Secret Door - Arctic Monkeys.

"Just take my hand." Tim tells you, trying to peel you away from the hordes of paparazzi and reporters swarming the both of you. People are shoving and pushing, and he's afraid to lose you in the chaos.

Clumsily, he swims out of the thousands and pulls you into him, apologizing for the hectic arrangement of a Wednesday at the Wayne Gala. "There's absolutely nothing for us here." He says, brushing off his family and the public snapping candids every millisecond.

But your head is high and you seem relaxed, giggling when he pushes the main event doors open for a world away from impolite tykes trying to snag pictures. He was reluctant at bring you to the celebration, but you're clearly a natural and now he's just embarrassed at how tense he looks accompanying you. You're trying to get him to dance and share food, yet he's just astonished and occupied in his thoughts. How could a creature survive in such a habitat?

"Are you okay?" He asks, almost taking a moment to squint at your poker face. He can't read what you're feeling. Are you just as nervous as he is or are you a born performer? Maybe he should walk around with his eyes shut and cling to the belief that you're almost pissing yourself with everything that's going on.