[Floris’ POV]
The hotel room looks exactly like every other hotel room I've stayed in for the past few weeks—beige walls, beige carpet, beige bedspread that is probably extremely expensive but still feels aggressively generic.
My phone screen glows as Gemma's face fills the frame, her eyebrows already climbing toward her hairline when I pick up the video-call.
"You look like garbage, babe," she announces cheerfully. "Expensive garbage, but garbage nonetheless."
"Thank you, that's exactly what I needed to hear, dear." I flop back against the mountain of decorative pillows. "I'm fine though. Everything's fine. This is my fine face."
"That's your 'I'm three seconds from a breakdown' face. I've known you since we were fourteen, Flo. You can't really lie to me." Gemma shifts her phone. "Spill. What's happening with the fancy sky people and the hot billionaire?"
I open my mouth to deflect, to crack a joke about champagne at thirty thousand feet or the absurdity of six different types of water, but something cracks instead.
The words tumble out before I can stop them.
"They won't talk to me, Gem. It's like I'm not even there. And I smile and I try and I fill every silence with chatter because that's what I do, right? That's my thing. But it doesn't matter. I'm invisible. I'm literally invisible to these people, and I don't know what I'm doing wrong…"
Gemma's expression shifts from playful to murderous in half a second. "I'm sorry, what? They're freezing you out? The entire crew?"
"It's not a big deal, nothing extreme, but…"
"I will fly there," she interrupts, jabbing her finger at the camera. "I will fly there and fight every single one of them, including the hot CEO. Especially the hot CEO. I will climb him like a tree and punch him in his stupidly handsome face."
A laugh escapes me, watery but real. "Please don't assault my boss. I really need this job, you know that."
"Do you, though? Because it sounds like this job is slowly crushing your soul, and I'm not okay with that. You deserve people who appreciate you, Flo. You deserve people who see how amazing you are."
"The pay is incredible," I remind her, steering toward safer ground. "And the travel perks. I literally flew over the Swiss Alps yesterday. There were mountains with snow. Very dramatic and very European."
"Mountains don't hug you back." Her voice softens. "How long has it been since someone on that crew actually talked to you? Like, really talked?"
I don't answer and the silence stretches between us, filled with everything I'm not saying.
"Flo."
"I'm handling it. I always handle it, right? Sweet Floris, human ray of light, aggressively optimistic in the face of adversity. That's my whole brand."
I force brightness into my voice, the way I've been forcing it my entire life.
"Besides, things might be getting better. Mr. Finley actually defended me the other day, told off his fiancée when she snapped at me. It was very dramatic, and… very hero-in-a-romance-novel."
Gemma's eyes narrow. "We're not done talking about this."
"We absolutely are. Tell me about your clinicals, any good blood stories? I need some light entertainment."
So she does, because she’s a good friend and that’s what a good friend does.
I don’t mention that it doesn’t really help.
After we hang up, I sit in silence for a long moment before walking to the bathroom. There I can finally turn on the shower until steam fogs the mirror, and cry where no one can hear me.
I’m fine, I know this, I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse. But sometimes, when your whole workplace freezes you out, while you give them your best smile, and the loneliness creeps up to choke you, this minutiae also hurts.
So after, I turn off the water and leave for bed as if nothing happened.
The next morning is the same as every morning before that one the plane but this time Mr. Finley boards completely alone.
No new fiance with her designer perfume, no James with his documents and polite nods. Just him, his laptop, and a weight in his shoulders that I recognize already is tiredness. Not physical, though.
The flight to Tokyo stretches ahead of us. It's late—Marina retired to the crew rest area an hour ago, and the cabin lights are dimmed to that soft golden glow that makes everything feel suspended in time.
Just me and Mr. Finley, alone at thirty thousand feet.
I do my usual ritual. Bring him water without being asked. Adjust the lighting when I notice him squinting. Professional. Invisible.
Then the turbulence hits.
One moment I'm walking toward the plane’s bathroom; the next, the plane lurches violently sideways. My feet leave the ground, and I land—loss of all dignity included, free of charge—directly in Maverick Finley's lap.
His hands catch my waist on instinct, fingers gripping my hips to keep me from sliding off as my palm presses flat against his broad and hard chest to steady myself. And beneath the expensive fabric, I feel his heart pounding.
Fast. Almost as fast as mine while our faces are inches apart.
His eyes… God, those eyes. Up close, they're not just sea glass, they're storms trapped in winter. And I see something cracks in his expression at that moment. Exhaustion, maybe. Or something lonelier.
"I…" My voice comes out breathless. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Finley. I didn't… The turbulence just—"
"Are you hurt?" His voice is low. Rough.
"No. No, I'm fine. Completely fine. Mortified beyond recovery, but physically intact."
Neither of us moves. His hands are still on my waist, my palm is still pressed against his heartbeat. The moment stretches, taut as a wire, until I scramble off him with all the grace of a startled cat.
"I'm not usually this clumsy," I manage, straightening my uniform with trembling hands. "Well, that's a lie. I'm absolutely this clumsy. But I usually save it for non-work hours—"
"Miss Blossom." He reaches beside him and holds up a container I'd completely forgotten about—the cookie container from weeks ago, the thank-you cookies that feel like they belong to a different lifetime. "I believe this is yours."
"Oh! I forgot about that. You kept it?"
The question slips out before I can stop it, surprised and too revealing.
"It seemed appropriate to return it." His voice is neutral, but something flickers in those green eyes. "The cookies were... nice."
"Nice. Wow. I'll put that on my résumé. 'Makes nice cookies according to billionaire standards.'"
I take the container, fingers brushing his for half a second, and just stand there like a moron in the uncomfort silence, feeling the need to fill it. And apparently my electrocuted brain decided to bring up the theme it kept circling for weeks now.
Think about it before you open your mouth, Flo—!
"Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer. Actually, you probably won't answer, because you're very committed to the whole mysterious silence thing, which I respect, but I'm curious—"
"You're always curious."
"It's a character flaw. I'm working on it."
I hesitate, then push forward, feeling like a trailblazer standing before the storm. I’ll do something reckless, but probably won’t survive to see the results.
Okay, it’s not that dramatic.
"The women, the fiancées… How many has it been now? I heard more than five already. And none of them stay even though they all try so hard, and you just... don't engage. Is it them? Is it you? Is it some kind of elaborate psychological experiment I don't understand?"
His jaw tightens. "You're very… observant."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he agrees. "It isn't."
Silence stretches between us and I should shut my curious mouth, retreat to the galley and mind my own damn business, remember my place.
But I can’t stop my mouth from moving, the words escaping before my brain can catch up.
"Maybe it’s that you need someone who… understands it's just theater. Someone who won't expect it to be real. That's the problem, isn't it? They all think they can make you fall in love with them, and you're not interested in… love?”
God, Floris… Why can’t you just shut up?
But he looks at me with curiosity in his eyes, so I laugh nervously, already backpedaling.
"Not that I'm an expert on billionaire relationship dynamics. I'm just saying, hypothetically, if you needed someone who understood the arrangement—"
"Are you offering, Miss Blossom?" he said suddenly. "Because I'm listening."
I freeze. The words hang in the air between us, sharp and impossible.
He's watching me with terrifying intensity, those green eyes seeing straight through every defense I've ever built. Not dismissive, not cold., but focused entirely on me. Like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"I… I was just…"
My heart slams against my ribs. The word burns on my tongue—yes, yes, yes—and I understand with sudden, devastating clarity that I'm about to change everything.
The cabin feels smaller than it did five minutes ago, the air somehow feels thinner. And somewhere in the back of my mind, the sensible part of me is screaming that this is a terrible idea.
But my mouth has never listened to the sensible part of me anyway.
“Maybe?”