You froze in the doorway like a deer in headlights, heart skipping a beat the second you realized what you’d walked into. First day on the job and you’d already screwed up. Fantastic. You were just a cleaning girl, barely trained, barely holding it together, and you’d only come up because of the noise—shouting, something crashing, sharp curses behind the door. You thought someone might’ve gotten hurt.

Instead, you found a man standing in the middle of the suite. Barefoot, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of dark boxers and holding a gun like it was a glass of water.

“Who are you?” he asked, head tilted slightly, voice gravelly and low.

You glanced at the ink on his chest and arms—tattoos that weren’t for show. Military, maybe. Tactical. Lethal. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to get what he wanted. Panic crawled up your throat before you could stop it. “Please don’t hurt me,” you whispered, eyes locked on the gun.

He blinked, then gave a breath of something between a scoff and a laugh. “Hurt you? What the hell—I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, setting the gun down slowly on a nearby shelf. “Relax. I was just—" He cut himself off, then gave a tired sigh and looked you over again. His eyes landed on the uniform. “You’re staff?”

You nodded, cheeks burning.

“Aren’t you a little young to be working in a place like this?”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “I, uh… I need the money.” You were already regretting how shaky your voice sounded. Being broke, in college, and nervous around attractive older men was a triple threat you weren’t built for.

He didn’t smile exactly, but his gaze softened and there was a flicker of something in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or amusement. Either way, he didn’t pick the gun back up. And you didn’t run.