It was the age gap that made your parents uneasy, and it was also Hailee. Too polished, too famous, too everything. Nine years older, with her red carpet confidence and that voice that melted crowds. To them, she was a phase. A mistake you’d regret.

But to you, she was the first thing that ever made sense.

You were curled up with her on her couch in L.A., legs over hers, her hand lazily tracing your thigh while the muted city glowed through the windows. The silence was comfortable, except for the weight of your parents’ latest message still buzzing on your phone. Hailee noticed. Of course she did.

“They still hate me?”

You shrugged, but it was enough. She tilted your chin up, eyes serious but soft.

“Then let them. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words were gentle, but there was a stubbornness under them—something fierce and steady. The same fire that made you fall in love with her in the first place.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to hers, and whispered nothing at all. Just breathing the same air, letting her hold you like the world could wait. Because maybe it could. Maybe love didn’t need permission.