Michael lifted his head.
The change in his face was immediate, as if a softer self stepped forward. His eyes warmed. His mouth curved into a small, genuine smile.
“Yeah, buddy,” he said. “I am.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Do you fight bad guys?”
The mother finally realized what was happening. She turned quickly, embarrassment flooding her face.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry,” she said. “He asks everyone everything.”
Michael’s smile stayed. “It’s okay,” he said, then looked back at the boy, as if the question deserved respect. “I help protect people. That’s the most important part.”
The boy considered that, brow furrowed in concentration. “Are you brave?”
Michael’s smile faltered for half a second. Just a flicker. Something private behind his eyes.
“Sometimes,” he said. “But you know who’s really brave? People who love someone and have to wait for them. That takes a different kind of strength.”
The boy nodded solemnly, as if he understood more than anyone could expect.
Around them, the cabin softened. A few people smiled quietly. Someone exhaled like they’d been holding their breath. A man two rows back gave a small approving nod.
Catherine rolled her eyes so dramatically it might have hurt.
“Performative,” she muttered, just loud enough.
The flight attendant pushing the cart, a young woman with a neat bun and a name tag that read EMILY, paused beside Catherine’s row and looked at her with a professional expression that had cooled noticeably.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Emily asked.
“Black coffee,” Catherine snapped. “And less drama would improve the experience.”
Emily’s smile didn’t change, but her eyes did. “I’ll bring that right away.”
She moved down the aisle and stopped at Michael’s row, her voice softening.
“And for you, sir?”
“Water, please,” Michael said.
Emily handed him a cup with care, as if she sensed he was balancing something fragile.
“Thank you for your service,” she added, and the words came out real.
Michael nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice sounded like it had traveled a long distance to reach the surface.
He returned to his notebook, but his pauses grew longer. He stared out the window at the darkening sky, the cloud tops glowing faintly under the last light, and his pen hovered above the page like it was waiting for permission again.
Twenty minutes before landing, he closed the notebook carefully and slipped it away.
Then his hand moved to the inside pocket of his jacket.
He withdrew the velvet box.
Dark blue. Small enough to vanish in his palm. He held it with both hands, thumbs resting along the edges, as if the box contained not an object but a promise.
For a moment, his composure cracked.
His jaw tightened. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing something that didn’t want to go down. His eyes glistened, and he lowered his head toward the box, shoulders drawing in slightly, the posture of a man holding back something enormous.
The grief on his face was so raw that nearby passengers looked away on instinct, offering him privacy without acknowledging it.
Michael stayed like that for a handful of heartbeats, then took a deep breath. He squared his shoulders again. The calm mask slid back into place, practiced and controlled.
The box disappeared into his pocket.
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