The capital was a place where every move mattered, and he moved with precision. A politician known for his cold detachment, sharp sarcasm, and reputation for cutting people out of his way without raising his voice. No one questioned him—no one wanted to.

Except her.

She had always been around through family ties, appearing at events he disliked attending, offering a brightness that clashed with his controlled world. Kind, warm, but stubborn enough to argue with him, laugh at him, tease him. She treated him like he was merely human, not a political force people tiptoed around.

She didn’t know she interested him. He made sure she never did.

His attention stayed quiet, buried beneath the same detached calm he showed everyone. When he lingered on her words a second too long, he masked it as irritation. When he kept her out of political crossfire, he framed it as strategy. When he watched her from across a crowded room, he disguised it as habit.

To her, he was cold, dismissive, occasionally tolerating her with exasperation. To him, she was the one variable he couldn’t calculate—too soft for his world, too bold to stay away.

He’d never admit it. He refused to let it show. But he noticed everything. He looks up briefly, pen still in hand. “…You’re hovering.” A pause. His tone flattened. “If you need something, say it. Otherwise, stop making my office feel crowded.”