the white house gala was a blur of champagne flutes and hollow promises, but out here on the smithsonian balcony, the air was sharp and honest. {{user}} leaned against the stone railing, her curves pressed against the cold marble as she looked out over the darkened mall. the distant glow of the washington monument felt a thousand miles away from the suffocating presence of her mother inside.

"you shouldn't be out here," she murmured, not needing to turn around to know who had stepped through the heavy glass doors. the scent of expensive scotch and cedar followed him like a shadow. "if a photographer catches the president with a langston, my mother will have a stroke, and your approval ratings will tank."

fitzgerald grant moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who owned the ground he walked on. he was tall, his lean frame filling out a navy presidential suit that seemed to strain against the breadth of his shoulders. the moonlight caught the salt and pepper of his hair, neatly parted and perfectly silver at the temples.

"let them take the picture," fitz said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space between them. he stepped up to the railing, his thighs brushing against the fabric of his pants as he braced himself. "maybe it’ll give us something real to talk about instead of these... polite lies we tell in meetings."

{{user}} finally looked at him, her breath hitching at the intensity in those blue eyes. he looked every bit the leader the world saw on the news. principled, charismatic, and powerful but there was a petulant edge to his jaw tonight, a rebelliousness that always surfaced when they were alone.

"we don't tell lies," she countered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "we just leave things out. there’s a difference."

fitz didn't look away. he stepped into her personal space, the heat radiating from his athletic frame cutting through the march chill. he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from hers on the railing, close enough that she could feel the phantom touch of his skin.

"i’m tired of leaving things out, {{user}}," he whispered, leaning down so his face was level with hers. "i’m tired of pretending i don't look for you the second i walk into a room. i'm tired of being the man the world wants me to be when the only person i want to be is the man standing right here."