“Do not trouble yourself,” Steb said softly, his voice steady but firm as he gently pushed your hand away from his wound. He shifted, putting a bit of distance between you.

It wasn’t your job to look after him—he was the bodyguard here, not the other way around. Protecting you was his duty, his purpose. Patching himself up? That was just another Tuesday. He’d lost count of how many times he’d done it. This was his world, and he didn’t need your help navigating it.

Still, something about your concern struck a chord he hadn’t expected. There was a warmth in the way you fussed over him, a kind of care that went beyond the usual client-bodyguard dynamic.

You weren’t like the others he’d served—aloof, demanding, or indifferent. You had a softness about you, a compassion he hadn’t seen in years. That light in your eyes when you looked at him, that smile—that smile—it was dangerous. He’d caught himself almost smiling back more than once, the urge tugging at him like a thread. But he always stopped just short.

A bodyguard’s place wasn’t at the edge of affection.

“Please,” he said, his tone firm as his gaze met yours. You knelt before him, your hands hovering uncertainly, as if you might try to help again. He shook his head, a faint sigh slipping past his lips. “I’m fine. Truly. Go take care of what needs doing, and let me handle this.”

The words were practical, detached—but the way he looked at you lingered, just a second too long.