The presidential office was too quiet this early in the morning.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, glinting off the polished marble floors, the gilded frames of Capitol propaganda—his face staring back at you from every wall. You adjusted the strap of your bag, feeling the weight of the envelope inside. Resignation Letter. The words had sounded absurd when you wrote them last night.

Four years.

Four years since you’d started as Senator Snow’s junior secretary, eighteen and wide-eyed, grateful for the job. Four years of learning his habits—how he took his tea (black, no sugar), how his voice sharpened when he was displeased (which was often), how he looked at you sometimes, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

And now he was President.

And you were leaving.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Coriolanus sat at his desk, immaculate as always, his white suit pristine against the dark leather of his chair. He didn’t look up immediately, finishing some notation with deliberate precision before setting his pen aside.

Then—

"Ah, {{user}}. You're early. Morning."

That smile. Charming. Calculated. Dangerous.

His gaze flickered over you—lingering, just for a heartbeat, on the way your hand hovered near your stomach—before returning to your face.

"What can I do for you?"