Delays. Lines. Security checks that feel longer than the flights themselves. You learn to keep your head down, move when told, and not ask too many questions.
Until something breaks the pattern.
That morning, it was him.
He didn’t belong in a place like Portland International Airport—not in the neat, quiet line of travelers clutching boarding passes and overpriced coffee. He looked like he had walked straight out of a different life and accidentally wandered into ours.
Massive.
That was the first thing.
Broad shoulders straining his sleeveless leather vest. Arms covered in faded tattoos—ink worn soft with time, not fresh or flashy, but permanent. The kind you don’t get for style.
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