I barely have time to reach for it before his hand closes around the straps and pulls it away from me, smooth and automatic. Like it was never really mine to begin with. Like this is just how things work now.
He hoists it over his shoulder, unbothered, controlled in a way that makes everything around him feel slower by comparison. Like the airport moves around him.
Like he belongs anywhere he decides to stand.
I fall into step beside him without thinking.
We move through the terminal, and people notice.
Not loudly. Not in a way they’d admit, or even consciously register. But I feel it—the flicker of attention, the double takes.
Their eyes drag over him first—the tattoos creeping up his arms, the way his shoulders fill out his shirt, the quiet, unshaken confidence in his stride.
Then they look at me.
And then they look at us.
At the way his hand settles at the small of my back like it belongs there. Like it’s a fixed point. Like I’m being guided. Positioned. Delivered.
The pressure is light, but it’s constant. Every step I take, I feel it—warm, steady, anchoring me in place.
I should pull away. The thought comes, clear and immediate.
I should step out of his reach. Create space. Reclaim something that’s mine.
I don’t.
Because I’m tired. Because the airport is loud and bright and overwhelming, and his hand makes everything feel quieter. Because the contact steadies me.
And part of me—some stupid, soft, hopeful part—still wants to believe this is what it looks like when someone chooses you.
When someone takes care of you. When someone… loves you.
On the way to security, where the passenger flow is so heavy it moves slower than molasses, he stands too close behind me. Not touching at first. Just there. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the presence of him, like a shadow cast too tightly against my skin.
When I step forward, he steps forward.
When I pause, he pauses.
There’s no hesitation. No lag. No adjustment. It’s like he’s already anticipating me.
And I hate—hate—how something in my body responds to that.
That quiet synchronization. That sense of being tracked. Known. Followed.
By the time we reach the barrier where only passengers can continue, my chest feels tight in a way I can’t name.
He turns me toward him without asking. His hands find my hips, firm and certain, fingers pressing just enough to hold me in place without force.
Possessive.
His gaze moves over my face slowly, deliberately, like he’s cataloguing me again. Like he’s checking for changes. Like he’s making sure nothing about me has shifted in the last five minutes.
“You’re going to text me when you land,” he says.
I nod. My throat dries.
“And when you get home.”