The airplane hummed with the low, constant drone of altitude. Outside the oval window, clouds churned like softened marble, stretched over a sky that couldn't decide if it was blue or grey. The jet coasted above it all—quiet, isolated, as though it existed outside of time.

Maya sat stiffly in her seat; hands folded tightly in her lap.

There was no one else in the row.

They left the hotel at the early in the morning and boarded their flight back, she hadn't expected they'd be seated side by side. But when she boarded, Richard was already in the aisle seat, silent and unreadable, gesturing for her to take the window with a glance that offered no room for objection.

Now, forty-five minutes into the flight, neither had said a word.

Maya stared out the window, pretending the clouds were more interesting than the heaviness sitting in her chest.

He hadn't spoken much since the lodge.

Last night, he hadn't even looked at her after the viewing deck. Just those moment—when his hand brushed hers and when he caught her from falling—then nothing. He'd barely glanced her way at breakfast. When she tried to thank him again for the help on the mountain, he'd given her a single nod and gone quiet.

I probably messed it up, she thought, pressing her fingers tighter. Like always.

It was almost comforting, the pattern. Mess something up. Get awkward. Say the wrong thing. Wreck the mood.

Still... the way he had looked at her, just for a second, standing in the snow with his coat open and the wind in his hair—he'd looked... human. Not cold, not terrifying. Almost soft. Almost—

"Your ankle," came his voice suddenly, low and clipped.

Maya turned, startled. "Sorry?"

He didn't look at her directly. His gaze remained fixed forward, elbow propped on the armrest, fingers folded at his chin.

"Is it still swollen?"

"Oh," she blinked, "it's... a little. But I'm okay."

"You should ice it again when you get back."

She nodded quickly. "I will. Thank you."

Silence again.

But Maya didn't turn back to the window this time. She studied his profile in secret, heart skimming awkward rhythms. He looked exhausted. His eyes were shadowed, darker than usual, like sleep had abandoned him days ago. The sharp planes of his face hadn't softened, but there was something... tired underneath.

He shifted slightly in his seat. And for the first time, she noticed he was sitting oddly close.

Not inappropriately. Not on purpose. But the slight lean of his shoulder, the way their arms occasionally brushed when the plane swayed—it felt... strange. Heavy.

She quickly looked away.

Richard, for his part, kept his face schooled in blankness. But internally, he was spiraling.

This was a mistake.

He could feel the pull again. It was stronger now. Something had changed since the mountain. Since the lodge. Since her.

The way she had looked at him after he carried her—eyes wide, confused, open. No fear. Just warmth. Just trust. And that trust was doing something unforgivable inside him.

His hand twitched against his thigh.

He could still remember the weight of her in his arms. How light she had been. How her breath had hitched when he looked down. How her fingers had curled faintly into his coat. He'd never touched anyone that way before.

Never wanted to.

And now, here they were—trapped together, thousands of feet in the air, and all he could think about was how close she was sitting. The faint scent of her hair. The softness of her voice.

It made him angry. At himself.

She didn't fall sick close to him.

Richard's jaw tensed. You're not allowed to feel this. The voice in his head returned, bitter and familiar. You know what happens when you start wanting things.

He glanced at her. Just a flicker.

Her lashes were low, her hands still neatly folded. She looked tired. Innocent. A little sad.

It hit him unexpectedly, that sadness. Made something in his chest twist.

"Do you—" he stopped himself.

She looked up. "Sorry?"

He cleared his throat, eyes straight ahead again. "Do you want anything? Coffee. Water."

She blinked, startled. "Oh. No sir. I'm okay. Thank you."

He didn't reply.

But she smiled, faintly. And for the first time since boarding, the weight in her chest eased—just a little.

Because something had changed. He was quieter, yes. More distant but more present somehow. Like he was trying to sort through something he didn't have the words for.

And for once, she didn't try to fix it.

She just sat with him. Close, quiet, warm beside the cold.

Outside, the clouds broke slightly, letting a sliver of sunlight cut through. It glinted across the window, casting gold onto the edge of his sleeve and the soft line of her cheek.

Neither of them noticed.

____

The car ride from the airport was quiet.

City lights smeared across the windows like wet brushstrokes, streaking neon against the black of Richard's town car. The snow was thinner here—no alpine cold, no icy wind—just the dull hum of traffic and the gray blur of another winter evening in the city.

Maya sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap again, just like on the plane.

This time, there wasn't even the soft thrum of altitude to fill the space between them. Just silence. Comfortable wasn't the word for it. But something had settled. Something neither of them had words for yet.

She glanced at Richard briefly from the corner of her eye.

He looked the same. Dark suit. Impeccable posture. Composed. But the quiet was different now. Not cold, not distant. Thoughtful.

And that somehow made it worse.

Because it made her think of the lodge. Of how he'd carried her so carefully, his arms steady but his face drawn. How he hadn't said anything cruel or annoyed when she'd messed up her ankle, hadn't told her to be more careful or made her feel ridiculous.

He just... helped.

She wasn't used to that.

People helped her because of her name. Because they had to. Or they avoided her because she was always tripping on her own feet and forgetting things and being Alfred Peyton's daughter who never lived up to anything.

But Richard hadn't looked at her like that. Not even when she was at her worst.

That was the part that scared her.

He hadn't looked at her like anything at all—just quietly, deeply, like he was studying her. Like her very existence was unraveling something in him.

Her chest tightened.

She was probably imagining things. Of course she was.

The car pulled up in front of her apartment. The driver didn't move to open the door—protocol for Richard's people when a passenger wasn't VIP. She didn't mind. She actually preferred slipping away quietly.

She reached for the handle, but Richard's voice stopped her.

"Maya."

She froze.

She turned slowly. "Yes sir?"

He was still staring straight ahead; fingers interlocked loosely over his knee. His voice was calm, but low.

"I'll expect your summary on the client presentations by tomorrow morning."

Maya blinked. "Oh. Yes sir. Of course. I'll— I'll have it ready."

A pause.

Then, almost too quiet to hear—

"Don't walk on that foot more than you have to."

Her breath caught.

"I—I won't sir."

She waited, half-hoping he might say something more. Ask if she needed help up. If she got home okay. But instead, he just nodded once and looked away.

Dismissed.

Maya stepped out of the car slowly, ankle twinging as her boot met the pavement. She didn't look back and shut the door behind her.

But her heart was thudding in her chest like something had changed. Again.

Richard just stared at car door, deep in thought.

Something was wrong. Off.

He had felt it since the lodge. Since the moment he picked her up in the snow.

His hands still remembered the warmth of her through his gloves. The way she had curled slightly into him—trusting, vulnerable. She hadn't recoiled. Hadn't flinched. She had looked at him like he was human.

And that terrified him.

She was undoing something inside him. Slowly. Quietly.

And the worst part?

What if he couldn't stop it?