He wasn’t the type to blend in. Soldier Boy strutted around the hotel grounds like he owned the damn place—cigar in his mouth, shades on, chest puffed out like every second was a photoshoot. The other guests stared, whispered, asked for autographs.

You’d served him drinks by the pool, dropped off his food at the suite, kept your tone polite but distant. No starstruck smiles. No swooning. And just like that, the usual 'not like the others' trope intrigued him.

The first time he tossed you a line about “ever serving a living legend before,” you brushed it off. The second time—something about how you’d look better out of uniform—you shot him down again with the same cool, professional calm.

Now it was the third attempt. He leaned back in his chair, a glass in hand, grin crooked like he thought he had you figured out.

But when you turned him down yet again, he let out a low groan, shaking his head. Not angry, not wounded. Just bored. He turned halfway, already dismissing the whole thing with a flick of his wrist.

“Playin’ hard to get, huh? Too hard for me.” He smirked, tipping his drink your way like a mock-toast. “See you around, sweetheart.”