#this lion writes

[lionalsowrites]

Falling For You Masterlist.

Summary: You join the Bartlet campaign to help with digital marketing and outreach, back in 1998. Your parents are long time friends of CJ Cregg and she invites you to join the campaign and later The White House senior staff as deputy press secretary working under CJ. You and Sam Seaborn hit it off, becoming great friends and coworkers. Because he'd never be interested in someone like you. Or so you thought.

x

Author's note: This will be an AU where the internet is a little more advanced than it was in 1998. Addionally, I am also making up the "deputy press secretary" role. These are all for plot reasons so just roll with me.

This was inspired by @dancethroughthethunder's one shot An Incredible Man and kudos to them, that was an awesome one shot!

Using this timeline as a reference for the story.

x

Chapter 1: Nashua, Fall 1998.

Chapter 2: Campaign Late Nights.

Chapter 3: The Movie Night.

Chapter 4: Late Night Confessions

Chapter 5: The Morning After.

Chapter 6: The First Date.

Chapter 7: Lunch and Your Nosy Coworkers.

Chapter 8: Toby's Couch.

Chapter 9: The Sick Day.

Chapter 10: Caretaker Mode.

Chapter 11: Basketball.

Chapter 12: Dinner and... cuddles?

Chapter 13: Friends?

Chapter 14: in progress

[lionalsowrites]

Chapter 1: Nashua, Fall 1998

Falling For You Masterlist. | Part 2.

x

It wasn't glamorous.

That was the first thing you learned about campaign life. You'd barely been on the Bartlet for America team for seventy-two hours, and already you'd been asked to carry three crates of buttons up two flights of stairs, survive on vending machine pretzels for lunch, and hand-write more than two hundred "thank you" notes to donors in an office that smelled faintly of burnt coffee and toner.

Still, you weren't complaining. Not out loud, anyway.

Three days earlier, you'd been in D.C., working part-time at a local paper while you figured out whether to go to grad school or find something more permanent. It started with your parents running into CJ, and old friend of the family, at a charity dinner, which somehow led to her calling you and saying, "Pack a bag. New Hampshire. You'll thank me later."

"Come work for the campaign," she'd said, breezy as ever. "We need someone who's young enough to know how to use the Internet without calling tech support every five minutes, but old enough not to put a glitter background on the website."

You'd laughed, thinking she was joking. She wasn't.

So now here you were: twenty-something, fresh-faced, the de facto tech "savvy" person in a sea of thirty- and forty-something operatives who'd been living on caffeine and adrenaline. CJ had introduced you to the team with a cheerful, "She's my ringer," and with so many new names they were bound to blurr together in your head. And they did. Except one person who, for some reason, stood out to you.

That was when you saw him for the first time.

Sam Seaborn was sitting at a desk piled high with legal pads and speech drafts, hair in that effortlessly tousled way that suggested he'd been running his hands through it all day. He had the kind of focus that made the chaos around him blur — eyes locked on the paper in front of him, pen moving quickly, lips moving silently as he edited something only he could see.

CJ steered you toward him like a tugboat with a mission. "This is Sam Seaborn. Sam, this is—" she said your name with a little flourish, "—my secret weapon."

Sam looked up and smiled. It was full, genuine smile that crinkled at the corners and made you feel like you'd been let in on something special.

"Welcome aboard," he said, standing and shaking your hand. His grip was warm, firm, and just long enough to notice. "You're CJ's ringer?"

"That's the rumor," you said, trying to sound casual, smiling awkardly. 

He seemed genuinely curious when he asked, "So what's your gig?"

"Digital outreach," you said. "Email lists, website updates, trying to convince the team that having a website in the first place is a good idea..."

Sam glanced at the old desktop computer that sat in the corner of the room, then back at you. "Do you also do exorcisms? Because I think that machine is possessed."

You laughed, thinking that the conversation was going easier than you expected, given your usual combo of awkwardness and social anxiety. 

"And here I thought the fax machine was cutting-edge," Sam teased.

CJ rolled her eyes, backing toward the door. "Be nice, Seaborn. I need her to stay at least through November."

When CJ left, you found yourself still standing there, half-holding a folder, half-wondering if you were supposed to sit.

Sam gestured to the chair opposite him. "Here, sit. If you're going to survive the Bartlet campaign, there are things you need to know."

You sat. "Like what?"

"Like never stand between Josh Lyman and the coffee pot before 9 a.m. Never accept Toby's offer to 'just hear something he's been thinking about' unless you have an hour to spare. And..." Sam said, leaning in and lowering his voice with mock seriousness, "always hide your snacks. This place is a den of thieves."

You grinned. "Good to know. Anything else?"

"Yeah," Sam said, leaning back. "What is usual coffee order? Favorite late night snacks? Because there will be a lot of those."

You shrugged. "I don't drink coffee."

His eyebrows shot up. "You don't drink coffee? How did you get through college?"

"Never got into it," you said. "Hot chocolate, all the way. Tea if I feel like it. But mostly? Cookies. Chips Ahoy."

Sam laughed softly, shaking his head. "Noted. I'll make sure the vending machine is stocked."

"And you?" you asked.

He didn't even hesitate, now looking down at his notes, seemingly remembering he had important work to do. "I love coffee. Two creams, one sugar. Also granola bars. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches if I can find time to make them."

You smiled, trying not to let it show how much you were thankfull he was being so welcoming towards you. It was hard not to feel like an impostor among this older, incredibly tallented bunch.

Sam leaned back in his chair, watching you like he was deciding if someone was worth betting on. "You know, CJ's rarely wrong about people."

"I'll take that as a compliment," you said.

"You should," Sam replied, and there was something in his voice, that made you think maybe, just maybe, this campaign might be more interesting than you'd expected.

x

The first week on the Bartlet campaign felt like being tossed head first into a river cold, fast-moving, and with people shouting instructions from every direction. But even in the chaos, you started building your mental map of the senior staff.

CJ was the easiest. You'd known her most of your life, which meant you were one of the few people who could see through her deadpan delivery to the warmth beneath. She didn't suffer fools gladly, but she also had a knack for sliding a coffee into your hand (or in your case, hot chocolate) before you realized how tired you were.

Josh was... a lot. Charming, infuriating, brilliant, and possibly fueled by a combination of Diet Coke and sheer nerve. He had a way of barging into conversations like he'd been invited, tossing out an idea that was either genius or completely impossible. 

Toby was the hardest to read. He looked perpetually like someone had just told him the planet was doomed, and he was told he had to fix everything with a pen. But beneath the gruffness, you noticed he listened carefully when people spoke, like he was storing every word for later. You liked that about him, even if his resting glare made you sit up a little straighter.

Leo... Leo was the kind of man who could walk into a room and make everyone put their coffee down and pay attention. There was a steadiness about him, even in the chaos, and you got the sense that while he didn't waste words, he noticed everything. He also had a knack for making you feel like your work mattered, which, for someone barely older than most of the interns, meant a lot.

x

You didn't actually meet Governor Bartlet until your second week on the campaign.

CJ had told you he'd been briefed on your position — "digital outreach coordinator" — but you could tell from her tone that it was still a new concept for most of the senior staff. And if they were still warming to the idea, you weren't sure how Bartlet would react.

The first time you met him was in a cramped conference room at the back of the office. Bartlet was leaning over a map of New Hampshire counties when you walked in, flanked by CJ and Sam. He was shorter than you expected, but with a presence that filled the room.

"Governor," CJ said, "this is–"

"Yeah, yeah, the computer person," Bartlet cut in, peering at you over his glasses. "CJ tells me you're here to make the internet work for us. I have to tell you, I don't see the point. Feels like a distraction. If people want to know what I think, they can read the papers, watch TV, listen to the radio, or better yet come hear me say it in person, they don't need to click on anything."

You felt your stomach drop. This was not going well.

Sam stepped in immediately. "Sir–"

But before he could finish, you found yourself speaking.

"With respect, Governor," you said, your voice a hundred times steadier than you felt, "the internet isn't going away. It's not just a place to post your speeches. It's where people are going to organize, talk about politics, and decide who they trust. If we don't show up there, someone else will. Someone who doesn't have your ideas, your integrity, or your policies. And they'll be the voice people hear instead."

Bartlet straightened, the skeptical look in his eyes turning into something sharper. "You're saying it's not optional."

"It's an opportunity," you said. "One that no other campaign is taking seriously yet. We can be the first. And if we're the first, we set the tone for everyone else."

For a moment, the room was quiet. Then Bartlet's mouth curved into something that looked suspiciously like a smile.

"Well," he said, glancing at Sam, "she's a lot more convincing than you."

Sam gave chuckled lightly while giving you a small, proud grin that you felt deep in your chest.

Bartlet nodded toward you. "Alright, then. Make it happen. And make it good."

Sam was still smiling when you glanced at him again. "What?" you asked.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Just... nice work."

x

Part 2.

Falling For You Masterlist.

[lionalsowrites]

Chapter 4: Late Night Confessions

Falling For You Masterlist. | Part 5.

x

If there was one thing you were good at, it was making yourself look busy.

Not that you weren't busy. You worked in the White House. But after accidentally falling asleep on Sam during movie night, waking up with your head still tucked into his shoulder, and the awkwardness that ensued, you'd been... strategically busy.

Busy enough to be in the briefing room when Sam was in his office. Busy enough to take the long way around the West Wing if you saw him coming down the hall.  Busy enough to hand off memos to Josh to deliver to Sam instead of doing it yourself.

And Sam noticed. He noticed immediately.

At the same time it seemed like everyone was suddenly very interested in what was happening in your relationship with Sam.

Charlie, ever the straight shooter, was walking with Sam to the Roosevelt Room and asked, "So, are you two dating yet or just waiting for someone to draw you a map?"

Sam stopped in the hall. "We're not— no. She doesn't... I don't– I mean..." He trailed off, caught off guard and extremely flustered.

Charlie just smirked and kept walking.

Meanwhile CJ had been watching it all play out with the exasperation of someone who'd seen the same romantic subplot for months and was now watching one of the leads hide in the closet.

By the end of the day, she'd had enough.

She intercepted Sam outside the mess. "You got a minute?"

"Sure," he said, falling into step beside her.

"My office," she said, in the tone that suggested it wasn't a request. They walked in and she closed the door.

"OK," she began. "It's about you and–" she says your name "–and the fact that you've been circling each other for over a year now like some kind of Jane Austen novel." she said, sitting and folding her arms.

Sam's eyebrows jumped. "We're uh– good friends."

CJ gave him a look. "Uh-huh. Friends don't look at each other like that in staff meetings. And I've seen you bring her hot chocolate at 2am, which is a lot of levels past 'friendly coworker.'"

"So," CJ continued, "what exactly did you do to make her avoid you like the plague?"

Sam blinked. "Avoid me? She's not—"

"She is," CJ interrupted. "And I know you well enough to know you didn't insult her family or commit a felony, so I'm going to go ahead and guess it's about the movie night."

Sam looked like someone had just handed him a live grenade. CJ was really making him think about what he was trying to avoid all day. "What about the movie night?"

CJ tilted her head. "Sam, she fell asleep on your shoulder. You looked like someone had just handed you a puppy. And now she's avoiding you. Connect the dots."

He opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again. "No... She thinks she made me uncomfortable?"

CJ leaned back in her chair. "That would be my guess." 

"That can't be it CJ, we talked, we cleared it up." He said.

"Sam," CJ started exasperated, "She's ten years younger than the rest of us. Every guy she's ever known flirts with her just to hear himself talk. You think she's going to clock the difference between you and some campaign intern who just wants attention? No. She's tuned all of it out."

Sam started "So you're saying–"

"I'm saying you have to be direct. Spell it out. Ask her out to dinner. And for God's sake, say the word 'date.'"

Sam's brows furrowed in thought, like he was already planning how to do it. "You think she'd say yes?"

CJ smirked. "Sam, I've known this girl her whole life. I was there when she was born. It is clear as a day to me that she is comfortable around you. Trust me when I say that if she didn't like you, she would not have fallen asleep on you in the first place."

Sam smiled. He'd believe it when it he saw it. It was still too good to be true.

x

Later that evening, you came to his office. It was the first time you'd been remotely close to him since last night. "Hey," you said, not looking him in the eye. You were standing in the doorway with a stack of briefing folders CJ had insisted you bring him. You take a couple of steps in and hand him a folder while saying, "I have the revised comms schedule—"

"Go out with me."

You froze. "...What?"

He stood quickly and put his hands in his pockets so you wouldn't see them shaking. "I mean—dinner. With me. Like... a date."

Your brain completely short-circuited. Every single word you'd ever known seemed to leave you all at once. You stared at him, folders clutched in your hands, trying to reboot, breathing rapidly.

Unfortunately, your silence had made Sam panic. "Or not. We don't have to. I mean, we work together, it's probably—"

"No!" you blurted, a lot louder than you intended. "I mean—wait. Yes. I mean—" You groaned, covering your face. "Sorry, my brain just... needed a second."

Something in his shoulders relaxed. "So... is that a yes?"

You lowered your hands, still not being able to look at him in the eyes, but now for an entirely different reason. "Yes. Definitely yes."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—relieved, almost boyish. But then he hesitated, like there was still something hanging in the air he hadn't said yet.

He took a step closer, and suddenly he was standing right in front of you. You found the courage to look up at this face. "Good." A beat. "I want to make it clear that I like you. More than a coworker. More than a friend. I've liked you for a long time." Your breath caught. Now you were finally allowing yourself to look into his eyes without any shame.

"I kept hoping you'd notice my hints, so I wouldn't have to come outright and say it, but... you're also a little stubborn." He finishes, with a small smile.

"I'm not stubborn." You cross your arms and turn away, scoffing. 

"You are," he said gently, smiling. "But I like that about you too." At that, you look back at him.

You let out a nervous chuckle, suddenly remembering you have folders in your hands. You turn around, your back to him and set them on his desk. There is no way you could say this next thought straight to his face. "I thought—God, Sam, I thought there was no way you'd ever..."

"Like you?" He gently touches your shoulder and you turn your head sideways to look at him. He shakes his head slowly, smiling. "That was the easiest part." 

At that, you turn back around to face him. Those words seemed to dissolve whatever was left between you. He closes whatever distance was left between you, his hands coming up to rest lightly on your hips, giving you every chance to back out. You don't.

So when he leaned in, the kiss was soft, his lips barely touching yours, almost hesitant, like he wanted to make sure you understood. This wasn't impulsive. It wasn't casual.

You both pull away, a little breathless. "So," he murmurs, "about that dinner..."

x

Falling For You Masterlist.

Part 5.

[lionalsowrites]

Chapter 5: The morning after.

Falling For You Masterlist. | Part 6.

x

The next morning, you were still buzzing. It wasn't just from the kiss, though that would've been enough to make you grin at inopportune times. It was the thought of something that never seemed even possible becoming a reality. It was the look on Sam's face when you'd said yes. Like he'd been carrying something heavy for a long time and had finally set it down.

Walking into the bullpen, you spotted him at his desk. He was already looking at you, because of course he was. The minute he saw you walking towards him he stood up to greet you. And now that you weren't both even trying to pretend, neither of you bothered to hide anything. His whole expression lit up when you smiled, and you swear your knees almost gave out.

"Morning," he said warmly, like the word was meant only for you.

"Morning," you echoed, a little shy, but unable to stop grinning. 

You hadn't made it another two steps before Toby's voice floated over from his office. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," you said quickly, trying to keep your voice steady.

"That," Toby said, walking out of his office and pointing his pen at you, "is not a 'nothing' face."

Before you could respond, Josh emerged like a shark smelling blood. "Hold on, what am I missing? Did something happen? Did someone die? No... you're smiling too much for that."

"Good deduction," Toby muttered.

Josh's eyes bounced between you and Sam like he was solving an equation. "Wait. Wait a second. Oh my God. You two—"

CJ's voice cut in as she appeared from the direction of the press room, coffee in hand and already grinning. "Called it."

You spun toward her. "You did not."

She raised an eyebrow. "Sweetheart, I've been watching you two make goo-goo eyes at each other for over a year. It was about damn time."

Your face burned. Sam, infuriatingly, looked... amused. And maybe even a little smug.

Josh leaned in toward him. "So? Details? What happened? When? How?"

"Where?" Toby added without looking up from his notepad, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitching.

"I am not giving any of you any details," you said, becoming more and more embarassed by the second.

Sam, however, seemed to reach the end of his patience for the inquisition. He stood, buttoning his jacket in that calm, decisive way that meant he'd made up his mind. "Enough," he said firmly. "I asked her out on a date tonight. That's all you need to know."

Josh opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off with a pointed look. "That's it. No commentary. No questions."

The bullpen went unusually quiet, partly because they were processing, partly because they were now just watching the two of you look at each other like you were the only ones in the room.

CJ broke the silence with a small, knowing smile. "Finally."

You ducked your head, trying not to grin too hard. Sam just slipped his hands into his pockets and caught your gaze again. It was soft, warm, and absolutely unbothered by the fact that your friends had just witnessed the whole thing.

The bullpen stared for another beat too long, until Leo appeared in the doorway with a file in his hand and an expression that said he was already out of patience.

"Why," he asked slowly, eyes scanning the room, "is everyone standing around like they're waiting for the bus?"

Toby coughed, suddenly fascinated by the notepad in front of him. Josh shuffled toward his desk like someone had flipped a switch inside him to work mode. CJ took a long sip of her coffee and vanished toward the press room without another word.

"No reason," Sam said smoothly, which only made Leo squint harder.

"Mm-hmm," Leo murmured, clearly not believing a word, but also too busy to investigate further. He handed Sam the file in his hand. "Read this for your 10am." And then he was gone.

The bullpen went back to its usual rhythm. You turned toward your office, but Sam's voice stopped you.

"Hey," he said, softer now, stepping closer, "you want to go get some breakfast in the Mess? Just the two of us?"

You glanced around. Josh had already buried himself in a stack of folders, Toby was muttering into the phone, and CJ was out of sight. Prying eyes successfully avoided. "Yeah." You grinned. "That sounds... great."

He smiled, just for you, and gestured toward the hallway. You fell into step beside him, matching his stride.

The moment you were clear of the bullpen, you lowered your voice. "So... tonight. Are we talking dinner? A walk? Some kind of top-secret government operation I don't know about?"

His mouth quirked into a smile that was entirely too pleased with itself. "Dinner."

"And?" you prompted.

"And it's all a surprise."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "You're not even going to tell me what kind of place it is?"

"The only thing I'll say," he replied, sounding very proud of his own restraint, "is that what you're wearing right now will be perfectly fine. No need to change."

You made a noncommittal sound, but inside, a small worry pricked at you. You were a picky eater—okay, very picky—and the idea of going to a mystery restaurant was very nerve-wracking. You didn't want to say anything, though, not when he looked so happy about planning the whole thing.

You must have hesitated a fraction too long or maybe it was just clear from your face, because Sam glanced over at you, expression softening. "You don't have to say it," he said gently. "I know you're... selective."

Your head snapped toward him. "I—what?"

He shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We've been eating together since the campaign. I've seen you pick the tomatoes out of all your sandwiches, order the most incredibly complicated things at every restaurant, refuse coffee every morning, and hoard Chips Ahoy like gold. I promise, tonight's menu will have multiple choices of things you like."

You felt your face warm, partly because he was right, and partly because he'd clearly been paying attention all this time. "That's... incredibly thoughtful of you."

"Not really," he said with a little shrug, pushing open the Mess door for you. "Just... you."

It was a simple line, but the way he said it made your stomach flip, and you weren't entirely sure it was from hunger.

x

The Mess was quiet at this hour, only a few people scattered among the tables. Sam led you to a booth tucked into the far corner, away from curious ears. "Sit, I'll grab us our food." He said leaving no room for arguments. Not long after he was back, bringing coffee for him, and hot chocolate for you.

He slid into the seat across from you, but leaned forward on his elbows like he couldn't stand the distance. You smiled without meaning to.

"You're smiling," he said, eyes bright.

You glanced up, pretending to be surprised. "I am? So are you."

"Yes," he said, like it was the most important news of the day. "And I like it."

Your stomach fluttered. You weren't sure how to respond without giving too much away, so you ducked your head and focused on the food in front of you. But then he reached across the table, just barely brushing his fingers over the back of your hand before pretending to check the salt shaker like it had been an accident.

Your heart leapt. You glanced at him quickly, and decided to take matters into your own hands. You moved to hold his hand, the same hand that had almost touched yours. He looked almost... relieved. You were glad that he seemed as interested in you as you were in him.

It went like that for the next ten minutes. Small, testing gestures. His knee brushed yours under the table; you didn't move away. You pushed the sugar caddy toward him when you saw him reaching for it, your fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary; he smiled like you'd just handed him a national victory.

You both settled into comfortable silence when you finally started eating. Halfway through your toast though, you started thinking. And when you were thinking, you were overthinking.

"Uh," you blurted, setting your food down.

"Mm?" He looked up immediately, giving you his full attention.

You hesitated, torn between wanting to say things but also wanting to keep them to yourself forever. "I... I should probably tell you something. Before this goes any further."

His brow furrowed, but not in a bad way. "Okay."

You twisted your napkin in your lap, not looking at him. "I'm not... very experienced. In... dating. I've only really had one relationship, and... I don't know. I'm still figuring life out. And—" You swallowed. "There's also the fact that you're... older. Not old! Just... you've lived more life than I have, and I don't want to be a disaster and—"

"Hey." His voice was quiet but firm enough to stop you mid-spiral. He reached with one hand and grabbed one of yours that was on the table.

You looked at him.

His gaze was steady and warm. "Do you honestly think I've been hoping for this since the campaign, only to suddenly change my mind because you haven't dated a dozen people or because of some number on a calendar?"

You blinked. "...You've been hoping for this since the campaign?"

A small smile curved his mouth. "I have been hoping for this since the campaign." He repeats it back to you.

It was so straightforward you almost forgot how to breathe. "Oh."

"I'm not worried about your 'experience,'" he said, leaning in a little. You noticed he'd also started tracing small circles with his thumb on the hand he was holding. "I'm not worried about an age gap. The only thing I care about is whether you want to be here. With me."

You took a deep breath and squeezed your mug between your fingers. For once, your brain didn't seem to race ahead to all the worst-case scenarios. "I do," you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips.

His shoulders eased, and that same look of relief from earlier washed over his face. "Good."

You smiled bigger now, unable to hide it anymore. "Good."

He grinned, and for the rest of breakfast, every brush of his hand against yours and every lingering glance felt less like an accident and more like a promise.

x

Falling For You Masterlist.

Part 6.

[lionalsowrites]

Chapter 3: The Movie Night

Falling For You Masterlist. | Part 4.

x

You worked in the campaign for almost a full year, and your campaign late nights with Sam translated into White House late nights with Sam.

You'd gotten used to the rhythm. Late nights, early mornings, the sound of your feet echoing in the quiet offices after most of the world had gone to bed.

The campaign had been chaos; the White House was... chaos in nicer suits. But some things hadn't changed, like the way Sam would show up in your doorway after hours with that familiar "so, I had a thought..." and a snack you loved.

It was so routine now you didn't even blink when he appeared with two mugs, coffee for him, hot chocolate for you, and leaned against your desk like you were the only person in the building worth talking to.

x

This was going to be another normal day. Or so you thought.

CJ had been watching you and Sam interact for nearly a year now.

She'd known you since before the campaign, since before your desk was buried in briefing notes and printouts. She'd watched you and Sam fall into step with each other like it was the most natural thing in the world: finishing each other's sentences in meetings, splitting sandwiches without asking, swapping research files because you already knew exactly what the other needed.

Which was why, one Tuesday afternoon in early September in the White House, she went into your office, closed the door, and said in her most casual voice:

"You know he's into you, right?"

You didn't even look up from your notes, barely processing what she was saying "Who?"

CJ gave you a flat look. "Who do you think? Sam."

You laughed, actually laughed. "CJ, please. Sam's just... Sam. He's nice to everyone."

"Yes, he is nice to everyone. But the things he does for you? Those are different."

"Like what?" you asked, still not really paying attention and scribbling on your legal pad.

"Like staying until you leave even if his work's done. Like staring at you in senior staff meetings when you're talking like he's... well, never mind. Point is —"

"CJ, please." you interrupted, "We're just coworkers and great friends."

She just stared at you for a beat, then muttered, "Ok." and walked away shaking her head.

x

You and Sam continued your late nights routine and you told yourself it was just camaraderie. That you'd been through too many campaign nights together not to be so comfortable together. He was close to Josh right? They had their moments together just like me and Sam.

It was late, almost 11 p.m. when you ducked into the mess to grab a drink. Sam was also there, at a table reading something and drinking a coffee while the night cook wiped down the grill.

"You're still here?" you asked.

He gave you a small smile. "So are you."

You shrugged. "CJ's been running me ragged with the afternoon briefings. I think I live in the press room now."

Without a word, he grabbed an extra mug you hadn't realized was on the table and handed it to you. You slowly blinked at him. "You do realize that makes you suspiciously good at this whole 'coworker' thing, right?"

He shrugged, but his eyes were warm. "Maybe I'm just really invested in keeping you here."

You stopped for a second, confused about what that could mean. But before you could even think of a reply, he had gotten up and was heading for the door, tossing a quiet "' 'Night" over his shoulder.

x

"Movie night," CJ said, knocking lightly on your office door. "We're starting in twenty."

Usually about one Friday afternoon a month the president liked to host movie nights with the senior staff. You however, had had a really tough week of long work days and barely any sleep, which is why you had completely forgotten today was this month's movie night. 

You groaned, rubbing your temple. "CJ, I'm exhausted. I'll just fall asleep."

"Perfect," she said without missing a beat. "Free therapy. Popcorn included." And before you knew it she was gone. That made no sense, did it? Maybe it was the sleep deprivation that had fried your braincells.

You did, in fact, almost bail. That was until Sam knocked gently on your door a few minutes later.

"I heard you haven't been sleeping," he said, soft and careful. "CJ asked me to come get you for movie night."

"Sam—" you started, but he held up a hand.

"Humor me. Just... come. You don't even have to pay attention to the movie. Sit in the dark, let your brain rest. If you fall asleep, I'll make sure nobody teases you."

"I've got—" you started, motioning to the stack of notes in front of you.

"Notes will still be here," he said, already leaning against the doorframe like he'd decided for you. "But if you keep going, you're going to fall asleep on your desk and CJ will take photos. I'm offering you a safer option."

You gave him a look. "You're probably just looking for a way to avoid sitting with Josh and Toby."

"I plead the 5th," he said, grin widening.

x

It was dim, the big screen already playing the studio logo as you slipped in. The senior staff was scattered. Josh and Donna had claimed one corner, Toby had settled with his arms crossed, and CJ was already halfway through a bucket of popcorn.

You had brought a notebook just in case you felt guilty enough to work during the movie. Sam walked in a second later, carrying two cups from the mess and a paper bag.

You give him a look and he said. "It's hot chocolate," settling in beside you. "Extra marshmallows. And—" he rustled the bag, "Chips Ahoy."

"Oh thank you so much," you said, leaning back and taking a sip. The cocoa was exactly the right temperature, not scalding, not lukewarm. "Okay, this is actually really good."

His mouth curved in the way it did when he was trying not to look too pleased with himself. "Thought you could use something comforting."

x

You told yourself you'd at least make it halfway through the movie, but the warmth of the cocoa, the low murmur of voices, and the quiet heat radiating from Sam made that impossible. Sam was really warm beside you. Not metaphorically, actually warm. He smelled faintly like his cologne and coffee, and when you shifted slightly, your knee brushed his.

Somewhere before the 30-minute mark, you blinked slower and slower and your head started to drift. You kept adjusting your posture, sitting up straighter, but it was no use. One time your temple found Sam's shoulder and you jerked and straightned up, about to apologize, but he wasn't fazed. That was when you noticed his arm was actually draping along the back of your chair, resting just behind you. You really weren't sure when he'd done that.

"You okay?" he murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear.

"Mhm," you mumbled, eyes already getting heavier again.

Once again your head dipped once, twice, before finally landing on his shoulder.

Sam froze—not in discomfort, but in a startled don't-move-or-you'll-spook-her  way.

He glanced down, saw that your lashes had fluttered shut for good, your breathing evened out. A slow, private smile tugged at his lips. 

At some point, while Toby was muttering with the President about historical inaccuracies, you shifted in your sleep. Without meaning to, you curled toward him, your hand coming to rest against him. Your knee brushed his, and Sam's breath caught in his throat before he relaxed again.

He adjusted a little bit. Just enough to make sure your head was supported, just enough to shield you from view.

He didn't watch much of the movie after that. He was too busy memorizing the way your hair brushed his jacket, the way your face softened in sleep: the tiny crease between you usually carried between your brows had eased after you fell asleep. 

No one saw the way he was smiling in the dark. Or how, every so often, he tilted his head just enough to rest his cheek against your hair. What he would later claim was "an accident."

At one point Josh got up to go to the bathroom, and seemed to move to say something, smirk already forming, but Sam shot him a look so sharp that Josh actually didn't say anything.

By the time the credits rolled, you were out cold, and Sam was reluctant to awake you. But he promised he wouldn't let anyone tease you if you fell asleep.

"Hey," he said softly. "Movie's over."

You blinked awake, disoriented, and realized your head was on Sam's shoulder, and you were half drapped over him.

"Oh my god—sorry," you whispered, pulling back so fast you dropped your notebook. "I didn't mean— I must've—"

"It's fine," Sam said quickly, and there was something almost disappointed in how fast you'd moved away. "You looked like you needed it."

Your face warmed and you couldn't look at him in the eye. "Still. I didn't mean to— invade personal space."

"I'm glad you finally got some sleep." he said, standing and offering you a hand. His smile seemed softer than usual, unreadable. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

x

Saturday endeded being busier than expected. Senior staff all came in around lunch and you stepped into the West Wing feeling very rested. You were halfway to your office when you heard it. It was Josh's voice, carrying far too loudly.

"Oh hey, Sleeping Beauty's here!"

You froze in the hallway. "What?"

Josh grinned like a man who had just been handed gossip on a silver platter. "Don't play innocent. We all saw it. Movie Room. You. Sam. Cuddling."

"Cuddling?" you repeated, horrified. "I fell asleep."

"On his shoulder," CJ said, walking past with her coffee, her smirk practically audible. "For two hours."

"He didn't move the entire time." Toby added from behind a newspaper. "Pretty sure he didn't blink either."

You groaned. "Oh God."

You tried to escape to your office quickly, but unfortunately the path to your office was like a labyrinth, the whole senior staff was around and caught tail end of Josh's dramatic reenactment.

"She just drapes herself over him," Josh was saying, "and he's like—" Josh tilted his head, pretending to smile dreamily into the middle distance.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "That's not what happened."

"Oh?" CJ challenged, leaning on a desk. "Then why were you grinning like an idiot the rest of the night?"

Sam's ears went pink. "I was not—"

"You were," Toby cut in without looking up from his paper.

Before you could see or hear anything else you finally manage to run into your office and close the door. 

It was enough that you'd been replaying last night in your head for hours. Every time you thought about the way you'd leaned on him—worse, curled into him—your stomach twisted.

You had to say something. After waiting for everyone to settle down you made your way to his office. Sam was typing at his desk when you appeared in the doorway, hugging a file to your chest like a shield.

"Hey," you started, keeping your voice low. "Do you have a second?"

He looked up, smiled the way he always did when it was you. "Sure. Come in."

You shut the door behind you, crossing to his desk. "About last night..."

Sam's expression barely shifted, but there was the faintest flicker of curiosity. "What about it?"

You exhaled sharply. "I...fell asleep. On you. And that's... not okay. I shouldn't have done that."

"You were tired," he said simply.

"I invaded your personal space," you pressed, determined to make your point. "I just didn't want you to feel like I was... crossing a line."

Sam leaned back in his chair, studying you for a long moment. "You didn't cross a line."

"But—"

"You were comfortable," he interrupted gently. "And if you think I'm going to be upset about that, you're underestimating me."

You frowned, unsure what to make of the warmth in his tone. "So you're not—"

"Upset? No." His eyes softened in a way that made your stomach do something unhelpful.

You hesitated. "You're sure?"

"Positive." he said, almost too quickly. Then, softer, "I didn't mind."

You shifted your weight, trying to read his expression. "Well... okay. I just wanted to make sure. I'd hate to make things awkward."

"Nothing is awkward," he assured, leaning back slightly. "If anything, it was... nice." At that comment you frown a little, and he carries on. "You were tired." He mentions again. "I didn't take it personally."

That eased some of the tension in your shoulders. "Okay. Good."

There was a pause. He glanced at the clock, then at you again, like he might say something else, but instead he gave a small smile.

"Anyway," he said lightly, "now we can both go pretend we're not about to get teased forever."

You groaned. "I'm never living that down, am I?"

"Probably not," he said, smirking. 

x

After that, the afternoon was a blur of meetings, phone calls, and shuffling stacks of briefing notes from one desk to another. You'd barely had a moment to breathe, but every so often your mind replayed the awkward-but-not-quite-awkward conversation you'd had with Sam earlier.

It shouldn't have stayed in your head. You'd apologized, he'd said it was fine, case closed. Except... you couldn't stop wondering what the long pauses had been for. It felt like maybe there was something else he'd wanted to say. You knew what was about to happen. You were going to overthink things again.

By the time you were heading toward the Roosevelt Room for the 5 p.m. senior staff meeting, you'd almost convinced yourself to forget about it.

Almost.

You pushed open the door and saw Sam already there, leaning over the table to point something out to Toby on a document. He glanced up, spotted you, and immediately straightened. Should you read into that? Oh you knew you'd eventually would.

"Hey," he said, sliding into the chair next to yours instead of the one across the table he usually took.

You smiled faintly. "Hey." Trying not act differently but probably failing miserably. 

Toby gave him a look but didn't comment.

The meeting started. C.J. was running point, briefing the room on a communications strategy for an upcoming education bill. You did your best to focus, but every time Sam leaned slightly toward you to pass along a piece of paper or quietly point out a note in the margin, you felt his warmth again and tensed up.

By the time Bartlet dismissed everyone, you had a stack of folders in your arms and a mild headache from juggling the meeting and Sam next to you.

In the hall, he fell into step beside you. "You heading back to your office?"

"Yeah, I need to finish the budget draft before tomorrow."

"I'll walk with you," he said, like it was nothing. It should have been nothing, you walked together all the time, but your pulse didn't get the memo.

When you reached your office, you went to set the folders on your desk, but Sam caught one as it slid out of the pile. "Let me." He placed it neatly on top, then lingered by the edge of your desk instead of heading out.

"Thanks," you said, glancing at him.

"No problem." He hesitated again — that same almost-saying-something pause from earlier.

This time, for some reason, you tried to resume your usual banter. "You know," you said lightly, "if you keep hovering like this, people are going to think you actually like working with me."

His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "I do like working with you."

You froze for half a second before laughing it off. What was with him these days? "Well... good. I'd hate for you to dread these budget drafts as much as I do."

"Dread?" He smirked. "I'll have you know, I look forward to your color-coded notes." There we go, the banter you were used to. Finally back.

"Color-coded notes are how civilized people survive here," you said, shaking your head.

He chuckled, and then, as if remembering something, straightened. "I should... probably go finish up that memo before Leo comes looking for me."

You nodded, and he left, but not before glancing back over his shoulder once, just enough to keep your brain running circles the rest of the night.

x

Falling For You Masterlist.

Part 4.

[lionalsowrites]

Chapter 2: Campaign Late Nights

Falling For You Masterlist. | Part 3.

x

The meeting with Bartlet ended with your heart still hammering in your chest. CJ had already drifted away toward her next meeting, but Sam lingered just long enough to catch your eye.

"Hey," he said, his voice low. "That was... really impressive."

You waved him off. "It was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing," he insisted, his mouth curling into that earnest smile he seemed to reserve for moments when he really meant it. "You just talked Josiah Bartlet into something he didn't think he needed. I've seen senators fail at that."

That warmth stayed with you through the rest of the day, even as the office descended into its usual campaign-night chaos — phones ringing, printers jamming, Josh calling across the room for someone to bring him polling data "before the world ends."

You and Sam kept crossing paths. You were in charge of uploading stump speech schedules to the campaign's fledgling website, and somehow Sam always seemed to swing by when you were working — "just to check something," though he'd inevitably end up talking with you for fifteen minutes about a speech draft or an op-ed he wanted to pitch.

After the first couple of weeks, you'd learned the rhythms of the Bartlet campaign. Mornings started early, fueled by caffeine and adrenaline. Afternoons were a blur of calls, scheduling, and endless drafts. Nights... nights were where you and Sam seemed to often find each other.

He was usually still at his desk when you were huddled over your computer, trying to fix some broken page on the campaign's new website. He'd pass by you and, without a word, place a paper towel-wrapped stack of Chips Ahoy cookies at your desk.

"Eat," he'd say.

You'd respond by brandishing a granola bar toward him in retaliation. "Fair trade."

Sometimes it was just that — an exchange of snacks, a nod, and back to work. Other times, he would sit at your desk and the conversations would wander.

He would tell you about growing up in California, about law school, about how he'd left a comfortable job to work for a man most of the country hadn't heard of yet. But it was all because Josh had said it was the real thing. You told him just little bit about your family, about how CJ had practically been your babysitter while your parents were busy, and about how you weren't sure where this job was going to lead, but it felt like something worth trying.

You started noticing things.

Sam liked to pace when he was stuck on a sentence, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his pen like a talisman. He scribbled his edits in the margins of legal pads in neat, almost calligraphic handwriting. He got quieter, never louder, when he was stressed. And if you set a PB&J on his desk in the middle of a long day, he'd thank you like you'd just handed him the solution to world peace.

Sam, on the other hand, noticed things too.

You kept your desk incredibly organized, but your snack drawer had the tendency to become chaotic. You often hummed quietly when you were focused. When you had your first drink of the morning you didn't just drink hot chocolate, you almost always inhaled it. And when you were tired, you tilted your head to one side while reading, like somehow that would help the words sink in.

You'd been on the campaign less than two weeks before late nights became routine.

Sam would often drift past your desk, lean against it with that soft, teasing smile. "Still alive?"

"Define alive," you'd answer, smiling but barely looking up from the the piles of work you had to complete.

One day, the office had emptied out to just a skeleton crew by 9:30 p.m. You were at your desk, eating stale Chips Ahoy and trying to finalize a draft of the first email blast you were planning on sending on behalf of the Bartlet campaign.

"Still here?" Sam's voice floated next to you.

You looked up to find him leaning against your desk with a coffee in one hand and a folder in the other.

"You're still here," you shot back.

"Yeah, but I live here," he said, with a small smile, pulling up the extra chair to your desk without waiting for an invitation. "What are you working on?"

"Drafting the email list announcement. It's going to be our first big push for volunteers outside New Hampshire."

He glanced at your screen, then raised an eyebrow. "You're burying the lead."

You frowned. "I'm what?"

"You've got the good stuff down here, that's the part that makes it sound like Bartlet's actually worth showing up for. Put that first. People decide in the first three sentences whether to keep reading."

You blinked at him. "You just... know that?"

"I write speeches for a living," he said, a little smug but with warmth in his eyes. "It's all the same muscle."

Without asking, he scooted a little closer, and started pointing out edits and tossing out ideas. You found yourself laughing at his dry comments, and when your knees started brushing under the desk, neither of you moved away.

When the clock hit midnight, you were both still there. You'd gotten endless refills of coffee and hot chocolate, and the email editing had turned into an impromptu brainstorming session about what other digital strategies the campaign could use.

At some point, Sam had rolled up his sleeves, and you had tucked your legs up in your chair. The office was quiet except for the hum of the heater.

"That is a great idea! But seriously, I think we can reach a much bigger audience if we–" he had paused after turning to face you. "You've got some chocolate on your–" Sam reached over without thinking, moving his thumb towards your mouth. It was reflex, and you moved away from him. You were a little embarrassed, but you would've moved away from anyone. 

You froze.

He froze.

The moment stretched, and you broke it by saying "Sorry, I didn't–" at the same time he started "It's fine." He cleared his throat and leaned back a little, playing around with his coffee cup. You looked down at your screen unsure of what to do next and decide to grab a napkin to actually clean whatever was on your face.

His eyes dart back to your screen. "Let's get back to this sentence. I don't like how it fits with the rest of the message."

You hum, except you could feel your cheeks were a bit red, and now the tiny space between your chairs felt even smaller.

It was nearly 2 a.m. when the office door creaked open.

You and Sam both looked up to see Toby standing there in his coat, scarf still looped around his neck.

"Sorry if we're interrupting, but Josh and I needed an important folder," he muttered, shuffling in to grab a file from a cabinet. 

Before either of you could respond, Josh appeared in the doorway behind him, squinting at the scene. "Wow. Do we need to, like, leave you two alone, or—"

"We're working," Sam said, perhaps too quickly.

Josh smirked. "Uh-huh."

"He's just being an idiot," Sam said, though there was the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Don't worry about him."

And neither of you brought up the fact that you still hadn't moved your chairs apart.

As the days went on, your barter system became second nature. He would always somehow give you Chips Ahoy and you would always give him granola bars. He would bring you hot chocolate and you'd refill his coffee. More than once, you'd both end up on the same couch in the corner of the office, laptops balanced precariously, working and swapping stories while the rest of the staff trickled out into the cold.

One night, near the end of October, you were the only two left in the office again. Sam was rewriting a closing statement for an upcoming rally, and you were trying to get a batch of volunteer sign-up forms entered into the system before morning.

It was past 1 a.m. when you realized he'd been quiet for a while. No pen scribling, or computer typing. You looked up to find him leaning on his desk, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing," he said quickly, glancing back down at his page. But there was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he knew something you didn't.

If you were being honest with yourself, you'd admit Sam Seaborn was... well, exactly the kind of person you'd expect to find working at the top levels of a presidential campaign. Brilliant, articulate, effortlessly put-together, the sort of man who made you feel like you were catching up to his thoughts even as he was explaining them.

He was also, infuriatingly, nice. The kind of nice that wasn't just "polite" or "professional" — it was thoughtful. The kind of nice that meant remembering you didn't drink coffee but hot chocolate, or noticing you hadn't eaten in hours and leaving a Chips Ahoy cookie pack by your keyboard without a word.

A week after the Toby and Josh 2 a.m. incident, you'd been ready to head home when Sam appeared beside your desk holding two mugs of hot chocolate, his laptop and a folder.

"Ten minutes?" he asked.

You hesitated. "Sam, it's almost eleven—"

"Exactly," he said, already setting the mug beside you and gesturing animatedly with his hands. "Which means the phones aren't ringing, Josh isn't shouting, and no one's trying to 'borrow' your computer to check baseball scores. It's the perfect time to get real work done."

You rolled your eyes, but you stayed. How could you not? Ten minutes became an hour, which became two, which became normal. It wasn't every night, but often enough that it didn't feel strange anymore to look up from your desk and see Sam there with some ridiculous granola bar flavor ("Maple Sea Salt Crunch, you'll love it, trust me") or a half-finished piece of writing he wanted your opinion on.

What you didn't notice was how his gaze lingered when you laughed, or the way he'd position his chair close to you even if there was more room.

You also missed the subtle hints he tried giving you like, "I like talking to you more than anyone else here" or the "you make this place bearable," waiting to see if you'd send them back in kind. You took every one as friendly camaraderie. It was simply Sam being Sam. A good work relationship. Nothing more.

x

Falling For You Masterlist.

Part 3.

[lionalsowrites]

Chapter 10: Caretaker Mode.

Falling For You Masterlist. | Part 11.

x

Of course, Donna noticed instantly and whispered something to Josh. His tie looked weird, and his hair looked like he'd tried to comb it with his fingers but it was still smoothed down in one part of his head.

“Same suit, same shirt,” Josh muttered as Sam walked past him. “I’m just saying, people are gonna talk. One night stand?”

Sam shot him a glare. “I was up late working and fell asleep on the couch." Not necessarily a lie, he hadn't specified which couch and he was working until he fell asleep. "And I missed my alarm this morning. I had to run, I barely made it on time.”

Josh grinned. “Sure.”

Sam ignored him, but the truth was, he hadn’t had time — because he’d only left your apartment with just enough time to make it to work. And even though he’d scribbled that note, he hadn’t heard from you since. He told himself you were probably still tired and simply sleeping off the fever. He told himself that half a dozen times before he went to the morning senior staff meeting.

But when the speakerphone didn't ring for senior staff and your voice didn’t follow, his stomach sank.

Leo frowned at the empty line. “She was supposed to call in again.”

“I don't think she wouldn’t miss this on purpose,” C.J. said, brows knitting.

Sam’s pulse thudded in his ears. “Leo—”

Leo held up a hand. “She probably just overslept.”

But Sam was already shifting in his chair, too restless to sit still. “Or she’s worse. She sounded terrible yesterday. And she still had a fever last night.”

Everyone looked at him.

"Last night?" Toby said what everyone was thinking.

Josh smirked at him. “Now, how could you possibly know that?”

Sam ignored both jabs and turned to face Leo. “Can I go check on her? Please?”

Leo studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. But call me with an update as soon as you can, especially if it’s anything serious. We’ll have the meeting without you two.”

Sam didn’t even pretend to hesitate. He was already gathering his things. "Don't get used to it!" Leo yelled as Sam was practically running out the door.

Twenty minutes later, he was at your apartment door again, knocking, only to get no answer today. This time he was nervous for a whole other set of reasons.

He tried calling your name more than once, getting louder each time. He didn't know if he was imagining it or not, but he thought he could hear some faint noises from inside. He decided this was enough of an emergency to use the spare set of keys he had, digging them out of his pocket and letting himself in.

The living room was empty. Your blanket was tossed aside on the couch, and he could hear a faint sound from down the hall. He called your name, slowly making his way through your apartment. You weren't in the kitchen, so Sam started moving toward the bedroom.

When he got to the bathroom, the door was cracked, and when he pushed the door open, his heart seemed to stop beating. You were sitting on the tile floor next to the tub, back against the wall, knees up, forehead resting on them. You startled when the door opened, and lifted your head to face him. Jesus, you looked incredibly pale and exhausted.

“Sam?” you croaked, voice a bit raw.

He was kneeling beside you in an instant. “God—hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

You tried to wave him off, embarrassed. “What are you doing here? I just—threw up. Like three times. I’m fine now.”

“First of all, you’re not fine,” he said firmly, pulling his phone quickly out of his pocket. "Second, you didn't call in to this morning's senior staff and we were all worried."

“Sam, please don’t—”

But Leo had already answered and Sam started talking. “Hey, it’s me. I’m at her place. She’s… she’s okay, but she’s really sick. Fever and now I think she can’t keep anything down. Yeah... Ok, I’ll do that. I can work from here today. Yes, I’ll keep you posted.”

Before you had barely processed anything at all Sam hung up, giving you zero chances to argue.

You blinked at him, still stunned. “What just.... did you just… call Leo?" You say very slowly.

"Yes. He wanted an update on you." It took you sometime to notice that Sam had started putzing around your bathroom.

"And did I hear... did you say you’re working from... from here?” You ask.

“Yes.” Before you can think of anything else he continues, “Because you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

As you process what feels like a deluge of information to your feverish brain, you start moving to get up off the floor, but Sam is kneeling at your side immediately. “Hey. Wait, don't get up just yet.” At his words you pause your movements and look at him.

"Please, let me help you to the couch. But first." It seems like he produces a washcloth out of nowhere saying "May I?" You nod and he gently presses the wet cloth against your flushed face and you close your eyes at the soothing contact, relaxing and letting your head fall to the side, completely and totally exhausted.

"Sam. I.... I really appreciate all your help but... you don't need to be here." You say, trying to convey both how thankfull you are but also how equally embarrassed you feel.

“I don't think you should be alone right now.” He repeats.

You let your forehead fall on your knees again, equal parts mortified and oddly touched. You hear him rinsing the washcloth at the sink and mumble, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, crouching again by you. “But you’re stuck with me until you can stand up without swaying.”

Even sick and achy as you were, you couldn’t help smiling a little. You had a crush on him for over a year, probably longer? and it was really hitting you just how much he truly liked you. And somehow, even though your stomach was churning and your head was spinning, you felt safer than you had in a long time.

x

After being reassured you weren't feeling like throwing up at the moment, Sam insisted that you not walk alone right now, and helped you move to the couch, where you settled in.

Before you knew it he was taking your temperature again and you closed your eyes and lean back on the couch. You could hear him moving around in your kitchen. "I know you usually drink your hot chocolate in the mornings, but dairy products should be avoided because of your vomiting, so I am making you chamomile tea. I hear it is best for nausea and I know you like it."

At his words you open your eyes to try to find him. You are at a loss for words. You hadn't even thought of your usual morning hot chocolate, but he was spot on. Just the thought of it was triggering your nausea again. This man was so incredibly thoughtful it made your heart ache.

"Here," he says while handing you some meds.

Next he brings you a cup of tea, a box of tissues, and places an empty trash can next to you while saying "In case you get sick again."

Then, he starts setting up a little command center on your coffee table in front of the chair he had claimed last night — laptop and phone charging, stack of briefing folders, a cup of tea for him — and settles into work mode.

You start sipping your tea and were feeling better already. Not sure if it was actually because of the tea or because of the company. Every so often, while he worked, he’d glance over like he was just making sure you were still breathing or something. You would have teased him for hovering, but the truth was… it was kind of nice. Really nice. After a year or so of dancing around feelings, you finally got to see what Sam looked like when he wasn’t trying to hide how much he cared.

“You don’t have to take care of me like this you know,” you said softly, finally seeming to get your thoughts together. “We haven’t even— I mean, we’ve barely been sorta dating for what? Two weeks?”

Sam’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, blue and unbearably earnest. “That's not— not even. I... care about you. A lot. I have for a long time. I'm not going to let you suffer alone in your apartment while you're sick.”

At his reply you feel your cheeks heat up. You really don't have an answer for that. You truly settle into your little couch nest and Sam seems to really focus on work. You drift off to the sounds of his typing and pen scribbles.

x

Around six-thirty, a knock came.

Sam, in full caretaker mode, said "I got it" and went to answer it while you barely even registered it, swaddled in your blanket nest. You don't even remeber falling asleep, and wait Sam was here?

The door swung open to reveal, C.J. and Donna, with two grocery shopping bags each.

“Operation Save Our Colleague,” C.J. announced, brushing past Sam into the living room. “Sam said you were vertical, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I am mostly vertical,” you mumbled.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Donna said, unpacking tea boxes, juice, and about six kinds of crackers onto your counter. “I brought honey and lemon too.”

Sam looked amused as the two of them descended on you. C.J. sat on the arm of the couch, feeling your forehead like she was your mom. Considering how close she was with your parents, she basically was at this point.

“You’re burning up,” she said.

“Sam’s been saying that all day,” you said, voice still raspy.

“Well, Sam’s right,” she replied, glancing at him in a way that said we’ll talk later.

Donna, meanwhile, was bustling in the kitchen like she’d been there a hundred times. “Do you have a kettle?”

“Under the sink,” You and Sam said at the same time, and immediately looked at each other. It seemed that C.J. and Donna both caught it, grinned but didn't say anything.

By the time the tea was made, you were propped up against Sam on the couch, his arm slung lazily along your back, occasionally tugging the blanket higher over your shoulders. You think C.J. was pretending not to notice, but you thought you'd caught her smirking once or twice after glancing at you two.

“So,” she said conversationally, “you’re letting him take care of you?”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice.” You shrugged a little, but smiled.

They stayed for an hour, chatting and catching you up on office gossip — Toby’s epic argument with the press office and Margaret’s accidental three-hour lunch.

Eventually, C.J. checked her watch and said “Alright, sick girl needs rest. Donna, let’s go before Sam throws us out.”

“I would never—” Sam started, but C.J. cut him off with a knowing look saying, “Oh we both know you would.” To which Sam sheepishly looked away.

As they headed out, C.J. gave Sam a look in the hallway, and seemed to pause before saying, in a volume that you wouldn't hear from the couch, “Keep up the good work.”

Sam took a moment and said “I'm doing my absolute best for her.”

When the door shut, the apartment went quiet again. Sam sat down next to you and you let your head drop onto his shoulder.

“You know,” you murmured, “this might be the nicest sick day I’ve ever had.”

He chuckled, pulling the blanket snug around you. “Isn't that kind of a low bar?”

“Still counts,” you said, eyes closing. “And… you know you didn’t have to stay all day.”

“Yes, I did.”

You were too tired to argue, but you smiled, because somehow, in the middle of feeling awful, you’d never felt more taken care of in your life.

After you’d gotten through another half bowl of soup, it was clear the meds were pulling you under again. Sam closed his laptop, checked your temperature one more time, and announced, “Bed time.”

You groaned. “The couch is fine.”

“You are sick,” he said, like it was an airtight legal argument. “You need proper rest.”

He helped you get to your bed, and you laid down immediately while he fussed with the blankets. You felt achy and tired, and were just starting to drift off when he started to step back toward the living room.

“Where... where are you going?” you say.

“I'll take the couch. You need space—”

“Sam.” you cut him off raising one hand and making grabbing motions. He is still hovering in your doorway when you say, "Please," and you sit up slowly in bed. “You’ve been working and taking care of me all day. You’re running yourself ragged. Please sleep here. In the bed.” You say with a strength you couldn't believe you had in you right now.

He hesitated, walked back to your bed and sat at the edge. He glanced at you like he wasn’t sure if this was the fever talking. “You sure?”

“Yes. And before you say it, I know we’re not… doing anything. This is about you not waking up tomorrow with your spine in knots from the couch. Please take the other side.” And if you got to cuddle with your boyfriend? Maybe? that was just a bonus.

For a moment, it looked like he might argue. But then he smiled — not the professional, West Wing smile, but the one that was usually used for you. “Okay. Other side. I'll be in in a sec.”

Happy that he agreed you lay back down and your exhaustion hits you hard. You wanted to be awake when he came and got in bed but you're not sure how long you can manage to stay awake.

At last, you hear movement and feel the bed dip. You feel him lie down and move to lay on his chest, saying “Thank you... for all everything you did for me today. I... thank you.” you murmur, already drifting off.

x

The next morning, Sam emerged from your kitchen balancing a tray like he’d been rehearsing for it his whole life — tea, toast, a little cup of berries, and the smug look of a man who was very pleased with himself.

“You don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off.

“Yes, I do.”

By the time you finished breakfast, you were feeling… better. The fever had broken overnight, and while your lungs still felt like you’d inhaled a thunderstorm, you were convinced you were fine.

So when Sam started talking about “another day at home” you laughed.

“I’m not contagious. I really think this thing was overblown.”

“You literally couldn’t walk to the bathroom without help yesterday,” Sam pointed out.

“I’m fine now,” you insisted, already reaching for some work clothes.

The debate lasted through your shower, your outfit change, and the ride to the White House. By the time you got through security, Sam was muttering about “stubborn people” and “how does Leo deal with you.”

Everything was fine at first. Sam got you settled in your office with a mug of tea and a pointed warning: Don’t overdo it.

For the first hour, you obeyed. But then you got up to grab a file from the credenza — and the room tilted again. You had to grab the edge of your desk to steady yourself.

You sat back down for a minute in your chair, waited for the wave of dizziness to pass, and tried again five minutes later. Same result.

By the third attempt, you realized it wasn’t going away. Which is why, about an hour later, Donna walked in to find you sitting cross-legged on the floor beside your desk, holding a stack of briefing papers like this was completely normal.

“Uh… what’s happening here?” she asked.

“Just… resting,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Standing up is a little—” you waved a hand vaguely— “dizzy-making.”

Donna’s eyes narrowed, and before you could stop her, she was backing toward the door, already fishing out her phone.

“Donna—”

“Not listening,” she called, and disappeared.

Ten minutes later, Leo appeared in your doorway, looking every inch the disapproving parent.

“I hear you nearly passed out.”

“I didn’t pass out, I just—”

“Stay,” he said firmly. “Sam’s taking you home.”

“Leo—”

“Don’t argue. He’s working from your place for the rest of the day, possibly the week. Which means you are, too.”

A moment later, Sam appeared, his jacket already on, expression somewhere between I told you so and you’re lucky I like you so much.

“We've been here for two hours,” he said, shaking his head.

“I was fine until I wasn’t,” you admitted.

He helped you up so slowly and gently, like you might break, that had your heart racing really fast. He guided you out of the office with a hand at your back towards his car.

“Come on, stubborn,” he murmured. “Home. Couch. Soup. Non-negotiable.”

x

Back at your apartment, he settled you into the exact same blanket nest you’d had the day before. You could tell by the way he kept glancing at you between calls that this time, there was no way you were talking him into letting you out of his sight. And honestly? You didn’t want to. Your earlier attempt of going back to work had taken a lot out of you and you were honestly glad to be resting.

By the time evening rolled around, Sam had fully taken over your apartment again. His laptop, phone, briefing papers, the whole deal. However, your nest and his work station slowly migrated closer as time wore on. So much so that you were wrapped burrito-style in your blanket and claimed a spot tucked against his side resting your head on his thigh, while he read over some report. Sam kept one arm around you, idly rubbing your shoulder, dropping the occasional kiss to your hair when you stirred.

“You know,” he said softly, “I think you get really cuddly when you’re sick.”

You made a small noise that could’ve been agreement or protest — it was hard to tell.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he added quickly. “It's really adorable.”

At some point, while he was halfway through typing a paragraph, he realized you’d gone completely still. Glancing down, he saw you fast asleep again, cheek pressed against his thigh, one hand curled into his leg like you were afraid he’d move.

And Sam just… stopped working for a moment.

The truth was, he was loving this — loving being the one you trusted enough to cling to, loved having you so close that he could feel every little shift and sigh. He’d spent at least a year keeping everything to himself, pretending you were just a colleague, and now that you weren’t? He had no intention of letting go.

So he stayed there, one arm firm around you, the other lazily scrolling through emails, until the sun went down and the room went dim — your soft weight against him the only thing that mattered.

When you stirred again, mumbling something incoherent, he kissed your temple and said, “I’ve got you,” and meant it in every possible way.

x

Falling For You Masterlist. |

Part 11.