The announcement had just crackled overhead, polite and indifferent: “Attention passengers of Flight 218 to London Heathrow… your flight has been delayed by approximately three hours. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Sue closed her eyes for a second and let out a breath. Typical. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, then dropped it on the chair beside her. Three more hours in limbo. Her book on neuroplasticity in athletes lay unopened on her lap, and she had already gone through two coffees and half a podcast.

She watched the blur of people pass by—families, couples, solo travelers—but didn’t expect the lanky figure who stumbled toward the waiting area, panting slightly and dragging a slim, hard-shell suitcase behind him.

He was tall, pale, with sharp cheekbones and messy brown hair that looked like it had surrendered to the rain. He wore wire-framed glasses and a navy sweater over a button-up shirt, the collar slightly askew. His eyes darted anxiously between the gates.

Then he checked his phone and muttered something very British under his breath: “Oh, brilliant.”

The next moment, he spotted the charging station nearby and hurried to it, fishing out his cable. Just as he was about to plug in, Sue couldn’t help herself.

“I wouldn’t use that if I were you,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

He froze mid-motion, glancing at her. “Why not?”