“No.” My voice drops, steady, certain. “You’re holding it.”
Her eyes flick to mine, searching for mockery, finding none. The light from the window paints her skin in soft gold; her fear makes her look younger, smaller somehow.
“Here,” I say, opening my hand between us. “If it helps.”
She hesitates, then places her hand in mine. Her palm is cold, damp from sweat. I close my fingers around it, not too tightly, just enough to anchor her.
For a moment, we don’t speak. The sound of the engines fades, leaving only the rhythm of her breathing, slow and uneven, trying to match mine.
“It’s just turbulence,” I say finally. “Happens all the time.”
She nods, but her shoulders stay tense. “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”
“Of plenty,” I admit, surprising myself. “Just not this.”
Her lips part slightly, but she says nothing. The plane steadies. I should let go, but I don’t. There’s something fragile about the silence, and breaking it feels wrong.
She looks down at our joined hands, voice small. “You can let go now.”
“I know.”
But I don’t move. My thumb brushes against her knuckles, slow, almost absent. I can feel her pulse beneath the skin, quick and uncertain.
For a while, neither of us says anything. Then she exhales, a faint tremor in the sound. “Your distraction isn’t working anymore.”
My gaze finds hers again, steady, unguarded. “Then I’ll find another way.”
Her brow furrows, confusion darkening her eyes. “What do you mean?—”
I don’t let her finish. I lean in, closing the space before reason can stop me, and catch her mouth with mine.
Her gasp hits my lips first, but when her breath spills into me it’s warm and shaky, and it’s all I need to deepen the contact. At first, I keep it measured, just the faintest pressure, a test more than a kiss, but the second she stiffens, something sharp twists low in me. I push in harder, claiming the sound that escapes her throat before she can swallow it back.
She tastes like coffee and defiance, like someone who refuses to break even when she’s already trembling. Her hands come up to my chest—maybe to shove me away—but the second her palms touch me, the fight falters. I feel the hesitation, the pause between impulse and surrender, and I press closer, my thumb sliding along her jaw, forcing her chin up so she can’t look anywhere but at me.
The air around us thickens; every heartbeat feels too loud. She exhales through her nose, a shaky, angry sound that turns into a breath against my lips. I take it. I take all of it. The kiss changes—still rough, still wrong, but hungrier now, the kind of hunger that feels like punishment.
She tries again to push me off, and I don’t move. Not an inch. I just breathe her in, her scent, her frustration, the way her body vibrates between wanting to escape and wanting to know what happens if she doesn’t.
When I finally pull back, barely an inch of air between us, her pupils are blown wide, lips parted, breath uneven.
“You—” she stammers, voice breaking on the word, “what the hell are you doing?”
My mouth curves against hers, still close enough that she can feel the whisper of it. “Practice.”
“Practice?”
“You’re supposed to be my fiancée.”
Her jaw drops. “You never make things simple, do you?”
“Never,” I murmur, leaning in again, my voice rougher than I intend.
This time she meets me halfway. The contact is hesitant at first, soft lips brushing mine like she’s testing a line she already knows she’ll cross. Then the hesitation breaks. Her breath catches and suddenly the kiss isn’t careful anymore—it’s alive.
My hand moves without thought, sliding up the side of her neck until my thumb finds the edge of her jaw, tilting her face toward me. The skin there is smooth, pulse fluttering against my fingers. I want to see if I can steady it, but it only races faster.
When she finally pushes back, it’s not to escape—it’s to match me. Her hand fists in my shirt, dragging me closer, and everything inside me tightens at once. The world shrinks to the sound of our breaths and the low hum of the engines somewhere beyond the haze of heat between us.
