Alois dropped into the chair beside me without a word, his shoulder brushing mine for half a second before he leaned back, long legs stretching just enough to claim all of the space.
I let my head fall back against the seat, eyes closing for a second as my body tried to recalibrate. The city. The penthouse. The way the light had hit the water. The way he had said,You said that last night,like it had been enough.
My heart skipped unexpectedly at the thought.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. His profile caught the window light in clean, hard lines, but it wasn’t just his face that drew my attention.
It was the way he filled the space. Even here—with seats built wider, deeper, meant for bodies like his—he took up most of it. Shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, one arm braced along the armrest like it belonged there, long legs angled just enough to fit without forcing it.
He’d already checked out of the world around him. Noise-canceling headphones covered his ears, shutting out the low hum of the cabin, the voices, the movement—everything. His dark gray hoodie was half-zipped, layered over a fitted shirt that did nothing to hide the solid weight of him beneath it. An iPad rested against his thigh, one hand holding it steady as his thumb moved occasionally across the screen, slow and deliberate. Reading.
I let my gaze linger a second longer, just enough to catch the lines of text before I looked away. French. Of course it was. Because apparently the same man who broke people for a living—sat on a private charter flight, shutting out the world to read something most of the plane couldn’t even begin to translate.
His expression didn’t shift. Not once. No reaction to anything around him, no flicker of awareness that he was being watched, studied, quietly taken apart piece by piece.
I forced myself to look out the window. Because I didn’t know what to do with him. Didn’t know how to thank him forthe morning without turning it into something bigger than he was clearly willing to let it be.
My phone buzzed in my hand, pulling me out of my impending dangerous thought spiral just in the nick of time.
Micah: I need details. Immediately. Do not gate keep your life right now.
You’re not going to believe me. I’ll explain when we land. I’m on the plane with the team now.
Micah: You are living my actual dream.
It’s my nightmare. And also…don’t you have your own hockey hunk to travel with?
The typing bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Came back. Then?—
Micah: Not the same. Logan doesn’t have the power to casually rewrite airline logistics.
A small, involuntary smile pulled at my mouth.
It lingered there longer than it should have.
Another buzz.
Lucy: Bento was a perfect gentleman. Came out once. Let me feed him a treat like I’d earned it. Litter box is clean. Water’s fresh. He should be good until you’re home. Brunch this weekend?
Yes. Absolutely. I owe you. Thank you.
And then my heart fluttered seeing a quick text from my father?—
Paizinho: Did you make your flight?
Boarding now. I’ll call when I land. Love you.
Paizinho: Eu te amo, minha filha.
I love you, my daughter.The words settled somewhere behind my ribs, soft and familiar and unshakable.
For a fleeting moment—the everything faded. And I was just—home. The little girl who didn’t have to figure everything out in real time. Who didn’t have to stand in rooms she didn’t understand and pretend she belonged there.
The plane began to move, the low rumble building beneath us, vibrating through the frame, through the seat, through me. My grip tightened slightly around my phone before I slipped it into my bag.
I turned my head back toward the window, watching as the runway stretched out in front of us, long and inevitable.
The city fell away slowly. Buildings shrinking. Lines softening. The river turning into a streak of light instead of something vast and steady.