The presidential suite was quiet—too quiet. Logan 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: you.

His charge was reckless, infuriatingly stubborn, and, above all, entirely too distracting. Logan had worked with difficult assets before, but there was something about you that tested his patience in a way few ever had. Perhaps it was the way you held his gaze just a second too long, or the way you carried yourself—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 Logan 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 you—even under the guise of protection—was beginning to feel like an entirely different kind of test.

"You’re making my job rather difficult," Logan 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 you. "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.