A second later, the plane shimmied, and the seatbelt sign dinged overhead. Khalifa’s hand clamped around the armrest, knuckles white. I’d been teasing him, pretending my heart wasn’t involved—a little shield for the confusing (but definitelythere) feelings I refused to name. I was basically a third-grade boy yanking his crush’s braid at recess, grinning like a maniac and hoping no one noticed the meltdown brewing behind my ears. But the instant I saw the genuine fear in his eyes, all that nonsense collapsed, leaving only the impossible, duplicitous softness in my chest.
“We’re in Jell-O.”
He looked up, his brow furrowing. “Excuse me?”
“Jell-O,” I repeated, tucking my legs under me and turning to face him. “Imagine a cup of Jell-O with, say, a piece of fruit inside. If you shake the cup, the fruit moves around, right? But it doesn’t fall out because the Jell-O’s holding it in place. That’s the plane. We’re the fruit. The air around us is the Jell-O. No matter how much the plane shakes, it’s still held up by air pressure.”
“You’re telling me I’m a...grape in a cup of gelatin?”
“Beefgelatin,” I said with a nod. “But yes, you’re getting it.”
“Comforting,” he muttered. “Truly.”
“You’re welcome.”
He dragged a hand through his curls. “You know, you could’ve justledwith that instead of yelling about illegal substances and getting us pre-approved for the no-fly list.”
I lifted a shoulder. “I could’ve. But then I wouldn’t have that look on your face stored for future enjoyment.”
He released a measured breath, that barely-there laugh I was starting to recognize. “You’re so weird.”
“And yet,” I said lightly, “here you are. Tied to me foreternal matrimony.”
This time, he didn’t bother opening the divider. And I pretended not to notice that his fingers weren’t gripping quite so tight anymore.
Chapter Seventeen
I MUST’VE FALLEN ASLEEPmid-flight because when I opened my eyes, the cabin was cast in that strange, bluish twilight that only existed in the clouds.
A thin blanket was draped over me. I didn’t remember asking for one. I didn’t remember anyone offering, either, which left only one possibility.
For a second—just one—it hit me somewhere I didn’t expect. That small, delicate gesture. That maybe he’d looked over and thought I might get cold. That maybe, beneath all his silence and cynicism, there was still a person who wasn’t sentimentally bankrupt.
I shoved the feeling down before it could settle. I was too tired, tooraw, to get sappy about a stupid blanket.
He was awake, sitting perfectly motionless beside me, his seat tilted just slightly back, hands resting in his lap. His eyes weren’t on the screen in front of him or his phone, but somewhere outside the airplane, the kind of distance no flight map could measure.
And for the first time since I’d met him, his face wasn’t guarded. It wasn’t composed into that practiced neutrality, that cool, indifferent poise that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
He looked...sad.
It wasn’t a sadness that could be hidden behind a smile or dulled by conversation. It lived deeper than that—woven into the stillness of his shoulders, caught in the lines bracketing hismouth, riding the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His gaze didn’t wander so much as dissolve, fixed somewhere far beyond the cabin, as though he were watching a reel of memories play across the dark horizon.
Something inside me split open then, sharp and immediate. I hadn’t meant to feel it, hadn’t meant to let his sorrow reach me, but it did. It moved through me like a tide, flooding every space I’d long assumed was empty. And for one unguarded heartbeat, I wished I could take even a fraction of it from him to lessen his burden, to make the weight he carried a little easier, even if it was never mine to hold.
I adjusted my seat upright. Khalifa’s eyes flicked toward me, taking in my appearance for the briefest moment before he said, flatly, “Your hijab’s a mess.”
“Charming,” I muttered, shooting him a glare. I tugged my hood up over my head and unbuckled my seatbelt. The aisle was dim and hushed, scattered with the soft snores of sleeping passengers and the flicker of screens playing old movies.
I shut the bathroom door behind me, catching my reflection in the mirror with a groan. My scarf was lopsided, my skin was dull, my mascara had smudged into faint gray shadows under my eyes.
I splashed water on my face, watching the droplets slide down like tiny comets. Then I reached for the toiletries pouch I brought—moisturizer, lip balm, something to make me feel a little more human.
On my way back, I stopped by the galley and grabbed a bag of apple slices and a small bag of chips. When I slid back into my seat, I tossed the apples at him wordlessly. He caught it with one hand and started eating, eyes still fixed ahead.
We sat like that for a while—me crunching on stale chips, him chewing with the kind of focus that made me want to shake him. Finally, I said, “Are you okay?”
“Don’t start.”
