pairing: bodyguard!simon "ghost" riley x singer!reader
summary: your bodyguard has to protect you from a mob of crazy fans and intrusive paparazzi
masterlist!
"good night, new york city! i love you so fucking much!" you shouted into the microphone, grinning ear to ear. you had just finished the encore for the last show on your world tour, waving to the crowd, blowing kisses as you were lifted below the stage, disappearing from their view. you've been on tour for 7 months now, traveling through different continents, exploring the cultures of each city.
you begged for your final show to be in the city so you could just take a simple car ride home after your last bow. you don't know how your team pulled it off, but you were grateful.
your tour broke many records, every arena selling out completely. when you found out people were spending thousands of dollars on resale tickets just to see you, you immediately complained to your label, making them reach out to the ticket selling company. the company was able to retrieve a lot of tickets from scalpers to sale to your fans for the original price. you wanted to see your fans just as much as they wanted to see you!
this was the most grueling tour you've had in your career, never being on one for so long, let alone performing over 80 times in different places of the world. your body was completely wrecked, feeling every ache and cramp as you jumped and singed for the final time. your muscles were so sore, knowing your band and dancers were feeling the same. and don't even mention your mental health during tour. let's just say you had many, many breakdowns, your bodyguard having to shield you from paparazzi, who often found you outside your hotels. of course they would always come during the worst times!
unfortunately, some photos were leaked of you crying your eyes out, headlines asking if a secret boyfriend broke up with you, or if you suddenly lost your record deal? just a bunch of stupid shit.
you had endless interviews, photoshoots, and appearances you had to make while on tour, which only added more stress.
you loved your craft, not wanting to change it for anything in the world, very grateful for all the experiences you've had, but you couldn't deny the damage it has done to your body and psyche. you were deserving of a long break after this.
"great show, y/n! that's a wrap!" you heard the robotic voice tell you in your in-ears as the final count ended. you see your mom first, pulling your in-ears out.
"i'm so proud of you, sweetie! what an amazing show! it's been an absolute pleasure seeing you chase your dreams," she hugged you, "always knew you could do it," she kissed your forehead. you could feel tears fill your eyes from your mother's words, knowing you were also crying because the tour was actually over.
you've been moving nonstop the last 7 months. sure, you've had little breaks, but nothing longer than three weeks. you were finally done.
you see your manager next, smiling at her. she returns the smile, letting you hug her. "i'm so proud of you too! after 7 very, very long months, you did it! congrats girl!" your manager winks at you, causing you to laugh. it was a long 7 months.
you suddenly heard shouting, the sound of rapid footsteps getting closer to you. you turn towards the commotion, eyes widening at the sight, the smile never leaving your face.
your dancers and band were full on sprinting towards you, excited whoo hoos! and yeahs! escaping them.
when they reached you, you were circled by them, a group hug taking place, something wet dripping on you.
five of your dancers had champagne bottles popped open, shaking them up and down to celebrate.
you all laughed, reveling in each other's company for the final time on this tour, feeling sticky from the alcohol.
soon your bodyguard, simon, came up behind you, a hand reaching to the small of your back, "have a car coming for you in 10. do ya' need to do anything before leaving?" he asks you, leaning down to your height so you could properly hear him.
when you hired simon two years ago to be your bodyguard, the headlines went crazy. rumors were started on social media, pictures of you and him trending, it was madness.
people thought simon was your boyfriend at first, seeing how he would open every door for you, assisting you when you needed it. even more questions and rumors were raised when people realized the new, mystery man seemingly glued to your side never removed his mask, making his identity unknown. hell, you still didn't even know what simon looked like, and it wasn't your place to budge. he did an amazing job at protecting you, so you weren't complaining.
you had enough of the buzz at some point, getting your press manager to make a statement that you hired a new bodyguard, a man that went by "ghost".
this seemed to satisfy people, the trending ending within the next week.
he stayed bent, leaning his ear towards your mouth, waiting for your response. "no, i'll be ready to leave as soon as they arrive. i'm so beat and tired." "understood," he nods, standing up, "and great show, kid. you were incredible out there," he pulls his hand away.
you internally frown from his loss of contact. you knew it was inappropriate, but you also knew you were attracted to simon. he was a muscular man that treated you nicely. okay, maybe he was paid to treat you nicely, but it still made your stomach drop.
you, shamefully, used your bodyguard as a muse, your lust towards him being an inspiration for a song, a song that may have went number one.
that was a secret you would always keep to yourself. you didn't even tell your producer the truth of how you got the idea for the song, not wanting to verbally admit your small crush on your bodyguard.
you didn't even want to acknowledge it.
you smile at him, moving hair behind your ear, "thanks so much, si! i know you saw me at some low times in the last few months, but i'm so happy you were able to help me through all of it. i'm really thankful i have a fantastic bodyguard like you."
simon stared down at you, watching as you began to fiddle with the rings on your fingers, something he noticed you did whenever you were anxious.
he grabs your hands, taking a hold of both with one of his, "m' happy i could watch over you too, kid. wouldn' change it for anything."
you heart fluttered at this, watching the man in front of you use his other hand to press on his headset. "heard, moving y/n now."
he leans back down to you, dropping your hands, "car arrived a lil' early. we can leave wheneva' yer ready."
you nod, turning towards your crew and mother, walking over to them. "thank you all so much for this incredible journey. i can't believe we've been to 6 different continents together performing music that we all love. i will cherish these moments forever. i will never, ever forget this extraordinary experience. i love you all so much. i feel like you're all family!" you were full on crying at this point.
you could hear small whimpers leave your crew and mom after hearing your speech. you were all feeling very emotional! you felt like you were leaving a part of yourself behind.
you grouped hugged again, swearing this was your actual last hug. you waved to everyone as you exited, saying "alright, we all need thirty hours of sleep now," causing laughs from them.
simon placed a hand on your back again, something he did while transporting you between point a and b, leading you to the car.
"traffic was bad, so they couldn' pull up to the exit door. gonna have to walk two blocks," he says to you as he held a door open.
"fuck! i wish i knew that before leaving, i would've grabbed a jacket. i hope no one notices."
you knew it was too good to be true.
as soon as you rounded the corner, your bodyguard behind you, people noticed you immediately. you could tell they were fans leaving your concert because of their gorgeous outfits. your fans were fucking awesome.
"oh my god!" "is that y/n?" "that's actually her! she's with her bodyguard!"
you moved your head down, quickening your pace to the car, snorting. ghost the bodyguard seemed to have fans too.
the car was only one more block away. you loved your fans and usually never turned down a photo, but you were so tired, you didn't think you could handle it tonight.
suddenly, bright flashes illuminate the dark street, your vision blurring. this was so stupid, you were literally wearing your encore outfit, dozens of sparkles glimmering in the streetlights. of course people were gonna fucking notice you!
simon moved to cover your body, his massive frame doing a decent job at shielding the lights, your vision slowly returning. "this will never happen again. we'll wait all night for them to come to the door if we have to," your bodyguard turns to you.
you nodded in response, using your hand to cover your face, seeing simon use his hands to cover your face too.
the car was coming into view, you also noticing the large crowd that surrounded it. you loved living in the city, but you hated how many people were in the city.
you were a couple feet away from entering the car when it happened. some guy quickly lunged at you, the crowd gasping around you, more flashes going off.
you closed your eyes, body freezing. you braced yourself for impact, but never felt anything. screaming was suddenly heard, "stay the fuck away!" a deep voice grunted.
your eyes opened to see your bodyguard pinning the man on the floor, him talking quickly into his ear piece. before you know it, simon was next to you again, grabbing your arm, pulling you towards the car.
more shouting and camera flashes happened as you reached the car, knowing this was going to go viral later. another shit hole to deal with.
he let you get in first, following behind you, shutting the door. you looked out the tinted windows, seeing the man who tried to lunge at you in handcuffs with three officers surrounding him.
you were in shock, not really knowing what to think or say. fans have grabbed you before, not letting go when they needed to, but you've never had someone lunge at you. it shook you up.
"so sorry that happened," simon says, looking you over, "did he touch ya? are ya hurt at all?" he examines you more. you shake your head, "i-i'm alright. he didn't touch me," you were short with your response.
he frowned, knowing you just wanted a peaceful night after a draining tour and some asshole took that away from you. this stupid car should've been parked at the exit door anyways. why did he think it would be a good idea for you to walk to the car, in new york fucking city of all places, right after your sold out show? he was kicking himself.
"s' okay, si! i swear," you say, choosing to rest your head against the man. you just wanted to sleep.
he sat there, letting you lay for the remainder of the drive to your home. he wouldn't let anything like that happen to you ever again.
distant lovers ໒ྀི bodyguard!jackson brooks x princess black!reader
𓏲*𝜗𝜚 princess black!reader ໒ྀི second child of the royal family, but the eldest daughter of the family. dark swan. scholar. master of literature and mathematics. dreams of being a writer. dancer. teacups galore. movie scores. pearls. ruler of tea time. moonlit nights. quiet but stern. part-time educator for young girls. advocate for the class issues of her country. drowns in fragrances. intense vince amuto. crafter. odessa calla lilly. listener of western blues
𓏲*𝜗𝜚 bodyguard!jackson brooks ໒ྀི special agent. american. eldest of two, younger sister. protective. stern. attentive. cold but melts away. leather jackets. secret romcom lover. “<3” user but won’t admit it. jazz clubs. wine nights by himself. rings. study of foreign relations. ivy league. traveler by force. giver and pleaser. giorgio armani. heavy thinker. chroma drift
𓏲*𝜗𝜚 j.b x princess y/n ໒ྀི nods by day, phone calls by night. neither loves their government. an ocean that separates them. marvin gaye and sade adu. small giggles when mister jackson is supposed to be working. letters sat and unsent. love letters hidden in a chest. secret phone lines. matching pieces that are hidden. accidental identical rings. one sees the night and one sees the stars. lipstick fixes. dazed lovers
omg omg HEY DIVA!!! I had this idea/request for bodyguard!james or poly!marauders x royal!reader, I was thinking about how for a lot of royals guards/royal tasters have to taste the food before it’s served to the royals to make sure it’s not poison yk, and i imagine that reader would joke with the boys ab how they only do it to steal her food, and one day one of the tasters actually collapses after eating reader’s food, maybe a kidnap or assassination attempt, and what would happen following?
Thanks for requesting angel <3
cw: mention of induced vomitting (past, not in scene)
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
bodyguard!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words
James wakes to a raw ache in his throat and the sort of silence that reads as tense before he even opens his eyes. He knows instantly that he’s not in his bed; this mattress is softer than anything James has ever slept on, soft enough to sink into even as he wills himself to alertness. He keeps perfectly still as he listens for clues. Two sets of breathing. One closer, one further away. It must be a large room. He can see daylight through his eyelids. James breathes in, and the smell is definitely not his room, but it is familiar. Light, faintly perfumey.
He knows where he is.
James opens his eyes, and relaxes when he sees you. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed—your bed—with your legs crossed under you like you’ve been settled in there for a while. You’re staring out your bedroom window with a faraway look, the sad remainders of tearstains on your cheeks.
James remembers half a second too late to look for the other source of breathing in the room. He finds Dorcas stationed by the door. She’s already noticed his movement, her dark eyes lighting faintly with relief even as her expression remains impassive. “Potter,” she acknowledges, inclining her head.
James nods back at her.
You whip around, your brows hooking in anxious concern. “James,” you say, like he or maybe you have done something awful. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he says thoughtlessly, though after a moment’s reflection, he thinks it might be true. James’ head feels a bit stuffy, almost like a hangover, and his mouth tastes faintly bitter, but he doesn’t find any of the symptoms he’d associate with a concussion. He doesn’t know what else could have knocked him out so badly that he wound up here, though.
“What happened?” he asks you.
Anguish breaks like a storm over your face. “You were poisoned.” You swallow, as though the words don’t want to come out. “It was…you drank my lemonade, remember?”
It rings familiar. James frowns as the memory surfaces. You’d been in town together. It was a good day; your spirits were high, the sun warm on the back of James’ neck, and you’d wanted to stop at your usual place for a cool drink before going home. You went there frequently enough that James wasn’t worried, but you never minded sharing, even if you always bought James his own drink too and you teased him for leeching off yours.
“You’re never satisfied with just your own,” you’d said today, a smile in your eyes as he brought your straw to his lips. “You always have to steal my first sip, too, how mean is that? The first sip is the best one.”
James’ mind draws a blank after that. God, is that the last thing that happened? Who was there to protect you while he was out? How did you get home?
Like you can see the questions building up in him, you go on. “You got this look on your face, and then you just—” Your mouth tightens. “—dropped. It was so fast.”
You’re curling your fingers up tight in the bedspread. James covers your hand with his, and they loosen.
“Are you sure you feel okay?” you ask him. “Pomfrey said you’d be fine, but maybe I should go find her—”
“I feel fine,” James assures you. He fights the urge to tell you that his health isn’t what’s important; that sort of thing has never gone over well with you, even if it’s the truth. He looks at Dorcas. “There was a new guy working today. Did he—”
She nods before he’s finished. “Arrested.”
James lets out a breath. “Are you okay?” he asks you.
“Am I…” You look at him as though offended he’d ask. Your eyes go glossy. “James—”
“I mean,” James says gently, “did he hurt you?”
You press your lips together and shake your head.
He gives you a hasty visual assessment. Clearly, someone had gotten you home, so James has to trust you’ve been checked out. Still, he wants to speak to Pomfrey himself once he’s up.
“Okay,” he says. “So what happened then?”
You blink twice, pushing out a breath. “I, um. I pushed that button on my phone you showed me. I think the guy must not have been thrown by you drinking what he meant for me, because he ran off.”
You got lucky, then. Another assailant, one more skilled or less flighty, would have taken the opportunity to get you away from James. Shit, James is going to have to start bringing another guard with you both when you leave the palace to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again. It’s either that, or limit you to consuming food and drink made here. You aren’t going to like either option.
“I could feel your pulse, but you weren’t—you weren’t breathing, so—” Your voice catches. “—I stuck my fingers down your throat to make you sick. And it worked, but you didn’t wake up.”
That explains his sore throat. James squeezes your fingers. “That was good thinking,” he praises you, heart aching at the thought of you sitting on the cafe floor, terrified and all alone, not knowing how much danger you were in. “You probably saved my life.”
The back of your hand covers your mouth as you let out a quiet sob.
“Hey, it’s okay.” James sits up. He makes eye contact with Dorcas, nodding to let her know he’s alert enough to be back on duty. James takes you into his arms as she steps out. “You did such a good job, sweetheart. You did everything right. I’m fine, thanks to you.”
“I thought you were dying.” Your voice is fractured.
He pushes his palm up your spine, saying again, “You did everything right.”
James wants to kiss you for listening so well when he’d gone over what to do in an emergency. He can fill in the blanks of what happened next. The button on your phone would have sent an alert with your location to everyone on your security team. They probably scared you even more than you already were, busting into the cafe with their guns drawn, but it meant you got back home quickly. Another team would have been dispatched to find the man who served you your lemonade while you and James were whisked back to the palace, where the royal physician would have looked you and then James over.
He really does owe you his life. You managed to keep them both safe when James couldn’t.
“When we got back here,” you go on, “I kept telling Dorcas I was fine, but they wouldn’t—I wouldn’t let anyone touch me until Pomfrey helped you.”
Well, that wasn’t ideal. James decides to save your scolding for later.
You’re holding him almost too tightly for air now anyway, pressing your face into his shoulder. “Please don’t lie,” you say. “You really don’t feel weird at all?”
“I have a little bit of a headache,” James admits, “and my throat hurts, but I really don’t feel bad. Just like I had a rough sleep.”
You make a sound like a sigh that turns into a whimper.
“What you did was very brave.” He pulls away from you, taking your face in his hands. Tears shine like dewdrops in your lashes. “I really mean it. Not a lot of people could have acted that quickly.”
“You taught me how,” you say, wobbly.
James gives you a half smile. “I must have done an alright job, then.”
You’re not in a mood to joke back. “You did.”
James sighs. He draws you closer, pressing his lips to your forehead. “It’s okay now, lovely. I’m sorry you were so scared.”
“I just think…maybe, you could quit your job, and we can create a new position where you tutor me on self-defense instead.”
He chuckles. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Since you’re so good at it.”
James crushes you to him, terribly overindulgent, breathing in your perfume. It smells more like home than anywhere else he’s ever been. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
summary!; bodyguard!sevika x reader > you are a PR management control for a band named faultline and things get messy and out of hand, which calls for a new security personnel.
wc; 5.7k — cw; dom top!sevika, bottom!reader, fingering, biting, scratching, lots of cursing, if you skim you’ll miss pet names, humping, MINORS DNI!!
notes - this is my first post! i intended for this to be a series if people like this fic, i have had this idea sitting in my drafts and finally decided to put it into words! enjoy!🌸 p.s. @littledykeblue account gave me the motivation to post! 💗💗💗 go check them out!
part 2 here!
Faultline. The only rock band that seemed to live up to its name. They’re messy, chaotic, and then turn the internet upside when they really want too.
And you? Well you have the damn luxury to be the fucking ductape of this band. Fucking backbone even. With only you having the pleasure of cleaning up their messes.
Every. Damn. Time.
The hallway outside the VIP lounge still smells like sweat, hairspray, spilled champagne, and ego. You shove the double doors open with both hands, the slam echoing loud enough to make a few crew members flinch from their seats.
“Jinx!”
She’s sprawled on a velvet couch like she’s the queen of a ruined empire, all glitter and eyeliner and zero remorse. You don’t know how she’s still smiling after what just happened. The show incident. The shouting match. The mic she nearly threw at Vi.
You storm toward her, ignoring the sidelong glances from assistants and event staff still pretending not to be eavesdropping.
She doesn’t even blink. Just props her boots on the armrest, upside-down and grinning like a menace. As if she's expecting this outburst from you. Cocky bastard.
“You know, if I had a dollar for every time you screamed my name—”
“—you’d be paying for the goddamn crisis PR team I had to hire after the last time you lost it in public!” you snap, jabbing a finger in her direction. “What the hell was that out there!?”
Jinx twirls a lollipop between her fingers like she’s twelve and invincible. “A family moment.”
“She bumped your shoulder.”
“She meant it.”
“She brushed you and you tried to bodycheck her in front of three different cameras and a live stream!” Your voice cracks as you throw your hands up. “You want me to lose this job? Because that’s the next step! I already had to fake two fucking apologies and bribe a damn blogger today!”
Jinx winks, her legs swinging off the couch with her elbows resting against her knees. “You’re so good at it though.”
“You’re going to be the reason I develop stress ulcers.”
“Could be worse,” she says, blowing a kiss. “Could be herpes.”
You let out a strangled sound.
That’s when you hear it—the quiet thud of boots on the hardwood near the door. You don’t need to look. You clocked her the second she walked in. Standing guard like she belongs in a damn action movie: arms crossed, black shirt stretched over muscle, one scarred eyebrow raised in calm observation.
Sevika.
Some newly hired personal security. Supposed to be here to “reinforce safety protocols and de-escalate threats.” Which, so far, you haven’t seen her do once. Considering that this is your first real encounter, her stance is a little intimidating. A little. You hadn’t spoken yet—not more than a nod when she was introduced earlier—but she’s been watching the room with that cold, unbothered stare the whole damn time.
You finally glance at her, jaw tight. “I assume you were hired to prevent a repeat of the Vi situation?”
Sevika doesn’t move. “Didn’t realize I was hired to babysit.”
Jinx loses it, nearly falling off the couch in laughter. You glare at both of them, pulse hammering behind your eyes.
“I don’t care what unresolved twin hell you two have going on,” you say, turning your focus back to Jinx. “The sponsors are jumpy. The label is breathing down my neck, and you guys haven’t even got halfway through your fucking tour yet! If I get one more email with the word rebrand, I’m going to walk into oncoming traffic.”
She rolls onto her stomach like a bored cat. “What happened to letting me be authentic?”
“Authentic doesn’t mean unhinged.”
“Pretty sure it does if you’re me.”
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Unbelievable..”
You turn to leave—but Sevika shifts just slightly. She’s still leaning on the wall, but she subtly blocks the door with one arm, like she’s testing whether you’re going to keep unraveling.
You stop, your temper still burning like acid. “Something to add?”
She looks at you then—really looks. Not dismissive, not hostile. Just… assessing. Measuring the edge in your voice, the tight grip you still have on your clipboard, the wild mess of a job you’re doing to keep a whole brand duct-taped together.
“You good?” she asks, voice low and even. Not teasing. Just… steady.
You blink.
“…Yeah,” you say. “Totally thriving right now.”
She doesn’t smile, but something in her expression shifts. Like she’s seen this kind of pressure before, just not wrapped in eyeliner and a chaotic PR spin.
“You always this high-strung?” she asks, that same calm tone—but now with a little curiosity under it.
You bristle. “Only when I have to explain basic boundaries to a crazy grown ass woman.”
Jinx salutes from the couch.
Sevika tilts her head just slightly, that unreadable look still in place. “You hold it together better than most.”
You glance back at her, slightly narrowing your eyes. She’s unreadable. Solid. Completely unshaken by the chaos around her. And for some reason, that is the most unsettling thing of all.
“Yeah, well…” you mutter, pulling open the door. “Get used to it. This is only just a quiet night.”
You feel her eyes follow you out. And it’s not until the door swings shut behind you that you realize,
you're not entirely sure which one of them you should be more worried about.
──────────
You’re barefoot on a fake leather couch that squeaks every time you shift. Your heels are kicked off by the door, one of them scuffed—probably from when you chased Jinx off the fire escape earlier.
Your phone is at 6%.
The Notes app is open to an aggressively polite draft that reads:
“We’re aware of the situation that occurred between performers Jinx and Vi at tonight’s event. At this time, we…”
You delete the whole sentence in one angry swipe. This is fucking ridiculous. If Jinx just manages to keep her damn hands to yourself and her mouth shut, none of this would be necessary! You swear you’re going to grow gray hairs at this rate. With the two unhinged sisters going on tour. You had a feeling some shit was going to happen. Christ, this was only just the fourth show so far, and they have already messed up so much. But then again, who else would deal with their chaotic selves?
Regardless, a knock interrupts your train of thoughts.. Except not really. More like a dull tap tap against the open door frame.
You don’t look up.
“You're still here?” you mutter, thumbs pausing over the screen.
Sevika’s voice rumbles in like the bassline of a threat. Or a reassurance, “Didn’t hear an all-clear.”
You glance up. She's leaning in the doorway like she owns the place—jacket draped over one arm, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable. The overhead light hits her jaw just right. Of course it does.
“I didn’t realize I needed to declare the room emotionally decontaminated.”
Sevika walks in anyway.
She grabs one of the unopened water bottles from the counter, cracks it open, and drinks half without blinking. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to say anything. That silence is part of the intimidation package, probably.
You go back to the message:
“...mutual artistic tension between the performers is part of their established brand and we do not condone—”
No. God, no.
You throw your head back with a groan.
“I went to school for this,” you say out loud. “Media strategy. Corporate theory. Top of my class. And now I’m negotiating apologies between two adult women who threw mic stands at each other like they were on fucking Jerry Springer.”
Sevika huffs something that might be a laugh. “Sounds like you’re good at it.”
You glare at her over your phone. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Nope.” She shrugs, then crosses to the armchair across from you and sits with the kind of heavy ease that only people like her can pull off. Like she's never once rushed a thing in her life. “Just calling it.”
You squint at her. “Do you even do anything? Or is looming your main job?”
“I stop things before they break,” she says, tone even. “You’re the one walking in when they’re already cracked.”
That hits. A little too accurately. Jeez she just started working too, you wonder how many similar scenarios she had seen compared to this. You go quiet. The only sound is the soft buzz of your phone warning you it’s now at 5%.
“I didn’t know about you until today,” you say finally, softer. “PR only told me after the Vi thing. That they were bringing in someone to... ‘manage conflict.’” You put the air quotes in hard.
You snort. “And yet you flinched when Jinx tried to light her setlist on fire.”
“That wasn’t flinching,” she says dryly. “That was calculating fire risk.”
You glance at her, then back at your phone, hiding a smile behind your knuckles. No, that wasn’t funny. Stop.
“I’m used to security being in the background,” you say after a beat. “Not...participating in group therapy by proximity.”
“You yell loud,” Sevika says. “Hard not to overhear.”
“That was just me being calm.”
She leans back a little, studying you. “Right. I’ll brace myself for when you’re actually pissed then.”
Another pause. Not awkward. Just...stretched.
You close the Notes app, giving up with a headline to fix the situation right now.
“They make me care too much,” you admit, voice quiet. “Jinx. Vi. All of them. And they don’t even know it. Or worse—they do, and they don’t care.”
You regret saying it the second it leaves your mouth. Shit, that made you sound vulnerable didn’t it? Worst part was they probably don’t even realize the amount of effort you put in just to keep their band going.
But Sevika doesn’t mock you. Doesn’t offer a half-assed platitude. She just nods, slow and steady, like she understands without needing to say it.
“You can’t fix people,” she says. “You just hold the line.”
You blink at her.
“I thought you weren’t here to give advice.”
“I’m not,” she says, standing again, stretching one shoulder with a quiet roll. “Just figured you looked like someone who needed to hear it.” She starts toward the door, jacket slung over her shoulder. But she stops before she leaves.
“You should plug in your phone,” she adds without turning around. “I’m assuming tomorrow’s gonna be worse.”
You smile despite yourself. “Thanks for the pep talk, Sevika.”
That scarred eyebrow lifts slightly. “Wasn’t one.”
Then she’s gone.
And you’re still sitting barefoot on a couch that smells like Jinx’s hairspray, staring at your phone screen, wondering what the hell just happened—and why it felt like someone finally saw you through all the damn chaos. Maybe she wasn’t so shady after all..
Actually, speaking of shady. Now you’re curious about Sevika, because she came out of nowhere earlier in the VIP room. A thought crosses your mind. You jump up to plug your phone in before it dies on you. Your phone has truly been through hell, at this point you need to be sponsored by high quality brands just to feel content.
Regardless, you grabbed your computer from your bag and went to sit back down on the fake leather couch, it giving that obnoxious squeak sound. You just rolled your eyes. Your fingers were quick to log in, as you clicked on a new browser typing in;
Sevika. Faultline security.
Nothing immediately comes up. You try just ‘Sevika’, and suddenly you’re scrolling through blurry photos: her towering outside venues, sunglasses on even at night, arms folded, always near chaos but never in it. One grainy paparazzi shot has her with her hand braced against someone’s chest—is that a Medarda? Anyways, she was holding her back mid-argument. The title reads:
“SECURITY OR BOUNCER BAE? WHO IS FAULTLINE’S MYSTERY MUSCLE?”
You chuckled, and kept scrolling.
She’s private. That much is clear. No Instagram, no interviews, no tags you can trace. But the fan forums are already on it. There’s a Reddit thread titled “Sevika thirst trap central” with hundreds of reposts.
You click it. Just for research. Obviously..
Clearly the entire page was just full of thirsty girls and possibly some blurry pictures here and there of Sevika. Eventually, you pause, thumb hovering over a photo of her from backstage—cigarette between her lips, arm slung over a crate like she owns the building. Professional interest, you tell yourself. But your stomach’s doing that thing.. and it shouldn’t. Ugh.
As you scroll, your thumb slows as you hit a post buried halfway down a forum thread titled "Faultline's Realest Ones". Most of it is memes and low-res gifs, but then— a user named spittinimage32 posts a screenshot of a blurred-out article, dated three years ago. The headline is cropped, but you can still make out part of it:
“...Security Contractor Under Investigation After Club Incident Leaves Two Hospitalized.”
Underneath is a zoomed-in still from grainy security footage. The photo quality is awful, but you recognize her—Sevika, unmistakable even in motion blur and shadow. Standing over a man doubled over on the pavement, one arm outstretched like she’s just landed a punch.
The caption under the post reads:
→ “Pretty sure this was her before she started working with musicians. Some private club Zaun. No charges were filed, but the story disappeared fast.”
You tap the article link. It’s dead. Damn, that’s some good management. Wish you had power like that.
Another comment below says:
→ “Medarda’s firm handled it. Probably paid the guy off.”
You stare at the screen, heartbeat picking up just slightly. The Medarda’s. They’re wealthy business owners, and wealthy like— dollar dollar bills wealthy and they don’t stop till they get what they want. This must’ve been serious, you think to yourself.
No official record. No explanation. Just that photo. Her fist. And two men in the hospital.
You suddenly remember how calm her voice was when she told you earlier, “I don’t step in unless I have to.”
Apparently, when she does, someone ends up in a trauma ward. But are you surprised? Not really. If she gets the job done then.. That's that. Although now you’re left wondering what truly happened in that situation.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
You wake up to the buzz of your phone—fifteen unread messages, three voicemails and especially one from your boss saying ‘fix it’, then at least ten push notifications from media outlets.
“BREAKING: Vi Allegedly Wants Out of Faultline,” “Is the Band Imploding?” and your personal favorite, “PR Nightmare or PR Genius?”
You scroll faster, heart thudding. There’s multiple blurry shots of Vi storming off stage, Jinx yelling with a microphone in her hand as if she’s about to throw it, and somewhere in the background—your face, mid-horrified gasp. You try to breathe, but the headlines keep coming. Sponsors threatening to pull out. The tour manager "checking in." The label asks where your “statement” is. And all of this before coffee.
Fucking hell you expected this. After the whole chaotic mess from last night, you didn’t think it would be this bad. But this? This is beyond fucked.
You're not even dressed when the emails start rolling in—
"URGENT: Clarify band status." "What’s the narrative here?" "Is Jinx okay?" "Is Vi leaving?"
You throw your phone on the bed. Immediately regretting it, picking it back up.
Your team’s group chat is useless. Two interns are arguing over font sizes for the Instagram apology and your assistant is asking if she should cancel the shoot or wait for someone else to make the call. Not even that but when you call both Jinx and Vi, neither of them picks up. You’ve probably messaged them more than a dozen times, acting like a damn desperate ex.
They’re lucky the next show isn’t until three weeks. But that only means three weeks to fix all of this shit.
You’re now pacing your hotel room in a hoodie, coffee going cold on the counter. There are like five open tabs on your laptop, and every headline feels like another layer of anxiety pressing down. The one that sticks out the most to you:
“Insiders say PR is losing control.”
and only probably because they’re right. You are losing it.
You hastily get dressed, the least thing you're doing is only making yourself look neat with your hair up and your makeup done but barely noticeable. The shirt you have on feels like a damn compressor against your chest as if it's restricting you to breath, and your jeans— god you look and feel like a fucking mess.
──────────
You storm into the temporary backstage office at the venue from yesterday’s show, clipboard in hand and murder in your eyes. There’s a junior label rep there—smug, unhelpful, sipping a green juice and scrolling on their iPad. You ask if they’ve handled the sponsor callback list. They blink at you. “We’re waiting to see how the narrative evolves.” They pause before adding, “Oh and— we’ve lost two sponsors.”
That’s when it happens.
You scream.
Something about "narrative evolution" and "branding alignment" and “how this isn’t a goddamn improv troupe, it’s a multi-million-dollar tour and we are hemorrhaging public goodwill like a gunshot wound!” You’re near tears. Frustrated. Helpless. And fucking livid. You’re talking too loud, your voice is breaking, and nobody is doing anything.
The room goes quiet. People freeze. Hell, some even have the audacity to back out of the room from you.
Then—
A low voice from behind you cuts through the static.
“Hey.”
You spin around, breathing heavily, expecting more bullshit. But it’s Sevika. She’s leaning against the wall with arms folded, unreadable as always. Where the hell did she come from?
“You done yelling at the kid?” she says, calm. Not mocking. Just... grounding.
You blink. Realizing your hand—matter fact your whole damn arm is shaking. Your breathing’s off. Your face is most likely red.
She steps forward, slow, steady, and without touching you, positions herself between you and the others in the room. She says nothing else. Doesn’t need to. The tension starts to bleed out of the air.
Someone asks if they should reschedule the press call.
Sevika looks at them. Just looks.
They scurry out.
She turns back to you. “Come on. Breathe.”
You inhale. Exhale. You hate that it works. Hate more that she’s the only one who’s helped all day.
“I’m going to snap,” you whisper, not entirely joking, as your hands clenched into a fist.
“No,” she says. “You’re not. Because you’re the only one who knows how to keep this thing from falling apart. And you’re not about to give them the satisfaction of seeing you lose it.”
You’re still shaking, but her voice, low and steady, keeps you anchored. Your phone buzzes again. You silence it this time. You nod once. Just once. Enough to say; I’m still here.
And Sevika steps aside. Not leaving. Just letting you move forward again. But now with someone behind you who’s actually watching your back.
Eventually, you’re working with the other interns and your assistant to handle the chaos that is currently circulating around the damn internet. You decided to take on the press call only hoping this will smooth the headlines out for now. You still keep checking your phone just in case you get a message or a call from either of the sisters.
But you doubt that will happen.
Not really a choice made but it came to a conclusion that you have to take an overnight red-eye trip for a crisis briefing. Great. Just another thing to look forward to. You sighed softly, throwing your clipboard aside for now. The room had been emptied out for the day. You hadn’t even realized that you all were working the entire day to fix this mess.
You lean back against the couch, your head resting back staring at the ceiling. You felt the couch dip beside you, already knowing who it is.
You don’t bother to look.
“I’ll come with you,” Sevika says.
“There’s no need”
“I’m not asking, it’s protocol” she says in a tone that is non-arguable.
You scoff, slowly turning your head to look at her. But for some reason you don’t really mind that she’ll tag along with you. Infact you find it better that you have company rather than handling it alone, like always.
But seriously?
“Protocol my ass..” you muttered out, going back to gazing at the ceiling. But she didn’t say anything back.
You both knew it was her choice.
Before you knew it, you were in the car with her as she drove. The place was only just a couple hours from the previous show. Both your bags in the back as the car was silent throughout the drive. Some small talk here and there as she stopped for gas, and as well getting you some snacks. Other than that, the ride was silent.
Silence was slightly awkward though. Sometimes you’d catch her glancing at you, or vice versa. There was still tension from before. It wasn’t anything bad but— there was something lingering between you two. You couldn’t help but notice her wearing casual attire. The sleeve hugging against her biceps, the dark brown complimenting her skin color as her as the slight makeup she used on her face. Just some eyeliner and brown lipstick.
Yeah— you definitely couldn't deny it now. She was very attractive. Her sleek jaw, hair pulled back into a half up ponytail, the way her lips were the perfect amount of thickness, and those biceps— christ. You knew you were beyond screwed. She was beautiful, handsome even.
And you?
Probably not even her type regardless. Or so you thought.
“You think this crisis meeting will solve anything?” Sevika asks, breaking the silence and odd tension from your trance.
You sighed from exhaustion before responding, “The best that will come out of it right now will probably be controlling the headlines and to avert their attention from Jinx and Vi to something else. Probably the next show or something..” you pause, rubbing your temples before continuing, “This will only be properly fixed once they get their shit figured out. And to answer their damn phone calls.”
You checked your phone to see if either of them had texted, but nothing. You sighed, setting your phone down.
“You’ll figure it out” She says after a beat, glancing at you.
“Yeah I’m the only one who ever does” You retorted, scoffing as you met her eye for a moment.
Even though it wasn't loud, you heard her chuckle under her breath. Your lips quirked from amusement hearing that from her. You eventually look away as you two fall into silence again. Comfortable silence.
──────────
You’ve both just endured a brutal crisis meeting. You're exhausted, emotionally fried, but still high on tension. Sevika’s been calm the entire time—cutting through the bullshit in the room when you couldn’t, quiet when she needed to be, but fiercely in your corner.
You’re both walking into the hotel, late-night check-in, bags slung, the hallway quiet.
You walked up to the front desk, giving the receptionist your last name that you booked the rooms under.
“Looks like we’ve got you down for just one deluxe king suite!” the lady behind the desk replied cheerfully as she prepared the card for you.
You blink.
“That better be a mistake” You say, staring at the receptionist lady with a deadpan stare.
“Sorry honey, we’re fully booked tonight otherwise” She had replied, sliding the key to you on the desk.
Are we fucking serious.. you think to yourself.
You slowly turn to Sevika with an unreadable look. She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.
“Fucking perfect,” You muttered under your breath.
The check-in desk had one job. One. You blink at the concierge like they just slapped you.
“There were supposed to be two rooms by the way,” you say, tone brittle enough to cut tile.
The receptionist gives you that polite corporate shrug that means “not my problem.” You don’t even have it in you to argue. Not after the crisis meeting that felt more like a firing squad. Not after watching half the label toss blame back and forth while you took notes on how to be their next scapegoat. Not after Sevika said absolutely nothing the entire time but still managed to make you feel like someone was in your corner.
Now this? One room. One bed. You feel the eye twitch coming on.
“Whatever,” you mutter, snatching the keycard and stomping toward the elevator. Sevika follows. Silent. Heavy boots. Calm shadow. It shouldn’t make your skin burn hotter, but it does.
You don’t speak again until the hotel door swings shut behind you.
And then—you explode.
“Two rooms! Two. That’s all I asked for. Not world peace. Not someone’s kidney. Just two fucking rooms!”
Your heels hit the floor hard. You toss your bag onto the bed—the one bed—and just stand there for a second, teeth gritted. Sevika closes the door behind you with that quiet, deliberate calm she always has. Doesn’t say anything. Just watches.
“And that meeting?” you scoff. “They want a rebrand. They think Vi might go solo. They think I’ve lost control.” You turn around, anger rising like a wave. “What am I supposed to do? Photoshop a damn friendship back together!?” You gesture wildly around the room.
Sevika is leaning against the door now, watching you pace like a hurricane in heels. She raises an eyebrow. Still leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Shrugs a little. “You handled it.”
“Bullshit. I’m dangling by a thread,” you snap, voice tight. “I’m fucking done. I’m trying to put out fires and you’re just, what, always just fucking standing there? With your one-word replies and your constant brooding like a hot, grumpy—”
She steps forward. Not fast. Just enough to break the space between you. You stop mid-rant.
“You think I don’t see it?” she says, voice low. “You holding it all together. No one thanks you. No one listens. And they’d all fall apart without you since you’re the backbone of this entire band.”
Your breath catches. You don’t want that to land. But it does.
Your lip curls like you’re about to say something biting—but it falters. Because Sevika’s close now. So close. And the silence between you feels… different.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter quietly.
“Like what?” she says.
“Like you can see through me.”
“Maybe I can.”
You’re still fuming. But it’s twisted now—burning hot under your skin in a different way.
She looks at the bed. Then at you.
“We flipping a coin or...?”
“Fuck the coin,” you say, voice hoarse, “I’m too tired to care.”
You move past her like you’re going to grab something—but she grabs your wrist. Not rough. Just enough.
“You need to let it out,” she says. “Whatever it is.”
You look up at her. Chest tight. Anger still vibrating in your bones but buried under that — that need.
“Yeah?” you whisper. “And what are you gonna do if I do?”
She doesn’t answer. Because she's on you within seconds. Your back pinned against the hotel wall as her hand was on the back of your head to prevent it from hitting the wall too harshly. You let out a sharp gasp from the impact.
You both just stared at each other. The electricity crackling between you two. The moment felt like everything slowed down for a second. You stared into her eyes.
Then you surged forward.
Your mouth crashes into hers with all the fury of the day behind it—messy, desperate, teeth clashing. She catches you easily, hands gripping your waist, pinning them against the wall. Your hands were gripping her shirt tight, pulling her closer than she already is. You let your hand trail down her chest, letting them roam free. Your fingers pressing against the shirt as you felt the firmness of her stomach, trailing them down under her shirt—
Oh fuck.
The minute you felt her V line beneath your fingers you let out a moan into her mouth, one she quickly swallowed up in the filthy and greedy kiss you shared.
You gasp as she lifts you by your thighs, pinning you there. You wrap your legs around her instinctively, fingers tangled in her jacket as her mouth drags hot, slowing down your neck.
“Fuck,” you breathe, nails scraping along her shoulder. “This is such a bad idea.”
“Best one I’ve had all day,” she growls against your throat, biting down hard against your neck, erupting a strangled whine from the back of your throat.
You yank her shirt up, your hands finding skin—warm, solid muscle. She peels off your jacket without care, lets it fall. Her hands are everywhere: gripping, kneading, claiming. Your mind goes white.
Clothes hit the floor in frantic pieces. Your heels are thrown to the side of the room. The room’s too hot, your back hits the mattress, and she’s above you—hair falling into her face, pupils blown, looking at you like she’s about to wreck you.
“This is wrong” you mutter as your hands went down her back to grope her ass.
She groaned in response, her hips bucking closer to yours, “Then why aren't you stopping me?”
“I can’t” you whispered in her ear before pulling her into another filthy kiss. One that's messy, where your tongues are fighting for dominance. Your hands rake in her hair, pushing it back slightly before giving it a sharp tug. In return her hand finds your tit and gropes it, making you moan pathetically into the kiss. You feel her smile against the kiss. That fucking menence smile.
You felt her hand go down your stomach as you felt her fingers spread through your soaked folds, eliciting a soft moan from you.
“You’re fucking soaked..” she mutters against your lips, glancing down between the two of you.
“Fuck you” you panted against her, lips swollen and red from the kiss as your eyes were already half lidded, gazing down at her neck.
“I’m trying” you hear her mutter before she dips her head down to your neck, tongue flicking out as she traced a wet path along her collarbone, her mouth latching onto an aching peak deliberately sucking at your skin that sends shivers down your spine.
“Sevika..” you breathe out as your fingers dug into her shoulders, with your back arching and trembling against her touch.
“Tell me what you need”
God its almost like you were drunk and were unable to fucking speak properly. But somehow, you managed.
“Your fingers—you. I don’t care” you managed to say helplessly as she obliged.
Her thumb slowly pressed against your clit as you felt her slip two fingers in your core. Your hips buck from the contact as your fingers dig against her shoulders, dragging them down your back.
“Oh god” you groaned as you bit at her neck which made her inhale sharply, her fingers curling in you that hit your sweet spot.
Oh fuck.
Your body doesn't know what else to do other than your hands profusely scratching at her back. Your hips buck trying to find friction but you fail, all you can do is just squeeze against her fingers. But it's not changing her speed which makes you writhe in place. “You're gonna cut my fingers off at this rate” she says, almost condescendingly, smirking against your skin.
“You— you’re not helping” you bite your lip to refrain yourself from whining for more, “go faster” you whisper, burying your face in the crook of her neck planting wet, open mouths kiss under her jawline.
“You're lucky you’re pretty” she whispered before another finger was slipping inside your drooling cunt. Her pace becomes faster as her fingers curl repeatedly against your g-spot which makes you choke on a moan, letting yourself succumb to the pleasure.
Your arousal that coated her fingers makes the most obscene noises that filled up the hotel room, Sevika’s own hips were grinding at your thigh as you both chased for your climax. Your mouths captured into a kiss as you swallowed each other's moans, you propped your leg up as you felt the slick from her pussy against your thigh.
Your hand found their way to her swollen nub of her clit, with your touch being firm and insistent as you kept rubbing hard and fast. Which had added another layer of pleasure and desperation in the movement of Sevika’s hips grinding against your thigh.
“fuck— keep it like that. Just like that baby” she growls near your ear as you feel her pump her fingers in and out of you quicker.
“Sev— Sevika!” you almost fucking screamed her name out as your eyes fluttered for a moment from the pleasure. Your back arched from her touch as your free hand pushed her hips down against your thigh as the other rubbed vigorously at her clit. The minute you chased your orgasm, your hips bucked in her hand as you clenched tightly around her fingers, with you moaning her name from exhaustion at this point.
Her fingers were still curled inside that wet pussy of yours as she kept grinding against your thigh, her movements becoming sloppy as leaned her forehead against your shoulder.
“Shit..” Sevika moans against your ear which makes you clench around her fingers again as her words are followed by a few more curses as she shivers out her orgasms.
Her fingers slowly pulled out of your dripping cunt, retreating them back to her mouth, licking every drop.
“Fuck, you taste just like I imagined..” She says hoarsely before capturing your lips in another kiss, this one being more sloppy as you taste yourself. Your hands went to her neck as she flopped beside you on the bed. Legs tangling with each other capturing yourself in a moment of bliss and the aftermath of such pleasure, lost in each other's arms.
Eventually you two pulled away from each other panting, her arm around her waist pulling you chest to chest.
“I still hate this room,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen.
She huffs something like a laugh, brushing her knuckles down your thigh.
“Not how it sounded five minutes ago.”
You roll your eyes. But you don’t pull away.
“This doesn’t mean I like you.”
“Sure,” she says, dragging her mouth lazily across your shoulder. “That’s why you’re still shaking.”
You shove her, half-hearted.
She doesn’t move. Just smirks.
You hate that she’s right.
You hate it even more that you already want round two.
hear me out, body guards Jack and Robby and rich bratty boy Dennis who's constantly running away from body guards. Dennis's father hires Jack and Robby because he's lost count how many times Dennis has snuck out. Dennis tries to sneak away from Robby only to run into Jack's chest. Jack easily lifting and throwing Dennis over his shoulder. Dennis keeps trying to run, act out and it's Robby who figures out it's for attention.
Heard received loved adored
Dennis already gave a dozen or so guards the slip. He was a nightmare in college, he’s the baby of the fam so he’s not expected to do anything necessarily important. Maybe his dad’s some sort of CEO billionaire or mafia or fucking whatever. Point is, Dennis shouldn’t be a problem because he’s the youngest.
And yet he’s the one who keeps sneaking out to go to clubs. He’s the one disappearing in the middle of the night and states away by the morning. He doesn’t care if he’s got some sort of reputation to uphold or if he’s at risk for his last name. He doesn’t want to be stuck in a house where he’s only there to exist as another Whitaker kid off to the side.
Jacks ex-military, Robby’s got years of private security under his belt. They’re good, they’re the best, but Dennis thinks because they’re old, they’ve got nothing on him.
He’s so very wrong.
The first night he doesn’t even make it out of the lobby of his apartment building. Jacks there, drags him back upstairs, and blocks the door pointedly while Dennis pouts on the couch.
He gives them a few days to build fake trust, and tries again. He doesn’t even make it to the front door. He had waited until they were doing their little security sweeps and tried to leave his bedroom in a mesh shirt and a pair of jeans that hugged his ass but Robby had grabbed the bottom of his top and yanked him back. Pushed him into his room with a “Not tonight. Go to bed, kid.”
So he decides to try his window and is moderately successful. He gets down the block. And runs right into Jack’s chest because Robby had watched the entire thing on some of the cameras they installed around the apartment and they’d enjoyed him shimming out of the tight space before Jack went to collect him.
He’s whining, beating his fists into Jack’s back, making snappy remarks, “You’re such a fucking cock block, both of you, just give me two hours and then you can go back to ruining all my fun.”
“Two hours? That’s all?” Jack teases, not letting him down. “You need to find better strangers to fuck, kid.”
“Are you offering?”
It’s supposed to be a challenge. Something to throw Jack off and maybe even piss him off.
Instead it just makes the older man laugh, dropping him down in the living room of his apartment with ease. “Robby, the kid wants to fuck us.”
Robby rolls his eyes, locking the doors behind them. “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t be able to handle the two of us.”
summary — steve harrington is your bodyguard. he's your bodyguard you've become overly fond of. you spend too much time with him. then, you're on your way to spain for a press tour, and steve is acting weird. he's cold and distant, and mean. you find out why.
chapter summary — after everything that happened in spain, you don't know how to fit in the world anymore. you don't know how to do anything, especially now that you don't have steve. he gets reassigned, and you realise you need him. depsite the version of him you saw on that street in barcelona.
or "Steve flagged it himself. Steve sat across from someone — from your father's security director, from some operational review committee, from whoever receives these things — and he told them that the professional boundaries of the arrangement had not been appropriately maintained, and then he accepted the reassignment that followed, and he didn’t call you, and he didn’t knock on the door, and you have not spoken to him since the ambulance doors closed in Barcelona."
content —15.8k words, bodyguard!steveharrington x reader, she/her, mentions of violence, making out, slowburn!!!
note — ohhhh my god it's finally finished!!! thank you to all the love and appreciation on my silly little version of steve harrington i love u all. hope you enjoy!! mwah
⋆˚꩜｡
Your father's study smells the same as it always has.
Old paper and leather and the cedar of the panelling that runs floor to ceiling along the east wall, the wall with the fireplace that hasn't been lit since your mother left and that nobody has ever suggested lighting again.
There are books on shelves that have been in the same positions for as long as you can remember, their spines faded to the same warm brown as the wall behind them. The desk is enormous and clear, the way powerful men's desks always are, paperwork filed elsewhere by someone else, the surface kept empty to suggest that whatever happens here happens at a different scale from ordinary work.
You've been sitting in the chair across from it for eleven minutes.
Your father is still reading something.
This is a thing he does — finishes what he's doing before he turns his full attention to a room, a person, a conversation. You grew up understanding this as a statement about the relative importance of things. You grew up understanding a lot of things in this room.
Outside the tall windows, the grounds are green and fresh. The fountain near the back terrace still flows, attracting birds and such. Everything is the colour of late summer, you swear the trees have gotten bigger in the weeks since you were last home.
Three weeks since Barcelona.
Your stitches came out eight days ago. Four small scars, barely anything, the kind that will fade to near-invisible within a year. The doctor had said so and been right, and you'd looked at the four small marks in the mirror and thought about what they cost.
Your father sets down whatever he was reading.
He looks at you. He has a particular way of looking at you — the look of someone taking inventory. You’re in your twenties and this look still makes you feel like you've been called to account for something.
"You look tired," he says.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't say you weren't fine."
You hold his gaze. He holds yours. This is also a thing you grew up learning to do.
"I'd like to know what the plan is," you say. "Going forward."
"That's what we're here to discuss."
"Good." You fold your hands in your lap. "Then let's discuss it."
Your father leans back in his chair slightly, the leather making its small sound, and he looks at you for another moment in the inventory way.
"The man has been charged," he says. "Formal charges were filed in Spain last week. There are parallel proceedings here, given the domestic incidents. The legal team is satisfied with the trajectory."
"I know," you say. "Amelia sent me the update."
"Then you know the immediate threat has been addressed."
"The immediate threat," you repeat.
"That's the appropriate framing."
"Is it?"
Your father's expression doesn't change, exactly, but something in it adjusts slightly. He is very good at conversations — better than almost anyone you've met, which is where you get it from, probably, though you would never say so. He reads subtext the way other people read text, and he’s reading yours right now.
"What would you like to know?" he asks.
"I'd like to know what happened," you say. "The full version. Not the update Amelia sent, not the version that was managed for my consumption. What actually happened."
A pause. He doesn’t hesitate, but you think he wants to look like he is. "The threat was identified in March," he says.
March. March is four months before Barcelona. Four months.
"March," you say.
"A pattern was identified. Your movements were being tracked. The team ran an internal assessment, and the decision was made to monitor the situation rather than alert you."
You know this. You’ve heard it over and over.
"The team," you say. "Or Steve?"
"The decision was made collectively," he says, which is an answer that contains another answer inside it.
"But Steve knew."
"Harrington was briefed, yes."
Harrington. The use of the last name in that register — the management register, the business register — lands in a particular way that you can’t identify.
"The team monitored the situation for four months," you say. "Across multiple locations. Hotels, venues, my building." You say it the way you've been saying it to yourself for three weeks, not because you don't know the facts but because saying them out loud to your father makes them a different kind of real. "He accessed restricted floors at two hotels."
"Attempted to access."
"Attempted to access." You look at the empty fireplace. You smile. "And the decision throughout all of that was that I should not be told."
"The assessment was that knowing would affect your behaviour in ways that could compromise the operation."
"I've heard the assessment."
"And?"
You look back at him. "And I think someone should have told me. That's all. I think as the person whose life was being organised around a threat I didn't know about, I had a right to know about the threat." You say it without heat. You've had three weeks to get the heat out of it. "I'm not angry about it anymore. I was. I'm not now. But I want to say it clearly to you because I don't think it was the right call, and I think you should know that I think so."
Your father is quiet for a moment.
"Noted," he says.
It's not an apology. You didn't expect one. Your father doesn’t apologise for operational decisions, considers it a category error. But noted from him carries a specific weight — it means it has been received and it won’t be forgotten.
You nod. "I'd like to talk about what comes next," you say.
"Yes," he says. "There are some changes to discuss."
Something in the way he says it. You look at him more carefully.
He’s picked up a pen from the desk, is turning it slowly between his fingers, which is the closest thing he has to a tell. You learned to read that pen a long time ago.
"What kind of changes?" you say.
"There will be a full security review," he says. "Given the events in Barcelona, the current protocols are being reassessed at every level. Staff, procedures, communication structures."
"That seems reasonable."
"It is reasonable." He pauses. "As part of that review, adjustments are being made to the close protection team."
The room is very quiet. Outside, the sun presses against the windows.
"What kind of adjustments?" you ask.
"Rotations," he says. "Reassignments. When a situation reaches the point that Barcelona did, it indicates a structural issue in how information is being managed. The review indicated that the current configuration had developed certain—" He pauses, choosing the word. "—inefficiencies."
"Inefficiencies," you say.
"In terms of information flow. Decision-making."
"You're talking about Steve?"
He doesn’t blink. "I'm talking about the team structure."
"You're talking about Steve," you say again, not a question this time.
"Harrington has been reassigned," your father says.
The study is very still.
You hear the clock on the mantle. The particular measured tick of it, the clock that has been in this room for your entire life, the clock that has counted down every difficult conversation you have ever had in this room.
"When?" you ask.
"It was confirmed last week."
Last week. While you were in this house, in your room, not answering calls and watching the grounds from your windows, it was confirmed last week, and nobody called you, nobody knocked on your door.
"Where?"
"He's been placed with another principal. The arrangement suits his profile."
Another principal. The arrangement suits his profile. The professional language of it, the complete removal of Steve from the sentence, and the reduction of eight months to a profile being matched to a placement.
"I wasn't consulted," you say.
"This is an operational decision."
"He was assigned to me."
"He was assigned to your security detail," your father says, someone drawing a distinction they've thought about in advance. "Reassignments within that structure are not subject to—"
"He was assigned to me," you say again, and something in your voice this time makes your father stop.
He looks at you. Turns his head towards the floor only slightly, and squints his eyes.
You hate it. You look at the empty fireplace again because looking at your father right now requires something you're not sure you have.
"I see," your father says, after a moment.
"Don't," you say.
"I haven't said anything."
"You were going to."
A pause. Then: "Was it mutual?"
"It doesn't matter," you say, quickly. So quickly you don’t know you’re saying it.
"It might matter quite a lot."
"Not to the decision that was apparently already made last week without anyone telling me."
Your father picks up the pen again. Sets it down. The tell, running twice in three minutes.
"Barcelona changed the situation," he says, carefully. "What happened there — the threat, the response, the circumstances of it — indicated that there were complications in the current arrangement that could not be resolved within the existing structure."
"What complications?"
He doesn’t say anything for a second, and you understand that he’s known. Has known for some time. Probably longer than you've known yourself, which is the specific humiliation of fathers who are very observant and very quiet about what they observe.
"The review flagged a concern," he says, carefully, "about whether the professional boundaries of the arrangement had been appropriately maintained."
The professional boundaries of the arrangement. You sit with that.
"Who flagged it?" you say.
Your father is quiet.
"Dad." You say it the way you said it when you were seventeen and sitting in this room the first time something happened that required this kind of conversation. "Who flagged it?"
"It was part of the broader review," he says. Which means it wasn't the broader review.
"He flagged it himself," you say.
Your father says nothing. Which, with this man, is the same as saying yes.
Steve flagged it himself. Steve sat across from someone — from your father's security director, from some operational review committee, from whoever receives these things — and he told them that the professional boundaries of the arrangement had not been appropriately maintained, and then he accepted the reassignment that followed, and he didn’t call you, and he didn’t knock on the door, and you have not spoken to him since the ambulance doors closed in Barcelona.
He flagged it himself.
You think about I couldn't afford distractions said across a restaurant table with a candle burning low between you, and you think about not distractions from the job, and you think about eight months of him maintaining the wall, and the wall developing a fracture, and him apparently deciding, at some point in the aftermath of Barcelona, that the fracture had become structural.
That the only way to fix the structure was to leave it.
Your throat is very tight. You hold on to the arms of your chair so hard the tips of your fingers pinch.
"The new arrangement," you say, and your voice comes out level, which surprises you slightly. "When does it take effect?"
"It already has," your father says.
Of course it has. "And the new detail lead?"
"A man named Reeves. Excellent record. He'll come to you for an introductory briefing before the end of the week."
Reeves. You file the name somewhere distant, the part of you that has been managing your exterior since you were old enough to understand the value of it.
"Fine," you say.
"It doesn't have to be fine," your father says, and it's the closest he gets to the thing underneath the operational language, the closest he comes to the version of this conversation that isn't about security structures and professional reviews. "It's all right if it isn't."
He’s not a warm man, your father. He was never the kind of father who sat beside you on this kind of thing, who put an arm around the shape of a difficulty and made it smaller. But he’s perceptive, and he’s honest, and right now the way he is looking at you is the way he looked at you the first time something broke. When you were trying to pretend it hadn't, and you know this look, you've known it since you were seventeen, and it is still the hardest look to be on the receiving end of.
"I'm going to need some time," you say.
"Of course."
—
Carter calls Steve on a Wednesday evening in the fourth week.
This isn’t unusual — they've maintained working contact, professionals operating in the same field, the ordinary commerce of people who do the same job in adjacent spaces. Carter calls with operational things fairly regularly.
What's unusual is that Carter calls at eight in the evening, which is not an operational hour, and opens with How's Hartley? in the tone of a man who does not particularly care about the answer to that question. He doesn’t actually care about Steve’s new principal.
"Fine," Steve says. "Uneventful."
"Good." A pause that is doing something. "How are you?"
"Fine."
"Right," Carter says. He doesn’t press on the word fine and its limitations.
"She's okay," Carter says, after a moment. "If you were going to ask."
Steve doesn't say anything. He doesn’t think there’s anything banked in his mind to say. He’s caught off guard.
"Stitches came out clean. She's been at the estate mostly." A pause. "Quiet, Amelia says. But working. She went back to work a couple weeks ago."
Steve looks at the wall of the Kensington flat. He thinks about you going back to work. He thinks about what that looks like — the particular focused quality you get when something is actually demanding your attention, the way the professional exterior slides into place so naturally that most people can't see the effort in it.
You’re good at it. Better than you know, probably. Better than he's ever told you, which is its own category of thing he's not going to look at directly tonight.
"Reeves seems capable," Carter says.
"His record is good," Steve says.
"You looked him up."
"Yes."
Carter doesn't comment on this, which is generous. "She's been—" He pauses, choosing. "There was a thing with the coffee. Apparently took three weeks to get right."
Steve closes his eyes. Opens them. Sighs.
"She asked for your location," Carter says. "Did they tell you? In the briefing."
"Yes."
"She said she wasn't going to do anything with it." Another pause. "Wanted to know where you were."
Steve looks at the packed second bag in the corner of the bedroom. He looks at it for a moment, the bag he hasn't unpacked, which has been in the corner for weeks, which he is going to unpack eventually when this placement stops feeling like something to keep one bag packed for.
"Carter," he says.
"I know," Carter says. "I know. I'm not — I'm just telling you."
"Okay."
"She's okay," Carter says again, softer. "She's getting there."
Steve thinks about getting there as a destination. As something with a location you can be moving toward.
"I had the cloth ready," Steve says. It comes out differently than he expected — something with more weight. "In Barcelona. In the inside pocket of my jacket. I'd been carrying it since before we left the hotel because I'd already assessed it as a possible outcome."
Carter is quiet. Steve can hear people moving around him.
"I went to dinner with her," Steve says. "I sat across from her, and I talked about tomorrow's schedule, and I had the cloth in my pocket because I'd run the numbers and decided that what was coming toward us was close enough that the contingency was real." He pauses. "And she still got hurt."
"Yes," Carter says.
"So the reassignment was right."
"Steve—"
"The conflict of interest was real," Steve says. "That's what the review found. It's what I told them before the review found it. I was making decisions with something in them that shouldn't have been there, and even with all the preparation, even with the cloth and the team and the planning, it still—" He stops. Starts differently. "If the outcome had been different. In Barcelona. If what happened to her had been worse. I couldn't have—" He doesn't finish.
Carter is quiet for long enough to be saying something.
"You flagged it yourself," Carter says eventually. "Before they'd found anything. You walked into that room, and you handed them the problem before they'd identified it." A pause. "I don't think you know what that is."
"It was the right call."
"I know it was the right call," Carter says, with a patience that suggests he's been waiting to say this for some time. "That's exactly my point. You knew it was the right call, and you made it anyway. You made it knowing what it meant. You sat in that briefing room, you were clear, and you were honest, and you took the reassignment without—" He pauses. "You were very clean about it. And I don't think you've given yourself any credit for that."
Steve doesn't say anything. He chews the inside of his cheek raw. He’s been doing it since way before Barcelona.
"She asked for your location," Carter says again.
"I know."
"She has an address in Kensington that she's had for six weeks."
"I know."
"And she hasn't—"
"I know," Steve says. "Carter."
"Right," Carter says. And then, simply: "Get some sleep."
He hangs up.
Steve stands in the kitchen of the Kensington flat in the fourth week and looks at the cold tea on the counter. He thinks about an address being kept for six weeks unused. He thinks about what it means to hold something and not act on it — not because you don't want to, but because you're still figuring out what acting on it would mean.
He thinks about this for longer than he should, standing in a kitchen at eight-thirty in the evening. Then he pours the tea down the drain, picks up his phone and puts it face down on the table, and goes to bed.
He doesn't sleep for a long time.
He knows the shape of that, too, by now. The specific texture of the Kensington ceiling in the dark, the ambient sound of the street below, the way the night stretches out when there's something underneath it you're not looking at directly.
He looks at the ceiling. He thinks, getting there. He thinks about what it looks like when you reach it.
Eventually, he sleeps.
—
You're not sure what you're looking for when you open your messages app — probably nothing, probably just the insomniac phone habit of scrolling through the recent conversations looking for something to rest your brain on — and then his name is there, and you stop.
You haven't deleted the thread.
You've thought about deleting it several times. The last message in it is from June, a week before Barcelona, something practical and logistical about a schedule change, and you've thought about deleting the whole thing because having his name sitting in your phone is its own particular ongoing thing that you've been managing alongside everything else.
You didn't delete it. You're looking at it now. It’s been six months.
And then, because your thumb is moving before your brain has fully weighed in, you tap on the text field, and the drafts folder opens — the messages app's automatic archive of things typed and not sent — and there they are.
Eleven of them.
You didn't know there were that many. You knew there were some. You'd typed things and then not sent them, and apparently, the app had been more diligent about preservation than you'd been about erasure.
You read them in order.
August 31st Steve I don't know if you've been told I asked for your address but I want you to know I'm not going to do anything with it. I just needed to know where you were.
September 4th The new detail lead is fine. He's good at his job. I just wanted you to know that I'm not comparing. I just wanted to say something to someone and you're the person I wanted to say it to, which is its own problem I'm working on.
September 13th I found out from my father that you flagged it yourself. I don't know if I'm angry about it or not. I think I understand it.
Novmember 25th Are you okay? I know you don't owe me an answer and I know Carter would have told me if something had happened but I still think about asking. I still think about whether anyone is asking you that.
December 11th I had a bad night. Nothing happened, I'm fine, I just wanted to tell someone and you were the person I reached for and then I remembered.
December 19th I'm not scared of you. I want you to know that. I was, for a little while, and I've thought about it a lot, and I'm not anymore. I don't know if it matters to you. I just wanted to say it somewhere.
January 2nd Happy new year.
January 9th I've been thinking about the dinner. The restaurant in Barcelona. The way you ordered for me because you knew I wasn't going to be able to read the menu properly. I didn't say thank you for that at the time and I've been thinking about it.
January 14th I think you made the right call about the reassignment. I think you were right and I think you did it for me and I've been trying to figure out how to feel about that for three months. I don't have an answer yet.
January 21st Do you ever think about Portugal? I know it was a cover story. I know we made it up. I just—
This one ends there.
February 4th I miss you. I've been not saying that for six months. I miss you and I don't know what to do about it and I'm still not sure I would know what to do if I were standing in front of you but I think I'd like the chance to find out.
You put your phone face-down on the nightstand. You look at the ceiling of your room, which is the ceiling you've been looking at for months, which knows everything you've been thinking at eleven o'clock at night since July.
You pick the phone back up. You look at the last one.
I miss you. I've been not saying that for six months.
Your thumb hovers over the send button for a long time. You put the phone down. You don't send it. But you don't delete it either.
—
You're in your room at the estate at half past nine in the evening, when the house has settled into its nighttime quiet, and the only sounds are the ones the building makes to itself. You're reading a book, but not really. The grounds are dark beyond your bay window, the fountain off for the winter, the garden doing its bare and quiet thing.
Your phone rings. Unknown number.
You look at it for two full rings. Unknown numbers have a different quality now — they carry a low-level wariness that wasn't there before Barcelona, before you understood what it means to have your movements tracked by someone you didn't know was watching.
You pick up anyway. You always pick up.
"It's me," he says.
Everything goes still. The hum of your humidifier. The crackle of the candle beside you. The soft tick of the clock on the wall. All of it continues. None of it matters.
Your hand tightens around the phone, and you let the silence hold for a moment because the specific fact of his voice — just his voice, at half past nine on a Tuesday, through a phone you nearly didn't answer — does something immediate and physical to the centre of your chest that you weren’t prepared for.
Six months. Six months of his name sitting in your messages app, eleven unsent drafts, the address in Kensington that you've looked at more times than you've admitted to yourself.
And now just: it's me. Like, no time has passed. Like, six months haven't been six months.
"I know it's late," he says, into your silence.
You find your voice from somewhere. "When did you get a new number?"
It's not the question you meant to ask. It's the one that comes out, the deflective practical one, the one that gives you a second to locate yourself before anything more loaded has to leave your mouth.
"New phone," he says. "Since January."
"Right." You swing your legs over the edge of your bed and stare at your socks. At the little sheep. "Why are you calling?" It’s not an abrupt question, but you wouldn’t mind if it came across that way.
A pause. Not long. The kind he uses when he's choosing words carefully rather than when he doesn't have them.
"I've been trying to figure out the right time," he says. "And I've decided I've been using that as an excuse. There isn't a right time. There's just time."
You don't say anything immediately.
You press your free hand flat against your bed and screw the sheet in your hands, and let yourself think for a second before you speak, because the temptation is to say something that sounds fine, something that keeps the surface of things managed and level. You've been doing that for months, and you're tired of it, and also, you're still not entirely sure what you want the alternative to be.
"Okay," you say, and even you can hear that it isn't quite okay, that it's the sound of someone not ready to give more than that yet.
You’re sure he hears it, too. "Are you—" he starts.
"Don't ask me if I'm okay," you say. Quickly. Before he can land the question cleanly and require you to answer it honestly in your bedroom at half past nine on a Tuesday.
"Okay," he says quietly. And then: "I wasn't going to ask that."
"What were you going to ask?"
"How you are," he says. "Which is different."
You look at the mirror across from you on the far wall. At your own reflection in it. "Getting there," you say finally.
The silence that follows has a different texture from the first one. Less the silence of shock, more the silence of two people in the same held breath from different places.
"I've been better," he says, after a moment, and it's quiet and undefended when he says it, which is what makes it land the way it does. "The job is fine. Everything else is—" A pause. "It's been a long few months."
You close your eyes briefly.
It would be easier if he were fine. It would be easier if you could maintain the careful distance you've built by being angry at him, or afraid of him, or uncertain enough that staying away felt like the obvious choice. But he says it's been a long few months in a voice that has something stripped out of it, and you can't locate the distance you're supposed to be maintaining.
"I know," you say, and hear how much you mean it.
"I thought about calling a lot," he says.
"I drafted texts," you say. "Eleven of them. I didn't send any."
Something changes in the quality of his silence.
"What did they say?" he asks. Careful. Like the question might be too much and he's bracing for you to say so.
You could deflect. You know how to deflect. You've been deflecting for months with some proficiency, and it would be easy now, easier than saying it out loud, easier than handing something to him you've been keeping to yourself since July.
"Different things," you say. "On different nights."
He waits.
And maybe it's the hour, or the darkness outside, or the fact that it's been so long and the drafts are still sitting in your phone unsent and it is very late to still be holding all of this alone — or maybe it's just him, on the other end of the phone, waiting without pushing, which is the thing he has always done that you have never been able to fully close yourself to.
"December third," you say. "I asked if you were okay. I said I know you don't owe me an answer. I said I think about whether anyone is asking you that."
The silence stretches. Too long for your liking.
"Nobody was," he says. The words come out very level and very controlled and don't quite hide what's underneath them. "Nobody was asking me that."
Something in your chest pulls tight. A hollow thump that stretches up into your throat. Like a pebble stuck in a stream.
"I know," you say.
Which is worse, somehow, than if you hadn't known. Knowing and not sending it anyway. Knowing and choosing the distance because the distance felt safer than what might happen if you closed it.
"February fourth," you say, before you can think better of it. "I wrote that I miss you. That I'd not been saying it and didn't know what to do about it." A pause. You press your palm harder against the bed. "And that I still wasn't sure what I would do if I were standing in front of you. But I thought I'd like the chance to find out."
"Yeah?" he says, and the word is very quiet and very steady, but you can hear everything underneath it, the not-calling and the new number, and there's no right time, there's just time.
"I don't know what that means yet," you say, quickly, because you need him to understand that. You need the acknowledgement to not be more than it is. "I'm not — I'm not saying everything is fine. It's not fine. There are still things I haven't worked out, and I don't want to pretend I have."
"I'm not asking you to pretend," he says.
"I know," you say, and you do know, which is the problem. He has never once asked you to pretend.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
Your jaw tightens slightly. You wish you could see his face. Or maybe not. No, you want to see his face, and his stupid eyes, you want to look past his face and up into his hair because you can’t look him in the eyes. You wish he could be here, making you nervous. He’s so tall.
"Depends on the something."
"The step back," he says.
There it is. Your breath goes out slowly through your nose. "What about it?"
"I've thought about it every day since then," he says. "Not with—" He stops. Starts again. "Not with any expectation attached to it. I just want to know if you've been able to make sense of it."
You think about the drafts. About December nineteenth — I'm not scared of you. I want you to know that. I was, for a little while. About the months of turning it over, looking at it from every angle available, arriving at something that feels like the truth, even if it doesn't feel like a resolution.
"I think," you say slowly, "that my body decided before I did. About something it didn't have context for." You pause. "If I'd known. If you'd told me what you'd been carrying all week, what I was actually seeing when you—" You stop. "I think the step back would have been smaller. Or not there."
"That's generous," he says.
"It's honest," you say. "There's a difference." And then, because you're tired and it's late and the tea on your bedside table is cold and you've been holding this particular thing for months: "I'm not scared of you, Steve. I was. I'm not anymore."
The silence that follows is long enough that you almost say something into it just to fill it, except you've learned, over the eight months of proximity, that some of Steve's silences don't need filling.
"I know I should have told you," he says eventually. "Earlier. About the threat. I've gone over it enough times to understand that the calculation I made was wrong in ways I didn't see clearly at the time."
"You were scared," you say.
"Yes."
"Of what would happen to me."
"Yes." A beat. "And of what knowing would do to the — to how things were between us. Before Barcelona. I told myself that was tactical. It wasn't only tactical."
There it is. The thing underneath the professional explanation, the thing that's harder to say and that he's saying anyway.
You sit there with it.
"I know," you say. "I think I've known that for a while."
"I'm sorry," he says. "I want to say that clearly. Not as a professional apology. As the actual one."
Something inside you that has been holding itself carefully for so long shifts slightly. Acknowledges the weight of it being said.
"I know you are," you say.
"That's not the same as it being enough," he says.
"No," you agree. "It's not. But it's something."
The house is very quiet around you. It’s dark and cold, and the night is going on without you, indifferent and ongoing, the way nights do.
"I should let you sleep," he says, after a while.
"Probably," you say, though you both know you won't.
"I just wanted to—" He stops. You hear him make the small sound he makes when he's choosing between things. "I wanted to hear your voice. That's all."
You close your eyes for one second. You nibble your lip between your teeth, and you worry it might split. You don’t think you have it in you to care. You let it go and absentmindedly decide to pick at the skin around your thumbnail instead.
"Okay," you say, and this time it doesn't sound like the managed version. It sounds like what it is.
"Okay," he says.
A pause.
"Goodnight," he says.
"Goodnight," you say.
He hangs up.
—
He doesn't call again.
You tell yourself this is fine. The call happened, things were said that needed saying, the line between you has been reopened if not fully repaired, and that is — that is something. That is more than you had in January. You hold this in both hands and try to let it be enough.
It almost is.
On a Wednesday in March, you're in the estate's sitting room with a book you've been reading for two weeks without making meaningful progress, the late afternoon light doing its grey winter thing through the tall windows, when you hear tyres on the gravel.
You don't look up immediately. There are always cars at the estate — Amelia, deliveries, the occasional meeting your father has here rather than at the office. The sound of tyres on gravel is not, in itself, interesting.
Then the car stops.
And there's a pause — a pause where you're not sure if a car has stopped to turn around or stopped because it has arrived — and then a door, and then footsteps on the stone path toward the front entrance.
Amelia would ring the bell. The delivery services use the service entrance. Your father's associates tend to arrive in twos.
You put your book down.
The doorbell doesn't ring. There's a knock instead — three, measured, unhurried. Something in the quality of it reaches you across the hallway before you've even stood up.
You know that knock, and you hate that you do. You stand up. You cross the hallway. You open the front door.
He's standing on the step with his hands in his coat pockets — the dark coat, the one that isn't the work overcoat, the one that belongs to the version of him that exists outside of professional contexts — and he looks at you when the door opens the way he has always looked at you, the immediate, automatic thing that has never once required a run-up.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
The February air is cold around him. The drive behind him is empty except for his car — a rental, you notice, not the company vehicle, not anything that belongs to the security firm — and the afternoon light is low and grey and doing nothing to help anyone look their best, and he looks tired in the accumulated way, the way that lives in someone's shoulders rather than their eyes, and he’s here.
He is just here.
Without telling you.
Without giving you a chance to prepare for it, or to talk yourself out of opening the door, or to manage the first moment of seeing him into something more controlled than what is currently happening on your face.
"Hi," he says.
You look at him.
You look at him, and you don't say anything for a second because you're busy doing the thing you're always doing with him, the thing where you have to catch up to yourself, find the gap between where you are and where you were a moment ago and figure out what happened in it.
"You didn't call," you say.
"No," he says.
"You could have called. You had the number."
"I know."
"So why didn't you?"
"Because you would have had time to decide not to let me through the gate," he says simply. Just the truth of it. "And I didn't want to give you that chance. Not because I think you should have to see me. Because I think you'd have talked yourself out of it and then regretted it."
Your jaw shifts. He's right. You hate that he's right. You stand there in your doorway and feel the truth of it settle in your chest and hate it thoroughly.
"That's presumptuous," you say.
"Yes," he agrees.
"You drove all the way from Kensington on the presumption that I'd open the door."
"I drove all the way from Kensington," he says, "because I've been trying to find the right way to do this, and there isn't one. And I decided showing up was better than another night of not showing up."
He doesn't fidget. He just stands on your doorstep in his coat, lets you look at him and waits. He's always been very good at waiting. It’s always been one of the most difficult things about him.
"Come in," you say finally.
Something in his face does something small that he doesn't try to manage. He steps through the door, and you step back to let him pass, and close it behind him. The house swallows the sound of it, and you stand in the hallway together for the first time since Barcelona.
He looks around the hallway briefly. You think it’s a security sweep, there’s probably a part of him that is, but you think he’s adjusting to being back in this house. You see it settle in his chest. He takes a breath in and holds it for a second.
"How long are you planning to stay?" you say, arms folded, leaning against the opposite wall.
"As long as you'll let me," he says. "I'm not making assumptions about that."
"Good," you say. "Don't."
He nods once.
You unfold your arms, push off the wall, and turn toward the kitchen because the kitchen is where everything happens in this house, because you need something to do with your hands, and because standing in the hallway staring at each other is not going to get any easier the longer you do it.
"Coffee," you say over your shoulder. "And then you can explain yourself."
"I wasn't aware I needed to explain myself."
"You showed up at my house without calling," you say. "That's an explanation situation."
"Fair," he says, and follows you.
He sits at the island.
He sits where he used to sit, the specific stool at the specific angle, and you're struck for a moment by how completely this kitchen absorbed him — how he became part of the geometry of it without either of you deciding that was happening, until the shape of him in that spot became something you knew without thinking about it.
You fill the kettle, find the coffee and do the small procedural things of making it, which buys you some time and gives you something to look at other than him.
"The call," he says, after a moment. "Tuesday. I didn't plan it the way it came out."
"Which part?" you ask, not turning around.
"Any of it." A pause. "I've been running conversations in my head for some time. None of them went the way Tuesday went."
"What did the ones in your head go like?"
"More controlled," he says. "Better arguments. Better sequencing." Another pause. "Tuesday was none of those things."
You turn around with both mugs. You set it in front of him. You stay on your side of the counter and wrap both hands around your own, and look at him.
"I just wanted to hear your voice," you say.
He looks at you.
"That's what you said," you say. "At the end. Before you hung up. You said it like you hadn't planned to."
"I hadn't," he says.
You look at him across the counter in the dull afternoon light.
There are things you've prepared for this conversation — things you've been holding in reserve since, the ones that needed saying in a room rather than a text draft, the ones that deserve to be said out loud to his face rather than to the ceiling at eleven o'clock at night. And you intend to say them. You intend to be very clear about several things.
But first:
"Nobody was asking if you were okay," you say. "That's what you also said on Tuesday."
His jaw tightens slightly. "It's not—" He stops. "Carter. Occasionally. But not — not the way you mean."
"Not the actual question," you say.
"Not the actual question," he confirms.
You look at him. At the tiredness sitting in the accumulated way through his shoulders. At the lines of his face which know you and have always known you, which you have spent months and too many unsent messages trying to reconcile with the face you saw on a Barcelona pavement doing something you hadn't known he was capable of.
"Are you okay?" you ask.
He meets your eyes. "No," he says. "Not particularly."
"Okay," you say.
"Are you?" he asks.
You think about the question. Actually, think about it, the way you haven't let yourself for months, the way the real answer has been sitting underneath the getting there and the I'm managing like sediment.
"No," you say. "Not entirely."
Something in him exhales. You feel it, the small release of something that had been held too tight.
"The step back," he says, after a moment. "On the pavement in Barcelona. I've been—" He stops. "I need to know if you're still—"
"I'm not scared of you," you say, before he can finish the question, because you've been holding that particular thing in, and he deserves to hear it before anything else. "I was. For a while. I'm not anymore."
He waits. His hands tighten around his mug, and his knuckles almost turn white. The steam curls up his arms and disappears into the air. He hasn’t looked away from you since you sat down.
"I'm still angry," you say, and your voice stays even when you say it, which takes some effort because it's true, and has been true since the hospital. It’s been sitting underneath everything else. "I know you had reasons. I know they were real, and I know you thought you were doing the right thing. I'm still angry that I walked around another country, not knowing someone was following me. I'm still angry that you decided on what I could handle without asking me."
"Yes," he says. There’s nothing defensive about it, and you appreciate it.
"And I'm angry," you say again, quieter now, "that you removed yourself. That you sat in that room, flagged it and accepted the reassignment and didn't — " You stop. Regroup. "I understand it. I've thought about it from every angle, and I understand the logic of it. But the part of it that was about me, the part where you decided the safest thing for me was to not be there, and you made that decision alone — I'm still angry about that too."
"I know," he says.
"You don't get to make that call for me," you say. "I needed to say that to you in person."
"I know," he says again. "You're right. I should have—" He stops. "There's no version of how I handled this that I'm fully satisfied with. All of it was made with one idea in mind, and I got the execution wrong in several directions."
"What was the idea?" you ask.
"Keeping you safe," he says.
"From him."
"From everything," he says, and it's quiet enough that it takes you a second to hear the full weight of what it covers.
You stand there with it. The kitchen is warm. The coffee is cooling in your hands.
"The sitting room has better light," you say.
He blinks. The tiniest fraction of something that might have been tension leaves his shoulders.
"Okay," he says.
"We can talk there," you say. "Properly. I meant what I said — I'm not promising anything, and there are still things I need to say. But—" You look at him. "You're here. So we might as well talk."
"Yeah," he says, and stands up from the stool.
You lead him out of the kitchen, down the hallway and into the sitting room. You sit. He sits across from you.
And there, in the room with the better light, with forever between you that are neither forgiven nor forgotten but that you have both carried here and are finally, carefully, beginning to put down in the same place at the same time
You start to talk. Really talk.
The kind that takes the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening, and that ends not with anything resolved but with something opened, something that had been sealed against itself for four months finally given air.
When he eventually stands to leave, it’s completely dark outside.
He stands in the hallway the way he stood on the step three hours ago, hands in his coat pockets, looking at you with the look that has always been specifically yours and that months of absence haven't changed the quality of one bit.
"I'll call," he says. "Before I come next time."
"Next time," you say.
"If there is one," he says carefully.
"Call first," you say.
The corner of his mouth moves. "Okay," he says.
He leaves.
You stand in the hallway after the door closes and listen to his car on the gravel, and then the silence of the estate settles back around the space he occupied, and you stand there for a while in the quiet and let the evening be what it is.
—
The call doesn't come.
Not the day after he leaves the estate, which you'd half-expected and half-dreaded in equal measure. Not the day after that, which you'd spent doing things with the concentrated attention of someone deliberately not checking their phone. By the end of the first week, you'd gotten through with some dignity. By the middle of the second week, which had started to feel less like patience and more like slow frustration, like waiting for a thing to happen and watching it not happen.
By the third week, you've stopped telling yourself you're waiting.
You're not waiting. You don't wait. You have a life and a schedule and work that needs doing and friends who call and a house full of the quiet machinery of your own existence, and you are not sitting by the phone like some relic of a century with fewer communication options. You are living your life. The phone is simply also present while you live it.
And then on a Thursday evening at six o'clock, you're standing in the kitchen eating crackers over the sink because you forgot to eat lunch and the address in Kensington has been sitting in your phone since November, and you put the crackers down and pick up your keys.
It's not a decision, exactly. It's the end of a decision that's been made for three weeks without your full participation.
You're in the car before you've thought about what you're going to say when he opens the door.
The drive is forty minutes in the Thursday evening traffic.
You spend most of it not thinking about what you're doing, which requires some effort, and the remainder thinking about it in the abstract rather than the specific. The fact of going, not the thing you'll say when you get there.
You've learned, at some point in the last few months, that planning what to say to Steve Harrington is largely a waste of time because conversations with him rarely go the direction you've planned them in, and by the time you reach the right street in Kensington it's almost seven and the evening is blue and cold, and you've found a parking space and you're getting out of the car and that's that.
The building is a converted Victorian terrace, red brick, the kind that looks expensive without trying. Third floor, the address said. You find the buzzer panel in the small lobby and press the right number.
It takes long enough that you start to think about what you'll do if he isn't there — whether you'll wait in the car, whether you'll leave, whether you'll text I'm outside your building, I know— and then the intercom crackles.
"Yeah," he says.
"It's me," you say.
A pause. Not a long one. The door buzzes open.
He's waiting in the doorway of the flat when you come off the landing. Third floor, last door, and he's standing there with his arms loosely folded and his shoulder against the door frame. He's wearing a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, not the suit, not the overcoat, not any version of the professional armour you've seen him in for those eight months — and he's looking at you with an expression that is not shocked.
Not shocked at all, actually. More like someone whose calculation has just come back confirmed.
"You said you'd call," you say, stopping a few feet away.
"I was going to," he says.
"When?"
"Soon."
"That's not a specific time, Steve."
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
"You drove all the way from Kensington without calling," you say. "Three weeks ago. And then I've been waiting for a call that apparently was coming soon, which—"
"So you drove all the way from the estate without calling," he says.
"I learned from the best."
The corner of his mouth moves. He unfolds his arms.
"Come in," he says, stepping back from the door.
The flat is smaller than you'd imagined.
There's a sitting room and a kitchen that's separate from it, a hallway with two other doors, a window in the sitting room that looks over the street below. But smaller than the estate, smaller than anything you associate with Steve's presence, which tends to make spaces feel larger rather than smaller.
Here, the walls are close, and the furniture is the particular style of furnished rentals — inoffensive, mid-range, slightly too beige — and there are signs of him layered over the top of it in the way you layer yourself into a space you haven't fully committed to.
A jacket over the back of the sofa. Running shoes by the door. Two mugs on the kitchen counter. A book on the arm of the chair.
And by the hall — a bag.
Partially unpacked. Sitting there with its zip half-open like it arrived and got partially dealt with, and then was left, which means it's been here for months still half-unpacked, which tells you something about the degree to which Steve has committed to this space.
He hasn't. He's been here without quite being here, which is its own kind of thing to notice.
"Tea?" he says, from the kitchen doorway.
"Wine if you have it," you say.
"I have it," he says.
You sit on the sofa that isn't quite his sofa and look around the sitting room while he opens a bottle in the kitchen, and you think about all the times you've been in his professional space — your kitchen, your sitting room, cars, hotel rooms, terminals — and how different this is.
This is where he actually lives. This is the shape of his private life, the one that exists when nobody is watching, and it’s smaller and less settled than you expected, and for reasons you couldn't entirely articulate, it makes something in your chest loosen slightly toward him.
He comes back with two glasses and sits at the other end of the sofa, at the comfortable middle-distance of two people who have decided not to make a thing of proximity, and hands you yours.
"You could have called," he says.
"You could have called," you say.
"I know." He settles back against the sofa, easily like someone in their own space, which is the version of him you haven't seen much of — unguarded in the physical sense, taking up the room without calculating it. "I was drafting things."
"How many?"
He considers. "Not eleven."
"How many?"
"Four," he says. "Five, maybe. I deleted as I went."
"That's worse," you say. "At least mine are documented."
He looks at you sideways, and then something happens — a sound that is brief and low and surprised out of him, the beginning of a laugh that he doesn't quite finish — and it does something to the atmosphere in the room, that sound, because you don't have a lot of data points for Steve Harrington laughing.
You find that you want more of them.
"What did yours say?" you ask.
"Things I've already said in person," he says. "More or less."
"More or less."
"Some things were harder to say in person." He turns his glass in his hand. "I rewrote the same paragraph about the restaurant in Barcelona four times. The part where I ordered for you."
You look at him. "I wrote about that too," you say. "In January."
"I know. You told me."
"I didn't say thank you at the time," you say. "For that. I've been thinking about it."
He looks at you with a specifically quiet look, the one that receives things without making a production of it. "You don't have to thank me for that."
"I know I don't have to," you say. "I wanted to. In person."
He nods. Accepts it. Doesn't deflect it back the way people sometimes do when they're uncomfortable being thanked — he just takes it and lets it be, which is something you've always noticed about him, the way he receives things without either dismissing them or inflating them.
You sit in the small sitting room with your wine and the quality of an early Thursday evening, the street below doing its quiet business through the window, and you try to locate yourself inside the fact that you're here, in his flat, without the professional context for the first time since knowing him.
"This is strange," you say.
"Very," he says.
"Not bad strange," you say quickly.
"No," he agrees. "Just different. I keep waiting for something to require managing."
"I know." You look at him. "I keep waiting for you to boss me around"
He almost smiles. "Is it worse?" he asks. "Without the—" He makes a gesture that seems to mean all of it, the whole professional structure.
You think about it. "No," you say honestly. "I'm just recalibrating."
"Me too," he says.
The recalibrating takes the form of talking for the next hour in a way that starts carefully and gradually stops being careful.
It starts with the work things — both of your lives since July, the things that happened and can be described without being loaded. He tells you more about Hartley, who is exactly as professionally uneventful as advertised, and something about it makes him more specific than he was in the phone call, more willing to characterise, less restrained. He does an impression of Hartley explaining the merits of a particular kind of parking space, and it catches you completely off guard.
"You're funny," you say, like this is new information.
He looks at you. "I've always been funny."
"You've always been dry," you say. "That's not the same thing."
"It's a subset."
"I've never heard you do an impression before."
"You've never been in my flat before," he says. "Different context."
"So in professional contexts, you don't do impressions?"
"In professional contexts, I don't do a lot of things," he says.
There's something in it — the easy way he said it, the way it landed without weight, the fact that he's sitting here in his grey t-shirt doing impressions of his boring principal and making you laugh in his half-unpacked flat — that feels like a door opening. Ajar, enough to see through.
"Like what?" you say.
He considers this with the thoughtfulness he applies to most things, except tonight it doesn't have the controlled professional cast to it. "Laugh," he says. "At things that are actually funny rather than things that are politely funny." He tilts his head. "Tell people when they've said something that's landed."
"You do that?"
"Not at work." He takes a drink. "I notice a lot at work. I don't say most of it."
"Like what did you notice?" you ask. "That you didn't say."
He looks at you sideways. "Specifically?" he says.
"Specifically."
He looks at the window for a second. Then back. "The colour-coded tabs," he says. "You said, Oh my god when you saw them. I thought that was funny. I didn't let myself think it was funny for about four minutes because I was trying to brief you, and then I thought about it again, and I had to stop looking at you."
"I saw that," you say. "I thought you were annoyed."
"I was trying not to smile," he says. "Which in professional contexts looks identical to being annoyed."
You laugh. A proper one, the kind that arrives before you've curated it, and you watch him watch it happen with the attentiveness he's always had, except tonight it isn't managing attentiveness, it's just him. Paying attention to you because he wants to.
"The bathroom breaks," you say.
"Movement windows."
"You called my bathroom schedule a movement window."
"It's a more elegant term."
"It really isn't," you say, and he exhales through his nose, and his mouth does the full version of the thing it's been doing all evening, the actual smile, unhurried and slightly crooked and entirely directed at you, and you sit there with it for a second.
You're on your second glass of wine when it comes up.
Not because either of you planned it. It's the way conversations find the hard things when the room has gotten warm enough and late enough and safe enough — they circle and circle and then settle, just there suddenly, the way you become aware of a sound that's been in the background the whole time.
He'd been talking about something else — the Hartley placement, working in a low-risk environment after eight months of a very different one — and then he stops, mid-sentence, and looks at his glass.
"I owe you something," he says.
You swallow. "For what?"
"Barcelona," he says. "Specifically—" He pauses. Sets his glass down on the coffee table. "The street. What you saw."
The room goes slightly quieter around the word, the way rooms do.
You hadn't planned to have this conversation tonight. You'd thought, somewhere in the drive over, that it might take a few visits to get here, that you'd circle it the way you'd been circling everything before finally approaching. But he's sitting here on his sofa in his grey t-shirt, and he's put his glass down like he’s decided to say something, and you find you don't want to manage it away.
"Okay," you say.
He looks at you. "I scared you."
"Yes," you say. Simply. You’ve already told him this.
"I need to say sorry for that." He says it directly; the way he says things he means. "Not for what happened — I'm not sorry for stopping him. But for what it looked like. What I — how far it went."
You hold your wine glass and look at him and wait, because there's more, you can hear more underneath that, and you're not going to fill the space before he's had a chance to put it in.
"I don't—" He stops. Starts again more carefully. "That isn't who I am. In general. I need you to know that."
"I know that," you say.
"You watched me do something that night, and I'm aware of what it looked like from where you were standing. I don't want you to think I’m—" He seems to run out of the sentence. Picks up the glass again. Puts it back down.
"Steve," you say gently. "Tell me."
He exhales slowly through his nose. "I'm trained," he says. "I've done the courses, and I know the protocols. In professional situations, I apply those things in the right way. I don't over-extend. I stop when the threat is neutralised. That's how it's supposed to work, and that's how it works ninety-nine times out of a hundred."
"And the hundredth?" you ask.
"The hundredth is Barcelona," he says. "The hundredth is what happens when the threat isn't abstract." He looks at his hands, resting on his knees. "It's different when you're the person in the middle of it. When I saw what he'd done. When I saw your hand."
Your hand presses briefly, automatically, toward the place below your ribs.
He watches the gesture. Something in his jaw tightens.
"I stopped being the right me," he says. "I stopped running the protocol. It became something else, and I let it become something else for longer than I should have, and the three people who pulled me back are people whose job it was to pull me back, and I'm not proud of it."
"You were protecting me," you say.
"That's not a justification," he says, and he says it firmly, not at you but at the space between you, the way someone says something they've been saying to themselves repeatedly and have finally said out loud. "The fact that I was scared for you doesn't make it okay that I kept going past the point where I needed to. Those are two different things, and I've been trying not to confuse them."
"You've been thinking about this," you say.
"Since then," he says. "Most days."
"I didn't know you could be like that," you say.
You say it, and he receives it without flinching. "I know."
"I knew what the job required. I'd thought about it in a general way." You look at your glass. "I hadn't thought about what it actually looked like."
"No one's supposed to see it," he says. "That's the point, usually. You manage it before it gets to that stage." A pause. "Barcelona didn't give me that option. He was there before I'd fully understood he was there, and then your hand was—" He blinks. "I stopped being a professional."
"You became something else," you say.
"Yes," he says.
"Something more," you say, slowly, trying to find the right word. "More than just the job."
"You weren't just protecting a principal," you say. "You were— It was different because I'm different to you."
His jaw shifts and he can’t look at you. "Yes."
"And that's the part you couldn't calibrate."
"I've been in difficult situations. I've had principals I cared about in a professional sense. This was—" He stops again. He seems to keep running out of the sentence, which is unlike him, the man who chooses words with care and usually lands exactly where he means to. "You were hurt," he says finally. "I saw it. And everything else went."
You look at the careful, tired quality of his honesty. The way he's holding his own hands loosely on his knees, just sitting in what he's saying.
"Does it—" You choose the words. "Does it happen? In general. Is that something that—"
"No," he says, and it comes out certain. "No. In twelve years of doing this work, I have never lost control of a situation the way I lost control of that one. Not because I haven't been in dangerous situations. Because I've always been able to keep the distance." He looks at you steadily. "You are the variable, not the work."
"I'm the variable," you say.
"Yes," he says. “It became more difficult to maintain.”
"In general," you say. "Or specifically in Barcelona."
"Both," he says, and the honesty of it is simple and completely uncushioned.
Something you've been carrying since then — the fear-that-isn't-fear, the image of the narrow street, the three people it took, the way it had gone past the point of necessary — shifts very slightly.
You don't think it entirely vanishes. But it shifts, accommodated by the new information, fitted into the shape of a man who lost his control for a very specific reason and has been sitting with the knowledge of that without excusing it.
"Thank you," you say. "For saying it."
He looks slightly surprised. "I owe you more than—"
"You explained it without justifying it," you say. "Those are different things. You didn't tell me it was fine or that I shouldn't be bothered by it. You just told me what happened and took the responsibility for the part that went wrong." You look at him. "That matters."
He's quiet for a moment.
"I was terrified," he says, and it sounds like the truest version of several things at once. "When I saw your hand. When I understood what had happened. Everything I'd been trying to prevent for months had happened anyway and I—" He breathes. "I'm sorry. That's what I needed to say. I'm sorry for scaring you. Not for being there, not for any of the rest of it, but for the part where I lost the line, and you had to watch that."
"I know," you say.
"I mean it specifically," he says. "You specifically. Not as the principal. As the person you are."
"I know," you say again, and mean it differently this time.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay," you say.
You reach over and put your hand over his. He turns his hand under yours and holds it.
Neither of you says anything.
After a moment, you both reach for your wine glasses, and the sitting room settles back into the easier register of the earlier part of the evening, and the conversation finds its way to other things, and that is the end of it.
"Have you eaten?" he says, later on.
"I had crackers," you say.
"Before you drove here?"
"Yes."
He gives you the look. "I have food," he says. "If you want."
"You don't have to cook," you say.
"I know I don't have to," he says.
"I can get something delivered—"
"I have pasta, and I have the ingredients for the sauce May makes," he says. "It takes twenty minutes. It's better than delivery."
"You cook?”
"I cook," he says, simply, like this isn't information that somehow feels revolutionary. "Less so when it's just me, but I cook."
"Less so when it's just you," you repeat.
"Cooking for one is an exercise," he says. "Everything is too much or not enough."
You follow him into the kitchen because there's nowhere else to go in the flat and because the kitchen is where things happen, and this seems like a thing that's happening.
The kitchen is small — smaller than the one at the estate, smaller than your kitchen at your flat, the closeness of a London kitchen that was designed for efficiency rather than comfort. There's a window above the sink that looks at a wall, which is a very London window, and the counter space is limited enough that when you sit on the only available surface — the small stretch of counter beside the fridge — and Steve moves around the kitchen getting things out of cupboards, you're closer together than you'd be in any other configuration.
He doesn't seem to mind.
More than that, he moves around you, reaches past you for the olive oil without asking you to move, hands you things to hold without explanation, and treats your presence in his kitchen with comfort.
"Hold that," he says, handing you a can of tomatoes.
"Am I helping?" you say.
"You're in the way," he says. "Which is adjacent."
"I can move—"
"Stay where you are," he says firmly, reaching past your shoulder to the spice rack, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, and your hand tightens slightly around the can of tomatoes.
He doesn't acknowledge it. He moves back to the stove.
"What's in May's sauce?" you ask.
"If I told you she'd lose her greatest leverage," he says.
"She doesn't know I exist."
He glances at you over his shoulder. "She knows you exist."
You smile at him. "You told her about me?"
"She asked about the assignment," he says, turning back to the pan. "I gave her information appropriate to what she asked."
"Which was?"
"Who the principal was." A pause. "And then she asked other things, and I gave her information appropriate to those, too."
"What other things?"
"Things I'm not going to tell you in my kitchen," he says, which is itself information, and you sit with it on the counter holding the can of tomatoes while he cooks and the kitchen smells of garlic and olive oil.
"I would like to know," you say.
"I know you would," he says.
"Steve."
"The sauce needs the tomatoes," he says.
You hand him the tomatoes.
—
You open a second bottle of wine because the first is finished, and this feels like a second-bottle evening. He tells you more about May, who sounds like the kind of person who would ask other things and receive the answers with absolute equanimity.
You tell him about Dana, who had made an observation in December about the kitchen feeling different since July, and had not pressed for an explanation, which you describe and which makes him do the sound again. The low brief one. The almost-laugh.
"You're doing it again," you say.
"Doing what?"
"The thing where you almost laugh but stop yourself."
He turns from the stove. "I'm not stopping myself."
"You are," you say. "You've done it three times tonight. You get almost there and then you—" You make a small gesture.
"Okay," he says. "Fine. What would you like me to do about it?"
"Just laugh," you say. "Like a person."
"I am laughing like a person."
"You're laughing like someone who was told at some point that laughing freely in a professional setting was wrong and never figured out how to turn that off."
He stares at you for a moment. Then, unhurriedly, he turns back to the stove.
"That is an extremely specific observation," he says.
"I have eight months of data," you say.
"And now you're analysing it."
"I've always been analysing it," you say. "I was just more subtle about it when you were my bodyguard."
He makes a sound then. The full version. Low and genuine and surprised by itself, the laugh that didn't get stopped in time, and it fills the small kitchen in a way that does something to you, hearing it — the warmth of a sound you've been waiting for without knowing you were waiting.
You smile at your wine glass. He doesn't see it.
Or if he does, he doesn't say anything, just turns back to the sauce, and you sit on the counter. The kitchen smells of garlic, and the evening has gotten properly dark outside the wall-window, and the flat is warm and small and full of the particular texture of this.
Dinner is at the kitchen table because the sitting room doesn't have one. It's a small table, the kind that technically seats two and practically seats one and a half — close, knees almost touching, the plates taking up most of the available surface.
The pasta is good.
Genuinely good, something made by someone who knows what they're doing and isn't showing off about it, and you tell him so, and he accepts it the way he accepts things, without deflecting.
"May's recipe?" you ask.
"Adapted," he says.
"What did you change?"
"More garlic," he says. "She goes light on the garlic. I've never understood it."
"More garlic is always correct," you say.
He looks at you with a warmth that is very simple and very present. "Yes," he says. "Exactly."
You eat and talk, and the talking is different from the talking in the sitting room — lighter, somehow, the food giving it something to organise around, a conversational structure that keeps it from getting too pointed in any one direction.
He listens to you talk absentmindedly with his fork in his hand and his eyes on you, and asks questions at exactly the right points, the questions that open things up rather than close them down.
He’s looking at you, and his eyes are sparkling, and he hasn’t taken a bite of his food in probably three minutes. You worry it’s going to go cold.
He reaches across the table.
Not for your hand — he reaches past your glass, straightens the salt shaker that's been sitting at a slight angle the whole meal, and retreats. A completely unnecessary adjustment to a salt shaker that wasn't causing anyone any problems.
You look at the salt shaker. You look at him.
"Was that necessary?" you say.
"It was crooked," he says, with perfect composure.
"It was off maybe a three-degree angle," you say.
"It was bothering me."
"Since when?"
"Since we sat down," he says. "I've been thinking about it."
"You've been thinking about the salt shaker?" you ask, in the tone of someone who doesn't believe a word of this.
"Among other things," he says, and the corner of his mouth is moving, and his eyes are doing the other thing, and you look at him across the small table in his small kitchen. The evening is full, and the pasta is great, and the wine is warm in your chest.
"Among other things," you say.
"Yes," he says.
You carry the plates to the sink.
He washes. You dry. This is the most domestic possible thing, and it happens without discussion, the natural division of two people who have been in proximity long enough to develop instincts about each other's preferences.
He washes efficiently, the way he does most things. You dry with the tea towel that was hanging over the oven handle, which is the obvious tea towel, and you stand side by side at the sink in the small kitchen, and it is the most ordinary thing and also somehow everything.
"You said you didn't know how to act without the boundaries," he says, after a while, handing you a plate.
"Earlier," you say. "Yes."
"Do you still not know?"
You take the plate and dry it and think about it. "I'm figuring it out," you say. "It's easier tonight than I expected."
"Why?"
"Because you're different here," you say. "You're—" You look for the words. "Less managed. You laugh. You have opinions about garlic and salt shakers, and you cook pasta. You did an impression of your principal that made me actually laugh, and you're—" You stop.
"I'm what?"
"More," you say. "You're just more. Of yourself. And I'm adjusting."
He hands you the last thing — a pan, still warm — and turns off the tap, leans against the counter beside the sink, close, the small kitchen putting you within arm's reach of each other naturally, without either of you navigating toward it.
"This is the part that's strange," he says. "For me."
"What part specifically?"
"The part where I don't have to—" He pauses. "Where I'm not upholding anything. Where talking to you doesn't have a function except talking to you." He looks sideways at you. "I've been thinking about how to be around you without the job, and I didn't know it would feel this much like—"
"Like what?"
"Like breathing," he says on an exhale. "Like something I don't have to think about."
You put the pan down on the counter.
You turn and look at him properly, half-facing him in the small kitchen with the tea towel still in your hands, and he's already looking at you, has been looking at you, and the distance between you is less than a foot and has been less than a foot for most of the last twenty minutes without either of you doing anything about it.
"Steve," you say.
"Yeah," he says.
"The salt shaker wasn't crooked," you say.
His mouth moves. "No," he says. "It wasn't."
"Okay," you say.
"Okay," he says.
He looks at your face. He does this with the quality he has — directly, the full attention, the thing that has always felt like more than looking. And then his hand comes up, and he tucks a piece of hair back from your face with two fingers, the lightest possible touch, and leaves his hand there at your jaw, warm and unhurried.
Your breath shifts.
"Is this okay?" he says.
"Yes," you say, and mean it.
He closes the distance.
It's not what you expect, and it's exactly what you expect — the same time, the same moment. It's quiet and deliberate, the way he does most things, no rush to it, his mouth against yours with patience like he’s thought about this for a long time and isn’t going to waste it by doing it quickly. His thumb traces a small, slow arc along your jaw. You drop the towel, and your hand finds the front of his shirt without deciding to.
He pulls back just slightly. Checks. The way he always checks.
You close the distance again.
This time it's softer and longer and his other hand finds your waist and you think, distantly, that this is what it was always going to feel like — inevitable like the way things that have been true for a long time and are only now being allowed to be true, just the particular rightness of two things that fit coming together after a long time of being kept apart.
When you finally separate, it's gradual.
You look at each other. You're still holding his shirt. He's still holding your jaw.
"Hi," you say.
Something does what it does on his face — the slow warm version, the full one, the one you've been cataloguing for months from what you'd once thought was a safe distance.
"Hi," he says.
Neither of you moves.
This seems to be a theme — the two of you in a room together, neither of you moving, some invisible current running between you that you'd both been pretending for months was something else. Professionalism. Circumstance. The natural intensity of a situation with high stakes. You'd been very creative about what you called it. You'd had to be.
His thumb is still moving. That small, slow arc. Like he's not aware he's doing it, or like he is and has decided he's done pretending he doesn't want to.
"Steve," you say, and then don't know what comes after it.
"I know," he says.
Which is the thing about him. He usually does.
You look at his face — properly, the way you've been careful not to, all these months. The line of his jaw. The particular steadiness in his eyes that you'd catalogued as professional once and then revised, quietly, to something else.
You don't say you're nervous. It seems important, for reasons you can't entirely articulate, not to say it. As if saying it will make it larger than it is. As if the shape of the evening will change if you admit out loud that your heart is doing something irregular against your ribs.
He sees it anyway.
He always sees it. That's his job — reading rooms, reading people, clocking the thing that's slightly off before it becomes a problem. You'd resented it sometimes, early on, the feeling of being legible to him when he remained so carefully, professionally unreadable. It had felt like an imbalance. It probably still is. But right now, with his hand at your jaw and his eyes on you in the quiet, you find you mind it less than you expected.
"You don't have to be nervous," he says, low and careful.
"I'm not nervous."
A beat. He doesn't argue. He looks at you very steadily and simply waits.
"I'm not," you say again, smaller.
"Okay," he says.
"I'm really not."
"Okay," he says again, the same way, the same tone, which means he is allowing you this completely and doesn’t believe a word of it, and something about that combination makes your chest ache in a way you're not prepared for.
"You always let me say something that isn't true and don't correct me."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens, maybe, though that's not quite the right word for it — it's more like the professional layer going briefly transparent, something underneath showing through. "It's not my job to correct you," he says. "Not about that."
"What is your job, then? Right now."
He looks at you for a moment. Then he says, quietly, "Making sure you're alright."
You look at him. You think about all the versions of that sentence you've heard from him. Stay close. Don't open the door. I've got you. All the iterations of the same basic thing, which is that he pays attention, and he’s careful, and he doesn’t let things go wrong if he can help it. You'd understood it as professional once. You'd understood it as dedication, as competence, as someone who takes their work seriously.
You understand it differently now.
"I'm alright," you say. And then, because it's true, and because the evening seems to have become the kind of evening where the truth is allowed: "I'm just — this is the first time."
He goes still. Not alarmed — more like recalibrating. "First time," he repeats, carefully.
"I mean — not—" You make a small, frustrated gesture. "The first time with you. First time this. First time any of this is — real. And I just—" You stop. Try again. "I've thought about it a lot. And I didn't know what it would actually feel like, and now I do, and it's—"
"A lot," he offers.
"Yeah." You exhale. "It's a lot."
He doesn't say anything for a moment. He just looks at you, and you let him, because you're tired of being careful about what you let him see. Then he moves his hand from your face — slowly, deliberately — and takes your hand instead, and just holds it. His hand is bigger than yours. Warm. Completely steady in a way that makes you aware, by contrast, of the slight tremor in your own fingers.
He notices. Of course he does. He doesn't say anything about it.
"Come here," he says instead.
His bedroom is the way you would have guessed, if you'd let yourself guess. Spare. Ordered. Nothing on the surfaces that doesn't need to be there. A single lamp on the nightstand, already on — the low, warm kind.
The bed is made with the corners tucked. There are no decorative pillows. There’s another book on the nightstand, face down, which is the most personal thing in the room and somehow the detail that stays with you.
He sits on the edge of the bed, looks up at you and waits.
The way he can hold a position, physical or otherwise, without it costing him anything. You've always found it slightly unnerving. Right now it's something else.
You sit beside him.
Not quite touching. Close.
Your hands are still loosely linked between you, resting on the mattress. You look at them — his hand around yours, his thumb not moving now — and you think about all the times you've been in proximity to him and pretended not to notice the proximity.
All the car rides. All the briefings. All the times he'd put a hand briefly at your back, guiding, and you'd catalogued the weight of it and told yourself it was nothing and known, on some level you didn't look at directly, that it wasn't.
"You're thinking very loudly," he says.
"I'm not."
"You are." Observational. "Your face does a specific thing."
"It does not."
"It does." He says it simply, not as a challenge. "It's not a bad thing. I like that I can tell."
You look at him. Something about the admission — small, unguarded — does something to the nervous thing in your chest. Rearranges it slightly.
"What does it look like?" you ask. "The specific thing."
He considers. "Like you're solving something," he says. "Working something out. You get a line here—" he reaches up and touches, very gently, the space between your brows— ", and you go a little still. And then whatever you were working out either resolves or you decide to leave it for later."
"You've been watching me for a long time," you say.
"Yeah," he says.
"I'm still nervous," you say.
You don't know why you say it. Maybe because the room is quiet enough to be honest in. Maybe because he's been honest, and it seems only fair. Maybe because you're tired of holding it, the pretending, the I'm fine, I'm not nervous, everything is normal, which has been the primary activity of the last several months.
He looks at you. Doesn't say I know, though he could, though he clearly does.
"It’s alright," he says instead. "You don't have to not be."
Something in your shoulders releases. A little. Almost involuntary.
He brings your linked hands up slowly and presses his mouth to your knuckles, a press, warm and deliberate, his eyes on yours the whole time — and holds it for a moment and then lowers your hands back down and doesn't let go.
"Nothing's going to go wrong," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. There's no rush." A pause. "We don't have to do anything."
"I want to," you say immediately.
Something in his expression shifts. "I know," he says. "I know you do. I want to be clear that you don't have to."
"I know I don't have to."
"I know you know." He says it gently, patient in the way he is about most things. "I'm just saying it so it's been said."
You look at him. The lamp. The book face-down on the nightstand. His hands, which you have thought about — you realise now, fully admit now — for considerably longer than you'd been willing to say.
"Okay," you say. "It's been said."
He almost smiles. "Okay."
You lean in first this time.
It feels different from the first time. This is quieter. More room in it. He makes a soft sound when your mouth meets his, and his hand comes up again to your face, to your jaw, that same place, and you understand that it's going to keep going back there, that it's where his hands want to be, and something about that knowledge settles warm in your sternum.
He kisses you slowly. With considerable patience. Like he's making good on something.
His other hand finds your waist, and then the small of your back, and draws you slightly closer without hurry, and you go, and you're still nervous, but it's different now — lighter, less like dread and more like the feeling of standing at the edge of something and choosing to step off.
You bring your hand up to the side of his neck and feel his pulse there, steady and unhurried, and yours is not steady and not unhurried, but he doesn't say anything about that.
He pulls back a fraction. Forehead almost against yours. Checking.
"Still okay?" Low. Private. Just for the room.
"Still okay," you say. Your voice comes out softer than you intend.
He kisses you again.
This one goes longer. He's unhurried — like it has more room in it than it usually does, like the space between seconds has expanded to fit something larger. You stop thinking about what you look like or what you're doing with your hands or whether you're doing this right.
You stop, somewhere in the middle of it, being nervous. Not because the nervousness resolves into something else but because it simply gets crowded out, the way noise gets crowded out when something takes your full attention.
His thumb is doing the thing again. The slow brush. You lean into it without deciding to.
He makes a quiet sound. Low and involuntary, almost. It catches you somewhere central, and you bring your hand up from his neck to the back of his head without thinking, and he tilts into it, just slightly, and you think — distantly, because you're not quite capable of full thoughts — that you have never had someone's complete attention like this. Not the professional kind. The other kind.
When you separate, it's slow again. It's always slow with him. The city is still outside. The lamp is still on. His forehead rests against yours and you stay there, breathing, his hand at your face and your fingers in the short hair at the base of his skull, and neither of you says anything for a moment.
"Okay," he says, eventually. The word seems to mean several things.
"Yeah," you say.
"You're still thinking," he says.
"Constantly," you say. "It's a problem I have."
"What are you thinking about?"
You consider lying, or deflecting, or making it a joke. You consider all of these things and then don't do any of them. "That this is real," you say. "I keep — I keep landing on that. That it's real."
He looks at you. Very steadily. "It's real," he confirms.
"I know."
"I've wanted—" He stops. Starts again, and you realise you've almost never heard him do that, restart a sentence, which means this one costs something. "I've wanted this for a long time," he says. "I want to make sure you know that. That this isn't—" A breath. "That I'm not going anywhere."
You look at him. The lamp. The book. His hands.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay?"
"I believe you," you say. Which is true. Which is maybe the most frightening thing about the evening — not the kissing, not the nervous thing, but how completely and without reservation you believe him.
He looks at you for a moment, and then he does something — a full smile, the warm, slow version, the one you've been cataloguing from what you'd once thought was a safe distance — and it turns out that being close to it is different from cataloguing it. It turns out it does something different when it's aimed at you from a foot away in a quiet room.
"Come here," he says again, quieter, and opens his arm. You shift so you’re in his lap, your legs over each side of his waist, and he leans against the wall behind him. He wraps around you and settles, and it's that easy, and somehow that's the part that gets you — how easy it is, how right, like this is where you've always been supposed to fit.
His chin rests on the top of your head. His breathing is even.
"Still nervous?" he asks.
You think about it honestly. "A little," you say. "Less."
"Less is good."
"Yeah."
Outside, the city does what it always does. The lamp casts the same light it was casting before, which feels strange — that the room looks the same when the room is entirely different. You’re aware of the weight of his arms, the warmth of him, the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest.
"Steve," you say.
"Mm."
"The book on your nightstand."
A pause. "What about it?"
"What is it?"
Another pause, slightly longer, which means he's deciding something. "History," he says. "Fairly dry. I like something that doesn't require a lot of—" He stops.
"Something you can put down," you supply.
"Yes." And then, quieter: "Usually."
You sit with that for a moment. The idea of him in this room in the evenings, picking up the dry history book and putting it down again. The version of him that exists when there's no job, no function, no professional frame. You've been trying not to think about that version for months. You let yourself think about it now.
"I have questions," you say.
"I know."
"About you. The—" You gesture vaguely. "Non-professional you."
"I know," he says again, and you can hear something in it, a warmth, a patience. "We have time."
It lands quietly. We have time. As if the evening is not a single event but a beginning. As if he is already past the question of whether there will be more evenings, has already folded it in as a given, is simply waiting for you to catch up.
You press a little closer. He adjusts his arm.
"Okay," you say, and you mean it the way he meant it — in the multiple-things sense. Yes, and I understand, and I think I believe that too, and I'm still nervous but less, and you can keep talking or we can be quiet, and either is fine.
He seems to understand all of it.
"Okay," he says back.
You stay there, in the quiet, in the particular rightness of things finally being allowed to be what they are — and you think that this is the part no one tells you about, the part after the moment, the soft and unhurried settling of two people figuring out what comes next.
You find, somewhat to your surprise, that you're not nervous anymore.
❦ bodyguard simon riley and spoiled rotten reader ❧
warnings: age gap, power imbalance, bodyguard/client dynamics, possessive!simon, dom/sub undertones, piv, oral (f receiving), slight corruption kink, tensionnnn, not proofread, smut 18+
You weren’t supposed to like how safe he made you feel. And he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to like how soft you sounded when you said his name.
Simon Riley was hired for your protection by your father two years ago.
You were twenty-one, bratty, overindulged, and had no idea what danger looked like. He did. He saw it in every shadow, every flick of a lighter outside your apartment, every unregistered car that slowed when you crossed the street.
And still, somehow, the most dangerous thing in his life became you.
The pink gloss you wore like armor. The perfume you sprayed before bed. The way you’d whisper “Simon?” through your cracked door at night like you just wanted to know he was there.
He’d been in warzones. Watched men bleed out. But nothing rattled him like the thought of you crying his name for the wrong reason.
Now you’re twenty-three. Still bratty. Still overindulged.
But a little lonelier. A little smarter. A little better at pretending you don’t want him to cross the line.
You dress for him. Not in anything obvious—your father would kill you both—but in those soft little nightgowns that cling just right, or the clingy crop tops when you drag him to the mall like he’s your boyfriend. You call it “keeping up appearances.”
And Simon? He lets you.
Let’s you pout and boss him around and call him “Riley” like it’s a dare.
But lately, there’s something mean in the way he stares. Something a little cruel in the way he grabs your wrist when you wander too far from him in a crowd. Something unholy in the way his hand presses to the small of your back when you’re walking through a club, barely legal and already drunk off attention.
It’s not about the mission anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.
And you know it when you catch him in your doorway one night, shadowed in the soft pink glow of your bedroom.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stares at you in that tiny silk set you wore on purpose. Something heavy in his jaw, his fists clenched at his sides. And you? You pretend to be surprised. Pretend not to shake when you ask,
“Did you need something, Simon?”
He doesn’t respond right away, just stands there all broodingly, staring into your eyes like he can see your soul. It’s late—his mask is already pulled off, suit and vest tucked away, front door locked and his gun in the safe. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his biceps like he’s wet and grey sweats—you’re pretending not to stare.
He takes one slow step into the room, and your heart starts beating like you’ve done something wrong.
He shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not when you’re bare-legged and barefoot, lips glossed like you’d been hoping he’d stop by.
But he doesn’t stop at the door. He keeps coming closer—until he’s standing over you where you’re curled up in bed, phone still in hand, pretending you weren’t waiting for this exact moment.
“I saw the security feed,” he says quietly.
You blink. “What feed?”
He cocks his head, eyes dropping to your bare thighs. “The one that shows you sneaking out of your apartment at midnight. In a tiny little dress. Without me.”
You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he cuts you off with a soft, dangerous sound—half a scoff, half a warning.
“You think this is a game, sweetheart?” His voice is low now, that voice he only uses when he’s talking into his comms, calm and lethal. “You think I get paid to chase you around the city like one of your trust fund toys?”
“I just wanted to have a little fun,” you say, too soft, too smug.
He leans in.
“You wanna have fun?” he murmurs. “Fine. But if you’re gonna act like a brat, don’t expect me to keep pretending I don’t notice.”
You swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of how small you look sitting in front of him. His gaze drags down your body, slow and deliberate, until he’s looking at the sliver of pink lace barely visible beneath your top.
“Simon…” you whisper.
And that’s what does it.
The sound of his name—breathless and unsure, like a secret he wasn’t supposed to hear—breaks him.
His hand curls under your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and when he speaks again, his voice is wrecked with restraint.
“Say it again.”
Your breath catches. “Simon…”
He groans, low and rough, and you swear he mutters something like fuckin’ hell before pulling you up into him—big hands dragging across your bare skin like he’s memorizing every inch. His lips are on yours before you can blink, mouth hot and heavy against yours when his hands settle on your hips.
Your hands fly up to his biceps to steady yourself, a whimper slipping past your lips when his hands squeeze your hips before slipping back to cup your ass. He pulls you closer to him and you can feel him—thick and hard and pressed against your stomach now, and it makes your legs shake a little. Makes you cling to him like gravity stopped working.
His breath is ragged when he pulls back, just barely, resting his forehead against yours. His hands are still on you, fingertips digging in like he’s trying to convince himself this is real.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he rasps, voice wrecked and gravelly. “You think this is just some fucked-up fantasy? Some way to get back at your dad?”
“No.” You breathe it out. “It’s not like that.”
You’re not sure if he believes you. But the way his hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt says he doesn’t care.
“I’ve spent years keeping my hands off you,” he growls. “Do you have any idea what that’s cost me?”
You shiver when his knuckles brush against your stomach, when he whispers your name like it’s a prayer. Or a warning.
You nod, wide-eyed. “Yes.”
He lets out a broken little laugh—like you’ve just sealed your own fate.
“I’m not gentle, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and lethal as he backs you toward the bed. “You want me to stop, you better say it now.”
But you don’t say it.
You just fall back onto the pillows, silk clinging to your thighs, lips parted like a plea.
And Simon—your Simon—kneels between your legs like he’s been waiting for this since the day he met you. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, anxiety creeping up your spine as he uses his hands to spread your legs. He places a kiss over your clothed clit before licking a slow, deliberate stripe up the damp fabric, so lightly it almost doesn’t feel real.
Your head tips back against the pillows, a whimper catching in your throat. He doesn’t say a word—just watches you. Watches your hips buck and your breath hitch, like this is what he’s been starving for.
And still—still—he doesn’t move the fabric.
“You like teasing me, yeah?” he mutters, voice dangerously calm. “Bet you didn’t think I’d tease you back.”
You pout a little, choosing not to respond in hopes he gives in to you sooner. He grins, fingers coming up to toy with the hem of your panties. You shiver, shifting slightly.
His eyes flick up to yours.
He finally loops his fingers through your panties, pulling them off and throwing them over his shoulder. He still doesn’t directly touch you—instead, he leans down, knees hitting the floor as he settles face to face with your pussy. He stares for too long, your face is burning, he hums, pleased.
“Pretty.”
“Simon,” You whimper, hands coming up to cover your face as you try to close your legs. He doesn’t let you, but hands gripping your thighs and pushing your legs even further apart.
Your face is burning, thighs trembling, hands still covering your eyes like that might protect you from how exposed you feel—how seen.
“Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs.
His voice is rougher now. Warmer. Like smoke curling under the door of a room already on fire.
You feel him lean in again, breath fanning against you, the heat of his mouth so close you’re practically vibrating with anticipation—and then—
He spits.
Right on your cunt.
A slick, obscene sound breaks in the silence as his thumb comes up to drag it through your folds, and your whole body jolts.
“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Dripping already. Knew you’d be sweet for me.”
Your hands drop from your face just in time to catch the look on his. Reverent. Starved. Possessed.
Then he’s burying his face in you—tongue hot and wide and hungry. He licks you like he’s been fantasizing about this for years, like it’s not enough to taste you, he has to consume you. His nose nudges your clit, mouth sealed to your pussy as his tongue fucks into you.
You cry out, hips lifting off the bed, but his hands are already there—gripping your thighs, holding you open.
“Stay still,” he growls against you, voice muffled by wet heat. “Take it.”
And you do.
You let him ruin you with his mouth. Let him groan into you like this is his release, too. You’ve never been touched like this—devoured like this. You’re not even sure you’re breathing anymore, head tipped back and fingers fisting the sheets as he eats you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
It doesn’t take long—he’s too good, too focused, too determined to make you feel it. You cum with a gasp, high and keening, your thighs trying to close around his head, but he holds you open until you’ve wrung yourself dry.
You’re still twitching when he finally pulls back, chin glistening, lips red.
He drags his mouth over your inner thigh before kissing your clit once more, just to be cruel. Then he’s standing—tugging his shirt over his head, grey sweats already tenting with how hard he is.
Your eyes trail down his body—inked, scarred, massive. He catches you staring and smirks, pulling the waistband of his sweats down slow.
“Eyes on me,” he says softly, almost too soft, as his cock springs free.
And then he’s crawling over you, mouth catching yours in a messy, consuming kiss as he lines himself up between your legs. You’re still wet, still aching, and when he slides the tip through your folds, you moan right into his mouth.
“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he reminds you again, voice shaking now, even as he presses his forehead to yours. “You still want this?”
You nod, wrapping your legs around him, breathless.
“I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
He pushes in slow, and it hurts—just a little, from the stretch, from how thick he is—but it’s perfect. Full. Overwhelming. He groans, deep and guttural, as he sinks in all the way, his hands braced on either side of your head like he might collapse if he’s not careful.
You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only feel.
“You’re mine now,” he growls into your neck. “You understand that?”
You nod, nails digging into his back.
“Say it,” he demands, fucking into you hard enough to knock the words loose from your chest.
“I’m yours,” you gasp, high and ruined. “I’ve always been yours.”
And that, that makes him snap.
He starts fucking you for real—hard and filthy, the headboard slamming, your legs up around his waist as he mutters curses and praises into your skin. You’re both loud now—moaning, panting, breaking apart with every thrust. It’s overwhelming. Consuming. Like something that’s been building for years and finally, finally, burst.
And when he cums it’s with your name in his mouth, like a confession.
𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - seeing this fine ass man and his fine ass girlfriend got me in the mood to write again 🤷🏽♀️. Also, he looks like a bouncer every time he wears all black. Also, also, this is corny as fuck but I wanted to be a bit original so I went, fuck it, Princess! Sorry for any grammar mistakes or spelling errors! I hate reading my own work back!
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 3,908+
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The screen lit up with the TikTok app’s familiar start-up jingle, followed by a soft gasp from the girl on-screen. She wore a silk bonnet, lip gloss, and an oversized tee, holding her phone like she had just discovered treasure
“Okay. Y’all… I was just trying to figure out who this woman was that literally almost shut down a street in Milan yesterday. Like—shut it DOWN. And I fell into a hole. So, let’s get into it because—why did no one tell me this princess is that girl?”
The screen cut to the now-viral photo of Princess Atarah Mbali, draped in a chartreuse Jacquemus mini dress with a long sculptural train, strappy metallic heels, and a pair of gradient sunglasses that half-covered her face. Her hair was in two sleek, waist-length braids, and her brown skin glowed under the paparazzi’s camera flash. In the background was a blurry figure in all-black — broad, tall, still.
“First of all — yes. This is an actual princess. Like, royalty. Heiress to a fucking throne. Her mom is Queen Samira — which is the one who brought that sapphire headwrap to a UN gala she attended with her husband, and it broke Twitter. Yeah, that’s her mother. So, her bloodline is already fashionable as fuck. Sort of known to be on of the best dressed families in power.”
The video then cut to a mashup, which was actually a vintage Vogue spread from years ago featuring Queen Samira’s wedding to King Kwame Mbali, followed by a slideshow of archival footage showing a much younger Atarah. From boarding school photos, grainy royal family candids, and charity gala appearances and even the occasional one of her as a child, waving to the paps. She was always poised, always beautiful, and was always watched.
“She’s twenty-four now. Went to university in London, dipped in and out of the spotlight for most of her life — and then bam, started popping up in these random clips and videos all over social media. Baby she’s been here.”
The TikTok cuts to a now-infamous video. It shows a bustling crowd outside an afterparty in France. Nothing but chaos and screaming as different security guards yelled in four different languages. The camera shakes wildly until it catches a tall, sharply built man with deep brown skin and a calm, stoic expression emerging through the crowd from the door of the party. It shows as he turned and effortlessly lifts a girl. And there, effortlessly balanced across his shoulders, laughing in a mini dress and stiletto boots, was Atarah Mbali, shades across her face as she blushed at the attention.
“This was her. THIS was her. And that man carrying her like a paper doll? That’s not her boyfriend. That’s her bodyguard. Terry. Richmond. Who has apparently been with her for, like, almost ten years now???”
The voiceover softened, almost dreamily.
“And he is always so there? Like—girl, look at this.”
It then cuts to another video. A jet ski gliding across the turquoise coast of Antigua. Atarah in a red bikini, long braids flying behind her as she’s driving with her sunglasses on and laughing. And behind her, hands gently resting on her waist to make sure the standing girl didn’t fall, face unreadable, sat Terry. Wet shirt clinging to him with his eyes trained on the horizon.
Then it cut again — quick flashes of mirror selfies she’d posted on her now semi-active account throughput the years. Some of them were classic influencer content in a way. Chic bags, nails, jewelry. But if you looked closely, there he was in the background every time — blurred in the mirror, half cropped, standing at the door, boots in the frame.
“So like… she doesn’t post a lot, but when she does? He’s always there, which I know he’s her bodyguard, but he’s fine as fuck.”
The TikTok cuts to one last clip , one low-resolution and shaky.
It was a New York Fashion Week afterparty. There was loud music and flashing lights. Atarah’s hand is in Terry’s as they move through the crowd with her in front. At one point, she stumbles in heels and he catches her by the waist like it’s second nature. She doesn’t even look that surprised by the touch. She just leans back into him for one second longer than necessary with a slightly agape mouth.
“You’re telling me that’s just professionalism? She not fucking his fine ass? Please. I bet that man is in love with his job for…many reasons. Either way, I need this in a book or on a screen near me, immediately.”
The TikTok ends with a picture of her reflection in Capri, Atarah smirking under sunglasses, head slightly tilted toward the large window she was taking the photo in. And Terry was behind her, one hand on the car door, the other on his hip as he watched her.
That was the video Atarah watched on her phone last night, the hum of the private jet subtle. Once it send and automatically started over in her headphones, it was then she felt how much she was smiling. She looked away from the phone illuminating her face, the video still playing in her ears, and her eyes landed on the man across the aisle. There Terry sat in a reclined airplane seat, asleep with a fluffy yellow blanket thrown over him, the one she placed earlier. And as she gazed at him, the end of the video rang in her ears again.
“She not fucking his fine ass? Please. I bet that man is in love with his job for…many reasons. Either way, I need this in a book or on a screen near me, immediately.”
With that, she shut her phone off and took her earphones off her ears. She let out a soft sigh as she placed the items in her carryon bag next to her before snuggling up in under her blanket and going to sleep, the last thing she saw being the sleeping man next to him.
────୨ৎ────
The private jet cut a clean line through the skies above Los Angeles, the soft hum of descent barely noticeable within the luxurious interior. Plush cream seats gleamed under the warm glow of the cabin lights, and through the oval windows, the city stretched like a golden mirage beneath them.
“Terry, wake up!”
Atarah’s voice rang out like morning bells, crisp and bright, far too lively for someone who had been curled up asleep moments ago. She sat up quickly, brushing a stray coil of dark hair from her cheek, her smile wide as her eyes danced toward the window. “We’re here!”
Across the aisle, Terry sat upright, dressed in all black, as always—black trousers, black fitted shirt, black earpiece, black watch. His presence alone was intimidating, but unmoved. “I see that. He replied coolly, casting her a sidelong glance, unimpressed but not unamused. “I’m awake.”
“Well get excited!” She grinned, undeterred by his tone. Her international accent—a rich blend of aristocratic English with the softness of African musicality—filled the cabin as effortlessly as the scent of her lavender oil did earlier. No one on board blinked at her enthusiasm. The flight staff were used to her, used to them. Atarah, Princess of the House of Mbali. And Terry…her unflinching shadow.
They began their landing procedures, Atarah adjusting her pale yellow polo sweater over her grey sweats, slipping on her worn-in Uggs. “You’re going to help me carry my bags, right?” She teased as she stuffed her hair into a claw clip and collected her Hermès blanket.
“I already coordinated your luggage, Your Highness.” Terry muttered.
She beamed at that, softly clapping her hands while Terry stared at her.
Fifteen minutes later, the jet touched down, the California sun spilling across the tarmac like honey. The moment Atarah stepped off the jet, she squealed in delight, her laughter light as she slipped her arm through Terry’s. She barely made it down the steps before the sound of shrill voices caught her ear.
“Tarah!”
“Ahh!” The woman squeaked, letting go of Terry immediately to run toward the small group of girls gathered near the base of the jet. They wore matching wide-brim hats and high-cut shorts, their Louis Vuitton crossbodies swinging as they jogged forward to meet her.
The girls collided in a chorus of shrieks and perfume.
“Omg, I haven’t seen you guys in ages!” Atarah said, pulling back just slightly to admire them, her cheeks still flushed from sleep and sun. Behind her, Terry stood like a statue, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding the storm in his eyes.
“That’s because you’ve been MIA.” Said Bailey, her British accent curled like a ribbon. Bailey was slim and surgically preserved, her cheekbones a little too sharp, and her lip filler giving her a constant pout. Classic British babe with an iffy tan but a nice beat face.
Atarah shrugged with a soft laugh. “Because I’ve been busy. You know…princess, eldest daughter things.”
Harper rolled her eyes. “Besides not hearing from you for almost months, yeah, we can tell.” She said in that soft Italian accent, before her eyes racked the princess. “What are you wearing?” She added as she brushed her Bon blonde hair away from her face, her gaze, and the rest of theirs, lingering critically on Atarah’s oversized grey sweats, polo sweater, and Uggs.
Atarah glanced down at herself and blinked. “What?” She said. “I was on a jet.” She stated, defending herself from the scrutiny she felt. Bailey scoffed, but it was Harper’s curled lip that gave it away. Atarah followed their gaze and saw the others already dressed for Coachella, all fringe, mesh, lace, and glitter. “Oh, are you guys heading out now?” She asked.
“Yeah,” Bailey said. “Didn’t think we had to tell you we wanted you to be ready.” Her tone was achingly sweet. And it scratched under Atarah’s her skin. She gave the girl a tight smile. “Well, Lady Gaga doesn’t come on ‘til later, so I’ll catch up with you guys after I get ready.”
“Where are you staying?” Sofia asked then, her soft blue eyes too curious. She was the prettiest of the trio, a nice blonde blowout and a Swedish accent with a supermodel’s height and bone structure to tie it all in.
“Uh, the private villa up north.” She responded. Sofia nodded, but Terry saw it—the subtle glance Harper threw Bailey, the way Bailey blinked hard just before she turned her cheek. He stepped forward without a word, hand landing protectively on the small of Atarah’s back.
Atarah glanced up at him, then back at her friends. “I gotta go get ready. I’ll see you guys later.” She said with a small smile. Terry ushered her toward the line of black SUVs parked nearby. He didn’t have to say a word. She already felt the prickle on the back of her neck. She waved at the girls once more before slipping into the middle car, and Terry followed.
As the door shut behind him, Atarah exhaled, gaze flicking over her stacked LV trunks in the back, just as the sound of Terry shutting the car door sounded. She settled into her seat as her eyes then drifted out of the window. Her friends were already climbing into their own vehicle, laughing again. The engine thrummed and the SUV pulled off into the city, heat shimmering off the asphalt.
There was a silence, thick and unspoken before looked over at the man next to him. “Go ahead and say it.” She muttered. “I know you want to.”
“I don’t like your friends.” Terry said without a pause, looking away from the passing plains and connecting his eyes with her.
Atarah turned her body to face him, legs tucked under her. “And why is that again?”
“It wouldn’t be respectful for me to say.”
She tilted her head back with a small groan, but she couldn’t help the smile on her face. “You know it’s just you and I. You can say anything.” She looked over his face, his ocean-green eyes unreadable, but they always made her comfortable. Terry just started at her and after a brief pause, the girl snapped her head over to the driver. “And you too, Sergio!” She called up to the driver.
“Thank you, Miss.” The man replied evenly, and it was never clear if he even heard what she said or was just responding to the sound of his name. But Atarah nodded before she looked back over at Terry. “Come on.” She urged with a small whine, and since she was twisted in her seat, she poked his thigh with her so foot, since she slipped out of her uggs. There was silence, so Atarah began to repeatedly nudge him with her foot.
And Terry had the patience of a monk. He was military trained since the young age of sixteen and there was little to nothing that could break him. Even the ever spoiled persistence of a princess that he’s known for years now. But Atarah had grew to be a friend, someone he had a soft spot for. So he grabbed her ankle gently, his large hand wrapping around it as his gaze slid over to hers. Her toes wiggled in his lap.
“I think they’re spoiled brats.” He said, voice low.
“That’s not what you wanted to say.” She sing-songed, looking him in the eye. She knew him too well. “You say the same thing about me.”
Terry’s jaw ticked. “I think they’re bitches.”
“There it is!” Atarah squealed, clapping once. “See, I know you so well.” She grinned. She leaned over, pressing her fingertip from her temple to his, her smile all honey and victory. He didn’t flinch and held the most subtle smile as he watched her. Her touch lingered a little too long before she dropped back into her seat, legs still draped across his lap.
She folded her hands in her lap, then gave him a prim look. “Now let’s talk about your choice of words for women.”
He chuckled—just a breath—but it made her heart skip. He rarely laughed, rarely softened around anyone but her. And when he did…it made her feel like she was the only person on earth who could. She watched him quietly, chin resting against the back of her seat. His thumb rubbed a slow, lazy circle into the inside of her ankle, unaware or uncaring of the way her breath hitched and made her heart beat.
Outside the window, the desert sprawled into sun-drenched silence. But inside the car, it was warmer. And there was a tension that hung somewhere between comfort and longing.
Terry finally looked away from her and back over to the passing plains. “They don’t deserve your time.” He said simply.
And for the first time all day, Atarah didn’t have anything to say back.
The ride to the villa stretched across golden stretches of highway, sun slicing through the tinted windows in drowsy beams. Atarah chattered about the things she’d missed of the city. The food trucks on Melrose, late-night runs to Erewhon, how nobody did iced lattes quite like L.A., all while Terry responded with low hums and sparse nods. It wasn’t that he wasn’t listening; he always listened. He was just…more focused on watching. Her.
When they finally pulled up to the secluded villa, tucked high in the Coachella Valley hills and wrapped in flowering bougainvillea, Atarah reached for the door instinctively, ready to burst out like she always did—except Terry’s sharp glance caught her mid-motion.
She froze. And with a dramatic sigh and a roll of her eyes, she folded her arms and waited.
Terry stepped out first, the desert sun casting sharp angles across his sharp cheekbones. His black shirt hugged the contours of his broad chest and arms, a quiet authority in his every movement. His eyes scanned the villa once before flicking back to the SUV. He reached out a hand.
“Come on.” He said.
With her small hand in his, she stepped down from the vehicle, her fingers tightening briefly around his. Terry guided her across the gravel path as Pedro and Nash, two more men from her security detail, did a sweep of the property. When the nods were given, he opened the front door for her, and they stepped into the villa together, hands still clasped like a quiet ritual neither of them ever spoke about. It was second nature to them now. A rhythm of theirs.
He led her through the villa and to her room—an airy, high-ceilinged suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and light pouring in. The rest of her bags were already being delivered in shifts by Sergio, the ever-loyal driver. When Terry finally released her hand, Atarah darted toward the patio doors like a spring uncoiled.
She threw them open, linen curtains flying up as wind surged in, tousling her dark curls. Her body moved to the edge of the balcony, where the view opened into a vast stretch of golden plains. In the distance, she could make out the Coachella stages being lit up for the day. “I’m soglad to be back in the States!” She cried, arms wide open, wind tugging at her baggy sweats and polo. She stood there a moment, basking in the warmth like a cat in sunlight.
When she turned, Terry was there, posted by the door, hands behind his back, as disciplined as a palace guard. Her grin softened as she brushed past him to return to the room, the curtains trailing behind her like silk.
Sergio was just finishing with the bags.
“Thank you.” She said sincerely as she pulled her phone form her pocket and ,add her way over to her bed
“You’re welcome, madame.” He replied with a small bow, and after a nod from Terry, he quietly exited.
She was halfway through connecting her phone to the portable speaker when she noticed Terry turning for the door.
“Where are you going?” She asked, pausing mid-pairing.
“To keep watch.” He answered, never quite turning fully toward her.
“But I need you to help me pick an outfit.” She said quickly, padding barefoot toward him. “My friends aren’t here, and I need someone honest to help me figure out what looks good.” She explained, but his face didn’t change as he looked down at her. She saw the hesitation in the twitch of his brow. She stepped closer, reaching for his hand, wrapping hers around it like it was natural—like it always had been. “Terry,” She said, voice soft. “Just for a little while.” She pleaded.
The fight in him dissolved instantly. He released a long breath through his nose before squeezing her hand once, a gesture so gentle it made her chest flutter.
He turned and pressed a hand to his earpiece. “Keep watch.” He said, eyes scanning the view of the living space elf the villa before closing the doors. “Copy.” Pedro’s voice came through as Terry turned to face her again to see Atarah’s beaming face.
Then she squealed and bolted to her bags like a child on Christmas morning. The speaker kicked on, flooding the room with a blasting beats, songs from R&B to hip hop. Thumping basslines, soft synths, and female vocals that bled into every corner of the suite.
Terry settled into the ottoman at the foot of her bed, sitting with his legs apart, elbows on his knees. His eyes followed her as she disappeared into the bathroom with an armful of options, and the show began.
She stepped out a minute later in a white two-piece, mesh skirt riding low on her hips and a crochet halter top tied around her neck, showing the cursive tattoo she had on her hip that said “made in heaven”. She twirled in front of the mirror, then turned toward him.
“What do you think?” She asked, posing for him with a smile.
Terry tilted his head, assessing her from head to toe.
“Cute. But more so for the beach, not a music festival.” He said.
She let out a small sight before turning away from him, giving herself one more look. “Ugh, okay.” She said before walking back into the bathroom. Next came a butterfly top with flared jeans, but she shook her head before even asking, disappeared again.
Then came sequins—so many sequins. A matching bra and shorts combo that shimmered like fish scales in the light. She struck a few poses and snapped photos in front of the mirror. She glanced back to find Terry watching, his jaw slack just barely, the muscle ticking.
“This one’s hot.” She said, teasing.
“It is.” He agreed. “But what shoes would you wear with that.”
She teasing smirk dropped and disappeared again, this time taking longer. Each time she reappeared, her confidence built. She laughed freely, twirled for him, winked at herself, even bent to see if she would flash anyone when she twerked. The air in the room grew warmer with every outfit. Every look. Every comment from Terry that made her feel seen and admired.
Finally, she emerged wearing the outfit she didn’t want to try at first. A storm-gray hooded mini-dress clung to her curves, cinched with a thick, black belt that sat high on her waist. Beneath the draped neckline peeked the edge of a black lace bra, sultry and deliberate. Stacked silver jewelry shimmered at her collarbone and wrists. Chunky black boots hit just below the knee, elongating her legs.
She didn’t pose this time. She just stood there and watched as Terry sat up straighter and eyed her up and down, her hands brushing down the front of the dress to straighten it
Her lips curved slowly. “Well?” She asked, placing her hands on her hips.
“I think that’s the one.” He said, voice low, rougher than it had been all day.
She didn’t say anything at first, just smiled, almost shy, before walking to the mirror to snap a few photos, her behind facing him.
Terry watched her the whole time, fingers curled on his knees, heart beating louder than usual. The song playing in the background was low and sultry, ‘Naught Girl’ by Beyoncé almost like a whisper meant just for them. When she lowered her phone, her eyes met his in the mirror. “I think I just needed you to remind me who I am.” She nodded, her eyes moving to rake over her figure again, though her voice was soft.
Terry stood slowly, the space between them suddenly much smaller than before. “You never forgot.” He said, approaching her with a quiet kind of reverence. “You just let them convince you to question it.”
Their eyes locked and her breath caught a bit as her eyes moved over his alluring features. In the silence that followed, they didn’t touch. They didn’t need to. But it was clear as the sunlight pouring in through the balcony door—neither of them wanted to walk away. Atarah softly cleared her throat before turning around to face him, looking up at the handsome man, his grey eyes moving down to look into hers. “Now let’s get you dressed.” She smiled, giving his broad chest a pat before moving past him. But her brushing him against him was something that didn’t go unnoticed by either of them, especially with the spark it sent through their bodies.
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