The sound of suitcase wheels rattling endlessly across the tile was starting to gnaw at my nerves. Every time I managed to tune it out, another bag clattered past, louder than the last, like the universe was daring me to lose my mind.

My eyes flicked back up to the departure board for what had to be the fiftieth time. Still the same blur of destinations and delays. Departures, arrivals, cities I’d been to a hundred times and others I’d never care to visit.

A thousand names.

None of them mine.

The airport hummed with its usual brand of chaos—voices overlapping in half a dozen languages, laughter bursting and dying just as quickly. Somewhere overhead, a tinny announcement crackled through the speakers, distorted enough to be useless.

I slouched deeper into my seat and tugged my navy hood forward, hoping anonymity would hold for just a few more hours: grey sweatpants, hoodie, noise-cancelling headphones—celebrity camouflage 101.

It worked most days.

Hair fell forward, brushing my forehead and teasing my eyebrows. I scrubbed at my temples with my thumb and forefinger, trying to will time into submission.

My phone buzzed softly in my hand.

I checked it again.

Three hours and forty-six minutes.

I let out a breath through my nose. Brilliant.

Sloane—my publicist—was phenomenal at what she did. Ruthless, efficient, terrifying when she needed to be. That was why I paid her an absurd amount of money. But apparently, “get there early” translated to arrive at the airport like you’re being punished for something. As if I didn’t already spend half my life in terminals exactly like this one.

I tapped my screen, skipping another song. When I leaned back, adjusting my hood, my eyes snagged on someone across the concourse.

You.

Sweatpants, but the good kind. A fitted top that hugged without trying too hard. A backpack slung casually over one shoulder. You held a paperback in one hand, thumb tucked neatly into the crease to keep your place.

You looked like you belonged here.

Not restless. Not hiding. Just… comfortable. Like airports didn’t rattle you the way they rattled me.

Your attention drifted toward the coffee stand, and after a moment’s hesitation, you stood and wandered over. I told myself not to stare. I failed immediately. My gaze followed you as you ordered, as you smiled at the barista—easy, genuine—and as you waited, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

When you turned with your drink, fate—or bad timing—stepped in.

We collided.

Accidentally. On purpose.

The cup tilted in your hand. Liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim before spilling over. A dark splash bloomed across your fingers.

“Oh—shit, sorry,” I blurted, already moving. My hand ran through my hair before instinct kicked in, my other palm hovering just above your waist, like I could somehow steady the situation retroactively.

Too close. Definitely too close.

You looked down at your hand, then back up at me, shaking your head as you brushed it off—literally and figuratively. “No worries. It’s fine.”

“Seriously though—” I grimaced, guilt tightening my chest. I flashed a sheepish smile, the kind I knew usually worked before I even thought about it. “I just assaulted your caffeine supply. At least let me buy you another. It’s the least I can do.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re very insistent for someone who just tackled my latte.”

A quiet laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “Yeah, well… guilt’s a powerful motivator.”

There was a pause. Not awkward. Not comfortable either. Your gaze lingered on me, sharp and curious, like you were filing me away in your head—deciding what kind of inconvenience I was. Or whether I was worth the trouble.

Finally, your mouth tilted at the corner. “Alright,” you said. “One coffee. But only because you look like you might combust if I say no.”

I exhaled, relief escaping before I could catch it, and smiled a little wider. “Deal.”

I gestured toward the counter, then hesitated. “And, uh—while I’m at it… What’s your name?”