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The storm outside hit a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the cottage window, pounding against the stone walls with heavy, horizontal rain. Inside, the only light came from the deep amber glow of the wood-burning stove, filling the room with a dry, fragrant heat.
Michael was pacing. Dressed in an oversized dark hoodie and track pants, he moved with the tight, coiled energy of a caged panther. He was twenty-six, highly trained, and completely incapable of shutting his brain off. He had checked the front latch, verified the rear window, and checked the scope on his sidearm three times in the last twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, Jobe Bellingham was lounging across the small velvet sofa like he owned the entire county. At twenty-one, Jobe had a wide, broad frame and a long pair of legs that currently stretched all the way to the hearth, a thick fleece blanket draped over him. He held a steaming mug of tea in one hand, watching Michael’s restless movement with dark, brilliant eyes and a slow, wicked grin tugging at his lips.
"If you walk back and forth over that rug one more time, Michael, you're going to wear a trench straight into the floorboards," Jobe said, his voice dripping with playful amusement.
Michael didn't even turn around. "I'm maintaining active surveillance."
"You're maintaining a headache," Jobe corrected smoothly, taking a slow sip. "Come here."
"No."
Jobe set his tea down on the wooden crate serving as a coffee table. He shifted back, sitting upright against the plush cushions, and patted his lap with two deliberate, heavy thuds of his palm.
"Sit," Jobe said, his dimples flashing.
Michael stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly, giving Jobe a deadpan, heavy-lidded stare that usually made grown men flinch. "I am your close-protection detail, Jobe. I don't sit on your lap."
"Well, the sofa only fits one and a half people comfortably," Jobe reasoned with an innocent, playful shrug. "And since I take up most of it, logistics dictate that you sit on me. It’s basic spatial awareness, mate. I thought you tactical guys were good at math."
"I'm standing."
"Michael," Jobe said, his tone softening into something fond, though the playful smirk remained firmly intact. "You haven't slept in forty-eight hours. Your eyes are bloodshot and your shoulders are up near your ears. You look like a very angry, very tired cat."
"I'm perfectly fine," Michael grunted, crossing his arms over his chest.
Jobe leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking up at Michael with a dry, delighted grin. "Alright then. As the primary asset under your protection—and the guy paying the invoice—I'm issuing an official directive. It's an order, Mike. Sit down."
Michael stared at him, his mouth tightening into a thin line. "You can't order me to sit on your lap."
"I just did," Jobe said smoothly, sitting back and stretching his arms out along the back of the sofa, looking entirely pleased with himself. "Clause four of the contract: 'Client comfort and cooperation take priority.' My comfort requires my bodyguard to stop hovering like a storm cloud and rest. So, get over here. Unless you want me to come pick you up myself?"
Michael opened his mouth to deliver a lethal, professional put-down, but looking at Jobe—at those broad shoulders, the teasing warmth in his eyes, and the completely earnest effort to make him rest—all the fight suddenly drained out of him. The sheer, crushing weight of his exhaustion hit him square in the chest.
With a low, defeated sigh through his nose, Michael finally gave in. He walked over to the sofa, unclipped his holster to set it safely on the side table, and stepped up to Jobe.
"You are incredibly annoying," Michael muttered.
"And you're terribly obedient when I use authority," Jobe teased softly, his grin widening.
Before Michael could change his mind, Jobe reached out, snagged Michael by the hips, and pulled him down.
Michael landed right on Jobe's lap, his thighs resting across Jobe’s solid legs. Before Michael could even try to keep a stiff, professional posture, Jobe wrapped his long arms around Michael’s waist, locking him in close against his chest.
"See?" Jobe murmured into his hair, his voice full of smug satisfaction. "Was that so hard?"
Michael went rigid for two seconds, his brain protesting the absolute lack of professional boundaries. But Jobe was like a furnace. He smelled like cedar and warm tea, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm under Michael's side.
Slowly, helplessly, Michael melted.
He let out a long, shaky breath, letting his head drop forward until his forehead rested against the crook of Jobe’s neck. His arms crept up, his hands wrapping weakly around Jobe’s broad shoulders to hold himself steady.
Jobe’s playful demeanor instantly softened into pure, gentle care. His cheeky grin faded into a quiet, fond smile. He pulled a thick knitted blanket off the back of the couch with one hand and draped it over Michael’s back, tucking him in completely.
"There you go," Jobe whispered, his large hand coming up to gently cup the back of Michael’s head, his fingers threading through Michael’s dark hair in a slow, rhythmic stroke. "I've got you, Mikey. You can turn it off now."
"I'm still on duty..." Michael mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his cheek pressing deeper into the warm skin of Jobe’s neck.
"Sure you are," Jobe murmured with a soft chuckle, resting his chin lightly on top of Michael's head. "You're doing a brilliant job guarding my lap. Very secure."
Michael tried to muster a grumble, but he was already halfway gone. Surrounded by Jobe’s solid warmth, wrapped up in his long arms, and anchored by the steady rise and fall of Jobe’s chest, the relentless alarm bells in Michael's head finally went quiet.
The fire settled into a quiet, pulsing bed of coals. Michael had completely surrendered, his face buried so deeply into the crook of Jobe’s neck that his nose was pressed against warm skin. Every breath he took was long, slow, and heavy—the unmistakable, deep breathing of someone who hadn't slept properly in days.
Jobe sat perfectly still. One of his arms remained wrapped firmly around Michael’s waist under the thick blanket, while his other hand rested against the back of Michael’s head.
Without the sharp, heavy-lidded glare and the deadpan professional scowl, Michael looked surprisingly soft. All that intense, dangerous competence had quieted down, leaving behind an exhausted twenty-six-year-old who just needed to be held for a few hours.
A small, affectionate smile tugged at the corner of Jobe’s lips. "Look at you," Jobe whispered barely above a breath, his thumb tracing a tiny, slow circle at the nape of Michael’s neck. "Tough guy."
Michael shifted slightly in his sleep at the sound of Jobe’s low voice, a small furrow appearing between his brows. His hand tightened its grip on the fabric of Jobe’s sweater, tugging Jobe just a fraction closer.
"Still checking up on me," Jobe murmured softly. He lowered his head, resting his cheek gently against the top of Michael’s hair. "I'm right here, Mikey. Nowhere to go."
Jobe felt Michael shiver—just a faint, subconscious tremor against his chest as the room cooled slightly. Without disturbing him, Jobe reached out, snagging a second, heavier wool quilt and pulling it over both of them. Michael let out a soft, contented sigh, sinking even heavier into his lap.
Jobe relaxed back against the cushions, letting his eyes flutter shut, completely content to stay right there until morning.
The morning light filtered through the small window in soft, muted grey ribbons, pale and washed out by the thick lingering fog over the sea. The rain had finally stopped, replaced by the distant crash of waves.
Jobe was the first to wake. His legs were completely numb, but he didn't care in the slightest. Under the thick layers of wool and fleece, it was impossibly warm. Michael hadn't moved an inch, still curled up tightly on Jobe’s lap, his face pressed into Jobe’s shoulder, one hand buried in Jobe’s sweater.
Jobe smiled softly, carefully bringing his hand up to resume the slow stroke through Michael’s dark hair.
The subtle movement caused Michael to stir. He let out a low, sleepy hum, his fingers twitching against Jobe’s chest as his senses booted back online. His eyes flicked open—dark, bleary, and entirely devoid of tactical sharpness for about three glorious seconds.
He stared blankly at Jobe’s collarbone. Then he blinked, raised his head slowly, and realized three things in rapid succession:
1. It was broad daylight.
2. He was still sitting directly on Jobe Bellingham’s lap.
3. Jobe was looking down at him with a wicked, dimpled, insufferably smug grin.
"Morning, boss," Jobe murmured, his low voice raspy with sleep. "Sleep well?"
Michael’s brain instantly went into overdrive. The shock of having slept through an entire night on duty flushed a deep, sudden heat straight up his neck into his cheeks. He scrambled to sit up, trying to disentangle himself from the heavy wool blankets and Jobe’s arms.
"I—what time is it?" Michael rasped, his voice rough. He tried to move, but Jobe’s large hands stayed firmly anchored around his waist.
"It’s almost nine," Jobe said smoothly, not letting him escape just yet. "And the perimeter is completely fine. No cars, no dramatic syndicate men."
"I slept for nine hours," Michael said, sounding genuinely horrified with himself. He pushed against Jobe’s chest, trying to maintain some semblance of professional dignity. "I was supposed to rotate watch at 2:00 AM. Jobe, let me up—"
"No chance," Jobe chuckled, effortlessly keeping Michael held on his lap. "You were completely out. I think you owe me a bonus for maintaining secondary security while you took a nine-hour nap."
Michael gave him his best deadpan glare, but without his usual cold demeanor, it lacked any threat. "You're taking advantage of the situation."
"I am taking care of my bodyguard," Jobe corrected gently, his thumb lightly stroking Michael’s hip. His playful smile softened into something warm and genuinely fond. "You needed the sleep, Mike. Look at you—you don't even have dark circles today."
Michael went still, staring at Jobe. The defensive, professional walls he had built up over years of close-protection work were practically tumbling down around him. He looked at the way Jobe’s dark eyes held him—without a trace of fear or expectation, just steady, unwavering care.
Slowly, the tension drained out of Michael’s frame again. He didn't try to pull away this time. Instead, he let out a quiet, defeated sigh, resting his forehead against Jobe’s shoulder with a soft thud.
"You're a nightmare," Michael muttered into Jobe's neck.
"I'm a delight," Jobe countered, laughing quietly as he wrapped his arms tighter around Michael’s waist, burying his face in Michael’s hair. "Now, are you going to make us coffee, or am I going to have to order you to stay on my lap for another hour?"
Michael stayed buried against him for a long moment, enjoying the solid warmth just a little longer before he raised his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touching the corner of his own lips.
"I'm making the coffee," Michael said dryly. "And you're getting off this sofa so your legs don't fall off."
"Fair deal," Jobe grinned, finally loosening his grip to let Michael slide off his lap—though his hand lingered on Michael's wrist until the very last second.
The coffee was terrible, but neither of them mentioned it.
Michael stood at the small laminate counter, sipping from his chipped mug and watching the coastal fog slowly lift off the gravel driveway. He had his holster back on—properly adjusted over his shoulder—and his phone was sitting on the table, completely silent and encrypted.
Across the room, Jobe was attempting to stretch, groaning loudly as his knees popped. "I think my left leg belongs to someone else now. It’s completely lost all feeling."
"That’s what happens when you use it as a bench for eight hours," Michael said, not turning around. He took another sip, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on the horizon.
Jobe walked over, stopping right behind Michael. He didn't invade his space, but his sheer presence completely filled the small kitchen corner. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, looking down at Michael’s profile.
"You know, the team in London called while you were dead to the world," Jobe said casually.
Michael’s head snapped around, his guard instantly slam-dropping back into place. "What? Who called? On what line?"
"Your backup burner," Jobe replied smoothly, reaching into his pocket and holding up the small black flip phone. "I answered it. Don't give me that look, Mike, it was buzzing on the table and you were snoring."
"I don't snore," Michael deadpanned, snatched the phone, and checked the log. "What did he say?"
"He said the police raided the logistics firm's main office in City Thameslink at dawn. The ledger entries I decoded were enough for a full warrant. The syndicate heads are in custody, the assets are frozen, and the threat level on me is officially downgraded to zero." Jobe paused, a slow, dimpled smile spreading across his face.
"We're done, Mike. You successfully protected the asset."
Michael stared at the small screen. The job was over. His contract was fulfilled. In three hours, a transport unit would arrive to take Jobe back to London, and Michael would be reassigned to the next high-profile target, the next dark room, the next rainy safehouse.
Instead of relief, a sudden, heavy knot tightened right in the center of Michael's chest. He stared down at his coffee mug, his usual unreadable mask slipping back over his features.
"Good," Michael said softly, his voice completely flat. "I'll pack up the gear and prep the transport."
Jobe watched him carefully. The playful, cheeky energy vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by that keen, observant focus that always caught Michael off guard.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Putting the wall back up." Jobe stepped directly into Michael’s path as Michael tried to walk toward the bedroom.
"Michael, look at me."
Michael stopped, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Jobe’s chest. "I have a protocol to finish, Jobe."
"To hell with the protocol," Jobe said.
Then, Jobe did something so absurdly, unfathomably stupid that Michael’s brain completely short-circuited.
Jobe dropped straight down onto one knee on the old, dusty kitchen linoleum. Even on one knee, he was barely lower than Michael standing upright. He grabbed a random metal ring off the counter—a rusty, circular washer Michael had removed from the kitchen sink tap two days ago—and held it up with absolute, deadpan seriousness.
Michael stared down at him, his mouth slightly opening.
"What are you doing?"
"Michael Olise," Jobe declared loudly, his deep voice echoing off the tiny kitchen walls like he was delivering a speech at a gala. "You have threatened to throw me in ditches, refused my tea, judged my sleeping posture, and used my lap as an orthopedic pillow for nine hours. You are officially the worst bodyguard I have ever hired, and I think I am deeply, tragically in love with you."
Michael stood frozen. "Jobe. Get off the floor."
"I am proposing a strategic partnership!" Jobe continued, utterly unbothered, his dimples flashing as he tried to keep a straight face while holding up the rusty sink washer.
"Under clause five of the new contract—which I just invented—you are required to go on a date with me in London. At a real restaurant. Where neither of us has to check the windows for hitmen."
"You're holding a plumbing part," Michael said, his deadpan mask completely shattering into sheer, bewildered disbelief. "You look ridiculous."
"I am an archivist, Michael, I don't carry diamonds in my pocket," Jobe said smoothly, reaching up with his free hand and snagging Michael’s wrist. He didn't pull hard, just held it gently, his thumb resting against Michael’s pulse point. "I'm serious, Mike. Well—the sink washer isn't serious. But I am. I don't want to go back to London and just... leave you behind. I want you."
Michael looked down at him. The sheer absurdity of the moment—Jobe Bellingham, kneeling on a greasy kitchen floor in North Yorkshire, offering him a piece of hardware with the most earnest, warm, terrified expression in his eyes—struck Michael like a physical force.
The knot in Michael's chest completely unraveled.
A tiny, breathless laugh escaped Michael’s lips—the first real, open laugh Jobe had ever heard from him. Michael reached down, grabbed Jobe by the collar of his hoodie, and pulled him up off the floor with surprising strength.
"You are the biggest idiot I've ever met," Michael murmured, though he didn't let go of Jobe’s collar.
"Is that a yes?" Jobe asked, his hands instantly settling around Michael’s waist, pulling him in close until their chests pressed together. "Because if it’s a no, I'm going to have to get back on the floor and try a different piece of the sink."
Michael looked up into Jobe’s warm, dark eyes, feeling the steady, rapid beat of Jobe’s heart under his hands. Slowly, deliberately, Michael reached down, took the rusty metal washer from Jobe’s hand, and dropped it into his own hoodie pocket.
"It's a yes," Michael said softly, his heavy lids lowering as he finally stopped fighting it. "Now kiss me before I put you back on security lockdown."
Jobe didn't need an order twice. He grinned, bent his head down, and captured Michael's lips in a deep, warm kiss that tasted like cheap peppermint tea and complete, absolute safety.
An hour later, the transport van arrived right on schedule, its tires crunching quietly against the gravel path.
Michael stood by the open passenger door, watching the driver load the last of the tactical gear into the back. His holster was hidden beneath his jacket, his hands tucked deep into his hoodie pockets—one finger absently tracing the rough, metallic edge of the sink washer sitting at the bottom of the fabric.
Jobe walked out of the cottage last, his coat slung over his shoulder, looking thoroughly refreshed and entirely pleased with himself. He stopped right in front of Michael, blocking the cool sea breeze.
"You know," Jobe said, leaning in just close enough that his breath brushed Michael's ear, "the driver looks very professional. But I think I prefer my previous detail."
Michael gave him his signature heavy-lidded look, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth completely ruined the deadpan effect. "Your previous detail was compromised by bad client behavior."
"He was bribed with peppermint tea and a sink fixture," Jobe countered smoothly, reaching out and casually sliding his hand into Michael’s hoodie pocket, his fingers lacing directly through Michael’s. "Hardly high-level corruption."
Michael didn't pull his hand away. He just looked up at Jobe, feeling the steady warmth of his palm, the residual tension from five days on the run completely gone.
"Get in the car, Jobe," Michael murmured softly, though his grip on Jobe's hand tightened just before he let go. "I'll follow in the chase vehicle."
Jobe smiled, bright and dimpled, taking a step toward the van door before pausing to look back over his shoulder.
"Dinner on Friday, Mike. I'm picking the restaurant. And no checking the perimeter while I'm reading the menu."
"I make no promises," Michael said dryly.
Jobe chuckled, stepping into the back of the transport. As the door slid shut, Michael turned toward the driver's side of the second car, a real, genuine smile finally breaking across his face as he pulled the rusty metal ring out of his pocket, slipped it onto his pinky finger, and started the engine.