RILEY
I’m late.
Again.
But to be fair, I just spent the last hour in Finance Hell arguing with someone named Brenda about why I need extra thermal blankets for field drones. She doesn’t think it’s a “mission-critical” item.
Brenda has clearly never tried to power a lithium battery at 9,000 feet.
The drone bay smells like burnt coffee and solder—comforting, in a weird, techie kind of way. There’s also a hint of singed hair in the air, which is probably my fault. I forgot to ground the static mat again. RIP to my ponytail.
I set my chipped “WORLD’S OKAYEST ENGINEER” mug on the workbench, grab a screwdriver, and pick a fight with a bolt that refuses to loosen. Just another Tuesday.
Then the doors slam open.
And in walks… winter. Tall, broad-shouldered, jaw carved out of frozen marble. He’s got snow in his hair, a dead drone in his hands, and a vibe like the storm outside bowed down and got out of his way. Everything about him is matte black, muscled, and serious.
I swear the temperature drops five degrees the second he locks eyes with me.
“Willow?” he says, voice low enough to rattle the tools on my bench. “Sergeant Crewe Hawthorne. I brought you a present.”
My brain stalls. I blink at the drone in his arms—banged up, twisted, and definitely not one of mine. Four rotors. Wires tangled. It looks like someone tossed it into a blender.
My stomach sinks. “That’s… not mine.”
“I know,” he says, calm and sharp. “That’s why it tried to rip through my hoist cable.”
Charming.
“Oh. Cool,” I say with a tight smile. “So we’re starting off with casual threats.”
He sets the drone on my bench gently, like it’s a puzzle he already solved. His gloves creak as he removes them. I try not to notice his hands—but I do. Scarred knuckles. Long fingers. Strong, capable. His face? Even worse. Defined jaw, a scar tracing from ear to chin like someone wanted to mark him as off-limits. Dark hair, darker eyes, and lips I 100% should not be thinking about at work.
Focus, Riley.
I tug on a pair of gloves, flip the drone over, and pop it open. “Where’d you find it?”
“Crash site. Blizzard conditions. It was flying like it owned the airspace,” he says. “Your design. Wrong hands.”
It takes me a second to process what he just said, mostly because he smells like soap and jet fuel and danger, and that is absolutely not fair.
I scan the insides. “Okay… whoever built this knew our system, or they got their hands on it somehow. Look at the arm configuration. And the bracing. That’s my structure.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me work, all quiet and still. Like he’s analyzing the entire room, cataloging exits, threats… and me. His gaze lingers on my hands. Most guys flinch when I talk drone guts. Not him. He just nods.
“You can tell that fast?” he asks.
“You learn to spot your kids in a crowd,” I say. “Mine just happen to be made of carbon fiber and emotional detachment.”
His mouth twitches like I just said something funny. I don’t get that reaction often. Definitely not from guys who jump out of planes for fun.
“Just to clarify,” I add, pulling the memory card, “you didn’t bring this as some kind of weird valentine, right?”
He leans in, and I swear the air between us tightens. “That’d be one hell of a love letter.”
Yup. That’s it. I’m sweating under a thermal hoodie.
I plug the card into my system. Lines of code spill across my screen—messy, fast, familiar. Very familiar.
