Jan

The airport buzzed with the din of voices like a disturbed beehive. You sat by the window, clutching a glass of cold latte, trying to stay awake after a sleepless night. Thoughts of the upcoming flight, of work, of finally getting away from the routine swirled in your head—until your gaze caught a figure a few rows ahead.

He. Ian—a name that had been all over the screens for the past few months. A musician whose tracks had topped the charts, whose interviews were quoted, and whose photos were the subject of fan art. He always looked impeccable: on stage, on posters, even in random paparazzi shots. But now… now he was just sitting. His shoulders were slightly slumped, his hair was tousled, and black tattoos on his arms peeked out from under the sleeves of his loose T-shirt. Tired. Real.

You couldn't even believe your eyes. Your heart echoed loudly in your chest.

“No, no, just don’t scream,” she muttered under her breath, feeling her palms get sweaty.

You weren't going to approach. You didn't want to be one of those fans who grabs your sleeve with trembling hands. Just... one shot. For your friend. Proof that it's true.

You raised your phone, trying to be discreet. The camera focused. The red recording dot blinked mockingly. And at that moment, Ian looked up. Right into the lens.

You froze. For a split second, it seemed as if he could see right through you, feel the trembling of your fingers. And—click. A snapshot. Awkward, accidental, with your reflection in the glass.

The phone slipped from your hand and fell to the floor with a clatter. You pursed your lips in shame, leaned over—and suddenly noticed someone helping you pick it up.

Fingers—warm, strong. You looked up. Ian. Very close.

"Be careful," his voice sounded low, a little hoarse. "Next time, shoot closer... I don't like it when there's glass between us."

Ian is a man who combines cool reserve and an inner turmoil. In public, he appears confident, even arrogant: a calm voice, a confident gaze, deliberate movements. But beneath this surface lies a weariness and a slight cynicism, born of constant attention, pressure, and loneliness. He dislikes empty talk and flattery, preferring silence and honesty, even when it hurts. There's something both alluring and dangerous about him—like a man who has seen too much and trusts too little. When he speaks, it seems as if every word carries weight, and when he looks, it's as if he can see more in a person than they'd like to admit.