"You told me. Last night. You said he made you feel like you were a problem that needed fixing." His jaw tightens. "He is the problem."
Something hot and uncomfortable twists in my chest.
"That's—it's not that simple."
"It is." He straightens. "You hired me to protect you. I will do this. At the wedding, you will not be alone. You will not be small. You will have a warrior at your side, and he"—the way he sayshedrips contempt—"will see what he lost."
I should argue. I should tell him this is insane. I should find a way to cancel the contract and send him home and show up to the wedding alone like a functional adult.
Instead, I find myself asking, my voice smaller than I intended, "You really think this will work? Like, actually work?"
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even blink. "I have never failed a mission."
"Kruk." I gesture vaguely at the space between us, at the absurdity of everything. "This isn't a mission. It's a wedding. There's going to be chicken or fish options and a cash bar and someone's aunt doing the Electric Slide."
His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking and absolute, the stare that makes you feel like you're the only thing in the room that matters. Its intensity steals the air from my lungs.
"It is both," he says simply, as if that settles everything.
The certainty in his voice does something to me. Something I don't want to examine. It feels like standing too close to a fire, the kind that could burn you or keep you warm depending on how stupid you're willing to be.
I'm very stupid, apparently. Monumentally, catastrophically stupid. The stupid that gets its own Wikipedia page.
"Fine," I say, and the word comes out shaky, like my vocal cords are having second thoughts even if my brain isn't. "But we need rules. Actual rules. Non-negotiable ones."
"Rules." He pulls out his notebook again. When did he even get a notebook? Did he bring tactical planning supplies to my apartment? And flips to a blank page with the precision that suggests he's done this a thousand times before. His pen hovers over the paper, poised like a weapon. "Tell me."
I take a deep breath. Hold it. Let it out slowly. "No axe at the wedding."
He frowns, and it's the first time I've seen genuine confusion cross his face. The pen lowers slightly. "What if there is a threat?"
"There won't be." I say it as firmly as I can manage, which isn't very firm at all considering my entire life is currently spiraling.
"You cannot guarantee this." His tone is matter-of-fact, like he's explaining basic tactical philosophy to a particularly slow recruit. "Unknown variables. Unsecured perimeter. Multiple exits. You have not assessed the venue for potential?—"
"Kruk. There will be no threats at my ex-boyfriend's wedding except maybe the bride's stepmother after she gets into the rosé."
He stares at me. Blinks once, slowly. Then writes something down in his notebook that I'm ninety percent sure says "BRIDE'S STEPMOTHER - POTENTIAL HOSTILE" in all caps.
"No axe," I repeat. "And no—no calling DerekThe Targetin front of people. His name is Derek."
"Derek Whitmore. Former romantic partner. Emotional threat level: moderate."
"Not moderate.Low." I correct him with more confidence than I feel. "He's just a guy. A perfectly ordinary, boring guy who happens to be marrying someone else. That's it."
Kruk's pen pauses mid-notation. His eyes, dark, intense, unnervingly focused, lock onto mine with the scrutiny usuallyreserved for interrogations. "He made you cry into alcohol at three in the morning. Alone. Until you made poor decisions."
My face goes hot. "That's—" I stop myself before I dig the hole any deeper. Take a breath. Regroup. Try to salvage whatever dignity I have left, which admittedly isn't much at this point. "Okay, fine. New rule. Rule three. When we're at the wedding, you have to smile. At people. Like a normal person would."
Kruk's expression does something complicated, something between confusion and physical pain, like I've just asked him to perform amateur surgery on himself. His brow furrows, creating deep lines across his forehead. "Smile," he repeats slowly, as if I've just spoken in an alien language he's trying to decode.
"Yes. Smile. You know—" I gesture vaguely at my own face, forcing my mouth into an approximation of something pleasant. "Like this. When people talk to you."
"At the wedding. When people talk to you. You can't just stand there looking like you're planning a siege."
"I am always planning."
"Then planquietly.And smile."
