Her chin lifts. “I work in an ER. I see more of humanity in a week than you do in a lifetime.”
“Humanity,” I repeat, almost amused. “That’s what you call it?”
She exhales sharply and turns back to the window. The muscles in her jaw tighten. She’s trying to keep her composure, but turbulence chooses that moment to hit—sharp and sudden.
The plane lurches hard enough to rattle the silverware. Calina’s asleep against the window again, Milana curled under a blanket on the opposite couch, their quiet breathing swallowed by the drone of the engines, but Kira—she goes completely still. Her glass tips, water spilling over her lap in a cold splash that darkens the fabric of her jeans. She grips the armrest like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this world, knuckles bloodless, shoulders locked. For a second, I see it all—the fear she’s tryingso desperately to hide, the quick swallow, the trembling breath, the way her teeth catch her lower lip until it almost breaks skin.
She’s terrified, and it hits me harder than it should. Not because of the fear itself, but because she’s trying so hard to bury it. That kind of honesty, when someone’s stripped down to the rawest version of themselves without meaning to, is rare. And strangely, I find I can’t look away.
“Relax,” I say, my voice deliberately calm, light enough to sound almost teasing. “It’s just air.”
Her eyes flash toward me, sharp and furious even through the panic. “Easy for you to say. You don’t mind sitting in a flying tin can that feels like it’s about to fall out of the sky.”
I lean back, mouth twitching. “A fifty-ton metal shell, moving six hundred miles an hour over the ocean. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Stop,” she snaps, squeezing her eyes shut as another jolt ripples through the cabin. “God, you’re an ass.”
“Probably,” I admit, resting my elbow on the armrest between us. “But if I keep you angry, you’ll forget to be scared.”
Her head turns, slowly, like she can’t decide whether to hit me or argue. “That’s your idea of comfort? Pissing me off?”
“It’s effective,” I say simply.
She opens one eye, the look she gives me somewhere between fury, disbelief, and reluctant amusement. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer efficient,” I say.
“Efficient?” she repeats, eyebrows arching. “You’re literallymocking turbulence.”
I shrug. “Distraction works. Ask any interrogator.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh my God, do you compareeverythingto interrogation?”
“Only the situations that make people talk,” I say, meeting her glare head-on. “And you, nurse, talk plenty when you’re nervous.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again as if she’s about to deny it, but the next small drop makes the plane tremble and she mutters something I can’t quite hear—something that sounds a lot like “unbelievable psycho.”
I smile to myself, the sound of her voice cutting through the hum of the engines, grounding me more than it should.
The plane steadies. She exhales, long and shaky. I catch the faint tremor still running through her hand. Without thinking, I reach out. My fingers brush hers on the armrest, just enough for her to notice.
The next jolt comes sharper, like the sky itself just dropped a warning. The cabin trembles, glasses rattle in their holders, and Kira’s breath catches hard enough that I hear it over the engines. She reacts before she even knows what she’s doing—her hand shoots across the small space between us and finds mine, fingers latching tight, her nails pressing lightly into my skin. It’s instinct, pure and terrified, and it hits me with the kind of force no weapon ever has.
For a second, I go completely still. I’ve had guns jammed against my ribs, knives graze my throat, explosions tear the ground from under me, but nothing—nothing—has ever made me freeze the way her touch does.
Her palm is small, trembling, warm in a way that feels human in a life that hasn’t felt human in years. She doesn’t even realize what she’s done, doesn’t see how her hand clings to mine like I’m the only thing solid in a world that’s falling apart.
I should pull away. I should remind her who I am and what she’s gotten herself into, but I don’t. Instead, I let her hold on. My fingers curl almost involuntarily, not gripping, just resting there, the slightest press back against her skin.
Her pulse beats wild and fast against my wrist, a small, fragile rhythm that doesn’t belong anywhere near someone like me. The faint scent of her shampoo drifts upward, clean and faintly sweet. It slips under my guard, sinks somewhere it shouldn’t, and I hate that I notice it at all.
She opens her eyes a moment later, blinking as if the world just came back into focus. Then she looks down and sees what she’s done, sees her fingers tangled with mine. I feel the exact instant realization hits her because her breath stutters and she starts to pull away—too quickly, like she’s been burned.
I don’t let her. My thumb moves, barely a shift, pressing lightly against the inside of her wrist. Just enough pressure to remind her I’m still there, to make her stop fighting the contact she started.
“Breathe,” I say quietly.
“I am.”
