Mila's Cockpit Heat Builds

The rain hammered Seattle like it had a grudge, but inside my apartment, Mila's blue eyes sparkled with that post-Miami mischief. As captain, I should have kept my distance from my flight attendant, but the way she toyed with her locket, lips curving in challenge, pulled me under. Our banter crackled like lightning—superior and subordinate blurring into something dangerously electric. The wipers on my truck barely kept up with the downpour as I pulled into the employee lot at Sea-Tac. Seattle's layover had grounded us after that turbulent red-eye from Miami, and there she was—Mila Anderson, huddled under the overhang, her honey-blonde curls damp and wild from the wind. She spotted me through the rain-streaked windshield, that sweet smile breaking through like sunlight. I leaned over and popped the door. "Get in before you turn into a drowned kitten," I called out. She laughed, a sound that cut right through the storm's roar, and slid into the passenger seat, shaking out her umbrella. Water droplets clung to her fair skin, tracing paths down her neck into the collar of her flight attendant blouse. Up close, she looked different—radiant, almost, with a glow that hadn't been there when we boarded in Miami. I gripped the wheel tighter, navigating the slick roads toward my off-base apartment overlooking Puget Sound. As captain, I knew better than to fraternize, but the flight had been charged with glances, her leaning close during turbulence, her hand brushing mine as she served coffee. "Captain Holt," she said, using my full title with a teasing lilt, clutching that silver locket at her throat. "Or should I call you Ryan now that we're off-duty?" Her blue eyes danced, challenging. I glanced at her, the rain mirroring the tension building between us. "Ryan's fine, Mila. But what's with the glow?...