Mercer flinches hard, his whole body jerking. And without hesitation—without even looking—he grabs my hand. Not my sleeve this time. Not a fistful of fabric. My hand.
His palm slams into mine, fingers clawing tight, desperate. His grip is wild, panicked, shaking. But it’s still mine he takes. Out of twenty men on this flight—he anchors to me.
I don’t pull away.
I let him.
My hand stays open, letting him wrap himself around it like it’s a lifeline. His thumb digs into my scar, his breath catching ragged in his throat. He doesn’t stop muttering—if anything, his words come faster, frantic.
“Fuck, fuck, I can’t—Cap—I had four posters, four—different years, different jerseys—you don’t understand, youdon’t—I was obsessed, I was wrecked, I was so fucking gone for you—”
I squeeze his hand. Just once.
He sucks in a sharp breath, chest stuttering, words breaking off for half a second. Then he keeps going, softer now, like he’s only talking to me.
The plane steadies again. The hum evens out. And Mercer’s grip stays tight, my name tangled into every desperate syllable he doesn’t even realize he’s spilling.
And I let him.
Because panic or not, filth or not—every word is mine now.
Thirty thousand feet.
The storm is behind us, the cabin hum steady. The boys are half-dozing, half-bickering low under their breath, the buzz of cheap earbuds leaking from Cole’s seat somewhere up ahead. The world has gone strangely quiet after the chaos of the past two days.
But not Mercer.
He hasn’t stopped since we took off.
The kid has muttered himself raw—confessions, memories, filth he doesn’t even realize he’s spilling. Posters, tapes, fight reels, nights spent jerking off to the idea of me like I was a god he could worship in secret. It should be ridiculous. It should make me laugh.
It doesn’t.
It makes my blood burn.
His hand is still tight in mine, pulse racing so hard I can feel it beat through his palm. He doesn’t even notice he hasn’t let go. He doesn’t notice how much he’s trembling. He just keeps talking. A breathless, broken ramble, words curling like smoke out of his mouth, choking him more than the air at altitude ever could.
I let him go until I can hear the strain tearing his voice apart. Then—enough.
My other hand comes up. I grip his jaw, turn his face to me in one smooth motion. My thumb presses firm against his mouth, silencing him.
His lips part under it, breath catching.
“You’re okay,” I say.
And just like that—he shuts up.
His chest stutters once, twice. Then his shoulders drop. His lungs drag in air like he’s been underwater and I just hauled him up. His grip on my hand stays tight, but his breathing evens. Slow. Controlled. His mouth stays open against my thumb, lips brushing my skin with every inhale like I’ve forced him into rhythm.
For the first time since we boarded, he isn’t spiraling. He isn’t choking. He isn’t rambling himself to death.
He’s just—quiet.
Good.
I let my thumb trace one last line across his lower lip before I pull it away. My gaze holds his, burning, making sure he sees it—hears it—believes it.
“You’re okay, pup.”
