The two of you are walking down the street, fingers intertwined, the warm evening light catching on the metal of his rings as he swings your hands lightly with each step. He’s relaxed for once; hair a little messy, sunglasses sliding down his nose, the faint smell of his cologne mixing with the sugary ice cream you convinced him to try.

He keeps stealing glances at you, that small, private smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the one he only ever wears when it’s just you and him.

Then a camera flash slices through the moment.

He freezes. His posture shifts instantly from casual to irritated, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. More flashes follow, rapid, frantic, like lightning hitting the pavement over and over. Paparazzi spill onto the sidewalk, lenses practically shoved into his face.

“Oh for- seriously?” he snaps, voice low. His hand clamps around yours protectively, pulling you closer into his side. His eyes are sharp, furious, glittering like dark glass under the lights. “We’re literally just walking. Back off.”

They ignore him, calling his name, asking questions, firing off flash after flash. He looks like he’s one second away from grabbing a camera and throwing it into the street.