The moment they stepped onto the plane and turned left toward first class, the mood shifted.
Gabriel audibly gasped at the plush leather pods, complimentary champagne already sparkling in fluted glasses, and personal touchscreens larger than some apartments’ TVs.
“Thane,” he whispered with wide eyes, gripping his bandmate’s arm like he’d just seen heaven. “Thane. This is space wolf territory. I’m gonna cry.”
“You better not,” Mark muttered, already wedging himself into a seat with a suspicious glare at the adjustable lumbar settings.
Cassie flopped into her pod with an excited grin. “Is it bougie in here or is it just me?”
“It’s definitely bougie,” Rico said, inspecting the control panel like it was a new pedalboard.
Jonah had already reclined his seat flat and was pretending to swim in the air like it was zero gravity. “I’m never flying coach again.”
Emily was silent, wide-eyed, clutching her boarding pass like a golden ticket.
Gabriel sat down, pressed a few buttons, and then laughed so hard he almost dropped his champagne. “Guys. The seat massages you.”
“Gabriel — ” Thane began.
“I’m not moving,” he declared. “I’m going to live here. Tell Diesel I said goodbye.”
The flight took off smoothly. Champagne flowed. A gourmet dinner was served. At some point, Maya and Cassie got caught whispering across the aisle about whether Thane secretly knew royalty. Emily watched a romcom with the expression of someone seeing cinema for the first time.
Then came the incident.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, when most of the passengers were dozing off, Gabriel got bored.
And boredom, for Gabriel, was dangerous.
First, he used the call button to request more coffee. Twice. Then he started flipping through the in-flight menu just to see if the “allergy” warning icons spelled out any funny messages.
Then he discovered that the flight attendant’s jump seat had a fold-down tray.
And that was how he ended up trying to juggle three tiny bottles of vodka while balancing on the armrest of his seat, singing a mashup of Bohemian Rhapsody and Highway to Hell to an audience of absolutely no one.
“Sir,” the flight attendant said flatly, stepping in. “Please sit down.”
“I’m performing,” Gabriel replied, already trying to moonwalk.
Thane stood up so fast his seat flung forward. “Gabriel.”
“He started it,” Gabriel said, pointing to Jonah, who was quietly watching a documentary about otters.
Thane grabbed his bandmate by the scruff and dragged him back to his seat like an unruly pup. “You are not getting us banned from international airspace. Sit. Down.”
“But —”
“Now.”
Gabriel pouted, curled up dramatically in his seat, and whispered, “I was gonna do a flip.”
Thane glared. The flight attendant gave him a thumbs-up and walked away.
Mark didn’t even look up from his book. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
The rest of the flight passed without further incident — unless you counted Jonah ordering six desserts or Maya turning her seat into a pillow fort.
As the wheels touched down at Heathrow, a ripple of excitement surged through the pack. International soil. Foggy London. A new leg of the journey.
And then they heard the screaming.
A wall of glass revealed the arrival terminal — packed to the gills with British fans pressed against the barriers. Signs waved, camera flashes lit up, and someone had even brought a cardboard cutout of Thane with googly eyes.
“Oh my god,” Cassie whispered, half-laughing.
“I think we just broke the UK,” Emily said in awe.
Gabriel peeked out the window and howled softly. “That’s my favorite cutout of you.”
“You’re grounded,” Thane muttered.
Gabriel winked. “Too late.”