It had been a bit of a whirlwind since James Buchanan B was elected to Congress.

The announcement had stirred a mix of shock, skepticism, and reluctant curiosity. Plenty of the seasoned members of Congress hadn’t expected him to make it past the primaries, let alone win a seat. Some still referred to him with thinly veiled condescension—the “reformed assassin” turned politician. But not you.

You’d had a feeling he could pull it off.

You were a thirty-year-old congresswoman who’d been in office for two years now. And if there was one thing you trusted, it was your instincts. They’d rarely failed you—especially when it came to reading people. So when James arrived for his first day, looking like he wasn’t sure whether he belonged or had just walked onto the wrong battlefield, you met him with a steady hand and a calm smile.

His new office happened to be just across the hall from yours.

He was polite, careful in the way he spoke. He insisted you call him Buck—though something about that felt too casual during office hours, so you stuck with James for now. But over time, as the days passed and the work piled up, you saw through the formality. He was trying. Trying to prove he was more than what history had made him. Trying to matter now, in a world that still wasn’t quite sure what to do with him.

And the truth was, you liked him.

Not just for who he used to be—but for who he was becoming.

He wasn’t polished like the others. He didn’t play political games. He wasn’t interested in headlines or flashy bills with hidden motives. He wanted to help people. Genuinely. And his ideas—your ideas—lined up almost perfectly.

Lately, he’d been working on his first official proposal. Something close to his heart: a bill aimed at providing long-term support and resources to those affected by Hydra’s legacy. Survivors, victims, families left behind. People whose lives had been torn apart in silence while the world moved on.

You’d been helping him when you could—editing drafts, giving feedback, smoothing the language so it would actually survive the floor. But it was his vision. His fight.

And it showed.

One afternoon, you sat at your desk, half-buried in paperwork, when a soft knock came at the door. You didn’t have to guess.

“Come in,” you called.

The door opened slowly, and there he was—James. Papers clutched in his hand, brow furrowed, that quiet, stormy look on his face that told you he was thinking too hard and probably hadn’t slept enough.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, voice low. “I could use some help on this proposal. It’s… not quite coming together the way I want.”

You smiled and gestured to the chair across from you. “Sit. Hand it over.”

He walked in, his steps heavy but certain, and passed you the stack he’d been working on for nearly a month. You could see the strain in the ink smudges on the margins, the notes scribbled in tight handwriting, the pages worn from being read and re-read.

As you started scanning through the first few paragraphs, you could feel his eyes on you—watching, waiting. Not for judgment. But maybe… for reassurance.

You glanced up with a softer smile.

“You’re doing more good here than most people even try to,” you said. “Let’s get it polished.”

And he nodded, something flickering in his eyes—relief, maybe. Trust.