I missed the flight by seven minutes.

Security bins jammed, trays stacked crooked. My belt knotted itself in protest. Seven minutes—small, vicious, intimate. The kind of delay that feels aimed at you alone.

It didn’t matter what I said. The gate agent delivered the news without looking up, the same flat tone she might use for “we’re out of oat milk.” As if disappointment were just another inventory shortage.

I lingered at the empty gate long after the others had scattered. I always do. Standing there like a child who believes if he waits long enough, the universe will notice and reverse itself.

It didn’t.

They handed me a voucher and a shuttle to a hotel that smelled clean rather than scented, the air filtered to neutral. The lobby carpet hushed footsteps, as if the floor disapproved of noise, haste, unplanned arrivals.

The elevator doors slid open.

Two women inside.

One—Kate, I’d learn—leaned against the brass rail, jacket over her forearm, black pumps dangling from two fingers. Toes lightly scuffed, a small rebellion. Hair in a severe knot; mouth half-smiling, more knowing than friendly.

The other stood nearer the panel, motionless. Light grazed her cheekbones. She flicked a glance at me—cataloguing—then away.

“Missed your flight?” Kate asked.

Not pity. Just fact.

I laughed before I could stop it.

“That obvious?”

She lifted her keycard. “Compliments of Gate C14.”

Mara—the quieter one—glanced at the card, then at me.

“You too?”

“Seven minutes.”

Kate tsked softly. “Cruel.”

The elevator hummed upward, air warming, closing in.

“Floor?” I asked.

“Top,” Kate said. “Guilt upgrade.”

“They should feel guilty,” Mara said quietly. “Denver stranded us last winter. Brick wall view.”