1
BELLA
Murphy’s law loves airports.
If something can go wrong, it’ll happen right when you’ve got a three-year-old with a fever and three pieces of mismatched luggage.
The flight monitor at Charles de Gaulle blinks CANCELLED in an almost cheerful font, as if mocking me. Around me, passengers groan, announcements blur in rapid-fire French, and Lily’s head grows heavier against my shoulder.
“Oh, sweetheart…” I press a kiss to Lily’s hair. She’s flushed, curls sticking to her forehead, tiny hands clutching my blouse. “We’ll get home soon, I promise.”
The plan was simple: finish the six-month design contract in Madrid, hop through Paris for a connection, land in New York before dinner. But apparently, the universe decided we needed an unscheduled adventure.
“Madam, you can collect a voucher for the airport hotel,” an airline rep says kindly.
I manage a tired smile. “Thank you, I just need to grab some medicine first.”
As the woman walks away, I sink onto a bench, shifting Lily into her stroller so she can rest more comfortably. My laptop bag bumps against my knee—inside it, my entire life from Spain: design sketches, client files, and way too many memories of late-night tapas and ocean views. I should be feeling accomplished. Instead, I’m calculating how to entertain a feverish preschooler in an airport terminal for twelve hours.
Lily stirs. “Mommy…my throat hurts.”
“I know, baby.” I stroke her cheek. “We’ll find some soup and something magic to make it better, okay?”
She nods sleepily, trusting me completely—dangerous, wonderful trust that fills my chest until it aches.
A group of tourists bursts into laughter nearby, and for a moment I let myself smile. It’s been a good year, all things considered. Hard work, sunshine, a sense of independence I hadn’t felt in forever. Now it’s time to go home, see family, maybe—if I’m brave—start dating again.
The thought makes me laugh under my breath. Yeah, right.
I stand, adjusting Lily’s blanket and scanning for the nearest pharmacy sign. The air smells like espresso and rain, the terminal lights soft against the glass walls. Everything feels suspended, like the quiet before something shifts.
But tonight, the only thing I want to shift is the temperature on Lily’s thermometer.
Still, as I start toward the pharmacy, I can’t shake the faint hum of anticipation. Maybe it’s the city, maybe the exhaustion. But I feel like something is about to happen.
I juggle my tote, Lily’s stroller, and a box of children’s paracetamol while the pharmacist cheerfully switches between French and English.
“Fever?” she asks.
I nod. “High, but manageable. Just…bad timing.”
She smiles in that universal way of people who’ve seen it all. “Always is.”
A few minutes later, I’m back in the terminal, receipt fluttering in one hand, the small paper bag crinkling in the other. The crowd has thinned out a little, a soft lull before the next wave of arrivals. Lily’s finally dozing in her stroller, cheeks pink but peaceful, and for the first time in hours, I let myself breathe.
Then I turn—and collide straight into someone.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—” The words tumble out as my hand shoots forward to steady the medicine bag. His arm brushes mine, solid and unyielding, and for the briefest second, a hand touches my waist—gentle, just enough to keep me from falling.
“It’s alright.” His voice is low, deep, calm, threaded with something I can’t quite name.
I look up, but before I can register his face—before I can even process the warmth of that touch—a shrill siren cuts through the air. Somewhere down the concourse, an alarm blares, lights flashing. Everyone’s heads turn at once, a ripple of confusion spreading through the terminal.
Instinctively, I glance back toward Lily’s stroller. She’s still asleep. Relief washes through me—then I realize the man I bumped into is gone.
Vanished.
I turn in a slow circle, scanning the nearby gates, the café, even the reflection in the glass wall. Nothing. Just travelers and airport staff moving like normal, as if that one brief touch hadn’t happened.
