The clock in the Oval Office ticked softly, counting the seconds of another late night neither of us had any excuse to prolong. The briefing I had brought was forgotten on the desk, papers stacked neatly, untouched. The real reason I was here stood across from me—President Josiah Bartlet, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, though he made no move to send me away.

I exhaled, folding my arms as if that could shield me from the weight of this moment. “Neither should you.”

A slow smile touched his lips. “You have a point.”

It was always like this—dangerous, delicate, and completely out of control. We had drawn the line a hundred times, only to step over it again and again. It was madness, this thing between us, but neither of us had the willpower to stop. Not here, not in the quiet glow of the West Wing, where the world felt smaller and the rules felt looser.

I should have said something rational. I should have walked out. Instead, I whispered, “Do you regret it?”

His expression softened, the weight of the presidency momentarily lifting as he looked at me—not as the leader of the free world, but as a man.

“There’s no room for regret,” he murmured. “Not with you.”

And as he stepped closer, the line between right and wrong blurred once more.