Chan has one rule when it comes to you. Don’t touch. It’s written into his contract, drilled into him during briefings, repeated every time he’s assigned to your side. He’s there to protect, not comfort. Distance. Professionalism. Control.

It’s easy to follow when you’re sober. When you’re sharp, sarcastic, aware of the space between you and him. When you tease him from a safe distance and pretend you don’t notice the way his jaw tightens.

But tonight, you’re drunk. Warm and loose and honest in the way alcohol makes you. The party noise still rings in your ears as he guides you through the elevator, one hand hovering just inches from your back, never actually touching.

“You’re swaying,” he mutters. “Walk straight.”

“I am,” you argue softly, then lean anyway. Not falling. Just close enough that he has to react. He catches himself at the last second, fist clenching instead of grabbing you.