The lounge was humming with the low, anonymous noise of delayed flights and bad coffee. You’d managed to snag one of the few free armchairs by the window, dropping your bag with a soft thud and sinking into the worn leather. Rain streaked the glass outside, grounding every plane that had promised to be gone by now.

You barely glanced up when someone dropped into the chair beside yours — just another tired traveler, probably. Until the corner of your eye caught a flicker of something familiar. Sharp profile. Ruffled hair. That casual, effortless way of folding long limbs into too-small spaces.

Thomas Brodie-Sangster.

You blinked once. Twice. Surely not. Surely just someone who looked like him.

But then he caught you staring, and a lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You aright, love?” He said, voice light, amused, undeniably British.

Your mouth went dry. You scrambled for something normal to say, heart thudding far too loudly in your ears. But he didn’t seem put off—if anything, he looked relieved not to be recognized with shrieks and phones. Like he could just…sit there. Like a person.

He pulled a battered paperback out of his jacket pocket, glancing sideways at you with a tilt of his head.

“You’re stuck here too, yeah? Bloody brilliant timing.”

Outside, the storm deepened into a steady roar. Inside, the distance between you and him seemed impossibly, dangerously small.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the stolen feeling of the moment. Maybe it was the way he leaned just a bit closer when he asked, grinning faintly.

“You’re not gonna pretend you don’t know who I am, are you?”