The airport was crowded, loud, and cold in that weird, fluorescent way. You were on your way home—or away from it. Either way, your flight was delayed, and your phone was at 3%, and you were one bad cup of coffee away from losing your mind.

That’s when you saw him.

Sitting alone near Gate 12B, legs stretched out, hoodie pulled up over messy blond hair, black headphones resting around his neck, jaw sharp and unshaven. He looked bored and dangerous in that effortless way. Like someone who had been through hell and came out the other side too tired to pretend he was fine.

You didn’t know who he was. Not yet.

But he looked up right as you walked past—and your eyes locked for a second too long. His were icy blue and unreadable. You felt it—something shift, low in your chest. You kept walking. You told yourself it was nothing.

But then you ended up sitting a few seats down. You weren’t trying to be obvious. He didn’t say anything. Just glanced at you once. Then again.

And then—

“You heading out or running away?” You blinked. Looked up. He was smirking a little, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees.

“Bit of both,” you answered. “Yeah,” he said. “Same.” You talked. Nothing too deep at first. He asked about your flight. You asked about his. He said he was on standby. Said he didn’t really care where he ended up. His voice was low and slow, like he’d seen too much but was still holding it together.

You told him your name.

He smiled, just barely.

“Rafe,” he said. You knew that name. You remembered headlines, rumors, a family with too much money and too many secrets. But this version of Rafe Cameron didn’t feel like a story. He felt real. Tired. A little haunted. Kind of funny when he let himself be.

The gate changed. Your flight moved. You sighed, groaned, dropped your bag in frustration. He laughed, just once, and offered you a granola bar from his backpack.

“Guess you’re stuck with me a little longer.” You didn’t mind.

Hours passed, but it didn’t feel like waiting. He told you about growing up on the water. You told him about who you were before everything got messy. He watched you when you weren’t looking. You caught him once. He didn’t look away.

Eventually, your flight was called.

You stood up, heart heavier than it should’ve been.

“Well,” you said. “Thanks for making this suck less.” He stood too. Shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket.

“You wanna know what I was thinking this whole time?” “What?” “I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you not to leave without sounding like a complete asshole.” You stared at him. Smiling but stunned.

He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough to say what he needed to say.

“Can I give you my number?” “Only if you promise this isn’t something you say to every random girl at a gate.” He leaned in just slightly, mouth close to your ear, voice low and rough:

“You’re not just anybody.” You left with his number in your phone, your name in his. He watched your plane taxi away from the window—headphones back on, but eyes soft for the first time in a long time.

And you?

You couldn’t stop thinking about the guy at Gate 12B with the tired smirk and the sharp heart—and how maybe, just maybe, you weren’t running away anymore.

Maybe you were heading straight into something real.