Beneath the badge

The White House was quieter than usual. Not silent—never silent—but subdued. Like the stillness before a storm. Abigail Monroe leaned against the window of her bedroom, watching raindrops slide down the glass like racing teardrops. The South Lawn was a sea of emerald, soaked by an afternoon drizzle, and somewhere in the distance, the faint rumble of thunder warned of more to come.

She sighed and glanced at the clock. 3:02 PM.

He was late.

Not that she cared. Not that she wanted another bodyguard trailing her every move, shadowing her like a warden with a pretty face and a badge to excuse it. She had been through seven in the past year alone. Some left because of "schedule conflicts," others because of how "difficult" she could be. None had stayed long enough to matter.

She turned away from the window and crossed the room, bare feet silent against the polished floor. Her room was large—palatial even—but never felt like home. Too pristine. Too staged. Her books, her sketchpads, her half-finished oil painting on the easel in the corner—those were the only signs that someone actually lived here.

A soft knock at the door startled her.

“Come in,” she said automatically.

The door creaked open, and Agent Tucker, one of the senior Secret Service supervisors, stepped inside. His suit was immaculate, but his eyes carried the weight of exhaustion. “Abigail, this is your new security detail. He’ll be with you full-time, including offsite events.”

Abigail raised a sceptical brow and turned her attention to the man who stepped in behind Tucker.

He was tall—over six feet—with broad shoulders and a stance that screamed discipline. His uniform was crisp, freshly pressed, with a single row of medals that hadn’t yet had time to gather dust. His dark hair was military short, his jawline sharp enough to cut stone. But it was his eyes that caught her attention: steel-grey, focused, but hiding something deeper. A softness. A hesitation. Like he wasn’t sure if he belonged here.

“This is Lieutenant Nathaniel Ward,” Tucker said. “Just graduated from West Point. Special Forces training, highest marks in his unit. The President personally signed off on his assignment.”

Abigail gave a slow, assessing look, arms crossed. “Another soldier to watch the President’s daughter. How original.”

Nathaniel didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to watch you, ma’am. I’m here to protect you.”

“Same thing,” she muttered.

Tucker gave her a warning glance. “Play nice, Abigail.”

She hated when they used her first name like that. Like it gave them more control. “I’ll try if he does.”

Tucker turned to Nathaniel. “You’ll receive the schedule and security protocols shortly. Until then, stick with her. And remember—you represent not just this administration but the entire force.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathaniel said crisply.

Tucker left, and just like that, it was only the two of them.

Silence stretched between them like a drawn wire.

“So, Lieutenant,” she said, moving back to the window. “You got a thing for babysitting?”

Nathaniel’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile threatening. “Not particularly.”

“Well, at least you’re honest.”

He stepped forward, maintaining a respectful distance. “Miss Monroe, I know you don’t want me here. I probably wouldn’t either if I were you. But I’m not going anywhere.”

She turned to look at him. “Why?”

He blinked. “Why what?”

“Why take this assignment? You could’ve gone anywhere after graduation. You probably wanted field duty, right? So why me?”

Nathaniel hesitated. “Because I don’t believe in saying no to a call of duty. And your father made it very clear this was important to him.”

Abigail scoffed. “Of course he did.”

There it was—that bitterness. That constant wedge between her and the man sitting in the Oval Office. Everyone else saw President Jonathan Monroe as a leader, a patriot, a hero. She saw a stranger who happened to share her last name.

Nathaniel studied her, not with the cold detachment of the other agents but with something different. Curiosity, maybe. Compassion.

“You hate this life,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Lieutenant. You’re new here. Don’t assume you know anything about me.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I’d like to.”

That caught her off guard.

Most people didn’t want to know her. Not really. They wanted to know the First Daughter. The soundbite version. The headline version. The girl who wore designer gowns at charity galas and smiled for the cameras like she actually wanted to be there.

She watched him for a moment longer, searching for an ulterior motive in those storm-gray eyes. But there was none. Just sincerity. Steady. Unapologetic.

Dangerous.

She turned away again. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

The room grew still again, save for the rain tapping against the windows.

“Fine,” she said at last. “But if you’re going to follow me around like a lost puppy, you’d better keep up.”

“Always do.”

She glanced back at him and for the first time, allowed herself a small smile. Barely there. Gone before it fully formed.

Maybe this one would last longer than the others.

Later that evening, Nathaniel stood silently behind her at the East Room reception—a diplomatic gathering hosted by her mother. Abigail wore a gown of deep sapphire, her hair swept into a loose updo that looked effortlessly regal. She smiled for the photographers, shook hands with ambassadors, laughed at jokes from men twice her age. But Nathaniel could see it—the stiffness in her shoulders, the forced curve of her lips.

She was acting.

And she was good at it.

He kept his position, never more than a few feet away. Eyes scanning, ears tuned. Always alert. Always watching.

But not just for threats.

He watched her, too.

The way her fingers curled tightly around her clutch when a journalist cornered her. The way her gaze lingered on the grand piano in the corner, like she was remembering a different life. The way she slipped away after forty minutes, unnoticed by most, but not by him.

He followed her out into the hallway, catching up just as she reached the balcony overlooking the gardens.

“I didn’t give you permission to follow,” she said without turning.

“Didn’t need it,” he replied.

She exhaled, folding her arms. “Tell me something, Lieutenant. Is your entire personality ‘stoic soldier,’ or do you have layers under all that posture and duty?”

“I have layers,” he said calmly. “But not all of them are safe to share.”

That made her glance back.

“I should probably warn you,” she said. “I don’t fall easily. Especially not for uniforms.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

She stared at him, long and hard, as though trying to decide whether she wanted to break him or trust him. Maybe both.

“Good,” she said at last. “Let’s keep it that way.”

But something in her chest betrayed her. A flicker. A spark. One she hadn’t felt in a long time.

And standing there, under the white marbled arch of the presidential balcony, with rain still clinging to the stone and thunder fading into silence, Abigail Monroe had the terrifying thought that this one—this quiet, disciplined, maddening soldier—might be the first crack in her carefully guarded world.

And if she let him in…

She might not be able to push him back out.