The flashbulbs were blinding, even through your practiced smile. You were used to events by now — the noise, the shouts, the crush of bodies trying to get the perfect shot. But Lizzie’s hand was warm at the small of your back, her thumb brushing absent circles against your dress, and it made the chaos feel almost distant.

Until it happened.

One of the photographers, leaning far over the barricade, called your name in a way that made it sound… different. Less professional, more personal. He followed it with a comment about your dress — not just how it looked, but how you looked in it — and then had the audacity to wink.

You laughed it off, barely, about to turn back to Lizzie, but she was already watching him with a look sharp enough to cut glass. Her arm slid firmly around your waist, tugging you against her side.

“Smile,” she murmured between her teeth, the picture of poised elegance to anyone looking.

You did, because the cameras were still clicking, but her grip tightened.

When you stepped forward for the next set of shots, Lizzie positioned herself so subtly that she blocked the photographer’s line of sight to you, forcing him to shift if he wanted the shot. Every time he tried, she was there — a perfectly placed shoulder, a turn of her body, the faintest tilt of her head that said not yours to look at.