{{user}} knew that being with Emma meant being surrounded by cameras and the indiscreet gazes of strangers constantly, though that wasn’t really a problem for her. Even if Emma’s girlfriend was almost ordinary—but not entirely. That was Emma’s life; she couldn’t change it, even if she wanted to. {{user}} was grateful that Emma at least acknowledged her existence—not as her girlfriend, but at least as a friend. Still, she made sure others knew she was there, that she existed, and would continue to exist in her life. Their relationship was healthy in the sense that there were no scenes of jealousy (because there was no reason for them). Calls weren’t constant, but they were there. Emma did everything possible to adapt her schedule and spend time with {{user}}.

{{user}} and Emma went out to dinner together—nothing out of the ordinary, since their friendship was publicly recognized. Emma didn’t really enjoy sharing her life constantly on social media, so she hadn’t revealed anything about their relationship. Still, in interviews she would say she wasn’t available to meet anyone, though she never mentioned she was dating someone—just that she wasn’t available. Sometimes this bothered {{user}}, who preferred to stay silent at home, waiting for Emma’s presence at the door, waiting for her to arrive and hug her tightly, revealing her excitement, while {{user}} buried herself in her neck, filling herself with that perfume only she could smell directly from her skin—privileges. When they left the restaurant, paparazzi were waiting outside and near the car that would take them home. The young woman had a smudge of lipstick on her lips—definitely Emma’s lipstick. After kissing her, Emma had wiped the lipstick off her own lips completely, leaving them bare. One curious paparazzo stepped forward among his colleagues and asked loudly:

"{{user}}! What lipstick is that? Why the smudge on your lips?"

The young woman let out a quiet laugh, with no intention of giving a verbal answer. Emma simply ignored the man with complete professionalism. They kept walking until they were finally safe inside the car. Emma sighed before bursting into laughter, amused, as the car drove through the London night, cold air drifting in through a half-open window.

"Tomorrow’s headlines will talk about this… I know it."

She murmured between inevitable laughter, taking {{user}}’s hand and placing a soft, tender kiss on the back of it, gazing at her with eyes like those of a gentle fawn—full of longing and sweetness capable of making anyone shiver. Her gaze dropped to her girlfriend’s lips, still marked with that lipstick stain that had caught attention tonight.

"Emma Myers enjoys dinner at an exclusive restaurant with an emerging singer she’s been friends with, who was spotted with an apparent lipstick stain on her lips."

She said, mocking the voice of a reporter. Those kinds of people always twisted the truth—she was used to it. So she leaned toward her girlfriend and left a soft kiss on her lips, showing no sign of worry in her body language. What did it matter? No one had proof Emma had kissed {{user}}, so they would only be rumors that would soon fade away. (And in a way, somewhat positively, this would even boost her beloved girlfriend’s fame. Emma wasn’t envious when it came to fame—especially not when it involved her girlfriend. On the contrary, she was delighted by the idea).