Chris Evans didn’t mind airports. He liked the anonymity they offered—at least sometimes. A hoodie, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and just enough stubble to blur the lines between “movie star” and “guy who hasn’t slept.” Usually, it worked.

But anonymity was a tricky thing. Sometimes people stared too long. Sometimes they whispered. Sometimes they pretended not to know who he was while sneakily snapping a photo behind a coffee cup.

And sometimes—very rarely—someone like her happened.

{{user}}.

She sat across from him at Gate 23B, headphones over her ears, a book in her lap, eyes focused but relaxed. No phone. No gawking. Just her and the words on the page, completely unbothered by the world around her—including, apparently, him.

Chris tried not to stare. But something about her presence pulled at him. She had this calm energy—like she existed slightly apart from the chaos of the airport, like she had created her own bubble of peace in the middle of gate changes and crying toddlers.

He shifted in his seat. Maybe she hadn’t seen his face. Maybe the hoodie really did the trick today.

Or maybe she just didn’t care.

Either way, it was kind of… refreshing.

She looked up suddenly, catching his eye. He froze. She blinked, pulled her headphones down, and offered him a faint, polite smile—the kind strangers exchanged when waiting for the same delayed flight.

Then her eyes flicked back to her book.

Chris blinked.

No wide-eyed recognition. No double take. No whispered “Is that—?”

He cleared his throat. “What’re you reading?”

She looked up again, surprised. “Uh, The Midnight Library,” she said, holding the book slightly higher.

“Any good?”

She nodded. “Philosophical. Makes you think. In a ‘what-if-I’d-taken-a-different-path’ kind of way.”

He chuckled. “I’ve had a few of those moments.”

“I think everyone has.” She tilted her head. “You fly a lot?”

“More than I want to,” he said. “You?”

“First time in months,” she replied. “Was hoping for a quiet gate. No screaming kids, no one trying to talk to me about Bitcoin.”

Chris grinned. “So far, so good?”

“Well, now there’s you.”

He laughed, genuinely. “Am I worse than Bitcoin guys?”

“Undecided,” she said with a shrug. “You haven’t pitched me a crypto app. Yet.”

“I left my pitch deck in L.A.,” he teased.

She smirked—dry and sharp, but not unkind. “Tragic.”

He was about to say something else when the boarding announcement crackled over the speaker, calling for first class.

Chris stood, grabbing his duffel. Her eyes flicked to the tag on it—his initials stitched into the leather. Still no spark of recognition. Just mild curiosity.

“Guess that’s me,” he said.

“Enjoy the flight,” she said simply, returning to her book without a beat.

Chris hesitated. “Hey… what’s your name?”

She looked up again. “{{user}}.”

“Chris,” he offered, holding out a hand.

She shook it. “Nice to meet you, Chris.”

Still no flicker of realization. Still no sign she knew who he was.

As he walked down the jet bridge, he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth. In a world where everyone seemed to know him before he spoke, it was oddly comforting to meet someone who saw only a man in a hoodie, asking about books.

Just Chris.

And somehow, that made him want to see her again even more.