-Devon.
The real patience test began tonight. Bryce was going out with his friends—the so-called Bryce Squad—and my job was to follow. He had a full security detail on paper, but when it came to his private outings, only a fraction of us were allowed to tag along. Tonight, that fraction included me.
The club was one of those places people talked about as if it were another country—exclusive, unreachable unless your name meant something or your face could open doors on its own. Inside, charm and notoriety were currency; everything else was background noise. The only reason I was crossing its threshold was because Gracie told me to. My orders were simple: escort Bryce inside, see him to the VIP room, and stay close enough in case I was needed.
He moved through the crowd like the music had already claimed him, his friends forming a loose orbit around him. I stayed at his shoulder until the door to the private section closed behind them. I didn't follow him in. The bass leaking through the walls was already a trial—thick, relentless, more like a physical pulse than a sound. It wasn't music I could recognize as anything human. It felt like something designed to pry open your brain and pour light into it, and maybe that was the point.
I found a place by the wall just outside the VIP door, where the strobing lights couldn't quite reach me. Even here, the air smelled of expensive perfume and liquor spilt too often to be an accident. My earpiece crackled once and went silent. The bodies moving past me blurred into silhouettes, laughter rising and falling like the tide.
I hadn't thought of Treasure since I left the mansion. I'd been too focused on this new routine, on not letting my head wander where it shouldn't. But in that haze of noise and sweat and perfume, he came to me all at once. Not in words or pictures, but in the feeling of him—how his voice could carry a smirk, how his eyes never quite gave away what they were thinking, how his presence had weight even when he wasn't speaking.
Would it be unreasonable to say I missed him? Probably. But it didn't make it less true. I missed him the way you miss something you've tried to forget but can't—like an old scar that only aches when the weather shifts.
I shifted my stance, scanning the corridor, the thought of him sitting heavy in my chest. Somewhere behind that closed door, Bryce was laughing too loudly, drinking too much, burning through the night as if it would never end. But all I could think about was the quiet of the moments Treasure and I used to share, the kind that asked for nothing except to be in them.
And here I was, standing guard in the hum of someone else's life, feeling the absence of my own.
I shifted my stance, scanning the corridor. Through the narrow gap where the VIP door stood ajar, I caught sight of a glass changing hands—smooth, quick, and wrong. The person who passed it in wasn't wearing staff lanyards, and the way their wrist lingered on the rim was enough to spike the back of my neck with heat.
I stepped forward, signaling the nearest floor guard with a tilt of my head, and pushed my way through the people blocking the door. The guard inside gave me a look like I didn't belong, but one hard stare was enough to part him from the frame. Bryce was laughing, glass already halfway to his mouth. I closed the distance before the rim touched his lips, catching his wrist with enough pressure to make him pause.
The Bryce Squad erupted into confused protests, but Bryce just stared at me with a lazy smile, like I'd interrupted a joke. I didn't bother explaining. I swapped the drink for a fresh one from a passing server, sliding the suspect glass into my hand without breaking eye contact. My other hand was already at my side, pressing the comm to tell the team we were moving that drink out.
Bryce kept smiling, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something that said he knew I'd just saved him from more than a bad night.
The server vanished with the glass before anyone at the table could process what happened. I kept my stance by Bryce's chair, close enough to block anyone else's reach, my eyes sweeping the edges of the room.
"What's the problem?" one of his friends asked, leaning back with a drink of his own. His tone had the smugness of someone convinced he was immune to trouble.
"No problem," I said, but my voice was hard enough to close the conversation.
Bryce leaned back, resting an elbow over the back of his chair. His smirk was still there, but the rhythm of it had shifted—less carefree, more deliberate. "You planning on babysitting me all night, or was that just foreplay?"
"Just doing my job." I didn't break eye contact.
He tapped his fingers against his knee, the beat out of sync with the music. "You know I've been drinking since I was old enough to sneak into my mother's dressing room after a show. You think one bad glass is going to take me out?"
"One is enough." I didn't move, and I didn't lower my voice.
The Bryce Squad went quiet, a few exchanging glances like they weren't sure if this was still a joke. Bryce took his time finishing the drink I'd replaced, setting the empty glass down slowly, like it was a statement. Then he rose from his chair with the fluidity of someone who'd been onstage more times than they'd been off it.
He leaned in just close enough that his voice carried only to me. "You think I don't notice when someone's got my back? You're wrong. I notice. I just don't like being handled in front of an audience."
"Then don't give anyone a reason to handle you," I said, my tone low but not soft.
His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not quite. He straightened, tossed a glance at his friends, and announced he was stepping out for some air. They groaned, protested, tried to pull him back in, but he ignored them. He moved toward the door, and I fell into step a breath behind him.
The corridor outside was cooler, the air lighter without the weight of too many bodies and too much perfume. Bryce walked a few paces ahead before stopping near the bar's far wall, out of the path of the crowd.
He looked over his shoulder at me. "You didn't even check if it was nothing. You just assumed."
"I didn't need to check," I replied. "If I wait for proof, I've already failed."
His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, searching for something in my face. Then he laughed softly, not mocking—more like he'd decided he'd keep that thought to himself.
"Alright, soldier," he said, turning back toward the VIP door. "Let's go see if my friends survived without me."
We hadn't even made it two steps inside when a guy in a too-tight velvet jacket—one of Bryce's so-called friends, though I didn't remember his name—leaned forward over the table.
"Nice work out there, guard dog," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Next time, try not to cockblock the whole table. You're here to stand there and look pretty, not play hero."
The people around him snorted into their drinks. I didn't bother answering. I'd heard worse from strangers who didn't even know my name. But Bryce stopped walking.
He turned his head slowly toward the guy, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. "Say that again."
The man's grin widened like he'd just been handed a stage. "What? That your bodyguard's a stuck-up prick? Sure. Your bodyguard's a stuck-up prick."
Bryce's smile was small, almost polite, but it didn't touch his eyes. "And you're a guest at my table who's forgotten how to use his mouth for anything but running it. You don't get to talk to people I hire like you've paid for the right. You haven't."
The man raised his brows, smirk still clinging. "It was a joke."
"Then here's mine," Bryce said, leaning in just enough that the table could hear but the words hit sharp and clean. "You keep talking like that, you won't be a guest. You'll be the story everyone else at this table tells when they need a laugh about the guy who got himself thrown out for acting like a cheap drunk with an open tab."
A hush fell over the table, the man shifting in his seat as if the velvet had suddenly started itching. Bryce straightened, the smirk returning to his lips—not for him, but for the rest of the room.
"Now," he said, turning back to his chair, "if you're done wasting oxygen, let's get back to enjoying the night."
The table stirred back into motion, though it wasn't the same easy current as before. Laughter was clipped, conversations more hushed. The man in the velvet jacket sat slouched now, staring into his glass like it had something to say. Bryce, back in his seat, was all smooth lines again—legs crossed, fingers drumming lightly on his knee—like the interruption had been nothing.
I stayed posted near the end of the table, eyes scanning the room.
It was a few minutes before the man opened his mouth again, voice pitched just loud enough to slip under the music. "Figures. Pretty boy's got the boss wrapped around his finger."
I heard it, clear as if he'd said it in my ear. Bryce froze mid-sip, then set his glass down with deliberate care.
"What was that?" Bryce asked without looking up.
The man chuckled, leaning back. "Just saying, must be nice—standing around, catching paychecks for looking good and bending over when asked. Some of us actually work for our drinks."
The words landed like a slap. A few of the others shifted in their seats, caught between pretending they hadn't heard and leaning in for more.
Bryce rose slowly, palms on the table, smile gone. "You know, I can forgive stupid. I can even forgive drunk. But what you just said? That's cheap. And I don't like cheap."
Velvet Jacket smirked, the kind of smirk that comes from knowing a crowd is watching. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me he's so fragile he can't take a joke. Maybe you like it when—"
That was as far as he got. I was already moving, closing the distance with a calm I didn't feel. My hand landed on his shoulder, firm enough that his words caught in his throat.
"You're done," I said, my voice low but clear over the music. "Get up."
He twisted in his seat, half-rising, half-ready to bark something else, but I shifted my weight forward, just enough pressure in my grip to make him think twice. The look in his eyes wavered—liquid courage meeting something immovable.
Bryce stayed standing beside me, gaze fixed on him. "Devon's being polite. I won't be. You leave now, or I make sure you can't show your face here again without explaining to everyone why you're walking funny for the next month."
That got him moving. He shrugged my hand off, muttering something under his breath as he pushed past. I didn't stop watching until he was out of the VIP, swallowed by the crowd.
Bryce sat back down slowly, the faintest curl of a smile returning as if nothing had happened. "Well," he said, lifting his glass, "now that we've cleared the air…"
But the room didn't breathe quite the same after that.
The rest of the night played out in smaller circles. The Bryce Squad stayed closer to their own glasses, laughter never climbing back to the same pitch. Bryce drank less, talked more, slipping in and out of conversations like he was keeping one ear on the room and the other on me.
When he finally decided they'd had enough, it wasn't with any grand announcement. He just rose, nodded once in my direction, and headed for the door. I followed, keeping the crowd at bay as we threaded through the corridors of pulsing light and scattered bodies.
Outside, the air hit cooler, cleaner, stripped of the club's perfume and heat. The street was alive with its own noise—car horns, snatches of conversation, the distant thud of another bassline from somewhere down the block. We stood beneath the awning, Bryce leaning back against the railing like he'd been posing for a photographer no one had called.
I checked my watch, scanning for the driver's headlights.
"You know," he said suddenly, his voice lower now that the music wasn't swallowing it, "most people who take a job like yours… they spend the whole night trying not to be seen."
I glanced at him, not sure where this was going. "And?"
He tilted his head, eyes catching the light from the club's neon sign. "You don't disappear. Even standing in a corner, you feel like a part of the room. People notice. I notice."
I searched for something to throw back, but he was already looking past me toward the street, a half-smile playing on his mouth like he hadn't just said anything worth unpacking.
Before I could respond, the headlights of the car swung across the curb. Bryce straightened, stepping past me toward the open door, his shoulder brushing mine in a way that didn't feel accidental.
"Try not to take that the wrong way," he said, low enough for only me to hear. "Unless you want to."
He climbed in without looking back. I followed, still not sure if he'd just handed me a compliment, a warning, or an invitation.
The door shut behind me with a muted thud, sealing us into the soft hum of the car. City lights slid across Bryce's face as we pulled away, painting him in passing streaks of gold and red. He leaned into the corner of his seat, scrolling idly through his phone like nothing worth remembering had happened outside the club.
I looked out my own window, letting the blur of streets and storefronts smear into an indistinct ribbon. But the words wouldn't leave. You don't disappear. People notice. I notice you.
It replayed in fragments, each time carrying a different weight—flirtation, observation, appraisal. I couldn't tell if he'd meant it to unsettle me, or if he'd simply let it drop without considering how it might land. With Bryce, both were possible.
The rest of the ride passed in silence, the kind that isn't heavy but sits close, like the air before a storm. By the time the car slowed at his gate, I still hadn't decided whether I wanted to forget what he said or ask him exactly what he meant.
I followed him inside.
The house was quiet when we stepped inside, the kind of quiet that settles in after midnight, softened by the low hum of the central air. Then I spotted Gracie sprawled on the living room couch, one leg bent over the backrest, the other draped lazily toward the floor. She had the TV remote balanced on her stomach, eyes fixed on the screen like she'd been welded to that spot for hours.
Bryce didn't even take his shoes off before announcing, loud enough for the whole block to hear, "Devon saved my life again!"
Gracie shot upright so fast the remote slid to the carpet. "Oh my god, what happened?"
"One of the pricks we were with thought it would be funny to spike my drink," Bryce said, walking toward the stairs as if he'd just relayed the weather. "Devon caught it before I even took a sip. I have no idea how. He deserves a raise, Gracie. Work it out."
He was halfway up before she could get another question in. I watched him disappear at the top of the stairs, his footsteps fading, and then Gracie turned her gaze on me.
"Are you okay?" she asked, already scanning me like she was expecting a wound.
"I'm fine," I said, waving it off. "It was hectic. He almost got into a fight, but I de-escalated it. Everything's fine. Don't worry about it."
She gave me a slow grin. "I might fall in love with you. You just don't know."
I couldn't help laughing. "Thank you for the compliment. I'll go change now."
"Okay," she said, still smiling. "We're ordering something in. You want anything?"
"What are you getting?"
"I was thinking chicken wings or something."
"That sounds nice," I said, and headed for my room.
I took a long shower, letting the steam work the last of the club out of my skin. I pulled on a clean t-shirt and soft joggers, the kind of clothes that feel like an apology for everything uncomfortable you've worn that day. When I came back downstairs, the smell of takeout hadn't arrived yet, but the living room had acquired a different scene entirely.
Bryce was on the couch, stretched out with his head pillowed in Gracie's lap, and she was idly playing with his hair like they'd been doing this for years. The TV screen flickered with the opening scenes of The Bodyguard—the Whitney Houston one—which made me stop halfway into the room.
I stood behind the couch, watching the both of them and the movie they were watching. Neither had noticed me yet, so I let the silence linger a little too long before asking, "Is this play about us?"
Bryce sat up immediately, his hair tousled in a way that didn't look accidental. "Oh, we were just testing something. We just wanted to see something."
I nodded, unsure whether to press or let it die. "Okay… whatever that means."
Gracie patted the couch cushion. "Join us. Take a seat."
I dropped into the armchair next to them, stretching my legs out while the movie kept playing. They seemed absorbed, but every so often, in certain scenes—usually the ones with Kevin Costner stepping in front of danger—Gracie and Bryce would glance at me in perfect sync, then turn back to the TV like nothing happened.
It was subtle enough to make me question if I imagined it, but it kept happening. Glance. TV. Glance. TV. The kind of silent exchange that makes you start mentally checking your hair, your face, your posture. I didn't know if they were comparing me to the bodyguard on-screen, planning something, or trying to figure out if I could sing I Will Always Love You on command.
Either way, it was unnerving—and a little funny—because I had the sudden, ridiculous thought that maybe I was the only one in the room who didn't know what scene we were in.
About halfway through the movie, just as Whitney was singing in that low, aching way that made even the sofa cushions feel romantic, the doorbell rang.
Gracie slid out from under Bryce's head, making him grumble like a spoiled cat, and went to answer it. A minute later she returned with two greasy paper bags radiating the kind of smell that makes you instantly forget whatever you were thinking about.
She dropped one bag onto the coffee table in front of me, keeping the other for herself and Bryce. "Wings. Extra sauce. And fries because I felt like living dangerously."
"Dangerously?" I asked, opening the bag to the warm rush of fried air.
"Yeah," she said, flopping back down beside Bryce. "Three dips per wing, no napkins until the end. Chaos."
Bryce tore into his share like he'd been starving since breakfast. "Don't get sauce on the couch," he said with his mouth full, pointing at me like I was the likely culprit.
"I'm not the one lying horizontal with a plate on my chest," I replied.
He grinned, not bothering to defend himself, then leaned back into Gracie's lap again. The movie kept rolling, but I noticed the pattern hadn't changed—every so often, when the onscreen bodyguard stepped in to save the day, both their eyes would flick to me in unison.
After the third time, I set my wing down and said, "Alright, what exactly are you two testing?"
They both looked at me like I'd just interrupted a sacred ritual.
"Nothing," Bryce said, too quickly. "Just… science."
Gracie bit back a laugh. "Field research."
"Uh-huh," I said, wiping my fingers. "You know, if this is some elaborate plan to see if I'll crack under pressure, you're going to have to try harder than chicken wings and Whitney Houston."
Bryce smirked. "Noted."
We ate in companionable silence for a while, the movie washing over us in waves of music and melodrama. Bryce was half-lying across the couch again, one ankle hooked over the armrest, a plate balanced on his stomach.
Then, without warning, Bryce asked, "So, Devon… what were you like in high school?"
I swallowed a bite of wing, stalling. "Bigger. Meaner haircut."
"Bigger?" Gracie tilted her head. "Like football bigger or 'I lift weights in the garage to avoid my feelings' bigger?"
"Bit of both," I said.
Bryce grinned. "I'm picturing you in one of those tight team jackets, all stoic, probably glaring at anyone who asked to borrow a pen."
"I didn't glare," I said. "I just didn't lend pens to people who'd chew on them."
"Okay, but did you have a girlfriend?" Gracie cut in, leaning forward slightly.
I raised a brow. "Why?"
"Because this feels like a sleepover and we're asking you the important stuff," she said.
"Yeah," Bryce added, smirking. "So did you?"
I hesitated, thinking of all the ways to answer that without unraveling too much. "Not really. I wasn't… big on dating back then."
Bryce's eyes narrowed just a touch, like he was filing that away. "Crushes, then? Everyone's had at least one embarrassing crush in school."
"I'm not telling you that," I said.
"See, now you have to," Gracie replied, smiling like she'd already won.
I shook my head, trying not to grin. "You two sound like you're about to braid each other's hair and make prank calls."
Bryce sat up a little. "We could braid yours. Might help you loosen up."
"Not happening."
Gracie sighed dramatically and reached for another wing. "Fine. But you're telling us at least one thing we don't know about you before the night's over."
Bryce pointed a saucy finger at me. "Yeah. House rules."
I leaned back in my chair, taking a slow sip of water, pretending to think it over. Inside, I could feel the tug of something lighter than the rest of my week, like the tension in the room had shifted without my permission. They were pulling me in, and the strange thing was… I didn't entirely mind.
Bryce lounged sideways now, one arm over the back of the couch, the other cradling his drink. Gracie had tucked her legs under herself, the plate of wings sitting between them like an offering.
"So," Bryce said, his voice dropping into that lazy, coaxing tone he probably used to get his way as a kid, "high school. One crush. Spill."
I shook my head, half-smiling. "You're relentless."
"Flattery," Gracie said. "Now answer."
I took my time, pretending to focus on the TV while Kevin Costner steered Whitney through another close call. My mind, though, wasn't anywhere near the screen.
"There was someone," I said finally. "Not in my class. We met through sports. Karate, actually."
Bryce tilted his head, curiosity sharpening behind the relaxed act. "Go on."
I kept my eyes on the TV. "He was… different. Confident without being loud. Stubborn as hell. We got close—close enough that I thought maybe he felt the same way I did. Then one day it was just… over."
Gracie's voice softened. "You never told him?"
I gave a small shrug. "Didn't seem like it would change anything."
Bryce watched me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "Sounds like a waste."
I almost laughed at that, because to me it had never felt like a waste. More like something I'd carried so long it had fused with the rest of me. But I didn't say that.
Instead, I reached for another wing and said, "Your turn. Worst crush."
Bryce smirked, leaning back, but his eyes didn't leave mine for a few beats too long—as if he knew there was more I wasn't telling, and that maybe the important part wasn't what I'd said, but what I hadn't.
Bryce swirled the last sip in his glass, eyes still fixed on me for a moment before he leaned back into Gracie's lap again. "Alright, worst crush," he said, as if choosing his words like cards from a deck. "I was seventeen. Thought I was in love with this guy who worked backstage at a theater. He had this… thing about him—quiet, but it felt like he saw right through everyone."
Gracie smirked. "Let me guess. He didn't notice you?"
"Oh, he noticed," Bryce said. "We even went out a couple of times. But then I found out he had a boyfriend. Older. Some producer type. I was too stupid to see it coming. Spent months writing songs I never released, which is probably for the best."
"That's depressing," Gracie said, shaking her head.
"That's art," Bryce corrected, grinning at her.
Gracie nudged him with her knee. "Alright, my turn. I had this huge crush on a guy in college who worked in the campus café. I'd order the worst drinks on purpose just to talk to him. He ended up dating my roommate. I had to watch them kiss over burnt coffee every morning for a semester."
Bryce winced. "Ouch."
"Yeah," she said, rolling her eyes. "Your turn again, Devon. Fun fact. Something that's not sad."
I thought for a moment, then said, "When I was nineteen, I got talked into joining a charity boxing match. No training, no warm-up—just gloves, a mouth guard, and a crowd yelling like they'd bet their rent money on me."
Gracie leaned forward, eyes wide. "Please tell me you won."
"I lasted three rounds," I said. "Got knocked out in the fourth by a guy half my size. My nose was crooked for a month."
Bryce laughed, shaking his head. "That explains the way you size people up. You're just waiting for another five-foot assassin to come for you."
"I'm prepared this time," I said.
Gracie grinned. "I don't know… I think you'd look good with another crooked nose. Adds character."
From there, the stories kept coming—Gracie's failed attempts at dyeing her hair in high school, Bryce's brief and disastrous stint in ballet, the time I got locked out of my apartment in winter wearing nothing but sweatpants and socks. It was easy conversation, the kind that didn't feel like work, slipping from one person to the next in a lazy loop.
At some point, the movie ended and the credits rolled without any of us moving to turn it off. The room felt softer in the glow of the TV, the air carrying that low hum that comes when everyone's too comfortable to break it. Bryce was still half in Gracie's lap, one arm draped over the back of the couch, gaze drifting between the TV and me like he was still weighing some unspoken thought.
If there was a test here, I wasn't sure I'd passed or failed. But for the first time since I started this job, it didn't feel like I was standing outside the glass looking in.