13.
The drive back from my mom's feels peaceful.
I tap the steering wheel lightly with my fingers. My phone buzzes in the cup holder. Reese's name flashes across the screen.
I hit the button on the wheel to answer.
"Hey, pretty girl," she says.
"Hey."
"You just leaving your mom's?"
"Yeah," I say, merging onto the main road. "She was in one of her better moods today, so I stayed a little longer."
"I'm glad," Reese says. "You need those days."
I hum in agreement, watching the headlights pass by in the opposite lane.
"What about you?" I ask. "You still at the office?"
There's a slight pause.
"Yeah," she says. "Long day. Rodney's been—"
She cuts herself off.
My grip tightens on the wheel. "What?"
"Nothing," she says quickly. "Just politics. You know how he gets when there's a speech coming up."
I frown. "You've been working with his team a lot recently."
Another pause.
"Something like that," she says lightly. "You know how it is. I'm basically glued to the West Wing at this point."
Something about her tone feels too casual.
But I don't press.
"Lucky you," I say. "You get to be in the exciting rooms. I just get the speeches and the photo ops."
Reese laughs. "Hey, your criminal reform stuff is actually doing numbers. People are eating that up."
That part makes me smile.
"Vivian said the same thing," I admit. "She wants it to be, like my thing during the presidency."
"And how do you feel about that?"
I think about it for a second.
"Honestly?" I say. "I don't hate it. It's the first time in a while I've talked about something that actually feels personal to me."
Reese goes quiet, like she wasn't expecting that answer.
"Well," she says finally, "that's good. You deserve something that's yours."
We ride in silence for a moment.
Then she clears her throat. "I'm probably going to be here all night, though. So don't expect any late-night gossip calls."
"All night?" I ask. "Again?"
"Welcome to politics," she says. "Go home, take a bath, watch something stupid. Live for the both of us."
I smile faintly. "I'll try."
"Text me when you get in."
"I will."
We hang up, and the car goes quiet again.
But her voice lingers in my head.
The yard is quiet when I pull into the driveway.
I park, grab my purse, and head inside. The foyer lights are already on, casting a soft glow across the marble floors.
That's my first clue.
Rodney's home.
I slip off my shoes and walk further into the house. His voice drifts from the kitchen, low and clipped, the way it always is when he's on a call he actually cares about.
"Yes, I saw the numbers," he says. "No, that's not going to work. We need something stronger than that."
I hover near the doorway, not fully entering. He stands at the island, one hand braced against the counter, the other holding his phone to his ear. His suit jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to look like he's working himself to the bone.
He glances at me.
Just once.
Then looks away like I'm part of the furniture.
"I'll call you back," he says into the phone. "Give me ten."
He hangs up and sets the phone down on the counter.
"Where were you?" he asks, not even looking at me.
"With my mom," I say.
He hums, distracted, like the answer doesn't matter much either way. "How is she?"
"The same."
He nods once, already scrolling through his phone.
Silence settles between us. Not tense exactly—just empty.
I move toward the fridge, more out of habit than thirst. "You're home early."
"Just stopping by to change," he says. "I'm staying at the White House tonight."
I pause. "Oh. Okay."
He finally glances up at me. "It's part of the job, Naomi."
"I know," I say quickly. "I just didn't realize you'd be there again tonight."
He shrugs, already looking back down at his phone. "It's a busy week."
I nod, even though he isn't really watching.
"Do you need anything before I go?" he asks.
"I'm fine," I cuts in.
"Okay."
He grabs his jacket from the back of the chair.
"I'll have someone send over your schedule," he says. "Vivian mentioned you're heading to New York on Saturday."
"Yeah."
"Make sure you look presentable. The press will be all over that event."
"I will," I say softly. "I always do."
He gives me a quick once-over, like he's double-checking.
Then he nods once, satisfied.
"Good," he says, slipping into his jacket. "I'll be back tomorrow evening. Don't wait up."
I nod again. "Okay."
He walks toward the door, already checking his phone. I follow a few steps behind, out of habit more than anything.
At the threshold, he pauses just long enough to say, "Goodnight, Naomi."
"Goodnight," I reply.
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
A few seconds later, I hear the car pull out of the driveway.
A few seconds later, I hear the car pull out of the driveway.
The quiet that settles over the house feels different tonight.
Stranger.
I lean back against the kitchen counter, listening to the silence like it might explain something to me.
That interaction was too easy.
Too easy.
We barely spoke, but he didn't snap at me. Didn't nitpick my tone. Didn't ask where I'd been in that slow, dangerous voice that usually meant the conversation wasn't really a conversation at all.
He didn't threaten me.
He didn't raise a hand.
Which, in itself, feels abnormal.
My chest tightens at the thought. Not because I'm scared he'll come back—but because part of me is still bracing for something that never came.
Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Like peace in this house is just a delayed storm.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the door he just walked through.
Then I turn and head upstairs peeling off my clothes as I walk into the bathroom. The shower is already running by the time I step in, the hot water hitting my shoulders and sliding down my back.
For a few minutes, I just stand there.
Just steam and quiet.
But of course, my brain doesn't stay quiet for long.
I finish quickly, stepping out and wrapping a towel tightly around myself. My hair drips down my back as I walk into the bedroom.
That's when my phone pings from the nightstand.
I pause.
Another ping.
My stomach twists as I walk over and pick it up.
I glance at the time.
8:04 PM.
Not late but definitely not office hours either.
My heart starts beating a little faster.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Disappears.
Reappears.
My pulse picks up.
I stare at the message for a second.
Why does he want to call?
Did something happen?
Did I do something wrong?
I type back before I can overthink it.
My phone starts ringing almost instantly.
I jump a little, then answer. "Hello?"
"Hey," he says. His voice is a little breathless, like he just finished doing something physical. "Is this a bad time?"
"No," I say quickly. "You're fine."
There's a short pause.
"How was your day?" he asks.
Normal question. Normal tone.
But something about it still feels off.
"Busy," I say. "We're moving more of my stuff into the White House. Schedules, fittings, all that fun stuff."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is."
Another pause.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware that I'm still just in a towel. I walk over to the window and peek through the blinds.
Two Secret Service agents stand near the gate, talking quietly.
Always there.
Always watching.
"So," I say, "what's up? Everything okay?"
He hesitates.
"Yeah," he says. "I just... I wanted to see if we could meet. In person."
My stomach flips. "Now?"
"If you're free," he says. "There's something I'd rather talk about face-to-face."
I glance outside again at the agents.
Him coming here is definitely not an option.
I should tell him to wait until Thursday. That would be the smart thing. The safe thing.
But the thought of not seeing him for a few more days makes my chest feel tight.
"I could come to you," I hear myself say.
There's a small pause on the other end.
"You sure?," he says. "If it's inconvenient timing It can wait."
"No, it's okay," I reply quickly. "I was just going to relax anyway."
Another beat of silence.
"...Okay," he says. "You still have the address?"
"I do."
"All right. I'll see you in a bit."
"Okay."
We hang up.
I stare at my phone for a moment, heart racing.
What could he possibly need to say that couldn't wait?
I drop the phone onto the bed and rush to my closet. Black leggings. A loose sweater. Sneakers. Something casual. Something normal.
I brush out my hair, throw it into a low ponytail, and grab my purse.
One last glance in the mirror.
You're just going to talk.
Nothing else.
I head downstairs, slipping on my shoes and stepping out into the cool night air.
One of the agents nods at me. "Evening, Mrs. Housner."
"Evening," I reply, forcing a small smile.
"Heading out?"
"Yeah. Just a short drive."
He nods. "We'll keep an eye out."
I give a quick wave and head to my car.
Once I'm inside, I exhale slowly and start the engine.
The drive feels longer than it should.
My mind runs through every possible scenario.
Did I say something wrong the other day?
Did someone find out about the kiss?
My chest tightens at the thought.
A few minutes later, I turn onto the long, familiar driveway lined with trees. The headlights stretch ahead of me, illuminating the path until the modern house comes into view.
The place looks the same as before.
I pull up and park.
Before I can even reach for my phone, the front door opens.
Grant steps out onto the porch.
He's in black athletic shorts, white socks, and a fitted long-sleeve compression shirt that clings to his shoulders and arms. He's holding a water bottle, hair slightly damp, chest rising and falling like he just finished a workout.
He spots me and starts down the steps.
My stomach flips again.
I open the car door and step out, locking it behind me.
"Hey," I say as I walk toward him.
"Hey," he replies, voice softer now.
He looks nervous.
And that only makes me more nervous.