Aimlessly scrolling through my camera roll, I pretend to be busy, but every reflection, the window glass, the phone screen, reveals the same woman I’m trying not to recognize—the one with tired eyes and a bruise just below her collarbone, hidden beneath a layer of cotton.
The intercom crackles overhead, taking me out of my internal spiral.
Flight 612 to Nashville is now boarding Group 1-3.
That’s me.
My phone vibrates in my hand, making my breath get caught in my throat when I see who’s calling me.
I freeze, then swipe to answer before I can overthink it.
“Hey?” I say, too softly.
“Hey.”
The deep cadence of his voice hits me hard, making it hard to breathe.
It’s comforting, deep, and laced with a Southern accent, a kind of voice that stays with you long after the call is over. Behind him, I hear crickets and the soft hum of the night.
“You boardin’ yet?”
“Just about to,” I murmur. “They’re calling my row.”
“What time do you get in?”
I glance at my ticket. “Eleven p.m., your time.”
There’s a pause.
“I’ll be there.”
My chest tightens. “Reed, you don’t have to, it’s late, and I can just?—”
He cuts me off, “Layla.”
The way he says my name, it’s a tether pulling me back down to something solid.
“I said I’ll be there.”
I swallow, my voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”
“Text me when you land.”
“I will.”
“Good. See you soon, sunshine.”
When the line clicks, the airport sounds flood back in—boarding calls, chatter, the hollow scrape of rolling suitcases—but now they sound muted.
I stare at my reflection in the terminal window as the lights outside blur into gold streaks against the darkness.
For the first time in years, my pulse feels like mine again.
I tuck my phone into my pocket, grab my carry-on, and step into the boarding line.
Four and a half hours in the air.
And a man waiting on the other end who calls mesunshinelike it’s a promise.
