Page 48 of Aviatrix

She swallows. “This just in… Vice President Julian Rourke will make an announcement in the next few minutes.”

Rourke? That’s not a good sign for the Commander-in-Chief.

Lark still has a few hours left in his flight. If he arrives to the news that his father is gone… I don’t know how he’ll take it.

“You hungry?” a voice behind me asks.

My heart skips a beat in my chest.

When I turn, Eli’s standing there, arms crossed over his navy-shirt-clad chest like he never left. Like the world isn’t on fire. Like we aren’t both carrying secrets heavy enough to crack the sky.

“I’m not.” The words leave my lips with the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Why are you here?”

He smirks, but it’s soft around the edges. “Food first. Then, we talk.”

What isn’t he telling me?

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to take care of yourself,” he says gentler now. “We’re at war.”

“But Lark’s daughter…” The words catch in my throat.

“Is going to be fine.” Eli raises his brows. The silence that follows says everything. “I’ll grab you something light. You look pale, Quay.”

I hate how easily he reads me.

I hate that part of me finds comfort in it.

Somehow, I find the strength to cross the mess hall and drop into a seat at an empty table near the TV. My eyes stay locked on the screen, dreading the wait until Vice President Rourke’s announcement.

If he’s alive, that means he wasn’t at the White House during the attack. Or he knew enough to get the hell out before everything went up in flames.

Which raises the question: did the President make it out? And if he didn’t... did Rourke know the attack was coming?

My thoughts spiral.

There’s too much happening. Too many layers. Every strike, every secret, every aircraft. It’s too much.

War is supposed to be messy. But this? This is chaos.

A bowl appears in front of me, steam rising in delicate coils. A moment later, Eli sets a spoon beside it. No words, just a quiet offering.

He slides into the seat next to me, his long frame warm and steady beside mine. Like an anchor in a storm.

I eat.

Slowly.

Chicken noodle soup.

It’s light, unassuming. Not overpowering. Just… comforting. Like something from before.

“I have so many questions,” I murmur, letting the spoon fall into the empty bowl as I push it away.

Eli doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect. His voice is steady when he says, “What do you want to start with?”

Where do I begin?