Disclaimer:
This story was inspired by a song by Lord Huron called 'The Night We Met' which property of IAMSOUND Records.
I Do Not own these characters. They are property of NBC and Aaron Sorkins evil genius of a mind.
Please like and leave a review if you want. Positive feedback is always appreciated.
I hope you enjoy.
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The downstairs conference rooms of the Watergate Hotel buzzed with the energy of a day filled with presentations and networking. The event, organized by Emily's List, had just concluded, and attendees now gathered in the lobby, where an open bar and an impressive make-your-own sub sandwich buffet station awaited. The perfect late night snack.
The atmosphere was lively, filled with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. Among the crowd, he stood in deep discussion with fellow congressmen, all vying to secure endorsements and financial backing for the upcoming midterm elections. Fortunately, he had already earned their support in previous terms and was now working to solidify it once more.
His conversation was interrupted by the formidable Ophelia Walters, who insisted on introducing him to their latest addition.
CJ Cregg stood before him, her presence commanding attention. She was a hair taller than most in the room, and John found himself captivated, dare he say, intoxicated by her. Ophelia introduced her as the new PR coordinator, and CJ shook his hand with an enthusiasm that matched her radiant smile. When Ophelia stepped away, leaving the two alone, they fell into an easy conversation, the kind that felt as natural as breathing. There was an undeniable undercurrent of attraction between them, a magnetic pull that neither could ignore. But then, her eyes flicked down to his left hand, where a golden band glinted in the light. Her expression shifted, her face growing icy, her posture reserved, as if she had seen a ghost. She quickly yet politely made her excuses and ended the conversation, leaving him standing there, bewildered.
He left shortly after, reassured by Ophelia that they would be in touch. Outside, the rain poured down in sheets, drenching the city as he approached his chauffeured town car. In the distance, he spotted her sitting in her car in the parking lot, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlights. She was crying. Ignoring the driver's protests, he grabbed an umbrella and jogged over to her, knocking on her window. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with concern. She glared at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and pain. When she refused to elaborate, he offered her a ride, insisting until she reluctantly agreed.
In the car, she explained that her Mustang had broken down. Her voice trembled as she spoke of the car's significance, it had been her mother's, a gift from her father. When her mother passed, her father had kept it in pristine condition, saving it for her. He had given it to her when she got into Berkeley, and it had become a symbol of her family's love and resilience. She had driven it from Ohio to California and then cross-country to D.C., but in recent years, the repairs had become increasingly expensive. Her father had passed just a month ago, and the thought of losing the car too was overwhelming. The ride to her home was quiet, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Despite the tension, the magnetic pull between them remained, though she refused to acknowledge it.
The next afternoon, she found her car parked in front of her building, completely repaired. She was stunned, wondering how it had happened since she still had her keys. But then she remembered her mother's old saying about gift horses and decided not to question it.
A month later, they crossed paths again at a fundraiser in New York. This time, he found her at the bar, nursing a glass of red wine. She was there for work, but her heart was heavy. When he approached, her reddened eyes betrayed her sadness. He joked about always finding her in tears, but she didn't laugh. He ordered a club soda and sat beside her, leaving a respectful distance between them. She admitted that she had been dumped that evening, not because she was deeply in love, but because the distance had become too much. She was tired of being left behind. It was then that she thanked him for fixing her car, her voice soft but sincere. He nodded with a smile, his eyes warm.
Later, they found themselves in each other's arms, swaying to a slow song. The world around them faded as he whispered that he had a room at the hotel. Her heart raced, but then reality crashed down on her. She stepped back, horrified, and retreated to the restroom without a word. He didn't see her again until he entered the elevator to head to his room for the evening. As the doors began to close, she stopped them with a steady hand before stepping inside. Neither spoke, the tension between them palpable. When the elevator stopped on the tenth floor, he exited, and she hesitated, questioning why she had even gotten on in the first place. He turned, his eyes locking with hers, seeing the pain, the need, the desire. Reaching for her hand, she placed hers in his and stepped off the elevator. That night, she betrayed everything she had been raised to believe, disrespecting herself and his wife. Unfortunately, it would not be the last time.
For eight months, they carried on in secret, stealing moments of explosive passion. She was his, and he was hers, but only in those fleeting hours. When it was over, he would leave, and she was left with nothing but memories. It was she who ended it, unable to bear the weight of wanting more than he could give. He was married, and that decade-old commitment took precedence. She knew it, and he knew it. Her affections were open and telling, while his remained guarded. It wasn't until she was gone that he realized the depth of his feelings. The hole she left in his heart was unbearable. Eight months of stolen moments, and now all he had were memories that cut deeper with each passing day. He had possessed all of her, and now he had nothing. The phrase 'better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all' felt hollow because he had loved her, and my she had loved him. Being without her was heart-wrenching.
She left D.C. a few years later, purposefully avoiding him. But fate brought them together again, this time on opposite sides of the political aisle. When he saw her in that hotel room, standing behind Bartlet as he announced his running mate, her stature remained ever consummate exuding nothing more than professionalism but her eyes told the story of their history, a love that could never be. His heart sank, the wound she had left reopening once more.
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