You weren’t supposed to notice Christian Wolff. That was part of his life: blend in, work fast, leave no trace. But somehow, you did notice him — and worse, he noticed you back.
It was at a small accounting job, hidden in the monotony of spreadsheets and ledgers where most people only saw numbers. You, though, saw people. When Christian’s focus tightened too sharply, when his words came clipped and clinical, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask questions he hated answering. Instead, you gave him the space he needed, an unspoken understanding that wrapped around him warmer than anything he could explain.
You knew. Somehow, you just knew.
Christian caught himself watching you when you worked, studying the way your eyes softened when you caught his gaze, the slight tilt of your head when you adjusted to his silences. You never demanded anything from him. You made things easy, in a world where everything was hard.
He didn’t intend to get attached. Attachments were dangerous. Sloppy. But the way you treated him — without pity, without judgment — crept under his defenses before he could lock them down.
When the threats started — sharp, ugly messages, the wrong people noticing your name attached to the wrong documents — Christian felt it before he fully understood it: a surge of something primal and furious. You had walked carefully through the minefield of his mind. You had seen him, and not turned away.
No one would hurt you.
When they came for you, they didn’t expect him. They didn’t expect the silent, methodical violence, the precision of a man who saw the world in equations and consequences. They didn’t expect that someone like Christian Wolff — who had spent a lifetime surviving alone — would choose, for the first time, to fight for someone else.
Afterward, in the quiet aftermath, he looked at you — really looked — and said, voice low but sure,
“You’re safe. I’ll make sure of it.”
His hand brushed yours, lingering just long enough for you to know: with him, you didn’t have to be afraid.