The flight attendant stops at our row. “Gentlemen, can I get you anything to drink?”
“Whiskey,” Damian says. Then, without pause: “And water for him.”
It takes a second for me to realize him means me.
“What? Captain—”
“Under twenty-one.” His tone is flat, final. “Water.”
I slump hard, arms crossed, pouting like a sulky teenager. My water lands with a clink, insult in plastic. His whiskey follows, amber catching the light. He picks it up without a word.
Tyler smirks. “Aw, looks like someone’s getting babysat.”
“Shut the fuck up, Ty.”
“What’s the matter, curls? No big boy drinks for you?”
“Tyler—” Heat climbs my neck.
“What’s next, Mercer? You need him to cut your food too?”
The words spill out of me too fast, too raw. “If he told me to eat off the floor, I would.”
Silence slams the row. Tyler stares, grin faltering.
And then—I realize what I’ve said. With him right there.
My chest pounds, face blazing. I want the emergency exit door to blow wide and suck me straight out.
Then his voice, low in my ear:
“Careful, pup. Don’t promise what you can’t survive.”
Every muscle seizes. My breath locks. His hand stays heavy, brand-like.
I laugh too loud, awkward and sharp. Tyler startles, forces out a chuckle of his own.
“Relax, Ty,” I tease, my grin too wide. “I was joking.”
Ty just shakes his head, muttering, “Sure you were.”
Damian doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just leans back with his whiskey, gaze fixed on the window, hand still claiming me.
The silence is unbearable—until Cole pops his head over the seat in front of us, sunglasses crooked. “Hey, curls.”
I groan. “What, Hollywood.”
“Snacks. You look like you packed half a grocery store. Share with the class.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He wiggles his fingers. “Give me the gummy worms, or I’m telling everyone you cried during warm-ups.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You looked misty.”
“From sweat!”
