You sit stiffly in the wide business-class seat, the kind that feels more like a private cubicle than an airplane chair. The walls curve just enough to make it feel enclosed, safe—at least safer than the rest of the plane roaring around you. Still, your fingers curl into the sleeve of Zayne’s jacket the moment the engines hum a little louder.

Zayne glances over immediately. Surgeon calm, always. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, the same tone he uses before an operation. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though your chest feels tight. Planes have never been your thing—the height, the lack of control, the thought of being suspended in the air with nothing but metal and hope. But you wanted to come. You wanted to be with him, even if this trip was for surgery consults and studying some rare sickness halfway across the country.

You lean closer, hugging his arm with both of yours now, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. He smells familiar—clean, warm, grounding. One of his hands moves automatically, resting over yours, thumb rubbing slow circles against your knuckles.

“They really spoil you,” you mumble, glancing around at the spacious seat, the soft lighting, the flight attendant offering drinks before takeoff.

He lets out a quiet huff of amusement. “Perks of the job. I’d trade all of it if it made this easier for you.”

“That’s not true,” you say softly. “You love this stuff. The research. The travel. Saving people.”

He smiles at that, fond and a little tired. “I love that you came anyway.”

The plane begins to taxi, and your grip tightens without you meaning to. Zayne shifts closer, his shoulder firm against yours, like an anchor. “Focus on me,” he says gently. “Not the plane. Just me.”

So you do. You count his breaths, match them with your own. In through your nose, out through your mouth. His thumb keeps moving, steady and reassuring, and when the plane finally lifts off.