Chapter 4 Juice, Jitters, and Jawlines POV: Naila (First Person)

POV: Naila (First Person)

My heart was sprinting as the taxi pulled up to the airport terminal.

I wiped my palms on my jeans, silently begging my nerves to act right. My scarf refused to cooperate-each time I tucked it, another stubborn curl sprang loose, like it too was trying to rebel against the reality of adulthood.

Three suitcases. One carry-on.

One thermos of homemade tropical juice-mango, pineapple, ginger. My farewell gift to myself. A sip of home in a bottle.

I stepped out of the car, and the weight of everything I was walking toward crashed into me.

This was it.

I turned to face my mom one last time. Her eyes were glossy, her smile barely holding steady. She hugged me like she was trying to pour all her strength into my bones.

"Go set the world on fire," she whispered.

I squeezed her tighter. "I'll try not to burn the kitchen first."

We laughed. We cried. Then I turned and walked toward the sliding glass doors, legs shaking like I'd borrowed them from someone else.

Everything went surprisingly smooth-check-in, security, even the suspicious glance the TSA agent gave my thermos. I held onto it like it was a holy relic.

Too smooth.

That's how I should've known chaos was next.

I was so distracted-first flight, first airport, first time not cooking for someone or worrying about the gas bill-that I barely noticed how wide-eyed I'd become. The huge gate numbers on the overhead screens, the shiny tech at every checkpoint, the way people moved like they belonged here.

I turned around too quickly-just trying to get one more look at a digital map of the terminal-and then...

Thud.

Splash.

My shoulder slammed into someone, hard. The cap on my thermos popped off like it had been waiting to betray me. Juice-bright orange and golden-splattered all over someone's chest.

I gasped.

"Oh my gosh-I'm so-"

"Seriously?" a deep voice cut me off.

I looked up.

He was tall. Built like security detail. Dressed like wealth. And glaring down at me with enough heat to curdle milk. His black shirt-designer black shirt-was dripping with my fruit smoothie.

"I didn't see you-"

"Clearly," he snapped, voice low and sharp. "Do you just walk through airports creating mistakes and baptizing people in tropical cocktails or cheap toddler drinks?"who knows what this is"

"I said it was an accident," I muttered, trying to wipe juice off my scarf. "Maybe if you weren't standing there like a marble statue in a public walkway-"

He stepped closer. Too close.

"You don't belong here," he hissed under his breath. "People like you-clumsy, loud, and untrained-you don't belong in places like this. Or where you're going."

My jaw locked.

I blinked once.

Then twice.

My heart pounded, not from nerves-but from heat. Rage. Shame. Hurt.

"Excuse me?" I said, voice trembling.

"You heard me," he said calmly, like he was pointing out the weather. "You look like you wandered in from a local carwash at a gas station."

That's when my hand moved on its own. Due to the rate of my anger.

Slap.

A clean, echoing sound. My palm met his cheek with full conviction.

His head didn't even fully turn, but his jaw tightened like stone. He slowly raised a hand to his face, where the mark was already rising faintly on his cheekbone.

People nearby turned. Someone gasped. But no one interfered.

"You don't get to speak to me like that," I whispered, my voice shaking-but steady. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've walked through to be standing here. And if that shirt is ruined, I hope the stain reminds you that about staining people's character through your conscious words, and I hope this lesson stays with you through every step you take"

For a second, he said nothing. But I knew the furious grin on his face told. "I can't waste anymore time as for you, I'll make you pay later.

He just stared at me-like I had done something unforgivable.

Or maybe unforgettable.

I didn't wait for a response.

I turned and walked toward the gate, pulse hammering in my ears, head held high even though my legs threatened to give out.

The boarding agent scanned my passport.

"First class. Right this way, Miss Sade."

"...First class?" I blinked.

"Yes," she smiled, already tagging my luggage.

I could've sworn I heard the universe wink at me.

I floated onto the plane-velvet carpets, wide leather seats, air that smelled like wealth and lavender oil. The cabin felt like the opposite of who I'd just been accused of being.

And just as I found my window seat, I looked up.

Him.

Same black shirt-slightly stained now.

Same unreadable face.

Same impossible jawline.

He looked at the seat beside mine. Then at me.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.

"Don't worry," I said, settling in. "I'm out of juice."

He sat beside me, stiff as metal. Not a word. He just kept that face, Straight,calculative and precised

But as the plane taxied, something new settled in my chest.

Fear.

I'd never flown before. The engines whirred louder. My hands started to tremble. My throat dried up. And then-

I reached for his arm.

Gripped it like a lifeline.

He flinched. Looked at me.

"What now? Here to cause more drama"

"I-I it's my first time flying."

He stared.

Then-to my surprise-he leaned back and sighed.

"...Just don't try anything else," he muttered underneath his breath saying. "This is why you shouldn't let amateurs on first class."

I didn't speak.

And he didn't pull away.

He just let me hold on.

Somewhere above the clouds, I fell asleep.

And when I woke up, he was gone.

His seat was empty.

No note. No look. No word.

Just the memory of a stain on his shirt...

And me recalling a stranger who held still when I needed someone to.

I didn't know it then, but I hadn't slapped a rich man.

I had slapped someone that would and could buy, quarter of Seoul.

That wasn't the only blunder that was built up more were still to come.......