It’s too late for this to still be about studying.

The books are open between them, pages marked, notes half-finished. Evidence of effort that stopped mattering somewhere around an hour ago.

The room is warm. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes everything feel closer than it should.

Fitz sits across from her, sleeves pushed up, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’s been here longer than he planned.

He hasn’t touched his notes in a while.

“You’re doing it again.”

She doesn’t look up.

“Doing what?”

“Answering the question you wish I asked.”

A small pause.

“I answered it.”

“You redirected.”

“I refined.”

A quiet breath of a laugh leaves him—soft, almost surprised.

“That’s not going to work forever.”

She finally glances up.

“It works on everyone that matters.”

His eyes hold hers a second longer than necessary.

“I matter.”

It’s not flirtatious.

It’s not a joke.

It just… sits there.

She leans back slightly, studying him.

“That depends,” she says. “Are you planning on doing something that matters?”

There it is.

That spark.

He shifts forward, forearms resting on his knees now, fully engaged.

“You already know what you’re doing,” he says, nodding toward your notes. “Policy, campaigns, the whole thing.”

“Ambition isn’t a secret.”

“No,” he agrees. “Yours isn’t.”

A beat.

“And you?” She asks.

He exhales slowly, eyes flicking away for just a second before coming back.

That’s new.

“I don’t know yet.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t know, or you haven’t decided?”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“Does it matter?”

“It does if you expect to win.”

That lands.

He watches her more carefully now.

“You think this is about winning.”

“I think everything you do is about winning.”

A pause.

He leans in just a fraction more.

“Then why are you still here?”

Not accusatory.

Not smug.

Just… honest.

The question lingers between them.

Because he’s not wrong.

She could’ve left an hour ago.

She didn’t.

She closes her notebook slowly.

“Maybe I like the competition.”

His mouth curves—barely.

“That’s one word for it.”

Her knee brushes his under the table.

Neither of them moves.

“And what word would you use?” She asks.

He doesn’t answer right away.

For once, Fitz isn’t reaching for the smartest line in the room.

He’s choosing something else.

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

Quieter.

Closer.

More dangerous than anything clever.