enemies to lovers with jack schlossberg slowburn asf

t h r e e

The room was silent between you and Jack for some time. Your tinted glasses cast a darker view, but you stood firm and unwavering. Jack occasionally glanced your way, though only briefly. However Jack, now seemed tired and more relaxed. He had stopped pacing around and was slumped on the couch.

Your phone buzzed with an alert. A message instructed you to update Jack on the condition of the man he had assaulted.

You removed your glasses to read it. The man was alive, sustained by machines.

A beating heart was a good sign; it was a positive development.

With your phone in hand, you considered whether to inform Jack, who appeared at ease on the couch. Fidgeting with the phone, you showed the message to the other agents.

They nodded in acknowledgment. You pursed your lips, still debating whether to tell Jack. The tension in the air was still there regardless of how long time has passed.

Why the nerves? You were an agent, trained for situations far more intense than this. But that man, that boy; Jack had called you nothing more than a hired hand, and his words clearly were stuck into mind, casting doubt and hitting nerves.

Did you want to prove his point? How could you? You were simply doing your job. The protocol was clear, and following it was second nature to you. But something about this felt different, more personal.

Your job.

This was your job.

Your assignment.

The job you chose, right?

The one you had worked tirelessly to achieve, with countless hours of study and effective training. You didn't earn your degree and train tirelessly to get here for nothing.

Every challenge you faced had prepared you for this moment into the white house and yet, the hesitation ate at you.

Why so hesitant?

An agent nudged your shoulder, breaking his stance as he cleared his throat dryly.
You jumped, startled as he pulled you out of your thoughts. "Shit," you muttered under your breath, still holding your glasses in one hand and the device in the other.

Though the agent kept his eyes firmly on Jack, you could tell he was urging you to speak with him. You nodded professionally and then stepped away from the other guards, shuffling toward the couch where Jack had slumped.

Oh, how sweet the sight was. Jack Schlossberg, the prince never crowned king, the failed son of the president, lay sprawled on the brown chesterfield sofa.
His mind was strung out from the molly and cocaine he had consumed. He looked a mess. His eyes were closed, but he didn't appear completely asleep; he was just slumped, lost in a drug-induced haze. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a now sweaty chest, and his shoeless feet were clad only in simple white socks.

You sighed and bit your lip, an anxious habit you couldn't quite shake, along with picking at your nails. Why on earth did you feel nervous? The president's son was a pretentious asshole, and he was more than likely going to show you that.

Someone was in the hospital fighting for their life because of him.

You frowned at the thought. "Get up," you commanded firmly.