Turbulence and Temptation

Part 1: Strangers at the Gate

Sienna

Rain hammers the airport windows as I stare at the boarding pass in my hand, the destination almost irrelevant. Denver. Three hours away. A city where no one knows my name or expects anything from me. Perfect.

Three hours ago, I was Sienna Hart, rising star at Preston & Lowell, sitting across from senior partners with my resignation letter like a grenade between us. Now I’m just a woman with a hastily packed carry-on and the taste of freedom mixing with terror on my tongue.

“Last call for Flight 1722 to Denver.”

The gate area is nearly deserted at this hour, just a handful of weary travelers hunched over phones or dozing in uncomfortable chairs. As I approach the boarding line, I notice him—tall, broad-shouldered, with that particular slouch that suggests both confidence and carelessness. Military, maybe. Or just someone who’s learned to be comfortable with discomfort.

When he turns and our eyes meet, something primitive stops me mid-step. He has the kind of face that looks like it’s been weathered by actual weather—sun lines around storm-gray eyes, a day’s worth of stubble outlining a jaw that belongs on a sculpture.

His gaze drops to my stilettos, then back up to my face, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Interesting choice of footwear for an escape,” he says. His voice is low, rough-edged.

I tighten my grip on my boarding pass. “Who says I’m escaping?”

“The look in your eyes.” He shrugs. “Like you’re running from something. Or to something.”

“That’s quite an assumption to make about a stranger.”

“I’m good at reading people.” His smile deepens, revealing a small scar at the corner of his mouth. “Comes with the territory.”

“And what territory is that?”

Instead of answering, he gestures toward the gate. “After you.”

I brush past him, catching a scent of something earthy and clean—not cologne, just soap and skin and maybe the metallic tang of camera equipment from the professional-looking bag slung over his shoulder.

At the gate, the attendant frowns at her computer. “Ms. Hart, we’ve had an equipment change. You’ve been reassigned to seat 14A.”

“Window seat. Lucky you,” says the man behind me.

The attendant glances up. “Mr. Morgan, you’re now in 14B.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Middle seat. Lucky me.”

Our eyes meet again, and there’s something knowing in his expression, as if the universe just dealt a card he somehow expected.

“Looks like we’ll be neighbors,” he says, extending his hand. “Jace.”

“Sienna.” His palm is warm and calloused against mine, the contact brief but somehow disarming.

“Nice to meet you, Sienna No-Last-Name.”

“You didn’t offer yours either,” I point out.

He grins. “Fair enough. Let’s keep it that way. More interesting.”

I shouldn’t be intrigued by this man. He’s exactly the type I’ve always avoided—too confident, too casually masculine, too… everything. But tonight I’m not the careful, calculating Sienna who color-codes her calendar and thinks three steps ahead. Tonight I’m whoever I want to be.

“You do this often?” I ask as we make our way down the jetway. “Chat up women at airport gates?”

“Only when they look like they’ve just blown up their life and aren’t sure whether to celebrate or panic.”

I stop walking. “That’s… unsettlingly accurate.”

He shrugs again, that easy movement that suggests nothing in the world could truly trouble him. “Like I said, I notice things. Hazard of the job.”

“Which is?”

“I take pictures. Of people, places. Moments.”

“A photographer.”

“Something like that.” His eyes hold mine. “What about you? What did you leave behind tonight?”

The question is too direct, too personal from a stranger. But the anonymity of travel wraps around us like a cocoon, making the truth feel less dangerous.

“A corner office. A life that looked perfect on paper and felt like drowning in reality.”

“Ah.” Just that—no platitudes, no questions. Just quiet understanding that somehow reaches deeper than sympathy would have.

We find our seats, and I slide in first, claiming the window. Jace folds his long frame into the middle seat beside me, his shoulder and thigh unavoidably pressed against mine in the cramped space.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t sound particularly apologetic. “Not built for standard airline dimensions.”

No, he certainly isn’t. He’s built like someone who carries his own equipment up mountains, like someone who can probably run for miles without getting winded. I focus on fastening my seatbelt, suddenly very aware of my breathing.

“So, Denver,” he says, as the plane begins to push back from the gate. “Business or pleasure?”

“Neither. Or both. I don’t know yet.” I glance out at the rain-slicked tarmac. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Like what?”

“Just… gone. Without a plan.”

When I look back, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Sometimes the best things happen when plans fall apart.”

The engines roar to life, vibrating through the cabin as we taxi toward the runway. In the dim light, his profile is all sharp angles and shadows. I wonder what his story is, what he’s running from or toward.

As the plane accelerates, my hand grips the armrest between us. Without thinking, I brush against his fingers—and freeze.

Electric. That’s the only word for the sensation that jolts through me. His hand is perfectly still beneath mine, but I can feel the immediate tension in his body, see the way his chest stops mid-breath.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his hand palm up beneath mine. An invitation. A question.

Our eyes meet in the shadowy cabin, and I realize I’m holding my breath too.

The plane lifts off the ground, and something else takes flight with it.

Part 2: Turbulence and Teasing

Jace

The cabin lights dim an hour into the flight, casting most passengers into dreams. But sleep is the furthest thing from my mind with Sienna sitting next to me, her hand still loosely resting over mine on the armrest between us. She’d pulled away when the seatbelt sign went off, but gravity—or something stronger—keeps bringing us back together.

“Truth or dare?” I ask, breaking the comfortable silence that’s settled between us.

She turns from the window, one eyebrow arched. “Are we twelve?”

“Humor me.” I shift to face her better, my knee bumping hers. “Long flights are boring.”

“Truth,” she says after a moment, her lips curving slightly.

“Why tonight? What made you pull the ejection handle on your life?”

Her amber eyes widen slightly. “Starting with the heavy artillery.”

“Go big or stay home.”

She looks down at her hands, elegant fingers twisting an invisible ring. “I was in a meeting today—yesterday now, I guess. Senior partners discussing a case, a pharmaceutical company that buried evidence their drug was causing birth defects.”

“And your job was to defend them,” I guess.

“My job was to win.” She says it plainly, no drama. “I’ve always been good at winning. But sitting there, listening to them strategize about how to minimize the payout to families with disabled children…” She shakes her head. “Something just… broke. I realized I didn’t recognize myself anymore.”

“So you walked.”

“So I walked.” Her eyes meet mine, defiant and vulnerable at once. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“The scar,” she says, gesturing to the corner of my mouth. “How’d you get it?”

My hand rises automatically to the small, jagged mark that splits my upper lip. Most people don’t notice it, or are too polite to ask.

“Afghanistan. I was a helicopter pilot. Took some shrapnel during an extraction that went sideways.” I keep my voice light, skimming over the surface of deeper waters.

“You were military.”

“Air Force. Two tours.”

“And now you take pictures.”

“Now I take pictures,” I confirm, not elaborating on the journey between those two lives. “Truth or dare?”

She studies me, like she’s trying to decide how much of a risk I am. “Truth.”

“What scares you more—failing or succeeding?”

“That’s…” She blinks. “Succeeding, I think. Failing means you can try again. Succeeding means you have to live with the person you became to get there.”

The insight knocks something loose in my chest. This woman I’ve known for all of ninety minutes sees things too clearly for comfort.

“Your turn,” she says quickly.

“Dare.” I need a break from her perceptiveness.

A smile flickers across her face. “I dare you to tell me the most beautiful place you’ve ever photographed.”

“That’s not a dare. That’s a truth in a trench coat.”

She laughs, the sound low and surprisingly rich. “Fine. I dare you to show me.”

I reach for my bag under the seat, pulling out my camera. It’s my secondary one, not the expensive gear stowed above, but it holds some of my recent work. I click through images until I find what I’m looking for, then pass it to her.

Our fingers brush. Again, that current between us, stronger now.

“Where is this?” she whispers, staring at the photo of dawn breaking over mountains, mist rising from a valley like breath.

“Patagonia. Torres del Paine.”

“It looks like the beginning of the world.”

“It felt like it.” I watch her face as she studies the image, the way the screen’s glow illuminates her features. “Truth or dare, Sienna No-Last-Name?”

“Dare,” she says, surprising me.

My pulse quickens. “I dare you to tell me what you want right now. In this moment. The first thing that comes to mind.”

Her eyes lift from the camera to meet mine, and something electric passes between us. The plane chooses that moment to shudder, hitting a pocket of turbulence. She grips the armrest instinctively.

“Not a fan of flying?” I ask.

“Not a fan of falling from thirty thousand feet.”

Another jolt rocks the plane, stronger this time. Her knuckles whiten.

“Hey,” I say softly, covering her hand with mine. “You’re safe.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No, but I know planes. Trust me, this is just the sky throwing a little tantrum.”

She doesn’t pull her hand away. “You didn’t answer the dare.”

“What?”

“What I want right now.” Her voice drops lower. “I want to not be the person who calculates every risk before taking it.”

The plane bucks again, more violently this time. A few overhead bins pop open. The seatbelt sign dings on.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice crackles over the intercom, “we’re hitting some unexpected turbulence. Please return to your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened.”

Sienna’s eyes dart to the window, where nothing but darkness stares back.

“Hey,” I say again, drawing her attention back to me. “Look at me, not out there.”

“Is it bad?” she asks.

“Nah. I’ve flown through worse in tin cans held together with duct tape and prayers.” I grin, trying for reassuring. “This fancy commercial jet is practically a luxury resort by comparison.”

Another violent shake, and Sienna actually gasps. Without thinking, I take her hand fully in mine.

“Distract me,” she says.

“Truth or dare?”

“Definitely truth right now.”

“Why Denver? Of all the flights leaving tonight?”

“It was the furthest I could go without a connection.” She attempts a smile. “I’ve never been to Colorado.”

“It’s beautiful. Mountains like castle walls. Air so clean it hurts to breathe sometimes.”

“You’ve been?”

“I live there. When I’m not somewhere else.” The plane drops suddenly, and Sienna’s body lurches toward mine. My arm instinctively wraps around her shoulders. “Sorry,” I murmur, though I’m not.

She doesn’t pull away. “Don’t be.”

For several seconds, we stay like that, her head against my shoulder, my arm around her. The turbulence continues to rock us, but she seems less tense now.

“Your turn,” she says, voice muffled against my shirt.

“Truth.”

She tilts her head up, her face inches from mine. “Are you running from something or toward something?”

The question—my own words reflected back at me—catches me off guard. In the dimness, with her this close, honesty feels like the only option.

“Both,” I admit. “Always both.”

She nods, like she understands completely. Another jolt sends her hand to my chest to steady herself, palm flat against my heart. She must feel how fast it’s beating.

“Sorry,” she whispers, not moving her hand.

“Don’t be.”

Our eyes lock. Even in the darkness, I can see her pupils dilate, feel the quickening of her breath.

The plane drops again, hard enough that someone in the back yelps. The captain’s voice returns, tighter now: “Folks, we’re expecting severe turbulence for the next twenty minutes. Flight attendants, secure the cabin.”

Sienna’s fingers curl into my shirt. I lean in close, my lips nearly brushing her ear.

“Might wanna hold onto me, counselor.”

Part 3: High-Altitude Heat

Sienna

The plane drops again, and I grasp Jace’s shirt tighter, my knuckles brushing against the solid warmth of his chest. The cabin rattles around us like it might shake apart, but all I can focus on is the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the faint woodsy scent of him, the way his arm feels wrapped around my shoulders.

“Distract me more,” I whisper, surprising myself with my boldness.

His eyes find mine in the darkness. “How?”

We’re in that strange liminal space that exists only on overnight flights—suspended between time zones, between who we were and who we’ll be when we land. The rules of normal life feel distant, irrelevant.

“Truth or dare?” I challenge.

His mouth curves. “Dare.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “I dare you to show me what you’re thinking right now.”

For a long moment, he just looks at me, his expression unreadable in the dim cabin. Then his hand—the one not holding me steady against the turbulence—rises to brush a strand of hair from my cheek. The touch is feather-light but sends electricity sparking through me.

“I’m thinking,” he says, voice low and rough, “that I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

Another violent shake, and I’m practically in his lap. His arm tightens around me, steadying.

“Sorry,” I murmur, not moving away.

“Stop apologizing for things you don’t regret.”

Our faces are inches apart now. I can feel his breath warm against my lips.

“This is crazy,” I whisper. “We just met.”

“Sometimes crazy is exactly what we need.”

The next dip of the plane is all the excuse I need to close the distance between us. His lips are warm, firm, a contrast to the chaos around us. It’s a tentative kiss at first—testing, questioning—but then his hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and tentative explodes into scorching.

I’ve never been kissed like this. Like I’m water in a desert. Like time is running out.

The rational part of my brain—the part that plans and calculates and weighs consequences—is screaming to stop. I’m kissing a stranger on a plane. This isn’t me. But maybe that’s exactly why it feels so right. Because for the first time in years, I’m not being the careful, curated version of Sienna Hart that everyone expects.

Jace pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. “You sure about this?” he asks, his voice strained.

In answer, I kiss him again, deeper this time. The plane could drop from the sky right now and I’m not sure I’d notice or care.

His hands are everywhere—tangled in my hair, skimming down my spine, gripping my waist—always careful, always checking my reactions. It’s not just desire I feel from him, but attention. Like he’s memorizing me.

“Just tonight,” I breathe against his mouth. “No strings, no expectations.”

“No last names,” he agrees, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. “Just us, right now.”

His mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my ear, and I have to bite back a moan. The thin airline blanket across our laps provides minimal cover as his hand slides along my thigh, leaving a trail of heat through the fabric of my skirt.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs against my neck. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Words have always been my tools, my weapons. But right now they desert me completely. All I can do is feel—his touch, the plane shuddering around us, my heart threatening to burst from my chest.

The turbulence jolts us again, and a flight attendant stumbles down the aisle, checking seatbelts. We spring apart like guilty teenagers, though in the darkness I doubt she can see much. Just as well—the last shreds of my common sense are returning.

“This is insane,” I whisper when she’s passed. “We’re on a plane full of people.”

Jace chuckles softly, his thumb making maddening circles on the inside of my wrist. “Adds to the thrill, doesn’t it?”

It does, God help me.

“Tell me something real,” I say suddenly, needing more than just this physical connection, as overwhelming as it is. “Something you wouldn’t normally tell someone you just met.”

He’s quiet for so long I think he might not answer. When he does, his voice has lost its playful edge.

“I haven’t slept through the night in three years.” His admission hangs in the air between us. “Not since my last tour.”

I place my palm against his cheek, feeling the slight rasp of stubble. “What do you see when you close your eyes?”

“Things I couldn’t stop. People I couldn’t save.” He turns his face to press a kiss into my palm. “Your turn. Something real.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I spent so long becoming what everyone expected that I lost track of what I actually wanted.”

“And what do you want, Sienna?”

The question hangs between us, weighted with possibility. Before I can answer, the plane levels out, the violent shaking subsiding to a gentle rocking.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice announces, “looks like we’ve passed through the worst of the turbulence. We should have smoother air for the remainder of our flight to Denver. Flight attendants, you may resume service.”

The overhead lights flicker on dimly. Reality intrudes on our private bubble of darkness.

Jace doesn’t move away, though. His arm remains around me, his eyes still on mine, waiting for an answer to his question.

“Right now?” I say finally. “I want to stop overthinking everything. I want to feel instead of analyze. I want…” I take a breath. “I want to see what happens when I let go.”

His smile is slow, intimate. He brushes his lips against mine, softer now but no less electric. “For someone so careful, you take my breath away when you’re reckless.”

“Only with you, apparently.” The admission slips out before I can catch it.

“Lucky me.”

The flight attendant approaches with the beverage cart, and we reluctantly separate, though his hand finds mine under the blanket, fingers intertwining.

“What happens when we land?” I ask quietly, once we’re alone again.

“Whatever we want.” His thumb strokes over my knuckles. “Denver’s my home turf. I know all the best spots to get lost for a while.”

The thought seizes me—extending this strange, suspended moment beyond the confines of the plane. Continuing whatever this is in the real world. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” I say, the words feeling like jumping off a cliff. “No job waiting. No plans.”

His eyes darken, and I see something like hunger flare in them. “Dangerous words to say to a man like me.”

“Maybe I’m tired of playing it safe.”

The overhead speaker announces our beginning descent into Denver. Only an hour left of this night, this strange cocoon where consequences don’t exist. Unless…

My heart pounds as I lean closer to him, my lips nearly brushing his ear. “Come with me when we land.”

His hand tightens on mine, and when he turns to meet my gaze, his smile is slow and full of promise.

“Anywhere.”

Part 4: After the Landing

Jace

The world changes when wheels touch tarmac—it always does. But this time, something in me resists the shift back to reality.

Dawn breaks over Denver as we disembark, soft gold light spilling through the terminal windows. Sienna walks beside me, our shoulders occasionally brushing, both of us heavy-eyed from a night without sleep but somehow vibrating with energy.

“Are we really doing this?” she asks as we stand at baggage claim. She’s smoothed her dark hair and reapplied her lipstick in the plane’s bathroom before landing, but she can’t hide the slight swelling of her lips from our kisses. The sight sends heat through me all over again.

“Having second thoughts, counselor?”

“About fifty per minute.” She smiles, but I can see the tug of her other life trying to reclaim her. She pulls out her phone, which has been in airplane mode all night. The screen lights up with a cascade of notifications.

“Work?” I ask.

She nods, her finger hovering over the screen. “Former work. Apparently, quitting doesn’t mean they stop calling.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

Her amber eyes meet mine. “I don’t, do I?”

With deliberate slowness, she turns the phone off completely and drops it into her purse. The gesture feels weighted with meaning—a woman who has probably never been unreachable in her adult life, choosing to vanish.

My own phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from my editor about the Afghanistan series I’m supposed to be finalizing. I silence it without looking.

“We’re being irresponsible,” she says, but she’s smiling.

“Criminally.”

My duffel emerges on the carousel first, followed by her sleek carry-on. As I reach for it, I catch sight of the luggage tag: Sienna Hart, Boston, MS.

So, Boston. A last name. Small revelations that should break the spell of our nameless, historyless night but somehow don’t.

“I saw that,” she says when I hand her the bag.

“Saw what?”

“You looking at my tag. We said no last names.”

“I’ve already forgotten it.” I tap my temple. “Memory like a sieve.”

“Liar.” But she’s still smiling as we walk toward the exit.

Outside, the air is thin and cool, the sky that particular Colorado blue that feels cleaner than any other sky. The mountains loom on the horizon, still capped with snow despite the approaching summer.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Starving.”

I flag down a taxi, directing the driver to a place I know in Lower Downtown—a 24-hour diner tucked between historic brick buildings. It’s the kind of spot tourists rarely find, where the coffee is actually good and the staff doesn’t blink at people arriving straight from the airport before the workday begins.

The diner is nearly empty at this hour, caught between the night owls leaving and the early birds arriving. We slide into a booth by the window, where early sunshine makes Sienna’s skin glow golden. She looks both exhausted and exhilarated, her eyes bright despite the shadows beneath them.

“So,” she says, after we’ve ordered coffee and breakfast, “is this what you do? Pick up women on red-eye flights, show them the authentic Denver experience?”

“You’re the first.” I hold her gaze. “I’m not actually in the habit of kissing strangers on planes.”

“No?”

“No.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Something about you made me break all my rules.”

She looks down, suddenly shy. It’s an unexpected contrast to the woman who boldly pulled me into those kisses hours ago.

“Why did you really leave Boston?” I ask.

The waitress arrives with our coffee, giving Sienna a moment to consider her answer. When she speaks, her voice is softer, stripped of the playful edge we’ve maintained until now.

“I woke up one day and realized I’d spent ten years building a life I never actually chose. Just following the path of least resistance—good student to good law school to good firm.” She wraps her hands around her mug. “My parents were so proud. My boyfriend was talking about rings. And I just… couldn’t breathe anymore.”

“The boyfriend. Is he still waiting in Boston?”

“Ex-boyfriend.” She sips her coffee. “That ended six months ago. He wanted someone who matched his spreadsheet for life. White picket fence, two kids, dinner parties with other lawyers.” She looks up at me. “I thought I wanted that too, until suddenly I didn’t.”

“And now? What do you want now?”

“I don’t know yet.” Her honesty is disarming. “That’s what terrifies and excites me. For the first time, I’m not following a script.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “What about you? Why are you here—really?”

The waitress returns with our food, buying me time. The question digs deeper than I expected.

“I’ve spent the last three years never staying anywhere longer than a month,” I say finally. “After the military, I couldn’t settle. So I started taking photos, found I was good at it. It gave me a reason to keep moving.”

“Running from something?”

“From quiet. From stillness.” I meet her eyes. “When things get quiet, that’s when the memories come back. So I keep moving.”

“But you have a place here in Denver.”

“A loft downtown. I’m rarely there.” I push eggs around my plate. “It’s just somewhere to store gear between assignments.”

“So where are you going next?”

“I’m supposed to be in Patagonia next month. Those mountains I showed you, I’m doing a full series on them.” I take a breath. “But lately I’ve been wondering if maybe it’s time to stop running.”

“What would that look like for you?” she asks. “Staying still?”

I’ve never articulated it before, not even to myself. “Finding something—or someone—worth the risk of silence. Worth facing what I’ve been avoiding.”

The confession hangs between us, heavier than anything we’ve shared so far. Sienna reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers.

“I understand that. The thing you run from might be different from mine, but I understand the running.”

For a long moment, we just sit there, connected by touch and unexpected honesty in a diner at dawn in a city where only I belong.

“Where are you staying while you’re here?” I ask eventually.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.” She laughs softly. “Literally had no plan beyond ‘get on plane, go somewhere else.'”

“Bold strategy.”

“Terrifying strategy,” she corrects. “But strangely liberating.”

Sunlight shifts through the window, catching in her dark hair, illuminating flecks of gold in her amber eyes. Something tightens in my chest—a feeling I haven’t allowed myself in years.

“What happens next?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

It’s a dangerous question. We agreed to one night, no strings, no expectations. But dawn has come and gone, and here we still are, neither of us making a move to end whatever this is.

I could show her around the city, play tour guide for a day or two before she figures out her next move. We could extend this bubble of suspended reality a little longer. Or I could do the truly terrifying thing—let her see the real me, not just the carefully curated version I’ve been presenting.

“I have a better question,” I say, turning my hand beneath hers so our palms meet. “What do you want to happen next?”

Her eyes search mine. “I want to not overthink for once. I want to see where this goes.” She hesitates. “But I’m also afraid of losing myself again—of jumping from one defined path to another without figuring out who I really am.”

Her honesty slices through me. This woman, who I’ve known for less than twelve hours, sees me more clearly than people who’ve known me for years.

“Sienna,” I say, her name feeling significant on my tongue now that we’ve abandoned pretenses. “What if ‘anywhere’… is with me?”

Part 5: No Going Back

Sienna

“With you?” I echo his words, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.

Jace’s eyes hold mine, unwavering. No games now. No flirty banter or plausible deniability. Just a question that feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.

“I know it’s crazy,” he says, voice low. “We met twelve hours ago. But I also know I’ve never felt this with anyone before.”

The waitress appears to refill our coffee, and we both lean back, the moment suspended but not broken. When she leaves, Jace stands and extends his hand to me.

“Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

I take his hand without hesitation. Whatever logic or caution would normally hold me back seems to have stayed on that turbulent flight.

Outside, the city is fully awake now, streets filling with morning commuters. Jace leads me a few blocks away to a converted warehouse building with brick walls and tall windows. He nods to the doorman, who recognizes him with a smile.

“Morning, Morgan. Didn’t expect to see you in town.”

“Last minute change of plans, Eddie.”

So his last name is Morgan. I file this away, another piece of the puzzle that is this man who’s somehow crashed into my carefully structured world and scattered all the pieces.

The elevator takes us to the top floor, where Jace unlocks a heavy sliding door. His loft is exactly what I’d expect—exposed brick and beams, minimalist furniture, and photography equipment scattered about. But what takes my breath away are the windows—floor-to-ceiling glass offering a panoramic view of the city with mountains beyond.

“This is your ‘rarely here’ place?” I ask, turning in a slow circle. “It’s incredible.”

“It serves its purpose.” He crosses to a spiral staircase in the corner. “But the best part is up here.”

The staircase leads to a private rooftop terrace, and I gasp despite myself. The morning sun bathes everything in golden light, the mountains rising like sentinels in the distance, the city spread out below us.

“You weren’t kidding about the view,” I say, moving to the railing. The air is crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine from the distant forests.

Jace comes to stand beside me, our shoulders touching. “Worth staying for sometimes.”

“Yet you still leave.”

“Old habits.” He turns to face me. “Until now.”

A gust of wind sweeps across the rooftop, and I shiver slightly in my thin blouse. Without a word, Jace slips his jacket off and wraps it around my shoulders. It’s warm from his body, carrying his scent—that clean, earthy smell I’ve already come to recognize.

“Better?” he asks, his hands lingering on my shoulders.

“Yes.”

Neither of us moves away. His hands slide down my arms, leaving trails of heat even through the fabric of his jacket. When they reach my hands, our fingers intertwine naturally, like they’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.

“I should be terrified right now,” I admit. “This isn’t me. I don’t do impulsive. I don’t meet strangers on planes and follow them home. I make five-year plans and stick to them.”

“And yet here you are.” His thumbs trace circles on my palms. “Why?”

The question demands honesty. Up here, with the whole sky around us and no one else to hear, I can give it.

“Because for the first time in years, I feel alive. Not just going through motions or checking boxes. Actually alive.” I take a deep breath. “When that plane hit turbulence, do you know what I felt besides fear? Relief. Relief that something was happening I couldn’t control or predict.”

His eyes never leave mine. “And now?”

“Now I’m standing on a rooftop with a man I barely know, contemplating throwing away everything safe and sensible, and I should be petrified.” I step closer to him. “But instead, I’m just… ready. Ready to choose risk over safety for once.”

The smile that spreads across his face is slow and beautiful, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’re extraordinary, Sienna Hart from Boston.”

“You remembered my last name.”

“I remembered everything.” He releases one of my hands to brush a strand of hair from my face. “Your coffee order. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. How you tucked your feet under you on the plane when you finally relaxed.”

“Careful observation. The photographer in you?”

“The man in me.” His voice drops lower. “The man who can’t stop looking at you.”

The intensity in his gaze makes heat bloom in my chest, spreading outward until my whole body feels flushed. I’ve been desired before, but never like this—never with this combination of hunger and tenderness that makes me feel both seen and wanted.

“I was supposed to be in Johannesburg next week,” I say suddenly. “Corporate merger. Very important clients. I had my hotel booked, my briefing prepared.”

“And now?”

“Now I have nowhere to be. No deadlines. No expectations.” I allow myself a small smile. “It’s terrifying. And perfect.”

He pulls me closer, one arm sliding around my waist. “I was supposed to be in Patagonia next month. I have permits, guides arranged, everything.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m thinking those mountains have stood for millions of years. They can wait a little longer.” His free hand traces the line of my jaw. “I’m tired of running, Sienna. Tired of never staying still long enough to feel anything real.”

“Is that what this is?” I whisper. “Something real?”

In answer, he kisses me. Unlike the heated, urgent kisses on the plane, this one is slow, deep, deliberate. A kiss that says there’s no rush, no ticking clock counting down to goodbye. A beginning, not an end.

When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy with more than just the altitude. Jace keeps me steady in his arms, his forehead resting against mine.

“I can’t promise I won’t get it wrong,” he says quietly. “I’ve been on my own a long time. But I want to try. With you.”

“I can’t promise I won’t panic and try to organize everything into neat little boxes,” I counter. “It’s kind of my default setting.”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest against mine. “We’ll be disasters together. At least it won’t be boring.”

The sun continues its climb in the sky, casting our shadows long across the rooftop. Below us, the city hums with life—thousands of people following their routines, their plans, their carefully mapped paths. And here we stand, off-script, unplanned, gloriously adrift together.

“I had a vacation planned but never taken,” I say, the ideas coming faster now. “Three weeks, actually.”

“I know a place in Costa Rica. Little surfing village. No cell service.”

“I’ve never surfed in my life.”

His grin turns wicked. “I’m a very hands-on instructor.”

The laugh that bubbles out of me feels foreign—too free, too light to belong to the woman who left Boston last night. But maybe that’s exactly the point. Maybe I’m not that woman anymore.

“My mother is going to have a conniption,” I muse. “Harvard Law to beach bum in twenty-four hours.”

“We can send her a postcard.” Jace pulls me closer, his arms wrapping fully around me, solid and warm against the morning chill. “Or you can go back to Boston. Figure things out from there. I’d understand.”

But even as he says it, his arms tighten slightly, contradicting his words.

I shake my head. “There’s nothing there I can’t figure out from somewhere else. Preferably somewhere with you and no cell service.”

His smile could outshine the sunrise. “No regrets?”

“Ask me in a week.” I rise on tiptoes to kiss him again, because I can, because I want to, because for once I’m not overthinking every move.

When we separate, I stay in the circle of his arms, looking out at the mountains in the distance. They look like possibility, like adventure, like all the things I’ve denied myself in pursuit of someone else’s definition of success.

“So what now?” I ask, tilting my face up to his.

Jace grins, eyes alight with that same reckless joy I feel building in my chest. “Now? We fly wherever the hell we want.”

Jace Morgan

Jace Morgan grew up in a small town in Montana, the son of a decorated Air Force pilot and a fiercely independent schoolteacher. From the time he could walk, he idolized the open skies and the idea of freedom that came with flight. His father’s shadow loomed large — a war hero known for bravery but also for silence about the scars left behind.

At eighteen, determined to carve his own path but still desperate to make his father proud, Jace enlisted in the military and quickly earned a reputation as a natural behind the controls of any aircraft. Cool under pressure, smart-mouthed, and fearless, he found a home in the cockpit.

But during his third deployment overseas, a routine mission went catastrophically wrong. Caught in enemy crossfire, Jace’s helicopter was shot down. He survived — barely — but two of his closest friends didn’t. Jace walked away with scars both visible (a deep one on his lip) and invisible, carving guilt and survivor’s remorse deep into his soul.

Medically discharged and disillusioned with the institution he’d once believed in, Jace drifted for a while — angry, restless, and unable to stay in one place for long. Eventually, he picked up a camera, a hobby from his teenage years, and started taking photos during his travels. Capturing the raw, beautiful, unpredictable world through his lens gave him a new mission: tell the stories that otherwise go unseen.

Over time, Jace became a sought-after adventure photographer, known for disappearing into remote corners of the globe, chasing danger the way some people chase peace. Every journey, every flight, every new landscape was a way to outrun the past — a past he never talks about.

When we meet him at the beginning of the story, Jace is in a rain-soaked airport not because he missed a flight, but because, deep down, he let himself miss it.

He’s tired of running.

He just doesn’t know it yet — not until Sienna Hart sits down next to him and throws a spark into the gasoline of his restless heart.