Like a Sister (From a female author - Jayne Greye)

[taoschild]

Part of Chapter 4 of *Like a Sister* which is available at all online retailers. You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login My wife wrote this chapter. (she wrote the Andie chapters and I wrote the Kevin ones). Let me know what you think.
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*I should've changed.*

That's my first thought the moment the plane starts taxiing and the overhead vents kick in, blasting arctic air straight down my neck. I reach up and twist the valve shut, but it's like fighting a battle with an enraged fire hydrant: for every vent I close, ten more hiss to life, turning the cabin into a refrigerated wind tunnel.

Welcome to Flight 631, sponsored by Frostbite Airlines.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, Mr. Freeze Miser starts cackling with his top hat, blue face, and the whole smug claymation nightmare. I can practically hear him singing about snow and eternal winter while my fingers slowly lose circulation.

Any confidence I built with Kevin just moments earlier is vaporized. Mr. Freeze Miser cackles from above, blasting the cabin with arctic judgment, while Heat Miser, his hot-headed brother, roasts my pride like it's a marshmallow. I'm trapped in the middle of a cartoon climate feud, and I'm the punchline.

The outfit I hurriedly chose, a white cap-sleeved shirt and jean shorts, felt breezy and cute when I absent mindedly threw it on after my shower. It was Chicago summer hot outside so it seemed to make sense at the time.

I should have known better.

I should have realized airports are not casual affairs. They require carefully choreographed storms of logistics, patience, and judgmental glances. I had treated it like a pop quiz I forgot to study for, and now the universe was grading me harshly. I was halfway to becoming a human popsicle. Breezy? Cute? I was a shivering cautionary tale in denim shorts.

Now, as the cabin air kicks in, it feels like a strategic error of epic proportions. I'm officially the idiot who ignored her cardinal rule: always fly in layers, because airplanes are legally required to feel colder than your ex-boyfriend's heart.

By cruising altitude, the cabin has turned into a penguin-adjacent Arctic wasteland. Goosebumps stage a full-on march across my arms, and, of course, my nipples decide to join the uprising. We're talking four-alarm fire, except the "alarm" is neon and aggressively pointing outward.

Perfect. I finally have Kevin Sears on the defensive, and instead, my chest is throwing a one-woman flash mob. The universe is definitely not on my side.

By the time the plane lifts off, the chill has settled into my bones. I cross my arms in a desperate bid for warmth and dignity. The thin cotton laughs back at me. Physics and shame win out every time. I sink lower in my seat, praying the cabin lights will dim enough to keep me off the "in-flight entertainment" radar and save me from abject humiliation.

And that, of course, is exactly the moment when Kevin glances over once again. Finally recovered from my initial tongue shellacking, his eyes fall on the next calamity.

But he's trying so hard not to, which somehow makes it worse. The dude is doing his all to be the perfect gentleman in an impossible circumstance. I mean, honestly, if I were him, I'd sneak a peek too. It's impossible to miss. His jaw works, his eyes flick to the window, back to me, and then, because he's infuriatingly decent, he peels off his hoodie and hands it over without a word.

"You look cold," he says, heroically keeping his eyes firmly planted on the exit row pamphlet.

I don't need a second invitation. I slide it on, grateful for the warmth and the coverage. It's soft, smells faintly of coffee and something cleanly masculine, comforting in a way that breathes "Kevin." Basically, it's the human version of a safety blanket.

[taoschild]

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