Chapter 1 — Reunion in the Sky

The Dreamer

The Dreamer adjusted the emerald and sapphire scarf around her neck, the silk cool against her skin as she boarded the plane. The muted hum of engines filled the cabin, mingling with the faint scent of jet fuel and the soft rustle of passengers finding their seats. She moved with measured grace down the aisle, scanning the row numbers on the overhead compartments. Her mind was already in Paris, picturing the exhibit she had meticulously curated over the past year. It was more than just a professional milestone—it was a vindication of her choices, her sacrifices. Yet beneath her carefully constructed focus, a small, persistent voice questioned whether it was enough. She exhaled softly, narrowing her attention to the immediate task of finding her seat.

Row 17. Seat B. She stopped, her fingers tightening on the smooth leather strap of her carry-on. Her hazel eyes lifted—and froze.

The Pragmatist.

Her ex-husband sat in the window seat, his profile turned slightly toward the glass. Daylight illuminated the faint lines around his eyes and the streaks of gray at his temples, lending him a quiet, weathered elegance. He wore a neutral-toned suit jacket, understated yet purposeful, but it was his posture that struck her most. The slight slump of his shoulders, the way his hand rested absently on the armrest as though anchoring himself—it was achingly familiar. For a moment, the years between them dissolved, leaving only the memory of the man she had once known so intimately.

Her breath caught, a sharp intake she quickly suppressed. She could have turned away, found a flight attendant, asked for another seat. But before she could act, his gaze lifted, meeting hers with a jolt of recognition that seemed to ripple through the narrow aisle. The air between them turned electric, the muted clamor of the cabin fading into the background.

His blue-gray eyes widened slightly, then narrowed again, his expression settling into guarded neutrality. But she caught it—the flicker of surprise, the sharp intake of breath he couldn’t quite mask. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice crisp, though her pulse thudded in her ears. Her hand gestured toward the aisle seat. “It seems we’re seatmates.”

He blinked, recovering quickly. “Of course,” he replied, his tone even, though a slight edge betrayed his unease. He stood, angling sideways to make room, his movements deliberate but not entirely steady. His hand brushed the back of his seat for balance, and she caught the faint scent of his cologne—woody, clean, and disarmingly familiar. It tugged at a memory she had no intention of entertaining.

Sliding into her seat, she placed her bag beneath the one in front of her, her movements precise. The proximity was immediate, unavoidable. Her fingers twitched, adjusting her scarf again, though it didn’t need it.

“Quite a coincidence,” he said once they were seated, his voice carefully measured.

“Life has a strange sense of timing,” she replied, smoothing the fabric of her skirt over her knees. Her tone was light, but a faint tremor in her hand betrayed the effort it took to maintain composure.

He gave a short, dry laugh, more exhalation than amusement. “Apparently.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. She turned her head toward the window beyond him, where the tarmac stretched under a gray sky. Paris. That was her focus. Not him. Not the years they’d spent unraveling, nor the way the sight of him now threatened to unsettle everything she’d carefully rebuilt.

The seatbelt sign dinged overhead, jolting her back to the present. She fastened hers with deliberate precision, avoiding his gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him do the same, his fingers steady, methodical. His calmness had always irritated her once, though she had also relied on it. She wondered if he felt anything close to the churn of emotions roiling beneath her surface.

The plane began to taxi, the faint vibration of the engines thrumming through the floor. Her hand rested lightly on the armrest, fingers brushing the edge where the fabric met plastic. She felt his gaze flick toward her, then shift away, as if he were weighing whether to speak.

“So,” he began, breaking the silence. His voice was calm but carried a tentative quality, as though testing the waters. “Paris.”

“Yes,” she said, turning her head slightly to meet his eyes. They held a glimmer of curiosity, or perhaps something deeper. “Work.”

“Of course.” He nodded, his gaze dropping to his lap. “Same here.”

The wheels lifted, pressing them back into their seats. She felt the familiar lurch in her stomach and took a slow, measured breath. The city below shrank into a patchwork of streets and rooftops, fading into the haze of clouds. She focused on the view, determined to ignore the weight of his presence beside her.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now, almost cautious.

“No,” she admitted, keeping her tone neutral. “Neither did I.”

Another silence stretched between them, long enough for the flight attendants to begin their rounds. She declined a drink, though he accepted a bottle of water, twisting the cap with a practiced motion. She glanced at him briefly, noting the way his jaw tightened when he caught her looking.

The turbulence came without warning, a sharp jolt that rattled the overhead compartments. Her hand instinctively gripped the armrest, knuckles whitening, as the plane shuddered again. Her breath hitched, and she felt him shift beside her.

“It’s fine,” he said, his voice steady, reassuring. “Just a bit of rough air.”

“I know,” she replied, though her voice was tighter than she intended. She hated turbulence. He knew that.

Another jolt, harder this time. Her eyes closed as she exhaled shakily, her pulse quickening. And then his hand was on hers—warm, firm, grounding. The gesture was reflexive, neither of them fully registering it until it happened. Her eyes snapped open, meeting his startled gaze.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, pulling his hand back as though burned. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “It’s… fine.”

The turbulence eased, the plane settling into a smooth rhythm. But the weight of his touch lingered, vivid as a phantom. Her mind flitted to another time, another place—a train bound for nowhere, his hand in hers, a promise unspoken. She blinked hard, forcing the memory away.

Turning back to the window, she focused on the endless expanse of clouds, pale and featureless. Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts remained tangled. His touch, brief as it was, had breached the walls she had so carefully constructed.

He didn’t speak again, and neither did she. The silence between them was safer, less complicated, though it buzzed with the tension of everything left unsaid. When the plane began its descent, she felt an odd mix of relief and regret, as though their shared space had been both a burden and a reprieve.

As they taxied to the gate, he turned to her one last time. “Good luck in Paris,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere.

She adjusted her scarf, its jewel tones catching the light. “You too.”

And then it was over. She stood, reaching for her bag, and he stepped aside to let her pass. Their parting was brief, almost perfunctory. Yet as she walked down the jet bridge and into the terminal, she felt the weight of his gaze lingering, like an echo she couldn’t shake.

The city awaited, full of possibilities and pitfalls alike. But as she stepped into the flow of passengers, the question loomed, unbidden: Was this fate, or just an inconvenient coincidence? Whatever the answer, Paris had just become far more complicated than she’d anticipated.