“Any news?” I asked, shifting the focus away from myself.
Oliver leaned his elbow on the armrest. “Still in surgery.”
I dragged my palm over my beard. “Christ.”
“They might be done by the time we get there,” Oliver added. “But he’s going straight to the ICU. It’ll still be a while before we get any real updates.”
“We’re all going straight to the hospital, right?” Henry asked.
A wave of quiet agreement moved through the cabin.
“Coffee, anyone?” he said, already pushing to his feet. “We’re in for a long night. Or day. Or whatever time it is.”
More nods.
“I’ll help,” Charlotte said, and they headed toward the front.
Oliver’s gaze lingered on me, his lips pressed tight. After a brief hesitation, he moved into the chair beside me. “Ash.”
For a second he looked both younger and older than me. His dark brown eyes were too bright, and a nauseating wave of shame rolled through me again. He hadn’t deserved the silence I’d left him with, not after always being at my side. He was the one person I trusted with anything work-related—until it was me fucking up. Then I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing disappointment in his voice.
I exhaled hard. “I’m sorry for not?—”
He shook his head, his hand settling on my shoulder. “I know. I know you, okay? I know it’s not about me.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”
“I know, Ash. I know you do.”
He was still looking at me, but I couldn’t hold his gaze. I tried. I couldn’t. So I did the next best thing.
The honest thing.
“I just wanted to fix it.”
Oliver nodded, his grip tightening slightly. “I know,” he said again. “Let’s just put that aside, okay? We focus on this. I just don’t want you to?—”
“I won’t.” My hand covered his, keeping it there. “Not this time.”
When I finally looked up again, Oliver was still watching me. A small smile tugged at his mouth. It wasn’t even close to happy. But it was real.
I answered with one of my own—fragile, unsteady, but there. We stayed like that a second longer, hands still clasped, the silence between us no longer oppressive.
Footsteps approached from the galley. Henry’s voice carried first, followed by Charlotte’s softer reply. Ethan appeared behind us, one hand braced briefly on the back of the seat as the plane jolted. He glanced at me—just a check-in—and I nodded once.
He didn’t come back to my side. Instead, he slid into the seat beside Henry, close enough that our feet could still touch if either of us moved. Charlotte settled across from us again, passing out coffee cups with quiet efficiency.
Oliver’s shoulder remained warm against mine.
This week, when I’d finally had to face him in person, I’d kept things light, deflecting anything real. I hadn’t been ready for him to see how much was already cracking beneath the surface. It had been easier to keep the distance. Easier—and far more isolating.
This felt so different. Like a wall lowering, brick by brick.
And knowing he was here—that all of them were—made the thought of stepping off this plane feel a fraction less suffocating. We still had to face the hospital. Our father. Whatever waited on the other side of those doors.
But we wouldn’t be walking into it alone.
Hours later, we were ushered into a waiting area just outside the ICU.
