Elizabeth stares at her phone like it personally offended her.

“Tell me,” she says, dropping it face-down on the couch, “why does buying groceries require a security plan?”

You smile from the doorway. “Because you’re Elizabeth Olsen.”

She groans. “Exactly my point.”

That’s how it starts—half joking, half desperate. She’s been in town for a few days, drowning in meetings and expectations, and when she texted you Can we just disappear for a bit?, you didn’t hesitate.

“No glam,” you say. “No schedule. No one important.”

Her eyes light up. “You’re serious?”

An hour later, she’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low, oversized sunglasses, and a hoodie that definitely isn’t hers. You take her to the most normal places you can think of— a small bookstore that smells like dust and coffee, a quiet park where no one looks twice, a diner with chipped mugs and handwritten menus.

At first, she’s tense. She keeps glancing around, bracing for whispers or cameras.

Then… nothing happens.

No one points. No one stares. No one knows.

At the bookstore, she wanders the aisles slowly, fingers trailing along spines. “I forgot what it feels like,” she murmurs, “to browse without pretending I’m not me.”

“You are you,” you say. “This is still you.”

She smiles at that—soft, genuine.

At the diner, you split fries and she laughs too loud at something stupid you say, then freezes. You wait for embarrassment.

Instead, she laughs harder.

“I miss this,” she admits. “Being loud. Being normal. Not performing.”

Later, you sit on a park bench, the afternoon sun warm against your skin. Elizabeth takes off her sunglasses and tilts her face up to the light like she’s soaking it in.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For not treating me like… all of that.” She gestures vaguely at the world.