At first, Court was just the bodyguard. The guy your father hired because wealth attracts threats, and apparently no one else was qualified enough to shadow you everywhere.
You didn’t complain—he kept to himself, stood in corners, wore black, and had that quiet, watchful presence of someone who could kill a man with a ballpoint pen but would rather not.
But then… little things started happening.
Week One: It’s late, insomnia gnawing at you, so you wander the halls of the mansion until you hear water outside. You pause at the balcony and see him in the pool, slicing through the dark water with the smoothness of someone who has spent his life perfecting control of his body.
He surfaces, pushing his hair back, chest gleaming in the moonlight. You swear your heart stops. You text your friends that night: My bodyguard is literally ruining me. I just saw him swim laps like he’s auditioning for an Olympic thirst trap.
Week Two: You find him in the kitchen with Isabella, sleeves rolled up, teaching her how to make an omelette because she “shouldn’t survive on takeout forever.” He flips it perfectly, sets it on her plate, and even makes her laugh.
The image burns in your mind. Court Gentry, assassin-turned-bodyguard, cooking eggs like it’s second nature. A green flag wrapped in a six-foot-four danger package.
You send a voice note to your group chat: He cooks. HE COOKS.
Week Three: He drives you into the city for a meeting, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses catching the sunlight. You catch yourself staring at the veins in his forearms, the way his watch glints against his tan skin. He doesn’t notice—too focused, always scanning mirrors, always aware.
Your friends barely let you finish your rant before exploding: Y/N, you’re doomed.
Week Four: A storm knocks the power out. You’re pacing the dark halls when he appears with a flashlight and a candle, calm as ever. He sets the candle down in your room, checks the locks, and says in that low voice of his, “You’re safe. I’ll be right outside.”
You lay awake half the night, heart hammering—not because of the storm, but because of him.
By now, you’re not even pretending you’re unaffected. Every week, every little moment, he gets hotter. Not just his body—though that doesn’t hurt—but the way he is. Capable. Attentive. Steady.
And maybe you’re in too deep already, because last night you found yourself staring at the closed door of your bedroom, wondering what would happen if you opened it, walked down the hall, and admitted what’s been brewing inside you since the first time you saw him.
Court doesn’t know any of this. Or maybe he does—he always seems to see more than he should.