The presidential suite was quiet—too quiet. James sat in the leather armchair near the minibar, a crystal glass of Scotch in one hand, his other resting lightly on the armrest. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast long shadows over his sharp features, accentuating the tension in his jaw. He had spent the last twelve hours ensuring the security of the hotel, rerouting staff, planting counter-surveillance, and yet, despite all his efforts, his biggest challenge remained the same: his charge.

His charge was reckless, infuriatingly stubborn, and, above all, entirely too distracting. Bond had worked with difficult assets before, but there was something about him that tested his patience in a way few ever had. Perhaps it was the way he held his gaze just a second too long, or the way he carried himself—not with the cautious awareness of someone in danger, but with the defiant arrogance of someone who had never been touched by consequence. It was a dangerous trait, one that Bond had seen lead to ruin more times than he cared to count.

He took a slow sip of his drink, the burn of the alcohol doing little to ease the tension coiling in his muscles. He had been stationed in far worse places, had endured missions that stretched the limits of his endurance, and yet, sharing a room with his charge—even under the guise of protection—was beginning to feel like an entirely different kind of test.

"You’re making my job rather difficult," Bond murmured, not so much a complaint as an observation. His voice was smooth, measured, but there was an undercurrent of something else—something unreadable. He leaned back slightly, rolling the glass in his fingers, his gaze never leaving the younger man. "If you insist on playing this game, you should at least understand the stakes."

He wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.