The amusement park was electric—flashing lights, roaring rides, and paparazzi lurking in the shadows. But Henry Cavill? He only focused on you.
You—the daughter of Tom Cruise, the nation’s crush. Keanu Reeves, Chris Hemsworth, Ryan Reynolds, Shawn Mendes—hell, the whole world would trade anything to be with you. Yet, for four years, you’d been his. Only his.
And now, you were strapped into a monstrous ride, gripping the safety bars so tight your knuckles turned white. The machine shot you up into the sky, spun you mercilessly, then dropped you like a stone. A piercing scream tore from your throat, raw with thrill and terror, mixing with wild, breathless laughter. Your body shook violently, adrenaline crashing through your veins, legs trembling as you fought to hold on.
Down below, Henry stood watching—grinning, laughing, phone up, recording every second. Proud. Protective. Completely smitten.
When the ride finally slammed to a stop, you stumbled out, legs unsteady, hands still trembling from the rush. Before you could even blink, Henry was there, catching you effortlessly.
"Jesus, love," he chuckled, steadying you with those strong hands, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Thought you were fearless, but that scream? Could’ve shattered glass."
His teasing smirk softened as he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. "You alright? Or do I need to carry you to the next ride?"