Chapter 12

For a woman who had successfully performed awake brain surgery, removed tumors from places most people were afraid to even point at on a diagram, and once calmly told a hospital board that their emergency staffing model looked like “a group project submitted at 11:59 p.m.,” Natsha Schuett was very close to losing her mind over a toothbrush.

Not because it was misplaced.

Not because it was dirty.

Not because someone had used it.

Because it was there.

Beside hers.

In the cup near the sink.

Her wife’s toothbrush.

Lena’s toothbrush.

A pale blue one, because Lena always chose pale blue things like she had signed an agreement with the sky. The bristles were still slightly damp, which meant Lena had been home recently enough to brush her teeth, but not long enough for Miu to see her.

Again.

Miu stood in their bathroom at six in the morning, wearing scrubs, her hair clipped carelessly back, one eye twitching from sleep deprivation and marital offense.

She stared at the toothbrush like it had betrayed her.

Behind her, their bedroom looked untouched on Lena’s side except for one pillow slightly dented and one blanket corner folded back.

Evidence.

Proof.

A crime scene.

Her wife had come home, slept for perhaps two or three hours, brushed her teeth, changed into uniform, and left.

Without waking her.

Without kissing her.

Without even leaving a dramatic note that said, “I love you, my gorgeous neurosurgeon wife. I am sorry aviation has stolen me again.”

Nothing.

Only the toothbrush.

Miu pointed at it.

“You think this is enough?”

The toothbrush, wisely, said nothing.

Her phone vibrated on the counter.

A message from Lena.

Lena: Landed in Bangkok. Leaving again in twenty minutes. I kissed your forehead. You looked like you were about to fight God, so I did not wake you. I love you.

Miu stared.

Her anger softened for half a second.

Then came back, smaller but still alive.

She typed.

Miu: A forehead kiss does not count if I am unconscious.

The reply came fast.

Lena: It counts emotionally.

Miu: I need it to count legally.

Lena: Good morning to you too, doctor.

Miu narrowed her eyes.

Miu: Are you still at the airport?

Lena: Yes. Walking to briefing.

Miu immediately looked at the time, calculated traffic, distance, hospital schedule, upcoming surgery, and whether it was socially acceptable for a neurosurgeon to abandon morning rounds to attack an airline captain with affection in Terminal 1.

It was not.

Unfortunately.

She typed with tragic restraint.

Miu: I hate this.

Lena’s reply took a few seconds.

Lena: I know, love. Me too.

And that was the problem.

Miu could not even be properly dramatic because Lena hated it too.

Lena Schuett, thirty-eight years old, airline captain, one of the youngest female captains in her company’s long-haul division, devastatingly gorgeous in a uniform that should have required government regulation, was currently trapped in a sequence of back-to-back international legs that made their marriage look like a hostage situation.

Bangkok to Frankfurt.

Frankfurt to Bangkok.

Bangkok to Tokyo.

Tokyo to Bangkok.

Bangkok to Sydney.

Sydney to Bangkok.

Then Bangkok to Athens, because apparently the airline had decided Lena’s bones were decorative.

Miu, thirty-six, neurosurgeon, hospital star, department menace, and woman everyone called calm because they had never seen her waiting for her wife to come home, had been no better.

Brain aneurysm clipping.

Spinal tumor resection.

Emergency trauma.

Pediatric neurosurgical consult.

A twelve-hour operation that turned into sixteen because the human body, like hospital administration, did not respect schedules.

For nearly a month, their marriage had been reduced to fragments.

Two hours in bed, one of them asleep before the other finished saying hello.

Breakfast with Lena in uniform and Miu in scrubs, both chewing toast with the emotional intensity of people trying not to cry into butter.

One arriving home as the other walked out.

A kiss in the driveway, car door open, driver waiting, hospital calling, airline van idling.

Sometimes, a conversation through the bathroom door.

Sometimes, a note on the fridge.

Sometimes, a video call from different time zones where Lena looked unfairly beautiful in hotel lighting and Miu looked like a sleep-deprived ghost wearing a stethoscope.

Sometimes nothing.

That was the one that offended Miu the most.

Nothing.

No overlap.

No face.

No voice.

Just evidence that Lena had existed in the house like a haunting with good perfume.

The worst one happened the week before.

Miu had come home at 2:17 a.m. after an emergency surgery that required a microscope, two anesthesiologists, and every remaining piece of her patience. She entered the house quietly, already smiling because Lena’s suitcase was near the door.

Home.

Lena was home.

Miu had walked upstairs so fast she almost tripped.

The bedroom was empty.

On Lena’s pillow was a note.

Love, I was called in. Tokyo leg. I tried to wait but you were still in surgery. Eat something. I left soup in the fridge. I love you. Please do not threaten aviation.

Miu had stood there in the dark holding the note.

Then she went downstairs, ate the soup, cried exactly three tears from exhaustion and offense, and texted Lena’s father.

Not her father-in-law.

Her father.

Technically, Miu’s father.

Former senior pilot, now one of the highest-ranking men in the airline’s flight operations division, a man whose current title was Director of Flight Operations, though Miu preferred calling him “the reason my wife is unavailable.”

He was also the one who had introduced Lena to Miu twelve years ago.

An act he had been proud of for exactly ten years and regretted only when Miu became impossible about schedules.

She texted him at 2:46 a.m.

Miu: Dad.

He replied at 2:47 a.m.

Dad: No.

Miu: I have not said anything.

Dad: It is about Captain Schuett.

Miu: That is my wife.

Dad: She is also an employee.

Miu: My wife first, employee second.

Dad: In aviation, employee first.

Miu: Illegal.

Dad: That is not illegal.

Miu: Illegal would be your airline stealing my wife for almost a month and expecting me not to commit emotional terrorism.

Dad: Go to sleep.

Miu: I am eating soup alone like a widow.

Dad: Your wife is alive and flying a perfectly safe aircraft.

Miu: Emotionally widow.

Dad: Good night, Natsha.

Miu: I regret being your daughter.

Dad: I regret introducing you to Captain Schuett.

Miu had sat up straighter at the dining table.

Miu: Oh really, Dad? I will happily inform Lena that you regret having her as a daughter-in-law.

The reply took longer this time.

Dad: Don’t you dare, Natsha.

Miu smiled into her soup.

There it was.

The weakness.

Her father adored Lena.

Adored her.

Professionally, because Lena was one of the best pilots in the company, precise, disciplined, respected, and calm in the cockpit even during weather conditions that made younger pilots begin praying in three languages.

Personally, because Lena treated Miu like she was the most precious and ridiculous person on earth, and because Miu, who had once declared at sixteen that marriage seemed like “a bad resource allocation,” had turned into a woman who smiled at her phone whenever Lena texted.

Her father liked competence.

He loved Lena.

He feared Miu.

A healthy family structure.

Now, standing in the bathroom with the toothbrush evidence, Miu made a decision.

Enough.

Their eleventh anniversary was approaching.

Eleven years since their wedding.

Ten years married legally, because the ceremony had happened a little before the paperwork was finalized and Miu still insisted they celebrate both.

Lena always said, “That is excessive.”

Miu always replied, “Loving you requires multiple holidays.”

This year, they had barely seen each other.

No.

Unacceptable.

Absolutely not.

Miu picked up her phone and called the hospital director.

At 6:18 a.m.

He answered on the fourth ring, voice hoarse and frightened because nobody called him this early unless something was bleeding, burning, or suing.

“Dr. Schuett?”

“Good morning, Director.”

There was a pause.

He knew that tone.

Everyone knew that tone.

It was the tone Miu used before changing someone’s life against their will.

“Is there an emergency?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“My marriage is in critical condition due to scheduling neglect.”

Silence.

Then, very carefully, “I’m sorry?”

“I need two weeks leave.”

Another silence.

“Two weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor, you know we are in the middle of a backlog. We have the spinal conference, the visiting fellows, the vascular cases, and you have three scheduled operations next week.”

“I already reassigned what can be reassigned, moved what can be safely moved, and left detailed notes. Dr. Anan can handle the decompressions. Dr. Suda can handle the consult clinic. I will remain reachable only for catastrophic neurological emergencies, and by catastrophic I mean actual brain catastrophe, not administrative inconvenience.”

“Dr. Schuett…”

“Approve it.”

“I cannot just approve two weeks because you are upset with your wife’s airline schedule.”

Miu was quiet for one second.

Then she said, “Then I will resign.”

The director made a sound like a file cabinet falling down stairs.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I will resign.”

“You cannot resign because of a leave request.”

“I can resign because I am overworked, under-rested, and my wife’s toothbrush has become my primary emotional support.”

“Her toothbrush?”

“That is private.”

“You brought it up.”

“Approve the leave.”

“Dr. Schuett, please be reasonable.”

“I have been reasonable for one month. I have saved lives, smiled at residents, tolerated the new MRI scheduling system, and attended three meetings that could have been emails. I am finished being reasonable.”

The director inhaled slowly.

In the hospital, there were many important people.

There were department heads, board members, donors, administrators, senior consultants, and specialists.

Then there was Miu.

Miu was the person donors asked for.

Miu was the person residents feared disappointing more than mortality rates.

Miu was the surgeon other surgeons called when the case became impossible.

Miu was also, regrettably, the person who could say “I will resign” and make an entire executive floor experience collective cardiac symptoms.

“Two weeks,” the director repeated weakly.

“Yes.”

“You will be reachable?”

“For actual emergencies.”

“And you will not resign?”

“Not if the leave is approved.”

“I need to check staffing.”

“I already checked it for you.”

“Of course you did.”

“I sent you an email.”

“When?”

“Five minutes ago.”

He sighed like a man staring at the ruins of his authority.

“I will review it.”

“Director.”

“Yes?”

“My upcoming wedding anniversary is not a request. It is an organ function.”

“An organ function?”

“Yes. Without it, my patience will fail.”

He was silent.

Then, quietly, “Approved.”

Miu smiled.

“Thank you. I will send a proper handover.”

“You already did.”

“Then please read it.”

She ended the call and immediately called her father.

He answered with the tired voice of a man who had raised a daughter too intelligent for peace.

“No.”

“Dad.”

“I said no.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking.”

“I know it concerns Captain Schuett.”

“Your favorite daughter-in-law.”

“My only daughter-in-law.”

“Still favorite.”

He sighed.

“What do you need?”

“Lena’s schedule.”

“That is confidential.”

“I’m her wife.”

“You are not airline operations.”

“I am hospital operations with better cheekbones.”

“That does not grant access.”

“Dad.”

“Natsha.”

“I need to know which flight she’s operating to Greece.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, that is illegal.”

“Illegal would be refusing a neurosurgeon access to her own wife.”

“That sentence has no legal foundation.”

“Illegal would also be the psychological damages caused by not seeing my wife properly for almost a month.”

“That is not how law works.”

“Illegal would be me telling Mom that you are overworking her favorite daughter-in-law.”

He paused.

“Your mother is not involved in this.”

“She can be.”

“Natsha.”

“She has group chats.”

His voice dropped.

“Do not weaponize your mother.”

“Then give me the schedule.”

“I regret introducing her to you.”

Miu smiled slowly.

“Oh? Should I tell Lena?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Should I say, ‘Love, my father regrets the day he placed your beautiful pilot face in my path’?”

“Miu.”

“Should I say, ‘Captain Schuett, your boss regrets having you in the family’?”

“I said no such thing.”

“You said you regret introducing her.”

“I regret the consequences.”

“The consequence is love.”

“The consequence is harassment before breakfast.”

Miu leaned against the kitchen counter.

“I want to surprise her.”

Her father went quiet.

That worked better.

It always did.

He could survive threats.

He could survive drama.

He could not survive Miu being sincere.

“She’s operating Bangkok to Athens,” he said at last.

Miu straightened.

“When?”

“You did not hear that from me.”

“When?”

He gave her the date.

Miu closed her eyes in victory.

“Thank you, Dad.”

“You are not to interfere with flight operations.”

“I would never.”

“You once tried to get a flight delayed because Lena had not eaten.”

“She had not eaten.”

“It was a domestic flight.”

“She is a human being first and captain second.”

“She had a banana in her bag.”

“It was insufficient.”

“Miu.”

“I won’t interfere.”

“Good.”

“I only need you to arrange her leave after the Athens leg.”

“No.”

“Dad.”

“No.”

“Two weeks.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Greece.”

“You want me to arrange Captain Schuett’s two-week holiday in Greece because you have decided your marriage needs Mediterranean repair?”

“Yes.”

“That is not how rosters work.”

“Make it work.”

“I am the Director of Flight Operations, not God.”

“Then act like management.”

He was silent, deeply offended.

Miu smiled.

“Two weeks. Please.”

“You added please too late.”

“Dad, our eleventh anniversary is approaching. I haven’t had a proper dinner with my wife in weeks. I have seen her toothbrush more than her face. I am one more empty bedroom away from becoming emotionally unstable in a way that may require HR.”

Her father sighed.

A long, old, loving sigh.

“I will see what can be done.”

“That means yes.”

“That means I will see what can be done.”

“I will disown you as my dad if you fail.”

“You cannot disown your own father.”

“I am a neurosurgeon. I can remove emotional attachments.”

“You are impossible.”

“You made me.”

“I regret many things.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

He hung up first.

Miu smiled at her phone.

Then she began planning.

The plan was simple.

Elegant.

Romantic.

Perfect.

She would secretly book herself on Lena’s Bangkok to Athens flight, remain hidden in economy, arrive in Greece, reveal herself once they landed, and surprise Lena with two weeks of anniversary leave.

Lena would be shocked.

Touched.

Possibly cry.

Miu would be graceful.

They would kiss in Athens like a movie.

Then they would spend two weeks in Greece eating, resting, holding hands, and remembering what each other looked like in daylight.

A perfect plan.

Unfortunately, Miu was terrible at hiding things from her wife.

Not because she lacked intelligence.

But because Lena has very loyal sources. 

Lena found out in less than twenty-four hours.

Not through airline systems.

Not through Miu’s phone.

Through Miu’s father.

Because the man had loyalties, and apparently, Lena ranked higher.

Lena was in the crew lounge reviewing route briefing notes when Miu’s father called.

“Captain Schuett.”

Lena sat straighter.

“Sir.”

She never called him Dad at work.

He respected it.

He also ignored it when convenient.

“Your wife is plotting.”

Lena looked up from her tablet.

“Of course she is.”

“She requested your roster.”

Lena’s mouth twitched.

“And you gave it to her?”

“I was threatened.”

“By Miu?”

“She mentioned telling you I regret introducing you.”

Lena laughed softly.

“Do you?”

“Every morning.”

“Sir.”

“She is joining your Athens flight.”

Lena paused.

Then smiled.

“Is she?”

“Economy seat. Far from the cockpit, because she thinks distance equals stealth.”

Lena closed her eyes.

Beautiful.

Ridiculous woman.

“She also threatened me into arranging your post-Athens leave.”

“Did she?”

“She said she would disown me as her father.”

“That sounds like her.”

“I approved your leave.”

Lena’s smile softened.

Two weeks.

With Miu.

In Greece.

No takeoffs.

No time zone conversions.

No hotel rooms alone.

No toothbrush haunting.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You are welcome. Also, I did not tell you this.”

“Of course not.”

“Let her think she surprised you.”

Lena leaned back.

“Oh, I will.”

There was a dangerous note in her voice.

Miu’s father paused.

“Captain Schuett.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be merciful.”

Lena smiled.

“No promises.”

For the next three days, Miu behaved like a woman committing romantic espionage.

She was unbearable.

She hummed while packing.

She smiled at her phone.

She labeled travel organizers like a person preparing for military deployment.

She ordered sunscreen, adapters, a new swimsuit, three linen dresses, and what Lena described suspiciously as “too many white outfits for someone who claims not to be planning beach photography.”

Miu tried to act normal.

She failed.

One night, Lena came home at midnight between flights and found Miu sitting on their bedroom floor surrounded by open luggage.

Miu immediately threw a sweater over the suitcase.

Lena stood in the doorway, still in uniform, hair neat, face tired, eyes amused.

“Love.”

Miu looked up too quickly.

“Yes?”

“Why is there a sun hat on the bed?”

Miu looked at the hat.

Then at Lena.

Then at the hat again.

“For hospital rounds.”

Lena stared.

Miu nodded.

“UV exposure is real.”

“In the neurosurgery ward?”

“There are windows.”

“You hate hats.”

“I am evolving.”

Lena walked in slowly, removed her blazer, and sat on the bed.

Miu tried to kick the luggage behind her with one foot.

Lena watched.

Miu smiled.

Lena smiled back.

A captain’s smile.

Calm.

Knowing.

Terrifying.

“What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

“Miu.”

“Medical conference.”

“International?”

Miu froze.

Lena’s eyes sparkled.

Miu recovered poorly.

“Many countries have brains.”

Lena laughed.

Miu stood, crossed the room, and took Lena’s face in both hands.

“You are very tired.”

“I am.”

“You should sleep.”

“I should.”

“You should not ask your wife suspicious questions when she is trying to be supportive.”

Lena wrapped her arms loosely around Miu’s waist.

“Supportive.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

Miu melted instantly.

“I love you too.”

Lena leaned up and kissed her.

Soft.

Slow.

Not nearly long enough, because Lena was exhausted and Miu had a surgery early the next morning.

Still, it made the whole month ache a little less.

Lena rested her forehead against Miu’s stomach.

“I miss you.”

Miu’s face softened completely.

“I miss you too.”

“Even when I’m here.”

“I know.”

Miu ran a hand through Lena’s hair.

“Soon.”

Lena closed her eyes.

“I know.”

Miu froze slightly.

Lena smiled against her.

Miu narrowed her eyes.

“What do you know?”

“That soon, I will sleep.”

“Oh.”

Lena kissed her hand.

“Come to bed, doctor.”

Miu looked at the open luggage.

Then at Lena.

Then at the sun hat.

Lena said nothing.

Miu turned off the lights.

The Athens flight departed on a Friday evening.

Miu arrived at the airport four hours early because nerves had eaten her concept of time.

She wore simple clothes, white shirt, jeans, sneakers, sunglasses, hair tied back, and an expression that said she believed she was blending in with normal people.

She was not.

Miu was the kind of beautiful that made blending impossible. Devastatingly gorgeous even when trying to look casual, sharp eyes, elegant posture, and a face half the airport turned to look at twice. 

Whenever she walked in public, it felt as though an invisible spotlight followed her, drawing every eye toward her.

She had booked economy intentionally.

Far from the front.

Far from first class.

Far from Lena.

Her father had said, “Why economy?”

Miu said, “Stealth.”

He said, “You own designer luggage.”

She said, “Emotionally stealth.”

Now, sitting at the gate, she adjusted her sunglasses and hid behind a magazine she was not reading.

A cabin crew member passed by, glanced at her boarding pass, then smiled too widely.

“Good evening, Mrs. Schuett.”

Miu looked up.

Suspicion.

“Good evening.”

The crew member’s smile trembled with contained joy.

“Welcome.”

Miu narrowed her eyes.

The crew member walked away quickly.

Miu lowered the magazine.

That was odd.

Another crew member passed.

Smiled.

“Happy flight, Mrs. Schuett.”

Miu’s eyes narrowed further.

Happy flight?

Not normal.

She texted her father.

Miu: Did you tell anyone?

Dad: About what?

Miu: Don’t play innocent with me.

Dad: I am working.

Miu: Suspiciously.

Dad: Seriously.

Miu: I will tell mom that you are being suspicious.

Dad: Your mother is enjoying herself in a spa, please do not ruin her peace.

Miu: I hate you.

Dad: No you don’t. Enjoy your flight.

Miu stared at the message.

Enjoy your flight?

She did not like this.

Boarding began.

Miu boarded with her group, head down, sunglasses on, doing her best impression of a passenger who was not emotionally married to the captain.

She found her seat.

Economy.

Middle section.

Aisle seat, because she needed escape options.

She placed her bag overhead, sat down, and exhaled.

Perfect.

Hidden.

Anonymous.

Then the cabin crew passing by said, softly, “Can I get you anything before takeoff, Mrs. Schuett?”

The passenger beside her turned.

Miu smiled politely, murder in her eyes.

“No, thank you.”

The crew member walked away grinning.

Miu looked toward the front of the aircraft.

What had Lena done?

No.

Impossible.

Lena did not know.

Unless…

Miu slowly closed her eyes.

Dad.

The safety video played.

Passengers settled.

The cabin lights softened.

Miu tried to calm herself.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe crew simply recognized her surname.

Maybe her father had put a note.

Maybe Lena still had no idea.

Then the intercom chimed.

Miu froze.

The voice that came through the cabin was calm, warm, professionally smooth, and capable of ruining Miu’s entire bloodstream.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.”

Miu closed her eyes.

Around her, passengers quieted.

Lena continued.

“Welcome aboard our flight from Bangkok to Athens. We are expecting a smooth flight this evening, with an estimated flight time of approximately ten hours and forty minutes. Weather conditions along the route are favorable, and we should arrive in Athens on schedule.”

Miu’s heart softened despite herself.

Lena’s captain voice always did things to her.

Then Lena’s tone changed.

Just slightly.

Still professional.

Still calm.

But Miu knew her.

Oh no.

“Before we depart, I would like to make one personal announcement. We have a very special passenger traveling with us tonight.”

Miu’s eyes snapped open.

No.

No no no.

A few passengers looked around.

The cabin crew in the aisle were already smiling.

Lena continued, with the composure of a woman committing emotional public execution at cruising altitude.

“My beautiful, brilliant, the best neurosurgeon in Thailand, and extremely stubborn wife, Dr. Natsha Schuett, is seated in 42C.”

The entire section turned.

Miu stopped breathing.

The passenger beside her gasped.

“Is that you?”

Miu smiled like a woman held hostage by love.

The intercom continued.

“She believed she was surprising me by secretly joining this flight, but unfortunately for her, she married a captain with excellent situational awareness and very loyal and reliable sources.”

Laughter rippled through the cabin.

Miu covered her face.

“I would like to wish her a happy eleventh anniversary. Love, I know you booked economy because you thought it was farther from the cockpit and therefore safe. It was not.”

The cabin laughed louder.

Miu slid lower in her seat.

A cabin crew member appeared beside her holding a bouquet.

Not small.

Of course not.

White tulips and pale blue hydrangeas, hers and Lena’s favorites, tied with a ribbon.

The crew member smiled brightly.

“Happy anniversary, Mrs. Schuett.”

Miu took the bouquet with both hands, face burning.

“Thank you.”

Another crew member appeared with two paper bags.

Luxury paper bags. Very expensive paper bags.

One from a designer shoe boutique.

One from a designer handbag store.

Miu stared.

The crew member said, with perfect politeness, “Captain Schuett asked us to deliver these to you. I will put them in the overhead bin for you, Mrs. Schuett.”

The passengers around them began clapping.

Miu whispered, “I am going to divorce her and marry her again just to divorce her twice.”

The woman beside her laughed.

The intercom chimed again.

Lena, traitor, was not finished.

“Also, my love, please stop threatening your father. He loves you, but Flight Operations has filed emotional complaints.”

Miu’s mouth fell open.

The cabin erupted.

The crew member near her had to look away to keep from laughing too obviously.

“Thank you for flying with us,” Lena concluded, voice suspiciously pleased. “Cabin crew, prepare for departure.”

The intercom clicked off.

Miu sat in complete silence, holding flowers, surrounded by strangers who now knew her seat number, profession, anniversary, and criminal behavior toward her father.

The passenger beside her leaned over.

“Your wife seems lovely.”

Miu stared at the cockpit door far ahead.

“She is about to become a patient.”

The passenger laughed.

As the aircraft taxied, Miu received a message.

From Lena.

Lena: Surprise.

Miu typed with violent thumbs.

Miu: I hate you.

Lena: No, you don’t.

Miu: I am in economy being applauded by strangers.

Lena: You chose economy.

Miu: For stealth.

Lena: Poorly.

Miu: You announced my seat.

Lena: Accurate passenger information matters.

Miu: You are not funny.

Lena: The cabin disagrees.

Miu looked around. Several people were still smiling at her.

She held the bouquet tighter.

Miu: I will get revenge.

Lena: Looking forward to Greece.

Miu’s anger dissolved into warmth before she could stop it.

Greece.

Two weeks.

Lena knew.

Lena had planned too.

The plane took off, lifting into the dark Bangkok sky.

Miu leaned back, bouquet on her lap, heart too full to stay offended for long.

An hour into the flight, after meal service began, the cabin manager approached Miu.

“Mrs. Schuett?”

Miu looked up, already suspicious.

“Yes?”

“Captain Schuett arranged a seat for you in first class.”

Miu blinked.

“Of course she did.”

The cabin manager smiled.

“She said you would refuse out of pride, so I was instructed to say your wife outranks you on this aircraft.”

Miu stared.

The passenger beside her whispered, “She’s good.”

Miu sighed.

“She’s unbearable.”

But she stood.

The cabin manager helped retrieve her bag, the bouquet, and the gifts. As Miu walked through the cabin, several passengers smiled, congratulated her, or whispered happy anniversary.

Miu wanted the floor to open.

Unfortunately, aircraft floors were not designed for dramatic escape.

In first class, her new seat was by the window.

Waiting on the side table was a small card.

Miu sat and opened it.

Lena’s handwriting.

My love,

You tried to surprise me. I love you for it. I love you for threatening a hospital, threatening your father, booking economy for stealth, and believing sunglasses would make you invisible.

I know this month has been hard. I know we have been living in seconds, toothbrushes, cold breakfasts, driveway kisses, and missed timing. I hate it too.

But after this flight, I am yours for two full weeks. No roster. No cockpit. No airport van. Just Greece, our anniversary, and you.

Please rest. I will see you in Athens.

Your captain, always.

Miu pressed the card to her lips.

Then immediately looked around to make sure nobody saw.

The cabin manager absolutely saw.

She pretended not to.

Miu spent the rest of the flight failing to sleep.

Not because the seat was uncomfortable. It was not.

Not because the flight was turbulent. It was smooth.

Because her wife was a menace, a romantic criminal, and currently behind the cockpit door looking beautiful while flying them across continents.

At some point, during the quiet middle of the flight, Lena called through the cabin manager.

“Captain asks if you have eaten.”

Miu looked at her meal.

“Yes.”

The cabin manager nodded, then listened to her headset, smiled, and said, “Captain also asks if you ate properly, not angrily.”

Miu closed her eyes.

“Tell Captain Schuett that I am eating with dignity.”

The cabin manager listened again.

“She says dignity is not a food group.”

Miu pointed at the cabin manager.

“Tell my wife to fly the plane.”

The cabin manager laughed.

“I will.”

When they landed in Athens, morning light spilled across the aircraft windows.

Passengers clapped, partly because the landing was smooth and partly because half the cabin had emotionally invested in the captain’s wife drama.

Miu waited as instructed.

The cockpit door opened after passengers began disembarking.

Lena stepped out.

Uniform perfect.

Hair neat.

Captain’s hat tucked under one arm.

Devastating.

Miu stood from her seat.

For a second, every funny thing disappeared.

There was only Lena.

Her wife.

Her favorite person.

Her home.

Lena walked toward her, smile softening with every step.

“Hello, doctor.”

Miu crossed her arms.

“Captain.”

“Enjoyed your flight?”

“You announced my seat.”

“You booked economy.”

“You gave me shoes in front of strangers.”

“You like shoes.”

“You told the entire aircraft I threatened my father.”

“You did.”

Miu stepped closer.

“I missed you.”

Lena’s smile faltered into something tender.

“I missed you too.”

Miu touched the front of Lena’s uniform gently.

“Are you really mine for two weeks?”

Lena nodded.

“Completely.”

Miu’s eyes filled before she could stop them.

Lena immediately placed her hat on the seat beside them and took Miu’s face in her hands.

“Hey.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are about to cry in first class.”

“You humiliated me in economy.”

“It was an upgrade journey.”

Miu laughed through the tears.

Lena kissed her.

Not a quick driveway kiss.

Not a sleepy forehead kiss.

Not a between-shifts, please-don’t-be-late kiss.

A real kiss.

A month’s worth of missing each other pressed into one soft, steady moment.

When they pulled away, a cabin crew member near the galley pretended very hard to reorganize cups.

Miu whispered, “They are watching.”

Lena smiled.

“They watched me announce your seat. We have no dignity left.”

“Your fault.”

“Our anniversary.”

Miu looked at her.

Then smiled.

“Our anniversary.”

Greece welcomed them with sunlight.

Miu had arranged a private transfer, because stealth was no longer relevant and she was tired. Lena had arranged the hotel, because apparently she had been planning her half of the surprise too.

Their room overlooked the sea.

Blue water.

White walls.

Sunlight everywhere.

Miu entered, stopped, and turned to Lena.

“You arranged this?”

Lena placed their luggage down.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“While you were threatening our father.”

“Our father?”

“You share him with me when you harass him.”

Miu smiled.

“You knew the whole time.”

“Yes.”

“And you let me plan.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Lena walked closer.

“Because you looked so happy.”

Miu softened.

Lena touched her cheek.

“And because I was planning too.”

Miu looked at the room again.

Flowers on the table.

A small cake.

Champagne.

A framed photo from their wedding day that Miu had not packed.

She turned back.

“How did you get that photo?”

“Your mother.”

“Traitor.”

“She cried on the phone.”

“Of course she did.”

Lena smiled.

Miu looked at the cake.

Then at the sea.

Then at Lena.

For the first time in weeks, neither of them had to leave.

No pager.

No boarding call.

No airport van.

No hospital corridor.

No alarm dragging one away from the other.

Miu stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Lena.

Lena held her back immediately.

They stood there in the middle of the room, still dressed from travel, surrounded by luggage and sunlight, holding each other until the month finally released them.

“Two weeks,” Miu whispered.

“Two weeks,” Lena answered.

“Can we sleep first?”

Lena laughed.

“Yes.”

They slept for six hours.

On the first day in Greece, they did almost nothing.

It was perfect.

They woke in the late afternoon, confused by time and sunlight. Miu’s hair was messy. Lena’s voice was rough from sleep. Neither moved for a while.

Miu lay on her side, watching Lena blink awake.

“You’re here,” she said.

Lena smiled sleepily.

“I am.”

“You’re still here.”

“I am.”

“You’re not leaving for briefing.”

“No.”

“I’m not leaving for surgery.”

“No.”

Miu stared.

“This is suspicious.”

Lena reached out and pulled her closer.

“This is vacation.”

“I forgot.”

“I know.”

Miu tucked herself against Lena, face near her collarbone.

“I want to file a complaint against our jobs.”

“Approved.”

“You’re not even airline operations right now.”

“I am your wife. Higher authority.”

Miu smiled.

“I accept.”

They ordered room service instead of going out.

Miu ate in bed wearing one of Lena’s shirts, which Lena found deeply unfair to her ability to think.

Lena watched her steal fries from the tray.

“You have your own.”

“Yours look better.”

“They are the same fries.”

“They are wife fries.”

“Wife fries?”

“Yes. Higher value.”

Lena laughed.

Later, they walked along the water as the sky turned gold. Lena held Miu’s hand openly, thumb brushing over her wedding ring. Miu kept looking at their hands like she still found marriage unbelievable even after ten years.

“What?” Lena asked.

Miu shook her head.

“Nothing.”

Lena stopped walking.

“Miu.”

Miu sighed.

“I was thinking about how little I’ve held your hand this month.”

Lena’s face softened.

“I know.”

“I hate when we become schedules.”

“We don’t become schedules,” Lena said gently. “We get trapped by them.”

“Same feeling.”

“Not same truth.”

Miu looked at her.

Lena lifted their joined hands.

“We’re still here.”

Miu nodded slowly.

“We are.”

On the second day, they tried to be tourists.

Tried.

Miu had an itinerary.

Lena feared it immediately.

“My love.”

“Yes?”

“Why does this day have color coding?”

“To reduce stress.”

“This gives me stress.”

“There are options.”

“There are tabs.”

“Options need tabs.”

Lena took the folder.

Miu gasped.

“Captain.”

“Doctor.”

“That is my itinerary.”

“This is a hostage document.”

“It has restaurant backups.”

“It has three sunset locations.”

“One may be crowded.”

“It has walking times.”

“Estimated.”

“It has a section titled ‘Emergency Gelato.'”

Miu lifted her chin.

“That is the most important section.”

Lena stared at her.

Then kissed her forehead.

“We are doing one thing.”

Miu looked offended.

“One?”

“One.”

“Can the one thing be emergency gelato?”

Lena laughed.

“Yes.”

They got lost anyway.

This happened because Lena, who could navigate international airspace, refused to admit a narrow street was wrong.

Miu, who could navigate the human brain, refused to admit she had misunderstood the map.

They walked in a circle for twenty minutes.

Lena stopped.

Miu stopped beside her.

They looked at the same blue door for the second time.

Miu pointed at it.

“We’ve seen this door.”

Lena nodded.

“It is a popular door.”

“It has the same cat.”

The cat stared at them from the step, judgmental and Greek.

Lena looked at the map.

Miu looked at Lena.

“Captain.”

“Doctor.”

“Are we lost?”

“No.”

“Lena.”

“We are temporarily positionally challenged.”

Miu laughed so hard she had to lean against the wall.

Lena tried not to smile.

“You get lost in hospitals.”

“Hospitals are designed by people who hate clarity.”

“These streets are old.”

“So is your excuse.”

They eventually found gelato.

Emergency gelato saved the marriage.

On the third day, healthy jealousy arrived.

Because of course it did.

Lena was ordering coffee at a seaside café when the barista, young, handsome, and apparently fearless, looked at her wedding ring, looked at her face, then said something in English that was far too charming.

Miu, seated at their table, watched.

Her sunglasses lowered by one centimeter.

Lena laughed politely.

The barista leaned on the counter.

Miu’s fingers tightened around her spoon.

A spoon that had done nothing wrong.

Lena returned with coffee and immediately noticed.

“Miu.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you looking at the barista like you’re locating a tumor?”

“I am not.”

“You have surgical eyes.”

“I am observing.”

“Jealous?”

“No.”

Lena sat.

Miu lasted two seconds.

“Yes.”

Lena smiled.

“Healthy jealousy?”

Miu stirred her coffee.

“We are evaluating.”

“He was being friendly.”

“He was being friendly with too many teeth.”

Lena laughed.

“You have beautiful teeth too.”

“That is not the point.”

“What is the point?”

Miu looked at her wife, at the sun on her face, at the ring on her finger, at the way people always noticed Lena because how could they not?

“I missed you,” Miu said quietly. “And now that I have you, I am not feeling generous toward strangers with teeth.”

Lena’s expression softened.

She reached across the table and touched Miu’s hand.

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

“With you.”

“I know.”

“And I married you.”

Miu smiled a little.

“I know.”

Lena squeezed her hand.

“Then let the barista keep his teeth.”

Miu sighed.

“Fine.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“But if he writes his number on your receipt, I’m diagnosing him.”

“With what?”

“Poor survival instinct.”

Lena laughed until she cried.

On the fourth day, they had their first fight of the trip.

It began with sunscreen.

As many marital conflicts do.

Miu had skin-care discipline.

Lena had pilot discipline.

These were different religions.

Miu wanted sunscreen reapplied every two hours.

Lena believed she had applied enough.

Miu disagreed.

On the beach, under a white umbrella, Lena tried to read a book.

Miu hovered with sunscreen.

“Love.”

“Yes?”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking.”

“I know the bottle.”

“Your shoulders are red.”

“My shoulders are fine.”

“They are not fine. They are communicating distress.”

“They are shoulders, not passengers.”

Miu shook the bottle.

“Let me apply.”

“I applied already.”

“Three hours ago.”

“I was in shade.”

“UV rays don’t respect shade. They sneak.”

Lena lowered her book.

“Miu.”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Stop trying to medically manage my shoulders.”

Miu froze.

Lena realized half a second too late that the wording hit wrong.

Miu slowly put the sunscreen down.

“Okay.”

Lena sat up.

“Miu.”

“No, you’re right.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“You did mean it.”

“I meant sunscreen. I did not mean your care.”

Miu looked away.

The fight went quiet.

That was always worse.

They were both too tired from missing each other to waste time being cruel, but old habits still had sharp edges.

Miu folded the towel beside her.

“I worry.”

“I know.”

“I know I do too much sometimes.”

Lena softened.

“And I know I can make it sound like your care is a problem when I’m trying to ask for space.”

Miu looked at her.

Lena reached for the sunscreen.

“Put it on my shoulders.”

Miu hesitated.

“Are you saying that because you want me to feel better?”

“I am saying it because my shoulders are probably red and my wife is a neurosurgeon with terrifying dermatological commitment.”

Miu’s mouth twitched.

Lena handed her the bottle.

“But after this, you let me read for one hour without checking my skin like a patient chart.”

Miu nodded.

“Deal.”

She applied sunscreen carefully.

Gentler than necessary.

Lena sat quietly.

After a while, she said, “I never feel managed by you when you ask.”

Miu’s hands slowed.

Lena continued, “Only when you decide before I answer.”

Miu leaned forward and kissed the back of Lena’s shoulder.

“I’ll keep asking.”

“I’ll keep answering.”

“And wearing sunscreen.”

Lena sighed.

“Yes, doctor.”

On the fifth day, they did absolutely nothing again.

They stayed in bed late.

Ordered coffee.

Talked about their first meeting.

Miu’s father had arranged it.

A dinner, technically.

Lena had been thirty-six? No, twenty-six, then. A newly rising pilot, already impressive, already too calm. Miu had been twenty-four, a young doctor in training, exhausted from residency, convinced dating was for people with time and better circadian rhythms.

Miu’s father had invited Lena to dinner under the excuse of discussing aviation medicine because Miu had once mentioned she admired pilots who handled long-haul fatigue.

Miu had known immediately it was a setup.

She had arrived prepared to be polite and uninterested.

Then Lena walked in.

Lena, in a simple black blouse, hair tied back, smile reserved, eyes steady.

Miu had forgotten her own name.

Lena had shaken her hand and said, “Captain Schuett. Well, First Officer then. Your father speaks highly of you.”

Miu, brilliant young doctor, future neurosurgeon, had replied, “Brains.”

Lena had blinked.

Miu wanted to die.

Now, ten years later, Lena was laughing into her pillow.

“You said brains.”

“I was nervous.”

“You were horrifyingly beautiful and said brains.”

“You still married me.”

“I did.”

“You’re legally responsible.”

“I know.”

Miu turned on her side.

“When did you know?”

“That I wanted to marry you?”

Miu nodded.

Lena thought for a moment.

“After your first thirty-hour shift.”

Miu frowned.

“That early?”

“You came to dinner half-asleep. Your father told you to cancel, but you came anyway because you said you promised me. You fell asleep sitting up before dessert.”

Miu covered her face.

“I did not.”

“You did. Then you woke up and apologized to the spoon.”

“I was tired.”

“I know.” Lena smiled. “I remember thinking, this woman will destroy herself for what she loves. I wanted to be someone who helped her rest.”

Miu went quiet.

Lena touched her cheek.

“What about you?”

Miu smiled softly.

“When you told my father no.”

Lena blinked.

“When?”

“Same month. He tried to insist on sending a car for you after dinner, but you said no because you had your own way home and didn’t want special treatment. He looked so shocked.”

Lena laughed.

“And you liked that?”

“I loved it. Everyone said yes to him. You didn’t. I thought, oh, she’s impossible.” Miu leaned closer. “I like impossible.”

Lena smiled.

“I noticed.”

On the sixth day, Lena took Miu sailing.

This was a mistake.

Not because Lena could not sail.

She could.

Because Miu discovered another category of jealousy.

Boat jealousy.

The instructor, a very cheerful woman named Eleni, complimented Lena’s balance, grip, and command instincts.

Miu sat wearing sunglasses and a hat, trying to look serene.

She did not.

Lena adjusted a rope.

Eleni said, “You learn fast, Captain.”

Miu whispered, “She is already a captain.”

Lena heard her.

Of course she did.

By the time they returned to shore, Lena was fighting a smile.

Miu removed her hat with dignity.

Lena walked beside her.

“Boat jealousy?”

“No.”

“You were jealous of sailing instruction.”

“I was not.”

“You whispered, ‘She is already a captain.'”

“Because facts matter.”

Lena stopped walking and turned to face her.

“Miu.”

“Yes?”

“You are the only person I want to impress.”

Miu’s entire expression changed.

Lena smiled.

“Even when I am being complimented by sailing instructors.”

Miu looked down.

“That was very direct.”

“You like direct.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

Lena kissed her cheek.

Miu forgot Eleni existed.

On their last full day, they watched the sunset from a quiet spot above the water.

No itinerary.

No interruptions.

No jokes for a while.

Miu leaned into Lena’s side.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Lena kissed her hair.

“I know.”

“I love our work.”

“I know.”

“But I hate when it takes us from each other.”

Lena looked out at the sea.

“We need to change how we schedule.”

Miu lifted her head.

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

Miu stared.

Usually, Lena was the one reminding her that work mattered, that schedules were temporary, that they both chose demanding lives.

Lena continued, “Not quit. Not run away. Just protect us better. We plan for emergencies at work. We should plan for our marriage too.”

Miu’s eyes softened.

“Captain Schuett, is this a marital operations proposal?”

“Yes.”

“I accept.”

“You haven’t heard the details.”

“I accept you.”

Lena smiled.

“We talk to our teams. We block anniversary leave earlier. We protect one weekend every month if possible. We stop saying yes to everything because we assume the other will understand.”

Miu swallowed.

“I did understand.”

“I know. That’s why it became easy to keep taking from us.”

Miu looked down at their hands.

“I don’t want us to become people who only meet in driveways.”

Lena squeezed her hand.

“We won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Miu rested her forehead against Lena’s shoulder.

“Good. Because the toothbrush cannot be your representative anymore.”

Lena laughed.

“Noted.”

They flew back to Bangkok two weeks later.

This time, as passengers together.

First class, because Lena refused economy after Miu’s “stealth operation,” and Miu said she deserved comfort after public humiliation.

Miu fell asleep before takeoff with her head on Lena’s shoulder.

Lena looked down at her wife, smiled, and adjusted the blanket over her.

When they landed, Miu’s father was waiting at arrivals.

Not personally necessary.

Absolutely emotionally necessary.

He stood with his arms crossed, trying to look stern.

Miu walked toward him with Lena beside her.

“Dad.”

“Natsha.”

“I forgive you.”

“For what?”

“Telling my wife.”

He looked at Lena.

“Captain Schuett, did I tell you anything?”

Lena smiled.

“No, sir.”

Miu gasped.

“You are both impossible.”

Her father looked at the two of them, rested, smiling, hand in hand.

His face softened.

“Happy anniversary.”

Miu hugged him.

He blinked, surprised, then hugged her back.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He kissed her hair.

“Welcome home.”

Then he looked at Lena.

“You too.”

Lena smiled warmly.

“Thank you, Dad.”

He immediately looked away, emotional and offended by it.

Miu saw.

She smirked.

“I’m telling Mom you cried.”

“I did not cry.”

“You blinked with feeling.”

“Go home, Natsha.”

Their lives did not magically become easy after Greece.

Of course not.

Lena was still a captain.

Miu was still a neurosurgeon.

Planes still crossed oceans.

Brains still had emergencies.

Hospitals still called.

Airlines still scheduled.

But something changed.

They changed.

They became more protective of the life between them.

Not possessive.

Protective.

Miu learned not to wait until she was emotionally arguing with a toothbrush before asking for time.

Lena learned not to accept every extra flight just because she could handle it.

They began having calendar meetings on Sunday mornings.

Miu called them “marriage rounds.”

Lena called them “flight planning.”

Both were correct.

They protected breakfasts.

They protected anniversaries.

They protected one evening every week where phones stayed on for emergencies only and the world was expected to behave itself.

Sometimes the world failed.

But not always.

And not like before.

One month after Greece, Miu came home at midnight after a difficult surgery.

The house was quiet.

She expected darkness.

Instead, the kitchen light was on.

Lena sat at the island wearing sleep clothes, hair loose, two bowls of soup in front of her.

Miu stopped at the doorway.

“You’re awake.”

Lena smiled.

“I landed at eight.”

“You didn’t sleep?”

“I napped. I wanted to see you.”

Miu’s face softened.

“You waited.”

“Yes.”

Miu walked to her, tiredness breaking open into something warm.

Lena opened her arms.

Miu stepped into them immediately.

No driveway.

No toothbrush evidence.

No missed timing.

Just Lena.

There.

Warm.

Real.

Miu buried her face in Lena’s neck.

“I missed you.”

Lena held her tighter.

“I’m here.”

“For how long?”

“Three days.”

Miu lifted her head.

“Three whole days?”

“Three whole days.”

Miu narrowed her eyes.

“Did my father arrange this?”

“No.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

Miu stared.

Lena smiled.

“I told them I was unavailable.”

“My wife said no to aviation?”

“My wife threatened a hospital. I was inspired.”

Miu laughed.

Then kissed her.

Softly at first.

Then not softly.

The soup got cold.

Neither cared.

Later, in bed, Miu lay with her head on Lena’s chest, listening to her heartbeat.

“Love?”

“Yes?” Lena murmured.

“Do you think the cabin remembers us?”

“The Athens flight?”

“Yes.”

Lena’s chest shook with laughter.

“Probably.”

“I was humiliated.”

“You were loved.”

“I was loved loudly.”

“You deserve to be loved loudly sometimes.”

Miu smiled into her shirt.

“Only by you.”

Lena kissed the top of her head.

“Always by me.”

Miu closed her eyes.

For years, people had called them extraordinary.

The captain and the neurosurgeon.

Two women with impossible careers, impossible beauty, impossible schedules.

They were impressive on paper.

Devastating in uniform and scrubs.

Terrifying in their own fields.

But beneath all of that, they were also two tired wives who missed each other, fought over sunscreen, got jealous of baristas and sailing instructors, threatened powerful men for vacation schedules, and still chose to come home.

Again.

And again.

And again.

On their eleventh anniversary, somewhere between Bangkok and Athens, Lena had announced Miu’s seat to an entire airplane and ruined her stealth operation.

Miu had threatened divorce twice in her head and cried over a handwritten card in first class.

It was ridiculous.

It was excessive.

It was embarrassing.

It was them.

A pilot and a neurosurgeon, both trained to remain calm under pressure, both completely useless when it came to each other.

And that, Miu thought as Lena’s breathing slowed beneath her cheek, was probably why it worked.

Because the world got their competence.

Their patients and passengers got their steady hands.

Their professions got the best of their discipline.

But here, in this bed, after the flights and surgeries and schedules and storms, they got to be ridiculous.

They got to be soft.

They got to be jealous and funny and tired and honest.

They got to be wives.

Miu pressed a kiss over Lena’s heart.

Lena’s hand moved sleepily through her hair.

“Sleep, doctor.”

Miu smiled.

“Yes, captain.”

And for once, neither of them had anywhere else to be.