1. Addy #2
“Is there a reason you’re staring at me?” I finally say, turning toward him, “Or is that a pilot thing?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “You look like you’ve had an eventful day. It’s my duty to be concerned.”
So he admits it. Pilot.
Great. Just what I needed. Authority issues and a uniform.
I let out a short laugh, leaning back into my seat. “That’s one way of putting it.”
He studies me, trying to piece everything together. “Let me guess. Delayed flight. Lost luggage. Existential crisis?”
“Close,” I reply. “Public breakup, emotional devastation, mild identity crisis… but we’re keeping it light.”
That gets a reaction. A flicker of surprise, followed by an expression that looks a little too much like interest.
“Impressive,” he murmurs.
I narrow my eyes slightly. “Do you always comment on strangers’ trauma, or am I just lucky?”
“Just you.”
“Lucky me.”
There’s a beat where neither of us looks away, and a sizzle settles into place between us. It’s sharp, electric.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, leaning slightly closer, because apparently, I’ve decided today is the day I antagonize attractive strangers, “if you turn out to be as insufferable as you seem, I will make this the longest flight of your life.”
His gaze drops to my mouth before lifting again. “I was hoping you would.”
That makes my pulse scatter in a way I’m not prepared to unpack.
I lean back, folding my arms. “If this is your version of charming, I’d hate to see what you’re like when you’re not trying.”
His mouth twitches, but his eyes don’t soften. “Most people would take the upgrade and enjoy it. You seem determined to fight your way through it instead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I reply sweetly. “Was I supposed to sit here quietly and be grateful? Smile politely while you stare at me like I’m in-flight entertainment?”
“You’re the one who engaged.”
“You were staring.”
“And you liked it.”
I sit up straighter, heat flashing through me. “You're unbelievably full of yourself.”
“And you didn’t move.”
The way he says it, like he already knows, sends a flicker of heat low in my stomach.
I shift slightly in my seat, meaning to put space between us. His hand moves then, slow enough that I could stop it if I wanted to. Yet I remain exactly where I am.
His fingers brush lightly against my wrist where it rests, barely there, like he’s testing something.
My breath catches before I can stop it, so I snap out once more. “I didn’t feel like letting a stranger boss me around.”
“No,” he says, watching me too closely now, “you didn’t feel like walking away.”
His thumb drags once along the inside of my wrist.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap, but the strength has gone out of my voice.
“I know you’re upset,” he says calmly. “And trying very hard not to show it.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Wow. Do you always do this? Read strangers like a personality test?”
“You’re not subtle.”
“I just got dumped at an airport,” I fire back. “Forgive me if I’m not handling it with grace and composure.”
“Then stop pretending you don’t care,” he says.
“I don’t—”
“You wouldn’t be this angry if you didn’t.”
My fingers curl slightly against the armrest.
I should move.
I should absolutely move.
Instead, I tilt my head just enough to meet his gaze fully. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re avoiding it.”
I shake my head, exhaling, but I don’t move away. Neither does he.
The space between us feels thinner now. Charged.
“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” I say quietly.
“I think you’re trying too hard to prove you’re fine,” he says. “When you’re clearly not.”
“I don’t need to prove anything,” I say, but it comes out softer this time.
“Then why are you still arguing with me?”
My breath catches because I don’t have an answer. Because walking away would be easier, because staying here, this close, this aware, isn’t.
“You’re irritating,” I say instead.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “And you’re still here.”
I lean in slightly. “You think this is charming?”
“No,” he says. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”
My pulse jumps. “That’s—”
“You didn’t move,” he repeats quietly. “You didn’t shut this down.” His gaze drops to my mouth again.
Heat rushes through me, sudden and disorienting. “I’m not—”
“Then stop me.”
Everything stills. The hum of the plane fades into the background; there’s just him. Too close. Too intense. Watching me like he already knows what I’m going to do.
And I…
Don’t do anything except sit there, breathing a little too fast.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing along my jaw, firm enough to tilt my face toward his.
My breath stutters.
And then he kisses me.
For half a second, I freeze.
And then I kiss him back.
Because apparently today is the day I make every questionable decision available to me.
His hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer, and the world narrows down to heat and breath and the sharp, dizzying reality of what I’m doing.
By the time we break apart, my heart's racing, my lips tingling, my entire body humming like I’ve just stepped into something I won’t be able to walk away from.
I stare at him, breathless.
“That,” I manage, “was a terrible idea.”
“You’re still here,” he murmurs.
“I’m sitting in my assigned seat,” I shoot back, but it lacks bite. Even I can hear it. “And you’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m paying attention.”
“To what?”
His thumb shifts, tracing just slightly along my jaw, enough to make my pulse stutter. “To the fact that you’re not stopping me.”
Somewhere between being dumped in an airport and ending up here, next to a man who looks at me like this, something in me decided I don’t want to be careful today.
I exhale slowly, trying to calm down. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
His voice drops, quieter now, closer. “Then prove me wrong.”
There’s a beat.
A long one.
The kind that stretches just enough for me to pull away, to laugh this off, to shut it down and pretend I’m still the version of myself who makes sensible decisions.
Instead, I tilt my chin slightly into his hand.
My heart's racing now, loud enough that I’m convinced he can hear it, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing.
This isn’t me.
Or maybe it is. Just not the version I usually let people see.
That realization hits somewhere deep.
This isn’t happening to me.
I’m letting it happen.
That thought should scare me, but all it does is make me feel reckless. Alive.
I lean in just slightly, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath, close enough that if either of us moves even an inch…
“Terrible idea,” I whisper, though it sounds more like a warning to myself than anything else.
“Not for me.” His thumb brushes once more along my lips. “And now… I might head to the bathroom. If you want to join me…”
I stare at him, trying to process the sentence, the way it hangs between us. Rough-edged and audacious, like he just handed me the decision and dared me to take it.
Because that’s exactly what this is.
A choice.
Walk away… or don’t.
My pulse kicks harder.
And the worst part?
I already know which one I’m going to pick.
I stand. Or at least I try to. My knees seem less reliable than they usually are. The world is unsteady, every vibration and jostle of the taxiing plane ringing through my skin, but I refuse to let him see the effect he’s already having on me.
His gaze follows me, amusement flickering behind those unnervingly blue eyes. He gestures, so casual, toward the back of the cabin.
The lavatory, of course.
The cliché.
I’ve never been one for cheap thrills, but he’s already touched my face, already kissed me, and I want more, even if it’s nothing, even if it’s just this dumb moment.
I mean, this is insane, right?
But I guess I’ll never see this man again.
So… who will ever know?
I head for the bathroom.
It’s the size of a coffin, lit by a fluorescent light that makes everyone look like a serial killer, and I've got enough sense to make a half-hearted check of the mirror before I lock the door.
Jeez.
My cheeks are wild with color, lips bite swollen. I pull my hair back into some semblance of order, but it’s a joke. I look completely fucked.
As if on cue, there’s a soft knock at the door. A gentleman, if such a word could be applied to the six-foot wall of self-assurance currently on the other side.
I pull the handle, and he slips inside with a fluid ease that says he’s done this before. The space is outrageously tight. My hips press into the cold little sink, and his chest is against mine.
The door clicks shut behind him.
No words. He looks at me, and I see it in his eyes.
Undisguised want, bordering on catastrophe.
His hand slides over my waist, then higher, then back down, fingers grazing along the fabric of my dress, so hot against my bare skin I nearly shiver.
His teeth scrape my bottom lip, sharp enough to punish me for every shitty decision leading to this.
It’s frantic and rough, exactly wrong and exactly right, and I don’t care about turbulence or the fact that there are a hundred people not ten feet from where he’s lifting the hem of my dress, somehow both skilled and impatient.
I lean into it, into him, as he hooks his fingers at the edge of the fabric and drags it higher, forcing a gasp out of me that’s way too loud for the tiny space. He covers my mouth with his own, swallowing the sound, biting down until I think he might leave a mark.
I spin around and splay my hands hard against the metal sink. He presses behind me, hand suddenly tight in my hair, bending my neck so I can only see the yellowed ceiling, grimy with sticker residue and disreputable history.
His mouth moves, tongue insistent, and the bathroom fills with the briny taste of sweat and spit and red wine, our breaths tangled and desperate. My hands shake, knuckles whitening around the cold steel basin as the whole world pitches; whether it’s the flight or him, I couldn’t say.
His fingers dig down, anchoring at my hip, and I can’t help but push back, finding a rhythm that’s more violence than grace.