Rest. The word was alien. She had not slept freely in years. Slowly, carefully, she leaned against him. He did not move. He did not speak. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she slept.
When she awoke, sunlight poured into the cabin. He was reading, calm and quiet.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, embarrassed.
“No apology necessary,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I’m Adrian Moretti.”
“Isabella,” she replied, hesitating. “Nice to meet you.”
He had a way of making the ordinary feel extraordinary. Every glance, every gesture was precise but effortless. He noticed the small things — the attentive compliment to a flight attendant, the subtle way he adjusted to turbulence. She realized slowly: he noticed everything.
Later, he asked her gently, “Are you running toward someone… or away from someone?”
Isabella froze. The truth burned in her throat, but she said nothing. He didn’t press. He only asked, quietly, “Do you have a safe place to land?”
“I… have a hotel for two nights. After that, mornings are mine,” she admitted, voice trembling.
“Good,” he said simply. “Mornings are a start.”
