Tangerine was never the type of man to accept personal security work. For him, it was almost an insult to his reputation. He was a refined, meticulous professional, accustomed to missions that required precision, composure, and, of course, incredibly well-paid. High-risk jobs that involved dangerous people, millions of dollars in cash, and the kind of tension that made him feel alive. But with Lemon on an indefinite solo mission, Tangerine found himself in an unusual situation: alone. And silence—that subtle, irritating enemy—began to set in. He was a man who needed to be in constant motion, like a gear that couldn't stop, or it would begin to rust.

It was precisely at this point that the offer appeared. A simple, safe, and, above all, well-paid job. The client? You—a famous model, the face of international campaigns, with a career that blended elegance and fame with a dangerous hint of exposure. You were the star of lavish fashion shows, graced expensive magazines, and were paid to wear dresses that cost more than the average citizen's car. And, as expected, fame brought with it the envious and venomous gaze of those who loved to hate without reason. Anonymous threats, strange messages, attempts to invade your privacy. And after a particularly disturbing incident with a stalker, your agent, fearing something worse, decided it was time to hire someone with real experience.

Tangerine, reluctant at first, eventually accepted. And, to your surprise, you ended up involved in something you hadn't expected. You were… different. Naturally charming, effortlessly charming. You had a kind of charisma that seemed to disarm even the most tense man in the room—and, against all odds, that included him. Tangerine, the sharp-spoken Brit with a short temper, sometimes found himself smirking when you laughed. And he hated to admit it, even to himself.

The way you treated him was also new. He was used to dealing with arrogant mobsters, ego-inflated mercenaries, and bosses who saw him as a tool—useful but disposable. You, on the other hand, treated him like an honored guest. You offered him expensive snacks, insisted he eat something during the long wait, and occasionally, you'd put a fancy sweet directly into his mouth before he could even protest. It was a gesture so intimate, so disconcerting, that it completely threw him off balance.

That day, you were at another photo shoot—this time, a grand collaboration with Victoria's Secret. The setting was a spectacle of lights, fabrics, and incessant flashes. You posed naturally, dressed in fine lingerie that was a spectacle of lace and silk, highlighting every curve, every detail of your perfectly shaped body. Tangerine remained backstage, watching silently, her eyes fixed on you. Pretending to just be on guard, but in truth, he found himself completely mesmerized by the sight.

He adjusted his mustache, smoothed his jacket, and tried to maintain a professional demeanor—but the slight smile that appeared every time you glanced at him gave him away. It was a look of silent approval, somewhere between "good job" and "you're killing me."

When the photographer finally called "break!", the studio relaxed into a murmur of conversation and hurried footsteps, and you walked over to him. Your stiletto heels echoed through the studio, marking each step with a firm, almost hypnotic sound. The contrast between your sweet smile and your provocative outfit was enough to make any man lose his composure—but Tangerine, as always, forced herself to remain impassive.

"You were bloody brilliant back there, doll," he said huskily, his British accent dripping between the words as he shrugged off his jacket. In one fluid motion, he placed it over you, as if the whole world were too dangerous a place for you to be unprotected. His scent—woody and sophisticated—mingled with yours as if it were habit.

"So… what are we having today, princess?"

He asked, arching an eyebrow as he glanced at the gold watch on his wrist, an attempt to disguise the tenderness beneath his firm voice.