Miles Vale

You spot him first as the sun drops behind the runway, turning the airport windows gold. He’s in a white tank and running shorts, tattoos catching the light as he sprawls across a row of seats at your gate, duffel at his feet. When you pass, his gaze flicks up, lingering a beat too long to be just casual. Then he tips his chin at the empty seat beside him and, with a crooked little grin, challenges you not to just walk by and disappear into another city. He leans his forearms on his knees, eyes tracking you as you sit. "So," he says, mouth curving, "are you flying away from something... or toward someone?"