Seatbelts click. The engines deepen to a low rumble.
I lean back, hands still in my lap—no camera, no laptop, nothing. For once, I don’t even try to distract myself.
“You’re not doing any editing today?” he asks, voice low enough it’s almost a vibration.
I glance at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’ve been plenty distracted today. Haven’t accomplished much, so I figured I’d take the rest of the day off. Go back to reality tomorrow.”
His expression softens, and he leans slightly closer, and before I take a breath, a single finger brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is featherlight, but the goosebumps following are anything but subtle.
The captain’s voice crackles through the speakers, announcing departure. Flight attendants take their positions, performing the safety demo as the plane begins to taxi. The cabin fills with the faint hum of seatbelts tightening and whispered conversation. Between us, silence. Charged and electric.
When we’re finally in the air, a flight attendant approaches, tall and smiling.
“My name’s David. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Water,” I state, grateful for something to do.
Rogue looks up. “Did you receive my request?”
David’s face brightens. “Absolutely. Should I go ahead and bring it?”
“Please.”
I blink at him, confused, but Rogue only gives me a small smile. David disappears down the aisle.
“What did you …”
He stays silent, wearing that infuriating, knowing grin.
Minutes later, David’s back with a glass of water, two mini bottles of champagne, and a pair of flutes steadied on a tray.
“Here you go, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Thanks, lad.”
Rogue lowers the middle tray table, accepts the drinks, and with practiced ease, pops the foil. The softhissof champagne fills the air. He pours one, hands it to me.
I know better than to question it, so I just take the glass, fingers brushing his as I do.
He fills his own and raises it slightly. “Should we toast?”
I nod, words completely gone.
His eyes catch mine. “To promising beginnings.”
The sound of glass meeting glass is barely audible over the engines. The first sip is cool and bright, and it somehow steadies my racing pulse.
Before I can say anything, David returns again—this time with two small white boxes stamped in green cursive on the tray:Nathan’s.
He hands one to me, the other to Rogue, and vanishes as quickly as he came.
I stare at the box in my lap, stunned. “What is this?”
Rogue’s smile deepens. “Go ahead.”
I set my flute down and lift the lid.
Inside sits a hot dog, perfectly wrapped in paper, with mustard, ketchup, and a side of fries that somehow smell just as good as they did at Coney Island.
