Bodyguard (YN x Beyonce)

Part Five

The studio was dark but alive—low lights, glowing panels, bass rumbling low under the floorboards like a second heartbeat. Beyoncé sat behind the glass, headphones on, focused and fierce. Her voice cut through the mix like silk over steel—clean, raw, haunting.

I stood off to the side, posted but invisible. At least that's what I was supposed to be.

But I couldn't take my eyes off her.

Watching her work... it was something else entirely. The way she moved her hands as she gave direction to the engineer. The way she hit every note with a precision that came from obsession, not just talent. The little sway in her hips when she lost herself in the track. That intensity in her eyes when she was chasing perfection.

It was easily the most attractive thing I'd ever seen.

And every once in a while—between takes, or as she reviewed something—she'd glance up.

At me.

Our eyes would lock. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

Enough to make the air feel thick. Enough to make my chest tighten like my heart didn't know how to beat right when she looked at me like that. Like she saw something in me I didn't even see in myself.

And when she went back to the mic and started singing again—low, sultry, almost a whisper—I swear to God it felt like the words were meant for me. Like she knew I was standing there, fighting everything. Like she knew I was one breath away from falling into something I couldn't climb out of.

Behind her eyes... there was something.

I didn't know what yet.

But it was calling me.

And maybe the scariest part was I wanted to answer it.

After a few more takes, the energy started to mellow. Beyoncé slid her headphones off, her voice still hanging in the air like smoke. She stepped out of the booth, her eyes catching mine again in that quiet, knowing way.

The low hum of the equipment filled the silence as Beyoncé turned to the engineer and said with a soft finality, "Can you give us a minute?"

The engineer glanced between us and nodded before slipping out, leaving the studio cloaked in quiet tension.

She walked over, grabbed her bottle of water, and gestured toward the lounge area of the studio. "You gonna stand all night, soldier?" she asked, teasing but soft.

I cracked a small grin. "I don't mind it."

She laughed. "Come sit."

We settled on the worn leather couch tucked in the back of the studio. The bass from the playback thumped faintly behind the glass. Beyoncé leaned her head back, eyes closed for a second like she was catching her breath.

"This place," she murmured, "feels more like home than any house I've ever lived in."

I looked at her. "Yeah?"

She shrugged lightly. "Music... it's the only thing that never lied to me. Never asked me to be smaller. Never got tired of me. It's always there. Whether I'm angry, heartbroken, in love, scared... it always knows what to do with me."

That hit. Deeper than I expected.

"Sounds like it saved you."

She opened her eyes, met mine. "It did."

We sat in the stillness of that truth. The vulnerability hanging between us like it was testing the air.

"You ever been in love?" she asked suddenly.