I sit at the edge of the bed, peel the tape off my knuckles, and stare at the faint trace of his eyes in my head.
Elias Mercer.
Rookie. Pup. Reckless bastard.
The plane hums under me, steady and endless, like it’s dragging us back across the world on chains. Ten hours in the air, two on the ground. Everyone else looks half-dead already—hoodies pulled over eyes, headphones in, neck pillows strangling them like bad fashion choices. Even Cole’s quiet, which should be a sign of the apocalypse.
But me? I can’t sit still.
It’s not the booze—I didn’t get any more after last night. Cole made damn sure of that, barking a laugh every time I tried to snag another drink, telling me I’d “embarrass myself worse than I already did.” Bastard smirked the whole time like he was protecting me from myself, and maybe he was, but I still want to punch him in his perfect Hollywood teeth.
No, it’s not alcohol. It’s worse.
It’s him.
Damian fucking Kade. Sitting next to me. Again.
Long legs crammed into the aisle seat, shoulders too broad for the row, hair falling forward like he didn’t even bother taming it after the shower. His eyes aren’t on me, thankChrist—they’re on his phone, screen glow against the shadow of his jaw. He looks calm. Like last night didn’t happen.
Like he didn’t peel me open on that rooftop and watch me spill every “yes, sir” like it was the only word I’d ever learned.
My head spins every time I replay it. Him asking, me blurting answers before my brain could catch up. Hat trick? Yes, sir. Bleed for me? Yes, sir. Kiss you? Yes, sir. Bend you over in front of everyone? Yes, sir.
I said it. Out loud. To his face.
And now I’m stuck next to him on a fucking plane, replaying every single word until my brain short-circuits.
My knee’s bouncing again, tray table rattling. I clamp my hands down on my thighs, breathing through my nose, trying to look like I’m not completely losing my shit. Tyler’s two rows up, muttering to himself about turbulence and mortality. Cole’s one row behind, probably already drafting a post about “rookie innocence lost at the hands of haunted whiskey.” Mats is slumped across the aisle, pretending to sleep but definitely watching everything.
And me? I can feel the heat of him beside me like gravity. Every time he shifts, the brush of his arm against mine makes my skin crawl tight. Every time he breathes, I swear I can hear it through the engines.
I keep trying to think of anything else. Stats. Plays. The way Shaw’s lip split under his fists. How my wrists still acheunder the tape he wound around them with those careful hands.
But it always circles back.
My throat goes tight, face heating like the cabin’s on fire. I glance sideways before I can stop myself. He’s still scrolling, calm as stone, one hand steady on his thigh, veins cut under tan skin, fingers flexing now and then like he’s holding back violence even in sleep.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. If I don’t do something, I’m going to combust right here, thirty thousand feet in the air.
So I do what I always do. I open my mouth.
“Hey, Captain.” My voice cracks around the word, and I try to smooth it into a grin. “If I start calling you Daddy too, you gonna bench me, or is that extra credit?”
The words come out reckless, loud enough that Mats across the aisle cracks one eye open. Cole snorts behind me, mutters, “Christ, curls,” under his breath. Tyler twists in his seat two rows up, blinking back like he’s wondering if he heard me right.
Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even put his phone down.
But his hand shifts—slow, deliberate—and lands heavy on my knee.
The bounce dies instantly. My throat locks, lungs forgetting how to work. My grin freezes sharp and stupid, because holy fuck.
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t give me a single word. Just leaves his hand there, warm and solid, burning straight through denim like he’s pinning me to the seat without lifting a finger.
And I know.
I know exactly what that means.
My grin is frozen, my throat locked, every nerve in me buzzing like I just licked a socket.
