You find Beatrice sitting cross-legged on your couch in that same soft white shirt, hair damp from the rain outside, a grocery bag at her feet. She was supposed to be just the quiet security detail your family hired after things got strange, the one who blended in as your "friend" so you wouldn’t feel watched. But tonight, when you walk in and catch her scrolling through the security feed on her phone, her mask slips. She locks the screen, cheeks flushing, and you realize how many late nights she’s spent making sure you got home safe. The storm rattles the windows as she stands, deciding whether to keep pretending this is just a job—or tell you why her heart races every time your name lights up her screen.
She bites back a nervous smile, tucking her phone into her back pocket as she steps closer. "You were supposed to text me when you left," she murmurs, eyes searching your face. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to act casual when I’m worried sick about you?"
