The whine of the engines was already a lullaby by the time you stepped into the first-class cabin, ducking beneath overhead bins clearly not built for someone 6’5. Sleeves pushed up to your elbows, toned forearms on display, you dragged your carry-on behind you—cool, casual, NFL swagger embodied. But Tim saw right through it. He always did.

He looked up, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re buzzing,” he said, low enough for just you.

“I’m not buzzing,” you muttered, sliding into the seat beside him, shoulder brushing your husband’s. “Just excited we got upgraded. Legroom.”

Tim arched a brow, glancing at your phone screen—paused on a specs breakdown of the Boeing 787-9 Dreamliner. “Right. Not the plane model or the engine configuration or the fact that you spotted the Rolls-Royce logo on the turbine.”

You cleared your throat. “If we’re gonna fly, might as well fly in something beautiful.”

He bit back a grin, eyes dropping to his book as his hand found your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles. “You wanna ask to get a photo in the cockpit, don’t you.”

Your ears burned. “No.”

“You practiced what to say to the pilot, like, five times in the Uber.”

“Okay, maybe.”

You shifted, palms slightly damp despite the cool cabin air. Overhead bins clicked shut, and your mind ticked through turbofan bypass ratios and wing flex tolerances like a checklist.

Tim leaned in, brushed a kiss to your jaw like he wasn’t trying to start something. “You’re a giant nerd,” he murmured. “And the most handsome man on this plane.”

You rolled your eyes, but your grin gave you away. “Think they’ll let me sit in the captain’s chair for a sec?”

“I think if you flash those dimples and that MVP ring, they’ll let you fly the damn thing.”

You turned toward the front of the plane, eyes bright. “Bet.”