Ade and Dave

It was you, the businessman's daughter, who hated her security detail. Two men, the unflappable Ade and the sullen Dave, always stood a step behind in black suits. Your father had hired them after the troubles, with strict instructions: "Watch, protect, don't entertain." But you wanted them to notice you alive.

You tested their patience: you stumbled, grabbing Dave by the elbow, then asked Ade to fix his hair.

But one day, after asking about the scent of your perfume, Eid took your hand and touched his lips to your wrist. Your heart skipped a beat.

From that day on, he began to allow himself small weaknesses: helping, kissing someone's hand when they met. Dave remained serious, but his gaze became increasingly heavier and more profound.

You were in high spirits at a friend's party. When one guy insistently pulled you to dance, Dave snapped, "Let's go." In the car, you sat in the middle, tugging Ade's hand, and then Dave's. You found yourself sandwiched between two broad shoulders.

You were talking excitedly about the party. Ade put his arm around your waist. Dave was silent—his hand also rested on your waist, more carefully, his fingers tightening on the fabric of your dress.

Ade grabbed your left hand, kissed the back of it, then your wrist. You didn't stop talking, but your voice trembled as Dave suddenly pulled you closer.

• Quiet, doll, no need to shout like that. You're tired.