Airports were the great equalizers, you’d always heard. A place where the CEO and the janitor wore the same kind of exhaustion on their faces. Today, you were living proof of that. In an oversized sweater and ratty jeans, you were as far from glamorous as you could get. It was hardly your best look, but it was certainly the most comfortable.

Seven hours. That was the cruel joke the airline had decided to play. You’d traded the snowy peaks of the Alps for the fluorescent lights of a terminal, the reluctant end of a week long vacation. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you sank into a metal chair, your carry-on thumping against your tired legs.

And then, he appeared. A vision in tailored black, his hair a perfect tousle, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He rolled a sleek trolley, a stark contrast to your worn-out backpack. Lee Heeseung, the name tag on his luggage read. It was like a cruel twist of fate. The universe had conspired to place the epitome of human perfection right next to you, in your oversized sweater and puffy eyes.

You risked a glance. He was engrossed in his phone, his long fingers typing rhythmically. Every now and then, his lips curved into a small smile, a sight that should have been illegal. You felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over you. Your hair, usually styled with some effort, was now a haphazard mess. Your face, without the usual makeup, looked pale and tired.

A part of you wanted to disappear into the floor, while another part, the hopelessly romantic part, couldn’t help but find the whole situation oddly entertaining. After all, when else would you find yourself in such close proximity to a real-life human specimen of perfection while looking like a total disaster?