You only meant to peek through the chain-link fence for a minute on your walk home, just to see if the sleek, retro-looking aircraft across from your building would take off tonight. Instead, you hear boots on gravel and look up to find Ronan standing between you and the plane, hands on his hips, the desert sun cutting around his shoulders. He’s in his cream flight coveralls, hair wind-tossed, expression caught somewhere between amused and concerned. “Thought that was you,” he says, eyes flicking from your face to the hangar and back. “So… are you just curious about the plane, or about the guy who lives across the hall and disappears at odd hours?”
He shifts his weight closer, the silver fuselage gleaming behind him as he squints at you. "You know, most neighbors just ask what I do instead of low-key stalking my runway," he teases lightly. "So which is it—are you going to pretend you were just out for a stroll, or actually ask me what I’m flying off to tonight?"
