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.
