Chapter 1 — Strangers in the Sky

Claire

Claire Dupont tightened her grip on the leather strap of her satchel as she navigated the narrow aisle of the airplane. The cabin buzzed with muted voices and the soft shuffle of passengers settling in—seat belts clicking, overhead bins slamming shut, and the faint rustle of newspapers folding closed. The familiar weight of her camera pressed against her hip through the worn leather of the bag, a small tether to her sense of purpose amidst the chaotic boarding process. She let herself cling to a fragile hope: the seat next to hers would remain empty. She could picture it—a silent, uninterrupted flight where she’d lose herself in editing her latest series, the isolation a perfect excuse to avoid confronting the tangle of emotions that trailed her to Paris.

But as her eyes landed on seat 17B, that fragile hope dissolved.

Julian Laurent. Broad shoulders, slightly disheveled blond hair, and an air of quiet intensity that she recognized as much as the sound of her own shutter clicking. He was already seated, his head tilted back against the headrest, eyes closed as though willing himself to disappear. The sight of him hit her like a sudden drop in altitude—unexpected, jarring, and leaving her breathless. Her fingers tightened on the satchel’s strap until her knuckles blanched. Of all the flights, of all the seats.

He hadn’t noticed her yet. She toyed with the idea of retreating, of fabricating some excuse to the flight attendant about needing her seat changed. Her mind flickered to a memory: Julian, laughing, his hands dusted with flour as he leaned over her to steal a taste of the sauce simmering on the stove. She shoved the memory away, her chest tightening. But then Julian’s eyes opened, warm brown irises locking onto hers. The surprise in his gaze flickered, brief as a match strike, before he masked it behind a calm, practiced expression.

“Claire,” he said, his voice steady, though its low timbre carried the faintest hitch. He straightened in his seat, the movement unhurried, as though they were nothing more than acquaintances encountering each other at the grocery store.

“Julian,” she replied, her tone clipped and deliberate. She forced her feet to move, stepping into the row and sliding her satchel beneath the seat with more force than necessary. As she did, her fingers brushed against the hidden pocket inside, where the postcard she’d never been able to throw away rested. She hated the way her stomach twisted under his gaze, resenting how easily his presence could unravel her.

As she clicked her seatbelt into place, silence stretched between them, taut as a camera strap pulled too tight. Claire turned her face toward the window, her lips pressing into a firm line as she focused on the tarmac. Outside, fuel trucks maneuvered with mechanical precision, their movements deliberate and predictable. She envied their simplicity.

“You look well,” Julian said finally, breaking the quiet. His voice was soft, almost tentative, as though testing the waters.

She turned slightly, catching his profile as he stared straight ahead. His jaw was more defined than she remembered, his face framed by the faintest shadow of stubble. The creases near his eyes were new, laugh lines that hinted at warmth, though his expression seemed far from amused. “Thanks,” she replied evenly. “You, too.”

He nodded once, offering no further comment. Claire clasped her hands in her lap, her fingers curling into the soft knit of her sweater. Eight hours. She would have to endure eight hours of this.

The plane began to taxi, the vibrations beneath her feet offering a strange sort of comfort. She matched her breathing to the hum of the engines, willing herself to stay composed. It wasn’t until they were airborne, the city below giving way to endless blue, that Julian spoke again.

“Paris,” he said, his tone neutral but tinged with something she couldn’t quite place. “It’s been a while.”

Claire shifted her gaze to him briefly before returning it to the clouds outside. “It has,” she said, her words clipped, offering no invitation for further conversation.

“Work?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he studied her.

“Yes,” she replied curtly, adjusting the strap of her satchel with a nervous flick of her wrist. She wasn’t ready to explain the exhibit, not to him. Not when the centerpiece of her collection was a series of intimate portraits of Julian—moments she’d captured when she believed they had all the time in the world. Her chest tightened, and she pushed the thought away. “And you?”

For the first time, his calm façade cracked. He hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands, where his thumb traced the edge of the armrest in a slow, restless rhythm. “Henri,” he said softly. “He’s not doing well.”

The name landed between them like a dropped plate, sharp and impossible to ignore. Henri Moreau—Julian’s mentor, his surrogate father, the man whose kitchen had been a second home to them both. Claire’s throat tightened as memories surfaced unbidden: the way Julian used to light up when recounting Henri’s lessons, the reverence in his tone as he described the older chef’s brilliance. She noticed the way Julian’s shoulders slumped slightly now, his composure faltering. “I’m sorry,” she said, and this time, her voice lacked its usual sharp edges. The sincerity was unguarded, uncalculated.

Julian nodded, his jaw tightening. “I need to see him,” he said quietly. “Before it’s too late.”

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, Claire didn’t know how to respond. She glanced at him, noting the way his fingers gripped the armrest, the tension in his posture. There was a vulnerability to him now, raw and unpolished, that she hadn’t seen before. It stirred something in her—empathy, perhaps, or the faint echo of the connection they once shared.

“I know how much he means to you,” she said softly, her gaze dropping to her hands. The admission felt dangerous, too intimate, but it was the truth. She remembered how Henri had shaped Julian’s passion for cooking, how his encouragement had been a lifeline when Julian doubted himself.

Julian exhaled, the sound heavy with unspoken emotion. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. His thumb stilled on the armrest, and for a fleeting moment, the silence between them felt less like a chasm and more like a fragile bridge.

The hours stretched on, punctuated by the occasional clink of a drink cart and the muffled hum of conversations from rows ahead. Claire buried herself in her laptop, editing photos with meticulous precision. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, adjusting light and contrast with an exactness that belied the turmoil beneath her calm exterior. She could feel Julian beside her, his presence a constant weight, but she refused to acknowledge him unless he spoke first.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked suddenly, his voice low and rough, as though the words had scraped their way out.

Her hand froze mid-motion. She didn’t look at him. “Think about what?”

“Us,” he said simply.

Her heart stuttered, and she forced herself to meet his gaze. His expression was unreadable, his eyes shadowed with something that might have been regret. She wanted to deflect, to laugh bitterly or dismiss him with a cutting remark. But his voice—quiet, vulnerable, almost pleading—made her pause.

“Sometimes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her chest tightened as she spoke, the words dragging a rawness to the surface she’d long tried to bury. “Do you?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “More than I’d like to,” he said, the confession hanging between them like an exposed nerve. His fingers tightened briefly on the armrest, the only outward sign of the effort those words had cost him.

Claire looked away first, her fingers trembling as she resumed editing. She didn’t trust herself to respond, didn’t trust herself to acknowledge the ache his words stirred in her. The air between them was heavy, laden with all the things they wouldn’t say.

As the flight began its descent, the tension between them remained unbroken. Julian leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes once more, while Claire stared out the window at the sprawling city below. Paris shimmered in the distance, its familiar skyline softened by the golden light of late afternoon. It loomed like a promise and a warning all at once.

When the plane landed, they exchanged polite nods, their words brittle and formal. Claire slung her satchel over her shoulder, the worn leather pressing into her side like an anchor. She didn’t look back as she walked through the terminal, her steps brisk and resolute.

But as she moved toward the exit, her heart heavy with unspoken words, she couldn’t shake the sensation that this was only the beginning.