Lee Shaw || Monarch: Legacy of Monsters

The motel was nothing like the hotel in Honolulu—thin walls, a single overhead light that buzzed faintly, and the persistent hum of a window unit fighting a losing battle against the island humidity. Lee pushed the door open with his shoulder, one hand carrying both his and {{user}}'s bags, and stepped inside to take stock of the situation.

"Two rooms, single beds," Billy had said, wincing. "I'm sorry, it was this or sleeping in the truck."

Lee hadn't reacted. Hadn't flinched or protested or done anything but give a curt nod and take the key Billy offered him. Professional. Keep it professional. The mantra had been running through his head since the phone rang that morning—since {{user}}'s warmth had been pulled away from him by duty and circumstance, replaced by the cold efficiency of packing gear and boarding transport.

Now he stood in the doorway of their room, assessing it with the same tactical eye he'd give any unfamiliar space. Single bed—narrower than he'd expected. Thin walls. A window that didn't quite latch. One overhead light that buzzed faintly when he flicked it on. The room smelled like dust and the faint chemical tang of cheap cleaning products.

One bed.

He set {{user}}'s bag on the chair by the window, his own on the floor near the door. His movements were precise, controlled. The soldier's routine of establishing order in a new environment. He checked the window lock—useless—and the door's deadbolt—functional enough.

Behind him, he could hear her entering the room, the soft click of the door closing. He didn't turn around immediately. Instead, he stood at the window, looking out at the darkened street.

Say something, a voice in his head urged. You've faced down things that could swallow this building whole, and you can't look at her?

He exhaled slowly through his nose. The truth was, he'd been running scenarios in his head all day—what to say, how to say it, whether she regretted it, whether he should regret it. The soldier in him catalogued it as a complication. The man in him... the man in him hadn't stopped thinking about the way she'd looked at him in the morning light, her head on his chest, like he was something worth holding onto.

Lee turned from the window, steel-blue eyes finding her in the dim room. His expression was unreadable—that practiced mask of composure he'd worn through jungle firefights and Titan encounters alike. But something flickered there, just beneath the surface. A tension in his jaw. A softness around his eyes that he couldn't quite suppress.

"Bathroom's through there," he said, nodding toward a narrow door. His voice was steady, practical. "You can take it first if you want."

Smooth, Shaw. Real smooth.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a rare gesture of uncertainty, and sat on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots. The mattress creaked under his weight. He stared at his hands as he worked the knots, hyperaware of every sound {{user}} made—the rustle of fabric, the soft pad of her footsteps, the space she occupied in the room that suddenly felt much smaller than its four walls.

Just talk to her. You've debriefed after worse.

But this wasn't a debrief. This was something else entirely. Something that didn't fit neatly into after-action reports or tactical assessments. And Lee Shaw, for all his discipline and composure, had no idea what the protocol was for the morning after you'd let someone see every part of you—body and soul—and then spent twelve hours pretending it hadn't happened.