the west wing was a graveyard of ambition at two in the morning. the only sound was the hum of the industrial hvac system and the scratch of a fountain pen against thick bond paper. fitz sat behind the resolute desk, his charcoal suit jacket discarded over the back of his chair and his tie loosened so far it was nearly undone. the pale light of a single desk lamp caught the silver in his hair, casting long, weary shadows across his face.

"it sounds hollow, {{user}}. it sounds like a politician, not a man," he muttered, rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands.

{{user}} moved from the sideboard, setting a fresh glass of scotch near his elbow. her curves were silhouetted against the tall windows as she leaned over the desk to read the draft. "because you're trying to say what the chief of staff wants, not what you actually feel."

fitz looked up, his blue eyes bloodshot but intense as they lingered on her. he didn't look at the speech; he looked at the way her hair caught the lamplight. "and what if what i actually feel isn't something i’m allowed to say out loud?"

the air in the room shifted, turning thick and heavy with the things they never named. {{user}} didn't flinch. she met his gaze, her voice dropping to a near whisper that felt louder than a shout in the silence of the night.

"then we'll find a way to write it between the lines," she said softly.

fitz reached out, his hand hovering near hers on the desk, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth. "i’m tired of lines, {{user}}. i’m tired of the protocol and the scripts. i just want to be a man in a room with a woman. no flags. no secret service. just this."

"you're the president, fitz," she reminded him, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "there is no 'just this'."

he let out a short, dry laugh, the sound of a golden boy who had realized the gold was just plating. "then stay. just for another hour. help me find the words that won't start a war but might keep me sane."