content WARNING: Bodyguard!Rafe (28) × Model!Reader (21), mentions of military, soft smut, piv, tit sucking, past trauma, venting, little fight, +18 MDNI.
The morning after the party, Rafe was a fortress, his walls rebuilt with iron. Y/N felt the shift like a punch to the gut, the warmth of last night replaced by a cold, impenetrable distance. She sat at the kitchen island, her spoon swirling through a bowl of yogurt and raspberries she couldn’t stomach. Her eyes flicked to him, searching for the man who’d called her “kid”, but he was gone, locked behind a stoic mask that made her chest.
All day, he was her shadow—close enough to protect, far enough to feel like a stranger—and by evening, the ache had turned to a burning frustration that set her nerves on fire. In the living room, Y/N sat, her legs tucked beneath her, her dress clinging to her curves like a second skin. Rafe stood by the balcony door, his shoulders rigid, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his back to her like a wall she couldn’t climb. She stared at him, her heart pounding, her patience fraying like a worn rope.
“Rafe,” she said, her voice sharp, slicing through the oppressive silence.
He turned, his eyes guarded, and she stood, her bare feet steady on the cold marble, her small frame radiating a defiance that made him shiver.
“I hate when you do this.”
His brow furrowed, his arms crossing over his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing, the ink of his tattoos shifting under the movement.
“Do what?” he asked, like he was bracing for an ambush.
“This!” she snapped, stepping closer, her hands gesturing wildly, her eyes blazing with hurt and anger. “You build this fucking wall between us, like we’re not even in the same room! One minute you’re there, really there, looking at me like I mean something, like you feel it too, and then you just… shut me out. Like I’m nothing. I hate it, Rafe. I fucking hate it.”
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, his eyes flickering with something before he looked away.
“You’re my boss,” he said, his voice strained, each word a struggle against the fire in his chest. “I’m doing my job. Keeping it professional. That’s what you hired me for.”
Her frustration exploded, a hot, reckless wave that made her tremble, her cheeks flushing red.
“Professional?” she yelled, her voice cracking, tears prickling her eyes. “I don’t want professional! I want you, Rafe! Isn’t it fucking obvious?”
The words tore out of her, her chest heaving, her hands shaking at her sides. She stood there, vulnerable, her eyes locked on his, daring him to run, daring him to deny the pull between them. Rafe’s eyes snapped to hers, shock flashing across his face, his carefully constructed walls crumbling under the weight of her confession...
He rolled his eyes, a reflex to mask the way his heart slammed against his ribs at the fire in her voice. He turned to walk away, his boots heavy on the floor, his hands flexing with the effort to keep control, to bury the need that threatened to consume him. He couldn’t do this—she was his client, his responsibility, and she was too damn vulnerable after everything she’d been through. But her hand caught his wrist, her small fingers wrapping around his skin, not strong enough to hold him but enough to stop him dead.
“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking, and she tugged him back, guiding him to the couch.
She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her knees sinking into the cushions, her hands bracing against his chest, her fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath his shirt. Her dress rode up, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs, the black lace of her panties peeking out, a stark contrast to the fabric. Her eyes locked onto his a storm of want and need that made his breath catch.
“I meant it,” she whispered against his lips.
And then she kissed him.
It was a collision, a desperate, hungry, her mouth claiming his with a ferocity that obliterated every shred of his ethics. Rafe froze for a heartbeat, his mind screaming to pull back, to remember his role, but her taste—sweet, like wine and the cherry gloss on her lips—consumed him. He groaned, a primal sound that vibrated in his chest, and his hands found her waist, gripping her like she was his lifeline, like she might vanish if he let go. He kissed her back, hard and unrestrained, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting her, devouring her. Her hands fisted in his shirt, tugging it up, and he broke the kiss just long enough to rip it off, baring the scars and tattoos that mapped his chest and back. Her hands roamed his skin, her fingers tracing the scars with a reverence that made his breath hitch, like she was memorizing every inch of him.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” she whispered, and for the first time, he didn’t flinch at his scars, didn’t try to hide them.
Her hands moved to his belt, fumbling with the buckle, her nails scraping his skin, and he helped her, yanking the leather free. He peeled her dress off in one fluid motion, the fabric sliding over her skin like water, pooling on the floor to reveal the black lace bra and panties. He growled, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer, his cock straining against his shorts, aching for her.
“Y/N,” he rasped. “You sure?”
But her answer was in her kiss, her nails raking down his chest, leaving faint red lines that made him shudder. She tugged at his shorts, freeing his erection, and he hissed as her hand wrapped around him, her fingers stroking him with a confidence that made his head spin. He slid her panties down, his fingers brushing the slick heat between her thighs, finding her ready, her gasp loud in the quiet room.
They fucked on the couch, consuming each other with a fire that seemed to melt the roo.. Rafe lifted her, his hands gripping her ass, and thrust into her, her tight heat enveloping him, driving him to the edge.
She was loud, her moans filling the penthouse.
“Rafe,” she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders, her thighs clenching around his hips as she rode him, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, the lace of her bra slipping to reveal her hardened nipples. He tore it off, his mouth finding her breast, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as she arched into him, her cries desperate.
And he fucked her harder, his hands bruising her hips, his cock driving into her with a rhythm that was both battle and surrender, her walls clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his lips against her neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks, claiming her in a way that felt primal, possessive.
She matched him, her hips grinding against his, her moans turning to screams as she came, her body shuddering, her nails clawing at his back, catching on his scars. The pain blended with pleasure, pushing him over the edge, and he spilled into her, his release overwhelming, his groan loud in her ear.
They stumbled to her bedroom, a tangle of limbs and heat, her laughter breathless as they fell onto her bed, the pink sheets soft beneath them. He pinned her down, his hands roaming her body, groping her breasts, her thighs, the curve of her ass, every inch of her he could claim.
She was insatiable, pulling him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist, her hand sliding down, fingers wrapping around his cock, guiding him back inside her. This time it was slower, but no less intense, his thrusts deep, her hips rising to meet him, her eyes locked on his, hands all over his muscular back. He fucked her until they were both trembling, her moans softer now, her body slick with sweat, her lips swollen from his kisses. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, the soft skin of her stomach, tasting the salt of her skin, and she writhed beneath him, her fingers tangling in his buzzcut, pulling him closer. When it was over, they collapsed, breathless and spent, their bodies tangled in the sheets, slick with sweat and satisfaction.
Y/N curled against him, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing the tattoos on his arm. Her touch was soft now, exploratory, her eyes sleepy as she smiled up at him, her lips still swollen, her cheeks flushed with the afterglow.
“Tell me about these,” she whispered, her fingers pausing on the snake, its scales inked in stark black against his skin.
Rafe’s throat tightened, his instinct to shut down warring with the pull of her, the way she looked at him like he was more than a soldier, more than a scarred-up killer. For the first time, he let himself open, his voice low, halting, as he peeled back the layers of his past.
“The snake,” he started, his hand covering hers, guiding her fingers along the ink, “was my first mission. Iraq, 2019. Ambush in a desert village, middle of the night. We were pinned down, bullets flying, and I took a hit—shrapnel in my shoulder. Thought I was done. But I got out, dragged a buddy with me. Got this to remember I survived.” He moved her hand to the broken arrow on his chest, the ink faded but stark. “This was for my first unit. I was supposed to have their backs, but…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening, guilt clawing at him.
Her fingers lingered, her touch gentle, grounding him, and he kept going.
“I don’t forget,” he said.
“And these?” she asked softly, her voice trembling, not with pity but with awe.
He exhaled, his hand catching hers, holding it against the worst of the scars, a thick, raised line across his spine.
“Kandahar, 2022,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was thrown, took shrapnel in my back. Kept fighting, got my team out, but it was close. Too close.” He paused, his eyes distant, then forced himself to keep going. “The worst was later. Found out one of our officers was… hurting recruits. Young women, barely 18. I caught him, lost it, beat him to death with my bare hands. They covered it up, let me go to keep me quiet, but I carry it. Every day.”
Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t look away, didn’t flinch.
“You did what you could,” she whispered, her fingers tightening on his. “You’re not that guy, Rafe. You’re… you’re good.”
He looked at her, her face flushed, her hair a wild halo, her body still warm and soft against his, the marks he’d left on her neck and thighs.
“You’re not what I thought,” he said, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing her swollen lips. “You’re stronger than you know. And I’ll protect you with everything—my life, my fucking soul, if I have to.”
She smiled, leaning into his touch, her body curling closer, and for the first time, Rafe let himself believe he could be more than a soldier, more than a shield.
For someone like Rafe, that runway was a sensory assault. Models flitted like hummingbirds, their sequined wings catching the glare of industrial lights, while stylists barked orders and makeup artists wielded brushes with military precision. Rafe’s blue eyes tracked Y/N through the madness. She sat on a stool, her slender frame draped in a silk robe.
She was perfect... lips glossy and parted in a practised smile.
But Rafe saw what the others missed: the way her fingers knotted together in her lap, white-knuckled, trembling like a leaf in a storm. Her shoulders were rigid, her jaw tight, as if she were bracing for impact.
She’d walked runways a hundred times, maybe more, so why was she unravelling now?
He didn’t ask.
His job was to shadow her, not to pry, so he stayed close.
He’d trailed her all day, from the gym at dawn where she’d attacked the treadmill with a focus that bordered on obsession, to the cafeteria where she’d pushed a kale salad around her plate. She barely spoke to him—just a quick, distracted smile when he held a door or a soft “thanks” when he handed her a water bottle.
He didn’t mind the quiet; it let him watch, let him notice the way her eyes darted to the crowd beyond the curtain, searching, fearing. For what, he didn’t know, but it set his nerves on edge.
When it was time for her walk, she shed the robe, revealing a black lace ensemble that hugged her curves like a second skin, her wings glittering with Swarovski crystals. Rafe’s throat tightened, but he shoved the feeling down, focusing on the job. She stepped toward the runway, and he stayed put, leaning against a wall near another security guard. The guy nodded toward Y/N as she disappeared into the spotlight.
“Tough for her, no?” the guy said, his Russian accent thick, his eyes glinting with something Rafe didn’t like. “After what happened, coming back to this… must be like swallowing glass.”
Rafe’s jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice a low growl, but the guy just smirked, muttering something about “stories” before turning away.
The words landed like a punch, stirring the unease Rafe had been carrying since he met her.
What the hell was going on?
Her walk was perfection, her hips swaying, her head high, the crowd roaring as her wings caught the light like a halo. But when she stepped off the runway, the mask cracked. Her smile vanished, her eyes hollow as she brushed past the other models, their chatter about the afterparty bouncing off her like rain on glass. She found Rafe in the crowd, her voice weak.
“I’m done,” she said, her words fraying at the edges. “Too tired. Can we go?”
He nodded, falling into step behind her as she changed in a blur. Her movements were jerky, her hands fussing with her bag, her hair, anything to keep moving. Rafe followed her through the backstage labyrinth, his senses on high alert.
The air outside hit like a slap, sharp and cold, the Manhattan street a gauntlet of screaming fans, flashing cameras, and bodies pressing too close.
“Y/N! Y/N!” The shouts were a chorus, hands reaching, phones thrust in her face.
Rafe saw her freeze, her breath catching, her eyes going wide, too wide, like a deer caught in a hunter’s scope. Her chest heaved, her fingers clawing at the strap of her bag, her body shrinking into itself.
This wasn’t the usual fan frenzy; she looked like prey, cornered, her gaze darting wildly as if searching for a predator she knew was there. Her lips parted, a silent gasp, her skin paling.
“Y/N!” A man’s voice, too sharp, too close, cut through the noise.
Rafe’s instincts flared, his muscles coiling.
He stepped forward, but the crowd was a living wall, and for one gut-wrenching second, he lost her, her slight frame swallowed by the mob. His heart slammed against his ribs, and he shoved through, his broad shoulder slamming into a guy with a camera who yelped and stumbled.
“Move,” Rafe snarled, and the crowd parted, sensing the violence in his eyes. He found her, hemmed in, her body trembling so violently her sunglasses slipped to the ground.
Without thinking, he slid an arm around her, his hand hovering at her waist, not quite touching, his frame a shield as he pushed through the grasping hands.
“Back the fuck off,” he growled and the crowd recoiled.
He got her to the black SUV at the curb, yanking the door open and guiding her inside with a hand on her elbow, gentle but firm.
She collapsed onto the leather seat, and he slid in beside her, slamming the door against the chaos. The driver peeled away, the city’s neon blur streaking past, but Rafe’s focus was on Y/N. Her small frame curled into a ball, her knees drawn up, her hands clutching her arms so tightly her nails left crescent marks on her skin. Her breaths were shallow, erratic, hitching in her throat like she was drowning on dry land. Her eyes were glassy, unseeing, her lips trembling as she fought to hold it together. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her chest rising and falling too fast, her body shaking like it might shatter.
This wasn’t just nerves—this was a panic attack, the kind Rafe had seen in soldiers staring down death.
“Hey, kid,” he shifted closer, careful not to crowd her, and reached for her hands, prying them gently from her arms. Her fingers were ice-cold, trembling so hard they slipped through his grip. “Look at me.”
Her eyes flicked to his, wide and wild, brimming with tears that hadn’t fallen. He held her gaze, his blue eyes calm, like a lighthouse in a hurricane.
“Breathe with me, alright? In through your nose, slow. Out through your mouth. Like this.” He inhaled deeply, his chest rising, and she tried to follow, her breaths ragged, her lips quivering. “You’re safe,” he said, his voice rough but steady, the tone he’d used with shell-shocked rookies in the military, the ones who’d seen too much too fast. “You’re in the car. I’m right here. Nobody’s touching you.”
Her hands tightened in his, her small fingers digging into his calloused palms.
“Focus on me. In, out. You’re tougher than this, I can tell. Just breathe.” His thumb brushed her knuckles, a reflex he didn’t question, and slowly, painfully, her breaths evened out, the tremors easing.
Her shoulders slumped, her body unfurling slightly, though her eyes stayed haunted, shadowed by something she wouldn’t name. She pulled her hands back, tucking them into her lap, and leaned her head against the window, her sunglasses forgotten on the pavement outside.
“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice barely there. “I’m… okay— I’m okay.”
The words were a lie, and they both knew it, but Rafe didn’t call her on it. He leaned back, giving her space, his own heart still pounding from the sight of her; so fragile, so broken, yet fighting to hold it together.
The security guy’s words, her panic, the way she’d looked out there... like she wasn’t just scared of the crowd but of something specific, someone. And as he watched her, curled against the window, he made a vow: whatever it was, he’d face it. For her. Even if it dragged him back into that he’d been running from.
He had only ever gone shopping when his superiors had asked him to buy new shoes, telling him it was unacceptable for him to be walking around in the old things he had. It had been almost automatic, he hated crowded places. But with Y/N, he had learned to bear with places that made him want to tear his skin off. Even when they were a fucking circus with tourists snapping selfies, influencers posing against graffiti walls, and paparazzi lurking like vultures behind sunglasses. But at least she was happy—really happy, her laugh bright enough to drown out the city’s noise. Rafe felt it tug at something in his chest, but he locked it down. They’d crossed a line a few weeks ago, and the memory of her moans, her heat, still burned in his mind.
But out here, in the open, he was all business.
The tabloids would eat her alive if they got wind of anything, her reputation would be shredded, replaced with headlines screaming “Model’s Scandalous Fling with Bodyguard.”
Rafe knew how those vultures worked; he’d seen them tear apart others for less. So he kept his distance, his face a mask of stone, his hands loose but ready, the knife at his ankle a constant reminder of the threats lurking. Y/N stopped at a vintage shop’s window, her fingers tracing the glass as she eyed a leather jacket.
“Rafe, look at this! It’s so cool,” she said, turning to him with a grin that made his throat tighten.
He nodded, keeping his voice low. “Looks good. Keep moving, though. Too many people.”
He glanced at the crowd, clocking a guy with a camera across the street, lens pointed their way. Rafe shifted, angling his body to block the shot, his jaw tight. Y/N didn’t notice, too caught up in her joy, and he wanted to keep it that way. They moved on, her bags piling up, his arms now carrying a few to lighten her load. She was chatting about a thrift find when a group of fans swarmed, mostly young women, phones out, squealing her name.
“Y/N! Oh my God, can we get a pic?”
Rafe’s instincts kicked in, his body stepping in front of her, one hand raised to keep them back.
“Give her space,” he said.
The fans hesitated, some giggling nervously, others snapping photos of him now. He hated it, the exposure, the eyes. But Y/N touched his arm, her warmth cutting through his tension.
“It’s okay, Rafe,” she said softly, her smile reassuring. “They’re just excited.”
She stepped forward, posing for selfies, signing a notebook, her kindness disarming the crowd. Rafe eased back, his eyes still scanning, but he stayed close, ready to move if anyone got too bold. Then a guy in the back, maybe mid-20s, with a smirk and a backwards cap, piped up.
“What’s with the attitude, tough guy? You’re not her babysitter, you know? More like her guard dog.”
The crowd tittered, and Rafe’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening. He could break that kid’s nose in two seconds, leave him choking on his own teeth.
But he didn’t move, didn’t blink.
Y/N spun around, her smile gone.
“Hey,” she said, her voice sweet, cutting through the chatter. “Don’t be rude. Rafe’s doing his job, keeping me safe. You don’t get to talk to him like that.”
She stepped closer to Rafe, her shoulder brushing his arm, protective in her own way.
The guy shrank back, muttering an apology, and the crowd quieted, caught off guard by her fire. She turned to the fans, her smile back but softer.
“I love you guys, really. But if you love me, you’ve gotta love him too. He’s the reason I can do this without looking over my shoulder.”
She glanced at Rafe, her eyes warm, and something twisted in his chest. He kept his face blank, nodding once, but inside, her words hit like a grenade. Love him too.
She didn’t mean it like that, but it landed anyway.
The fans dispersed, and Rafe guided her toward the black SUV parked a block away, his hand hovering near her back, not touching.
Cameras were still out there, lenses glinting from doorways.
“Good call,” he muttered, opening the car door for her. “But don’t make a habit of fighting my battles.”
She laughed, sliding into the passenger seat, her bags at her feet. “Someone’s gotta keep you from punching people.”
He snorted, shutting her door and circling to the driver’s side.
As he pulled into traffic, Y/N was a whirlwind of affection. She leaned across the console, her lips brushing his jaw, his cheek, her laughter bubbling up as she kissed him again and again.
“You’re so serious,” she murmured.
Her hand slid to his thigh, her fingers grazing the zipper of his trousers, and Rafe’s grip on the wheel tightened, his cock twitching, his pulse hammering.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough, a warning. “Stop. Not here.”
His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, half-expecting a camera flash, a lens trained on them. She pouted, her lips glossy and pink, her eyes glinting with mischief.
“As your boss,” she said, her voice low, teasing, “I’m telling you to park.”
He should’ve said no, should’ve kept driving, kept it professional, but her touch, her voice, the way she looked at him—like he was hers, like she wanted him as much as he wanted her—broke him. He pulled into a secluded side street, the SUV’s tinted windows a thin shield against the world, and cut the engine. Before he could say anything, Y/N was on him, climbing over the console, straddling his lap, her jeans tight against his thighs, her camisole slipping to reveal the black lace bra beneath.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.
She kissed him, almost desperate, her lips crashing into his, her tongue sliding against his, tasting of coffee. Her hands fumbled with his zipper, freeing his cock, already aching for her, and she moaned into his mouth, her fingers stroking him. He tore at her jeans, yanking them down with her panties, the fabric catching on her thighs as she shifted to give him access.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, his hands groping her ass, pulling her closer, her slick heat brushing against him.
“Then die happy,” she whispered.
She sank onto him, taking him deep, her tight warmth enveloping him, and they both groaned, the sound filling the car. She rode him, her hips grinding, her hands braced on his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt.
Rafe thrust up hard into her, his cock driving deep, each movement primal.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, his hands sliding under her camisole, groping her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples through the lace, making her gasp, her head tipping back, her moans loud.
He slipped his thumb into her mouth, her lips closing around it, sucking hard, her tongue swirling, and he groaned, his thrusts growing harder, faster, the car rocking with their rhythm.
“That’s it, baby,” he panted, “take it all.”
Her walls clenched around him, her moans turning to cries as she came, her body shuddering, her nails raking his chest, leaving red lines he’d wear like a badge. He followed, spilling into her, his hands gripping her hips so tight he’d leave bruises. They stayed there, panting, her forehead pressed against his, her breath ragged.
“You’re gonna get us in trouble,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, but his lips curved into a smile, his hands still on her hips, softer now, holding her close.
“Worth it,” she whispered, kissing him softly, her heart pounding with something deeper than lust.
content WARNING: Bodyguard!Rafe (28) × Model!Reader (20), mentions of military.
Rafe wasn’t built for babysitting.
The thought of trailing some spoiled model like a goddamn guard dog made his skin crawl. He’d turned down the job twice, flat-out refused, actually, but the money was too good, and the agency was desperate.
Y/N’s manager had practically begged him.
“Nobody wants to guard a model,” she’d whined, oblivious to the reasons why.
Rafe knew, though.
Models were all the same; prissy, entitled, sneering at anyone who didn’t orbit their glittery little world.
And he’d rather be back in a warzone than play lapdog to a diva.
But here he was, standing in the sprawling living room of a Manhattan penthouse that looked like it belonged in a magazine, not a home. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city’s neon pulse, and the place smelled faintly of lavender and wealth. Too big for one person, he thought, shifting the weight of his duffel bag, packed light with clothes, a knife, and two handguns, just in case. His jaw tightened as he glanced at his watch.
She was late. Typical.
He scratched the back of his neck, the buzzcut prickling under his fingers, and shot Carla a look that could’ve cracked glass.
“She’s coming, Rafe, relax,” Carla said, scrolling through her phone, oblivious to his glare. “She’s just—well, you’ll see.”
He opened his mouth to snap something about wasting his time when the air shifted. A soft hum of music—some pop song he didn’t know—drifted from the hallway, followed by the faint slap of bare feet on marble.
And then she appeared.
Y/N stepped into the room, and Rafe’s world tilted.
Her hair was wet, clinging to her shoulders, dripping water that glistened on her skin. She wore a tiny emerald-green bikini, barely there, her body a delicate balance of curves and grace. She sipped a Diet Pepsi through a straw, her glossy lips curling around it like she was posing for a damn commercial. She was taller than he’d expected, but next to his 6’2” frame, she looked fragile, like a gust of wind could snap her in half.
His throat went dry, his pulse hammering in a way that made no sense.
He was a soldier, hardened by war, scars crisscrossing his back like a roadmap of hell. Women didn’t rattle him.
But this one, this girl, made his knees feel like they might give out. She crossed the room with a bright smile, like she hadn’t just walked in half-naked in front of a stranger.
“Hi!” she said, extending a small, manicured hand. Her voice was warm, like honey over gravel, and it hit him like a shot to the chest. “You must be Rafe. Carla’s been raving about you.”
Rafe blinked, barely registering Carla’s nervous chatter about schedules and security protocols.
His eyes were locked on her lips, the way they moved, glossy and pink, catching the light. He nodded dumbly, his usual sharpness dulled by the sight of her.
Get it together, he thought, but then her hand brushed his arm as she said, “I’m so grateful you’re here. I mean it.”
Her touch was electric, a jolt that snapped him out of his haze. He straightened, forcing his face into a neutral mask, though his heart was still pounding like he’d just run a mile.
“Yeah,” he managed. “No problem.”
She tilted her head, her eyes catching his, and for a second, he saw something; a flicker of vulnerability behind the starlet glow.
She wasn’t what he’d expected.
Not prissy, not cold. Just… real.
And that scared him more than any mission he’d ever faced.
Rafe barely noticed the sunlight. He sat on the edge of the sectional couch in the living room, his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced tightly together. His black compression shirt clung to his muscled frame, the fabric stretching over the tattoos snaking down his arms.
Last night’s conversation with Y/N had left him uneasy, her words about Ethan’s sick obsession looping in his mind like a war drum. The photos, the messages, the violation of her home—it had lit a fire in him, a need to do more than just stand guard.
He couldn’t erase her fear, but he could give her power and teach her to fight back. If that bastard came for her again, she’d be ready.
He’d make sure of it.
He glanced toward the balcony, where Y/N stood.
She was in a loose white tee and tiny athletic shorts, her hair pulled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She gripped the railing, her shoulders rising and falling as she took deep, deliberate breaths, like she was trying to anchor herself to the world. Rafe’s chest tightened at the sight—her fragility, her strength, the way she carried both like a tightrope walker.
He stood, his boots silent on the floor, and cleared his throat.
“Y/N,” he called. “I’m gonna teach you some self-defense today. Let’s go. You’ve got a gym here, time to use it.”
She turned, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Self-defense?” she said, crossing her arms, her lips pursing in a pout that was equal parts adorable and infuriating. “I don’t need that. I broke Ethan’s nose, remember? I can handle myself.”
He rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips as he closed the distance between them. “Yeah, you mentioned. Come on, kid, humor me.”
He didn’t wait for her to agree, just nodded toward the gym door and started walking, his tone leaving no room for argument. She huffed, muttering something about “overbearing bodyguards,” but followed, her bare feet slapping the floor, her pout deepening with every step.
The penthouse gym was small but sleek, with a treadmill, a rack of weights, and a padded mat in the center that smelled faintly of rubber and sweat. Rafe dropped his water bottle by the door and turned to face her, his arms crossed, his blue eyes locking onto hers.
“Alright, show me how you hit him,” he said, tapping his chest. “Come on, kid. Let’s see that knockout punch.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she squared her shoulders, her small frame radiating defiance. She balled her fist, her pink-painted nails digging into her palm, and swung at his chest. Her knuckles connected with a dull thud, and she yelped, shaking her hand out, her face scrunching in pain. “Ow! God, what are you made of, concrete?”
Rafe chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Ethan was easier, huh?” he said, his smirk softening as he caught her wrist gently, inspecting her reddened knuckles. “You’re punching with your thumb tucked in. That’s why it hurts. You’re lucky you didn’t break your hand on that creep’s face.”
She muttered under her breath, something about “stupid muscles,” and pulled her hand back, her pout returning full force. But there was a spark in her eyes now, a flicker of curiosity, and Rafe seized it.
He stepped onto the mat, motioning her to follow.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m teaching you how to do it right. You’re small, but that’s an advantage if you know how to use it.”
He started with the basics, his voice calm but commanding, the same tone he’d used to train recruits in the military. He showed her how to form a proper fist: thumb outside, knuckles aligned, and how to throw a punch from her core, not just her arm.
“Hit here,” he said, pointing to his jaw, then his throat, his ribs. “Weak spots. Doesn’t matter how big the guy is—if you hit right, he’s going down.”
He demonstrated how to use her size, how to duck and weave, how to slip under an attacker’s arm, and strike where it hurt most. Y/N caught on fast, her focus intense despite her earlier protests. She was a natural, her dancer’s grace translating into quick footwork, her small fists snapping with surprising force.
They practised for an hour, sweat beading on her forehead, her bun loosening until strands of hair clung to her neck. Rafe pushed her, but not too hard, his eyes tracking her every move, noting the way her confidence grew with each strike. At some point, the tension between them shifted, her laughter bubbled up when she landed a solid hit to his palm, and he grinned, a rare, genuine smile that made his scars feel less heavy.
“Not bad,” he said, catching her wrist after a particularly quick jab. “You might actually survive a fight.”
She stuck out her tongue, playful now, and lunged at him in a mock attack. He caught her easily, using her momentum to spin her, and before either of them realized it, she was on top of him.
They hit the mat with a soft thud, Y/N straddling his lap, her hands braced on his chest.
Her breath hitched, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Rafe froze, his hands instinctively settling on her waist, the heat of her body seeping through his fingers. Up close, she was breathtaking; her eyes wide and bright, her lips parted, glossy and pink, her hair a wild halo around her face. Her tee had slipped off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone, and her shorts rode up, exposing the smooth length of her thighs. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, a rush of heat flooding his veins, his pulse hammering in his ears.
She was so close, her breath mingling with his, her scent—lavender and something sweet, like vanilla—filling his senses.
He saw it in her eyes too, the way they darkened, the way her lips trembled as she leaned closer, her gaze flicking to his mouth. Her chest rose and fell, brushing against him, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, her lips inches from his, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath.
He wanted it, wanted her, more than he’d wanted anything in years, the pull magnetic, dangerous, like a grenade with the pin half-out. But then his mind flashed to her tears, her fear, the messages on her phone, the monster hunting her.
She was vulnerable, and he was her protector, not some guy who could cross that line. He pulled back, his hands sliding off her waist, his jaw tight as he cleared his throat.
“We should, uh, wrap this up,” he said, too fast. “You need a shower. I’ve gotta get you to the agency by noon.”
Her cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes dropping as she scrambled off him, scratching the back of her neck.
“Right,” she mumbled, her voice small, embarrassed. She stood, brushing her hands on her shorts, avoiding his gaze. “Shower. Agency. Got it.”
Rafe stood too, his heart still pounding, his hands flexing at his sides to shake off the feel of her.
He wanted to say something, to ease the awkwardness, but the words wouldn’t come.
She’d felt it too, but now wasn’t the time. Not with her fear still raw.
He watched her walk away, her shoulders hunched, her steps quick, and he cursed himself for letting it get that close.
And Rafe knew, deep in his gut, that keeping his distance was going to be the hardest fight of his life.
content WARNING: Bodyguard!Rafe (28) × Model!Reader (20), mentions of military, mentions of panic attack, alcohol, mentions of obsessive behaviour, stalking.
Nothing could quiet the unease gnawing at Rafe’s gut. He leaned against the balcony railing, the cool metal biting into his palms, the city’s neon pulse stretching out below like a battlefield he couldn’t map. It had been two days since Y/N’s panic attack in the SUV, and she’d been a ghost in her own home, slipping in and out of her room like a wraith. Rafe had spent the day trying to focus on anything else: the small gym tucked in a corner of the penthouse, where he’d pounded a punching bag until his knuckles ached; the fridge stocked with gourmet meals he’d never tasted before: salmon tartare, quinoa bowls, shit he couldn’t pronounce but ate anyway.
He was living better than he ever had, a far cry from MREs and barracks cots, but the luxury felt hollow. Something was wrong with Y/N, and it was starting to eat at him. He’d overheard her earlier, through the cracked door of her home office as she spoke to her manager, Carla.
“I’m not doing runways this week,” Y/N had said, her words clipped, final. “I don’t feel safe, Carla. I can’t.”
Rafe’s stomach had dropped, his mind flashing to the worst-case scenario: they’d fire him, say he wasn’t doing his job, send him packing. But Carla’s response surprised him. She’d found him in the kitchen afterwards, her heels clicking on the marble.
“You’re doing great, Rafe,” she’d said. “Y/N told me how you calmed her down the other night. She feels safe with you. She just... needs time. Stay the week, yeah?”
He’d nodded, masking his relief, but the praise sat heavy.
Safe? Y/N didn’t look safe.
She looked like she was crumbling, and he was starting to feel like a fraud for not seeing the whole picture.
That evening, he caught her slipping into the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the floor, her oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.
She hadn’t eaten all day—he’d noticed, because he noticed everything about her now.
The way her hands shook slightly, the way her smile never reached her eyes, the way she flinched at sudden noises. He couldn’t take it anymore.
Rafe pushed off the balcony, the city’s hum fading as he stepped inside. Y/N was at the counter, clutching the water bottle like a lifeline, her eyes fixed on the floor. He cleared his throat, his voice rougher than he meant. “You should eat something.”
She blinked up at him, startled, her lips parting in a weak attempt at a smile.
“I did,” she said, too quick, her voice thin as paper.
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the marble, his broad frame casting a shadow over her.
“Y/N,” he said, the way he’d spoken to soldiers who were cracking under pressure. “I’m here to keep you safe. That’s the job. But I can’t do shit if you don’t let me in. You’re not eating, you’re barely here. What’s going on?”
She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, her eyes locked on his like she was searching for something—trust, maybe, or a reason to crack open the walls she’d built. Her fingers tightened around the bottle, the plastic crinkling. For a moment, he thought she’d brush him off and retreat to her room like she had all day.
But then she nodded and whispered, “Okay.”
They moved to the living room. Y/N curled into one corner, her knees tucked up, her sweatshirt sleeves pulled over her hands. She reached for a bottle of wine on the coffee table, a sleek Pinot Noir with a label Rafe couldn’t read.
“I need this,” she whispered, “or I’ll cry like a damn baby.”
She poured a glass, her hands trembling, and took a long sip, the red staining her lips like blood.
Then she started talking...
“I wanted this so bad,” she began, like she was unearthing something buried deep. “Modeling, the runways, the lights—it was my dream since I was a kid. I’d watch those Victoria’s Secret shows on TV, sketching the wings in my notebook, thinking, ‘That’s gonna be me.’ And it was. I got there. But then…” Her voice cracked, and she took another sip. “Then I saw what it really is. Like, my first runway at 18, I was so excited, but I felt… exposed. Like meat in a lion’s den. All these men—billionaires twice my age—they’d be in the front row, watching, not the clothes, but us. Me. Their eyes were… hungry. And after, at the parties, they’d corner me, offering ‘opportunities,’ trips, gifts. I was a kid, Rafe. I didn’t know how to say no without sounding ungrateful.”
Rafe’s fists clenched in his lap, his knuckles white, but he stayed silent, letting her words spill out. His blue eyes never left her face, tracking the way her lips trembled, the way her fingers clutched the wineglass like it was anchoring her to the earth.
“It got worse,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “There’s this guy… Ethan. Son of some real estate mogul, maybe 25, rich as hell. He started showing up everywhere—every show, every event. At first, I thought he was just a fan, you know? He’d send flowers, notes, stuff like ‘You’re breathtaking.’ Creepy, but I brushed it off. Then it got… sick.” She set the glass down, her hands shaking so badly the wine sloshed over the rim, staining the glass table. She grabbed her phone, unlocking it with a trembling thumb, and shoved it toward Rafe. “Look.”
He took it, his jaw tight, and scrolled through the messages. Dozens, hundreds. Photos of Y/N—some from shoots, but others candid, taken from angles that made his blood run cold: her through her penthouse window. The texts were worse.
“I know you’re alone tonight. Can you unlock the door for me?”
“You looked so beautiful in that blue lingerie, but you’d look better out of it.”
“I’m always watching, Y/N. Always.”
“I pay so you can wear the fantasy bra. Don’t be an ungrateful bitch”
There were voicemails too, Ethan’s describing in detail what he wanted to do to her, things that made Rafe’s stomach churn and his fists itch to break something—someone.
“He got into my penthouse once,” Y/N said, her voice breaking, tears welling but not falling. “I came home, and he was just… there, sitting on this couch, holding one of my scarves like it was his. He’d bribed the doorman, I think. I screamed, and he just smiled, said he wanted to ‘surprise’ me. I got him out, called security, but he kept coming back. Booking hotel rooms next to mine, sneaking backstage at shows, following me to fittings. And then…” She choked on the words, her hands covering her face for a moment, her breath hitching. “A few months ago, after a show, he tried to drag me to his car. I was at a club, a little drunk, and he just… grabbed me, pulling me toward the alley. I fought, kicked, screamed, and I got away—punched him, actually, broke his nose. But I haven’t felt safe since. I know his father lies about him being in a mental facility. He’s still out there, Rafe. He sends me messages every day. He knows where I am. Always.” She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “The real world’s a warzone when you’re a woman,” her voice was barely audible, but it hit him like a bullet. “You think you’re safe because you’re famous, because you’re untouchable, but you’re not. You’re just… a target.”
Rafe was speechless, his mind a storm of rage and guilt.
He’d seen evil—killed it, even, with his own hands—but this was different. This was calculated, personal, a sick obsession that made his skin crawl. He wanted to say something, to promise he’d fix it, but his throat was tight, his words stuck. He saw her now, really saw her: the girl who’d smiled at him in a bikini, who’d cried alone on her couch, who was fighting to hold onto her dream while being hunted. For a second, it reminded him of his own failures, the women he couldn’t save in the military.
He wouldn’t fail her.
“Y/N,” he said finally, voice soft despite the fury boiling inside. “I’m here now. He’s not getting near you. Not while I’m breathing.”
content WARNING: Bodyguard!Rafe (28) × Model!Reader (20), mentions of warzone, crying, past trauma.
The penthouse was too damn perfect.
Rafe lay on the guest room’s king-sized bed, the crisp white sheets smelling faintly of lavender and money. The room was bigger than his entire loft back, with a minimalist desk that probably cost more than his truck. It felt like sleeping in a museum, sterile, staged, and not meant for someone like him. His duffel bag sat in the corner, a black stain against the pristine decor, his guns tucked inside.
He hadn’t unpacked. Didn’t plan to. This job was temporary.
And now he couldn’t sleep. The silence was too loud, the kind that buzzed in your ears when you’d spent years listening for gunfire or footsteps. Rafe rolled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor.
He didn’t belong here, in this glossy world of Y/N.
She was a star, a delicate thing wrapped in fame, and he was a scarred-up soldier who’d killed a man with his bare hands. But her manager had been clear: Y/N needed protection. From what, Carla hadn’t said, but Rafe’s gut told him it was more than paparazzi or overzealous fans.
He padded out of the room, the hallway dim and endless, lined with framed magazine covers of Y/N—her eyes sparkling, her smile lighting up the gloss. He ignored them, heading for the kitchen. She’d told him to “suit himself” earlier, her voice bright and casual, like she hadn’t just walked out in a bikini that nearly stopped his heart...
So here he was, suiting himself, grabbing a glass from a cabinet that looked like it belonged in a spaceship. He filled the glass with water from a fancy filtered tap, the cold liquid soothing his dry throat. He leaned against the counter, the scars on his back itching under the weight of the silence.
This place was too much, too big, too clean, too everything.
Then he heard it.
A soft, muffled sound, like a hiccup or a stifled sob.
His muscles tensed, instincts kicking in. His eyes darted to his duffel bag, back in the guest room, where his Glock sat untouched. Idiot, he thought, cursing himself for not keeping it on him. But his fists were weapons enough, knuckles scarred from years of breaking things, bones, mostly. He set the glass down silently, moving toward the sound, his bare feet silent on the floor.
The living room opened up before him, a cavernous space with a massive sectional couch, a glass coffee table, and more of those damn windows showing off the city’s glow. He wasn’t expecting her. Y/N was curled up on the couch, her small frame swallowed by the oversized cushions. She looked like a fawn, fragile and trembling, her knees tucked to her chest, her damp hair spilling over a loose sweatshirt that slid off one shoulder. The moonlight caught the tear tracks on her cheeksl. Rafe’s chest tightened, an urge to cross the room and pull her into his arms, hitting him so hard he almost stepped forward. But he didn’t. He wasn’t that guy. Not soft, not comforting.
She noticed him then, her head snapping up. Her eyes, red-rimmed and wide, locked onto his. She swiped at her cheeks quickly, like she could erase the evidence, and forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Oh, hey,” she said, her voice like glass about to crack. “What a coincidence, huh? Both of us up at…” She glanced at her phone, the screen casting a blue glow on her face. “Three in the morning.”
Rafe’s brow furrowed, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied her. She was trying too hard. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over the couch.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, rough from disuse.
“Yeah, totally,” she said, too fast, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her nails were painted a soft pink, chipped at the edges, a tiny imperfection that made her seem more human. “Just, you know, a little nervous breakdown. Big runway tomorrow. First one since…”
She trailed off, her smile faltering, and he caught it; the flicker of fear she didn’t want him to see.
He sat on the edge of the couch, a careful distance between them, his weight making the cushions dip. He chuckled, a dry sound, trying to lighten the air.
“Yeah, well, you obviously haven’t been in a warzone. Runways don’t shoot back.”
Her face changed, just for a second, a flash of hurt, like he’d slapped her. Guilt twisted in his gut, sharp and unfamiliar. He hadn’t meant it like that, but he saw it now: she wasn’t crying over stage fright. Something deeper was eating at her, something that made her curl up like she was bracing for a blow.
She nodded, though, her smile almost convincing this time.
“Guess not,” she said softly, standing up. Her sweatshirt hung loose, but he caught a glimpse of the tiny shorts underneath, her legs long and pale in the dim light. “Goodnight, Rafe. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. Be ready at seven, okay?”
She walked away, her footsteps barely audible, leaving him alone on the couch.
He stared at the spot where she’d been, the glass of water forgotten in his hand.
