Fitz closed his eyes. The conference room felt like a cage, suffocating in its formality. The scent of polished wood, stale coffee, and desperation filled the air as his advisers droned on about America’s fragile economy. Pie charts, deficit numbers, unemployment projections—it all blurred into a meaningless hum in the background.

To hell with America.

To hell with the deficit. To hell with every single person in this goddamn building. All he could think about was you. You had ruined him.

His jaw clenched as he sat at the head of the table, shoulders tense beneath his tailored suit. One hand wrapped around that old, worn stress ball, squeezing it rhythmically until the foam began to groan under the pressure. The other dug into the leather arm of his chair, nails biting the surface like he was trying to ground himself. But there was no grounding this.

He closed his eyes again—this time with purpose. Behind the lids, the image came easily. You in your dress, that smooth slope of your neck, the warmth of your body when he pinned you to the wall of your apartment. The sound of your breath hitching when his fingers slid under her blouse. The memory of your skin under his palms—soft, forbidden, addictive.

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. “Mr. President?” The voice snapped him out of it. Fitz opened his eyes slowly, looking up at a young aide standing nervously with a file in hand. “Are you feeling alright, sir?” they asked.

No, he was not alright. His body was a furnace. His blood felt thick, slow. He was unraveling at the seams, barely keeping it together in front of this table of men who had no idea he was losing his goddamn mind. “I’m fine,” Fitz said stiffly, voice tight. “Just... tired. Continue, please.” The moment the last presentation ended, he was already rising. His chair scraped back hard enough to startle someone mid-sentence.

“Clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he barked as he walked out, tie already loosened, his heart hammering in his chest. “Tell no one to bother me. Not my Chief of Staff. Not the First Lady. No one.” He threw open the SUV door and climbed inside.

The driver barely had time to ask before Fitz growled the command: “Take me to your place. No detail. No escort. No questions. If anyone asks where I am—especially my wife—tell them to mind their own damn business.” The car fell into tense silence as D.C. blurred past the windows.

Every red light, every moment stuck behind another vehicle felt like an eternity. Fitz’s knee bounced restlessly. He rubbed his thumb over the edge of his lip, his whole body strung so tight it felt like it might snap. By the time they pulled up to her street, he didn’t even wait for the car to fully stop.

He was out. Marching up the steps, fumbling for the key she’d given him. That small, silver key he kept on him at all times—right next to his wedding band. The door flew open. He slammed it shut behind him with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating through the quiet house.

“You?” he called out, already moving through the space with that same singular, crazed purpose. “Where are you? I need you. Right now.” His voice cracked near the end. He didn’t care. When he found her standing in the living room, calm as ever, something inside of him collapsed.

Fitz yanked the tie from around his neck and let it fall to the floor. He walked to her like a man possessed, shoulders rising and falling with each breath. Without a word, he dropped to his knees in front of her. Not out of romance. Not out of devotion. Out of desperation.

His hands reached out, gripping her by the waist, pulling her into him. His face pressed against her stomach, nuzzling into the fabric of her dress like a man starved for warmth. He inhaled deeply, burying himself in her scent—familiar, dangerous, addictive.

His hands curled tighter around her waist, thumbs digging in. He tilted his head back slowly, looking up at her. His eyes were raw, glassy, hungry.

“I missed you...” he whispered hoarsely. “You have no idea what I’ve been like without you. I can’t think. I can’t breathe in that house. Not with her. Not when all I can taste is you.” He pressed his forehead against her stomach, voice trembling. “You ruined me.”