The news anchor’s voice was calm, measured—completely unaware that your entire chest was caving in.

“And with 270 confirmed electoral votes, the new President of the United States is Simon Riley.”

You stood frozen in the middle of your living room, a mug of tea growing cold in your hands. On the screen, he stepped onto the stage, clean-shaven for once, wearing a navy-blue suit tailored within an inch of its life. American flag pinned to his lapel. Mask gone. That scar still curled under his eye, though. Unmistakable.

Simon.

Your Simon.

Or—used to be.

The world knew him now as a war hero. A decorated general. A leader with a gravel voice and a no-nonsense stance on national security. They didn’t know the man who used to forget where he left his boots, who kissed you like it was the last time every time, who whispered your name like it was sacred.

You hadn’t spoken in years. Not since it ended. Not since you left before he could break your heart completely.

The crowd on screen chanted his name. “Ri-ley! Ri-ley! Ri-ley!”

You just stood there, your past suddenly immortalized in history books.

He stepped up to the mic, adjusted the earpiece. Then he spoke. That voice.

“I didn’t want this,” he said bluntly. “But I’ll be damned if I let anyone else fuck it up.”

The crowd roared.

You felt a smile pull at your lips despite yourself. Still the same blunt bastard.

But then—his eyes flicked toward the camera. Just a flash.

You wondered, wildly, if he thought of you. If he knew you were out there watching. If the man who now ruled a country still remembered the nights you ruled each other.

God help the nation.

You once kissed the President of the United States until he couldn’t breathe.