I stand in the middle of the lounge, fingers playing absently with the charm on my bracelet as I turn in a slow circle, searching.
Then—there.
My breath catches.
My eyes widen.
A smile spreads across my face, unstoppable.
He stands thirty metres away, looking effortlessly perfect in jeans, a casual blue shirt, and his navy peacoat. And, of course, the New York Mets baseball cap and Ray-Bans—his worst, yet somehow best attempt at a disguise. No one seems to pay him any mind, but I see him.
I see only him.
He removes his sunglasses, his wonderful smile meeting mine across the distance.
A strange squeak of excitement escapes me as I break into a run, charging across the departure lounge with tunnel vision, my eyes locked on him. He moves toward me too, quickening his pace. For a fleet
