“{{user}}, I need a copy of the zoning regulations I submitted last week.”

Ted’s voice carried from his office before he stepped into view, mask still in place, eyes already settled on her like he’d known exactly where she’d be. He didn’t raise his voice—he never needed to.

{{user}} looked up immediately, nodding once before turning back to her computer. “Of course.” She was already moving, fingers quick over the keyboard as she pulled the files, sending them off without hesitation. Efficient. Precise. Reliable. Ted had built his campaign on control and structure, and somehow she fit into it seamlessly—holding things together in ways no one else could.

He didn’t say that. He rarely said anything he didn’t absolutely have to.

But he knew it. And lately, he’d started relying on it more than he should.

The office slowly emptied as the evening dragged on, staff filtering out one by one until the building fell quiet. Lights dimmed, voices gone, leaving only the low hum of electronics and the faint glow from two offices that remained occupied. Ted stayed behind his desk, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, pen in hand as he worked through a campaign speech with careful precision. Every word mattered. Every pause. Every line needed to land exactly as intended.

Out in the main space, {{user}} remained under the soft light of her desk lamp, editing footage she’d gathered over the past few weeks—clips of Ted speaking, listening, helping. Moments he hadn’t realized were being captured. Proof, maybe, of the version of himself he presented to the public. She worked tirelessly, posture slowly slumping as the hours passed, fingers pausing now and then to rub at tired eyes before continuing on.

She stayed later than anyone else.

She always did.

Ted noticed.

He noticed more than he let on—like the way her shoulders tensed after too long at her desk, or how she lingered over comments on campaign posts just a second too long. He didn’t need to see the screen to know what they said. He’d read enough of them himself.

Eventually, movement at his doorway pulled his attention. {{user}} leaned lightly against the frame, softer somehow outside the barrier of her desk, her voice quiet as she checked in on him. He gave a short answer—automatic, controlled—but his gaze lingered longer than necessary, taking in the signs of fatigue she clearly hadn’t noticed in herself.

“You should’ve gone home hours ago.” It wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. Just… true.

She stepped in slightly, explaining she wanted to finish the uploads, that she’d seen the comments again—Joe’s people, stirring things up like they always did. Ted’s expression shifted, subtle but present, something colder settling beneath the surface. Not surprise. Not anger. Recognition.

He stood then, slow and deliberate, moving around the desk with quiet purpose. “Let me see.”

His voice lowered—not gentler, but more contained. Private.

When she hesitated, he added, quieter this time, “Come here.”

She did, stopping beside him as she held out her phone. Ted leaned in just enough to read, his expression steady as he scrolled through the comments. Predictable. Repetitive. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. Nothing that should have mattered.

But it did—to her.

He noticed that instead.

“They don’t matter,” he said after a moment, setting the phone aside without looking at it again. His attention shifted fully to her now, more focused, more deliberate. “They’re loud because they don’t have anything real to stand on.”

His gaze lingered, picking up on the tension in her face, the way she held herself like she needed to earn her place here. “You take it hard,” he added, quieter. Ted exhaled slowly, a rare crack in his otherwise steady composure, his hand briefly brushing the back of his neck before falling again. “You’ve done more for this campaign than anyone else here. More than I asked.”

He didn’t say things like that lightly.

Which made it matter.

She made him say things because she mattered.