PREVIEW

... ights were low. A soft amber glow spilled over the rows of plush leather seats, trays pulled down, boots kicked off. Outside, the sky was black and endless. Just the hum of engines and the low rhythm of turbulence beneath their feet.

Tristan sat by the window, hoodie half-drawn over his head. One leg folded under him. His phone rested on his thigh. A fleece blanket bunched beside him, forgotten.

Across the aisle, Vardy and Schmeichel were locked in a pointless debate over who sno ...

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