You were on an empty flight to Boston with Roy Miller, save for around seven or eight people. He was a sweet guy, and he did catch your suitcase from the overhead compartment before it fell onto your head. The turbulence was extremely rocky, so your tequila on the rocks spilled all over your thin, light blue flannel as he caught your luggage (which was about to fall straight onto your head) before putting it in a different compartment.

You quickly excused yourself to the bathroom, and while you were fixing yourself up, unbeknownst to you, the other seven people on the flight, both pilots and the flight attendant were secret agents trying to kill Roy. You were busy talking to your reflection in the mirror, so you didn't really hear the man beating up other people.

When you came out, everyone looked normal in their seats (they totally weren't dead), and Roy was sitting on an armrest, two plastic glasses of tequila on the rocks in each hand, both topped with a slice of lime.

"I decided to join you." Roy smiles, holding the glasses up as you walk down the aisle towards him.