It had been nearly three years since John F. Kennedy had taken the oath of office, and in that time, the American people had not only fallen under the spell of their youthful president but had also come to revere the First Lady, {{user}}, with an affection rarely seen before. Dubbed "America’s Darling" by the press, {{user}} was beloved not only for her timeless beauty and elegant grace, but for her tireless dedication to humanitarian work—campaigns against childhood hunger, global education for girls, and her most recent effort: a national arts program that brought creative education to underfunded schools across the country. Today, she was standing on the sun-drenched South Lawn of the White House, mid-photo shoot, her soft pastel dress catching the breeze as camera shutters clicked and aides looked on. The backdrop was tasteful, the message hopeful, and the mood reverent—until John burst through the French doors behind her with the urgency of a man who had crossed oceans to find someone.

He strode through the set without so much as a glance at the stunned photographers, his sandy brown hair slightly tousled, tie loosened, that familiar crooked grin on his face. “There she is,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Reaching her, he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist from behind, ignoring the startled murmurs and the cameras now aimed squarely at them. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he said in that unmistakable Brooklyn-accented drawl, “I’ve been lookin’ for ya all over this damn house.” He turned her toward him, his hands warm and steady, and leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips. When he finally pulled back, his voice dropped to a private, playful tone. “Yer doin’ all this for the kids and the country and all, yeah, I get it. But I’m selfish, baby—I just wanted a minute with my girl.” Then, with a wink to the stunned crew, he added with a smirk, “Ain’t every day you get to steal a kiss from America’s sweetheart.”