“Mm-hmm.”
“It meant nothing.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I shoot her a look. “Stop making noises like that.”
She laughs, unfazed. “I’m just saying, airports are very romantic for you lately. First birthday sex with a mysterious bearded man, now an international assignment. Very cinematic.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She’s right, and that somehow makes it worse.
We make our way toward the check-in counters, and I deliberately keep my eyes forward this time, refusing to let them drift back toward the elevators or the stairwell that leads up to the rooftop. I don’t need to see ghosts where none exist.
We drop our bags, collect our boarding passes, and move toward security. The routine motions help a little: shoes off, laptop out, liquids displayed like confessions. It gives my hands something to do other than tremble.
Once we’re through, Addison glances at her phone, then at the departure board. “The gate hasn’t changed, but boarding should’ve started by now.”
I frown. “Why aren’t we boarding?”
“We’re waiting on someone.”
“Who?”
She checks her phone again. “Our photographer.”
I blink. “What photographer?”
Addison rolls her eyes. “Our photographer, photographer. Apparently, every single one at the office suddenly discovered a deep moral opposition to Somalia.”
I snort despite myself. “Really?”
“Really,” she confirms. “Marianne said they all suddenly had sick parents, fragile pets, or spiritual awakenings.”
“Wow.”
“Bunch of pussies,” she adds flatly.
I laugh, then sober as the implication sinks in. “So… we outsourced?”
“Yep.”
I glance around the gate area, unease prickling at the back of my neck. Waiting has never been my strong suit. Too much room for thoughts to spiral, for anticipation to turn into something darker.
I shift my weight, hugging my arms around myself as the airport hums around us. Something about this feels off. Not wrong, exactly. Just… charged. Like the air before a storm.
I tell myself it’s nerves. That’s all.
Addison leans in, bumping her shoulder lightly against mine. “Relax. Worst-case scenario, we get delayed. Best case, we meet a very hot photographer who makes the trip more interesting.”
I open my mouth to respond when I feel it.
That subtle, unmistakable shift. The kind that makes your skin prickle before your brain catches up. Footsteps approaching from behind, moving with purpose instead of urgency.
My stomach drops. I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to. Some instincts don’t need confirmation, but when I do look up, everything tilts. I know it’s him before my eyes fully register what I’m seeing.
