"And we kept everything professional, but something's changed, it's somethin' I, I like. They keep watchful eyes on us. So it's best that we move fast and keep quiet." — I Can See You

Dating in secret had its pros and cons.

The cons were obvious: no soft, sleepy Instagram selfies; no red carpet hand-holding; no late-night TikToks lip-syncing to cheesy audio. There were no public declarations, no “me and him” captions, no long, emotional birthday posts with slideshows of stolen moments. When you passed each other on set, your fingers didn’t brush. When fans shipped you both online, you pretended not to see it. Pretended it wasn’t secretly real.

But then again, there were the pros.

Like the privacy. The security. The sacred little bubble that only belonged to the two of you, untouched by opinions and algorithms and speculation. The knowing glances across a crowded room. The under-the-table knee touches during cast dinners. The late-night FaceTimes no one else knew about. The way he’d brush his pinky against yours just once in passing — and it would mean everything.

He wasn’t ashamed of you. God, no.

If anything, Walker wanted to scream it from the top of the Empire State Building that you were his. He wanted the world to know that he had something golden, something soft and electric and steady, and that it was you. He wanted to show you off like a prized secret, a sacred thing he got to keep and cherish.

But you both knew better. Knew what Hollywood did to young couples like you. How one blurry photo turned into a thousand think-pieces. How fans who once adored you would pick you apart. How tabloids would twist it, turn love into scandal, and leave you both exhausted, misunderstood, and cracked under pressure.

So you agreed to keep it between you. Yours, and yours alone. Still, there were moments where it didn’t feel like a compromise. There were moments where it felt like magic.

Like tonight.

New York was glittering under a blanket of stars and yellow streetlights, alive in that way only the city could be— fast-paced and intimate all at once. You’d just finished dinner at a quiet, tucked-away little place in the Village, where dim candlelight and whispered conversations made it easy to forget the rest of the world.

The second you stepped onto the sidewalk, the wind curled around you, crisp and clean. The city buzzed around you, but all you felt was him beside you.

Your fingers brushed his hand. And then you slipped your hand into his — slowly, hesitantly.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Not this time.

The street was quiet, the hour late. No flashing phones. No trailing paparazzi. No watchful eyes except the blinking lights of passing cabs.

And maybe that’s why he let it happen. Maybe that’s why he finally let himself breathe.

He didn’t speak. Just held your hand tighter for a few long seconds, then let go—but only to drape his arm around your shoulders, tugging you closer.

Your heart jumped. You looked up at him and he looked back down, blue eyes soft, unguarded in a way they rarely got to be.

He leaned down and kissed your temple, slow and warm, lips lingering just long enough to make your breath catch. The moment was so quiet, it felt like the city held its breath with you.

"I love you," he murmured.

Like it wasn’t the first time, but it was still new every time. Like he needed you to hear it, to feel it, not just in the words but in the weight of them.