“And if I say I don’t need a guard anymore?”
He turns, fully now, looking at me like I’m more than a client.
“Then I’ll stay because I want to.”
And stars help me…
I want him to.
Sleep is an illusion.
I’ve been chasing it for hours, eyes wide open in the dark, laying in sheets that feel too hot, then too cold, then too tight like they’re trying to strangle me in silk. My fan hums overhead, steady and mechanical, but the sound only makes the silence louder.
I stare at the ceiling.
The last thing I should be thinking about is a seven-foot murder machine with questionable charm and a devastating grin. But my brain is a traitor. And traitors get no rest.
“You ever been in love?” I’d asked.
Stupid.
So stupid.
And his answer—hisactualanswer—should’ve made me roll my eyes into another galaxy.
“Does orbital bombardment count?”
That’s not romantic. That’s a war crime with extra flair.
But then he’d looked at me.
Not like I was fragile. Not like I was a mission. Just… me.
I groan and roll over.
The pillow smells like my leave-in conditioner and frustration.
I close my eyes and try to force myself to dream about literallyanything else.
But my subconscious doesn’t take requests.
It’s chaos.
I’m in a salon that’s also a battlefield. Curling irons blaze like laser rifles. The shampoo chairs are trenches. Jacey’s shouting orders in a flak jacket and glittery combat boots.
“He’s coming!” she screams, tossing a can of hairspray like it’s a grenade.
Voltar bursts through the door, shoulder-first, wearing tactical armor and aviators. He’s holding a tray of synth croissants in one hand and an enormous cigar in the other. His eyes glow like golden suns.
“You’re late!” I yell, ducking behind a shelf of conditioner.
He grins. “Fashionably.”
Then the dream shifts.
The walls collapse inward like paper. We’re falling into space. Plasma fire rains down in curling spirals. I feel weightless and grounded all at once. His arms wrap around me—tight, strong, immovable—and everything else vanishes.
It’s too hot. Too bright. Too real.
