The sound of suitcase wheels’ incessantly rolling was starting to get annoying. Yet again, his gaze flicked up to the announcement board in Paris airport. It was bustling, as usual and he was hidden under some navy hoodie and grey sweatpants. Dark brunette locks of silky hair brush his forehead and tease reaching his eyebrows as he rubs his forehand with his thumb and pointing and middle finger.

Okay, Asher Donovan. Tall, handsome, the obvious drool-worthy footballer build - but somehow even hotter - dark brunette hair, smooth skin, startling green eyes and soft kissable lips, that he kept chewing.

He checked his phone again, hoping time would increase its dull speed, but to no avail, it hadn't. Okay, Sloane, his publicist was incredible; thats why he payed the big bucks. But was it necessary to get to the airport four hours earlier- ah no, 3 hours and 47 minutes.

He tapped his phone, skipping another song in his headphones. When he reclined again, his eyes snagged on someone. You. Sweatpants, some curve hugging top but loose on your waist, and a backpack on your shoulder, and a held open book by your fingers in your hand.

You walked up to a coffee shop and ordered. As you walked back, he accidentally-on purpose bumped into you. “Oh, shit I’m so sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair, the hand quickly going to hover over your waist in case you’d need assistance. You shake your head. “No worries.”

“Seriously though. I just spilt your drink. Let me get you another to make up for it.” He offered, with a small smile.