She keeps walking, eyes fixed ahead like I’m the only stable thing in a sea of flashing lights.
She came here.
For me.
Every protective instinct I own lights up at once. Not the thoughtful kind. The reflexive kind. The kind that belongs to the part of me that’s spent years keeping men twice her size from getting past me.
I push through the bodies, ignoring the questions snapping at my back, eyes locked on her like if I look away she’ll disappear.
She shouldn’t have to do this.
There’s language in our contract about public alignment, about appearing together when it's strategic. There was no mention of ambushes in parking lots.
By the time she reaches me, the noise is deafening.
She stops right in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume under the exhaust and sweat and asphalt. Clean. Familiar. Comforting in a way that throws me off balance.
“Hi,” she says quietly.
Not for them. For me.
There’s a plea threaded through the word.
Don’t leave me standing here alone.
I place my hand on her lower back—firm, steady—just enough to guide her forward.
The reaction is instant.
The paparazzi lose their minds.
“DID YOU SEE THAT?”
“CAM, ARE YOU CONFIRMING?”
“LILA AND CAM!”
I angle my body without thinking, shifting so I’m between her and the nearest cameras. I block half the lenses just by existing, and I know it. I’ve done this before. I know how to take up space when it matters.
I dip my head slightly, keeping my mouth near her ear. “You okay?”
She nods. Small. Tight. “I’m better now.”
Better.
Because she’s standing next to me.
The realization lands hard.
She leans in just enough that only I can hear her next words. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Notus.
Me.
Security finally finds an opening, carving a narrow path through the crowd. I don’t let go of her back as we move. I guide her toward the SUV, keeping my body angled, absorbing the shoves and shouted questions so she doesn’t have to.
Somewhere behind us, a reporter yells something about “protective boyfriend,” and the word rings in my head longer than it should.
