In the dimly lit cabin, Summer, still guarded against Tristan's presence, attempted to maintain her distance by inserting earphones into her ears. However, the task proved challenging with one hand still wrapped in a sling. Tristan, ever the observant one, couldn't resist teasing her. "You know, your height won't decrease if you ask for help," he jested, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he reached over to assist her with the earplugs.
Summer, clearly irritated by his antics, retorted sharply, "You seem to have a knack for helping those who don't ask for it." Despite her defiance, Tristan merely smiled at her stubbornness. "I don't help just anybody," he countered playfully, "but I can see your silent pleas through your actions, even if you don't utter them. A little 'thank you' won't hurt."
Rolling her eyes, Summer sarcastically remarked, "Thank you, Trish, for unexpectedly showing up that day and creating more trouble for me," gesturing to her injured arm. "And thank you for today as well," she added, a touch of bitterness in her tone, "as it's the outcome of your 'bravery' where I actually saved your life." Her words elicited genuine laughter from Tristan, much to her annoyance. In response, she playfully punched his chest, demanding he stop making fun of her.
Tristan's laughter softened into a warm smile as he gazed at Summer. "You look cute when you're annoyed," he remarked casually, earning a flustered reaction from her. "Don't you dare make fun of me!" she retorted, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Their playful banter filled the cabin, sparking an undeniable chemistry between them as they navigated the complexities of their unexpected encounter at 30,000 feet.
Tristan couldn't contain his amusement at Summer's fiery response. As he looked at her, a genuine smile playing on his lips, he couldn't help but think to himself, "This 9-hour flight is going to be nothing but interesting."
Seeing Tristan smiling while looking at her, Summer shifted her gaze and asked with a straight face, "Why are you looking at me like a fool?"
Tristan's smile deepened, and he flirted, "You look beautiful."
Hearing this, Summer blushed and decided to leave for the washroom to avoid the awkward moment. As she was crossing Tristan to go towards the washroom, the plane experienced a sudden turbulence. Summer, unable to balance herself, tumbled directly into Tristan's lap. His arms instinctively wrapped around her: one arm firmly encircled her waist to steady her, while the other gently supported her injured arm.
In that instant, the world around them seemed to blur. The hum of the plane's engines and the muffled conversations of other passengers faded into the background. Summer found herself inches away from Tristan, their faces so close that she could feel his breath mingling with hers. Her eyes, wide with surprise, locked onto his intense gaze. In Tristan's eyes, she saw a depth of emotion she had never noticed before—care, concern, and something softer, more tender.
Time seemed to stand still as they were lost in each other's eyes. The usual barriers of anonymity and strangeness melted away, leaving behind a raw and unfiltered connection. Summer could see the reflection of herself in Tristan's eyes, a vulnerable and unguarded side she rarely showed. Tristan, on the other hand, was captivated by the honesty in her gaze, the flicker of emotions she tried so hard to conceal.
The plane's turbulence was a distant memory as they remained frozen in that moment. Tristan's grip was firm yet gentle, his touch comforting and warm. Summer's heartbeat quickened, not from the fall, but from the intensity of the moment they were sharing. She could smell the faint hint of his cologne, feel the warmth of his body, and hear the soft whisper of his breath. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring them closer, if only for a brief, stolen moment.
Suddenly, the spell was broken by the concerned voice of the flight attendant. "Ma'am, are you okay?" she asked nervously.
Summer blinked, the reality of the situation crashing back down on her. Flustered, she quickly stammered, "S-sorry, Trish." She turned to the attendant, trying to regain her composure. "I wanted to use the restroom," she explained before hurrying down the aisle, leaving Tristan still seated, feeling the ghost of her warmth.
As Summer walked away, she felt a tumult of emotions—embarrassment, confusion, but also a strange longing she couldn't quite place. Tristan, still captivated by the memory of her eyes, felt a stirring within him. He couldn't shake the feeling that something profound had just happened, something that could change between then, something that changed in him.
When Summer returned to her seat, Tristan glanced at Summer's arm, still in a sling, and couldn't help but feel a pang of concern. "How's the arm, Sam? You managing alright?"
Summer gave him a small smile, touched by his concern despite his usual teasing. "It's getting better, Trish. Just a bit sore. But I'm not letting it slow me down."
Tristan nodded, his expression softening. "If you need anything during the flight, just let me know. I can at least play the part of a good travel companion." Then he took a blanket and gently covered Summer. "You must be feeling cold," he said, noting her one-handed difficulty.
Seeing his caring gesture, Summer softened. She chuckled. "Who would've thought? Trish, the caring companion. Wonders never cease."
Tristan grinned. "There's more to me than meets the eye, you know."
They shared a moment of quiet laughter before Summer decided to steer the conversation towards their reasons for traveling. "So, what's dragging you to Paris? Business or pleasure?"
Tristan sighed, leaning back in his seat. "A bit of both, I suppose. I'm here to sign a someone for my project. Apparently, that someone wants me there in person. Something about making sure everything's perfect."
Summer nodded, then Tristan asked, "What about you?"
Summer's face lit up with excitement. "I'm going for a poet's gathering. I've been invited to it."
Tristan was amused. "Are you a poet? Have your works been published?"
Summer smiled faintly and said, "Yes."
"Wow! May I have the honor to read any of your work?" Tristan asked, his interest piqued.
Summer was surprised. "Do you like poetry?"
Tristan, seeing her amused look, asked, "Why? Can't I like poems?"
Summer laughed at his reaction. "Of course you can! It's just that you don't seem like the type to indulge in such art forms."
Tristan laughed softly. "Don't judge a book by its cover. Seeing your exterior, no one could tell you're a poet either.
Then Tristan continued, "I do love reading poems. In particular, I like this one poet, Alma Bendita. I just love her work. Whenever I'm feeling down, her poetry always cheers me up. I feel very connected to her work, as if she's writing everything for me, about me." There was a smile on Tristan's face, as if he's talking about someone he knows from ages and reminiscing about her.
Summer's eyes widened in disbelief. "No way! You know Alma Bendita? You've read her work? Or are you just bluffing to sound convincing?" She eyed him suspiciously.
Tristan's eyes lit up as he spoke, the admiration clear in his voice. "I'm not bluffing, I swear. Alma Bendita's poetry is like a lifeline for me. Her words have this magical way of cutting through the chaos and reaching into the heart of things.… it's as if she knows exactly what I'm feeling. Her work isn't just poetry to me; it's a source of comfort and strength."
Summer was taken aback by the depth of his admiration. "Are you really her fan?" she asked softly, still in disbelief.