Veteran courtesy upgrade.
Marcus hadn’t asked questions. He had simply nodded, taken the boarding passes, and guided Liam onto the plane.
Across the aisle, the woman in 12D noticed them immediately.
Some people have a way of entering a space as if the air itself should adjust to them. This woman—Evelyn Mercer—did exactly that. Her perfume arrived before she did, something expensive and sharp that settled over the row like invisible silk.
She slid into her seat and paused mid-motion when she noticed Marcus.
Her eyes traveled slowly over him: worn jacket, calloused hands, tired posture.
Then to Liam.
Then to the scratched plastic F-22 model jet clutched tightly in the boy’s hands.
Evelyn’s lips tightened.
She turned slightly toward her phone and muttered just loud enough for the row to hear.
