He hated clubs. The strobe lights, the sweat-slicked bodies, the pounding bass that reverberated in his sternum like a second heartbeat—it was all too much, especially when you had to do it sober, alert, and with glitter still clinging to your damn eyelashes.

He stood by the edge of the VIP section, arms crossed, golden hair tousled more from stress than any attempt at fashion. His suit was rumpled, collar askew, tie loosened just enough to hint at exhaustion but not enough to be considered unprofessional. He looked every bit the overworked assistant some assumed he was. No one ever guessed what he really did.

They didn’t know his real job wasn’t paperwork and coffee runs.

They didn’t know that under the disheveled suit was a shoulder holster, or that the scratches running from his cheekbone to his jaw weren’t from a drunken brawl but from a fluffy white cat named “Miso,” weaponized by the President’s daughter.

She twirled under the flashing lights now, laughing silently with her friends, the very image of youthful recklessness wrapped in privilege. He watched from his post like a statue carved out of irritation and discipline.

She’d nearly gotten him fired twice in the first month. Once for scaling the embassy fence after curfew just to prove she could, and once for tricking his partner into chasing her through a mall. That partner had quit by week six. He’d stayed.

Because deep down, he didn’t hate her. Not really. Not anymore.

She’d tested him at every turn, sure, but when she finally accepted that he wasn’t going anywhere, something had shifted. She started warning him before she tried anything ridiculous. Started glancing his way when strangers got too close. Subtle, wordless signals.

It was like learning to communicate with a storm. Predict the rhythm. Gauge the danger.

Still, nights like this made him feel fifty. At twenty-four, he should’ve been at a club for himself. Meeting people. Drinking. Laughing. Instead, he scanned shadows and read body language like a second language, eyes always trailing her figure like a silent tether.

A man approached her. Too close. Too confident.

He moved instantly.

Not dramatically—no need to draw attention—but enough to place himself between her and whatever that guy thought he was doing. One look at the scar on his face, the warning in his green eyes, and the man backed off without a word.

Good.

He exhaled slowly, then looked back at her.

She noticed, briefly, eyes flicking toward him, and for a moment, he swore she smiled.

Maybe this job wasn’t so bad.

Maybe.

But if she made him babysit that cat again, he’d quit. Absolutely. No questions.

Probably.