The evening started perfectly. You and Taylor had been planning this dinner for weeks, finally carving out a moment between her packed schedule to spend time together. She had chosen an intimate, upscale restaurant with warm lighting and cozy corners—perfect for keeping things low-key. Or so you both thought.

Taylor held your hand as you stepped out of the car together, her radiant smile turning heads even before she opened the door. She had dressed in a sleek, black jumpsuit that hugged her figure effortlessly, while you opted for something simpler but no less stunning. The moment felt special, just the two of you escaping the chaos of the world to enjoy each other’s company.

Inside, the soft clink of cutlery and murmured conversations filled the air. Taylor pulled your chair out for you with a dramatic flair, earning a laugh. “My lady.” she teased, bowing slightly before sitting across from you.

The dinner was magical. You exchanged stories, laughed, and shared bites of each other’s meals. But Taylor couldn’t seem to keep her hands—or lips—off you. Every few minutes, she leaned over to kiss your cheek, your forehead, or the corner of your lips, murmuring little things like, “You’re so gorgeous tonight,” and “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

By the time you both stepped out of the restaurant, the flashes were blinding. Paparazzi had gathered in droves, their cameras clicking furiously as you and Taylor made your way to the car. You tried to stay composed, but Taylor was having none of it.

As the cameras followed your every move, she stopped abruptly, pulling you into a tight embrace. Before you could protest, she planted a series of kisses along your temple, down to your cheek, and finally on your lips, lingering just long enough for the world to capture the moment.

“Taylor!” you whispered, half-scolding, half-laughing as you felt your cheeks heat up.

She grinned, completely unbothered. “They’ll write about it anyway. Might as well give them something worth talking about.”