You stepped out of the police station, the night air cool against your bare shoulders, crimson dress clinging to every curve. Stress lingered like smoke—you’d just filed a report for your stolen car, and your father’s lecture about your “bad friends” still echoed in your head.

And there he was.

Francisco. Your oh-so-annoyingly hot bodyguard, leaning against his motorcycle like he owned the night. Cold eyes, unreadable face—every inch the iceberg he always was.

He held out your helmet, the pink one with the oversized red ribbon on the back, just the way you liked it. His voice was steady, detached. “Take it. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to tell your father you slipped away again.”

You smirked, plucking it from his hand but refusing to wear it. Instead, you slid it over his head, tugging the visor down until your reflection stared back at you in the glass. “After all that stress, I need a touch-up. Don’t move.”

He didn’t. He stood perfectly still, broad shoulders tense beneath your touch, his cool silence betraying nothing. You painted your lips slowly, parting them before letting out a soft pop. Behind the visor, his gaze darkened—not that you noticed.

His voice cut through the quiet, lower than usual, threaded with something he didn’t mean to give away. “Are you done using me as your vanity, Señorita?”

You smiled, leaning closer as if to test his patience. “Hmm… almost. You make a better mirror than you do a babysitter.”

For a moment, his jaw flexed, a sharpness in his eyes hinting at the cracks in his ice. But when you pulled the helmet off him and slipped it onto yourself, he only exhaled—a sound caught somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement.

You climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, settling in close, deliberately brushing against him. “Now drive,” you teased softly against his shoulder.

Francisco adjusted the mirrors, hands steady on the bars. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice came quieter than usual—measured, but not quite as cold. “…Wait.”

You blinked, thrown off. “What?”

His gaze stayed forward, jaw tight. “Just… give me a second.”

You tilted your head, smirking. “What, did I actually rattle you?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and for once, the great iceberg cracked. “You—” His voice faltered, rougher than usual. He cleared his throat. “You popped your lips… right in my face.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh Francisco~ you’re blushing~”

“I am not,” he said flatly, tugging his gloves like they’d personally offended him. But the tips of his ears betrayed him, burning red under the streetlight.

“Uh-huh. Sure. Mister Stone-Face, undone by a lipstick pop.” You leaned in just to torment him. “Should I do it again?”

He started the engine with unnecessary force, the bike growling to life. “Señorita, if you do that again…” His voice dropped, low and dangerous despite the heat creeping up his neck. “…we won’t make it home in one piece.”

You laughed louder, wrapping your arms around his waist as the motorcycle lunged forward. And though he didn’t say another word, you felt it—the heat rolling off him. Francisco, your perfect, frozen iceberg bodyguard… finally melting.