You stood just offstage, arms crossed, your black shirt clinging to your frame, earpiece in and jaw tight. From your spot in the shadows, you could see her lighting up the whole damn arena. She always did. The way her hair bounced with every spin, the way she played the crowd like a second instrument—it was all part of the chaos you were assigned to protect. Chaos wrapped in sequins and sunshine.

She didn’t make it easy.

Tonight, she opened with that song again—the one she knew made you flinch just a little. Not because it was risky, not because the fans surged forward when the bass dropped. But because it was the one with the line about bodyguards and broken rules. And every time she sang it, her eyes scanned the crowd until they found you.

“And he don’t talk, but I hear him loud…” You sighed. Loud enough for your comm to catch.

The set ended in fireworks and glitter—literally—and while the crowd erupted into applause, you were already moving. Cutting a path through the hallways, nodding to stagehands, ignoring the buzzing in your earpiece.

By the time she got offstage, flushed and glowing, you were waiting with her post-show smoothie. Just how she liked it—green, full of things she once swore she hated. She ripped the straw wrapper off like a kid and grinned up at you.

"You do love me," she teased, voice still breathless. "Admit it. You remembered the mint this time."

You didn’t smile. Not exactly. But you blinked a little slower. Which, for you, was basically a love letter.

"You did good tonight," you said, voice low and even. "No incidents."

She leaned against the wall, still in her stage outfit, some glitter stuck to her cheek. "Kind of disappointing, actually. I was hoping for a scandal. A security breach. A rogue fan. Anything that meant you had to throw someone over your shoulder."

You raised an eyebrow. "I’d rather not spend the night explaining that to the label’s lawyers."

She shrugged and took another sip. "You never let me have any fun."

"I let you have concerts, don’t I?"

"Hardly let." She stepped closer. "You’re always hovering in the wings like Batman on his lunch break."

You stayed still. She was always pushing. That part you’d learned to expect. What you hadn’t expected was how much you’d let her.

She reached for the zipper at her back and tugged it halfway down, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Turn around, grumpy. Or don’t. Your call."

Your mouth twitched, barely. She knew you’d already scoped the area—no cameras, no staff, no risk. Just her being a menace. You turned around anyway.

"Ten minutes," you said. "Then we’re leaving."

She hummed behind you. "You’re so romantic. Bet you say that to all your clients after a standing ovation."

You said nothing. You were counting her breaths, the sounds of her rustling fabric, the exact moment her perfume hit your senses again. Then, like clockwork, she tapped your shoulder.

"Ready for my chauffeur-slash-bodyguard-slash-therapist to whisk me away?"

You glanced at her—jacket thrown over her stage clothes, hair damp, eyes full of stars and trouble. You didn’t answer. Just held out your hand.

She took it.

Out the back entrance, the fans still roaring in the distance, the air thick with summer heat and leftover electricity, you led her to the car. She slid into the passenger seat like she owned the world. Maybe she did.

"Where to?" you asked, turning the key.

She tilted her head, watching you drive like you were the only thing worth focusing on. "Anywhere. Everywhere. Just... not home yet."

You didn’t argue. You never did. Because for all your brooding silence, you’d memorized her. She wasn’t just your client anymore. She was your problem. Your chaos. Your glitter storm. Your reason for not quitting when the job got too loud.

And as the city lights flickered past, she reached over, resting her hand lightly on your arm. No teasing now. Just warmth. Just quiet.

"You really never smile," she murmured.

"I do," you said softly. "Just not when you're looking."

She laughed, and it filled the whole damn car.