Snow is falling outside like a scene from some picture-perfect Christmas postcard, but the icy wind howling against the windows makes it all feel more like a cold dagger pressed to the throat of the night. The streetlights cast pale halos on the snowbanks outside, the flakes swirling like restless ghosts caught between here and somewhere else. Inside, the house is oppressively still, the silence heavy enough to be tangible. The kind of quiet that amplifies every creak of the hardwood floor and the faint hum of a distant radiator struggling against the chill.

His voice—controlled yet fraying at the edges—breaks the fragile silence. "Do you have any idea how monumentally irresponsible this is?" The words practically whip out, punctuated with a sweep of his arm toward the glass of bourbon precariously perched on his mahogany desk. "I mean, Christ, you've spent half your career tearing me apart publicly, and now—now you've dropped this on me like some goddamn nuclear bomb?!"

A flash of anger rises in his chest as he storms toward the massive bay window, a restless lion pacing his cage. The skyline beyond is obscured by streaks of melting snow, blurring the neon signs of Washington's night life into bleeding strokes of light. But he's not looking outside; his reflection catches his attention more than the storm. That stiff, upright posture. That familiar, haunted crease at his brow.

His hands drop to his sides. They flex slightly as though struggling against some unseen tether. "Do you even realize what you've done, or do you just not care?" His tone shifts, darker now—lower, as though his voice itself has absorbed some weight of accusation.

The words spill out of him like water from a dam finally giving way. He paces across the room, his movements restless, like a predator caged too long. "Were you planning to tell me at all, or were you just going to let me find out when the tabloids decided to feast on the story? God knows they'd love to crucify me with it—'U.S. Senator brought to his knees by a political sensation.'"

He drags a hand through his hair, the strands falling out of their usual meticulous place. For a moment, his gaze catches hers, and something flashes in his eyes—something raw, unguarded, but gone before it can be named. "Or maybe you thought I'd just bow out gracefully, let you write the narrative, because of course you'd be the victim, and I'd be the villain." The bitterness in his voice could sour wine.

Something unspoken lingers, stuck in his throat like bile. That night—Goddammit. He hasn't been able to think clearly since that night. He remembers the warmth of her skin against his fingers, the way anger had bled into something twisted and carnal, how they'd been inches away from throttling each other one minute, and then—fuck. Every slam of his hips had been punctuated by another retort bitten into her throat. Hatefuck. The word is ugly, but there's no denying that's what it was—anger and frustration boiled down to its basest, most primal form. It wasn't just heat—it was fire.

He rubs his temple now, frustration building into a thunderstorm beneath his skin. His jaw clenches audibly. "I thought we agreed—Hell, we didn't even talk. It wasn't supposed to mean anything." The words feel like cheap attempts to dress a bullet wound, and they tumble from his lips with all the eloquence of a back-alley drunk. "This was a mistake," he says suddenly, the words tumbling out before he can stop them.

He pivots back towards her now, still rooted in his office chair, silhouetted against the towering stacks of law books lining his oak shelves. And that's when it happens.

That's when he sees it.

It starts subtle—just a trickle darkening the fabric at the center of her shirt. At first, his mind doesn't process it—like looking at an abstract painting until, suddenly, you can see the horrifying face embedded in the swirls.

Milk.

He exhales harshly through his nose, looking up at the ceiling in desperation—at God himself—like, Really? Now?

What in God's name kind of reaction is this? Out of every fucking instinct he could have—the right one being some brand of solemn professionalism, maybe restrained politeness—why in hell is this where his head decides to go?

His cock hardens almost on command, a very distinct kind of pressure rising in tandem with his body temperature. And God help him, he knows—knows—his tie's become unbearably tight.

There's a visible hesitation in the way his hands raise slightly, then falter mid-air like birds unsure of flight. They hover—suspended—mere inches away from her chest as though breaching that space would trigger an unseen minefield. "I..." His voice cracks into a dry whisper before trailing into the thick silence.

Say something. Say anything!

His lips twitch with aborted words. What finally slips out has no business sounding suggestive but there it is, low and dripping with implication: "You should... take care of that." He blinks, mortified, heat rushing to the tips of his ears. Is that supposed to be an offer? Or a veiled command? Hell if he knows anymore.

The rain grows heavier. Thunder growls low in the distance.

He tries not to think about what's happening in his pants.