Toward the hunt.
My phone buzzed just as boarding was called.
Unknown number.
On time. Good.
That was all.
No greeting. No instructions.
Just confirmation.
My pulse kicked hard enough that I had to pause before standing. I hated that—hated how easily my body betrayed me. How quickly heat pooled low in my belly at words that weren’t even sexual.
I gathered my things and joined the boarding line, acutely aware of the way my body felt contained and exposed at the same time. The sensation followed me down the jet bridge, into the cabin, into my seat.
Window. Of course.
I buckled in and folded my coat on my lap, grounding myself in the familiar motions. The plane filled around me, voices rising and falling, overhead bins slamming shut.
Still no further messages.
I shouldn’t have been disappointed.
As the plane taxied, I pressed my forehead lightly to the window and watched Charleston blur past—palmettos and low buildings giving way to runway and sky.
This was the last moment, I realized, where I could pretend this was just logistics.
Once airborne, there would be no turning back without acknowledging what I was doing.
I exhaled as the plane lifted, the familiar weightlessness settling into my stomach.
North.
The flight was short enough to keep me restless.
I tried to read the briefing materials. I tried to answer emails. I even tried to nap, though my body refused to soften into anything like rest.
Every time I closed my eyes, my mind supplied images it had no business supplying.
Not explicit ones.
Worse.
Impressions.
A man standing too close behind me, his presence a solid weight against my back.
A voice low enough that it vibrated rather than spoke.
Hands that didn’t hesitate.
The way being seen like prey didn’t feel like diminishment—but recognition.
I shifted in my seat, thighs pressing together, and forced my attention back to the safety card tucked into the seatback.
Ridiculous.
