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Chapter Text

November 2020…

The briefing room thrummed with the sort of frantic, caffeinated chaos that only Washington could manufacture. Press badges flashed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the clicking of pens formed an impatient percussion line, and the hum of restless reporters layered over it all like static before a storm.

Congressman Alex Claremont-Diaz stepped into the room with the kinetic energy of a man who had ricocheted between three meetings, two large cups of coffee, and one existential crisis before noon. Charisma clung to him like a second skin—too bright, too sharp, too practiced. His trademark grin, the one that lived somewhere between try me and please don’t, flickered across his face. Exhausted or not, he still carried himself gracefully.

Front row, third seat from the aisle, sat Henry Fox.

Polished. Composed. Disarmingly immaculate.

A rookie reporter at The Chronicle, just a year into the job, yet he held his notepad all straight and precise. The charcoal suit fit him with irritating perfection. Blond hair swept neatly, blue eyes sharp enough to slice clean through nonsense.

Even before their eyes met, Alex already felt the tension.

Then Henry looked up.

Blue collided with brown. Cool control met caffeinated chaos. And for a moment the length of a heartbeat, something hot and electric flared in the space between them. Curiosity. Challenge. Recognition. Something either of them refused to name.

When Henry was called upon, his voice sliced through the room—smooth, crisp, distinctly British in a way that made half the room turn their heads.

“Congressman Claremont-Diaz,” he began, steady and unflinching in the face of Alex’s charm, “you’ve been notably vocal about championing transparency in campaign finances. Yet your office has not released a full report on donor contributions for the quarter. Should we interpret this as selective transparency, or simply a delayed one?”

A ripple of amusement washed through the press corps. Pens paused. Phones lifted.

Alex’s jaw flexed with annoyance. Or maybe it was interest. He wasn’t sure.

He leaned one elbow on the podium, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Mr. Fox,” he drawled, “just to clarify, are you asking for my office’s financial records, or are you requesting access to my personal diary?”

Henry didn’t blink. Not even once. Though the ghost of a smirk dared to tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Whichever one tells the truth faster.” he replied coolly, pen poised.

The room held its collective breath.

Reporters suddenly turned to spectators who were waiting to see if they were about to witness a political sparring match, a flirtation in disguise, or both.

Alex’s own smirk betrayed him, curling before he could stop it. “Well, “when I eventually decide to publish my personal diary, you’ll be the first to get a copy. I might even sign it. For posterity.”

The room laughed loudly, but Henry merely tapped his pen against his notepad, a single, measured sound.

“I’ll hold you to that, Congressman,” he said softly. “But I would prefer your office’s records first.”

Touché.

Moments later, the briefing wrapped. Reporters filtered out in waves, the last of the questions fading into the hallway. Alex stayed behind, taking a long sip of water, letting the coolness settle the heat that conversation had stirred beneath his ribs.

Then he saw him.

Henry stood near the doorway with The Chronicle’s editor-in-chief and CEO, Ms. Ashlynn Cortez. The golden wash of late afternoon sunlight caught in his hair in a way that made him look annoyingly celestial like a painting someone had forgotten to hang in the Louvre.

Alex looked away before the tightness in his chest could climb any higher.

Irritation, he told himself. It had to be.

Except irritation didn’t explain why his pulse tripped every time Henry’s pen lifted during a briefing. Or why he always noticed when Henry crossed his legs, leaned back, leaned forward. Or why that cool stare of his felt like a secret challenge.

And as months crept on, as he worked his way up from congressman to senator, from briefings to hearings, the simple truth took shape between them: Somewhere amid the clipped questions, the pointed answers, and the stolen glances…

…the line between journalist and source began to blur.

And Alex? God help him, because he wasn’t sure he wanted it to go back to the unblurred way that it was.

November 2025…

“Do you only answer questions with more questions, Senator?”

Henry’s voice sliced through the gentle whir of the recorder, threading past the muffled commotion of Capitol Hill beyond the glass walls—the ringing phones, the clatter of heels, the muted churn of bureaucracy endlessly grinding its gears. His pen tapped a steady metronome against his notebook, as if counting down the seconds until Alex slipped, revealed something real and true.

Late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, painting the marble tiles in fading shades of amber and gold. Dark clouds gathered at the horizon with the unmistakable promise of heavy rain curling through the air vents like a warning.

Across the polished mahogany desk, Senator Alex Claremont-Diaz leaned back in his chair as if this was merely a social call instead of an interview meant to scrutinize him. His tie was loosened just enough to hint at exhaustion, his posture relaxed enough to be infuriating.

“That depends,” Alex answered, one brow lifting in practiced charm. “Are the questions meant to be answered, or are they just set dressing to make me look bad in tomorrow’s headlines?”

Henry’s pen stilled. His cool blue gaze lifted to meet Alex’s with surgical precision.

“In all my six years in the journalism field, Senator,” Henry said calmly, “I’ve never been one for the rhetorical or the theatrical. I ask the kind of questions that make the truth impossible to dodge.”

Taut silence followed, stretched thin like an overdrawn bowstring. Even the other junior reporters holding their boom mics seemed to forget how to breathe. The air conditioner hummed, the only neutral sound in the room filled with thickening tension.

Alex leaned in a fraction, lips curving. “And you think you’ll make me crack tonight?”

“I usually do.” Henry’s voice remained level. “I usually do.”

Camera lights washed them both in a bright halo—two men framed in opposition, sunlight and storm. Alex, in a navy suit and American flag pin, looked every inch the golden, impossible senator America couldn’t decide whether to worship or criticize. Henry, crisp in charcoal and steel-blue, seemed built from control itself, all poised and edged.

Henry turned a page of his notebook, the soft rustle impossibly loud in the quiet. “Let’s talk about the education reform bill that you’ve been pushing through the committee for months now.”

“Yes, let’s just talk about that.”

“How do you respond to the various critics who claim that the bill is more about image than impact?”

Alex exhaled slowly, his all-American smile thinning out but never vanishing. “These critics always talk the loudest when they’re the farthest from the people affected. Teachers, parents, students, they don’t have the luxury of pontificating. They deal with the consequences of inaction. This isn’t about optics. It’s about fixing what everyone else keeps ignoring.”

“So, is that a yes?” Henry prodded.

“That’s me saying I don’t govern by headlines,” Alex countered, leaning forward until the light glinted off his cufflink. “And if you’d read the actual bill instead of the commentary that people write about it, which is often filtered and sensationalized by the way, you’d already know that.”

Henry’s laugh slipped out for a second before he could swallow it. Alex’s smirk faltered.

“I’ll have you know, Senator, that I have read every line of the bill.” Henry retorted, meeting his gaze with sharp precision. “As well as all the numerous commentaries, critiques and analyses. I perfectly understand what they’re saying and what you’re trying to say.”

Alex tilted his head, studying his opponent with something laced with a little too much intention to be polite. “Then surely, you know that I’m right.”

The air between them vibrated and crackled with the kind of energy that made the lights seem one breath away from flickering out.

Henry closed his notebook with a soft but decisive thud. “You’re remarkably confident for someone whose approval ratings, according to the latest poll results, just dropped six points.”

Alex leaned in fully now, elbows resting on the desk, his voice lowering to something smooth and dangerous. “Confidence is the only thing that keeps you afloat in this landscape. Especially when people whom you don’t share the same values with would drown you.”

“And arrogance?”

“Arrogance,” Alex murmured, his smile unfurling, “is simply the type of confidence that makes other people uncomfortable and squirm in their seats.”

Henry’s expression shifted to a brief flash of annoyance smoothed into something almost entertained. “Do you ever stop performing, Senator?”

Alex’s grin deepened, all charm and provocation. “Do you ever stop provoking, Mr. Fox?”

Thunder rolled outside, rattling the glass. The light dimmed to smoky gray. Humidity rose, thick with unspoken things neither of them dared to articulate.

With controlled motions, Henry slid his notes into his briefcase along with his recording device. “Thank you for your time, Senator. I believe I have everything I need.”

“Do you now?”

Henry hesitated, just long enough to betray thought. “Yes.”

Unbeknownst to him, Alex’s politician eye caught the flicker of hesitation. It was barely there, but he saw it.

“Well then,” he murmured, “I look forward to reading the piece containing your observations. At least, your interpretation of what you think happened here tonight.”

Henry rose from his chair, the scrape soft against marble. “Knowing you, Senator, you probably won’t like it.”

“I rarely like political pieces and commentaries,” Alex admitted with a small, unexpectedly warm smile. “Especially about causes I’m really passionate about.”

A beat. Heavy, suspended. Rain began tracing thin silver threads down the glass.

Henry left first. The door clicked shut behind him.

Alex remained, staring at the rain sliding down his window. His pulse stayed steady, but something beneath it thrummed insistently. Unsettled. Expectant.

He had the sinking feeling Henry wouldn’t break the air around him just once.

Out in the corridor, Henry welcomed the cool draft on his face like mercy. Andrew lounged against the wall, two cups in hand, wearing the smug grin of someone who’d been waiting for gossip.

“Well?” Andrew asked, offering Henry a cup. “Did the golden senator finally give you anything good? He better have given you something unless you want Ashlynn to blow a gasket when she hears that you don’t have tomorrow’s headline.”

Henry accepted the tea, letting the rising steam ease his tension. “Lord, if charisma were a weapon, Senator Claremont-Diaz could level the entire eastern seaboard without breaking a sweat. He was insufferable as a congressman. As a senator? God help us. He’s evolved.”

Andrew laughed. “So…he got under your skin?”

Henry exhaled, long, dry, and painfully fond in a way he refused to acknowledge. “He’s under my skin, over my nerves, inside my head and probably plastered somewhere in tomorrow’s headline and lead story whether he likes it or not.” He took a sip of tea, trying to relax his frayed nerves. “And you know what I hate the most about it?”

Andrew arched a brow. “What?”

“I know journalists and their sources aren’t supposed to be close,” Henry muttered, staring into his tea as if the leaves might rearrange themselves into definite answers. “But I can’t help it. Not with him. From the very first press conference I covered, there’s something about him that draws me in.” He swallowed. “He’s pulling at something I’m trying very hard to ignore.”

Andrew gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “That’s rough, man. But Journalism 101: you have to remain objective. No biases or attachments allowed.”

“I know.” Henry groaned. “But I can feel it, Andrew. The day I’m no longer objective when it comes to Senator Claremont-Diaz is drawing nearer and faster than I’d like it to be.”

Outside, thunder cracked, and the heavens opened. Rain flooded Capitol Hill in a roaring, silver curtain—loud, relentless, and impossible to ignore.

Much like the man currently unraveling Henry from the inside out without even trying.

Chapter Text

By the next morning, Henry’s article was everywhere.

Honestly, he was surprised his fingers hadn’t fallen off in the process. He’d typed so fast and so long that he half-expected to see smoke rising from the keys. His laptop had practically purred from overuse; the keyboard gleamed faintly under the harsh newsroom lights, as if polished by desperation.

And now, there it was.

The Chronicle’s homepage blazed like a theater marquee, Henry’s byline stamped beneath the photo opener of Senator Claremont-Diaz mid-smile, dimples and all. The headline glared back at him in bold serif letters against the paper-white screen:

“The Claremont-Diaz Charm: Substance or Spectacle?”

It had taken every scrap of precision he’d ever cultivated as a journalist. Every sentence filleted, trimmed, and stitched back together. Every phrase held up to the light and examined like evidence. He’d dissected Senator Claremont-Diaz’s education reform bill with a scalpel’s edge—objective, factual and merciless. No fluff. No bias. No cheap shots.

But that wasn’t what broke the news cycle.

It was the quotes.

The sharp, electric banter that hummed just beneath civility. The tension that vibrated under every exchange. The way their back-and-forth had felt less like a Q&A and more like two swordsmen circling each other, testing edges.

By lunchtime, the internet and all its citizens behind the keyboard had reached a unanimous verdict: This wasn’t journalism. It was foreplay.

“I don’t govern by headlines,” Senator Claremont-Diaz had stated.

And Henry had countered it with a response that, in retrospect, might as well have been gasoline on an open flame: “Maybe you should start reading them.”

That single exchange had been clipped, slowed-down, memed, remixed, captioned and plastered all over Twitter/X, Instagram, TikTok and whatever other hellscape platform people consumed their daily dose of news.

Tweets ranged from mildly unhinged: 

“Lord, if sexual tension paid taxes, Senator Claremont-Diaz and Mr. Fox just balanced the national budget.”

To feral:

“A political enemies-to-lovers romance story arc starting in 3…2…1.”

To deeply questionable:

“Senator Claremont-Diaz, sir, what are you doing later tonight?”

Henry scrolled through the avalanche of comments on his phone, thumb swiping hard enough to bruise.

“Bloody idiots.” he muttered under his breath, though he couldn’t quite tell if he was including himself in the category.

Across from him, Andrew hid a smirk behind his coffee mug. “Don’t be so pissed, Henry. Everyone in this office saw that interview. The chemistry between you and Senator Claremont-Diaz could’ve powered the entirety of D.C..”

“There is no chemistry between me and him.” Henry muttered, not looking up from his phone.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Sure, there isn’t, but the comments online say otherwise.”

“It was an interview, Andrew. A standard, perfectly professional, objective…”

“Verbal sparring match that has gone viral and caught the attention of half the internet,” Andrew cut in, swiveling lazily in his chair. “The both of you even have your own trending hashtag on Twitter. #ClaremontDiazFox. Very platonic.”

Henry groaned and dropped his phone face-down on the desk. “Christ, I hate it here. I hate this city. I hate this bloody circus of a political landscape.”

Andrew laughed softly. “No, you don’t hate it, man. You love the chaos of it. The stories are everywhere. You just have to admit to yourself that Senator Dimples Claremont-Diaz got under your skin.”

“He didn’t.” Henry typed aggressively at his screen, as if his keyboard were Alex’s smug face. His document blinked blankly back at him.

Unfortunately, even typing couldn’t chase away the image burned behind his eyelids—Alex leaning forward during the interview, sleeves rolled up, smile too sharp, eyes too warm for someone supposedly being objective.

A menace. An infuriatingly handsome menace.

His gaze drifted against his will to the newsroom TV.

And there he was. Alex Claremont-Diaz, live from the White House Press briefing room, bathed in the golden sunlight, as if the sun itself had decided to give him good lighting just to personally spite Henry.

Blue suit. American flag pin. Million-dollar smile bright enough to blind.

The press corps fell over themselves for him, microphones and recording devices thrust forward like worship offerings to a live deity, cameras drinking him in.

Then someone asked for his commentary on Henry’s article.

Henry froze mid-keystroke. The newsroom seemed to go still, the faint hum of printers and keyboards fading behind the flickering screen.

Alex paused, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips—the kind of smile that warned trouble was coming and he knew it.

“I think that Mr. Fox has a sharp eye,” he drawled. “And a sharper pen. Sharpest wit in the room, if you ask me. I only hope his next piece would be as kind to the causes I advocate for as it was to the state of the freckles on my nose.”

The room erupted with laughter.

Henry felt his stomach twist, a slow coil of disbelief and something dangerously close to embarrassment.

Andrew snorted. “I like him. My guy knows how to work a room and when to turn his charm on.”

“That’s not charm, Andrew,” Henry snapped. “That’s pure manipulation and weaponized charisma bathed in good lighting.”

“You noticed the lighting, huh?”

Henry shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “We’re journalists, Andrew. Observation is literally a part of our job description.”

“Observation, sure. Ogling? Not so much. But sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Sharp Eye.”

Henry exhaled sharply through his nose and stared at his blinking cursor again. Why the hell was Alex Claremont-Diaz under his skin? Why did one stupid smile linger like a fucking splinter?

He’s a politician, Henry reminded himself. They smile like that for everyone, but especially the press, so that they get to stay in the media’s good graces. That charm is currency, and he’s rich in it.

Still, Alex’s words echoed in his mind, soft and honeyed: Sharp eyes, sharper pen, sharpest wit.

And what annoyed Henry most was that even long after the broadcast had ended, he could still hear the words, could still feel the lazy curl of Alex’s Southern drawl winding around every syllable like vines to a trellis.

Chapter Text

The next evening, Henry found himself standing in the middle of the Press Guild dinner, which was a black-tie spectacle disguised as a networking event, the sort of glittering, self-congratulatory circus he would’ve gladly passed on if Ashlynn hadn’t shoved the invitation into his hand with a firm “represent the paper, Henry. Wear something that is not your sweater for once.”

So yes, here he was, against his better judgement, trapped in one of D.C’s most theatrical masquerades.

The Mayflower Hotel ballroom glowed with merciless opulence. Crystal chandeliers scattered gold dust across the polished marble floors. Journalists, power brokers, lobbyists, senators, and people whose job titles had so many syllables they barely fit on business cards mingled in curated clusters. Perfume, champagne, pretense, and ambition scented the air in an intoxicating and dizzying blend.

Henry lingered near the bar—his natural habitat at events like this. One hand tucked into his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of whiskey he didn’t really want but absolutely needed. The burn steadied him, sharpened his senses and gave him something to focus on besides the whirl of artificial charm and practiced pleasantries in every corner.

He had just finished letting his mind drift, half-listening to the drone of polite laughter and chatter, when a familiar and smooth voice cut through the noise.

“Mr. Fox.”

Henry  didn’t need to look to know, as his pulse already did that traitorous, ridiculous jump.

Of course, he’s here.

He slowly turned, schooling his face into perfect neutrality, right up until he actually saw him.

Alex stood a few feet away, nursing his own glass of something amber and expensive. His suit was black, tailored to perfection, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone. His posture was relaxed in that calculated way of his, like he was comfortable everywhere, because everywhere soon bent down on its knees for him. And there was that smile. The one always hovering on the edge of mischief, like he carried a private joke in his pocket and was constantly deciding whether or not to share it.

His brown eyes found Henry’s across the space and didn’t waver.

And Henry? Well, he absolutely hated the fact that his pulse beat a little bit faster than normal, betraying him in the most inconvenient way.

“Senator,” he greeted, tone smooth and nonchalant as the whiskey he held. “I see you survived my article after all.”

“Barely.” Alex’s grin deepened, a flash of teeth and mischief. “Although I have to say, I’m still debating whether you meant ‘spectacle’ as an insult or a compliment.”

“If it were a compliment,” Henry said coolly, raising his glass slightly. “I’d have chosen a different word. A more flattering one.”

Alex laughed a low laugh, but it was edged with something that made the tiny hairs at the back of Henry’s neck rise. He stepped closer, slow enough to be intentional, closing the space between them by degrees until Henry could catch the utterly distracting scent of Alex’s cologne: clean and warm with an undertone of spice.

It shouldn’t have been distracting, and yet, it lingered in Henry’s chest.

“Tell me something,” Alex slightly tilted his head with infuriating curiosity. “Are you always this sharp after hours? Or do I just inspire something special?”

Henry met his gaze evenly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Who said I was flattering me?” Alex countered, voice like a velvet dare.

For a suspended moment, neither moved.

The ballroom seemed to fade around them, all the voices softening and the movements slowing until all that existed was the golden glow from the chandeliers and the impossible, crackling tension between them.

Brown eyes met blue. Two orbits caught mid-collision.

Then…

“Gentlemen.”

Henry blinked, his focus snapping back cleanly.

Senator Patricia Santiago appeared beside them in a gown the color of moonlit ocean, the fabric whispering as she moved. The sheer sleeves shimmered as she lifted her champagne flute, her smile as knowing as it was amused. She looked every bit the part of an ocean goddess descending upon mortals—one who had seen exactly what she’d needed to see to entertain her for the night.

“It’s lovely to see you both playing nice for once,” she said, eyes glinting between them. “And not trying to chase each other around the room like Tom and Jerry.”

Alex’s charm turned on like flipping a switch. “I always play nice, Senator Santiago.”

Henry fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, Senator. Alex was merely discussing this new bill he wants to propose in the next legislative meeting.”

Senator Santiago laughed softly. “Well then, you’ll both have plenty of things to discuss tonight. So, I’ll leave you both to it.”

She drifted away, and suddenly, the air between them felt thinner again.

Alex’s gaze slid back to Henry, eyes glinting.

“You know,” he murmured, swirling the liquid in his glass lazily. You make it impossible for me to tell whether you’re about to quote me on something for your next piece…or strangle me with your tie.”

“I don’t know.” Henry tilted his head. “Who says I can’t do both?”

“I’ll take my chances with you, Mr. Fox.”

He clinked his glass in the air—half-salute, half-irritation—and melted back into the crowd, moving with that slow confidence that made everyone’s eyes follow him whether they meant to or not.

Henry let out a low, reluctant laugh, the sound catching in his throat before it could fully escape. God help him, he was starting to get quite fond of Alex and that was a problem.

Fuck, he’s in trouble. Deep trouble.

“You two are honestly a PR nightmare waiting to happen.” came a voice at his elbow.

Henry startled slightly, glancing over to find Andrew somehow balancing both a martini and his phone in one hand, his face holding the expression of someone who had absolutely seen everything.

“He’s impossible,” Henry muttered.

“And you,” Andrew said, sipping his martini with a smirk, “are impossibly intrigued by him.”

Henry didn’t bother with denial this time.

Instead, he stared at the last amber swirl in his glass, then downed it in one clean swallow. The warmth rippled through him, settling somewhere dangerously close to his ribs.

Outside, rain streaked down the tall windows, tracing slow rivulets against the glass. The thunderstorm had passed, but in its wake, an energy crackled beneath the surface.

A spark. Equal parts attraction and defiance.

It was definitely alive and burning hotter now, and it was only a matter of time before one of them caught on fire.

Chapter Text

The forecast had called for rain all week, but by the time the annual bipartisan charity gala began, it had escalated into a full-blown tempest.

Wind howled and lashed against the tall windows of the National Gallery, rattling the glass panes like nature was trying to claw its way into Washington’s marble heart. Lightning split the sky in jagged flashes, thunder followed in a rolling snarl, and the floor reflected each burst like a camera flash from the heavens.

Inside, however, Washington’s elite mingled as if storms were merely aesthetic background noise for their continuous schmoozing. Champagne flowed. Laughter rose in carefully measured intervals. The string quartet played on, their elegant notes weaving through the building even as nature pounded its fists against the walls.

Henry stood by one of the marble sculptures, hands in his pockets, pretending to admire the art. In reality, he was cataloging expressions, alliances, whispered exchanges between donors and politicians. He was technically here to cover the gala’s philanthropic efforts, but he knew Ashlynn hadn’t sent him here for journalism. Not really.

She wanted another story. Another spark. Another moment between him and Alex to feed the public’s growing obsession.

He was halfway through mentally drafting a cynical piece about America’s fascination with political optics when a ripple passed through the crowd. A hush, then a hum, then camera flashes firing like a chain reaction.

Senator Alex Claremont-Diaz had arrived.

Henry didn’t need to turn to know. He could feel it. The way attention shifted, the way people unconsciously angled their bodies toward the entrance as if pulled by gravity.

When he finally allowed himself to look, he found exactly what he expected.

Alex stood framed in golden light, dressed in black from head to toe. No tie, shirt collar slightly undone, hair damp from the rain and falling in dark waves that made him look a little wild and a bit more cinematic and unfairly photogenic than usual. Every camera flash caught him at some impossible angle—jawline sharp, eyes bright and posture easy. He moved through the crowd with the confidence of someone used to both admiration and scrutiny, shaking hands, exchanging jokes and lighting up the room without even trying.

Pure electricity, Henry told himself. And I’m supposed to act immune.

Andrew would have teased him and called that denial, stage two loudly, smugly, complete with citations and all.

Henry tore his gaze away, or tried to, turning back toward the sculpture…

…but Alex’s eyes found him first.

It was only a second. A tiny glance. But Alex’s smile deepened and sharpened into something between recognition and a dare, and then he started walking toward him.

“Oh God.” Henry exhaled quietly through his nose. “Here we go.”

When Alex reached him, he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You always stare that hard at everyone, or am I just that irresistible that you don’t want to take your eyes off of me?”

Henry arched a brow. “You’re in the middle of a room filled with cameras, Senator. I’d call it observation, not staring.”

“Sure,” Alex took a sip of his drink. “So, it’s a professional observation, then?”

“As professional as it gets.”

“And what’s your professional verdict tonight?”

“That you thrive on attention,” Henry said without missing a beat. “And possibly dramatic lighting and the applause that always comes with it.”

“I can’t help it,” Alex raised his glass as he grinned. “People like me are just born electric.”

“I beg to argue that people like you are born unbearable.” Henry countered. “It’s like you were put on this planet to torture your fellow human beings and test their patience.”

Alex laughed, a genuine sound, something that cracked through the noise and punched straight into Henry’s ribs. Henry hated how much he liked it. He wanted to bottle up that laugh, hide it in a drawer and play it on days when the world felt too heavy. Maybe keep it forever if he could.

“Careful, Mr. Fox.” Alex said, voice dropping an octave lower. “People might think you actually like me when you talk like that.”

“I assure you, Senator,” Henry said softly, “no one’s that delusional.”

Before Alex could reply, a sudden thunderclap crashed overhead. The chandeliers flickered once, twice, then dimmed. The crowd collectively gasped as the music faltered. For a moment, everything existed in half-light.

“It’s an old building.” Alex murmured, stepping a fraction closer without thinking. “The generators will kick in soon. No need to panic.”

Henry gave him a sidelong look. “Why do you sound like you’ve been in this very building during a power outage before?”

“That’s because I have,” Alex said, sipping his drink with infuriating ease. “Power went out during a fundraiser I staffed years ago. This is not my first black-tie blackout, sweetheart.”

The pet name landed somewhere low in Henry’s stomach, where it had absolutely no business landing. Alex’s deep voice and Southern drawl didn’t help at all. He made a mental note to examine it sometime after the event. Preferably behind the locked doors of his house and while getting himself off.

The emergency lights finally blinked on, washing the gallery in softer tones than the blinding chandelier. The world still raged outside, but inside, the chaos had distilled into something more intimate.

And Alex, Oh God, was standing too close now.

Close enough that Henry could smell the rain still clinging to him. Close enough to feel the faint warmth of his body and the crispness of his cologne, the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“So,” Alex said, his voice a low hum between them, “Is your next article going to blame me for the stormy weather too?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.” Henry replied, fighting to keep his tone dry.

Their eyes met again. This time, neither of them looked away. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but charged.

And then, someone called Alex’s name from across the gallery. The spell broke.

“Well,” Alex said softly, flashing a grin that was pure bravado and charisma. “Duty calls. Try to go easy on me in print, yeah?”

“No promises, Senator.”

Alex winked and melted back into the crowd, already being swallowed up by handshakes and conversation.

Henry turned toward the window, catching his own faint reflection in the dark glass. His eyes were a little too wide, lips curved in something that could absolutely get him fired for conflict of interest and personal biases.

“God help me,” he muttered under his breath, “he’s infuriating. But I’m fucking attracted to him.”

Outside, lightning split the sky, illuminating the distant silhouette of the Capitol dome in stark white brilliance.

And as Henry drifted toward the quieter edges of the gallery, his pulse still echoing the storm outside, he realized with dawning dread that Alex wasn’t only a man he needed to cover in print, but also the storm that he needed to weather through and survive.

Henry did not know much about the architectural history of the National Gallery, but right then, he wanted to write a thank-you letter to whoever’s the brilliant mind that insisted on building a secluded balcony that acted as a quiet refuge that was tucked away from the glittering circus of the main hall.

He truly needed peace and quiet. The stillness. A moment to breathe. Something to anchor him before he drowned in everything Alex had become to him, so this is a good time to be appreciative of architecture as any.

Rain pattered steadily against the roof overhead, soft but persistent, the storm returning with quiet vengeance. Henry sat on the shallow marble steps, rolling his half-empty whiskey glass between his palms. The amber trembled with each distant rumble, catching the drowsy glow of the emergency lights. He pretended its weight could steady him.

Truthfully, he hadn’t felt steady since Alex walked into the gala.

“I’m guessing this is your escape hatch?”

Henry didn’t need to turn around to know the voice, as it carried a warmth, a teasing lilt that stirred the air before the words even reached his ears. Alex seemed to carry his own gravitational pull wherever he went, bending the room around him with ease in his direction.

“I needed some air, as well as space,” Henry said, glancing over his shoulder. “The main hall’s full of people who talk too much and mean too little. That’s just not my kind of party and not the kind of company I want to keep.”

“How about me?” Alex stepped closer, the soft thud of his shoes echoing faintly. “Am I the type of company you want to keep?”

“I tolerate you,” Henry replied dryly. “Barely. But I suppose that counts for something.”

“High praise.” Alex grinned, producing a small bottle of scotch and two glasses from somewhere within his jacket. “I brought us refreshments. Thought you might appreciate a little refill that’s…stronger. Helps keep the noise down and numb things for a while, or so I’m told.”

Henry accepted the glass that Alex held out, their fingers brushing. The contact lingered enough for Henry to feel it in his pulse. Just enough that Alex didn’t pull away quickly.

“Is that your strategy?” Henry asked, raising a brow. “Bribe the press with expensive liquor so they write glowing reviews of your moral character?”

“If I say yes,” Alex said, with twinkling eyes and that fucking smirk. “would it work?”

“Temporarily, maybe.” Henry took a slow sip, turning to avert his gaze back to the rain pittering on the window. “You’re awfully confident for a man who showed up to a gala looking like the human embodiment of ‘unbuttoned temptation’”

Alex blinked, reaching instinctively to button up his shirt. “It’s not…”

“It is,” Henry cut in, turning to fully face him. “But I don’t mind it. That style looks good on you.”

Before Alex could retaliate or flirt back, Henry reached forward and brushed his fingers along the damp lapels of Alex’s shirt. The fabric was soft and warm from his body. His fingertips hovered over the open buttons, an inch away from doing something reckless.

Alex went ramrod still, a breath caught between them. The storm outside flared again, a streak of lightning framing them in a dash of silver.

Then Henry’s fingers retreated. “On second thought,” he murmured with a small smile, “I’d rather keep it that way. Don’t want you to suffocate now, do I?”

“Really?” A lopsided smirk tugged at Alex’s mouth. “Or did you just want an excuse to pull me by the collar and kiss me?”

Henry’s pulse stuttered. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Maybe,” Alex said, taking a half-step closer. “But you didn’t deny it though.”

The distance between them had shrunk from inches to centimeters to millimeters, the kind of closeness that felt intentional even when it wasn’t. Due to their proximity, Henry could smell the faint spice of Alex’s cologne, feel the heart radiating off him, and could see the way his black pupils had darkened just a shade.

“Are you always this hot and charming?” Alex whispered. “Or is it just the liquor talking?”

“Depends.” Henry tilted his head, eyes glinting with equal challenge. “Are you always this infuriating, or is it a natural talent?”

Alex laughed, a low and genuine one, the sound rumbling through Henry’s chest more than his ears. For a moment, thunder filled the silence, and the storm outside seemed to pulse in rhythm with Henry’s heartbeat.

Without realizing it, Henry’s gaze dropped to Alex’s mouth, eyes zeroing in on the little gap between the other man’s lips. When he dragged them back up, Alex had already noticed. His teasing smirk softened into something fragile and deeply wanting.

“Henry,” Alex said softly, voice barely above the rain.

“Mm?”

“This is probably a bad idea. Maybe the worst idea. ‘Coz, you know, journalistic ethics, professional boundaries, blurring the lines and all that media shit.”

“Almost certainly.”

And yet, neither of them moved away.

Alex, bold and brave as ever, leaned in and moved until Henry could feel the faint warmth of his breath on his nose.

Henry didn’t stop him. He couldn’t. So he closed the distance instead.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, tasting of a blend of scotch and whiskey and rain and feeling like the inevitable conclusion to a storm that had been brewing between them for far too long. Then Henry’s hand slid up to cradle the back of Alex’s neck, pulling him in, deepening the kiss with a hungry, trembling certainty. Alex responded instantly by matching and meeting him and eventually melting into him.

When they soon broke apart, Alex looked wrecked in the best way possible, with his flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen pink lips. “Well,” he exhaled, dazed and delighted, “congratulations to us. We’re the worst at following through with protocol because I’m pretty sure we just broke about a dozen spoken and unspoken rules.”

Henry tried for cool indifference but failed spectacularly. “Speak for yourself, Senator. I happen to think that protocol is overrated and sucks right now and that thing that we just did…” He licked his lips, the slight taste of Alex still there. “...was an excellent idea.”

Alex’s laugh blended with the sound of thunder, the sound curling through the charged air. For a fleeting second, Henry forgot about storms, politics, headlines and consequences. There was only the smell of rain, the taste of scotch, the impossible, infuriating and handsome man who’d just stolen the breath straight out of his lungs, and the dizzying rush of something too new and too dangerous to name.

Alex’s eyes glimmered with mischief. “Then what do you say to another probably bad idea?” 

Henry’s breath caught. “My answer depends on what the idea is.”

“How about…” Alex’s tongue flicked out and he licked his lips in a seductive way, head facing down so Henry caught a full view of his impossibly long eyelashes. “You spend the night in my house. No pressure, no expectations. We don’t have to do anything provocative or reckless, but given our track record, we’re not exactly the best rule followers so anything’s on the table.”

“Alex…”

“Just one night,” Alex offered, meeting his gaze steadily. “Then you can freely leave tomorrow morning or whenever the storm decides to fuck off. Whichever comes first.”

Henry didn’t even try to think. “Yes.”

Alex blinked in confusion. “Wait? Really?”

“Yes.” Henry nodded frantically, his pulse feeling like wild horses in his chest. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

“Alright, then.”

The half-empty bottle of scotch sat forgotten on the marble as they slipped out through the back corridor. Outside, rain slammed against the pavement, but Alex’s sleek and dark sedan gleamed beneath the stormlight like a promise.

They climbed in, breathless and wet with adrenaline. Alex revved up the engine, his hands steady on the wheel, though his eyes flicked toward Henry with barely contained disbelief.

“Buckle up, sweetheart,” he said as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I’ve got a feeling this storm’s just getting started.”

Chapter Text

They reached the front door of Alex’s house far sooner than Henry expected, almost suspiciously fast, considering it was tucked all the way at the secluded end of the street. The whole place felt too private, like a place where bad decisions were designed to flourish. Or very, very good ones. Henry wasn’t sure anymore.

Alex turned his key. The lock clicked, a soft sound swallowed by the warm spill of golden light that poured out as the door swung open. Inside, everything looked washed in honey—modern lines, soft shadows, curtains half-drawn against the windows where rain traced slow, shivering paths. The storm beat against the glass in a steady rhythm, like a pulse neither of them could ignore.

“Welcome to my humble kingdom here in D.C.” Alex said, voice low enough that Henry felt it drag along his spine. He turned halfway as he shrugged off his jacket, flashing that infuriatingly crooked grin that always seemed to make Henry feel like gravity had shifted its loyalties.

Henry parted his lips to deliver a dry retort or a sarcastic quip, but the words stalled and got caught somewhere between his lungs and his tongue. Because Alex flung his keys into the bowl near the entryway with a careless clatter, dropped his jacket to the floor, and then, by God’s mercy, walked toward Henry with the slow, focused intent of a predator who’d finally decided that the time of waiting and pretending to be civilized is long over.

“Alex…” Henry said, or tried to. His voice betrayed him, softer than he meant, trembling with everything he’d held back tonight. His brain screamed at him to step away, but his body betrayed him completely, heat pooling low in his stomach, his cock hardening embarrassingly fast under his bottoms as Alex kept closing the distance.

Alex stopped just shy of touching him, close enough that Henry felt the warmth radiating off his body. Close enough to smell the faint scent of rain still clinging to his hair, the spice of his cologne warmed by his skin.

“Henry,” Alex murmured. Raw. Rough. Like something inside him had finally snapped its leash.

Then, without another word, Alex reached out, fingers brushing Henry’s jaw, and kissed him.

The kiss began soft, almost hesitant, as if Alex wanted to savor the first touch. But the tenderness cracked under the weight of days, weeks even, of wanting, and the kiss deepened with startling, devastating urgency. Alex’s hand slid from Henry’s thigh to the nape of his neck, pulling him flush against him. Henry didn’t even pretend to resist; he surged forward, brushing Alex’s hips, gasping when Alex’s hips tilted up to meet him.

A sound tore from Alex’s throat, half-moan, half-growl. “I needed this,” he said against Henry’s plush and kiss-swollen lips, breath hot. “God, fuck, I love the way you taste, sweetheart.”

Henry could barely think. Everything in him narrowed down to the slick heat of Alex’s mouth, the press of their bodies, the unbearable need to shed every barrier between them and get skin on skin.

“Alex,” he breathed, kissing down the sharp line of Alex’s jaw to his ear. “I want to take your shirt off.”

Alex’s answer was immediate, a whisper that felt like it lit Henry from the inside. “Then take it off, sweetheart. Slow. Take your time. We have all night.”

His fingers found the top button of Alex’s shirt and worked downward. Alex mirrored him, undoing Henry’s buttons with intentional slowness, a teasing rhythm, making Henry wait just long enough to feel the ache of it. Henry realized, with helpless clarity, that Alex was matching him on purpose—drawing out the anticipation just to watch him fall apart. And Henry let him. He reveled in it.

The moment Alex’s shirt gaped open, revealing warm bronze skin and lines of muscle Henry had secretly dreamt of far too often, Henry could no longer hold himself back. He pushed the fabric off Alex’s shoulders in one sweeping motion and chased it with hot, breathless kisses.

His own shirt landed somewhere near the doorway, forgotten. Henry sat back on the foot of the bed just enough to take Alex in, chest rising and falling, freckles and beauty marks scattered across his shoulders and forearms like spilled stardust of the constellations only Henry knew the names of. His hands roamed, touching each one with something dangerously close to awe.

Alex watched him, chest heaving, eyes dark and tender. And in that golden, rain-lit room, it felt less like two people undressing each other and more like something sacred unraveling between the both of them.

Henry traced each freckle with the gentleness of someone memorizing a map, his fingertips mapping out the constellations against Alex’s warm skin. He leaned in again, ready to kiss down the line he’d just traced, but Alex met him halfway, bending to press his mouth to Henry’s chest. The kisses deepened with every second, turning from warm to searing, from patient to hungry.

Henry’s hand slid into Alex’s curls almost involuntarily, fingers trembling with the urge to hold him there and never let him move.

“Tug on it, sweetheart,” Alex murmured against his skin. His breath was hot against Henry’s collarbone as he mouthed his way up, up, toward his throat. He wrapped his own hand over Henry’s, threading their fingers together in his curls. When Henry finally gave a hesitant pull…

Alex groaned.

Not a soft groan, but a deep, cracked sound that vibrated through Henry’s entire body, sending heat and pressure rolling low in the pit of his stomach.

Henry tugged again, bolder this time, and Alex’s mouth found the pulse beneath his ear, sucking lightly, earning a sharp inhale from Henry.

“You smell so good, darling,” Henry whispered hoarsely, voice breaking with need. “Like rain and cinnamon and…God, I love it. I love how you smell.”

Alex’s lips brushed the edge of his jaw, voice spilling out in a low rasp. “And you smell like…” He inhaled sharply, almost desperate for the scent. “Like spring grass. Freshly grown and alive.” His teeth grazed Henry’s chin as his breath stuttered. “God, it makes me want to…fuck…”

The last word fractured clean into two syllables.

“I want you, Alex.” Henry breathed, nearly pleading.

Alex lifted his head, eyes molten. “Lie down for me, sweetheart.” The command was gentle but absolute. “Let me see you. All of you.”

Henry obeyed without thinking, sliding off Alex’s lap and moving to the center of the bed. The silk sheets hit his bare back, smooth and luxurious. The sensation made his breath stutter, his skin more sensitive, every nerve alight.

At the foot of the bed, Alex stood in nothing but his black dress pants, chest bare, gaze fixed on Henry with a kind of reverence that made Henry’s stomach flip. He removed his watch, then each of his black bracelets with an almost ritualistic rhythm. Each small metallic click only heightened the anticipation of it.

Henry propped himself on his elbows and his lips curled into a wicked and satisfied grin.

Because Alex’s hair was already a mess. Completely ruined. Curls sticking in every direction like Henry had grabbed them and never let go. Which, of course, he had. And the sight of Alex running a hand through them to make them even messier almost made Henry moan on the spot.

“God, Henry,” Alex whispered, voice thick with awe. “Look at yourself. You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

“I know,” Henry said brightly, his faux innocence betrayed by the heat in his eyes and the wicked tilt of his smile. Rarely did he see anyone this undone over him, and he savored it—the power, the attention, the way Alex looked at him like he was something to be worshipped.

Alex lifted both hands, gesturing loosely toward Henry’s thighs. “Open those up for me, baby.”

“Baby?” Henry arched a brow, amused. “Hmm, I think I like that.”

He dug his heels into the mattress and slowly parted his legs, knees rising, voice dripping into a teasing purr. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Alex growled, biting down on a knuckle to steady himself. “Just like that.” He flicked his hair out of his face, but it only made him look more wrecked and hungry.

Henry playfully dragged his fingers along the waistband of his pants, down the sides to his hips, toying lazily with a loose thread. “Take my pants off for me?” he asked softly.

Alex nodded like a possessed man and reached for him. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly undoing the button and zipper before sliding Henry’s pants down in one smooth, practiced glide. He tossed them aside without caring where they landed.

“Henry,” Alex whispered, hand drifting up the inside of his thigh. The touch was feather-light and yet, it made Henry shudder. “Who the fuck are you?”

Henry felt himself throb at the question, at the raw wonder behind it. Alex hadn’t even touched him properly yet, and he was already shaking and extremely turned on.

“Alex,” he exhaled, the name falling apart on his tongue.

What he truly wanted to say was brutally simple: Stop caressing my bloody thigh, get my boxers off, take your pants off and get your cock or your mouth or any part of you inside me now.

But instead, he bit his bottom lip, desperate, undone, and whispered: “Come here, please.”

And Alex moved like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear those words.

He didn’t rush as he circled the bed, peeling off layers as he went. Henry shifted aside to watch, pulse hammering, pupils blown wide as Alex slid out of his dress pants and let them fall in a careless puddle on the floor. His black boxers clung low on his hips, unfairly tempting, and the golden line of his torso gleamed under the soft bedroom light.

Fully stripped to boxers and pure confidence, Alex climbed onto the bed. In one smooth, casual motion, he guided Henry until he was the one leaning back against the headboard, legs stretched out, looking comfortable and devastating and in complete, quiet command.

Henry didn’t even try to hide how quickly he moved. He pressed himself forward and mouthed a line of kisses along Alex’s bicep—slow, greedy kisses that made Alex’s breath catch—then trailed upward, across shoulder and collarbone. Then he swung a leg over, straddling Alex’s waist, settling into him like gravity had finally found its favorite person to cling to.

Their matching black boxers brushed, heat pressing to heat, and Henry’s breath stuttered. The feeling of almost nothing between them was intoxicating.

“Say it again,” Henry murmured, their lips so close the words vibrated against Alex’s mouth. He rolled his hips slowly, rubbing against Alex’s obvious erection. “Call me baby again.”

“You liked that?” Alex returned, tone smug and warm, his voice sinful. “It just sort of slipped out.”

Henry didn’t dignify that with words. He crashed their mouths together.

The kiss was raw and greedy, a collision that felt like they had already spent a lifetime learning each other’s rhythms. They fit together effortlessly—heat flowing, breaths tangling, bodies moving.

Henry ground down harder, grateful neither of them seemed to be in a hurry to rush the moment. The slow build, the ache and the tension made everything sharper, every brush of skin a kindling spark waiting to ignite. When Alex’s hands slid up Henry’s torso and found his nipples, teasing them with practiced fingers, Henry gasped, a sound punched out of him.

His back arched automatically, offering more.

Alex lowered his mouth, abandoning Henry’s lips in favor of his chest. He flicked one nipple with his tongue, then sucked, drawing a hiss from between Henry’s clenched teeth.

“Yes, darling,” Henry groaned, his hips rolling helplessly. “Fuck, yes…”

Alex’s hands spread wide across Henry’s lower back, dragging him closer, holding him steady as he mouthed hungrily at his chest, determined to ruin Henry completely.

“Lift up for me,” Alex demanded, voice slipping into a growl, one hand sliding to the back of Henry’s neck to guide him.

Henry obeyed instantly, rising onto his knees.

Alex slid down flat on his back, positioning himself perfectly between Henry’s thighs in one graceful, deadly motion.

“Good boy,” Alex rasped. The praise hit Henry like a direct strike. His stubble grazed the sensitive inside of Henry’s thigh as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Henry’s boxers. He tugged them down with just enough roughness to make Henry shiver. “Now sit for me…baby.”

The added pet name landed like a spark on gasoline.

Before Henry could even lower himself fully, Alex’s hands clamped around his hips and dragged him down fast, forcing a shocked gasp out of him. Alex’s fingers dug into the soft skin at Henry’s waist, right at the sharp edge between pleasure and pain.

“Alex…wait…just…” Henry tried, breath shaky.

But the second Alex’s mouth moved, Henry broke.

His knees trembled violently. His vision blurred. His breath hitched on a desperate, choked gasp as Alex’s tongue found him and started to work in slow motions that made Henry’s spine curve like a pulled bowstring.

Henry grabbed the headboard for balance, but Alex wasn’t having any of it.

Alex reached up, threading their fingers together, pulling Henry’s hands away from the headboard and locking both of the blonde’s wrists behind his back easily with one hand. 

The restraint made Henry shudder. Completely exposed, completely held, completely Alex’s and he was much too turned on to give a single fuck.

Every sound that escaped Henry—every gasped plea, every broken moan—was met with a deep, indulgent hum from Alex. A hum that vibrated through Henry’s entire body. Alex enjoyed this. He took pride in it and relished the taste of him like it was a luxury he’d been craving for far too long.

Henry had been eaten out before. More than enough times to know the difference between someone performing a task and someone worshipping.

And Alex? Alex devoured him. Like he’d been starving. Like Henry was the first real meal he’d ever been offered.

The coil inside Henry wound tighter and tighter until it snapped, and his climax crashed over him hard. He moaned, loud and broken and helpless, as his whole body trembled violently, shuddering through the release like a gushing waterfall.

Alex didn’t stop.

He slowed, gentle circles, soothing touches that made Henry twitch with oversensitivity. Henry swiped sweat from his forehead with his wrist, chest heaving.

“I can’t…I need…” Henry gasped, trying to lift himself away.

Alex groaned in protest, shaking his head stubbornly. His hand slipped behind Henry’s knee, holding him in a gentle-but-firm anchor.

Henry still managed to move, and Alex retaliated.

With a bite.

A real, sharp bite to his inner thigh.

Henry yelped, and then laughed breathlessly, collapsing sideways onto the pillows.

“Senator!” he exclaimed in mock outrage, breathless and flushed. “That was wholly unprofessional.”

Alex lifted his head, lips shining, eyes dark and starving. A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh fuck yeah,” he said, laughing low and rough. “You can definitely call me by my job title during sex.”

Henry rolled his eyes before grinning.

Still trembling from the aftershocks, Henry let himself fall bonelessly beside Alex, his breath stuttering as pleasure slowly unwound in long, lazy coils through his body. Alex reached over and brushed a few stray strands of hair from Henry’s face with a gentleness that made Henry’s chest ache. Then he propped himself up on one elbow and leaned down, kissing Henry like the night wasn’t going anywhere.

Henry shivered as he tasted the saltiness of himself on Alex’s lips, mingling with the leftover hints of whiskey and scotch and the warmth of Alex’s breath. Alex himself clearly wasn’t bothered either; he kept chasing Henry’s mouth, licking into him, savoring every last echo of him.

After a beat, Henry’s hand wandered down, fingers drawing a lazy path along the outline of Alex’s hardness, clearly straining through thin cotton. The reaction was immediate: Alex sucked in a sharp breath, hips lifting just slightly, needing without asking.

“Darling,” Henry murmured, thumb slipping under the waistband, voice dipping into something velvet and sinful. “May I?” A beat. A cheeky curve to his lips. “Senator.”

Alex’s reply was a sound that was half laughter, half surrender. “Have at it, baby.” He dropped back against the pillows, folding his hands behind his head like he was posing for a painting. His biceps flexed, and Henry pretended not to notice how unfairly attractive that was.

Chapter Text

Henry tugged the boxers down, and froze.

Oh, boy. Whatever he’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. Henry blinked once. Twice. Thrice. Alex’s cock was…bigger. Substantially. In a way that made Henry’s mouth go dry and his lifespan feel suddenly shorter. He’d had an idea, from what he’d felt earlier, but seeing it up close still stole his breath away.

“Have you ever considered a career change?” Henry asked faintly, staring as he continued to marvel at the sheer size of Alex. “Pornography seems far more your calling than politics.”

Alex’s voice strained around a laugh. “Are you planning to just stare at it all night?”

“You got to ogle me earlier, Senator.” Henry lifted his chin primly. “This is my chance now. I’m simply collecting my equal share.”

Alex spread his arms out in mock surrender. “You don’t think this is a bit vulnerable? The way I’m just lying here while you conduct…whatever the fuck it is you’re conducting?”

“I could always tie you up if that would make you feel more secure,” Henry offered breezily. “Some of the men I’ve slept with enjoyed that quite a lot.” He glanced around the suite. “I don’t see any rope, but perhaps my tie might be a suitable substitute?”

Alex’s pupils blew wide. “I’m not really a fan of being tied up, sweetheart,” he said, voice darkening. Then, with a slow, crooked grin: “But now that you put it like that, I’m definitely picturing you all tied up and dressed pretty for me. Waiting to be eaten and destroyed.”

He reached out to pull Henry in, but Henry dodged just out of reach, eyes dancing.

“Be quiet for a second while I do the math on how this is supposed to fit,” Henry said, settling on his knees beside Alex’s lap and continuously staring.

Alex let out a sound that was equal parts laugh and disbelief.

Henry pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “Christ, I still want to travel the world, find a boyfriend who’ll take care of me and spoil me rotten, maybe adopt a child, win a Nobel Prize and watch Bake-Off live. I thought I had more time.”

Alex blinked. “Wait. Are you implying…”

“That your bloody enormous cock is going to end my life? Yes.” Henry deadpanned.

“Oh my fucking God.” Alex dragged a hand over his face.

Henry opened his mouth. “Okay, just real quick, how…”

That was as far as he got.

Alex’s hand shot up, fisting a handful of blonde hair and pulling with just enough force to rip a gasp from Henry’s throat. Henry’s spine melted instantly, posture collapsing into pure, pliant compliance.

“No more questions.” Alex murmured, voice low and commanding. He traced Henry’s lips with his thumb until they parted, then slid it inside, pressing down on his tongue. “There. That’s much better.”

“Ready for me, baby?” he rasped, eyes locked onto Henry like a man watching the sun rise.

Henry curled his tongue around Alex’s thumb, answering without words.

Alex’s grin sharpened into a wicked and wrecked one as he guided Henry downward, toward his thick and very much leaking cock.

So it does fit, Henry thought hazily as his lips parted around the tip.

And Christ, no, Alex was anything but too sweet.

Henry had to admit, calling this a “one-night stand” was beginning to feel wildly inaccurate. Laughable, even. One night? Whoever the fuck coined that rule back in the ancient times clearly hadn’t been in bed with Alex Claremont-Diaz, because Henry already wanted an encore. A sequel. An extended series with no planned finale in sight.

Alex’s breath hitched, as Henry took him deeper, mouth working around him with slow purpose. A low groan tore from Alex’s throat.

“You’re so much quieter when your mouth is full of my cock, baby,” Alex managed, the tease shaky at the edges, like the words were fighting their way past pleasure.

Henry glared up at him, but the effect was significantly undermined by the fact that Alex’s cock was resting heavy and deep in his tongue and throat.

He retaliated anyway, pressing his tongue flat against the underside, tracing every vein and ridge along the shaft with intentional precision. When he hollowed out his cheeks and drew in tighter, Alex’s hand fisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to make Henry’s throat vibrate around him.

Henry whimpered, not from pain, but from the perfect shock of it.

“Fuck, sorry, baby,” Alex panted immediately, fingers loosening its hold at once.

Henry pulled back with a slick pop, stroking him lazily as he caught his breath. “Don’t apologize, darling,” he murmured, voice sinful and soft. He dragged his tongue from base to tip. “I can handle you.”

The rhythm resumed—unhurried at first, teasing, then building into something deeper, wetter, filthier. Alex’s head thudded back against the pillows, curses falling out of him like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Henry’s name spilled from his lips in English and Spanish, tangled together with broken praises and obscene gratitude.

When Alex’s free hand slid down to squeeze Henry’s ass—full, greedy, claiming—Henry arched into the touch, offering more of himself up.

“Damn, baby…” Alex rasped, voice wrecked. His other hand drifted between Henry’s legs, cupping him possessively, brushing his thumb over sensitive flush until Henry shuddered.

Henry hummed around him in response. Alex’s whole body jolted.

Then Alex’s fingers slid back, tracing slow circles around Henry’s already slick entrance. It was barely a touch with barely enough pressure, but it was enough to send lightning through his entire spine.

Henry’s hips rolled instinctively, need burning hot and sharp.

“Baby,” Alex said abruptly, voice tight. “Stop.” He pulled Henry off his cock, not roughly, but with urgency, and sat up so fast it knocked a gasp from Henry’s lungs.

“I want to be inside you.” Alex said, breath ragged and uneven. “I need to be inside you.” 

And with hands firm around Henry’s waist, Alex lifted him effortlessly, guiding him onto his lap.

“Someone’s impatient,” Henry teased, glancing down at where Alex’s slick, hard and delicious cock was pressed insistently against the hardness of his abs.

Alex let out a breathless laugh. “You’re maddening, you know that? You are absolutely fucking maddening.”

Henry nipped at his jaw, smirking. “Do you have a condom? If we’re going to do this, we might as well use protection and do things the right way, yes?”

Alex didn’t even hide the desperation in the way he rolled off the bed, rummaged through his bag, and yanked a foil packet from his wallet. He tore it open, slid the condom over his length with practiced efficiency, and climbed back onto the bed.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Good to go.”

“Me too,” Henry whispered, nuzzling into Alex’s neck as Alex maneuvered them—rolling until Henry was on his back beneath him, legs instinctively parting, bodies aligning perfectly.

“Don’t stop,” Henry whispered, voice trembling with want, fingers curling in Alex’s shoulders.

“I don’t plan to.” Alex promised, pressing soft, adoring kisses along Henry’s collarbone as he slowly pushed inside.

Henry gasped, head tipping back, breath stuttering, his hands raking down Alex’s spine. Alex stilled once fully seated inside him, giving him time to adjust, watching his expression with a tenderness that nearly undid Henry completely.

The stretch was deep; Intense. A line of pleasure blurred with ache. But underneath it all, there was a rightness to it. Like this was the sensation his body had been waiting for.

Henry’s voice came out as a trembling exhale. “Alex…”

Alex’s forehead dropped to his, the tip of his nose slotting perfectly into the bridge of Henry’s. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

What followed was neither entirely lust nor entirely love—it was something in between, a heady mixture of raw need and careful exploration. Every motion, every shiver, every press of their bodies into one another felt like an attempt to memorize, to claim, to understand each other completely. It was less a battle than a dance, one that left them gasping and trembling in unison.

Henry’s legs curled around Alex’s waist, drawing him impossibly closer, as if proximity alone could amplify the intensity of their connection. Alex hovered above him, strong and relentless, every movement a perfect balance of dominance and devotion. Their rhythm wasn’t just mechanical, it was intimate and charged with a desire to give and take in equal measure.

Their mouths found each other again and again, hungry, frantic, desperate. Teeth grazed, tongues tangled, whispered names and broken moans blending into a symphony of shared pleasure. Occasionally, breathless laughter punctuated the chaos, a fleeting acknowledgement of how far they’d already pushed each other.

“My love,” Henry gasped, fingers digging into Alex’s shoulders. “I’m close…I need…”

“Me too, baby.” Alex rasped, voice thick with want, each thrust sending tremors through them both. “Let’s come together. Please, yeah?”

“Yes,” Henry whispered, a singular word that carried all the heat and longing between them.

With a final, desperate snap of his hips, Alex drove them over the edge. Release exploded in a blinding rush, electric and unrelenting like two stars colliding and burning out in one powerful supernova. Henry clung to him, nails grazing skin and back, murmuring his name in a mix of prayer, devotion and unfiltered need.

As the euphoria and tremors faded, Alex felt a subtle shift that made his chest tighten. There was something off. A dampness of sorts.

Oh, shit. His stomach dropped. A leak.

He froze, letting his hands stay draped over Henry, feeling him tremble in the aftermath, waiting until their breaths evened out before carefully pulling away. His gaze dropped, heart sinking when he saw the condom in the dim light with a fucking tear and bits of his cum dripping out.

Alex’s fingers closed around it as he removed it from himself and dutifully wrapped it in a wad of tissue paper before disposing of it. He washed his hands and it was only after drying them on a towel did he return to Henry’s side, chest still rising and falling rapidly, skin flushed from exertion and desire.

Henry murmured something incoherent, curling instinctively toward him. Alex brushed damp hair from his forehead, pressing a soft, lingering kiss there, inhaling the faint scent of sweat, skin, and trust.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice low and steady. “I’ve got you.”

Henry hummed, half-asleep and completely sated, a faint and peaceful smile on his lips. And while Henry drifted deeper, Alex stayed awake a little longer, one hand resting protectively over Henry’s chest, the other over his belly. He listened to the quiet rhythm beneath his palm, the warmth radiating between them, and whispered silent prayers to every angel and saint he could name. Hoping. Hoping that this perfect night, this fragile, beautiful connection, wouldn’t come with unintended consequences.

Chapter Text

Golden morning sunlight spilled through the half-open curtains of the house, soft and searing all at once. It caught the pale slope of Henry’s shoulder, the messy blond hair fanned over the pillow, and glinted off the wrinkled damp sheets still tangled between their legs, still carrying the ghosts of the previous night.

Somewhere under all that warmth and stillness, Alex lay awake.

He’d been up for at least an hour, lying stiff on his back as his mind replayed every moment of last night in a relentless loop—the reckless and breathless laughter, the hunger that came from somewhere deeper than desire, the way Henry had said his name like it meant something.

It had started as a half-joke, a reckless invitation thrown out with a cocky grin: Spend the night in my house. He told himself it was just company. Maybe a little kissing. Maybe a lot of fucking.

But he hadn’t braced himself for the aftermath, the fragile heat of Henry’s skin pressed to his, the flimsy latex disaster that had launched every anxiety known to man into Alex’s headspace and bloodstream, the way his heart now punched against his ribs every time he looked at Henry sleeping beside him.

Damn that stupid fucking piece of flimsy latex people call a condom.

Sure, the sex had been…God, incredible. Too incredible. But Alex had been spiraling ever since the moment he’d seen the tear. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fallout that Henry could go through because of the condom tearing mid-orgasm. I’m clean, he reminded himself, but his mind wouldn’t stop sprinting toward catastrophe.

What if Henry got sick? What if something happened? What if—God forbid—Henry ends up pregnant? Impossible. Ridiculous. Absolutely fucking not.

And yet his brain, being what it was and unhelpful as always, held onto the worst-case scenario with the grip of a drowning person.

He let out a long and sharp exhale and shoved his thoughts into a mental folder labeled ‘Deal With This Later (Preferably Never)’. His throat was raw, his hips still ached, and his head throbbed faintly from the leftover adrenaline, but none of that compared to the ache spreading across his chest as he looked at Henry.

The faint sunlight caught every detail—Henry’s fluttering lashes, the faint rosy blush still staining his cheeks, the blooming purple bruise on his neck where Alex’s mouth had absolutely not behaved.

It twisted something deep in him, something that wasn’t guilt or regret, but an unbearable tenderness he didn’t know where to place just yet.

Henry stirred awake, lashes lifting slowly as his blue eyes blinked into focus—clear and endless like the ocean sparkling under the daylight. The quiet between them shifted, no longer soft but taut and fragile, heavy with the memory of breathless gasps and whispered names.

“Good morning,” Henry said, voice hesitant and husky.

“Hi,” Alex raked a hand through his curls, trying for nonchalance. “Good morning.”

His gaze traitorously drifted back down to the crumpled sheets, the faint marks of skin, sweat and release. And just like that, his brain hurled the thought back at him with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Henry noticed and his brow furrowed immediately.

“Alex? What’s wrong?”

Alex swallowed hard, scrambling for a way to explain things. He’d already disposed of the fucking condom after pulling out and cursed himself silently a dozen times, but the visual of that tiny tear wouldn’t leave him. He really didn’t want to say anything, but he couldn’t lie to Henry, not about something like this.

“Nothing’s wrong,” He sat up slightly, reaching for Henry’s hand, needing the grounding warmth of his fingers. “I just…need to tell you something. About last night.”

Henry’s expression sharpened, concern etched between his brows. “What happened?”

Alex inhaled to steady himself, and said it as plainly as he could.

“Last night, while I was…you know, inside you,” he began carefully, “The condom I had on tore. It was only a small tear, but it still broke regardless, and I think...some of my...cum...got inside you.”

Silence landed with real weight.

For a second, all Alex heard was the hum of the air conditioning and his own pulse thundering in his ears.

Henry’s gaze held his, searching, steady and gentle in a way that made Alex’s stomach twist harder. He saw everything. The fear, the guilt, the sincerity Alex wasn’t usually brave enough to show.

Then Henry exhaled slowly. “All right.”

“What?” Alex blinked, confusion etched on his face. “That’s it? Just all right?”

Henry’s mouth curved faintly, small and fond despite everything. “You were honest with me. That’s what matters more than anything.”

“You’re not freaked out? Or mad? Or…”

“Alex,” Henry interrupted gently, squeezing his hand. “I know that you’re worried something might happen to me. That I might get an STD or God forbid, get pregnant.” A quiet, wry smile tugged at his mouth. “I mean, it’s an anomaly, but always a possibility.”

“Shit.” Alex let out a strangled groan. “If you want me to consider a career in pornography, you should consider becoming a mind reader because those are exactly the thoughts running through my head.”

Henry’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “Nothing has happened yet so there’s no need to worry. And if something does happen, whatever that is, we’ll deal with it.”

Alex huffed out a shaky breath. “Let’s just hope that nothing does happen.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Because we probably shouldn’t make this thing between us more complicated than it already is.”

Henry’s expression softened, a sadness in his eyes. “It was already complicated even before last night, Alex. But of course, if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah.” Alex forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “This was nothing more than a one night thing.”

“One night.” Henry echoed, though it sounded more like a lie neither of them could swallow.

Dressing was a quiet and fragile ritual. The brush of fabric. The soft clicks of belt buckles. Henry’s fingers trembled as he buttoned his shirt. Alex pretended not to notice. Pretended not to want to reach out and cover Henry’s hand with his own.

At the door, Henry paused, one hand on the frame.

“Take care of yourself, Henry.” Alex said quietly.

Henry turned back, offering that small polite smile he used when he didn’t want to make it obvious how badly he was hurting inside. “You too, and…thank you. For the company.” His pause lingered. “For last night.”

Alex’s mouth opened. He wanted to say something—anything—to stop him, to take it all back, to make their complicated situation simple somehow. But the words died in his throat and he could only manage a nod.

And then Henry slipped out the door.

The temperature in the house dropped multiple degrees the second he left.

Alex sat on the edge of the bed surrounded by sunlight and rumpled sheets and the faint echo of Henry’s voice, and he knew that no matter how much he tried to bury himself in work, in legislative briefings and campaign plans, he wouldn’t forget last night or this morning.

No matter how much he tried to convince himself he wanted the distance.

This was the last time, for now, that their worlds would brush so intimately against one another.

And God, it already hurts like hell.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks slipped into a kind of gray, looping monotony filled with headlines, deadlines, and an increasingly alarming reliance on tea brewed so strong it could probably fuel an entire battalion and revive the dead at the same time. Henry worked like a man trying to outrun something that could eat him alive. He typed until his fingers shook and his knuckles ached, drafting one editorial after another as though the next one might finally drown out the noise in his head.

He told himself it was stress. Pure burnout. Too many nights spent upright in bed with his laptop glow as company and too many mornings dragging himself into consciousness on three hours of sleep, an optimistic prayer and far too much caffeine. That’s all.

Except there was one new symptom he couldn’t chalk up to stress: nausea.

It started one morning without warning.

Merciless, rolling waves that gutted him the moment he stood up. Some mornings he doubled over the sink, white-knuckled, breathing sharp through his teeth as his stomach rioted. Sometimes he threw up acid that burned all the way from his stomach to his esophagus to his lips. Sometimes, there was nothing but dry heaves that wrung him empty and left his throat raw and his eyes stinging.

Three mornings in a row, he nearly showed up late to the office, just because he lost ten minutes to steadying himself over his porcelain sink, ultimately slowed by the simple task of convincing his reflection that he wasn’t falling apart. That he was perfectly fine.

By evening, he raided the corner pharmacy like a man who was desperate to be healed from every disease possible: chamomile and peppermint teas, ginger candies, plain crackers, over-the-counter antacids and vitamins. Anything with the faint promise of normalcy.

He followed the labels. None of it helped. Not even a little.

By the third week, the headaches started. Followed by the mood swings.

Monday 

The beginning of his breaking point.

“Mr. Fox, the draft…” His editorial assistant, Jessica, started timidly from the doorway.

“I said final proof, Jessica.” His voice cracked through the room, sharper than he intended,  sharper than he’d ever used on her. “Not the first proof covered in comments and red proofreader marks! Did you even check the file name before printing or did you just…?!”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Jessica stammered, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I must’ve…”

“Just check before you print next time!” His palm smacked his desk, the crack echoing far too loudly. Jessica flinched. He didn’t wait to see her expression. He stormed off, fury already curdling into self-loathing.

15 minutes later, he stood in the break room staring at his reflection, pale, drawn and looking like a man barely stitched together. The anger had drained away, leaving guilt in its place.

“God, that was…unecessary,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “I must apologize to Jessica when I get back.”

He splashed cold water over his face, straightened his shirt, gave himself a quick and quiet pep talk and braced himself before heading back in.

Jessica stood beside Andrew, clutching a plate with a single blueberry muffin perched neatly in the center. She looked up, offering a tiny, cautious smile.

“Here’s a little peace offering, Mr. Fox.” she said gently. “I know you’re not fond of blueberries, but that's all I have stashed. Just..please don’t throw it at the wall. The building’s old enough without having to battle a rat infestation.”

Henry blinked, then laughed despite himself. The sound felt odd but welcome.

“Touché,” he murmured, wary eyes flicking to the muffin. “Thank you, Jessica. And I am also sorry for my behavior earlier. I was out of line.”

“All forgiven, sir.” She said, relief softening her shoulders. “I’ll be more careful with the files next time.”

She slipped away, leaving Henry and the muffin alone together—two equally fragile things in the quiet room.

He eyed it for a moment before taking a bite. Then another.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just a muffin, but the best thing he’d tasted in weeks. Sweet, soft and warm in a way nothing in his life had been lately.

Before he knew it, the plate was empty, and some pathetic gluttonous part of him wanted to wander over to Jessica’s desk and ask her if she had more muffins stashed away.

“Henry?” Andrew’s voice cut through his reverie, cautious. “Are you okay?”

Henry swallowed the last crumb before wiping his fingers on a napkin and clearing his throat. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He glanced down at the empty plate, a faint smile on his lips. “And apparently, I'm still hungry.”

He wasn’t fine. His body knew it, and now, his co-workers could probably sense it.

But Henry Fox, master of composure, was determined to believe it for one more day.

One more. Then another. Then another.

Tuesday 

He missed his lunch meeting with a college friend.

Halfway down the block to the restaurant, the pavement lurched. An unexpected wave of dizziness slammed into him so sharply he gripped the nearest lamppost, knuckles whitening as he rode it out. His pulse stuttered rapidly in his chest, and every sound around him suddenly felt like it came from the depths of the ocean. Lunch suddenly felt like an Olympic sport he was in no condition to compete in. So did conversation. So did pretending that his body wasn’t staging an uprising.

He turned back.

By the time he reached his house, sweat plastered his shirt to his back, and his hands trembled.  His phone buzzed incessantly with a dozen unread messages and unanswered calls from Ashlynn, Andrew, Jessica and other colleagues and friends, but he ignored them all for the sanctuary of the bathroom floor. He sank down, pressed his forehead to his knees, and stared at the tiles until the nausea finally loosened its grip.

He stayed there until the room stopped spinning.

By late afternoon, someone knocked on his front door. Henry considered pretending he wasn't home, because feigning death sounded easier than talking. But then…

“Hey, Henry?” Andrew’s voice came through, muffled but unmistakably concerned. “I thought maybe you could use a break. File a sick leave for a couple of days.”

Great. Fantastic. Exactly what he needed, someone with a functioning sense of responsibility.

“I’m fine, Andrew,” Henry groaned, though fine tasted bitter on his own tongue. “I don’t need a break. There’s a lot of work to do.”

Andrew sighed, the sound equal parts worry and irritation. “You’ve been skipping lunch since last week. And then yesterday, you devoured Jessica’s muffin, a blueberry muffin, of all things, even though you don’t like blueberries. And now you’re nauseous every morning. Something’s wrong with you, Henry. This isn’t fine.”

“I said I’m fine, Andrew!” The snap tore out of him, too sharp and loud. His voice cracked on Andrew’s name.

Silence ensued for a few seconds.

Then Henry sagged against the wall, guilt crawling up his throat. “I’m sorry, Andrew. I just…never mind.”

Andrew’s tone softened. “You take care of yourself, Henry. Please.”

Then footsteps faded away.

Henry didn’t move for a long while, because the silence felt heavier after Andrew left.

Wednesday

Henry arrived at the office with approximately twelve seconds to spare, breathless and frayed. His bag felt heavier than usual, not because of his laptop, but because of the growing stash of pills, teas, and antacids he now carried like a mobile apothecary.

The smell of coffee wafting in from the break room had his stomach twisting so violently he had to breathe in the opposite direction.

At lunch, a delivery driver appeared in the lobby with a pristine white box from his favorite D.C. bakery. The handwriting on the label, a looped cursive, made him pause. He didn’t remember ordering pastries, but at this point, his brain had a reliability of a hard drive that’s been dropped multiple times and was close to being unreadable.

Inside the box was a bunch of scones and croissants. Perfectly golden pastries.

The buttery scent hit him immediately, rich enough that his stomach rebelled while his mouth salivated at the same time.

“Lord, I have been craving for them,” he muttered to no one in particular, “But if I throw up for the millionth time, I’m suing the entire baking and pastry industry.”

Still, he grabbed a plate and studied a croissant like it might explode on contact. After a long, suspicious minute, he took a tiny bite.

The layers flaked delicately against his tongue.

He took another bite. Then a bigger one.

By the time the afternoon sunlight slanted across his desk, the entire box was gone and crumbs littered his workspace.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand pressed absently against his stomach, smiling despite himself.

For the first time in weeks, something finally tasted delicious.

Thursday

Today was not on his side.

It wasn’t even 10AM and the universe already decided to test his fraying patience.

Why? Well, it’s because the printer was jammed again.

Henry stood over it, arms crossed, glaring at the blinking red error light.

Deep inside his logical brain, he knew that there was nothing to be stressed about as the printer was ancient and had its technical difficulties every now and again, but his emotions on the other hand, had clearly got the best of him and made him ready to fling it out the nearest window.

“Why in the bloody fucking universe,” he muttered darkly, teeth clenched, “is this damn thing always fucked up right when I need it the most?”

Jessica peeked from her desk, cautious as a frightened woodland critter. “Sir, maybe it’s just…”

“You figure it out!” he snapped, the words too sharp, too fast. “I need the latest article’s proof printed by noon!” 

She flinched, and he hated himself instantly. This was, what, the second time this week he’d snapped at poor Jessica?

The office slowly returned to its hum, but guilt hung thick around him.

Henry sagged back against his desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Lord, I am the worst human being ever.”

Across from him, Andrew, ever the compassionate one, swivelled in his chair. He didn’t say a word. Simply rolled his chair over, and placed a steady hand over Henry’s back in an attempt at comfort.

Henry didn’t pull away.

For a fleeting second, he allowed himself to lean into the touch. He wished that he could explain the weight pressing on him, the exhaustion gnawing at his bones, the strange twisting sensation low in his belly. But all that escaped him was a rough exhale.

“Thank you, Andrew.” he murmured. “Really.”

And Andrew squeezed his shoulder, silent and understanding.

Friday 

Devin, another college friend he hadn’t seen in a while, texted around noon—an enthusiastic, “Dinner? Wine? I miss your face, you bookish hermit.”

Henry stared at the message so long the screen dimmed twice. His thumb hovered, retreated, hovered again, before he finally typed his polite decline and added a rain check he already knew he wouldn’t keep.

The truth, as it always did, sat heavier than that.

By evening, he was curled into the corner of his couch, one hand cupped low over his abdomen, drawing small circles the way one does with a frightened animal—gentle, coaxing, begging it to settle. His other hand hung limply off the couch, phone forgotten against the cushion. The TV cast a faint blue glow across his pale face, making him look ghostlike and hollowed out.

His palms were clammy. His temples pounded with a migraine that felt like a heartbeat was stitched behind his eyes. His throat tightened around a hard swallow, the kind that only ever preceded nausea.

This wasn’t simple stress or fatigue. It definitely wasn’t burnout. Henry knew his body well enough to recognize mutiny when it happened.

His senses had either heightened tenfold or turned traitorous, as his stomach churned at the faintest whiff of coffee, Andrew’s musky cologne, Jessica’s usual lunch of garlic-glazed salmon and the bleach that the cleaners used to clean the office’s bathroom. Every scent was sharper, intrusive, almost personal.

And the mornings, God, the bloody fucking mornings. Every one of them began and ended with him hunched over the sink, spitting up bile, gastric acid and denial in equal measure.

Tonight, he told himself the same lie he’d been telling himself for the past few weeks: You’re fine, just push through. Work harder. Keep going, keep pretending and your body will soon remember how to be normal.

He refused to think of anything that could make him gag or throw up entirely. He didn’t dare to think about that night.

About Alex.

About the condom that bro…

No. He cut the thought cleanly in half. He won’t go there.

Except the treacherous thought won’t leave him alone.

It kept clawing its way back into his head and slipping through the cracks of his self-control. It returned with every dizzy spell, every flutter in his belly, every time his stomach flipped whenever Andrew passed him by and the scent of his cologne wafted in Henry’s general direction.

It was a silent monster that was constantly in his nerves, coiled behind every headache, every trembling inhale, every night he found himself pressing his hand low against his stomach, searching for something that shouldn’t be there.

And when the house finally went quiet, when the world stopped demanding his articles or commentaries on politicians’ proposed bills, the endless questions came flooding his mind: What if it isn’t stress? What if it isn’t nothing? What if that night with Alex didn’t end the way he thought it did? What if the broken condom brought something to life?