“Exactly,” she says primly.
I half turn to look behind me. The guy in the next row is out cold, headphones in, drooling into his hoodie. “Pretty sure he’s not filing a complaint.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh, I think it’s exactly the point.” I grin. “If the button’s there, it’s meant to be used. Otherwise, the airline wouldn’t put it there.”
She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oh my God, Jesse, you’re exhausting.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
I wink at her, and it has exactly the effect I thought it would. Her glare could level a small city, and I have to bite back a smile. She’s so damn in control and put-together with her crisp pants and sweater, laptop stowed perfectly under the seat and yet, I can see that she’s seconds from strangling me.
I smirk, pretending to focus on the view out the window. The clouds stretch endlessly below us, sun glinting off the silver edge of the wing. I’m a frequent flyer thanks to my job, but it always kind of blows me away, being above the clouds.
I lean back so that Madeline can take in the view from her aisle seat, but when I look at her, I see she’s still looking straight ahead, sitting perfectly upright, arms crossed, ankles tucked neatly under her seat like she’s auditioning for a safety video. Every time she exhales, I can practically feel the irritation radiating off her.
“You look like you’re about to file a complaint with the pilot.”
Her eyes meet mine, and there’s a challenge in them. “Maybe I will. I’m not exactly thrilled about the seating arrangement on this flight.”
“Bet you’ve never broken a rule in your life, have you?”
Her mouth twitches but she doesn’t give me the satisfaction of answering right away. She just lifts her chin and looks out the window like she’s above the entire conversation. I lean closer. “So,” I press. “You haven’t, have you? You’ve never broken a rule in your life.”
“Not intentionally, she says. “Because I prefer not to inconvenience innocent bystanders.”
“So that’s a no.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you, Jesse.”
I’m still laughing when the plane jolts. It’s subtle at first, just a tremor, but then another, sharper one follows. The seatbeltlight dings overhead as Madeline’s hand flies to the armrest, her knuckles turning white.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “It’s fine. It’s just a little turbulence.”
She nods, but her shoulders stay tight. “I hate turbulence,” she says, her grip on the armrest tightening.
“It’s just air pockets,” I tell her, in my best reassuring tone. “It’s totally normal. You have nothing to worry about.”
Another bump shakes the cabin, harder this time, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Without thinking, I reach over and put my hand on hers.
She freezes, as if I’ve startled her, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. Her skin is warm, her pulse quick against my thumb. Slowly, she exhales, and the tightness in her grip eases just a little.
After a few moments, her breathing evens out. The tension in her starts to ease, and her fingers slowly uncurl beneath mine. I tighten my grip just a little. Just enough for her to know I’m not going anywhere.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods once, turning her head to look at me. For a second, the rest of the plane disappears—the quiet conversations, the slight rattle of suitcases in the overhead compartments, the hum of recycled air. All I can focus on is her hand in mine, the vulnerability in her eyes, and the quiet ache in my chest of wanting something I definitely shouldn’t.
“Just try to breathe deep and slow,” I murmur, my thumb tracing an absent line over her knuckles.
She hesitates, like she wants to brush my hand aside, to insist she’s fine, but then she exhales a long, steady breath. I can feel the change beneath my palm, the way her pulse eases.
“That’s it,” I tell her. “You’re okay.”
The plane steadies and after another few moments the seatbelt light above flickers off. Still, neither of us moves. Her hand stays in mine. A few rows up, someone laughs too loud. A babysqueals. The flight attendant wheels the drink cart past, asking if anyone wants pretzels. I barely notice any of it.
I glance down at our hands—hers small and soft, tucked perfectly in mine. I should probably let go, pull back, crack a joke so we can move on. But I don’t. I just sit here, feeling her skin against mine, noting every quiet rise and fall of her breathing until the tension in her frame fully melts away.
