Chapter 1

Jamie Capulet adjusted his seatbelt with the exaggerated finesse of someone pretending he flew business class all the time.

He didn’t.

He’d paid for the upgrade himself – half because it looked good on Instagram, half because he was convinced success started with pretending you already had it.

The plane hummed as they taxied toward the runway. Jamie took a sip of his oat milk latte.

Still terrible.

He didn’t even like oat milk. He just liked people thinking he liked oat milk.

There was a difference.

A big, exhausting difference.

He glanced sideways.

The man next to him was reading. Of course he was. Hardback book. Navy sweater. Arms that had no business looking that good in soft knitwear.

And a watch.

Black. Skeleton dial. Gold mechanics catching the cabin light every time his wrist shifted. Expensive. Intentional.

The man absentmindedly twisted it once – just a small movement, like a habit he didn’t think about.

Jamie looked like a curated lifestyle ad.

The man looked like the reason the ad existed.

“First time flying out for work?” the man asked, glancing up.

Jamie straightened instantly. “Yeah – uh, yeah. Big client meeting. Pitching strategies. Very important.”

God. That sounded like LinkedIn threw up.

“Nice,” the man said, already going back to his book. His thumb brushed the edge of the page – then, unconsciously, he adjusted the watch again.

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Thirty minutes later, the plane dropped.

Not a little bump.

A drop.

Jamie’s stomach followed.

“Oh my god – nope. No, no, no. I’m too young for this.”

Another violent jolt.

The seatbelt sign dinged.

Why am I panicking. Why am I panicking. People fly every day. This is normal. This is – oh my god we’re dying.

“I haven’t even had a real relationship yet,” Jamie blurted. “Like – a real one. Not curated. Not ‘we look good together in photos.’ I mean one where someone actually…”

Another drop.

He grabbed the armrest.

“…wants the real me. The messy me. The mismatched-socks, can’t-do-a-push-up me. I hate CrossFit, okay? I only go because it looks good on Instagram!”

The man turned slowly.

“You okay?”

“No!” Jamie snapped. “I drink lattes I hate. I lie about liking sushi – I don’t even like rice, who lies about rice? I don’t even like gin and tonic, I prefer mojitos! Mojitos! That’s who I am as a person!”

The plane shook again.

“I spent two hundred dollars on a hairdryer because TikTok told me to. TikTok, not even a person! I did hot yoga once because it was trendy and I hated every second of it!”

Stop talking. Stop talking. Why am I still talking.

“I lied on my résumé!” Jamie hissed. “I don’t speak fluent Italian. Or Spanish. Or French. I can barely order coffee in any of them. I don’t even like Paris that much – the Eiffel Tower was just… fine!”

Silence.

The man was fully watching him now. His expression unreadable – except for the faintest flicker of amusement. His fingers tapped lightly against his watch before stilling again.

Jamie kept going.

Because apparently if he was going to die, he was going to die honest.

“I post pictures in designer clothes I don’t even own,” he said, voice pitching. “No one can tell, right? Like – it’s fine. It looks real. It’s convincing.”

Another drop.

Jamie squeezed his eyes shut.

“I date guys with perfect teeth and no personality. I pretend to like minimalism when I actually love clutter. My favorite after-date ritual is greasy diner food – like fries dipped in milkshake, that’s romance to me!”

A breath.

Too sharp. Too fast.

“And I want – like – sunsets. Romantic gestures. Texting my date goodnight like an idiot. I want someone to want that with me.”

The plane rattled again.

“And my ex said I was too much,” Jamie rushed on. “And also not enough. Which doesn’t even make sense, how can I be both? How does that work? That feels illegal.”

The man didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t laugh.

Didn’t look away.

Jamie’s grip tightened on the armrest.

“And I just want one kiss,” he said, quieter now, voice unraveling at the edges. “One kiss from someone who actually wants me. Sunday morning, messy hair, microwave mac and cheese in bed – just… something real.”

Silence.

Then…

Nothing.

No shaking.

No rattling.

No screaming.

Jamie opened one eye.

People were standing.

Grabbing bags.

Talking.

The plane was… still.

The man beside him closed his book.

“Plane landed,” he said calmly. “You can relax.”

Jamie stared.

“Oh my god.”

His soul left his body.

“I said all of that out loud, didn’t I?”

“You did,” the man said, standing smoothly. He adjusted his sleeve – thumb brushing that watch again, like grounding himself. “Very memorable.”

“I – no – I’m not – this isn’t…”

“Pity,” the man said, reaching for his bag. “That version of you was quite good.”

Jamie blinked. “What?”

The man paused, just long enough to meet his eyes – amused, sharp, entirely too aware.

“See you around, turbulence.”

And then he was gone.

Jamie sat frozen.

Then whispered, to absolutely no one:

“I need to move countries.”