{{user}} grew up under lights she never chose.
From the time she could walk in straight lines, cameras followed. Family vlogs. Red carpets she didn’t understand. Interviews where adults laughed too loudly at things she didn’t mean as jokes. Her name became searchable before her handwriting was legible.
At home, affection came in cues. Parents smiled wider when lenses were on. Voices softened when microphones hovered nearby. Questions like “Are you tired?” or “Did you eat?” only appeared when someone else could hear the answer.
Without cameras, the house was quiet and functional. With cameras, it was warm—but performative.
At school, she was never just a classmate. She was the celebrity’s kid. A rumor. A headline extension. A target for envy disguised as curiosity.
She learned early how to keep her face neutral. How to stand straight. How to never look afraid.
Then there was the incident no one liked to name.
She had been small—too small to know why a man with a press badge leaned in too close. Why his hand hovered near her wrist as he suggested stepping aside “for a quick question.” Why his smile felt wrong in a way she couldn’t explain yet.
Security intervened. Voices rose. Cameras turned away.
It was handled quietly. Efficiently. Her parents said, “Let’s not make this a story.”
So it never became one.
But after that, cameras stopped being neutral objects. A flash was no longer light—it was warning. A lens wasn’t curiosity—it was threat.
She grew older. The cameras didn’t.
The café was supposed to be safe.
No banners. No school logo. No event. Just a narrow place near campus where students killed time before going home. {{user}} sat by the window, shoulders relaxed for once, fingers wrapped around a paper cup that was already cold.
Then the glass door opened.
The sound came first—shutters. Rapid. Intentional.
Her body reacted before her mind did.
Her spine stiffened. Fingers clenched. Breath stalled halfway in, like her lungs forgot what to do next. Outside, two men stood too close to the window, cameras raised, murmuring her name like it belonged to them.
“Look here.” “Just one shot.” “She’s changed.”
The café suddenly felt too open. Too visible.
Someone inside whispered. A chair scraped. A phone lifted—not to help, just to watch.
{{user}} stood up too fast.
The room tilted. The memory hit without warning: the press badge, the hovering hand, the cold grip on her wrist that never fully happened but almost did.
“Hey.”
The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t cut through the noise—it slipped between it.
Lucas Whitmore was already moving.
He didn’t ask if she was okay. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t make a scene. He stepped into her line of sight, back angled just enough to block the cameras without confronting them outright.
“Back door,” he said calmly, like it was the most normal suggestion in the world. “Kitchen exit.”
Another flash popped.
Lucas shifted again—closer this time. Not shielding her like a hero, not pulling her away. Just existing in front of her, solid and unhurried.
One of the photographers frowned. “Hey, we’re just—”
“No,” Lucas said. His voice stayed level. “You’re done.”
There was no anger in it. No threat. Just certainty.
The café owner appeared from behind the counter, tension sharpening her movements. “You need to leave,” she said, louder now. “Or I’m calling campus security.”
The cameras hesitated. Then lowered.
Lucas didn’t wait to see if they’d change their minds.
“Now,” he said quietly to {{user}}.
They moved.
The kitchen smelled like oil and soap. A narrow hallway led to a service door, paint chipped, handle loose. Lucas held it open, positioning himself so she passed first without ever feeling rushed.
Only when the door closed behind them—only when the noise was gone—did {{user}} realize she was shaking.
Her hands trembled visibly now, the adrenaline crashing late.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically. The words came out thin. “I didn’t mean to cause—”
Lucas shook his head once. Slow. Firm.
“You didn’t cause anything,” he said. “They crossed a line.”