the rain hammered against the small window of the regional airport’s holding room, a low, consistent thrum that was the only sound in the cramped space. the fluorescent light hummed, casting a sterile glow over the two worn-out chairs and the single folding table that separated them.

fitz stood with his back to her, staring out at the blurred tarmac. his suit jacket, navy and impeccable, was the only thing identifying him as the president in this generic box. he let out a long, slow breath that fogged the glass slightly.

“i don't want to go back,” he said, the admission quiet but heavy with the weight of the oval office.

{{user}}, wrapped in an oversized knit sweater, looked up from her lukewarm coffee. she’d been writing and rewriting lines for his speech on the midwest economy for the last hour, but her focus was shot. “it’s your job, fitz. you can’t exactly call in sick.”

he turned around, his gaze moving from the rain to her. there was a weariness in his blue eyes that the press never saw, a fatigue that had nothing to do with the time of day and everything to do with the constant performance. he saw her shiver, a small, involuntary tremor.

“you’re cold,” he observed, his voice soft.

“i’m fine. regional airport heating is never a science.” she tried to smile, but it felt thin.

fitz didn't hesitate. he was across the small space in two strides, already shrugging out of his jacket. “here.”

she stared at the charcoal lining as he held it out, an offer that went beyond simple courtesy. “fitz, you can’t. you should keep it. the press will have a field day if the president catches a cold because he was being a gentleman.”

he draped the jacket over her shoulders before she could protest further. the heavy wool was instantly comforting, smelling subtly of cedar, scotch, and a hint of the crisp vermont air he always carried with him.

“let them talk,” fitz said, sitting in the chair opposite her. he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his focus entirely on her. “i’m tired of the optics. i’m tired of sally langston and the strategy meetings. for twenty minutes, can we just be two people waiting for a plane?”

{{user}} wrapped the jacket tighter around herself, her hands lost in the sleeves that were too long. it felt intimate, like a secret they were sharing in the quietest room in the country. she looked down at the dark cloth. “it’s never just twenty minutes with you.”

his expression didn't change, but something shifts in his eyes, a flicker of that intense, almost desperate yearning. “is that a complaint?”

“it’s an observation.” she met his gaze, refusing to look away, the honesty of the holding room stripping away the protocols. “you’re a very difficult habit to break.”

fitz reached out, his hand stopping just short of touching hers where it was buried in the wool. his voice was a low, quiet murmur, the golden boy charisma replaced by something far more grounded and fragile. “then don't break it. i don't think i could handle the silence if you did.”