If I thought he was broody before, I hadn’t seen anything yet.
Axton doesn’t even look at me for the rest of the flight. He sits there, stiff and silent, clenching his jaw so tight I half-expect to hear the sound of molars cracking like cheap porcelain. We don’t speak again. Not a word. Just six more hours of tension so thick it practically has a seatbelt.
When the plane finally lands in London, he’s the first to stand, grab his things, and disappear like I’m some stranger he accidentally sat next to, not the girl he practically snarled at two hours ago.
And for a second, a literal breath of a second, I feel a little bad for him. He looked... sad.
And I should care. I should.
But I’m tired. Jet-lagged. Cranky. And honestly? Too emotionally hungover to dig into that mess.
I drag my su
