The cabin of the Gulfstream G650 was a sanctuary of beige leather and polished walnut, cruising smoothly at forty-five thousand feet. It was a private charter, devoid of crying babies or chatty neighbors—just Damon Blackwood, a flight attendant named Chloe who knew when to disappear, and a stack of merger documents that needed his signature.
It should have been the perfect environment for productivity.
Instead, Damon had read the same paragraph about "maritime liability clauses" six times in the last hour without absorbing a single word.
He sighed, tossing the pen onto the folding table. He rubbed his face, feeling the grit of exhaustion behind his eyes.
Every time he closed them, he was back in the library.
He could feel the phantom warmth of Leo's back pressed against his chest. He could smell the vanilla shampoo. He could hear that breathless whisper: "And if they want it bad enough? What happens then?"
"God," Damon groaned, staring out the oval window at the endless expanse of clouds below.
He was losing his mind. He was a CEO, a husband, a man of discipline. He shouldn't be fantasizing about his twenty-one-year-old stepson during a transatlantic flight. It was unprofessional. It was immoral.
It was all he could think about.
The cabin air was chilly, the climate control set a few degrees too low. Damon shivered slightly. He reached for his suit jacket, which hung neatly on the back of the empty seat across from him—the jacket Leo had packed for him.
He pulled it on, the silk lining cool against his arms. As he buttoned it, settling back into his seat, he felt something stiff in the inside breast pocket.
Damon frowned. He usually kept that pocket empty to avoid ruining the line of the suit. Had he left a boarding pass there? A business card?
He slipped his hand inside and pulled out a small, rectangular object.
It wasn't a document. It was a polaroid.
Damon froze.
The photo was slightly grainy, developed with the soft, vintage filter of an instant camera. It showed a man sleeping on a beige sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes, mouth slightly open in deep, unguarded exhaustion.
It was him.
Damon's heart skipped a beat, then hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He recognized the t-shirt he was wearing in the photo. It was from two nights ago.
'He wasn't asleep,' Damon realized, a cold prickle of shock running down his spine. 'He was awake. And he took this.'
He stared at the image. It was intimate. Voyeuristic. It captured a moment of vulnerability Damon rarely showed the world. He looked defenseless.
He flipped the photo over.
On the back, in neat, looping black ink, were three words:
Sweet Dreams, Daddy.
Damon's breath hitched.
He should be angry. That was the rational reaction. His stepson had secretly photographed him while he slept and planted it in his jacket like a perverse little love note. It was a violation of privacy. It was stalking behavior.
He should tear it up. He should call Helen and tell her Leo needed therapy.
But Damon didn't tear it up.
He ran his thumb over the handwriting. He traced the curve of the 'D'.
A dark, heavy heat curled low in his gut, overriding the logic. He didn't feel violated; he felt... seen. He felt desired. The thought of Leo watching him in the dark, holding a camera, waiting for the perfect moment to capture him—it was intoxicating.
It meant Leo was thinking about him just as obsessively as he was thinking about Leo.
"Sir?"
Damon jumped, his hand snapping shut over the photo.
The flight attendant, Chloe, was standing in the aisle with a silver tray. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Blackwood. Would you like a refill on your coffee?"
"No," Damon said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat, trying to compose his face. "No, thank you. I'm fine."
"We'll be landing in London in two hours," she informed him with a polite smile before retreating to the galley.
Damon waited until she was gone. He looked down at the photo one last time.
Sweet Dreams, Daddy.
He slipped the polaroid back into his pocket, pressing it flat against his chest, right over his heart. He buttoned the jacket tight.
His phone, sitting on the table next to the unread contracts, buzzed.
He picked it up. A text message.
Leo:Have a safe flight. The house feels huge without you. Try not to miss me too much. ;)
Damon stared at the screen. He could picture Leo lying on his bed, phone held above his face, that innocent-devil smile playing on his lips.
Damon's thumbs hovered over the keyboard. He typed: Go to sleep, Leo.
He deleted it.
He typed: I found the photo. We need to talk.
He deleted that too.
Finally, he typed nothing. He just let the message sit there, unread but acknowledged.
He turned his phone off and shoved it into his pocket next to the photo. He leaned his head back against the leather seat, closing his eyes.
But this time, when he closed his eyes, he didn't see the library. He saw Leo in the dark, watching him sleep.
And for the first time in years, Damon Blackwood felt truly, terrifyingly alive.
"Turbulence," he whispered to the empty cabin. "Just turbulence."