Night fell steadily. Maids came and went, some simply passing by while others stopped at the door. They all left the same way, with a glance at the door before going off to attend to their duties. Even Helman came by, bearing a tall pitcher of water and a bag of potato chips on a platter that was far too luxurious for such a basic snack. After a single knock and no answer, he glanced at Roger, left the tray by the door, and went away.

Roger didn't leave. As shadows stretched across the plush carpet, and the mansion grew silent, he stayed in one position, his eyes trained ahead. But, try as he might, he couldn't focus. His attention was on the door next to him, the silence that was on the other side. It had been hours since Angela went in there and she had not come out since.

A few times, he'd contemplated going in without warning, just to make sure she hadn't done anything stupid. Even though he knew Angela was made of tougher stuff, it was clear that the explosion had shaken her. Much more than she was willing to let show. Roger had seen straight through her tough facade, which is why he hadn't felt the urge to move from this spot, even though he knew he very well could.

He had also noticed that Angela's mother had not stopped by.

Shifting from one leg to the other, he ignored the stab of pain in his abdomen. He didn't have to look down to know that there was a small splotch of blood steadily growing large in the side of his shirt. He should take care of it, he knew, but it was also a small wound. He couldn't drag himself away from the door long enough to do that. Perhaps later, when he was certain that Angela was fine and she had fallen asleep.

He grimaced at the thought, then shook his head. It was fine for him to be worried. She was instrumental to the mission. Without her, everything would fail. It was only natural that he would be worried.

As if on cue, he felt his burner phone buzz in his pocket. Checking down both directions, he pulled it out. It was Tamela.

He barely had the phone to his ear before she screeched, "Why did I have to hear about a freaking explosion from Matthew?"

Roger cringed away from the phone, sighing inwardly at the mention of the man who had brought the car earlier. "Matthew is a bit of a loose tongue, you know," he murmured, crossing over to the other side of the hallway. Facing Angela's room door now, with his voice nothing more than a whisper, he went on, "You shouldn't trust a word from his mouth."

"That would be easy to believe if it wasn't for the fact that the explosion is on every new channel in the country," Tami seethed. "Don't you think this is something I should know about?"

"You were going to find out anyway."

He could almost imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "God only knows why I put you on this mission," she murmured.

Roger couldn't help the smirk, even though he wasn't in the playful mood. "Because I'm the best. You know it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. And the girl?"

He lifted his eyes to the door. "None the wiser."

"Good. Keep it that way—" Tami went on, but Roger was done listening. The door cracked open and Angela slipped out. She seemed unaware of his presence as she looked down at the platter of water and chips.

Roger ended the call in the middle of Tami's sentence, watching as Angela bent to pick up the tray. Before she could come to a stand, he said, "Finally decided that you're hungry?"

She flinched, but didn't jump. Her eyes darted up to him, round with surprise before filling with annoyance. She wore nothing but a shirt that barely covered her navel and a pair of cotton shorts. It was quite cute, and something he didn't think Angela would wear to bed.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" she demanded, her voice icy. "You really didn't take Father that seriously, did you?"

"Why should I not? He is the one who is paying me, isn't he?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not in the mood for your crap right now."

When she turned away, attempting to retreat into her room, he crossed the hallway over to her. He slid to her side, taking a good look at her face. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a messy bun on the top of her head, revealing her drawn eyes and red cheeks.

"You were crying," he pointed out, a little taken aback.

She narrowed her eyes. And, he might have been mistaken but, she might have blushed. "No, I didn't."

"You cried," he pressed. Roger could hardly believe his eyes, but then he realized how foolish that was of him. Angela was still human. Any other person would have cried.

She flashed her eyes angrily at him. "Okay, fine. I cried. What is it to you?"

Roger honestly didn't know what to say to that. He was good at flirting, at making women of all ages fall for him. He was good at making people comfortable. But he hadn't a clue how to comfort an eighteen-year-old girl.

"Do you need something?" he asked, a bit awkward. But he didn't look away from her, even when her eyes filled with wariness. "I don't think those chips are going to last you for the rest of the night, considering you haven't eaten anything all day."

"Don't worry about me," she said stiffly.

She attempted to pass by him, but Roger caught her arm, his hand gentle. "There's no need to hide your fear, Angela," he told her.

Now, it seemed Angela was the one who didn't know what to say to that. Her lips parted, her eyes searching his face. He wanted her to see his sincerity, but in that moment, all he noticed was how pink her lips were.

Then she scowled. "Oh, please," she scoffed, and elbowed him to get him out of her way. Her elbow rammed right into his wound.

Roger grunted in pain, his hand shooting out to the doorknob to keep him upright. Angela's frown deepened. He tried to mask his features but she took one look at him, rested the platter on a nearby table, and came back with her arms crossed. "Let me see," she demanded.

"Don't worry about it." Roger straightened and grinned, even though the entire left side of his body was exploding with pain.

Angela ignored him. She reached for his shirt and tugged it from the pants.

"Whoa there," Roger said in surprise. "If you wanted to get me naked, sweetheart, you only need to say so."

"Say one more word and I'll jam a finger right into it," she muttered, her voice utterly calm.

Another quip was on the tip of his tongue, but he said nothing, only watching as she lifted the shirt to reveal the small slice in his side. It was red and angry, amidst many other scars that had long since healed. Roger thought it was caused by one of the flying pieces of the car when he'd thrown himself over Angela, but he couldn't be sure.

Her face was utterly still, but Roger couldn't look away. Suddenly, he realized that none of the lights in her room were on. Only shafts of silver moonlight poured in from the windows, casting such a melancholy air that Roger held his breath. He watched as she lifted a hand to the wound, as if to touch the tender skin around it, but then drew away suddenly. And then, whatever look that had just come over her face disappeared in an instant.

She took two steps back. Roger remembered to breathe.

"Go sit on the bed," she said, turning away. She walked by the platter, switching lights on as she walked away from him. The somber air disappeared the moment the lights were on.

"My, my, what do you want me to do on the bed, little lady?" he teased. It was partly for his benefit, but it didn't snap him out of that daze he'd been as much as he was hoping.

"For the love of God, do not call me that," she said, disappearing into an adjoining room. The bathroom, he surmised.

Roger grinned and went to sit on her bed. The covers were messy, her phone laying on top. Before he could do anything else, she emerged from the bathroom with a first aid kit in her hand.

Roger lifted a brow at her. "Do you know how to use that?" he asked. "I might need stitches."

She faltered and blinked. Roger grinned. Then, she scowled.

"Don't you get tired of messing around like that?" she asked, sounding a bit weary. She sat next to him, opening up the kit. "As a special agent, I would have thought that you would be a little more serious."

"Special agent?" he echoed, lifting a brow. "Is that my new title?"

"I'm going to say yes, since we both know that you aren't a damn bodyguard."

"After NPA was disbanded, I could have easily become one. Why is that so hard to believe?"

Angela stiffened at the mention of the organization, but her movements didn't falter. She pulled out cotton, bandages and hydrogen peroxide. Basic enough, he thought.

"If you really did try to turn over a new leaf or something as a bodyguard, you would have been going under your own name," she said as she doused a large wad of cotton with the peroxide.

Roger didn't flinch when she pressed it to the wound and began to clean it. "I made a lot of enemies when I was a spy. Going under another name protects me."

She glanced up for second. "I think that's the first thing that has ever come out of your mouth that I can actually believe," she mumbled, focusing on the wound.

Her fingers were surprisingly gentle as she cleaned the wound. Roger stared at her, watching as a stray blond lock fell over her forehead in concentration.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked, her voice low.

Roger instantly knew what she was talking about. His wound. "I didn't think it was necessary," he told her.

She looked up at him, frowning. "So you planned to just stand there without taking care of it?"

"I've handled worse. And I was told to act as your bodyguard, wasn't I?"

Her sudden anger showed in the way she wrapped the bandage around his torso with force. "I'm not going to be killed in my own home, Roger. You don't have to shadow me everywhere I go just to protect me."

"That wasn't the sort of protection I was thinking about."

She looked up, eyes wide. Roger was surprised himself. He couldn't fathom why those words had come out his mouth, where they had even come from. But he was struggling to regret them.

Her eyes are like sapphires, he thought in wonder. He couldn't look away.

Angela was the one to look away first. She moved quickly, throwing everything back into the kit with alarming speed. Roger calmly watched her, even as she stood. "Now that it's taken care of, you can leave," she said stiffly. Her cheeks were the faintest shade of pink.

She didn't give him any chance to answer. Turning swiftly on her heels, she disappeared back into the bathroom. Roger stared after her for a moment before he stood.

It might be best that he left, yes. But he was left alone in Angela's room. He had to take the opportunity.

Keeping his eye on the door she'd closed behind her, he ventured to the nearest wall. He studied the items on her dresser, the standard things he'd expected to see on a girl's dresser. Then he made his way over to the bookshelf. The shelves were filled with fantasy and romance novels, once that looked oddly used. It seemed Angela used to be quite the reader back in the day.

He continued along until he spotted a smaller shelf tucked into a large nook of the bookshelf. Drawing closer, Roger realized that they were filled with records.

He drew one out, frowning at the pink cover. BTS?

"What are you still doing in here?"

Roger turned at Angela's voice. He lifted the record. "Map of the Soul? What is this? I thought they were records but..."

She made it across the room in two seconds and snatched the record from his hand. She quickly replaced it and faced him with burning eyes. "If you don't know BTS then that's completely on you," she said. "Out! Now."

"Alright, alright. Patient here, remember?"

She rolled her eyes and Roger couldn't help but grin. She wasn't as intimidating when she's angry as she thought she was. At least, not to him.

Deciding she was fine, that he no longer had any reason to worry, he nodded. "Sleep tight then." Unable to help himself, he reached out and ruffled her hair. She smacked his hand away Roger laughed.

Lifting a hand in farewell, he headed to the door. He should be able to sleep easily tonight, he knew. But tomorrow, decisions had to be made.