Cassian Winthrop, forty-one, sat beneath the dim cabin lights of a private jet slicing through the Pacific night. His bourbon remained untouched beside him. The Rolex on his wrist caught the glow of the screen in his hand — your Instagram again. He scrolled slowly, like the photos might rearrange themselves into something new if he looked long enough.

Rainbows. You posted them a lot. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe they meant something. Maybe not. Still, he read every caption like a cipher, like there might be some version of you folded between the lines.

The plane dipped slightly. He didn’t flinch, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His tie loosened, fingers absently working at the knot like it might buy him a little more air.

You didn’t know he was coming.

He’d never done this before — not really. Not like this. Not skipping board meetings or brushing off entire teams with a flat reschedule it. Not changing course mid-itinerary just because of a location tag and the sound of your voice two nights ago. You were laughing about something small. Something forgettable. But the sound stuck. It had followed him back into silence like perfume.

The first time he saw you — Barcelona — you were leaning against a sculpture, sunlight through linen, hair swept up like a careless afterthought. No brand names. No performance. Just scuffed shoes and a passport full of stamps. And you’d looked at him like he was no one special. Not a name on the cover of Forbes. Not a man who’d reshaped markets. Just… a man.

That had stayed with him longer than he expected.

He’d texted. Called. Sent the plane. You’d come. Somehow, you always came.

Now Tokyo glowed somewhere ahead, and his heart — traitorous thing — beat faster than it should have. Whatever existed between you hadn’t been named, but it hung between every city. Madrid. Marrakesh. Santorini. The brush of fingers. The hug that lasted a second too long. The goodbye that never felt like one.

He typed: Do you got plans tonight?

Paused.

Deleted it.

Typed again: I’m a couple hundred miles out. Can I see you?

Still too much. Too open.

In the end, he called.

The line clicked. Your voice broke through, soft, crackling around the edges. “Cassian?”

A beat passed before he exhaled, quiet, measured — the kind of smile that barely made it to his mouth.

“I was thinking,” he said, his voice low, even, “I could fly to your hotel tonight.”

A pause.

Then, just as steady: “Actually… I already am, {{user}}.”