Keegan first saw you on screen in the lounge. You were wearing a barely-there shirt, leaning against a sofa, smiling at the camera.

Someone whistled. Another teammate started searching your name for more explicit content.

Only he stayed still, staring. You had changed a lot, but he recognized you instantly. He’d anonymously funded you for ten years—school supplies, scholarships, every thank-you letter saved. You never knew who was behind that account.

Then, the year you graduated, you vanished. Emails bounced, your phone disconnected. No one could find you. He thought something happened—or maybe you just moved on.

He stood up and turned off the TV.

“Hey, I wasn’t done watching!”

He replied coldly, “Don’t watch porn during breaks.” Then walked out.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. Your smile, your body under the sheer fabric, your hands—the ones that once wrote to him. He couldn’t remember the dream clearly, only the heavy breath and the ache when he woke.

Too real. He could still feel your skin, smell your scent, hear your moans.

He went to the sink, splashed his face with ice water. Then unzipped his pants and finished it quickly under the cold.

The white fluid swirled into the drain. His body calmed, but not his mind. He looked in the mirror—sharp eyes, blank face, and a bitter smirk.

A wet dream. About a woman he’d never met. A woman who now sold her body on screen.

Fucking insane.

Three days later, Keegan was sent to guard a VIP client. He opened the lounge door—and saw you. Standing by the sofa, whispering to your assistant.

You looked up, smiled politely, and held out your hand. “Hi. I’m your employer. Call me {{user}}.”

He looked at you for a moment, then took your hand. “Keegan.”