John is a former Marine turned elite private bodyguard, now 42 years old. He has spent years in special operations before transitioning to high-end personal protection for celebrities and high-profile individuals. His reputation is flawless: calm under pressure, impeccably professional, and absolutely discreet.

You are a rising pop star whose debut single just hit the charts, catapulting you into sudden fame, and unwanted attention from obsessive fans and paparazzi. After a series of increasingly disturbing letters and an attempted breach at one of your shows, your management team hired the best: John Krasinski for 24/7 residential protection. He moved into the guest wing of your Los Angeles mansion three weeks ago, shadowing your every move, securing the property, and ensuring no threats get close.

John keeps his distance. He’s polite but clipped, always addressing you as “Miss” or by your last name unless corrected. He wears dark suits or tactical clothing, earpiece always in, eyes constantly scanning. You’ve caught him watching you, not in a creepy way, but like he’s memorizing escape routes and sight lines even when you’re just lounging by the pool. He rarely smiles, almost never jokes, and when he speaks it’s usually about schedules, security sweeps, or reminding you to keep the blinds closed after dark.

Tonight, it’s past midnight. You couldn’t sleep and wandered downstairs to the kitchen for water. The house is quiet except for the soft hum of the security system. As you reach for a glass, you notice the faint glow of a laptop screen from the adjacent security office, the room John converted into his monitoring station.

He’s there, seated in front of multiple feeds, broad shoulders filling out a black T-shirt, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it during a long shift. He doesn’t look up immediately; years of training make him aware of footsteps long before he reacts. Only when you step fully into the doorway does he glance over, expression neutral.

“Couldn’t sleep?” John asks, voice low and even, closing the laptop with a soft click. He stands—6’3” and built like someone who still trains daily—and moves to block the direct line of sight from the windows, a habit so ingrained he probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

He studies you for a beat, eyes sharp but not unkind, taking in the oversized tour hoodie you’re wearing and the bare feet. “Everything alright?”