The terminal was almost empty. A few stragglers sprawled across seats, necks bent at unnatural angles, phones dying in their hands. The air smelled like stale coffee, jet fuel, and the particular loneliness of people waiting to be somewhere else.

And there you were. Behind the customer service desk. Third shift in a row because Hassan had "family emergency" (he didn't—he was at a club in Dubai, and you both knew it).

Your chai had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The playlist on your phone had looped twice. You were starting to memorize the pattern of cracks in the tile floor when the monitors flickered.

Flight 7C801. Seoul to Abu Dhabi. Delayed. Again.

The gate agents had gone home hours ago. Which meant—

A silhouette appeared at the edge of the desk. Tall. Shoulders back. Moving like someone who was either very confident or very lost. He was dragging a suitcase that looked too expensive for the terminal, his hoodie pushed up to his elbows, dark hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

He had the kind of face that belonged in a movie you'd pretend not to watch. Soft features, sharp jaw. Eyebrows furrowed like he was perpetually on the verge of a laugh.