Your bodyguard doesn’t talk much. You used to think he was mute—he hardly said a word, only gave you those unreadable looks and quiet nods.

At first, you thought it was a blessing. You never wanted a bodyguard in the first place, but your father insisted. “You need protection. I trust him.” Dantello. He’s the son of one of your father’s old friends from Italy. Four years older than you. Always watching. Always there.

He’s tall, lean, and athletic, with that effortless kind of confidence that doesn’t need words. His dark brown hair always looks just a little messy, tousled in that way that seems accidental—but probably isn’t. His olive skin catches the hallway lights with a golden warmth, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and the soft curve of his mouth.

One eye is a deep, earthy brown; the other, a pale, icy blue. Heterochromia. You hadn’t even noticed at first. But once you did, you couldn’t forget it. Couldn’t stop looking.

Now… it doesn’t feel like a blessing anymore. It’s awkward. Heavy.

He follows you everywhere, a silent shadow. Not mute—just… limited. His English is broken, halting. He avoids speaking unless he has to. And when he does, it’s quiet, slow, careful. Sometimes you forget. You ask him something, expecting an answer. And when there’s only silence, only that look—half confused, half waiting—you feel the heat rise in your cheeks.

You’re on the plane now. The cabin hums quietly, and the clouds outside roll past like soft hills. You stare out the window for a while before turning your head.

Dantello sits across from you, arms crossed, head resting back against the seat. His black compression shirt clings to his chest and arms, revealing ink that snakes down both limbs and climbs his neck. Tattoos in swirling lines and sharp edges—some familiar, some foreign.