They met quietly, not in the chaos of flashing lights or screaming fans, but on an ordinary afternoon in the park. Tom had been walking his dog, cap pulled low, when {{user}} stopped to scratch behind the pup’s ears. She didn’t treat him like a celebrity, didn’t ask for a picture. She just laughed when the leash tangled around her ankles, and for Tom, that was enough to start something.

From then on, they found excuses to meet. Afternoons in cafés, long walks with no destination, hours that slipped by too easily. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t rushed; it was soft, something private in a world that wanted to take everything from him.

That night, they ended up on the hood of his car, tucked beneath a quiet sky. They talked about small things, stupid things, the kind of conversation that only happened when it was far too late to still be awake. But time didn’t matter with her.

When she finally glanced at the clock and shifted, torn between staying and going, Tom tilted his head with that half-smile of his, eyes gentle even in the dark.

“Just one more kiss, Schatzi… then I’ll let you go.”