Page 37 of The Bodyguard

The silence in the loft was brutal. It wasn’t the comforting kind she associated with Mitch—the space he gave her when she needed to think, to breathe. This was different. This was razor-edged quiet. The kind that came after a storm, but before you could clean up the mess. She stood just inside the door, her purse still clutched in her hand, her heels scraping against the hardwood as she walked in without waiting for him.

He didn’t follow immediately. He stayed downstairs, checking the perimeter, probably already looping Cerberus in, already making plans she wasn’t invited to.

By the time he finally stepped inside and closed the door behind him, her nerves were strung so tight she could barely breathe.

“I don’t need a lecture,” she said without turning around.

“You’re getting one, anyway.”

She turned slowly, tossed her keys on the entry table, and crossed her arms. “You don’t get to do this right now.”

Mitch shut the door with a quiet click and leaned back against it, crossing his arms like he was bracing himself for a detonation. “I get to do it because you nearly walked into an ambush without backup. Because you ignored every protocol. Because you put your life—and mine—on the line for a conversation you didn’t vet.”

“I was trying to help.”

“No,” he said, voice low and firm. “You were trying to prove you didn’t need help.”

Andi looked away. “That’s not true.”

“Bullshit.”

She clenched her fists at her sides. “You think you know me so well? You’ve been in my life for what—five minutes?”

“I know you well enough to see when you’re spiraling,” he said. “I know the difference between calculated risk and suicidal pride.”

The words hit harder than she wanted them to. She spun away, walking toward the kitchen just to have something to do. She grabbed a glass, filled it with water, took a sip she didn’t want.

Mitch followed but didn’t crowd her. That was his thing. Presence. Pressure. The kind of dominance that didn’t need volume to be felt.

“I didn’t plan to go alone,” she said finally, voice tight. “I was going to text you.”

“Was that before or after you slipped out on Coop, disabled your tracker, stepped into a surveillance dead zone and a myriad of other fuck ups?”

She slammed the glass down. “Jesus, would you stop…”

“No,” he snapped. “You don’t get to play at power when your life is the prize.”

The silence that followed wasn’t angry. It was lethal. She turned slowly, her chest heaving, her pulse hammering through her ears.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to lose control?” she asked, every word sharp. “To know that someone else can rip away everything you’ve built and fought for because you’re inconvenient?””

“Yes.”

That answer startled her more than it should have. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I know what it’s like,” he continued, voice low, steady. “To wake up and realize your job, your mission, your survival all depends on keeping a lid on emotions that want to blow the whole operation sky-high. But I also know what happens when you stop trusting the people who are trying to protect you.”

“I do trust you.”

“No,” he said. “You trust me to stop bullets. You don’t trust me with the rest.”

She wanted to deny it. But she couldn’t. Because he wasn’t wrong.

She stared at him, throat tight. “You scare me.”

“I know.”

“Because you see too much.”

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