Sara always thought you could tell whether a political opponent took you seriously enough to view you as a threat.

A lot of time had gone by since she'd made that random announcement on television and, probably, some of her to-be rivals were reassuringly convinced that she'd back down. Too young. Too inexperienced. Too out of the box. Sara had stopped counting how many hands she'd shaken, overwhelmingly white and male, belonging to 'important' people, and how she'd known, barely after making eye-contact, that they never expected for her to make it far enough on her own to even have to bother about taking her out.

But the clock was running and – would you guess it? – things were actually looking well for her. Primaries saw her surprisingly nominated for the presidential election. Really, she realized she was a little astonished herself when she became Democrat's official nominee – for the past months, Paul had been rehashing how much it didn't matter, how far they got the first time.

"You could make it in ten years and still become the youngest American president," he said. "No rush, Sara. With every step we're taking, we're always gaining ground."

So when she became a delegate, he was thrilled – she could hear the excitement in his voice, which was rare. Paul was a better liar even than most in the business.

"Let me tell you, Sara," he said, called her immediately, "I've got a bottle of champagne ready to be uncorked. How about some celebration? We can meet again at six tomorrow to start talking strategy again."

Just picturing Paul Kellerman, gloating in his office, with champagne on his desk, was surreal enough that Sara wanted to laugh.

"As tempting as that sounds," she said, was careful to come off as casual, "I'm afraid it'll have to wait."

"Wait?" You could hear his frown in the word. "Did I mention it was a two-hundred-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon? Dom Perignon doesn't wait."

"Sure it does. It's probably decades old already."

Then, immediately, he was back to business, she could sense it even before he spoke, in that two-second scope of silence. "Just tell me if it's serious."

"What?"

"Well, are we talking potential husband or is it just physical? If it's the former, congratulations. It'll reach a larger audience. However, I wish you'd tell me as soon as possible so I can work on a new game."

Sara scoffed. Glad they were talking on the phone, so he didn't have to see he'd managed to shock her. "Paul, let's get one thing straight."

"I'm all for straightforwardness."

"I intend to maintain a private life, even if I do make it to the oval."

Now was as good a time to say it as any. She'd made it sound like it was just a statement that needed making.

"Yes," he agreed. "And if you run it through me, I can make sure it remains as private as possible."

"I meant private from you, as well."

She could picture him blinking, with that impassive look he got when faced with total incomprehension. She could tell it had never crossed his mind before.

"Sara, that's absurd. Do you think Bill Clinton kept it a secret to his advisers that he was having an affair?"

"And they did such a fine job hiding it."

"Well, you're not planning to be the new Clinton, are you?" He sounded serious enough. "Because you should know there's a double standard on men and women and I just don't think I could make it work."

Sara inhaled. Always saying the sentence to yourself before you speak it out loud, when you're angry. "I'm not president yet, Paul. And I'm certainly not Bill Clinton."

"Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow at six."

"That's a little early for champagne, isn't it?"

He didn't laugh. Maybe it wasn't a good time to joke. Yet again, Kellerman wasn't really the kind to indulge in such things as lightness of mood or cheerfulness of spirits.

"Six." She repeated in the end. "Goodnight, Paul."

"Sara?" He said before she could hang up. "Congratulations."

For some reason, the word had an ominous aura, double-edged, as if laden not only with the thought of success, but with the full charge of risk and peril that was headed her way.

Making love that night was different, somewhat more intense even than the outstanding standards they were used to. Clawing at Michael's hips to draw him deeper inside her, moaning at the sudden feel of his teeth sinking into her shoulder. By now, she no longer had to give those breathless warnings – no bitemarks, no hickeys – he sometimes actually said it for her, teasingly, as if to lessen the importance they both knew appearances did have, only for the span of a few minutes.

All the while, their bodies tangled in the soft, quality-hotel sheets, Sara was aware of the difference, the increase in ardor.

Tonight, everything, the room around them, this temporary bubble of intimacy, even the pleasure of love-making had this quality of lasts.

It won't be exactly like this, from now on, she thought. It won't be as easy.

A presidential campaign meant a higher level of attention, even more risks of getting caught. Had other presidents needed to sneak a lover into the white house? Would she have to tell Paul eventually?

"Sara?"

The young woman shook the obsessive thoughts from her head. Now that they'd been lying still for a while, she was starting to feel a bit cold, with the blankets pooling at her waist, her upper body exposed. Half-sitting up, Michael was looking at her with an amused – and still a little awed – smile.

She realized he must have asked her something but she had no idea what.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You've got a lot to think about, tonight especially."

"I wish I didn't have to think about it."

He chuckled. The dimple in his cheek proved a momentary distraction.

"It's like you're not even happy about it," he said.

"Happy isn't the word. It means a lot to me that the country would want someone like me for President. It means even more that I might actually have the chance to make some positive changes – it's what I believe in, what I'm meant for." Sara heard herself how factual the words sounded – there should be emotion in her voice, sure enough, the emotion was there, somewhere inside her, but invisible, unreachable. "This is happiness," she said. "You and me, in this room. The thought of myself in the white house is something else entirely. It's two different paths."

He was silent for a moment, his index tracing imaginary lines from her shoulder to her collarbone. She could feel he was looking at her but, for some reason, continued staring vacantly ahead.

"I thought you'd taken me here to celebrate," he said, without sounding resentful. "But maybe that was a little naïve of me. Maybe what you wanted was for us to say goodbye. Was it?"

Sara thought she was going to say no, but realized how much like a lie it would sound.

Of course, this was goodbye.

Maybe not goodbye to their story – putting such an abrupt end to it now would be like cutting off a limb – but goodbye to the relative simplicity of their relationship, hotel rooms once or twice a week, as often as she could afford without anyone getting suspicious, then full hours of unthinkable bliss, their bodies feeding off each other with ravenous need, almost desperate longing.

"I should have seen it coming," he said.

"It's not fair to ask you to bear how much harder it's going to get," she realized.

"Don't talk to me about what's fair."

Sara looked at him in surprise. There was never any anger in his voice – and though this wasn't exactly anger, his eyes were burning and grave.

"Do you have to hear me say it?"

Now, Sara wished she could break away from his gaze, look at anything but those eyes into which she could suddenly read everything, Michael's soul laid bare, holding no secrets from her.

"You don't know," she spoke softly, "what it would be like, if I win. I don't just mean privacy issues. I mean the danger, Michael, because I'm not going to play into the game of lobbyists and big corporations. I'll make enemies. I'll be a target."

He sighed, answered his own question. "Okay. So, you have to hear me say it."

"Michael –"

"I don't care how hard it is, Sara. Not anymore. Not for a long time." His tone was firm, unwavering. "If this is what we get, these few hours when nothing else matters, when nothing else exists, I don't care if I have to crawl my way to this room on broken glass."

There was no air in her lungs for her to protest. Michael took her hand. Not thoughtlessly, not like other men had done it before, and looking at her with too much seriousness for her not to get it.

Though there was no ring, though there were no words, this was what he was offering. Himself, his life, his body, everything he was, for as long as she would have him.

"I love you."

Like a helpless bystander, she heard the words cross her own lips.

There was a sudden feeling of catastrophe inside her, a feeling that she'd just done something irreversible, as if she'd spoken a curse.

Michael's hand brushed her knuckles softly.

"Don't ask me to walk away, Sara," he said. "Please. You're about to step into the jungle – don't ask me to watch you go alone. Let me come with you. I know I can't help you in there, and I can't protect you, and it's not about you needing my protection. But when it gets hard, you can always look in the shadows and find me there – ready. You just say the word, and we'll both come out of all the craziness of politics, and there'll be this room for us, waiting."

Sara knew, then, that there was nothing to do but take it, kiss him and push away the thought of consequences yet for a longer while.

But where are we headed? She thought. By just kissing him and keeping us both happy – what am I really doing to him?

End Notes: I'm having a lot of ideas for this story, I hope you've enjoyed the chapter. Don't hesitate to leave your thoughts.