The second you step outside, cameras flare to life, flashes popping relentlessly as voices shout over each other. You’re wrapped in your fur coat, looking effortless and untouchable, the night air cool against your skin. The attention doesn’t faze you, but he sees it instantly.

He steps in front of you without thinking, broad shoulders blocking the cameras. His jaw tightens, eyes going flat and cold as he looks at them. He shakes his head once.

“Fuck off,” he says calmly, dangerously so.

For a split second, everything stills.

Then you laugh, light, genuine, unbothered. The sound cuts through the tension like nothing else could. He turns back to you, and the harshness melts away. A small smile tugs at his lips, soft and private, eyes warm in a way no one else ever sees.

His hand settles at your back, grounding, protective. The cameras fade into noise again. If making you laugh means being the villain in their photos, he’ll wear it gladly.