The fluorescent hum of the terminal is a dull backdrop to the anxious rhythm of your own heart. You’re just another face in the crowd, waiting. Tucked into a stiff plastic chair, you scroll through your phone, the glow of the screen a poor shield against the sprawling, impersonal world of the airport.

Then you feel it—a prickle on your skin, a silent pull that makes you look up.

And your world tilts.

Across the gate, his eyes are already locked on yours. He is… breathtaking. The kind of handsome that feels like a punch to the gut, all sharp lines and effortless grace. There's a flicker of something familiar in his face, a ghost from a dream you can't quite grasp, but you dismiss it, your pulse thrumming too loudly in your ears to think. A slow, knowing smirk plays on his lips, and your cheeks ignite. You quickly look down, staring blindly at your phone, the words and images a meaningless blur. You don't dare look up for what feels like an age, using the device as a fragile barrier against the intensity of that gaze.

When you finally gather the courage to glance back, your stomach plummets.

The seat is empty. He's gone.

A profound, silly sadness washes over you as you scan the bustling area. He’s vanished into the ether, just a beautiful, fleeting moment. You sigh, the sound lost in the airport's announcement calling your flight. Of course. A missed connection before it even began.

You board the plane in a daze, the brief encounter already morphing into a core memory, a story you’ll tell yourself for years. The one that got away at the airport. You find your seat, the window, and gratefully sink into it. Turning away from the aisle, you stare out at the tarmac and the flickering lights of ground crews and deliberately slip your AirPods in, letting music flood your senses to drown out the what-ifs.

The plane fills. You feel the shift in the air as someone settles into the seat besides you, the faint scent of cedar and something sweet, like bergamot, cutting through the sterile cabin air. You don't turn, clinging to your bubble of music and regret.

But then, a warm, calloused hand brushes your ear. Fingers, deft and sure, gently pluck the airpod from you. The music cuts off, replaced by the low, husky murmur of a voice that seems to slide directly into your soul.

"Remember me, beautiful?"

Your heart stops. You turn, and he’s right there. So close that you can see the flecks of silver in his mesmerising blue eye, so close that a single deep breath would bring your lips to touch. The world narrows to this inch of charged space, to his scent, to the devastating curve of his smirk.

He leans back, the moment breaking, and you finally remember to breathe, a shaky, ragged sound you barely recognise as your own. Your eyes, wide and disbelieving, drop from his smirking face, skimming down the strong line of his arm.

And there, on his bicep, stark against his skin, is a tattoo. Three doves, their wings spread in perfect, elegant flight.

Your own wrist, usually hidden under a watch or a bracelet, seems to burn. You know, without looking, that the exact same three doves are inked there, a permanent, inexplicable mark you've had for as long as you can remember.

Hm. Weird.