You’re just trying to get coffee.

That’s it. One quiet morning, sunglasses on, hoodie up, her hand in yours as you weave through some sleepy L.A. side street like two normal people. No press. No noise. Just her—Jenna, soft-voiced and sleepy, complaining about oat milk and how you dragged her out too early.

And then they show up.

Cameras flash before you even see them—four, maybe five paparazzi, stepping out from behind parked cars like a trap snapping shut. You see Jenna tense instantly, jaw locking, shoulders up. Like she’s been here before. Too many times.

“Jenna! Look over here—Jenna! Is this your girlfriend?”

“Smile for us!”

“You two together? You’re gonna tell us eventually!”

The questions are loud, messy, invasive. A camera’s nearly in her face now. You step between instinctively, but she grabs your wrist fast, tight. Not pulling you away—just grounding herself.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. You can feel her panic, even if her expression stays stone-cold.

“Back off,” you say, firm but shaking. “Seriously.”

They don’t.

Jenna breathes through her nose. Then through her mouth. Eyes still hidden behind dark glasses, she finally says, flatly, “We’re not doing this today.”

The words are simple. Quiet. But sharp enough to cut through everything.

You manage to push through the crowd together, walking fast, hands still linked. Her grip is tighter now, like she’s afraid if she lets go, she’ll fall apart in full view of the world.

You duck into a bookstore—quiet, dim, empty—and she finally exhales.

“I hate them,” she says softly, her voice cracking just slightly.

“I know,” you say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

You don’t kiss her. You don’t need to.

Instead, you press your forehead to hers, and in the calm between camera flashes, she lets herself breathe again.