My hand drifts to my stomach before I catch it, yanking it back to my lap like it burned me.

Stop it. You’re being dramatic.

But the nausea that hit me this morning wasn’t dramatic. Neither was the way coffee — my morning ritual, my religion — made me bolt for the bathroom before my flight.

I tell myself it’s stress. A new job. A new state. A new life I’m still trying to fit into like a shoe that doesn’t quite break in.

The plane touches down with a gentle thud, and I’m already reaching for my phone before the seatbelt sign clicks off.

Sloane’s text is waiting: At our spot. Don’t keep me waiting, OC.

I smile despite myself. Some things never change.

I breathe in salt air as I step off the plane — familiar, grounding, safe.

This is just a checkup. Routine. Peace of mind.

I repeat it like a prayer I don’t quite believe in.