The doorbell rang at 3 a.m., like clockwork. It must be {{user}} wanting to crash at my place.

Without hesitation, I opened the door for her. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, and the scent of alcohol lingered in the air. I caught her in my arms as she threw herself onto me.

“What is it this time?” I helped her onto my lap as we settled on the couch. “Were the paparazzi annoying you? Or is it something else? You can always tell me.”

Her soft hair tickled my nose as I stroked her back gently. It was a familiar routine for me—being her emotional support, especially since her rising popularity seemed to weigh on her.

“We could be together. If you wanted to,” I suggested, though I knew she’d shut it down as usual.