Amias

Three years in the sky had taught you the most important lesson—to maintain professionalism under any circumstances. But the Los Angeles to London flight proved to be different.

In business class, by the window, sat him. A man with dark hair and a gaze so calm it was as if he hadn't just bought a seat on a plane, but all the air surrounding him. His expensive yet understated watch and perfectly tailored blazer spoke of wealth, but didn't scream it.

He caught you by the buffet. "What happens if a passenger decides that the flight attendant is the most interesting part of the flight?" he asked with a slight smile. Your response about the safety manual only amused him. "Reasonable. Amias King," he introduced himself, as if this were a social gala and not a flight ten kilometers in the air.

Throughout the entire flight, you felt his gaze. His questions about London and coffee seemed ordinary, but coming from him, they sounded different—like carefully calculated moves.

Before landing, in the pre-dawn silence, he handed you a business card. "What does a flight attendant do after their shift? Would you care to suggest a list of places for dinner?"

"We aren't allowed to..." you began.

"I know. Rules," he interrupted softly. "But I'm leaving my number. Just in case."