My wrist still throbs, the burn quiet now but not gone. Pain never leaves all at once. It lingers, pretending it’s forgotten.
Yuri does too.
Him, and that second when gravity disappeared the moment he stepped in.
Somewhere in the chaos, I forgot how much I hate flying. The helplessness of it. Being strapped down, miles above ground with no control and no escape.
I tell myself it’s fine every time. It never is.
Fingers press together. Breathe.
The cabin hums around me. Muted voices, coats shifting, attendants moving with smooth efficiency.
Ordinary things. Supposedly grounding things.
None of it works.
I close my eyes.
And still, his voice finds me.
“I’ve got you.”
Low. Calm. Unrushed.
The way he stepped in without asking permission. The way he took control as if it was already his to claim.
The steadiness of his hands. The certainty in his eyes.
And the silver threaded through his dark hair.
Authority. The kind earned through years of experience and choices that leave marks.
I have never been drawn to boys. Never found softness appealing.
Yuri is not soft. He is a man who looks like he has lived, survived, taken hits, and learned exactly how to give them back. The awareness settles low in my stomach, unwelcome and electric.
The phrase flashes through my mind and refuses to leave.
Experience carved into sharp lines and stillness. A man who knows exactly what he wants and does not ask for permission to want it.
Fuck, how good it would feel to give him full control.
“Focus, Astrid,” I whisper to myself.
Paris.
Answers.
Not distractions.
I exhale and stare straight ahead, jaw tight, determined to let it go.
Then the seat beside me shifts.
The air changes. Heavier. Warmer.
Charged in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
