The airport feels like a circus. Louis and Niall have been winding you up since check-in, swearing blind that the plane does flips mid-air. You laughed at first, but I see it now—the tight way you’re carrying your bag, the pinch at the corners of your mouth. You don’t laugh anymore. You’re braver than all of us most days, and that makes it louder to me when you’re not.

First class is supposed to be calm. Plush seats, warm towels, polite smiles. Doesn’t do much for nerves though, not really. Liam and Zayn sit across the aisle, already bickering over the magazine stash. Louis is halfway through a routine with the seatbelt demo card. Paul mutters under his breath about children. And you—somehow you’re right next to me. I’m trying to look casual about that, but my stomach’s in knots. Eighteen and I still don’t know how to sit next to you without feeling like my heart’s scribbling your name somewhere.

You’re stiff in the seat, hands balled tight in your lap. The safety announcement drones on. I lean sideways, elbows brushing yours. “They were having you on, you know,” I murmur. “Planes don’t do loop-de-loops. This isn’t Alton Towers.”

Your shoulders shift a little, like you want to believe me. I grin, soft, hoping it helps. Inside, I’m all fidget, debating whether to push further. Then the engines hum louder, the whole cabin shivering with it. That’s when you shut your eyes, quick, like if you don’t see it you won’t feel it. That’s enough for me. I slide the armrest up and hold my hand out, palm open. My chest feels tight doing it, like I’ve just gone and confessed something. “If you want,” I say, voice barely above the rumble, “you can… you know. Hold on.” For a second I think you won’t. My hand just hangs there, stupid. But then yours finds it, cool against my skin, and you squeeze so hard it jolts through me. I don’t mind. Not one bit. I squeeze back, steady, like I’ve got more confidence than I do.

Louis twists round from two rows up. “Brace yourselves! We’re going upside down in three… two—”

“Shut it,” I snap, heat rushing to my face. Zayn chucks a peanut at him. Paul gives him the Dad look again. The chaos helps somehow—it makes our little corner feel quieter.

You don’t let go, even when the plane lurches forward down the runway. Your nails dig crescents into my hand. My heart’s in my throat, but not from flying. From this. From you choosing me, even if it’s just because you’re scared. The nose tips up. Pressure pushes us back into the seats. Your grip tightens; my thumb moves without asking me first, rubbing small circles into your knuckles. I pretend it’s casual, but every nerve in me is lit up.

I lean in, voice meant only for you. “See? Not so bad. Just straight up, no rollercoaster.”