Chapter 3 — Turbulent Skies
Claire
The cabin shuddered violently, the plane jolting as though seized by an invisible fist. Claire startled awake, her breath catching in her throat. Her hand shot out instinctively, seeking something solid, something real.
Daniel’s arm.
The fabric of his navy blazer was firm beneath her fingers, her grip unyielding as the plane rocked again. His sharp intake of breath was audible over the low hum of the engines, and she froze, suddenly hyperaware of the warmth of his arm beneath her touch. She didn’t dare look at him, but she felt the shift in his posture, the faint tension in his muscles as he turned slightly toward her.
“Claire,” he said, his voice low, steady, yet tinged with something softer—concern, or maybe just surprise. “It’s just turbulence. Breathe.”
She exhaled shakily, realizing she’d been holding her breath. The plane lurched once more, and her fingers tightened involuntarily, nails pressing into his sleeve.
“I know what it is,” she replied, her voice sharp but lacking its usual bite. She hated the way her voice wavered, betraying her. The faint scent of aftershave clung to him, clean and familiar, and it only made her grip harder to release.
“Do you?” His words carried a trace of dry humor, but he made no move to pull away. Instead, his arm shifted slightly, bracing to steady her.
Her cheeks burned, mortification blooming beneath her skin. She loosened her hold, half-intending to pull back, but another jolt sent the plane into a sharp dip. Her fingers clenched again, and she muttered under her breath, “If you’re waiting for a thank you, don’t hold your breath.”
His lips twitched, the corner lifting in the faintest hint of a smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She hated that smirk. No, what she hated was how vividly she remembered it—the way it would appear when he teased her about leaving paintbrushes in the sink or when they’d spar over her taste in melancholic French films. Infuriating. Familiar.
The turbulence eased slightly, the plane resuming a rhythmic rocking that felt almost gentle in comparison. Claire’s grip relaxed, and she withdrew her hand, folding it tightly in her lap as if to anchor it there. She stared straight ahead, determined to avoid his gaze, though she could feel the weight of his eyes on her.
“Are you okay?” he asked after a beat, his voice quieter now.
She nodded curtly, still refusing to look at him. “Fine. Just startled.”
“Right.” He leaned back into his seat, the silence between them stretching, thick with unspoken things. Claire’s heart still raced, the lingering sensation of his arm under her hand unsettling in its solidity.
The intercom crackled, and the flight attendant announced that passengers should remain seated with their seatbelts fastened. Claire barely registered the words, her mind preoccupied with the way her palms tingled, as though they still remembered the warmth of his blazer.
“I forgot you hated flying,” Daniel said suddenly, cutting through the silence.
“I don’t hate flying,” she replied too quickly, her voice defensive. “I just… don’t like turbulence.”
“Right.” His tone was laced with amusement, subtle but unmistakable.
Her head turned sharply, hazel eyes narrowing. “What’s so funny?”
His smirk widened a fraction. “Nothing. Just… you’re still a terrible liar.”
She bristled, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, the movement shifting her scarf slightly. “I’m not lying.”
“Sure,” he said, drawing the word out with infuriating calm. “You always white-knuckled the armrests during takeoff. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
Her fingers twitched, curling into the fabric of her scarf. He had noticed things about her, once. Back when they were still… whatever they were.
Her gaze drifted to the small oval window, to the endless black canvas of the night sky beyond. The faint blinking of the plane’s wing lights punctuated the darkness, a reminder of the vastness outside—the kind of vastness that felt both freeing and suffocating all at once.
“Do you always have to be right about everything?” she muttered, more to the window than to him.
“No,” he said, and for once, there was no teasing in his voice. “Not always.”
The simplicity of the statement caught her off guard, and she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was staring straight ahead, his expression impassive, though the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw softened the sharpness of his features. There was something else there, too—something strained, as though he were holding something back.
“Could’ve fooled me,” she said under her breath, more habit than intention.
His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn’t respond. But then he said quietly, “I wasn’t right about us.”
Her chest tightened, the air between them suddenly feeling thinner. The words landed with unexpected weight, like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward. She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she didn’t.
Instead, she focused on the armrests beneath her hands, her fingers brushing the worn leather as the plane rocked gently once more.
Daniel sighed, the sound low and filled with something that felt like resignation. “Here,” he said, his tone softer now.
She glanced at him, her brow furrowing as he extended his hand, palm up, resting it on the armrest between them.
“It’s just a hand, Claire,” he said, faint exasperation coloring his voice. “You can hold it if it’ll help.”
She stared at his hand, her heart pounding in her ears. It was steady, unassuming, and yet it felt like more—a gesture that was both simple and unbearably complicated. Her pride warred with the part of her that just wanted to feel anchored, if only for a moment.
Her fingers hovered, hesitating. A fleeting memory surfaced—her hand in his, steadying her during a thunderstorm years ago. She had hated storms then, too.
Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, firm but not demanding. The touch was steady, grounding, without pretense or expectation.
“Better?” he asked after a moment.
She nodded, her throat too tight to form words. They sat like that for a while, the turbulence gradually subsiding until the cabin was calm once more. She didn’t pull her hand away, and he didn’t let go.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t hate flying. I hate feeling like I’m not in control.”
His grip on her hand tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know the feeling.”
She turned to look at him then, really look at him, and for the first time in years, she saw something in his eyes that mirrored her own—a vulnerability too raw to hide. It unsettled her, not because it was unfamiliar, but because it wasn’t.
The plane hummed softly, the engines a steady backdrop to the quiet between them. For a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.
And then, just as quickly as it had started, the moment ended. Claire withdrew her hand, folding it back into her lap.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice steady now.
Daniel nodded, his expression carefully neutral. “Anytime.”
She turned back to the window, her reflection faintly visible in the glass. Outside, the darkness still stretched endlessly, but somewhere beyond the horizon, dawn waited.
And for the first time in a long time, Claire wondered if she could wait for it, too.
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