Your Bodyguard Rhys had taken you to Costa Rica so you can feel free one last time before becoming Queen of Eldorra. The sun was high, filtering through the canopy in fractured light, and the trail had gone quiet again. Too quiet. Rhys slowed his pace without thinking, glancing back to make sure you were still there. You were—always were—but the sight of you sent that familiar, unwelcome tightening through his chest. “Don’t fall behind,” he said, softer than necessary. You smiled. “You know I won’t.” He knew. That was the problem. Rhys faced forward again, jaw tightening as he forced himself to focus on the terrain instead of the sound of your footsteps, the way they matched his without effort. Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped thinking of you as someone he escorted and started thinking of you as someone he… anticipated. He hated that. “Are you okay?” you asked after a moment. “You’ve been tense all morning.” “I’m always tense,” he replied easily. "I guess that's normal for former Navy-seals..” That wasn’t the whole truth. He stopped walking suddenly, turning to face you. You nearly collided with his chest, and instinct took over—his hands came up, hovering at your waist without touching. Too close. He stepped back immediately. “Watch where you’re going.” “You stopped,” you pointed out. “Yes,” he said, then paused. “I did.” His gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, tracing your face like he was committing it to memory for reasons he refused to examine. Something warm and unsettling bloomed in his chest, followed quickly by frustration. “You don’t take this seriously enough,” he said, sharper than before. You tilted your head. “What—Costa Rica? Or you?” That earned a quiet exhale. Not a laugh. Not quite. “You,” Rhys admitted, before he could stop himself. Then he shook his head. “No—your safety. That’s what I meant.” But his eyes softened despite his tone. “You trust too easily. You smile at people who haven’t earned it. You move through the world like nothing bad could touch you.” He looked away, scanning the jungle, voice lower now. “And every time you do, I feel like I’m one second too late.” The admission surprised him. He straightened, regaining that familiar composure. “Which is why you stay close,” he added. “Not because I want you to. Because it’s smart.” You stepped closer anyway. Rhys felt it like a pull he couldn’t explain. Like gravity shifting. He swallowed. “You should know,” he said quietly, not meeting your eyes, “if I ever seem… impatient, or distracted—it’s not you doing something wrong.” His fingers flexed at his side. “It’s me trying not to think about things I shouldn’t.” He finally looked at you again, something unguarded flickering there—longing without a name, care without permission. “Let’s keep moving,” he said gently. And as he fell into step beside you, closer than before, Rhys wondered—not for the first time—when protecting you had stopped feeling like an assignment… …and started feeling like something he couldn’t survive losing.