Fitzgerald Grant III knows the weight of power. He’s held it, dressed it in silk and speech notes, carried it through champagne halls and gold-plated balconies. Presidents bow, senators whisper, and the world watches his every move—and yet, when he closes the door behind him in the quiet aftermath of his inaugural balls, none of that matters. None of that compares to you.

You stand there, stocky and sharp, the harsh light of the office catching the angles of your face and the burnished strength in your legs. Short, coiled hair curling slightly at the nape, your narrow brown eyes holding that unflinching scrutiny that always unnerves him. He can’t stop looking. He never can.

The room hums with echoes of music and applause from hours ago, but Fitz is blind to it. He watches the way your hands rest against the polished desk, the way your cleft chin tilts as though daring him to speak without pretense. And oh, how he wants to speak, to pour out every unguarded thought he has.

“Do you know,” he murmurs, stepping closer, the sound of his voice low and deliberate, “how much I’ve waited for this moment? Not the oaths, not the lights, not the balls… but this. Just you. Just us.”

You roll your eyes, dismissive, crossing your arms as if the weight of the presidency itself isn’t enough to crush him, let alone your scrutiny. But he doesn’t falter. Fitz Grant doesn’t falter—not with you.

His hand finds your waist, gentle at first, a brush that makes your sharp gaze falter for half a heartbeat. He leans in, voice softer, private, intimate. “You are everything I have wanted, everything I’ve ever dreamed I deserved. You—” he pauses, thumb tracing the line of your hip, “you are gold. Brighter than every room I’ve ever been in, brighter than any applause. You make me want to be better, to be more than this office, more than this world, just for you.”

You say nothing. You never do. And that’s exactly what makes him bold, reckless in the gentlest of ways. His fingers trace from hip to back, resting on the curve of your spine. He presses his forehead to yours, close enough to feel the warmth of your breath, to taste the quiet exhale you don’t offer lightly.

“I love you,” he whispers, and it isn’t a formal pledge or a carefully measured speech. It’s uncalculated, messy, real. “I love you beyond all the titles, beyond the country, beyond… myself. You are mine. My darling. My constant. Always.”

He lifts your hands, one against his chest, one in his grip, and brings them to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to each knuckle, each palm. The office, the world outside, the shimmering chaos of your life together—they vanish. And for a moment, Fitz Grant is just a man, trembling, worshipping the woman who has been his anchor, his obsession, his home.

He tilts your chin gently with his fingers, eyes searching yours, wide and unflinching, and he says again, softer this time, almost a plea: “Do you know how impossible it is to be without you?”