and this man has the audacity to say red doesn't suit him...
Don't think about any part of this too hard, it was supposed to be pose practice and then it turned into a crack what-if-ben-stayed-on-mandalore au. I do what I want.
A one night stand was supposed to end with a goodbye. But hours later, luggage in hand and boarding pass ready, you heard his voice over the intercom. Turns out, he's your pilot.
⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ Contents:
MDNI! 18+, Mention of Alcohol, One Night Stand, Window Sex, Unprotected Sex, Fingering, Praise Kink
You’d joked about it in the group chat for months, how this trip would fall apart before it ever took off.
But against all odds, the four of you made it. Italy.
Sasha and Connie had turned it into a food pilgrimage. Jean took photos like he was building an aesthetic archive. You mostly just soaked it all in. The winding streets, espresso that burned in the best way, and the long conversations that drifted late into the night.
You went to museums that smelled like old books and cool stone, trying to act cultured while Connie whispered dumb jokes beside ancient statues. You wandered through galleries until your feet ached, only to sprint for a train that left the second you made it on board.
The bars were hazy and loud and perfect. At one point, Sasha danced with a stranger while Jean watched from the corner, sipping something bitter and amused. You lost track of the nights. Everything blurred into sunrises on balconies, half slept mornings, group selfies with gelato, and songs hummed through shared earbuds on long train rides
It was chaotic, effortless fun.
And now, one by one, they’re gone.
Sasha had a family matter back home. Connie had a job interview he forgot he scheduled. Different flight dates, different priorities, all scattering you back across the world again. The group thread had gone quieter, replaced with updates like:
“Boarding in 10!”
“This airport has zero snacks I’m dying.”
Jean’s flight is today.
Yours, tomorrow.
You're standing on the platform outside the terminal with him, watching the sunset bleed into a soft orange across the sky.
“I still think you should’ve booked the same day,” he says, tossing a glance your way as he pulls out his passport.
“Told you,” you shrug. “Wanted one last night to breathe.”
It’s not a dramatic goodbye. You’ve never been like that.
But it’s soft. The kind of thing that feels like it has something underneath. Something you both aren’t saying.
Jean reaches out, fixes a loose strand of your hair like it’s second nature.
“Don’t get too drunk tonight,” he mutters, half teasing.
“No promises.”
There’s a beat. You lean up, arms wrapped briefly around his neck as you hug him, maybe a little tighter than usual.
He kisses your cheek. You kiss his.
And when he disappears through the glass doors, you don’t leave right away.
You wait.
Just a minute or two.
Watching the reflection of the terminal lights blink against the glass.
Then you turn, dig out your phone, and wander off toward your next errand. Small gifts, souvenirs, a quick bite, a long walk back. You don’t really want the night to end.
You just don’t know it hasn’t started yet.
──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ──── ──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ────
You don't even remember the name of the place.
It was tucked behind an ivy covered wall with a flickering sign, the kind of bar that looked like it didn’t want to be found. The jazz pouring out the door sealed the deal. You wandered in alone, still chasing the high of the past few days. The chaos, the laughter, the freedom. You weren’t ready to call it a night.
Inside, it’s warm and dim, soaked in amber lighting and velvet toned chatter. A small band plays in the corner, brass and bass humming through the room like silk. The saxophonist is mid solo, head tilted back, eyes closed like he’s pouring his whole soul into the notes.
You take a seat at the bar, not hidden, but not calling attention either. The bartender greets you in Italian. You answer in a smile and a shrug.
“Surprise me,” you say, and she does.
The drinks come and go. Something citrusy, something dark and sharp, something with an herb you couldn’t name if you tried. Each one smooth enough to lull you deeper into your seat. You’re not blackout drunk, just blissfully adrift. That low level buzz that keeps your smile soft and your gaze lazy.
Your dress doesn’t help.
A flowy black maxi, delicate and sheer in all the right places. It clings when you sit but dances when you walk. Thin straps, a neckline that teases more than it gives, and a slit that slides higher than expected when you cross your legs. You don’t wear it to be noticed. You wear it to feel good.
But you are noticed.
A few men hover. Some brave enough to try small talk. One asked to buy your drink. Another asked what you were doing here alone.
You answered with polite smiles. A little tilt of your head.
But they could tell.
Your eyes weren’t in it.
Your mind was somewhere else. Maybe in the music. Maybe on the last few days. Maybe on someone you hadn't even met yet.
And so, one by one, they gave up.
You don’t even realize someone new is watching until you stub out your cigarette and shift in your seat, reaching for your phone, debating whether to walk home. Your hotel’s just nearby. You picked it for that exact reason. A little freedom to wander, drink, float your way back in your own time.
You stand, adjusting your bag across your shoulder.
And that’s when he moves.
“Excuse me,” comes a smooth, deep voice just behind you.
You pause. Turn.
He’s tall. Dressed in black. One hand rests loosely in his pocket while the other holds a drink he hasn’t touched. His hair’s a little messy, shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show the sharp line of his forearms, and his gaze?
It’s calm. Steady. A little too focused.
He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t leer. Just… looks.
“I know this is forward,” he says, voice low and measured. “But you look like someone I’d regret not meeting.”
A short pause. Then...
“Bertholdt Hoover.”
He offers his hand, and you take it.
His grip is warm, solid and unhurried. You expect him to let go right after, but instead, he lifts your hand just slightly, his eyes flick up to yours as he brings your knuckles to his lips.
The kiss is featherlight. Barely there.
But it feels like everything.
“It’s a pleasure,” he says, low and smooth. And God, he means it.
There’s no smirk, no cheesy grin. Just sincerity. And something magnetic like gravity built into his bones.
It’s not even what he says.
It’s the way he holds eye contact like he’s peeling back layers.
The way he listens like your voice is the only sound that matters.
The way his presence settles beside you? Not flashy, not loud, just… heavy in the best way. Commanding without ever needing to try.
Everything about him feels composed. In control.
And somehow, that makes your heart beat faster than any wild, messy flirtation ever could.
He gestures toward your bar stool, a quiet question. You nod, and he settles beside you like the seat was always meant for him.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, voice calm but with a teasing glint.
“Or have you already tried the entire menu?”
You laugh, slightly breathless and so it begins.
He takes the seat beside you. Not at a distance. Close enough that when he shifts, his thigh brushes yours. It’s barely anything. But it’s also everything.
You’re not even sure when the drinks became a shared ritual. You sip something light and floral. He gets whiskey. And somewhere in the middle of your third round, you’re trading glasses. Commenting on flavors. Laughing over nothing.
“Yours tastes so bitter,” you joke, scrunching your nose as you hand it back.
“Yours is tangy,” he says, sipping without complaint. “Dangerous in a different way.”
His voice is low, smooth but deep. Like he doesn’t raise it often. And when he looks at you, it’s never brief. His gaze lingers. Moves from your mouth to your eyes to the curve of your bare shoulder.
You tilt your head, smiling just enough to tease.
“So, Bertholdt... what are you doing all the way out here? Vacation?”
“Something like that,” he says, swirling his drink. “Work gave me a little window.”
“Mm. Just a little?”
“Not everything lasts forever.”
The way he says it, it sounds like a throwaway line. But you feel it. That weight under his words. Like he’s always holding something back. Like his stillness is only skin deep.
“So you’re not from here either,” you note, sipping again.
“No.”
“A tourist like me, then?”
“More or less.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“You don’t really give tourist energy.”
“What kind of energy do I give?” he asks.
His voice drops just slightly on you. Your breath hitches.
“Hmm.” You swirl the straw in your glass, biting back a smile. “Mysterious. Collected. Too cool to be real.”
“You’re not far off.”
His knee presses lightly into yours again. You don’t move away. You let it sit there. Let the heat build.
He smells like clean linen and faint cologne, like cold air over warm skin. He hasn’t even touched you beyond that but your body’s already reacting like he has.
“You travel alone a lot?” you ask, feigning casual.
“Sometimes,” he says. “It helps me stay in control.”
“Control of what?”
He glances at you, those green eyes steady.
“Everything.”
Oh, fuck.
You cross your legs, and his eyes flick down just for a second before dragging back up.
“And you?” he asks, shifting closer just slightly, elbow now brushing yours. “Why Italy?”
“Friend trip. Kind of spontaneous. Just me left now.”
“They left you behind?”
“Not exactly. They had earlier flights. I booked a spare day for myself.”
He hums like he understands. He leans in. Not too far, but enough for you to feel the gravity pulling you in.
“And now you’re drinking alone.”
“Was,” you correct. “Past tense.”
He smiles. Not wide, but enough to make your heart skip.
Your legs are touching again.
This time, you press back just a little.
“And you?” you ask again, softer this time. “What’s the story?”
He shrugs, finishing the last of his whiskey. “Let’s just say I spend a lot of time in the air. Tonight’s my last night here too.”
“Pilot?” you tease, not fully serious. It was meant as a joke.
“Something like that,” he says again. He also meant it as a joke.
Your lips part. A soft breath escapes.
You shouldn’t be this drawn in by someone you just met. But there’s something about him. Like he was built for nights like this. Like he doesn’t need to seduce you, he just needs to exist near you long enough.
“So what happens now?” you murmur, eyes locked on his.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you, his gaze tracing every line of your face, your lips, your throat, the way your fingers toy with the rim of your glass.
“Now,” he says, “I ask if you’ll let me walk you back.”
──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ──── ──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ────
The night air is warm against your skin, touched by the lingering heat of the cobblestones and the faint scent of wine and roses from the balconies above.
You loop your arm through Bertholdt’s, partly for balance, partly because it feels too natural not to.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stiffen.
If anything, you feel the faint curl of his fingers around your hand where it rests on his arm, gentle and grounding. A soft squeeze. Like he wants you to know he’s here.
“Still tipsy?” he murmurs, glancing down at you with the faintest smirk.
“I’m walking fine,” you lie, even as you lean into him more.
“Mm. Right.”
You both laugh quietly, footsteps echoing softly in the near empty street. The buildings around you are tall and old, painted with warm colors dulled by time. Flower boxes in windows. Strings of golden lights crossing over narrow alleys.
You pause at one corner to snap a photo of a faded mosaic on a wall.
Another when you catch the warm blur of a Vespa flying past.
Bertholdt lets you, leans into the pictures with you, sometimes smiling behind your camera, sometimes looking directly into it.
You never expected him to be so effortless beside you.
And yet… the tension hasn’t eased. Not once.
His hand is no longer just at his side. It rests lightly on your lower back now. It’s not forceful. Not demanding. But it’s there. Warm. Present. Like he’s silently claiming space he hasn’t even asked for.
And still, he says nothing suggestive. No smirk. No push.
Just a man walking you home like he knows the way your night ends but he’s not the one to say it.
“You really don’t do this often?” you ask again, softer now.
“No,” he replies, not missing a beat.
“You’re too good at it for that to be true.”
“Maybe it’s just you.”
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide.
The hotel is just ahead now. You slow down, reluctant for the distance to close.
“So…” you say, pausing in front of the glowing lobby doors. “I guess this is goodbye?”
He looks at you like he doesn’t quite believe that. And you don’t either.
The silence stretches. Not awkward, just heavy with choice.
Then, his hand lifts and curls gently around your waist, tugging you closer with that same calm confidence you’ve felt all night.
He lowers his head, and your eyes flutter shut right before it happens.
The kiss.
It’s not rushed. Not rough.
It’s slow.
A brush at first. A test. Then a deeper pull.
His lips part against yours, and it’s like every spark that’s been burning under your skin all night finally finds fire.
You lean into him. Let yourself tip forward, one hand curling at the fabric of his shirt.
When you part, barely, you don’t step away.
“Do you wanna…” you start, voice barely above a whisper, “stay for the night?”
You don’t say come upstairs. You don’t need to.
His eyes flick between yours for a second. Like he’s reading the room, your mouth, your heartbeat.
Then..
“I’d love to,” he says, low and soft, like it’s the easiest decision he’s made all night.
His thumb brushes your wrist.
And with that, you lead him in. His hand in yours, heat blooming at your back, and your heart racing for what’s next.
You step into the elevator first.
The doors slide shut behind you with a soft hum and just like that, the world shrinks down to the two of you and the low buzz of rising silence.
No one else. Just him.
Just the smell of his cologne and the quiet shift of his weight as he steps in beside you.
And when your eyes meet, there’s a beat. One silent, charged second where everything crashes at once.
Then..
He’s on you.
His hand finds the small of your back, pulls you in like he can’t wait anymore. Your mouth meets his with a soft gasp. Open, messy, deeper than before. Fingers tangling in his shirt, his hair. His hand flattening against your spine like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through your dress.
You kiss like the elevator might stop working and trap you there. Like neither of you would mind.
Your body presses into his, flush from chest to thigh. His mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, then lower, leaving warm, open mouthed kisses at the side of your throat.
The softest moan escapes your lips, muffled against his collar.
Lucky you.
Your room’s near the top.
The ride feels eternal but neither of you complains.
By the time the bell chimes and the elevator dings open, you’re both breathing hard, lips swollen, trying to remember how to act human again.
You giggle. Partly embarrassed, mostly drunk on him. You grab his hand, tugging him out.
“This way,” you laugh, stumbling a little in your heels.
“Careful,” he murmurs, immediately steadying you. His hand is warm at your waist. “Still tipsy?”
“Shut up.”
You try to take your heels off mid walk, one at a time, hopping a bit.
“Need help?”
“I got it! Wait..”
Before you can crouch, his hand brushes yours away.
“Got it.”
He crouches effortlessly and slips one heel off, then the other. His hands trailing just a bit up your calf, like he can’t help it. Like even this moment, small and simple, is something he wants to savor.
“Oh, Bert,” you sigh.
“We’re doing nicknames now, huh?” he says, standing again. That grin on his face.. God.
And finally, you reach the door.
The keycard barely scans before it clicks open.
You’re halfway inside when he speaks again, voice low, like a promise.
“You sure?”
You glance back at him, hand still on the door.
You don’t answer.
You kiss him.
It’s instant. Sharp. Hungry.
Your fingers curl into his shirt and he responds without hesitation, backing you into the wall the moment the door swings shut behind him with a soft thud.
Your back hits it, barely noticing. His body slots into yours, like he belongs there. Like he’s waited too long to have you pressed this close.
His hands are desperate but careful. Roaming over your sides, sliding down to your thighs like he’s learning the blueprint of you by touch alone.
You fumble at his shirt, tugging it up and over his head.
He exhales a quiet laugh into the crook of your neck, all warm breath and restraint, even as he trails kisses there. Soft. Tender. But endless.
“You smell good,” he murmurs.
And just like that, you’re melting.
His lips brush against your collarbone, then dip lower.
You feel his hands slide around your back, fingers pausing at the zipper of your dress.
“May I?” he asks, voice low, already a whisper against your skin.
You nod.
He pulls it down, slowly. Carefully. Like it’s a ribbon he’s unwrapping instead of a zipper he’s undoing.
His lips follow the trail.
Kisses, one by one, along your shoulder, the top of your chest. He’s warm and reverent, never leaving a mark, just enough pressure to make you feel wanted, not owned.
You shrug out of the dress, and it pools at your feet.
His hands skim over the lingerie you chose like he remembers it from earlier, and he’s savoring the reveal.
“Still dressed to kill,” he murmurs, almost breathless.
“You’re not doing so bad yourself,” you manage, tugging at his belt now.
His hands cup your face for a moment. Gentle, grounding before he kisses you again. Slower this time.
Less fire. More feeling.
But no less intense.
And somewhere between that kiss, his lips trailing down your neck again, and your fingers undoing the last piece of clothing between you,
He takes over.
Bertholdt sinks to his knees with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.
His hands slide up your sides, fingers trailing heat beneath your bra straps, thumbs brushing just beneath the band as he kisses the swell of your chest. Not hurried. Not greedy. Worshipful.
He looks up at you through those lashes like he’s asking without words before slowly unhooking the clasp behind you.
The bra slips off your shoulders like silk.
And he gives each breast fair attention, cupping them in his palms, mouth hot and gentle over each peak. His tongue flicks, kisses trailing soft and patient from one to the other, like he’s savoring you, like he’s grateful to be here.
“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses. “You don’t even know.”
His mouth moves lower.
Down your stomach, inch by inch, his lips a heat trail across your skin.
You gasp when his hands find your thighs, thumbs stroking the soft skin there, parting them just enough. And he doesn’t rush.
He presses slow, open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, first one, then the other. His hands smooth over your skin like he’s learning the terrain, committing it to memory.
Then his fingers catch the sides of your panties.
“Can I take these off?” he asks, voice like velvet, low, thick, so full of need it makes your knees weak.
You nod, breathless. “Please.”
And he peels them down slow, careful, eyes never leaving yours until they drop to take in every inch of you.
Like he’s looking at something he’ll never forget.
Like he doesn’t want to blink and miss a thing.
And when they’re off, when you’re bare before him, his hands find your thighs again, spreading them wider, and he presses another kiss right where your hip meets the softness of your skin.
His mouth lingers at the inside of your thigh, lips brushing close, so close it makes your breath stutter, hips shift.
But then..
He pauses. Looks up.
Eyes dark, hooded.
Hungry. But soft.
One hand trails up the curve of your thigh, across your hip, then slides up your spine as he rises, slow, deliberate, towering over you again.
You barely catch your breath before he leans in, kisses you full on the mouth. A kiss that seals it, heavy and hot.
And that’s when his hands slide beneath your thighs.
“Hold on to me,” he murmurs.
Then..
He grips your thighs and lifts.
You gasp, your arms flying up around his shoulders, your legs wrapping tight around his waist like instinct. He carries you easily, like he was meant to hold you this way. Like his body knew yours before you even met.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your skin, voice warm and wrecked.
You can feel just how much he wants you, every inch of him pressed flush against your core, hard and hot and barely held back.
He kisses you again. Hungrier now, with a new urgency and walks you backward through the room like he already knows where this is going. Your hands are tangled in his hair, your lips dragging across his jaw, and every step he takes makes the tension in your stomach twist tighter.
Your back hits something cold.
You flinch, a soft gasp caught between your lips as the chill of the windowpane kisses your bare skin. It’s a sharp contrast to the searing heat of him pressed against you.
Your breath fogs the glass.
His forehead rests against yours, and he lets out a low, throaty sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a growl.
“Look at you,” he breathes, eyes scanning every part of you like he’s trying to memorize it.
His hands roam your body like he’s rediscovering a map he never wants to stop tracing.
They slide over your sides, fingers gliding with purpose. Learning the shape of you, the curve of your waist, the subtle dip of your lower back. One hand rests firm against your hip, keeping you braced between his body and the glass.
The other slips lower. Slower.
Between your thighs.
And then..
“God,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re soaked.”
His fingers find you easily. Slick, needy, already aching from the buildup only he could give.
He doesn’t rush.
He starts with featherlight strokes, barely there touches that make your breath catch and your hips roll forward, chasing more.
And when you grind helplessly against his hand, he smiles against your skin. His lips brushing your shoulder as he presses a kiss there.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, like it’s something he’s always known. “Absolutely perfect.”
He parts you gently, sliding two fingers through your folds, slow, deliberate, confident.
His touch grows deeper.
More practiced.
More focused.
Curl. Press. Stroke.
Every motion carefully calculated to pull a sound from you. And it does, your breath stutters, your legs tense, and your back arches just a little harder into him, hips rocking to match his rhythm.
You cling to him, to the window, to the sound of your name on his lips.
And as your body pulses around his fingers, as your thighs tremble and your nails bite into his shoulder.
He kisses you through it all.
Soft, slow kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, the back of your neck.
Like he’s not just trying to make you fall apart.
He’s trying to catch you as you do.
You moan. Soft, high, breathless and he groans in return, lips brushing your ear.
“Turn around for me,” he says.
You don’t hesitate.
He lowers you just enough so your feet brush the floor, your hands finding the window for balance as you face the glittering city.
You hear the sound of fabric shifting behind you.
Feel the heat of him pressing close.
And when he slides inside. Slow, deep, all consuming, you both gasp.
His hands grip your hips.
Your palms press flat against the glass.
And below you, the city just keeps glowing.
Bertholdt reaches forward, fingers sliding between yours until your palms are pressed together against the window.
Laced hands. Skin to skin.
His grip is firm, grounding like he wants you to feel him everywhere, even where he’s not touching.
His other hand grips your hip, tight but steady, guiding the rhythm, keeping you there, pressed just right against the glass with every deep, deliberate thrust.
And you can’t help it. You arch, back curving like instinct, head tilted back, chest rising with each gasp he pulls from you.
But he doesn’t let you drift.
He presses forward into you, around you, through you, until your cheek is nearly against the window pane.
“Stay with me,” he breathes, voice rough in your ear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you pant, dizzy and breathless, clinging tighter to his hand.
The city below becomes a blur. The lights, the stars, the world. It all disappears under the weight of him and the heat between your thighs and the way he keeps murmuring.
“You feel so good. So fucking perfect.”
“You’re taking me so well.”
“God, look at you…”
And your moans? You can’t hold them in anymore.
They spill out of you in waves, soft at first, then sharper, your body trembling, your knees threatening to give out, but he never lets you fall.
He kisses your shoulder. Your neck. Wherever he can reach.
“That’s it. That’s my girl,” he whispers, his voice shaking as much as you are.
“Let me hear you. Don’t hold back.”
“I want all of it, all of you.”
His pace deepens, long, dragging thrusts that make your body sing, and every time your hips meet the window, a soft thud echoes under your moans. Your body, your heart, your voice all completely his.
Your moans rise with every thrust, soft at first, then shameless. He’s everywhere. Behind you, within you, over you. His lips on your shoulder, his hand still tightly clasped with yours against the window. The other at your hip, grounding you with every deep press of his hips.
You squeeze his hand tight and he groans, the sound spilling against your skin, raw and wrecked.
“You’re gonna make me lose it,” he mutters, breath hot against the back of your neck.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, your voice cracking.
And he doesn’t.
He fucks you like he means it. Like he’s not trying to get off, he’s trying to memorize you. Every sound, every arch of your back, every breathless gasp you can’t hold in anymore.
The glass fogs from your moans.
Your thighs start to tremble.
And he feels it.
“There,” he says, voice hoarse. “That’s it. Right there, isn’t it?”
“Yes..Yes! Bert, I’m..”
His hand tightens on your hip.
“Let go for me.”
And you do.
Your body tenses, curls forward slightly, a choked, high pitched moan leaving you as your climax hits. Fast, full, and hot, flooding through you like every nerve has snapped into light.
He kisses the back of your shoulder as your body shudders, keeping you steady.
“That’s it. I’ve got you. I’ve got you..God, you’re..”
You pulse around him. So tight, so wet and that’s all it takes.
He groans low and deep, like it’s being ripped out of him, hips slamming once, twice more before he spills into you, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to your spine.
You both stay there.
Panting.
Pressed against the glass, bodies locked together like something holy just passed through.
“Shit,” he breathes, barely able to speak.
“Yeah,” you whisper, breathless. “Shit.”
His hand stays laced with yours.
And gently, he pulls back, only to scoop you up in his arms like you weigh nothing at all.
“Bed?”
“Please.”
And he carries you across the room, still joined, still dizzy, laying you gently across the sheets like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.
──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ──── ──── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ────
You’re not sure what woke you.
Maybe the light bleeding through the sheer curtains.
Maybe the sheets shifting in your sleep.
Maybe...
The feeling of lips brushing your forehead.
A soft press. Warm. Gentle.
Almost like a goodbye.
But by the time you stir, blinking through the haze of last night, the space beside you is empty.
The bed is still warm, but he’s gone.
You sit up slowly, the ache between your thighs a beautiful reminder. Your body hums, still half drenched in memory. But as your eyes scan the quiet room, the weight settles in your chest.
Of course he left.
It was a one night thing.
That’s what you agreed to.
...Right?
You exhale, pulling the sheets around you for a moment, collecting yourself. Then you move.
Shower.
Pack.
Dress.
You move on auto pilot, methodical and quiet. You double check your luggage, check the safe, glance under the bed just in case, leaving no room for mistakes. Your passport is tucked into your carry on, your boarding pass already downloaded.
At checkout, you offer a polite smile to the front desk, not quite ready to face the ache of nostalgia blooming in your chest. The clerk doesn’t ask questions. You’re just another tourist leaving with one more story you’ll probably never tell.
You grab a quick breakfast from a café kiosk. Nothing fancy, just a croissant and espresso, something to ground you. You eat in the terminal, phone in hand, updating the group chat.
you: on my way to board ✈️ miss u idiots
jean: did u sleep at all gorg
sasha: YOU FORGOT TO SAY CIAO
connie: send foot pics !!!
You smile. The ache softens just a little.
The boarding process is smooth. You slide into your assigned window seat and tuck your carry on bag right at the overhead cabin. The plane is sleek, modern, neutral toned, calming. You lean back and close your eyes for a moment, letting the hum of boarding lull you.
A flight attendant stops by to check your seatbelt and offer you a drink.
“Let us know if you need anything before takeoff, ma’am.”
You nod politely, muttering a quiet thanks, and glance out the window.
And then..
A soft chime echoes through the cabin.
The speaker crackles.
And a deep, professional voice fills the air.
“Good morning, passengers. Welcome aboard Titan Air, Flight 845, non-stop service to Stohess International Airport.”
Your ears perk.
There’s something about the cadence. Low, rich, familiar.
“This is your captain speaking. Captain Bertholdt Hoover. We’re expecting a smooth flight today, cruising at 38,000 feet. Current weather in Stohess is partly cloudy with clear visibility. Estimated flight time is one hour and forty two minutes.”
You blink.
Captain who?
Your heart drops straight into your stomach.
Your breath catches.
Bertholdt. Hoover.
You sit up straighter.
Hand gripping your armrest.
He hasn’t seen you yet.
But you’ve heard him.
And that voice? Calm, cool, composed. It is the same one that whispered your name just hours ago.
What the fuck.
“We’d like to thank you again for flying with us. If this is your first time on Titan Air, we hope to make it memorable.”
kianamaiart
2087
gummygunk
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
