(五条悟 ) —HIS FAVOURITE SECRETARY: volume 102
pairings: president gojo x secretary reader
precis: when you—a brilliant political strategist—take a job as executive secretary to the youngest, most unconventional president in history, you expect chaos—not a marriage proposal thirty seconds after meeting him. president satoru gojo is impulsive, charming, and convinced that you're the one from day one, proposing daily with everything from skywritten declarations to blue roses in the white house rose garden. you're organized, sharp-witted, and determined to maintain professional boundaries despite their undeniable chemistry.
but as ethics investigations, congressional hearings, and media firestorms threaten both their careers, they must answer the impossible question: can love survive when the whole world is watching, and is saying "yes" worth risking everything they've worked for?
. ⋆. ࿔ content warnings (for overall series): work romance, love at first sight, slight age gap (reader is in mid twenties, gojo is in early thirties), politics but not as accurate?, press conferences, slight angst, conflict, terrorism, eventual smut, me being a history freak, tons of dialogue if ur into that, arguments, he's a posessive freak, sexual tension, media being annoying asl wc: 14k
the morning after the skywriting incident, you arrived at the white house at 6:45 am—fifteen minutes earlier than usual—because you'd learned in five weeks that getting ahead of a crisis meant being there before anyone else could panic.
you were too late.
the west wing was already chaos.
you could feel it the moment you badged through security, could see it in the harried expressions of staffers hurrying past with tablets and folders clutched to their chests, could hear it in the urgent voices echoing from offices, could sense it in the very air that seemed to vibrate with barely contained panic.
"—need a statement by eight—"
"—every major outlet is calling—"
"—senator harrison's office just released—"
your heels clicked against the polished floor as you made your way to your office, nodding at people you passed, your face carefully neutral even as your stomach churned with anxiety. you'd barely slept. had spent most of the night lying awake in your apartment, staring at the ceiling, your phone lighting up every few minutes with texts and calls you'd ignored.
your mother had called six times. your college roommate had sent fourteen texts. senator morrison's office had left three voicemails. a reporter from the post had somehow gotten your personal number.
and through it all, one question had circled in your mind like a vulture: what have i done?
you pushed open the door to your office and froze.
press secretary shoko ieiri was sitting in your chair, feet up on your carefully organized desk, a cigarette dangling from her lips even though smoking was absolutely not allowed inside the white house. she looked like she hadn't slept either—her usually sharp blazer was wrinkled, her dark hair escaping from its normally perfect bun, and there were shadows under her eyes that even her makeup couldn't hide.
"you're late," she sighed, not looking up from her phone. "we have a crisis."
"it's 6:45. i'm early." you set your bag down, started unpacking your laptop. "and you can't smoke in here."
"i'm press secretary. i'll smoke where i want." she took a drag, blew smoke toward the ceiling, then finally looked at you. her eyes were bloodshot. "do you have any idea how many media requests i've gotten since yesterday? take a guess."
"i don't need to guess." you hung up your coat, moved to your desk with the kind of calm that came from years of crisis management. "i need you to tell me the damage so i can start strategizing solutions."
"two hundred and thirty-seven." she stood, started pacing, cigarette leaving a trail of smoke. "two hundred and thirty-seven requests for comment, interview, confirmation, denial, background information, exclusive access, and one marriage proposal from a very confused podcaster who thought the skywriting was for him."
despite everything—despite the career-ending investigation looming, despite the media circus, despite the absolute catastrophe of your professional life—you almost laughed. "only in washington."
"CNN wants a sit-down interview. Fox News wants a statement. MSNBC wants to know if this represents a pattern of presidential impulsiveness. the times is running a piece on workplace ethics. the Post is doing a deep dive into your background—yes, they called me, and no, i didn't give them anything, but they're going to find whatever they're looking for anyway because that's what they do."
she stopped pacing, turned to face you, and for the first time since you'd met her—sharp, cynical, unflappable shoko—she looked genuinely worried. "and that's just the media. congress is worse. senator harrison issued a statement at midnight calling for an ethics investigation. representative chen wants hearings. the minority leader is making noise about presidential conduct. your boy has managed to unite both parties, which is impressive since they can't agree on anything else."
"he's not my boy." the automatic response came out sharper than intended.
"isn't he though?" shoko crushed her cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe, then pocketed the butt—at least she wasn't leaving evidence. "because from where i'm sitting, the president of the united states just skywritten a very public marriage proposal to his secretary, and now i have to figure out how to spin that in a way that doesn't make him look like a boss abusing his power or you look like someone sleeping her way to influence."
the words hit like a slap. your hands stilled on your laptop.
"i haven't—we're not—" you stopped. drew breath. found your center. "i know what it looks like. i'm aware of the optics. that's why i told him no. that's why i told him to wait. that's why i've maintained every professional boundary despite his best efforts to demolish them."
"i know." shoko's voice softened slightly. she moved closer, leaned against your desk, her expression shifting from professional crisis manager to something more human, more concerned. "i know you haven't. i know you're not. but that's not how it looks. that's not how it's going to be portrayed. and right now, appearance is everything."
she pulled out her phone, started scrolling. "twitter is having a field day. #presidentproposal is still trending, but now there are think pieces. 'is this romantic or problematic?' 'presidential power and workplace dynamics.' 'when does charm become coercion?' and my personal favorite—" she turned the phone so you could see, "—'the secretary will see you now: a thread on why this is actually about power, not love.'"
you felt sick. your carefully constructed professional reputation—ten years of hard work, of being taken seriously, of proving you belonged in rooms full of powerful men—potentially destroyed by one grand gesture you hadn't even asked for.
"what do i do?" the question came out before you could stop it, and you hated how small it sounded.
shoko sighed, pocketed her phone, and looked at you with sympathy. "honestly? i don't know. this is unprecedented. we don't have a playbook for 'president skywritten proposal to secretary.' i checked. no previous administration has dealt with this specific scenario, shockingly."
she straightened, brushed cigarette ash off her blazer. "there's a senior staff meeting in twenty minutes. press conference at nine. the president wants you there for both, which is either very brave or very stupid. possibly both." she headed for the door, then paused, looking back. "for what it's worth? he's serious about you. i've worked with him for two years—through the campaign, through the election, through six months of this insanity—and i've never seen him like this. so whatever you decide, make sure it's what you actually want, not what you think you're supposed to want."
then she was gone, leaving you alone in your office with the scent of cigarette smoke and the weight of impossible decisions.
you made it exactly three steps into the senior staff meeting before you realized how bad this was going to be.
the roosevelt room was packed—more people than usual, all of them looking grim. chief of staff ijichi stood at the head of the table, his eye already twitching, his tablet clutched so tightly his knuckles were white. national security advisor nanami sat ramrod straight, jaw clenched in that way that meant he was furious but too professional to show it. the various deputies and assistants lined the walls, all of them carefully not looking at you as you entered.
and at the center of it all, president satoru gojo lounged in his chair, feet on the table, scrolling through his phone with an expression that could only be described as utterly unbothered.
"good morning," he chirped cheerfully as you took your usual position against the wall, tablet in hand. "beautiful day. did everyone see the sunrise? very picturesque. almost as good as the skywriting yesterday."
ijichi's eye twitched harder.
"mr. president," he started, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining professionalism, "perhaps we could discuss the... events of yesterday and their implications for—"
"my approval ratings?" satoru interrupted, still looking at his phone. "up three points. apparently people love a romantic president. who knew?"
"that's not—" ijichi pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture you'd seen approximately forty times in the past five weeks. "sir, with all due respect, this isn't about approval ratings. this is about workplace ethics. congressional oversight. the proper conduct of the office of—"
"i followed all proper procedures," satoru said, finally looking up from his phone. his expression was pleasant but his eyes were sharp, focused. "i used private contractors. filed the appropriate paperwork. got clearance from six different agencies. everything was completely legal and above board. i checked. twice."
"legal and appropriate are not the same thing," nanami interjected, his voice cold and precise. "the legality of the skywriting is not in question. the wisdom of it, however—"
"is also not up for debate." satoru's voice hadn't changed—still pleasant, still casual—but something in his tone made everyone in the room go quiet. "i'm the president. i'm allowed to have a personal life. i'm allowed to pursue relationships. and i'm allowed to do so in whatever manner i choose, as long as it's legal. which it was."
he stood, pocketed his phone, and for the first time that morning, looked directly at you. the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch, made you very aware that everyone in the room was now also looking at you.
"what i'm not allowed to do," he continued, his eyes never leaving yours, "is let my staff dictate my personal decisions. so here's how this is going to work: shoko will issue a statement confirming that yes, i did skywrite a proposal. yes, it was to my secretary. no, there is no ethics violation because she has not accepted, and any future relationship would be handled in accordance with all applicable policies and procedures."
he finally looked away from you, scanning the room, his expression daring anyone to argue. "the white house counsel will prepare documentation outlining how any potential relationship would be structured to avoid conflicts of interest. HR will review all relevant policies. and in the meantime, everyone will treat my secretary with the same respect and professionalism they did before yesterday, or they can find employment elsewhere. are we clear?"
absolute silence. the kind of heavy, uncomfortable silence that came when everyone wanted to argue but knew they couldn't.
"good." satoru checked his watch. "i have a press conference in thirty minutes where i'll say essentially the same thing, probably less diplomatically. any other concerns?"
more silence.
"excellent. dismissed." he started for the door, then paused. "oh, and ijichi? your eye is twitching again. you should get that checked."
he left. the room erupted in whispered conversations the moment the door closed behind him.
and you stood there, tablet clutched to your chest, wondering if you'd just witnessed him defending you or digging both your graves deeper.
the press conference was a disaster.
you watched from the side of the press briefing room, your usual position during these events, trying to maintain a neutral expression while reporters shouted questions and satoru answered with his characteristic mix of charm and complete disregard for political norms.
"mr. president! is it true you skywritten a marriage proposal to your secretary?"
"yes. very romantic, i thought. the skywriting company did excellent work. i can give you their contact information if anyone's interested."
a ripple of laughter. shoko, standing next to you, made a sound like she was in pain.
"mr. president, do you believe this represents an appropriate use of—"
"of my personal time and personal resources? yes. next question."
"what about the ethics concerns? the power imbalance inherent in—"
"there's no ethics violation because there's no relationship. yet." he grinned at the cameras, and you wanted to sink through the floor. "but i'm very optimistic about my chances."
more laughter. more shouted questions. shoko lit another cigarette despite the no-smoking policy.
"mr. president, has your secretary responded to the proposal?"
"she asked me to wait a month. which i'm doing. i'm very good at waiting when properly motivated. and she's very motivating."
"oh my god," shoko muttered, smoke curling from her lips. "he's going to get himself impeached over a crush."
"it's not a crush," you whispered loudly, surprising yourself.
she looked at you, one eyebrow raised. "no?"
"no." you watched him field another question, watched him deflect with humor while actually saying nothing of substance, watched him control the room with the same ease he controlled every room he entered. "it's worse than that."
"how much worse?"
you didn't answer. couldn't answer. because the truth was sitting heavy in your chest, impossible to ignore: you were falling for him too.
and that terrified you more than any press conference ever could.
the call came on a tuesday morning, exactly one week after the skywriting incident.
you were in your office, colour-coding the president's schedule for the following month—blue for domestic meetings, red for international calls, green for congressional negotiations, yellow for the personal time he never actually took—when your desk phone rang with the internal line tone that meant someone from within the white house was calling.
"executive secretary's office," you answered automatically, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder so you could keep typing. you had fourteen items to reschedule because the president had decided—without consulting you—to add a last-minute trip to pennsylvania to tour a manufacturing facility. never mind that it completely destroyed tuesday's carefully planned agenda.
"this is jennifer adams from white house counsel." the voice was crisp, professional, female. unfamiliar. "i need you to come to my office at 2 pm today for a meeting."
your fingers stilled on the keyboard. white house counsel. that was never good. that was ethics investigations and legal complications and the kind of meetings that ended careers.
"what's this regarding?" you asked carefully, keeping your voice neutral even as your heart rate picked up, even as your stomach dropped with the certainty that this was about the skywriting, about him, about the impossible situation you'd found yourself in.
"i'd prefer to discuss it in person. conference room c, west wing basement level. 2 pm sharp. please don't be late."
click.
you stared at the phone in your hand for a long moment, listening to the dial tone, your mind racing through possibilities and none of them good.
conference room c was windowless, cramped, and felt like an interrogation room. which, you realized as you walked in at exactly 2 pm, was probably the point.
jennifer adams sat at the head of a small conference table, a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and the kind of sharp, assessing eyes that missed nothing. she wore a navy suit that looked expensive but practical, and her expression was completely neutral—not friendly, not hostile, just professionally blank.
"please, sit." she gestured to the chair across from her. not beside her, not in a collaborative position, but across the table like a witness being questioned. "thank you for being punctual."
you sat, crossing your ankles, folding your hands in your lap, finding the professional mask you'd worn to a thousand meetings and slipping it on like armor. "you said this was important."
"it is." she opened a folder in front of her—thick, full of documents you couldn't see from your angle. "i'm conducting a preliminary inquiry into potential ethics violations related to workplace relationships within the white house staff."
there it was.
"specifically," she continued, her eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you want to squirm but you held still, held professional, held calm, "into the relationship between the president and yourself."
"there is no relationship," you affirmed immediately, automatically, the response you'd prepared in the sleepless hours last night. "the president made a public gesture, yes, but i have not accepted any proposal, we are not dating, we have maintained professional boundaries throughout my employment."
"and yet he skywritten a marriage proposal visible from three states." it wasn't a question. she pulled a document from the folder, slid it across the table. a printout of a news article, the photo showing those letters clear against blue sky: MARRY ME - THE PRESIDENT.
you looked at it without touching it, as if physical contact would make it more real. "that was his decision. not mine. i had no advance knowledge of it and no input into it."
"but you haven't rejected him outright either." she pulled out another document. "according to his press conference—" she adjusted her reading glasses, read from what appeared to be a transcript, "—'she asked me to wait a month. which i'm doing.' is that accurate?"
your throat felt tight. "i told him to prove he was serious. to show that this wasn't just impulsive or a game. i told him to ask me again in thirty days, and if he still wanted to, we could discuss it then."
"so you are considering a relationship with your direct supervisor. the president of the united states. your boss." each sentence was delivered with precision, each word carefully chosen to highlight the ethical minefield you were walking through.
"i'm considering—" you paused, chose your words carefully, "—whether there could be a possibility of something, in the future, if appropriate boundaries and safeguards were put in place. i have not acted on anything. i have not violated any policies. i have maintained complete professionalism."
"have you?" she pulled out more papers, and your stomach sank as you recognized them—your schedule logs, meeting notes, email records. how much had they pulled? how deep had they dug?
"your schedule shows you've been alone with the president in the oval office after hours on fourteen separate occasions in the past five weeks. you've accompanied him to events outside your normal duties. you've been seen in private areas of the residence. multiple staff members have reported what they describe as 'inappropriate familiarity' between you and the president."
she looked up from the papers, her expression still neutral but her eyes sharp. "so i'll ask you again: have you maintained complete professionalism?"
this was the moment. the pivot point. how you handled this would determine everything.
you wanted to defend yourself. wanted to list every legitimate reason you'd been in the oval office—delivering urgent documents, briefing him on schedule changes, managing crises that couldn't wait until morning. wanted to explain that accompanying him to events was part of your job, that the residence meetings were always in public spaces with staff present, that "inappropriate familiarity" could mean anything from him making jokes to you rolling your eyes at his habitual lateness.
but looking at her expression, at the thick folder of evidence in front of her, at the way this entire meeting was structured, you knew: it didn't matter.
they'd already decided you were guilty of something.
you leaned forward slightly, held her gaze, and spoke with the kind of calm certainty that came from knowing you were right.
"i have done my job," you said, each word precise and controlled. "i have done it exceptionally well. the president's schedule runs more smoothly than it has in years. his briefings are organized. his meetings are productive. his approval ratings are up."
you paused, let that land.
"those fourteen after-hours meetings? urgent briefings that couldn't wait. schedule emergencies. crisis management. you're welcome to review the content of each one—i can provide detailed documentation. the president doesn't work nine to five. neither do i. that's the job."
another pause.
"accompanying him to events? part of my job description. ensuring he's prepared, on time, with appropriate materials. check my predecessor's schedules—you'll find similar patterns. and 'inappropriate familiarity'?" you allowed yourself a slight, cold smile. "the president has an informal management style. he's informal with everyone. if that makes people uncomfortable, that's a management issue, not an ethics violation."
you sat back, kept your voice level. "i have given this position everything i have. i have maintained every professional boundary. i have done nothing wrong. if the perception is otherwise, that's unfortunate, but perception isn't evidence."
silence.
adams studied you for a long moment, and you couldn't quite read her expression.
"intentions aren't the issue here." adams leaned forward slightly, her voice not unkind but not sympathetic either. just matter-of-fact. "perception is. and the perception—from congress, from the media, from the public—is that there's an inappropriate relationship between the president and his secretary. that creates complications for this administration. complications we need to address."
she pulled out one more document, slid it across the table. "this is a formal request for your cooperation in this investigation. we'll need to interview you multiple times, review your communications with the president, speak to other staff members about your interactions. the process will take approximately six weeks."
six weeks. six weeks of your life under a microscope. six weeks of every interaction analyzed. six weeks of people looking at you and wondering what you'd done to attract presidential attention.
"and if i refuse to cooperate?" you already knew the answer.
"then we'll note your lack of cooperation in our report. which goes to congress. and the media." she sat back, folded her hands. "i'm not trying to destroy your career. i'm trying to make sure this administration operates within proper ethical boundaries. that's my job."
"and i'm collateral damage in that job."
"that depends entirely on what this investigation finds."
you stared at the document in front of you. official white house letterhead. legal language. your name typed in neat letters requesting your cooperation in an ethics investigation that could end your career before it had barely begun.
"i need to think about this."
"you have until friday to respond formally. but understand—this investigation is happening whether you cooperate or not. the only question is whether you want to be part of shaping the narrative or letting others shape it for you."
she stood, gathering her papers, sliding them back into that damning folder. "i'll need your answer by 5 pm friday. you can respond via email or in person. either way, i suggest you consult with an attorney. this is going to get complicated, and you'll want representation."
she headed for the door, then paused, looking back. her expression softened slightly—just a fraction, just enough to show there was a human being under the professional mask. "for what it's worth? i believe you that nothing has happened. i've reviewed your record, your history, your work here. you're not the type to sleep your way to influence. but belief and proof are different things, and in this city, appearance matters more than truth."
then she was gone, leaving you alone in the windowless conference room with a formal investigation request and the growing certainty that everything was about to get much, much worse.
you didn't go back to your office.
couldn't go back to your office, where people would see you, where they'd know you'd been called to counsel, where the whispers would start and spread like wildfire through the west wing. where concerned colleagues would ask if you were okay and you'd have to lie through your teeth while maintaining professional composure. where your desk was covered with color-coded schedules that suddenly felt irrelevant compared to the fact that your entire career was under investigation.
instead, you found yourself walking without conscious destination, your feet carrying you through hallways you'd memorized over five weeks, past offices and conference rooms and the constant bustle of white house activity. staff members nodded as you passed, but nobody stopped you—you had clearance everywhere, had access to nearly every space except the most classified areas. one of the perks of being the president's secretary: doors opened. literally and figuratively.
though right now, that access felt less like a privilege and more like evidence.
you ended up in a small courtyard garden you'd discovered in week two, tucked away behind the west wing where hardly anyone came. there was a bench—wrought iron, probably historic, definitely uncomfortable—some well-maintained hedges, a small fountain that provided white noise to cover conversations. it was one of the few places in the white house that felt almost peaceful, almost normal, almost like somewhere you could just exist without performing competence.
you sank onto the bench, finally letting your professional mask slip, pressing your hands to your face as the weight of the past hour crashed over you like a wave you'd been holding back through sheer force of will.
an ethics investigation. six weeks of interrogation. your entire career under scrutiny. every decision questioned. every interaction analyzed. every moment alone with him documented and categorized as potential evidence of impropriety.
and for what? for one moment of weakness when you'd told him to wait a month instead of just saying no forever like you should have? for not quitting immediately when he'd proposed marriage in your office doorway? for being good at your job when your boss happened to be interested in you?
"you're hiding."
you jerked your hands away from your face, heart jumping into your throat. satoru stood at the entrance to the courtyard, hands in his pockets, his expression concerned in a way that made your chest tight. he'd shed his suit jacket somewhere between the oval office and here, had his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened. he looked like he'd been working, like he'd been busy, like he had a thousand more important things to do than track down his secretary in a hidden garden.
and yet here he was.
"how did you find me?" your voice came out rougher than intended, betraying more emotion than you wanted to show.
"i always know where you are." he said it simply, matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. like of course the president of the united states was tracking his secretary's movements. "i notice when you're not in your office. when you're not in the usual places—the break room, the copy room, that corner by the west wing entrance where you take calls when you need privacy. when something's wrong."
he moved closer, not quite sitting beside you but leaning against the fountain edge, giving you space but staying close enough to talk quietly. the afternoon light caught in his hair, made his eyes look even more impossibly blue. "adams called you in."
it wasn't a question.
"you knew about the investigation." your voice was flat, professionally neutral even as your emotions churned beneath the surface.
"of course i knew. i know everything that happens in my white house. it's my job to know." he ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture that had become familiar over five weeks. "i tried to stop it. told counsel it was unnecessary, that there was nothing to investigate. but adams insisted she needed to do her due diligence, and legally, i can't interfere with ethics investigations even when they're about me. even when they're targeting someone i—" he stopped, adjusted. "someone who works for me."
"she has documents. records. evidence of every time i've been alone with you." you looked up at him, and you knew your expression was probably showing too much—fear, anger, hurt, the exhaustion of maintaining professionalism through an hour of interrogation—but you couldn't maintain the mask anymore. not here. not with him. "staff reports about our interactions. photographs. a timeline. she made it sound like i've been doing something wrong. like being good at my job is somehow suspicious because you happen to be interested in me."
"this is my fault." he said it with a certainty that made you pause, made you look at him more closely. his jaw was clenched, his hands gripping the fountain edge hard enough that his knuckles were white. "i did this. the skywriting, the public proposals, all of it. i put a target on your back because i was too selfish to think about the consequences. too caught up in the gesture to consider what it would cost you."
"satoru—"
"no." he pushed off the fountain, started pacing the small courtyard like a caged animal, energy and frustration evident in every movement. "this is exactly what i didn't want. you being questioned, your integrity being challenged, your career being threatened because i couldn't just—" he made a sharp gesture. "—be normal about this. be subtle. be appropriate. use my words like a functional adult instead of skywriting marriage proposals."
he stopped pacing, turned to face you directly, and the vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. "i can fix this. i'll talk to adams, make it clear that you've done nothing wrong. i'll give a statement taking full responsibility for every interaction. i'll—"
"you'll make it worse." you stood, needing to be on your feet for this conversation, needing the height and the ability to pace yourself if necessary. sitting felt too vulnerable, too exposed. "if you interfere, it proves exactly what they think—that you're using your position inappropriately. that there's favoritism. that i have influence over you that i shouldn't have. that you'll bend rules for me. it confirms every suspicion adams has."
"but you do have influence over me." he said it without hesitation, without shame, with that trademark confidence that usually charmed everyone around him but right now just made this more complicated. "you have more influence than anyone in this building. more than my chief of staff, more than my advisors, more than congress. you make me want to be better. you make me think before i act—usually. sometimes. occasionally when i remember to."
despite everything, you almost smiled. almost.
"but that's not the kind of influence they're worried about," he continued, stepping closer, closing the distance between you with careful deliberation. "they're worried about sex. about impropriety. about scandal. about whether i'm making policy decisions based on personal feelings instead of national interest. and i can categorically state that there's been none of that—the inappropriate influence, not the feelings, i definitely have feelings—because you won't even let me take you on a proper date yet."
"this isn't funny."
"i'm not joking." he was close now, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, close enough that you could smell his cologne and see the worry etched into his expression. "this is serious. you're being investigated because of me. your career is at risk because of me. your reputation is being questioned because i was too impulsive and too public and too—" he stopped, took a breath. "and i need you to know—i will do whatever it takes to protect you. if that means backing off, i'll back off. if that means public statements, i'll make them. if that means ending this before it even starts—"
"stop." you held up a hand, cutting him off before he could finish that sentence, before he could offer to do something noble and self-sacrificing that you weren't sure you wanted him to do. "just stop. you can't fix this. this isn't something you can charm your way out of or delegate to someone else or solve with a grand gesture. this is real. this is my career. my reputation. my entire professional future being scrutinized and documented and analyzed."
you took a breath, forced yourself to say what needed to be said, what had been echoing in your mind since you'd left adams's office. "maybe we should just... stop this. tell them it was all a misunderstanding. that you were joking about the marriage thing, or i was never interested, or whatever narrative makes this investigation go away. i could transfer to a different department—plenty of places could use someone with my skillset. or resign. start over somewhere else where i'm not 'the president's secretary who he skywritten a proposal to.' where i can just be good at my job without it being evidence of something inappropriate."
the silence that followed was heavy, weighted with implications and unspoken things. the fountain burbled behind him. somewhere in the distance, you could hear voices, footsteps, the constant activity of the white house continuing regardless of your personal crisis.
"is that what you want?" his voice was carefully neutral, professionally composed, but his eyes weren't. his eyes were hurt and hopeful and afraid all at once, showing everything his voice was hiding.
"i want—" you paused. what did you want? your career intact? your reputation untarnished? the ability to do your job without being investigated? safety and security and the comfortable certainty of professionalism?
or him? the impossible, impulsive, brilliant man who planted roses and made grand gestures and looked at you like you were the most important thing in his very important world?
"i want this to not be so complicated," you confessed finally, honesty winning out over strategy for once. "i want to be able to figure out what i feel without congress and the media and ethics investigations getting involved. i want to not have to choose between my career and the possibility of something with you. i want to just—" you gestured helplessly. "—have time to think. to decide. without my entire professional life being on the line."
"then don't choose." he reached out, and this time you didn't pull away when his hands found yours, when his fingers laced through yours with practiced ease, warm and steady and grounding in a way that probably should have concerned you.
"let me handle the investigation. let me deal with congress. let me manage the media—i'm good at that, you've seen me. you just... be you. do your job. keep me organized and on schedule and prevent me from causing international incidents through poor impulse control. and in three weeks, on day thirty, i'm going to ask you to dinner. and you can say yes or no based on what you actually want, not on what's politically convenient or professionally appropriate."
"and if the investigation finds something?" you needed to ask. needed to know he'd thought this through beyond the immediate moment. "if they twist everything into something inappropriate? if they recommend termination or transfer or—or criminal charges for misuse of position?"
"then we deal with it." he squeezed your hands, his grip firm and certain. "together. because here's what i know: you're the best thing that's happened to this presidency. to me. you make me better at this impossible job. and i'm not going to let some ethics investigation destroy that because i was too impulsive with a grand gesture."
"it was a very impulsive grand gesture." your voice came out softer than intended, almost fond despite the circumstances.
"i know. it was stupid. it was reckless. it was completely over the top and inappropriate and probably the worst way i could have handled this entire situation." he smiled, small and almost sheepish in a way that was entirely too charming.
"but i don't regret it. because it got your attention. it made you consider the possibility of us. it made you agree to day thirty. and that's worth every investigation, every hearing, every scandal. you're worth it."
you wanted to argue. wanted to point out all the ways this could still go wrong, all the ways both your careers could be destroyed, all the logical, practical reasons why this was a terrible idea that would end badly for everyone involved.
but standing in this hidden courtyard with the fountain burbling behind you and afternoon light filtering through the trees, your hands in his, looking into eyes that saw you—really saw you, not just the competent secretary but the person underneath who was scared and hopeful and tired of being professional every single second—you couldn't make yourself say any of it.
"three weeks," you said instead.
"three weeks," he confirmed, his smile widening like you'd just given him a gift. "and i promise—no more grand gestures. no more public proposals. no more doing anything that makes your life harder or gives adams more ammunition. i'll be so appropriate and professional that ijichi's eye will stop twitching. i'll be a model of presidential decorum."
you raised an eyebrow, summoning your best skeptical expression—the one that usually made junior staffers reconsider their choices. "your track record on promises is questionable at best."
"fair point. very fair. but i'm trying. for you, i'll try." he lifted your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles—a gesture that was somehow more intimate than anything else he'd done, more personal than skywriting or roses or any of the grand gestures. "now go back to your office. look professional. let them see that you're unfazed by this investigation because you have nothing to hide."
"i have plenty to hide." you pulled your hands free, started gathering your composure, rebuilding the professional mask you'd let slip. "i have feelings for my boss. i'm considering dating the president. i think about you more than is professionally appropriate. i've been counting down to day thirty even though i told myself not to. that's all plenty to hide."
his expression transformed—surprise melting into hope melting into something that looked dangerously like love, his eyes going wide and his smile turning incandescent.
"but they don't need to know that," you continued quickly, your voice returning to its professional crispness, armor sliding back into place. "they need to see competence. professionalism. someone who does their job exceptionally well regardless of personal complications. someone who can manage a presidential schedule and handle crises and maintain boundaries. that's what i'll give them."
"you're incredible," he said, his voice barely audible, full of genuine awe.
"i'm strategic. there's a difference." you straightened your blazer, found your professional mask, slipped it back on like putting on familiar clothes. the competent secretary returning. the consummate professional. "now go. you have a meeting with the joint chiefs in twenty minutes and i need to find an attorney who specializes in white house ethics investigations. someone good. someone who knows how to navigate this kind of scrutiny."
"i can recommend—"
"i'll find my own representation, thank you. one that doesn't have any connection to you or your administration." you started walking toward the west wing entrance, your heels clicking on the stone path with familiar authority.
then you paused, looked back over your shoulder with a slight smile. "and satoru? next time you want to make a grand gesture? run it by me first. i'm excellent at crisis management. i could have told you skywriting was a terrible idea."
"would you have?"
"absolutely. without hesitation. i would have created a comprehensive presentation on why it was a bad idea, complete with charts about media impact and risk assessment. and then i would have suggested something equally romantic but significantly less career-ending. i have range."
his laugh followed you back into the building—warm and genuine and making your chest feel tight in a way you'd analyze later when you weren't in crisis-management mode.
you made it back to your office, nodded to the staffers who'd been hovering nearby, clearly wondering where you'd disappeared to. sat down at your desk with the same composed efficiency you brought to everything. stared at the schedule you'd been color-coding before the world had turned complicated.
your phone buzzed. a text from an unknown number: attorney recommendation: sarah chen. constitutional law specialist. handled ethics cases for three administrations. discreet. brilliant. tell her i sent you. -shoko
you smiled despite yourself. of course shoko was already three steps ahead.
another text, this one from satoru: three weeks. you can do this. you're the strongest person i know.
you didn't respond to either message. just pulled up your contacts, found the number for sarah chen, and started drafting an email that would hopefully keep your career intact long enough to make it to day thirty.
three weeks.
you could survive three weeks of investigation and scrutiny and maintaining professional boundaries while your boss counted down the days until he could officially romance you.
probably.
maybe.
if he kept his promise about no more grand gestures, which—given his track record—was optimistic at best.
but you were nothing if not strategic.
and if there was one thing you were good at, it was managing impossible situations with grace under pressure.
even when the impossible situation involved falling for the president while being investigated for doing exactly that.
you pulled up your schedule, reviewed tomorrow's meetings, and got back to work.
three weeks.
the countdown continued.
your phone buzzed. a text from an unknown number:
this is jennifer adams. i wanted to clarify something from our meeting. the investigation is standard procedure for any potential ethics concerns. it's not personal, and it's not a witch hunt. my job is to find the truth and document it. if there's nothing improper, the investigation will reflect that. you have my word.
you stared at the message for a long moment, then typed a response:
i'll cooperate fully. i have nothing to hide.
her response came quickly:
i believe you. let's prove it.
you set your phone down, picked up your color-coding highlighters, and went back to work.
three weeks until day thirty.
three weeks to survive an investigation.
three weeks to figure out if this impossible thing was worth risking everything for.
the answer, you were increasingly certain, was yes.
but first, you had to prove it.
the senate oversight committee hearing was scheduled for thursday at 10 am, and you'd been dreading it since the moment the summons had been issued three days ago.
not your summons—his.
president satoru gojo had been called to testify before the senate committee on homeland security and governmental affairs regarding "concerns about executive conduct and potential ethics violations." it was political theater at its finest, a chance for his opponents to grandstand and make speeches disguised as questions, to put him on the defensive about the skywriting incident and the ethics investigation and everything else they'd been waiting for an excuse to attack him about.
senator harrison was leading the charge, of course. the senior senator from texas, a man with steel-gray hair and a permanent scowl, who'd opposed every piece of legislation the president had proposed and who'd been calling for investigations since the inauguration. this was his moment, his chance to make the unconventional young president squirm in front of cameras and the american people.
you weren't supposed to be there. you weren't being called to testify. adams had been clear—the ethics investigation was separate from the congressional hearing, and your presence would only complicate things, would only add fuel to the fire of speculation and innuendo.
but you couldn't stay away.
so you'd taken a late lunch, had slipped into the senate gallery wearing sunglasses and a scarf like some kind of spy, had found a seat in the back where you could watch without being noticed. the gallery was packed—reporters, staffers, interested citizens, everyone wanting to witness the spectacle of a president being grilled by hostile senators.
the committee room was imposing—high ceilings, dark wood paneling, the senators seated on an elevated platform that made them literally look down on whoever was testifying. an american flag hung behind them. C-SPAN cameras captured every angle. the air felt heavy with the weight of political consequence.
and there, at the witness table, sat president gojo.
he looked presidential today—navy suit, white shirt, red tie, the uniform of serious occasions. his white hair was neatly styled instead of its usual attractive mess. his expression was composed, professional, every inch the leader of the free world. but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set, the slight tightness around his eyes that meant he was furious but controlling it.
you'd learned to read those signs over six weeks. six weeks of watching him in meetings and briefings and press conferences. six weeks of seeing past the cocky grin and the casual confidence to the man underneath who cared deeply, who worked constantly, who felt every criticism and attack even when he pretended he didn't.
senator harrison banged his gavel, and the room fell silent.
"this hearing will come to order." his voice was gravelly, authoritative, carrying easily through the large chamber. "we're here today to discuss serious concerns about executive conduct, specifically regarding president gojo's recent... display of personal interest in a white house staff member."
he shuffled papers in front of him, making a show of reviewing documents, letting the pause build tension. "mr. president, thank you for appearing before this committee, though i note you fought the subpoena initially."
"i didn't fight it," satoru asserted, his voice calm and clear through the microphone. "my counsel advised me that congressional oversight of personal matters sets a concerning precedent, but i'm here voluntarily to address any legitimate concerns the committee may have."
"how gracious." harrison's tone dripped with sarcasm. "let's start with the basics. on may 15th, you arranged for a private contractor to skywrite a marriage proposal over washington DC, visible from three states, directing said proposal to your executive secretary. is that correct?"
"yes."
"and this secretary—" harrison made a show of checking his notes, "—works directly for you, reports to you, serves at your pleasure, and can be terminated by you at any time?"
"technically, yes. practically speaking, i'd be lost without her, so termination isn't really on the table." a few chuckles from the gallery. harrison's scowl deepened.
"this isn't a joke, mr. president. we're discussing a serious abuse of power."
"i disagree that there's any abuse of power." satoru leaned forward slightly, his posture shifting from defensive to engaged. "i followed all proper procedures for the skywriting. i used personal funds, not government resources. i obtained all necessary clearances. and most importantly, my secretary has not accepted any proposal, we are not in a relationship, and she faces no adverse consequences for declining my interest."
"yet." senator morrison—the junior senator from california, a woman with sharp features and sharper political instincts—spoke up. "she faces no adverse consequences yet. but the power imbalance remains. she works for you. her career, her reputation, her future in politics—all of it depends on your goodwill. how can she freely choose when you hold all the power?"
you watched satoru's jaw clench, watched him take a breath before responding. "senator morrison, with all due respect, you're making assumptions about my secretary that i think she'd find insulting. she's not some helpless victim of presidential attention. she's one of the most competent, intelligent, independent people i've ever met. she's perfectly capable of telling me no—which she has, repeatedly—and suffering no professional consequences for it."
"you say that," harrison interjected, "but we have testimony from white house staff suggesting favoritism, preferential treatment, inappropriate familiarity—"
"you have testimony from staff who are uncomfortable that i don't follow traditional presidential protocols, which has nothing to do with my secretary and everything to do with my management style." satoru's voice had an edge now, the careful control slipping slightly. "i put my feet on furniture. i make jokes during serious meetings. i'm late to things. i'm informal with everyone, not just her. if that makes people uncomfortable, that's something i can address, but it's not evidence of an inappropriate relationship."
"what about the fourteen documented instances of you being alone with her in the oval office after hours?" morrison pulled out what looked like a printed report. "fourteen times in five weeks. that's nearly three times per week you've been alone with a young, attractive female subordinate in a private space. how is that appropriate?"
you felt your cheeks burn even from your hidden position in the gallery. the way she said "young, attractive" made it sound sordid, made it sound like something it wasn't.
"those meetings—" satoru's voice was tight now, anger barely contained, "—were all work-related. urgent briefings that couldn't wait until morning. schedule emergencies. crisis management. my secretary doesn't work nine to five, senator. none of us do. the white house operates twenty-four hours a day, and sometimes that means late-night meetings. if you'd like, i can provide detailed documentation of what was discussed during each of those meetings."
"i'm sure you can provide documentation." harrison's tone suggested he didn't believe any of it. "mr. president, let me be direct: do you understand why the american people might be concerned about a president using his position to pursue a romantic relationship with someone who works for him? someone who, by the nature of the power dynamic, cannot truly consent freely?"
the chamber went quiet. this was the heart of it, the accusation that really mattered: that he was abusing his power, that any relationship would be inherently coercive, that you—sitting in the gallery watching this circus—were being victimized even if you didn't know it.
satoru was very still. when he spoke, his voice was calm but there was steel underneath, a forcefulness you recognized from the moments when he was most serious. "senator harrison, i understand the concern. i do. power dynamics matter. consent matters. the ability to say no without consequences matters. which is exactly why i've been so careful about this."
he leaned forward, hands clasped on the table, eyes moving from senator to senator. "i didn't pursue anything immediately. i didn't make her job contingent on reciprocating my interest. i didn't create a hostile work environment when she said no. i've asked her out, yes. multiple times. in ways that were probably too public and too dramatic. but every single time, she's been free to say no. and she has said no. repeatedly. without any negative consequences."
"until she finally gives in because the pressure becomes too much—" morrison started.
"she won't give in." satoru cut her off, his voice firm. "if—when—she agrees to a date, it will be because she wants to, not because she feels pressured. and i've given her space to make that decision. i've asked her to wait, to take time, to be sure. i've offered to restructure her position to remove the direct reporting relationship. i've done everything i can think of to make sure any future relationship would be as ethical and appropriate as possible given the circumstances."
"and if we don't believe that's possible?" harrison challenged. "if we think any relationship between a president and his secretary is inherently inappropriate?"
"then i'd respectfully disagree, and i'd point out that workplace relationships happen, even in positions of power, and what matters is how they're handled. transparency. appropriate boundaries. clear policies about conflicts of interest. all of which i'm prepared to implement if the situation ever arises." he paused. "but frankly, senator, whether you believe it's possible or not doesn't change the fundamental facts: i'm allowed to have a personal life. i'm allowed to be interested in someone. and as long as i'm not abusing my power—which i'm not—then this is a personal matter, not a matter of congressional oversight."
"everything a president does is a matter of congressional oversight!" harrison's voice rose, his face reddening. "you don't get to separate your personal life from your public responsibilities!"
"actually, i do." satoru's voice was quieter now, but somehow more powerful. "i'm the president, yes. but i'm also a person. a person who happens to have met someone remarkable, someone who challenges me and improves me and makes me want to be better at this impossible job. and i refuse to apologize for that. i refuse to pretend i should live some kind of monastic existence where personal connections are forbidden because they might be politically inconvenient."
the chamber was completely silent now. you could hear the scratch of reporters' pens, the quiet whir of cameras, your own heartbeat loud in your ears.
"i've answered your questions," satoru continued. "i've been transparent about my intentions. i've outlined the steps i'm taking to ensure everything is handled ethically. if you want to investigate, investigate. if you want to pass new ethics rules, pass them. but understand—i'm not going to let this committee, or anyone else, dictate my personal life based on speculation and assumptions about what might happen in a hypothetical future relationship."
he stood, even though he hadn't been dismissed, and the gesture was subtly defiant. "if there are no further questions that actually relate to presidential conduct rather than personal choices, i have a country to run."
harrison's face was purple now. "mr. president, we haven't dismissed you—"
"then I'm dismissing myself. this hearing has ceased to be about legitimate oversight and become a fishing expedition into my private life. i've cooperated. i've answered your questions. i'm done being publicly interrogated about my feelings." he started to turn away, then paused, looking back. "oh, and senator harrison? the next time you want to question whether someone is capable of making their own choices free from my influence, maybe don't do it in a way that completely invalidates her agency and intelligence. she'd probably have some thoughts about that."
then he walked out, his security detail falling in behind him, leaving the committee room in chaos—senators shouting, reporters scrambling, cameras flashing.
and you sat in the gallery, hands pressed to your mouth, heart racing, wondering if you'd just watched him commit political suicide.
for you.
you didn't plan to go to the residence.
you should have gone back to your office, should have buried yourself in work, should have maintained the professional distance that everyone seemed so concerned about.
instead, you found yourself in the private elevator that led to the residence, your white house badge getting you through security, your determination getting you past the secret service agents who looked at you with knowing expressions but didn't stop you.
the residence was quieter than the west wing—carpeted hallways instead of hard floors, artwork on the walls, the feeling of a home rather than an office even though it was still part of the white house. you'd been here before, for official functions, for meetings that required privacy, but never like this. never showing up uninvited to find the president after he'd just walked out of a congressional hearing.
you found him in his private study—a room you'd only seen once before, dark wood and leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. he was standing at the window, still in his suit but with his tie pulled loose, his jacket discarded on a chair, his posture rigid as he stared out at the view of the south lawn.
"you shouldn't be here." his voice was flat, tired. he didn't turn around. "if anyone sees you coming here right after the hearing, it'll make everything worse."
"i don't care." you stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind you. "what you did today—"
"was stupid. impulsive. probably destroyed any chance of getting my healthcare bill through the senate." he finally turned, and the exhaustion on his face made your chest ache. the presidential mask was completely gone, leaving just satoru—tired, frustrated, worried. "i basically told congress to fuck off during a televised hearing. my advisors are probably having a collective aneurysm right now."
"you defended me." the words came out softer than intended. "you could have thrown me under the bus. could have claimed it was all a joke or a misunderstanding. could have let them make me the villain, the ambitious secretary seducing the president. but you didn't."
"of course i didn't." he moved away from the window, ran a hand through his carefully styled hair, completely destroying it. "they were talking about you like you're some kind of victim without agency. like you're incapable of making your own choices. like i'm some predator using my position to coerce you. it was insulting. to both of us."
"it was also politically stupid to walk out."
"probably." he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "add it to the list of politically stupid things i've done. skywriting proposals, interrupting meetings to flirt, telling a senate committee to essentially mind their own business. i'm on a roll."
you moved closer, stopping a few feet away, suddenly uncertain. this was different from the courtyard conversation, different from the stolen moments in hallways and offices. this was private, truly private, just the two of you in his personal space with the door closed and no one watching.
"do you regret it?" you asked. "any of it?"
he looked at you for a long moment, those blue eyes searching your face. then he shook his head slowly. "no. not even a little. i regret that you're being investigated because of me. i regret that you're being scrutinized and questioned and having your integrity challenged. but do i regret making it clear how i feel? do i regret defending you in front of congress and cameras? no."
"you're going to get crucified by the media tomorrow."
"let them crucify me. i've been crucified before. i'll survive." he stepped closer, and suddenly you could smell his cologne, could see the faint stubble on his jaw that suggested he'd been up too early to shave properly, could count the shadows under his eyes. "the question is—can you survive this? the investigation, the attention, the constant speculation about us? because it's only going to get worse before it gets better."
"i don't know," you admitted. honesty felt necessary in this moment, in this space. "i've spent six weeks trying to figure out what i want, what i feel, what's worth risking. and i still don't have good answers."
"that's fair." his hand came up slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving you time to pull away. you didn't. his fingers tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture achingly tender. "for what it's worth, i know what i want. i've known since day one. i'm just waiting for you to catch up."
"that's your problem," you cried, but your voice was shaky. "you always know what you want immediately. you decide things in seconds that take normal people months to figure out."
"is that what you need? more time?"
"i—" you paused. what did you need? more time? more certainty? some kind of guarantee that this wouldn't destroy everything you'd worked for?
"i need to know this is real," you breathed out finally. "not just attraction or novelty or the challenge of someone saying no. i need to know that in six months, in a year, you won't wake up and realize i was just a distraction from the pressure of the job. that i wasn't just the thing you wanted because you couldn't have it."
"look at me." he waited until you met his eyes. "this is the realest thing in my life. everything else—the presidency, the politics, the power—it's all performance. playing a role. being what people expect. but this—you—this is the only thing that feels genuine. you don't treat me like the president. you treat me like a person. a flawed, often frustrating person who needs someone to tell him when he's being an idiot."
his other hand came up to frame your face, both palms warm against your cheeks, thumbs stroking gently. "you want guarantees. you want certainty. but i can't give you that. i can't promise the investigation won't find some technicality. i can't promise congress won't make our lives hell. i can't promise the media won't tear us apart looking for scandal."
he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "but i can promise that i'm serious. that this isn't a game. that i'm not going anywhere. and that however long it takes for you to be sure, i'll wait."
your heart was hammering. your hands had come up without conscious thought, gripping his wrists, holding on because you needed something to anchor to. "two weeks."
"what?"
"two weeks until day thirty. two weeks until you can officially ask me on a date." your voice was shaking but your decision was firm. "if you still want to after all this—after the investigation and the hearing and whatever fresh hell the media creates in the next two weeks—then ask me. and i'll say yes."
his breath caught. his eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation. "you're sure?"
"no. I'm terrified. this could destroy both our careers. but i'm tired of pretending i don't feel this too. i'm tired of fighting it when all i want is—"
you didn't finish the sentence because he was kissing you.
it wasn't gentle. it wasn't tentative. it was six weeks of tension and want and restraint finally breaking, his mouth hungry on yours, his hands sliding from your face into your hair, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kissed him back with equal desperation.
he tasted like coffee and something sweet, like he'd stolen mints from someone's desk. his stubble scraped against your skin, rough and real. one of his hands splayed across your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped at the contact, at feeling every line of his body against yours.
"two weeks," he muttered against your lips, then kissed you again. "i can wait two weeks. i've waited this long."
"satoru—" you pulled back slightly, breathing hard. "we shouldn't—if someone sees—"
"i don't care." but he loosened his grip, let you have space even though his eyes were dark with want. "okay, i do care. you're right. two weeks until we can do this properly."
"properly meaning not in the white house where anyone could walk in?"
"properly meaning on an actual date where i take you somewhere nice and romance you like you deserve instead of mauling you in my study like a teenager." he grinned, and there was his cockiness again, his confidence. "though for the record, you kissed me back."
"you kissed me first."
"semantics." he pressed one more quick kiss to your lips, then stepped back, putting proper distance between you. "go. before i forget about propriety and two-week waiting periods and do something that really does get us both investigated."
you moved toward the door, your lips still tingling, your heart still racing. at the doorway, you looked back. he was watching you with an expression so tender it made your chest ache.
"satoru?"
"yeah?"
"thank you. for today. for defending me. for all of it."
"always," he said simply. "two weeks. and then you're mine."
"we'll see about that."
"i'm very good at waiting when properly motivated. and you—" his smile was devastating, "—are very motivating."
you left before you could do something stupid like run into his arms and kiss him again.
two weeks. fourteen days. you could survive fourteen days. probably.
you should have known something was wrong when satoru asked you to clear his schedule for a "surprise ceremony" in the rose garden.
it was monday morning, one week after the kiss in his study—a kiss you'd replayed approximately seven hundred times in the quiet moments when you should have been working. one week of carefully maintained professional distance in public while your heart raced every time he walked into a room. one week of stolen glances and almost-touches and the slowly building anticipation of day thirty, which was now exactly seven days away.
one week of relative calm.
which should've been your first warning.
"a ceremony?" you repeated, your fingers hovering over your keyboard where you'd been updating his calendar. you were in your office, morning coffee still steaming on your desk, the early sun casting long shadows through your window. "what kind of ceremony? i don't have anything scheduled in the rose garden."
"that's because it's a surprise." his voice came through your desk phone speaker, slightly tinny but unmistakably pleased with himself. you could practically hear the grin. "i need you to clear everything from 2 to 4 pm. move the budget meeting to tomorrow. push the call with the prime minister to wednesday. tell ijichi i'm unavailable."
"satoru—" you caught yourself, glanced at your open door, lowered your voice. "mr. president, i can't just clear four hours of your schedule without knowing why. the budget meeting has been planned for two weeks. six different department heads will be there. and the prime minister's office coordinated this call three weeks ago because of time zone—"
"i'm the president. i can reschedule things." he sounded entirely too cheerful for 8 am. "just trust me. this is important. official white house business. very presidential. extremely appropriate."
every alarm bell you'd developed over seven weeks started ringing. "what are you planning?"
"a ceremony. in the rose garden. very official. very ceremonial. with flowers and speeches and probably some reporters because the press office thinks everything should have reporters."
"satoru—"
"mr. president," he corrected, and you could hear the teasing edge in his voice. "we're on an official line. very professional. no first names during business hours. those are your rules."
"what. are. you. planning."
"you'll see! 2 pm. rose garden. clear my schedule. i have a meeting with the joint chiefs now, but i'll see you at the morning briefing. wear something nice. not that you don't always look nice, but you know, extra nice. maybe blue?" he hung up before you could respond.
you stared at your phone, dread and anticipation warring in your chest.
he was up to something. something that was definitely going to make your life complicated. again.
by 1:45 pm, you still had no idea what the ceremony was for.
you'd tried asking shoko, who'd just given you a look that suggested she was as in the dark as you were. you'd cornered ijichi, who'd actually flinched when you'd asked him, his eye starting its familiar twitch as he'd muttered something about "not being informed of presidential decisions until after they're made" and "needing a vacation."
the press office had sent out a vague advisory."president to make announcement regarding white house beautification initiative, 2 pm, rose garden." which told you exactly nothing.
and now you were standing at the edge of the rose garden—wearing blue, because apparently you were incapable of not doing what he suggested—watching as staff set up a podium, as reporters assembled with cameras, as chairs were arranged in neat rows facing what looked like a freshly manicured section of the garden that you were certain hadn't looked that perfect yesterday.
the roses were in full bloom, pink and white and red, their perfume heavy in the warm afternoon air. the fountain burbled in the background. the sun shone down from a cloudless sky. it was almost aggressively picturesque, like someone had staged a photo shoot.
which, you were beginning to suspect, was exactly what had happened.
"you look confused."
you turned to find nanami standing beside you, his usual austere expression somehow conveying both resignation and mild amusement. the national security advisor was not known for his sense of humor, which made his presence here—at what was supposedly a "beautification initiative" announcement—even more suspicious.
"i am confused," you admitted. "why are you here? this doesn't seem like a national security matter."
"it's not." he adjusted his glasses, a gesture you'd learned meant he was uncomfortable. "i'm here because the president specifically requested my presence. along with most of the senior staff. for what he described as 'an important symbolic gesture about growth and new beginnings.'"
your stomach dropped. "oh no."
"oh no indeed." nanami's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "i assume you had no advance knowledge of whatever he's about to do?"
"none. he just told me to clear his schedule and wear blue."
"you wore blue."
"i'm apparently very suggestible when it comes to presidential requests." you pressed your fingers to your temples, feeling a headache building. "this is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"
"almost certainly." nanami checked his watch. "two minutes until showtime. i suggest you prepare yourself for whatever comes next. and perhaps update your résumé."
before you could respond to that alarming suggestion, a door opened and president gojo emerged from the colonnade, flanked by secret service agents and looking absolutely delighted with himself.
he'd changed since the morning briefing—now wearing a navy suit that brought out his eyes, a crisp white shirt, no tie because he'd never met a tie he couldn't lose within three hours of putting it on. his white hair was styled perfectly, catching the afternoon sun. he looked like he was about to announce something momentous.
he looked like trouble.
his eyes found yours immediately across the garden, and the smile that spread across his face made your heart stutter and your stomach drop simultaneously.
"oh no," you whispered again.
"indeed," nanami agreed.
satoru took his place at the podium, gripping its edges, waiting for the crowd to settle. cameras focused. reporters readied their notepads. staff members found seats. you stayed standing at the back, ready to flee if necessary.
"good afternoon," he began, his voice carrying easily across the garden. "thank you all for being here on such short notice. i know many of you were expecting a routine announcement about garden maintenance or something equally mundane. and we will talk about gardens. but first, i want to talk about growth."
you felt your chest tighten.
"when i took office seven months ago," he continued, his tone shifting into something more genuine, more personal, "i inherited this incredible space. the rose garden. planted originally by ellen wilson in 1913, redesigned by bunny mellon for jackie kennedy in 1962. a place where presidents have announced supreme court nominees, signed legislation, held state dinners. a place steeped in history and tradition."
he paused, his eyes scanning the crowd but you knew—you knew—he was looking for you.
"but it's also a garden. and gardens, by their nature, grow. they change. they evolve. what was planted a century ago doesn't always thrive in new conditions. what worked for previous gardeners doesn't always work for new ones. and sometimes—" his voice dropped slightly, more intimate, "—you need to plant something new. something that represents growth and possibility and the future."
your hands were clenched at your sides. you could feel eyes starting to turn toward you, could sense people making connections, could feel the weight of realization settling over the assembled staff and press.
"so today," satoru gestured broadly to the garden around him, "i'm announcing a new addition to the white house rose garden. a section dedicated to flowers that represent new beginnings. fresh starts. the courage to try something different."
he nodded to someone off to the side, and several groundskeepers appeared, pulling back a decorative tarp you hadn't noticed before. underneath was a newly planted section of the garden, fresh soil dark and rich, and—
your breath caught.
blue roses. dozens of them. a whole section of blue roses—rare, difficult to cultivate, requiring special care. your favorite flower. the flower you'd mentioned exactly once, in passing, six weeks ago when he'd asked about your college thesis on environmental policy and you'd made some throwaway comment about how your research on rose cultivation for your botany minor had taught you that sometimes the most beautiful things required the most patience.
he'd remembered. of course he'd remembered.
"blue roses," he was saying, his voice warm and full of satisfaction, "represent the mysterious, the impossible, the things we're told can't happen. they're rare. they're difficult. they require dedication and patience and the willingness to try something unconventional."
he finally looked directly at you, and the expression on his face made your heart race—tender and hopeful and completely hopelessly in love for a presidential announcement. "they're also beautiful. worth the effort. worth the wait."
the cameras swiveled toward you. you could feel your face burning, could hear the whispers starting, could see shoko in the front row with her head in her hands.
"this new section of the rose garden," satoru continued, still holding your gaze, "represents this administration's commitment to growth. to taking chances. to believing that sometimes the most meaningful things are the ones everyone says are impossible."
he smiled, and it was his real smile—not the political one, not the cocky grin, but something genuine and vulnerable. "that's all. thank you for being here. i'll take a few questions."
the reporters erupted immediately.
"mr. president! is this about your secretary?"
"are the blue roses a message to someone specific?"
"does this represent—"
"i said a few questions," satoru interrupted cheerfully, pointing to a reporter from the post. "yes, sarah?"
"mr. president, blue roses are traditionally associated with the unattainable or impossible. are you suggesting—"
"i'm suggesting that sometimes things that seem impossible just require patience and the right conditions." he was still looking at you. "next question. tom?"
"the section you've dedicated—who will maintain it? will it be—"
"the white house groundskeeping staff, under my direct supervision. i plan to be very involved in making sure these particular flowers thrive." his grin was absolutely shameless now. "they're special. they deserve special attention."
you needed to leave. you needed to get out of here before the questions became more direct, before someone asked you to comment, before this turned into—
"one more question," satoru concluded, and pointed directly past you. "yes, margaret from CNN?"
"mr. president, your secretary is wearing blue today. same color as the roses you've just planted. is that a coincidence?"
the garden went silent. every eye turned to you. you wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.
satoru's expression was pure innocence. "i couldn't possibly comment on my secretary's fashion choices. though i will say—" his eyes met yours across the garden, "—she has excellent taste. in everything."
that was it. you turned and walked away, ignoring the shouts of reporters, the flash of cameras, the chaos erupting behind you. you walked through the colonnade, through the west wing, straight to your office where you closed the door, locked it, and stood with your back against it, breathing hard.
he'd planted blue roses. in the white house rose garden. with cameras present. after you'd specifically told him no more grand gestures.
your phone buzzed. a text from him:
too much?
you stared at the message, torn between fury and something dangerously close to fondness.
we agreed no more grand gestures.
this wasn't a grand gesture. this was presidential gardening. very official. very appropriate. (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )
you planted my favorite flowers in the rose garden??
i planted flowers that represent growth and new beginnings. the fact that they're your favorite is just a happy coincidence.
there are no coincidences with you.
fair point. but in my defense, i didn't propose. i didn't skywrite. i didn't do anything except plant some flowers and make a speech about growth. very presidential. very suitable.
the reporters know it was for me.
the reporters speculate about everything. let them speculate. seven more days.
you stared at that message, at those three words that felt like both a promise and a threat.
seven more days until day thirty.
seven more days of managing his chaos and trying to maintain professionalism while blue roses bloomed in the rose garden as a very public declaration that everyone could see and everyone would talk about.
you're impossible, you typed.
you love it.
the worst part was—he was right.
you did.
the knock on your door came twenty minutes later. you'd composed yourself by then, had fixed your makeup, had reviewed seventeen different documents to avoid thinking about blue roses and presidential speeches and the way he'd looked at you across the garden like you were the only person in the world worth looking at.
"come in," you called, expecting ijichi with his twitching eye, or shoko with another cigarette and more crisis management, or possibly a reporter who'd somehow breached security to ask about the symbolism of blue roses.
it was him.
he slipped inside quickly, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed very loud in your quiet office. he'd shed his suit jacket somewhere between the rose garden and here, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and his hair was mussed like he'd been running his hands through it in that way that meant he was either stressed or pleased with himself.
given the cocky smile tugging at his lips—that fox-like grin that suggested he'd just pulled off something brilliant and knew it—you'd bet on the latter.
"you're angry," he observed, leaning against your door with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he knew exactly how attractive he looked doing it and was weaponizing it deliberately.
"i'm—" you paused, set down your pen with deliberate precision, buying yourself time. what were you? angry? touched? furious? charmed despite yourself? all of the above in a confusing cocktail that made rational thought difficult? "—processing. there's a difference."
"processing." he pushed off the door, moved into your office with that easy grace that made expensive suits look effortless. "that's code for angry but trying to be professional about it."
"you said no more grand gestures." you kept your voice level, your expression neutral. you would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to you. you were a professional. you'd survived three years in the senate and two months with him. you could handle this with dignity.
"i said no more grand gestures that made your life harder." he had the audacity to grin wider—that slow, deliberate smile that probably charmed his way through every negotiation, every debate, every situation where he should have been in trouble but somehow wasn't. "this was a garden renovation. very routine. happens all the time. presidents are always updating the grounds. i'm just being environmentally conscious. adding biodiversity. very presidential. actually, i think it might help my approval ratings with the gardening demographic."
"presidents don't usually dedicate garden sections to flowers that clearly reference specific people!" your composure cracked slightly, your voice rising just enough to betray your frustration. "you planted blue roses in the white house rose garden—the actual white house rose garden that's been photographed approximately eight million times—with cameras present and gave a speech about the impossible becoming possible. that's not garden maintenance. that's not biodiversity. that's a declaration. that's you standing in front of the entire press corps and essentially pointing at me with a neon sign."
"can i help it if i have symbolic taste in landscaping?" he moved closer, stopping a few feet away. smart man—he was learning when to give you space, when pushing too far would actually make you snap. "i'm a romantic. i like metaphors. i like beautiful things. sue me."
"don't tempt me. i know excellent lawyers." but you were fighting a smile, couldn't help it when he was looking at you like that—part cocky confidence, part genuine affection, all infuriating. "the media is going to have a field day. again. because of you. again. i'm going to have to manage the fallout. again. do you see a pattern here?"
"the media always has a field day. that's their job—finding things to make into stories. my job is being president and occasionally planting flowers for beautiful, brilliant women who refuse to date me until arbitrary calendar dates that they picked, by the way. i wanted day fifteen. you said thirty. wo really, this is your fault." he tilted his head, studying you with those too-blue eyes that saw way too much. "you're not actually mad."
"i am actually mad."
"you're smiling."
"i'm not—" you realized he was right and quickly schooled your expression back to neutral, pulling out every ounce of the composure that had gotten you through hostile senators and budget hearings. damn him. "you can't just do whatever you want and then charm your way out of consequences."
"i absolutely can. i'm the president. it's literally one of the perks. they put it in the orientation materials. 'presidential privilege includes: executive orders, security clearance, and charming your way out of situations.'" he grinned wider, clearly enjoying this, enjoying you trying to maintain professionalism while he systematically dismantled every defense. "also, you're still smiling. you're trying to hide it behind that very impressive stern face you do, but i can see it. the corners of your mouth are twitching. you like the roses."
"that's irrelevant." you tried to dismiss it with a wave of your hand, tried to redirect the conversation back to safer territory where you had control and he wasn't looking at you like he could see straight through every carefully constructed defense you'd ever built.
"it's completely relevant. it's the whole point." he moved closer, close enough now that you could smell his cologne—that expensive, crisp scent that you'd come to associate with him making decisions that complicated your life in increasingly elaborate ways. "i'm sorry. i should have warned you. but i knew if i told you, you'd tell me not to do it. you'd give me very logical reasons why it was a bad idea. you'd probably create a powerpoint presentation with charts about media impact and investigation complications. and i really wanted to do it."
"so you did it anyway." you crossed your arms, creating a physical barrier even though it was probably useless at this point given that he'd already breached every other barrier you'd tried to construct. "because you're constitutionally incapable of listening to advice."
"i listen to advice. i just don't always follow it. there's a difference." his expression shifted, less cocky, more genuine—the real him beneath the presidential polish. "why do you think i wanted to do it?"
"to torture me. to make my job harder. to give the ethics investigation more ammunition." you ticked off reasons on your fingers with the precision of someone who'd thought about this extensively. "to prove you can't be controlled. to demonstrate that you're above consequences. to—"
"because in seven days, i'm going to ask you on a date." he cut through your list with quiet intensity, his voice dropping to something more serious, more real. "and when i do, when you say yes—" he paused, caught your look, adjusted with that slight smile, "—if you say yes, though we both know you're going to because you love me even if you won't admit it yet, i want there to be something that marks it. something permanent."
he took another step closer, and you let him, which was probably a mistake but you couldn't quite bring yourself to move away.
"something that's not in the news cycle or twitter or gossip columns. something real. those roses will still be there in a year. in five years. in ten. long after the investigation is over and the media has moved on to whatever scandal comes next. they'll bloom every spring as a reminder that we took a chance on something everyone said was impossible."
your throat felt tight. he was too good at this—too good at saying exactly the right thing to make you forget all the logical, practical reasons why this was a terrible idea. too good at making grand gestures seem like reasonable decisions. too good at looking at you like you were worth all the chaos.
"you're very good at romantic speeches," you managed, your voice not quite as steady as you wanted, betraying more than you intended to reveal.
"i'm the president. i'm good at all speeches." that cocky grin was back, sharp and knowing and entirely too pleased with itself. "it's why people elected me. well, that and my hair. people really love the hair. it polls very well. top three presidential attribute, right after 'appears competent' and 'doesn't actively cause disasters.'"
"how modest of you"
"i'm secure in my abilities. it's very attractive, or so i'm told. frequently. by you, specifically, with your eyes even when your mouth is saying no." he was close enough now that you could see the lighter flecks of blue in his irises, could count the faint freckles on his nose that the cameras never caught, could see the exact moment his expression shifted from teasing to something more vulnerable. "too much?"
"what?"
"the roses. the speech. the whole thing. was it too much?" for just a moment the cockiness faltered, revealing something more uncertain underneath, something that actually cared what you thought. "i know you said no grand gestures. i know this probably made your job harder. but i— tell me honestly. too much?"
you thought about it. really thought about it, weighing the complications against the gesture itself.
you thought about the cameras and the media storm that was probably already brewing. about Ijichi's eye twitching into permanent damage. about having to answer more questions from adams about whether the roses were evidence of inappropriate favoritism. about the investigation getting more ammunition, more evidence of the president showing preferential treatment to his secretary.
and then you thought about the fact that he'd remembered a throwaway comment from six weeks ago—one sentence about liking blue roses, mentioned in passing during a scheduling meeting.
that he'd sourced rare blue roses and coordinated a planting and prepared a speech, all because he wanted something permanent to mark this moment.
that he'd done something wildly inappropriate and politically stupid because he was thinking about years from now, about springs to come, about building something that lasted beyond news cycles and scandals and congressional investigations.
"it was too much," you said finally, watching his face carefully, seeing the way hope and disappointment warred in his expression. "it was excessive and dramatic and absolutely the kind of grand gesture i specifically asked you not to make. it complicated my job exponentially. It gave the investigation more material. it's going to dominate the news cycle for at least three days."
his expression started to fall, the cockiness draining away.
"but—" you continued, and watched hope flicker back like a light turning on, "—it was also thoughtful. and beautiful. and probably the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me, even if it was wildly inappropriate and politically stupid and is definitely going to require extensive damage control and at least two crisis management meetings."
"so you're not mad?" he perked up like a kid who'd just gotten away with something, that irrepressible optimism returning full force.
"i'm furious. the media is going to eviscerate us. ijichi is going to have a breakdown. adams is going to add this to her ever-growing list of 'inappropriate conduct' evidence. i'm going to have to draft approximately forty-seven statements about garden renovation policies."
you held up a hand before he could interrupt, before he could turn that smile into a victory lap. "but i also really like blue roses. and i appreciate that you remembered. and i— " you stopped, took a breath, decided to give him this much honesty. "it was sweet. in a completely inappropriate, boundary-violating, career-complicating way. but sweet."
his smile was incandescent, lighting up his entire face. "i knew it."
"don't be smug."
"too late. i'm already smug. i've been smug since the first rose went into the ground." he reached out, slow enough to give you time to pull away, and took your hand in his. his fingers laced through yours with practiced ease, like he'd done it a thousand times before instead of never in any official capacity. "seven days."
"seven days," you repeated, looking down at your joined hands. His hand was warm, solid, real—grounding in a way that probably should have concerned you but instead just felt right. "and you're going to be appropriate for those seven days. professional. no more surprises. no more grand gestures. no more metaphorical declarations via landscaping."
"can i though?" he was grinning, that smile that made him look younger and entirely too pleased with himself. "history suggests no. my track record on being appropriate is pretty abysmal. actually, it's terrible. you've documented it. colour-coded it, probably."
"i have a whole spreadsheet dedicated to your inappropriate behavior. it's quite extensive. it has tabs. multiple tabs. one is just titled 'feet on furniture.'"
"i'm flattered you're paying such close attention." his free hand came up to trace your jaw with feather-light touch, thumb brushing across your cheekbone in a gesture that was far too intimate for your office but you couldn't quite bring yourself to stop. "seven days. i can be appropriate for seven days. mostly. probably not. but i'll try very hard and look very apologetic when i inevitably fail, and you'll forgive me because that's what you do. you manage my chaos. It's your superpower."
"that's not reassuring. also, managing your chaos is not a superpower—it's a full-time job that should come with hazard pay." you tried to give him your flattest look, the one that usually made junior staffers confess immediately and senators reconsider their positions, but it bounced off him completely because he'd somehow become immune to your professional disapproval.
"i'm being honest. transparency in leadership. it's very modern. very refreshing." he leaned down, brushed a strand of hair away from your face with gentle fingers, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead—chaste, sweet, but somehow more intimate than anything else he'd done. "thank you. for not actually killing me. for understanding why i did it. for wearing blue today even though you're going to claim it was coincidence."
"it was coincidence." the lie came out too quickly, too defensively, and you knew the second the words left your mouth that he'd caught it—saw it in the way his eyes lit up with triumph, the way his smile widened just slightly.
"it was fate. the universe wanted you to match my roses." his lips were still against your forehead, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that made your stomach flip and your professional composure crumble. "you wore blue because you wanted to see if I'd notice. and i did. i always notice everything about you. what you wear, how you do your hair, when you're annoyed with me—which is frequently—when you're trying not to smile, when you're thinking about kissing me even though you're pretending you're not."
"that's very creepy." you tried to pull back slightly, to create some distance between you and his presence and the way he was looking at you, but your traitorous body stayed exactly where it was—close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough that you could see the exact moment his eyes darkened with satisfaction because he knew. he absolutely knew that you weren't actually disagreeing with him.
"that's very observant. i'm literally trained to read people. body language, micro-expressions, subtle cues. it's in the job description." he was fully grinning now, enjoying this far too much. "also, you get this look in your eyes right before you're about to tell me i'm being an idiot, and it's my favorite look because it means you care enough to bother correcting me. it's the same look you're giving me right now, actually."
"your ego is unmanageable." you tried to sound stern, tried to inject some professional disapproval into your tone, but it came out softer than intended—almost fond, which was absolutely not the impression you wanted to give him when he was already this pleased with himself.
"my confidence is well-earned. i won the presidency at thirty-four. i can read complex legislation while eating breakfast and texting my mother. i planted blue roses in the white house rose garden and you're trying not to smile about it right now." his thumb traced patterns on your palm, distracting and deliberate. "i'm very accomplished."
"you're very impossible." you tried to pull your hand away but he held on, and you didn't try very hard because—damn it—you didn't actually want him to let go.
"i'm very persistent. there's a difference." he pressed one more quick kiss to your forehead, then—with what looked like genuine reluctance—stepped back, putting proper professional distance between you even though you could see it cost him. "i should go before someone notices i'm in here. professional boundaries and all that. very important. i respect boundaries. mostly. sometimes. when i remember they exist and aren't inconvenient."
"satoru." you tried for stern but couldn't quite manage it when he was grinning at you like that, like he'd just won something important.
he paused at the door, hand on the handle, looking back at you with an expression that was equal parts cocky and genuine. "yeah?"
"the roses really are beautiful." you said it quietly, honestly, giving him that much truth even though it felt like handing over ammunition.
the smile that spread across his face was worth every complication, every scandal, every moment of chaos he'd brought into your carefully organized life.
"seven days," he said, his voice warm with promise and that cocky confidence that suggested he'd already won and was just waiting for you to catch up. "and then i'm taking you somewhere nice and romancing you properly. no cameras, no reporters, no congressional oversight. just you, me, and probably some blue roses because i'm nothing if not consistent with my theming. i'm thinking of making it my signature thing. very presidential. very on-brand."
"no more grand gestures!"
"these weren't grand, they were medium-sized at best. tasteful, even. proportional to my feelings, which are—" he paused dramatically, "—extensive." he ticked off increasingly ridiculous options on his fingers. "grand would have been naming the entire garden after you. or commissioning a statue—life-sized, very flattering angles. or changing the presidential seal to include blue roses. or skywriting again but this time spelling out a sonnet. i showed remarkable restraint. you should be proud of me. i should probably get an award for restraint."
"you showed no restraint. you showed the opposite of restraint. you showed negative restraint."
"i showed strategic romanticism. very presidential. very measured. if anything, i under-gestured." he winked—actually winked, like he was in a romantic comedy instead of creating actual political scandals that real people had to manage. "seven days. try not to miss me too much. i know it'll be hard, but you're strong. you'll manage. you're very capable. it's one of the things i love about you."
you picked up the nearest object—a pen—and threw it at him. he dodged with a laugh, slipping out the door before you could find something heavier to throw, before you could formulate a response to him casually dropping the word "love" like it wasn't a monumental declaration.
the door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in your office with the lingering scent of his cologne and the memory of his hand in yours and the knowledge that in seven days, everything was going to change.
you sank into your desk chair, pulled up your calendar, and stared at the date circled in bright red: day 30.
seven more days.
you could survive seven more days. probably. maybe. If he didn't do anything else wildly inappropriate, which—given his track record—was unlikely at best.
the roses would be beautiful in the spring, you thought, and then immediately told yourself to stop being sentimental about presidential gardening decisions.
but you smiled anyway.
and you were still smiling when shoko knocked on your door twenty minutes later to inform you that the rose garden story was already trending on twitter with approximately eight different conspiracy theories about who the blue roses were for.
"they're just roses," you told her, trying for professional dismissiveness.
"yh-huh." shoko lit a cigarette, studying you with knowing eyes. "and i'm just the press secretary. we're all just doing our jobs here. very normal. nothing significant about specially sourced blue roses planted exactly twenty-three days before day thirty."
"you're counting?"
"everyone's counting. the entire west wing has a betting pool on when you two finally— " she made a vague gesture. "get your act together."
"there's no act. there's nothing to get together."
"sure. and those roses are a coincidence. and you wore blue today by accident. and the president definitely didn't spend twenty minutes on the phone with a specialty nursery in oregon last month asking about the symbolism of different rose colors." shoko blew out a stream of smoke. "seven more days. think you can make it?"
you threw a pen at her too. she dodged, laughing, and left you alone with your calendar and your spreadsheet of presidential inappropriateness and the warm feeling in your chest that you absolutely were not going to acknowledge.
seven more days.
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