Outside the coffee shop restroom, you can hear the cameras flash and reporters shout. They're screaming your name, following it by questions that have nothing to do with you. Most of their inquires are about the man you're dating. It's been bad before, but never this bad. You've been curled up on the bathroom floor for the past fifteen minutes, hoping that they'll give up and leave you alone.

They haven't.

You pull out your phone, fumbling through your contacts for Chris' name. You quickly dial it, put the phone to your ear, and sigh with your eyes closed. You foot taps anxiously as you draw your knees up to your chest.

"[Y/n]?" Chris asks, picking up after a few rings.

You smile softly as you hear his voice. "Chris, I need a rescue."

"What's wrong? What happened?"

Wrapping you free arm around your knees, you take a deep breath and explain. "I went to Starbucks to get some writing done, but the stupid paparazzi found me." You sniffle, trying to hide how terrified you are. "They won't leave the front of the store. I can't get to my car. I'm in the bathroom, hiding. I...I..."

"Say no more," Chris states, his tone firm. "I'm on my way. The Starbucks by our place?"

You nod, then verbally answer as cheerily as you can manage, "Yeah, that's the one."

"You don't have to fake it with me," Chris assures you. "You don't have to pretend you're not nervous. I can tell it in your voice, sweetheart. It's me, remember?"

You let out a small chuckle, your heart swelling a bit at his kindness. "I know. I just...I know you have your struggles with anxiety. Didn't want to add onto that."

"Never worry about that," he replies. "Keep talking to me. I'm only a ten-minute drive away. Tell me about what you're writing?"

To Be Continue...