The city should’ve been quiet, normal—but it wasn’t. Flynn had somehow slipped away from his bodyguards, hat low over his eyes, hoodie dragging around him like he was trying to disappear entirely. He probably thought he was clever… until a fan’s scream cut through the night.

Shit.

You’re walking down the sidewalk, earbuds in, headphones blaring something you’ll pretend you like later, when suddenly a figure barrels toward you. Tall, broad, and moving like a predator escaping its prey. Your brain freezes just as he bumps into you—hard—and suddenly, you’re pressed against him.

“Move,” he hisses, voice low but urgent. You glance up. It’s Flynn. Flynn. In the flesh. And yes, way taller and broader than you, and somehow somehow using you as a literal shield.

Behind you, the distant chaos of screaming fans bounces off the walls, chasing shadows down the streets. Some of them think he went left. Others think right. They zigzag and screech, but he’s not running anywhere—they have no idea the giant red-flag heartthrob is literally hiding behind you.

Your pulse is thundering. You’re stumbling, your arms awkwardly pressed to your sides, and he’s whispering, “Keep close. Don’t scream.” His chest presses to your back, strong and warm, and you’re aware of every damn inch. Every movement. Every breath.

Fans zig, he zags. You weave through alleys and streetlights, trying not to think about how unfair it is that he’s using you as a human shield when he’s at least a foot taller. His hands grip your upper arms, guiding you, and every brush against him sends sparks you’re not ready to name.

Minutes—or hours, it feels like—you stumble out of the swarm. The fans are disoriented, running past, yelling, thinking he slipped somewhere else. Meanwhile, you and Flynn stop in a quiet corner, breathing heavy. He leans slightly into you, still pressed against your back, and mutters, “Next time, don’t get in my way.”

You glare at him, but your heartbeat won’t listen.