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Chapter Text

It wasn't glamorous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was when you saw him for the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sat. "Like what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you?" you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

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

"Governor," CJ said, "this is–"

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

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

Sam stepped in immediately. "Sir–"

But before he could finish, you found yourself speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

Chapter Text

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

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

You waved him off. "It was nothing."

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

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

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

x

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

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

"Eat," he'd say.

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

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

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

You started noticing things.

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

Sam, on the other hand, noticed things too.

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frowned. "I'm what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

He froze.

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

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

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

x

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

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

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

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

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

Josh smirked. "Uh-huh."

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

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

x

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

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

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

"What?" you asked.

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

x

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

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

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

"Ten minutes?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

x

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

"You're still here?" you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

"It's hot chocolate," he whispered, settling in beside you. "Extra marshmallows. And—" he rustled the bag, "Chips Ahoy."

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

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

x

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

He adjusted a little bit. Just enough to make sure your head was supported, just enough to let his arm rest along the back of the couch, trying to shield you from view.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

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

"Oh hey, Sleeping Beauty's here!"

You froze in the hallway. "What?"

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

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

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

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

You groaned. "Oh God."

You tried to escape to your office, but unfortunately the whole senior staff was around to catch tail end of Josh's dramatic reenactment.

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

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

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

Sam's ears went pink. "I was not—"

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

Before you could see or hear anything else you basically bolt into your office and close the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were tired," he said simply.

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

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

"But—"

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

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

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

You hesitated. "You're sure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Probably not," he said, smirking as he opened the door for you.

x

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

Toby gave him a look but didn't comment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks," you said, glancing at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

Chapter Text

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

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

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

And Sam noticed.
He noticed immediately.

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

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

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

Charlie just smirked and kept walking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam blinked. "Avoid me? She's not—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam started "So you're saying–"

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

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

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

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

x

Later that evening, you came to his office. It was the first time you'd been remotely close to him since last night. You were standing in the doorway with a stack of briefing folders CJ had insisted you bring him.

"Hey," you said, not looking him in the eye, "I have the revised comms schedule—"

"Go out with me."

You froze. "...What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So when he leaned in, the kiss was soft, his lips barely touching yours, almost hesitant, like he wanted to make sure you understood. This wasn't impulsive. It wasn't casual. He'd been longing for this since the campaign days.

You both pull away, a little breathless and he rests his forehead on yours.

"So," he murmured, "about that dinner..."

x

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good deduction," Toby muttered.

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

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

You spun toward her. "You did not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And?" you prompted.

"And it's all a surprise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

x

Chapter Text

You didn't know where you were going until Sam pulled up in front of the restaurant.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't one of those high-profile D.C. spots where every table was occupied by someone's political rival. Instead, it was tucked into a brick building on a side street, the kind of place you wouldn't even notice unless you knew it was there.

Sam parked and jogged to your side of the car, holding out a hand. It wasn't necessary. You could have gotten out of the car on your own. But you took his hand anyway, and the warmth of his fingers around yours sent an embarrassingly large wave of relief through your chest.

The inside was warm and softly lit, with low music playing under the quiet murmur of conversations. The hostess led you to a table near the back, slightly secluded by a half wall. You slid into the booth and tried not to feel like your pulse was way too loud in the stillness.

"This is..." You searched for the right word. "Very cozy."

He smiled, opening his menu. "It's one of my favorites. Good food, quiet, no one snapping pictures for the next morning's gossip columns."

You laughed, more out of nerves than anything. "You've thought this through."

"Of course," he said, looking up. "It's our first date."

It stopped you for a second at how easily he said it. No hesitation, no testing the waters. He wasn't just implying anything anymore. It was a date.

Sam had been right. There were plenty of options you liked. After the waiter walked away with your orders, Sam just leaned back, hands folded on the table, and just... looked at you. Not in a creepy, unblinking way. In a you are my favorite thing to look at way.

It was enough to make you pick up your water glass and take a sip just to have something to do. "What?" You say when he is still staring.

He shakes his head with a soft smile on his face. "Just wondering how long it's going to take you to stop looking surprised every time I make it obvious I like you."

Your cheeks warmed. "Well, you've been dropping hints for a year and I missed every single one."

x

The food came, and it was... honestly really good. In between bites, there was an ease you hadn't expected so soon. Almost every time you looked at him, he was already looking at you, and every time your knees brushed under the table, neither of you moved away.

After dinner, you walked outside together into the crisp night air. The city was quieter now, traffic reduced to the occasional hum in the distance. Sam hesitantly put his hands in his pants pockets, and glanced at you like he was wanted to say something, but didn't.

You walked side by side for another block before he said, "Do you trust me?"

You gave him a skeptical look. "That's a dangerous question to ask in D.C."

He laughed, then held out his arm. "Come on."

You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling his warmth through the fabric, and let him lead you down a narrow side street. A minute later, you were standing in front of a small bakery with the lights still on.

"You brought me to a bakery?" you asked, grinning.

"It's the best late-night hot chocolate in the city," he said. "And I happen to know someone who doesn't drink coffee and absolutely loves hot chocolate this time of night."

You couldn't help it. You just looked at him for a long moment, taking in the fact that he always takes you into account, and that he'd thought about everything, so much so to make it a of the evening.

Inside, the place smelled like sugar and cinnamon. You ordered your hot chocolate, he got decaf, and you took your drinks to a small table in the corner.

You should have felt silly. Two people in formal work clothes, sitting in a bakery at nearly midnight, but it didn't. It surprised you how much it felt like home.

"You've got something—" he started moving his hand, then stopped himself, lowering his hand, his smile tilting a little. "May I?"

It took you a second to understand, but when it clicked, your chest squeezed. You knew exactly what he was referencing. Campaign trail. That late night. You flinching away.

This time, you didn't.

You swallowed and gave the smallest nod, with a small smile. "Yeah," you said, voice quiet but sure.

He reached out slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to change your mind, and brushed his thumb across the corner of your mouth, light as a whisper. His hand lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he pulled back, eyes meeting yours a big grin on his face.

"Thank you," you murmured, and then, because the words had been building in you for a year now,

"I'm sorry about that night. Back in the campaign. When I..."

"I know." He interrupted, still smiling.

"I've been meaning to apologize for that. You need to know that it wasn't anything you did, Sam. I –"

He says your name. "I know." He repeats.

"If someone I'm not extremely close to tried to touch me," He seemed to want to interrupt you again but thought it was better to just let you finish what you had to say. "Even for something small, I just kind of..."

He says your name and this time you stop. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. But I'm happy you did. Thank you for trusting me enough to share." The look on his face made your stomach flip. It was tender. Like he'd been waiting the whole year for you to trust him like that.

He was quiet for a beat, then pressed a kiss to the hand he was holding. "And even back then, I had understood. I figured it out pretty quickly."

"You did?" You tilted your head to look at him.

"Yeah." His eyes softened. "You were never cold with me. You were just... careful. And I never wanted you to feel like I was going to cross a line you didn't want crossed. So I stopped reaching for you in ways you didn't ask for. I'd rather wait until you were comfortable and came to me yourself."

Your chest tightened in the best way. "That's... ridiculously considerate." You set your mug down and put your chin into your hand. "You're really not worried? About me being... younger, or..."

He met your eyes and that made you stop talking. "I'm only worried you're going to keep looking for reasons this shouldn't work when all I see are the reasons it will."

You swallowed hard, smiling nervously at him. "Okay."

"Okay?"

You nodded, smiling. "Yes."

x

When you left the bakery, he walked you to your door. You both lingered there, the night cool around you, neither quite ready to say goodnight. Finally, he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and said, "I'm really glad you said yes."

You grinned, and before you could overthink it, you leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Me too."

And the smile he gave you in return was so unguarded, so openly happy, that you thought—oh. This is going to be dangerous in the best possible way.

x

Chapter Text

Your date the night before had been... unreal. You and Sam had decided to meet before work the next to continue basking in that warm, post–first-date glow without anything from your stressful jobs ruining it. You met at a little corner coffee shop two blocks from the White House. It was walkable, quiet, and exactly the kind of place where you could sit and quietly enjoy each others company.

You'd agreed on the plan: walk to work together, but enter separately. Sam through the East Entrance, you through the main lobby.

"This way," Sam said, handing you your drink as you stepped out onto the sidewalk, "we get our breakfast and plausible deniability."

"Exactly," you agreed, smiling over the lid of your cup.

You lingered at the corner, pretending you weren't both timing your walks so you'd arrive at nearly the same moment.

Fifteen minutes later, you were walking down the West Wing hallway toward your office when you spotted Sam coming from the opposite direction. And, well, maybe the first part of the plan had worked, but you'd made a fatal miscalculation. Your coffee cups were identical. Same custom blue sleeve the shop was using while they were out of plain ones. Same handwriting for your orders on the side.

And then. Toby stepped into the hallway, he stopped and looked at both of you, glancing down at the cups. His eyes narrowed. "You and Seaborn have the same coffee."

Before you or Sam could answer, CJ appeared from around the corner, noticed the whole thing, and lit up like it was Christmas morning. "Ohhh, you tried to do the separate entrance thing, didn't you? Very cute."

Before any of you could react further, Josh arrived seconds later, grinning like he'd been summoned by his gossip radar. "Matching cups, same handwriting."

Sam sighed, already resigned. "You guys are reading way too much into this."

"No," Toby said flatly, "we're reading exactly enough into this."

You glanced at Sam. "This is going well."

CJ leaned closer to Toby and Josh. "I say they're dating. Toby?"

"Definitely dating."

Josh nodded. "Hard launch by Friday."

x

By 11:45, you'd managed to survive two more "accidental" drop-ins from Josh ("Hey, just wondering if you've seen Sam—oh, there you are...") and one very unsubtle walk-by from Donna, who actually leaned into your office doorway just to grin and wave.

It was unbearable. Every glance felt loaded, every comment somehow tinged with so when's the wedding? energy. For goodness sake, you'd been on one date!

Sam appeared in your doorway just as you were pretending to be very invested in a stack of press clippings.

"Lunch?" he asked casually.

You glanced toward CJ's office — empty — then toward the bullpen where Josh was most definitely pretending to look for something in a filing cabinet while very much listening.

"Now?" you whispered.

"You want to keep fielding questions for the rest of lunch break?" His mouth quirked.

You grabbed your coat. "Let's go."

You made it exactly three steps into the hallway before you felt it. The sudden hush that happens when an entire room is pretending not to pay attention.

Josh straightened up, eyebrows doing incredible gymnastics. Donna froze mid-staple. Even Margaret, passing through with a folder for Leo, slowed just enough to watch the two of you walking side-by-side toward the exit.

Sam's hand hovered lightly at your lower back, not touching, but close enough that it was suggestive, and you could feel the speculation ripple through the bullpen like static electricity.

The brisk D.C. air hit your cheeks and you both exhaled at the same time, like you'd just escaped a hostage situation.

"Do you think they bought it?" you asked.

"That we're just... going to lunch?"

"Yeah."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Not even a little."

You shoved your hands into your pockets, trying to will the redness out of your face. "So where are we going?"

"You'll see." He said proudly. "It's not too far from here." A beat. "And before you say anything. I know you will like the menu."

You blinked at him, dumbstruck. That sent your heart into overdrive and you smiled. You looked away quickly, but he must have noticed, because you heard the pleased little hum he made when he knew he was right about something.

You reached the restaurant very quickly. It was one of those tucked-away places you'd never find unless someone told you about it. Cozy but not cramped, warm lighting, the faint smell of fresh bread drifting from somewhere near the kitchen.

"This is it?" you asked, glancing up at the discreet sign above the door.

"This is it," Sam confirmed, holding the door open for you.

When the waitress came to take your order, you started scaning the menu automatically looking for your "safe" things. Before you could speak, Sam spoke up.

"She'll have the grilled cheese with the onion soup — but can you do the bread without seeds?"

Your head snapped toward him. "How did you—"

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "You hate seeded bread. You told me so during the campaign when the volunteers brought sandwiches from that place in Manchester."

"That was... about a year ago."

"And?" he said simply, ordering his own meal like this wasn't a big deal.

You stared at him for longer than necessary before looking back down at your menu, feeling that now-familiar thump in your chest.

You'd been worried about awkwardness, but there wasn't any. And when the food came, between bites of soup and bread, conversation flowed the way it always had in the quiet hours of the campaign. Easy, familiar, comfortable. The only difference now was the little moments in between. His hand brushing yours when he passed the sugar, the way you caught him looking at you and not looking away.

After you both finished eating, he gave you a small bag that he had in his pocket. They were small package of Chips Ahoy cookies.

You blinked. "They don't have these here."

"No," Sam said, trying and failing to hide the proud tilt of his chin. "I stopped at the corner store before meeting you this morning."

You laughed under your breath. "Sam— That's—" You cut yourself off because the heat in your face was ridiculous. "...Okay, that's actually really sweet. Thank you."

He really couldn't hide how proud he was of himself. "Are you ready to go back? I already paid."

"Sam! You have tolet me treat you one of these days." You say, but by the look on his face that doesn't seem likely.

You start walking out of the restaurant, and the next thing you know Sam's hand slid into yours like he had been waiting for it all day. Warm. Steady. Certain. You barely seem to notice.

He kept talking about some ridiculous Josh story from the week before, and he was not letting go, not even as you crossed the street toward Pennsylvania Avenue and the entrance to the West Wing.

Sam, for his part, was noticing everything. The way your thumb curved against his, the way your fingers fit perfectly in his hand. He didn't say a word, afraid you'd pull away if you realized.

The building's marble floors echoed under your steps, and still, he didn't let go. Only when you reached the bullpen did you finally look down and notice.

"Oh," you said softly, as if just registering the connection. "We—uh—"

Sam squeezed your hand once, before letting go. Then, he leaned in, casual as anything, and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

It was quick, warm, and over before you'd even registered what was happening. Your breath caught. You raised your hand to where his lips had touched you.

"Sam—" you whispered, glancing around, suddenly aware of half of the senior staff in various states of passing through the hallway.

Josh, halfway to the coffee cart, openly stared. Toby, was walking by and slowed down just enough to watch. CJ, on her way back from a briefing, tilted her head and smiled like she'd just caught the plot twist in a movie.

Sam, utterly unfazed, simply said, "Thanks for lunch," and walked toward his office. "I'll see you later."

You managed a small nod, heart thudding against your ribs, and you ran to your office as fast as you could.

x

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful but busy. Except, you know, the glances everyone seemed to direct towards you, which you were determined to ignore. Apparently the senior staff needed to rally in the Roosevelt Room for something big later tonight. You were only able to make it by the end, when they were already finished with whatever they were working on. You came right when the pizza order was being delivered and joined the impromptu staff dinner.

At this point, it was supposed to be casual: "no politics, no press talk," CJ had decreed, but judging from the way everyone was looking at you and Sam when you walked into the room, you suspected that decree had an asterisk.

You'd tried to avoid sitting next to Sam, but he'd just smiled, and eagerly patted the spot next to him. You couldn't say no to him.

"So..." Josh started, leaning forward on his elbows. "Lunch."

You froze mid-bite of your pizza. Sam, however, took a slow sip of his drink and didn't answer.

CJ, sensing weakness, pounced. "Long lunch. Came back holding hands—"

"We weren't—" you started, but Josh cut you off. "And then, the cheek kiss," he said, grinning at Toby, who was definitely pretending not to listen while peeling the label off his water bottle.

Sam didn't miss a beat. "It was lovely. Food was good, company was better."

You stared hard at your plate and groaned softly. "I thought we were promised no interrogations."

"I did no such thing." Josh said dramatically of course.

"All right," Sam said, with the tone of a man stepping into a boxing ring. "You get one night. Ask whatever you want, and then you're done. You all agree to stop bugging us after that."

A chorus of "deal" rose from around the table.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. "Why would you tell them anything?" you whispered into his neck.

"Because," he murmured back, "if I answer their questions tonight, maybe they'll stop bugging us."

"Big 'maybe,'" Toby muttered, but there was a tiny smirk on his face.

CJ was trying, and failing, to look innocent. "We're just curious. You two have been... spending a lot more time together lately."

"That's because we like each other," Sam said plainly. "A lot." He leaned back in his chair and casually draped an arm along the back of yours.

There was a chorus of oooohs around the table. You covered your face with your hands, and buried your face in his neck.

Josh grinned. "So when exactly did this start?"

"Depends," Sam said smoothly. "Do you mean when we started going out, or when I started liking her?"

Heat surged up your neck. "Sam—"

Josh leaned in. "Oh, this is going to be good."

Sam tilted his head, pretending to think. "I've been interested in her since the campaign. Going out? This week."

"Campaign days?" CJ's eyebrows went up. "You mean all those late nights—"

"Yup," Sam said.

By now, your mortification was complete, and you'd fully tucked your face into the warm space between his neck and shoulder. Sam's arm had slid down to your shoulders, and he kept rubbing circles with his thumb like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Where'd you go for lunch?" Ginger asked.

Sam answered, still eating between responses. "Little place near the Mall. Great soup. She had the grilled cheese."

You groaned into his shirt. "You don't have to tell them what I ate."

"We said any questions," he reminded you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

Donna chimed in, "What's the sweetest thing you've done for each other?"

He thought for one second. "She stayed up with me all night during the budget vote, even though she didn't have to," Sam said without hesitation. "And for me I would say it's when I bring her hot chocolate when she's working late because she doesn't drink coffee."

A chorus of "aww" went around the table. You wanted to melt into the floor but nodded briefly.

CJ smirked. "Who said 'I like you' first?"

"I did," Sam said grining proudly and continuing the slow, reassuring motions on your shoulder.

"What's her favorite snack?" Josh asked.

"Chips Ahoy. The crunchy ones, not chewy," Sam answered immediately. "Also grilled cheese, but she likes it better with Swiss for some reason."

CJ tilted her head. "What's his favorite snack?"

"Granola bars," you muttered, barely audible. "And PB&J sandwiches."

Donna piped up next. "Okay, but what's the cutest thing about her, Sam?"

Without hesitation, he said, "She runs entirely on stubbornness and chocolate."

You smacked his chest lightly, your cheeks were burning again.

"And what's the cutest thing about him?" CJ asked, clearly delighted to see you squirm.

You hesitated, but Sam's arm squeezed your shoulders, encouraging. "He..." you found courage you didn't know you had, and left the warm comfort of his neck and shoulder. You look down, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and say "He's ridiculously smart, but he'll explain things without making you feel dumb. And he remembers every little detail." you look shyly at him and you can tell he's really blushing for the first time tonight.

"Oh, here's one," Donna said mischievously. "What's the most annoying thing about each other?"

Sam looked down at you with faux thoughtfulness. "She doesn't think she's nearly as wonderful as she is. Drives me insane."

You gaped at him, completely unprepared. "That's not—"

"And," Sam continued, ignoring your protest, "she thinks she hides it well when she's stressed, but she doesn't. I can tell in about two seconds."

Josh cackled. "Wow, that's... actually kind of sweet."

"Your turn," CJ said, poking you with her fork. "Most annoying thing about him."

You swallowed. "He... shuts down pretty hard when he's nervous."

Sam grinned. "Fair."

Toby, who'd been silently sipping his drink, finally chimed in. "Who's more competitive?"

"She is," Sam said instantly.

"I am not!" you protested.

"She definetly is," Josh echoed with a grin.

"Most romantic thing he's done?" Donna asked.

You were quiet for a moment, then mumbled, "I think... When I was sick during the campaign, he brought me soup and stayed with me until I fell asleep."

The table melted into another chorus of awwws.

"Okay," CJ said, smirking. "Last question. First kiss?"

You choked on your drink, and Sam's arm tightened around you just enough to make you relax again. He smiled faintly. "That's classified."

"Tease," Josh muttered.

You hid your face in his shoulder once more, and Sam let you stay there, absently rubbing his thumb over your arm. When you finally peeked up, he was watching the others with calm satisfaction, but glanced down at you lovingly.

The questions went on and Sam kept you tucked against his side, answering every question without shame, and every time you hid your face, he just kissed the top of your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You had to admit — as much as you wanted to be mortified — you were starting to feel... safe here. Safe with him. Safe with them.

x

Chapter Text

You hadn't expected today to be one of those days. But that's the thing. They come when you least expect.

It was kind of day where a hundred tiny fires keep breaking out at once, and you're always sprinting between 5 different offices.

By the time you'd made it through your second meeting before lunch, your feet already hurt, your notebook was a mess of scribbles, and your patience had evaporated somewhere between Josh's "quick question" that turned into twenty minutes of rambling and Toby's insistence that you redo half of the website's writing on Bartlet's position on education.

Sam was no better off. You'd passed him in the hallway at least four times, each time with more papers under his arm and a more rumpled tie. But every time, he still managed to give you a smile. That was mostly of what gave you enough strength to keep going and made you feel like maybe the whole day wasn't going to eat you alive.

By five p.m., you were sure you'd be going home. Then, five minutes later a memo hit the wrong desk, the press panicked, and suddenly you were in the Roosevelt Room with most of the senior staff, hammering out a talking point rewrite.

After your bosses firmed up what the admnistration's position was, it was now your job to edit the website again, update newsletters and online outreach plans. The comms team had long moved from the Roosevelt Room to the bullpen, and it was mostly dark except for a few desk lamps and the blue glow from computer screens. Most people had gone home by now. You, however, were still in Toby's office with your notebook in your lap, rewording sections of the website while Sam sat across from you, typing furiously.

"Remind me why we didn't just... quit our jobs this afternoon?" you asked without looking up. It was getting late and you were completely out of gas.

"Because," he said, fingers still flying across the keyboard, "you'd miss me terribly."

You snorted. "Confident, aren't you?"

"Certain." He didn't even glance up, just kept typing, but you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You shook your head. "You know, for someone who's been running on caffeine and spite since seven this morning, you're awfully smug."

Finally, he looked up, leaning back in his chair. His tie was loose, his hair slightly out of place, his shirt sleeves pushed up by now. You should have been focusing on the way he was squinting at the screen and should be finishing up for the night, but instead, your brain was doing that thing again where it just... wandered.

"You're staring," he said lightly.

"I'm not—"

"You are."

"I'm thinking," you countered quickly, looking back at your notes. "About whether this part reads as condescending."

"Mm-hm." He clearly didn't believe you, but mercifully didn't press.

By 10pm, Toby had gone home and given you permission to finish working in his office. However, this was not reassuring. When even Toby abandoned the office, you knew you'd officially crossed into too late to be reasonable territory.

Sam pushed his chair back, stood, and stretched. "You look like you're freezing."

"I'm fine," you lied.

"Stop. You're shivering."

You glanced around the room. "I had a sweater, but I think I left it in the Roosevelt Room? To be honest I probably lost it in the chaos of the day."

He didn't hesitate. In one smooth movement, he grabbed his suit jacket that was on his chair and held it out to you.

You blinked at him. The day's exhaustion was slowing down your thought processes significantly. "Sam—"

"Just for a little bit," he said, voice gentler, tilting his head.

You stared at him for another moment before he came to you, and held it open for you to slip it on, and of course you caved. It was warm — his kind of warm — and smelled faintly of coffee, laundry soap, and whatever cologne he wore. It all made your brain become even more fuzzy.

You weren't quite finished, but you were hitting that point where your eyes kept losing focus and your head kept lolling.

Sam standing up with his laptop. "Alright. New strategy. We're moving to the couch."

"What—"

"Come on," he said, already scooping up his laptop and a stack of your papers. "You're going to fall asleep in that chair and give yourself a neck injury."

You let him herd you toward Toby's couch, which was just big enough for you two and all your myriad of notes. You rolled your eyes but sat. "This is ridiculous."

You don't remember when you both stopped typing. The papers were still scattered over the coffee table, your laptops open but dark. At some point, you'd both leaned back against the couch cushions, shoulders touching. Your head on his shoulder and his on top of yours.

You'd meant to just rest your eyes for a minute, but the combination of his jacket, the quiet hum of the bullpen beyond, and the solid warmth of him beside you made it far too easy to drift off.

The last thing you remembered was him murmuring something about "just a little while" before you both were completely still.

x

The sound of the door opening woke you.

It took a second for your brain to catch up. You were still sitting upright on Toby's couch, Sam still beside you, both of you half-slumped against each other, his jacket still around your shoulders. Your laptops were balanced haphazardly on your laps, and there were papers everywhere.

You blinked, trying to figure out what time it was, and why you were—

"Oh, God."

The voice made your stomach drop.

You sleeply turned toward the doorway, where CJ Cregg stood frozen, travel mug in hand. Toby was right next to her, coat draped over his arm, and the expression on his face was one of profound resignation.

Sam also stirred beside you, blinking awake, then immediately straightening when he saw them. "Uh—"

CJ's eyes swept over the scene: your head had clearly been on his shoulder, his jacket was still on you, your laptops sat dead in your laps.

"Good morning," she said, like she had all the time in the world to enjoy this moment.

"It's not—" you started.

Toby held up a hand. "Don't care. Truly, deeply don't care."

CJ, however, absolutely cared. You could see it in her eyes, she was memorizing every detail. "Well, this is interesting," she murmured.

"We were—" Sam tried.

"Working," CJ finished for him. "Yes, I'm sure. I mean, if I didn't know better, I'd say you two—"

"C.J.," Toby warned, already moving past her toward his desk. "We have a meeting. How about we move it to your office?"

"Sure. Our meeting. I'll... see you two later." She grinned at you two but followed Toby down to her office.

For a long beat, neither you or Sam moved.

Then Sam, very quietly said, "She's telling Josh."

You pulled his jacket tighter around you. "I swear I can hear her from here"

You both decided the only way to survive the day was to make it look like you'd been working all along.

Which meant organizing Toby's office.

You gathered your loose papers while Sam methodically collected his. "You know," you said, "if anyone asks, we should just say we were up all night fixing Toby's filing system."

He arched an eyebrow. "No one will believe that."

"They might if they know Toby."

Sam laughed softly – the kind of tired, unguarded laugh that made your stomach flip. He was still rumpled, still impossibly handsome, and still letting you keep his jacket.

You finished gathering a stack of memos and stood. "I'm going to drop these in my office before anyone start with their questioning."

On your way to your office, you ran into Donna.

Her eyes dropped to the jacket immediately.

"That's... a nice suit jacket," she said casually. "Very tailored."

"It's... borrowed," you said carefully.

Donna's eyebrows lifted just enough to make it clear she knew exactly who it was borrowed from. "Mm-hmm."

You gave her your do not start look. She just smiled and continued down the hall.

You returned to Toby's office to drop off a coffee Sam, and return his jacket but Ginger was inside.

Her gaze flicked from Sam to you, and the jacket you had in your hands.

She smiled, the slow, knowing kind. "Morning."

"Morning," you said, as normally as you could.

As soon as she left, you handed him your jacket. "Thank you so much for lending me your jacket yesterday."

"It was nothing." He said. "Are you sure you don't need it anymore?"

"No, I found my sweater in my office this morning. Thanks."

x

By the time the morning staff meeting ended, Josh was in rare form.

You'd just made it to your desk when you heard his voice from Sam's office: "So... sleep well?"

You were trying hard to pretend like you couldn't hear anything.

Josh was leaning on Sam's doorframe with his arms crossed, grinning like the cat who'd found the canary.

"Josh," Sam said without looking up from his papers, "if this is about the energy bill—"

"It's about the energy in Toby's office this morning," Josh interrupted. "And how snug you looked. Very... cozy."

Sam finally looked up, deadpan. "You've had two cups of coffee and you're already unbearable."

Josh ignored that. "So. How's it going with—"

"Josh," Sam warned, his voice lower now.

But Josh just grinned wider. "You know, you could just tell me things. I'm your friend. Your best friend. You don't have to hide your—"

"Finish that sentence and I'm billing you for my therapy sessions," Sam said, standing to hand him a folder. "Read this. It's about your actual job."

Josh took the folder but didn't move. "I'm just saying... if you need a best man someday—"

"Out," Sam said, pointing to the door. Josh left, laughing all the way down the hall. Nope. You definetly didn't hear that correctly. Nope nope nope.

x

After working for an hour you decided you needed a refill on your hot chocolate. You escaped to the breakroom, thinking you'd have a moment of peace. You were wrong.

CJ was already there, leaning against the counter, her long legs crossed and when she saw you her expression shifted.
"Morning," she said. "How's Toby's couch?"

Your shoulders slumped. "Fine."

"Comfortable?" she pressed, eyes glittering.

Before you could respond, Sam walked in behind you. You cannot catch a break.
"CJ," he greeted, courteous.
"Sam," she replied, then took a sip of her coffee. "You two sleep well?"

Sam wasn't fazed. "We were working."

"Uh-huh," she said, drawing it out. "Working on... what exactly?"

You gave him a please don't answer look.

"Organizing Toby's office," Sam said simply, like that explained everything.

CJ's smirk widened. "And was that before or after you gave her your jacket?"

Sam stepped past her to pour himself some coffee, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
"CJ," he said, "do you need something, or are you just going to narrate my life?"

"Mostly the second thing," she said cheerfully, and strolled out.

x

Chapter Text

It was rare for you to call in sick.

Actually, it was unprecedented. You had never missed a day at the West Wing so far in your tenure.

Besides, the senior staff had an unspoken rule about sick days: you powered through. The world didn't stop spinning just because you had a headache or a cold. But this morning, when your fever hit 102, dizziness was basically your constant mode and your chest rattled every time you coughed, you'd realized you weren't going to make it past putting your shoes on.

You'd called Leo first thing, your voice croaky and apologetic.

"Leo, I'm so sorry, I—"

"Don't even start. You sound terrible," he'd interrupted, brisk but not unkind. "What's going on?"

"I don't know? Fever. Vomiting. A lot of sneezing and coughing. The whole deal."

"Alright. Stay home and drink lots of fluids." He says.

"Ok, I just want to call into Senior Staff this morning."

There was a pause. "Alright. But then you're resting! No more thinking about work after you call."

You agreed, hung up, reset your alarm for the meeting and promptly collapsed back onto your bed under a pile of blankets.

x

The first clue something was wrong was your empty chair.

Sam had walked into the communications bullpen, a stack of briefing papers in his arms, and blinked when he saw the dark screen of your computer. You were never late. Ever. In fact, you usually beat him in.

He walked around the West Wing to see if you were maybe somewhere else, and he saw Donna perched at Josh's desk with a folder. He approached her looking a lot like a lost puppy. "Uh... do you uh... would you happen to know why..."

"She called Leo this morning," Donna interrupted. "She's sick."

"Sick?" Sam repeated, frowning like the word was foreign to him. "What kind of sick?"

Donna shrugged. "Like... normal sick, Sam. Cold. Flu. Germs. Those things?"

But Sam barely heard what she said. His chest tightened. He walked back to the communications bullpen and went into his office. He started organizing the files and folders on his desk, actively trying to focus on the fact that you had called Leo. You were cognizant enough to do that. Which meant you were probably okay. Probably.

He kept his cool until the mid-morning senior staff meeting.

You'd dialed in from home, your voice crackling faintly through the speakerphone on the conference table. At first, you sounded almost normal — a little nasal, maybe — but then halfway through Toby's long rant about some phrasing in the education bill, you coughed. A rough, chest-deep sound that made Sam heart ache.

"Sorry," you croaked, voice all gravel. "I'm fine, keep going."

Josh leaned back in his chair. "Wow. You sound like you swallowed a gravel driveway."

"Thank you, Josh," you muttered.

But then you sneezed a couple times in a row, and muffled what sounded like a curse under your breath, and everyone glanced at each other.

"Drink some tea, and make sure to add some honey. It always helps." C.J. suggested. "And for God's sake, don't come in until you're better."

Sam was quiet the rest of the meeting, jaw tight, staring at the phone like he could will himself into your apartment. By the time Leo wrapped things up, Sam had already made up his mind.

That evening, he managed to leave the West Wing around 5:30pm. Still, Sam was a workaholic and he was leaving work relatively early for a White House senior staffer, so he took some things home that he wanted to finish looking over today. He swung by a pharmacy before heading toward your apartment. He bought tissues, some different kinds of tea, orange juice, cough drops, a small box of soup from a deli nearby, and — because he couldn't help himself — a small bouquet of daisies.

He reached your apartment, and got into the building using the keys Donna gave him. She had said that you keep a set at the office in case of emergencies. When he was standing outside your door, his nerves suddenly started buzzing in his chest, but he pushed through and knocked.

He heard some shuffling, and a beat later you opened the door in sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, hair a little messy, eyes glassy with fever and a blanket wrapped around your form. You blinked at him in surprise.

"Sam?" you rasped, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself.

"Hi," he said, smiling nervously and holding up the bag and the flowers. "I, uh... brought reinforcements."

Your brows knit together. "Reinforcements?"

"Soup. Tea. Tissues. Cough drops. The whole arsenal."

Despite your exhaustion, you laughed lightly — a hoarse little laugh that made his heart flip. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, well," he said softly, "I wanted to." He seem to have just remembered he had also gotten you flowers, looking down at them in his hands. "Oh, uh... these are for you."

"I uh...Thank you," you say and gesture for him to come in.

Soon enough he was in your kitchen, making you tea and heating up the soup he brought while you curled back up on the couch with your blanket. He put the daisies in a vase and set it on your counter.

"What have you eaten today?" He asked glancing at you on the couch while he worked in the kitchen.

"Uhh, I think hot chocolate in the morning and some snacks through the rest of the day?" you say, "honestly it's been kind of a blur and I haven't been feeling very hungry."

"That's what I thought. No real food."

He came over and fussed: setting up all the supplies he brought on your coffee table, arranging the tissues within reach, all while insisting you eat as much as you could.

"You know you don't have to stay," you murmured back to him, but he seemed to ignore your words.

The smell of soup drifted from the stove, and he moved around your kitchen like he did this all the time. "You're going to heal faster if you stay hydrated and well nourished." He said as he brought a bowl with warm soup, some napkins and a spoon.

You hadn't let anyone see you like this before, with the puffy eyes, red nose and drowning in your favorite sweatshirt, and it made your stomach twist with equal parts embarrassment and something warm you didn't want to name.

"Sam," you croaked, when he came back from the kitchen with a mug of tea for each of you. "I'm super gross right now. You really don't want to be here. I'm going to get you sick."

He crouched down in front of you, your cup of tea in hand, and gave you the softest little lopsided smile. "You don't look gross. You look sick. Which is not the same thing." He held out the mug to you. "And if I get sick, I'll survive. I'm a grown man. I can handle it."

You accepted the tea but shook your head, still protesting. "Seriously. You don't need to stay."

Instead of answering, Sam pressed the back of his hand gently to your forehead. His brow furrowed immediately. "You're burning up."

"I'm fine," you said, rolling your eyes a little at his exaggerated concern.

He frowned deeper. "You're really not fine. Do you have a thermometer?"

You muttered something about the bathroom cabinet, and when he returned with it, you reluctantly let him tuck it under your tongue. Thirty seconds later, the beeping confirmed what he suspected.

"102.3," he read, and looked at you like it was a personal affront. "When was the last time you took any medication?"

"Probably after our call this morning." You laughed a little, moving to leave the couch. You thought given your temperature, maybe if you washed your face, it could help with the fever and you would feel better. Maybe even shower? "Don't be so dramatic Sam. It's just a cold."

Before he could say anything, you stood up to shuffle toward the bathroom. Not even two steps in, the room seemed to tilt, and next thing you know you swayed and had to lean against the arm of the couch.

"Hey—" Sam was at your side instantly, steadying you with one hand at your elbow and the other at your back. His voice was firm but soft and kind, as always. "Let me help you. Please." He hesitated, then admitted, "I've been worried about you all day."

"Okay." You allowed him to guide you back to the couch, cheeks definitely flushed with more than fever now.

"You can stay," you muttered, exhaling in defeat. "but only until the medicine kicks in. Then you're going home. It's a school night!" 

He nodded solemnly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "Deal."

Soon, you were tucked under a blanket on one end of the couch, the television flickering with some reruns of Friends you'd put on in the background. Sam sat at the other end with a folder of briefing notes open in his lap, scribbling occasionally with his pen.

It was strangely domestic, lull of the TV punctuated only by your sniffles, the rustle of paper or the scratches of his pen. Every so often he'd glance over, and each time you caught him, he'd look back at his notes and focus intensively on them.

After about 20 minutes or so of this, your eyelids grew heavy. Not surprising considering your state, and especially with the medicine starting to kick in, your symptoms finally subsided enough for you to relax. You drifted off easily, head resting on the arm of the couch and some pillows. Not long after, Sam's pen slipped from his hand, and his head tilted back against the cushion.

x

The first thing Sam noticed was the sunlight peeking faintly through.... wait? He was not home? His watch read 5:30 a.m. He blinked, disoriented, realizing with a start that he was still in your apartment, tie loosened, jacket draped over a chair, your soft breathing on the couch next him.

"Damn it," he whispered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't planned on staying. He really hadn't.

He looked over at you, still curled under your blanket, seemingly to be sleeping peacefully. Finally.  And though every instinct told him he should leave immediately and pretend this hadn't happened, another part of him, probably the part that had panicked at your empty desk yesterday, thought he wouldn't have traded it for anything.

After a beat, he stood quietly, straightening his tie and slipping his jacket back on. He scribbled a quick note on the corner of a legal pad and left it on your coffee table:

"Call me if you need anything. Please. —S."

Then, with one last look at you, he went out into the early D.C. morning, already running through excuses in his head for why he'd be walking into the West Wing with the same clothes as the day before.

x