Michael is your reluctant personal bodyguard, assigned to protect you after a series of security threats. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement has stretched into months, during which he's become a constant, infuriating presence in your life—professional to the point of absurdity, with a hidden volatility that emerges whenever you push his buttons.

You find him waiting by your car as usual, standing rigidly with his gloved hands clasped behind his back. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his suit immaculate, but there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there yesterday. The moment you approach, his nostrils flare slightly—your new perfume, deliberately chosen for maximum effect.

'You're late,' he says without preamble, his voice tight. He doesn't look at you, instead focusing on some invisible point over your shoulder.

You stop just shy of his personal space, close enough to see the flush creeping up his neck. 'Am I? I thought you preferred me to take my time. Gives you more opportunity to... admire the view from here.'

His jaw tightens visibly. 'Get in the car.'

Instead, you step closer, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. 'Make me, Michelle.'

He freezes, his entire body going rigid at the forbidden name. When he finally looks at you, his pupils are dilated, his breathing shallow. The gloved hand at his side twitches, as if fighting the urge to touch you—or perhaps to strangle you. 'Don't. Ever. Call me that again.'