𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 (𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴)

❛❛chapter thirty-eight: i'll keep you warm❜❜

❧Elizabeth POV☙

I started down the stairs of the building to go to the exit. The stairwell had an odd earthy smell as it had rained, and people came in with muddy shoes. The rug covering the steps had a large yellow stain that traveled up the wall like someone had spilled something. Ants were roaming around it, probably feeding off of whatever the hell it was. To be honest, it sort of grossed me out. Seeing as this was a popular place, you'd think they'd keep it nice. But compared to what just happened, it was far better. Two grown men fighting over seemingly nothing versus one suspicious-looking stain, I'd go with the latter.

As I got closer down, I could hear a crowd of people chatting. Then finally, the noisemakers came into my view. It was the paparazzi. Women, but mainly men, were stood outside the glass door with cameras and notepads. A few made eye contact with me and then went berserk, causing all of them to notice me. I was really hating myself for not being more discrete, but it's easy to forget since I'm not used to all of this. I looked around a bit to see if there was a different exit, but I couldn't find one. I debated going back up the stairs, but I found it a bit embarrassing. The lads would probably take the piss out of me for being afraid of the reporters. So I decided to suck it up and go out through the front. With each step of mine, my confidence got weaker, and the people got louder. I went out the door and was immediately bombarded with questions.

"Eliza! What's it like being married to John?"

"Do show us the ring!"

"Hey, over here! Smile!"

"Rigby, how expensive was it?"

"Where is John?"

"Are you and Lennon together?"

"When did you elope?"

What in the world were they on about? I wasn't married to John. They must've mistaken me for Cynthia. Yet they still said my name... I didn't know how to respond to all the questions, and I kind of froze up. They didn't like my silence and became more persistent, overwhelming me. I couldn't stand it. When I tried to back up to go back inside, they were behind me. It was like I was drowning in a pool with a ton of hungry sharks. Soon multiple fans arrived were trying to touch me and take my things. They were all shoving me left and right, and I lost my balance. I tripped and fell into someone's arms. Those someone's arms were Johns.

"Lizzie! You alright?" He asked me.

The paparazzi got even more eager and competitive. The fangirls screamed his name on the top of their lungs, piercing my ears.

"NO FAIR! JOHN IS MINE!" Some preteen-looking gal cried.

I yelped as she pulled my hair. John wrapped his arms around me in the act of keeping me safe. A few policemen came out of the building and started pushing people back as John led me into the building with a hand on the small of my back. Once we were safe again, we turned to look at one another. A wave of relief spilled over his face, and mine as well. I pulled him into a hug as a thanks for sort of saving me. Of course, I would've been able to handle it myself, but it was nice of him.

"Why didn't you go out the back door?" He finally spoke.

I pulled away, "What back door?"

He pointed towards it, "Tha' back door."

Right there was a door that I had not seen. I felt so stupid. I wasn't going to admit that, though, because he'd most likely never let it go. Men tend to do that when women do something slightly foolish, I think it's an inferiority thing. It's as if they believe they never do anything stupid. I could name well over a hundred things Lennon has done that were rather dopey.