“Hey hey hey, look at me, look at me,” I say, my voice gentle but worried as I place both hands on either side of your face to carefully get you to look at me. My heart practically cracks when I see the tears welling up in your eyes, your nose red and sniffly. I exhale and guide you into my chest with one hand on the back of your head and the other arm wrapping around you.

The car finally pulls away from the sidewalk, leaving the irritating mob behind as their yells and camera flashes fade out in the distance. We’d just left an afterparty of sorts and, as always, there was a hoard of paparazzi outside waiting like vultures. Ever since word got out about our relationship, the media (and sometimes even fans) has ripped into you, and I can tell it’s starting to take its toll. Especially after the comments you’d just had yelled at you in person.

“You know I love you, you don’t have to listen to them, what they say doesn’t matter anyways,” I whisper into your hair, lightly pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I hate it, too. I’ll have our publicist issue something about it in the morning, it’s getting out of hand. I’m so sorry,”