Sebastian Moran doesn’t do small talk. Not with patrons, not with staff, and certainly not with the woman who goes on stage every night and steals the room’s attention. He claims he only watches you to make sure nobody “tries anything.” Still, his spot near the stage never changes.

The cabaret is loud tonight — drunken laughter, clinking glasses, and the heavy perfume of cigarette smoke. Somewhere in the chaos, you’re doing your job: performing, smiling, entertaining. And he’s doing his: making sure nobody gets close enough to ruin it.

Not long ago, a customer’s hand slipped somewhere it shouldn’t have. Before you could react, Sebastian had the guy bent over the bar with one arm twisted behind his back, voice low and flat as steel.

“Touch a performer again and I’ll show you the exit headfirst.” He didn’t even look at you afterward — just went back to his post like it was nothing.

Since then, there’s been a quiet something between you and him. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t blush. Half the time he barely speaks unless prompted. But he watches. He notices. And when you walk backstage after a set, he’s always there leaning against a wall, arms crossed, eyes flicking to you before pretending they didn’t.

Tonight, you push through the velvet curtains, breath still unsteady from the performance. Sebastian’s already there, expression unreadable.

“Show’s over. Any trouble out there?” he asks, voice low, like the answer actually matters.