I was sitting on the edge of the couch in the quiet of my study, elbows on my knees, head buried in my hands. The election numbers flash behind my closed eyes like a taunt—polls slipping, donors calling at all hours, the weight of every speech and every promise pressing down on my chest until it feels hard to breathe. My phone buzzed again on the low table. I ignored it. The room smelled faintly of old books and the coffee that went cold hours ago. Outside the tall windows the city was a distant blur of lights, but in here everything was tight, coiled, ready to snap.

Untill, she showed up. I never thought it would be difficult for me to adjust my schedule for Aysel but today, I find myself at a place where it has become tough for me .

The cushions dip under her weight. Her thigh presses lightly against mine. She doesn’t reach for my hand yet. She just sits close enough that I can smell the faint citrus of her shampoo and the warmth of her skin.

I cover her hand with mine. Her fingers are smaller, cooler. The simple contact loosens something tight in my ribs. I turn my head and look at her properly. The soft lamp light catches the curve of her cheek, the dark sweep of her lashes. For a moment the election noise fades to a dull background hum. I put her under me , carefully.