flashback - somewhere in spain.
Evan Fraser had long since realised he would never be one of those travel influencers. The ones with neat, Instagrammable packing cubes and a designer suitcase. He moved around too much - sometimes he hadn't even unpacked from one country before he was onto the next, dragging along the same dented case and hoping whatever hotel he'd been put up in had access to a washing machine. And truthfully, he was lazy. It would be a terrible quality to have - if things didn't work out so well for him all of the time.
Turned out, the whole bedraggled London playboy thing was exactly what Jet Set liked about him. His articles for the website were largely picture-heavy (he was certain his mug did a lot of the heavy lifting), his writing conversational in tone, accidentally funny more often than on purpose, and they really loved the whole cat angle. It was a perfect job, really. He could go wherever he pleased, and it got him out of his London flat and away from his overbearing family.
His thumb scrolled absently through his phone, eyes darting up every now and again to the departure board, where his flight appeared to be getting later and later. He stifled a yawn, reaching up to run a hand through his mane of unruly curls, unbrushed from where he'd rolled out of bed that morning. It appeared neither he nor Mog were getting to Marrakech any time soon.
Perhaps aware she was being thought of, a forlorn little mewl sounded from his backpack, a rustle as she stretched out in her little bubble - demanding the attention of her Dad. Wrapping a hand around his case, he dragged it to the nearest row of chairs, gently taking off the backpack and depositing it in his lap.
A chuckle escaped him as Mog butted her head against the small bubble, an insistent little gesture that meant she had had quite enough of being in her travel backpack, thank you. Evan unzipped the contraption just enough to fit his hand inside, fingers fluttering over her black and white fur.
"Not in the airport, Puss." he tittered, leaning in close, so that he didn't come across as some kind of barmy man who talked to himself. The cat got him enough looks, thank you very much.
He stretched out his legs in front of him, glancing around at the hubbub of the departures lounge. A steady mixture of people, impatient and lounging around as they waited for their flight, and those rushing to the airport gate. Eventually, his gaze dropped on the woman beside him, who didn't seem perplexed whatsoever by her surroundings, and was instead nose deep in a book.
"Are you the Morocco flight?" he asked, plastering on his most amenable smile.
When she went on reading, he cleared his throat.
"Are you pretending to read so that you don't have to talk to me, or something?" he tried again.
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