Chapter 3 - Dawn Over ChicagoWhen I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the tiny airplane window, painting golden streaks across the cabin floor. The seatbelt sign was off, and the low, collective murmur of passengers preparing for descent filled the air.
For a terrifying second, I didn't know where I was.
Then I felt the warmth.
I was leaning heavily against a solid, muscular shoulder. My cheek was pressed directly against the lapel of a remarkably expensive-looking grey hoodie. Panic shot through my veins like electricity. I jerked my head back so fast my neck cracked.
"Oh, my God! I am so, so sorry!" I stammered, my face burning brighter than a neon sign. "I didn't mean to—I was just so tired, and the turbulence—please forgive me!"
I quickly reached out to grab my sleeping baby, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The man turned his head slowly to look at me.
Up close, he took my breath away. He had sharp, aristocratic jawline shadowed by dark stubble, piercing slate-grey eyes that looked like they could see straight through your soul, and an aura of absolute, effortless authority. Even dressed in a simple hoodie, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.
Yet, there was no annoyance in his expression. No disgust.
Instead, a faint, ghost of a smile touched the corners of his lips.
"Don't apologize," he said. His voice was deep, rich, and remarkably calming, like dark velvet. "You needed the rest more than I did."
"I... I weigh a ton, I'm sure my hair was in your face, and—" I rambled, frantically smoothing down my messy ponytail with one hand while holding Sofi with the other.
"You didn't bother me at all, Ms. Carter," he interrupted smoothly.
I froze. "How do you know my last name?"
He glanced down at the open diaper bag on the floor near my feet, where my luggage tag and ID badge from the diner were partially visible. "An educated guess based on your baggage tag," he replied smoothly, though his eyes suggested he knew a lot more than that.
"Well... thank you," I mumbled, looking down at my lap, suddenly hyper-aware of how worn my clothes looked next to his pristine apparel. "And... thank you for not shoving me away."
"Some people are quick to judge what they don't understand," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a subtle edge of steel. He glanced pointedly across the aisle toward the older man who had insulted me earlier.
I followed his gaze, then looked back at him. "People are stressed. I get it."
"There is a difference between being stressed and being cruel," Julian replied flatly.
Before I could respond, the captain's voice crackled over the intercom announcing our final descent into O'Hare International Airport.
As the plane touched down with a heavy thud and began taxiing toward the gate, Julian did something that made my breath catch. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek, matte-black metallic card embossed with a minimalist logo I didn't recognize, and slid it onto my tray table.
"If you ever need anything in Chicago—or if that diner ever works you too hard—call this number," Julian said quietly, his grey eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach flip.
"I can't take this," I whispered, shaking my head. "I don't even know your name."
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"Julian," he said simply as the seatbelt signs chimed and passengers began standing up in a chaotic rush. "Just Julian."
Before I could argue further, he stood up with effortless grace, grabbed a minimalist leather duffel bag from the overhead bin, and disappeared into the stream of exiting passengers before I could even say goodbye.
