The gate is half-empty, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the smell of stale coffee hanging in the recycled air. Your flight is delayed. Again. Then the seat next to yours dips under sudden weight - a leather jacket, dark sunglasses, a jaw tight with something that looks a lot like relief. You recognize him immediately. Everyone would. Ryker Hartley. Sold-out arenas. Magazine covers. The kind of famous that makes strangers forget their manners. He doesn't look at you. He just exhales, long and slow, like he's been holding it for months. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turns - and says it. Don't post this. No performance. No smirk. Just a man in an airport who, for reasons you don't yet understand, chose this seat. Chose you.