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.
