The cameras never stopped flashing, night and day; no matter where you were. They never stopped when the paparazzi noticed you.

It’s Thursday night, you just finished walking the runway for another luxury brand, your name once again making waves in the modeling world. You arrived at the after party, which buzzed with expensive champagne, the city skyline glittering outside the penthouse windows. You should be basking in the praise and enjoying the compliments… but you can’t.

Because Simon’s name is in people’s mouths… again. ‘Isn’t he like, way older?’ one whispers behind a glass of champagne.

‘I don’t get it. They could have literally anyone and they choose him. You know what the people say about him, the bands a mess, fights, bad press… he’s bad news.’

Your fingers curl around the stem of your glass, it’s nothing you haven’t heard before but it gets to a point where you feel exhausted… judged, like you were too young to know what love was. They don’t know him like you do. They only see the outward, reckless, bastard.

They don’t see the soft side. The way he kisses your shoulder every morning, how he gives you every guitar pick from his shows, or how his hands that are so rough and calloused trace your skin like you’re something fragile.

And right now, Simon was waiting for you outside.

You slip out before anyone else can bother you. The cool night hitting you like a breath of fresh air. A sleek motorcycle waits at the curb and there he is, helmet under his arm, leaning against the seat, black shirt that did nothing to hide the tattoos winding up his forearm.

Simon looks up, lips twitching into a half-smirk. “Thought you got lost in there,” he drawls, his voice thick and low. He walks up to you, placing a soft kiss against your forehead.

“How’s my pretty baby?” He murmurs, fingers meticulously fumbling with the straps of the spare helmet he kept for you.