We’ve landed.
My seat is reclined, the blanket still draped over me. The space beside me—the one that held a devastatingly handsome man with a Russian accent and hands that made me forget my own name—is gone.
No note. No trace.
I sit up slowly, blinking against the dry air. My mouth feels like it’s been lined with cotton, and every inch of my body feels warm, heavy. There’s a dull ache low in my belly, and I press my knees together reflexively.
Reality settles in—that wasn’t a dream.
I just lost had sex with the mysterious, sexy stranger on an airplane.
I wrap my arms tightly around myself and glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of everything and everyone. There arefour passengers left in first class. A man across the aisle is asleep with noise-canceling headphones on. The woman in front of him is busy scrolling on her phone, seemingly in no hurry to exit the plane.
He just disappeared.
I should feel relieved—no names, no strings, no nothing. A moment suspended in time, far above any consequences. Yet I feel a strange and hollow ache, as if I’ve misplaced something I didn’t know I needed.
I shift in my seat, heart knocking against my ribs as the memory of his hands on my body floods back—hot and wild. I reach up, brushing my fingers against my lips. They’re still tender. Still tingling.
Still his.
A shadow crosses my line of sight. I glance up to see the flight attendant from earlier, the one who asked if I was okay during the turbulence. She doesn’t say a word, just gives me a faint, knowing look as she collects discarded water bottles.
My face reddens and I want to disappear into the seat.
I gather my things—my carry-on, my laptop bag. My dignity, if I can find it.
I step off the plane into the gray morning that has settled over Charles de Gaulle airport, straight into a slow, steady drizzle.
Paris.
The City of Lights, mystery, and—if I’m lucky—answers.
As the wind lifts my coattails and the rain beads on my skin, all I can think about is the man who just vanished like a dream.
The cab ride into the city is a blur of rain-slick streets and my own spiraling thoughts. I try to focus on the passing buildings, the signs in French, the gray charm of a city that’s supposed to change your life if you let it.
But my brain keeps drifting. Back to the plane. Back tohim.
Snap out of it, Astrid.
I didn’t come here to get tangled up with some mystery man. I came here to find out the truth about who I really am.
My hotel is small but stylish, tucked between a deliciously-scented boulangerie and a boutique with a window showcasing expensive silk scarves. The concierge barely glances at me as I check in, which suits me just fine. I’m too tired to make small talk, and my French is decent but not conversational.
The room is clean and quaint. A little corner of normalcy after twelve hours of turbulence and one reckless, unforgettable decision at thirty thousand feet.
I drop my bag by the dresser and close the door with a soft click. As the hush of the room wraps around me, I begin to feel the weight of everything—adrenaline, nerves, of what I did and who I did it with.
I peel off my blouse and swap it for a cozy ,worn sweater, then pull my hair into a bun with weary fingers. I should unpack. I should set up my laptop, tether to my hotspot, and open my research files. But all I can do is sit at the edge of the bed and try to catch my breath.
The mattress dips soft beneath me, inviting and impossible to resist. I lie back fully clothed, the ache of exhaustion deep in my bones. I close my eyes, remembering the way he kissed me like he owned me. Like he didn’t need a name to stake his claim.
Outside, the Paris rain falls steadily, tapping against the window like a lullaby.
I turn onto my side and pull the blanket up to my shoulders. My limbs feel heavy as my pulse slows.
As the sound of rain folds into the rhythm of my breath, I drift off with the taste of him still on my lips, wondering who the hell he was.
