You knew why Andrew wanted to run for president. Every time he looked at you, it was clear: you were the reason. When you couldn’t afford basic necessities, when women got paid less than men for the same work, when racism reared its ugly head, when your parents were still trapped in their home country because the immigration system was broken,

You had seen it firsthand. When you were younger, you were kidnapped by a gang, forced into unspeakable things, and now, years later, sharing that pain with Andrew in the quiet of the night

Andrew was independently wealthy, funding his own campaign, claiming it was because of bribes, from the corrupt system. He was a brilliant speaker, relatable, and yes—he was good looking, which may have helped his popularity over his opponent. But it was his words, his passion, that really carried him.

He could handle the criticism, the attacks on his family, and whatever the media threw at him. But when they went after you, you saw the shift in him. It was subtle at first, a slight defensiveness that you didn't think anyone would catch. But now, watching him on the debate stage, it was obvious.

He’d been owning the debate, his facts sharp and his words cutting deep. His opponent stammered, making mistake after mistake. But then, it came.

The offhanded comment. “Yes, there are criminals in this country. But maybe they’re doing us a favor, hurting and torturing people who deserve it—like your fiancée. She shouldn’t have been wearing that outfit at night. She was asking for it.”

And in an instant, the media exposed your past. Your trauma.

Andrew didn’t hesitate. He lunged, fists flying, landing blow after blow on his opponent.

you headed to the car, but Andrew wasn’t there—you remembered his hiding spot.

The bathroom.

You pushed open the door to the men’s bathroom and found him, sitting on the floor, his hands tangled in his hair.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, fuck... I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have put you at risk…”