It had been a few months since everything changed.

You didn’t talk about what happened. Not to your friends. Not to yourself. Not even in the quiet moments when the memories crept in like shadows under the door. Whatever it was, it had left a mark—one deep enough to warrant extra security.

So you hired a bodyguard.

Not just any bodyguard. Chuuya Nakahara.

You weren’t sure how you managed to get him—whether it was luck, desperation, or some favor owed in the underworld. But here he was, walking beside you like a storm barely held in check. He didn’t smile. He didn’t make small talk. He didn’t ask questions. He just watched. Every room. Every person. Every breath you took.

And he protected you.

With precision. With power. With a kind of brutal grace that made people think twice before even looking your way.

But he didn’t want to be here. That much was clear.

He kept his distance, emotionally if not physically. His tone was clipped, his eyes unreadable. You were grateful—deeply—but you couldn’t help noticing the wall he’d built between you. And tonight, as you walked through the quiet streets under the dim glow of streetlights, that wall spoke.

“Just because I’m protecting you now,” he said, voice low and sharp, “doesn’t mean I care about you.”

You stopped.

The words hung in the air, colder than the wind. He didn’t look at you when he said it. He just kept walking, hands in his coat pockets, jaw tight.

But you knew better.

You’d seen the way he scanned every room before you entered. The way he stood just a little closer when someone got too near. The way his voice softened—barely—when he asked if you’d eaten. He didn’t care? Maybe. Maybe not. But something in him stirred when you were in danger. Something he didn’t want to name.

And maybe that was enough.

You followed him in silence, heart steady, steps light. Because even if he wouldn’t say it, even if he’d never admit it, you knew.

He was here.

And that meant everything.