He smiles without answering my question and I notice the lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “You drifted off quickly. I took it as a compliment.”
My cheeks heat. “Passing out during your life story is acompliment?”
“Of course.” He leans toward me. “You trusted me enough to finally get some rest.”
I haveno words. Santiago is perfection. Too wonderful to be true.
The world around us comes into focus, unfortunately. The cabin brightens as window shades lift. A flight attendant glides past with a cart, her ponytail sharp enough to cut glass. Coffee steams in paper cups. Small white trays land on our tables—eggs, a grilled tomato slice, fruit arranged in an unnatural rainbow, a croissant so symmetrical it looks 3D printed.
I stare down, appetite flatlining. The eggs are unappetizing. The croissant’s layers read like plastic. My stomach tightens in revolt.
“You’re not eating?” He quirks a brow.
“I can’t.” I nudge the tray away with one finger. “Not when I can grab breakfast in town later.”
He lifts his fork, anyway, cuts a neat bite. “Travel has trained me to accept a placeholder. Real meals happen after wheels touch down.”
“I vote real meal.” I inch my coffee toward me. It’s thin and bitter but still warm enough to anchor me. I take a sip and glance past the aisle, where light spills through another passenger’s window. Dawn filters across the cabin in soft gold streaks.
Even without seeing the city, I can feel it. Barcelona waking somewhere below. It tugs at something deep inside me.
“You look like you’re already out there.”
“Maybe I am.” I glance back at him.
He studies my face like it’s a map. Says nothing, yet somehow I know he understands.
With breakfast cleared away, overhead bins thud open. Seatbelts click. Noise replaces hush. Passengers around us prepare for landing and the night we shared folds itself tight, tucked into a place where I keep impossible things.
I’m sad, I realize. I don’t connect with people often. Especially men. I wish I’d made more effort to stay awake.
“Did I really poop out last night?” I lean toward him. “Before you were finished?”
“It’s okay.” There is no judgment in his words.
Guilt loosens its hold, replaced by a warmer ache of the probability I’ll never see Santiago again. I rest a palm over the blanket, smoothing a nonexistent crease.
“Where are you staying?” He lowers his voice soI can hear him.
“El Born.” I swallow. “From the pictures, it’s a quaint little apartment above a shop. Narrow stairs, old tiles. Close to the Gothic Quarter.”
The corners of his mouth lift. “Good choice.”
“Why?”
“It suits you. No pretense. Practical. Slightly unpredictable.” His boyish grin makes me swoon a bit.
Another chime. The seatbelt light pops on. The plane veers to the left. My fingers clamp around the armrest on instinct. I haven’t been on an adventure like this since culinary school.
“You’ll be fine.” He leans in another inch, enough to steady my heart.
I let out air I didn’t know I was holding. “Confident, aren’t you?”
“About some things.”
“Oh?”
“I believe the best things are worth the wait.” His reply lands between us, soft as cotton.
