Solange

I step into the galley, my ears buzzing from the conversation I just had and I catch Carrie's eye. "You sure talked for long with Hollywood," Carrie teases, and does smooching sounds. Fluttering her lashes, she raises a brow, It's a silent question that I I know I have to answer or she won't stop bugging me about it.

"He asked me out," I confess, leaning against the counter, a shit-eating grin playing on my lips. My heart is still hammering. It acts up when I'm around him, just like every single nerve in my body.

Carrie's eyes flicker with knowing, and she leans in closer. "I told you he wanted you."

"We'll see. It's just drinks. Nothing serious."

Her mouth forms a perfect "O" before breaking into a grin. "Oh, there's no way you're minimizing this. When is he taking you out?"

"Tonight," I admit, feeling a small flutter of guilt because I had made plans with Carrie first. "You'll tag along, right? Please tag along."

Carrie laughs, a teasing glint in her eyes. "And feel like the third wheel? Pass. I'll leave you two freaks to it."

Before I can respond, the plane jolts suddenly, sending a ripple of unease through the cabin. I grab the counter for support, exchanging a quick glance with Carrie. The seatbelt sign dings on, and a murmur of concern rises from the passengers.

"Guess I'd better handle that," I say, straightening up and putting on my professional mask. "I'll go check on everyone."

She nods, a little pale in the face now and I make my way down the aisle, smiling reassuringly and telling the passengers everything's going to be fine.

When I reach Asher's seat, I notice his hands gripping the armrests, his knuckles white. His expression is suddenly tense, and he murmurs something under his breath. I stop in my tracks, surprised.

Yes, the plane did shake but I didn't think he was the kind to react this strongly. I mean, the man had no problems stopping a thief but I guess everyone has a weakness.

"I hate turbulence," he clips, his voice barely audible over the hum of the plane.

My heart softens at his vulnerability. "It'll be okay," I say gently, leaning in closer. "It's just a bit of rough air. It'll pass soon."

He nods, but his eyes are filled with a convincing fear. I place a reassuring hand on his arm, offering what comfort I can. Just then, the plane hits another pocket of turbulence, a bit stronger this time. I lose my balance, the edge of the seat digging into my thigh. The cabin lights flicker, and I hear a collective gasp from the passengers.

Asher's grip tightens, his breath coming faster. "Can you… can you sit with me?" he asks, a sudden tremble in his usually strong voice. "Just until it's over?"

I hesitate, glancing back towards the galley where Carrie is still securing the drink cart. "Let me check with my colleague," I say, giving his arm a gentle squeeze before hurrying back to Carrie.

"Look uh…he's really scared," I explain quickly. "Is it okay if I sit with him for a bit?"

Carrie looks past me towards Asher, then back at me with a professional nod. "Go ahead. Make sure he stays calm. We can't have him start hyperventilating and attempting to get out of the plane."

"Thanks," I say, and rush back to Asher's side. I slide into the seat next to him, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin barrier of our clothing. "I'm here," I say softly. "You're not alone."

He nods, exhaling slowly. "I just… I've always had a fear of flying."

I smile, hoping to ease his tension. "You're doing great. Just breathe with me."

We do a couple of breathing exercises together and I stroke his hand, my fingertips accidentally brushing against his wrist but his pulse is even to my surprise. It should be racing, judging by the way he's breathing and his unyielding grip on the armrest. I glance at him and his eyes are darting. No, he's definitely freaking out and I let out a slow exhale. I need to distract him, take his mind off his unpleasant thoughts.

"Did you know that airplanes are the safest means of transport?" I begin, proceeding to tell him about the anatomy and function of a plane, how secure everything is and how he has nothing to worry about.

It seems to work for a bit, but he's not really engaging in the conversation and I worry I'm blabbering his ear off.

"Tell me about your upbringing," I say instead, trying to keep my voice light and conversational. "Where did you grow up?"

Asher looks at me, his pale eyes meeting mine and the pupil's dilated. "I grew up in this small, postcard looking town. We spent the summers at the lake, winters on the slopes. My parents were wonderful people who loved me deeply. It was an idyllic childhood, really."

His voice is smooth, convincing and I find myself drawn into his story. I can almost picture it: a quaint house, laughter echoing through the trees, the warmth of a loving family. No wonder he turned out as well as he did.

"That's nice," I say. "But I don't know of many small towns like that in New York? Which one is it?"

He tenses and I realize I'm snooping. And I can't believe I just let him know I registered the name of the town he was born in. Besides, maybe he was born in one town and grew up in another. Sheesh…he probably thinks I sounded like a detective just now or something.

I shrug myself, quickly deciding to switch up the conversation. "So, are you going to Colorado for business or pleasure?"

"Business," he replies and I shoot him a smile.

"What do you do for a living?"

His smile returns, though there's a slight edge to it now. "I'm glad you asked. I write books."

"Really? That's amazing. What kind of books?" I ask, genuinely excited.

"True crime," he replies, his gaze steady on mine and the reply burns me out a bit because I'm not a fan of true crime. "Specifically, books on serial killers."

I feel a shiver run down my spine, the warmth of the earlier conversation dissipating. "Oh," I say, unable to hide my surprise. "that's so…unusual."

He chuckles softly, the sound rich and comforting despite the unsettling topic. "Most people think it's morbid but not me. I'm fascinated by it. There's nothing better than diving deep into a killer's mind, understanding his motives." He glances at me. "It's a lot more compelling than you might think."

I nod, though my mind is whirling. The contrast between the idyllic childhood he described and the darkness of his chosen profession is jarring. I force a smile, trying to mask my unease. "I suppose it is."

Asher leans back slightly, his grip on the armrest loosening. The turbulence seems to be calming, but the turbulence inside me is just beginning. True crime. I would've preferred it if he'd said he writes horror or why not wholesome romance? I've never understood why people watch real life crime shows or read about it.

But maybe people who've had a wonderful life like Asher are drawn to that stuff, because it's so far from what they usually come in contact with. I can't relate though, because I'm not like that. I grew up sheltered too and my life has always been pretty much picture perfect, and I've never had any intentions of stirring things up.

I can't imagine ever being interested or even going anywhere near that other stuff, but that's just me. I shouldn't judge anyone who's different.

Besides, it's just books. It's not like he's running around, murdering people. He just writes about it.

***

Asher

The moment I mentioned true crime, something shifted in Solange. Her body is still tense, her smile paler, and the warmth in her eyes cooler. It annoys me, the way she's pulled away, putting up walls because of her own preconceptions. I take a deep breath, reigning in my frustration. I need to draw her back in.

"Just because someone writes about true crime," I say, keeping my tone gentle and compelling, "doesn't mean they have the same sick minds as the ones they write about."

Her eyes flick back to mine, a hint of embarrassment in them. Good, I've got her attention. "I was just thinking that," she breathes.

"I'm a decent guy, promise," I continue, offering her a reassuring smile. "I have my faults like everyone but deep down all I care about is serving others." I shrug. "And the books…it's just a job."

Her expression softens, the tension in her shoulders easing. "What do you do when you're not working?"

"A ton of charity," I reply and the embarrassment in her eyes increases.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice sincere. "I didn't mean to be rude or make you feel judged."

I nod, accepting her apology with a warm smile. "I understand your reaction. It's a heavy topic, but I do my best to keep my books PG."

She relaxes further, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "What's your latest one about?"

I reach into my bag and pull out a copy, holding it up for her to see. "It's about a series of unsolved murders reaching ten years back. I explore the evidence, interview the cops who were involved in the case, that kind of thing."

Solange takes the book from my hand, her fingers brushing mine. She turns it over, and I watch her eyes widen slightly as she sees my photo on the back cover. "You really are a writer," she murmurs, a touch of awe in her voice.

I chuckle softly. "Told you."

She looks up at me, her eyes sparkling with renewed interest. "Did you find anything of importance that might be of help to the cops?"

"I'm not that good," I laugh, my voice warm. "Besides, it's not my job to help catch them. Only help educate the public."

"That's admirable, I guess," she muses. Solange hands the book back to me, her smile now genuine and open. The walls she had put up are coming down, brick by brick. Her lips fall open as she's about to ask another question, but it gets stuck in her throat.

The plane shudders violently again, and I feel the tension ratchet up in the cabin. Solange starts to rise, instinctively moving to perform her duties, to reassure the passengers, to be the composed flight attendant.

"Stay put," I say, my voice firm because there's no way I'm letting her walk around with the plane shaking this much. She could trip, luggage could fall on her head.

She looks at me, torn between her responsibility and the fear creeping into her eyes. "I have to—"

I grab her wrist, my grip tightening. "If you don't sit your ass down, I'll strangle you."

Shock flashes across her face, her eyes wide and mouth open in a silent gasp. She doesn't move, the weight of my words pinning her to her seat. The turbulence picks up again, and the plane lurches.

Fuck! Why the fuck does this have to happen now?

Solange's fingers clutch the armrest, knuckles white, her eyes darting around in panic and I fear for her. My own nerves are calm. Earlier I was just pretending to get her to sit next to me, but I didn't think things would escalate like this. The overhead bins rattle, and the lights flicker ominously. The cabin is filled with the sounds of frightened murmurs and gasps. Another violent jolt throws a passenger's drink into the air, splashing onto the aisle.

The plane feels like it's being tossed around by a giant, unseen hand. Solange clings to my arm, her nails digging into my skin . The need for me to ground her is palpable in her eyes, sending a thrill through me, despite the chaos around us.

But then the gas masks drop from the ceiling, swaying like pendulums. Fuck! A collective scream rises from the passengers. I seize a mask and place it over Solange's face, her breath coming fast and shallow against the plastic, her eyes wide and bloodshot. I secure my own, the rubber strap tight against my head.

The plane continues to buck and sway, the engines roaring like a beast in agony. People are crying, shouting, praying. Luggage spills from the overhead compartments, tumbling into the aisles. I pull Solange to me, feeling her trembling against me. The masks do little to muffle the panic.

Through the small window, clouds whirl past, thick and dark. The plane dips suddenly, a stomach-churning drop that has everyone screaming again. I know what's coming. A crash is inevitable.

The turbulence is relentless, each jolt more violent than the last. The screams of the passengers blend with the mechanical groans of the aircraft. Solange buries her face into my shoulder, her body shaking uncontrollably. I tighten my grip on her, my own heart pounding, but a part of me is eerily calm, detached.

This is the moment where all pretenses fall away, where survival instincts take over. The plane bucks one last time, a bone-jarring jolt that makes everything tilt…