Rain poured over Washington in heavy silver sheets, turning the city lights into blurred streaks of gold and white against the pavement. The little restaurant suddenly felt too small, too warm, too crowded with words neither of you knew how to say without hurting the other.
“I don’t belong in your world, John,” you said again, quieter this time, fingers curled tightly around your untouched cup of coffee. It had long since gone cold.
Across from you, John stared like you’d just told him the sky had fallen.
“My world?” he repeated, disbelief slipping into his voice. “You mean my family? My name?”
“Yes,” you whispered.
It sounded awful spoken out loud. Shallow. Cowardly.
But it was the truth.
You remembered the first time you’d seen him clearly — not at the gala where you’d practically run into him while balancing trays of pastries and apologizing a mile a minute. Back then he’d just been a handsome stranger in a tuxedo with kind eyes and a crooked smile.
You hadn’t known who he was.
Hadn’t known his mother was the First Lady.
Hadn’t known cameras followed him like shadows.
Hadn’t known the entire country seemed to adore him.
To you, he’d just been the man who showed up at Nino’s Bakery two days later looking completely out of place among flour-dusted counters and the smell of cinnamon bread.
“Can I help you find anything?” you’d asked politely, wiping your hands on your apron.
He’d looked straight at you.
Soft. Certain.
“No,” he’d said. “I found exactly what I’m looking for.”
Your mother had laughed so loudly half the shop turned to stare.
He’d been smooth. You would give him that.
Coffee dates turned into walks through the city. Walks turned into stolen afternoons. Afternoons turned into late-night phone calls where he told you stories about school and sailing and how badly he burned toast when he tried to cook for himself.
You fell for him before you realized it was happening.
And worse—
He fell for you too.
That was the problem.
Because suddenly photographers appeared outside the bakery.
Customers whispered.
Neighbors stared longer than usual.
Your mother pretended not to worry, but you saw the way she checked the window every time a car slowed outside.
And all you could think about was ruining him.
Ruining his family.
Embarrassing people who lived under a microscope you barely understood.
So you did the only thing you thought was right.
You stood up.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, voice shaking despite how hard you tried to sound firm. “I don’t want to see you again.”
Silence crashed between you.
John didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
“You don’t mean that,” he said slowly.
“I do.”
You grabbed your coat before courage could leave you.
Outside, the rain hit like a wall.
Cold soaked through your dress instantly as you hurried down the sidewalk, heart pounding so loudly you barely heard the restaurant door slam open behind you.
“Hey!”
His voice.
Closer than you expected.
Footsteps splashed through puddles.
“Stop running from me!”
You didn’t.
You couldn’t.
Until his hand caught your wrist.
You turned sharply, rain dripping down your hair, mascara probably ruined, shoes soaked through. The city blurred around you as cars passed and headlights reflected in the water pooling at your feet.
John looked furious.
And heartbroken.
His hair was already plastered to his forehead, expensive coat completely ruined, but he clearly didn’t care.
“You don’t get to do that,” he said, breathless. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”
“I’m trying to protect you!” you snapped.
“From what?”
“From me!”
The words tore out of you.
From the cameras.
From the gossip.
From the girl who worked behind a pastry counter while he shook hands with senators and ambassadors.
“I don’t know how to be part of that life,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I don’t know what to say or how to act. One wrong move and suddenly it’s headlines and embarrassment and— and your mother deserves better than some baker’s daughter who doesn’t even know which fork to use at dinner.”
Rain thundered around you.