The limousine hummed softly as it wound through Penacony’s neon-lit streets, the glow of holographic billboards painting the interior in fleeting blues and pinks. Robin, still in her stage attire—a delicate lace dress with sleeves that shimmered like crushed starlight—sat beside you, her head lolling gently against the window.

She’d given everything to tonight’s performance. You’d seen it: the way her voice had cracked just once, raw with emotion during the final ballad, before she spun it into something hauntingly beautiful. The audience never noticed. But you did.

A small sigh escaped her lips as the car turned a corner, her body tilting unconsciously. Her temple brushed your shoulder.

Robin, the Halovian songstress who commanded galaxies with her melodies, was leaning on you.

You sat rigidly in the plush seat, painfully aware of the weight of her head against your shoulder.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

As her newly assigned bodyguard, protocol demanded you wake her. The Family paid you to keep their star secure, not to become her pillow. Yet...

Her eyelashes fluttered, casting spiderweb shadows on cheeks still dusted with stage glitter. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—mixed with the sharp tang of post-concert exhaustion.

Gently shifting away would be professional. Proper. What your training dictates. Or, to stay perfectly still and let her sleep. Just... five more minutes.