-Devon.
Bryce was in front of me, sweat running in delicate rivulets along the curve of his neck, catching the light before sliding down to the collar of his shirt. His hair—dark with a violet sheen that came alive when the sun hit it right—was damp and slightly disheveled, strands clinging to his temples in that careless way that made him look as if he had stepped out of some sunlit daydream rather than an intense workout.
I had just finished my own set, my heartbeat still steadying when he moved to lift again. The weights looked heavier than he was prepared for; I saw the subtle shift in his stance, the almost imperceptible tremor in his wrists. Then the near stumble—enough to tighten something in my chest. Instinct pulled me up from the bench before thought did. I closed the gap, steadying him with one hand at his arm, the other ready near his side.
"Careful," I said, low but firm, the word landing between us like a small anchor in the air.
Bryce straightened, adjusting his hold on the dumbbells before placing them down. When his eyes met mine, there was something in them—mischief, gratitude, something unspoken that made the air warmer than it already was. "You keep saving my life over and over again," he said, voice touched with humor yet softer at the edges.
I reached for my towel, using it to blot my face. "And I'm getting paid generously for it."
He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Do you ever feel it? The need to protect? Not because it's your job, but because something in you just… needs to?"
I leaned against the bench, letting the towel rest on my shoulder. "Yeah," I said after a moment. "But not from obligation. It just happens. Like—" I paused, and a memory surfaced. "Like when I was a kid, at the pool. My mother would yell for us not to go too far out. She'd hover, make sure we were safe. I guess I picked that up without realizing it. Sometimes it feels like that."
He grinned, slow and knowing. "So you're a mama bear."
"I wouldn't go with mama," I replied, my brow lifting. "Papa bear works better."
His smile widened, the kind that didn't just touch his lips but spread through his expression, relaxing every feature. He bent to grab his towel from the floor, and in that moment his shirt shifted, the hem lifting enough to reveal the lean sculpt of his waist and the defined lines of his back. His build was balanced—broad enough at the shoulders to carry presence, tapering into a refined waist that drew the eye before I could stop myself.
The shirt clung in certain places from the sweat, outlining muscle beneath; his shorts sat comfortably at his hips, loose enough for movement, the drawstrings hanging. His legs, long and toned, carried the subtle shape of someone who trained more for performance than for show. Even in rest, his body had the kind of natural symmetry that wasn't manufactured—it just was.
I pulled my attention away before it lingered too long, focusing on the water bottle at my feet as if it had been the most pressing thing in the room. Still, there was a traitorous awareness humming at the back of my mind, as if I'd just seen something I wasn't supposed to notice.
Bryce tossed the towel over his shoulder and looked at me, that same unreadable spark in his gaze. "Round two?" he asked.
I exhaled, letting the moment fold back into the rhythm of the morning. "Yeah," I said, though my head wasn't entirely in the weights anymore.
From the moment we walked into the gym, Bryce had his playlist running—one of those chaotic collections that didn't have any rhyme or reason except whatever popped into his head that morning. It had been a cascade of early and mid-2000s pop hits, sugary choruses and glitter-dusted beats that didn't match the sweat and strain of lifting weights, but somehow matched him perfectly.
Then, as if the universe wanted to share a private joke with me, Take Me to Church started bleeding through the speakers right after I'd caught myself noticing him more than I should have.
The irony was so sharp I couldn't keep it in. A laugh slipped out of me before I could stifle it, low at first, then warm enough to draw his attention. Bryce turned toward me, still holding the towel at the back of his neck, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. He let out a laugh of his own, not the loud, unrestrained kind, but one that carried recognition—as if he already understood the joke I was laughing at, even without a word exchanged.
It was in his eyes, that faint glimmer like we'd just signed an unspoken contract to leave it hanging between us, unnamed but fully acknowledged. I got the feeling he was onto the whole thing—that he knew the absurdity of the moment, knew exactly where my thoughts might have wandered a minute ago, and was content to let the song do all the talking neither of us would.
I shook my head and let the laughter fade, pretending to busy myself with adjusting the bench for my next set, though the smirk still lingered on my face. Bryce just hummed along to the chorus, like he was performing for some invisible audience, his voice low and unbothered.
The air between us had shifted—still casual, still easy, but tinged now with something I couldn't quite name. Not tension, exactly. More like the awareness of standing on the edge of a cliff and knowing you weren't going to jump, but still looking down just to see how far it went.
Back in my room, the house felt quieter than usual—only the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak from the hallway broke through. I sat on the edge of the bed, water still dripping from my hair and tracing a slow, meandering path down my neck to my collarbone. The towel around my waist clung damp against my skin. My arms were braced behind me, palms pressing into the mattress, holding me in a lazy lean as I stared at nothing in particular.
My mind, however, wasn't still.
What the hell was that at the gym? What was I even thinking? No—more importantly—why was I letting myself think that way about a client? This wasn't some stranger I could shrug off. This was work. He was my work. It shouldn't be so easy to blur that line, and yet lately it felt like the line had been fading without my consent.
It had never happened before. Not with anyone. But Bryce had been different these past few days—more playful, more deliberate in his proximity. Touchy, even. He seemed to have made a game out of catching me off guard. Sometimes it was his fingers brushing mine when he took something from my hand, lingering just long enough to make me wonder if it was intentional. Other times, he'd lean in close to adjust my collar, or tilt his head to fuss with my earpiece, his voice warm and low in my ear. It left me wondering which one of us was supposed to be taking care of the other.
And the strangest part? He wasn't hounding me about my job the way clients usually did. He didn't nag. He didn't micromanage. It was as if he trusted me to do what I was there to do… or maybe he was too busy with this cat-and-mouse routine to care.
Today, we had a small gig—a guest appearance for him, just one set before he'd step off stage and disappear into the night again. I was already running through the logistics in my head when a knock sounded on the door, followed immediately by it swinging open.
I didn't move. I stayed in the same position—bare-chested, hair damp and dripping, arms behind me, posture loose. Bryce stood in the doorway.
His shirt—an oversized thing that hung from his shoulders like it belonged to someone else—barely covered the dark briefs he had on. His hair was damp too, curling slightly at the edges. He didn't speak right away. His eyes caught mine, then dipped, taking in more than he probably should have. There was a beat of silence, charged in a way that made the room feel warmer.
"Bryce," I said, finally.
He blinked, like shaking himself free of something, then said, "Oh, right. I was just stopping by to tell you… you don't have to wear the whole bodyguard attire tonight. You can wear whatever you want."
I raised an eyebrow. "Anything else?"
He hesitated, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "Yeah. Well… no, nothing else. Just… as you want. And, uh—no need to do the whole formal hair thing either. I like it better when it's down. Edgy. Cool as fuck."
His words came out half-playful, half-serious, and I couldn't tell which half I was supposed to take.
"Right," I said.
He nodded once, then started backing out of the room, his hand sliding along the doorframe as if he wasn't quite ready to let go. "I'll go finish dressing," he murmured before pulling the door closed behind him.
The silence returned, heavier now.
I let out a slow breath and stared at the closed door, my mind circling the same question over and over. Was I imagining this… or was it really happening? And if it was, what exactly was "this" supposed to be?
I stepped out of my room dressed in black—fitted crew-neck shirt that clung just enough to my shoulders and arms to make me aware of the attention it might draw, slacks pressed clean, belt tight at my waist, watch glinting under the light. Jacket in hand, I moved through the hall toward the living room, the faint echo of my own footsteps in the quiet of the house.
Bryce's room door was still shut, which meant I'd beaten him to the finish line for once. I leaned against the back of the sofa, scrolling through my phone until it buzzed with an incoming video call. Gracie's face filled the screen, framed by the muted chaos of a venue in motion—stagehands crossing behind her, the faint thud of bass checks in the background.
"I've already coordinated with the rest of security," she said over the noise, her tone brisk. "All you need to do is get him here. Straight escort. No detours."
"I got that from Drew already," I replied, keeping my voice calm, professional.
Gracie's lips curved into a slow grin. "And what, I'm not allowed to use this as an excuse to hear your voice?"
My mouth actually fell open for a second. "Gracie. Please don't."
She burst out laughing, loud enough for a few people behind her to glance over. "God, Devon, you make this too easy. Teasing you is my cardio."
I shook my head. "You're impossible."
"You love it. Now—get him here quick. He needs to work on his sound checks."
I gave a short nod, and she hung up still grinning like she'd just won something.
The door to Bryce's room finally swung open. He stepped out in a loose cream half-zip sweater, black shorts that skimmed his thighs, sneakers crisp white against his skin. A cup of something iced dangled casually from his hand, condensation already dripping down the side. He stopped mid-step when his eyes landed on me.
"Are you performing?" he asked, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
I narrowed my eyes. "Are you performing?"
He scoffed, gesturing lazily with his drink. "My stylist's at the venue. Of course I'm going to change. As for you… oh, goddamn."
I moved toward the door. "Let's go before I feel more violated and we're late for your gig."
He laughed, following after me. "Yup. Let's go."
We headed outside, slipping into the car—me in the passenger seat, him sprawling into the back like it was a throne.
The driver pulled away, the city blurring by. From behind me, Bryce said, "By the way, I'm playing my warm-up playlist on the way. Don't judge."
Which is exactly why thirty seconds later, the opening chords of Barbie Girl filled the car.
I didn't turn around. "You do realize I now have diplomatic grounds to resign?"
Bryce's laugh rang out, entirely too pleased with himself. "Please. You wouldn't last a week without me."
The ride to the venue felt shorter than it should have, like the car had skipped a few streets just to test my readiness. We slipped through the back entrance, the air instantly heavier with the scent of cables, dust, and faint traces of perfume from whoever had last walked these halls. The low thrum of stage bass bled through the walls, almost like the building itself was humming in anticipation.
Gracie was waiting for us just inside, headset askew, clipboard in hand, eyes already scanning Bryce like she was checking for damages before a show. "There you are," she said, grabbing him by the arm before he could even greet her. She barely acknowledged me except for a quick, distracted nod before dragging him toward the stage.
I followed at my own pace, letting them carve their way through the narrow corridor while I took in the scene. The moment we stepped onto the side wing, the lights spilled over us in fractured beams—bright but not warm, the kind of light that turns everything into crisp outlines. The stage crew moved with a silent choreography, coiling cables, testing mics, adjusting monitors. Bryce walked into it like it was his living room, slipping the strap of the mic over his shoulder and sending his voice rippling through the empty seats in short, casual runs.
From where I stood, leaning against one of the curtain pillars, I could see the way he adapted to the space—checking the sound, adjusting his own stance, finding his angles without thinking. It wasn't arrogance; it was instinct. The sound tech's voice crackled through the monitor, instructing him to try again, and Bryce just grinned, running a few playful riffs before locking into the serious bit. His voice filled the place so naturally it almost felt wrong that the seats were empty.
Once they were satisfied, Gracie reappeared from nowhere like she'd teleported, grabbing his wrist again with a sharp, "Backstage. Now." Bryce didn't argue—though he did look over his shoulder at me with a mock plea for help as she towed him off.
I trailed them down the back corridor, the smell shifting from dust and metal to hairspray and fabric steam. The door to the dressing area swung open, letting out a wave of warm air and the faint hiss of an iron. Bryce disappeared inside with Gracie still dictating instructions about his outfit and hair like a general before a battle.
"Don't make me look like I'm going to a wedding," he called after her.
"You should be so lucky," she shot back.
I stayed just outside, leaning against the wall, the muffled exchange making me smirk despite myself. Somewhere inside, someone turned on a hairdryer, and Bryce's voice rose over it in a half-laugh, half-complaint about losing all hearing in his right ear before the performance even started.
If I didn't know better, I'd think this was all part of the act.
The venue was a living organism—breathing through its sound system, pulsing with every footstep on the stage. Security was everywhere if you knew where to look. The in-house crew had their spots locked down: a pair by the wings, another two at the sound booth, one at each of the fire exits, scanning the crowd already beginning to hum beyond the closed doors. Bryce's own team blended into the scene, dressed in dark, nondescript clothes, shadows against the black-draped walls. They weren't clustered; they were threads in a net, stretched across the arena so wide no one could slip through without brushing against them.
Even so, I was the closest—by proximity, by default, and increasingly by habit. My post was always within arm's reach of him. It wasn't something we'd agreed on, but it had formed naturally, like muscle memory. My eyes kept darting between the wings, the crowd entry points, and the stage, but my ears stayed tuned for the sound of his voice or the scuff of his shoes.
From backstage, I caught faint snippets of the tech crew calling cues. Somewhere deeper inside, the hiss of a steamer cut off, replaced by the quick shuffle of footsteps. A moment later, the door to the dressing area opened, and Bryce stepped out.
He wore a navy jacket with ivory panels running down the sleeves and sides, the fabric catching the backstage lights in soft, uneven sheens. The cut sat loose on him, casual but deliberate, with a crisp white shirt peeking out from underneath. His jeans were dark, slightly relaxed, the kind that gave him an ease of movement without looking sloppy. The look was low-effort in a way that took effort, like he'd just thrown it on without thinking—but I knew enough to suspect there'd been a full-blown debate over which zipper length felt most "tonight."
He caught me scanning him and raised a brow. "What?"
"Nothing," I said, stepping aside so he could pass. "Just wondering if I should be clapping or bowing."
"Clapping's fine," he replied, deadpan, then let the corner of his mouth lift.
I fell in step behind him as we moved toward the wings again, the jacket shifting against his frame with each stride, the soft swish of the fabric almost lost in the rising noise from the arena. I noticed one of Bryce's security—Nolan—slip past us, heading toward the pit area, giving me a quick nod in passing.
Bryce glanced back over his shoulder. "You keeping track of all your little soldier friends?"
"They're not my friends," I said.
He grinned. "Then why do you all nod at each other like a secret club?"
"Because if we shook hands, I'd have to let go of you," I said without thinking.
He laughed, a short, low sound, and kept walking.
The closed-off room they'd set aside for us felt more like a storage closet that had been given a hasty facelift—whitewashed walls, a folding table shoved against one side, two mismatched chairs, and the faint smell of dust that no one had bothered to chase out. The low rumble of bass from the performance outside seeped through the walls, carrying the muffled energy of the crowd. Every now and then, the stage manager slipped in, headset slightly askew, clipboard clutched like a lifeline. She handed Bryce the set list for the night, tapping her pen against the page as she went through it with the brisk efficiency of someone whose life depended on things running on schedule.
Bryce barely glanced at it, leaning back in his chair as if we were waiting for brunch to be served instead of a live performance. His legs were stretched out, one ankle resting lazily over the other, fingers drumming against the armrest in rhythm to a beat only he could hear. It struck me how unaffected he looked—how the prospect of walking out in front of hundreds of people didn't seem to register as anything worth a spike in his pulse. For me, it was refreshing in a way I didn't expect. It meant I wouldn't have to lean in with low-voiced reassurances, or figure out the quickest way to ground him if nerves took over. My job was complicated enough without adding emotional babysitting to the list, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't sometimes feel like his personal nanny.
Outside, the music rolled on. Every few songs, the stage manager would duck her head in, her eyes darting between the list and the ticking clock on the wall. Bryce, still lounging, looked as though he had all the time in the world, occasionally humming along to the muffled verses bleeding through the door.
Then his cue came. The stage manager opened the door, urgency in her voice as she told him he was up next. Bryce rose with the kind of easy grace that came from living in the spotlight long enough to make it look like second nature. I fell into step behind him, my position shifting into that familiar rhythm—half a step back, eyes scanning, ears tuned for anything out of place.
From my spot backstage, the view was mostly of his back, broad shoulders framed by the stage lights that spilled through the wings. He stepped out, greeted by the warm roar of the crowd, and it was like watching him slip into another skin entirely. His voice, rich and controlled, rolled out over the music with an effortlessness that made it clear he wasn't just a singer—he was a performer. Every movement was deliberate, every note backed by a confidence that held the audience in place.
I found myself thinking again about Velour Way, that polished, high-brow theater that had turned him away. It still didn't make sense to me. Whatever their reasons, they'd passed on someone who could hold a stage like it was built for him. Maybe the art world had its own logic, its own politics, and I was just another consumer looking in from the cheap seats. Still, if Velour Way couldn't see what he was worth, it was their loss.
He hit the final note with a flare that earned him a wave of applause, the kind that vibrated through the floorboards under my boots. As he stepped back toward me, sweat glinting faintly under the lights, he shot me a quick smirk like he'd just finished a casual conversation rather than a live set. I shook my head, mostly to myself, because somehow, Bryce always made it look that easy.
We slipped off the stage as the next act began, the music behind us swelling like a tide we'd just stepped clear of. Back in the narrow backstage corridor, Bryce was buzzing—not in an obvious, bouncing-off-the-walls way, but in that subtle shift in posture and eyes that comes when someone's still carrying the hum of the crowd inside them.
"That felt good," he murmured, voice still warm from singing. "Crowd's got a nice energy tonight."
"You say that like you didn't just have them in the palm of your hand," I said, keeping pace with him toward the exit.
He shot me a sideways grin. "Eh, mutual seduction."
We were barely halfway to the back door when the muffled cheers outside started bending, splintering into sharper edges—shouts, squeals, that urgent chant of a name being repeated over and over. By the time the door opened, the noise hit like a physical wave. Fans had gathered outside the barricades, spilling forward as if the rope line were just an abstract suggestion. The moment Bryce's head appeared in the open, the pitch of their voices jumped so high it was almost comical.
For a second, I thought we'd just keep walking straight through to the car, but Bryce slowed—because of course he did. He stepped toward the cluster, pen already in hand, the practiced charm sliding onto his face as he signed whatever was pushed in front of him—album covers, phone cases, even a sneaker someone shoved forward.
The problem wasn't Bryce. It was the crowd. The girls were pressing forward too hard, hands pushing against shoulders, a couple leaning dangerously over each other to get closer. That little edge of chaos set off the part of my brain that runs purely on protocol. Safety over sentiment.
I stepped closer, easing my hand to the small of his back. "We're done here," I said low enough for only him to hear.
He glanced up at me, brow knitting just slightly in protest, but one look at the way the front row was starting to buckle under the pressure and he gave the smallest nod. I wrapped my fingers lightly around his arm, guiding him back from the reach of the crowd, my body between him and the nearest set of outstretched hands.
Behind us, two other members of his security detail moved in fast, slotting themselves between Bryce and the fans, voices firm but calm as they tried to keep order. One of the girls shouted something that sounded half like a declaration of love, half like a battle cry. Bryce chuckled under his breath, still managing to toss a quick wave over his shoulder as I led him toward the waiting car.
Once the door closed behind him and the sound outside dimmed to a dull roar, he leaned back in the seat with a slow exhale. "You know," he said, looking out the window, "you'd make a great dance partner."
I raised a brow. "Dance partner?"
"Yeah. Always knowing when to pull me out before I step on anyone's toes."
I shook my head, not bothering to hide my smirk. "Just part of the job."
He tilted his head toward me with that sly glint in his eye. "Sure it is."
The door shut behind us, sealing out the swell of voices and the chaotic shuffling of feet. The car smelled faintly of leather and the lingering cologne Bryce must have put on before we left the house. He slid across the back seat, legs sprawled in that easy, careless way of his, and let his head fall against the headrest like the night had been nothing more than a casual stroll through a park.
"You shouldn't stop to sign anything like that again," I said, turning in my seat so I could see him. My tone wasn't sharp, but it carried the kind of weight I reserve for when I want something to stick.
His head rolled lazily toward me. "Those fans are the reason we're all getting paid."
"And do you also want them to be the reason you have lawsuits against you?" I asked. "Or for you to be the reason one of them ends up hurt?"
He frowned slightly, the kind of look that said he was already winding up to defend himself. "But it shouldn't be my responsibility."
I exhaled, dragging a hand down my face, not because I was tired—though I was—but because he had that ability to make my patience unravel thread by thread. "Look, I understand you're a very famous person, and yes, girls are crazy about you. What I don't understand is the whole phenomenon of losing your mind over a singer or actor or celebrity or whatever the hell. But I'll tell you this: I agree, it shouldn't be your responsibility. Yet you can still be the bigger party in the room, the sanest one, and choose not to let things spiral. That means making sure none of your fans get themselves into trouble on your account."
Bryce's mouth pulled into a smirk, his answer already loaded. "Fine. I'll just write a statement or shoot a story telling them to behave."
I turned halfway toward him. "And will they behave?"
He looked out the window, pretending to consider it. "Well… probably not. But you know, there are two kinds of fans—some are completely crazy, yeah, but others are reasonable. They're the ones who tell people, 'Give him space, respect him, you can't be in this fandom acting like that.' I'd rather work with the ones who have bigger minds."
A laugh escaped me, low and humorless. "Birds of a feather, Bryce. You're not any different from the ones with the smaller minds, you realize that?"
He scoffed, sitting forward a little. "I'm just the product here. They're the consumers. They pay me, they pay everyone. And I do want them to be safe—I care about my fans and I appreciate them, but there's only so much I can do."
"Then next time—" I raised my voice without meaning to, the words coming harder than I planned. "The next time I tell you to do something, you do it. You don't argue with me."
His head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Why are you raising your voice at me?"
"Because you're talking nonsense," I shot back, "and I'm fucking fed up."
A slow, almost amused smile curved his mouth. "This is just the beginning, you know. This was the first gig you've come with me to, and I was only here as a feature. Wait until it's my own concert."
I decided not to answer. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, probably wondering if the silence was a truce or just the pause before the next round. I leaned back into my seat, staring out at the streetlights flickering past, thinking that if this was the warm-up, the main event was going to be a goddamn hurricane.