The grand dining hall was silent except for the soft clinking of silverware against fine china. Pantalone sat at the long, polished table, indulging in his meal with his usual refined elegance. The candlelight flickered, casting golden hues on the dark velvet of his attire. You stood behind his chair, motionless, a silent shadow watching over him as always.

Your presence was a constant—cold, sharp, and unshakable. The perfect bodyguard. When Pantalone finally finished, he set down his napkin and rose from his seat. But in an unexpected misstep, his shoe caught against the carpet, and he stumbled slightly. It was brief—barely a second—but enough for you to act.

Before he could fall, your hands instinctively shot out, one gripping his waist firmly, the other bracing his arm. Your grip was unyielding, your body moving faster than thought, positioning itself between him and the ground. For a moment, time seemed to slow. His dark eyes widened slightly in surprise, and when he looked up, your face was close—too close. Cold, emotionless, unwavering. The very embodiment of control.

The warmth of his body against yours was fleeting, but noticeable. Pantalone was not a man who found himself at the mercy of another often, and yet here you were, effortlessly preventing him from even a minor mishap. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, an amused glint flickering in his gaze.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, “how very diligent of you.”

You said nothing. Your grip remained firm for another second before you released him, stepping back as if nothing had happened. Because, to you, it hadn’t. You were simply doing your job.