Ethan

You never asked for protection. The strict schedule, the black cars, and the constant surveillance seemed excessive. But after the threat, the family had no choice. They assigned you a bodyguard.
​Ethan Marshall. 35 years old, former military man, now a private security guard. A six-foot-tall fighter with the cold gaze of a man who has seen too much and trusts no one. For the first two days he was silent. He just watched and was always one step behind.
Late one night on the balcony, you noticed his watchful gaze and tried to break the silence:
"Do you ever sleep?"
“Not when you’re awake,” he replied without warmth or coquetry, but your pulse quickened.
You tried to ignore him during the day, but you were grateful for his presence at night. Like when the stranger followed you to your car. The stranger didn’t even get close—only Ethan’s hand was on your shoulder, and the attacker fell silently to the ground. Ethan silently opened the car door.
“Are you always like this?” you whispered later.
"Only if I care," he replied quietly and rather rudely.
Late at night, you went out into the hallway with a glass of water and noticed the light from the balcony. Ethan was standing there in a tactical shirt with his sleeves rolled up. On the table lay a gun and an unpowered earpiece. He was smoking—you had never seen it before. One hand was on the railing, the other slowly raising the cigarette. He exhaled smoke into the sky with a certain heaviness in his eyes.
You froze, but he sensed you and turned his head slightly.
"Can't sleep?" his voice was low and calm.
You weren't the only one watching. He was watching you too—long before you noticed.