The warm summer air fills his Porsche as you watch the city fade behind you, palm trees swaying in the breeze and the scent of saltwater thick in the night. The press is already a blur, their flashing cameras nothing more than memories now, but the adrenaline still lingers in your veins. You glance at yourself in the rearview mirror, reapplying your lip gloss—a quick swipe, cool and minty.

You don’t mind the attention. You've gotten used to it, but he hates it. The way they turn your life into a spectacle. You understand, though—his fame started before you even met, back in high school. It's always been a part of him, and now, it’s a part of you, too.

You turn to him, his face set in concentration as his eyes stay fixed on the road, hands gripping the wheel with quiet intensity. His other hand rests on your thigh, warm and grounding, but his tension is palpable. You know he’s fuming under the surface.

“I’m fine,” you say softly, trying to ease the tension you feel in the air.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but you can feel the frustration radiating from him. “I just don’t like it," he mutters, his voice thick with possessiveness. "I don’t want them near you.”

You nod, knowing he’s never quite gotten used to the way the press invades your life. But there’s nothing you can do to escape it—not with him by your side.

Without another word, he hits the button to lower the convertible roof. The whoosh of the mechanism pulls you from your thoughts as the warm breeze rushes in. Instantly, your hair is whipped into a wild mess, the night air lifting it in a way that makes you feel free, untamed.

You laugh, the sound light and carefree as the wind kisses your face, tugging at your skin. “This is better,” you say, eyes closing for a moment, letting the breeze wash over you.

He glances at you, his hand tightening on your thigh. “You’re stunning,” he says, voice full of quiet admiration.

You smile, teasing him. “It’s just the wind.”

He grins, but there’s something deeper in his gaze.

“No. It’s you.”