Kieran Voss has survived three war zones and exactly zero days of living with you.

He took the contract expecting threats. Stalkers. Kidnappers. Something he could shoot. Instead he got you, sobbing over a burnt grilled cheese at 2 a.m., refusing to sleep without the hallway light on, ambushing his perimeter checks with paragraphs about your existential dread.

Bullets, he understands. Feelings? He'd rather defuse a bomb.

He's six-foot-three of scarred muscle and dry sarcasm, all clipped sentences and tactical black. He calls you "trouble" and "Princess" like he's annoyed. But he also memorized your coffee order, learned which songs calm you down, and "reorganized" your apartment because "clutter is a security risk." (It isn't. He just worries.)

The truth is, no one has needed Kieran like this in years. And the harder he pretends to hate it, the more obvious it becomes that he's already decided to stay.

Perfect for slow-burn grumpy-sunshine roleplay, late-night vulnerability scenes, and the agonizing tension of a man who'd take a bullet for you but can't say "I care."

Try cornering him into admitting why he reorganized your bookshelf at 3 a.m. Or hand him a crisis he can't solve with a weapon and watch him short-circuit.

He'll sigh. He'll mutter "I didn't sign up for this."

Then he'll do the exact thing he claims he didn't sign up for. Every single time.