They were supposed to fly the mission together.

Joaquin and his fellow pilot, both skilled aviators in Sam Wilson’s expanding post-blip operations, had trained side by side for months. The tension between them had shifted from competitive to personal, from smirks exchanged in the sky during maneuvers to lingering glances across the table during late-night debriefs. The sterile fluorescent lights would catch the other man’s profile, casting shadows that made Joaquin’s breath catch in his throat.

They’d never really said the words. But it was there—a quiet understanding that hummed between them like static on a radio, unspoken yet undeniably real. In the locker room after training, their hands would brush while reaching for gear. During pre-flight checks, their shoulders would press together as they reviewed flight plans, neither moving away.

Then came the mission—routine reconnaissance that dissolved into chaos when enemy fighters ambushed them. The radio crackled with warnings as tracer fire lit up the sky around them.

And only one of them came back.

The other jet was hit, trailing smoke before spiraling downward in a fiery arc toward the churning gray sea. Joaquin watched helplessly from his cockpit, the sickening lurch in his stomach matching the violent descent. Over the comms, he heard the garbled mayday call cut short by static as the ocean swallowed the wreckage whole. The salt spray stung his eyes as he circled overhead, powerless to do anything but radio for emergency extraction.

The rescue team found him hours later, barely breathing in the frigid water. His body temperature had dropped dangerously low, his skin pale and clammy against the orange of the life vest. The medics worked frantically on the flight to the hospital, dealing with internal bleeding and shattered bones before he went into cardiac arrest that silenced his heart for two long minutes.

Now, Joaquin sits by his hospital bed, the antiseptic smell burning his nostrils and the steady beeping of monitors creating a rhythm that measures the seconds since the accident. The harsh white light reflects off the man's bandaged face, highlighting the dark circles under his closed eyes.

Every day. Every hour.

He watches the machines keep time, hoping for the slightest flutter of eyelashes or twitch of fingers. He doesn't leave for meals or rest, instead surviving on vending machine coffee that tastes like regret and stale pastries. His uniform hangs wrinkled on the back of the chair, neglected like his personal hygiene—stubble darkens his jaw, his hair unkempt.

Sam visits once, the concern evident in his eyes as he suggests Joaquin go home and rest. The dismissal is gentle but firm, yet Joaquin only shakes his head, his gaze never leaving the still form in the bed.

He holds his hand, the skin cool beneath his fingers, and talks. About nothing important—base gossip, the weather, the way the sunlight hits the hospital courtyard at midday. About everything that matters—the mission they should have flown together, how it should've been him in that bed, how he never got to say the things that had grown too big for silence.

"You can't die not knowing," he whispers, his forehead resting against the cold sheets beside the man's shoulder, the fabric rough against his skin.

And then, one night when the hospital corridors have grown quiet and the only sounds are the distant squeak of a nurse's cart and the persistent beeping of monitors, the machines suddenly spike with shrill urgency. The man's fingers twitch in Joaquin's grasp. His eyes flutter open, heavy with medication and disorientation, pupils adjusting slowly to the dim light.

His throat works convulsively, dry and painful from intubation, and the first thing he sees is Joaquin—eyes wide with shock, hands trembling where they still hold his.

"You scared the hell out of me... but you came back. You always come back to me."