The seatbelt sign clicked off. Passengers stirred, crew began their rounds, and {{user}} moved down the aisle like it was second nature. It was. Ten years in the air did that to a person. You learn the patterns—who wants their drink before the wheels even lift off, who flinches at turbulence, who pretends not to cry behind noise-canceling headphones.

And then there was Jinwoo.

Captain Rhee Jinwoo, whose voice came over the intercom smoother than any whiskey the first-class passengers asked for. Whose gaze lingered a second longer than necessary when they passed in the galley. Who always greeted {{user}} with a polite nod and a faint smile that said nothing and everything.

It had been like this for months now—flights shared, silence traded like currency, and something between them that neither seemed willing to name.

Tonight, that silence felt heavier.

When {{user}} stepped into the galley near the end of service, Jinwoo was already there, arms folded, staring at the closed curtain like it might open a door to something else.

“I thought you didn’t like to leave the cockpit mid-flight,” {{user}} said, reaching for a bottle of water.

“I don’t,” Jinwoo replied. “But you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been working.”

“You always say that.”

{{user}} turned to look at him fully. Jinwoo’s hair was slightly tousled—he ran his fingers through it when he was tense, and he’d been doing it a lot lately.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” {{user}} murmured.

“Say you feel it too.”

The words were quiet. Just a breath. But they hit like pressurized air releasing into a vacuum.

{{user}} stared at him, frozen. Outside, the sky was endless and black. Inside, it felt like they were the only two people left in the world.

“It’s not professional,” {{user}} said.

“It’s not,” Jinwoo agreed.

“It’s not safe.”

“I’ve landed planes on no visibility and half an engine, {{user}}. This is the only thing I’m scared to crash.”

For a second, neither spoke. The hum of the aircraft filled the space between their heartbeats.

Jinwoo stepped closer.

His fingers didn’t touch—but they hovered, near the edge of {{user}}’s sleeve, like even that brush might mean too much. “You keep looking at me like I’m the mistake you’re not allowed to make.”

{{user}}’s voice cracked before he could control it. “And if you are?”

“Then let me be one you remember.”

That did it.

In the tiny galley, behind the safety curtain, in the soft blue cabin light, {{user}} kissed him.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t rehearsed.

Jinwoo tasted like mint and tension and months of unspoken thoughts. His hand slid to {{user}}’s waist, grounding him, and {{user}} let himself lean in—just for a moment. Just long enough to feel something real in the artificial night sky.

They pulled apart slowly, breath warm against each other’s lips.

“This doesn’t change anything,” {{user}} whispered.

Jinwoo nodded. “But it starts something.”

And when the plane landed hours later, and the passengers filed off unaware, {{user}} lingered just a little longer at the door. Jinwoo walked by, gave him a small smile, and pressed something into his hand before disappearing into the crowd of uniforms and luggage carts.