Juniper POV
The press room smelled like burnt coffee and too much cologne mixing with each other. Cameras clicked in steady rhythm as Tristan answered another question about the upcoming playoffs. I stood a few feet behind him in the small cluster of approved media, notepad in hand, pen moving across the page even though I wasn’t really writing anything useful. We were careful here. Polite distance. His hand only found the small of my back when a photographer asked for a shot. A quick brush of lips against my temple for the cameras when someone shouted for “the couple.” Nothing that felt like the nights we spent behind closed doors.
I kept my expression neutral, the way we’d practiced. Professional journalist, supportive girlfriend. The role still fit a little too tightly sometimes, like
