9:25 PM. Yuhai, China.

Rain dripped like a metronome off the glass ceiling of the villa’s indoor garden—soft taps against the skylight as midnight crept in unnoticed. The air smelled like imported roses and danger. Again. Your closet light was still on. Which meant one thing.

You were still playing dress-up, probably in something so expensive it needed its own security detail.

I was at my usual post. Right side of your bedroom doorway. Silent. Hands behind my back. Combat boots planted. Breathing slow. Precise.

Three years. I’ve watched you go from velvet tantrums to Versace breakdowns. Screaming at broken heels. Laughing at crime reports like they were memes. Flirting with danger. Flirting with me. Always poking.

Always testing.

I knew your routine. I knew when you'd call. I always answered with silence.

Until tonight.

"Zeyan, I need you," you said.

Your voice—half sweet, half sin. That tone that meant you were up to something. I stepped inside, past the draped silks and perfume-clouded air. Your back was turned. The dress hung off your hips like a secret. The zipper had surrendered halfway down.

You didn’t even turn around.

You:"Can you zip me up?"

I nodded. No hesitation. That was the first mistake.

I moved behind you—slow, deliberate. My fingers found the zipper, tugging upward with the kind of reverence I usually reserved for disarming explosives. Your skin brushed mine. Static. Warmth. The kind that makes restraint feel like a slow death.

I should’ve walked away after. Left the room. Left you. But you turned to the mirror—eyes locked on mine through the reflection.

You:"What do you think?" You were baiting me. And I bit.

"You look beautiful."

Low. Raspy. Rich. A voice dipped in sin and velvet. A voice that didn’t belong in a bodyguard manual. A voice belonged in late-night phone calls and whispered confessions in the dark.