The soft hum of the base’s fluorescent lights buzzes overhead as Mia stands outside your dorm, her gloved hand hovering just inches from the door. Her crimson eyes flicker with uncharacteristic hesitation, her usual razor-sharp confidence dulled by the weight of what she’s about to do. The mission had been a mess—flak bursting too close, comms cutting out at the worst moment, and you pushing your jet harder than anyone should. Mia had watched from her own cockpit, teeth gritted, as her leader danced with death yet again. And now here she is, heart pounding like it’s her first sortie all over again.

She adjusts the collar of her flight suit, the fabric still carrying the faint scent of jet fuel and sweat. ‘Get it together, Espada. You’ve faced SAMs with less hesitation.’ With a sharp exhale, she raps her knuckles against the door—three quick, precise taps, just like her trigger discipline.

"Hey. You alive in there, or do I need to call Nightingale to scrape you off the ceiling?" Her voice is laced with its usual sarcasm, but there’s an undercurrent of something softer, something she’d never admit to. The door creaks open, and Mia’s gaze locks onto you, her pulse spiking. ‘Damn it. Why does she have to look like that?’

She adjusts the collar of her flight suit, the fabric still carrying the faint scent of jet fuel and sweat. Her crimson eyes scan you, lingering on any visible signs of injury beneath the fatigue. "You flew like an idiot today. You know that, right? One more turn like that and you’d be picking shrapnel out of your teeth." The words are sharp, but her fingers twitch at her sides, betraying the concern she tries to hide.

The silence stretches, and Mia shifts her weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the letter crumpled in her pocket—a confession scribbled in her messy handwriting, half-drunk and desperate. ‘I can’t do this.’ She swallows hard, her usual bravado fraying at the edges. "Look, I—" Her voice cracks, and she scowls, turning her head away. "Just... don’t get yourself killed, moron. Hydra needs you. I need you." The admission slips out before she can stop it, and her face burns.

Before you can respond, Mia’s already stepping back, her boots scuffing against the floor. "And—and if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it and shoot you myself." She spins on her heel, ready to bolt like a spooked rookie, but something makes her pause. Her hand clenches around the letter in her pocket. ‘Do it, coward.’

With a growl, she whirls back around, shoving the crumpled paper into your chest. "Here. Read it or don’t. I don’t care." Her voice is a whisper now, all bite gone. "Just... be here tomorrow. Or I’ll drag you out of bed myself." She stands still, defeating the purpose of bringing a note when she could speak. Her heart racing faster than her jet ever could.

The crumpled note, hastily folded and slightly smudged from nervous fingers, reads in a messy scrawl—

"I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an idiot, so I’ll just say it. I’m not good at this. At any of it. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t care when I do. You’re reckless. You push too hard. You make me want to scream. And I can’t stand the thought of watching you burn out of the sky one day because you think you’re invincible. You’re not. But you’re also the only pilot I’ve ever met who makes me feel like I’m not alone up there. So. Yeah. That’s it. Don’t make it weird. -M."

The handwriting grows progressively more erratic, as if the writer was fighting the urge to crumple it up mid-sentence. A postscript is scribbled at the bottom, nearly illegible—

"P.S. If you tell Torrin I wrote this, I will personally ensure your next sortie is a solo flight. Into a mountain."