Page 24 of Citius

“Yes and no,” she said, thumb running along the edge of her tablet. “The volleyball team has a good handle on ruts and heats, but the football team leaves something to be desired. Not that they aren’t trying. Being an inherently alpha-centric sport doesn’t help.”

“Enough to put you off working with them long-term?”

“I’m not sure.” Morgan’s attention drifted to the runway outside as we taxied. “Depends on where I go after my fellowship ends and what they need me to do. I’m still job hunting.”

That’s when I realized Morgan wore a dress shirt and nice pants under her hooded sweater, clearly on her way back from an interview. She might move to a different state next year.

I could lose her—I never had her.

Regret filled my stomach with lead knots. The cabin lights turned off. Our conversation died out.

She slid her tablet into the seatback pocket and pulled her hood back up. The plane picked up speed. We sank deeper into our seats, upperarms pressed together. Morgan closed her eyes. As if resigning herself to my presence for the next two hours.

The plane jolted as it went faster, faster—and then we were flying.

Flight.

Her trademark sign flashed to the cameras at the start of every competition and whenever she won a medal. I never found out why. It was just one of the many things I wanted to ask her that night in Montreal.

On the date we never got to have.

***

Morgan woke up with a start. She scanned her surroundings without recognition and pulled her hood forward, shielding her pale face from view as she took a few deep, shuddering breaths.

Questions piled up in the back of my throat. Was she in pain? Did she need water to take medication? Did the cabin pressure bother her head? I didn’t even know if it was safe for someone who’d had a TBI to fly.

There was so much—so, so much—I didn’t know about her. Didn’t have the right to ask. But I had to ask something.

“Are you okay?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She wedged against the window, keeping me and my worries at bay. “Just tired.”

When we touched down, Morgan retrieved a professional work bag from under the seat before her. She took out her phone and a pill organizer. Mindful of her privacy, I looked across the aisle, studying our fellow passengers—okay, making faces at the cute baby two rows in front of us, earning slobbery giggles for my efforts—until she finished taking her meds.

She stared at her phone, her face pale, oblivious to the cabin door opening. I wasn’t convinced she was fully awake.

“Don’t forget your tablet.”

Morgan’s expression was downright distrustful as her hand dipped into the backseat pocket and pulled out the tablet. Looked at it like she’d never seen it before. Like it didn’t belong to her. “Oh. Thanks.”

Yeah, she wasn’t fully back online yet.

She slipped the tablet into her bag, then returned to looking at her phone. I followed suit. There was a message from Joaquin. He and Alijah were on their way, and they’d meet me outside baggage claim. Then we’dget tacos.

The carne asada, he promised, was orgasmic.

When it was our turn to deplane, I blocked the aisle to keep anyone from rushing Morgan as she got to her feet. I pulled down her suitcase while she reached for her coat in the overhead bin.

“Thanks again,” she said but didn’t quite mean it.

Sensing that she was running low on tolerance—both for me and traveling—I was careful to keep space between us. When I paused to snag my carry-on, the distance increased from three feet to eight.

Morgan exited the jetway first. I expected her to leave me in the dust—but she didn’t. She lingered near a column at the edge of the gate’s seating area, eyes still dull. I hated seeing her in pain. But there was nothing I could do about it.

“Heading to baggage claim?” she asked.

“Oh—yeah, I am.” Hopefully, she couldn’t tell how excited I was to spend a few more minutes together. “Can’t wait for this move to be over, and my bag seriously better be here. It’s got all my essentials in it. The rest of my stuff won’t get here for at least two more weeks.”

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