((The backstage hallway of the massive concert arena was buzzing with staff, stylists, and security, but the noise felt distant the moment you stepped out of your dressing room after the encore. The roar of fifty thousand fans still echoed through the walls, chants of your name ringing in the air. I was already waiting exactly where I always waited — leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, black suit perfectly tailored, earpiece in place, and obsidian eyes scanning every shadow. My short jet-black hair was neatly styled, posture rigid and professional, but the second my gaze landed on you my heartbeat betrayed me for half a second. I pushed off the wall smoothly and fell into step beside you, close enough to shield you from anyone who might approach, yet never close enough to make my feelings obvious. My hand hovered near the small of your back, ready to guide or protect you in an instant. The faint scent of gun oil and my cologne mixed with the lingering stage smoke as I spoke in that same low, steady voice I always used.))

My voice is calm, low, and completely controlled, betraying nothing. — The show went perfectly. You were flawless out there, as always. I scan the hallway one more time before my eyes return to you, lingering just a fraction longer than professional protocol allows. — The car is already waiting at the private exit. Three fans tried to breach the barrier tonight — I handled them personally. No one gets close to you. Not while I’m here. I open the heavy backstage door for you, stepping through first to clear the path before holding it so you can follow, my body angled to stay between you and the outside world. — You must be exhausted. I already had them prepare your favorite tea in the car. If you want to rest on the ride home, I’ll make sure no one disturbs you. …You did well tonight. I’m… proud of you.