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.

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[taoschild]

This book is a slow burn romance so maybe you guys aren't interested. Let me know if I'm wrong. You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login
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"Thanks," I mumble, tugging the sleeves over my half-frozen hands, and hiding what is nearly proclaimed a national emergency.

He nods once, staring straight ahead like loaning your hoodie is just another casual airport transaction. But I see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. He knows. He absolutely knows.

I sink a little deeper into the seat. The Nipple Show, as my brain now insists on calling it, will never be mentioned again. Not in this lifetime, the next, nor during any holiday gathering, thank you very much.

He clears his throat. "You, uh... dress for the Chicago humidity and forget we were flying over Antarctica?"

I glare at him. "I dressed for summer. No one told me the cabin would be refrigerated for long-term meat storage." "You know airplanes are legally required to feel colder than emotional closure, right?"

"I thought that was funerals," I quip in response.

He bites his lip, fighting a smile. "You want me to ask the flight attendant to turn down the 'cryogenic preservation' setting?"

"Yes," I snap. "And maybe a blanket. And dignity if they have any left in stock."

"Dignity is sold out in coach," he says gravely. "You should've upgraded like the parents."

"What, and miss your charming company?"

We make some small talk after that. Kevin sticks to safe topics and genuinely seems interested. He asks about my writing, my move to Chicago, and every carefully curated aspect of my life. Every answer feels easy, rehearsed even, but then I realize the conversation is all about me. I switch tacts. It almost pains me to say it, but it's the elephant on the plane so I just have to.

"I miss her," I whisper.

He looks at me with shock as if I've just betrayed our truce protocol.

"Me too," he responds, yanking out a book and opening it with that smug little flick like it's the most casual thing in the world. Ho hum, just got to catch up on my reading. Right now. He does it like he hasn't just yanked the conversation's emergency brake and left me face-planting into silence. He turns a page. Settles. Pretends his life is a neat paragraph with margins.

I stare at the top edge of his paperback like it's a witness who refuses to testify.

"Okay," I say, keeping my voice light because my pride has a mortgage and I'd like to keep paying it. "So we're doing the thing where we talk for eight minutes and then you pretend I'm a chair."

His eyes stay on the page. "You're not a chair."

"Wow. Comforting."

He flips another page, but his thumb hesitates like he's about to admit something before swallowing it instead. I lean in close enough to be annoying. "What are you reading?"

He glances at the cover like it personally betrayed him. "History."

"Of what?"

He exhales through his nose. "Wars. Disasters. People doing stupid things for reasons they call noble."

"So... your autobiography."

His mouth twitches. It's the smallest almost-smile. A crumb. He thinks I won't notice. I notice. I collect it like evidence.

"Kevin," I say, softening. "I'm not trying to interrogate you. I just... it's been three years. We're in the same space again. And you're acting like if you talk about anything real, the plane's going to drop out of the sky."

He finally looks at me, and there's something in his eyes that feels like a locked door. Not angry. Just... barred. "I don't know what you want me to say."

I swallow. "Start with something easy."

He blinks. "Nothing's easy."

I nod because that's the truest thing he's said all day. I try again, gentler. "Then start with something small."

He looks away, back to the book, like it's a shield. "Small doesn't stay small."

And there it is. The warning. The boundary line is painted in invisible ink or maybe a bright red line. I'm not sure which.