I should refuse. I should tell her to leave it. But I find myself giving in, letting her take my bruised knuckles in her gentle grip. Her fingers are cool, careful, tracing over broken skin with a tenderness I’d almost forgotten people could have for me.
“See?” she says softly, looking up at me through her lashes. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I watch her fuss, the heat in my chest a mix of pride and something dangerously close to affection. God, she’s trouble. She always was.
And yet I can’t make myself pull away.
She glances at my hand again, worry etched in the delicate crease between her brows. “There should be a first aid kit in the restroom,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. Without waiting for an answer, she heads for the aisle, and I fall into step behind her.
It’s almost comical—her so determined, me trailing after like an obedient bodyguard. I’m twice her size and still, somehow, she leads.
We pass through the hush of first class. Bella’s eyes flick over to where her daughter is curled up in their suite, one tiny hand clutching a stuffed animal, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. Bella’s gaze lingers, softening just a little, protective in a way that guts me more than I want to admit.
A kid. She’s a mother now.
I remind myself, again, that things are different. She probably has a husband. Someone who kisses her in the mornings, readsbedtime stories, promises to keep her safe. So where is he? Why isn’t he here, on this plane, watching over them?
My jaw tightens as I follow her. Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but it does. It bothers me—more than I’m willing to say out loud.
She pushes the door open and steps inside, beckoning me with a wave. “Come on. I’m not fixing you up in the middle of the aisle.”
Without waiting, she slips into the first-class restroom, tugging me in after her.
I expect cramped and clinical. Instead, it’s ridiculous—soft lighting, marble counter, gold fixtures, a sink big enough to bathe a toddler, and mirrors everywhere. There’s even a tiny orchid perched by a basket of rolled towels.
Bella whistles, eyes wide with amusement. “Wow. This bathroom is bigger than my old apartment in New York. And way cleaner.”
The walls are a soft, calming gray, the floor a warm herringbone tile. It smells faintly of lemon and something floral, not the harsh sting of bleach.
I try to care about the details, but all I see is her reflection in the mirror, the quick, delighted smile she tries to hide. It’s ridiculous, really—she looks at this bathroom like it’s a five-star hotel, and somehow that makes me want to see it the same way.
I lean against the vanity, watching her unpack the first aid kit like it’s the most important job in the world. For a moment, I try to imagine living the way she does—finding magic in things I stopped noticing years ago.
She glances at me, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m here strictly on nurse duty, Mr. Antonov.”
I lift my hands in surrender, but inside, all I can think is how damn easy it is to let her take the lead—even here, in a bathroom that cost more than her rent.
“Whatever you say, nurse,” I reply, voice low and a little rough. “You’re in charge.”
She rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath about men and drama, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She lines up the bandages and antiseptic wipes on the counter like she’s prepping for surgery, then takes my hand in hers.
It feels ridiculous—me, towering over her in this palatial airplane bathroom, letting her dab at my knuckles like a kindergarten teacher with a playground casualty. I’ve walked away from things that would turn most people pale, but right now, her gentle touch is making my skin feel too tight, heat coiling low in my belly. It shouldn’t be this distracting. But it is.
She glances up, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Try not to punch any more of your friends tonight, okay?”
“Trust me,” I say, voice dry, “that man is no friend of mine.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t ask more. She’s careful, wiping the blood away and smoothing on a bandage with steady, capable fingers. I watch her, the way her brow furrows in concentration, the way her hair falls loose around her face.
I clear my throat, trying to sound casual. “Your daughter…she’s beautiful. She must keep you busy.”
She glances up, and for a second, her eyes flicker with something I can’t name. “She does. Lily is…everything.”
I nod, studying her face. “And her father? He’s not traveling with you?”
She hesitates, just for a heartbeat, then shakes her head, a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “No. It’s just me and Lily.”
I narrow my eyes, searching her face for a crack in the calm. Just her and Lily? I want to believe her, but something about the way she says it makes me itch to know more.
