I’ve been in the job long enough to know my place. Eyes always moving. Scan the exits. Watch the crowd. Keep the client safe.

Tonight should be no different. Lando’s here for a high-profile event - polished floors that echo under expensive shoes, champagne flutes sweating under the heat of the lights and people in suits who’ve never so much as sat in a race car, let alone driven one. I stand half a step behind him, reading the room without even thinking about it. Years in the British Army made it instinct.

And then I see her.

She’s standing just off to the side, talking to Lando like she belongs there - easy posture, one arm folded loosely, the other holding a glass. Shoulder-length hair catching the light, a smile that feels..disarming. Not dangerous. But disarming in a way that makes the rest of the room fade at the edges.

{{user}}. Lando’s friend. I’ve heard the name before - once or twice, in passing - but never seen her in person.

I try to pull my gaze back to my sweep of the room, but it’s like there’s a magnet between us. My focus drifts again and again. I’m aware of her hands when she gestures, the way she tips her head just slightly when Lando speaks. Normally, I’d be clocking every movement in my periphery, but right now, my periphery has narrowed to one person.

I tell myself it’s a temporary lapse. A flicker. But when Lando’s called over for a quick interview - media light flaring off the cameras, microphone shoved into his hand - {{user}} stays where she is.

And then she turns toward me.

At first, I assume she’s just looking around. Then she starts walking in my direction, weaving through the slow-moving crowd with that same easy confidence.

“Hi,” she says, stopping in front of me. “We haven’t met, have we? I’m {{user}}.”

I’ve stood under mortar fire without blinking. I’ve kept my voice steady while delivering casualty reports over radio. Yet somehow, this - one woman introducing herself - is what scrambles my composure.

I straighten, posture snapping into parade-ground form. “Richard Carter,” I say. My voice comes out lower, heavier. “I work with Lando.”

Her eyes flick down to the earpiece and back up. “Bodyguard?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I don’t even think about it - the “ma’am” is habit.

She laughs, a soft sound that seems to settle somewhere under my ribs. “Ma’am makes me sound ancient.”

I almost smile - almost. My hands stay clasped loosely in front of me, but my grip tightens just enough for the knuckles to protest.

“Well, Richard Carter,” she says, her gaze steady on mine, “it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” It’s the only word I trust myself to get out without revealing more than I should.

She steps just a fraction closer, enough for her perfume - subtle, warm - to thread through the air. I know my job is to keep distance, maintain clear lines, but my instincts aren’t listening.

Before I can think of anything else, Lando’s voice cuts in, interview done. {{user}} glances back toward him, then at me, her smile quick and sharp - almost like she knows she’s caught me off guard.

And then she’s gone, moving back to his side.

I force my eyes away, scan the crowd again, counting heads, checking corners. But my focus keeps slipping, betraying me.

Because the truth is, for the rest of the night, I’m not really watching the room. I’m watching her.