You’d never admit it aloud—hell, you barely admitted it to yourself—but being her bodyguard stopped being just a job somewhere around month three.

At first, it was simple. Protect the client. Monitor threats. Blend in.

But then you learned her rhythms.

The way her eyes scan the audience before each show, not out of nerves, but hunger—for connection, for meaning. The way she hums under her breath while lacing up her sneakers in the green room. The way she rests her head on the window of the van, watching cities blur into nothing under neon light, unaware that you’re watching her in the reflection.

She doesn’t know that you see her. Not the version with the makeup and choreography. The real one. The girl who laughs like she forgot anyone was listening. The one who bites the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking too hard. The one who, on more than one occasion, has made you question everything you thought you knew about boundaries.

Because you’ve never crossed a line. But lately? You’ve wanted to.

Tonight, it’s her biggest show yet. A packed arena in Chicago. Twenty thousand people screaming her name. The floor beneath your boots thrums with the bass as you stand at your usual post—stage left, just out of sight, but close enough to reach her in seconds.

You watch her glide across the stage like a storm in motion. She’s wearing black—a sleeveless top, leather pants, and heels that make your pulse spike every time she spins. She’s electric. Hypnotic. And you’re supposed to be scanning the crowd. Watching for hands that reach too far. Cameras aimed where they shouldn’t be. But you can’t take your eyes off her.

She’s on her final song. The one where she lets go.

And then it happens.

A quick misstep. Her ankle wobbles. The snap of a heel gives way to air. Her body tilts.

It’s not graceful. It’s not cinematic. It’s fast and real and terrifying.

She falls sideways, toward the edge of the stage, and you don’t think.

You just move.

Everything slows. You lunge forward, slipping past the velvet curtain and reaching out just as she disappears over the edge. There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, a shriek from the audio tech, but your arms are already wrapping around her. Her body slams into yours, momentum throwing you both backward. You land hard, your back absorbing the brunt of the fall as you hit the cement floor behind the barricade with her cradled against your chest.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the ragged sound of her breathing. Her face inches from yours, hair tangled across her cheeks, breath warm against your neck.

You hear your earpiece squawk—your name called once, then again, sharp and urgent. You ignore it.

“Are you hurt?” you ask, voice low, barely audible beneath the roar of the crowd.

She shakes her head, dazed. Her eyes are wide, lips parted in shock. “I—I don’t think so.”

You adjust your grip, trying to sit up without jostling her, but she tightens her arms around you. She’s shaking. Whether from adrenaline or fear, you can’t tell.

You brush her hair from her face. Your gloved fingers linger at her jaw. She leans into your touch.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “I’ve always got you.”

Her eyes meet yours. You see the shift then—the part of her she never lets anyone see. Vulnerability stripped of polish. Gratitude edged with something deeper. Something dangerous.

And then she says, softly, almost jokingly, “Guess I really did fall for you.”

You freeze.

Your heart stumbles. Not because of the words—those words have haunted your dreams—but because of the way she says them.

Not playful. Not flirty. Just… true.

You stare at her. You shouldn’t. You know this moment will burn you alive if you let it.

“Don’t say that,” you murmur.

“Why not?”

Her voice is quiet, but steady. Your armor slips. All the rules you’ve lived by suddenly feel made of sand.

“Because if I let myself believe it,” you say, each word slower than the last, “I wouldn’t be able to keep my distance.”

Her hand slides up to your shoulder, fingertips brushing your neck. “Maybe you don’t have to.”