Chapter 1  

Harper

I’m certain I’m about to lose what remains of my sanity the moment I slip into the hotel bar. My hands are shaking, and my throat feels like it’s constricting. The hum of excited voices hits me first—dozens of overlapping conversations and I have to press a palm to my chest to remember how to breathe.

Today was supposed to be triumphant: my first large-scale fan convention as an ASMR content creator. I spent hours chatting with people who came to see me, signing merch, filming collabs. But the swirl of camera flashes, the constant hum of chatter, and the press of strangers has left my nerves raw and my mind spinning. My feet hurt in these low-heeled boots, my scalp aches from wearing my natural curls in a high puff all day, and I can’t string two coherent thoughts together.

The bar is dimly lit, neon highlights pulsating across glossy black walls. There’s a sour smell of spilled beer mixed with cloyingly sweet perfume. A single overhead TV flickers with a muted sports segment, but I can’t parse a single play. Everything is too loud, all at once, and it makes my ears ring in protest.

I slip onto a vacant stool at the far corner of the counter, curling my fingers around the edge. My pulse pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears. The bartender catches my eye, but I can’t speak to order a drink. Instead, I just shake my head, forcing in a shallow breath. You’re okay, Harper. Just breathe. But the quiver in my chest won’t ease.

I’m this close to a full-blown panic attack in front of too many witnesses. I dig my nails into my thighs, trying to anchor myself. Then, a tap on my shoulder almost makes me jump out of my skin.

“Miss,” someone says, low and careful.

My head jerks around, and I find myself staring into the pale blue eyes of a man who looks to be in his fifties—steel-gray hair, broad shoulders, and a presence that seems to cut through the haze in my mind. He’s tall, so tall I have to tilt my chin to meet his gaze, and his navy T-shirt molds to a muscled frame that hints at daily workouts. Concern flickers in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a voice that’s soft but resonates with authority.

I open my mouth, but my panic latches around my throat, forcing it shut. Heat rushes to my face. I want to say, Yeah, I’m fine, thanks, move on, but the words won’t form.

He doesn’t leave. “Would you like some help?” he offers, voice dipping quieter.

I swallow. My tongue feels glued. Finally, I manage a short nod.

The bartender starts to wander our way, but the man holds up one hand in a polite stop. When I don’t pull away, he turns to me again, kneeling a bit so we’re nearly eye level. “Can you take a slow breath with me?” he asks gently.

It’s bizarre—he’s a complete stranger, but something in his tone radiates calm. I draw in a halting breath, stale beer and perfume mixing in my lungs. “In through your nose,” he murmurs, “and out through your mouth.”

I do it, shaky at first. My fingers loosen from their death grip on the bar. Another breath, more controlled this time.

He straightens, his movements sure, as if he’s used to dealing with emergencies. “Better?” he asks, gaze roaming over me for signs of distress.

I nod, feeling a tremulous wave of relief. My heart still thrums with adrenaline, but the tightness around my chest eases. “Thank you,” I whisper, voice barely audible over the bar’s noise.

He gives a small nod, lips set in a firm line. “Do you want to stay in here, or head somewhere quieter?”

My limbs are still wobbly, still, I push myself to stand, ignoring the rubbery feel in my knees. “Outside,” I say, my voice tight. The flickering overhead lights and neon glare press in too close.

He shifts to my side, guiding me gently with a broad hand near my elbow. His fingers never fully touch me, but the proximity is enough to calm me. Together, we move through the crowd to the glass doors leading into the hotel’s courtyard.

The cool night air is a blessing. The courtyard is quieter. An artificial pond with a small garden, a few string lights overhead casting a muted glow. I gulp in lungfuls of fresh air, the frantic pounding in my chest receding.

He stands beside me, neither speaking nor crowding me. When I finally glance up, I see the tension in his jaw relax. “Feeling calmer?” he asks, measuring each word.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, his voice firm but not harsh. “You were in distress.”

I offer a small, shaky laugh. “That’s one way to put it. Today was intense. So many people. I do these… videos online, it’s my first big fan convention.” Why am I telling him this? “I just got overwhelmed.”

He shifts slightly, turning to face me. “That many people can be a lot to handle.”

I notice he’s older than the typical influencer crowd, though the stoic strength in his posture suggests he’s handled more than just crowds. Something about him says ex-military. Maybe it’s the alertness in his eyes, or the way he positions himself so he can see the exits. His hair, cropped on the sides, is peppered with silver, and a faint scar slices through his left eyebrow.

He seems to read the curiosity in my gaze because he offers, “I used to be Delta Force. Now I run a security company.”

That explains the calm under pressure. “Makes sense,” I say softly, twisting my fingers. “Thank you for stepping in. Most people wouldn’t.”

He shrugs, a casual roll of wide shoulders. “Seen too many people in the middle of a storm. I don’t like leaving them alone.”

We let the quiet settle again. The wind rustles through the manicured shrubs, and I wrap my arms around myself, more from nerves than cold. He steps closer, though still maintaining a respectful distance.

He holds out his hand. “I’m Gideon.” The name suits him—solid, dependable.

“Harp,” I say before I can stop myself. I rarely give out that nickname, but somehow, it feels right. “Short for… well, it’s just what some people call me.”

He nods as though it’s enough. “All right, Harp.” Another pause, then he gently tips his head toward the back entrance. “I’ve got a room here. Was planning to leave in the morning, but if you need somewhere quiet…”

The suggestion hovers in the air. He’s not pressuring me, just offering an escape from the chaos. My pulse picks up, but not in anxiety this time. Even though I should hesitate, a wave of bone-deep loneliness slams into me. I spent today being bombarded by so many strangers who wanted something from me. But Gideon? He’s just offering a moment of calm, no strings attached.

“Maybe for a little bit,” I say softly. “I just… I can’t go back to that bar. Not yet.”

He gives a curt nod, turning to lead the way. We slip through a side corridor in silence, each step echoing against the polished marble floors. Every time I hear voices, my stomach clenches. But Gideon stays near, his presence steady.

Inside the elevator, I catch our reflection in the mirrored doors. I’m petite next to his towering frame. My eyes still look too wide, but some color returns to my cheeks. His posture is protective, as though ready to shield me from any threat.

We reach the fifth floor. Gideon slides a key card into his suite, a simple corner room with standard hotel furnishings—king bed, a small sitting area, thick blackout curtains. The faint hum of the air conditioner masks the distant city sounds.

I step inside, crossing to the window. I can see the glow of neon signage from the convention center below. My legs tremble, exhaustion hitting all at once. A wave of relief floods me; I needed to not be alone tonight. And for reasons I can’t fully explain, Gideon feels… safe.

He shuts the door, locking it, and sets the security latch with a decisive click. “Water?” he asks, heading to the small dresser, where the hotel-provided bottles rest.

“Yes, please,” I whisper. My throat feels parched.

He offers me one. Our fingers brush in the exchange, sending a soft spark through me. I lift the bottle to my lips, gulping gratefully. Then I catch him watching me, eyes cool and assessing, but not unkind.

“I can go,” he begins, voice quiet. “If you want time to yourself.”

I stand there, uncertain. A swirl of conflicting emotions churn in my chest. A piece of me aches to be alone, yes—process the day, sleep off this anxiety. But there’s another part, the lonely ache I’ve been carrying for months, that doesn’t want him to vanish into the night. I think of how he guided me through that panic attack, how I latched on to his calm. Something inside me trembles, both in fear and a pull I can’t deny.

“Stay,” I say, almost too softly.

His gaze flickers with understanding. He sets his own water bottle aside, stepping closer. The tension between us shifts into something more intimate, an awareness that crackles in the space. “You sure?” he asks. He’s close enough that I can smell the faint spice of his cologne, see the silver flecks in his stubble. “I don’t want to push.”

I wet my lips, pulse hammering in my ears. “I’m sure.” Slowly, I rest a hand on his chest, where his heart beats a steady rhythm beneath the worn cotton of his T-shirt. This could be foolish, impulsive. But after the crushing weight of the day, the idea of connecting with someone who sees me, if only for a moment, feels like refuge.

He releases a tight breath, like he’s been holding tension in his lungs. Then, gently, he cups my face, thumb skimming the curve of my cheek. The warmth of his hand sends a shiver along my spine. “Harp,” he murmurs, and the way he says that half-name is like a promise and a question all at once.

I lean forward, standing on tiptoe, letting my lips brush his—a tentative spark that ignites with surprising intensity. He groans softly, and I realize there’s depth to his controlled exterior, like a fault line threatening to crack.

We melt into another kiss. My arms slip around his solid waist, and he draws me closer, large hands splayed over my back. A whisper of hesitation crosses my mind. I don’t know him. But I can’t stop the longing that pulses in my blood.

When we part to breathe, he rests his forehead against mine. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice barely more than a rumble.

I nod, throat tight with need. “Yes.”

He hesitates once more, searching my eyes. Only when he sees whatever reassurance he needs does he tilt my chin up, kissing me again. The next moments blur into a rush of heat, clothing gently discarded, the rustle of sheets as we move toward the bed.

I cling to him in the dim glow of the lone lamp, inhaling the scent of soap and faint aftershave. Each touch is tentative, tender, as though we’re both aware this is a one-night collision of need and solace. There’s no demand, no expectation—just two people finding a flicker of warmth in the darkness.

I don’t remember how much time passes; the walls of the world narrow to his lips on my neck, his whispered reassurances when I tremble. At some point, we sink fully into the bed, his arm cradling me, my hands pressed to the broad planes of his chest. The sensations swirl—heat, breath, a quiet intensity that floods my senses.

Eventually, we lose ourselves in the moment. He’s gentle, steady, asking me silently with every touch if this is still what I want. I answer with soft gasps, guiding him closer, letting the day’s tension dissolve in the press of our bodies.

Night has deepened by the time I stir, blinking at the digital clock. My limbs feel heavy, and my heart has slowed to a languid beat. I sense Gideon’s warmth behind me, the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. The air conditioner hums softly.

For a moment, I consider the strangeness of this—sleeping next to a man I met a few hours ago. But the usual fear I’d feel in a situation like this is absent. Instead, I feel safe, cocooned in an unexpected sense of calm. Gideon’s arm is draped over my waist, and he’s breathing evenly, maybe asleep.

A swirl of emotions tightens in my chest. This can’t last. The practical part of me insists we’re just two strangers who offered each other comfort. Reality awaits outside these walls. I’ll go back to my world, and he’ll return to his.

I shift carefully, sliding out of bed, my feet hitting the carpet. Through the curtains, I see the faint glow of the city. Pulling the sheet around me, I tiptoe across the room to where my bag sits. Something in me already knows I won’t call him, that I’ll let this be a singular moment of relief. I don’t need more entanglements in my life. I’m building my channel; I’m balancing my anxieties, forging a cautious future.

Still, I glance at him over my shoulder. He’s awake now, propped on one elbow, watching me with those pale blue eyes. No words pass between us for a beat, just a shared understanding that this is temporary. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he reaches into his wallet on the nightstand, producing a small business card.

“Take this,” he says, voice hushed. “In case you ever need anything.”

I step closer, letting the sheet slip precariously low on my shoulder. He holds the card out. A matte black rectangle with his name, Gideon Rourke, and a phone number. Another line reads: Heartline Security.

I meet his gaze, searching for any sign of expectation. But all I see is gentle concern. “Thank you,” I say, my voice soft. I grip the card as though it’s a lifeline.

He inclines his head, eyes lingering on mine. “Take care of yourself, Harp.”

I stand there, heart pounding with unspoken emotions. Then, summoning courage, I lean down to press a slow, grateful kiss to his lips. It tastes like a goodbye. When I pull away, I see a flicker of sadness in his eyes, quickly shuttered by acceptance.

I move to gather my clothes, sliding them on piece by piece. My chest feels tight, but I push the feeling away. Once I’m dressed, I linger a second, uncertain. Then I tip my chin at him in thanks and slip out the door, clutching the card in my hand.

In the hallway, the hush of night wraps around me. My mind races with a thousand doubts, but my body still tingles with the memory of his touch. I walk back to my own room in a haze, telling myself we were just two strangers finding comfort in the chaos.

As the door clicks shut behind me, I set the card on the dresser, refusing to look at it again. Best to leave it as a single night. No expectations, no complications. I already have too many pieces of myself to hold together.

I crawl into my empty bed, my mind spinning. Even as I drift into restless sleep, I can’t shake the echo of Gideon’s hand on my cheek, the secure weight of his arm around my waist. One night, I remind myself. Just one.

Yet, a tiny voice inside whispers that some moments, no matter how fleeting, have the power to change everything. Even if I never call that number, I’ll carry this memory—this quiet sense of safety for a long, long time.