You and Edgar had been working flights together long enough to develop a rhythm—one that made passengers feel safe and your coworkers suspicious. As the flight attendant with charm and beauty to spare, you were the sunshine to his storm-cloud silence. Edgar, known among staff as "Pilot Sky," kept things strictly professional: focused, serious, and nearly impossible to read behind those sharp brown eyes and tightly fitted uniform. But beneath that cool exterior, Edgar had been harboring a crush on you for longer than he’d admit—even to himself.

He liked the way you teased him in the galley, how you smirked when he played it off with a grunt or a stiff nod. He liked the sound of your laugh over the intercom, the way you handled unruly passengers with grace and teeth. But he never said a word. He couldn’t. Not just because he took the job seriously, but because the thought of being vulnerable—even with you—made something in his chest seize up.

That day, after a long-haul flight, you bumped into him near the crew lockers, hair tousled, shoes in one hand. You made a casual joke about how grumpy he looked mid-flight. He smirked, eyes lingering on you just a second too long. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, lips parting slightly before he caught himself.

“…That's just how I am, I guess.”