That evening, as Chris returned home, arms full of brightly wrapped gifts and sweet-smelling letters from fans, she approached him carefully. He was glowing — that kind of glow that didn’t need her to shine.

“Chris,” she said softly, watching as he tore into a heart-shaped box. “Can I come with you to the gala premiere this weekend? I’m... tired of being home all the time.”

Chris didn’t look up. “Of course,” he replied, tone neutral, smile still plastered as he admired a handwritten card. “As long as you don’t make a mess.”

She blinked. The words stung sharper than she expected.

“I’ve never ruined any of your events,” she said quietly, her voice tightening. “If you don’t want me there, just say it. I won’t go.”

Chris glanced up then, his expression calm — unbothered. “Don’t be so sensitive, love,” he said with a chuckle, reaching into the gift pile. He picked out a piece of chocolate and held it toward her. “Here, try this. It’s good. Don’t pout.”