Flight of Hearts

The cabin was still half-empty when Y/n shuffled in with a backpack slung over one shoulder, a small pink suitcase in his left hand, and two very energetic children attached to his right. Minho, seven years old and already convinced he was a grown man, kept trying to pull away to “help carry everything.” Little Ara, four years old and armed with the confidence of a lion, was loudly narrating their every move.

“Daddy’s sweating again,” Ara announced to no one in particular. “He always sweats when Mommy’s in her uniform. It’s because he thinks she looks hot.”

Y/n nearly tripped over his own feet.

“Ara,” he hissed, face burning as several passengers turned to look. “We do not say that out loud.”

“But you said it to Uncle last week! You said Mommy looks so hot in her flight attendant dress that you wanna—”

Y/n slapped a hand over her mouth so fast she made a muffled squeak.

Minho cackled like a tiny villain. “She got you, Dad. You’re doomed when Mom finds out.”

Y/n crouched down between the two seats he had reserved in the middle section of business class—thank God for employee family benefits—and gave both children his most serious father glare.

“New rule for this flight. Anything you heard me say in private stays in private. If your mother hears any of it, we are all dead. Especially me.”

Ara blinked innocently, lashes fluttering. “Even the part where you said you wanted to join the mile-high club with her?”

Y/n stared at his four-year-old daughter in absolute horror.

Minho wheezed so hard he fell sideways into his seat. “She said it! She actually said it!”

Before Y/n could formulate a response that wouldn’t scar his children for life, a familiar voice crackled sweetly over the intercom.

“Good afternoon, passengers. This is L/n Yujin speaking on behalf of the crew. We will be boarding shortly. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened once we push back. And to the gentleman in seat 12C… please behave.”

Y/n slowly turned toward the front of the cabin.

Yujin stood at the galley entrance in her crisp navy uniform, hair neatly tied in the regulation bun, looking every bit the professional flight attendant. Her eyes, however, were locked directly on him with the kind of predatory amusement only a wife of eight years could perfect.

She smiled sweetly.

He was absolutely fucked.

The first two hours of the flight were suspiciously peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Yujin had come by three times already—once to bring juice boxes, once to adjust Ara’s blanket, and once to lean down and whisper directly into Y/n’s ear.

“If I hear the words ‘mile high’ come out of either of our children’s mouths again, I will strap you to the wing.”

Y/n had only grinned up at her like an idiot in love. “Yes, ma’am.”

But peace never lasted long with the L/n children.

It started when Ara got bored.

She had been coloring quietly when she suddenly looked up at her father with that dangerous little sparkle in her eyes.

“Daddy,” she said, loud enough for the entire cabin row to hear. “Why does Mommy call your dick a joystick?”

Minho spit his apple juice across the aisle.

An elderly woman in 12A choked on her water.

Y/n felt his soul physically leave his body.

He whipped his head toward Ara. “Where—where did you hear that?”

“Last month. When you and Mommy were wrestling in the bedroom. She kept saying ‘joystick’ and ‘harder’ and ‘captain of the cockpit.’ I thought it was a new game.”

Minho was laughing so hard he was crying. “She thought it was aviation talk!”

Y/n buried his face in both hands. “Oh no! This wasn’t supposed to happen. We are all going to die. Your mother is going to murder me at thirty-five thousand feet.”

As if summoned by pure cosmic embarrassment, Yujin appeared at the end of the row like a very beautiful, very angry angel of death. Her customer service smile was still plastered on, but her eyes were blazing.

“Minho. Ara. Both of you, quiet. Now.”

The tone was pure mother. Not flight attendant. Mother.

Ara, completely unaware of the gravity of the situation, beamed up at her. “Mommy! Daddy’s joystick—”

“L/n Ara,” Yujin cut in, voice low and terrifyingly calm. “If you finish that sentence, you will not watch cartoons for the rest of this vacation. Do you understand me?”

Ara’s mouth snapped shut.

Minho tried to shrink into his seat.

Yujin then turned her gaze on her husband. The look she gave him could have frozen lava.

“And you,” she said sweetly, though her jaw was tight. “We are going to have a very long conversation when we land, Captain Joystick.”

Y/n winced. “Baby, I can explain—”

“You can explain nothing. You will sit there, keep our children from revealing our entire sex life to business class, and think about your poor life choices.”

She leaned down, adjusting Ara’s blanket with practiced gentleness even while radiating fury. The contrast was almost funny. Almost.

But then her voice dropped, soft enough that only he could hear.

“I miss you guys so much. These long-haul rotations… I hate that I miss so many nights. I hate that our babies are learning dirty jokes from their horny father instead of from me reading them bedtime stories.”

Her eyes flickered with real sadness for a split second before the professional mask slid back on.

Y/n’s chest tightened.