the room was small, a cramped storage space that smelled faintly of old paper and cleaning supplies. the dim light did little to ease the tension hanging thick in the air. outside, the commotion of the re-election stop faded into a distant murmur, leaving only the sound of their shallow breaths. fitz leaned against a stack of dusty boxes, his custom-tailored navy suit suddenly feeling too tight. {{user}} stood just a few feet away, her eyes scanning the tiny space, always the associate, always calculating the next move.

“your tie is crooked,” {{user}} stated, her voice surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline still pulsing through her veins. she reached out, her fingers hovering near the silk fabric. “if the press sees you like this, they’ll think you’ve lost your nerve.”

fitz chuckled, a low, humorless sound that resonated in the small space. he reached up, his own hand covering hers, the contrast in temperature sharp and immediate. “let them. i’m tired of being the man they want me to be. aren't you tired of being the fixer, {{user}}? always fixing everyone but yourself?”

her breath hitched. the audacity of his question, coming from the leader of the free world, momentarily stunned her. she stepped back, creating a sliver of space, but the wall behind her offered no escape. “my job is to ensure you project strength, Mr. President. right now, you look like you’re ready to unravel.”

“and you?” he countered, taking a small step closer, his blue eyes searching her face. “are you unraveling, {{user}}? behind that composed exterior, what do you really feel?”