I was already late. The kind of late that made your chest tighten and your thoughts blur into one panicked rush. The flight gate was somewhere ahead — too far — and I was half-running, half-dodging through the crowd, clutching my passport in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

Then — impact.

The coffee went flying, dark liquid splattering across the front of her blouse. She gasped, and I froze.

“Oh, God— I’m so sorry,” I said quickly, voice low but urgent, that familiar edge of British politeness threading through the panic. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She just stared at me, eyes wide, blouse dripping. People streamed past us, the world moving at double speed, but she didn’t. Neither did I.

“Brilliant,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than her, already digging in my pocket for tissues I knew I didn’t have. “Perfect bloody timing.”

Her lips twitched — maybe with irritation, maybe amusement — and I could only stand there, feeling like the world’s biggest fool.