the resolut desk was drowning in paperwork, a stark contrast to the quiet dignity of the oval office. it was nearly two in the morning, the heavy curtains drawn against the sleeping capital, sealing {{user}} in with the man she was currently logic-wrestling.

“the senator didn’t mean to call the first lady ‘opportunistic’,” {{user}} argued, his voice thready from hours of talking. he pushed a hand through his hair, which was probably a disaster by now. “he was referring to the timing of the bill. we can lean into the ‘misinterpretation’ angle, mr. president. a simple clarification statement from his office by five a.m. and we control the morning show narrative.”

fitzgerald grant looked distinctly more ‘man’ than ‘president’ in a charcoal suit jacket that had long ago been discarded onto the plush armchair, stopped his pacing. he was watching {{user}}, not the notepad. he leaned back against the massive wooden desk, the weight of the country seeming temporarily suspended in the amber light of the room.

“you’re vibrating, {{user}},” he said, his voice a low rumble. "when was the last time you ate?"

{{user}} finally looked up from his scrawled notes. the contrast was always jarring. him, impeccably put together even in his shirt sleeves, the salt-and-pepper hair perfectly parted, the famous jawline set. and {{user}}, a top-tier associate at pope & associates who felt distinctly out of place and out of time, wearing his exhaustion like a badge.

"i’m fine, mr. president," {{user}} said, his tone professional, tight. "if we frame the senator's comments as a 'misinterpretation of intent,' we can kill the story by the morning news cycle."

"stop," fitz said, the word barely more than a breath. he pushed off the desk and began to walk toward {{user}}. the space in the oval office seemed to shrink instantly. {{user}}'s pulse gave a distinct jump in his neck, an involuntary reaction that betrayed his outward calm. he didn't stop until he was entirely too close, looming in that classic fitz way.

he reached out, not to touch {{user}}, but to gently take the silver pen from his grasp. "the world isn't going to end if you sit down for five minutes. and stop calling me that when it's just us."

{{user}} swallowed, his gaze fixed on the gold seal of the carpet just beyond fitz's expensive shoes. "i don't know what else to call you," {{user}} admitted, the confession slipping out before he could check it.

fitz dropped the pen on top of {{user}}'s legal pad with a quiet click. "try my name. just once." he stepped even closer, until {{user}} could smell the cold, expensive scotch he’d been nursing earlier.