your relationship to the president was more complicated than anyone knew—than anyone could know. you’d spent a year spearheading his election campaigns, where every proposed speech or plan was stitched with longing looks and lingering touches that made your skin blister with heat. his wife had been none the wiser, of course, but that was then. mellie hated you now.

after you called things off, you’d had nothing but passion-fuelled make outs in the oval office, against the one window not covered by the cameras—guilt that weighed so heavily on your shoulders you’d deemed it a chronic ache, a torrent of emotions so vast and all-consuming it made your head spin, a storm only quelled by his touch.

there was a knock on the door to your apartment. the pause between each rap was all you needed to identify your late night visitor. you set down your gracious glass of red wine, brushed deft fingers over the softness of your pyjamas, ran your fingers through your hair like that would matter to him.

“mr. president,” you greeted flatly upon opening the door, too used to the secret service agents that flanked him to acknowledge their looming figures.

“i don’t like it when you call me that,” fitz tutted, his full eyebrows drawing together in a furrow that betrayed no real annoyance. a guiding hand on your shoulder coaxed you—moved you—out of your own doorway to let him in. “i can see it—that little quirk in your lip, the wrinkle in your forehead—don’t.”

“i don’t want to hear you tell me that i can’t be here, because, as you were so quick to remind me, i am the president. i can be, wherever i want to be, and right now that happens to be with you.” fitz explained calmly, his eyes never leaving yours as he loosened his tie, toed off his shoes, lowering himself onto your couch. “so. sit down. i want to talk.”