His POV

I leaned back against the leather chair in the corner of my bar, the room soaked in warm amber light only she and I had the key to. My hand rested over a glass I never touched—I didn’t need alcohol tonight. All I needed was her, curled in the chair I’d pulled close, so near her knees brushed against mine.

She sat there, hair falling over her shoulders, lips stained with the wine she wouldn’t put down, yapping about filming schedules, brand deals, the little dramas of her world. A world I knew chipped away at her piece by piece.

I listened to all of it. Not always with words, but with my fingers sliding through her hair, keeping her steady, letting her voice fall against me. She didn’t realize I memorized every sigh, every laugh—like codes only I could read.

“Sometimes I’m so tired, you know?” she muttered, eyes fixed on the bar counter instead of me. “Everyone expects me to always be perfect, always strong. I don’t even remember the last time I cried for real.”

A faint smile tugged at my lips. I tilted her chin up with a finger, forcing her to face me. “Chora aqui, pequena. Nobody will ever see. Only me.”

Her eyes softened, but her stubbornness held. She was strong, headstrong—and that was exactly what set my blood alight whenever I looked at her. I let her go, let her return to her wine, let her keep rambling with her free hand waving in the air, while I kept brushing her hair from her face, grounding her in ways she didn’t even notice.

She had no idea how much I loved watching her mouth move when she complained. How badly I wanted to silence it with a kiss, just to hear her voice crack against my lips. But I held back, because love isn’t only about having—it’s about protecting her space to breathe.

“Sometimes I think,” she said suddenly, a bitter little laugh spilling out, “if I disappeared tomorrow, would anyone actually come looking? Would anyone really understand me?”

I leaned closer, my voice a low growl against her ear. “Não precisa perguntar. If the world ever lost you, I’d burn it down until I found you again.”

She froze for a moment. The wine in her hand stilled. And I could see it—in the depths of her glittering actress eyes, behind all the light the world demanded of her—there was a quiet that only came when she was with me.

I knew she had millions of fans who claimed she belonged to them. I knew cameras captured her smile for everyone. But only I saw her raw edges. Only I heard her ramblings at two a.m. Only I touched her hair with the kind of patience no one else would ever give.

So let the world watch her on the big screen. Here, in my bar, she was mine. And while I would never chain her, my obsession was strong enough to keep anyone from ever taking her away.

I stroked her hair again, longer this time, until her head slipped onto my shoulder without her noticing. “Fala, meu amor,” I whispered, “I could listen to you forever.”

And for the first time that night, she didn’t answer with words—only with her slowing breath, a language sweeter than any story she could tell.