You’ve always liked the quiet hum of a plane settling after landing—engines down to a gentle purr, passengers filtering out row by row, cabin lights flickering brighter in artificial daytime. You’re still in the cockpit finishing your post-flight checklist, one hand on your clipboard and the other flipping switches with muscle memory that’s second nature by now. It’s been a long flight from Dallas to JFK, but smooth. Easy. You pride yourself on that.
You’re about to stretch your legs when a knock sounds against the cockpit door.
“Captain?” one of the flight attendants peeks in, eyes sparkling. “We’ve got someone kinda special onboard. Can you come out for a sec?”
You arch a brow, curiosity piqued. “Special like how? Is Beyoncé back there?”
She laughs, “Close enough.”
You unclip your harness, adjust your hat, and step out into the cabin—empty except for two of your flight attendants and a girl who, frankly, looks like she stepped off a billboard for Nike.
She’s standing near row 3, suitcase by her feet, blond hair tucked into a hood, face turned away as she poses for a picture with Malia and Jess, your crew. Then she turns.
And suddenly, she’s looking at you.
Wide hazel eyes lock on yours. Her lips part.
“Holy shit,” she breathes, just loud enough that you hear it.
You pause, suppressing the grin threatening to bloom. You’ve been looked at a lot of ways in your uniform—respect, fear, boredom. But this? This is different. She’s blushing. Her grip tightens around the handle of her suitcase like she needs something to anchor her.
“Hailey, this is our pilot,” Malia says, beaming like she knows exactly what she just witnessed. “Captain Y/L/N. Best in the sky.”
You give her a smile and tip your hat slightly. “Pleasure to meet you, Hailey.”
“Y-you too,” she says quickly, then clears her throat, composing herself. “Thanks for, um, flying. Like, the plane. Obviously.”
You chuckle, low and warm. “I try to keep it in the air most days. How was it? Decent landing?”
“It was perfect,” she says, maybe too quickly. “Like butter.”
Jess nudges her. “She’s a big fan of smooth rides, apparently.”
You let your gaze linger a little longer than strictly professional. “Glad I could impress you, then.”
Her ears turn pink.
You turn to the crew. “Y’all done swooning or should I leave you alone with her?”
You smile and gesture toward the jet bridge. “I’ll walk you out.”
She blinks. “Oh—you don’t have to—”
“I insist,” you say smoothly, already grabbing your rolling bag. “Besides, I’m curious.”
You fall into step beside her, the echo of your footsteps bouncing through the empty cabin as you make your way toward the exit.
“So,” you begin, glancing over, “what is it you do that got my crew acting like fangirls?”
She gives a soft, nervous laugh, pushing her hood down. “I play basketball. I, um… was at Louisville. Transferred to LSU. Then transferred to TCU.”
You raise a brow. “Impressive.”
She shrugs like she doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but her smile betrays her pride.
“And what brings you to New York?” you ask.
She bites her lip. “The draft’s this week. WNBA.”
You stop walking, turning to her with genuine surprise. “No kidding.”
She shakes her head, a little breathless. “Nope.”
You reach out and lightly touch her elbow, your voice sincere. “Hey… congratulations. That’s huge.”
She smiles, a little dazed. “Thank you.”
You both reach the open door. The breeze of JFK’s jet bridge hits you. You take a breath, then open your arms a little, unsure why it feels so natural.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Her arms wrap around your waist, your hands finding her shoulders. It’s a gentle squeeze—firm enough to mean something, soft enough to leave room for what could be. She smells like jasmine and airport coffee. You hold her for a second longer than necessary, then pull back.
“Good luck out there,” you say quietly. “And hey, if you ever want to fly again, I know a pretty decent captain.”
She nods, lips pressed together in something that looks like longing. “Yeah… I might take you up on that.”
You grin and turn, wheeling your bag behind you, not daring to look back even though every fiber in your body wants to.
Behind you, Hailey stays frozen at the threshold, eyes glued to your retreating form.
And when you're gone from sight, she exhales hard, dragging a hand through her hair.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath. “I should’ve gotten her number.”
A week after the draft, Hailey Van Lith boards a commercial flight from New York to Chicago—row 8A, window seat, hoodie up, backpack shoved beneath the seat in front of her. She's exhausted, emotionally and physically. The past seven days have been a whirlwind—media tours, red carpets, interviews that blurred together, people congratulating her so much it almost started to feel surreal.
Chicago Sky.
Her name had been called. Her dream had come true. And still…
Still, she finds herself sitting here, fingers absently tracing the rim of her water cup, heart beating a little too fast for someone who should be on cloud nine.
She isn’t thinking about basketball right now.
She’s thinking about you.
It hits her the second the plane begins taxiing and the soft chime sounds overhead. The intercom crackles.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking…”
Her head jerks up.
Her breath catches.
That voice.
Your voice.
No way.
No way.
“…welcome aboard this flight to Chicago. We’re looking at smooth skies and a relatively short journey today, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. We’ll be taking off shortly.”
The intercom cuts off.
Hailey blinks. Stares forward. Then she glances around the cabin like she’s waiting for someone else to confirm it. Did anyone else hear that? Did they hear you?
Her heart is doing laps in her chest now, thudding painfully in her ribcage. She knows that voice. She knows that voice.
She grips the armrest, lets out a shaky breath, and smiles to herself in disbelief. It’s you.
It has to be.
She doesn’t even know your full name—just that you’re Captain Y/L/N, that you walk like the sky owes you something, and that your smirk knocked her flat a week ago in a mostly empty airplane.
She cursed herself for not getting your number.
Now she’s on your flight again. The universe, apparently, is a dramatic romantic.
The whole flight, she’s useless. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can't even pretend to scroll through her phone. Her knee bounces restlessly. Her eyes drift to the cockpit every five minutes like you’re going to magically walk out and make a grand entrance down the aisle. She thinks of your smile, the way your hand touched her elbow, the way you hugged her without hesitation.
She replays your voice on the intercom in her head.
She tries to come up with something cool to say in case she sees you again.
And then, all too soon, the plane begins its descent.
As the wheels hit the runway with a soft bump and the roar of the brakes fills the cabin, she swears her pulse spikes again. Another chime, another crackle of static.
“Welcome to Chicago, folks. Local time is 4:17 p.m., skies are clear, and it’s a beautiful day to start something new. On behalf of the crew, I want to thank you for flying with us. We know you have a choice in how you travel, and we’re always grateful when you fly with us.”
That last line has a different weight to it, like it’s meant for someone. Like it’s meant for her.
Hailey swallows hard, eyes still glued to the cockpit door.
You’re here. Again. By complete chance—or maybe not. Maybe fate’s just giving her a second shot.
And this time?
She’s not letting you walk away without getting your number.
Not a chance.
Hailey’s still seated, heart pounding like it’s game day at the Final Four. The plane is parked. The seatbelt sign dings off. Passengers begin standing, reaching for bags, shuffling into the aisle, but Hailey doesn’t move.
She waits.
Waits as the rows in front of her file out one by one. Her fingers twitch around the strap of her backpack. Her palms are clammy. Her mind is racing with thoughts that all spiral into the same core idea:
You’re here. You’re real. And she’s not letting you leave again.
Finally, the last of the passengers disappear into the jet bridge.
She stands slowly, stretching her legs as she slings the backpack over one shoulder. She’s got her hoodie up still, more out of nervous instinct than disguise. She walks down the aisle alone.
The cabin is eerily quiet now, empty and echoey. One of the flight attendants spots her near the front and flashes a grin.
“Someone's waiting,” she says, voice all sing-song.
Hailey blinks. “W-what?”
The flight attendant jerks her thumb toward the open cockpit door.
And there you are.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, hat off now, dark hair slightly tousled from the headset. You look just as effortless as the first time she saw you—maybe even more dangerous now with that smirk tugging at your lips.
“Took you long enough,” you say, and your voice is warm, teasing, familiar.
Hailey opens her mouth, then closes it again.
You tilt your head. “Didn’t expect to see you on my flight again. Must be fate, huh?”
She finally finds her voice. “Either that, or you’re stalking me.”
You laugh, the sound making her knees go weak.
You push off the frame and grab your own bag, wheeling it behind you as you nod toward the exit. “Walk me out?”
She steps forward, falling into stride beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s never had a conversation feel this charged—like every word matters, every second is laced with something unspoken.
“So,” you glance sideways at her, “Chicago Sky, huh?”
“You heard?” she asks, eyes widening a little.
“I may or may not have Googled you after you walked off my plane last week.”
She stares at you, stunned for a beat.
“You Googled me?”
You shrug with a half-grin. “Had to know who my charming passenger was. Turns out, you’re kind of a big deal.”
Her cheeks flush crimson. “Yeah, well. I’m heading to do all the signing and photo stuff today.”
“Exciting.” Your voice dips, gentler now. “Congratulations, Hailey. Really.”
“Thanks,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Means a lot coming from you.”
You both slow as you approach the end of the jet bridge. The terminal hum grows louder just beyond the doors, but it’s like the world narrows around just the two of you for a moment.
You stop walking, turn to face her. You reach for your phone, unlocking it with a flick of your thumb.
“So,” you say, not missing a beat, “you gonna make the same mistake twice or should we fix that?”
Hailey swallows. “What?”
“Your number,” you say, offering her the phone. “You’re not walking away without giving it to me this time.”
She breaks into a smile so wide it crinkles the corners of her eyes. Her fingers are shaking just a little as she types it in, but she hands your phone back like it’s sacred now.
You glance down at the new contact. “Hailey Van Lith. Sky’s newest star. Got it.”
Then, almost on instinct, you pull her into a hug—warm, steady, grounding. Her arms go around your waist just like before, and for a second, she closes her eyes. Breathes you in.
She feels your lips move near her ear.
“I don’t know what Chicago’s got planned for you, but I’m really glad I get to watch you rise.”
Hailey pulls back, stunned into silence again, but this time she recovers quickly.
“You better be watching,” she says, grinning. “You’ve got front row seats now.”
You wink. “And a cockpit view, if you ever want to fly again.”
Then you’re walking away, rolling your bag into the terminal. You toss one last look over your shoulder, and her heart leaps again.
She stands there, eyes following you until you're out of sight.
And this time?
She’s the one whispering it under her breath, lips curved into a smile she can’t hide.
paige looked fine as hell twice. azzi fudd insane face card appearance. kiki iriafen looking like a goddess. HVL going in the first round. all three uconn seniors getting drafted. s*dona not getting drafted and getting called out on national television. what a banger of an evening
