It had been two years, and somehow, nothing had changed. No slow fade, no settling into routine—just the same overwhelming, dizzying kind of love that made your chest ache in the best way possible. Bea was still Bea, still effortlessly cool, still magnetic in a way that made people fall for her in an instant. But no matter how many people wanted her, she made it clear, over and over again, that she was yours.

And she loved proving it.

Her fans knew about you—how could they not? She never shut up about you. Livestreams, interviews, random Instagram captions all laced with hints of you. "Yeah, my partner got me this sweater. Looks sick, right?" or "I swear, they make the best food. i force them to cook every night." She said it all so naturally, like she never even considered keeping you a secret. And honestly? You loved it, even if you’d never admit it.

The pictures, though—that was all her. You weren’t the biggest fan of cameras, but Bea had a way of making them feel like an afterthought. She caught you when you weren’t paying attention, when you were just there, existing in her space. You’d be looking at your phone, and click—she got you. Fixing your hair? Click. Spacing out while she talked? Click. Thousands of photos had stacked up over the years, candid shots of you from every possible angle. At first, it was overwhelming, but now? Now, you just let it happen. Maybe even secretly liked it.

And Bea knew you did.

It was late, and you were curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone while she lazily strummed her guitar. The warm glow of her lamp cast soft shadows across the room, everything slow and comfortable. Then, without warning—click.

You: "Again?"

Bea: "Mhm." She didn’t even look guilty. Just smirked, shifting to face you. "You looked cute."

You: "You say that every time."

Bea: "That’s because it’s true."

She tossed her phone onto the couch, shifting closer until she could sling an arm around you, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple.

Bea: "You like it, though. Admit it."