12.
Grant's mouth is on mine before I can even think about what I'm doing.
The kiss is deep, slow, nothing like the quick, startled one in the parking lot. His hand slides up the side of my neck, warm, steady, like he's done this a hundred times before. Like this is normal. Like we're allowed to be here.
I let out a small breath against his lips.
He feels it.
His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me closer. My back hits something soft—the edge of his couch, I think—but I don't care enough to look. My hands have already found his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over warm skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
"Are you sure?" he murmurs.
The question is soft. Careful. Like he actually means it.
No one's asked me that in a long time.
I nod.
That's all it takes.
His mouth is back on mine, slower this time. More deliberate. His hand slips under the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of my waist. I gasp softly, my body reacting before my brain can catch up.
"Grant," I whisper, though I'm not even sure why.
He answers by kissing down my jaw, then the side of my neck. My head tilts back on instinct, giving him more room.
My hands slide under his shirt now, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tension in his muscles. He sucks in a breath when my nails graze his back.
"Naomi," he says, low and warning.
But he doesn't stop.
He just pulls me closer.
My cardigan is halfway off my shoulders, his hands moving, slow but certain, like he's memorizing every inch of me. The air between us feels thick, charged, like one more second and there won't be any space left at all.
I tug at the waistband of his sweatpants without thinking.
He lets out a sharp breath. "Careful."
But he doesn't move my hand.
Instead, he kisses me again—harder this time. Hungrier. Like he's finally giving in to something he's been holding back for too long.
And I'm right there with him.
For once, I don't feel watched.
I don't feel judged.
I don't feel like I'm playing a part.
I just feel wanted.
His hand slides up my back, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel the heat of his body through the thin layers of fabric between us. My heart is racing, but not from fear.
From him.
From this.
From the way his name sounds in my mouth when I whisper it again—
"Grant—"
"Ma'am?"
The voice doesn't belong in the moment.
Everything stops.
The warmth. The weight of him. The couch. The room. His hands.
Gone.
My eyes snap open.
A mover is standing in the doorway of the bedroom, holding a box.
"Where would you like this one?" he asks politely.
I blink, disoriented, my heart still racing like I just ran up a flight of stairs.
I'm fully dressed.
Still sitting on the edge of the bed.
Alone.
No Grant.
No couch.
No hands on my skin.
Just the half-unpacked room at the White House and a stranger waiting for instructions.
"Oh," I say, clearing my throat. "Um... just over there by the closet is fine."
He nods and carries the box across the room.
I stare down at my lap, cheeks burning.
God.
I press my palms to my eyes.
I really need to get a grip.
The mover leaves, shutting the door softly behind him.
I'm still sitting on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, cheeks hot like I actually did something wrong.
It was just a dream.
A very detailed, very inappropriate dream.
I groan and fall back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.
"Pull it together," I mutter to myself.
Boxes line the walls. Garment bags hang from the closet doors. The room doesn't feel like mine yet.
My phone buzzes beside me.
For a second, my heart jumps.
Grant?
I flip it over.
Just a news notification.
I exhale, annoyed at myself for even hoping.
I sit up again, debating.
Reese or Bianca?
My thumb hovers over Reese's name. She'd know exactly what to say. She always does. But something in my chest tightens at the thought of telling her.
Reese lives in this world. She breathes it. Everything is strategy, optics, damage control.
And whatever this is with Grant... it doesn't feel like something she'd understand or approve of.
I exit her contact and tap Bianca instead.
She answers on the second ring. "Hello? First Lady of the United States, to what do I owe this honor?"
I smile despite myself. "Don't start."
"Too late. It's already started. What's up?"
I hesitate for half a second, then blurt, "I cannot get him out of my head."
Bianca goes quiet. "Have you seen him since that night?"
"No," I admit. "I just... have an appointment later today."
"With the therapist you kissed," she says, helpfully.
"Yes. That one."
She hums. "And you're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling," I say, even though I'm literally pacing the room now. "I just keep replaying it. Over and over. It was like two seconds long and somehow it's still all I can think about."
"That's because it meant something to you," Bianca says simply.
I flop down onto the bed again. "Or it meant I've officially lost my mind."
Bianca laughs. "Probably a little of both."
I smile faintly, staring up at the ceiling again.
"I can't wait for your spring break," I say. "I need real people around me."
"I can't wait to see you too," she says. "It's been so long."
"We should go to that place—Palo Santo . The one with the rooftop."
"Ooooh," Bianca says. "I'm down."
"Maybe you, Reese, and I can all go together."
There's a small pause on the other end.
"Does Reese have to come?" Bianca asks.
I frown. "She doesn't have to. I just thought... I don't know. I thought it'd be fun."
"Yeah," Bianca says quickly. "It's fine. Forget I said anything. We can all go."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive," she says. "I'll survive one dinner with the political machine."
I roll my eyes. "She's not a machine."
"She kind of is," Bianca mutters.
Before I can respond, there's a knock at the door.
I sit up. "Hold on. Someone's here."
"Probably your glam squad," Bianca says. "Or someone with a clipboard."
"Not funny."
I stand and smooth down my shirt. "I'll call you back."
I hang up and slide my phone into my pocket just as I open the door—and come face to face with Taylor and Vivian.
Of course.
When I open the door, Taylor stands there with her clipboard and polite, rehearsed smile. Vivian is beside her, tablet in hand, already mid-sentence.
"Perfect," Vivian says, stepping inside like the room belongs to her. "We just need a few minutes. This week's schedule shifted a bit."
"Of course," I say, forcing a smile.
Taylor moves past her with a measuring tape already looped around her neck. I recognize the routine now. The quiet efficiency. The way she doesn't make eye contact longer than necessary.
"Arms out for me, please," she says gently.
I do as I'm told.
Vivian doesn't even look up from her tablet. "Saturday you'll be heading to New York. There's a panel on juvenile justice reform. The response to your last speech has been very positive, so the team wants to lean into that."
Taylor wraps the tape around my chest, jotting something down.
I glance at Vivian. "So... that'll be my focus? For a while?"
"Yes," she says. "Criminal justice reform, youth initiatives, community programs. It polls well and it suits you."
It suits you.
The words settle differently than she probably means them to.
I actually don't mind it. If anything, it's the one part of this whole thing that doesn't feel like I'm just playing dress-up. It reminds me of college. Of sitting in lecture halls and actually caring about what I was learning.
Of feeling like I had a direction.
Taylor moves the tape to my waist. "Relax your shoulders for me."
I do, even though the tape feels colder than it should.
Vivian keeps talking. "We'll also need you at the veterans' dinner on Tuesday and the education summit next week. Speeches are already being drafted. You'll get final copies the morning of."
I nod automatically.
Taylor kneels slightly to take my hip measurement.
Vivian lowers her voice just a fraction. "And did you take care of... the thing?"
My stomach drops.
I glance down at my arm, like she just pointed at it.
The implant.
Truthfully, I haven't even thought about it. Not really. Not since the other day. My brain's been too busy replaying a different set of mistakes.
Grant's face.
Grant's voice.
Grant's mouth.
I force a small smile. "I have an appointment booked."
Vivian nods. "Good."
"That office is always packed," I add quickly. "Earliest they could get me in was about a month out."
It's a lie. A smooth one. The kind I've gotten very good at over the years.
Vivian doesn't question it. She just makes a note on her tablet.
"Fine. Just keep me updated."
Taylor finishes her notes and steps back. "All done."
"Thank you," I say.
They turn and walk out together, their voices fading down the hallway.
The door clicks shut behind them.
And just like that, the room feels quiet again.
I exhale slowly and glance down at my arm.
The thing.
Like it's an inconvenience. A scheduling detail. A checkbox on a list.
My hand drifts over the spot, fingers brushing the skin.
A baby.
The thought still makes my chest tighten.
But not as much as the other thought.
I grab my purse and head for the door.
The drive to the office feels different now.
Not because the roads are empty or the city suddenly softened—but because my head is too full to notice anything else.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
I pull into the underground garage and park in the same corner spot I always use. The building feels familiar now. Safe in a way that's hard to explain.
Inside, the waiting area is quiet as usual.
And behind the front desk is Isabel.
She looks up, her face lighting a little. "Hey, Mrs. Housner."
"Naomi," I correct automatically, setting my purse down. "You can call me Naomi."
She grins. "Right. Naomi."
I sign in, then lean lightly against the counter. "How was your ski trip?"
She blinks. "My... what?"