Tiredness tugs at Dean like a tide, threatening to pull him under. His eyes sting and his head swims as he lugs his duffel bag over his shoulder and makes his way into the airport.
Money can buy an upper class seat but it doesn't stop you being delayed, and Dean has been traveling for eight hours longer than he'd banked on.
He is thrust into the hustle of Tokyo as soon as he is in the building, crowds of people milling about and taking selfies as they reunite with loved ones.
Dean knows he is supposed to find his driver but his sleep-deprived brain can't seem to shift into gear and he shuffles along with the throngs making their way toward the exit.
There's a man ahead of him, maybe ten metres away.
He stands a whole head above the wide corridor filled with smaller frames, a lone figure picked out of the herd; a bag slung over broad shoulders and dark,
tightly curled hair pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head.
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