You hated flying. The enclosed space, the impossible height, the knowledge that you were trapped in a metal tube hurtling through the sky at 500 miles per hour—it was all a nightmare.

You were gripping the armrest so hard your knuckles had turned white when the man next to you leaned in slightly, his voice smooth and warm over the dull roar of the engines.

“You okay?”

You let out a shaky breath, turning your head just enough to see him. He had striking blue eyes, a sharp jawline, and an annoyingly perfect smirk. Probably one of those guys who traveled all the time and didn’t even flinch at turbulence.

“I hate flying,” you admitted, unclenching your fingers just enough to flex them before gripping the armrest again.

“Ah,” he nodded knowingly. “Want a distraction?”

You were about to ask what kind when he reached into the seat pocket and pulled out two tiny bottles of vodka, holding one out to you like a peace offering.

A slow smile tugged at your lips. “You just carry those around?”

He grinned. “Nah, but I always come prepared.”

You hesitated, then took the bottle. “Fine. But if this plane goes down, I’m haunting you.”

He laughed, twisting open his own bottle. “Deal. But if we survive, you owe me another round.”

Somewhere between takeoff and turbulence, between swapping embarrassing travel stories and rating airline mini liquor bottles on a scale of surprisingly decent to jet fuel, you forgot to be afraid. You even dozed off somewhere over the Atlantic, waking up to find your head resting against his shoulder—and to your surprise, he didn’t seem to mind.

It wasn’t until after landing, when you met up with your family and your niece shoved a phone in your face, that your nearly choked on her own breath.

“Wait… wasn’t this guy sitting next to you?”

On the screen was a Marvel movie poster. Front and center was the same smirking man from the plane.

Sebastian Stan.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

“Oh, shit.”