Chapter b52 /b

“Notughing.”

Her eyes natrow, but the corners of her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. And just like that, the tension between

me shine.

Not gone, not even close. But it’s so much lighter now.

We grab our things and head toward the gate, weaving through the terminal. I don’t realize how used to moving bin /bsync we are until we navigate the crowd effortlessly, her small frame slipping into step beside me without either of us needing to say a word.

When we reach the gate, she nces at me. “Food?”

I nod. ‘Definitely.”

We stop at a café nearby, the air thick with the scent of coffee and fresh pastries. Emilia orders something ridiculously sweet–a caramel mhiato with extra whipped cream–while I stick to ck coffee.

She catches me staring as she stirs in more sugar.

“What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Just thinking about how your drink is basically dessert.”

She shrugs. “Some of us like to enjoy the best things life has to offer, Liam.”

I smirk. “Some of us like coffee that actually tastes like coffee.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, she takes a sip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s in heaven. I look away, pretending I don’t notice how her lips part slightly around the straw, how a little bit of whipped cream sticks to the corner

of her mouth.

God help me.

I clear my throat. “We should head back.”

She hums in agreement, but when I move bto /bstand, she doesn’t follow right away. Instead, she fidgets with her cup, ncing at me like she’s working up the nerve to say something.

Before I can ask, the overhead speaker crackles. “Now boarding Flight 172 to Chicago.”

Emilia exhales, shaking her head. “Guess that’s us.”

We grab our bags and head toward the gate.

XXX

The ne is packed.

Flet Emilia take the window seat, mostly because she looked blike /bshe needed it. She tucks herself into bthe /bcorner,

pulling out a book as I settle beside her.

The space between us is small too small. Our arms brush when she shifts. Our knees bump when I adjust my seatbelt Every idental touch sends a spark of awareness through me.

The worst part? I don’t think it’s one–sided.

She’s pretending to read, but I can see the way her fingers grip the edges of the pages too tightly, the way her eyes flick to me when she thinks I’m not looking.

I should say something. Make a joke. Break the tension.

But then the ne jolts as we taxi down the runway, and Emilia’s hand shoots out, gripping my arm.

1 nce down at her, surprised. “You okay?”

She nods quickly. Too quickly.

It rings every single rm bell in my head.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re scared of flying?”

“No,” she says, but her fingers tighten.

I bite back a smile. “Right. Totally believe you.”

She scowls but doesn’t let go.

The ne lifts off, the pressure pushing us back against our seats. Emilia inhales sharply, her nails digging into my

forearm.

I shift slightly, turning my palm up as an invitation.

She hesitates. Then, slowly, carefully, her fingers ‘slide into mine.

My breath catches.

I don’t look at her, and she doesn’t look at me. But neither of us pulls away.

Minutes pass. The ne evens out, the seatbelt sign dings off.

She could let go now. She doesn’t.

I tighten my grip just a little, just enough for her to know I’m here.

Just enough to let myself believe–for now–that maybe, just maybe, she wants to hold on too.

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