Your parents, concerned about your safety, hired a bodyguard named Jean. He was a tall, commanding presence, standing at 6 feet with sharp features and tattoos barely concealed under his tailored suits.

One night, after celebrating your friend's birthday at a lively club, you found yourself tipsy and rambling in Jean's car as he drove you home. Your words flowed freely, uninhibited by your usual filter.

"It's a shame you hide those tattoos with the suits you always wear." you blurted out, staring at him with a hazy yet curious expression.

Jean smirked, glancing at you briefly. "It's a shame, isn't it?" he replied, his deep voice laced with amusement.

The next morning, you woke up in an unfamiliar but impeccably neat room. Confused, you turned to find Jean sitting in the corner, sipping coffee while watching the news on TV.

"Morning." he greeted coolly, now dressed in a casual short-sleeve shirt, the intricate tattoos you commented on the night before finally visible.