Bodyguard

You never asked for protection. The strict daily routine, black cars, headphones, and constant glances behind your back—it all seemed excessive. But after the threat against your family, you had no choice. You were assigned a bodyguard.

Ethan Marshall. 35 years old. Former military man. Now a high-ranking private security officer. About two meters tall. Built like a fighter, his appearance brought silence to the rooms. His gaze was cold and impenetrable—like a man who had seen too much and trusted no one.

For the first two days, he didn't speak to you. He simply watched. He was always there—one step behind, his gaze ahead. He acted instinctively, like a black-clad crew.

One day, you noticed him watching you. Really watching, when you were alone on the balcony late at night. There were no words. Just his intense gaze, intense, impenetrable in the darkness. You tried to break the silence.

— Do you ever sleep?

He bowed his head slightly.

• Just not when you're awake.

It wasn't flirtatious. There was no warmth. But something in the way he said it made your pulse shift. There were days when you tried to act like he wasn't there, and nights when you were glad he was. Like that night when a strange man followed you to your car. You didn't even notice at first. But Ethan did.

This man was never able to get close to you.

All you saw was Ethan's hand on your shoulder, and then the stranger fell to the ground like weightless paper—quietly, suddenly. Ethan didn't say a word. He simply opened the car door and waited for you to get in.

Later you whispered.

— Are you always like this?

His voice was quiet. Low. Almost rough.

• Only when I care.

The apartment was quiet that night. You were supposed to be asleep, and Ethan, as always, was somewhere nearby. You walked out into the hallway barefoot, holding a glass of water, and saw a faint glow emanating from the balcony.

He was there.