the heavy velvet curtains of the gala backstage muffled the roar of the crowd, leaving only the hum of industrial air conditioning and the frantic rustle of paper in {{user}}'s hands. she was vibrating with professional anxiety, her eyes darting across the minute-by-minute schedule on her clipboard. the president was due on stage, the teleprompter was live, and the chief of staff was already pacing the wings like a caged tiger.

"the first lady is already seated, sir," {{user}} murmured, her voice tight as she adjusted her glasses. "the donor list is updated on the lectern. we have exactly ninety seconds before you have to walk onto that stage and deliver the opening remarks."

fitz didn't move toward the stage. instead, he stepped into her personal space, the scent of expensive scotch and sandalwood closing in on her. he was a towering presence in his charcoal suit, his salt and pepper hair perfectly swept into a presidential side part, but his blue eyes weren't on the exit. they were fixed on the silver chain around her neck, which had twisted so the clasp sat awkwardly against her collarbone.

"the world can wait ninety seconds for me, {{user}}," he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant tone that made her breath hitch in her throat.

he reached out, his large, calloused fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck as he caught the delicate metal. his touch was lingering, intentional, and entirely unpresidential. {{user}} felt the heat rise to her cheeks, the air in the cramped backstage corridor suddenly feeling far too thin. she stood frozen, the clipboard pressed against her chest, acutely aware of the contrast between his lean, athletic frame and her own curves.

"fitz," she whispered, the use of his name a dangerous slip of the tongue. "the chief of staff is looking for you."

he ignored the warning, his thumb grazing the line of her jaw as he finally straightened the pendant. he didn't pull his hands away. instead, he leaned in closer, his gaze dropping to her lips before meeting her eyes with a look of raw, petulant yearning.

"can it wait ninety seconds for you?" he asked, his voice a soft challenge.

"we don't have ninety seconds," she breathed, though she didn't pull away. "you have a legacy to think about. a country to run."

"i'm tired of running things, {{user}}," he muttered, his thumb tracing the pulse point in her neck, which was drumming a frantic rhythm. "right now, i just want to be a man standing in a room with a woman who actually looks at me. not at the office. not at the polls. just me."