Roughly forty minutes later, the aircraft hit a sudden pocket of dead air.

It wasn’t strong enough to deploy the oxygen masks, but it was enough to shake the entire cabin. Overhead bins rattled loudly, and the beverage cart slammed violently into the armrests before coming to a jarring stop.

Lila’s small hand shot across the narrow gap between the seats, her fingers locking onto the expensive wool of the man’s suit sleeve like it was the only solid thing in the world.

“I hate this,” she whispered, voice trembling.

“So do I,” he replied.

“It feels like the sky is angry at us.”

“The sky isn’t angry.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because if it actually were, I’d be a lot more worried than I am right now.”

She blinked, briefly distracted from the turbulence. “Why?”

“Because I’m the one sitting next to it.”

It was a terrible joke. She should’ve laughed. Instead, she studied his sharp profile, trying to decide whether this man was dangerous or not.

“You’re a very weird man,” she concluded.

“I’ve been called worse.”

Suddenly, the plane dropped a short distance. Lila gasped, her grip tightening painfully around his arm.

The man loosened his seatbelt slightly and turned toward her.

“Hey. Look at me.”

She hesitated, then obeyed.

“Breathe with me. Right now.”

“I’m not a baby,” she protested.

“I know. Just humor me.”

He guided her through it anyway—slow inhale through the nose, long exhale through the mouth. Once. Twice.

Her breathing gradually matched his. Her tense shoulders lowered a fraction at a time.

“That’s it,” he said quietly. “Better?”

“Maybe… a little.”

“I’ll take that.”

She stared at him, fear slowly replaced by curiosity. “Who taught you how to do that?”

“No one.”

“My mom says that’s kind of sad.”

“Your mom sounds very smart.”

A few minutes passed. Lila watched the wing lights flicker through the fog, then suddenly asked, “Do you have any little girls?”

The answer came out before he could stop it.

“No. I don’t.”

Her face fell immediately. “That’s sad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why does everyone suddenly think they can judge my life?”

“Because you look like someone who should have kids.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

“You think so?”

She nodded. “You look like you’d protect them really well.”

He turned away toward the window, expression unreadable.

“You don’t know anything about me, kid.”

“I know enough,” she whispered.

When he looked back, she was already asleep. Her curls pressed against the window shade, breathing steady—but her small fist still clung tightly to his sleeve.

Across the aisle, the mother was watching him closely.