For reasons unhelpful to the situation, my brain immediately thinks about hispenistip, which has nothing to do with aviation safety.
“I’ll have that engraved on my tombstone,” I mutter, trying to shove thoughts of Patrick’s cock out of my mind. “‘Pilot still had nine toes remaining.’”
He shakes his head, studying me. “How are you and Jake even related?”
It’s not meant as an insult, just a casual observation, but it stings.
Jake is fearless. I am… not.
“I’m about to go up in a helicopter for the first time in my life,” I say, trying to inject some dignity into my tone. “I think a bit of healthy caution is perfectly reasonable.”
His expression softens, like he’s realized he might be coming across as harsh. “Look, I get a full medical every six months. I’ve logged over a thousand hours. I know this route well.”
“Right, sure, maybe you’re in phenomenal physical condition.” I wave a hand at his chest. “But what if there’s a system failure? Or a bird flies into the engine? Or—”
“There won’t be a system failure.”
The sheer confidence in his voice is almost offensive. Like gravity itself takes orders from him.
Because this is nothing to him. This is a man who climbs frozen waterfalls for fun, dives wrecks in Arctic waters, and treats near-death experiences like good stories for the pub.
I’ve seen the GoPro footage Jake shows, and I’ve seen the bruises. I constantly worry about Jake. My brother and Patrick exist in some sort of testosterone-fueled dimension where fear is optional and death is just another risk assessment.
And Patrick assumes the rest of us are wired the same way.
“There are bugs in every system,” I say, my voice tight with panic. “Helicopters aren’t exempt from physics or human error. Statistically, they have a significantly higher accident rate per flight hour than commercial aviation. The complexity of rotorcraft mechanics means more potential points of failure, and—”
He turns completely in his seat, and the look he fixes on me makes my mouth snap shut mid-sentence.
“How the hell do you know about helicopter accident statistics?”
“University module on reliability engineering. When you’re designing any complex system, you have to calculate your acceptable failure threshold.” The familiar ground of technical explanation steadies my voice slightly. “We studied high-risk systems—aircraft, medical devices, nuclear facilities. How todetermine mean time between failure across interdependent components.”
He just… watches me.
Then his mouth twitches. The tiniest micro-expression that could mean anything. “As fascinating as your failure analysis is, at this rate, we’ll still be having this conversation when the sun sets. Would you prefer I arrange a car for you?”
Riri’s voice explodes in my head:Don’t you dare, you daft cow. Stay in the death trap with the gorgeous Northern bastard and his sinful forearms.
Even dead, she’s bullying me into bad decisions.
“No,” I say, before my survival instinct can reassert itself. “Helicopter’s fine.”
“Relax. You’re going to love it.”
He reaches up, retrieves a headset from its hook, and leans across to settle it over my head. His fingers brush through my hair as he adjusts the fit, and I bite my tongue to suppress an embarrassing squeak.
“Comfortable?”
I nod. Speech is beyond me.
“This is the most beautiful flight in the world,” he says, settling back into his seat. “In my humble opinion.”
I try to smile, but my lips just peel back over my teeth.
I’m about to meet Riri six decades ahead of schedule. I’m going to die in a helicopter, sexually frustrated and terrified, with only ninety percent of my pilot’s toes accounted for.
For all I know, Patrick got his license through sheer intimidation. Walked into flight school, fixed them with that stare, and they just stammered, “Here’s your license, sir, please don’t hurt us.”
