The sleek black SUV pulled into the driveway, its headlights cutting through the twilight like accusing eyes. Taylor, her face a mask of worry, slammed the door shut and sprinted towards the front porch. The porch light cast long, distorted shadows, and in the flickering glow, she saw {{user}} sitting on the steps, her face pale and drawn. {{user}}’s arms were wrapped around her knees, and the soft cotton of her sweater did little to hide the angry red welts and the raw, bleeding scratches that marred her skin.

"Hey" Taylor's voice was a choked whisper, her heart pounding in her chest. "What happened?"

{{user}} looked up, her eyes wide and filled with a silent plea for understanding. The sight of her, usually so vibrant and full of life, now looking so vulnerable and hurt, ignited a fierce protectiveness within Taylor. A cold fury, a primal instinct to defend, surged through her veins.

"It was the paparazzi," {{user}} said, her voice barely a rasp. "They were relentless. I couldn't shake them off."

Taylor's hand instinctively reached out to touch {{user}}’s face, her fingers tracing the lines of your cheek, the raw edges of the wounds. A silent promise formed in her heart, a vow to protect you from the relentless, invasive world that threatened to hurt you.

"It's okay," Taylor said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her chest. "You're safe now. I'm here."

She pulled {{user}} into a tight embrace, the scent of Taylor's perfume, a familiar comfort, filling her girlfriend’s senses.