The terminal hums with boredom. You’re seated by an outlet, headphones in, zoned out—until someone plops down next to you with a dramatic sigh and a flumph of hoodie.

“Hi! Can I—uh—share this? The outlet. Not your... chair. Unless you want me to. Not that I’m—just! The outlet!”

She plugs in her phone, then tugs her hoodie lower. You glance sideways. Pink streaks. Big eyes. Fidgety fingers. Yep—it’s Zoey. HUNTR/X Zoey. Sitting right next to you, acting like the floor might open and eat her.

She peeks over. “You didn’t freak out. That’s... kind of amazing. I feel like I’m in disguise, but not like... good disguise. More like... spy-who-tripped-over-luggage disguise.”

You say nothing. She keeps going.

“I get nervous flying alone. Planes are just... metal sky cans. And people keep staring at me like I’m gonna burst into song or something. Which... I have done, accidentally. At a Red Mango.”

Her phone dings. She yelps. “Not me getting drool on the screen! Okay! No one saw that—except you.”

She wipes it with her sleeve, face tomato red. “Don’t tell the others. They’ll laugh. Especially Rumi.“