Chapter 8 — The Flight to Paris
876 Words
(Daniel’s POV)
I’ve sat through high-stakes board meetings that were less stressful than sitting next to Lana for ten hours.
There were twenty seats in first class — and somehow, she ended up beside me.
Of course she did. Life had a strange sense of humor.
She walked down the aisle in a soft gray sweater and jeans, her hair tied back, no makeup except for a little gloss. Simple. Effortless. Beautiful in that quiet way that made my chest feel tight.
She paused when she saw me, then gave a small, polite smile before sitting down.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning.”
The silence that followed was thick. Not exactly awkward, but not comfortable either. Just... heavy. Like all the things we hadn’t said were sitting between us.
---
An hour later, I gave up pretending to work. My laptop screen had been open to the same slide for thirty minutes.
She had her headphones in, eyes half-closed, pretending to sleep. I knew better. She was awake — her fingers were tapping lightly against her cup, that old habit she had whenever she was trying to stay calm.
I glanced at her. “Still hate flying?”
Her eyes opened slowly. She looked at me, amused. “You remember that?”
“Hard to forget,” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll manage,” she murmured with a small smile.
“You always do,” I said quietly.
For a moment, our eyes held. Then she looked away, and the silence returned.
---
Hours passed. The cabin lights dimmed as we crossed the Atlantic.
I couldn’t sleep.
Lana’s head rested against the window, her breathing even. A few strands of her hair fell across her face, catching the faint light. And suddenly, it was like no time had passed at all.
I remembered the nights she’d stay up late, studying French verbs, her brow furrowed in concentration. I used to sit beside her, just listening.
She didn’t know it then, but she was the reason I believed in dreams.
The plane shook slightly, and her hand brushed mine on the armrest. Just a touch. Accidental.
But it sent a spark straight through me.
Neither of us moved. Not at first. Then, after a few seconds, she whispered — almost to herself —
“Just business.”
But her voice didn’t sound certain. Not anymore.
---
By the time we landed in Paris, I realized I hadn’t thought about the meeting once. Only her.
She moved quickly once we landed, slipping back into her professional self. But when she looked up at the big sign that read Bienvenue à Paris, she smiled — really smiled — and for the first time in years, I saw the girl I used to know.
And I knew right then… I was in trouble.
---
(Lana’s POV)
Paris looked both familiar and new. The air felt lighter somehow — cleaner, softer. Like the city itself had been waiting all this time.
Daniel walked ahead of me, calm and confident, as always. The perfect picture of control. But I knew that look. It wasn’t calm. It was armor.
He spoke to the driver in French, and it hit me how much better he’d gotten. I could still hear our old study sessions in my head — me fumbling over phrases, him laughing softly when I mixed up the tenses.
When he opened the car door for me, I said quietly, “Merci.”
He gave a polite nod. But his eyes lingered on me for just a second too long.
---
The ride to the hotel was silent. Paris passed by in a blur — bridges, cafés, soft lights over the Seine.
I told myself not to think about him. Not about the way our hands had touched on the plane. Not about how I still remembered what his cologne smelled like.
This trip was about work. That’s all.
---
When we arrived, he handed me my room key. “Dinner at eight. Investors meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Got it,” I said, forcing a small smile.
He started to leave but stopped. “Lana?”
“Yeah?”
His expression softened. “You did well today.”
I laughed. “I sat beside you on a plane, Daniel. That’s not exactly a skill.”
His smile was faint, but there was something real in it. “You stayed. That’s enough.”
And then he walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart racing like it had ten years ago.
---
Later that night, I stood by the hotel window, staring at the city lights. The Eiffel Tower shimmered faintly in the distance, just like I’d imagined it years ago.
And out of nowhere, a memory surfaced — my own handwriting in a worn college notebook, words I hadn’t thought about in years:
“Someday, words won’t just translate — they’ll connect people.”
I smiled faintly to myself.
It was something I’d written when dreams still felt simple. I never knew Daniel had remembered it too, or that he’d go on to build an entire company around that idea.
Maybe that’s what connection really was. Something that never truly faded, even when you thought it had.
- Writer
