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Y ou’d think, with as much as I’ve flown, I’d be more composed right now, but there’s something about the airport that brings out the worst in me. So many people and scents—even with most people opting for scent blockers, it’s overwhelming. It makes my nerves feel all crackly. I want to curl up in a ball and hide under a chair. “That’d be too weird, Cora. Pull yourself together.”

Ice cubes rattle in my iced latte as I dig out my boarding pass to confirm my gate number. I’ve checked it at least four times, but I want to be absolutely sure I’m in the right place. I can’t miss this flight, it’s the last one out to Ekdoti today, and I’m not willing to wait until tomorrow.

I’m not going to be the last person to arrive on my first dig. I’m going to be prompt and punctual and on top of things.

“Gate 61, 62, 63… oh! Ga te 64, that's me!” An older gentleman gives me a weird look as I shimmy in excitement, reminding me I’m in a public place and should probably tone it down. Giving him a brief nod and one of those awkward, tight lipped smiles, I hurry past him toward an empty chair in the waiting area. Falling into the hard plastic seat, I take a deep breath of relief.

Relief that’s short-lived as the gate agent’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. “Last call for Flight 2431 to Ekdoti International Airport. Doors are closing in three minutes.”

“Shit!” I jump up, nearly spilling the remainder of my iced coffee all over my lap when I realize that’s my flight. How the hell did I end up this late? I swear I left in enough time!

Haphazardly grabbing my carry-on and drink, I scurry to the gate, waving my boarding pass in the air. “I’m here! I’m here! Don’t leave without me!”

The gate agent gives me the same look the old man did as she takes my ticket and scans it. My face is bright red by the time she responds, gesturing toward the jetway. “Okay Ms. Whitlock, you’re all set.”

I squeak out a quick thank you before running down the ramp to the plane. Checking my ticket one more time as I cross the threshold, I head down the aisle, trying not to bump into everyone already boarded and settled in. My gaze flits over the seats, searching for an empty one. I really should start flying on airlines that give assigned seating. It’s not a big plane, and it’s crowded. There are only two seats per row, so as soon as the broad-shouldered man in front of me takes a seat, I see him .

Dr. Roman Slate. Just my luck. He’s staring daggers at me. A look that I’m sure kept anyone from sitting next to him, which means it’s the only place still vacated.

He doesn’t move from the aisle seat to let me in. Glancing back at my boarding pass, I hold it up helplessly, waving it in front of him. A move that may have made sense if my ticket had anything other than a boarding group on it—a group I missed because I was late. My smile is left unmet as he stares at me wordlessly, jaw tightening by the second.

“Could you just….uh… could I squeeze in here?”

He closes his eyes as if I’m on his last nerve before heaving his large body out of the tiny plane seat, stepping into the aisle just enough for me to smush by. It’s tight quarters, so I can’t help but brush against him as I slide in, another flush rising to my cheeks when I feel the hard planes of his chest against my back. Settling in next to the window, I try not to spill my coffee as I shove my bag under the seat in front of me. But when I go to buckle my seat belt, I realize I need both hands. I briefly try to grab one end of the seatbelt in the same hand as my coffee, but the metal slips from my fingers, and I worry if I try again, it might be the coffee instead.

Scrunching my nose, because I don’t want to ask him for help, but know I have to, I turn to the gruff alpha beside me who is already stuffed back in his narrow seat. “Um, hey, Dr. Slate?” A shiver rushes up my spine as his cold gaze lands on me. I hold my cup out to him. “Would you mind holding this? I need to buckle my seat belt, and I didn’t really think this through, and I’m worried if I try while holding this, I’ll spill everywhere and then you’ll have to sit next to me for nine hours while I smell like coffee, and I’ll be wet, and…”

I trail off when I realize he hasn’t moved or said a word. Biting my lip, I wiggle the cup in his line of sight, the ice cubes clattering against the plastic. His expression doesn’t change as he slowly reaches over me, grabs the seatbelt, and buckles it across my lap, glaring at me the whole time.

“I’m not a child. I could hav–”

He tightens the belt, silencing me, apart from a harrumph. Before I speak again, my tray table slams down and my coffee is unceremoniously plucked from my hand and set on it. To add insult to injury, the flight attendant chooses that moment to do his checks, stopping at our row to look pointedly at me.

“Tray tables must be put away and chairs in the upright position for takeoff, ma’am.” He continues down the aisle as I hastily latch the tray table up and lean back into my seat with a sigh.

This is going to be a long flight.