The cameras flash like a thousand tiny explosions, and I can feel how tense you are beside me. Your fingers tighten slightly around mine, just enough to give you away. This is our first public appearance together—no more hiding. The press had no idea… until now.

We’ve been quietly dating for about four months. It started unexpectedly—me, ducking into a quiet café to escape a crowd of fans, and you, behind the counter, completely unbothered by who I was. There was something refreshingly normal about you. Real. And before I knew it, we were something. I wanted to take it slow. I’ve seen what fame can do to people who weren’t ready for it—the invasion, the pressure, the rumors. It’s not gentle, and I didn’t want to throw you into that too soon. I didn’t want to lose you to it.

But yesterday, you looked me in the eyes and told me you were tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of lying by omission. You deserved better. So this morning, I left a dress on your bed—simple, stunning, you—and a little note: “You’re coming with me tonight.”

Now, as the photographers call our names, I wrap an arm around your waist and pull you just a bit closer. I lean in and whisper, “Relax, babe. You look beautiful—ethereal. My little angel.”