone answered back, playful and teasing, “I’m just out here doing the Lord’s work. Somebody’s gotta fix this mess.”

You chuckled softly, settling into formation as the jets lifted off in perfect synchrony. The sky was a crystal blue canvas, the sun gleaming on your visor as you sliced through the air.

Flying helped.

Whatever chaos lingered on the ground got swept away the moment you lifted off. You and Rooster made clean turns, slicing through the California sky like it owed you something. Over comms, you could hear the easy banter between Payback and Fanboy, the static-muted smirks between Phoenix and Bob.

Jake, of course, never stopped talking.

“Hey, Bagman,” Phoenix called out mid-loop. “You miss basic training where they teach you how to shut up?”

“You love it,” he fired back.

“I’d love silence.”

“Don’t lie to yourself.”

It was all clockwork—banter, barrel rolls, and bullshit. But it was in the rhythm, in the instinctive trust that came from knowing every one of them would be there when it counted, that you found your balance.

You didn’t realize you were smiling until Bob’s voice came over the comm.

“You’re humming.”

“Shut up, Bob.”

“You’re humming over the intercom. I think that’s a first.”

Jake’s voice cut in, “She’s humming because I’m inspiring.”

Bob immediately: “I’m ejecting.”

-

Back on the ground after a flawless simulation, the squad dispersed toward the mess hall in a slow, hungry shuffle. The air was thick with post-flight energy—half adrenaline, half exhaustion—and someone behind you (probably Rooster) was humming the Top Gun anthem under his breath like he did after every mission.

You were barely through the door, already scoping out whether the snack bar had restocked the decent granola bars, when Jake popped up beside you like a damn prairie dog.

“Hey,” he said, voice pitched low, too casual to actually be casual.

You side-eyed him. “What now?”

He hesitated. That alone was enough to make you stop walking.

Jake Seresin? Hesitating? That was new.

He rubbed the back of his neck, expression a strange mix of nerves and smug determination. Like a kid about to admit they broke a window and that it was totally worth it.

“You remember the supply officer? The one from last week?”

You frowned. “Yeah. What about him?”

Jake cleared his throat. “Well… I might’ve, uh, invited him out for dinner. As part of my… project.”

You blinked. “Project?”

“Matchmaking,” he said, like duh. “Obviously.”

You laughed. Loud enough that two airmen passing by looked over.

“Jake, you can’t just ‘invite’ people for dates like it’s a mandatory training exercise.”

He shrugged, attempting nonchalance but failing miserably. “It’s not an official date. Just… a social outing. A vibe check.”

“A vibe check?”

“I figured I’d do some of the heavy lifting,” he continued, walking beside you now as you made your way toward the salad bar. “Save you the trouble of awkward small talk. If it’s a bust, you can blame me. If it works, you’re welcome.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do realize this is borderline insane?”

“Borderline charming,” he corrected.

“Borderline manipulative.”

“Potato, po-tah-to,” he said, waving a hand.

You stopped at the drink cooler, opening the door with more force than necessary. “Let me get this straight. You, without telling me, set me up with someone I barely know, because you think you know better?”

Jake looked smug. “Yeah. And you’re gonna love it.”

Before you could respond—probably with something that would’ve gotten you written up—Phoenix slid between you both like she’d been waiting for the right moment to intervene.

“You owe me five bucks,” she said to Jake, grabbing a Gatorade from the cooler behind you.

Jake’s smile faltered. “You bet on this?”

“Obviously.” She winked at you. “I said you’d go off on him the second he opened his matchmaking mouth.”

You glared at them both. “This entire squad is feral.”

Fanboy appeared from behind the soda machine, his tray already stacked with two grilled cheese sandwiches and a mountain of fries. “Hey, are we still on for movie night?”

“Depends,” you muttered, eyeing Jake. “Is it a movie I pick, or one Hangman picks based on who he’s trying to set me up with?”

“Ouch,” Jake said, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”

“She’s got a point,” Coyote added, showing up just in time to steal a fry off Fanboy’s tray. “You’re making this personal crusade way too obvious.”

Jake’s eyes flicked to you for a second. “It’s not personal. I just think she deserves someone solid.”

“Uh-huh,” Phoenix said, sipping her drink like she wasn’t starting a fire with every word. “And definitely not you.”

He grinned, sharp and defensive. “Exactly.”

You narrowed your eyes.

You weren’t blind. You’d known Jake for years—flown with him, fought with him, gotten blackout drunk with him during Coyote’s infamous Vegas birthday weekend. You knew what he looked like when he was bluffing.

And this?

This was a bluff. One he’d doubled down on way too hard to back out of now.

“Fine,” you said slowly, popping the lid on your water bottle. “I’ll go. One dinner. But if this guy’s weird or tries to tell me about his crypto portfolio, I’m blaming you.”

Jake grinned like he’d won something. “Deal.”

Phoenix shook her head as she walked off. “You’re playing with fire, Hangman.”

Jake called after her. “Lucky for me, I like the burn.”

-

Movie night started like they all did—overcrowded, under-supplied, and dangerously close to devolving into chaos.

Rooster was balancing a tangled knot of wires in one hand and a half-eaten slice of pizza in the other, muttering something about HDMI adapters and “government-issued bullshit tech.” His ancient projector—the one that had survived deployments, sandstorms, and one very unfortunate encounter with tequila in San Diego—was propped up on two old aviation textbooks and a can of Pringles.

Fanboy arrived ten minutes late and unapologetically smug, cradling a six-pack of Dr. Pepper like it was a rare treasure. “Don’t worry,” he declared loudly, “I saved movie night. Again.”

“No one asked you to,” Phoenix called from where she was elbow-deep in a duffel bag looking for her Captain America fleece blanket.

“Democracy asked me to,” Fanboy retorted. “You’re welcome.”

Bob, sweet dependable Bob, came bearing the only thing anyone actually appreciated—cookies. His sister in Lemoore had mailed him two Tupperware containers filled with snickerdoodles, peanut butter blondies, and something suspiciously green that no one questioned. The second the plastic lids came off, the room collectively moaned like it had just been released from purgatory.

Jake, of course, brought nothing but opinions. And himself. Both in equally large supply.

“Who voted for Hot Fuzz?” he asked, hands on his hips like an outraged PTA mom.

“Me,” you said flatly.

“And me,” Bob added, already curled into the arm of the couch with a cookie in hand, quietly smug.

Jake turned toward you like you’d personally betrayed him. “We could’ve watched John Wick, and you went with British satire?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, completely unapologetic. “Are you anti-cornetto trilogy?”

Jake blinked. “I’m anti-being-bored.”

“Then maybe don’t bring the same six stories about your exes to every hangout,” Phoenix muttered.

“Rude,” Jake replied, not denying it.

The lights dimmed. Rooster finally got the projector to cast a halfway decent image against the white wall, and Payback threw a sock at him when the subtitles didn’t match the audio. Someone screamed “SHOTGUN!” for the beanbag chair that had mysteriously migrated from Coyote’s room. Popcorn flew. The floor space vanished in seconds.

You wound up sprawled beside Bob, your back against a floor cushion that may or may not have once belonged to Hangman before it got appropriated during a game night standoff. Your sock-clad toes brushed against Bob’s shin; he didn’t even flinch, just nudged a peanut butter blondie toward you in a wordless offer.

You took it.

Coyote wandered in halfway through the opening credits carrying two slices of pizza stacked on top of each other, looked at the chaos in the room, and just sighed. “This is why we don’t have nice things.”

“You’re just mad I got the last slice of Hawaiian,” Fanboy sang from the corner.

“We talked about pineapple on pizza,” Coyote said darkly.

Meanwhile, the movie hit its stride—quick edits, dramatic zooms, jokes that landed even harder because everyone in the room had already memorized the lines.

“Point Break or Bad Boys II?” Jake called out in his best Nick Frost impression.

“Which one do you think I’ll prefer?” Rooster responded instantly from across the room, already grinning.

Payback lobbed popcorn at them both. “If y’all quote this whole damn movie, I’m leaving.”

“You say that every week,” Phoenix said, rolling her eyes. “And then you fall asleep halfway through with your mouth open.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

Jake flopped onto the arm of the couch behind you, like gravity had simply decided that spot belonged to him. His knee brushed your shoulder, lingering a second longer than necessary, and you didn’t shift away.

“You good?” he asked, voice pitched low so the others wouldn’t hear.

You tilted your head back, craning to look at him upside-down. “Define good.”

His lips twitched. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

You hummed. “Depends.”

“On?”

You gave him a saccharine smile. “Whether this guy turns out to be a serial killer.”

Jake laughed, and it was real—low and sheepish. “He’s not. I promise. He’s a little weird, maybe. But not murder-y.”

“Solid endorsement.”

“You asked me to look out for you,” he said, still smiling, but there was something beneath it—something quieter. “That’s what I’m doing.”

You stared at him, upside-down still, and for just a second the playful banter faded into something else. Something more loaded.

Your gaze held his for a second too long. Then you looked away, your neck aching a little from the angle. You shifted your weight back into the couch cushion.

“Just don’t make this a habit,” you muttered.

Jake didn’t answer right away. You felt him move behind you—his elbow brushing the back of your hair as he leaned forward slightly.

“Would it be so bad if I did?”

The question hung in the air.

It wasn’t flirtatious, not really. There wasn’t that usual drawl to it. He wasn’t playing this time. There was no smirk. No teasing. Just… curiosity. And something softer underneath it that he probably didn’t even realize had slipped through.

You glanced at him again, your expression unreadable. And for the first time, Jake actually looked unsure.

Before either of you could say anything else, Coyote and Phoenix started arguing across the room about whether or not Nicholas Angel—Simon Pegg’s character—was technically the villain of the movie.

“I’m just saying,” Phoenix started, “he ruins everyone’s fun.”

“By solving murders,” Coyote countered.

“You can’t prove Timothy Dalton didn’t have a point!”

You let their voices fill the room. Let the squad’s laughter and the chaos and the comfort of familiarity drown out the tension curling low in your chest.

Because the truth?

You didn’t hate the attention. You didn’t hate the way Jake always checked in, or the way he always saved you a spot without saying anything, or how he laughed harder when you were around. You didn’t hate any of it.

You just didn’t want to think too hard about why it mattered that it came from him.

Not yet.

-

The next morning arrived with zero fanfare and a whole lot of regret.

Not regret over anything you had done, but regret in the shape of Jake Seresin’s smirking face as he leaned against the edge of the table in the mess hall, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just offered you up like tribute the night before.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out, “you excited?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, halfway through your oatmeal. “Excited for what?”

Jake blinked, all innocence. “Tonight. Dinner. Supply officer.”

Fanboy perked up from across the table. “Wait. You’re going out with the walking spreadsheet?”

Rooster choked on his juice. “The one who alphabetizes the peanut butter?”

You gave Jake a look that could have melted steel. “You told everyone?”

Jake had the audacity to look affronted. “I didn’t tell them. I just—mentioned it.”

Phoenix leaned in, grinning like she smelled blood in the water. “Did you also mention that she was strong-armed into this by you?”

Jake shrugged. “It’s not coercion. It’s encouragement.”

“Encouragement usually involves enthusiasm,” you muttered. “Not bribery and peer pressure.”

“I didn’t bribe you.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘If you go, I’ll never bring up that time you accidentally FaceTimed me from the bath again.’”

Fanboy nearly spit out his coffee. “What?”

Jake held up his hands. “Not what it sounds like.”

You stood, grabbing your tray and ignoring the stares. “You’re all children.”

Phoenix cackled. “Be sure to send us a group text if he turns out to be a taxidermist.”

Jake called after you, “He’s a very normal guy! You’ll have a great time!”

You didn’t respond. But you did flip him off on your way out of the mess.

-

It was 7:00pm sharp when you arrived at the seafood place Jake had suggested—off-base, casual enough to avoid dress uniforms but nice enough to warrant eyeliner. The place had string lights, polished wood tables, and the kind of menu where everything came with a “reduction” of something or other.

You spotted your date—Mike, the supply officer—before he spotted you. He was seated in a booth, already halfway through a glass of water, his posture too perfect and his shirt just a little too tucked-in.

“Hey,” you said as you slid into the seat across from him.

His face lit up with the same earnest enthusiasm he’d had when you’d signed for your new flight gloves last week. “Hi! You made it!”

You smiled politely. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Conversation started off… fine.

He asked about your squadron, complimented your call sign (which he’d mispronounced twice), and talked about how he’d minored in aviation logistics at Purdue. He had a laugh that was technically charming, and a habit of straightening the salt shaker every time he leaned forward.

He wasn’t creepy. Or mean. Or even weird, really.

But the longer you sat across from him, the more glaringly obvious it became that this was not going to be the beginning of anything remotely romantic.

Your brain betrayed you somewhere between the appetizers and the main course. Because all you could think about was Jake.

Jake, who never sat that straight. Jake, who never got through a meal without sharing food off someone else’s plate. Jake, who once made up a fake call sign for Rooster just to mess with a group of visiting officers (“It’s ‘Cockadoodle-Doom,’ sir, and he earned it.”).

Jake, who had set you up on this date. Who had pushed you toward it with that easy smile and the kind of confidence that only someone with absolutely no self-awareness could manage.

“So,” Mike said, snapping you out of your daze, “are you into board games?”

You blinked. “Board games?”

“Yeah. I host a game night sometimes. We do Settlers of Catan and Terraforming Mars. I’ve got an expansion pack for Wingspan that adds European birds.”

You took a sip of your drink. “That’s… specific.”

Mike grinned. “You’d like it. You seem like someone who appreciates rules.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not usually what people say about me.”

He looked slightly panicked. “I meant—like… structure. Not in a bad way!”

You laughed once, politely. Then glanced at the time on your phone.

Still forty minutes to go, if you were being generous.

-

Back on base, Jake was restless.

Bob watched him pace from the armchair, where he was trying to read. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the rug.”

Jake ignored him, turning toward the window like he could somehow see the restaurant from there. “You think she’s having fun?”

Bob didn’t look up. “You mean the girl you tried to pawn off like an Amazon package?”

“I didn’t pawn her off.”

“You did. It was weird. You should’ve just asked her out yourself.”

Jake froze. “I don’t— That’s not what this is.”

Bob finally looked up. “Isn’t it?”

Jake didn’t answer.

Didn’t have one, honestly.

-

By the time you made it back to your place, you were tired in a way that had nothing to do with your day. Mike had walked you to your car like a gentleman and given you a hug that lasted half a second too long.

“You’re really cool,” he’d said earnestly, eyes hopeful.

You’d smiled and thanked him.

And then you’d sat in your car for five full minutes, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, wondering what the hell you were doing.

Your phone buzzed.

Jake: “So… still alive? Didn’t join a cult?”

You stared at it. Debated. Then typed back:

You: “Barely. He asked if I wanted to see his board game collection.”

Jake’s reply came instantly.

Jake: “That sounds like a euphemism.”

You: “It wasn’t.”

Jake: “That somehow makes it worse.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. Tossed your phone onto the passenger seat beside you. The night was still. Quiet.

And the only thing louder than the silence was the thought you’d been trying to avoid since the moment Jake first brought this whole “project” up.

Why was he so interested in trying to get you to date?

And why was HE of all people on your mind all of a sudden?

-

The squad didn’t do boredom well.

Two days after movie night and that god awful date, Phoenix convinced half of you to join a beach volleyball tournament on base. You weren’t even sure how it had been sanctioned—maybe the C.O. was just as restless as the rest of you—but suddenly there were nets set up just past the tarmac, and someone had roped off court boundaries with neon cones and caution tape.

You showed up in gym shorts and a tank top, hair pulled back and sunscreen barely rubbed in. Bob handed you a water bottle as you arrived, his cheeks pink from the heat despite the early hour.

“Phoenix and Rooster already claimed each other,” he said. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“Poor thing,” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his.

He just smiled—calm, steady Bob—and tugged his cap lower against the sun. You loved flying with him. Loved hanging out with him. Sometimes you thought maybe you loved everything about Bob, full stop.

Fanboy was the one who brought the speaker. Of course. He queued up a playlist titled “Top Gun Top Hits” that had everything from Kenny Loggins to Doja Cat. By the time the first game started, Rooster was dancing between points and Phoenix had already spiked a serve into Hangman’s chest.

“That one was for your ego,” she said, tossing the ball back over the net.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” Jake shot back.

You and Bob held your own, surprisingly enough. You weren’t flashy, but you had good instincts. And Bob was sneaky—he didn’t talk much during games, but he always seemed to know where to be.

“Okay, that was kind of hot,” you admitted after he dove for a save and landed in the sand.

He just looked up at you, winded and flushed. “You like that?”

You did. Too much. And maybe Jake noticed, because suddenly he was rotating in as your opponent with a little too much enthusiasm.

Afterward, you collapsed on a towel with Phoenix, both of you gulping water and yelling at Coyote for eating all the orange slices.

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Phoenix muttered.

“Yeah, well, next time bring more,” he shot back, mouth full.

By late afternoon, the squad scattered—some toward the showers, some to grab food, and Jake? Jake lingered.

“You’re free tomorrow night, right?” he asked, nudging your foot with his.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said innocently. “Just… remember that avionics tech from the hangar? The one with the buzz cut and the arm tattoo?”

“The one who said Star Wars is overrated?”

Jake winced. “Okay, so he’s not perfect. But he’s free. And I figured—just a quick drink. Harmless.”

You groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s for morale,” he said smugly, already walking backward toward the barracks. “And entertainment.”

-

The bar was dim and vaguely sticky, tucked into a side street just outside the base gates. It smelled like old beer and buffalo sauce, the kind of place that tried to pass itself off as “divey” in a charming way but never quite nailed the charm. Off-duty personnel clustered at the high tables, uniforms swapped out for jeans and team shirts, most pretending not to watch the pilots coming and going like it wasn’t their entertainment for the night. Country music played over the speakers—loud but not loud enough to cover the clink of bottles and the low buzz of half-drunken conversations.

Trevor—aka Buzz Cut Guy—was already seated at a corner booth when you walked in. You spotted him instantly. Tight black t-shirt, designer watch, one leg sprawled out too far into the walkway like he wanted people to trip over him. His cologne hit you before his smile did: something aggressively masculine, the kind of scent that tried too hard to say I lift without any actual lifting.

He stood when you approached, teeth flashing in a grin that felt more practiced than warm. “You must be Jake’s friend,” he said, sliding a hand across the table and pulling out your chair with the sort of flair that implied he’d rehearsed it.

“He said you’d probably try to bail.”

You raised a brow, pausing halfway into the seat. “That’s a weird opener.”

Trevor chuckled like that was somehow endearing. “Just messing. I’m good at reading people.”

You doubted that.

Still, you sat. Mostly because you didn’t want to give Jake the satisfaction of knowing you almost turned around and left the second you saw that buzzcut and smug expression in person.

“Figured I’d keep it casual tonight,” Trevor said, nodding to the waitress as she came over. “Can I get you something? Beer, wine, appletini?”

You blinked. “I’ll just take a ginger ale, thanks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No alcohol? That’s cute.”

Your jaw clenched. “Or maybe I just have early drills tomorrow and don’t want to show up hungover. Wild, I know.”

Trevor shrugged, unbothered. “Your call. I’m off tomorrow. I usually am. Perks of being indispensable.”

Oh boy.

It only got worse.

Trevor was, admittedly, attractive in the technical sense. Broad shoulders, straight teeth, a tattoo of what looked like a circuit board wrapping around his bicep—but every sentence out of his mouth made you question how many brain cells it took to put on deodorant in the morning.

“I’m kind of a genius with electronics,” he said, not even a full five minutes into the conversation. “Like, borderline savant. I rewired my mom’s entire security system when I was sixteen. She still doesn’t know how I did it.”

You nodded slowly, sipping your ginger ale like it was spiked with the patience of a saint. “Impressive.”

“I don’t get why people worship Maverick, honestly,” he continued, tipping his beer toward you like you’d agree. “Bit of a burnout vibe, don’t you think? Washed up. Always breaking the rules.”

You blinked. “You do realize everyone in my squad reports to him, right?”

He waved that off. “Yeah, but come on. You really think he’s still got it? Dude’s a relic.”

You forced a smile, digging your nails into the underside of the table. “So what made you join avionics if you’re such a prodigy?”

“I could totally be a pilot if I wanted. I just don’t want to deal with all the bullshit training. So much red tape, man. You guys live in the cockpit, but I live in reality.”

It was almost impressive—how quickly someone could become more unbearable with every word. You found yourself cataloging the signs like a checklist: talks over you, check. Makes his job sound harder than yours, check. Thinks The Matrix was “based on real science,” check.

“Oh, and don’t get me started on women who fly. No offense,” he said, glancing at you with that same fake grin. “Just seems like a tough gig. Like, do they even make helmets that small?”

You blinked. Slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Kidding,” he said quickly, hands up. “Joking. Lighten up.”

You had lasted thirty-seven minutes. You decided to be generous and make it to forty. Not because he deserved it, but because walking out before the forty-minute mark would just give Jake ammo to say I told you so.

You nursed your ginger ale. You let him talk. You imagined throwing his phone into the jukebox. And finally—finally—you stood.

“Well,” you said, pushing your chair back with a polite smile that barely masked the storm brewing in your chest. “This has been… something.”

Trevor stood too, reaching for your hand like he thought this was going well. “This was nice. Maybe next time you let me pick the music. Jake says you like weird stuff.”

You pulled your hand back. “Jake’s never heard me complain about music.”

Trevor blinked. “You sure? He said—”

“I’m sure,” you said firmly, already turning for the door. “Thanks for the ginger ale.”

The second you stepped outside into the cool night air, you exhaled like you’d just surfaced from a dive. Your boots hit the sidewalk harder than necessary as you made your way toward the parking lot, fingers already curled around your phone.

Jake 🙄

So??

You stared at the text. A dozen responses came to mind, ranging from sarcastic to profane, but you settled for closing your phone without replying. Not yet.

Let him sweat.

-

It was the kind of late afternoon where everyone lingered in the hangar instead of showering—half still suited up, half in undershirts, flopped on crates or leaning against the wing of Rooster’s F/A-18. No one had the energy to leave yet, and unfortunately for you, that gave them plenty of energy to gossip.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Phoenix said, cracking open a water bottle and tossing another one at you. “That bad?”

You caught it with one hand and gave her a look. “It wasn’t good.”

“Oh, do tell,” Fanboy said, perking up immediately. “We’ve been waiting for the post-mortem.”

Jake, of course, chose that moment to walk in, sunglasses still on despite being indoors and half the sunlight gone. “Here we go,” he muttered, under his breath but not low enough to go unheard.

You ignored him and sat on an ammo crate. “Okay, well. His cologne could’ve killed a small animal.”

Coyote winced. “Yikes.”

“Buzzcut Guy didn’t pass the vibe check?” Rooster asked, adjusting his backwards cap. “I thought Jake said he was ‘normal enough to survive a night with her.’”

You turned slowly. “He said that?”

Jake held up his hands. “In my defense, I said it in confidence to Rooster.”

Phoenix raised her brows. “So you knew he was questionable and still sent her out there?”

“I didn’t know he was that questionable!” Jake protested, finally removing his sunglasses and hooking them onto his collar. “I mean—how bad could it have been?”

You looked at him flatly. “He said, and I quote, ‘Do they even make helmets that small for female pilots?’”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“Noooooo,” Payback said, wheezing.

Fanboy doubled over like he’d been physically struck. “Nooo shot. Jake. Jake.”

Even Rooster looked horrified. “He said that to your face?”

“Loudly,” you said, sipping your water. “Like he thought it was charming.”

Phoenix’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “He sounds like a national treasure. Jake, where do you find these guys? Do they have a club? Is there a pool you dip into specifically marked ‘do not recommend’?”

Jake looked genuinely pained. “Okay, first of all, Trevor didn’t say any of that shit when we were at the gym.”

“Because of course you recruit men at the gym,” Phoenix said.

“Next you’ll be setting her up with a guy who thinks ‘Top Gun’ was a documentary,” Payback added.

Jake looked at you, eyes a little sharper now. “So what—you’re mad at me again?”

You shrugged. “Not mad. Just impressed you managed to pick someone even worse than the last one.”

Fanboy raised a hand like he was in class. “Question: how do you keep managing to top yourself? Is this a long game to ruin her faith in men so she just gives up and settles for you?”

The squad howled.

Jake’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“I mean,” Rooster said casually, spinning a socket wrench in his fingers. “You do seem to care a whole lot about who she ends up with.”

“Because I’m trying to help,” Jake snapped.

“Help yourself into her pants?” Phoenix offered, deadpan.

“That’s not—oh my god,” Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

You watched him, letting the squad’s laughter drown out the weird warmth under your skin. Jake wasn’t looking at you now, not directly. His ears had gone a little pink.

“Just admit you’re bad at this,” you said calmly, tossing your empty bottle into a nearby bin.

Jake scowled. “You know what? Fine. I’ll do better next time.”

“Oh no,” Rooster said. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

Jake ignored him. “Give me one more shot. I’ve got someone in mind already.”

Coyote looked alarmed. “He said that like a man about to suggest someone who drinks Monster for breakfast.”

Phoenix put her face in her hands. “This is gonna be another ‘I swear he’s normal’ guy, isn’t it?”

You crossed your arms, amused despite yourself. “Is this how you flirt? Just slow psychological warfare until I give up?”

Jake met your gaze. This time, his expression softened. “I could stop if you asked me to.”

You held his stare for a second too long—again—and didn’t reply.

Fanboy clapped his hands. “Alright! Next date pool starts now! Who wants to put money on this one lasting less than thirty minutes?”

“I’m giving her fifteen,” Phoenix said.

“Ten,” said Coyote.

Jake looked around, scandalized. “You guys are actual traitors.”

“Traitors with taste,” Rooster added.

The squad fell back into their banter, placing increasingly dramatic bets, and you let it wash over you—grateful, at least, for the distraction. But as Jake sat beside you on the crate, a little quieter now, you didn’t miss the way his knee bumped yours.

And stayed there.

You glanced back at Jake, who was pretending to be interested in the banter going on with Rooster and Payback, but his knee was still casually brushing yours. Your chest tightened, a weird mix of comfort and something unspoken hanging in the air.

“Alright, Cupid,” you said, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “If you’re so confident, when’s my next ‘date’?”

Jake gave you a mock offended look. “Whoa, slow down. You’re making it sound like I’m some kind of serial dater.”

“Well, you are definitely the reason I’m meeting these characters.” You smirked. “And don’t think I forgot that you specifically picked Buzz Cut Guy.”

Jake shrugged, the grin never leaving his face. “Quality control.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, quality control right into the dumpster.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping an octave. “Hey, I’m trying here. It’s a process.”

You caught the glint in his eyes—the same one you’d seen during briefings, in the heat of missions, and now here, in the middle of all this ridiculous squad chaos. It was easier to tease him, easier to laugh, but your heart hammered with every accidental touch, every shared glance.

“Just… try not to kill me with your ‘dates,’” you teased.

Jake’s smile softened. “No promises.”

For a moment, the noise around you faded, the room shrinking until it was just the two of you—two friends tangled in something neither of you was quite ready to name.

Then Rooster shouted from across the room, “Hey, you lovebirds, quit hogging the crate!”

Jake’s knee finally slid away, but the spark between you lingered.

“Come on,” you said, standing and stretching. “Let’s see what disaster you have planned next.”

Jake was already on his feet, quick on the comeback. “Oh, it’s going to be legendary.”

You laughed, feeling the familiar warmth of the squad around you and something a little more dangerous simmering just beneath the surface.

-

The next morning, the base was buzzing with its usual hum—pilots prepping for missions, techs bustling through equipment checks, and the faint scent of strong coffee drifting from the mess hall. You were sitting at one of the picnic tables outside, scrolling through your phone when Jake strolled up, his flight jacket casually slung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, dropping into the seat across from you with that familiar smirk. “So, about dinner last night…”

You arched a brow. “What about it?”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering sideways like he was debating how much to spill. “Trevor wasn’t exactly my best pick.”

You chuckled, setting your phone down. “That’s one way to put it.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I thought he’d be better. But then again, I guess it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t suck.”

You snorted. “Thanks for the glowing endorsement.”

Jake grinned. “I’m just saying, your standards are high.”

Before you could respond, Payback and Fanboy appeared nearby, carrying trays loaded with breakfast. Payback gave you a knowing look.

“Talking about your love life again?” he teased, plopping down beside Jake.

“Only because Jake here is apparently moonlighting as a matchmaker,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

Jake defended himself. “Hey, I’m just trying to help. And I’ve got a new candidate lined up.”

“Oh god,” you groaned, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Rooster wandered over, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Another date?”

Jake nodded, eyes twinkling. “Yep. This one’s different. Supposedly a real stand-up guy. Name’s Marcus.”

“Marcus,” you repeated slowly, trying the name out. “Sounds promising.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jake said, waving a hand. “He’s a cop. Good with his hands, apparently.”

You squinted at him. “How do you know all this?”

Jake smirked. “Let’s just say I do my research.”

The squad chuckled, settling into easy banter as you all ate.

-

The restaurant was dimly lit with an ambiance that felt more like an exclusive lounge than a casual dinner spot. Soft jazz floated through the air, blending with the quiet clinks of silverware and murmurs of other diners. You sat at a small, candlelit table across from Marcus, the cop Jake had set you up with. From the start, you knew this was going to be a challenge, but nothing prepared you for how quickly it spiraled.

Marcus smiled with that easy confidence cops often carried—the kind that told you he was used to getting his way. His eyes lingered a little too long, and the way he spoke felt less like a genuine conversation and more like an interrogation.

“So, Jake thinks we’ll hit it off,” Marcus began, swirling his glass of red wine with practiced ease. “Apparently, he’s a big fan of mixing things up.”

You smiled politely. “Yeah, Jake has his own ways.”

He chuckled but didn’t take the hint to dial it back. “So, what do you do for fun? I mean, besides dating mystery men?”

You raised an eyebrow but answered carefully. “I’m pretty into my work. Flying missions, training. It keeps me busy.”

Marcus nodded as if that was expected. “I get it. Structure, discipline. I’m all about rules myself.”

You tried to steer the conversation to something more neutral, but the undertone grew heavier.

“You know,” Marcus said, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping an octave, “a woman like you probably likes a man who knows what he wants. Someone who takes charge. Makes decisions.”

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. “I’m pretty capable of making my own decisions.”

Marcus smirked, clearly amused. “Sure, but there’s something nice about a guy who can show you the way. Keep things simple.”

You shifted in your seat, trying to maintain your composure. The subtle power play was becoming obvious.

“So, what’s your idea of a perfect date?” Marcus asked, but it wasn’t a question so much as a challenge.

You shook your head slightly, feeling the conversation close in. “Honestly, I just want someone who respects me.”

Marcus’s smirk faded just a little. “Respect’s earned, you know.”

At that moment, Marcus’s hand slid from the table, moving slowly until it landed on your thigh. The contact was light but unmistakably deliberate.

You froze, your stomach twisting. “Marcus…”

He didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he let it drift further back, brushing the curve of your hip, and then—before you could react—he gave a quick, possessive squeeze on your lower back.

Your breath caught, and your polite smile hardened. You pulled your chair back slightly, creating distance.

“Look, I don’t know what Jake told you about me,” you said quietly but firmly, “but I’m not here to be touched without consent.”

Marcus’s face tightened for a moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his features, but he masked it with a forced laugh.

“Hey, I’m just trying to show you I’m interested.”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Interest isn’t physical if it makes me uncomfortable.”

The rest of the meal was a blur of awkward silences and forced smiles, each minute stretching longer than the last. Your mind raced for a way out, but you were trapped by the formalities and the restaurant’s watchful eyes.

Finally, you excused yourself, mumbling something about the restroom.

Inside, you locked the door behind you and pressed your back against the cold surface. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of adrenaline and frustration flooding your senses.

You pulled out your phone, fingers trembling as you fumbled to unlock it. Your breath hitched as you typed the message again, trying to keep your voice steady despite the knot twisting tighter in your stomach.

You: Jake, please come get me. Marcus is… not what I expected. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m about to lose it.

The silence stretched. Then your phone buzzed.

Jake: Hang tight. I’m leaving now. Don’t do anything stupid.

You exhaled shakily, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. But you couldn’t help the worry gnawing at you.

A few minutes later, your phone rang. You answered quickly.

“Jake,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Hey,” Jake’s voice was low but tight, laced with anger and concern. “What the hell’s going on?”

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling small. “Marcus… he crossed a line. I told him to stop, but he—he touched me.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then Jake’s voice dropped, deadly serious.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. Just… uncomfortable. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Goddammit,” Jake muttered, his frustration clear. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stopped this before it even started.”

You pressed your forehead against the cool bathroom wall, trying to calm your racing heart. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve. I’m on my way, alright? Just stay put. Locked door, no matter what.”

“I will,” you whispered.

Jake’s voice softened for a moment. “I’ll be there soon. You’re not alone.”

As the call ended, you pressed the phone to your chest, letting the sound of Jake’s promise settle in. Somewhere between fear and relief, you realized you trusted him more than anyone else right now — and that maybe this ridiculous matchmaking project was turning into something a lot more complicated.

Steeling yourself, you took a deep breath, glanced at your phone’s screen — Jake had texted back, I’m waiting outside. Don’t say a word until you get here.

You slipped out of the bathroom door quietly, heart thumping so loud you thought it might give you away. The restaurant’s dining room buzzed with muffled conversation and clinking glasses. You ducked behind a pillar, weaving past tables with your eyes on the exit.

The cool night air hit your face as you slipped out the side door, the city sounds washing over you in relief. And there he was—Jake, leaning casually against his car, arms crossed, watching the street like a sentinel.

“You made it,” he said softly, voice just for you.

You barely nodded, sliding into the passenger seat before he even opened the door. The car smelled faintly of leather and pine-scented air freshener, oddly comforting in the tension of the moment.

Then, out of nowhere, the front door of the restaurant slammed open and Marcus stomped outside, scanning every shadow.

“Where the hell did she go?” Marcus growled, voice thick with frustration.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, and before you could blink, he pulled the door closed and locked it with a quiet click.

“Hide,” Jake hissed, pulling the seatbelt tight.

You ducked lower, barely able to keep from laughing as Marcus prowled past the car, his angry muttering unmistakable.

Jake cracked a grin. “Looks like your charming date doesn’t have a clue.”

You giggled, the absurdity of the situation hitting you. “Yeah, real smooth.”

As Marcus circled the block, you and Jake exchanged amused looks, the kind that said, Can you believe this guy?

A laugh escaped you, and Jake’s grin widened until it was all teeth and mischief.

“You know,” Jake said, voice dropping a notch, “we make a pretty good team.”

Your eyes met his in the dim glow of the dashboard, and suddenly the air shifted — the easy humor melting into something softer, something more electric.

Jake’s gaze lingered on you, warmth pooling in his eyes like a silent confession.

“Uh…” he cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “I should probably drop you home now.”

You nodded, cheeks flushed for reasons beyond the cold night air.

Jake started the engine and pulled away, the city lights blurring past the windows.

“I’m sorry you had to put up with that asshole,” he said quietly.

You reached over, squeezing his hand. “Thanks for saving me.”

He glanced your way, that grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

You laughed softly, the tension finally unwinding as the car hummed along the quiet streets.

-

The car pulled up outside your place—a modest, familiar building that felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the night. Jake cut the engine and glanced over at you, his expression softer now, the easy teasing replaced by genuine concern.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the small jacket you’d tossed over your shoulders earlier. The cold was creeping in now, but you barely noticed.

Jake stepped out and walked around to your side, opening the door. You hesitated for a moment, then slipped out, the night air cool against your skin.

You stood side by side on the sidewalk, the silence between you thick but not uncomfortable. It was as if the city itself had paused to let this moment breathe.

Finally, Jake broke the quiet.

“Next time, i’ll leg you pick out the date,” he said with a small, crooked smile.

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with the distant hum of streetlights and passing cars.

“Deal,” you whispered.

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Neither of you said more, but the weight of everything unspoken hung in the air—something tender, something promising.

With a final look, you turned toward your door, and Jake watched you go, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

-

Two days after the restaurant escape, everything felt a little brighter. The sky over base was stupidly blue, the coffee in your hand was criminally good, and for once, your morning wasn’t crawling with tension. Instead, you walked through the hangar bay doors with a little spring in your step, humming under your breath, the lid of your cup pressed to your smile.

Bob was the first to notice.

“Wow,” he said, blinking behind his glasses as you passed him. “Someone’s chipper this morning.”

You smirked, biting back a reply as you took your usual seat beside Phoenix on the toolbox near the main maintenance station. She leaned toward you immediately, squinting. “Okay, what gives? You look like you’re about to break into song.”

Fanboy glanced up from where he was trying to fix the squad’s broken coffee machine. “Please don’t. I haven’t had caffeine in three hours. I might actually cry.”

You held up your cup in mock apology. “I had mine already.”

“Traitor,” he muttered.

Jake looked up from where he was half-bent over a clipboard with Rooster. The second he saw you—your smile, the little crinkle at the corners of your eyes—he felt something twist in his chest. He didn’t say anything, just watched as you took another sip and tried not to grin too hard.

You were glowing. Genuinely glowing.

And it wasn’t because of him.

Coyote joined the group, tossing a wrench onto a nearby cart. “Alright, spill. You’re grinning like you just found out Maverick’s paying off everyone’s student loans.”

You glanced around at all their faces—expectant, amused—and finally caved.

“I met someone,” you said.

Jake’s clipboard snapped shut in his hands. No one else noticed, but his jaw ticked.

Rooster tilted his head. “When?”

“This morning. At a coffee shop, just off base,” you said, twirling your cup slowly. “I was in line, and we started chatting. He’s… funny. Really charming. Works in environmental science or something.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “So not in the military?”

“Nope.”

“Already a green flag,” Fanboy said under his breath.

You laughed. “Right? And he asked me out.”

Jake’s stomach dropped.

You kept talking, unaware of the spiral unraveling behind his practiced expression. “We’re getting dinner tonight. He suggested this little Thai place near the beach. Said it’s his favorite spot.”

“He’s got good taste,” Phoenix said.

“He sounds promising,” Rooster added. “Better than Buzzcut and Cop Guy.”

You winced. “God, don’t remind me.”

“Wait,” Fanboy said, lifting his head. “You’re saying this one might actually be decent?”

“I think so,” you said softly. “He seems… different. It’s not just about looks or whatever. There’s something about him.”

Jake was frozen. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t nod. He was staring at the floor like it held the answers to every single one of his bad decisions.

Because it had just hit him—like a missile to the gut—that he didn’t want to see you smiling like that because of someone else.

He’d wanted it to be him all along.

And now you were going on a date with someone who hadn’t made a complete ass of himself in front of you. Someone you were actually excited about. Someone who made you glow.

Jake couldn’t breathe.

Phoenix noticed the change in his posture and gave him a strange look, but he stood before she could say anything.

“I, uh… I gotta check something in the breakroom,” he muttered, walking off without meeting anyone’s eyes.

Phoenix frowned. “The breakroom?”

Bob glanced at Rooster, then at Fanboy. “We don’t even keep anything in there anymore.”

Rooster sighed. “He’s losing it.”

-

Later That Night

Bob’s place was already filled with the scent of pizza and the low hum of music when the squad filtered in. There was a pile of shoes near the door, two half-full coolers, and a lopsided stack of movies no one would watch.

Jake sat on the couch, beer in hand, eyes glazed over as the rest of the squad cracked open drinks and teased Fanboy for trying to light the fire pit with a lighter too small for the job.

“She’s not here, you know,” Coyote said, flopping onto the other side of the couch.

Jake didn’t reply.

“She’s probably having the time of her life right now,” Fanboy said with a smirk, strolling past with a handful of chips.

“Let it go, man,” Rooster added, nudging Jake’s leg. “We’ve accepted the fact that you’re the world’s worst matchmaker.”

Phoenix dropped down beside them and rolled her eyes. “It’s actually impressive how bad those dates were. I mean, come on—Buzzcut? Marcus?”

Jake took a long sip of beer. “They weren’t that bad.”

“They were terrible,” Phoenix replied. “And now she found someone by accident. Coffee Shop Guy is already in the lead.”

That was the moment her phone buzzed on the table.

Phoenix didn’t look at it right away. She was in the middle of tossing a gummy worm at Rooster’s head. But when it lit up again, and again, she finally picked it up.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh my god.”

Everyone paused.

She turned her phone around and held it out. “Look.”

It was a photo. Taken an hour ago, timestamped. You were on the pier, sitting on the railing, hair blowing in the breeze. Ice cream cone in hand. Laughing. Glowing.

Next to you, a guy. Not Buzzcut. Not Marcus. Someone new. Handsome. Casual arm on the back of your bench.

He looked just as happy.

Jake felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

“That’s him?” Bob asked, peering over her shoulder.

“I guess so,” Phoenix muttered. “My friend saw her and sent this. I had my phone on DND. This was taken, like, an hour ago.”

Jake stood up so fast the couch shook.

“Jake?” Rooster asked.

Jake stared at the picture. And then, before anyone could stop him—

“I love her.”

Everyone froze.

Phoenix blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Jake ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “I freaking love her. And I’ve been setting her up with losers because I didn’t want to admit it. But I love her.”

Rooster dropped his beer. “Dude.”

Fanboy choked. “WHAT?”

Coyote threw a pillow at him. “You moron! You let her go on four dates?”

“I KNOW,” Jake groaned.

Phoenix stood up. “You have to tell her. Like now.”

“But she’s with him. Look at them!” Jake pointed at the photo. “They’re probably planning their damn wedding.”

“No,” Bob said calmly. “They’re eating ice cream.”

“We need to find her,” Phoenix decided, grabbing her keys. “Now.”

-

“You want to what?”

Rooster stared at Jake like he’d just suggested they storm the Pentagon in flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts.

Jake stood in the center of Bob’s living room, hair sticking up in every direction, chest heaving with chaotic energy and pure desperation. “A paper airplane. I’m writing her a message. On a damn paper airplane.”

Silence.

Then Fanboy, holding a beer and looking deeply unimpressed, said flatly, “What the hell kind of third-grade rom-com fantasy are we living in right now?”

“I’m serious,” Jake barked. “She told me once—like a year ago—that if someone ever gave her a paper airplane with something meaningful written on it, she’d cry. Happy cry. She said she’d marry them on the spot.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “Wait. She really said that?”

“She was drunk,” Jake admitted, pacing like a man on the edge. “We were playing Truth or Drink, and she was tipsy off two margaritas. She said it was the kind of gesture no one makes anymore—personal, sweet, thoughtful. Like… actually knowing her. Not just pretending.”

Bob, from the armchair, blinked slowly. “You realize that means she probably meant it.”

Jake nodded fast, almost frantic. “Exactly. That’s why I have to do it.”

Rooster tossed a piece of junk mail at him. “Here, use this—wait. Never mind. That’s a Domino’s coupon.”

Coyote reached into his backpack and chucked a half-used notebook across the room. “Use this. But don’t waste the back pages—I have my gym log in there.”

Phoenix snatched a pen off the coffee table and pointed it at Jake like she was about to knight him. “Write from the heart. But don’t be cringe. I swear to god, if you start it with ‘Dear beautiful,’ I’m lighting you and the paper on fire.”

“Noted,” Jake muttered, sitting down like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of write on lined paper. His knee bounced. His fingers drummed. The notebook sat in his lap, untouched, and the squad stared like they were watching a live soap opera unfold on Bravo.

“Bro,” Fanboy said. “Just start with her name.”

“I’m not writing her a letter,” Jake said. “Not like that. I’m writing… pieces. Memories. Stuff I wish I’d done right.”

Bob tilted his head. “Like a patchwork confession?”

“Exactly,” Jake murmured, flipping the notebook open to a clean page and clicking the pen. “Things I should’ve said. Dates I should’ve taken her on. Dumb moments I should’ve known mattered.”

He began writing.

For a long time, the only sound was the soft scratch of the pen and the occasional beer bottle clinking against the coffee table. Jake’s brows furrowed, his mouth tugged into a tight line as he scribbled fast, pausing only to cross something out or shake his head at himself.

One by one, the squad wandered closer, like a group of nosy aunties pretending not to read over his shoulder.

On the top right corner, Jake wrote:

should’ve asked you to be my date to Coyote’s promotion party — you looked so good that night I forgot my own damn name

In the center:

remember that diner in El Centro? I should’ve asked for your number before we even got our food

I should’ve kissed you on the tarmac after that night flight

I should’ve told you that your laugh ruins me

Near the fold:

I kept trying to set you up with guys who weren’t me

because if I admitted I wanted to be the guy — and you didn’t feel the same — I’d never come back from it

Near the tip:

I want to take you on real dates

the kind with car karaoke and milkshakes and pulling you closer on the couch when the movie gets boring

the kind that end with you in my sweatshirt

Near the tail:

I’ve been in love with you since that time you punched Rooster in the arm for making fun of Bob’s playlist

I should’ve told you

I didn’t

I’m sorry

In the bottom left corner, nearly hidden:

I don’t deserve a second chance

but if you gave me one

I swear to god I’d never waste it

By the time he finished, the squad had gone quiet.

Jake exhaled hard through his nose, like the act of putting it all down on paper had taken something out of him. He stared at the page. Folded it. Creased it carefully, like it was a sacred artifact. With practiced fingers, he turned the notebook page into a perfect paper airplane and held it in both hands, like it might break.

“Dude,” Rooster said, blinking. “That’s actually… like, good.”

“Kind of beautiful,” Bob offered, smiling softly.

Fanboy looked dumbfounded. “Okay, I take back all the slander. That was not stick figure energy.”

Jake stood up slowly, paper airplane in hand, and said—more to himself than anyone else—“I’m giving it to her tonight. I don’t care if it makes me look insane.”

Phoenix grinned. “You already look insane. But also? Kinda hot.”

“I hate how much I’m rooting for you,” Rooster muttered.

Coyote clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Let’s go find her, man. You made your plane. Time to fly it.”

Jake groaned. “That was awful.”

“Thank you, I try,” Coyote said with a wink.

And just like that, the mission was a go. Paper airplane loaded. Feelings confessed. The squad ready to take on the world—or at least the city—in the name of rom-com chaos.

Next stop: the pier.

If she was still there.

If Jake wasn’t already too late.

-

The paper airplane sat on the coffee table like it held nuclear launch codes. Jake didn’t take his eyes off it.

“It’s not even that late,” he muttered, already pacing again. “They could still be at the pier. Maybe walking around or eating somewhere else nearby.”

Phoenix pointed at the picture on her phone again. “Okay, but which pier? That’s the problem. This could be anywhere. There are like seven piers in the county.”

Rooster squinted at the photo. “Zoom in on that sign behind them. The one next to the bench.”

She did, dragging her fingers across the screen. The image was grainy, and the lighting was terrible, but you could just barely make out a few blurry letters.

Fanboy tilted his head like a confused puppy. “That says ‘Pelican something.’ Pelican Wharf? Pelican Bay?”

Bob perked up. “Pelican Point. That’s a real place—it’s by the old marina past the naval museum. There’s a pier right next to it, with that same kind of bench. I’ve been there with my mom.”

Coyote grinned. “Bob, you beautiful genius.”

Jake was already grabbing his keys. “I’m going. I’ll drive out there. If she’s not there, I’ll keep looking.”

Rooster held out a hand like a crossing guard. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t just drive off into the night like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

“I absolutely can,” Jake said, and then paused. “And technically, it’s more like 10 Things I Hate About You.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “So, what? You’re Heath Ledger now?”

Jake pointed at her dramatically. “If the shoe fits, baby.”

Coyote clapped his hands once. “Alright, alright. Let’s not waste time. Jake, you take your truck and go to Pelican Point. If she’s not there, call us.”

Fanboy stood up too. “Wait—we should track her location.”

Everyone turned.

“She shares it with Phoenix!” he added quickly. “Remember when we all went camping and she said if she got murdered in the woods, she wanted someone to find her body?”

Phoenix nodded. “Yeah. I still have her on Find My Friends.”

She pulled up the app. “Okay, last ping was almost two hours ago. But—” She tilted the phone. “—she’s not at Pelican Point anymore.”

Jake frowned. “Where is she?”

Phoenix zoomed in, and then frowned too. “Uh…she’s home.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Wait,” Bob said slowly, “so she’s not on the pier anymore?”

Phoenix shook her head. “Nope. She’s back at her place.”

Fanboy looked around. “So…should we tell Jake not to go?”

“No,” Jake said instantly. “I’m still going. I’ll check the pier just in case the location’s lagging, and if she’s not there, I’m heading to her house.”

Phoenix crossed her arms. “And what’s the plan? You’re just gonna knock on the door and say what? ‘Hi, sorry all your dates sucked. Turns out it’s because I like you?’”

Jake didn’t blink. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Bob smiled softly. “Don’t forget the airplane.”

Jake grabbed it from the table with a reverence normally reserved for flags and championship rings. He looked at the squad, still wide-eyed and vibrating like a caffeinated hummingbird.

“I have to try,” he said, voice low. “Because if she actually liked this guy—if he’s good to her and he makes her smile like that—and I just sit back and let her be with him, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

Rooster groaned into his hands. “God, you’re in deep.”

Phoenix threw him his hoodie. “Go. But call us if she’s not there.”

Fanboy pointed at the airplane. “And don’t chicken out. That thing’s not gonna launch itself.”

Jake nodded. He turned and made it to the door.

Then paused.

“…You guys coming?” he asked, glancing back.

The squad looked at each other.

And then, like a slow-building mutiny, they all stood.

“We’ll follow you in Rooster’s Bronco,” Coyote said. “But from a distance.”

“We want to see what happens,” Phoenix added. “And make sure you don’t wimp out.”

Bob stood too, grabbing his car keys like they were tactical gear. “Also, if it goes badly, you’ll need backup.”

Jake huffed a disbelieving laugh. “You guys are insane.”

Rooster patted his shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

They poured out into the night like a small military unit on a love-fueled recon mission. Jake climbed into his truck. The squad piled into two cars behind him. The paper airplane sat on the dashboard like a little talisman.

Operation: Find the Girl was officially underway.

-

Jake’s headlights swept across the gravel lot as he pulled up to the edge of Pelican Point. The pier jutted out into the water like a dark, jagged silhouette against the horizon, the last traces of sunset bleeding into the sky. He threw the truck into park, killed the engine, and stepped out into the warm coastal air.

The wind coming off the ocean hit him like a wall—salty, humid, and just cool enough to feel cinematic. His boots crunched over old wood planks as he walked the length of the pier, scanning every shadow, every bench, every corner where a couple might still be wrapped up in each other.

But it was empty.

No laughter. No clinking silverware from the food shack that had already shut down. No dimly lit photo booth glowing in the background. Just the creaking of wood and the soft lap of waves beneath him.

Jake let out a long, slow breath. “Shit.”

He stood at the railing for a second, holding the paper airplane in both hands, his fingers tightening around the folded wings. The edges were soft now—creased from where he’d clutched it all the way here. His pulse thrummed in his ears.

He glanced down at it again, rereading the scrawled notes across the wings and tail:

“Wish I took you to that rooftop jazz bar instead of setting you up with Trevor.”

“Should’ve kissed you after that night on the beach.”

“You looked so happy at the wedding last spring. I wanted to be the reason.”

“I like you. God, I like you so much it makes me feel twelve.”

He swallowed. Looked out at the water. Then grabbed his phone and hit Phoenix’s name.

She picked up on the first ring.

“Not there?” she asked, no preamble.

“Nope.” Jake dragged a hand through his hair. “Pier’s dead. Not a soul in sight except two drunk teenagers making out on the stairs.”

“Gross.”

“She’s not here, Phoenix.”

“I told you she was home—”

“I know, but I had to check.”

Behind her, he could already hear chaos brewing. Rooster shouting something about Google Maps, Coyote yelling at Fanboy to stop touching the AC controls.

Then Phoenix must’ve put the call on speaker, because suddenly the whole squad was in his ear.

“Abort mission?” Rooster asked.

“No,” Jake snapped. “Not aborting.”

“Then what’s the play?” Fanboy demanded.

“She’s at home. You gonna just roll up and throw the airplane at her window like a boombox?”

“Not a bad idea,” Coyote muttered. “Very Say Anything. Classic.”

Jake turned and leaned his back against the railing, staring up at the sky. “I don’t know, man. I feel like I missed the window. She’s probably sitting on the couch right now with this guy, talking about how great the date was.”

Silence.

Then Bob’s voice came in, quieter. “If that were true, she wouldn’t be home alone.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

“I mean,” Bob said, “if the date went that well, wouldn’t he still be with her? Or at least walking her to the door, staying for a drink, texting her right now? You think she’d really be sitting there by herself?”

Jake said nothing, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“She’s not texting,” Phoenix added. “I can see the read receipts. Last message she sent was a meme about a raccoon eating french fries. That was two hours ago, so your best hope is that she’s not sitting on that couch and making out with that gorgeous man right now”

Rooster groaned. “Why do you know this much about her phone activity?”

“Because I care, Bradley.”

Jake pushed off the railing. “Okay. Okay. I’m going. I’m heading to her place.”

“Hell yeah,” Coyote said immediately.

“Good,” Phoenix added. “And this time, don’t chicken out. Don’t make a joke. Don’t try to flirt your way around it.”

“Be honest,” Bob said gently. “If this is your one shot, take it seriously.”

Jake looked at the paper airplane one more time. Ran his thumb over the wing that read: “Wish I’d told you the truth sooner.”

He nodded to no one.

“On it.”

He hung up.

The squad, for once, didn’t say anything else.

Back in the truck, he laid the airplane carefully on the passenger seat, like it was more fragile than it looked. And for the first time all night, Jake Seresin wasn’t overthinking the landing. He was just aiming straight and trusting the wind.

-

Jake didn’t remember the drive to your place.

Somewhere between the pier and the turnoff to your street, his brain just… blanked. He barely noticed the green lights, the low hum of country radio still buzzing through the truck’s speakers, or the way his hands clenched the steering wheel so tight his knuckles cracked.

All he knew was that the paper airplane sat on the passenger seat like it held his whole heart.

He hadn’t even realized how fast he was driving until he practically skidded up to the curb outside your place, tires whispering against the pavement. His boots hit the ground hard, truck door slamming behind him.

He took the steps two at a time.

Then three.

And then he was there — fist raised, pounding on your front door like it owed him money.

“Open up!” he barked. “Come on, come on—”

He was still muttering to himself when the door opened.

And then you were there.

In a hoodie. Hair pulled back. Eyes glassy.

You looked… wrecked.

And Jake’s voice immediately faltered.

“I—I was gonna—” He waved a hand around like it could pull the words out of the air. “Shit, sorry, I know it’s late, I just—listen, I should’ve said something a long time ago, I was stupid, I thought I was helping you but I was just—God, I’ve been in love with you since that day at the hangar when you made fun of my playlist—”

“Jake.”

“I know you probably hate me,” he rushed on, words tumbling out. “But I had to try, okay? I had to say something before it was too late. I don’t care about the other guys, I don’t care about Coffee shop guy or whatever his name was, I care about you, and I swear to God if you tell me to leave I will—but just let me say this first—”

“Jake.”

You cut in again, softer this time.

He finally looked at you—really looked.

And the words died on his tongue.

You weren’t just tired. You weren’t just annoyed he’d shown up unannounced.

You were upset.

Something in your expression cracked like porcelain under pressure. Eyes rimmed pink, lower lip trembling, arms folded around yourself like armor.

Jake’s chest tightened.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low now. “Are you okay?”

You swallowed hard and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“I left the date early,” you muttered. “He—he has a girlfriend.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

You laughed, bitter and broken. “Yeah. She showed up halfway through. Started yelling at him. Apparently this is a thing he does. Picks up girls at coffee shops and sees how long he can keep the lie going.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You didn’t answer.

Just stared down at the floor like it held the last shred of your dignity.

And that’s when Jake’s whole demeanor shifted.

The flustered panic drained from his face. The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced with something raw and real and steady. He took one careful step forward, then another, until he was right in front of you.

You didn’t flinch when his hand cupped your cheek. You just leaned into it—soft and broken and trusting.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

You shook your head. “It’s not your fault.”

“I think it is,” he said. “I think if I’d said something sooner, you never would’ve gone on that date.”

Silence stretched between you.

And then Jake reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the folded paper airplane.

“I was gonna just give you this,” he murmured. “Let it speak for me. But now I think you deserve more than a folded-up piece of notebook paper.”

He stepped back.

And then—to your absolute shock—he dropped to one knee on your porch.

“Jake—?”

“Don’t freak out,” he said quickly. “I’m not proposing. Not unless you want me to, in which case I’ll go grab a ring pop from the gas station, we can make it official.”

You snorted despite yourself.

He smiled.

Then he held the airplane out in both hands like an offering.

“I wrote everything I should’ve said,” he said quietly. “Everything I didn’t say when I should’ve. It’s all there. Every missed chance. Every almost. Every wish.”

Your fingers brushed the paper.

Jake’s voice wavered, just slightly.

“I thought if I couldn’t find the right words… maybe I could fold them.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, stunned, holding the paper like it might shatter if you breathed wrong.

“I know it’s late,” Jake added. “I know I’m late. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day making up for the days I didn’t say the right thing.”

You blinked fast, trying to keep the tears in.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” you whispered.

Jake stood.

“I was scared,” he said honestly. “Because once I told you… it’d be real. And if you didn’t feel the same, I don’t know if I could’ve stood next to you every day pretending it didn’t kill me.”

He looked at you.

And something cracked open inside you.

You didn’t even think. Just stepped forward, dropped the paper airplane gently to the porch, and reached for his collar.

Jake barely had time to register the movement before your mouth was on his.

The kiss was everything.

Long-overdue and breathless. Gentle and feral. All teeth and tears and tangled hands in hair and whispered promises between gasps.

When you finally pulled back, Jake was grinning like a fool, forehead pressed to yours.

And then—

A honk.

From the street.

You turned, squinting into the dark—

And saw two parked cars.