The Day That Changed Everything
The relentless buzz of my phone dragged me from the fragile grip of sleep, shattering what little peace I'd managed to steal. Squinting against the glare of the screen, I saw a string of frantic messages from my dad:
"Come to the hospital now. It's urgent."
Heart pounding, I sat upright, the words blaring in my mind like a siren. My dad wasn't one for dramatics—calm and composed, always the anchor in any storm. For him to sound this panicked? The icy grip of dread curled around my chest.
The last two weeks had been hell. My older brother, Tim—a Marine captain—had been reported missing during a mission overseas. Missing. The word had echoed endlessly in my head, each repetition louder, angrier, more hopeless. For days, we were left to flounder in a sea of silence, clawing for answers that refused to come. And then, three days ago, we got the call.
They'd found him.
Alive, but barely clinging to life, Tim was airlifted to a hospital in Seattle. Since then, it had been a waiting game. He hadn't woken up, and no one could tell us why. Questions outnumbered answers by a mile, and the few updates we got only seemed to deepen the mystery.
My dad, ever the stoic, had stayed tight-lipped. Whatever he knew, he wasn't sharing it—not with me, not with anyone.
Dragging myself out of bed, I forced myself into autopilot: a cold shower to jolt me awake, concealer to hide the exhaustion etched under my eyes, and my usual ritual of picking out clothes. Fashion had always been my armor. As a designer for a major label here in Seattle, my appearance wasn't just about vanity—it was about control. Control I desperately needed right now.
But today wasn't about work. It was about Tim, the hospital, and whatever fresh crisis had prompted my dad's frantic messages.
The drive to the hospital was a blur. My mind spun with questions, dread bubbling just beneath the surface. By the time I reached Tim's floor, the sterile hospital scent—a mixture of antiseptic and despair—felt almost suffocating.
Adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I turned the corner toward his room, bracing for another day of unanswered questions. But the sight through the small window in the door stopped me in my tracks.
Inside, my dad sat in the chair beside Tim's bed, his posture tense, fingers steepled in thought. That wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was the man standing beside him.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding an air of quiet authority, the stranger was impossible to miss. His tailored suit fit perfectly, sharp and professional, as though he had walked straight out of an action movie. His skin was tanned, his features chiseled, and the sleek sunglasses perched on his nose only added to his commanding presence.
Then I saw the earpiece.
My heart skipped.
A bodyguard.
The realization was jarring. What on earth was my dad doing with a bodyguard?
I stared through the glass, my mind scrambling for answers, before finally pushing the door open. The soft hiss of the hinges cut through the quiet hum of monitors and machines.
"Dad?"
My dad looked up, startled. The man beside him didn't move, standing statue-still, arms crossed like he was guarding the president.
"What's going on?" I asked, stepping inside. My eyes darted between my dad and the stranger, unease gnawing at my stomach.
Dad rose from his chair, his expression lined with worry. "We need to talk, Arizona."
The air in the room shifted—heavy, tense.
"What is it?" I pressed. "What's wrong with Tim?"
Before he could answer, I turned to the bodyguard. "Can we have a moment?"
Nothing.
"Hello?" I snapped my fingers in front of his face, frustration edging into my voice. Still, he didn't flinch.
"Arizona," my dad said, his tone low but firm. "He's here for you."
I blinked, thrown off. "For me?"
"Yes."
"What does that mean?"
Dad exhaled heavily, running a hand down his face. "This is, he's your bodyguard."
The words hit me like a slap.
"My what?"
"You heard me."
"Dad, you can't be serious."
"I am," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He'll take you to work, stay with you during the day, and bring you home at night. He'll be with you until his partner takes over for the night."
"This is insane!" I exclaimed. "Why on earth would I need a bodyguard?"
My dad's jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he glanced at Tim, still unconscious in the hospital bed.
"It's about your brother," he said finally.
"What about him?"
"The circumstances surrounding his... injuries. They're not what we thought."
The room seemed to tilt. "What does that mean?"
"It wasn't an accident," Dad said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tim was targeted. And whoever went after him... might come after us."
I stared at him, the weight of his words crashing down on me like a tidal wave. "Why me?"
"I don't know," Dad admitted, his voice thick with frustration. "But I'm not taking any chances."
"This is ridiculous," I said, shaking my head. "You're overreacting."
"No, Arizona. I'm protecting you."
"I don't need protecting!"
"Yes, you do." His voice was firm, unyielding. "And this isn't up for debate."
I opened my mouth to argue but stopped when I looked at Torres. He stood there, silent and unmoving, his presence as solid as the tension in the room.
"Fine," I muttered, my voice barely audible.
Dad sighed, relief flickering in his eyes.
Turning to my bodyguard, I took a closer look at him, trying to make sense of the enigma standing before me. C. Torres. That was what his name tag said. My dad hadn't used a name, and the mystery gnawed at me. What could it be? Camilo? Caleb? Something more exotic?
But his name wasn't the point—not really. It was the fact that my life, already upended by Tim's situation, was now veering even further into chaos.
And as much as I hated to admit it, maybe—just maybe—Dad was right.
I stood at the light outside my work, the frustration from the hospital still simmering under my skin. It was like an itch I couldn't scratch, an invisible weight pressing on my chest. Behind me, a silent shadow—my bodyguard—followed every move. The day had been surreal enough without adding this stoic sentinel to my life. His presence was maddening, a constant reminder of everything I didn't want to think about.
"Do you have a name?" I asked, throwing the question over my shoulder. My tone carried more edge than I intended, but I was too worn out to care. "What do I call you?"
Nothing.
The silence didn't surprise me, but it didn't make it any less annoying.
"Does the C stand for something? Maybe Connor?" I tried again, infusing my voice with a faux cheeriness I didn't feel.
Still, nothing. Not even a twitch of acknowledgment.
I stopped walking, whirling around to face him, my frustration bubbling over. "Do you talk? Are you allowed to talk?" I tilted my head, studying him as if he might crack under the weight of my gaze.
Nothing.
The tension was unbearable as we resumed our walk toward the parking lot, his footsteps perfectly synchronized with mine. It felt less like a partnership and more like being trailed by a very human shadow. I stopped abruptly, testing a theory, and sure enough, he stopped too.
Curious, I took a deliberate step to the right. He mirrored me.
A grin tugged at the corner of my lips, a rare spark of amusement breaking through my irritation. I turned to face him fully, letting my playful side take over. If he wasn't going to talk, I could at least entertain myself.
"Can you take one more step back?" I asked, popping my dimples and tilting my head up at him. He was tall—around 5'9" or 5'10"—with dark hair neatly styled, though I couldn't discern the color of his eyes behind those impenetrable sunglasses.
He hesitated, just for a moment, and I caught it—a flicker of uncertainty in his otherwise unshakable demeanor.
"Please?" I pressed, adding a dramatic flutter of my lashes. "Look, I'm just trying to make the best of this weird situation. One more step back isn't going to hurt, right?"
For a split second, I thought I saw something shift in his resolve, and then, like a reluctant soldier obeying orders, he took a small step back. It wasn't much, but it felt like a victory.
"Thank you, Charles," I teased, tapping my chin as though trying out the name. I tilted my head, studying him again. "No, you don't look like a Charles."
He didn't react, of course.
We continued walking to my car, and just as I reached for the driver's door, he intercepted me with a firm but polite gesture, guiding me toward the passenger side. Without a word, he opened the door for me.
"You want to drive my car?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is that even part of your job description?"
His expression didn't change. No explanation, no acknowledgment, just that same impassive look.
"Okay, fine," I relented, sliding into the passenger seat. "I hate driving anyway, so I'll let it slide."
He got in behind the wheel with the same silent efficiency he'd shown since we met. As he adjusted the seat and mirrors, I took the opportunity to study him more closely.
His skin was strikingly smooth—almost unnaturally so, like he'd been airbrushed in real life. He seemed about my age, though his stoicism made him feel older in a way I couldn't quite explain. His features were soft yet defined, almost delicate, with full lips and perfectly groomed eyebrows.
Something about him felt… different.
The small details began to stand out. The faint marks of earring holes in his lobes, though he wasn't wearing any jewelry. The way his tan seemed natural, as if he'd spent years under the sun rather than a weekend at the beach.
But it was his eyes I wanted to see most. The sunglasses covered them completely, leaving me to wonder what secrets they might hold.
"We should go to the fabric store," I said casually, testing the waters. "Do you know where it is?"
For the first time since I'd met him, he turned his head and looked directly at me. It wasn't much—just a brief acknowledgment—but it felt monumental. Then, with a small nod, he started the car and drove.
The silence between us stretched out, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Not yet, anyway. I leaned back in my seat, watching the city pass by through the window.
Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn't be as bad as I thought.
The drive to the fabric store was uneventful, though I found myself stealing glances at him every so often. He navigated the streets with a calm precision, his hands steady on the wheel. There was something almost unnerving about his stillness, as though he were more machine than man.
"Do you have hobbies?" I asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
He didn't respond, of course.
"Let me guess," I continued, undeterred. "You're into, like, extreme sports or something. Skydiving, rock climbing… Maybe parkour?"
I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, was that half a smile, but it might've been my imagination.
"Or maybe you're a chef, you cook these recipes no one has ever heard about but taste great? Maybe a secret poet," I mused. "You sit in your ridiculously clean apartment, writing haikus about your mysterious clients. Am I close?"
Nothing.
"You're killing me here Chris," I said with an exaggerated sigh, sinking back into my seat.
When we arrived at the fabric store, he parked the car and got out before I could even reach for the door handle. Like clockwork, he was there, opening my door and stepping aside to let me out.
"You know," I said as I climbed out, "you could just let me do that myself. I'm perfectly capable of opening a car door."
He didn't reply—naturally—but his lack of reaction was starting to amuse me more than it annoyed me.
Inside the store, I lost myself in the familiar comfort of colors, textures, and patterns. Work had always been my escape, and today was no different. I ran my fingers over bolts of fabric, imagining how they might come to life in my designs.
Occasionally, I glanced over my shoulder to see him standing a few steps away, his posture straight, his gaze scanning the room. He was always watching, always alert.
"You don't have to hover," I told him at one point, holding up a roll of deep red velvet. "Unless you're planning to weigh in on whether this works for an evening gown."
His lips pressed together, almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, I thought he might actually respond. But no—just the same silent stoicism.
By the time we left the store, his arms were full of fabric swatches and a newfound sense of normalcy. It was strange, but having him there—silent and unwavering—felt oddly reassuring.
As we loaded the car, I caught myself glancing at him again, wondering about the person behind the sunglasses. What had brought him to this job? What kind of life did he lead outside of it?
I wanted to ask, but something held me back. Maybe it was the realization that, despite his silence, he was listening. Watching.
And maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as unapproachable as he seemed.
Today was wild. Long days were nothing new to me, but this one? It felt like stepping into someone else's life entirely. Getting to know the routine of a complete stranger was bizarre, Arizona was truly something.
By the time I walked into my friend's bar, the tension in my shoulders had settled into a dull ache. I scanned the room, looking for her. The place was its usual blend of cozy and chaotic, with laughter and the clinking of glasses filling the air. Addie had to be inside somewhere—maybe helping out in the kitchen or bringing out orders.
I slid onto a stool at the counter and ordered a beer, letting myself relax for the first time all day. The habit of taking in my surroundings—every detail, every person—kicked in automatically. Some things never leave you, I guess.
"Callie Torres, as I live and breathe. Welcome back to the mainland."
I turned toward the familiar voice and saw Addie striding toward me, her grin wide enough to light up the room. I hopped off the stool to hug her before she disappeared behind the bar to grab my beer.
She handed it to me, then reached over to ruffle my freshly cut hair. "Did you mean to get it this short? I can barely see anything on the sides."
I brushed my hair back, still trying to adjust to the new length. "You know me, Addie. Every time I come back from the Marines, I can't just sit around and do nothing. So, I pick up a few bodyguard gigs." I tilted my head toward my hair. "But they only want big, muscular dudes for these jobs, so... you know. You gotta do what you gotta do."
Addie smirked, leaning on the counter. "And who's the lucky VIP this time? Some rich princess?"
My smile faltered slightly, and I took a long sip of my beer before answering. "Actually... a friend's sister."
"Yeah? And why'd you take the job?"
I looked down at the bottle in my hands. "I owe him. Big time. Not once, not twice, but multiple times in the Marines. He saved me, Addie. More times than I can count."
Addie's playful grin softened. "Will I get to meet this guy? Sounds like someone worth knowing."
I rolled my eyes. "It's not like that. He's like a brother to me."
"Okay, okay. Not him. What about his sister?" Her grin turned mischievous again.
I hesitated, and Addie caught it instantly.
"Uh-huh," she said, leaning closer. "What's she like? Spoilt? Sweet? Oh! Is she hot?"
I scoffed, trying to wave her off. "Addie, you know I don't date my clients."
"I didn't say you should date her!" she shot back, laughing. "I asked if she was hot."
Shrugging, I tried to play it cool. "Meh."
"Meh?" Addie smacked my arm, her laughter loud enough to draw a few glances from the other patrons. "That's not an answer!"
I couldn't help but chuckle at her antics, but I wasn't about to let her pry Arizona out of me.
"Well, whatever," Addie said, pouring two shots—one for me, one for her. She raised hers high. "To Calliope Torres being back on land."
I rolled my eyes at the sound of my full name but clinked my glass against hers anyway. "Cheers," I said, before tossing back the shot and feeling the familiar burn settle in my chest.
Being back on land was strange. But with Addie here—and whatever lay ahead with Arizona—it was bound to stay interesting.