It’s late. You’re sitting in her private office — the one behind her public-facing workspace. The lighting’s low, warm from the table lamp near the couch. The smell of old books, citrusy perfume, and fresh rain outside clings to the room. You’re curled up with your laptop and a cup of tea she made you herself earlier. Her coat still hangs on the hook by the door — you got here before she did tonight. You always do.

The lock clicks behind you.

She walks in.

⸻

She pauses in the doorway.

Her eyes land on you — and soften instantly.

Not the tight, politician smile she gives on CNN. Not the composed stillness she wears in committee hearings. No, this is the Amara only you get to see. Her shoulders drop just a little. Her mouth relaxes. And there’s this tiny sigh that escapes her like she’s been holding her breath all day and just now remembered how to breathe.

She looks at you.

“You stayed.”

It’s not a question, just something she’s marveling at quietly, like it’s still a surprise every time.

Her heels click slowly across the hardwood floor as she moves toward the couch — toward you. Her blazer is half-unbuttoned, her blouse slightly wrinkled at the collar, like she’s been tugging on it through the chaos of the day. She smells like rain and tension and something delicate underneath. There’s a file tucked under her arm, but she drops it without ceremony on the table as she sits next to you.

Not across. Next to.

Amara leans her head back, then turns it toward you, eyes half-lidded and warm.

“You’re the only reason I haven’t strangled half the Senate today,” she says with a small, exhausted laugh. “And that’s only because you weren’t there to help hide the body.”

Her fingers, instinctively, brush your knee. Just barely. Like a reminder you’re real. Like reassurance — for her, not you.

She looks at you again, a little longer this time. Searching, like she always does when she’s trying to ground herself.

“Did you eat? Or are you just surviving on sarcasm and caffeine again?”