Finally, Mya gives the smallest nod. Her shoulders bunch in tight, and for the first time, I notice how tiny she looks with me hovering over her. The sight sparks an irrational urge to scoop her up, hold her against me, and tell her nothing can touch her while she’s in my arms.
“Have you ever been on a plane before?”
Another tiny shake of her head.
Something twists in my chest. Without thinking, I slide into the empty seat beside her. Her gaze snaps to mine at last.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, her voice shaky.
I buckle myself in, leaning over her before she can stop me. “Sitting next to you for takeoff.” My hand brushes her hip as I tug her seatbelt across her lap and click it into place.
Her eyes dart towards the aisle, then back to me, panic flickering across her face like she’s worried one of our colleagues will see us.
Her throat bobs as she swallows.
The seatbelt sign dings above us. The flight attendant’s voice begins droning through the safety message, but all I hear is Mya’s quick breathing.
I reach for her hand without giving myself time to reconsider. Her palm is cold, stiff as stone in mine. “Squeeze when you get scared,” I murmur.
For a few seconds, she’s rigid, like she might yank away. But then her fingers soften, fitting against mine.
Her hand is so damn small—and fuck if it doesn’t feel like it belongs there.
The engines roar as the plane lurches forward. Beside me, Mya’s back goes ramrod straight. Her nails dig into my hand,and the little squeezes shoot straight up my arm. She still won’t look at me.
I don’t say a word. Just keep my hand firm around hers, anchoring her.
When the nose tips up and the pressure shifts, she squeezes again, harder this time. My thumb drags over her knuckles in slow, grounding circles. The cabin rattles, the sky opening wide, and still I don’t let go.
Finally, the hum evens out. The seatbelt light dings off, signaling we’ve leveled at cruising altitude.
And just like that, Mya yanks her hand free, leaving mine abruptly empty.
“Thanks,” she mutters, still staring ahead. “You can go back to your seat now.”
Dismissed. Just like that.
For a second, I consider staying put, forcing her to look at me. But her shoulders are stiff, her body angled away, a clear line drawn in the sand.
So I bite back the words burning in my chest, unbuckle my belt, and push to my feet.
20
MYA
Worst sixteen hours of my life.
By the time my heels hit solid ground, my legs are jelly and my head feels like it’s still floating somewhere above the clouds. For a split second, I’m tempted to drop to my knees and kiss the tarmac.
The hot Singapore air clings to my skin, and I drag in a shaky breath.
I glance back as my colleagues exit the plane together. Worth is the last to step out, immaculate in his tailored trousers, suit jacket draped over one arm and not a hair out of place. He doesn’t look like he’s just spent sixteen hours in the air. Damn him.
Ethan slides next to me. He was kind on the flight, even after I nearly snapped his head off mid-panic. I apologized, blaming nerves, and he’d laughed it off, handing me two little pills that knocked me out cold for hours.
“How was your sleep?”
“Fine,” I answer with a smile. “Thanks again for the help, and sorry for almost biting your head off.”