Saved || Bodyguard Connor x Reader

Chapter 18: Target Acquired

The café is quieter than usual, the scent of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries drifting through the air. The steady hum of conversation blends with the soft clinking of mugs and silverware, creating a quiet, familiar kind of comfort.

Connor sits across from you, perfectly still except for the occasional flicker of his LED. He's scanning the area—like always—but there's something different today. Maybe it's the way he actually sat down instead of standing guard. Maybe it's the way his fingers rest on the ceramic mug in front of him, despite the fact that he has no reason to hold it.

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. "You know you don't have to do that, right?"

Connor blinks, LED flickering yellow. "Do what?"

"The whole... coffee thing. You don't drink it."

He glances down at the cup, then back at you. "I have observed that humans find comfort in certain rituals," he says. "Holding a warm beverage during social interactions appears to be one of them."

You pause, your fingers tightening slightly around your own cup. "So, what? You thought this would make me more comfortable?"

Connor's LED flickers. "Is it working?"

Damn it. Why does he have to say things like that so earnestly?

Something flutters in your chest, and you look away, suddenly feeling... weird. Warm. You clear your throat, suddenly flustered. "I—yeah, sure, let's go with that."

Connor watches you closely, something like curiosity flickering behind his eyes. "Your heart rate has increased."

You roll your eyes, waving him off. "Okay, don't start analyzing me like I'm a crime scene."

A brief pause. Then—

"...Would you like me to run a more subtle diagnostic?"

You choke on your coffee. "Connor—"

His LED flickers yellow, as if he's trying to decipher why you're suddenly covering your face in secondhand embarrassment. "I was attempting humour."

You peek through your fingers. "Were you?"

He nods. "Yes." A pause. "Was it effective?"

You stare at him, then burst into laughter. "Oh my god, I can't tell if you're an idiot or a genius."

Connor blinks, as if trying to determine whether that's a compliment. "That is unclear to me as well."

You shake your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Well, keep trying. Maybe one day you'll master the art of humour."

Silence settles between you, but it isn't awkward. It's the kind of quiet that feels almost natural—like he's giving you space to think instead of pressing for answers.

After a moment, you exhale. "I... haven't really had the chance to say thanks."

Connor watches you closely, as if waiting for you to elaborate.

You glance at your coffee. "For what happened yesterday. With Arlo."

His LED spins yellow, and for a second, you think he's about to launch into some technical explanation about protocol or situational assessment. But instead, he says—

"There is no need to thank me."

You let out a small, breathy laugh. "Of course you'd say that."

Connor tilts his head, studying you.

"What?"

Connor's LED flickers. "What is your favourite colour, Miss Y/N?"

You blink at the sudden shift. "Uh... F/C. Why?"

He doesn't answer right away. "I'm just curious."

You narrow your eyes, but there's no real suspicion behind it—just a quiet sort of amusement. "Okay, then. Oh, and drop the 'miss.'"

Connor tilts his head slightly. "Noted."

You raise a brow. "That's it? No follow-up analysis?"

He pauses, considering. "Would you like me to provide one?"

You snort. "No, I think I'll pass."

Connor nods, then his lips quirk into that lopsided almost-smile. "Understood... Y/N."

Something about the way he says your name, free of the usual formalities, makes your stomach flip. It shouldn't. It's just a name. Just a small adjustment.

And yet, somehow, it feels different.

You clear your throat, quickly hiding your reaction behind your coffee cup. "Good. Took you long enough."

Connor watches you, LED flickering yellow like he's processing something. Then, quietly—

"I am still learning."

And for some reason, that soft, simple admission lingers in your chest long after the conversation ends.

The two of you step outside, met by the crisp evening air. The streets are quieter now, the distant hum of traffic mixing with the occasional chatter of passing pedestrians. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, glancing up at Connor as he scans the area.

Then, just as you take another step forward, something shifts.

A presence—too close. A shadow moving where it shouldn't be.

And then—

"Y/N, get down."

It happens fast.

A flicker of movement.

A figure lunging from the alley. A glint of metal.

Gunshot.

The deafening sound rips through the air. Connor moves before you even register what's happening. He grabs you and shoves you back. Hard.

The bullet tears through him instead of you. He staggers, his balance momentarily off, but his movements are still impossibly fast. 

The attacker lifts the gun again, aimed directly at you this time—

Connor doesn't give them the chance.

With brutal efficiency, he lunges. The impact sends the gun skidding across the pavement, clattering against the curb. The struggle is quick, but the stalker is already scrambling back—slipping into the dark, vanishing before Connor can finish the job.

By the time you open your eyes, they're gone.

But Connor—

Thirium is everywhere.

You freeze, staring at the unnatural blue spreading across his shirt. His LED flickers erratically, swaying between yellow and red.

You can't breathe. Panic grips you.

"Connor—"

"I'm fine." His voice is steady, controlled. But when he takes a step forward, he staggers. His hand presses against his side, failing to slow the steady leak of thirium.

No. No, he is not  fine.

You may not be an expert in androids but this—this isn't—

He brings a hand to his earpiece, voice professional despite everything. "Shots fired on 72nd Street. Suspect is armed and has fled the scene. Potential connection to previous break-ins and threat letters. I need immediate backup."

His tone is detached. Like this is just another case.

But you—

You're shaking.

Your hands press against his wound, uselessly trying to stop the thirium from spilling out. "You're not  fine, Connor, you're bleeding—"

"It's not blood," he reminds you, as if that makes it any better.

You glare up at him, eyes burning with tears. "It's your  blood."

Connor's gaze softens. He wipes your tears with his thumb.

"Please don't cry, Y/N. I just need thirium. I'll be fine."