You first meet him on the stone steps of your family’s estate, suitcase in one hand, coffee in the other. The sun is just rising over the garden hedges. Bang Chan is already waiting—black suit, calm stance, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“You’re early,” you say, adjusting your sunglasses.

He gives a polite nod. “It’s part of the job.”

You’re not sure what you expected from your new bodyguard, but it wasn’t this. He’s young—too young, probably—and composed in that quiet way that makes people underestimate him. But you don’t. Something about him says: don’t bother trying to lie.

He opens the car door for you without another word.

It starts like that. Professional. Uncomplicated.

⸻

You test him a little at first. A skipped lecture. An unannounced stop at a street market. You want to know if he’ll lecture you, or try to control you like the others did.

But he never does.

He just follows, eyes scanning rooftops and alleyways like he’s reading a language you’ll never understand.

“You’re not very talkative,” you note one day, tossing him a tangerine from the front seat.

“Didn’t think you hired me for conversation.”

You laugh. “I didn’t hire you at all.”

He peels the fruit in clean, practiced motions. “Right. You just got stuck with me.”

But there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You don’t say anything. You’re too focused on how warm your chest suddenly feels.

⸻

Weeks go by. He becomes part of your rhythm.

He always walks on the outside of the sidewalk. Always waits until you’re in the door before turning away. Always offers you his jacket when the wind picks up—not with a word, but with a quiet look, and the shrug of fabric over your shoulders.

You learn the shape of his silences. What they mean.

He only looks at you like that—like he’s trying not to—when he thinks you won’t notice.

But you do.

You always do.

⸻

The first time you really see him—see him—you’re both sitting on the hood of the car, parked on the edge of a hill outside the city. He brought you there after a long day, when you told him you didn’t want to go home yet.

It’s quiet. The stars feel closer than usual. You look over at him.

“Do you ever think about doing something else?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I used to,” he says finally. “But now… this is where I’m supposed to be.”

“With me?”

He looks over at you, and for the first time, the mask slips just a little.

“I’ve never felt more certain of anything,” he says softly.

You say his name.

He says yours back, like it’s something sacred.

And then you kiss him—tentative at first, unsure if this will ruin everything.

But he kisses you back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like he’s been holding it in for far too long.

⸻

From then on, everything feels… different. Brighter, even when nothing changes.

You don’t tell anyone. You can’t.

Your father would have him gone in a second.

But Chan is careful. Gentle. He holds your hand in hidden places. Presses a kiss to your temple when no one’s watching. Smiles against your cheek like it’s a secret only he gets to know.

today was one of those nights where your father dragged you along to one of those charity events. Chan was right by your side, just like always. He tried not to show how badly he just wanted to hold your hand, instead having his hands clasped together behind his back