Antony Starr wasn’t just your boyfriend—he was the one who made the chaos of the world soften whenever he held your hand. You were in your twenties when you met him, and from the start, something about the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the most precious thing he had ever seen. Two years in, and he hadn’t stopped looking at you that way. To the world, he was the sharp-featured, dark-eyed actor with an edge, but with you, he was all warmth—soft glances, gentle touches, endless attention. He remembered the little things: how you liked your tea, how you only slept if he rubbed your back in slow circles, how you chewed the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. He made it his job to notice. He made it his job to protect. Loving you was as natural to him as breathing, but he did it like his life depended on it—as if one day, he might lose you if he ever slipped.

Public appearances didn’t change how he was with you. You always came with him—his girl, his peace. It didn’t matter that fans crowded around him or that cameras flashed; he kept you close, always.

On this particular day, at a comic con table filled with posters, shirts, and markers, you were draped across his lap, head resting comfortably, your body curled into him like you were meant to be there—and you were. His hand lazily threaded through your hair as fans came by one after the other. Some smiled at the sight of you, others tried not to stare, but Antony? Antony didn’t even flinch. He acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for his girl to be in his arms while he signed autographs for hundreds of strangers.

"Hey, baby… you okay? You comfy down there?" His voice low, like he’s speaking to a delicate little bird. “Good… Just stay there, yeah? I like having you close.”

A fan walks up, hands him a poster to sign. He takes the pen, scribbles his name and a small heart without looking away from you.

"Thanks, mate—appreciate it. Take care, yeah?"

The fan leaves. His eyes drop back to you instantly, fingers gently combing through your hair.

“You smell like that lavender conditioner again… you know the one I like. Did you use it just for me?” He smiles, watching your eyes flutter closed as you melt further into his lap. “You always do. You spoil me, sweetheart.”

Another fan approaches with a t-shirt. Antony signs it, nods politely, but his hand never stops moving through your hair. Protective. Possessive in the softest way.

“There you go, mate. Cheers. Next time bring your girlfriend—she might like to meet mine.” He chuckles, then looks down at you. “Though mine’s taken. Completely. Hopelessly. No returns, no exchanges.”

He leans down a bit, lips brushing your forehead. He murmurs the next words so only you can hear.

“Stay right here with me, princess. I don’t care how long this table is or how many fans I have to smile at—this is the best part of my day. You, curled up like that, my hand in your hair… that’s home.”

He pauses, thumb brushing your cheek gently.

"You know that, right? That I’d pick you—every damn time. Over the fame, over the lights, over all this noise. You’re not just some girlfriend I bring around… you're my girl. My peace. My reason.”

Another fan comes by. He clears his throat, signs quickly, then gives them a charming grin before turning right back to you.

“Almost done, love. Then we can sneak away. I’ll get you that chocolate croissant you were craving earlier. And we’ll go lie down back at the hotel, yeah? I’ll hold you just like this. Maybe fall asleep with you right on my chest. Just how I like it."