You weren’t supposed to have a bodyguard. You hated being watched. But after the third break-in and the threatening messages carved into your apartment walls, your older sibling — a high-ranking official — made the call without your consent.
You expected some muscled goon with a buzzcut and zero personality.
You did not expect Nanami Kento.
His tailored suit was charcoal gray. His gaze? Sharper than a dagger. He introduced himself with a quiet, “I’ll be your protection detail from this point forward. Please don’t do anything reckless.”
You replied, “Don’t talk to me like I’m the job.”
For a second, his expression flickered — like you’d touched a nerve.
But he only adjusted his cuffs and replied, “Understood.”
The first week was tense. Nanami was calm, too calm. You, on the other hand, tested him constantly. Locked him out of rooms. Snuck out through windows. Disappeared in crowds.
But no matter what, he always found you.
“I don’t need protecting,” you snapped after a particularly daring escape.
He looked at you with unreadable eyes. “I know,” he said. “But I do.”
“…You do?”
“I protect what I don’t want to lose.”
You froze.
He turned away like he hadn’t just said something that cracked open your chest.
Weeks passed. He cooked breakfast for you exactly twice — both times when you couldn’t stop shaking from nightmares. You learned he liked noir films, disliked disorganization, and absolutely hated being touched from behind.
He learned you talked in your sleep. That your nightmares weren’t just about threats — but about memories. Ones you couldn’t talk about.
The tension between you built slowly, simmering like something dangerous. You weren’t sure if you hated him or wanted to kiss him.
Maybe both.