Page 80 of Mistletoe and Mayday

I’m running before she finishes, ignoring the shouts that follow me. Another door, another hallway, another dead end. Signs blur past—2A, 2B, personnel breakroom.

I skid to a stop, backtrack. Breakroom. Where pilots might wait between flights.

Without hesitation, I burst through the door, startling three uniformed workers mid-conversation. Coffee sloshes from a mug, spattering the table.

“Bailey Monroe?” My voice sounds desperate.

A tall man stands, drawing himself up to his full height. “Hey, you can’t be in here. This is for personnel only.”

“Bailey Monroe,” I repeat, scanning the room like a drowning man searching for shore. “She’s a pilot. Please, I need to find her before?—”

“Security!” someone calls.

I don’t move. These people stand between me and my last chance. “Her flight just arrived. She must be here somewhere. Please. I just need five minutes.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the tall man says, reaching for a radio at his belt.

Five airports. Countless security guards giving me hostile looks. And still no Bailey.

For once in my life, I haven’t thought it through. Just felt. Just acted. Just followed this desperate pull toward the one person who made me feel real.

“Sir, I’m calling security now.”

My stomach plummets. Security. I’ve seen the interrogation rooms in airports—stark white walls, metal table bolted to the floor, cameras watching from every angle. They’ll detain me, question me, maybe even search me. The indignity of it flashes through my mind—latex gloves snapping, the humiliating bend and spread, fingers probing where no Lockhart has ever been probed before.

Father would die of shame. Mother would require hospitalization. The Wall Street Journal would run the headline:Lockhart heir detained in airport: cavity search reveals nothing but privilege.

And I don’t care. Not one bit.

They can strip me naked and examine every opening of my body. They can plaster my mugshot across every business publication in America. They can livestream my cavity search on the corporate website. None of it matters.

But what if she’s already gone? What if I missed her? What if this wild chase ends with me alone in an airport security office while her plane lifts off without her ever knowing I came?

I’ll sit in that security room with my naked ass on cold metal, and I’ll start again. I’ll search another airport. And another. And another. I’ll buy another snow globe. And another. And another. Until I find her.

“Bailey must be here,” I whisper, the words a desperate prayer. “She has to be.”

Just as the tall man reaches for my arm, the door swings open behind me.

My heart stops. Starts. Stops again.

Bailey stands frozen in the doorway, her pilot’s cap tucked under one arm, hair escaping from what was once a neat bun.Her eyes widen as they lock with mine, lips parting in surprise. Dark circles shadow the skin beneath her eyes, like she hasn’t slept since we parted.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Sebastian?” My name in her mouth sounds different—part question, part accusation, part something I’m afraid to name. “What are you?—”

The security guard’s grip tightens on my arm. “You know this guy?”

Bailey’s eyes dart between us. I watch her process the scene—me, disheveled and desperate in her workspace; the security guard’s hand on my coat; her coworkers staring with undisguised curiosity.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice neutral. “I do.”

The tension in the room shifts. The guard loosens his grip but doesn’t release me.

“Is he bothering you?” the tall man asks, his protective instinct evident in the way he positions himself between us.

Bailey makes a sound that’s almost a laugh but catches it halfway. “He’s been bothering me since the moment we met.” But there’s something in her eyes that contradicts her words—a spark I recognize from long nights in a cabin when the world outside disappeared.