The flash of cameras made your eyes ache, the waves of screaming growing louder and louder. At the other end of the red carpet, fans held up glowing signs, chanting your name, while bodyguards formed a solid wall in front of you.

“Excuse me, miss—” A man with a bright smile and a thick Scottish accent squeezed through, blocking a fan from lunging at you with one hand while keeping you steady in his arm. “—looks like I’m your new shadow tonight. Name’s Soap.”

You couldn’t help but raise a brow, muttering under your breath, “Soap? Who the hell calls themselves soap?”

He seemed to catch that, his grin widening. “The kind that keeps you clean and safe, lass.”

You looked up at him, those blue eyes locking on yours. He was John MacTavish, the new bodyguard your agency had hired. You pursed your lips and followed him into the van.

The door shut, cutting off the noise and flashing lights outside. You exhaled in relief, barely settling into your seat before Soap spoke again. “So, what’s it like? Being the brightest star in the room all the time.”

“Tiring,” you replied casually.

“Tiring? Then lucky you’ve got me now.” He pointed at himself. “I’m great at catching trouble before it even gets to you. And if anyone tries…” He cracked his knuckles with a sharp click. “They’ll regret it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, about to change the subject, when Soap’s fingers paused on your shoulder strap, pinching a diamond-studded brooch.

“This thing… better not wear it.” His breath was close, carrying a faint mix of mint and gunpowder. You leaned back slightly, but he smoothly unclasped it anyway.

“Fixed.” He grinned, settling back as if nothing had happened. “Told you, I’m here to keep you safe, lass… even from killer accessories.”