He was late.

He knew he was late, and yet his fingers fumbled over the gate map like they had minds of their own, knocking over some poor tourist’s coffee in the process. “Shit—sorry, sorry!” he mumbled, not even stopping to help, already spinning on his heel. There were forty-two gates in this goddamn terminal. Of course she’d be at Gate 23. Not close enough to be convenient, not far enough for him to give up.

The airport was cold in the sterile way all airports are—glass and steel, echoed voices, the scent of burned espresso and too many emotions hovering above a polished floor.

But he was sweating.

Because {{user}}, with the quiet smile and the terrifying way you saw through his bullshit, had gotten on a plane—or was about to. And that simple reality felt like being thrown headfirst into a barrier he couldn't shatter. He wasn’t sure when it had happened. When you stopped being just {{user}}, just another person he protected, someone smart and soft-spoken who stitched him up after missions and told him when he was being unbearable. He’d always pushed people to arm’s length—had to. But you never asked to get closer. Just waited there like she knew he’d eventually crack. And God, he had. Cracked right down the middle.

Only he hadn’t noticed until you said you were leaving. Not for a mission. Not for vacation. Moving. Across oceans. Across time zones. No promises to return.

He saw {{user}} the night before, standing on his porch with that stupid box of strawberry mochi you always brought when you're trying to be kind without saying it aloud. He’d watched your fingers hover just a little too long at the hem of the coat, like wanting to say something.

You didn’t.

Neither did he.

Now he was running, chasing something he should have chasing something he should have clung to a long time ago.

The gate came into view like a mirage. Gate 23. His eyes scanned the rows of waiting passengers, then the boarding line. You weren’t there.

Panic surged like cursed energy before a fight. What if he was too late?