You and Dean were as professional as you could be for a smoking hot POTUS and ex-hitman turned bodyguard respectively, but when you were working late, you saw his jacket on your chair and went to return it, not knowing he’d stayed up late cause you were too— he needed to protect you, he’d do that with his life. Sacrifice some sleep, too.

To protect you.

So he’d taken a shower to feel fresher while you’d reached his door, expecting him to be asleep so you could just leave his jacket and week’s pay check on the table, but he’d walked out at the same time, his eyebrows raising when he saw you in his room. You, his hot boss, were in his room. At eleven o’clock.

And oh, he looked delicious. Anyone weaker than you would’ve started drooling instantly— he had toned biceps and abs with water dripping down that torso, and he was definitely making your brain go to mush. But he was so confused — why were you in his room? — and still looking like a snack.

“Oh.” Fuck, this was awkward. Dean noted the jacket hanging from your arm, and was more self-conscious about the fact that he was currently in just a towel— in front of his boss. Oh, mama, was this a bad time, or was it a good time? He wasn’t sure.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” Ma’am, it sounded so good coming from his deep voice— and maybe he should stop staring at you in your pyjamas, because they were pretty sexy pyjamas and it was unprofessional. He was in a towel, he was in a towel, that was running through his head like clockwork.

Shit, shit.