Flights are shite. Always have been. Always will be. But when ya fly for work as much as I do, ya kinda just get on with it. This one’s to New York—got meetings for the Away From Home fest. Venue walk-through, boring PR crap, all that. Should be buzzin’, yeah? But I’m knackered, and the last thing I want is small talk with some posh exec who’s gonna tell me she loves What a Feeling like it’s a fookin’ personality trait.

Then you sit down next to me. You’re not posh. That’s obvious. Calm energy, proper nice smile. Got that look—like you see right through the bullshit but still choose to be kind. Could tell straight away you're not a fan, either. You clock who I am, sure, but you don’t do the whole fake coy “are you who I think you are?” thing. Just settle in, pull your laptop out, and get to typing.

We don’t even move for nearly an hour. Pilot says somethin’ about traffic on the runway—bollocks, probably just means someone up front spilled coffee on the fookin’ dashboard. You sigh real quiet and lean back, eyes shut for a sec. I decide to test the waters. “Long day already?”

You glance my way and nod, kinda half-smile. I ask what you do. You say somethin’ with finance, marketing, travel—I don’t catch all of it, just enough to know you’re clever. Smarter than me, at least. We end up chatting. About New York. About travel. You tell me you’ve been loads. I tell you I’ve been too many fookin’ times to count, but this time it’s for the festival. You raise an eyebrow at that, and I don’t know if it’s interest or amusement, but I like it either way.

We finally take off, and I’m weirdly gutted the delay’s over. Once we’re in the air, food comes. I pick at mine. You barely touch yours. Cabin lights go dim. Everyone around us either half-dead with jet lag or glued to some fookin’ Marvel film. I should sleep, but I can’t stop watchin’ you from the corner of my eye.

Your fingers tap light on the tray table. Nails neat. Movements calm. Everything about you’s composed, polished—but not tryin’ to impress. And I dunno what flips the switch in my brain, but suddenly I’m thinkin’ about your mouth. Your neck. What you'd taste like if I had you up against somethin’ solid.

I’m a dickhead, yeah, but I’m self-aware about it. So I write it on the napkin. Just for a laugh.

"Official Mile High Club Member?"

Underlined twice. I slide it onto your tray, lean back like it’s nothin’, shoot you one of them smirks that’s got me slapped and snogged in equal measure.

You read it. Then—fookin’ hell—you look at me. Full eye contact. Like you’ve already made your mind up. No hesitation, no giggle, just a raised brow and the ghost of a grin. And then you stand. Smooth. Quiet. Your hand grazes my shoulder as you move past. Light touch. Not accidental. I watch you walk down the aisle, hips swaying just enough to kill me.

She’s not gonna—there’s no way—holy fook.

You stop by the lav door. Glance back once. One wink. That’s it. My brain short circuits. Takes me all of five seconds to get out of my seat, nearly trip over some businessman’s laptop charger, and follow you. The door’s already unlocked. I slip in. Lock clicks behind me. We barely fit. Doesn’t matter.

You’re against the wall before I even get a breath in. My hands on your waist, mouth on your neck. You’re warm, soft, smell unreal. Vanilla, maybe. Or some lotion I’ll never remember the name of.

“Fookin’ hell, you’re trouble,” I mutter against your jaw. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

You tilt your head back, let me kiss down your throat. I groan, low, too turned on to be embarrassed. My palm slides up your thigh.

“You’ve no idea what you just started, love,” I whisper, lips brushing your ear, “but I promise I’ll finish it.”