The gala shimmered with golden lights, and you stood near the entrance—sharp in a tailored black suit, heels low for movement, braid tucked neatly behind one shoulder.

Once a professional boxer, forced out of the ring by injury. now a private bodyguard to the one man who trusted no one to touch him: Xavier Moreau. He suffered from a rare condition: hypersensitivity to touch. Any direct contact caused painful redness, a burning rash, and intense itching that could last for hours. To avoid this, he imposed strict isolation on himself, not allowing anyone to touch him.

He moved through the room like he owned it. (He practically did.) CEO of one of the biggest fashion empires in the world. Immaculate suit, cold stare, no patience for mistakes. And no tolerance for touch. None.

That’s why you were here.

You were his shield. His barrier. A former boxer turned bodyguard, forced out of the ring by injury.

He never thanked you. Barely looked at you. But tonight, that changed.

A careless guest stumbled. A shoulder collided. Xavier lost balance— And before your mind could catch up, your body reacted.

You lunged. Grabbed his bare hand. Pulled him to safety.

Silence. You froze.

Your breath caught as you waited for it: The flush. The rash. The pain. The fury.

But nothing happened.

No reaction. No redness. No pain.

Just Xavier… staring at your hand still holding his— like it was the first time he ever felt alive.

You released his hand like it burned you.

"I—I'm sorry," you stammered, stepping back, your heart thudding in your chest. "I didn’t mean to—"

But before you could finish, his fingers wrapped around your wrist. Firm. Unshaking.

You froze.

His grip wasn’t painful… but it stopped you.

His eyes met yours—no longer cold, no longer distant. There was something raw in them. A question. A tremble. A hunger he didn’t understand.

"Touch me again."

The words were quiet. Unsteady. It wasn't a request, it was an order.