You’re exhausted.
The kind of tired that sits behind your eyes and makes every sound too loud, every light too bright. It’s barely 6 a.m., but you’ve made it through TSA, survived the random pat-down, and now stand in the long Starbucks line at the terminal — the final wall between you and caffeine.
That’s when you notice her.
A woman a few spots ahead of you. At first, she’s just another figure in the morning rush, but then she shifts her weight. One hip slightly cocked, shoulders back and there’s something about the way she moves locks you in place. Her black leggings fit her peach shaped ass like they were engineered to test self control, a soft gray cardigan draped down her back, swaying with every small step forward.
She has fair, smooth skin that looks too good for airport lighting, and a posture that radiates effortless confidence. It’s the kind that says she knows exactly how good she looks and doesn’t need to try. She brushes a dark strand of hair behind her ear as she digs through her purse, and when her phone slips to the tile with a soft clack, you hear it:
“I just can’t win today.”
That Bronx accent hits like a spark.
You tell yourself to look away, to focus on the menu, but your eyes drag back like they’re hooked. When she bends to pick up the phone, time stretches thin. The arch of her back, the perfect curve of her waist, the way the fabric moves with her, her leggings leaving nothing to your imagination. Your brain buffers like a laptop on bad Wi-Fi.
Then she straightens, and you nearly forget how to stand.
Your pulse is hammering, unable to break your gaze by the time she steps to the counter and effortlessly rattles off the longest Starbucks order you’ve ever heard:
“Venti iced caramel macchiato with oat milk, extra caramel drizzle on the sides and top, three pumps of white mocha, two pumps of vanilla, light ice, upside down, sweet cream cold foam on top, and a dash of cinnamon.”
She finishes like someone who’s said it a hundred times, giving her name — Sabrina — with a half-smile that could end wars. Even from a slight angle, she looks unreal. Not movie-star fake. Worse. Real, breathing, dangerous kind of beautiful.
She soon walks away to wait for her order. That’s when you realize the barista has been watching your train wreck in real time. As she gives you a knowing smirk.
When it’s finally your turn to walk up to the counter she says “Easy there, Pepé Le Pew,” she teases, soft voice with just enough bite. “Don’t wanna scare her off with all that charm… or the gawking.”
Heat climbs your neck. Her name tag reads Nora — rounded letters, a tiny heart above the “o.” Her blonde hair is tied up in a loose bun, a streak of violet catching the warm light. She isn’t built like Sabrina. Where Sabrina is sculpted and deliberate, Nora’s beauty wraps around you. She’s soft, full, the kind of voluptuous that fills her green apron like it’s fighting a losing battle.
As she leaned forward on the counter awaiting your response your eyes were automatically drawn to her chest
You tell yourself you’re just reading her name tag.
You’re not fooling anyone, least of all her.
She has the kind of curves that make “eye contact” a full-contact sport.
“My eyes are up here,” Nora says with a grin that could disarm a TSA agent. “You really need to work on that, Pepé.”
“I was just—”
“Reading my name tag? Yeah. Everyone says that.” She says with a exaggerated sigh
You flounder, and she lets you. Like she was almost enjoying watching you squirm. Then with a little sigh and a tilt of her head:
“Tell you what. I’ve got this. You look like you need it.”
She rings you up before you can argue. For half a second maybe less her eyes linger on your cup a moment longer than necessary. But you’re too tired to notice, too busy wishing the floor would swallow you.
As you pass Sabrina, she turns slightly, lips curving like she’s been waiting for this moment.
“It’s okay, Pepé,” she murmurs, voice smooth and low, just a little too close. “I don’t mind.”
Your brain short-circuits. Her laugh is warm, like she’s used to leaving people speechless.
“But next time,” she says, “just say hi.”
Then she saunters to the pickup counter, and you swear she sways on purpose. To the surprise of no one you are utterly incapable of breaking eye contact with the way her leggings shape around her body. You don’t even know her, and already you’re flustered like a teenager at prom.
That’s when you hear your name, well not your name but…
“Pepé! Order for Pepé!”
Nora’s voice cuts through the terminal. She’s grinning when you meet her eyes, handing you the drink like she’s awarding a trophy for Most Embarrassing Performance.
The first sip is perfect. Better than perfect. Sweet and rich, exactly what you didn’t know you needed. There’s the faintest trace of something odd beneath the caramel and cream, but you’re too tired to care. You drain it too fast.
That’s when it hits.
A headache, sharp and sudden, like someone flicked the dimmer switch on reality.
The terminal warps at the edges. Announcements stretch into static.
Through the blur, you catch Sabrina’s unmistakable silhouette near the boarding gate. Nora is behind the counter, laughing at something a customer said, violet streak in her hair catching the light. A flight attendant stands a few feet away she dark curls pinned back, warm golden brown skin glowing in the terminal light, her low laugh wrapping around the air like honey. Beside her, a pilot leans casually against the railing — light caramel skin, short curls, open jacket, the kind of posture that says I’ve got this. She takes a slow sip of coffee and meets your gaze with an unreadable look.
And just at the edge of everything — in the crowd’s soft blur — there’s a face you don’t recognize. A stranger. Someone watching a beat longer than everyone else.
The ground tilts beneath you.
Your hands reach for something that isn’t there.
And then—
the world slides away.
Where did you pass out
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