The cabin lights dim to a gentle, amber glow as the passengers settle into their seats, lulled by the quiet hum of the plane at cruising altitude. Meal service is done. Drink carts stowed. There's a hush in the air, the kind that only exists thirty thousand feet above ground — suspended, weightless, like time itself pauses midair.

And you’ve been avoiding him all flight.

You keep to the back galley, folding napkins with too much precision, checking inventory on auto-pilot, your earpiece still clipped but silent. The other attendants, sensing something unspoken in the air between you and him, have left you both to it.

But of course, the one place you can’t avoid Satoru is thirty thousand feet up on a twelve-hour red-eye. Especially not when you round the corner into the tiny storage compartment behind business class — and find him already inside.

His white hair is slightly messy, as always, just barely brushing his forehead beneath his cap. His uniform’s crisp but the tie is gone, top button undone, like he’s trying too hard not to care. He’s leaning against the far shelf, arms crossed loosely, ice-blue eyes flicking toward you the second the door slides shut behind you.

“Well, this is cozy,” Satoru says, dry.

You blink at him, heart tightening. “Didn’t realize you were in here.”

“Yeah, you’ve been trying real hard not to.”

You don’t answer right away, reaching past him for a restock of bottled water, but his arm shifts slightly, blocking your reach. Not aggressively — just enough to make you look at him. There’s a beat of silence. The tension hums, thick and heavy between you, louder than the engines.

“This flight was assigned last-minute,” he says finally, softer. “Wasn’t my call.”

You look up at him. “I didn’t think it was.”

Satoru studies you for a long second, like he’s trying to read your face the way he used to — back when the world made more sense, back when your fingers used to be tangled in his jacket at layovers, back when he knew what your laugh sounded like at 3AM in some foreign hotel room.

Satoru’s voice drops low. “I meant to fight for you.”

You look up at him, finally meeting his eyes. There’s no cocky grin now. No teasing glint. Just tired blue and something behind it that almost hurts to see.

“Then why didn’t you?” Satoru doesn’t answer right away. Just uncrosses his arms and runs a hand over the back of his neck.

“I thought maybe... giving you space was fighting for you. I didn’t want to push. I didn’t want to be that guy.”

You scoff. “You’ve always been that guy.”

Satoru almost laughs — but it dies in his throat. He looks at you again, properly this time, and the space between you feels like it’s closing in.

“I miss you,” Satoru says quietly, voice rough. Honest.

You hate how much it breaks you. How the words land in your chest like a punch. You haven’t let yourself feel it, not since the breakup, since he stole your heart and walked off with it.