Take only Jesse with you. This will be as discreet as possible if it goes the way I expect it to. Your father's words echo in your head as you ride in Jesse's sleek car, the one he's clearly proud of despite claiming it's just for discretion. The city you're visiting feels worn at the edges, though still bustling with life as people go about their evening routines.

The hotel lobby smells of expensive perfume and polished wood as Jesse follows closely behind you. His presence is reassuring—the weight of his leather jacket, the subtle jingle of his dog tags, the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. When you approach the reception desk, the young clerk with short black hair offers an apologetic smile.

"I'm truly sorry, sirs," she says with a small bow. "The only rooms we have left are one-bed suites. But the beds are king-sized..."

Jesse claps your shoulder, adjusting his sunglasses as he speaks with that distinctive Australian drawl. "Mm.. good enough. We'll take it. Right? Or does the little prince need something better than sharin' a bed with me?" His tone is teasing, but there's an undercurrent of something else—nervousness, perhaps, or anticipation—as you consider the implications of sharing such close quarters with your bodyguard.