“Where do we walk? It’s too busy and loud.” Taemin clutched the handles of his ludicrously capacious black bag, looking out at the Departures level of a hustling and bustling airport.

“People do this every day. It's not a hardship.”

His husband Minho stood tall in a navy ballcap, bomber jacket, and ivory pants. It was coordinated with Taemin’s outfit, rather unconsciously. Taemin was wrapped up in an oversized ivory scarf with navy accents. The long Balenciaga jacket he wore had an understated elegance to it, competing with the soft drama of the scarf. The two looked the part of the billionaire couple they were—a little ostentatious, a little out of place, and altogether intriguing to anyone they passed.

“What happens over there?” Taemin motioned to the long queues of passengers lined up to get boarding passes and check well-worn baggage.

“That’s the bag drop counter.”

“We don’t have to go over there, do we? I don’t like the look of it.” Taemin squinted his eyes and wrinkled his face at the offensive sight.

“No, sweetie, our counter is over here, behind those doors.”

Minho hurried his confused husband to the first-class check-in, which, along with business class, was separated from the heaving hordes of people by shiny glass and automatic doors. Behind the doors, it was quiet and calm—a different world.

Behind the couple were two men hauling baggage and carrying documents. When they reached the counter, the men brought the baggage and handed Minho the documents.

After a polite greeting, the airline employee asked if they had any baggage to check in.

“Check… in?” Taemin’s eyes were wide in puzzlement.

“Yes, four bags,” Minho replied.

“You can place the first on the belt.”

When one of his staff went to pick up a bag, Minho waived him off.

Taemin watched as Minho went through a strange ritual with all four bags. It seemed they had to be weighed, and then some paper needed to be stuck to the handles. And then the bags meandered away into some unknown place via a conveyor belt.

“The bags don’t take their own plane, do they?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. They’re loaded onto our plane.”

“How do they get on the right one?”

“The bar code on the tag – it’s all automated,” Minho replied.

“Oh, how quaint.”

This was the first time Taemin had ever flown commercial. He’d gone straight from the comforts of his parents’ private jets to Minho’s, whom he’d been married to for over a decade. They lived an extravagant life that Taemin hardly recognized as such. It was all he knew; and this airport, well—it wasn’t something he was accustomed to. They landed in much smaller, private airports, ones that were much closer to their actual destinations. Apparently, they’d have an hour’s drive upon landing after this flight.

Suddenly, Minho took Taemin’s hand. “Come on, we need to line up.”

“Get in line? For what?”

“Security.”

Taemin presumed it must have been like the check-in counter—people like he and Minho would have private entrances to make their way through. When he was confronted with an enormous line, and one that barely moved, he grew impatient.

“This is a bit déclassé,” he commented.

“Shh,” Minho admonished.

“But the line isn’t moving. And this bag is heavy.”

Taemin held out the beautiful Thom Browne bag he had carried like a prize through the airport thus far.

“Then maybe you should have brought a smaller bag.”

Minho had no bag. It was odd to Taemin; it wasn’t like the plane would have all the comforts of Minho’s Learjet.

“Don’t ask me for anything,” Taemin announced.

“What?”

“You chose not to bring anything on this… whatever this plebian plane is. And you aren’t offering to carry mine, so forget it.”

“Give me the bag.”

Taemin smirked. He watched Minho’s face but couldn’t see his eyes because of his dark sunglasses. His face didn’t change for the entire forty minutes it took to get through security.

Once they made it to the security scanners, a serious-looking security officer placed a plastic bin on another, miniature conveyor belt. “Put your bag in here,” he said, tapping with gloved hands.

Taemin leered at the scratched-up bin. It was wide enough to fit his bag, but it looked like it had been used a thousand times.

“Is that clean?”

“Just put your bag in it, alright? And your coat.”

“But it’s Balenciaga?” Taemin grimaced at the ruddy plastic bin that appeared beside the previous one, this one awaiting his coat.

The security guard rolled his eyes.

“Honey, just put it in. We’re holding up the line,” Minho pleaded in a whisper.

“I don’t care what those people think,” Taemin replied, motioning to all the eyes watching him in judgment.

“The scarf, too,” the security guard added.

Seeing no way out as Minho motioned him along, Taemin obeyed, but he did so with such distaste he could sense Minho’s eyes burning into his back.

“This whole process is a bit coarse,” Taemin tutted.

“Walk this way,” someone yelled.

“See what I mean?”

When they made it through the metal detectors, the two stood side by side, waiting for their bags to roll towards them. A warm hand found its way to the small of Taemin’s back. He could feel it well since he was still waiting for his coat to roll his way, too.

“We both agreed that selling the Learjet was the right thing