Frank opened his eyes to find Claire tucked in his arms, early sunlight filtering into their hotel room to light her features. A block away, the ocean lapped onto the beach in the dawn quiet. Claire turned over in his arms and kissed him softly.

"What do you want to do today, Claire Underwood?" The smile she graced her husband with was bright and mischievous. She stretched lazily, then snuggled closer and pressed a kiss to his jaw.

"I should go for a run, but I don't want to move."

"That's good, because I like holding you. It's been three months, and I still can't believe I'm your husband." His wife chuckled.

"I want to go to the beach later, but you wore me out yesterday." He kissed her smirking mouth.

"You want me to wear you out again?"

"I'll wear you out more than once before I let out of this bed for breakfast, Francis."

Claire slipped her hand beneath his shirt and ran her palm tantalizingly up his muscled torso, stopping the circle his navel with her fingertip on the way up. A breathy gasp rewarded her as he shivered with pleasure and she chuckled impishly. They bantered constantly in bed, even entire conversations, and she kept him laughing. He loved that woman; he'd slit someone's throat in broad daylight for Claire if she needed him to.

They'd decided to take all of Christmas break for a much needed - and much delayed - honeymoon. So that afternoon, Frank found himself on a gorgeous Hawaiian beach he could barely pronounce, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that she'd chosen him. He still hadn't quite gotten used to the wedding ring, but in a good way. Every time he looked down at it, or twisted it around his finger when he was thinking, his stomach flipped over in a pleasant rush of happiness. Sixty years from now, he knew he'd still feel much the same way: unaccountably lucky and maddeningly in love with a fierce woman who was his equal in every way.

"You have no problem with him fundraising for your campaign," she pointed out, a brow arched primly as she read.

"That's different."

"Francis, stop fighting Daddy about the house. I know your pride is at stake, but there'll be plenty of other things for us to pay for."

"I don't like the implication that I can't take care of you, is all." Lowering her book, she turned a flat stare on him.

"We can take care of each other. He can get a little overbearing sometimes, but he means well. He's thought of you as his son ever since I brought you home last year for spring break. It's his way of making sure we're ok." Claire heard him roll his eyes back into his head before he huffed an exasperated sigh.

"Well, your mother still wants to murder me."

"She wants to murder me too," she flashed him a smile.

Realizing he'd lost, he laid his head in her lap and closed his eyes, relishing the soft breeze caressing his skin as he started to drift off. She'd kept her promise this morning. He woke up to Claire ideally running her fingers through his hair. It took him a minute to pry his eyes open, and she felt his weight shift. Slipping a bookmark in, she set her book down on the beach towel.

"You look like you thought of something."

"I've been thinking for a while about what you told me last month. You said you want state senate, and that's fine. But what if you reached higher?" she floated.

"How do you mean?"

"Use the state senate to get some experience and build a track record, then run for Representative in Congress." His eyes lit, a smile playing at his mouth, and his wife smirked. "You could be Secretary of State some day, Francis. With two decades of federal legislative experience, you can build the kind of reputation and connections that could make that happen."

"You don't think its too much though?"

"You made it into Harvard Law. Nothing's too much."

Frank loosened his tie as he climbed the stairs to their apartment, running through a mental study list for finals next week. Though he'd lived in the same building last year, this apartment was theirs now; both his and Claire's names were on the lease. Francis and Claire Underwood. She insisted it wasn't really their 'first place' because it was only student housing, but damn, it felt good. There was a house waiting for them in Gaffney, paid for in cash, but Claire's father had acquiesced and agreed to let them pay for the furniture. When he swung the door open, he found his wife ensconced on the couch, a notebook in her lap. Stacks of copy paper and envelopes had taken over the coffee table.

"Shouldn't you be studying for finals?" Claire's mouth quirked up at the edges.

"Never overestimate the work ethnic of a second-semester senior," she quipped. "Shouldn't you be studying for finals and the bar?"

"I'll be fine. I just have a few more things to go over, as a precaution. You've certainly been busy."

"We're going to start campaigning in the fall, and you have to be prepared. Daddy said he'll put together a list of campaign and finance managers for us to interview." Frank picked up one of the stacks.

"The donor letters for the Clean Water Project?"

"I finished those last night."

As he leafed through the letters, Frank almost choked at the names he saw. For a minute, he wondered just how far out of his depth he'd gotten. Claire, his wife, was writing to these people on the strength of a Harvard degree and her place as her father's daughter.

"Most of them won't offer anything, and half of them probably won't even write back, but it's about networking. Even if someone isn't interested in working with CWI, maybe they'll have friends who would be." Frank set the letters back down, and lowered himself next to her and peered at what she was writing. Campaign platform points, research notes, speech outlines.

"This makes it seem so much more real," he murmured. "Like it can actually happen."

"When you get elected to the state senate next year, you'll need to get an apartment in Charleston. You can't drive five hours each direction four days a week. That's why I told you not to fight Daddy on the house in Gaffney. We can't afford to pay for two places."

"What makes you assume I'm going to win on my first try?"

"If you lose, I'll divorce you, Francis." The impish grin returned, but Frank couldn't help but get the feeling she was entirely serious. "I laid a suit out for you on the bed, for graduation. You need to start looking like a Congressman. I think it would look lovely on you; it'll make you look powerful."

Frank sauntered off to the bedroom and ran his hand over a navy blue suit, complete with a light purple shirt and a rich, eggplant purple tie. Even a matching pocket square had been artfully tucked into the jacket. Armani. Even the little square of silk probably cost more than any full suit he owned. It was the richest fabric he'd ever worn, and it made him feel almost invincible.

"What do you think?" He spun for her with a grin. Gray eyes shining, she beamed proudly at him.

"Perfect."

"We'll win, Claire. We'll win together."