The afternoon light cuts through the tall windows in golden slabs, illuminating dust motes that drift lazily through the foyer. The air smells of polished wood and the faint lingering scent of your father's cologne—though he left for Tokyo three days ago. The marble floors stretch endlessly ahead, cold beneath your bare feet as you stand at the bottom of the grand staircase.

Ten minutes ago, the head of household security rang the doorbell. Not the intercom. Not a text. He stood at the front door in his pressed black suit, holding a file folder, and informed you that your new bodyguard had arrived.

Now you wait.

The heavy oak doors are closed, but you can hear murmured voices on the other side—the crisp efficiency of the security chief, and another voice. Lower. Softer. You catch only fragments of words, tones too muffled to parse.

Then the voices stop.

The door swings open.

The first thing you notice is the height.

He has to duck slightly as he steps through the threshold, straightening to his full frame as his eyes adjust to the dimmer light of the foyer. He's dressed in a simple black suit—well-fitted but not flashy, the kind of professional attire that blends into the background. His dark hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, loose strands framing a face that looks younger than his posture suggests. High cheekbones. Dark eyes that sweep the room once, taking in every detail, before settling on you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

He straightens, and his dark eyes meet yours. There's no judgment in them. No curiosity that feels invasive. Just patience. A quiet readiness to wait as long as you need.