He did not embarrass anyone.

Yet his quiet confidence settled over the row.

The cabin fell silent.

The woman looked away, adjusted her purse, and said nothing more.

Blaire glanced at him.

He looked about thirty-eight, wearing a clean white shirt beneath a navy jacket.

His beard was carefully trimmed, but his eyes carried the tiredness of a man who had not slept peacefully in a long time.

“Thank you,” Blaire whispered.

“It’s nothing.” He offered his hand.

“Luca.”

“Blaire.”

He did not flirt.

He did not pry.

He simply helped with the stroller, retrieved Fiona’s toy when it slipped, and folded a napkin into silly shapes until the little girl giggled.