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Jan looks at me for a long moment.

"You are," he says carefully, "a commercial pilot complaining that business class seats are too comfortable."

"I'm complaining that they're too separate."

"They have a privacy partition," Jan says.

"That's the problem."

He looks up at me then. A pause. "We can hold hands," he says. As if this is a reasonable solution.

"I know." I reach across the partition and take his hand, which he allows without argument. "It's not the same."

"What would be the same." He turns back to his page, though I notice he doesn't let go of my hand.

"You. On me. For fourteen hours."

He is quiet for a moment. Then, looking at his book: "I weigh seventy-eight kilograms."

"I know."

"You'd lose all sensation in your legs."

"Worth it," I say again. With complete sincerity.

Something crosses his face — the not-quite-smile, the one that means he finds this funnier than he is letting on. He squeezes my hand.

"Next time," he says, "economy."

"Economy," I agree.

He goes back to his book.

I hold his hand across the partition and look at the seat-back screen and think: economy. Fourteen hours. Jan on me. I am already looking forward to it.

Bali arrives.

The descent into Ngurah Rai — I know this approach from the cockpit side and it is entirely different from the passenger side, which is to say from Jan's side, which is: the window, the sudden appearance of rice terraces and coast and the light that belongs to this part of the world and nowhere else.

Jan leans toward the aisle, looking across the cabin through the nearest window.

"The light," he says.

"I know," I say.

"It's different."

"I know."

He turns from the window. Looks at me. Something in his face, the version of Jan that receives something that exceeds his expectations and goes still and quiet rather than performing anything about it.

"Thank you," he says. Simply.

I take his hand.

The villa is in Ubud.

I found it two weeks ago, spent more time on it than I normally spend on accommodation, went back and forth between three options until I found the one that had a private pool and a rice terrace view and a kitchen Jan could actually use if he wanted to and that wasn't so designed-within-an-inch-of-its-life that it would feel like staying in a magazine.