(POV: Kai)
RAF Marham, Norfolk.
The sky above the base had always felt sharper—colder, harder, like it left no room for anything unnecessary.
He used to like that.
Tonight, it felt different.
Not empty.
Not quiet.
But heavy with something he couldn't quite name.
His quarters were the same as always—helmet on the desk, jacket thrown over the chair, laptop screen still glowing with an unfinished post-mission report.
But his attention kept returning to one thing.
Inbox.
From: Flt Lt A. Thorne
Subject: RE: Post-Mission Report – Arctic Shield
He had read it too many times to count.
The pressure front has been tracked. Schedule adjustment submitted. Thank you for the warning.
Formal.
Too formal.
Like something written carefully enough to leave no trace.
But at the bottom—
one extra line.
The Atlantic winds are insane this week. Worse than your attempt to sabotage my science project.
Kai smirked.
That wasn't a report.
That was an invitation.
His reply came five minutes later.
If I hadn't sabotaged it, you wouldn't have learned to anticipate unexpected threats. Consider it free training.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment.
Then he added:
Your sector looks stable. But be careful. The calm ones rarely are.
He almost deleted that last line.
Almost.
But he didn't.
Two days later—
emails turned into messages.
[Secure Channel – Internal RAF Messaging]
Kai:
What time does Atlas usually take off these days?
Amelia:
Depends on who's in control.
Kai:
And if it's you?
Her reply came instantly.
Amelia:
On time. Always.
He leaned back in his chair, a quiet smile forming.
Of course.
That hadn't changed.
And somehow—
that steadiness felt like something he could hold onto.
Week one—
they kept it professional.
Weather.
Routes.
Reports.
Everything stayed carefully neutral.
Week two—
the cracks began to show.
Messages came faster.
Replies came too easily.
Jokes slipped in where they shouldn't have.
Kai:
Still waking up at 05:30?
Amelia:
Still drinking jet fuel disguised as coffee?
Week three—
they stopped pretending.
The conversations flowed without effort.
No more measured pauses.
No more careful wording.
Just something that had been waiting—
finally finding space.
And one night—
without planning,
without reason—
Kai pressed call.
Ring.
Once.
Twice.
"…Dawson?"
Her voice.
Softer than he remembered.
Or maybe—
he had just forgotten.
He didn't answer immediately.
He just listened.
"Yeah," he said at last, keeping his tone steady.
"I just wanted to confirm the weather report."
A pause.
Then—
"Liar."
He let out a quiet laugh.
And just like that—
a call that should have lasted seconds became something else entirely.
A habit.
Amelia at RAF Brize Norton.
Kai at RAF Marham.
Over a hundred miles apart.
Different skies.
Different routines.
Different lives.
But every night—
they met on the same frequency.
They talked about flights.
Mistakes.
Long days.
Things they would never admit to anyone else.
And sometimes—
they didn't say anything at all.
And somehow—
that said everything.
Kai began to notice patterns.
The way she paused before answering certain questions.
The way her breathing shifted when she was tired but wouldn't admit it.
The subtle change in her voice when she avoided something.
And without realizing it—
his days started revolving around one thing.
Not missions.
Not training.
But night.
Her voice.
Three months passed.
Routine.
Cycles.
Unchanged.
Except—
them.
One afternoon—
Kai stood in the hangar, phone in hand.
Message typed.
Weekend. London. You free?
Simple.
Direct.
No excuses.
Just—
her.
His thumb hovered over send—
PING.
New message.
Encrypted.
High priority.
To:
Sqn Ldr Reed
Flt Lt Thorne
Flt Lt Dawson
Report immediately.
Briefing Room Alpha.
Priority Absolute.
Not a drill.
Kai froze.
Read it again.
Then exhaled slowly.
Not disappointment.
Not frustration.
Just—
delay.
He stared at the message he hadn't sent.
Then—
deleted it.
Minutes later—
he was already moving.
Jet ready.
Air sharp.
Familiar.
Safe.
He put on his helmet, slipping back into the role he knew too well.
Destination updated.
Not Marham.
Another base.
Where—
she would be.
He climbed into the cockpit.
Checklist.
Systems.
Routine.
Everything normal.
Except—
his mind wasn't.
The engine roared.
The runway stretched ahead.
And one thought remained—
This time—
he wouldn't hesitate.
He pushed the throttle forward.
The jet surged into motion—
cutting through a sky turning red.
Toward her.
And this time—
he wouldn't let distance win.