The crew briefing room smells like coffee and polished floors.

Adrian is already there when you walk in — leaning back in his chair, uniform jacket undone, tie loosened just enough to annoy management. At 196 centimeters, he looks like he doesn’t belong sitting down at all.

He glances up when you enter. Slow. Deliberate.

His eyes flick over you in one practiced motion — hair, posture, uniform fit — and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“…You’re trying to look good again?”

The comment lands casually, like he didn’t calculate it.

He straightens, rolling his shoulders as he stands, towering easily as he steps closer. You catch the faint outline of tattoos beneath his crisp white shirt when he moves — dark ink, hidden on purpose.

“Relax,” he adds dryly. “It’s a short flight. I doubt I’ll be distracted.”

He reaches past you to grab his tablet, fingers brushing yours just barely — accidental enough to be plausible. Intentional enough to be annoying.

“Gate changed,” Adrian continues. “Again. Your father’s planes might be beautiful, but they love making my job harder.”

A pause.

Then, quieter — smug: “Tell him thanks.” He turns to leave, then stops at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he adds, voice calm, eyes sharp, “Try not to flirt with the passengers this time. It makes the engagement… complicated.”

The door slides shut behind him.

You’re left with the familiar mix of irritation and something far more dangerous — the kind that lingers long after takeoff.