You were supposed to be just a job.

Just a name scribbled across a contract, another “high-risk escort” gig where he got paid too well to ask too many questions.

He didn’t expect you to be you.

A woman with a sharp tongue and sharper instincts. Dressed too fine for the path you were walking. Carrying secrets that clung to you like perfume—heavy and sweet and impossible to ignore.

You hired him to get you from point A to point B. No questions. No delays.

What you got was a mercenary who didn’t talk much, didn’t smile either, but somehow always stood just slightly too close whenever another man looked at you wrong. A man who never took his eyes off the road, and yet somehow noticed every twitch of your discomfort.

You rode in silence most of the way, your carriage too cramped for two people who didn’t trust each other. He kept his hand near his blade. You kept your hand near your purse. You were prepared for betrayal. So was he.

But somewhere between dodging bounty hunters, sleeping under the stars, and him stitching up a shallow wound on your arm with quiet, trembling precision—you noticed things.

How he never slept before you did. How he always made sure your portion of food had no bones. How his shoulders only seemed to relax when you laughed—even if it was rare.

One night, as you sat near the campfire, brushing dust off your dress and counting your coin, he finally broke the silence:

“You really don’t belong in this kind of mess.”

You blinked, half-surprised he spoke at all. “Says the man covered in blood.”

He huffed. It might’ve been a laugh.

“I’ve been in this since I was old enough to hold a blade,” he said quietly. “You? You’re... something else.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. Past the leather, the grime, the scars. And for once, you didn’t see a weapon-for-hire. You saw a man carrying more than just your safety—carrying you, in ways you hadn’t asked for but somehow began to rely on.

By the time the journey ended, your destination felt… wrong.

“Thank you,” you told him as he helped you down, gloved hand steady under yours.

He nodded. No words. But something flickered in his eyes.

You hesitated. And then, against every rule of your status, your upbringing, your logic—you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

“You weren’t just a job either,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t move away. Not even when your hand lingered over his chest a second too long.

Later that night, he stood at the edge of the city gates, watching the lights flicker in the windows, where you now sat surrounded by people who would never know what he did for you.

And he swore—next time someone put a price on your safety or a price for your head.

He wouldn’t take the job.

He’d take you.