Being famous had stripped you of the simplest pleasures. A quiet walk. A moment of solitude. Even buying your favorite dessert had turned into a covert mission. That was why, once again, you slipped out without telling anyone—especially not Arthur, your relentlessly protective bodyguard from France. With a hoodie pulled low and a mask hiding your face, you blended into the Parisian streets, just another figure chasing a small craving.

The dessert shop was crowded, the line barely moving. You waited, eyes drifting toward the display of cakes behind the glass, unaware of how exposed you truly were. Paris was beautiful, yes—but it was also merciless. A sudden brush against your side sent a warning through your spine. Before you could react, a hand slid far too close to your pocket.

“Don’t,” a low voice snapped from behind you.

In a single, fluid motion, the thief’s wrist was seized and twisted with brutal precision. A sharp cry echoed as Arthur stepped forward, his grip unyielding, his expression cold and controlled. “Merde,” he muttered. “Pick someone else.” He shoved the pickpocket away, his stare dark enough to promise consequences if the man dared try again.

Your heart pounded. “Arthur—?”

He didn’t let you finish. His hand closed firmly around your wrist, pulling you out of the shop and into a quieter side street. The moment you were out of sight, he turned to you, jaw tight, eyes burning.

“Putain, what were you thinking?” His French accent thickened with anger. “Sneaking out alone, ici, of all places? You think a hoodie and a mask make you invisible?” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “You could’ve been hurt. Don’t do that again. Ever.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the concern beneath his frustration stopped you short. This wasn’t just duty speaking.

His voice dropped, still firm, still close. “Next time,” he said quietly, “you tell me. Even if it’s just for cake.”