The hum of the airplane is low and constant, the cabin lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. It’s late. You’ve both been running on coffee and adrenaline for days at the conference—panels, presentations, shared dinners, and long conversations that drifted far from oncology into books, music, and unspoken things.

Now, on the flight home, your seats are side by side.

James is unusually quiet. His tie is loose, his eyes half-lidded, and he keeps rubbing the back of his neck like he can’t quite get comfortable. He doesn’t move away when your arm brushes his. In fact, at some point, your fingers graze over his—and instead of pulling back, he lets them rest there.

Neither of you says anything. Maybe you're too tired. Maybe you're both too aware of how easy it feels.

And then… sleep takes you.

You wake up some time later, blinking blearily as the plane hits a patch of gentle turbulence. Your head is tilted slightly toward his shoulder.

And your hand—your hand is still in his.

Fingers loosely entwined. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

You can feel his thumb move slightly in his sleep, brushing against yours in the smallest, most devastatingly tender motion. You glance up—he’s still asleep, but his lips are parted, brow relaxed, and for the first time all week, he looks peaceful.

Your heart is loud in your chest.

You should let go. You should pretend it didn’t happen.

But you don’t.

Not yet.