Because Lev Rusnak doesn’t just occupy space. He consumes it.
And whether I like it or not, he’s already consuming me.
It’s weird. Why am I getting attached to a passenger? This is a flight going from London to New York, and in a few hours, he’ll step off the plane, and I’ll never see him again.
So, what exactly is wrong with me?
I eventually leave the bathroom and glance down the aisle. His seat is empty. Fine. I don’t dwell on him. I don’t care.
The moment drags on in its usual rhythm. Drinks, meals, quiet requests. Lev Rusnak doesn’t return to his seat. I train myself not to look in his direction.
By the time the announcement comes through that we’re landing in Milan for a short layover, my focus is back where it belongs: on work.
We touch down smoothly, and passengers begin to gather their belongings. First class empties in its usual, orderly procession of designer luggage and hushed phone calls. Lev is still nowhere to be found.
I hang back with the crew, letting the flow of people pass. One by one, they file out until the cabin stands quiet again. I straighten the last seatbelt strap and smooth a pillow when movement catches my eye.
The cockpit door opens.
And out steps Lev Rusnak.
Not down the aisle like everyone else—but with the captain at his side, the two of them talking as though they’re old friends.
My jaw almost unhinges. What the hell was he doing in there?
The captain turns, voice booming with good humor. “Ladies and gentlemen, before we head off, I want you all to thank Mr. Rusnak here. He’s kindly offered to show the crew around Milan before we continue to New York.”
A ripple of surprise runs through the flight attendants. Excited glances. Stifled whispers. Someone even claps their hands together like it’s Christmas morning.
I just stand there, frozen.
Lev meets my eyes across the cabin. That same slow, self-assured smile spreads across his face, the one that feels less like a greeting and more like a claim.
I cross my arms, the corner of my mouth tugging upward despite myself. “Well, that’s a nice idea,” I say lightly, “but we don’t exactly have the time. Layover’s only a few hours. We’ll barely get out of the terminal.”
The captain’s smile widens, and he shakes his head. “Actually, that won’t be a problem. I already have confirmation from the airline. Mr. Rusnak has arranged for an extended layover.”
I blink. Once. Twice. The words don’t compute at first. Arranged? Extended?
Another attendant blurts out the question buzzing in all our heads. “But…what about the passengers? Won’t they complain?”
Before the captain can answer, a smooth, low voice does.
“They’ll be fine,” Lev says, stepping just slightly closer, his tone carrying the unhurried certainty of a man who never has to doubt himself. “When they find out their tickets are being fully refunded.”
Gasps. Wide eyes. A stunned silence hangs in the air, broken only by the hum of the engines cooling.
And then, like a finishing stroke, he turns his head toward me. Our eyes lock.
He winks.
The gesture is small. Subtle. But I feel it like a lightning strike, sharp and undeniable.
I know it in my bones. He did it for me.
And suddenly, for the first time in my career, I’m not sure if I’m the one in control anymore.
Is this what it means to be swept off your feet?
