forty-one
. . .
Jess
“Allegations of Sexual Harassment Against Gubernatorial Candidate Logan Carmichael.”
The headline stares back at me from my laptop screen, stark black letters against a white background. Simple. Factual. Life-altering.
Even though I arrived back in LA last night at a decent hour, I couldn’t sleep.
I’ve been awake since four in the morning, making final edits and signing off on the legal review before the story went live at six a.m. sharp.
Now, three hours later, I’m watching as it ripples through the political and entertainment ecosystems like a stone dropped in still water.
My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing: colleagues congratulating me on the story, competing outlets requesting interviews, and political commentators seeking additional details. I’ve responded to none of them, letting my assistant field the inquiries with practiced efficiency.
This is what journalists dream of: publishing something that matters, that disrupts, that pulls truth into the light.
But the victory feels different from what I expected.
There’s professional satisfaction, yes, but also a new sensation that I’m still trying to identify.
For the first time in my career, I wish I had someone beside me to share this with, someone who understands both the weight of the truth and the toll it takes to bring it forward.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” Kira observes as she sets a fresh cup of coffee on my desk.
“Thank you for noticing,” I say dryly, reaching for the cup. “Hazard of breaking major political stories.”
“Worth it, though. The response has been huge.” She hands me a printout of headlines from various news sites, all picking up the story with appropriate attribution. “Even the Times is crediting us with the exclusive.”
I scan the headlines, feeling a complex blend of emotions. The story is solid. It’s meticulously researched, thoroughly vetted, and powerful in its restrained presentation of facts. It’s exactly the kind of journalism I’ve built my career on.
“Senator Carmichael’s office released a statement,” Kira continues, pulling up the response on her tablet. “The usual denials, calling the allegations politically motivated, questioning the timing of the story.”
“Predictable,” I murmur, skimming the carefully crafted non-denial denials. Logan Carmichael’s communication team is good. They’ve created just enough ambiguity to give his supporters room to doubt, while avoiding specific refutations that could be disproven later.
My mind drifts to Lucas: last night at the campaign launch, the way he looked at me, the way he held my hand during the family photos, the unexpected warmth in his voice when he asked me to stay for dinner tonight.
I wonder what he’s thinking now that the story is actually out.
Is he still standing by what he said about understanding why I had to publish it?
“His campaign manager is requesting an interview to respond,” Kira adds. “Should I schedule it?”
“Absolutely. We always offer equal time for response.” I pause, considering. “But make sure it’s with someone else on the team, not me. I need distance from the follow-up coverage.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question the decision. “Brady’s already prepping in case you said that.”
My phone vibrates with a text from Dylan reminding me of our final documentary shoot today at Lucas’s apartment.
In just a few hours, Lucas and I will be face to face again, talking about our relationship on camera.
Then, after the crew leaves, we’ll have dinner together and finally talk about what’s real between us.
Lucas’s apartment looks exactly as I remember it: sleek, comfortable, subtly masculine but with touches of me scattered throughout. The scent of coffee lingers in the air as I step inside, greeted by the documentary crew already setting up in the kitchen.
“Perfect timing,” Dylan says, clipboard in hand. “Lucas is just getting ready. We thought we’d start with some casual domestic footage before the sit-down interview.”
I nod, setting my bag down on the counter. It feels strange being back here after weeks away, yet also familiar, like my body remembers this space even if my mind is still catching up.
Lucas appears from the bedroom, and my heart does an involuntary flip. He’s wearing jeans and a simple button-down, and his hair is slightly damp from the shower. When our eyes meet, his expression softens into something that makes my pulse quicken.
“Hey,” he says simply.
“Hey, yourself,” I reply, suddenly aware of the cameras capturing our reunion.
Dylan claps his hands together. “Let’s get started. Just act natural. Maybe make a snack. Interact like you would on any normal afternoon.”
Normal. As if anything about this situation is normal.
But somehow, as we move around the kitchen together, it does feel natural.
I reach for a bowl of strawberries while Lucas grabs the can of whipped cream.
He hands me the cinnamon without my asking.
I nudge the bowl closer to him so he doesn’t have to reach.
Our bodies remember this dance even if our minds haven’t caught up yet.
Lucas glances at me and smiles, something warm and genuine that makes me momentarily forget that the cameras are even there.
After we finish the kitchen scene, we move to the living room for the interview portion. I settle into one side of the couch and pull a pillow into my lap, more for comfort than anything else. Lucas sits at the opposite end with his body angled toward me, relaxed but attentive.
Dylan lowers his clipboard. “Ok, ready for the final interview? First, I want to address the elephant in the room. Jess, you broke a major story this morning about Lucas’s father. Can you talk about how that’s affected your relationship?”
I shift the pillow in my lap, fidgeting with the corner seam.
“Publishing that story was one of the hardest professional decisions I’ve ever made,” I say carefully. “Not because I had any doubts about its accuracy or importance, but because I knew it would impact someone I care about deeply.”
I glance at Lucas and find unexpected steadiness in his gaze.
“In journalism, we’re taught to separate ourselves from our subjects and to maintain objectivity at all costs. But real life isn’t that clean. Sometimes, the truth affects people you love, and you have to find a way to honor both your professional integrity and your personal relationships.”
Lucas nods slightly, encouraging me to continue.
“What made it possible was knowing that Lucas respects what I do. He understands that truth matters, even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it hurts.” I pause, and my voice softens. “That kind of respect and understanding, well, it means everything.”
Dylan turns to Lucas. “And from your perspective?”
Lucas takes a breath. “I won’t pretend that it was easy to see my family’s name in those headlines this morning. But the story Jess published was fair, factual, and necessary. The women who came forward deserved to be heard, and the public deserved to know.”
He shifts slightly, and his gaze intensifies. “I’ve worked in PR long enough to know how rare truly principled journalism is. Jess doesn’t cut corners. She doesn’t sensationalize. She seeks truth, not headlines, and I’ve come to admire that about her more than I can say.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten. This isn’t performance. This is real.
“Let’s pivot a bit,” Dylan says. “What’s one thing you’ve learned about yourself through this relationship? Jess?”
I let out a soft breath as I gather my thoughts. “I’ve always been proud of being independent. I built a career on asking the hard questions, trusting my instincts, and never needing anyone to validate what I already knew. I thought that was strength, and in a lot of ways, it was.”
I look over at Lucas, and something warm unfurls in my chest.
“But somewhere along the way, I started confusing independence with isolation. I forgot that being strong doesn’t mean going it alone.
Lucas reminded me what it feels like to have someone in your corner.
Not because you need them to fix anything, but because they want to stand beside you. No conditions. No agenda.”
I pause, just for a second, before adding, “He sees the parts of me I don’t always show the world. And instead of flinching, he leans in.”
I don’t look at Dylan. I look at Lucas when I say it, wanting him to know that I mean every word.
“Lucas?” Dylan prompts.
Lucas clears his throat. “I think I used to believe that being composed all the time was the same thing as being in control, that if I could anticipate every outcome and manage every message, I’d never really have to feel the fallout of anything real.”
He glances at me, and his expression is open in a way that makes my heart race.
“I’ve spent most of my life curating versions of myself.
The dutiful son. The steady professional.
The guy who says the right thing, even when he’s thinking something else entirely.
But Jess, she doesn’t let you get away with that.
She sees through spin like it’s glass. Being with her made me realize how much of my life I’d spent editing myself in real time. ”
He looks back at Dylan and then at me again, his eyes never wavering.
“So, I guess what I learned is, I don’t want to be the version of me that just survives the day. I want to be someone who actually lives in it. And that means showing up. Even when it’s messy. Even when I get it wrong. Especially then.”
“Last question,” Dylan says, his voice gentler now. “What does this relationship mean to you?”
I look down, suddenly overwhelmed by the depth of what I’m feeling. When I look back up, Lucas is watching me with such tenderness that it takes my breath away.
“This relationship has shown me that love doesn’t have to mean compromise,” I say finally. “It can mean expansion. Growth. Finding someone who challenges you to be more authentically yourself, not less.”
I swallow against the emotion rising in my throat. “What we have is not perfect, but it is real. And that’s what I’ve come to value more than anything. That’s love, I think: seeing someone clearly and choosing them anyway.”
Lucas’s eyes shine with emotion. “She showed me what it means to stand for something,” he says quietly, “and she reminded me that some things, some people, are worth standing beside. Worth fighting for. Worth loving, even when it’s hard.”
The word “loving” hangs in the air between us, charged with meaning.
“Cut,” Dylan says softly.
The crew starts moving instantly, wrapping cables and powering down gear. Dylan smiles at us, clearly satisfied.
“That was incredible,” he says. “The way you two interact, it’s layered, grounded. Complicated but still full of respect. That’s what people connect to. Not perfection—truth.”
I can’t tell if he knows just how right he is.
Dylan packs up his notebook and gives us a thoughtful nod. “I’ll let you two have some privacy. We’ve got all we need. I’ll be in touch, but thanks again. This has been an incredible experience.”
As the door closes behind the crew, silence settles over the apartment. Lucas and I sit facing each other, with the weight of everything we’ve just said hovering between us.
The real conversation is about to begin.