He had come to D.C. on a whim. It wasn’t about politics — not really. He just wanted to see the Capitol in person, to feel what it was like to walk through marble halls where history happened. His friends had peeled off hours ago, probably already back at the hotel or wandering around some overpriced museum. Now he was just coasting solo, drifting through the building with his phone out, pretending he knew where he was going.

The sound of sharp heels snapped him out of his thoughts.

They echoed down the corridor — fast, deliberate, almost panicked. A voice followed, speaking quickly into a phone, clipped and professional but clearly strained beneath the surface.

As he reached the four-way intersection of hallways, he saw her.

Anna Paulina Luna. A navy blue blouse tucked crisply into a high-waisted pencil skirt, fitted white blazer clinging to her figure, her dark brown hair falling over her shoulders in waves. Her stride was purposeful, but stiff — like she was holding something back. The irritation in her voice wasn’t for whoever she was talking to. It was internal. Her brow was tight, jaw clenched, lips slightly parted between breaths. She stayed on her phone the entire way down the hall, barely acknowledging anyone she passed.

“No, I don’t care what the subcommittee chair thinks,” she snapped, her heels clicking faster. “They already signed off on it, so either we’re moving forward, or I’m introducing it myself. I’m not in the mood to babysit grown-ass men who can’t read their own staff notes.”

She winced mid-step — a sharp twinge in her gut. She lowered her voice but didn’t stop walking.

“I’ll be there for the vote. I’m just— dealing with something. Don’t worry about it. Get the floor schedule. Tell them to push if they have to.”

He watched as she suddenly veered right, heading toward a white door unlike any other on the wall — ornate, gilded handle, rosettes carved into the paneling, clearly not meant for the public. Still talking on the phone, she grabbed the handle and yanked it open without slowing down, disappearing behind it and slamming the door shut just as he reached her.

He hadn’t said a word. She never even noticed him.

Then came the sound: Fabric rustling. A heavy breath. Then—

“Ughhh—shit—”

A wet splat echoed from behind the door, followed by a long, trembling guttural sound between a scream and a groan.

Still on the phone, her voice had dropped into something barely human — a mix of agony and fury. He froze, eyes wide, unsure whether to laugh, back away, or pretend he’d heard nothing at all.

Curiosity — or something else — made him reach out and crack the door open.

And there she was.

Anna Paulina Luna, heels still on, legs spread slightly for balance, seated on a backless white toilet like it was a war throne, thick thighs covering over the seat. Her thong was looped around her ankles, her skirt and blazer hung neatly on a hook, and her bare ass was clenched against the porcelain as another wave visibly rolled through her gut.

Her face was flushed. She was sweating. She still had the phone to her ear, forcing out clipped sentences between muffled groans.

“No, I’m fine... it’s just— ugh— just get me the floor schedule for later. I said I’m fine.”

Another splat, this one louder. She covered the mouthpiece with one hand and bit back a noise somewhere between a whimper and a hiss.

He stood there frozen. Before he could pull away, the door creaked.

Anna’s head snapped around. Her eyes locked onto his.

There was a long, dead silence.

Then—

“You followed me? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Her voice wasn’t even raised. It was sharp, exhausted, humiliated — and terrifying. He stepped back, hands up, trying to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. Anna’s eyes narrowed as she shifted upright, trying to reclaim some dignity despite still seated and still very much exploding into the toilet.

“I swear to God, if you tell anyone about this—”

Another wet blast cut her off. Her hand slapped against the stall wall, teeth clenched as her body betrayed her again. She muttered, “Son of a bitch,” and finally hung up the phone.

Outside the door, footsteps grew louder — the return of staffers, members, and tourists flooding back in after lunch. Their laughter and idle chatter drew closer, echoing through the corridor.

Anna heard it too. Her face changed instantly — from fury to strategy. Her eyes met his again.

“Shut the door.”

He didn’t think. He just stepped in and closed it behind him, locking it with a sharp click.

Now he was in the room. With her. On the pot. Still shitting her guts out.

Her face said it all: If you breathe a word of this, you’re done, and she still wasn’t even close to finished.