Iam, objectively speaking, the best bodyguard in the quadrant.
And I don’t say that out of ego—well, maybe a little ego—but mostly because it’s true. You don’t survive twenty-three assassination attempts, a failed coup, and two and a half breakups with the same explosive ordnance specialist without picking up some tactical finesse. Which is why I’m currently walking Sable to her favorite café under a parasol large enough to shade a small shuttlecraft.
It’s pink.
She insisted on pink.
And I, being the paragon of professionalism that I am, didn’t argue. Much.
“People are staring,” she mutters through clenched teeth as we cross a plaza lined with flower kiosks and gossip drones.
“They’re admiring my dedication,” I reply, adjusting the parasol so the sun doesn’t so much as kiss her cheek.
“They’re watching you carry a city-grade satellite dish wrapped in polka dots.”
I grin. “If the sun harms even a single hair on your head, I will incinerate the sky itself.”
She snorts, which I count as a win. I clock the twitch of her lips like it’s a tactical readout. No visible fear. Shoulders relaxed. Jaw not clenched.
Good.
She’s laughing again.
Mission accomplished.
We reach the café—“Marzipan Moon”—which, despite the saccharine name, serves some of the most vicious espresso this side of the nebula. A barista once offered me a shot with a disclaimer about cardiac liability. I liked him instantly.
Inside, it’s packed. Shoulder-to-shoulder with art students, freelancers, and at least two smugglers disguised as “ethical spice vendors.” We snag the last outside table beneath a vine-covered archway. It smells like synthetic citrus and burnt cinnamon. Sable slides into her seat like she belongs here. Like danger isn’t waiting around every corner.
I remain standing.
“Coffee,” I tell the server, a willowy man with six earrings and a judgmental stare, “but with meat.”
He blinks. “I… I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.” I point to the menu. “Combine number seven and number twelve. Remove foam. Add protein.”
“That’s not how?—”
“I have credits.”
Sable groans. “He doesn’t need caffeine.”
“I do, in fact, need caffeine. And amino acids. It’s called balance.”
The waiter opens his mouth—probably to explain something irrelevant like health codes—but Sable grabs my wrist.
“We’re not doing this again,” she says, dragging me away from the counter.
“But my gains?—!”
“No one cares about your gains, Voltar.”
“I care.”
“You don’t have muscles. You have continents.”
The server behind us is still blinking when we retreat to the table. I sit, grumbling into the parasol which I’ve now angled to cover both of us like a portable canopy of defiance. Sable sips her coffee with theatrical satisfaction.
