You’ve been looking forward to this trip for months. A week in a tropical paradise with your boyfriend and both your friend groups—late-night swims, loud laughter, sunburns and sandy hair. The kind of memory you’d look back on when life felt too ordinary.

Ashton had been the one to plan the flights. He hated flying—something about being trapped in the air, too far from control. You still remembered the first time he told you, voice low, knuckles white around a water bottle. So he made sure your seats were together, double-checking every confirmation email, every boarding pass. He even picked the row carefully—“less turbulence,” he’d said.

You thought it was sweet.

At the gate, everyone was buzzing—snapping photos, joking about who’d tan best, who’d burn first. Ashton was quieter, fidgeting with his sleeve, that telltale sign he was already anxious. You squeezed his hand once, reassuring. He squeezed back twice, the silent signal between you two: I’m okay, I just hate this.

When it was time to board, chaos. Bags overhead, seats mixed up, friends calling across rows. You’d been helping one of your friends, Jordan, shove his backpack into an overhead bin when you turned around—and saw her.

Ari.

Of course.

Ari was Ashton’s best friend from high school—the “girl best friend.” You didn’t hate her, not exactly. But there was something about her that always rubbed you wrong. The way she lingered in conversations that weren’t hers. The way her hand would land on Ashton’s arm mid-laugh. She was friendly with everyone, but with him… it always felt like more.

And now she was sitting in your seat.

You blinked, certain you’d read the row wrong, but no—there she was, settled beside Ashton, already buckling herself in like it was hers. Ashton looked confused, head whipping toward you.

“Hey—wait—” he started, voice already strained, but Ari cut him off with a breezy smile.

“You don’t mind, right? I just wanted to sit here for takeoff. I’ll move later.”

Her tone was light, practiced. The kind that left no room for argument without making you seem petty.

Your stomach twisted.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Ashton’s breathing hitched. His fingers fumbled with his seatbelt. You saw that flicker in his eyes—the one that always came right before takeoff, when his nerves started climbing.

You forced a smile anyway, biting back your irritation. “Yeah, sure. Just for take—”

“No.”

Ashton’s voice came out fast, shaky. He shook his head before you could finish. “No, no, no, she’s sitting here.”

Ari blinked, startled. “Ash, relax—”

“I’m not—I just—” He stammered, rubbing his palms against his sweatpants like he was trying to get the panic off of them. “I can’t— I hate flying, okay? I need her next to me.”

The words came out rushed, unfiltered, almost desperate. His eyes darted from Ari to you and back again, wide and pleading in a way that made your heart ache.