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I look up.

The woman is back, another staff member behind her, a man this time, older, less inclined to argue.

“We can allow you to board,” he says. “But you’ll need to be quick.”

Relief doesn’t hit the way I expect it to. It’s not a wave. It’s a quiet exhale, loosening just enough that I can function again.

“Thank you.”

Instantly, I move. Down the jet bridge, past the stale air and the hum of machinery, into a space that feels too small for everything I’m carrying.

The flight attendant at the door gives me a look, assessing, and mildly annoyed, but she steps aside.

“Seat 14A,” I say, already moving past her.

“Down the aisle, left side.”

Seat 14A is a window. Good. I prefer the illusion of control that comes with being able to look out, to orient myself even when I’m thousands of feet in the air.

There’s already someone in 14B.

Of course there is.

He’s unexpectedly striking, actually.

Dark hair, a little too long to be neat but not careless. It falls around his face in a way that looks intentional, even if it probably isn’t. His posture's relaxed, but there’s something contained about him, like he’s folded in on himself rather than spread out.

His arm is bare from the elbow down, and that’s what catches my attention.

Tattoos.

Not the messy, impulsive kind Maggie used to come home with stories about. These are… intentional. Clean lines, intricate designs that look like they have meaning, even if I don’t know what that it.

He’s touching one of them with his thumb, tracing the edge absently.

Thinking.

I notice things like that.

I slide into my seat without speaking, placing my bag under the one in front of me with more force than necessary. The plane smells like recycled air and lemon, like they’re trying to convince us this is a pleasant experience.

It isn’t.

I buckle my seatbelt, pull my hair tighter into its bun, and stare straight ahead.

Control.

That’s the goal.

If I can just get through this flight, I can get to Redwood Run. I can assess the situation. I can figure out what Maggie’s done and how to fix it.

Because I always fix it.

“You okay?”

I turn my head. He’s looking at me now. Blue eyes, more piercing than I expected. Observant.

I consider lying. I do it easily. Reflexively. “I’m fine” is practically a default setting. But the way he asked me, a stranger, somehow makes the lie feel unnecessary.