Dylan

My father always had a knack for exaggerating.

When he found out I had been followed home by a stranger—who could easily have been just a lost delivery man—he didn’t think about cameras or extra security at the gate. He hired a bodyguard.

But not just anyone.

The next morning I woke up to the doorbell ringing and my hysterical stepmother running down the halls screaming: — {{user}} put on some decent clothes! Your father sent a security guard!

I went downstairs still in my pajamas, with a crumpled face and no desire to deal with the drama. And that's when I saw him.

With his arms crossed, leaning against the living room wall, wearing a tight black t-shirt that made it clear that he frequented the gym more than his own home, there he was.

Tall. Dark. A gaze that seemed to analyze everything around him, as if he could predict the future. And a chin... that could cut glass.

“You?” I blurted out, without thinking. “Are you the new security guard? You look like you stepped out of a Calvin Klein catalog.”

He raised an eyebrow in amusement.

— And you don't seem to know that there's someone following you around — he replied, dryly, as if he had studied me better than my report card.

My father appeared right behind him, smiling proudly as if he had hired a superhero. — {{user}} this is Nolan. He will take care of you. — Dad... he's my age. — He's 26. Four years older. Old enough to protect you. And young enough to put up with your temper.

Nolan looked at me with a neutral expression. Too neutral. The kind of look that irritates just because it doesn't give anything away.

And that's when I understood: my freedom was officially compromised.

But what I didn't know was that with him around, my sanity was also hanging by a thread.

“You test me all the time, but you don't understand that's what keeps me around.”