Chapter 4: Turbulence Therapy
The private jet’s cabin was a capsule of quiet luxury, all cream leather and pale wood. The hum of the engines was a constant, soothing baseline. Lando was sprawled across a sofa, glasses perched on his nose, scrolling through reams of performance data on his tablet. Aya was opposite him, tapping efficiently on her laptop, the blue light casting a cool glow on her focused face. She’d chosen loose, soft trousers and an oversized sweater, a quiet adherence to his ‘something comfortable’ decree from Barcelona.
Everything was calm for the first ninety minutes. They discussed schedules, debated the merits of a new simulator technician, ordered sparkling water from the cabin attendant.
Then the first bump came.
It was minor, a quick, sharp jolt that rattled the ice in their glasses. Lando glanced up. Aya’s fingers had stopped typing. She was staring fixedly at her screen, her knuckles white around the edge of her laptop.
“Just some air,” he said, his voice easy.
“Obviously,” she replied, too quickly. She resumed typing, but the rhythm was off, stilted.
A few minutes later, the plane dropped. It wasn’t a jolt this time; it was a sinking lurch that made Lando’s stomach flip. A small, sharp gasp cut through the cabin. He looked over.
Aya had her eyes squeezed shut. Her right hand was clamped, vise-like, on his thigh, her nails biting through the fabric of his sweatpants. Her breathing was a ragged, shallow thing she was trying desperately to control.
“Hey,” he said softly, setting his tablet aside.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, eyes still shut. “It’s irrational. I know it’s irrational. The statistics are overwhelmingly in our favor. It’s just physics.” Her voice was a thin, breathy thread of logic unraveling.
The plane shuddered again, a longer bout of choppy air. A full-body tremor wracked her. The confident, polyglot master of chaos was gone, replaced by someone utterly, primally afraid.
Lando moved. He unbuckled his own seatbelt with a quiet click. He leaned forward, gently pried her fingers from his leg, and stood, pulling her up with him. She was pliant, fear making her limbs heavy.
“What are you—”
“Shhh.” He guided her to his now-vacant seat, which was wider and deeper. He sat down first, then pulled her backwards, settling her between his legs, her back against his chest. He reached for the lap belt, drawing it around them both, clicking it securely. He was a cage of warmth and steady pressure around her.
She was stiff, every muscle locked. “Lando, the attendant—”
“Is paid to be discreet.” He wrapped his arms around her, crossing them over her middle, holding her snug against him. The plane gave another violent shudder. She flinched, a muffled sound of panic escaping her throat.
He nuzzled his face into the side of her neck, his voice a low murmur right against her ear. “Je bent okay, schatje.” You’re okay, sweetheart.
The Dutch, her first language, the one she used for sharpest insults and private thoughts, seemed to pierce through the fear. She trembled.
“Listen to me,” he said, his lips brushing her skin. He took her right hand, the one that had been digging into him, and guided it under his sweater and t-shirt, pressing her palm flat against the bare skin of his chest, just over his heart. “Feel that? Steady, right? Count that. Count my heartbeat instead of the drops.”
Her fingers flexed against him, cold at first, then slowly warming. She focused on the strong, relentless thump-thump-thump under her palm. Her other hand came up to clutch at his forearm, anchoring herself.
The plane hit a patch of severe clear-air turbulence. It wasn’t a drop; it was like being shaken in a giant’s fist. The cabin groaned. A few overhead compartments clicked open. Her breath hitched, a whimper of pure terror trapped in her throat.
He tightened his hold, his arms becoming steel bands. He turned her face towards his, his own movements calm amidst the chaos. Her eyes were wild, filled with the certainty of doom.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t soft or questioning. He sealed her terrified whimper with his mouth, licking past her lips, claiming the space, demanding her focus. It was a sensory takeover. The taste of him, the feel of his tongue sweeping against hers, the slight scratch of his stubble—it was immediate, overwhelming, and louder than the screaming turbulence or the panic in her veins.
She arched against the shared seatbelt, a small, desperate sound dissolving into the kiss. Her hand fisted against his chest. She kissed him back, not with passion, but with a furious, clinging need for an anchor. He gave her that. He was ruthless and gentle all at once, swallowing her fear, feeding her his own unshakeable calm until her trembling began to subside.
The shaking of the plane eased, smoothing back into the steady hum. The seatbelt sign dinged off.
He broke the kiss slowly, pulling back just enough to see her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted, swollen. Her breathing was deep, but it was no longer ragged. It synced with his.
“Still with me?” he asked, his own voice slightly rough.
She nodded, her forehead coming to rest against his. Her fingers were still spread over his heartbeat, which was, admittedly, a bit faster now.
“Good.” He brushed his nose against hers. “The stats were right. We’re fine.”
She let out a shaky, incredulous laugh. “Your methodology for calming me down is… unorthodox.”
“You liked my methodology.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t.” She finally opened her eyes. The fear was gone, replaced by a dazed, vulnerable openness that made him feel ten feet tall. “Thank you.”
He kissed her again, briefly, softly this time. “Any time.”
She settled back against him, her body finally relaxing into the circle of his arms. She kept her hand under his shirt, her fingertips tracing idle patterns on his skin. They sat in silence for a long while, the only sound the engine’s drone and the soft rustle of her sweater.
“I never told anyone about that,” she said quietly, after a while. “The turbulence thing. It’s embarrassing.”
“Why? Because the unflappable Aya Darzi is secretly flapped by some bumpy air?” He smiled against her hair. “Makes you more real. I like it.”
“You just like having an excuse to manhandle me.”
“That,” he conceded, his arms giving her a gentle squeeze, “is a very significant perk.”
The cabin attendant appeared, her expression perfectly neutral. “Can I get you anything? The captain says we should have smooth sailing to Monaco now.”
Aya tensed for a second, the professional mask trying to snap back into place from her very unprofessional position sprawled across her boss. Lando just held her tighter.
“We’re perfect,” he said, smiling his most disarming, champion’s smile. “Maybe some more water when you have a moment.”
As the attendant retreated, Aya shook her head. “She definitely knows.”
“Everyone who matters will know soon enough,” he said, the words simple and absolute.
She didn’t argue. She just turned her head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his jaw where his pulse beat. Then she snuggled deeper into his embrace, watching the endless blue sky through the window, her fear a distant memory, replaced by the solid, thrilling certainty of his heartbeat under her hand.