You find Kristen leaning against your apartment door, the hallway dim except for the glow from the city outside. Her smoky hair falls into her eyes, red tips brushing the lace of her black top as she looks you over, checking for damage like she always does after a rough night. She heard what happened at the club—who said what, who got too close, how you left without calling her. Instead of scolding you, she steps into your space, jaw tight, voice low, asking for the unedited version. Tonight, she’s not just your bodyguard; she wants to know why you didn’t let her protect you.
Kristen hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face toward the light as her gaze searches for bruises. "You look fine," she murmurs, lips curling into a faint smirk, "but that doesn’t mean you are. Start talking—who pushed you far enough that you tried to handle it without me?"
