Chapter One — Meet Cute
The apartment was quiet at 6:00am, the kind of quiet that felt intentional. Tavi moved through it without turning on the main lights, just the soft glow from the kitchen and the grey morning light pressing through the tall windows. He knew this space by heart. Every corner, every surface. He'd designed it that way on purpose, simple, controlled, nothing out of place.
He set his coffee down on the counter and stared at it without drinking it.
Three years was a long time to be careful. Three years of keeping people at a comfortable distance, of being pleasant without being open, of smiling in rooms full of people and feeling nothing. He'd gotten good at it. Good enough that most people didn't notice. Good enough that sometimes even he forgot there was something underneath all that control worth protecting.
He picked up his coffee and drank it standing up.
His bag was already packed and waiting by the door. One carry-on, neat and organised, nothing excessive. The flight to Tebena was at 9:15am and he liked to move without rushing. His grandmother always said he'd inherited that from his father, the ability to be ready before anyone else without making a fuss about it.
He didn't let himself think about his parents for long. He never did.
His phone rang at 6:30am. He already knew who it was before he looked.
"You haven't left yet," his grandmother said. It wasn't a question.
"My flight's at 9:15am, Grandma."
"I know when your flight is. I'm asking if you're ready."
Tavi smiled despite himself, leaning against the kitchen counter. "My bag's at the door."
"That's not what I mean and you know it." Her voice was warm but precise, the way it always was when she was paying attention to something he hadn't said out loud. "This is a big trip, Tavi. A real investment. I just want to make sure your head is right."
"My head is always right."
She made a soft sound that was somewhere between a laugh and disagreement. "You work too hard and you carry too much alone. That's not the same thing as being right." A pause. "Is there anything you want to talk about before you go?"
There were things he could have said. Things that sat in the back of his chest on mornings like this one, heavy and familiar. The way trust had a weight to it after you'd had it taken from you. The way three years of being careful could start to feel like three years of being empty if you weren't paying attention.
He didn't say any of that.
"I'm fine," he said. "I'll call you when I land."
"You'd better." Another pause, softer this time. "I love you, my darling."
"I love you too, Grandma."
He set the phone down and finished his coffee.
The airport was busy by the time he arrived, the kind of controlled chaos that Tavi had learned to move through without letting it touch him. He checked in, cleared security, and made his way to the gate with forty minutes to spare. He bought a bottle of water, found a seat near the window, and watched the planes on the tarmac.
He had emails to go through and a freelance brief to review but his mind wasn't cooperating. It kept drifting the way it sometimes did on mornings like this one, to things he'd rather not think about. To the specific shape of how badly a person could hurt you when you'd handed them everything.
He closed his laptop without opening a single email and watched the planes instead.
He was good at redirecting. Three years of practice had made him excellent at it.
He didn't notice the man until they were boarding.
Business class was efficient, the line moving quickly, passengers filing in with the quiet purpose of people who travelled often. Tavi was checking his boarding pass when someone stepped into the queue beside him, close enough that he caught a trace of something clean and understated. He glanced over without meaning to.
The man was tall. Well dressed in the way that didn't announce itself, a dark suit, no tie, the kind of clothes that fit properly without looking like they were trying to. He was looking straight ahead, jaw set, expression neutral. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, Tavi guessed. The kind of face that would've been severe if not for the slight softness around the mouth.
Tavi looked away.
They boarded at the same time and ended up in adjacent seats, 27A and 27B. Tavi stowed his bag and settled in, pulling out his phone. The man sat down beside him without a word, loosened his top button, and turned toward the window.
Fine by Tavi. He didn't need conversation.
The cabin filled around them. A flight attendant moved through with champagne and Tavi took a glass, glancing briefly at the man beside him, who declined with a small shake of his head. Everything about him was contained. Deliberate.
Tavi looked away again and sipped his champagne.
They were somewhere over the first hour of the flight when the man spoke.
"You've been staring at the flight path screen for twenty minutes," he said, without looking over. "It doesn't update that often."
Tavi blinked. "I wasn't staring. I was thinking."
"With your eyes fixed on the screen."
"Some people think with their eyes open."
The man turned then, and Tavi got the full effect of his face for the first time. Dark eyes, steady and calm, the kind of gaze that didn't dart around. He looked at Tavi the way people looked at things they were genuinely trying to understand.
"Fair enough," he said.
Tavi didn't know why that made him want to keep talking. "Lambi," the man added, after a beat, like he'd decided something.
"Tavi."
They shook hands briefly, the contact clean and warm.
"So," Tavi said, settling back. "What do you do, Lambi? Let me guess. You look like someone who owns something large and expensive."
Something shifted at the corner of the man's mouth. Not quite a smile. "CEO. Golf club business."
"Golf." Tavi considered this. "So basically glorified walking with a dress code."
This time the smile was real, brief and reluctant, like it had slipped out before he could stop it. "And you?"
"Creative writing. Modeling. Barista work when the other two are slow." Tavi ticked them off. "Whatever keeps the lights on."
"And business class?"
"My grandmother's frequent flyer points." Tavi raised his glass slightly. "Eight years of accumulation. She decided I needed a break."
"She sounds like she has good judgment."
"The best." The word came out softer than he intended. He redirected quickly. "What's a golf CEO doing in business class? Don't you people have private jets?"
"Mine's in for maintenance."
Tavi stared at him. "You said that completely straight-faced."
"It's true."
Tavi laughed, the sound coming out before he could measure it. Across the aisle, a passenger glanced over. Tavi didn't care.
After that, the conversation moved the way good conversations do, without effort, without agenda. They argued about golf. Tavi ordered a second dessert without embarrassment. They traded travel stories, Lambi's about a missed connection in a city where he didn't speak the language, Tavi's about a lost passport, a questionable hostel, and a chicken he described as having strong opinions about personal space.
Lambi listened more than he talked. Tavi noticed that. He also noticed the way Lambi's expression shifted when something amused him, not a full smile, just a slight easing around the eyes, like a door opening an inch.
He found himself wanting to push it further. Open the door a little more.
He didn't examine why.
The cabin lights dimmed. Most passengers settled into sleep or silence. Outside the window, there was nothing but dark sky and the occasional scatter of stars. Tavi had stopped pretending to check his phone. Lambi had stopped pretending to review whatever was on his tablet.
Then the turbulence hit.
It was sharp and sudden, the kind that made the overhead compartments rattle and pulled a collective intake of breath from the cabin. Tavi's hand shot out and grabbed Lambi's arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm without permission.
The plane leveled. The rattling stopped.
Neither of them moved.
Tavi became aware of his own grip slowly, the warmth of Lambi's arm beneath his fingers, the steadiness of him, like he hadn't flinched at all.
He let go. "Sorry," he said, not looking at him. "Reflex."
"It's fine," Lambi said. His voice was quieter than it had been all flight. "I don't mind."
Tavi didn't respond. He looked out the window instead, at the dark and the stars, and tried to locate the feeling that had just moved through him, warm and unwelcome and completely uninvited.
He didn't find a name for it. He left it alone.
They landed at 4:47pm. The cabin stirred back to life around them, passengers reaching for bags and phones and the particular energy of arrival. Tavi stood, retrieved his carry-on, and turned to find Lambi already on his feet, jacket straightened, expression back to its default composure.
"It was a good flight," Tavi said.
"It was," Lambi agreed.
Tavi reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. Slightly creased, nothing fancy.
His name, a number, an email, and a tagline: Freelance Creative — Writing Your World. He held it out without fully thinking about why. Lambi took it. Their fingers touched for half a second.
"In case you ever need someone to write the next tagline for your fancy golf club," Tavi said, keeping his voice light.
He stepped into the aisle and moved with the flow of passengers toward the exit.
In the jetway, alone for a moment in the narrow corridor between the plane and the terminal, he felt it again. That uninvited warmth sitting in his chest like it belonged there.
He kept walking. He told himself that was fine. He told himself a lot of things.
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