-Devon.
The studio had its usual pulse, a restless beat stitched together from half-played riffs, snippets of lyrics, and the faint static hum of wires feeding into machines. I was used to that chaos by now, but what I wasn't used to was the way her eyes never left him. She was someone else's girl—brought along like a shiny accessory—but the way she drifted toward Bryce felt too deliberate, too bold. At first, I told myself it wasn't my place to react. Bryce wasn't acknowledging it, and I had enough discipline to stay rooted, to keep my observations tucked behind my teeth.
But then she did something that turned my stomach. While Bryce was leaning over the console, she slid in close, so close her hand nearly grazed his arm, and laughed at something no one had even said. It wasn't casual laughter either. It was the kind meant to be caught, meant to be noticed. Her perfume, sharp and sweet, reached even me from across the room, a deliberate weapon. Bryce only smiled, that careless, boyish smile that never considered the weight of what it invited.
That was enough. I pushed back my chair, the scrape sharp against the studio floor. My steps were steady, though my chest was coiled tight, and when I reached him I caught his elbow firmly, steering him away from the crowd, into the corner where the noise dimmed to a muffled beat.
I leaned in, close enough so only he could hear me, my voice low and edged. "If that girl asks you to join them anywhere, don't. Do you understand me?"
Instead of nodding, instead of even trying to hide it, Bryce straightened and let out a sharp laugh that cut the room. His voice lifted, reckless, "Can you stop with your bodyguard paranoia?"
Every head in the studio turned. My jaw locked, the vein in my temple tightening. He had no idea what he'd just done. My anger rose hot, but years of training held it down, forced me into stillness. I stepped in closer, until only the two of us existed in the press of air, my whisper slicing sharper than any raised tone.
"Don't you dare raise your voice at me like that again, Villa. You hear me?"
The room around us hummed back into motion, though I could feel the lingering eyes. Bryce's smirk faltered as he searched my face, maybe realizing too late that I wasn't playing. My hand was still on his arm, the grip firm but steady, the kind that spoke louder than words. I let it fall only when I felt the heat rising in him too, the kind of fire that could easily flare into something neither of us were ready to face here.
I turned, giving him room to decide whether to sulk or to listen, and lowered myself back into my chair. My pulse hadn't slowed. The taste of that moment, the defiance, still burned on my tongue.
She didn't stop at leaning too close. She started orbiting him like he was the only one in the room. Every laugh she let out was pitched too high, every question directed at him had a softness that was too pointed, too rehearsed. When Bryce bent down to check something on the monitor, she mirrored the move, close enough that her hair brushed his shoulder. He didn't flinch, but I could see the slight way his brows dipped, the smallest twitch that told me even he noticed now.
Then came the breaking point. She slid her hand over the console, her nails tapping against his sleeve like she owned his attention. When Bryce reached for his drink, she grabbed it before he could, took a sip, and set it back in front of him with a slow smile, like she was testing boundaries on purpose.
That was it. I stood again, not as calm this time, and cut through the static and chatter. "Man," I said, turning to the guy she'd walked in with, who was pretending not to notice from the couch, "can't you do something about your girl?"
The whole studio seemed to still at my voice. The guy, lanky, trying too hard to look unbothered, lifted his eyes slowly from his phone. His smirk spread like he found me amusing. "She's just being friendly," he drawled.
"Friendly?" I repeated, my voice edged with steel. "She's drinking out of his glass. That look friendly to you?"
The girl only giggled, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger, her eyes never leaving Bryce. It wasn't friendly. It was obsessive, unhinged, the kind of energy that burned through every polite excuse.
I stepped forward, placing myself more firmly between her and Bryce, my hand flat on the console to anchor me. "I'm not asking. Keep her in check. Now."
The guy's smirk faltered for the first time. He glanced at her, then at me, and finally back at Bryce, who stood silent, looking at me like he wasn't sure if I was about to throw the both of them out myself.
The girl pouted, tugging at her man's arm. "Don't let him talk to me like that."
I leaned closer to her, lowering my voice so only the three of us caught it. "You want to know what I don't let? I don't let anyone play games with him when I'm around. So either you back off, or I'll have security walk you both out, and we won't be polite about it."
Her eyes widened, the bravado cracking for the first time, and I saw the man stiffen, muttering something sharp to her under his breath. She pulled back, crossing her arms like a child who'd been scolded, but at least she took a step away from Bryce.
The room exhaled, sound slowly returning. Bryce, though, stood staring at me, jaw tight, as if he couldn't decide whether to thank me or fight me. The air between us was wired, humming, waiting for one of us to speak first.
The hallway stretched ahead of us, long and dim, humming faintly with the echo of doors shutting in other rooms. I was already walking faster than I meant to, my stride eating the ground just to burn the edge off my temper, when something sudden slammed into me from behind.
A weight, a body. Arms clamped around my shoulders, legs wrapping my sides. Instinct moved quicker than thought—I bent my knees slightly, my hands catching under his legs, adjusting him like I had carried him this way my whole damn life.
Bryce's breath was right at my ear, his voice lighter than the moment deserved. "I'm apologizing."
I didn't stop, didn't even slow. My boots struck the floor in a steady rhythm as I hauled him down the hallway like a sack of flour that talked too much. "This isn't an apology," I muttered, tightening my grip against the slide of his jeans.
He leaned closer, chest pressed against my back, his words softer now. "I'm sorry I raised my voice. That wasn't very nice of me to do. You were only looking out for me."
The sincerity caught me off guard. I turned my head slightly to look at him, ready with a quip, but the space between us disappeared the second I moved. His face was right there, close enough I could make out the flecks of color in his eyes, the faint curve of his mouth that hadn't decided if it wanted to smile or not.
I froze. My steps faltered, the weight of him nothing compared to the sudden heaviness in my chest. For one long second I was caught in that nearness, heat rolling off him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the soap of my own skin.
"You think I'm paranoid?" I asked, my voice lower than I meant it to be.
His reply came in the same hushed register, almost conspiratorial. "A little."
That broke the spell. I turned my head sharply back to the hallway, forcing my legs to move again, each step deliberate, as though I could stomp out the moment before it settled too deep. My pulse, though, had already betrayed me. It drummed in my ears, wild, insistent, making me wonder if I imagined the heat in his voice or if it had truly been there.
We reached the exit door. I bent at the knees, lowering him carefully to the floor. My breath left me in one long exhale, the kind you don't realize you've been holding until the release stings.
Bryce landed light, adjusting his shirt, his grin mischievous and boyish as if none of it had rattled him. "It's really amazing how you make me feel like I weigh nothing."
I shook my head, straightening my shirt, grounding myself in motion. "You really aren't that heavy."
His grin widened. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
I snorted under my breath, pushing the door open with a little more force than necessary. "Don't get used to it."
But his laugh followed me out, warm and bright, curling itself around the edges of my restraint like it had every intention of staying there.
The night air hit me first—sharp, cool, a relief against the heat still buzzing under my skin. I pushed the door open wide, Bryce a step behind me, his laugh still fresh in my ears. But the sound that met us outside killed the ease instantly.
Shouts. Screams. The flashing burst of cameras that stung my eyes before I could even blink.
Paparazzi and fans packed the sidewalk, spilling into the street like a tide that had been waiting for this exact moment. Phones shot up in the air, screens glowing. The frenzy of voices melded into one constant roar—his name shouted over and over, people pressing forward with sharp elbows and desperate hands.
I stepped ahead instinctively, my body already tense, arm stretched to shield him from the crush that threatened to collapse the distance. My jaw tightened. All it would take was one shove, one hand too eager, and someone would fall or worse.
Bryce, though, smiled like it was part of the act, like he'd walked onto a stage instead of into chaos. He lifted a hand, gave a little wave. That only fueled them more, the flash of bulbs multiplying, a chant of his name rising high enough to drown the sound of my own pulse.
"Stay behind me," I muttered, angling my body to block as much of him as I could.
He leaned closer to my shoulder, his voice amused, almost teasing. "Relax, I can handle it."
"Handle it?" My words ground between my teeth, low so only he could hear. "You want to get swallowed alive out here?"
A woman pushed through the barrier of bodies, a hand shooting forward, clutching at his sleeve before I could intercept. I stepped in hard, prying her grip loose with one firm twist, her eyes flashing with indignation as if I had robbed her. I didn't care. I moved Bryce tighter behind me, pressing forward toward the curb where the car was supposed to wait.
The driver had the sense to pull right up, engine idling, door cracked open like a lifeline. I maneuvered us through the swarm, my hand anchored at Bryce's waist to keep him steady as the cameras snapped at every angle.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I muttered without turning, catching the little hum of satisfaction he let slip as fans screamed his name like a hymn.
"Maybe a little," he admitted, his grin obvious in his tone.
I pulled him the last step, opened the door, and practically shoved him inside, ducking in after him as the door slammed shut behind us. The world outside muffled instantly, reduced to the faint thud of fists on glass, muffled voices, and the occasional pop of a flash that seeped through the tinted windows.
Inside the car, the silence was thick, charged. My pulse still ran high, adrenaline making my hands tremble faintly even as I flexed them into fists to hide it.
Bryce tilted his head, eyes catching mine in the dim light. "You really don't like sharing me, do you?"
The way he said it wasn't mocking. It was quiet, edged with something far too close to knowing.
I shifted in my seat, forcing my breath steady. "I don't like watching you get torn apart for fun."
His smile lingered, soft now, but I caught the glint in his eyes—the kind of look that told me he wasn't going to let this go so easily.
The car rolled forward, the muffled roar of fans and cameras fading behind us. I leaned back in the seat, finally letting my shoulders drop a fraction, when Bryce's voice cut clean through the air, too sharp, too direct to be casual.
"You know what, Devon?" He tilted his head toward me, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. "What happened back in the studio… it kind of made me feel like you were jealous."
I turned to look at him, slow, my face twisting into that involuntary expression I couldn't help—the upper lip curled, brows pinched, a look that said as plainly as words, are you fucking kidding me?
"What the fuck," I said flatly. "Jealous of what?"
He spread his hands a little, as if the answer was obvious. "The girl who was all over me inside. She wasn't even doing much. You didn't let it slide. You couldn't stomach it."
I exhaled hard, shook my head. "I have strict orders to keep you away from rumors. My job is to keep you contained. That's what I was doing. You can thank me later in paychecks."
He laughed, warm and careless. "No, no, no. That could've been handled easily. I would've rejected her. Eventually. But no—you had to step in, make a statement, tell the guy to handle his girl. You're not protecting me, Devon, you're pushing people away from me. That's why I couldn't help but think—this is jealousy."
My jaw tightened, teeth clicking once before I spoke. "You do realize I don't give a shit about show business, right? I'm not jealous of your fame or of people swarming you. That's not my world."
He leaned in, eyes gleaming like he'd struck something deep. "No, I didn't mean jealous of fame. Don't be that dense. I meant jealous when it comes to me. You don't want anyone else around me. That's what I'm talking about."
I gave a low laugh, bitter at the edges. "Oh, so keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night."
"Oh, it definitely helps me sleep," he fired back instantly, grinning wide. "Knowing you're probably secretly in love with me? That's like music to my ears."
I shot him a look, sharp as a warning blade. "Be careful. Delusion has a way of blocking you from living your life normally."
He tipped his head back and laughed outright, reckless. "I'm the delusional one? You should see yourself. The way you eye me—it's practically criminal."
I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. "Please, just shut the fuck up. Whatever you're saying doesn't make sense. It's not valid."
But the words didn't cut him off the way I wanted. They sat between us, and I could feel his smirk still there, still burning on me. I turned my gaze out the window, lights flashing by in streaks, but in my head, I couldn't stop myself from running the numbers like some twisted math problem.
Possibility of jealousy.
If A equals doing my job, and B equals making sure no scandal comes out of a clingy hanger-on, then A plus B equals logic. Straight math. A clean solution.
But then add C—the tightness in my chest when she touched him, the sharp bite in me when he laughed too close to her—and suddenly the equation refused to balance.
I tried again.
Devon is jealous = absurd. No evidence. Just Bryce's nonsense.
But then I stacked the variables: my pulse spike when I pulled him aside, the way I lowered my voice only for him, the way my jaw clenched when her hand lingered too long. The way his face nearly brushed mine when I carried him on my back.
Shit.
The numbers weren't neat anymore. They tangled, looped, refused to cancel out. The math looked a hell of a lot like jealousy, no matter how many times I tried to subtract it.
I shifted in my seat, clenching my fists against my thighs. No. This isn't it. It can't be.
From beside me, Bryce hummed like he knew exactly what was going on in my head. He leaned just close enough that I could feel his breath on my ear when he said, playful, smug, and almost too soft, "You're doing the math in your head right now, aren't you?"
I snapped my gaze toward him, caught his grin, and cursed under my breath.
He leaned back, triumphant. "God, Devon, you're so obvious."
The ride home was a silent war. Every second in that car felt like being locked in a box with no air, my mind clawing at the edges while Bryce sat there humming to himself like nothing had just happened. By the time we pulled into the driveway, I was holding my breath without realizing it. The moment the car stopped, I got out quicker than I should've, not caring if it looked like I was running from something. I was.
I stormed into the house, straight to my room, ignoring everything else. My pulse hadn't settled, my chest still tight, and my thoughts kept looping, tangling into knots I didn't want to pull at. I shut the door behind me, and almost immediately, Milk slipped inside like she had been waiting for me all day. The little white puffball padded across the floor, her fur like a halo under the light, and without hesitation she jumped onto the bed. She pressed her head into my arm as if she had been my pet all along.
I stared at her, baffled. "You're supposed to be his cat," I muttered, pointing a finger at her like she was caught in some betrayal. "I don't even pay attention to you. Why the hell are you following me?"
She blinked slowly, tail curling around herself like she was keeping secrets.
I sighed, dropped onto the edge of the bed, and rubbed my face. "That doesn't make any sense, right? I mean—your father is handsome, fit, funny, talented. He's the whole damn package. And I swear, he's doing all this just to confuse me. Right, Milk? Because if he was genuinely into me… that would be insane. Madness. That would be—no, no, impossible. He must have a bodyguard fetish. That's what it is, isn't it? Tell me he's got a bodyguard fetish."
Milk stared back at me, unblinking, as if she understood and refused to give me the mercy of a meow.
"Great," I muttered, flopping back on the bed. "Even the cat thinks I'm losing it."
The knock on the door startled me, jerking me upright. Before I could respond, Gracie walked in, all casual comfort—oversized hoodie, shorts, her long hair loose like she just rolled out of a lazy evening. She didn't bother asking if she could come in; she dragged the chair from the dresser, spun it, and sat down, tucking her legs under herself.
"How was your day?" she asked, like she owned the place.
I pulled my composure back over me, straightened. "Good," I said quickly.
"I hope Bryce didn't do anything problematic," she added, studying me.
"At this point," I sighed, "it's not problematic. It's just Bryce."
That got a grin out of her, a soft laugh. "Oh, you've really got the grip of it."
"I was just checking on you. You kind of bolted straight to your room. Didn't even say hello. I was in the living room."
"Sorry," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "I just… really needed the bathroom."
She tilted her head, suspicious but amused. "All right. Just making sure you weren't quitting your job or something."
I laughed, shaking my head. "No. Don't worry about that. I'm not quitting." I paused, hesitated, then said, "Actually, Gracie, can I ask you something?"
Her brows lifted. "Go ahead."
"I don't know how to start this without breaking confidentiality," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I don't want you to tell me anything you shouldn't, but… is Bryce good? I mean, on his own. How's his social life?"
Gracie leaned back, crossing her arms loosely. "Bryce's social life is… scheduled. Whatever you see in the calendar, that's it. As for family—they're not really involved. Not because of drama, just because they all have their own worlds. His mom and dad were always busy, and his siblings are way older, so they had their lives set long before Bryce was even out of high school. So his relationship with them is pretty nonexistent."
I nodded slowly, trying to process.
She went on, "Friends? I wouldn't say Bryce has friends. Aside from me, if you can even call me that. But he texts me a lot, so… maybe? Milk and Cereal are his life, and then there's the business. That's it."
"I see," I said softly. "So he's pretty alone, then. Not alone alone—he has you, and Kate, and plenty of people around to take care of him—but still. Interesting."
Gracie's mouth curved into a knowing smirk.
"No," I said immediately, pointing at her. "Don't give me that look. I didn't mean it like that."
She leaned forward, teasing. "Sure you didn't."
"I didn't," I said firmly. "I meant—I asked him about family, friends, who he trusts, and his answers were basically no one. I just wanted to know if there was someone. Someone who actually… tends to him."
Her smirk softened into something quieter. "In the six years I've been around, I haven't seen that someone. Relationships—well, you can read about those online. Bryce doesn't know how to make friends. Or maybe he doesn't even think about it much."
Her words landed heavier than I wanted them to. For a moment, I thought about Bryce back in the studio earlier, grinning at me like my anger was some kind of music he was playing. How his laughter filled every corner of a room, yet still left him surrounded by emptiness when the crowd cleared.
Milk headbutted my arm again, as if on cue, and I groaned. "Why are you siding with him?"
Gracie burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her sleeve. "Oh my god, you're talking to the cat now?"
"Don't judge me," I muttered, glaring at the fluffball like she was my biggest traitor. "She started it."
Gracie shook her head, laughing harder, and I couldn't help but crack a smile.
When Gracie left, her laughter trailing faint like smoke, I laid back on the bed, one leg still dangling over the side, the rest of me sprawled like I had been dropped there. The ceiling above me seemed higher than it should've been, stretching like it wanted to swallow me whole, and my thoughts rose with it, wild and uncontainable. Every time Bryce was near, it was like fireworks—loud, explosive, impossible to ignore. They bloomed into colors that dazzled the sky of my chest, then faded, leaving me empty but still wanting more. Was that all this was? A distraction dressed in brilliance? A spark meant to vanish? Then why the hell did I keep wanting to see him again?
I sat up before I could talk myself out of it, dragged myself out of the room, and climbed the stairs like a man possessed. My fist rapped on his door, my knuckles a little harder than I intended. A few seconds later, the door opened, and there he was.
Bryce leaned against the frame, his hair disheveled but maddeningly perfect, the strands a deep black with streaks of violet catching the dim light. His skin was smooth, kissed by warmth, his sharp jaw shadowed faintly, and his lips curved into the kind of smile that belonged on stage lights and magazine covers. Those eyes—half-hooded, lined dark, sly in the way they seemed to see far more than he should—pinned me in place.
"Hi, Devon," he said, casual, like I hadn't just lost my mind by standing here.
My stomach dropped. Why the hell was I here? I scrambled for something. "Ah—hi, Bryce. I was just wondering… what do we have tomorrow?"
He tilted his head, amused. "Tomorrow? There's that art gallery thing. Exhibition. Oh, and I had my stylist pick an outfit for you."
"What?" My voice came out sharper than I meant. "Why the fuck would you do that?"
His grin widened. "Because you're my personal bodyguard, and you can't just stand there looking like a bodyguard. You need to blend in, look like a civilian enjoying art. Not like a wall."
I exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of my nose. "You've already done it, haven't you? This is a lost cause."
He laughed, warm and genuine, his teeth catching the light. "Do you really hate it that much?"
"Not really," I admitted, my voice dropping. "I don't hate it. It's fine. Part of the job."
"Exactly," he said brightly. "And—there's this upcoming part of the play I'm in. We've finally locked the script, and it's going to be phenomenal. I really want you there."
I surprised myself by smiling. "I'm actually excited to see it."
He tilted his head again, gaze narrowing as if studying me too closely. "Why are you here, Devon?"
The air tightened around me. "Why? I can't come see you? I just had a question."
"You have my number," he teased. "You could've texted."
I scoffed. "We live in the same house. Texting would be absurd."
"I do it all the time."
"Yeah, well, you're an idiot. I don't need to match that energy."
He laughed again, leaning against the doorframe, eyes bright like he couldn't believe the things I let myself say. "I can't believe I let you get away with this. Really."
"Well," I said, trying to anchor myself, "we're pretty much at the stage of… friends, right?"
His laughter died, and he blinked at me. "Friends?"
I felt heat creep up my neck. "Sorry. I shouldn't have crossed that line. You're my boss. That's all."
"A boss?" he said lowly, almost tasting the words.
I faltered. "At this point, I don't even know what you want me to be. What are we playing here?"
"We're not playing anything," he said simply. His voice had softened. "Devon, I'd love to be your friend. That would be nice."
I nodded, but my chest burned with something tangled. "Okay. Fine."
"Devon."
His voice pulled me back. "Yeah?"
"Fuck being friends." His tone dropped lower, slower, heavy with intent. "If you don't leave right now, I'll kiss you."
My breath stilled. I stared at him, my mind short-circuiting. Did I hear that right?
He took a step closer, his lips curved in a dangerous smile. "I swear to God, if you don't leave, I'll kiss you."
Still, I didn't move. My feet rooted themselves to his carpet.
"Devon," he said again, a warning this time, his eyes glinting. "I'm not kidding. Leave, or I'll kiss you."
Something in me snapped, sharp and reckless. "Just do it, goddammit."
The laugh that escaped him was soft, disbelieving, but then his mouth was on mine.
His lips pressed firm, velvet and heat, catching me so off guard that my knees nearly buckled. The taste of him was immediate—warmth, faintly sweet, something that burned behind my teeth. His hand slid up, cupping the side of my jaw with a gentleness that was infuriating in its contrast to the fire racing through me. My breath broke against his mouth, a sound I hadn't meant to make, and he smiled into the kiss like he'd just won the most dangerous game in the world.
When we parted, barely an inch, my chest heaved, and his forehead rested against mine.
"See," he whispered, his lips still grazing mine, "wasn't that better than friendship?"
I muttered, voice hoarse, "I fucking hate you."
"Mm," he hummed, brushing another teasing kiss across the corner of my mouth. "No, you don't."
And damn it, I couldn't argue.
The words had barely left my mouth before Bryce kissed me again, harder this time, like he had been holding back and finally decided not to. His lips moved with urgency, his hand tightening on my jaw, tilting my face the way he wanted, and all I could do was let him. His body pressed close, the heat of him seeping through the thin space between us until there was nothing but the push and pull of breath and lips and the thrum of my pulse pounding so loud I thought he could hear it.
I hadn't expected it to feel this way—his mouth chasing mine like he'd been starving, the faint scrape of his teeth on my bottom lip, the soft groan he tried to swallow down but failed. It set me alight, made my chest tighten, and for once I didn't try to contain it. I kissed him back, meeting the pressure with my own, my hand coming up almost without thought to steady his neck, my thumb brushing the warm skin just under his ear.
When he finally broke away, his lips lingered an inch from mine, his breath ragged and uneven. The confident curve of his smile was gone, replaced with something startlingly human. He ducked his gaze for the first time I'd seen since knowing him, the faintest color rising in his cheeks. Bryce Villa, the man who thrived on crowds and chaos, looked shy.
The sight did something to me I wasn't ready for. My own face burned, a mirror to his, and suddenly neither of us knew where to look. The silence was heavy, full of the kiss still buzzing between us, and I didn't trust myself to speak without ruining it.
I couldn't take it—this new silence, this strange shyness knotting itself between us. It was too much. So I did the only thing my body seemed to decide for me. I put a hand on his chest, eased him backward across the threshold, and before he could say a word, I shut the door between us. The click of the latch was final, neat, like I'd sealed away both our blushes inside.
For a moment, I leaned my forehead against the wood, trying to even my breathing. Then his voice came through, muffled but clear, carrying that teasing lilt he always used to cover himself.
"You know," he said, "I didn't plan for you to kiss me back that hard."
I closed my eyes and let a crooked smile slip across my face. "What, you thought I'd just stand there like a statue?"
There was a pause, then his laugh, softer than usual, like it belonged to me and not the world outside. "Honestly? I thought you'd shove me away, call me delusional again, and storm off."
I let out a quiet huff, shaking my head at the door. "Don't get me wrong. I still think you're delusional."
He laughed again, and I could picture him on the other side, leaning against the door the same way I was, both of us too aware of what had just happened. "Then I guess I'll just have to keep proving you wrong."
I didn't answer right away. My pulse was still thudding, my lips still tingling from his, and the wood between us felt paper-thin.
Finally, I said, low enough I wasn't sure if I wanted him to hear it or not, "Get some sleep, Villa."
Another pause, then his voice, lighter, gentler: "Sweet dreams, Devon."
And for the first time in a long time, I knew I wouldn't be able to.