Roman watches me tear it open and spread butter across it like I haven’t eaten in days.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m amusing.”
“Well… You are.”
“I’m hungry.”
“That too.”
I take a bite and close my eyes.
It’s ridiculous, how good it tastes. Soft bread, salted butter, something warm settling into my blood. I had been nervous about flying before all this. I had imagined every bump, every terrible sound, every awful second of leaving the ground.
Then I got drunk, kissed a stranger, and apparently forgot fear existed.
Now I’m awake above the clouds, eating like a woman who has survived both heartbreak and takeoff.
Roman slides the pasta closer.
The dish is rich and creamy. The salmon tastes of smoke and salt. The berries are cold and sweet enough to make me sigh. Every few bites, Roman shifts something closer to me without making a show of it.
The first-class suite is enormous. There’s enough room between us for another person. A small table. Two wide seats. Privacy panels. Space to stretch. Space to pretend we’re not aware of each other.
And still, somehow, we keep touching.
My elbow brushes his when I reach for the tea.
His knee grazes mine when he turns slightly.
The back of his hand touches my wrist as he moves the bread basket.
Each accidental contact feels larger than it should. And by the third time it happens, neither of us pretends not to notice.
I reach for the chocolate dessert at the same moment he reaches for the water.
Our fingers meet. A tiny touch. Nothing. Except my whole body answers.
Roman goes still. So do I.
The hum of the plane seems to deepen around us.
His hand moves away.
I try to focus on the dessert. It’s impossible. My skin keeps remembering his mouth.
“You’re quieter now,” he says.
“I’m eating.”
“You were eating before.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That seems dangerous.” His gaze drops briefly to my lips.