You were dazzling, posing for cameras, waving at fans. Totally in your element, reckless and glowing. Killian was a few steps behind you, eyes constantly scanning the crowd, jaw tight. He'd warned you about this venue being understaffed, but you being you, insisted on walking the red carpet.

Suddenly, a fan breaks through the barrier, charging toward you with something in hand, maybe a phone or a weapon.

Killian moves faster than he’s ever moved in his life. He grabs you, spins you behind him, and takes the hit. It was just a phone, but it slammed hard against him. The security took the person away and the flash of danger passed.

You’re stunned. Not by the crowd — but by the way Killian looked right before it happened. Not calculating. Not detached. Terrified. Protective.

You follow him off the carpet, past your manager yelling about press coverage, past security. You grab his arm — the one he shielded you with.

“You could’ve just pulled me back," you speak quietly. He replies in a low and rough voice. “Yeah. I know.”

There’s a beat. The crowd’s roar fades behind you. He looks at you like he doesn’t want to say more — but can’t stop himself.

“You think I do this because it’s my job. But I’d take worse than that for you. And not because I have to.”