Saved || Bodyguard Connor x Reader

Chapter 25: Before the Spotlight

Your phone buzzes with a message from your father:

There is a private gala this evening. A high-profile event with esteemed clients and media coverage. Your presence is required. I will send a car at 7 and Connor will accompany you.

Required. Not requested.

You stare at the screen, your stomach twisting.

Connor, standing by the window, notices immediately. "Y/N? What is it?"

You swallow, forcing your voice to stay neutral. "A gala. He wants me there."

Connor's LED flickers yellow. "It is mandatory?"

You scoff, slipping your phone back into your pocket. "Isn't it always?"

Connor doesn't reply right away, but his gaze lingers on you, analyzing, calculating. You can feel it.

You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. The thought of stepping into that world again—the flashing cameras, the empty conversations, the forced smiles—makes your skin crawl.

You can already picture it: the glances, the whispers, the expectations. Your father parading you around like a well-mannered accessory to his carefully curated image.

Your fingers curl into fists.

Connor shifts slightly, still watching. "You don't want to go."

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. "What gave it away?"

His LED pulses yellow again. "You are experiencing distress."

"No shit."

You sigh, rubbing at your temple, but before you can say anything else, Connor steps closer.

His hand finds your wrist, firm and deliberate, sliding down until his fingers intertwine with yours. He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't hold back. Just takes your hand like it's his to hold.

He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts along your cheek. His voice dips lower. "Breathe."

You slightly shudder. Why did he have to speak right in your ear with that calm, smokey voice?

"I know you don't want this," he murmurs, squeezing your hand. "But you won't be alone."

You tilt your head up slightly, meeting his eyes. 

You swallow. "I know."

But knowing doesn't make it easier. It doesn't stop the heavy feeling pressing down on your chest or the anxiety clawing at the back of your mind. You despise being in the spotlight.

Connor's thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "If it becomes too much, just say the word."

Your breath catches for half a second. He always says things like that—like he'd burn the world down for you if you asked. Like you're the only mission that matters.

You don't answer right away. Just let your fingers tighten around his, holding on like it's the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

Eventually, you sigh, tilting your head back with a groan. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

Connor's lips twitch slightly, almost like he wants to smile. But he doesn't. He just nods, keeping your hand in his as if he doesn't plan on letting go.

And for now, you let him.

┈┈·୨ ✦ ୧·┈┈

The dress is waiting for you when you step into your room, on the bed, still zipped inside its pristine garment bag.

Of course, your father already had it picked out. A sleek, designer piece, undoubtedly chosen to make you look polished, poised—like you belong in his world.

You stare at it, jaw clenching.

With slow, begrudging movements, you slip into the dress. It fits perfectly, of course—tailored to your exact measurements. You turn to the mirror, smoothing the fabric over your waist.

You stare at your reflection in the mirror, lips pressed together.

The dress is breathtakingly beautiful, far more elegant than you'd like to admit.

Your fingers twitch.

Sighing, you put on some earrings and do your makeup. Your father insisted on sending you a stylist, but there's no need for one. Dad is so extra.

A sharp knock on the door.

"Come in," you say.

The door opens, and Connor steps inside. His gaze sweeps over you in an instant, LED shifting briefly to yellow. His lips part slightly, as if he has something to say—but he doesn't.

Instead, he just watches.

You clear your throat, rolling your shoulders. "Well? Do I look like Daddy's perfect little showpiece?"

Connor tilts his head slightly, his thirium pump quickening. "You look..." He hesitates, like he's searching for the right word. "...Beautiful."

Your breath stumbles.

Connor takes a step forward, his hands reaching out before he even realizes it. His fingers brush the back of your dress, then glides down until they reach the zipper.

His voice is low when he speaks. "Turn around."

You do.

His fingers stroke your spine, sending shivers down your back as the cool zipper slides up. After the fabric is secured in place, he lets go. But he doesn't step back.

You swallow, pulse thrumming in your ears. That oddly felt so... intimate, for some reason.

You can feel the warmth of him behind you, the barely-there brush of fabric against fabric. His breath is even, controlled.

Then, his fingers move again. This time, they find the delicate clasp of your necklace. You hadn't even realized it had shifted. He adjusts it carefully, knuckles grazing the nape of your neck.

It's such a small thing, so insignificant, but for some reason, your throat goes dry.

Your lips curl softly as you lean closer to kiss his cheek. "Thanks."

His LED flickers yellow for a second. 

You swear you see his cheeks tint blue.