The Flight
337 Words
4:47AM. Private terminal.
I hadn’t slept.
Damien was already there. Suit. No tie. Sunglasses hiding everything.
“Ms. Lane,” he said, not looking at me. “Seats are assigned. You’re next to me.”
Next to him. For 14 hours.
“Yes, Mr. Cole.”
The jet was small. Quiet. Executive only.
Me. Him. Two other VPs who put on headphones immediately.
Takeoff was smooth. Too smooth.
I gripped the armrest. I hate flying. Everyone knows it except him.
“You alright?” he asked, finally.
“Fine,” I lied.
1 hour in.
The plane dropped.
My stomach dropped harder.
A voice came on: “We’re hitting some rough air. Please remain seated.”
Another drop.
I gasped. Without thinking, I grabbed the closest thing.
His hand.
It was warm. Solid.
I froze. He froze.
The VPs didn’t look up.
The plane shook again.
I didn’t let go.
Neither did he.
“Easy,” he said, voice low. Just for me. “It’s just turbulence.”
“I know,” I whispered.
We were still holding hands.
His thumb brushed over my knuckles. Once. Barely.
Like he didn’t realize he did it.
Or like he did.
20 minutes passed. The ride smoothed out.
I should’ve let go.
I didn’t.
He didn’t either.
Finally, he spoke without looking at me. “You can… let go now, Ava.”
Ava.
I pulled my hand back fast. Like I’d been burned.
“Sorry, Mr. Cole. I—”
“Don’t,” he cut me off. Still not looking. “You were scared.”
The rest of the flight was silent.
But my hand still felt warm.
When we landed in Maldives, he was the first one off.
He didn’t say another word to me until we reached the resort.
“Room 402,” he said to the concierge. “Ms. Lane, 403. Adjacent.”
Adjacent.
A wall.
I looked at my hand.
*Note to Self: He held on for 20 minutes. He could’ve let go at minute 1.*
- Writer
