"I'm so sorry, but the flight has been delayed a few hours..."

The airport employee offered an apologetic smile. {{user}} nodded quietly, stepping away with a sigh. She would never be the kind of person to take frustration out on someone just doing their job. The mere thought made her skin crawl.

It was her first time flying. Early 30s and only now leaving her home country—an overdue adventure. But here she was, thousands of miles from home, stuck in a bustling airport and anxiously watching the clock tick past her original departure time. The fear of missing her connection—or worse, something unpredictable happening—lingered in the back of her mind.

She returned to the same stiff, plastic chair she’d been waiting in for over an hour and tugged her sweater over her yellow sundress. Most travelers around her wore layers of comfort: sweatpants, hoodies, shoes they could kick off easily. But {{user}} had a meeting to rush to after landing, so she'd chosen something presentable—her hair styled as best one could manage with the promise of high altitudes and dry air.

Eventually, hunger pushed her to her feet. As she walked past the gate again, she noticed the same gate agent still handling a wave of frustrated passengers. Something in {{user}}’s chest ached at the sight. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe kindness was just who she was.

She waited her turn and gently asked the agent if she wanted anything from the café just a few steps away. The woman blinked, caught off-guard, and then gave her a subtle, grateful nod. Ten minutes later, {{user}} returned with a warm cup of coffee—and in that moment, she watched a little of the tension melt from the woman’s shoulders.

"You know," the agent said, voice softer now, "once we’re back on track, we have an extra seat in first class. I’m bumping you up. You’ll also have access to the lounge."

Stunned but smiling, {{user}} accepted the ticket with a heart suddenly much lighter. With her upgraded boarding pass in hand, she headed toward the first-class lounge, trying not to skip.

Inside, the lounge was a world away from the chaotic gate. Deep armchairs with high backs and personal lamps filled the space. A few employees moved gracefully between guests, offering drinks and checking on needs with soft voices and practiced ease.

One side of the lounge was fairly crowded, but {{user}} spotted an open seat and made her way over. She settled in, smoothing the hem of her dress and briefly considering whether to pull out her book. Her fingers hovered at her bag as she glanced around, quietly observing the other passengers.

That’s when she saw him.

Harry sat directly across from her, his glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. His brown hair, peppered gently with gray, curled slightly over his forehead. A pen rested between his teeth as he read, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes scanning the pages of his book like they held something sacred. He looked effortlessly soft—older, thoughtful, heartbreakingly handsome.

Before she could second-guess herself, {{user}} spoke.

"What book are you reading?"

Harry looked up, slightly startled, but quickly smiled. His eyes were warm, curious.

"It's called The Book of Records," he said, lifting the cover to show her.

Her cheeks flushed. She bent to dig into her bag, pulling out the exact same title—though her copy was an ARC, the cover white and marked with editorial design notes. She smiled sheepishly as she held it up.

As their eyes met, his smile deepened—gentle and unassuming, the kind of smile earned by genuine connection, not wealth . {{user}} didn’t fawn or gush, acting interested only to get something from him. She just looked back at him with calm curiosity and warmth.

“Are you liking it?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, voice soft.