She looks younger like this. Not in years, but in consequence. The exhaustion she wears like armor slides off her shoulders, leaving only peace. I want to keep her in this safe space, untouched by noise, obligation, or anything draining her brilliance.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time,” I whisper. “You’ve surprised me more than I imagined.”
For years, I’ve been surrounded by people, but alone. This is different. I can’t wait until she wakes up so we can talk again.
The cabin vibrates with white noise. I let my head fall back, though my eyes refuse to close.
Barcelona waits. For once, I don’t think of it as a destination for meetings and cellars. I picture places I want her to see. Not the usual pilgrimage spots. She deserves better.
I visualize us strolling the cloisters of the Pedralbes Monastery, where silence is cloaked in velvet and light breaks through gothic arches. Or the hills above the city, Tibidabo rising with its strange mix of church and amusement park. Not glamorous, but honest. We’d stand at the rail with Barcelona spread beneath us, red roofs tumbling toward the sea. In Gràcia, small plazas would claim her heart. The kind where old men sip vermut while children chase soccer balls.
Rosa doesn’t need Michelin stars, she needs a clay dish of bombas. Garlic still hot in oil. Laughter filling the square.
Maybe I could take her farther to the fishing village of Cadaqués, whitewashed above the sea, salt crusting the air. Or inland, to Rioja, where vines claw into slate and the wines taste like the earth itself refused to give up. Perhaps I could show her my family’s old vineyard…
All these places flash through me, but what stays is the image of her smiling.
Rosa, unburdened.
Rosa, fed without lifting a pan.
Rosa, definitively cared for.
I’ve never let myself imagine a future with someone this soon. With other women, desire has been singular. Usually just sex. A temporary high of connection.
I want Rosa, of course. God. My cock has been hard all night. But, my stronger urge is to protect her. Give her a safe space where she can enjoy life and doesn’t need to prove herself.
Her hand shifts in sleep, fingers curling toward the edge of my seat. I almost cover them with mine, but stop.
She deserves rest without interruption.
So, I close my eyes at last, surrendering to the rhythm of her breaths, the steady thrum of engines, the pull of possibility.
Barcelona waits.
For the first time in years, I look forward to something more than work when we land.
Chapter five
Thecaptain’svoiceslicesthrough me. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll begin our descent into Barcelona shortly.”
My eyes fly open. Neck kinked, mouth dry, blanket twisted around my waist. For a breath I don’t know where I am. Then the cabin sharpens: low light, the faint hiss of vents, a row of screens gone black.
Santiago’s seat is mostly upright. His eyes are half-lidded and the man’s hair is rumpled in a way no grooming product could fake.
Memory rolls back slow and thick. His voice in the dark hours. Viñedo rising from wreckage. Rain in Seattle slowing a man who didn’t know how to stop. An intimate conversation usually saved for trusted friends.
Somehow he gave it to me.
Heat climbs my cheeks when I remember: I fell asleep while he was in the middle of a story.
I thumb the seat controls. The back slides up with a soft whir. My reflection glares from the dead screen in front of me. Wild hair. Mascara smudges. Not to mention, poo breath.
A glamorous morning, Delgado.Perfect.
“Buenos días.” His words are soft, sanded by sleep.
“Morning.” I rake fingers through my hair, trying to tame the chaos. “Please tell me I didn’t snore.”
