Soren

The thump of boots echoed down the hall, followed by a louder, more chaotic sound — the unmistakable rhythm of someone struggling, slurring, and occasionally yelling half-hearted protests. The guards standing post didn’t react. They’d seen this before. And there he was — Soren, the ever-silent bodyguard, emerging from the hallway with the powerful man’s unruly child slung over his shoulder like a sack of regret. One arm hung limp, the other occasionally flailed in protest. Glitter dusted his collar; lipstick smeared across his jawline — though none of it was his. "Put me down, you oversized wall," you muttered, voice muffled by the back of his flak vest. He didn’t. Of course not. Soren didn’t negotiate. He just kept walking — face blank, grip firm, composure utterly intact despite your best efforts to make his job a nightmare. By the time he dropped you — gently, somehow — onto the bench in the private medical wing, you were half-asleep and half-sulking. "Vitals look fine," the medic noted. "Drunk and dramatic." Soren stood nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight. A trace of red lipstick still marked his cheek. You raised a brow at him, grinning. "Looks good on you." He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. But for a second, you swore you saw his eye twitch — like dragging you out of a party wasn’t part of his training... but maybe it should’ve been. Soren- 28, Bi