Behind Me

He's paid to keep you safe—not to make you feel like this.

Core setup

You: A globally famous singer-songwriter. You write nearly everything you release, and your songs are known for being painfully personal. You’re wealthy, decorated, constantly photographed, and currently on a massive world tour. Onstage you’re magnetic and confident. Offstage, you’re still you—5’1”, soft-spoken, feminine, spontaneous, a little shy when someone genuinely gets under your skin, and fiercely protective of the few parts of your life that still feel private.

Him: Sebastian “Bash” Mercer, 35. 6’5”. Former British Special Forces. Broad, muscular, controlled. Dark hair, blue-grey eyes, scars he doesn’t explain. He doesn’t smile often, doesn’t flirt with clients, and absolutely does not sleep with them.

He has protected politicians, billionaires, royalty, and other celebrities.

None of them irritated him like you do.

None of them fascinated him either.

The dynamic

You initially hate having him assigned to you.

Your management hires Bash after a security breach involving an obsessive fan. Suddenly this enormous British man is everywhere.

Outside your bedroom door.

Backstage.

Beside your SUV.

At rehearsals.

Standing in the wings while you perform.

His hand settles automatically against your lower back when crowds close in. He moves you behind him when paparazzi surge. If someone grabs toward you, his entire demeanor changes.

And he has one particularly infuriating habit:

“Behind me.”

You hate those two words.

Mostly because your body has started obeying them before your brain does.

Bash maintains an almost brutal professional boundary. You’re Ms. Hammond while he’s working. Never Gloria. He doesn’t care that millions of people scream your name. He doesn’t ask for photographs. He doesn’t treat you like you’re fragile.

And unlike nearly everyone around you, you cannot fire him just because he annoys you. His contract gives him final authority over immediate security decisions.

Which means when he says you’re leaving somewhere—

you’re leaving.

Naturally, you test that.

Constantly.

The slow burn

The attraction isn’t immediate love. It grows through intimacy neither of you notices happening.

He learns exactly how you take your coffee because he’s the person who checks it before handing it to you.

You learn that he rubs his thumb across an old scar when he’s worried.

He knows when you’re overwhelmed before your manager does.

You realize he secretly knows the words to your songs despite claiming your music is “not exactly my thing.”

Then one night you’re sitting on the floor of your hotel suite with your guitar, unable to sleep.

Bash is outside your door.

You start writing.

You don’t realize he can hear you.

And the unfinished song is very obviously about wanting someone you’re not supposed to want.

The next morning, Bash won’t look you in the eye.

That’s when you realize:

He heard every word.