Airports smell like burnt espresso and recycled air and other people’s goodbyes.
On bad days, the fluorescents hum loud enough to get under my skin. Today, they’re just a dull buzz above Gate 32B, where the Raine Air logo glows an expensive, impossible blue. People line up before boarding is even called, clinging to carry-ons and phones and the illusion that being closer to the door will get them where they’re going any faster.
I lean against the counter, barcode scanner warm in my palm, and remind myself that tuition is due in ten days and Emily’s last text had three heart emojis and a picture of a used sociology textbook. This job is fluorescent purgatory, but it keeps her in classrooms instead of clocking in beside me.
“Novak.”
I glance back. Carla, my supervisor, peers over her reading glasses at the swelling sea of passengers. Her lipstick is the same red as the Raine Air uniforms, only slightly smudged. “Heads up. Full flight. Try not to start a riot.”
“I make no promises,” I say, dry, and she snorts.
The PA crackles overhead. Boarding for RA 417 to New York will begin in ten minutes. Please have your boarding passes ready.
People shift. The hum sharpens. A child drops a stuffed elephant and wails. Somewhere, an espresso machine screeches in sympathy.
I scan the crowd automatically, the way you do when you’ve spent too many years in one place. You learn to recognize the types: the Overpackers, the Gate Hoverers, the Frantic Laptop Warriors. The ones holding their entire life in a battered backpack. The ones whose shoes probably cost more than my monthly rent.
And then I see him.
He’s standing just beyond the cluster around the charging station. Dark suit, tailored within an inch of its life. White shirt open at the throat. No tie. His hair is the kind that falls just so without looking like it tried. He’s not the only man in a suit here, but he’s the only one who looks like he was born in one.
He should blend with the shiny business travelers. He doesn’t.
Because he is very clearly about to come apart.
From the counter, I watch his hand curl into a fist at his side, then flatten against his thigh like he’s trying to wipe something off. His gaze fixes on the windows, where the plane to New York waits, sleek nose glinting under halogen lights. His jaw moves once, twice, like he’s chewing gravel.
His breathing is wrong. Too fast, too shallow. Even from here I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his shoulders creep toward his ears as if they might shield his neck from some invisible blow.
I know that look.
“Be right back,” I tell Carla.
She arches an eyebrow. “Bathroom?”
“Potential meltdown.” I tilt my chin toward him.
She follows my gaze, takes in Suit Guy, then the line. Her expression softens for half a second. “Two minutes. If anyone asks, you’re dealing with a… customer experience situation.”
Story of my life.
I leave the safety of the counter and walk into the crowded gate. The overhead vents whisper arthritic air-conditioning. Someone’s perfume clashes with the cold tang of airplane fuel drifting in whenever the automatic doors to the jet bridge hiss open.
As I move closer, I pick up details. There’s a faint sheen at his temples, catching the light. His fingers twitch once, then clamp around the handle of his leather carry-on. No wedding ring. Watch: expensive. Shoes: too new to have walked very far.
He stares right through me when I stop in front of him.
“Sir?” I keep my voice low and steady, the way I practiced on classmates back when I still thought I’d finish my counseling degree. “You look like you might pass out. I’d hate to have you crack your head open on our beautifully polished airport floor. Legal would kill me.”
A flicker in his eyes. Focus stuttering back to the present.
“I’m fine,” he says. His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it much today. “Just—late night.”
I glance at the departure screens above us, then back to his face. The pupils are too wide. His skin’s a shade paler than it probably is most days. His grip on the bag is white-knuckled.
“Right,” I say. “And I only come here for the ambience.”
His mouth does a thing that’s almost a smile and then collapses. His gaze slides to the plane again. The tendons in his neck stand out.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He blinks. “Why?”
“Because talking to a stranger in a red blazer is weird. Talking to Lana is marginally less weird. See? Progress already.”
He hesitates like the name might cost him something. “Lucas.”
Lucas. It suits him—sleek and efficient with more weight underneath.
“Okay, Lucas.” I shift slightly so my body blocks his view of the glass and the hulking metal bird outside. “Here’s the thing. I’ve seen that look before, and the last time, the guy went down hard enough to take out a rolling suitcase, a potted plant, and a display of duty-free whiskey. Let me help you not repeat history.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His arrogance should annoy me. It doesn’t. It sounds like fear wearing one of his pretty suits.
“Maybe,” I agree. “But humor me anyway. Worst case, I’m an annoying stranger for five minutes. Best case, you get on that plane without passing out, throwing up, or both. Those seats are too expensive to waste with unconsciousness.”
He huffs out something like a laugh, then falters as if even that small release of air cost him. His gaze snags on the crowd between us and the gate, eyes darting too fast.
“Hey.” I drop my voice. “Look at me, not at them.”
Slowly, like it takes actual effort, his eyes meet mine.
They’re gray. Not the soft kind. The storm kind, with that thin, sharp ring of darker color around the iris. There’s a moment, just a second, where everything else blurs—the boarding calls, the chatter, the overhead announcements. Just his eyes and the barely contained panic inside them.
“Whatever’s happening,” I say, “it’s not going to kill you in the next sixty seconds.”
“You don’t know that,” he mutters, but his voice has lost some of its edge.
“True. A meteor might hit the terminal.” I lean back, as if checking. “Nope. Sky’s clear.”
Another almost-smile. It feels like a fragile step across a chasm. My chest tightens.
“Do you trust me for sixty seconds?” I ask.
He studies me. I stand there in my standard-issue blazer, name tag slightly crooked, dark ponytail fraying from a double shift, absolutely not the kind of person a man like this is trained to trust. His throat works.
“I don’t even know you,” he says quietly.
“That makes two of us,” I say. “But your body is screaming and there are about a hundred people between you and your panic exit. So maybe we try something radical.”
A beat. Then another.
“Sixty seconds,” he says, so soft I almost miss it.
Relief flickers through me, small and sharp. “Okay. Step one: put the bag down or I’m pretty sure you’re going to strangle the handle.”
He glances down, like he hadn’t realized he was crushing it. After a second, he lowers it to the carpet. His fingers flex once, stunned and empty.
“Step two.” I inhale slowly, exaggerated, so he can see my ribs expand under polyester. “We match my breathing. In, two, three, four. Hold for two. Out, two, three, four, five, six.”
His first attempt is choppy. He inhales too fast, holds too long. My own lungs ache in sympathy.
“Hey,” I say softly. “This is not a performance review. There’s no grade. Just you and air and my annoying counting.”
He tries again. And again. On the fourth cycle, his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. Color creeps back into his face.
The crowd around us ebbs and flows, boarding call for another flight echoing from three gates down. A baby cries. Someone laughs too loudly at a podcast. The world keeps spinning while we stand in the eye of his tiny, private storm.
“Better?” I ask, when I’m sure he’s not going to vault over a row of seats and sprint for the exit.
He swallows. “A little.”
My watch says I’ve already used up my two minutes, but Carla isn’t waving me back yet, so I press on.
“What happens when you look at the plane?” I ask.
His jaw tightens. “My heart tries to escape my body. My hands go numb. My head feels like it’s underwater. And I—” He cuts himself off, lips flattening.
“And you…?” I coax.
He exhales slowly. “I start seeing headlines.”
That throws me. “Headlines?”
He flicks a glance toward the Raine Air logo, just a heartbeat too long.
Understanding lands with an almost audible clunk. My stomach dips.
Because now, with my own heart pounding a little faster, I see him clearly. Not just an expensive suit. Not just the kind of face they put on magazine covers and private-jet ads.
Lucas.
Raine.
Oh.
Everyone who works more than a week in this terminal knows the name. Raine Air is plastered over every jet bridge and coffee cup sleeve. Its mysterious, camera-shy, occasionally scandal-friendly owner is an urban legend we swap stories about when flights are delayed.
I stand in front of the man whose smile sells the very product that’s making his pulse hammer out of control.
“Right,” I say slowly. “Those would be… very public headlines.”
His eyes flick to my name tag, then back to my face, searching for something—recognition, maybe. Judgment.
“So now you know,” he says, voice gone brittle. “You can go back to your desk and tell your coworkers the billionaire is losing his mind at Gate 32B.”
“I don’t have coworkers,” I deadpan. “I have fellow survivors. And I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”
One eyebrow lifts, an automatic, almost arrogant movement that feels more practiced than his breathing. “No?”
“No.” I tilt my head. “If I were gossiping—which I’m not—I’d say, ‘He looked like a human being having a really rough morning.’ Not as catchy, but more accurate.”
Something flickers in his gaze. For a second, the charm persona slides, and I see raw fear under it, quick and exposed.
He looks away. “You have no idea how bad it could be if anyone sees.”
“You mean, if anyone sees that you’re human?” I ask quietly. “I think that ship has sailed. We’re in an airport. There are witnesses to everything from proposals to diaper blowouts. You’re not that special.”
A startled sound escapes him, halfway between a laugh and a choke. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose like he can physically hold himself together.
“You’re very—” He drops his hand, squinting at me. “—direct, Lana.”
“I’m very late for boarding,” I counter, glancing back toward the counter where Carla is now pretending not to watch us. “Which means we have about thirty seconds before I get yelled at. So here’s the plan.”
He straightens instinctively, like the word plan snaps him into CEO mode.
“You’re going to keep breathing like that.” I nod toward his chest. “If it spikes again, count tiles on the floor, not exit routes. Ground yourself in boring details. Your brain can’t catastrophize and do math at the same time. At least mine can’t.”
He follows my gaze down to the scuffed gray tiles beneath his polished shoes. “That’s your brilliant airport wisdom?”
“It’s kept me from screaming at least five times this week,” I say. “Also, drink water if you can. Anxiety is thirsty work.”
His mouth curves, finally, into a real smile. It’s crooked and tired and so unexpectedly warm it knocks me back a step inside my own skin.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, as if the thought has just occurred to him. “You’re… not security. Not cabin crew. But you sounded like you knew what you were doing.” His gaze searches my face again. “Are you a therapist?”
The word is a tiny knife. I feel the old ache under my ribs, the folder of unsent grad school applications hidden in my bedroom closet.
“No,” I say lightly. “I’m a glorified traffic cone in a blazer.”
He doesn’t smile this time. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I did some training,” I admit, shrugging. “Didn’t finish. Life got in the way. But panic attacks and I are acquainted.”
His expression shifts at that—interest, maybe. Or just a smarter man realizing a lifeline when he sees one.
“Boarding Group A for Flight RA 417 to New York may now begin boarding,” the agent at the counter announces, voice too bright through the speakers.
I wince. “That’s my cue.”
A flicker of something like panic crosses his face again. His hand twitches toward me before he catches himself, fingers curling into a fist midair.
“Wait,” he says. “Can you—” He cuts off, the question hanging between us.
I shouldn’t. This is beyond my job description. I have a line of impatient passengers ready to glare at me. Also, minor detail: I am currently managing the imminent emotional implosion of my employer.
“Walk you to the door?” I offer.
He nods. Once. The relief radiating off him is disproportionate to the five steps we’re about to take.
“Sure.” I smile, because it costs me nothing and seems to give him something. “I’ll even count tiles with you if you want. Bonus service.”
We move together toward the gate, into the slow shuffle of people flashing phones and paper to the scanner. The crowd swallows us, perfume and aftershave and bad coffee breath mixing into one nauseating cloud.
Lucas stays close, not touching me, but near enough that I can feel the heat of his arm through my blazer. His breathing hitches when the jet bridge door yawns open, showing the narrow tunnel beyond.
“Floor tiles,” I murmur. “Not what-ifs.”
He drops his gaze obediently. “One, two, three—”
His voice is quiet, meant only for my ears. It shouldn’t send awareness skittering along my skin, but apparently my nervous system didn’t get that memo.
When we reach the scanner, I slip back into employee mode, sliding behind the counter. Carla gives me a look, half question, half warning. I pretend not to see it.
“Have a good flight,” I say, the scripted words suddenly feeling less hollow.
Lucas hesitates at the threshold of the jet bridge. For a second, his eyes dart to me again, storm-gray and searching.
“Lana,” he says.
“Yes?”
He swallows. “Thank you.”
Something in his tone—like this small moment cost him as much as a merger—lodges under my skin.
“You’ll be okay,” I tell him, and this time I mean it. “If not, imagine my very disappointed face hovering over your shoulder.”
A huff of breath. “Terrifying.”
Then he steps through the doorway and is gone, swallowed by the tunnel to the sky.
I go back to scanning boarding passes, to soothing a woman whose seat assignment isn’t next to her boyfriend, to answering the same three questions on repeat. The plane pushes back, disappears into the dark, and eventually, the Raine Air logo flickers off on the gate screen.
By the time my shift ends, my feet ache and my brain buzzes and I tell myself that in a few hours, I’ll forget the way a billionaire looked at me like I was the only solid thing in a world made of clouds.
People arrive. People leave. Nobody really stays.
Except, three days later, when I walk onto the early shift, Carla is waiting at my station with a tight smile and a man in an immaculate suit at her side.
Not Lucas.
This one is older, with a tablet in one hand and a Raine Air executive badge clipped to his lapel.
“Lana,” Carla says, her voice too bright. “Mr. Steele from corporate would like a word with you about a… special assignment.”
The executive’s gaze flicks over me, assessing. “Ms. Novak,” he says. “Mr. Raine has requested you personally.”
My pulse stumbles.
Requested me.
Personally.
For a dizzy second, all I can see are gray eyes in a crowded gate, and the way he’d said my name like it mattered.
