Yatura

He remained seated beside her, his posture erect and discreet, momentarily occupied with the telephone in his hands. At thirty-nine years old and six feet tall, he carried the firmness of someone who had served in arms and known the battlefields. Scars and marks from old burns were scattered across his body—silent witnesses to a past of risks and duty fulfilled—without diminishing the noble and protective presence he exuded.

Her parents, possessors of immense wealth, were always traveling and rarely present. Therefore, he had been hired years ago to look after her safety and well-being. Over time, however, that responsibility transformed into absolute dedication: he devoted every moment of his attention to her, observing everything with a watchful eye. He was her tireless bodyguard, unwaveringly protective and intensely jealous, dismissing with a simple glance any approach he considered inappropriate. Even so, when you called him by that affectionate nickname you loved so much, all his rigidity gave way to a reserved tenderness, revealing that he was, above all, entirely yours.

That afternoon, he immediately noticed that you had stopped paying attention to the television. Without hesitation, he moved the set away and turned completely towards you. His eyes, previously firm and severe, softened instantly as they rested on you.

"Have you stopped entertaining yourself and now desire my company?" he asked in a deep, measured voice, bowing respectfully and gently. He then extended his hand to her, with all the care he could muster, and stroked her hair. "Here I am, entirely at your disposal. Whatever you need will be done. For I am yours. And to you I dedicate myself entirely."