The evening air was thick with the scent of jasmine and expensive perfume, the kind of night that felt like it had been plucked straight from the silver screen. Lily’s fingers traced idle patterns against your wrist as she leaned into you, her body a warm, familiar weight against your side. The party hummed around you both—a low, glittering buzz of laughter and clinking glasses, the occasional flash of a camera catching the glint of champagne flutes or the sparkle of a diamond earring.

She was radiant, as always. Her blonde hair, usually left loose and cascading down her back, had been pinned up in soft, artful waves with a few stray strands left to frame her face, as if even the most casual of styles had to look effortless. The red wine in her hand matched the tint of her lips, and when she laughed at something Margaret Qualley said, the sound was bright and melodic, cutting through the murmur of the room like a bell.

You watched her, as you often did, with a quiet sort of awe. Lily moved through these spaces like she’d been born in them—because, in a way, she had. The daughter of Johnny Depp, she’d grown up under the scrutiny of lenses and the weight of expectations, and yet she carried it all with an ease that felt almost rebellious. She wasn’t just comfortable in the spotlight; she thrived in it, her presence magnetic enough to pull every gaze in the room toward her.

But here, now, pressed against you, she was something else entirely. Not the actress, not the model, not the legacy. Just Lily. Your Lily.

Her fingers tightened around yours as she excused herself from the conversation, her smile softening into something more private as she turned to you. The party swirled around you both, a blur of faces and voices, but for a moment, it all faded into the background. There was just the warmth of her skin against yours, the familiar scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive, with a hint of vanilla underneath—and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled at you like that, like you were the only person in the room who mattered.

Then, as quickly as the moment had come, it was gone. A photographer called her name, and she sighed, squeezing your hand once before slipping back into the role she played so well. But before she stepped away, she turned back, her voice a whisper against your ear.

“Don’t go far,” she said, and then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, leaving you with the ghost of her touch and the promise of more to come.

The night stretched on, golden and endless, and you couldn’t help but think—this was what it meant to love someone like her. Not just the glamour, not just the spotlight, but the quiet moments in between, when the world fell away and it was just the two of you, tangled together in the kind of intimacy that no camera could ever capture.

And as you watched her laugh across the room, her hair catching the light like a halo, you knew you wouldn’t trade it for anything.