Bill Skarsgård...

A supermarket parking lot, an ordinary evening. You're not wearing makeup, Bill's in sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt. You're just out for milk and cereal.

You were tired, and so was Bill—he had a night shoot. You weren't even thinking about how you looked because you weren't planning on being photographed.
You're loading bags into the trunk, and suddenly there's a bright flash. Then another. A man with a camera jumps out from behind a parked minivan.

"Bill! Bill, smile! How are things going with the couple? Are the breakup rumors true?"

You instinctively cover your face with your hand. Bill is instantly between you and the paparazzi—you didn't even notice him move. His back covers you completely.

"You're filming my girlfriend without permission. Delete it. Now."

The voice is low, cold - this is not a request.
The paparazzi continues to click:

"This is a public place, Bill. I have the right..."

Bill steps forward. He's not aggressive, but there's something about him that makes the paparazzi recoil.

"You have the right to film me. I'm a public figure. She's not. You film her without asking—I'm suing for invasion of privacy. You have three seconds to disappear. One."

The paparazzi hesitates.

"Two."

He turns and walks away, muttering something about "crazy Swedes." Bill turns to you, and the ice in his eyes melts.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... I just... I can't stand it when you're like this."

He exhales and hugs you, holding you tightly.

"Let's go home, we've had enough adventures."