#m3

warnings: mild public anxiety, unwanted attention, parasocial behavior, protective partner, brief discomfort in public, soft hurt/comfort, established relationship fluff

—

you don’t mind going out with marlon.

not really.

you just… know what can happen.

the restaurant isn’t even that crazy — just somewhere casual downtown, dim lights, music low enough that you can actually talk. you’re halfway through laughing at something he said when you notice it.

the double takes.

the whispers.

one guy nudging his friend.

marlon notices it a second after you do.

he sighs softly under his breath. “here we go.”

you give him a small smile. “it’s fine.”

it usually is. a quick photo, a handshake, maybe a “love the streams bro,” and that’s it.

but tonight there’s more than one.

a group of three guys approach first, polite enough, asking for a picture. marlon stands up automatically, easy smile in place. you shift slightly in your seat, turning your body away from the angle of their phone.

you’re used to this part.

what you’re not used to is one of them glancing at you.

“yo wait— who’s that?”

your stomach tightens.

you instinctively look down, lifting your hand casually to your cheek like you’re fixing your hair. you angle your face away from the camera as subtly as you can.

marlon sees it.

he sees everything.

his smile doesn’t drop, but it changes — tighter around the edges.

“just a friend,” he says smoothly.

the guy lingers a second too long, like he wants to ask more. but marlon’s already stepping slightly to the side, blocking the line of sight to you without making it obvious.

picture taken. quick thanks. they walk away.

you let out a breath.

“you good?” he asks quietly as he sits back down.

“yeah,” you nod. “i just don’t wanna end up on someone’s twitter thread.”

his jaw tightens slightly.

before he can answer, two girls approach next. same thing. asking for a photo. one of them already holding her phone up, camera pointed.

you turn your body even more this time, practically hiding behind your water glass. you feel stupid doing it, but the thought of your face being zoomed in, analyzed, posted somewhere makes your chest feel tight.

marlon stands again — but this time, his hand briefly squeezes your shoulder before he steps away from the table entirely.

he moves a few feet away to take the photo.

creating distance.

so you’re not in frame.

the second it’s over, he comes back, expression controlled but eyes scanning you carefully.

“we’re leaving,” he says quietly.

you blink. “we just got our food.”

“i don’t care.”

“marlon—”

“i don’t care,” he repeats, softer but firm. “you’re uncomfortable.”

you try to brush it off. “i’m fine. it’s not that big of a deal.”

he leans closer across the table, voice low.

“you shouldn’t have to hide your face on a date.”

that hits harder than you expect.

another table nearby is very obviously whispering now, phones subtly angled in your direction.

marlon notices that too.

he exhales through his nose, then reaches for his wallet.

“i’m paying then we’ll leave,” he says.

“we can just stay—”

“no.”

not angry.

protective.

he signals the server, asks for everything boxed up instead. while you wait, he shifts his chair closer to yours, shoulder brushing against you like he’s physically shielding you from the room.

one more person approaches — a guy holding his phone out already recording.

“yo marlon, quick pic?”

marlon doesn’t even stand this time.

“not tonight,” he says calmly.

the guy looks surprised. “oh— my bad.”

marlon nods once. “appreciate it.”

it’s not rude. just final.

the boxes come. he pays quickly, barely glancing at the receipt. the second you’re both standing, his hand finds yours.

not loosely.

firm.

guiding you toward the exit.

outside, the night air hits your face and you finally relax a little.

“i’m sorry,” you say automatically.

he stops walking.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because we had to leave.”

he looks at you like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“i don’t care about the restaurant,” he says. “i care about you not feeling like you have to hide.”

you swallow.

“i just don’t want your fans to—”

“they’re my fans,” he cuts in. “not yours.”

his thumb rubs over your knuckles.

“they don’t get access to you,” he says quietly. “that’s not part of the deal.”

you look down at your joined hands.

“i can handle it,” you say softly.

“i know you can,” he replies. “but you shouldn’t have to.”

there’s something steady in his voice. not dramatic. not possessive in a showy way. just protective.

he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

“next time,” he says, “we go somewhere private.”

you smile faintly. “or we order in.”

“even better.”

his arm slides around your shoulders as you walk to the car, pulling you into his side like it’s instinct.

and this time, there are no cameras.

—