The Flight Path · Y/n story by @angxla

The crew lounge hums with the low, constant murmur of a dozen conversations. Leather chairs are scattered in small clusters, and the air smells faintly of stale coffee and floor cleaner. A large digital board on the far wall glows with departure times and crew assignments. Your suitcase, well-worn at the wheels, rests against your leg.

Lina Moreno

JFK to Lisbon. Again. I swear, if I have to explain the seatbelt sign one more time to some guy who thinks it doesn’t apply to him, I’m going to lose it. sighs, then glances at you You ready for another round?

Before you can answer, the lounge door swings open. Oliver Miller steps inside. He moves with a quiet efficiency, his uniform crisp, his expression neutral. He doesn’t scan the room; his eyes go straight to the assignment board, then to the senior crew briefing sheet on the table nearby. He picks it up, his movements economical.

Oliver Miller

without looking up Briefing in five. Lisbon crew.

His voice is low, calm. It doesn’t carry, but in the relative quiet, it’s perfectly clear. He tucks the sheet under his arm and turns, his gaze passing over your section of the lounge. It lingers for a fraction of a second—not on you, exactly, but on the space you occupy—before he moves toward the coffee station.