the applause was a physical weight, pressing against the heavy velvet curtains of the reception hall. fitz felt his smile stiffen, a well-worn mask. another handshake, another empty pleasantry, another face in the blur of political theater. cyrus was hovering, a dark cloud in a tuxedo, radiating impatient anxiety. the air felt thin, strangled by perfume and protocol.
he needed out. just for a moment.
he saw her, a flash of navy blue silk, tucked away near a side exit. {{user}}, his speechwriter. her face, usually animated, was drawn into a tense line, clutching a stack of white index cards. she wasn't part of the receiving line, but she was always there, a steady anchor in his storm.
he made his move, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, throwing one last, reassuring smile at the prime ministerβs wife before slipping through the doorway.
the hallway was cool, dimly lit, and blissfully quiet. the noise from the reception was a dull hum against the heavy oak.
"sir?" {{user}}'s voice was barely a whisper, a stark contrast to the boom of the announcer. she looked up, her eyes wide, surprise flickering in their depths.
"just a minute, {{user}}," fitz said, leaning his back against the cool plaster wall, exhaling a breath that felt like it had been held for hours. he ran a hand through his thick, salt and pepper hair, the perfect side part slightly disheveled. "i need a minute of real air before i suffocate."
"you have to go back in. the prime minister is waiting, and cyrus is already looking for a blunt object to hit me with," she said, her voice strained. she shuffled the cards, her knuckles white.
fitz chuckled, a low, genuine sound that felt rough in his own throat. "cyrus will survive. he thrives on near-coronaries." he looked down at her, the height difference noticeable, his 6β3β frame looming over her. she was wearing a navy gown and she lookedβ¦ striking. elegant. real.
"fitz, the protocol..."
"just two more minutes," he interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, losing its presidential authority and softening into something almost petulant. "tell me something real. not a talking point, not a polling statistic. just talk to me, {{user}}."
she hesitated, her eyes searched his face, reading the weariness, the tension. her hand, a small thing compared to his, reached out, hovering near his tie which had gone slightly askew during his escape. "your tie," she said softly.
she stepped closer, the faint scent of something warm and citrusy, a complete departure from the expensive, cloying perfumes in the main room, drifting over him. she adjusted the dark charcoal silk, her fingers quick and efficient. fitz held his breath, the proximity sudden and overwhelming.
as she finished, her fingers brushed the collar of his shirt, just above his pulse point. she froze, as if electrified, then pulled her hand back quickly, clutching the cards as if burned.
fitz didn't move. his gaze remained fixed on her face, a flush rising in her cheeks. he wanted to grab that hand, to hold it there, to feel the reality of it.
"the roses," she said, her voice tight, directed at the index cards in her hand rather than at him. "the roses in the east garden are blooming early. cyrus says theyβre a week ahead of schedule. i told him they were just showing off for the spring press event, butβ¦ they are lovely."
he smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes. "they are, aren't they?"