the heavy oak door of the oval office clicked shut, muffled by the thick rugs and the even thicker silence of the room. outside, the gala was a roar of violin swells and sally langstonβs sharp, ringing laughter, but in here, it was just the scent of old books and expensive scotch.
fitz stood by the window, his suit jacket discarded on the davenport. he looked every bit the weary commander in chief, his salt-and-pepper hair caught in the moonlight, silvering the edges of his side part. when he turned, the blue of his eyes was darkened by a shadow of something restless.
"i should have known," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum against the walls. he took a slow sip of scotch, the ice clinking against the glass. "of all the rooms in this house, youβd find the one where iβm actually trying to work."
{{user}} stepped further into the dim light, the silk of her dress rustling. she felt the familiar weight of his gaze. the way it never just looked at her, but seemed to anchor her to the floor. "i wasn't looking for you, mr. president. i was looking for a room where no one is talking about poll numbers or my motherβs 'moral crusade.'"
a small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. he set the glass down on the edge of the resolute desk and leaned back against it, his large frame looking solid and imposing even in his exhaustion. "sit down, {{user}}. if youβre here to spy for sally, youβre doing a terrible job. you haven't even looked at the folders on my desk."
"iβm not my mother, fitz. i thought you realized that by now."
he didn't answer immediately. instead, he pushed off the desk and walked toward her. his stride was athletic and measured, the lean strength of his legs closing the distance until the air between them grew warm. he stopped just inches away, tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"i realized that the moment you walked in here," he whispered, his voice dropping into that rough, private register he saved only for her. "thatβs exactly the problem."