edit later, also move if it should be somewhere else.

The second they stepped off the plane, she knew it would be bad.

The kind of bad that lived in camera shutters.
In forced smiles.
In security guards with clipped walkie-talkies and eyes that said brace for impact.

She adjusted her sunglasses with one hand and tightened her grip on the handle of her weekender with the other, keeping her head high as they exited through the private terminal doors and stepped into the chaos outside.

Paparazzi.
Everywhere.

Lenses snapping like lightning strikes, bodies jostling against the barricades, voices sharp and overlapping—

“Lilith! Nico! Is it serious?”
“Did you really spend two nights in the penthouse at the Imperial?”
“Lilith, are you pregnant or just letting yourself go?”
“Is he just another song, or is this the real thing?”

She flinched—just slightly.
Not at the questions.
At the way they said them.
Like she was meat.
Like she was currency.
Like her body was the only part of her they thought had value, and even that wasn’t good enough.

A comment flew out from the back—something about her thighs.
Her hips.
The "bloat."

The words didn’t hit her skin.
They hit her stomach.
Heavy.
Rotten.
Familiar.

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t break pace.

Not when she felt his hand.

There.

On her lower back.

Firm.
Protective.
Unapologetic.

He didn’t speak.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t wave.

He just stayed close.
Shoulder brushing hers.
Chest angled in front of hers when the photographers pushed forward.
A human shield in soft black and jetlag and steady breath.

The questions kept coming.
The shutters never stopped.

But his presence was louder.

And God, she needed that.

Because this wasn’t Vienna.
This wasn’t candlelit dinners and old architecture and soft mornings in hotel sheets.
This was L.A.
This was home.
This was the price of letting anyone know she was happy.

And right now, it felt like suffocating.

Lilith kept walking, head high, mouth set in something elegant and unreadable. Her nails dug crescent moons into the leather of her bag strap.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

Because the moment they got inside the car, she already knew—
She was going to fall apart.

And he was going to catch it.

He saw it in her shoulders first.

Not the usual Lilith roll—proud, predatory, the kind that made stylists sigh and headlines write themselves. No. This was different. Tighter. Defensive. A silent brace wrapped in black silk and bone-deep exhaustion.

Nico didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

He just moved closer, hand sliding to the small of her back like instinct, like compass, like mine. His fingers pressed firm—not to lead, but to anchor. He let his body do the talking: I see you. I’ve got you. Fuck them.

The chaos surged.

Cameras clicked like a storm breaking glass.
Questions were barbed wires flung from open mouths.

And he watched her swallow every one.

Watched her jaw clench.
Watched her lashes dip behind designer frames that didn’t hide a goddamn thing from him.

That comment—that one—about her body?

He felt her flinch.

Not with her face. Never that. But he knew her too well. Felt the shift in her gait, the catch in her breath. He wanted to turn. To say something. To destroy someone.

But Lilith kept walking.

So he did too.

Eyes forward. Hand steady. The quiet fury in his chest caged behind calm.

By the time they reached the car, her silence was deafening. Controlled. Glacial. But her hands…

Her hands were shaking.

He opened the door for her. Always did. Let her in first, followed close behind, and slammed it shut hard enough to make the driver jump.

Then stillness.

The kind only she ever earned from him.

Lilith stared out the tinted window, glasses still on, breath shallow like she was holding something back by force alone.

Nico reached for her hand.

Waited.

When she gave it—without words, without looking—he laced their fingers together and brought her knuckles to his mouth.

No kiss. Just breath. Just presence.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked with the ache of watching her suffer.

No cameras now.
No headlines.
Just him and her and the cost of surviving.

“I’ve got you, Emilia.”

He used the name no one else knew.

And slowly—slowly—he felt her thumb brush his.

Her armor didn’t fall all at once.

But it cracked.

And that was enough.

For now.

She didn’t speak.

Not when the door shut.
Not when the flashes finally disappeared behind black tinted glass.
Not even when Nico’s fingers laced with hers like a lifeline he wasn’t letting go of.

She just stared.

Out the window.
At nothing.
At her own reflection—blurred, distorted, too much.

Too full in the face.
Too soft in the jaw.
Too bloated.

Her mother’s voice came back first.

“Chew slower, Lilith.”
“You know what pasta does to your waist.”
“You can’t afford to look thick on camera. Pretty doesn’t save you if you’re puffy.”

Lilith blinked. Hard.
She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep from clenching her jaw so tight it hurt.

She’d been good in Vienna.
Free.
Happy.
Nico had taken pictures of her in candlelight. Told her she looked like a painting—like decadence itself. And she’d believed him.

She’d let herself eat.
Let herself enjoy it.

And for a while, she hadn’t felt guilty.

Until some man with a camera and a god complex decided her body was public domain again.
Until one fucking sentence opened the door to a hundred childhood memories she’d spent years clawing out of her spine.

She hadn’t been fat.
Not then.
Not now.

But her mother had always found ways to make her feel like she was.
A little bloating. A little fullness after a long flight. A black dress that clung instead of skimmed.

That was all it took to rip open the stitches.

She exhaled slowly.

Then finally—finally—turned toward him.

“I know it was just one comment,” she said quietly, voice like cracked glass. “I know.”

She didn’t cry.
Didn’t even look like she might.
She looked furious.

At herself.
At the world.
At the way her stomach still felt wrong in her dress even though she knew better.

“But it’s not just one. It’s never been just one.”

She took off her sunglasses, placed them in her lap like she needed both hands to feel what she was saying.

“It’s every time someone looks at me like I should apologize for taking up space. Every time someone measures my worth in inches. Every time someone assumes the soft parts of me mean I’m weak or lazy or unlovable.”

Her voice cracked there—but not with sadness.

With rage.

“I was ten the first time she told me to skip dinner. Ten.”

She looked down at their joined hands. At his thumb tracing soft circles over her skin like he knew. Like he felt it in his chest, too.

“And I’ve worked so hard, Nico. To unlearn it. To fucking heal. And I thought I was past it.”

A bitter breath.
A laugh that didn’t carry any real joy.

“I didn’t even regret anything we ate until that second. Not the chocolate. Not the wine. Not the late-night croissants.”

She finally met his eyes.

“I felt beautiful. You made me feel that way. And now I’m sitting here wondering if I imagined it.”

The words sat heavy in the air between them.

But her voice had steadied.

Because she’d spoken it aloud.
Unclenched the shame.
Let it breathe in a space that wasn’t trying to shrink her.

She squeezed his hand once, hard.

Then looked out the window again.

Quiet now.

But not silent.
Not anymore.

Nico didn’t speak right away.

He couldn’t.

Because her words—

They gutted him.

Not just for what they said. But for what they cost her to say.

He watched her: shoulders tense, hands still, face carved from fury and something far older. And he knew—God, he knew—this wasn’t about a single comment from a man with a zoom lens and no soul.

It was about the thousand times before that.

The ones she never told him about.
The ones she thought he wouldn’t understand.

He lifted their joined hands.

Brought hers to his mouth.

Pressed a kiss into the center of her palm, slow and reverent, like it was the only language he trusted right now.

Then—finally—his voice:

“You didn’t imagine it.”

Low. Steady. The kind of truth that didn’t waver, even when spoken into wreckage.

“You were beautiful then. You’re beautiful now. You’re beautiful when you’re laughing in bed with crumbs on your shirt and wine on your lips and that little freckle on your chin you always try to cover up.”

He turned fully in his seat.

Caught her face in his hand—gentle but unyielding. Thumb brushing beneath her eye, jaw tipped toward him.

“You felt good in your skin because you were allowed to be in it. Because you gave yourself permission. Not because I told you to. Not because I made you. You chose that.”

His voice thickened.

“You chose to eat. To enjoy. To live. And I will never let anyone make you feel like that was a mistake.”

His jaw clenched then—sharp and hot behind his words.

“And if I ever meet the photographer who said that shit? Or anyone who thinks they get to critique your body like it’s a fucking press release—”

He exhaled, slow.

Leashed it.

Then softened again.

“But right now? I just want you to breathe.”

He leaned in.

Pressed his forehead to hers.

Let their breath mingle. Let her feel the steady of him. The warmth. The home.

“You’re not ten,” he whispered. “You’re not hers. You’re not small.”

His hand found her waist—not to shrink, not to squeeze. Just to hold.

“To me? You’ve always taken up exactly the right amount of space.”

Then—

A kiss.

To her forehead.

Her cheek.

Her mouth.

Soft and grounding and real.

And when he pulled back, his voice barely held together:

“I love every inch of you, Emilia Valentine. Every scar. Every soft part. Every single piece you ever thought you had to earn.”

He tucked her sunglasses back into her lap with care.

Then looked at her—fully.

Like he was choosing her again. Right there. In the aftermath.

“Now let me remind you what beautiful looks like when it’s not up for debate.”

She felt it leave her chest.

Not all at once. Not like some cinematic exhale of pain—but slowly.
Like pressure bleeding out of a bruise that had been there for too long.

His words didn’t hit her the way compliments usually did.
They didn’t slide off the surface.
They sank.
Into the places her mother had carved hollow.

And when he said you chose that—
God.

She blinked fast.

Because yes.
She had.
And she’d been proud.
Of the dinners, the softness, the laughter in her stomach and the syrup on her fingers.

But she hadn’t realized until now how much she still feared being punished for it.

And Nico—
Nico had seen that fear.
Cradled it.
Told it no.

The anger curled in her gut loosened. Didn’t disappear—nothing that old ever really did—but softened.

Like every time he kissed her.
Like the way he said her name.
Like the way he touched her waist now, not like he was trying to define it—but like he just wanted to feel it.

She breathed.

Actually breathed.

Her shoulders dropped. Her fingers twitched in his. Her eyes didn’t sting anymore.

And when he called her by her name—her real one—
Emilia.

It cracked something else.
Something good.

She leaned into the kiss he gave her. Not hungry. Not desperate.
Just home.

Because this—
This was how she knew.

Not from the sex.
Not from the travel or the stolen champagne or the lyrics he’d tucked her name into.

But this.

The part where he looked at her wreckage and never once turned away.
Where he didn’t try to fix it. Just made room.

Her hand rose slowly, brushing his hair back from his forehead—slightly unruly from the flight. Her thumb lingered at his temple, tracing a line only she seemed to know was there.

And though her mouth curved next, playful and sharp and light on the outside—

Her eyes?
They stayed on him.
Steady.

Soft.

Grateful in a way she didn’t dare put into words.

Thank you, they said.
For bringing me back.
For seeing me when I was disappearing.

“God,” she murmured finally, voice low but clearer now, shaped around a crooked smile, “you’re so hot when you threaten men for me.”

He huffed out a laugh—quiet, relieved.

Lilith leaned back against the seat, legs shifting to tangle with his. Her head dropped to his shoulder.

“I mean, really. You get that jaw tension and it’s like… yes, sir. Ruin a man’s life for me.”

A beat.

She glanced up at him from under her lashes, grin teasing, eyes still soft.

“You planning on knocking out a paparazzo for me, lover? Because I feel like we’d look amazing in matching mugshots.”

And just like that—
The world hadn’t vanished.
But it felt lighter.

Because her hand was in his.
And her body was hers again.
And no one—not one person—was allowed to make her feel small when he looked at her like this.

Like she was everything.

Nico laughed.

Not because it wasn’t serious.

But because that’s what she gave him—the space to breathe again, too. To shake off the tightness in his chest and wrap it in something warmer. Softer. Wiser than rage.

She had that gift.

Even when she was hurting.

Especially then.

His fingers squeezed hers just once before dragging his hand slowly up her thigh, settling there with a casual weight that was anything but casual.

“Matching mugshots?” he echoed, lips grazing her temple. “God, we’d look so hot.”

He turned to her, catching her eyes again—still soft, still stung at the edges, but alive. Burning. Bright.

“You in that black leather jacket you pretend isn’t yours—eyes all smudged and dangerous,” he said, voice low and half a grin, “me in a wrinkled white tee, probably still bleeding from breaking some guy’s camera with my forehead.”

A pause. Then, mock-thoughtful:

“Yeah. You’d definitely get fan art.”

His thumb brushed lightly across her exposed thigh, not teasing—grounding. Familiar.

“But I don’t need an arrest record to make you feel protected, Emilia.”

The name again—intentional this time. Solid and real.

He shifted just slightly so he could face her more, letting their legs tangle, letting their knees touch.

“You shouldn’t have to get smaller to survive this. Not for your mother. Not for the press. Not for anyone.” His voice deepened. “And especially not for me.”

He leaned forward and kissed her again, slow and sure—just a press of mouths and meaning.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against hers.

“And if anyone else ever talks about your body like it’s theirs to critique, I swear to God, Emilia…” He chuckled then, dry and low, “You won’t even see it coming. Just one broken lens and a lot of legal fees.”

He kissed her nose—quick, easy, him.

“Now,” he murmured, thumb circling the inside of her wrist, “you want me to take you home? Or should we go find the best goddamn bakery in L.A. and eat something so decadent you’ll be mad about it in the best possible way?”

His smile turned wicked.

“I’ll feed you every fucking bite.”

God, he was good at this.

At slicing through her grief with laughter—not minimizing it, not covering it up, just… softening it. Letting it breathe. Letting her breathe.

Lilith’s lips curved, small at first, the kind of smile that didn’t quite trust itself yet—but it was real. It was hers.

His voice curled around her name again, deliberate. She felt it land in her chest with a soft, weighted thud. Emilia. No headlines. No persona. Just her.

He always made it feel like enough.

Her eyes dropped briefly to his hand, still curled warm and sure on her thigh, then back to his mouth—the one that had just offered to destroy cameras for her and feed her pastries in the same breath. The one that always said mine without needing to say the word.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, shaking her head as her grin stretched wider, “you’re lucky you’re hot.”

He raised a brow, already smug.

She leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth once—lazy, fond, not quite chaste. “And you’re even luckier I like watching you spiral into soft-core vigilante fantasy for me.”

Her hand rose, brushing his jaw lightly, thumb trailing over the place where tension always settled when he was holding himself back for her sake.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said softly. Then, quieter, “And I love you for it.”

The words slipped out so effortlessly, so naturally, that it made her heart clench.

Not because she was afraid of them.

But because he wasn’t.

He took them in like breath. Like blood.

Like he already knew.

And when he asked about the bakery, offering indulgence like a prayer she wouldn’t have to feel guilty for—when he said he’d feed her every bite—her chest stung.

Because she knew he meant it.

Not just the sugar, or the cream, or the ritual of sweetness—
But the permission.
The care.
The act of making room for her exactly as she was.

She blinked, lashes damp even though she hadn’t realized her eyes were glassy again.

“God, you’re dangerous,” she murmured, her voice a little rough now. “You say shit like that and then wonder why I want to climb you in public.”

A beat.

She curled a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him into another kiss—this one longer. Deeper. Not for show, not for thanks, just because.

When she pulled back, their lips still brushing, she whispered, “Take me to the bakery, Nico.”

Her eyes opened, bright and unflinching.

“And then take me home.”

Because she was choosing it.

Herself. Her body.
The boy who worshipped both.
The joy she refused to starve for anyone.

And she wasn’t apologizing for it.

Not anymore.

He swore his heart stopped for a second.

Not when she kissed him.
Not when she smiled like that—crooked and recovering, soft in all the places the world had tried to harden.

It was when she said I love you for it.

So effortlessly. So fucking real.

No defenses. No glittering armor. Just her. Just Emilia.

And God, he felt it everywhere.

In his chest. His ribs. The hollow behind his throat where her name always landed.
Because it wasn’t the first time she’d said it—but every time she meant it like this, he felt like she was handing him a crown he didn’t know he’d been worthy of.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t deflect.

He just leaned in and rested his forehead against hers, like he could press his own vow into the space between their skin.

“I love you too,” he said quietly. “So fucking much it makes me stupid.”

A breath passed.

Then he grinned.

“But like—functional stupid. Like I could still book our table and tip twenty-five percent but also throw hands for you in a Whole Foods parking lot if the vibe was off.”

She laughed—God, that sound—and he felt himself relax into it like gravity had finally tilted toward something holy.

And when she said Take me to the bakery. And then take me home, there wasn’t even a flicker of hesitation in him.

“Say less,” he whispered.

Because of course he would.

He’d buy every pastry on the menu if she asked.
Hold her hand as she licked sugar off her fingers and looked at him like he wasn’t real.
And then he’d take her home, draw the curtains, and love her slow enough to prove every ugly thing ever said about her body was a fucking lie.

No stage.
No performance.
Just them.

And he’d keep doing it.

Every day.

Every morning she woke up soft or aching or unsure.
Every time someone tried to make her flinch.
Every time she looked in the mirror and forgot how beautiful she really was.

Because that’s what love was to him.

Not the fireworks.

But the staying.

The bakery runs.
The silent hands in car rides.
The way she said Nico when she needed something that didn’t have a name.

He kissed her again.
One more for the road.
Then reached for his phone.

“Croissants and sin incoming,” he murmured.

And beneath the weight of all they’d survived—
She smiled like she already knew:

He’d feed her.
Worship her.
Fight for her.

Forever.

She watched him unlock his phone.

Something about the ease of it—the casual confidence in his fingers as he tapped open the rideshare app, the way he didn’t even have to ask what she wanted, just knew—settled in her like warmth.

Not adrenaline.
Not lust.
Something deeper.
Softer.

He scrolled for a second, then typed in the name of a little French bakery tucked off La Cienega. The one they’d stumbled across months ago after a late-night event when she’d still been too high off adrenaline to sleep. The one with flaky croissants and lemon tarts that made her moan out loud in a way that nearly derailed them in the back booth.

He added it without speaking, eyes flicking up once—just to check. Just to confirm.

She gave the barest nod.

And watched as the route updated.
As the little blue line on the GPS rerouted like fate had never meant them to go anywhere else.

He didn’t say anything about it.
Didn’t make it a gesture.
Didn’t treat it like a favor.

Just tapped “confirm” and set his phone face-down on the center console like it was done. Like it was decided.

And it was.

Because he always did that.

Adjusted without asking. Made space without conditions. Turned detours into devotion without ever saying the word.

She glanced at him—really looked.

Hair tousled from her hands. Jaw still tight with the echo of earlier rage. Mouth pink from kissing hers too long, too deep. And eyes…

God, those eyes.

Focused now on the city beyond the window. But soft. Guard down. Open in the way he only ever was with her.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, tucking into the crook like she was made to fit there.

Because she was.

She didn’t say thank you. Not out loud.

But the way she sighed into him—relieved and wrecked and ready to let herself be held again—said enough.

And when she kissed his neck, just once, slow and thoughtful, her smile caught against his skin.

“You know,” she murmured, teasing but hushed now, “you rerouting the car for pastries might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever done.”

She felt him huff a laugh, low in his chest.

Her lips brushed his pulse.

“And that includes that one time in Milan when you bought me five desserts just so I’d let you unlace my corset with your teeth.”

Another laugh—sharper now.

But she stayed curled in close, her fingers brushing lightly over the inside of his wrist.

Not playful.
Not seductive.

Just close.

Because she didn’t need to be anything else right now.
Not perfect.
Not small.
Not palatable.

Just his.

And Nico?

He didn’t just let her be.

He loved her there.