The bunker’s main lounge was dimly lit — all velvet shadows, gold edges, and the low hum of people who knew they were untouchable. You stood behind the bar in your bright orange staff uniform, a color that marked you as theirs but not one of them. Servant, not member. Seen, not heard.

Guillermo approached the bar like he owned the ground beneath his feet — slow, deliberate steps, hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored jacket. No loud entrance. No need. His presence alone cut through the room like a quiet blade.

“You’re working late,” he said, voice low, carrying that calm authority that fit too well with this bunker full of billionaires. “Again.”

You didn’t answer. You were busy rinsing a glass, pretending his stare didn’t warm the back of your neck. When you finally looked up, he was already watching you — that soft, unreadable smile playing on his lips.

He tapped a finger lightly on the bar. “You deserve better than babysitting drunk millionaires.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That coming from someone who’s part of the problem.”

One corner of his mouth lifted — amused, but not offended. He liked that you weren’t intimidated.

He reached for the drink you placed in front of him — the one you didn’t even remember deciding to make. His fingers brushed yours lightly, on purpose, but not in a way that trapped you. Just enough to say I noticed.

He held your gaze as he took a slow sip.