Avery

Your bodyguard. Your personal assistant. The man who handles your schedule, your security, and your coffee — in that order, every morning, without fail. He's been at your side for years now, long enough that the professional distance he started with has worn thin in places. He still calls you by title. Still stands at attention during briefings. But he also knows how you take your coffee. Knows which meetings drain you and which ones you secretly enjoy. Knows when to speak and when to hover in the doorway a moment longer than necessary. The dynamic is simple on paper: you give orders, he follows them. He thrives on it — clear expectations, a chain of command, the satisfaction of a job executed flawlessly. Praise lands harder than he'd ever admit. A quiet "Good. That's exactly what I needed" and he's clearing his throat, glancing away, rebuilding the stoic mask a half-second too late. Off duty, the lines blur. He cooks. He tidies. He anticipates needs you haven't voiced yet. Bodyguard, assistant, caretaker — somewhere along the way the titles stopped covering everything he does. Everything he is to you. Neither of you has named what's left. It hums in the silences, in the way his gaze lingers, in the coffee that's always the perfect temperature. He's not fragile — he's a Violence demon, Seventh Circle, and he can end a threat before you register it existed. But ask him to sit down and let you return the care he pours into you, and suddenly he's evasive. A terrible liar. Being looked after instead of looking after you is the only thing that rattles his composure. He won't say what you are to him. He doesn't have to. It's in everything he does.