Control might be overrated, but if I don’t figure out how to handle Ash soon, this season is going to get a lot more complicated than I planned.
I am already nursingmy second cup of coffee by the time the clock ticks past 0530, the dim light of dawn creeping through the windows of the office. The paperwork in front of me is a mix of evaluations and flight schedules, and my pen scratches lazily across the page as I review yesterday’s drills.
The sound of the door opening barely registers—until heavy, deliberate footsteps cross the room.
I don’t need to look up to know who it is. The air shifts, charged with a familiar energy that has been following me around since yesterday.
Ash Carr.
He stops directly in front of my desk, and I can feel his presence before I even glance up. When I finally do, he’s not standing tall like most pilots trying to play the part do. No, he is bent at the waist, leaning just enough to draw my gaze.
“Miss Maddox,” he drawls, his tone smooth and low, a devilish smirk playing at his lips. “I think we have a problem.”
I raise an eyebrow, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms. “Do we, Mr. Carr? Because, as far as I can tell, the only problem here is you interrupting my work.”
He grins, not even a little fazed by the sharpness in my tone. If anything, it only seems to encourage him. “I was just trying tobe helpful. Thought you might want to know before things get… out of hand.”
I narrow my eyes, tilting my head slightly. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Carr. What exactly do you think is getting ‘out of hand’?”
His gaze flicks to mine, his smirk deepening, and for a split second, I hate how ridiculously good he looks. The flight suit yesterday had been one thing, but now? His plain white T-shirt and black athletic pants are worse—casual, effortless, and infuriatingly attractive.
“I’m talking about this tension, Miss Maddox,” he says, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down my spine. “Between us. Pretty sure everyone on the team’s going to notice if we don’t get it under control.”
My lips part, half in shock, half in disbelief at his audacity. The man is unreal.
I lean forward, plant my elbows on the desk, and meet his gaze with all the authority I can muster. “Let me make something perfectly clear, Carr. The only tension here is the one you’re creating by wasting my time.”
His smirk doesn’t falter—if anything, it grows wider, his eyes sparkling with that maddening mix of confidence and charm. “Sure, Commander. If that’s how you want to play it.”
He straightens, and losing his proximity is almost a relief. Almost.
I tap my pen against the desk, forcing myself to focus. “If you’re done, I suggest you head to the hangar and get ready for today’s drills. We start in thirty minutes, and I expect you to be on time and in line. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” he says, turning to leave but throwing one last glance over his shoulder. “Oh, and Maddox? You can call me Ash. No need to be so formal.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the office and the distinct feeling that I just lost whatever upper hand I thought I had.
“God help me,” I mutter, picking up my coffee and taking a long, bracing sip.
I shrug on my flight jacket, the worn leather settling around my shoulders like a second skin. The patches on the sleeves tell a story—years of flying, training, and proving myself repeatedly. Today, though, it isn’t about me. It is about showing the flyboys how the day is going to go—and that I mean business.
Grabbing my clipboard and sunglasses from the desk, I step out into the crisp morning air. The hum of activity at the airfield is already in full swing—engines being checked, teams coordinating, and the rookies milling about, trying not to look too green.
The walk to the tarmac is as familiar as breathing, the scent of jet fuel and the faint tang of grease grounding me in the moment. My boots hit the pavement with purpose, each step reminding me I am in charge here. Commander Amelia Maddox isn’t just another face in the crowd. I am here to lead, to teach, and—if necessary—to remind them why I earned the call sign Phoenix.
I spot Knox near one jet, clipboard in hand, already barking orders to the crew. He glances up as I approach, a knowing grin tugging at his lips.
“Looking sharp, Maddox,” he says, nodding toward the group of pilots gathering nearby. “Think they’re ready for you?”
I slip my sunglasses on and glance over at the group. Ash stands at the edge, leaning casually against the nose of a jet, like he has all the time in the world. His confident posture and cocky grin haven’t wavered since yesterday.
“I don’t give a fuck if they’re ready,” I say, my voice cool and steady. “They’ll get ready.”
Knox chuckles, shaking his head. “Classic Phoenix.”
I ignore him, striding toward the remaining pilots. The sound of my boots catches their attention, and heads snap up as I approach. I can feel their eyes on me, some filled with respect, others with thinly veiled curiosity—or, in Ash’s case, something else entirely.
Stopping in front of them, I plant my hands on my hips and survey the group. “All right, listen up. Today’s about one thing: flying as a unit. I don’t care how good you think you are on your own. Out there, it’s not about you—it’s about the team. Got it?”
