Sam Logan had saved the world from an evil warlord. He patrolled the city of San Francisco constantly for otherworldly threats. He defeated soldiers designed to hurt innocent people. The very least he deserved was a first class seat in the airplane taking him to the Smithsonian.

But no. The Doc got the first class seat. Sam was stuck in business class.

He stretched out one leg as far as the seat in front of him would allow. Not far at all. Three hours into the flight, and the muscles in his hips and lower back were already complaining.

His knees knocked against the seat, and his ankles complained at being crammed at awkward angles.

He just didn’t fit on airplanes. Not even in business class.

At least I’m not crammed in like a cattle car in coach.

He cracked his neck and pulled down the tray table in front of him, sorting through his papers and folders on top of it with a critical eye. He’d pulled the most vital research notes to review during the flight. Everything else was on his laptop in the briefcase jammed in the overhead compartment.

The Ainu. The Ezo. The Emishi. All indigenous cultures of ancient Japan. Some of them had more information available than others, but the Emishi specifically lacked the most. At least, their history lacked reliable research.

Mia dozed calmly in the seat beside him, wrapped up in a blanket provided by one of the flight attendants. Mia always got cold on flights. Sam would have offered her his suit coat if he hadn’t known she would have turned it down.

The flight attendant buzzed past Mia’s shoulder rapidly enough to stir her hair.

Sam frowned at the woman in the navy suit as she stomped to the galley kitchen and fetched a can of soda. She spun on her heel and bustled back to coach with a harried expression on her face.

It was the third time this particular flight attendant had been summoned to the galley.

Must be somebody high maintenance in the cattle car.

Turning his attention back to the papers, Sam tuned out the whine of the engines and the quiet conversation of passengers around him.

Mia stirred beside him and stretched her back.

“Do you know where we are?” She yawned.

“Somewhere over the Midwest.”

She nodded.

Sam glanced at her and paused when he found her staring at him.

“What?”

“What’s wrong, Sam?”

He scowled.

“And don’t say you’re fine.” Mia pulled the blanket down into her lap and folded her hands on top of it. “You’re not fine.”

Sam shut the folder and sat back in his seat. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth maybe?”

He let his scowl turn deeper.

“Are you scared of going home?” Mia raised her eyebrows.

Sam stared at her.

Is that what she thinks?

“You haven’t been back to DC since you left, Sam,” Mia said. “What was it? Six years ago? That’s a long time. Are you worried about going back?”

Sam turned away from her to stare out his window at the clouds as they floated past the plane.

“I never really had a home in DC,” he said softly. I thought I did. But it was never real. “Leaving wasn’t a big deal.”

Mia rested her head on the seat. “You do miss it sometimes, though. Don’t you?”

“No.”

The answer was too quick, too casual, even to his own ears.

Mia smiled. “If I ever had to leave San Francisco, I would miss it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh, so the great and mighty lumberjack isn’t whisking you away to the mountains like a creepy stalker?”

Mia’s smile faded instantly, her expression sobering.

Sam turned back to his folder and opened it again, focusing on the papers without really reading them.

Mia didn’t speak again for a long time, but when she did, her voice was calm.

“Why do you dislike Ryan so much?”

Sam paused with his hand on the folder. “The flight isn’t long enough to answer that question.”

“Come on, now.” Mia sat up. “You’ve butted heads with him since the day you two met. I’ve never expected you two to be friends, but what reason has he given you to hate him?”

Sam shut the folder and smoothed it out with his hand. “Do you actually want to know what I think?” He eyed her ring. “Or are you having second thoughts?”

Mia’s eyes widened.

“Because you should.” Sam focused on her face. “He’s wrong for you.”

“Sam.”

“Mia, you’re brilliant.” Sam gestured to his folder. “You could give this presentation as well as I can.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re brilliant, but you’re making a dumb call.” Sam shifted in the seat so he could lean closer to her. “It’s all emotion and no brain. Just like Ryan. He’s worn off on you, and you’re not thinking.”

“Okay.” Mia patted his hand. “Sam, we’re not talking about this.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Not talking about this.”

“I understand that you can’t help yourself from making an emotional decision, and that’s why you need to listen to reason.”

“I can’t help myself?”

“You’re a woman.”

Mia’s eyebrows disappeared into her bangs. “And you’re the voice of reason?”

Sam grabbed her wrist. “Don’t marry him. You’ll regret it.”

“Sam.”

“All this is,” he nodded to her ring, “is some emotional holdover from when you were kids together. He can’t be the person you need. Do you actually think he can even measure up to who you are? He barely finished high school.”

“Enough.” Her voice shook.

“He can’t get smarter, Mia. What he is now won’t change, and he’s going to drag you into mediocrity with him. Why can’t you see that?”

Mia ripped her wrist out of his hand and unbuckled her belt.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m moving.” She stood up.

“Why?”

“Because it would be better for your reputation if you didn’t address the Smithsonian Institute with a black eye and a broken nose.” She threw her blanket in his face and stormed down the aisle.

Sam clawed the fleece blanket out of his face and stared after her.

Women.

They made zero sense. Mia escaped it most of the time because she was so intelligent, but ever since she’d acknowledged her feelings for Ryan Lewis, Sam had begun to question if her brain was entirely functional.

Ryan Lewis. A flannel-wearing, wood-chopping, mulch-hauling mountain man with less than two brain cells to rub together. Weak willed. Driven by emotion. And lacking in every academic skill set. The only degree he could have gotten would have been in weed pulling, which was why he skipped college altogether.

And somehow he’d roped in Mia Davalos, convinced her to settle for something less than she deserved. Now they were getting married, and whatever light Mia saw at the end of the tunnel was undoubtedly a train coming to run her over when she realized what an idiot she was being.

Marry Ryan Lewis? It was an even worse idea than bringing Karl to Washington, DC.

Sam folded the blanket with short, jabbing punches, pretending it was Ryan’s stupid face.

Stan appeared in the aisle and hopped over the armrest, settling in Mia’s seat with a friendly grin.

“Aw’right, mate?” He buckled himself in. “Wow, lots of room up here.”

“What are you doing?” Sam glared at him.

“Buckling in.” Stan nodded toward the glowing lights on the overhead dashboard. “Supposed to have your seat buckled when the plane is flying, even it’s smooth.”

“What are you doing here?”

Stan blinked owlishly. “Oh. Can’t a lad come say hello?”

“No.”

“Blimey, you are in a snit, aren’t you?”

Sam shut his eyes. “Stan.”

“Mia asked to switch.” Stan shrugged with his hands in the air. “I’m not going to say no.”

Sam tossed the blanket at the boy and went back to his folder of papers. “I’m working. Don’t talk to me.”

Stan’s gaze burned like lasers into the side of his face. Sam ignored it for as long as he could before he finally glared at him.

“What?”

Stan only smiled, like he’d been waiting patiently for Sam to lose his cool.

“You going to spill?”

Sam groaned and sank back into his seat. “Spill what?”

“What’s really bothering you.” Stan shifted so he could tuck one leg under himself.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Well, something’s wrong.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re always stroppy, mate.” Stan chuckled. “But you’re rarely a prat, and never to Mia.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the British teenager and grit his teeth together until his molars squeaked. Leave it to Stan to ask the questions he didn’t want to answer.

“I know you’re not happy to have Karl along, and you’re probably nervous. I’d be.” Stan smiled and tilted his head. “But what’s really going on?”

Sam turned his eyes out the window. The cloudy world outside the plane gave him nowhere to hide, no distractions, nothing to use to change the subject.

“I’m not sleeping.” The admission came out mumbled.

“Bad dreams?” Stan leaned in.

“I guess.” Sam focused on his fingers. “I don’t remember anything. I just close my eyes and wake up a few minutes later. I haven’t managed more than a few hours a night for weeks.”

“My mum used to make me warm milk when I couldn’t sleep,” Stan said softly.

“Warm milk,” Sam scoffed. “If only.”

“Have you tried—”

“Pills. Supplements. Everything.” Sam pinned him with a glare. “Nothing works.”

Stan straightened and peered over the seat behind them and then the seat in front of them before he leaned closer.

“Maybe it’s Hinode,” he whispered.

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Hinode?”

“Aye.” Stan nodded, summer blue eyes shining as though he’d found the meaning of life. “Maybe Hinode is speaking to you.”

“Hinode doesn’t speak to me when I’m awake, Stan. Why would it talk to me while I’m sleeping?”

Stan made a face. “You’re a lot nicer to talk to when you’re sleeping, mate.”

“Ha-ha.” Sam shook his head. “It’s not Hinode.”

“Why not?”

“Because Hinode is an armor, Stan.” Sam checked his volume and exhaled slowly. “You and the other guys think they’re magic or something, but they’re not. They’re just armors.”

Stan leaned his shoulder into the seat, regarding him in silence.

Quietly, Sam checked the other passengers around them. If they’d been eavesdropping, they gave no indication of it. Stan shouldn’t have started a conversation about their armors in enclosed space like this. If someone overheard him, they’d freak out.

“So how do you explain Kagami talking to me?” Stan unfolded Mia’s blanket and drew it over his shoulder.

Sam clutched the edges of his tray table.

For months, Stan’s bizarre conversations with his elemental water armor, Kagami, had been a confusing and controversial topic within their screwed up little team. Stan, who wasn’t at all prone to exaggeration, insisted Kagami was more than a samurai armor from another world. He claimed he’d interacted with it, asked it for help, and that it had answered.

Ridiculous nonsense, of course. The wild imagination of a fourteen-year-old boy. That had been that. Case closed. Until a few weeks earlier when the most rational member of their crew, Ronnie Akkard, experienced something similar with Sora, his ice armor.

“You’re imagining it.” Sam looked away. “Ronnie too. All of you just want them to be bigger and more powerful than they are, and you’re grasping at straws to convince yourselves.”

“How do you explain what Sora did then? What Kagami did?”

Sam met the boy’s gaze. “I’m not saying they aren’t powerful, Stan. They’re weapons. And you two just figured out how to use them. That’s all.”

Stan sat up. “Then why can’t you figure it out?”

Sam glowered.

“Face it, Sam. You’ve had Hinode longer than any of us have had our armors.” Stan offered a gentle smile. “But even Karl has a better handle on Shiren than you have on Hinode.”

“Well, maybe if you could offer actual insight on how to use Kagami, I could figure it out.” Sam pronounced every word slowly, forcing back the surge of temper in his chest.

“I have.” Stan sighed. “But you don’t want to hear it.”

“Hinode doesn’t have feelings, Stan. Neither does Kagami. Or Shiren or Sora or Kazan.” Sam bit his lip before he raised his voice higher. “When you tap into Kagami’s power, you’re doing something you don’t even recognize that you’re doing, and you’re just attributing it to the armor being alive.”

Stan sagged in his seat, the shine in his wide blue eyes fading.

He was just a kid. Ryan had let him believe in this fantasy of their armors being alive for too long. If Ryan were any sort of leader, he would have squashed it on day one. They had enough on their plates defending the world from invasion without entertaining ridiculous theories about their armors having minds of their own.

Another example of how Ryan had failed.

Stan saw Ryan as a father figure, someone to look up to, a hero. Stan wasn’t old enough to realize that there was no such thing. One day Stan would figure out that his heroes were just idiots like everyone else.

The flight attendant from earlier bustled by again, her expression distressed and hair flying out from beneath her cap as she flew down the aisle. Sam scowled after her.

“Poor lamb.” Stan leaned into the aisle to watch her.

“What is she doing?” Sam glared at him.

“Oh, her job.” Stan smiled. “Over and above, though. Karl’s been keeping her on the run.”

Sam groaned. “It’s him?”

Stan chuckled. “Aye. He found the switch that turns the overhead lights on and played with that for a while.”

“Good grief.”

“And then, once the flight attendant told him he could have as many peanuts as he wanted, he took her at her word.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why is that idiot even here?”

Stan settled himself in the seat more comfortably. “What? He didn’t tell you?”

“You think I asked him?”

“Oh, right.” Stan smirked. “He wants to see the Korean War Memorial.”

Sam sat back. That’s—not what I expected.

“The Korean War Memorial?” Sam sneered. “Why does he want to see that? He doesn’t care about history.”

Stan snuggled under the blanket. “Maybe you should ask him then?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Right. Have a conversation with Karl.” He scoffed. “Is he even capable of conversation? I always figured he communicates in grunts and sound effects that you’ve just learned how to translate.”

Stan fell silent, and Sam went back to watching the clouds. How much farther was it? The flight was supposed to be five hours, but surely it had been twice that already.

“You know, Sam.”

Sam shut his eyes before he looked back at the teenager in the seat next to him. “What?”

“We are trying.” Stan nodded. “To be your friends.”

Sam scowled.

“At least, I am. And Ryan and Mia.”

“Stan, I’ve never needed friends,” Sam spat. “And I’ve never wanted them. So you can stop.” He forced a fake smile. “Okay? We’re stuck together for now, so the best thing for us to do is just stay away from each other.”

Stan’s expression fell. “Someday you’ll want friends, Sam.”

“Hasn’t happened yet.”

“It will.”

“I don’t need your help, Stan. Or anyone’s help, okay?” He leaned back in the seat and packed up his papers. “I’ve always been enough on my own. Like this. This trip. I wrote the paper. I submitted the abstract. I got the invitation to present at the Smithsonian. Nobody helped me with that. Nobody did that for me. I did it alone.”

Stan smiled at him genuinely. “So why aren’t you going alone?”

A flash of anger heated Sam’s face. “It’s not my fault all you losers invited yourselves along.”

Stan laughed. “No, I suppose it’s not. On the other hand, big flashy events aren’t much fun if you’ve got no one to share them with.” His eyes twinkled. “Believe me, I’ve been to more than my share of fancy parties, and not having a friend there is a great bore.”

Sam sighed and folded his arms. “You’re not listening.”

Stan laughed again. “Funny. I was going to say the same thing.”

Sam latched his tray table against the back of the seat in front of him and settled down in his seat, shutting his eyes. His heart thumped in his ears as irritation and frustration rolled in his mind.

Stan couldn’t talk to him like this. What did he know? He was just a kid. He could never understand. None of them could.

“I’m glad you’ll have someone at your fancy party, Sam.” Stan’s voice was soft in the dim light inside the cabin. “Even if you aren’t.” With a rustle of clothing, Stan leaned into Sam’s shoulder. “And when you do ask for help, we’ll be there.”

“Stop talking, Stan.”

Stan moved away and fell silent.

In a few moments, his even breathing announced that he’d slipped off to sleep, and Sam opened his eyes. He didn’t sleep at all.