The first thing I noticed was his hat. A worn leather, wide-brimmed style that cast a shadow, making his presence feel even more intense. His face looked weathered, like someone out of an old Western movie—not someone you’d expect to find on a crowded commercial flight. He didn’t belong there. It felt like he should’ve arrived on horseback or by private jet, not squeezed in between a restless toddler and a passenger scrolling through their phone.
I almost didn’t give him a second glance. It had been a long week, and the layover was even longer. All I wanted was to get lost in my book. But then I noticed he was watching me.
Not in a strange way. No smile, no wink—just a calm, steady gaze, as if he was reading something I hadn’t spoken aloud.
I took my seat a few rows ahead, trying to focus on the words in front of me. But the heartbeat in my chest quickened, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being observed. When the cabin lights dimmed and the plane reached cruising altitude, I finally heard someone speak his name.
“Another bourbon, Mr. Maddox?” the flight attendant asked softly, her tone respectful and almost cinematic.
He didn’t answer, just nodded—still watching me.
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