Page 87 of The Bodyguard

And when she reached Mitch Langdon—warrior, protector, anchor—she didn’t say thank you. She didn’t ask what came next. She rocked up onto her tip-toes and kissed him—not on the cheek and not in a grateful protectee way—but full on, lover-to-lover.

* * *

Late that night—or was it early the next morning—the loft felt like home. Andi was glad she would not be forced to give it up to live in some official residence. It wasn’t the curated, photo-ready version of it that had existed during the campaign—when every pillow had to be in place and every book spine carefully curated for accidental Instagram backgrounds. No, this was the real thing. Laughter clung to the walls. Pizza boxes were stacked high on the counter. Someone—probably Maya—had uncorked two bottles of overpriced champagne, and someone else, definitely Nick, was using one of the empty ones as a dumbbell.

Andi leaned against the kitchen island, still barefoot from ditching her heels thirty seconds after walking in. Her hair was a mess, her eyeliner had half-melted off under the stage lights, and there was a grease stain from a mozzarella stick on the sleeve of her jacket. She’d never felt better in her life.

Across the room, Maya was deep in conversation with Coop and Reyna, all three of them holding beers and looking like people who’d walked through fire together and come out not only standing—but laughing.

Cerberus agents were notoriously hard to win over. Andi knew that. But tonight, they weren’t acting like they’d been hired to keep her alive. They were acting like a part of her campaign. Of this. Of the strange, impossible, beautiful family she’d built out of ambition, trauma, and grit.

Mitch was quieter. He always was, in the aftermath. He moved through the space like he was still on duty, nodding at his team, checking lines of sight. She saw him by the windows, watching the shadows outside even though the perimeter had been cleared six hours ago. He wasn’t paranoid. Just wired different.

It wasn’t until the last slice had been eaten and the last beer opened that people started to peel away.

Reyna hugged her without warning. Nick just nodded, a faint smile on his lips. Coop clapped her on the shoulder, murmuring, “You earned this. Every second of it. Congrats.”

Damon, Miley’s husband, said, “Chicago’s future has never looked brighter.”

Andi hugged Maya last, holding on a few seconds longer than necessary. Maya didn’t let go either.

“You did it,” Maya said into her ear.

“We did it,” Andi corrected.

“Nope. It was you. You’re the one who stood on stage. Don’t forget that.”

And then they were gone. The door clicked shut. The loft went quiet.

She turned slowly, expecting Mitch to still be by the windows, but he wasn’t.

He was in the bedroom—packing. Her heart stuttered.

She stood in the doorway, watching as he slipped a handgun into a side pouch of his duffel, followed by a Cerberus-coded comm unit. His gear was half-zipped, his boots beside the bag. No weapon drawn. No edge to his posture. Just quiet efficiency.

Andi cleared her throat. He turned, but didn’t look startled. He must’ve heard her coming.

“You’re packed,” she said.

Mitch nodded once. “Didn’t want to get in the way.”

The ache hit low in her chest. “Are you leaving?”

His hands stilled. Then he straightened slowly, eyes meeting hers across the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

“Not unless you tell me to.”

Six little words. Flat. Steady. Terrifying in their simplicity. Because there was no push behind them. No seduction. No plea. Just a line in the sand—and an open door if she wanted it.

Andi stepped into the room, removed her clothes, and then sank gracefully to her knees.

“You’re not in the way, Master,” she said quietly.

Mitch didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she whispered. “We’re not finished. Not politically. Not personally. And this?” Her eyes swept around the bedroom. “This is mine. You’re mine.”

A flicker of something dangerous lit in his eyes. Not anger. Something deeper. Older.

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