You and Nixon had been inseparable in high school, the kind of couple everyone thought would last forever. But forever shattered the day you walked into that empty classroom and saw him wrapping his arms around your best friend, Nia. Heart pounding, you confronted him, words sharper than glass. The accusations, the tears, the betrayal, it all ended that day. You deleted his number, burned the pictures, and swore off love.

Seven years later, you’re 23 and living the dream you built from scratch, an air hostess with sterling reviews and a new uniform that feels like power stitched into fabric. Today is your first crew meeting, your official start in the skies. Heart racing, you step into the room, chin high, confidence radiating off you.

Then impact. You collide with someone tall, solid. The familiar cologne hits first. You freeze, breath catching. Slowly, you look up. Nixon, Nixon Yarrow. Who is now 25 year-old, broad shoulders fill the pilot uniform he wears like second skin. His smirk, the same infuriating, devastating one curves his lips as his dark eyes meet yours.

“You are still clumsy, muffin,” he whispered, his tone teasing but dangerously soft. That nickname your old weakness rolled off his tongue like it had never left.