Page 12 of At First Flight
I smooth down the cardigan and tighten my hands around the plastic handles of the bag, then square my shoulders.
I imagine Prescott with his superior grin when he learns I know of his wife. I think about my dream job tumbling from my grasp when I agreed to marry my ex. And then, suddenly, Iimagine Dean’s fingers on my back. Though I visualize his face, what I feel is irritation at myself for allowing him to let me feel temptation again. This morning, I’d sworn off men altogether, and then Dean waltzed into my airplane and threw my world for a loop.
“I’m such a fucking idiot,” I mumble as I tug his jacket over my shoulders. I can’t believe I even thought for a millisecond that I should let Dean do more than unlace my dress. For that small moment in time, I felt like he was unlacing a part of me that had been tightened beyond measure to fit someone’s perspective of what I should be. Not who I was.
Frosty exterior back in place, I step out of the bathroom, expecting to find Dean waiting with that saucy grin of his, but he’s nowhere close by. Stepping farther into the terminal, I’m jostled around as passengers rush toward their destinations. Just as my frustration builds to an explosive level, I spot Dean leaning against a large window with his phone pressed to his ear. There is no hint of the carefree man from earlier. The one before me looks battered and beaten. A level of exhaustion that I’ve seen only a handful of times.
“Hey,” I say, the brightness in my voice forced and hollow and so at odds with the knot of nerves sitting heavy in my stomach. It doesn’t sound like me, not really. But it’s the only thing I can manage, and I hope it’s enough to break the tension crackling in the air like a storm waiting to snap.
Dean turns toward me, slowly, like he’s peeling himself out of some place dark and consuming. His eyes, once warm and teasing on the plane, are colder now—glassy and unreadable. They pass right over me like I’m invisible or, worse, like I’m interrupting something sacred. The change in him is jarring.
He ends the call with a sharp motion, slamming his fist into the metal frame of the window. The sound echoes in the quiet space, and I jump. My breath stutters in my chest.
“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging the worn cap from his head and pushing his fingers through his hair. His shoulders are tense, practically vibrating with whatever emotion he’s trying and failing to keep inside.
For a second, I don’t move, don’t speak.
And I probably should walk away. Give him space. Remind myself that I barely know this man. That just yesterday he was a stranger in first class who made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how. But that same man also held my hand when I couldn’t breathe. Sat beside me and offered comfort without strings or questions. Just warmth and steadiness. And now, I see the cracks in him, too.
I can tell whoever was on the other end of that call rattled him and cut him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. I see it in the slight tremble of his jaw. The haunted flicker behind his eyes. He looks like he’s unraveling, like he’s barely holding it together with frayed thread and sheer willpower.
Still, his beauty hits me like a punch to the chest. He’s all hard edges and quiet fire—dark hair that curls at the ends, brows pulled together with frustration, and a jaw that could have been chiseled from stone. He looks like he belongs in a black-and-white film. Or a magazine. Or my daydreams.
“Everything okay?” I ask, my voice softer now. Gentler.
His response cuts sharp and fast.
“No,” he barks, voice rough and frayed.
The sound slices right through me. Not because I’m scared. This… this is something else. This is a man pushed too far.
And then, just like that, he seems to catch himself. Like a switch being flipped, his posture changes. His shoulders dip, his hand loosens at his side, and when his eyes meet mine again, they’re clear. Apologetic.
“Yes,” he adds, more controlled. “Everything is fine.”
The liar in me wants to nod. Accept it. Pretend I didn’t see the moment his mask slipped. But I did. And it tugs at something deep inside me. The same part that’s still raw from walking away from a life that was never mine to begin with. I see myself in his tension. In his unraveling. We’re both running from something, even if we haven’t said it out loud.
Still, I’m not just a pretty face to fill the silence with empty reassurances.
“I don’t know what that call was about,” I say carefully, keeping my voice low and calm. “And I won’t pretend to understand. But I do know what it’s like to feel like you’re barely holding on. So… if you want to talk, or yell again, or throw your phone into the nearest loch—I’m here. I can take it.”
He stares at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out how the hell I’ve gotten under his skin so quickly. And truthfully, I don’t know either. But I can’t walk away from this. From him. Not yet. Because maybe offering comfort isn’t always about knowing the whole story. Sometimes it’s just about standing close enough that someone knows they’re not alone.
His eyes clear and fist unclenches. “Everything is fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” I mimic his lean against the window and ponder what our next steps are. I have zero desireto spend my makeshift vacation slash honeymoon wallowing in self-pity, but I also don’t want to interrupt whatever work trip Dean is venturing on.
“Do you have a place to stay while you’re here?” Dean asks, and I lift the plastic bag straining against the contents of the wedding dress as if that explains where I’m staying. “What’s that mean?”
“Well, it means I have no place to stay yet. But I’m hoping to sell the dress and get some cash. And I’m sure I can find a hostel to stay at while I’m here.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re not staying in a fucking hostel where anyone could take advantage of you.”
“People stay in hostels all the time. They’re relatively safe. Well, except for maybe that horror movie and a few pornos,” I joke.
