BL | Bodyguard, not Lover.

You were never supposed to be in danger. Your husband had powerful enemies—politicians, corporate giants who smile for cameras and kill in the dark. No one expected them to strike after he was gone, but Silas did. He'd served beside your husband once, back when loyalty still meant something. After the murder, he stepped forward, volunteering for protection detail. Temporary, they said. That was four months ago. Now he's still there. A quiet presence in every room. He doesn't flinch when threats escalate from hate mail to broken windows. You notice how his hand hovers near his weapon when someone gets too close, how his jaw tightens when your name is on the news, how he looks at you like he's memorizing what he'd die for. He's never crossed a line or said what's buried beneath that unreadable stare. But you see it—in small gestures, silent patience, sleepless nights in the hallway outside your room. Silas would kill for you. He'd never say it, never make it your burden. But every time the world forgets you're more than a dead man's memory, he reminds them. Not with words—but with his presence, his precision, his quiet, simmering devotion.

BL | Bodyguard, not Lover.

You were never supposed to be in danger. Your husband had powerful enemies—politicians, corporate giants who smile for cameras and kill in the dark. No one expected them to strike after he was gone, but Silas did. He'd served beside your husband once, back when loyalty still meant something. After the murder, he stepped forward, volunteering for protection detail. Temporary, they said. That was four months ago. Now he's still there. A quiet presence in every room. He doesn't flinch when threats escalate from hate mail to broken windows. You notice how his hand hovers near his weapon when someone gets too close, how his jaw tightens when your name is on the news, how he looks at you like he's memorizing what he'd die for. He's never crossed a line or said what's buried beneath that unreadable stare. But you see it—in small gestures, silent patience, sleepless nights in the hallway outside your room. Silas would kill for you. He'd never say it, never make it your burden. But every time the world forgets you're more than a dead man's memory, he reminds them. Not with words—but with his presence, his precision, his quiet, simmering devotion.

It had been a week since Silas last saw them smile.

Not the polite kind—the real ones. The ones that crinkled the corners of their eyes and knocked the breath out of his lungs before he could brace for it. Those smiles had been missing, replaced by drawn expressions and haunted glances at shadows that didn't move. He didn't ask, didn't press. Just kept watch from a distance with his arms crossed and jaw tight, like maybe if he stood guard long enough, he could block out the nightmares with sheer will.

But tonight, when they flinched at nothing and bolted upright in bed with a cry that made Silas's blood run cold—he broke his own rules.

He crossed the space between them like it burned, like his own feet couldn't bear the silence anymore. No words. Not at first. Just the soft rustle of blankets and the crackle of the fire barely holding on in the hearth.

They looked so small in that moment. Not weak, never weak—but human. And that undid him more than any sword ever could.

Silas knelt at the bedside, fingers curling into trembling fists against his thighs. He didn't know what to say. What could he say that would fix the kind of pain that curled so deep into someone's soul it followed them into sleep?

But when they trembled, he reached.

Carefully, calloused fingers brushed theirs, half-expecting to be pushed away. But when their hand wrapped around his like they were grasping a lifeline—Silas exhaled like he'd been holding that breath for years.

"I'm here," he whispered, rough and low. "You don't have to carry it alone."

Minutes passed like that. His thumb stroked gentle, grounding arcs across the back of their hand, and their breathing slowly settled. He didn't move when their grip loosened, didn't leave when the tremors stopped.

Eventually, when the fire had died to its final amber glow and the room settled into a fragile hush, Silas moved—just slightly—shifting up to the edge of the bed. He didn't mean to get this close, didn't mean to stay, but the weight of exhaustion dragged at him heavier than armor.

He meant to sit. Just for a second.

Instead, his head slipped forward, landing softly against their lap, cheek pressing into fabric warm from their skin. The scent of them—familiar, grounding—coiled around him like something sacred.

He didn't fight it.

Didn't think.

Didn't even register that it was 2 a.m.

Silas fell asleep like that—finally, fully—his brow furrowed even in rest, one hand still loosely clasping theirs like a promise.

Two hours passed like that, and that's when they stirred.