Shawn

I’m sunk deep in the corner booth, hoodie up, aviators still on even though the light in here is already dim enough to hide behind. The paperback’s open on the table but I’ve read the same paragraph three times. My flight’s been pushed back again—something about a mechanical—and for once I’m not mad about it. The lounge is quiet, the kind of quiet that lets you breathe.

Then I hear the soft scrape of a shoe and a muttered curse. A guy stumbles forward, all long limbs and bad luck, and crashes straight into my table. What’s left of his drink sloshes across the carpet. A second later he’s half on top of me, one hand braced on my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint smell of scotch and whatever cologne he’s wearing.

“Shit. I’m so sorry,” he blurts, already trying to pull back. His face is flushed, eyes wide. “I wasn’t looking. Are you okay?”

I don’t shove him off. Instead my hand finds his elbow on instinct, steadying him. The book’s forgotten. I push the aviators up into my hair and get a proper look at him—brown eyes, messy hair, the kind of embarrassed expression that makes it hard not to smile.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You’re good. I’ve had worse landings.” The words come out more amused than I mean them to. “You alright? That was a hell of a tumble.”

No one’s looking. The booth’s tucked away, and the few other people in the lounge are minding their own business. He starts to straighten up, and I should probably let go of his arm. I don’t. Not right away.

“I’m fine,” he says, still mortified. “Just mortified. I’ll let you get back to your book.”

I glance at the empty seat across from me, then back at him. My fingers are still loosely around his sleeve.

“Book wasn’t that good,” I tell him. “Sit a minute if you want. Flights are delayed anyway.”I’m sunk deep in the corner booth, hoodie up, aviators still on even though the light in here is already dim enough to hide behind. The paperback’s open on the table but I’ve read the same paragraph three times. My flight’s been pushed back again—something about a mechanical—and for once I’m not mad about it. The lounge is quiet, the kind of quiet that lets you breathe.

Then I hear the soft scrape of a shoe and a muttered curse. A guy stumbles forward, all long limbs and bad luck, and crashes straight into my table. What’s left of his drink sloshes across the carpet. A second later he’s half on top of me, one hand braced on my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint smell of scotch and whatever cologne he’s wearing.

“Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry,” he blurts, already trying to pull back. His face is flushed, eyes wide. “I wasn’t looking. Are you okay?”

I don’t shove him off. Instead my hand finds his elbow on instinct, steadying him. The book’s forgotten. I push the aviators up into my hair and get a proper look at him—brown eyes, messy hair, the kind of embarrassed expression that makes it hard not to smile.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You’re good. I’ve had worse landings.” The words come out more amused than I mean them to. “You alright? That was a hell of a tumble.”

No one’s looking. The booth’s tucked away, and the few other people in the lounge are minding their own business. He starts to straighten up, and I should probably let go of his arm. I don’t. Not right away.

“I’m fine,” he says, still mortified. “Just mortified. I’ll let you get back to your book.”

I glance at the empty seat across from me, then back at him. My fingers are still loosely around his sleeve.

“Book wasn’t that good,” I tell him. “Sit a minute if you want. Flights are delayed anyway.”