First Comes Love

Sadie Edrie stood in the galley with both hands braced against the counter, staring down the aisle like she could will time to slow.

Just after one a.m., the cabin didn’t feel real. It felt like a suspended hallway between worlds—between continents, between yesterday and tomorrow. Even the lights seemed quieter at this hour, dimmed to a warm hush that softened the rows of bodies into shapes under blankets. Faces went slack in sleep, mouths slightly open, shoulders slumped in a rare surrender. No masks. No manners. Just human.

The quiet wrapped around her like a held breath.

She could hear everything in it if she let herself: the low engine hum thrumming through her bones, the tiny clicks of overhead vents, the occasional cough that drifted from somewhere in the back. A baby sighed and settled. Someone turned, the fabric of their blanket whispering.

Sadie loved this part of flying.

Not the turbulence. Not the demanding rush of drink orders and cranky passengers and people who treated her like she was a vending machine with eyelashes. Not the forced cheerfulness.

This part.

The stillness. The anonymity.

At this hour, no one needed anything from her. She didn’t have to smile. Didn’t have to perform. She could exist as herself—tired, human, quietly breathing—without being asked to be pleasant about it.

It always made her feel strange how much she craved these pockets of silence. Like something in her had trained itself to relax only when the world wasn’t looking.

She tipped her head back and shut her eyes for a second. The exhaustion was heavy but familiar, like a coat she wore too often. Two years of flying and she’d learned how to function while her body begged for sleep. She’d learned how to collect her emotions and shove them into a pocket until later.

Except “later” always came when it was inconvenient.

Like now.

Because early mornings did this to her—cracked her open. The quiet gave grief room to stretch its legs. The anniversary was coming up, and her body always remembered before her mind wanted to.

She’d joined the flight attendant program straight out of high school, two years ago now. Adventure had sounded like salvation back then. Movement. Distance. Cities that made her feel small enough to forget.

Back then she’d told herself she was building a life. A career. Something to be proud of.

The truth was uglier.

She was running.

She’d been running since her mother died.

Once, her life had been uncomplicated. She’d been the youngest of four, the only girl, and she’d spent most of her childhood tangled in the loud chaos of her brothers—Connor, Owen, and Luke—three walking walls of protection. They smothered her sometimes, yes, but they loved her the way big brothers did: rough and fierce and constant.

Her mother, Irene, had been a fourth-grade teacher with a laugh that filled rooms and a habit of calling Sadiebabylonglong after she’d stopped being one. She’d loved brightly, loudly, the way some people did—like the world needed more softness and she was determined to supply it.

Then came the cancer.

At first it wasn’t supposed to be cancer. It was fatigue. A cough that wouldn’t go away. A bruising that didn’t make sense. Tests, waiting rooms, clipped smiles from nurses who didn’t make eye contact long enough to reveal anything.

Then the diagnosis, delivered like a weather report.

Then the treatment, delivered like war.

Sadie remembered how hope had arrived in small victories. A good scan. A good week. A morning where her mother’s cheeks had a little color. Remission. Celebration. Relief sharp enough to hurt.

They’d all believed they’d paid their dues.

They hadn’t.

Cancer didn’t care what they believed.

Three months later, the wordterminalentered their house and never left.

Terminal.

Final.

Nonnegotiable.

The saying about having the rug pulled out from under you didn’t come close. It hadn’t been a rug. It had been the entire floor. The walls. The ceiling. The future Sadie had assumed would always be there.

Weeks later, her mother was gone.

Sadie could still remember the last day with brutal clarity—the smell of hospital soap, the stale air, the beep of machines marking time like a metronome. The way her mother’s hand had felt too light in hers. The way Irene’s eyes had looked past Sadie’s face like she was already seeing something else.

Sadie had begged her not to go.

Her mother had smiled weakly and whispered, “You’ll be okay, babylong.”

Sadie hadn’t been okay.

Her father had followed Irene in a quieter way. Frank Edrie had been a plumber—steady, reliable, the kind of man who fixed what was broken because he couldn’t stand to see things fall apart. Then Irene got sick again, and Frank took time off to care for her, and when she died, he never really came back.

Alcohol replaced everything else.

Sadie couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard his voice without the slur underneath it.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like she had a parent.

Her eyes burned before she realized she was crying.

She swiped at her cheeks quickly, annoyed at herself. Not now. Not here.

The galley wasn’t the place to crumble. Not on a flight. Not in front of strangers. She didn’t have the luxury of falling apart.

She never really did.

This always happened around the anniversary—her emotions creeping up on her when she thought she’d buried them deep enough. Like grief had claws and it loved the dark.

“Not tonight,” she whispered under her breath, like she could bargain with it.

She turned away and started a pot of coffee, grounding herself in routine. The small normalcy helped. The smell of the grounds, the click of the machine, the steady drip. She focused on that. On the ritual. On something she could control.

The plane shifted slightly, a gentle jostle that made the cups in their holders tremble.

She steadied them automatically.

Movement flickered at the edge of her vision.

Sadie looked up just as someone stepped through the curtain separating the galley from the aisle.

It wasn’t a passenger.

It was the co-pilot.

Jason.

He walked toward her with that easy, confident stride that made him look like he belonged everywhere. Tall. Broad. The kind of attractive that made people forgive him things before he’d even done them.

Her stomach betrayed her, fluttering with that annoying, automatic response she hated.

Get a grip, she told herself.

Jason wasn’t dangerous. He was just… aware of himself. Charming in the way men were when they knew they could get away with it.

His uniform fit him too well. The faint shadow along his jaw made him look less polished, more real. Like he’d stepped out of an ad.

Sadie forced a smile because smiling was habit. Smiling was safe.

“Perfect timing,” she whispered, gesturing toward the machine. “Fresh pot.”

His smile back felt personal even though she knew it probably wasn’t. Men like Jason smiled like that at everyone.

“I could really use a good cup of coffee.”

She laughed softly. “I didn’t promisegood.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Caffeine is caffeine.”

As she poured his cup, she was hyperaware of how close he stood, of the heat of his body in the tight space. She shifted subtly, creating distance without making it obvious.

Wanting was fine. Wanting was harmless.

Letting someone close—that was different.

She handed him the cup and felt the brief brush of his fingers against hers.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

It still did.

Jason thanked her and disappeared back behind the curtain as quickly as he’d come, leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and something else—something like attention.

Sadie exhaled slowly.

A moment later Sabrina slipped into the galley with the quiet energy of someone who never fully ran out of battery. Her blonde hair was pinned back in a neat twist, but her eyes were bright, already alert.

Her gaze flicked toward the curtain Jason had just vanished behind.

Then back to Sadie.

“What was he doing back here?” Sabrina whispered, barely containing her grin.

Sadie huffed a quiet laugh. “Getting coffee. Stretching his legs. Normal things.”

Sabrina tilted her head. “The first-class galley is closer. He walked right past it to get here.”

Sadie poured herself a cup, then another for Sabrina, keeping her tone casual. “Maybe he likes our charming personalities.”

Sabrina accepted the coffee with a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Sadie liked Sabrina. Genuinely. She was easy to be around—fun without being exhausting, bold in a way Sadie admired but didn’t know how to imitate. They bonded quickly over shared tastes: sci-fi novels passed back and forth between flights, and terrible romantic comedies they loved despite themselves.

Travel was another thing they shared. Sabrina chased experiences with open arms.

Sadie chased distance.

The biggest difference between them was men.

Sabrina loved them. Flirted effortlessly. Took what she wanted and left without apology.

Sadie kept herself tucked away behind politeness and restraint. She told herself she was just selective.

Careful.

The truth was uglier.

She was afraid.

“Inexperienced” was the kind word for it. Naive, maybe. Sadie had dated a little growing up, but nothing ever stuck. With three older brothers hovering like guard dogs, boys tended to disappear quickly.

Her mind drifted, unbidden, to sixth grade.

She could still feel the shock of that kiss on the playground—how public it had been, how her classmates had laughed and stared. How she’d floated for the rest of the day until she got home.

Her brothers found out by dinner.

Whatever they did afterward had never been fully explained, but the boy broke up with her days later.

After that, boys avoided her entirely. Like she’d been marked.

It wasn’t until junior year that anyone looked at her again.

That summer her body changed too fast—hips, breasts, curves appearing like a betrayal. She’d gone from invisible to noticed without being given the rulebook in between.

Then Dexter Foley arrived.

California confidence wrapped in sun-bleached hair and ocean-blue eyes. He looked like summer felt. Lean, tan, easy. Too easy.

He was the first boy who made her feel chosen.

She gave him everything because she thought love was supposed to look like that—open, trusting, all-in. Losing her virginity to him had felt terrifying and sacred and right.

Until she saw him with Jessica Quinn two days later.

The humiliation fractured something in her that never fully healed. The realization that wanting someone didn’t mean they wanted you back—not in the same way.

That was the day Sadie made her promise.

No more vulnerability. No more letting someone see how much power they had over her.

So far, she’d kept it.

A few dates. Polite smiles. Safe boundaries. Nothing past second base. Men eventually grew bored of waiting for something she didn’t know how to give.

Sadie told herself she was fine with it.

Most nights, she even believed it.

But sometimes—like when she unlocked the door to her quiet apartment after a long trip—the silence felt heavier than it should have. Like punishment.

The sharp ding of a call button sliced through her thoughts.

Sadie blinked, momentarily disoriented, and leaned toward the panel with Sabrina.

Sabrina read the seat number softly. “Forty-five C. The U.S. Marshal.”

Sadie straightened slowly.

A U.S. Marshal wasn’t unheard of on international flights, but it was rare enough to make her pause. They were usually quiet, forgettable—deliberately so. No uniforms. No announcements. Just a name on a manifest and a presence you were supposed to ignore.

Her gaze drifted down the aisle without her meaning it to, trying to place the seat in her mind.

Forty-five C.

Middle seat.

That meant he’d chosen it—or been assigned it. Either way, interesting.

“What do you think he wants?” Sabrina whispered.

Sadie shook her head, but something in her tightened. “Could be anything. Coffee. Water. Blanket.”

Or something else, her mind added, sharp and unwelcome.

Sadie set her cup down, suddenly aware she hadn’t taken a sip. She smoothed the front of her uniform, not because it needed it, but because the ritual steadied her.

“I’ll take it,” she said, before Sabrina could volunteer.

Sabrina lifted a brow. “You sure?”

Sadie nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.

Only that she wanted to be the one to answer.

Wanted to see what kind of man sat in forty-five C.

And why he’d broken his silence now.