I swear my whole family was deliberately plotting against me when they picked their seats. Dad and Rory, front row of economy, all serious about the “upcoming game” like it was the World Cup instead of an under-20s friendly. Mam had plonked herself beside Caoimhe because “she still doesn’t like planes, Connor, she needs me.” Which left me. Alone. Row 5. Business class.

I threw myself into the leather seat like I was used to it, thankful for the room for my legs.

And then she sat down. Some girl. My age, maybe. Hair pulled back, hoodie on (there were cherries on it and on her nails too, which I just noticed on the go of course), and she had that look — like she actually belonged there, like this wasn’t her first time in the comfy section. She smiled when our elbows brushed.

“Hey,” she said, casual, like we’d been mates since primary. I blinked. “Hey.”

She buckled her belt and leaned towards the window. “If you want the window seat, we can switch. Doesn’t bother me.”“Eh?”“The view. Window seat.” She jerked her thumb at the tiny oval beside her. “You can have it.”

I scrambled. “No, no — I’m grand. I don’t— I’m not like— a window enthusiast or whatever.”

A laugh burst out of her. “A window enthusiast? That’s a new one.”

Heat crawled up my neck. _Brilliant._ Connor Kavanagh, inventor of window enthusiasts.

I tried to recover. “I mean... you get clouds, that’s it. It’s overrated.”“You’re overrated,” she shot back without hesitation, grinning, and I didn’t even know what to do with that because she said it so fast, like it was banter, not an insult. Didn't feel like one either.

Meanwhile, Caoimhe had started whimpering two rows back, and I could hear Mam soothing her in that voice that carried. Dad was telling Rory something about “lineouts” like it was state secrets.

“So...” she twisted in her seat, crossing her legs criss-cross. “Spain holiday or secret business trip?”“Holiday.” I picked at the hem of my t-shirt. “Family thing.”“Ahhh. Same.” She nudged me with her knee, and I swear my brain short-circuited. “I’m Maya, by the way.”“Connor.” She tilted her head. “Irish?”“Yeah. You?”“Half. My dad’s Spanish, mum’s from Dublin.”

I nodded like I was cool, but my mind was just: _She talks fast._ _She smiles a lot._ _Don’t mess this up._ The flight attendants did their whole seatbelt routine and Maya leaned in, whispering, “Do you ever think if the oxygen masks drop, I’m actually going to forget how to put it on? Like, I’ll panic and wear it as a hat.” I snorted before I could stop myself. Louder than intended. Mam turned around like what’s wrong with you now, Connor.

Maya beamed, mission accomplished. I think she could’ve talked the whole flight and I wouldn’t have minded.