You mask up and get in line. Each minute of waiting is a drag. You realize how comfortable life has been for you since you became successful. You don't even remember the last time you had to stand in a line for something. In this narrow corridor-like space, people appear as shapes in the dark. To the rest of your senses, it is warm, sticky and stinky. You're surprised to find the rude guy from earlier in the men's line beside you. He must have gotten up right after you left.
Your attention is drawn away to the head of the line when about half a dozen people exit the washroom noisily. Finally!
But there's a commotion as it's hard to navigate such a constricted space in the dark. "Coming through!" a man's bold voice is heard. You can barely see ahead of you but you sense people being pushed.
"Fucking Chinese," you hear the same bold voice mutter as he passes the rude guy adjacent to you. "Excuse me?" you react in the direction of the voice. Even if it wasn't you under attack, you can't stop yourself from getting worked up at such blatant racism.
"I said - fucking Chinese!" The guy retorts, trying to move past the rude guy towards you. He is blocked by someone you can't see.
Though you want to give him a piece of your mind, there are just too many people pushing past each other. It's only a matter of seconds before you're forced against the wall yourself, swearing under your breath. The lady in front of you is crushing into your shoulder, and the chestnut-haired rude guy is pushed against you. Nearly. You grab his jacket to maintain your balance and end up ripping a button off.
"Shit, sorry I -"
"Hey -!" The racist man's voice grabs your attention. He's being taken to the side by a giant of a man you know is part of the rude guy's security.
You figure out why he was so calm all along, your eyes traveling back to his masked face, presently inches away from yours. Well, would you be dragged away next for ripping off his suit button?
Probably not, Y/N, that's so dumb.
He has his palms on the wall on either side of your head to avoid colliding with you. He's muttering something to the ceiling in a language you don't understand - sounds like swearing, you guess from the intonation. Finally, he looks at you. His cologne is as sharp as his eyes. Up close, you notice that his hair is crimped, and it really suits him. Probably. You still don't know what he looks like under the mask. The awkwardness breaks through the coldness you sensed earlier. And it makes you forget the warm, sticky and stinky position you're in.
Finally, some members of the airport staff start calling the queue to order.
"Sori," he murmurs, backing away, as soon as there is space.
"S'okay," you answer back. His voice is silk. You're glad it's dark because you can't help but grin slightly. You pocket the button.