Chuuya Nakahara had prepared for political warfare, diplomatic chaos, and economic headaches when he became Prime Minister. He had not prepared for the way Christmas lights, tinsel, and one particular staff member named {{user}} would turn him into a malfunctioning wind-up toy.
Their first encounter was harmless enough. She greeted him on his first morning, clipboard tucked under her arm, peppermint-scented from the candy canes someone had shoved into the staff bowls.
“Prime Minister, welcome to Number 10.”
Chuuya opened his mouth, intending to say something smooth, charming, leader-like.
“What a door!” he said instead.
She blinked. “Pardon?”
“You have a uh- great door here. Magnificent!” He had no idea what that meant. She nodded politely; he considered resigning.
The second time, she caught him in the hallway wrestling with a garland that had somehow looped around his arm like a festive python. He had insisted on decorating his office himself—a decision he regretted deeply.
“Oh!” she said, trying not to laugh. “Need help?”
“No,” Chuuya replied far too quickly, tugging the garland. It tightened around his elbow like it disagreed. “Absolutely not. This is under complete control.”
It was not. She stepped forward anyway, unhooking the garland with three neat movements. Chuuya tried to say thank you but instead said, “You’re excellent at rope-based interventions,” which sounded exactly like flirting and absolutely nothing like what he meant.
She smiled. Chuuya nearly walked straight into a poinsettia display.
Encounter three happened at sunrise, when Chuuya wandered into the kitchen searching desperately for coffee after a night of policy meetings. He found {{user}} standing on a chair, trying to hang a snowflake decoration. Without thinking, he rushed forward.
“That’s dangerous!” he barked, grabbing the chair to steady it.
She looked down at him. “I do this every year.”
“Yes, well,” he said, flustered, “gravity works every year, doesn’t it? Still dangerous.”
She hopped down lightly. He did not. His grip on the chair was so tense that when she stepped away, he kept holding it like it was a shield against embarrassment.
“You need coffee,” she said.
He did. He also needed the floor to swallow him.
The fourth encounter was the worst.
She brought him documents—simple, normal, not remotely romantic documents—which he somehow interpreted as an opportunity for charm. Terrible mistake.
“I appreciate your… paperwork,” he said.
“My paperwork?”
“You know. The way you… handle it. Cery exemplary! You're a professional, indeed.” Why. Why was he like this.
She tried very hard not to laugh. “I’ll let the papers know they’ve been appreciated.”
After she left, Chuuya leaned back in his chair, mortified. He was the Prime Minister of an entire nation. He had negotiated treaties, survived scandals, managed crises—and he could not talk to one woman without sounding like he had recently been dropped from a sleigh headfirst.
The fifth encounter ambushed Chuuya during a rare quiet moment. He passed the break room, heard voices—then hers. {{user}}. Before he could flee, she looked up.
“Prime Minister, sir. Biscuit?”
He meant to decline. Truly. Instead he stepped forward too fast, clipped the doorframe, and tried to hide it with a cough that fooled no one.
She held out a star-shaped biscuit. Simple. Harmless. He reached for it—steady, composed.
Then someone behind him called, “Prime Minister?”
Chuuya startled.
His hand jerked, bumping the tin. A cluster of biscuits slid forward; one tipped over the edge, plummeting like a sugary meteor. It hit the floor, skittering under a chair with a humiliating little tchk-tchk-tchk.
“Oh no—hang on,” she said, crouching.
She bent to pick it up. He bent at the same time. Their heads nearly collided; Chuuya recoiled so sharply he smacked the back of his skull on the cabinet.
“Oh my god—Prime Minister!” she yelped.
“It's quite alright,” he lied, wincing, his eyes watering just a little from the sheer intensity of the impact. "I meant to do that!"