The flight continued, and their interactions grew more frequent. Aisha found excuses to pass by his row—checking seatbelts, offering water, asking if he needed a blanket. Each time, their banter grew easier, laced with a warmth that made the long flight feel too short. Rohan showed her a sketch he’d done of the view from his window, a swirl of clouds and stars. “This one’s for you,” he said, tearing it out and handing it to her

The hum of the airplane engines filled the cabin as Flight 247 ascended into the night sky, bound for Paris. The cabin lights dimmed, and passengers settled into their seats, some already drifting into sleep. For Aisha, a 24-year-old flight attendant on her third international shift, the routine was familiar yet exhilarating. She loved the way the world felt smaller from 35,000 feet, the way strangers shared fleeting moments in a metal tube hurtling through the clouds. Tonight, though, something felt different.

Aisha adjusted her navy-blue scarf and pushed the beverage cart down the aisle, her smile practiced but genuine. In row 12, a young man with tousled dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from his book. His name was Rohan, a 26-year-old graphic designer heading to Paris for a freelance gig. He’d been dreading the long flight, but when Aisha’s warm brown eyes met his, he forgot the cramped legroom and the crying baby three rows back.

“Coffee, tea, or something else?” Aisha asked, her voice soft but clear over the engine’s hum.

Rohan fumbled with his book, nearly dropping it. “Uh, coffee. Black, please. And, um, maybe a smile? You’ve got a great one.”

Aisha’s cheeks flushed, but she kept her composure, pouring the coffee with a steady hand. “Flattery gets you an extra sugar packet, but you said black, so I guess you’re out of luck.” She handed him the cup, her fingers brushing his for a split second. The touch sent a spark through her, unexpected and electric.

Rohan grinned, his nerves settling. “Next time, I’ll order tea with sugar. Keep the packet ready.”

She laughed, a sound that felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds. “Deal. Enjoy your flight, sir.”

As Aisha moved on, Rohan watched her go, his coffee cooling in his hands. He wasn’t one for bold moves, but something about her made him want to be. He scribbled a note on his napkin: Tea with sugar next time. Row 12C. -Rohan.

Hours later, during a quieter moment, Aisha found herself back in the galley, stealing glances at row 12. Rohan was sketching in a small notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration. She wondered what he was drawing, what kind of person carried a sketchbook on a redeye flight. Her colleague, Priya, nudged her. “You’re staring, Aisha. Who’s got your attention?”

“No one,” Aisha said quickly, busying herself with a tray of cups. But Priya’s knowing smirk told her she wasn’t fooling anyone.

When the next service round came, Aisha made her way to row 12C. Rohan looked up, his eyes lighting up like the stars outside the window. “Tea with sugar?” he asked, holding up the napkin with his note.

Aisha laughed, shaking her head. “You’re persistent. Here’s your tea.” She slipped him an extra sugar packet, her fingers lingering as she handed it over. “What’s with the sketchbook? You an artist?”

“Something like that,” Rohan said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m a graphic designer. Heading to Paris for a project. What about you? Do you love flying, or is this just a job?”

Aisha glanced around, ensuring no passengers were waving for her. “I love it. The sky feels like home, you know? Every flight’s a new story.” She paused, then added, “What’s your story, Row 12C?”

Rohan’s smile widened. “Guess I’m still writing it. But meeting you feels like a good plot twist.”

The flight continued, and their interactions grew more frequent. Aisha found excuses to pass by his row—checking seatbelts, offering water, asking if he needed a blanket. Each time, their banter grew easier, laced with a warmth that made the long flight feel too short. Rohan showed her a sketch he’d done of the view from his window, a swirl of clouds and stars. “This one’s for you,” he said, tearing it out and handing it to her.

Aisha tucked it into her apron, her heart racing. “You’re trouble, Rohan.”

“The good kind, I hope,” he replied, his voice low.

As the plane began its descent into Paris, the cabin buzzed with activity. Aisha was busy with landing procedures, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the end. When the plane touched down and passengers began to disembark, Rohan lingered, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Aisha was at the door, saying goodbyes with her usual professionalism, but her eyes kept darting to him.

“Safe travels, Rohan,” she said as he approached, her voice softer than intended.

He stopped, inches from her. “I’m in Paris for a week. If you’re free, maybe we could grab that tea. With sugar.”

Aisha’s heart skipped. She wasn’t supposed to give out her number, but rules felt flimsy at 5 a.m. in a new city. She scribbled her number on a napkin and handed it to him. “Text me. I’m here for two days.”

Two days later, they met at a small café near the Seine. The air smelled of fresh croissants and river water, and Paris glowed under a golden afternoon sun. Rohan had his sketchbook, and Aisha teased him about drawing her. He did, capturing the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. They talked for hours—about her love for the sky, his passion for art, and the strange magic of meeting someone who felt like home in a city neither called their own.

As the sun set, they walked along the river, their hands brushing until Rohan finally took hers. “I don’t know how this works,” he admitted. “You’re flying off tomorrow, and I’m back to Mumbai in a week. But I don’t want this to end here.”

Aisha squeezed his hand, her heart full. “Then it won’t. We’ll figure it out. One flight at a time.”

They kissed under a streetlamp, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance, and Aisha knew that some stories, like the best flights, were worth every turbulent moment.