The flight attendants noticed. The passengers noticed. The woman in seat 2A who “accidentally” dropped her phone three times in his direction definitely noticed. The world, it seemed, was already well-aware of Khalifa’s quiet grandeur—the kind of allure that didn’t beg for attention but still got it, effortlessly. They stared, admired, smiled, blushed, batted lashes,licked lips.
Not that I cared, obviously.
I was completely, totally, one-hundred-percent indifferent.
And third—he was afraid of flying.
He didn’t admit it out loud, of course; Khalifa didn’t believe in communicating with actual words. But his body hadn’t gotten that memo. His hand latched onto the armrest like he was trying to keep the entire aircraft in the sky by sheer force of will, his jaw ticked tighter with every sneeze of turbulence, and he kept “scrolling” through his phone even though he’d been staring at the same unopened email chain for so long it might’ve actually expired.
The discovery filled me with an embarrassing amount of satisfaction. Not because I wanted him to suffer—well, notreally—but because it made him human. It cracked his perfect composure just enough for me to breathe easier. For a man who lived like he’d been sculpted from marble and discipline, it wasoddly comforting to know that he could be afraid of something as mundane as flying.
When the seatbelt sign blinked off, I leaned toward him, my voice deliberately casual. “So,” I murmured, “how’s your little anxiety attack going over there?”
He didn’t look at me. “I’m fine.”
“You’re gripping the seat like it’s about to run away.”
He glanced down, pried his fingers loose from the armrest, and said, “I like to hold on during takeoff.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, smirking. “Sure. Because that’s the safest way to prevent a crash.”
He exhaled through his nose, debating whether I was worth responding to. Then, finally: “Do you ever get tired of talking just to hear yourself speak?”
“No,” I said cheerfully. “It’s one of my best qualities.”
He didn’t answer, but I caught it—that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, the almost-smile he fought and lost.
And just like that, my heart betrayed me again, leaping in a way it absolutely shouldn’t have.
I shifted lower in my seat, folded my arms, and reminded myself of all the things I knew to be true like a mantra:He’s rude, he’s stubborn, he’s emotionally unavailable. Rude, stubborn, emotionally unavailable...
And yet, somewhere over the Atlantic, I found myself staring out the window, pretending not to notice his fingers tapping restlessly against his leg, as if the rhythm alone could keep the plane in the air.
I told myself I was only watching to make sure he didn’t faint or something—doctor instincts, of course. But deep down, where all my inconvenient truths lived, I knew the real reason.
I slid the little privacy divider between our seats open—hard enough that the flight attendant in the next aisle might’ve flinched. The polished fiberglass panel clicked into place,mercifully cutting off his view of me. Not that Khalifa had ever seemed particularlyinterestedin looking at me, but still—I could feel the heat crawling up my neck, that stupid blush announcing itself like a siren.
For a few minutes, there was blessed silence. Then, inevitably, I heard the soft whir as the divider slid back closed.
He looked at me, eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” I snapped.
He leaned back, his lips curving in that insufferably calm way. “You know, for a doctor, I’d assume you’d have easy access to get those mood swings of yours checked. Pretty sure it’s an undiagnosed medical condition. Or—wait—itisdiagnosed, and you just forgot to tell me before I tied myself to you for eternal matrimony?”
My jaw clenched. I didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, I reached for the separator and slid it open again.
He slid it right back closed.
I glared at the blank screen like it was personally mocking me. “Do you need something from me?”
“No. I’m just...concerned.”
I hesitated, caught off guard. “Concerned?”
“All you do is talk,” he said simply. “I’m not used to silence.”
“You’re notconcernedthat I’m not talking,” I said slowly, realization dawning. “Youwantme to talk. Youneedme to as a distraction from the fact that you’re trapped in a metal tube, thirty thousand feet in the air.”
