2. Chapter 2
The plane hums steadily through the night sky, a low, constant vibration that settles deep in my bones.
We are somewhere over the Midwest, heading west toward Vancouver for a back-to-back that will keep us away from Ravensburg for two nights.
I sit in my usual window seat, folded as best I can into the narrow space, legs stretched out as far as the seat in front allows.
Beside me, Zara Reyes taps away at her tablet, earbuds in, watching old Reapers interviews with sharp, focused attention.
She has not said much since we boarded, which I appreciate.
Most people feel the need to fill silence. She does not.
On her screen plays a clip from last season—Cole mid-interview, curls falling into his face, tanned skin glowing under the lights as he flashes that wide, performative grin at the camera.
He is talking too fast, his hands moving, charming the reporter like it is the easiest thing in the world. I look away.
Turbulence hits again and the plane shudders, drops slightly.
I hear Elias’s breath catch—sharp, too quick.
Then Damian’s low voice, murmuring something only his husband can hear.
I do not need to turn around to know what is happening.
The kid still panics during rough air, memories of the crash clinging to him like old tape.
Damian handles it the way he always does now: filthy promises whispered against Elias’s ear, grounding him in the only language that cuts through the fear.
I catch fragments anyway—“breathe, pup… focus on my voice… when we land I’m going to—” before the words drop too low.
Elias makes a small, choked sound that is half panic, half something else entirely.
I shift in my seat, staring out at the dark clouds beyond the window. Their marriage has not made them any less obvious. If anything, it has made them worse.
Behind them, the noise level rises. Cole, of course. He is sitting next to Mats, voice carrying through half the cabin like he is performing for an arena instead of a tired team on a red-eye flight.
“—so then the guy looks at me, right? Full deer-in-headlights, and I tell him, ‘Bro, if you’re gonna hit on me at least buy me a drink first. I have standards.’” Cole’s laugh explodes, bright and loud and impossible to ignore.
“He turned so red I thought he was gonna combust. Mats, back me up—you were there.”
Mats chuckles, that smooth drawl cutting in. “I was there. You absolutely encouraged him for three minutes before you shut it down.”
“I was being polite!” Cole protests, his voice pitching higher with exaggerated outrage.
Shane joins in from across the aisle, adding some ridiculous detail that makes Tyler and Jace laugh too hard.
Even Roman mutters something dry in Russian from a few seats back.
The whole section has turned into Cole’s personal stage.
He thrives on it—the noise, the attention, the way he can keep everything spinning so no one looks too closely at what hides underneath.
I close my eyes for a moment. Soroka sits on the tip of my tongue, but I do not say it.
Not yet. Not ever, maybe. He is too bright.
Too loud. Too much like the version of my mother I remember from before my father dimmed her.
Every time Cole laughs like that, something in my chest pulls tight.
Want and fear twisted together so closely I cannot tell them apart anymore.
Zara pauses her video and pulls one earbud out. “He’s always like this?” she asks, nodding toward the noise.
“Da,” I answer quietly. “Always.”
She hums, a small smile tugging at her lips as she goes back to her tablet.
On screen, Cole is still talking, still shining.
I force my gaze back to the window. The turbulence has eased slightly, but I can still hear Damian’s low murmurs and Elias’s softer replies.
The team feels… settled. Louder than usual, maybe, because of the new PR presence and the road trip energy.
But underneath it all, the same codependent mess it has always been.
Cole’s voice rises again with another exaggerated story, something about a TikTok gone wrong last season, and half the plane is laughing with him now. I do not join in. I just listen. Because listening to Cole Vance is the closest I have let myself get in four years. And it is slowly killing me.
One by one, the Reapers start to drift off.
The cabin lights have dimmed to their lowest setting, casting long shadows across the rows of seats.
Shane is out first, slumped against the window with his mouth slightly open, earbuds still playing whatever cursed playlist he claims helps him sleep.
Tyler follows soon after, head lolling awkwardly against the seat in front of him.
Jace curls up like a giant puppy, knees tucked up as much as the cramped space allows.
Even Mats starts breathing deeper beside Cole, his usual easy charm replaced by quiet exhaustion.
Damian and I remain awake.
I can see them a few rows back—Damian’s broad frame turned protectively toward Elias, one big hand resting on his husband’s thigh.
Elias has calmed from the last bout of turbulence, head tucked against Damian’s shoulder, but Damian stays alert.
His bad leg is probably aching from the flight, yet he does not move. He never does when Elias needs him.
I stare out the window again, arms crossed over my chest, when another soft sigh cuts through the quiet hum of the engines. Tenth time. Maybe eleventh. Cole.
He is trying to sleep in the middle seat beside the now-dozing Mats, long legs cramped, curls falling messily over his forehead.
His skin looks washed out under the dim lights, and even with his eyes closed, his face is tense.
Restless energy trapped in a too-small space.
He shifts again, another quiet breath escaping him, and something tight pulls in my chest.
I roll my eyes. Before I can talk myself out of it, I unbuckle my seatbelt and stand, careful not to wake Zara, who is asleep with her tablet still glowing faintly on her lap. I make my way down the narrow aisle toward their row.
Mats cracks one eye open as I approach. I tap his foot with my boot, once, firm. “Move.”
Mats groans, low and defeated, rubbing a hand over his face. He knows better than to argue when I use that tone. “Fucking hell, Petrov." He looks at Cole, who hasn’t opened his eyes yet, then back at me. With another dramatic groan, he stands up, stretching his arms overhead. “You owe me.”
He shuffles past me and drops into my old seat next to Zara without another word, already half-asleep again before his head hits the headrest.
I slide into the now-empty spot beside Cole.
He stirs slightly but does not open his eyes, probably too tired to question it.
Without thinking too hard about what I am doing, I reach up and pull my own oversized black hoodie off over my head.
The cabin is cool. I fold the hoodie carefully, then lean over and tuck it behind his neck and shoulder as a makeshift pillow, supporting the awkward angle his head had been fighting.
Cole’s breath catches for a moment, but he stays quiet.
I hesitate only a second before reaching down.
My hands are careful as I lift his legs, swinging them gently so his feet rest across my lap.
His sneakers come off easily—left, then right—placed neatly on the floor.
Then, almost absently, my thumbs press into the arch of his right foot, working slow, firm circles into the tight muscle.
Cole melts. The tension drains from his body like someone flipped a switch.
His shoulders drop, his head settles deeper into the folded hoodie, and the smallest, softest smile curves his lips even though his eyes remain closed.
He lets out a long, contented breath that sounds dangerously close to a purr.
Cole stays quiet for a long time, his body loose and melting under my hands as I continue working the tension from his feet.
My thumbs press in slow, deliberate circles, finding the knots built up from practice and travel.
The cabin is mostly silent now, save for the steady drone of the engines and the occasional soft snore from one of the guys.
I think Cole has drifted off when his voice comes, low and soft, barely above a whisper.
His eyes remain closed, that small smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion but laced with that familiar teasing edge.
“Big bad Viktor Petrov playing secret pillow and foot masseuse. You’re secretly soft, aren’t you? ”
My hands pause for half a second before continuing their steady rhythm. I do not pull away. I should. But I do not. “Quiet, Vance,” I reply, accent thicker in the hush of the sleeping plane. “You talk too much even when you are pretending to sleep.”
Cole’s smile widens just a fraction. “Can’t help it. Gotta keep you on your toes. Wouldn’t want you getting too comfortable being all… gentle.”
My thumbs dig a little deeper into the arch of his foot, not quite punishing but enough to remind him who he is teasing. “You are impossible.”
“Yeah?” There is a lazy, pleased hum in his voice now. “But you still moved seats. Still took my feet in your lap. Still giving me the royal treatment while everyone else is out cold. Admit it, Petrov. You like taking care of me.”
The air between us feels thinner, heavier. I can feel the warmth of his legs across my thighs, the subtle shift of his body as he relaxes even more. My hands keep moving—betraying every word I am not saying. Four years of distance, and one cramped plane ride is enough to crack it.
“Sleep, Hollywood,” I say, the nickname slipping out. It is the closest I let myself get to admitting anything.