the fire popped, a sharp sound that amplified the quiet of the main cabin at camp david. fitz leaned against the mantle, a tumbler of scotch in his hand, his eyes focused on the rain slashing against the windowpane. he’d shed the charcoal suit jacket hours ago, now in a dark flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms of a man who still ran five miles a day.

"you’re staring," {{user}} said.

she sat at the heavy oak table, laptops and draft copies of the middle east peace treaty spread before her. she was looking at him, not the papers.

"i'm thinking," he corrected, turning his head slowly. the low firelight caught the gray in his thick, perfectly parted hair, making him look older than his age, but no less commanding. "i’m thinking about how much easier my life would be if i didn’t have to care about diplomacy."

she smiled, the soft, easy expression that always made his chest feel a little too tight. "you’re the president. care is literally in the job description."

fitz chuckled, a low rumble, and walked over to the table. he set his glass down, a distinct, expensive sound. "is it?" he murmured, pulling out the chair opposite hers. "sometimes i think the job is more about pretending."

{{user}} leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. she was younger, but in moments like this, trapped by the weather and the total lack of staff or security, that gap disappeared. "pretending what?"

he watched her. the curve of her jaw, the serious intensity in her eyes. he wanted to reach out. he wanted to brush a loose hair back from her forehead. he wanted to do a lot of things that mellie would call 'political suicide.'

"pretending i’m okay with waiting," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

she blinked. "waiting for what?"

"for this," fitz said, gesturing between them. "for the rain to stop so i can go back to being a symbol. or, for the rain to never stop, so i don't have to."