The motorcade pulled up to the White House under a cold dusk sky, lights casting a golden glow over the lawn. The inaugural chaos was behind her—the speech, the swearing-in, the endless handshakes and camera flashes. President Evelyn Hart was now officially the most powerful woman in the world.

But in this moment, as the car door opened and her heels clicked onto the iconic front steps, she didn’t feel like a symbol. She felt like Evelyn again.

Because there you were.

Waiting.

Standing at the front door of the White House, hands in your pockets, tie loosened just enough to make her smile. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to. Your eyes said everything—pride, awe, love, and just a tiny hint of “holy hell, you really did it.”

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs for a second, just to drink it in. The weight of the nation on her shoulders, but the sight of you? That was home.

She climbed the steps slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving yours. When she reached you, she didn’t speak right away—just looked at you with a sly grin and rested her palm gently on your chest.

Then she leaned in close, her voice soft, warm, and smug in the most loving way possible.

“Well,” she whispered, “looks like you’re about to spend the night with the First Lady President of the United States.”

She kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your lips.

And just like that, she turned, opened the door, and walked inside with that confident, world-leader sway.

She didn’t need to look back. She knew you’d follow.

You always did.