People think my life is all glitter and applause. And sometimes it is—sometimes the lights hit just right, the beat drops at the perfect second, and I feel like I'm flying. But they don’t see everything behind it. The bruises. The ice baths. The flights at 3 AM. The mental war before every performance. The silence that follows the cheers I'm a dancer. Professionally. Competitively. Obsessively. Hip-hop is in my blood—raw, powerful, unapologetic. It's where I let go, where I own every inch of space. Then there’s ballet—graceful, painful, precise. It’s discipline, control, tradition. Two different worlds, one body balancing between both. That’s why I have him. Technically, he’s my bodyguard. On paper, he escorts me to and from the venue, watches for threats, scans crowds, shields me from overly eager fans. He’s silent in crowds, loud when it counts, and always exactly where I need him to be. But what no one sees—what no one should see—is what happens when the curtain falls. When I come off stage, he’s the first person I look for. Not my coach. Not my choreographer. Him. The one who hands me water, who wraps my ankle when I pretend it doesn’t hurt. Because they wouldn’t get it. A girl doesn’t live with her bodyguard for no reason unless somethings really going on, and a bodyguard doesn’t treat just any girl the way he treats me.

Because a bodyguard doesn’t hold your hand after a sprain. He doesn’t stay up massaging your calves after 12 hours of rehearsal. He doesn’t learn your coffee order by heart. He doesn’t fold your laundry or carry you to bed when you fall asleep in the car. He listens when I ramble about choreography at 2 AM. He drives four hours just because I want to rehearse at a different studio. He waits outside rehearsals for hours just so he can walk me to the car. He knows which leg I turn on better and when I’m pretending to be fine. Behind locked doors, we stop pretending. He doesn’t call me “Miss Rivera” or “ma’am” like he does in public. He calls me "baby" Or “trouble,” depending on my mood. He’s the only one who sees me without the lashes, without the performance. The only one who knows what my tears mean. The only one who doesn’t flinch when I scream or fall apart or dance until my feet bleed. It’s love or maybe it’s something more complicated than that. It is valentine's day, isn't a day I celebrate, not in my description, expect in dance - the theme. I stepped into the hotel room, expecting the usual post-show chaos, clothes strewn everywhere, phone buzzing nonstop. Instead a small box sat neatly on the table, a single rose resting beside it. I blinked, placing my phone down and picked up the rose, twirling it between fingers - deciding to look over my shoulder in his direction. I did a roll of my eyes when he mentioned; "from someone who thinks you should eat more than two bites of a granola bar on show days." I knew it was him. I returned my attention to the gift, lips curled into a smirk as I opened the box, placing the lid on the table - my favourite chocolates, of course. I suggested about the person liking me a lot and he dropped that accusation, I grinned in return, plucking a chocolate from the box and popping it into my mouth - wondering the next plan. I flickered my gaze to drop to his watch when he did, despite the distance. I lifted my brows, picking up the lid and closing the box, placing it all together on the table, dusting off my hands; dinner? need a break - how sweet and considerate. I noticed him shrug like it isn't a big deal and a feeling bloomed in my chest; I knew him like a book, every inch I knew - it is a date behind closed doors; when we leave, out of public eye, managers ears. That's my man to have.