The White House halls had quieted for the night, the usual hum of conversation and hurried footsteps replaced by the distant ticking of a clock. Papers were scattered across the table in Sam Seaborn’s office, forgotten as his attention drifted elsewhere—toward the door, toward me.

“You’re still here,” he said, leaning back in his chair, exhaustion lining his features but failing to dull the sharpness of his blue eyes.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re one to talk.”

His lips quirked into that boyish, disarming smile, the one that always made it difficult to focus on anything else. “Yeah, well, some things are worth staying late for.”

I stepped inside, closer now, the dim lamp on his desk casting warm shadows over both of us. “Like finishing that speech? Or—?”

His gaze flickered over me, something unreadable in his expression. “Maybe both.”

Silence settled between us, thick with something unspoken. We’d danced around this for weeks—months, maybe. Long nights filled with heated debates, stolen glances, and a tension neither of us dared name.

I exhaled, steadying myself. “Sam—”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, closing the distance. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” he murmured. “But if you’re asking if I’ve thought about this—about us—the answer is yes.”

His hand hovered near mine, waiting, as if he needed permission. And maybe, just maybe, I was finally ready to give it.