4. The Man Named Elian

Two hours into the flight, I slumped back into my seat, my panda neck pillow crooked and digging into my jaw.

The whiskey I’d nursed earlier still lingered on my tongue, but it hadn’t done much to settle the tight coil of tension in my chest. I was still rattled by the fact that the perpetrator of the mafia murder back home happened to be in Harlen, too.

The place I was at a mere hours before.

Trying to lose myself in the boring movie playing in front of me, I felt Elian was still watching me. Not the polite kind of watching either, but the kind that made me hyper-aware of every awkward movement I made, every twitch of my fingers against the armrest.

"You know, for someone who just dropped a bombshell like that, you’re surprisingly composed," Elian’s voice was low, smooth, and, ugh… almost teasing.

Why did he sound like that?

I shot him a look. "Composed? My entire spine feels like it’s been replaced with pool noodles, Elian."

He smirked, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that was far too attractive for someone who was currently being so insufferable. "I like it when you say my name."

I let out a breath through my nose, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Don’t make this a thing."

He smirked, the corner of his mouth curling in a way that was far too attractive for someone who was currently being so insufferable. "I like it when you say my name."

But he wasn’t letting up. His sharp blue eyes stayed locked on me, glittering with something dangerously close to amusement. Or flirtation. Was he flirting?

No, no, definitely not. Except…

Maybe?

I shifted in my seat, painfully aware of how close he was. Airplane seats were not made for casual banter with mysteriously intense strangers who had a knack for peeling away your carefully constructed layers like an onion in a cooking show. Even in first class, it seemed.

To distract myself further, I waved a hand at the flight attendant passing by. "Can I get a drink? Something strong. Like… jet fuel, if you have it."

Elian chuckled under his breath. "Careful, Maeve. You might end up oversharing if you’re too tipsy."

"You think I haven’t already overshared? I’ve told you more in the last ten minutes than I’ve told my therapist in a year."

“You go to therapy?”

I deadpanned, “No.”

As the flight attendant reached for my empty glass of champagne, a sudden jolt of turbulence rocked the plane. The trolley wobbled, but thankfully, the tray and everythings on it didn’t tip over.

Surely, that was not a coincidence. I flicked my eyes at Elian, who seemed nonchalant about any of this, when I was practically almost freaking out at the possibility of our plane nose-diving to the ocean.

Once the plane became still again and the alarm turned off, the flight attendant retrieved my empty glass of champagne and handed me a glass of whiskey, filled with exactly three ice cubes. I received it like it was holy water and downed a sip, wincing as it burned down my throat.

Elian watched me with an eyebrow raised, his expression almost impressed, I thought.

"Alright, detective," he said, his voice soft but sharp around the edges. "Let’s make a deal. You stop pretending you’re fine, and I’ll stop pretending I’m not wildly curious about whatever’s got you so rattled."

I narrowed my eyes on him. "That’s not how deals work. You’re offering me absolutely nothing."

He grinned, teeth flashing briefly, and I felt an uninvited warmth creep up my neck. "Fine. How about this? You tell me your story, and I’ll tell you one of mine."

I leaned back in my seat, whiskey cup in hand, studying him. His expression had softened, but the sharp edges remained like a blade carefully sheathed.

"Why do I feel like your story ends with, ‘and that’s why I can never go back to Sweden’?"

Elian laughed, and it was a genuine sound, warm, rich, and way too nice for a man who looked like he was probably on some international watchlist. "You wound me, Maeve."

I sipped my drink again, my body sinking deeper into the seat. The alcohol was kicking in, loosening the tension in my shoulders and making Elian seem a little less sharp around the edges. Or maybe I was just getting blurry.

He tilted his head slightly, his voice softer now. "Tell me one thing, then. Just one. Did you know Aaron Somerset personally?"

I stared at the remaining ice cubes in my glass, watching them spin slowly in the amber liquid. "No. But I knew what he did. And that was enough."

Elian’s sharp eyes studied me, his gaze peeling back layers I didn’t even know I was still wearing. "You’re good at this, you know. At hiding things in plain sight. The way you deflect, the way you answer without really answering. It’s almost an art form."

I squinted at him. "You profiling me, Elian? Because you sound like you just challenged a detective, you know?”

His smirk widened, teeth flashing in the dim cabin light. "Please. By all means."

I tilted my head, leaning back into my seat. "When the flight attendant stumbled earlier during the turbulence, you reached out instinctively. Not just to brace yourself, but to steady her tray before she even realized it was tipping. That’s not reflex, but drilled muscle memory.”

Elian’s eyebrow arched higher, but he said nothing.

"And let’s not forget this," I added, lifting my panda neck pillow slightly with a smirk. "Back at the gate, when Drunkard McVodkaMist decided my carry-on was the perfect projectile and sent this pillow flying, you were the one who picked it up.”

“Well, it’s too cute to be left forgotten on the floor.”

I snorted, “Out of everyone standing there, you were the one who handed it back to me. Wait, I didn’t see you around in the queue, how can you march and hand my pillow here?”