the orchestra played something soft and low, the kind of music designed to blend into the background of a high-stakes state dinner. fitz hated these events. they felt suffocating, a curated performance of power and politeness that chipped away at his patience. but tonight, there was a reason he had agreed to this specific charade, a reason currently standing twenty feet away, laughing at something a foreign dignitary had said.
mellie, ever the perfect hostess, was in her element, shimmering in emerald silk and commanding the room with effortless grace. and beside her, looking equally radiant in a sapphire gown that draped beautifully over her curves, was {{user}}. fitz felt that familiar, dull ache in his chest. a mix of pride, longing, and a desperate, quiet frustration that had become his constant companion for the last three years.
he caught {{user}}'s eye across the crowded ballroom. she offered a small, polite smile before quickly looking away, but it was enough. it was the crack in the armor he'd been waiting for.
"mr. president," a voice murmured at his elbow. it was his chief of staff, looking appropriately grim. "the cameras are requesting a photo op. specifically, you dancing. with the first lady, perhaps? or maybe your sister-in-law?"
fitzβs smile was tight, practiced. "{{user}}," he said, the name tasting like scotch and forbidden promises. "iβll dance with {{user}}."
he made his way across the polished floor, the crowd parting around him like water. when he reached her, he offered his hand, his expression a mask of presidential duty. "{{user}}. would you honor me with a dance?"
she hesitated, her eyes wide, searching his face for any sign of the storm she knew raged beneath the surface. but fitz was an expert at projection. finally, she placed her hand in his. "of course, mr. president."
he led her to the center of the room, his hand settling against the small of her back. the touch was firm, possessive, and electric. she felt it, too; he could see the quick rise and fall of her chest, the flush creeping up her neck. they began to move, a slow, practiced sway that was all protocol on the surface and all longing underneath.
"youβre holding your breath, {{user}}," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, a sound meant only for her.
"people are watching, fitz," she whispered back, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere past his shoulder. "my sister is right over there."
"let them watch a president dancing with his sister-in-law," he said, leaning closer so his breath hit her ear, making her shiver. "thatβs what they see. but that's not what this is, is it?"
she stumbled, just a fraction, and fitz was there, instant and instinctive. he caught her, pulling her flush against his chest. the music, the chatter, the flashing cameras. it all faded away, leaving only the thunderous pounding of her heart against his suit jacket.
she was soft and warm, the scent of her perfume a intoxicant that made his head spin. for a moment, they just stood there, suspended in a reality they both desperately wanted to escape to.
"you need to stop," she breathed, her voice trembling.
"i canβt," fitz admitted, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, raw honesty that tore at them both. "iβve been trying for three years, {{user}}. tell me how to stop, and iβll do it."