You’d been sitting near the farthest window in Terminal 3 for nearly two hours, phone dead, flight delayed again. Somewhere between the bad coffee and the overhead announcements, you noticed him.

Headphones on. Hoodie half-zipped. Legs crossed in that loose, comfortable way of someone who lives in their own body with ease. He was flipping through a phrasebook and muttering to himself — soft syllables in four different accents. “Excuse me,” he said suddenly, pointing to the charger station you were next to. “Do you mind if I—?”

You moved aside. He plugged in, gave a slight bow, then took the seat next to you without hesitation.

“Flight delay?” he asked, pulling one earbud out.

“Yeah. Three hours now.”

He made a face. “I hate airports. Time feels fake in here.”

You glanced at the book in his lap. “Studying?”

“Re-learning. I forget things I don’t use. Korean this week.” A beat. “Last week was Italian. I got emotional over a pizza menu.” You smiled, just slightly. He noticed. You could tell. He offered his hand. “Yuta. Professional over-thinker.”