The hotel lobby buzzed with flashing cameras and murmured voices, all of it pressing in on her like a storm. Marie kept her head down, sunglasses on, shoulders tense as she pushed past the swarm of fans and reporters. You could tell she was on the edge, her jaw tight, her steps sharp and hurried.

Later, when she finally made it to your apartment, she collapsed onto the couch like a soldier coming home from war. No red carpets here, no paparazzi waiting for her next smile—just the comfort of mismatched pillows, the faint smell of coffee, and you.

“You have no idea how good it feels to just… breathe here,” she muttered, tugging off her shoes and curling up against the cushions.

You sat beside her, offering a mug of tea. “Guess I’m not much of a fanbase, huh?” you teased lightly.

She chuckled, the sound tired but real. “Exactly. You don’t want anything from me. You don’t care about headlines or roles or how I look on some stupid magazine cover. You just…” Her eyes met yours, soft and vulnerable. “You just see me.”