CHAPTER 1 — The Day I Kicked the Wrong Suitcase
If there was an award for “Most Embarrassing Human Alive,” Clara Bowen was positive she’d win it before lunch.
Her morning had already begun in spectacular chaos—overslept, coffee machine exploded like a tiny caffeine volcano, and then the elevator in her apartment got stuck with her inside… singing Taylor Swift loudly to stop panicking.
By the time she sprinted into Heathrow Airport, Clara was a walking disaster wrapped in a wrinkled coat.
“All I need,” she muttered to herself, dodging a family of seven, “is to drop off my luggage, get on the plane, and pretend the universe doesn’t hate me.”
Fate heard her. Fate laughed.
She reached the baggage drop-off belt, saw a suitcase identical to hers blocking her way, and—believing in her heart that she was helping humanity—gave it a firm kick.
“Ouch—HEY! What the hell?!”
Clara froze.
The suitcase she’d kicked wasn’t just a suitcase.
It was attached to the hand of a man.
A man glaring at her like she’d just personally insulted his entire family lineage.
“I—I thought it was mine!” Clara sputtered.
“You usually kick your belongings?” the man asked.
His voice was smooth, low, dangerously patient.
His jawline could cut glass.
His hair was annoyingly perfect.
And he had the audacity to look this attractive at 7 A.M.
“Only on bad days,” she blurted. “And trust me, I’m having a bad millennium.”
He sighed as if reconsidering his life choices. “How does one ‘kick the wrong suitcase,’ exactly?”
“Well,” Clara said, crossing her arms defensively, “it had a purple ribbon. Mine has a purple ribbon.”
He lifted the ribbon on his suitcase. “This is blue.”
“It—well—it looks purple-ish!” Clara insisted. “It’s blue that wants to be purple.”
He blinked. Twice. “Are you colorblind?”
“No. I’m chaos-blind.”
That earned a tiny, unwilling twitch in the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. More like his face glitched.
Clara suddenly noticed his boarding pass tucked into his jacket pocket.
Same airline.
Same gate number.
Same departure time.
No.
No way.
The universe wouldn’t be that cruel.
“You’re on flight 308 to Vienna?” she whispered, horrified.
The man pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t tell me. You’re on 308 as well.”
Clara raised her hand slowly.
“…Hi.”
He stared skyward, as if asking the heavens for a refund on this morning.
Before Clara could sink into the floor out of sheer embarrassment, the announcement system blared:
“Final call for passengers on Flight 308 to Vienna.”
The man stiffened. “Great. Now I’m late, thanks to suitcase violence.”
Clara gasped. “Hey! If anything, YOU delayed ME with your blue-but-not-blue ribbon—”
“And YOU assaulted my luggage.”
“It was a gentle nudge!”
“It was a roundhouse kick.”
They glared at each other.
Then he exhaled sharply. “Look, we’re wasting time. Truce?”
Clara hesitated. “…Temporary truce.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
He strode toward the gate—long legs, effortless confidence—while Clara scurried behind, muttering curses at the universe.
When they reached the gate, the agent scanned their boarding passes and waved them through. Clara stopped him as he boarded the plane.
“Wait!”
He turned, brows raised.
“What’s your name?” she asked. “Because if this plane crashes, I want to know who I’m haunting.”
He stared at her for a full second before saying:
“Adrian.”
“Great. I’ll write it on my haunting list.”
“What’s yours?”
“Clara. You can haunt me too, if you like.”
He gave her that almost-smile again. “I’ll think about it.”
They boarded.
Clara walked down the aisle, clutching her ticket… and froze.
Seat 14A.
Seat 14B.
She looked at Adrian.
Adrian looked at her.
“No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not.”
Clara held up her ticket. “I didn’t choose this!”
“I refuse to sit next to you for two hours.”
“Well, I refuse to sit next to you for two hours!”
Passengers were staring.
Adrian exhaled. “Fine.”
“Fine!”
They sat.
Clara folded her arms, turning away dramatically.
Adrian mirrored her.
Silence lasted approximately eight seconds before Clara nearly kicked his foot by accident.
“Are you doing this on purpose?” Adrian muttered.
“Do you think I enjoy elbow-to-elbow combat with a grumpy statue?”
He glanced at her. “You’re loud.”
“You’re gloomy.”
“You talk too much.”
“You brood too much!”
Again… that micro-smile.
The plane took off.
After ten minutes, turbulence hit. Clara gripped the armrest, knuckles white.
Adrian noticed.
“…Are you scared of flying?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Clara whispered. “I’m scared of dying stupidly while sitting next to a man who thinks blue ribbons can’t be purple.”
He huffed softly and placed his hand over hers.
Her breath caught.
“You’re not dying today,” he said. “Not if I can help it.”
Clara blinked. “You’re… weirdly reassuring for someone with the emotional range of a breadstick.”
“Thank you,” he said dryly.
The turbulence eased. Clara didn’t let go.
Neither did he.
And neither of them mentioned it.
For the entire flight.
When the plane landed, Adrian stood, grabbed his suitcase, and paused.
“Hey,” he said, voice softer. “Try not to kick anything on the way out.”
“No promises,” she said.
He smirked. “See you around, Clara.”
She watched him disappear into the crowd.
And for the first time all day—maybe all month—Clara smiled.
A real one.
A warm one.
A dangerous one.
Finally, she whispered to herself:
“Oh, I’m definitely going to see you again.”
