The house wasn’t what you expected. No glittering gates. No security cameras shaped like eyes. Just a clean porch, soft ivy climbing up one side, and the faint sound of a piano from somewhere inside.

You adjusted your stance, squinting against the late afternoon sun. This wasn’t your usual assignment. You were used to diplomats, to CEOs, to self-important men who didn’t know how to hold a door but expected you to die for them.

Hollywood actresses, though? This was new. And you weren’t exactly thrilled.

The door creaked open before you could knock. Scarlett Johansson stood there in a sweatshirt and jeans, barefoot, a mug of tea in one hand. Her blonde hair was half-clipped back, the other side falling loose over her cheek. She looked… normal. Too normal. You didn’t trust it.

“You’re early,” she said, voice low and just a little hoarse, like she’d been up late talking to someone — or crying. “That’s good. Come in.”

You didn’t smile. Just nodded, stepping inside.

⸻

The inside was soft and quiet. A few scattered toys by the couch. Books — real ones — lining the shelves. A framed photo of Rose holding a paint-splattered canvas. A cat slinking past your boot. You scanned for points of entry, escape routes, security vulnerabilities. Habit.

Scarlett watched you, sipping from her mug. “You don’t have to do the whole tactical sweep thing every time you walk into a room.”

“I do, actually,” you replied. “That’s the job.”

“Right,” she murmured. “The job.”

You expected her to be distant. Or dramatic. Or worse, oblivious. But instead, she was quiet. Careful. Like she didn’t want to take up too much space in her own home. She asked if you’d eaten. She remembered your name. She kept glancing toward the hallway — toward her daughter’s room — like she couldn’t relax until Rose was safe.

That night, when the alarm pinged softly from the window sensors, you were already up. Hand on your weapon. Heart sharp. But it was nothing — just a branch in the wind.

Still, Scarlett met you in the hallway, barefoot again, her eyes wide and worried.

“Is she okay?” she whispered.

“She’s fine,” you answered, voice gentler than before. “I’ve got her.”

Scarlett nodded, exhaled. And then — unexpectedly — she reached out and touched your arm. Just for a second. Just enough to say thank you.

You thought she’d be like the rest — too polished, too self-absorbed.

But she’s not.

She’s tired.

She’s scared.

And she’s trying so hard to be brave.

You stand outside her door that night with your back to the wall and your hand still warm where hers had been — and you realize the job might be harder than you thought.