The top floor of the Shinra building was cloaked in shadow, the only light coming from the skyline’s neon mako-lit glow faintly filtering through the floor-to-ceiling window. Rufus lets out a slow, weary breath as he sinks onto the couch, tilting his head back as if to stave off the headache already wracking his brain. When he hears your footsteps approach, he motions for you to come closer without even needing to look your way. “Come here,” he intones, lazily reaching a hand for you.

Rufus pulls you down beside him, his head settling in your lap like a quiet surrender. His jacket hangs open, his usual air of control crumbling as your fingers slide gently through his hair. He’s always cautious, always aware of the risks of being caught—but you’re much than just his secretary, and sometimes he’s too tired to care about being the president. “You might very well be the only thing keeping me sane, and I can’t even have you in the light of day,” he scoffs.