Page 131 of Top Shelf
“Oh my god.”
“It is turbulence, min fru.”
“I know what turbulence is.”
Warm fingers close around mine. “Then you know the plane is built for it.”
The aircraft bumps again, and a sharp sound escapes before I can swallow it. Across the aisle, a toddler laughs like he’s on a carnival ride, and it only intensifies the sudden nightmare circus playing out in my head.
“Look at me,” Viktor says.
“I’m busy looking at death.”
“Heidi.”
My eyes snap to his infuriatingly calm face. One hand holds mine, the other reaching for the water cup before it can slide. His thumb moves over my knuckles in a slow pattern I recognize from the mornings when I’m too wired to sit still.
“Breathe with me.”
“I am breathing, Viktor.”
“You are making small angry sounds.”
“That is my process.”
“Then let’s start a new process.”
I would argue, but the plane gives another ugly dip, and my throat closes around the argument. Viktor shifts closer, lowering his voice until it has to travel only the narrow space between us.
“In for four,” he says. “Out for six.”
“I hate this.”
“I will kill the turbulence for you.”
“And your country is way farther away than I realized.”
“It did not move.”
“Unhelpful.”
“In, Heidi. Count to four.”
Because I know his voice now, because my body has started trusting him in ways my brain has not fully approved, I breathe in when he does. Four counts. Then out for six. The cabin still shakes around us, full of metal and air and all this damn human certainty that we can fling ourselves over oceans because physics promised it would work. My heart still beats too hard, but Viktor’s thumb keeps moving.
“Good job,” he murmurs.
“Don’t praise me during turbulence.”
His mouth softens, and I glare at him, but my next breath comes easier. The plane bumps again, but smaller this time, and instead of squeezing hard enough to break his fingers, I keep my eyes on his.
“There you go,” he says.
I swallow, keeping his hand in mind. “I’m also nervous about your family.”
“I know. They will like you.”
“You can’t know that.”
