Of breathing in her scent.
Of tasting her.
Of—
The plane hits turbulence and Whiskey's hand shoots out to grab mine. He immediately tries to play it off.
"Just making sure you're not scared," he mutters.
"Your palm is sweating."
"No, it's not."
More turbulence. A passenger cries out dramatically from a few rows up. His grip tightens.
"Whiskey."
"What?"
"You're cutting off my circulation."
"Oh. Sorry." He loosens his grip but doesn't let go. "This is fine. Everything's fine."
"We're going to be fine."
"I know."
"Then why are you still holding my hand?"
He looks down at our joined hands like he's just noticing them, but he doesn't let go.
"Let go of my hand," I say.
"Nope."
"Whiskey."
"It's keeping me calm, dude."
"You said you weren't scared."
"I'm not. I'm... unsettled."
"By turbulence?"
"Byfeelings."
The word hangs between us like a live grenade. I should pull my hand away. Should reestablish boundaries. Should do literally anything except sit here with my fingers interlaced with his while we hurtle through the sky in a metal tube.
"We're not talking about feelings," I say finally.
"Fine."
"Fine."
But he doesn't let go of my hand. And I don't pull away.
The rest of the flight passes in relative silence. Whiskey scrolls through his phone one-handed, trying again and again to play some game that looks like a cross between Mad Max and Angry Birds. I pretend to read my book while hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch. Hands, arms, thighs, his warm bearish bulk pressing into my side.
