Airspace

Prelude -- "Where I Land"

My name is Robert Cross. I'm a pilot.

NYPD Aviation Division, call sign "Falcon." I fly the bird that shows up when the ground gets too hot or the ladder's too short. Smoke, storms, gunfire--doesn't matter. When the city calls, I get in the air.

It's not glamorous. Not really. People think it's like the movies--spotlights, hero shots, steel nerves. Truth is, it's mostly rotors and routines. Controlled chaos with a flight plan. But when it matters, when there's nothing left but smoke and seconds, I know what to do. Up there, things make sense. You follow the vectors. You hold your altitude. You don't flinch.

But what grounds me--what actually keeps me tethered--isn't on any map.

Her name's Helen. NYPD, like me. She was an MP in the Army before that--military police, boots on pavement, spine straight enough to intimidate brass. Puerto Rican, late thirties, just under five-six but walks like she's six-two. Dark hair usually twisted into a bun that softens when she's home, eyes that don't miss a damn thing, and a mouth that's fluent in sarcasm and truth. She's not loud--but when she speaks, the room listens. Especially me.

We met on the job. I was still trying to disappear into the city back then. She didn't ask questions I wasn't ready to answer. Just showed up--steady, smart, unapologetically herself--until I realized maybe I didn't have to keep running.

We've got a kid now--Nico. Two years old. Already obsessed with anything that spins. He chews on rotor blades like they're teething rings. I don't know what he's going to grow up to be, but if it's loud and fast, I won't be surprised.

And then there's Marcus "Sticks" Rivas.

My partner in the sky. Ex-Marine. Combat vet. Mouth like a stand-up comic with altitude clearance. He's the one who cracks the cockpit open when my silence gets too heavy. He talks enough for both of us, and that works. He handles the noise. I handle the sky.

I keep things close to the vest. Always have. Not because I don't trust the people around me--but because the things I've seen, the weight I've carried... they don't always land clean. Some ghosts are best kept in the rearview. And some scars don't look good in daylight.

I don't talk much about before NYC. The war. L. A. The motel parking lot where my previous life ended. Some days I pretend I left it all back in LA. Other days, I know better.

But this life--Helen, Nico, the sky--that's mine now.

I've got ghosts. I've got regrets. But I've also got a family that feels like home, and a job that still means something when the rotors start to spin.

I'm not flying to escape anymore.

I'm flying to stay.

*********

Chapter 1 -- "Two Floors Up"

(POV: Robert)

The smoke was thick enough to taste.

Bronx. Seven-story walk-up. The top two floors fully engulfed. I could see the heat signature before we were even cleared in. FDNY had two ladders up, both already pinned with evacuees. Radio chatter was chaos--overlapping units, missing names, broken commands. One call cut through it all: "We've got three on the roof. Repeat--three on the roof. Fire's punching through floor six."

I pushed the collective forward. The bird dipped. Sticks keyed in from the left seat, already adjusting the hoist rig. We didn't need a game plan. We'd done this before. He worked the cabin; I worked the sky.

We banked hard east over the street, rotors slicing through heat shimmer. A plume of black smoke exploded from a stairwell vent like a warning flare. I swung us over the roof, nose tilted just enough to maintain visual on the evac point. Flames were licking the edge of the door frame. Two kids--looked under ten--and a woman stood near the ledge, shielding them with her body. Brave. Desperate. The kind of stillness that only comes from panic at full saturation.

"Rooftop in sight," I said into comms. "Setting hover. Deploying rig."

Sticks was already at the hatch, cable clipped, harness on. He gave me one slap on the shoulder--our version of don't screw this up--and dropped out into smoke and chaos. I trimmed the tail rotor to counter gust shear and brought us down low--too low, some would say. The skids were maybe three feet off the roof's edge, heat distortion bending the horizon. But the ladder trucks were boxed in below and the stairwell was gone. This was it.

Sticks hit the roof and went straight for the smaller child. He moved fast--economical, practiced. No words wasted. The girl clung to him like she knew he was her only shot. He lifted her into the sling. I adjusted drift to keep the line vertical, compensating for rooftop convection and the destabilizing effect of open flame.

The second kid was next--boy, maybe eight. Eyes wide but not crying. That scared me more. Kids that quiet had seen too much. Sticks locked him in, gave me a thumbs up. I felt every inch of torque shifting under us as I held position.

Then came the mother. She hesitated--naturally. Watched her kids go up first. I saw her lips move: thank you. And then the roof cracked.

A burst of flame shot from the building's center, blowing out the vent behind her. The structure groaned under her feet. Sticks grabbed her by the wrist, yanked hard, and half-dragged her toward the line. Debris fell in slow motion around them as I dropped two more feet into the vortex, the rotors chopping through smoke like a blade through fabric.

She clung to Sticks, who clung to the sling, who clung to the rig--and I held all of them above the fire.

I pulled up only when I felt the heat licking at the floor pan.

From below, it probably looked heroic. From the inside? It was just noise and instinct. Wind shear. Weight distribution. Controlled chaos.

But when I looked in the rearview and saw the mother's arms wrapped tight around her kids, their hair singed, their faces soot-streaked but alive--I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

We cleared the roof. The flames kept climbing.

Below us, chaos raged on, but inside the cabin, order.

The line locked. The cabin door shut. The last body in and accounted for.

I leveled us out and pulled away from the smoke column. The flames clawed after us like they didn't want to let go, but we'd bought ourselves enough sky. Sticks moved past the mother and her kids, did a quick check--no blood, no visible fractures. Just soot, shock, and a hell of a story.

He dropped back into the co-pilot seat and yanked off his helmet with a long, dramatic exhale.

"Jesus," he muttered, wiping sweat off his brow. "You tryin' to land us in hell just for the cardio?"

"I like a challenge," I said, eyes still on the horizon. "Next time I'll let you hang from a drone."

"That's cute," he said, strapping in. "Remind me to order a coffin-sized GoPro rig for your birthday."

I let a thin smile crack through, barely. The kind that doesn't reach your eyes, but still says, we made it.

Behind us, the mother was quietly sobbing, both kids curled into her like they never wanted to let go. I gave her a glance through the rearview mirror. She saw me and nodded, still trembling. I nodded back.

"EMS still set up at Bennett?" I asked, already keying in the return vector.

"Yep," Sticks said. "Radio says they've cleared a pad. Vitals get first touch, press gets blocked off. Apparently the captain told 'em if one reporter steps foot past the barricade, she's throwing their mic in the East River."

"Sounds like her."

We flew low and quiet. The adrenaline started to fade, leaving behind a hum in my bones. Sticks leaned back, helmet in his lap.

"You ever gonna admit that was impressive?" he asked.

I banked left toward the helipad, engine smooth as silk.

"You ever gonna stop fishing for compliments?"

"Never," he said, grinning. "But you still flew that like a goddamn scalpel, Falcon."

We touched down light--barely a bounce. As soon as the skids hit concrete, ground crew ran in. EMTs pulled the door open. The mother didn't wait for a stretcher. She stepped out on her own, both kids still clinging to her.

Sticks watched her go. "That right there," he muttered, voice low now. "That's why we fly."

I didn't answer.

Because sometimes the truth's too heavy to say out loud when your hands still smell like smoke.

*********

Chapter 2 -- "Falcon and Sticks"

(POV: Sticks)

We hadn't even powered down before the crowd started forming.

The second those skids kissed the pavement, EMS was on us like hawks. Gurneys, oxygen masks, triage bags--everyone doing their job. The mom clutched her kids like she thought we might vanish if she blinked. Paramedics gently peeled them away, one at a time, murmuring soft words I couldn't hear over the rotors still winding down.

And just past the barricade, beyond the firetrucks and tape--reporters.

Phones, cameras, lenses long enough to spot emotion from half a city away. One guy had his phone out mid-broadcast: "Incredible rescue moments ago from NYPD Aviation--watch this--" and then some over-edited clip of us hovering in smoke like a movie trailer. I should've felt proud. Instead, I mostly felt sweaty.

Robert didn't say a word. He popped the door, grabbed the deck hose, and started wiping soot off the nose like it was just another Tuesday. Calm. Focused. The kind of quiet that people mistake for cold, but I've flown with the guy long enough to know better. That silence? That's where he stores everything he doesn't want leaking out mid-flight.

So I picked up the slack.

I gave a wave to the nearest camera. Said something like "Just another day in the sky" and "That was all my guy, Falcon--he threads the air like a needle." Someone laughed. A firefighter slapped my back and said we looked like something out of a Marvel flick. I gave him a double finger-gun and told him we were working on action figures.

Inside, though, I was still humming on adrenaline and relief. Because we'd pulled it off. We'd beat the clock, the wind, the heat--and no one died. That's not something you take for granted.

When we finally got the bird back to the hangar, the real fun started. Dispatch had already fielded three interview requests. Some media intern from Channel 6 was begging for a quote. One of the rookies swore he saw our flight clip posted with #SkySaviors trending.

Robert was in the corner, wiping down his visor like it personally offended him.

I leaned on the workbench and tossed a protein bar at him.

"Congrats, buddy. You're trending. And no, you can't stop it."

He caught the bar, didn't look up. Just said, "Didn't ask to start it."

And that's when I knew--this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

*********

Chapter 3 -- "Viral Altitude"

(POV: Helen)

Nico was chewing on a plastic helicopter when my phone started vibrating with notifications.

Group chat. Mamá. Dispatch thread. Even one of the rookie officers from my precinct. Every link was the same--"NYPD Aviation pulls off daring rooftop rescue in the Bronx." I tapped the first one and propped my feet up on the coffee table, Nico babbling softly beside me.

The video started with smoke. A lot of it. Cell phone angle, grainy, from the street. You could barely make out the rotors through the haze--just this black silhouette, low and steady, hovering like it belonged there. The camera panned up as the winch lowered. I recognized the stance. The rig. The precision.

Robert.

The clip jumped to a news anchor--Channel 6, big smile, dramatic voice: "Some are calling them the Angels Over the Bronx. NYPD pilots Robert 'Falcon' Cross and Sergeant Marcus 'Sticks' Rivas executed a flawless rooftop rescue today in a scene straight out of a movie..."

I laughed. Out loud. Not at the praise--they'd earned every second of it--but at how much Robert was going to hate this. He wasn't built for spotlight. Give him a full-throttle flight through chaos and he's as calm as stone. Give him a mic and he'll look like he's being held hostage.

I scrolled a bit and found it. The meme. A still shot of him mid-hover, visor down, jaw set, rotor wash kicking up smoke around him. Captioned in bold white letters:

"Steady Hands. Stone Face. Mood for 2025."

I snorted, saved it to my phone, and texted it to him with a single line:

"You're famous. Try not to throw your phone in the river."

Nico reached up and patted my leg, babbling something vaguely heroic. I ruffled his hair and leaned back on the couch, smiling.

Yeah... he's definitely going to hate this.

And I was going to enjoy every second of it.

*********

Chapter 4 -- "Questioning"

(POV: Robert)

The apartment was dark when I stepped inside--quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floor under my boots. The kind of quiet that usually meant Helen was asleep and Nico was out for the count. But the light was on in the bedroom--soft, steady.

I toed off my boots and hung up my flight jacket, still smelling faintly of smoke and adrenaline. My shoulders were tight, the kind of tight that didn't go away even after landing. I hadn't looked at my phone since the rescue. I didn't need to. Sticks had been grinning all day like we'd won an Oscar.

I pushed the bedroom door open.

Helen was standing at the foot of the bed, one eyebrow cocked, wearing her patrol cap slightly tilted and her NYPD uniform shirt--unbuttoned just enough to distract me from everything else. No pants. Just black panties and bare legs, and that smile she saved for nights when she knew I needed pulling back to earth.

"You're late," she said, voice smooth and mock-serious. "You were supposed to report in for questioning."

I leaned against the doorframe, just staring at her. "What kind of questioning?"

She didn't answer right away. Just reached behind her and pulled a pair of cuffs from the nightstand. Standard issue. Not mine. Hers. The metal glinted in the light like a challenge.

"The kind that requires full compliance," she said, walking toward me.

I didn't say a word. I didn't need to. I stepped forward, wrapped my hand around her waist, and kissed her--slow, deep, like I'd been holding my breath since the minute I left that rooftop. She pulled me with her, backwards onto the bed, laughter catching in her throat just before her mouth found mine again.

And for a little while, there was no fire, no sky, no Brandy, no cameras.

Just Helen.

And peace.

*********

Chapter 5 -- "Recognition Burn"

(POV: Brandy)

I wasn't looking for him.

Not really. Maybe in the way you walk past old places and expect to feel something. The way you scroll without meaning to. That restless itch in your gut when things go quiet for too long.

The video was trending under some ridiculous hashtag--#SkySaviors, #AngelsOverTheBronx. I almost scrolled past it. Almost. But something in the thumbnail stopped me. Smoke. A helicopter hovering just above a burning rooftop. It didn't look real--like something staged for a trailer.

I tapped it.

The footage was shaky, phone-recorded from the street below. Flames climbing the walls. People shouting offscreen. Then the chopper dipped into view--black and sharp against the gray sky. A man dropped from the side, harnessed, arms out, moving like he'd done it a hundred times.

But it wasn't the man in the harness that stopped me cold.

It was the pilot.

The footage jumped, then cut to a cleaner angle--news camera, closer. I froze the frame. Touched the screen and zoomed in.

The helmet was different. The visor was down. But I knew that posture. That jawline. That tension in the hands, knuckles white against the throttle like the whole machine was just an extension of him.

Robert.

I didn't breathe. I rewound it. Played it again. Slower.

My Robert hadn't changed--at least, not enough. A little older. A little more tired around the edges. But it was him. The man I hadn't seen since he left LA. Since he left me. The man who walked away from our marriage without a word more than "We're done."

And now he was flying through fire like some goddamn hero. On the news. In my feed. Trending.

I leaned back on the couch, heart pounding in a rhythm I hadn't heard in years.

A smile curled slowly at the corner of my mouth.

"Found you," I whispered.

*********

Chapter 6 -- "Married to the Sky"

(POV: Helen)

Roll call was barely five minutes in and already I was rethinking my seat choice.

Lieutenant Ortiz cleared his throat with a kind of theatrical gusto he usually saved for dressing-down rookies. "Before we dive into last night's circus, I think it's important we acknowledge a very special member of our team."

I didn't move. Didn't blink. But I already knew.

"Officer Cross," he said--real slow, real smug. "Congratulations on marrying the NYPD's very own caped crusader of the sky. I assume you now get a discount on flame-retardant lingerie?"

The room broke into laughter. I exhaled through my nose and didn't dignify it with a response.

"Seriously," Ortiz went on, waving his clipboard like it doubled as a microphone. "After that rooftop rescue, your husband is officially more popular than the Yankees. I heard someone's pitching a reality show--'Falcon and the Flame.'"

Ramirez, from the back: "More like Pilot Daddy: Airspace Confidential!"

More howls.

I crossed my arms and tilted my head. "You're all just jealous you'll never be half as smooth as he is behind a cyclic."

Tran called out, "That man could hover into anyone's heart!"

"I swear to God," I said, smiling despite myself, "if someone sends me another meme of him mid-rescue looking like Batman with a rotor wash, I'm reporting it as harassment."

Ortiz chuckled and shook his head. "Alright, Cross. Just don't forget us when you're rubbing elbows with the hero elite. You're riding solo today--Brooklyn Bridge patrol. Try not to autograph anything."

I rose from my chair, adjusted my belt, and offered a crisp, sarcastic salute. "If anyone asks, I'm the one who keeps him from flying into buildings."

"Hell yeah you are," someone said as the door swung shut behind me.

Let them have their fun.

He might hate the spotlight, but me?

I kind of liked being married to the legend no one else saw coming.

*********

Chapter 7 -- "Tarmac Ghosts"

(POV: Brandy)

I didn't expect the hangar to look this... plain.

For all the noise in the media--"Sky Saviors," "Angels Over the Bronx," whatever--they operated out of a quiet corner of Floyd Bennett Field, tucked behind chain-link and wind-scoured pavement. It looked like it hadn't been painted in a decade. No glamour. No red carpet.

Fine by me.

I walked up to the front desk--an old security station near the side gate. The man behind it was solid. Buzz cut, clipboard, zero patience. His eyes flicked up as I approached, then immediately went guarded.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes," I said, smoothing my coat and offering my best everything's-fine smile. "I'm here to see Officer Robert Cross. It's... personal."

He didn't blink. "Pilot Cross is on patrol."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"No, ma'am."

I nodded like I expected that. "I'll wait."

He shook his head once, firm. "This isn't a public space. You can leave a name and number, and if it's appropriate, someone will reach out."

Appropriate. Cute.

I wrote it down anyway. Neat and deliberate: Brandy Thompson. 213-555-1486. I even underlined it once. He barely glanced at it before sliding it into a folder that looked like it ate dozens of names a day and forgot most of them.

"Thanks," I said, more clipped now. "Just... tell him I stopped by."

He didn't respond. Just went back to his clipboard.

As I walked out, the cold air hit harder. The sky above the tarmac was wide and bright, but it didn't feel like freedom. It felt like distance. Like I'd been gone too long.

But now I knew where he was.

And I wasn't leaving again without answers.

*********

Chapter 8 -- "Inbox Overflow"

(POV: Robert)

The hangar smelled like burnt coffee and paper. Which, frankly, summed up the day.

I walked in just after sunrise, hoping for a clean shift--maybe even some silence. Instead, I found a stack of folders, padded envelopes, and handwritten notes dumped on my desk like a trash pile with good intentions.

"Fan mail," said McHenry from admin, barely looking up from her monitor. "Most of it's from people who want you to know you're an inspiration. Or sexy. Or both. Congratulations, you're a helicopter thirst trap now."

I stared at the stack. Didn't touch it. Just nodded once and kept moving toward my locker.

Sticks walked in two minutes later with a bag of jelly donuts and a look that said he'd already watched the viral clip five more times. "You check your inbox yet, Falcon?" he grinned, voice bouncing off metal walls. "Half the city wants to name their kid after you."

"Only if they want their kid to hate cameras," I muttered.

But eventually, I circled back to the desk. Not out of curiosity--just discipline. I sifted through the pile like it was standard paperwork. Cards. Notes. A few hand-drawn pictures from kids. One envelope had glitter on it. I didn't open that one. I'm not that dumb.

Then I saw it.

A plain slip of yellow paper, handwriting tilted left, tight and deliberate. No envelope. No fluff. Just a name and a number.

"Brandy Thompson. 213-555-1486."

The world didn't go silent--it just got narrower.

I held the note like it might catch fire. My fingers tensed. My jaw locked. She was supposed to be in the rearview--permanently. I never told anyone here her name. Not Helen. Not Sticks. Not even on paper. I buried it all in LA.

I stepped outside. The morning air bit through my shirt, sharp and necessary. I stood by the fence, wind off the bay cutting through the fog. Then I crumpled the note in my fist and tossed it into the trash barrel next to the service cart.

Sticks leaned against the railing nearby, sipping coffee. He watched me for a beat too long, then looked away. Didn't say a word. Just stared out at the runway like the ocean had answers.

He knew something was off. But not what.

Not yet.

*********

Chapter 9 -- "Lingering Smoke"

(POV: Sticks)

The bird was fueled, rig checked, and flight plan logged, but the second I opened the cockpit door, I nearly gagged.

"Damn," I muttered, waving a hand in front of my face like it'd do anything. "We seriously need to do something about this funk."

Robert was at the lockers behind me, silent as ever.

"I'm not even kidding, man," I called over my shoulder. "Still smells like scorched drywall and old adrenaline in here. Pretty sure my flight suit's starting to absorb trauma by osmosis."

He didn't respond.

I turned just in time to see him toss his duffel into the back seat of his car, door already swinging shut behind him. No wave. No grunt. No acknowledgment.

Just gone.

I stood there for a beat, still half-in the chopper, letting the silence settle like dust on a memory we weren't talking about.

"Cool," I muttered. "I'll just light a candle or something. Maybe summon a priest."

The rotors didn't even have time to spin down before the parking lot was empty.

Something was smoldering in him.

And it wasn't the damn cockpit.

*********

Chapter 10 -- "Smoke Residue"

(POV: Robert)

The shower didn't help.

Forty minutes under hot water, two rounds of scrubbing, and I still felt like I carried the smoke on my skin. Not the kind you smell--the kind that lingers behind your ribs. The kind that crawls up from the past and clings like guilt that refuses to rinse clean.

The apartment was dim. Evening had settled in like it owned the place. Helen was in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot that smelled like garlic and comfort. Nico sat at the table in his high chair, chewing determinedly on a plastic helicopter rotor like he was interrogating it for answers.

I dropped my flight bag by the door and hung up my jacket, silent. Just stood there for a second and listened to the clatter of wooden spoons and toddler babble. Normal sounds. Familiar. Steady.

Helen glanced over her shoulder. "Hey. You're late."

"Yeah." I forced my voice to sound neutral. "Ran long."

She turned the burner down and faced me. Hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, a smudge of flour on her cheek. Even after a long day, she looked like gravity bowed to her.

"You're quiet," she said. "Even for you."

"Long day," I lied, like it was a reflex.

Her eyes narrowed--not suspicious, just... tuned in. She could always read the static between my words better than anyone.

"You saved three lives on live television. Even Sticks managed to smile without combusting. You should be riding that high right now. But instead... you're stiff. Off."

"I'm just tired."

She nodded slowly, not pushing. She always gave me room to talk--never demanded it. That was part of what made it worse. The way she trusted I'd come to her when I was ready. The way she didn't deserve to be left in the dark just because I didn't want to shine a light on the wreckage behind me.

I sat on the edge of the couch and watched her scoop Nico from the chair. He lit up like she was the sun itself, little fingers tangling in her shirt collar as she kissed his forehead.

And I just sat there--watching this life I'd built with my bare hands and scar tissue. The warmth. The rhythm. The peace.

Everything I have is here, I thought. So why does the past still feel like it's circling overhead?

*********

Chapter 11 -- "Between Heartbeats"

(POV: Helen)

Robert was asleep.

Or pretending to be.

Either way, he hadn't moved in twenty minutes--just lay there on his side, facing the window, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, body wound tight like a spring.

I watched him from my side of the bed, the soft rise and fall of the sheets betraying little. The bedroom was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge down the hall and the occasional creak of old pipes stretching in the walls. Nico's toy helicopter blinked once in the corner before powering off. Even his dreams had quieted.

But Robert's mind hadn't.

I knew that silence. I'd lived beside it long enough to tell the difference between sleep and shutdown. There were nights like this before--after rough calls, anniversaries he didn't mark on any calendar, or days when a ghost flew in under his skin and refused to leave. Tonight had that scent. A little smoke. A little static. Something unspoken clinging to the air between us.

I reached out slowly, fingers brushing the slope of his shoulder. "You're still awake."

He didn't answer right away. Then: "I'm here."

Not the same thing. Never was.

I slid closer, pressing my forehead to the back of his neck. He didn't flinch, but he didn't lean into it either.

"Talk to me," I said quietly.

"I'm tired."

"So am I," I said. "But that's not what this is."

He finally turned--just slightly. Just enough that I could see the outline of his face in the faint light bleeding through the curtain. His eyes weren't guarded. They were gone. Somewhere else entirely.

"You're not shutting me out again, are you?" I asked, keeping my voice soft.

His hand found mine beneath the blanket, fingers lacing with mine automatically--like muscle memory from a safer time. But that grip was firm. Not tender.

"No," he said. "I'm trying to keep the door shut on something that already got out."

That was the most he'd said all night. I let it sit. Let the words fill the space between our breaths.

"Whatever it is," I said, "you don't have to carry it alone."

He didn't answer.

Just pulled my hand to his chest and held it there, like that might anchor him through the rest of the night.

So I stayed quiet. Stayed close. Not because I had the right words. But because I could feel the weather shifting--and whatever storm was coming, I needed him to know he wasn't flying into it alone.

Even if he thought he was.

Funny how memory works.

The first time I saw him in daylight, he looked like a man carved from restraint.

It was after the rooftop call in East Harlem. He hovered above us like a ghost with rotor blades--smooth, precise, quiet in all the ways that made you trust him without needing to know his name. But later, when I saw him on the tarmac, standing beside that matte-black bird with a clipboard in one hand and silence in the other--I knew.

He was running from something.

And he wasn't done running yet.

He didn't flirt. Didn't small-talk. He just listened when I spoke, like he was studying the weight of my voice for signs of weakness or truth. When I asked if he got coffee, his answer was so neutral I almost laughed.

But that's what made me curious.

Not the mystery. Not the scars.

The control.

The kind that doesn't come from arrogance or ego--but from trying not to unravel. I knew that look. I'd worn it once or twice myself, back when I used to grip the steering wheel too tight after my rookie shift in the 9th. The look that said: I've seen something I can't unsee. Now I just need to survive it quietly.

He didn't tell me anything that first coffee. No big reveal. No cracks in the armor. But when I asked about his last city, he gave me a name I'd never heard, followed by a silence that told me not to ask more. I didn't.

Instead, I told him about the worst precinct coffee in Manhattan and how the vending machine at Midtown South sometimes spits out two drinks if you hit it just right. He cracked a smile--not a big one, just the corner of his mouth--but it was enough. Not for most people.

But it was enough for me.

Because I didn't need the full story to see the weight he carried.

And I wasn't afraid of it.

*********

Chapter 12 -- "Rotor Drift"

(POV: Sticks)

Some pilots fly with precision.

Robert Cross flies like a metronome on muscle memory. Every maneuver clean. Every adjustment dialed in two seconds before anyone else even blinks. He doesn't just fly the bird--he is the bird.

So when he's off, even a little, you feel it in your gut before you spot it on the console.

We were in the air over Flatbush, routine patrol. Nothing high-speed. No emergency calls. Just grid coverage and eyes from above. But Falcon--he was drifting. Subtle, but there. Banked a little too shallow during a sweep. Slipped a half second late on the correction when the wind shifted over the parkway. Nothing fatal. Nothing a rookie would even clock.

But I'm not a rookie.

"You still with me up there?" I asked, flipping through our sector notes like I wasn't watching him like a hawk.

"Yeah," he said--short, flat.

"You sure? 'Cause it feels like I'm riding shotgun with a ghost."

No answer.

I glanced over. His eyes were locked forward, hands steady on the controls, but his shoulders were tight. He always flew upright, like he was still strapped into an Apache somewhere over hell--but today he was more rigid than usual. Like he was trying to hold the bird together through sheer will.

"Alright," I said. "Just checking. 'Cause if this is what 'on your game' looks like, I'm starting to question everything I ever said about your smooth-ass flying."

Still nothing. No smirk. No crack in the armor. Not even an annoyed grunt.

That's when I knew it wasn't about the flight at all.

"You're usually smooth as hell," I muttered, not really expecting a response. "Today? You're flying like your mind's three thousand miles west."

His knuckles whitened on the cyclic--but he didn't say a word.

That was fine. I wasn't done watching.

*********

Chapter 13 -- "Descent Pattern"

(POV: Robert)

It always starts the same way.

Not with the motel. Not with Brandy. With the sound of the rotors.

There's something about the way memory plays back over engine noise--filtered, grainy, distorted like an old tape. But that day? It plays in full color.

It's funny, what your mind chooses to hold onto. Not the argument. Not the aftermath. Just the moment I spotted her car in that motel parking lot like it had every right to be there.

That was the beginning of the end.

Even if I didn't know it yet.

(Flashback -- 2015, LAPD)

It started like any other shift. Midday patrol, A-Star prepped and humming, sun already baking down on Van Nuys. I was in the rear seat, Jackson riding left. We'd been in the air twenty minutes, scanning the usual corridors--traffic congestion, known hot spots, a BOLO on a stolen Escalade out of South Central.

Routine. Just the way I liked it.

We were circling a stretch near Pico when Jackson rotated the FLIR and leaned forward. "Got a partial tag," he said. "Two off from the Escalade hit. Think we check it?"

I glanced at the screen. Not a match. But my eyes drifted to the corner of the frame.

Pearl white Lexus. Custom tint. Rear plates ending in 7XL.

Brandy's car.

My gut twisted, just a little. I didn't say her name. Just murmured, "Yeah. Sweep the lot. Couldn't hurt."

We passed low and wide--non-threatening. The kind of pass you make when you don't want anyone to know you're watching. The Lexus pulled into the Sunset View Motel, a run-down stretch of faded stucco and broken dreams.

She stepped out first.

Big sunglasses. Tight jeans. That long tan coat I hadn't seen in weeks. The one she only wore when she didn't want to be noticed.

A man got out on the passenger side. Taller than me. Confident gait. Walked next to her like he'd done it before. No hesitation. No nerves.

They didn't look up.

I didn't say a word. Just made a slow turn out of the grid and kept flying like I hadn't just watched my wife check in to a cheap motel with another man.

The next day, I adjusted our patrol pattern. Didn't tell Jackson why. We cut across that same block three more times that week. Nothing. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was a fluke.

But the following Wednesday--same lot. Same time. Same man. Different car.

She was laughing when they walked inside.

I didn't follow them with the camera. I didn't descend. I just kept us hovering, quietly orbiting the truth I already knew.

When we got back to base, I filed the report, closed the log, and submitted a personal leave request.

No reason given.

Just time to land.

And when I did, I knew exactly what I needed to do next.

I didn't wear my uniform that day.

Didn't want to give her the dignity of seeing me in it. I threw on jeans, a black T-shirt, and sunglasses--plain enough to disappear in. Then I parked across the street from the Sunset View Inn with a half-drunk coffee and a full tank of silence.

She showed up right on time.

2:37 p. m.

Like clockwork.

Same coat. Same man. Different car. He drove this time. I watched them from the rearview mirror as they laughed, leaned in close, shared a private world I hadn't been invited to in a long time. She used to smile like that with me. Now it looked rehearsed.

I waited until they disappeared into the room--214 again. Then I got out of my truck, walked across the lot, and sat on the hood of her Lexus like I owned it.

I didn't move. Just waited.

The door creaked open thirty-two minutes later.

She stepped out first--laughing, phone in hand--until she saw me. The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might pass out.

Her purse slipped from her shoulder, hit the pavement. Her knees followed.

She dropped hard, hands trembling, mouth working without sound.

Then the whisper: "This can't be happening... This can't be happening."

The guy came out behind her, half-buttoned shirt and swagger. He saw me, squared up, tried to puff himself into a problem.

"You got a problem, man?"

I didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.

I looked at her.

Then I said it--calm, clear, no anger left in the tank.

"We're done."

Then I turned, walked across the lot, and never looked back.

By nightfall, I was standing at Jackson's door.

Jackson didn't ask questions when I knocked.

He just opened the door, nodded once, and gestured toward the couch. That was enough. We'd flown together long enough to understand each other in silence. I didn't need sympathy. I needed stillness.

I lay there most of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to the whir of the box fan in the corner and the low hum of traffic outside. I thought about a thousand things and felt none of them. Not anger. Not grief. Just the weight of knowing that nothing I'd built in LA was worth staying for anymore.

In the morning, I made two calls.

The first was to a lawyer a buddy in Vice had recommended a year ago. Divorce paperwork. No kids. No house--just shared bank accounts and a short list of things I didn't care enough to fight over.

"Unless she contests," he said, "you don't have to show up for much. I'll file it. Handle the rest."

"Do it fast," I told him. "I won't be around long."

The second call was to personnel. NYPD Aviation had an opening--lateral transfer. Required military flight hours, police aviation experience, and the willingness to start over. I checked all three boxes and didn't ask about salary.

By noon, I was back at the hangar for one last sweep. I said my goodbyes with quiet handshakes and vague nods. A few guys cracked jokes, probably thinking I was just taking a break or ducking out after a bad call. No one knew. Not really. That was fine.

Before I left, Jackson handed me a marker and pointed to the corkboard we all signed when someone rotated out.

"Mark your exit," he said.

I didn't think. Just wrote one line under my name: Cleared airspace. Altitude stable.

Then I dropped the marker in the bin, walked out the hangar door, and didn't look back.

But you can only outrun ghosts for so long.

And the one that hurt the most didn't wear Brandy's face.

It was the one I left bleeding in the front seat of an Apache when I serving in Iraq all those years ago,

We were three minutes out from the end of a patrol loop near Fallujah--routine flight, clear skies, no ground movement. The kind of quiet that made you more nervous than noise. I was in the rear seat, hands steady on the cyclic. Burke, my gunner, was upfront, scanning sectors, cracking dumb jokes about MREs and whether his kid was going to be born before he got back.

Then the first shot hit the glass.

It cracked like a whip, just behind his seat. We dipped, reflexively. Second burst--closer, tighter grouping. Sounded like a string of metal teeth tearing through aluminum. Then Burke let out a noise I can't forget. Not a scream. Not a grunt. Just... a wet, startled exhale. The kind people make when they realize they've been hit and can't process it fast enough.

I called his name. He didn't answer.

Blood was splattering inside the canopy. He slumped forward, hands sliding off the controls. I couldn't see the wound--just red pooling fast around the harness straps and the slow slump of someone running out of fight.

There was nowhere to land. No cover. No backup. I had to keep us in the air.

So I flew. Straight. Fast. Silent.

I called in over the comms--dustoff inbound, one critically wounded. I remember my own voice being too calm. Like someone else was speaking through me. I kept one hand on the stick, the other adjusting pitch, throttling for speed. Burke was gurgling. Trying to breathe. Trying to talk. I think he said his wife's name, or maybe he was just choking on the last thing he'd never get to say.

I couldn't help him. I couldn't stop.

All I could do was fly.

The base came into view, blurry through sweat and cracked glass. I landed hard--harder than I should've--but the bird held together. Medics rushed in, pulled Burke's body out. I didn't follow.

I just sat there.

Helmet still on. Hands clenched around the cyclic like it was the only thing anchoring me to the world. My boots stayed planted. My back never left the seat. Because the second I moved, I'd have to admit he died while I was still flying.

That was the day I stopped trusting the air to carry anything except loss.

Whenever I think about my life before the NYPD, the thing that always surfaces isn't Brandy or LA--it's this memory of the Apache, and Burke's voice crackling through my headset like a ghost refusing to fade.

Some things never leave you. But they don't have to define where you're headed.

The thing about starting over is no one asks questions if you don't invite them. Especially in New York.

I landed at JFK just after 0600. No one waiting. No one expecting me. I rode the subway in silence with two duffel bags and a transfer file. The hangar at Floyd Bennett Field was colder than I expected, all concrete, chain-link, and salt-stained windows. No warmth, no welcome. Just procedure.

Perfect.

The guy who met me was all elbows and sarcasm, coffee in one hand and flight gloves stuffed in his back pocket. "You the new ghost they're dropping in from LA?" he asked.

"Cross," I said. "Robert."

"Rivas. Call me Sticks. Everyone else does." He stuck out a hand like we'd just been teamed up for a trust fall. "Try not to make me look bad up there. That's my only rule."

I nodded once. That was enough.

Nobody asked why I left. Nobody mentioned Brandy. No one pulled my military record or said the word "PTSD." The NYPD Aviation Unit only wanted to know if I could fly and if I showed up early. I did both.

So I settled in. Quietly. Built a rhythm. Wake. Run. Fly. File reports. Cook dinner. Sleep in a bed no one else had ever touched. No photos on the wall. No reminders of LA. Just peace through motion.

I didn't make friends. Didn't try to. I let Sticks handle the social stuff. He was good at noise, good at drawing fire. I was good at orbiting things from a safe distance.

Two months in, they rotated me into a precinct coordination drill--crowd control simulation with air support. We were there to provide recon and timing oversight. I stayed in the air, just above the rooftops, watching uniforms shift like puzzle pieces.

That's when I first heard her voice over the radio. Steady. Sharp. Patrol Officer Helen Santiago. Her tone was calm but direct, asking for updated overhead positions on the dispersal breach. I keyed in, gave her the coordinates. She responded like she'd been expecting the answer.

That was it. Just a voice. Just a name.

No spark. No pull. Just the quiet click of a wheel starting to turn.

Sometimes you don't spot the pattern until the second data point.

The call came mid-shift--rooftop jumper, East Harlem, six-story building, unknown age, unknown motive. Patrol was already on scene. Crowd gathering fast.

I was in the air within ninety seconds.

The building was a weathered old thing, corner brick, fire escape half-collapsed. She was standing close to the edge, arms crossed like she didn't want to be talked down--like she wanted the whole street to shut up and let her fall in peace.

ESU was still en route. I keyed into precinct comms, gave a quick assessment--wind speed, rooftop dimensions, thermal readout. Then I heard her again.

"Command, this is Officer Santiago. I'm at the stairwell exit. I need an angle from air support--where's our clean approach?"

Her voice didn't flinch. No tension. Just intent.

"This is Falcon. You've got one path--northeast corner, low wall, wind's light west. She's got peripheral on your team, but no direct eye contact yet. Move slow."

She didn't respond with thanks. Just, "Copy. Moving."

I hovered. Held steady. Watched the officers advance with the timing of people who'd trained for this, but rarely pulled it off clean. Santiago moved with purpose. She didn't rush. Didn't posture. Just stood five feet from the ledge and waited.

Eventually, the jumper turned. Just a few words between them. Then Santiago stepped forward--quick and clean--and grabbed her.

By the time ESU arrived, it was over.

I was back at the hangar by late afternoon, filing the usual reports. The adrenaline had already leveled off. I was halfway through a bad coffee when I saw her outside the security fence--off-duty now, hair tied back, wearing a hoodie and that kind of casual posture that says I'm not here for protocol.

I opened the side gate.

"You the pilot?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I thought so. That was clean work today. You're not just flying--you're reading the city."

"Just part of the job."

She smiled a little, just one corner of her mouth. "You get coffee?"

"Sometimes."

"I'm buying. Least I can do."

We walked to a corner spot two blocks away. No fanfare. Just a cracked plastic table and the kind of quiet that doesn't feel heavy. She did most of the talking. I listened.

As we stood to leave, she looked at me and said, "You don't talk much."

I met her eyes. "I talk to people I trust."

She didn't say anything to that. Just nodded.

And for the first time in a long time... I didn't feel like I was orbiting alone.

After that, Helen started showing up in the quiet spaces--the ones I didn't even realize I'd left open.

A late-night text about a precinct screw-up turned into a shared beer on my fire escape. A lunch break coffee turned into a Sunday morning walk through Astoria Park. Nothing official. Nothing labeled. Just... moments. Stitched together by mutual silence and shared glances that didn't require translation.

She never asked about LA. Never poked at the scars. She let me come to her, piece by piece. The way she listened made it feel like my voice belonged somewhere again.

I didn't realize how much lighter I felt until Sticks called me out mid-flight.

"You smiling there, Falcon?" he said over the headset during a quiet patrol loop. "You didn't glare at the weather report this morning like it owed you money."

"Maybe I slept," I replied, dry as always.

"Nah," he said. "You're flying smoother. Cleaner. You've been sharp before--but now you're relaxed. Like someone gave you a reason to come down after landing."

I didn't say anything. But I heard it.

He wasn't wrong.

Later that night, Helen brought over dinner in a takeout bag and didn't even pretend it was a casual visit. She kicked off her shoes like she'd done it a hundred times and handed me a wrapped fortune cookie.

"What's this for?"

"Pilot tradition," she said, smirking. "You crack the cookie, I read the future."

I cracked it open.

The fortune read:

"Your past is not your definition. It's your launch pad."

I didn't say a word. Just looked at her.

She didn't look away.

The memory faded, but the weight lingered--like G-force that stayed in your bones long after the sky leveled out.

I blinked, back in the now.

Different air. Different uniform. Same scars.

*********

Chapter 14 -- "Hellcat"

(POV: Sticks)

We were barely two clicks off shift change when the call came through.

High-speed pursuit--Dodge Hellcat, jet black, last seen northbound on the BQE. Ground units were losing distance. Fast. The thing was built for stupid decisions, and the guy behind the wheel was doubling down on every one of them.

"Unit requesting air support, suspect weaving in and out--possible armed," came over comms.

Robert didn't hesitate. "Falcon en route."

We hit altitude hard, rotors whining as we banked over the East River and pushed southwest. Robert's hands were calm on the stick, but there was something in the way he leaned forward--like he wasn't just chasing a suspect. Like he was chasing distance.

We spotted the Hellcat near the Atlantic Avenue exit--moving fast, tearing down the freeway like it owed him blood. Ground units were four, maybe five seconds behind, eating his dust and praying for a red light that would never come.

"He's gonna blow the tunnel," I said, tracking the heat signature.

"Not if I take him now," Robert replied.

And then he dropped us low.

Way too low.

I barely had time to brace as we cut down between overpasses, the downdraft screaming off the concrete. Robert angled us sharp left, throttled back, then rotated right in a move I've only ever seen in training sims--and even those had kill switches.

He used the skids like a rolling wall--hovered so tight to the left lane that the suspect had no choice but to swerve into the divider.

The car clipped the barrier, spun once, twice--metal on concrete--before crashing to a halt just short of the tunnel entrance. The driver bailed and ran. NYPD swarmed in. Game over.

We didn't speak on the way back.

Robert kept his eyes forward the whole flight. No post-op chatter. No half-jokes. Just the soft whine of the engine and a whole lot of silence wedged between us like a second passenger.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye--jaw locked, shoulders tight, flying like he didn't care if we hit turbulence or the side of a building.

That maneuver wasn't instinct.

It was desperation.

I wasn't sure if Robert was flying to catch a criminal...

Or trying to outrun something else entirely.

That question was still hanging in the air when the skids touched down at Floyd Bennett and Robert killed the engines without a word.

The rotors slowed, whining against the morning chill as the two of us sat there, helmet visors up, eyes straight ahead. Robert's jaw was set so tight it looked carved in stone. He didn't look at me. Didn't need to. I could already feel the fallout brewing like storm pressure in the hangar walls.

"Tower to Falcon, report to Command immediately," crackled over comms.

Robert didn't acknowledge. Just popped the latch, stepped out, and headed toward the briefing room with the gait of a man going to war with something invisible.

I followed. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to see how bad this was going to get.

Captain Merrick was waiting. She didn't pace. She didn't yell. She didn't need to. Her voice was sharp enough to cut steel. The second Robert walked in, she started.

"You clipped a support beam, pilot. You dropped into freeway airspace below safe altitude clearance. You executed a combat-grade maneuver in a domestic corridor without air traffic alert."

Robert stood still. "We stopped the suspect. No casualties."

"You're not a goddamn combat pilot anymore, Cross." Her voice rose--not much, just enough. "This isn't Iraq. This isn't LAPD ASTRO. We don't fly like cowboys over Brooklyn."

He didn't flinch. Didn't defend it. Just stood there, quiet, taking it.

I leaned against the doorframe. Watching.

Merrick's tone dropped an octave, and that's when it really hit. "Until further notice, you're grounded. Effective immediately. Internal review pending. Leave the keys, and keep your hands off the stick."

She turned her eyes to me. "You're cleared to fly, Rivas. But keep your eyes open. And your partner's ego in check."

I didn't respond. Just nodded.

Robert walked out without saying a word. I followed, both of us moving through the hangar like ghosts in matching flight suits.

He didn't stop at his locker. Didn't vent. Didn't look pissed.

He looked... distant.

Like he'd already known this was coming.

Like maybe he'd hoped it would.

*********

Chapter 15 -- "Below Altitude"

(POV: Robert)

The apartment was quiet when I got home.

I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door and stood there for a while, still in my flight pants, boots unlaced, jacket folded over my arm like I couldn't let go of the job even when the job had let go of me.

I didn't sit. I didn't eat. I just stood in the living room, staring out the window at the empty sky, trying not to count how many days I'd be grounded.

I didn't hear the front door open. Just the soft click, the familiar shuffle of Helen's boots, the creak of her vest strap as she unbuckled it one-handed like always. She set her belt and sidearm on the counter. No questions. No why are you home early? No what happened?

She already knew.

Probably heard it over dispatch. Maybe caught the aftermath on precinct chatter. She always had better ears than I did.

She walked straight into the living room and dropped onto the couch beside me. Not facing me--just sitting close enough that our knees touched. Like she knew I wasn't ready to talk but couldn't afford to feel alone either.

"How bad?" she asked, voice soft.

"Grounded," I said. "Pending review."

She didn't say anything at first. Just nodded, her hand sliding across the cushion until her fingers found mine.

"You okay?"

I hesitated.

"No," I said.

She pulled me toward her--slow, patient, like she was reeling in something fragile. I sank into the hug before I realized how much I needed it.

We didn't say anything else. We didn't have to.

She didn't want explanations.

She wanted me--not the pilot, not the rank, not the steady hands in a falling sky. Just the man who'd come home bruised and silent, still trying to breathe through the wreckage.

And that was enough.

But the quiet didn't last.

Time moves differently when you're not in the air.

It drags. It pulses. It sticks in the wrong places and speeds up only when you're too tired to catch it. I filled the days with routines--runs before sunrise, dishes cleaned the moment they hit the sink, couch cushions straightened so often it became compulsive. None of it helped.

The sky was quiet. But my head wasn't.

I started waking up in the middle of the night. Not from dreams--those I could handle. It was the silence that did it. That thick, choking stillness that pressed on my chest like smoke had found its way back in.

I'd get up, walk the perimeter of the apartment like I was checking a landing zone, and watch Helen sleep from the hallway. She looked peaceful. Untouched. Like she still believed I had all my pieces together.

I didn't.

The edges were fraying in places I thought I'd stitched shut years ago. The doorways felt narrower. Every sound too sharp. Nico dropping a toy in the other room would make my pulse spike. Helen called my name once and I flinched--just enough that she noticed.

She didn't say anything that night. But the next day, she asked how I was doing.

I told her I was fine.

Lie.

She looked at me for a long moment. Then just said, "Okay," like she didn't believe me--but wasn't going to push. Not yet.

I sat on the balcony later, staring out over the rooftops, where the air was still and empty. The rotors weren't spinning. The map wasn't lit. I wasn't being asked to save anyone. And for the first time in years, I didn't know who I was without something falling apart around me.

I'm circling, I thought, and there's nowhere to land.

*********

Chapter 16 -- "Ghosts in Plain Sight"

(POV: Brandy)

The first trip didn't go the way I imagined.

I waited at that airfield longer than I should have, watching the gates, hoping he'd walk through like some old movie scene where everything rewinds with one look. He never showed. The desk sergeant wouldn't tell me anything. I left my name, my number. A perfect pen stroke under a broken decade.

A week passed. No call. No message.

So I flew back to LA. But I didn't stop.

I spent the next seven days pulling at every thread I could find. Old contacts in LAPD. Civilian records. Quiet messages sent to people who owed me favors or didn't remember why they shouldn't trust me. Most of them didn't respond. A few did, but short. One said only: "He left for a reason. Let it go."

I didn't.

I found news clippings--rescue footage, praise articles, a few local interviews he clearly hadn't agreed to. NYPD pilot, decorated military background, first name Robert, callsign Falcon. The rest was pieced together by instinct and years of knowing him better than he ever thought I did.

Eventually, I saw it.

A tagged photo from a community event, blurry but unmistakable--Robert standing behind a woman. Her smile wide. Her hair pulled back. A little boy in her arms, no older than two.

His son.

His wife.

I sat at my kitchen table and stared at the image for a long time. Not angry. Not broken. Just... calm.

He'd started over. Built something else. Something clean.

But I knew the truth.

He wasn't in love. He was surviving. The way he always did--by shutting off everything that hurt. Everything that reminded him of us. He thought distance would erase it. That another woman could replace what we had.

He was wrong.

This wasn't betrayal. This was fear. Denial. A man hiding behind duty and routine and a life that fit a little too neatly.

I closed the browser, pulled out my phone, and opened the flight app.

One ticket. JFK. Morning arrival.

He left LA thinking I wouldn't follow.

He forgot who I was.

*********

Chapter 17 -- "Helen, Watching"

(POV: Helen)

I wasn't snooping.

I was looking for Nico's birth certificate--our copy was somewhere in the accordion file Robert kept in the closet, under utility bills and medical forms we hadn't needed since the hospital sent us home with a bundle and a stack of warnings we promptly ignored.

The file was heavy. Labeled and ordered, like everything he touched. I was flipping through the back pocket when something slid loose from between folders.

A photo.

Worn edges. Faded ink. Military days--two people standing beside an Apache, helmets off, squinting in the sun. Robert looked younger. Tighter. That version of him had sharper corners, like he hadn't learned how to soften yet. The woman next to him had one arm draped over his shoulders like she'd done it a thousand times. Brown hair pulled back. Confident smile. Her eyes locked on the camera like she owned the world.

The back of the photo said:

Brandy Cross -- JBLM, 2006.

I held it a little too long.

I'd known Robert was married before. He told me once, early on. One line, like a line item on a report: "Didn't work out. Long time ago."

I didn't push. He wasn't the kind of man who let people see what broke him.

But now, sitting on the floor with our toddler asleep in the next room and the heat of that silence still fresh on my skin, I felt it differently.

This wasn't a secret. It was a shadow.

He hadn't lied. But he hadn't trusted me with the weight of the truth either. And it was starting to show--cracks in conversation, long pauses, the way he'd flinch at certain sounds or shut down mid-sentence when something brushed too close to the past.

The distance wasn't new. But it was growing.

And now that I could put a name to the shape of it--Brandy Cross--it was harder to pretend I didn't feel it settling between us like ash.

*********

Chapter 18 -- "Night Rotation"

(POV: Robert)

I don't remember falling asleep.

But I remember waking up.

It hit all at once--sound, heat, movement. The Apache was shaking. Alarms in my ears. My hand clutched the cyclic and it wasn't there. Then I saw Burke, slumped forward, blood on the glass, his voice crackling in my headset, asking for help I couldn't give.

I jerked awake, breath caught in my chest like it didn't know how to move.

The room was dark. The hum of the city low and distant outside the window. My skin was soaked. Shirt clinging to my back. My fists still clenched around the edge of the sheets like I'd been holding on for dear life.

Helen stirred beside me. Rolled halfway toward me in the dark.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice rough with sleep.

I hesitated. "Just a nightmare."

She waited a beat, but I didn't offer more.

She didn't push. Just reached over, let her fingers brush my arm, then turned back over and slipped under the covers.

I lay there for the rest of the night staring at the ceiling fan, feeling the weight of silence settle around me like armor. I didn't close my eyes again. Couldn't.

Not while Burke's voice was still ringing in my ears.

Not while I was still flying.

And when the sun came up, the weight hadn't lifted.

I thought about how to say it all day.

I played the words over in my head like a mission brief I couldn't quite memorize. No matter how I started, it felt wrong. Too clinical. Too vague. Too raw. The truth didn't come easy to me--not the parts that mattered.

Helen was in the kitchen, folding laundry on the table like she was grounding herself with something she could control. I stood near the hallway, back straight, arms crossed. Stiff. Useless.

"I need to tell you something," I said.

She paused--didn't look up. "Okay."

"It's... complicated." The worst beginning. I knew it, even as I said it.

She set a folded shirt down slowly, carefully. "Try me."

"I've had... things in my life I haven't talked about. Not because I don't trust you, just--because I don't want you carrying it."

That didn't land the way I hoped.

She turned to me now, leaning against the counter, arms crossed to match mine--only hers were sharper. "Then why do I feel like I already am?"

I didn't have an answer. Not one that wouldn't sound like a retreat.

"Look, it's not something I've been hiding, it's just... things happened. Before New York. Before us. Things I can't fix."

"You don't have to fix them," she said, quieter now. "You just have to stop pretending they don't exist."

The silence after that was long. Nico babbled from the other room, the only sound between us. I looked at her, but she wasn't looking back. Not really. Her eyes were somewhere just past me--watching something I didn't have the courage to name.

She stepped away from the table, walked to the bedroom, and paused at the door. Didn't shut it. Didn't invite me in either.

"I'm not mad you have a past," she said. "I'm mad you still won't let me into it."

Then she disappeared behind the frame, and the sound of the door clicking--not closed, not open--hit harder than anything she could've said.

I sat with that silence longer than I'd admit.

So when the call finally came, I didn't expect it--

But I didn't ignore it, either.

No buildup. No sit-down. Just a line from Command over dispatch:

"Pilot Cross, flight status reinstated. Report to Hangar Two for assignment briefing."

That was it.

I walked into the hangar fifteen minutes early. The scent of fuel and machine oil hit me like a memory I'd missed but never admitted out loud. The clipboard felt right in my hand. The preflight check was muscle memory--hydraulics, avionics, tail rotor tension. I moved through it in silence.

Sticks showed up halfway through. Gave me a nod. Nothing dramatic. No sarcasm. Just a quiet pat on the shoulder as he passed me the helmet.

Back in the seat, I pulled the harness tight, flipped the battery switch, and felt the turbine spool to life.

For the first time in weeks, something clicked into place.

Not healed. Not whole.

Just... airborne again.

*********

Chapter 19 -- "Setup"

(POV: Brandy)

It had to be perfect.

Not dramatic. Not chaotic. Just controlled enough to get what I needed--attention, sympathy, him. I picked the building two days before. Midtown. Private property. Helipad access. No flights logged for the afternoon. One of those places that used to be for VIPs and now mostly sat collecting dust and city grime.

I wore something simple--tight jeans, windbreaker, hair pulled back. Clean, presentable. Not enough to draw suspicion, just enough to look like someone who could've slipped past a distracted front desk.

The view from the roof was beautiful. Jagged skyline. Wind heavy but manageable. Just enough cloud cover to make it look cinematic on camera.

I stood near the edge and made the call.

"Emergency dispatch."

"I'm on the roof," I said, trembling just enough. "I--I think I'm going to jump. I'm scared."

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"I don't know. I don't know anymore."

"What's your location?"

I gave the address. Then, before they could ask more, I cut in--

"Can you send... the pilot?" My voice broke on purpose. "The one from the Bronx rescue. I saw the video. He saved that woman and her kids. I just--I want someone like him here."

I hung up before they could trace the call.

Then I waited.

Sirens echoed in the distance, climbing closer. I heard the faint pulse of a chopper somewhere out over the East River. I stepped back from the ledge, checked my reflection in the glass, and took one deep breath.

This wasn't a stunt.

It was course correction.

He walked away once, but this time--

This time the whole world was going to watch him look me in the eyes.

And if I played it right, they'd think it was love.

*********

Chapter 20 -- "The Rooftop Lie"

(POV: Robert)

They didn't tell me her name when the dispatch came through.

Just "possible jumper, female, late 30s, emotional distress, requesting specific unit for reassurance." The pilot from the Bronx rescue. Me.

I almost didn't take the call. I should've listened to the static in my gut.

The address came through mid-briefing. Midtown, high-rise helipad. I'd flown over it a dozen times--empty real estate, no active traffic for months. Civilian airspace cleared with unusual speed. That should've been my first warning.

The second came when we were five clicks out and I saw the figure on the roof.

She was standing at the edge. Still. Like she belonged there. One arm wrapped around her stomach, the other gripping her jacket tight across her chest. Her head lifted the moment we broke the skyline--and didn't flinch.

Not fear.

Recognition.

No.

I didn't say her name out loud. Not even in the cockpit. But my grip on the controls turned to stone.

Sticks glanced over. "Something wrong?"

"Stay in the seat," I said.

I brought us down smooth, nose angled forward, rotors clipping steady through the gusts. The skids touched concrete just a few feet from her. I powered down enough to speak over the wash.

She turned to face me as I stepped out.

Her eyes were already wet, but it wasn't panic. It was practiced. She took a step forward, arms out, trembling just enough to pass for camera-ready grief.

"Robert," she said, voice breaking like porcelain.

I didn't move.

She leaned in, close--too close--and whispered just loud enough to make my stomach twist.

"They're watching. Make it look like you care."

And then she touched my face.

Gentle. Intimate. Like we were the end of a story no one else had seen.

I didn't touch her back.

I didn't have to.

Because above us, two media choppers were circling--cameras already rolling.

From a distance, it looked like a reunion.

Like a man rescuing the one who got away.

And there was nothing I could do to stop what it would look like next.

But the second her fingers touched my face--I stepped back from her hand like it burned.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I asked, low, tight, just under the roar of the rotors.

Brandy blinked up at me, her eyes still glossy, voice delicate but sharp around the edges. "I'm here to rescue you, Robert. From her. From all this pretending."

I stared at her.

She took another step forward, brushing imaginary tears from her cheek. "You don't belong here. You never did. I've been waiting for you to remember who you were--who we were. And now the world's watching. Maybe now you'll finally listen."

"You staged this?" I growled. "Faked a suicide call just to get five minutes of press and a camera on my face?"

Her smile was slight, tragic--calculated. "I needed the world to see what you wouldn't say."

Behind me, sirens echoed upward--units arriving below. I keyed my comm.

"Falcon to dispatch, rooftop secure. Suspect non-suicidal, staged call. Request uniformed units to remove."

She tilted her head, not angry--expecting this. "You're just scared. You always were."

I didn't answer. I stepped away as two patrol officers emerged from the rooftop access. She didn't resist. She clutched her coat tighter and started crying harder as they approached--loud enough to be caught on mic. One camera from a nearby media chopper adjusted its angle.

I could already hear the voiceover: Tragic reunion. NYPD pilot consoles distraught woman on rooftop. Her identity remains unclear.

I turned back toward the bird.

Sticks was waiting in the open cabin doorway, headset still hanging around his neck, eyebrows raised so high they nearly hit his helmet line.

"What the actual hell was that?"

I paused. Clipped my harness back in place. Felt the seat tighten around me like armor.

"My past," I said. "It finally caught up."

Sticks didn't say anything.

Neither did I.

The rotors spun up again, slicing the air between memory and fallout.

*********

Chapter 21 -- "Fallout"

(POV: Helen)

It started like everything else these days--with a notification I didn't ask for.

We were in the precinct breakroom. Half-warm coffee. Paperwork in a loose pile next to my elbow. I was halfway through a write-up when Lopez walked in, holding out his phone.

"Hey. Isn't this your husband?"

I looked up.

The video was already mid-roll--footage from a rooftop in Midtown. Tight zoom. Shaky resolution. A woman clinging to Robert like she'd been pulled from the edge of the world. Her hand on his cheek. Her face buried in his shoulder. The camera caught him standing still. Saying nothing.

There was no sound.

No context.

Just... a moment.

I didn't say anything. I didn't react.

I watched it once.

Then I handed the phone back and stood up.

Lopez called after me--"Helen, wait--"--but I was already moving.

I didn't make a scene. I didn't storm home. I didn't even slam a drawer when I packed Nico's diaper bag. He was napping when I scooped him up, still warm, head heavy on my shoulder.

I texted dispatch that I needed the rest of the day off. No reason.

Then I drove to my parents' house.

No music. No phone calls. Just the sound of tires on asphalt and the silence of a woman who wasn't angry yet--just done waiting for an explanation that never came.

I didn't write a note.

Didn't leave a message.

Let him feel it instead.

I didn't cry in the car. Didn't flinch at a single red light.

Mamá had already put the kettle on when I walked through the door.

Nico was still asleep in my arms, drool on my shoulder, warm as a little sun. I hadn't cried. Not in the car. Not on the porch. But the second I stepped into the house I grew up in, something in me gave just a little.

"My darling," Mamá whispered, pulling me into a one-armed hug while guiding me toward the couch. "What happened?"

"Just... needed space," I managed. My throat burned.

Papá came in from the back room, quiet as always, his eyes scanning me like he already knew something was wrong but wouldn't ask until I was ready. He took Nico from me, held him with that patient, steady rhythm that used to rock me to sleep after bad dreams.

We didn't talk for a while.

Mamá poured chamomile into a mug with too much honey and pressed it into my hands. She didn't sit right away--just hovered, rubbing slow circles on my back the way she used to when I got sick as a kid. "What did he do to you, mija?"

"It's not what he did," I said. "It's what he didn't say."

She raised an eyebrow.

"There's a video," I said, breath hitching. "A rooftop call. Some woman clinging to Robert. It looked bad. But it wasn't just that. I found out who she was."

Mamá's expression sharpened, but she stayed silent.

"She's his ex-wife," I said. "Brandy. The woman he left LA to get away from. The one he never told me by name. Never told me... anything, really."

Papá finally spoke, voice low but steady. "Did you know since when?"

"Yesterday," I said.

Mamá sat beside me, pulled my hand into hers. "Oh my love... I'm so sorry."

"It's not that he had a past," I whispered. "It's that he didn't trust me with it."

She didn't offer excuses. She didn't defend him. She just kissed my temple and held on.

And I sat there in the house I'd grown up in, wondering how the man who'd built a life with me... still kept whole pieces of himself locked away.

*********

Chapter 22 -- "Ground Truth"

(POV: Robert)

The letter was sealed, but I already knew what it said.

I sat outside Captain Merrick's office, envelope unopened in one hand, resignation paperwork half-filled in the other. One clean signature and my wings would be off the patch, my name cleared from the roster. Just another burned-out veteran who flew too close to something and didn't come back right.

The irony wasn't lost on me--rescued a stranger, ruined my own landing.

The door behind me creaked open. Sticks walked in, no knock, no announcement. Just him, coffee in one hand, calm expression that always meant I was about to get read like a manual.

"You really gonna do it?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

"You gonna walk out of here because a woman from your past hijacked the present? That's the story now?"

"You don't get it."

"Try me."

I looked at him, jaw tight. "They ordered counseling. Like I'm unstable. Like I can't be trusted in the sky."

"You are unstable," he said, setting the coffee down. "We all are. That's what war and wreckage do. But you don't have to stay that way."

He pulled a chair across from me and sat.

"I was over there too. Afghanistan. Marine recon. Sniper." He paused. "You ever try coming home after spending a year staring through a scope at people you might have to shoot?"

I didn't respond.

"I couldn't sleep. Couldn't hear fireworks without my heart trying to claw out of my chest. I damn near shoved my fiancée through a wall once because she came up behind me too quiet. You know what changed that?"

I waited.

"Counseling. Real counseling. Not the checkbox crap. Someone who didn't flinch when I told the truth."

I looked down at the envelope again.

"You fly like you're trying to outrun something," Sticks said. "But altitude doesn't fix what's dragging under your skin. Stop hiding behind airspeed. Go talk to someone who can help you level out."

He stood and left me sitting there, chair creaking back into silence.

It took me two hours to open the letter.

Three more to walk into the counselor's office.

But I did.

And for the first time since meeting Helen...

I didn't feel like I had to be bulletproof to walk through a door.

Didn't mean I was comfortable on the other side of it.

The office was plain--soft colors, two chairs, a couch I wasn't about to touch, and one of those cheap water dispensers humming in the corner like it had secrets of its own.

I sat in the chair across from her--Dr. Melissa Kwan. Civilian contractor. Licensed trauma specialist. Recommended by both Command and Sticks. The only thing I knew about her going in was that she didn't write reports unless someone was bleeding.

She tapped her tablet once, set it aside, and looked at me.

"You want to start with now or before?"

I shrugged. "Now's easier."

She nodded. "Tell me about life in New York."

"Transferred from LAPD Aviation about five years ago. Took a lateral into NYPD Air Support. Got partnered with a guy who doesn't shut up." I smirked, just a little. "It's been good."

"Personal life?"

I hesitated. "Married. One kid. Boy--Nico. Two years old. He likes helicopters."

"Bet he does."

That got half a smile from me. Then she tilted her head.

"And before New York?"

"San Diego. Born and raised. Joined the Army in '01. Apache school was all I wanted."

"Why helicopters?"

"Fixed wing was too clean. Too distant. Helicopters... they're closer to the ground. Messier. More control when everything's coming apart."

She didn't write that down. Just nodded again.

"And Brandy?" she asked gently.

I blinked. "You read the file."

"Reading and hearing aren't the same."

I leaned back, arms folded tight. "Met her before I enlisted. Married just before deployment. She didn't wait."

"And how did that make you feel?"

I looked past her, toward the wall, at a diploma I didn't care about.

"I handled it," I said.

She didn't push. Just made a small note. Let the silence sit between us.

I didn't fill it.

Not yet.

*********

Chapter 23 -- "Live Feed, Dead Eyes"

(POV: Sticks)

I was three sips into a truly awful cup of breakroom coffee when Brandy Thompson's face lit up the TV like she owned the damn network.

Local morning show--one of those over-produced segments with fake skyline backdrops and anchor smiles polished to a weaponized shine. She was sitting straight-backed, hair just tousled enough to look tragic, eyes wide and perfectly misted.

"I just want Robert to know," she was saying, voice trembling, "that I've always believed in him. Even after everything. I just... wanted to remind him who he really is."

I nearly choked on my coffee.

"Bullshit," I muttered around the rim of the mug. "You remind him who he is by faking a jump call and hijacking a rescue op? Lady, please."

Behind me, someone cleared their throat.

I turned to see Captain Merrick standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

"I take it you caught her Academy Award submission?" I asked.

Merrick stepped into the room, gave the screen a long, unimpressed glance. "That woman is poison with a press pass."

The segment cut to b-roll of the rooftop footage--no audio, just a slow zoom on Robert standing still while she reached for him like they were a headline reunion instead of a threat assessment. From a distance, it did look like something tender.

Perception. That's what this was about.

"So why the grounding?" I asked, knowing damn well it wasn't just about the stunt.

Merrick sighed. "Because brass is nervous. That car chase last month already had them questioning his risk profile. Now this? Two viral clips, one of them conveniently cut to look like he's comforting an unstable ex-wife on a rooftop? They're worried it reflects on the department."

I stared at the screen again. Robert's face unreadable. Brandy's hand mid-reach.

"This is why I hate cameras," I muttered.

Merrick nodded. "And this is why he's grounded. Not for what he did. But for how it looked."

I looked down into my coffee. It tasted like bad PR.

"He doesn't deserve this," I said.

"No," she agreed. "But right now? We're in damage control mode."

I shut the TV off with the remote and leaned against the counter.

"Perception's a bitch."

"Only when it gets ahead of the truth," Merrick said, then walked out.

And I stood there, watching the screen go dark, wondering how many times a good man had to land clean before someone finally believed he wasn't flying recklessly--he was just trying to stay above the wreckage.

*********

Chapter 24 -- "Altitude Loss"

(POV: Robert)

The second session started the same way--silence, then the gentle pressure of a question.

"What happens when you think about life before New York?"

I stared at the carpet for a long time before answering. "It always starts the same way."

"Tell me."

"I hear the rotors. I feel the vibration in the seat. And I see Burke." My voice dropped a register. "Every time."

Dr. Kwan didn't flinch. "Tell me what happened."

I didn't want to. But I did.

"Iraq. Patrol loop near Fallujah. Small arms fire lit up the cockpit--Burke took it to the chest, maybe neck. I couldn't see exactly. He was in the front seat, I was in the rear. He started choking before I could even call it in."

I rubbed my hands together like I could scrub off the sound.

"I flew us back. Fast as I could. Couldn't land. Couldn't stop. Just had to sit there and listen while my friend died two feet away."

Silence again. Heavy. But this time, I didn't try to escape it.

"That's where the nightmares come from," I said. "Not the blood. Not the noise. The helplessness. The fact that I was trained to keep the bird in the air, and all I wanted to do was set it down and hold pressure on his wounds."

She nodded slowly. "And when you got home?"

"That's when it got worse." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "Came back to LA. To Brandy. Thought at least something would feel like mine again. Instead..."

I let the breath out hard through my nose.

"She was cheating. Found her car at a motel during a patrol shift. Watched her walk out with someone else. Didn't even fight about it. Just looked her in the eye, told her we were done, and walked away."

Dr. Kwan didn't write. Didn't speak.

"And now?" I said, voice colder. "Now she's back. Popped up on a rooftop, pretending to jump, whispering things to make the media eat it up. She's trying to rewrite history. Trying to paint this picture like I was the one who left her."

"Have you let her back in?"

"No," I snapped. Then softer, "But I haven't figured out how to shut the door, either."

"And Helen?"

I closed my eyes.

"She's everything Brandy never was. But I didn't tell her any of this. I thought... if I left it in the past, it would stay there. But it's like no matter how far I fly, the moment I look down, it's always that day. Always Burke. Always the motel. Like time froze in both places and I never really walked away."

Dr. Kwan sat quietly with me.

I didn't feel like I had to fill the silence with strength. I just let it be quiet--and she did too.

Dr. Kwan sat with her legs crossed, tablet untouched on the table beside her. She let the silence hang just long enough to feel like something real was coming next.

"Tell me about Burke," she said.

I shifted in my chair. "He was a gunner. My front seat."

"I mean the man. Not the role."

I looked at the floor for a second. Tried to conjure his face not covered in blood or blur.

"He was funny," I said finally. "The kind of guy who made you feel like things weren't as bad as they were. Always had some dumb story about a busted generator or his sister's psycho parrot back home."

I exhaled through my nose. "He loved baseball. Dodgers fan. Me a Padres fan. We used to talk crap about each other's teams like it mattered in a war zone."

She gave a soft nod. "Did you two ever talk about what you'd do after?"

My mouth twitched. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling like the answer might be printed there.

"All the time," I said quietly. "We'd lie in the bunk after missions and just... make stuff up. I'd talk about flying commercial--he'd laugh and say I'd last five minutes in a tie. He wanted to open a body shop with his cousin. Work on bikes. Something with grease and noise."

I winced.

It came out too naturally--too normal--for something that ended in so much silence.

"He joked he'd name his first kid after me," I added, voice lower. "Said 'Cross' had a nice ring to it."

She didn't interrupt. Didn't write. Just let the room breathe around the weight of it.

"I haven't talked about that with anyone," I said, more to myself than to her. "Not once since I landed."

She finally spoke, voice gentle.

"Why not?"

I didn't answer.

But my chest ached in a place I'd forgotten how to reach.

The kind of ache that didn't need words to be noticed.

Dr. Kwan didn't look at her tablet. Didn't shift in her chair. Just watched me quietly, like she was waiting for me to stop dancing around the thing I didn't want to name.

"You said Burke used to joke about naming his kid after you," she said. "Do you remember the last conversation you had with him before that mission?"

My throat tightened.

I wanted to say no. Wanted to lie.

But I remembered.

"Yeah," I said.

She waited.

"It was the night before," I continued, voice low. "We were in the tent. One of those rare quiet nights--no shelling, no standby orders. Just heat and static."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "He asked me if I thought any of it meant anything. If what we were doing actually mattered when we got back. Said he wasn't sure anymore."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said... I didn't know either. But we had people waiting for us. He had a girlfriend, I had Brandy. I said maybe the fight didn't matter as much as who we were fighting for."

The silence that followed felt sharp. Like it cut on the way down.

Dr. Kwan didn't speak right away.

Then she asked: "Was that true? That what you were doing was for them?"

I nodded once, jaw tightening.

She paused. Then: "If Burke was fighting over there, and losing... was it worth it--knowing what was waiting for you when you came home?"

I looked at her.

Didn't blink.

Didn't deflect.

Sat with it.

Felt it hit.

Then said, for the first time--honestly, without armor:

"No. It wasn't worth it."

And that silence didn't feel sharp anymore.

It felt like letting go.

Like loosening a fist I didn't realize I'd kept clenched for years.

Dr. Kwan didn't react right away.

She just let my words settle--"No. It wasn't worth it."--like she knew rushing past them would miss the point. Her silence wasn't heavy. It felt like breathing room.

"You can't outrun pain, Robert," she said gently. "Not with speed. Not with altitude. Not with discipline. You've been flying your whole life trying to stay ahead of it, and all it's done is circle back every time you land."

I stared at the floor, fingers laced together. My shoulders ached.

"But," she continued, "saying that out loud? Admitting the truth, without dressing it up or pushing it down--that's a turn."

"A turn," I echoed.

She nodded. "A hard one. But the right direction."

She picked up her tablet but didn't start typing. "I'm not recommending extended grounding. You're not a danger to yourself or others. You're a man who's been trying to carry two lifetimes worth of guilt with no co-pilot."

My throat tightened again, but I stayed quiet.

"You'll need to keep coming. Weekly sessions. Non-negotiable." She leaned in slightly, voice still calm. "But more than that--you need to talk to your wife. Really talk to her. Not one-word answers. Not mission reports. She deserves more than what Brandy left behind."

That one hit.

I didn't flinch, but she saw it land.

"She doesn't need a pilot," Dr. Kwan added. "She needs you. Not the quiet version. Not the brave one. Just the man who finally stopped lying to himself about what hurts."

I nodded once. That was all I could manage.

Just before I stood to leave, when I asked the question that had been quietly burning in the back of my mind.

"Can I ask you something off the record?"

Dr. Kwan gave a small nod. "Of course."

I looked down at my hands, thumb pressing against the scar on my knuckle--a habit I hadn't broken since flight school. "Why would someone who threw everything away want it back? Brandy ended it. She was the one who broke it. So why now? Why come back?"

Dr. Kwan sat back in her chair, thoughtful.

"I can't diagnose or psychoanalyze someone I haven't interviewed," she said carefully, "but I can offer a perspective."

I nodded, waiting.

"She likely sees your healing as something she wasn't a part of--and that bothers her. You left when you were broken. But now that you've built something better--without her--she might believe that if she reclaims you, she gets to reclaim that part of herself, too."

"She doesn't get to rewrite it," I said.

"No," she agreed. "But people like Brandy don't want to rewrite the truth. They want to reshape the narrative--especially when they're no longer the center of it."

I sat with that.

Dr. Kwan continued, gentler now. "The question isn't why she wants back in. It's why you still feel responsible for closing the door she walked out of."

I didn't answer.

I just nodded slowly, stood up, and thanked her.

And on the drive home, I knew exactly what I needed to write.

I sat at the kitchen table and wrote until the truth stopped fighting me.

Then I got in the car and drove to her parents' place.

I didn't knock.

Didn't press the buzzer twice. Didn't try to catch her at the window like some dramatic apology stunt. That's not what this was.

This was a confession. Not for show. For her.

The house was quiet--curtains drawn, porch lights off even though the sun was still clinging to the edges of the evening. I stood there for a minute, envelope in my hand, thumb tracing the seam like it might change the words inside.

Then I knelt, set it down gently on the welcome mat, and walked back to the car without looking back.

_____________________

Helen,

I've started this letter ten different ways. Every version sounded like a report. Bullet points. Mission data. Clean, detached, and safe.

But you deserve more than the safe version of me.

So here's the truth.

Brandy was my first real love. We met young. I married her right before I deployed. Thought that meant something permanent. Thought it meant she'd wait.

She didn't.

When I came home--after months of flying through hell, after listening to Burke die inches away--I found her with someone else. No excuses. No apologies. Just betrayal waiting at the door.

I didn't blow up. I didn't scream. I walked away like I was trained to. Silent. Controlled. I shoved it all down, transferred out, and never told another soul the full story. I thought burying it meant I was over it. That by never saying her name, I'd erased the part of me that broke.

But I was wrong.

She's tried to claw her way back into my life more than once. This time, she used cameras. And timing. And every manipulative skill she's ever had. I didn't bring her into our world, Helen. She forced her way in through a crack I didn't even realize I'd left behind.

That's on me.

Not for letting her in.

But for not warning you there was ever a door.

I never told you about Burke. Or how I flew him home while he bled out in front of me. I never told you that I still hear him in my headset sometimes when the cockpit gets too quiet.

I should've.

You've given me more patience than I deserve. You've given me a life I didn't believe was possible--solid ground, a son who looks up when I walk through the door, and a home that doesn't feel like it's one breath from disappearing.

And I nearly lost it by keeping you out of the storm I swore I left behind.

I'm not writing this to win you back. I'm writing this because you should've had all of me from the start.

No armor.

No flight helmet.

Just me.

I love you, Helen.

More than I fear being seen.

--Robert

_____________________

*********

Chapter 25 -- "The Find"

(POV: Helen)

I didn't plan to go after her.

Not at first.

But once I read the letter... once the quiet between us turned into something real again... there was only one thread left that needed cutting.

Mamá found me at the dining table with my laptop open and a focused scowl I inherited directly from her.

"What are you doing, mija?"

"I'm going to find her," I said, calm, direct. "Brandy."

She raised an eyebrow, arms crossing. "And how do you plan to do that?"

I clicked open a browser tab. "Someone who stages a rooftop stunt in front of the entire city? She's not exactly the subtle type."

A few keystrokes: Brandy Thompson NYPD helicopter pilot.

First page hit--there she was. A public profile on three platforms, all active within the last forty-eight hours. One photo caught my eye immediately: her seated outside a coffee shop in SoHo, captioned:

"My new favorite corner in the city. Healing, growing, strong again."

I stared at the image.

Perfect lighting. Latte untouched. Angled like she knew someone would be watching.

"I know where she is," I said, standing.

Mamá didn't stop me. She just reached out, gently brushed my arm, and said, "Speak like a Santiago. With precision. Not fire."

"I'm not going to yell," I said. "I'm going to end it."

And just like I expected--

She was sitting outside a café in Soho, sunglasses on, coffee untouched, wearing the kind of fake casual that comes from rehearsed confidence.

I didn't make a scene.

I just pulled out the chair across from her and sat.

Brandy looked up, startled for a second, then offered a soft, practiced smile. "You must be Helen."

"I am."

"Did Robert send you?"

"No. He doesn't know I'm here."

She tilted her head like she was about to ask if I was okay. I didn't give her the space.

"You don't get to play innocent," I said. "Not after staging a rooftop drama for the entire city to watch. That wasn't a breakdown. That was a performance."

She let out a breathy laugh. "You don't understand--"

"No," I cut in, voice flat. "You don't understand. You want him back because you finally saw what he became without you. Strong. Steady. The man you broke and left behind rebuilt himself. And you can't stand that it wasn't because of you."

Her smile faltered, just slightly.

"You didn't build him, Brandy," I said, leaning in. "I did. Through trust, and patience, and late nights holding him through things you never even tried to understand. You want a second chance? You're five years too late."

She sat back, removing her sunglasses now, eyes sharper.

"I'm not done," she said quietly.

I nodded once. Calm. Clear.

"But he is."

I stood, leaving her and her untouched coffee behind.

I didn't need to win.

Because I already had.

*********

Chapter 26 -- "Line in the Concrete"

(POV: Brandy)

She walked away like it was finished.

No fight. No raised voice. Just cold, precision words--surgical strikes to make herself feel righteous. But I watched her walk, back straight, fists just barely clenched at her sides. She thought she'd won.

That's what made her dangerous.

That confidence.

But she didn't know Robert the way I did. Not really. She didn't see the parts of him before the rebuild--before the uniform, before New York, before that quiet, neat little life she was so proud of gluing together. She didn't understand what it meant to be his beginning.

So I started calculating my next move. Another approach. A softer angle. Maybe through a media piece, maybe--

She stopped.

Ten feet away, back still to me, shoulders squared.

Then she turned around.

Her eyes locked on mine with a sharpness that didn't blink.

"If you try to come between us again," she said, voice calm and low enough to draw blood, "you'll regret it."

She didn't snarl. Didn't threaten.

She just promised.

Then she turned and walked away for good.

And for the first time since finding Robert again...

I felt cold.

*********

Chapter 27 -- "Still Here"

(POV: Robert)

The apartment had never felt this quiet.

Not even when I first moved in.

Every clock ticked louder. Every sound outside the window felt like it might mean something. I hadn't turned on the TV. Couldn't focus on music. The walls just echoed everything I hadn't said fast enough.

Then came the soft jingle of keys.

I froze.

The door creaked open like it didn't want to be part of this moment either.

Helen stepped inside. Nico was on her hip, one hand gripping her shirt like he remembered this place even if he didn't understand the weight in the air. She didn't look at me right away. Just scanned the room like it might be different now.

I didn't move.

Didn't speak.

She stepped forward, set her bag down gently by the table, and adjusted Nico's weight on her side.

"I'm still mad," she said. Not dramatic. Not cruel. Just... honest.

I nodded. "I don't blame you."

She finally looked at me--eyes tired, guarded, but steady. Not broken.

"But I'm still here," she said.

That's when I breathed again.

Like my lungs remembered what to do.

I walked toward them. Slow. Careful. Nico reached for me before she said anything else, and I took him with hands that didn't feel so heavy anymore.

We didn't kiss. We didn't cry. We just stood there.

And it was enough.

For a moment, at least.

I almost asked.

The words were right there on the edge of my tongue--Did you get my letter?--but before I could speak, Helen reached into her coat pocket and pulled it out. Folded edges. No tears in the paper. Just worn from being held.

She didn't say anything. Just looked at me, then gave the slightest tilt of her head toward the couch.

We sat down. Side by side.

No space between us.

She kept the letter in her lap, fingers brushing the crease, like she wasn't ready to let it go just yet.

I broke the silence first. Not to defend myself. Not to apologize again. Just to tell the truth.

"When I came back from Iraq," I said, voice low, "I didn't come back whole. Burke was gone. My crew was scattered. I kept flying because that's all I knew how to do. And when I got home... I thought Brandy would be the thing that made it make sense. That her being there would make what I lost worth something."

Helen didn't move. She just listened.

"But her betrayal wasn't just cheating. It rewrote everything. Made the sacrifice feel empty. Like I went through hell for nothing." I swallowed hard. "It made me feel like I never mattered outside the uniform."

Her hand found mine, steady and warm.

"I didn't start healing when I left LA," I said. "That just stopped the bleeding. I didn't feel whole again until I met you. Until you made me stop flying to survive--and start living like I deserved to land."

Helen leaned her head gently against my shoulder. "That letter..." she said, voice soft, "you wrote it like you finally stopped running."

"I did."

She pulled back, just enough to look at me.

"We've got a long way to go, Robert," she said. "This didn't fix everything."

"I know."

"But we'll get there," she said. "Together. Not apart."

I wrapped my arms around her, and this time when I breathed--really breathed--it didn't feel like I was holding anything back.

And a few days later, I found myself breathing a different kind of air.

The hangar smelled like fuel, floor wax, and stale coffee.

Which is to say--it felt like home.

Captain Merrick was waiting just inside the door, arms crossed, expression neutral. "You're cleared. Weekly check-ins, standard review periods. You know the drill."

I nodded once. "Thank you."

She held my gaze for half a second longer, then offered the slightest smile. "Don't make me regret it."

Sticks was leaning against my locker when I walked in, spinning his headset on two fingers like he hadn't rehearsed the moment at least twice.

"Look who finally clawed his way out of desk duty," he said. "Was starting to think I'd need to learn how to fly the damn thing myself."

"You'd last thirty seconds before trying to mount a cup holder."

"Incorrect. I'd last a solid forty-five."

We walked the tarmac in silence, the banter just enough to keep the air from getting too heavy.

The moment I stepped into the chopper, I stopped short. There were five pine-tree air fresheners swinging from the overhead rail. Five. Like some bizarre, scented jungle.

I turned.

Sticks grinned, buckling in. "Told you I'd get rid of that burnt building smell. Took a forest, but mission accomplished."

"Subtle."

"It's a full olfactory reset, Falcon. You're welcome."

We settled in, hands instinctively moving through the pre-flight checklist. Altimeter, rotor torque, fuel, comms. My fingers moved on autopilot, but this time... the weight wasn't there.

This wasn't penance.

It was flight.

Not escape. Not distraction.

Back in the sky.

God, I missed this.

The chase started in Queens--silver Charger, plates registered to a ghost, tearing through intersections like physics was optional. NYPD ground units were a block behind, calling for air.

"Falcon airborne. Visual acquired," I called in, banking over Roosevelt and locking onto the movement two lanes deep.

"Fast one," Sticks said, eyes glued to the console beside me. "We're talking Hellcat fast. Again. I swear these guys just Google 'cop-proof cars' and click 'Buy Now.'"

"He's not cop-proof," I muttered, shifting our trajectory.

"He's not smart, either. Taking Jamaica Ave this time of day? Guy's asking to eat a traffic cone."

Below us, the Charger cut between two lanes, clipped a Honda, kept going.

"Falcon to Command--suspect just made contact with a vehicle. Light impact, continuing westbound."

Sticks looked over. "You good, Cross? Hands seem steady. Not flying like your soul's halfway back to Baghdad anymore."

"Shut up and watch the right flank."

"That's a yes," he said smugly.

I dipped lower, riding the edge of safe altitude. The wind resistance kicked up a bit, but the bird held. She always did.

"I'm gonna guide him toward Myrtle. Block his options," I said.

Sticks keyed his mic. "All ground units, Falcon recommends push west to Myrtle, funnel the subject. We're moving to cut off rooftop exit routes."

A pause, then a smirk: "Also, if anyone sees a guy in a silver Charger flipping off the sky, tell him we waved back."

"You gonna keep running your mouth, or do your job?"

"This is my job," he grinned. "The commentary is the glue that holds us together."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

We dropped ten feet, banking sharp left. Below, the Charger slammed brakes, swerved toward a dead end behind a loading dock.

Gotcha.

He bailed--ran fast. Too fast for traffic. Not fast enough for patrol.

"Subject's on foot," I radioed in. "Units are converging."

"Falcon out," Sticks added. "Suspect is officially grounded."

I looked over at him, finally cracked half a smile.

"Nice."

"Told you," he said, buckling back into his seat. "You fly smoother when your soul's not trying to eject."

And for once--I couldn't even argue.

The rest of the night? Just routine. Patrols. Call-ins. Quiet air.

The rotors slowed behind me.

Wind kicked off the landing pad, brushing over my flight suit like a memory trying to stick. I stripped off my helmet, thumbed the edge of the visor, and let the city fall quiet behind the glass.

There was a time I would've stayed at the hangar. Found a reason to linger. A reason not to go home.

Not anymore.

The drive was short. Familiar turns, familiar skyline. The kind of route that doesn't need a map--just muscle memory and want.

When I pulled up, the porch light was on.

Helen opened the door before I even reached the steps. She had Nico on her hip--his head buried in her shoulder, half-asleep and still clutching a plastic helicopter. My son. My anchor.

Her eyes met mine.

No questions.

No doubt.

Just a quiet smile that said this is where you belong.

I stepped inside, boots still dusted with the sky. Helen leaned in close enough for our shoulders to brush. I let my hand rest on Nico's back, felt the soft rise and fall of his breathing, steady and safe.

I glanced around--this little apartment that never made the news, never trended, never needed to. It held everything I'd fought to build.

The ghosts were still there.

They always would be.

The past still echoes.

But this?

This is where I land.

*********

Epilogue -- "The Reminder"

(POV: Brandy)

From across the street, his apartment looked exactly like I how expected it do be with Robert--warm lights, soft shadows moving through the curtains. Domestic. Comfortable. Ordinary.

Temporary.

I sipped my coffee without tasting it, eyes fixed on the window where he sometimes stood with the kid on his hip. Smiling like he'd found something worth keeping.

Helen thinks she won.

But love doesn't disappear just because someone else came along.

Some people think love fades when it's lost. I know better.

It sharpens.

And if I have to remind him the hard way...

I will.

*********

Notes from the Wyld:

Writing Airspace was never part of the plan.

I was deep into outlining Unwritten Orders when inspiration blindsided me mid-watch of Blue Thunder. Sure, the film's known for kickass helicopters and 80s action, but what hit me wasn't the tech, it was Roy Scheider's character. Tough on the outside, quietly unraveling on the inside. PTSD simmering beneath every frame. That thread pulled something loose in my brain, and next thing I knew, Airspace took flight.

Some people might ask, "Is this really a story about a loving wife?" My answer? Hell yes. Brandy, the ex-wife, the cheater, the chaos engine, is the ghost of who Robert used to be. But Helen? She's the reason he stops flying to escape and starts flying to come home. She isn't just his wife. She's his landing zone. His anchor. His reminder that peace isn't silence, it's being understood.

Now, about that final teaser, yes, I know. Brandy watching from the shadows, whispering her best low-budget Bond villain monologue. I didn't tack that on because the story needed a sequel. I just liked the idea of leaving the door cracked open wide enough for chaos to peek through. The core story is done: Robert faced his ghosts, stopped crash-landing into his own life, and found something worth staying grounded for. But let's be honest--Brandy was never going to slink into irrelevance without one last rooftop stunt and a camera-friendly sob story.

If I do revisit the story? Expect a full cat-and-mouse game between Brandy and Helen. And spoiler alert, Helen's the cat. Calm. Tactical. Probably already memorizing Brandy's coffee order so she can switch it to decaf and wait for the breakdown.

And if I don't? Feel free to headcanon that Brandy had one too many glasses of bottom-shelf chardonnay, tripped on her own entitlement, and fell in front of the 7 train--Flushing to Manhattan express. Fast service. No delays.

Either way, Airspace did what it needed to do.

Finally, I want to give a huge thank you to the deputies at my local sheriff's department air support unit for taking the time to answer my questions and share some wild, unforgettable stories. Your insight, candor, and humor brought realism and heart to this story. I still regret not being able to include the one of funniest stories that has to do with a ladder and a trash can, but don't worry, I'll make sure it's in the sequel.