I feel it like a touch. My breath catches, and I hate that he hears it.
Roman closes the cover on his tablet. “I need a moment.”
I blink. “For what?”
He stands, buttoning his jacket with controlled movements. “A moment.”
Then he walks away, and I’m left watching him go.
He moves through the cabin like it belongs to him. Past the glowing aisles, past sleeping passengers wrapped in blankets, past the flight attendant arranging glasses near the galley.
At first, I tell myself he has gone to make a call.
Then I remember we are on a plane.
Fine. The bathroom then.
I eat another spoonful of chocolate. Then another. I wait. The minutes stretch.
I look out the window. Clouds pass like pale smoke beneath the wing. My reflection stares back at me, hair loose around my face, cheeks flushed again, mouth softer than I remember it being.
Still no Roman. Something restless moves under my skin.
Maybe it’s the alcohol fading.
Maybe it’s the food bringing me back to myself.
Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in my life, no one knows where I am except the man who bought my ticket and called me his wife.
I stand to my feet before I let my mind wander anymore.
The plane shifts gently beneath my feet, but I’m steady enough now. My head is clear, though my body is not.
That’s the problem.
I walk toward the washroom at the front, one hand trailing lightly over the seat backs. The cabin is quiet, private, full of sleeping strangers pretending not to exist.
The door is locked. I lift my hand. For one second, I almost turn back.
Good girls do not follow men to airplane washrooms. Good girls do not kiss strangers in first class. Good girls do not run from home with one small bag and a passport.
I knock.
Then silence.
Then the lock clicks, and the door opens.
Roman fills the doorway. His hair is slightly disturbed. His jacket is off. The first two buttons of his shirt are open at his throat, and his sleeves are pushed up his forearms. His expression is composed, but barely.
Something about him looks different.
He looks down at me. “Katerina.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach pull low and tight.
“What were you doing?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “You followed me to ask that?”
