Y/n's legs feel stiff from the long flight, muscles protesting as they stretch properly for the first time in hours. The air is cooler here than back home, carrying that particular crispness that Canadian summers somehow manage—warm but never oppressive.

People stream past in waves. A family reunites near the baggage claim with happy shouts. A businesswoman hurries by, phone pressed to her ear. A group of teenagers laugh loudly near the coffee stand.

No sign of Matthew yet.

Y/n adjusts their bag strap and scans the crowd again. Matthew had said he'd be here. He's always punctual—almost to a fault—so the absence feels unusual. Perhaps he's stuck in traffic, or maybe Alfred convinced him to make a detour for some ridiculous reason.

A few more minutes pass. The crowd thins, then swells again as another flight discharges its passengers.

Then Y/n spots him.

Matthew stands near the Arrivals pillar, partially hidden behind a large sign written in messy, enthusiastic handwriting.