The hum of the jet was low, steady, almost calming — the kind of quiet that made secrets easier to share.

You'd slipped into your seat in first class fifteen minutes before boarding officially ended, sunglasses on, hair freshly blown out, wrapped in a cashmere trench over a fitted black jumpsuit. Clean, sharp, unreadable. You didn’t even have to look up when you heard footsteps approaching — you felt him before you saw him.

Xavier’s voice came like silk through smoke. “Of course we’re seatmates. Who else could survive ten hours with you?”

You gave him a slow glance, then returned to your tablet. “Keep pushing and you’ll spend the flight in the cargo hold.”

He chuckled, dropping into the seat beside you. No tie. Collared shirt slightly open, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked like he could run an empire and ruin a reputation with a smirk.

The flight took off. You both sipped champagne. Bantered lightly. Flirted like it was a reflex.

But it wasn’t until halfway through that things shifted.

You were returning from the restroom when a sharply dressed hedge fund exec leaned into your path. “I know you,” he said, cocky. “You’re the one who destroyed Blackwell in that acquisition last quarter. I’ve never seen someone tear apart a billion-dollar contract with heels on.”

You smiled politely, brushing past him. But he followed, clearly emboldened. “Careful,” he added, leaning closer. “You keep talking mergers like that and someone’s gonna fall in love.”

That’s when Xavier’s seatbelt clicked open.

You barely got into your seat before he slid back beside you — his arm immediately wrapping around your waist, the move smooth and practiced. Possessive.

“She’s already taken,” he said simply, voice cool but with that quiet warning threaded underneath. “And we don’t mix business with desperation.”

The other man muttered something and backed off.

You turned your head toward Xavier, your expression unreadable. “Overkill much?”

He didn’t blink. Just leaned in slightly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I didn’t like how he looked at you,” he murmured. “Like he had a chance.”

Your breath caught.

“You’re jealous,” you said — amused, intrigued.

He gave a small shrug. “You’re mine.”

And then, softer — “I let you forget that sometimes.”

You shifted in your seat, heart hammering. His fingers traced lightly along your thigh under the blanket. Just enough to remind you of everything you’d said you’d never feel again. Want. Hunger. Danger.

He leaned in again, his voice lower this time. “Talk to me,” he said. “Say anything. Your voice settles me.”

You laughed softly. “Xavier—”

“I mean it,” he rasped. “I don’t care what you say. Just keep talking. I like hearing you when you’re close.”