"No."

"You didn't even hear me out!"

"I don't need to. It's a stupid idea. Now go back to your room and go to bed." 

Logan sprang to his feet and started towards the door. But I was faster (for once) and threw myself in his path, my arms spread out to block his way. As though that would stop him. But he did halt, and his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

"Where is this coming from?" All his good mood had drained from his face. 

"I just think it's important for me to know how to fight. What happens when you're not there one day?" 

His eyes might've softened upon hearing that, but they were still too guarded for me to tell. Logan leaned forward and cupped my chin between his fingers.

"Sparrow," he said, "I'll always be there to protect you."

"Touching," I answered wryly, pushing his hand away. "But you won't. I've been through a dozen bodyguards. With each and every one of them, there was always one fatal moment where they weren't there. Things didn't go well after those moments. Lots of fires. Do you want to be responsible for the destruction of our national parks?"

"That won't happen with me."

"Ooh, didn't know you were a gambler, Cross. And with my life too!" 

Darkness flashed in that gaze and I felt like we had transported back three years when we first met each other. I recognized the tension in his jaw. Without needing to look, I knew that his hands were balled into fists. I struck a nerve. 

"Why are you asking me, Sparrow?" 

"You're my friend." 

"Oh? When did we make that upgrade to our relationship?"

"Uh, just now."

"Without my input? How undemocratic of you."

I splayed my fingers against my collarbone. "Monarch."

For a moment, it seemed like our banter suspended Logan's irritation. But it was temporary -- his faint smile dropped as quickly as it had appeared, and he shook his head. 

"I'm not a certified. I'll contact someone at CSD and --"

"No!" That came out more forcefully than I wanted. "It has to be you and you can't tell anyone."

Logan arched a brow, the frown on his lips deepening. Realizing I was suddenly close enough to smell the scent of his shampoo, I stepped back. It's alright, maybe he didn't notice the obvious desperation in your voice.

"Sparrow, is there something I should know?"

Of course he noticed. People in Mongolia probably noticed. 

Logan moved towards me, slowly backing me against the frame of the door. He remained a respectful distance, but something about his demeanor told me he could easily put a stop at any attempt of running away. 

I kept my lips pressed together and crossed my arms in front of my body. I'd intended to hold his gaze, but his eyes were too piercing, too unnerving and I lowered mine to the floor. Guess I wasn't all that good at staring contests after all.

"I'm not going to help you unless you tell me everything."

I bit down on my tongue. 

"If you don't, I'll ask your mother what she thinks of this idea."

"Guess I'll add 'tattletale' to your list of nicknames," I sneered. I don't have to delve into the details. "Fine. It's a royal decree that members of the family cannot engage in any physical or combative training." 

"Hold on." Logan dipped his head. "That's not right -- my father has told me countless of stories of him and Prince William in the field."

"Well, that was before a certain somebody ruined it for everyone. And no, before you guess, it wasn't me," I said when I saw Logan opening his mouth. "It's a rule that the queen and my mother enforce zealously, and I know Captain Cross has all agent interactions with me documented quite extensively. So it can't be someone else at CSD."

A little bit of color seeped from Logan's face at the mention of his father. "And you think I'm someone willing to bend these rules for you?"

"We're best friends!"

"Oh, now we're best friends."

"Okay, look. You're my bodyguard. It's expected that we spend a lot of time together. You're also the biggest square I've ever come across, and your undying loyalty to rules is probably the first impression of everyone who comes across you. Nobody expects you to do this."

"Thank you for those flattering comments about. me, Your Highness, but you didn't answer my actual question." 

"What do you mean?"

"You're telling me why I would be the obvious choice. I want to know why you think I would say yes. It's a royal decree, Sparrow. I'd be jeopardizing my career and possibly my father's just to teach you to throw some punches." 

Huh. Now that he brought it up, I hadn't actually spared a second to think about whether or not Logan would say yes. Just barely a month ago, I swore up and down that he would be the kind of bodyguard to skip to the queen's office just to report that I had an extra serving of pancakes for breakfast. But in all my rushed thinking, it didn't even occur to me that Logan could say no. It wasn't a possibility. 

Oh, I realized. I trust him now.

"I just thought you'd care about my safety more than some rules," I confessed quietly, "even royal ones." 

Logan didn't say anything. He proceeded to not say anything for a while. The two of us stood with a heavy silence in the air, and before long, an aching flared up in my calves. 

When it seemed like he was never going to speak again, I peeled myself away from the door frame.

"Forget I even asked," I said, starting out the door. 

"You don't even realize what you're asking for, Sparrow," sputtered Logan.

"Yeah, I get it, your career isn't worth teaching me a few punches--"

It all happened before I could draw my next breath. Logan closed the distance between us by seizing my wrist and pulling me back, but his leg hooked around mine. The next thing I knew, my head was a few inches away from the hardwood floor, and Logan was hovering over me, keeping me perfectly balanced in his arms. 

"You think it's just a few punches that saved your life?" Logan asked. "It's hours of this, Park. Hours of being knocked down, again and again. Of being punched at, tossed over, and beaten black and blue until you develop the desperation needed to fight back. Can you handle that?" 

Logan didn't wait for answer. He dragged me up as easily as he had knocked me down, but he then spun my body against the wall. His palms slammed on either side of me, reminding me oh-so-subtly that he was much, much bigger than me. 

But his arms were steady, lacking tremors of anger or frustration. And his eyes, dark as they were, held nothing behind them. 

"It'll be this," said Logan, his voice even quieter out in the hall, "over and over again. After years of psychological and emotional damage, now you want me to physically hurt you so you can learn how to punch or two? You'll be lucky enough not to break your fingers." 

"If I didn't know any better," I said slowly, finally understanding why he was against this, "I'd say it sounded like you're scared of hurting me."

"Of course not, Park."

"Hmm, I could've sworn after our second year when I punctured the wheels of your car, there was definitely murder on your mind."

His struggle to fight down his smile caused my own expression to lift. "Homicide is a different category altogether," he rationalized. "That's a one and done crime. But hitting you night after night -- well, it feels morally worse, doesn't it?"

"Pity. You see, the feeling is not mutual. I've been fantasizing about punching you for years." 

Logan scoffed. "You're going to have to wait at least ten years before you can land a blow on me, princess." 

"I've punched you three times at the academy." 

"Those don't count." He stepped back. "You had a civilian advantage."

The stiffness of his shoulders was gone. Though he'd miraculously kept any sign of a smile off his lips, there was a familiar glimmer in his eyes. "This is you agreeing to help me, right?" I double-checked. 

A minute passed. 

"After you heal," Logan begrudgingly said, "I'll start teaching you some basics." 

Holy shit. I did it. I actually did it. 

A sense of giddiness bloomed in my chest as I fully realized that: (1) I'd convinced Logan Cross, the embodiment of law and order, to break a royal decree; and (2) I was finally going to learn how to fight.

"Stop smiling." Logan ran a hand through his hair. "Seriously. It's not as fun as you think it is. And if you think you're sore now, wait until we start --"

"Thank you," I blurted. "Thank you, Logan."

"Yeah, yeah." Logan averted my eyes as he stalked past me, his hands tucked into the depths of his pockets. "Let's get you back to your room, Sparrow." 

Feeling quite proud of myself, I happily followed along, no comments made. It was only when we reached the fifth floor that I remembered the bento box, abandoned and uneaten in Archer's room. But excitement had replaced the hunger in my stomach. 

No more being a damsel in distress. I wasn't going to live like some fragile doll being hauled from safe house to safe house any longer. No one was going to have to buy me time again. 

Once again, Logan and I found ourselves facing one another in front of our doors. I hesitated, a question forming on the tip of my tongue. The better part of my brain whispered, Close the door, Park. Don't give him a chance to change his mind.

Logan tipped his head to me in the form of a silent 'goodnight,' and I couldn't help but call out, "Can I ask why?" 

Logan paused, his door half open. "Why what?"

"Why did you change your mind?"

He blinked slowly, his face betraying no answer as he took his time forming an answer. Then, in a voice so low I had to strain my ears to hear him, Logan said:

"It's like you said: I care more about you than following some stupid rule." 

He quickly darted inside his room right after, his door falling into its frame with a loud bang! No 'goodnight' or 'sleep well' was uttered. The quietness of the hall was momentarily interrupted by the resounding click of the lock on his door and then it was back to silence. 

It didn't occur to me then that Logan had omitted a word. 

I just thought you'd care more about my safety. 

* * *

True to his word, Logan waited until I was healed. It took a week for the concussion symptoms to fade, and another for the soreness to ease off. During that time, it was like our conversation never even happened. He never mentioned it once, even during the moments where it was just the two of us heading back to our rooms, and I started wondering if he changed his mind. 

It wasn't until earlier this morning did any indication of that agreement resurfaced. Jasper had been running late for one of his tutoring sessions and in the middle of a mad and desperate dash to the library, slammed right into my side. 

Logan was the one to steady me and ask if my arm hurt. See, last week, I probably would've had to ice my arm upon Jasper's impact, but now, my cousin was back to feeling like an April breeze. When I told him just as much, it was the look of utter dread in his eyes that told me our arrangement was still fresh in his mind. 

And now:

Good evening. Preparations for tonight's lesson are all set. Please meet me in my room in five minutes. Thank you. 

Ah, yes. I loved it when a guy texted like he was a 100-level college professor. 

I hopped off my bed, my gym shoes double-knotted, which I regretted, since my socks were starting to slide down my heels. It was a little bit after nine at night -- the hallways were already dimmed down to the limited glow of candlelight. I knocked on Logan's door, and on the third rap, it swung open. 

Logan was frowning. His hair was darker and wetter than usual, the brown strands clinging to the nape of his neck and jaw. A towel was propped around his shoulders, soaking up the droplets dripping off his chin and ears. 

"What does five minutes mean to you?" he grumbled. 

"Whoops," I said. "I guess I was a little excited."

With an exasperated sigh, Logan stepped aside, allowing me to venture forth into his room. Someone had been doing a little bit of Extreme Make-Over: Home Edition. The bed was pushed up against the wall closest to the door, a gray birch bench neatly tucked at its side. Crammed int he same corner were two nightstands, their accompanying lampshades looking dangerously close to teetering off the edge. A dresser had been forced into a nook in the parallel corner, stationed by two blue accent chairs. The result was a vast empty space in front of the balcony doors, the curtains drawn back to flood the large gray floor rug left on the hardwood with pale moonlight. 

"Do some stretches," ordered Logan while he headed into his bathroom. I did not think it was necessary to tell him that I'd spent the previous fifteen minutes following a warm-up tutorial on YouTube -- and you can't tell him either. 

When Logan reentered the room, the chocolate shade of his hair was noticeably more pronounced due to a half-assed attempt to dry it. The dark blue t-shirt he wore showed signs of dampness on his shoulders. His hands were tugging on a pair of black training gloves that left the length of his fingers exposed.

He stopped in front of me and took out another pair of gloves out of the pockets of his black joggers. Gingerly, Logan picked up my wrists and slid the material over my hands, taking his time to ensure that the fabric was aligned properly along my knuckles. 

"You just always carry a back-up pair of training gloves for any girl, Cross?" I joked, partly in an attempt to distract myself from his hands on mine. 

"These were my old training gloves," he explained with the frown still on his lips. "I was hoping they'd fit you but . . ."

They did not. Despite him pulling the Velcro-strap as tightly as possible around my wrist, there was still plenty of wiggle room, enough that the gloves could slide off my hands at any angle.

"Well, it's not like you can waltz into the chamber and request a woman's pair, right?" I asked, waggling my fingers. 

Logan didn't seem like he was in the mood to joke tonight. He stepped back without saying much, his eyes sizing me up, his lips curling in distaste. 

"Sparrow, are you sure you want to do this?"

I sighed. "No, you're right, I'm not sure. It's not like I showed up five minutes early because I was excited or anything. When have I ever been on time for anything?"

Logan furrowed his brows. "You're actually quite punctual--"

Oh, my god. Without thinking much about it, I threw a punch at his shoulder. Not as an attempt to kickstart the lesson, but purely to shut him and his obvious attempt at derailing the session up. But my fist never reached him.

Logan's fingers instantly clamped around mine and he kept my hand just centimeters away from his body, the corners of his lips lifting as he looked at me. 

"Alright, princess, if you're dead serious on this," he said. "First things first then -- I need to perform an assessment on you."

Without another word, Logan pushed me back and then struck. I dodged to the left, my feet skidding. My balance was already off. Logan didn't pause, already delivering another blow. And another. His strikes were controlled and precise, but relentless, and he didn't hesitate to approach me from whatever angle he could. I found myself backing up more and more. I had no time or opportunity to hit back -- all of my focus was on tracking his hands. 

Logan pulled his arm back and threw it right at my face. My back was against the fireplace. There was nowhere to move. Except down -- so I ducked. 

Oh, an opening! I thought before trying to punch him in his abdomen. But once again, Logan caught my wrist. He twisted it against my chest and then pinned me against the mantle. 

"Nice," he praised. Wow, a lot of nerve on this guy, blatantly lying to my face like this. 

I was out of breath, unable to control the heaving of my chest. Meanwhile, my bodyguard remained composed, not a hair out of place. 

Logan released my hand and stepped back. "You have good reflexes," he noted. "And your quick thinking is still intact under close-range combat. But you seem to be stuck in defense mode."

"Gee, I wonder why I asked you to train me."

Logan rolled his eyes before gesturing me to come closer with two fingers. Still panting, I resumed my previous stance on the rug, struggling to even out my breaths. 

"Tell me what you were thinking while we fought," Logan asked. 

"Not much," I admitted. "There was just too much going on, I ended up just focusing on your hands."

Logan was, surprisingly, a humble teacher. Rather than mocking my answer, he only nodded understandingly. "That's on me. Normally, trainees would accomplish and fortify their defensive moves and footwork before proceeding to combative lessons. It prevents them from being so overwhelmed. But I don't know how much I have to train you, so . . ."

Once again, he lashed out with no warning. I swerved to avoid it, inadvertently stepping back to move out of his range. 

Logan shook his head. "You keep moving back and losing your ground," he said, returning to his starting stance, his knees slightly bent over his dirty sneakers, "which isn't bad, but you'll never learn how to fight that way. Try and hit me. I'll show you what to do."

I tried. I threw a punch, but Logan naturally side-stepped it. He then seized my forearm and yanked me forward, stopping me just a millimeter away from his raised knee, which was positioned against the tip of my stomach. 

"When your opponent is on the offensive, remember that they are putting themselves in your range. They are extending a part of their body to you." On the word 'extending,' he ran his hand up and down my arm. "That makes them vulnerable. Take advantage of that." 

Logan let go and stepped back. He gave me about three seconds to prepare myself before he lunged forward. Instinctively, I wanted to step back, but his advice resounded in my head. Instead, I moved forward and tried to grab ahold of his arm like he did mine. Logan dodged me, but he was smiling now. 

"Good," he said. "Again."

It became hours of this cycle. Logan would attack, backing me up against the wall. On the offhand chance that I managed to counter his first blow and strike back, Logan would immediately seize my wrists, ending the round. 

Sweat was gathering on the back of my neck and forehead, causing the strands that had fallen out of my ponytail to cling to my face. My posture was failing -- I kept slumping very time I stood up, and by midnight, my arms were concrete blocks at my side. 

"Again." 

I blew out a breath and repositioned myself, grounding my weight into the soles of my feet and bringing my fists back up. I blinked once. Logan swung. I shuffled to the right. He turned on his feet without missing a beat and used his other arm to deliver a blow. 

This time, I somehow grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward me. Logan countered this by leaning his weight backwards, pulling me along with him. But rather than try to fight against the sudden push of gravity, I leaned into it and planted my fist against his chest. 

Logan stumbled back, coughing. 

"I'm so sorry!" I gasped, bringing my hands up to cover my face. "I didn't mean to hit you! I didn't even realize--"

"It's okay," Logan laughed. He was actually laughing. As he waddled over to his desk, there was a big smile on his lips. "I thought you've been fantasizing about hitting me."

"I had to tweak that dream a little since you did tell me it would take, what was it again, ten years to land a blow on you."

"I never said that."

He tossed a bottle of water at me. After I caught it, I saw that my fingers were trembling. In fact, my whole body was shaking. I couldn't tell whether it was from excitement, shock, or exhaustion. Probably all three. 

I couldn't open the bottle cap. My fingers kept slipping, failing to apply the proper tension to twist it open. 

"Hey." Logan's voice was soft as he took me by my arms and steered me over to the edge of gray bench. He ended up opening the bottle for me, and while I downed the content, he started removing the glove on my hand. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not used to training new recruits at all. You have to tell me when I'm pushing you too hard." 

And here I thought he was holding himself back. "Are you ever involved in training?" I asked. 

"Not really," he shrugged. "On the occasional holiday that I'm here and have time, my father will assign me a mid-level recruit to spar with. And I have worked with new recruits before, but for the most part, I'm out in the field. I think my fighting style is a little too intense for beginners. 

There was no doubt a spar with Logan Cross made for an excellent, albeit probably unintentional, weeding method. I imagine half the roster dropped out after one session. 

"How do you like it, being out in the field?" I took another swig of water. 

Logan stilled his body, his arms dropping to his lap. As the seconds flew on by, his eyes bore into the floor beneath his shoes, as though the hardwood panels would reveal an answer to him the more intensely he stared. Had he never been asked this before? 

Come to think of it, Logan rarely spoke about his experience as an agent. When he did, his own retellings were pretty morose and heavy, compared to the hymns that the papers sang of his accomplishments.

"Truthfully?" he finally said, his voice full of hesitations. "I . . ."

But then he quickly cleared his throat, snapping himself out of his daze. "It's the best experience. I wouldn't give it up for anything," he decided to say. His fingertips were digging into the fabric of his sweatpants. 

"That's what Archer used to say," I revealed, unprompted. Logan jerked his head my way, his eyes wide with disbelief. 

I wasn't quite sure why I said that. I hadn't said Archer's name out loud in seven years, not just out of pain, but also because no one was around to listen. It was always too painful for my mother. It was too burdensome to unload on the literal child that was Jasper. And it may not have even happened if the queen had anything to say about it. 

The only person who sat with me in Archer's room was my father, who never flinched when he spoke fondly about his favorite memories of us. He never hesitated to say "yes" when I asked him if my brother was ever going to come home. But my father's princely duties called him halfway around the world too often, and after about three months, it got a little too lonely sitting in that dark room all by myself.

But something was possessing me to talk. I think it was a profound desire to show Logan that it was okay for him to feel something negative about his job.

"Every time he advanced in his training, he would come home and talk to me all about it. How it made him feel like someone that was going to make a difference." I half-laughed, half-choked. "I think he wanted to be a field agent more than he wanted to be a prince."

For centuries, it was a dearly-held tradition for members of the royal family to learn combat ever since the First War. It was considered honorable for a ruler to lead their soldiers into battle. And even after traditional battles faded from history, it just made sense that a monarch should know how to protect their livelihood on their own. 

"Archer was enrolled in self-defense lessons when he was five," I said. "By the time he was thirteen, he was considered a prodigy in hand-to-hand combat, as well as a feared sharpshooter. Even the queen was impressed. And then . . ."

I bit down on my lip. "One day, Archer and I were attacked at a polo match. A lot of people that day got hurt, including our bodyguard, who ended up dying. Honestly, even though he was just fourteen, Archer could've helped. But he wasn't allowed to. We were dragged to a safe room and kept there until the situation was over with.

Archer got into a huge argument with the queen after that. She told him his skills weren't for playing hero, they were for protecting the royal family and its legacy. The next morning, he was gone. All he left was a note saying he was 'off to play hero' and no one's heard from him since. The queen issued the no-combat rule a week after."

I lifted my eyes to meet Logan's. "This whole agent thing -- it took him away from his home and his family. Archer could be dead. He could've died the day he left and I will never know."

My voice cut off for a moment. I could barely offer Logan a smile. "So, you don't have to lie around me. I promise I won't tell on you if you complain about work."

Logan's lips were slightly parted, having been that way once I mentioned the polo incident. There was a certain tension about him, like he was dying to move from his spot on the bench. 

His arm reached out at one point, like he was going to wrap it around my shoulders and pull me close to him. But ultimately, his palms rested back down on the bench. 

"It's not a lifestyle without sacrifices," Logan began. "There are plenty of days where I wish I'd never joined. I've missed out on the happier moments of my life just so I could be haunted by the worst days of someone else's. But . . . I don't know. It's worth it. People get to go home because of me. And now I get to . . ."

I tilted my head, gesturing him to continue with a push from my knee against his. "Now you get to what?"

Logan's answer came from his eyes. He didn't say anything, but his gaze was gentle, affixed to mine with an attentiveness that made my cheeks warm. All that hardness from before was gone. In the dim golden lighting of the lamps in the room, Logan had never seemed softer.

He never did answer. Instead, Logan cleared his throat and got to his feet, holding his hand out for me. The vulnerability was wiped clean from his expression. With his movement towards the door, our training session was concluded for the night. 

Despite the short distance, Logan walked with me to my own door. "Make sure to stretch before you sleep so your muscles don't cramp up," he said. "And put pillows under your legs again."

"Yes, yes, I know," I cut in. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Logan snorted. "I just want to make sure you don't show up tomorrow begging me to go easy on you because your legs hurt. Because I won't."

I perked up at the mention of the next session. I thought maybe he scared himself off today. Or maybe I did. It was a little depressing talking about your missing (and possibly dead) older brother as a cool-down topic. 

With a keen smile, I asked, "Same time tomorrow?"

Logan's eyes flickered down to my lips, lingering for a moment before he turned away, almost cursing himself under his breath. My fingers came up to touch my mouth, expecting a cut or something for that kind of reaction, but nothing was out of place. Logan was already heading into his room, his back turned to me so I couldn't see his face.

But just before he closed his door behind himself, Logan answered, "It's a date."