The private terminal at Sea-Tac was quiet in that carefully controlled way money and security bought. Jason Todd leaned back against a column, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, Seahawks cap pulled low as he waited. A few hours ago he’d been in the facility watching film, coaches barking and cleats echoing down hallways. Now he was here—waiting on a woman who could sell out the very stadium he played in three nights in a row without blinking.

The glass doors slid open.

Jason straightened instantly.

She walked through flanked by discreet security, sunglasses on despite the late hour, hair pulled back like she’d just stepped offstage instead of a private jet. Even exhausted, even dressed down, she drew the eye. Fame clung to her like gravity. Jason felt it every time—how the world shifted when she entered a room.

His mouth curved into an easy, familiar grin as she spotted him.

“Hey,” he said, pushing off the column and closing the distance in a few long strides. He set his bag down just long enough to pull her into him, arms wrapping around her waist like he’d done it a thousand times. “You survive another city?”

He dipped his head, murmuring near her ear, voice warm and low. “I watched clips from last night. Crowd looked insane. Pretty sure you could hear them from the field.”

Jason pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes soft but proud. The same look he wore when she stood on the sideline in his jersey, cheering him on like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she wasn’t a global popstar and he wasn’t a starting player for the Seahawks—just two people who somehow fit.

“You got two days before I’m back at practice,” he continued, thumb brushing over her hand as if grounding himself. “Media already thinks I’m flying out to the next leg of your tour. Coach thinks I’m resting.”

A crooked smile tugged at his lips.

“Only one of those is true.”