Huck.
He's standing in the shadows, just beyond her reach. His face is unreadable, cold, distant. Olivia tries to step closer, but the floor beneath her shifts like sand, pulling her away.
"You left me," Huck's voice is flat, but the words cut deep.
"I tried," she whispers, reaching out, but he doesn't move. He just stares at her, his eyes dark with something she can't name.
"You didn't come," he says again, and then—he's gone. The darkness swallows him whole.
She blinks, and suddenly, she's in the hospital.
Fitz lies still in the bed, the heart monitor beeping in an eerie, steady rhythm. She steps forward, placing a hand on his arm. "Fitz," she breathes, shaking him gently.
No response.
She shakes him harder. "Fitz, wake up."
Still nothing.
A presence looms behind her. Sally Langston's voice slithers through the air. "He's not coming back, Olivia."
Olivia turns, but Sally isn't there. The walls of the hospital room dissolve, shifting, morphing—
And suddenly, she's at Mellie's funeral.
Cameras flash. Reporters scream questions. The world is watching.
Karen and Gerry stand near the casket, their faces pale, blank. But when Olivia steps forward, they look at her—not with grief, but with something worse.
Betrayal.
Gerry turns away first, stepping closer to Fitz. Karen lingers for just a second longer before she follows, her hand slipping into her father's.
And Fitz—
He doesn't look at Olivia. He doesn't acknowledge her. He just keeps his eyes on the casket.
Like she isn't even there.
Her breath catches, panic curling in her chest, and then—
She's in the Oval Office.
Alone.
The desk stretches before her, endless, as the walls close in, suffocating. The sound of ticking fills the room, sharp, growing louder. She turns, searching for the source, but she's surrounded—
Cyrus. Sally. Hollis.
Watching. Waiting.
The clock ticks faster. The walls press in.
She's losing control.
She tries to move, to push back, to fight, but her feet won't budge. Her hands press against the desk, but the wood crumbles beneath her fingers like dust.
"Olivia."
She whips around.
Fitz stands in the doorway. Relief floods her, but then—
His expression is blank.
"Fitz?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
He tilts his head. "Who are you?"
The words slam into her, stealing the air from her lungs.
She tries to speak, but nothing comes out.
Then—
Darkness.
A whisper in the void, soft but insidious.
"You're not in control anymore."
A flash—her hands, covered in blood. Not hers. Fitz's? Huck's? She doesn't know. It won't come off.
A mirror appears. Her reflection stares back at her, but the woman in the glass isn't her. The eyes are hollow. The weight of every choice, every lie, every secret, presses down, suffocating.
The world tilts—
She gasps awake.
Her hands clutch the sheets, her body rigid. Her chest heaves, the phantom echoes of the dream still gripping her.
But only for a second.
Then she forces herself to breathe. To calm. To push it away.
She sits up, reaches for her phone, scanning for updates.
There's too much to do. Too much at stake.
She doesn't have time for nightmares.
She never has.
Still, as she moves to get out of bed, she catches her reflection in the mirror across the room.
Her face is pale. Eyes hollow. Shoulders tense.
For a fleeting moment, she thinks about calling someone—Harrison, Abby, even Cyrus.
But no.
She straightens, pushing the thought away. No one can see her like this.
The world doesn't allow Olivia Pope to be shaken.
So she isn't.
She walks to the bathroom, turning on the sink to splash cold water on her face, grounding herself in the sharp, icy shock against her skin. But just as she exhales—
A shuffle. A breath. The faintest creak of the floorboards.
She turns sharply.
Karen stands in the doorway.
She isn't speaking. She isn't storming in like she usually does when she's angry, ready to throw accusations. She's just watching.
Olivia's fingers tighten against the sink, gripping the porcelain like an anchor.
Karen looks away first, shifting uncomfortably. "You—" Her voice falters, then firms. "You were… talking in your sleep."
Olivia exhales, schooling her expression. "It happens."
A beat.
Karen doesn't snap back. Doesn't challenge her.
They've had moments before—fragments of something that almost feels like understanding—but this is different.
Because this time, Karen doesn't just see Olivia. She sees what's left of her.
The exhaustion, the weight pressing down on her. The woman who always seemed unshakable, breaking in ways she's trying desperately to hide.
Karen hesitates for a beat too long, then—
She doesn't storm off. She doesn't hurl accusations. She lingers, shifting awkwardly. It's not forgiveness. Not yet. But it's something.
Instead of leaving entirely, she leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"I have trouble sleeping too," she admits, voice quieter than Olivia has ever heard it.
A flicker of something passes through Olivia's chest.
She meets Karen's eyes through the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, Karen doesn't look at her with anger—but something else. Maybe not understanding. Not yet. But recognition.
Another moment passes. Then Karen exhales, nodding to herself. She doesn't say goodnight, doesn't push further—but she doesn't walk away angry either.
Instead, she just lingers a second longer, then steps away, leaving the door slightly open behind her.
Olivia watches her go, gripping the edge of the sink.
It's not a reconciliation. It's not even new. But this time, it feels different. This time, it might actually mean something.
The Residence is alive with morning chaos.
Karen ties her shoes. Gerry scrolls through his phone. Olivia moves between them, checking backpacks, making sure everything's set.
And Fitz?
Fitz is leaning against the counter, sipping coffee.
Watching.
Taking it all in.
A quiet moment. A normal moment.
Until—
"Karen, do you need money for the book fair?"
Karen stops.
Slowly lifts her head.
"…Dad, that was last week."
Fitz blinks.
Karen's brows pull together."Remember? I told you about all the books I got."
Silence.
A second too long.
Then—
Fitz smiles.
Easy.Too easy.
"Right. Of course. You got that—what was it?—spy book."
Karen hesitates now.
Not because she doesn't remember.
Because she's studying him.
Something feels off.
And Olivia?
Olivia feels it too.
So she tests him. Just a little.
"And what else did she get?"
Fitz doesn't blink. Doesn't falter.
"Something about dragons."
Karen nods. Slow. Careful.
Like she's not sure if she should correct him.
Becauseshe didn't get a dragon book.
But she doesn't say it.
She justglances at Olivia.
A quiet look.
A silent question.
And then—
Gerry, still scrolling, lets out a quiet snort.
"Hate to break it to you, Dad, but Karen wouldn't be caught dead reading about dragons."
Karen shoots him a look."Excuse you, dragons are cool."
Gerry shrugs."Maybe. But you didn't buy any."
Karen opens her mouth, then stops.
Because he's right.
And Fitz?
Fitz just lifts his mug, takes a sip.
Unbothered. Smooth.
Like he didn't just slip.
Like he didn't just get caught.
And then—
Gerry smirks, finally looking up from his phone.
"Man, you turn 50 and it all goes downhill, huh?"
Karen snorts. Olivia presses her lips together.
And Fitz?
He chuckles.
Easy. Light.
"Watch it, kid."
A joke. A deflection.
But Olivia sees the tightness in his grip around the coffee mug.
She forces a smile.
For Fitz. For Karen. For Gerry. For now.
Because she doesn't have time to unpack this.
Because there's a meeting in the Roosevelt Room.
And because if she lets herself think about this too much—
She won't be able to shake the feeling that Fitz didn't just forget.
That for a second—
He wasn't all there at all.
The kids are out the door.
Karen and Gerry disappear down the hallway, backpacks slung over their shoulders.
The sound of their voices fades. The door clicks shut.
And then—
Silence.
Fitz takes another sip of coffee. Too casual. Too easy.
Olivia?
She doesn't move.
Just watches him.
And waits.
Fitz finally glances over."What?"
Olivia tilts her head. Still watching.
"Nothing."
Fitz smirks."You sure about that?"
She steps forward. Smooth. Measured.
Then, casual as ever—
"What's on your schedule today?"
Fitz pauses.
It's small. Barely there.
But Olivia sees it.
Then—he smiles.
"Policy meeting. Roosevelt Room. You'll be there, I assume?"
Olivia doesn't blink.
He got it right.
She could let it go.
She should let it go.
But—
"And after that?"
Fitz leans back.
Smirks.
"You tell me, Livvie. You're the one who never leaves my side."
Smooth. Too smooth.
Olivia tilts her head. Just slightly.
Then—she hums.
"Hmm."
Turns away.Picks up her bag.
Fitz watches her now.
She can feel it.
"Something on your mind, Livvie?"
Her fingers still for just a second.
Then, she shakes her head.
"Nope."
She walks away.
But Fitz?
Fitz is still standing there, watching her go.
Like he knows—
She doesn't believe him.
The meeting is already tense.
Fitz looks sharp. In control. Presidential.
Like he didn't almost collapse in her arms a few days ago.
Like Olivia didn't see his hands shake.
Like she didn't feel the weight of his body pressing into hers when he nearly went down.
But now?
Now he's sitting beside her.
Now she can see it up close.
The way his left hand is clenching and unclenching. The way his jaw flexes.
He's fine.
But he's not.
She knows it. And she hates it.
The conversation swirls around them. Senior staff. Cabinet members. The hum of voices mixing together.
Fitz is holding steady.
Then—
"We need to reinforce our stance on the education bill. The opposition will—"
He stops.
Not for long. Barely a breath.
But his brow furrows.
His fingers tap once against the table.
"—they'll try to block us on… on…"
Olivia sees it before anyone else does.
And she moves without thinking.
Her hand slides under the table.
Finds his thigh.
And presses.
Steady. Gentle. A quiet anchor.
No one else can see.
No one else knows.
Just them.
Fitz's entire body goes rigid.
But he doesn't pull away.
Instead—
A staffer clears their throat. "Mr. President?"
Fitz's eyes snap to them.
And—
Something shifts.
Something sharp.
For a split second, his face is unreadable.
The silence stretches a fraction too long.
Then—
"Do you want to finish my sentence for me?"
The staffer freezes.
"Sir, I— I was just—"
Fitz leans back. Too slow. Too controlled.
His voice is soft. Dangerous.
"No, please. Go ahead. Since you seem to think I need help forming a complete thought."
The room goes dead silent.
Olivia feels it before she even looks.
Cyrus.
She doesn't have to turn her head to know.
He's smirking.
Loving this.
This version of Fitz.
She chances a glance, and—
There it is.
Cyrus,elbows on the table, watching with something far too close to admiration.
He's enjoying the show.
The staffer blanches, their hands clenching against their notes.
The air in the room is thick now.
Olivia's stomach tightens.
She presses her fingers against Fitz's thigh again.
A silent warning.
But Fitz doesn't move.
He just stares at the staffer.
Waiting.
Too long.
Then—
He exhales, the moment breaking like it never happened.
"Forget it," he says, easily, like he's bored.
"Let's move on."
The staffer nods too quickly.
The conversation restarts.
Everything moves forward.
Like nothing just happened.
Except Olivia knows something did.
And so does Cyrus.
Because the last thing Olivia sees before she looks away—
Is him smiling.
The door clicks shut.
The second it does, Olivia rounds on Cyrus.
"You saw that."
Cyrus—unbothered, smug, amused.
"I saw a President running a country."
Olivia's stomach twists.
She steps in front of him, forcing him to stop.
"Cyrus, he lost his train of thought twice. That wasn't just exhaustion."
Cyrus lets out a slow, exaggerated sigh.
"You're adorable when you worry."
She clenches her jaw.
Voice tight. Shaking.
"He blanked. Twice. He hesitated. He—"
Cyrus leans in, voice dropping. Sharp now.
"And if you bring that up to him, he will cut you out. And I will help him do it."
Olivia stiffens.
Because there it is.
Cyrus knows.
He saw it. He felt it.
But he's choosing not to care.
He exhales, shakes his head.Smug now.
"You're worried? That's sweet, Liv."
He steps closer, his voice smooth. Low. Calculated.
"But let me be clear—"
He pauses.
Lets her hold her breath.
Then—the smirk.
"He's fine. And even if he wasn't?"
He shrugs. Cold. Indifferent.
"He would be fine."
The weight of it settles in her chest.
We are not having this conversation again.
Cyrus turns. Walks away like it's nothing.
Like Fitz didn't just snap.
Like Fitz didn't just shift into something else entirely.
Like Olivia dint feel it too.
She stands there.Absolutely reeling.
Because she knows what she saw.
She knows Cyrus is lying to himself.
And the worst part?
She knows Fitz felt it too.
A dimly lit room. Heavy curtains drawn. The long mahogany table is filled with Cabinet members, their faces lined with hesitation, doubt, and curiosity.
Sally Langston stands at the head of the room, the embodiment of confidence, her hands clasped before her.
"I know some of you still have doubts," she begins smoothly, her southern drawl sharp but inviting. "But let me ask you this—do you truly believe Fitzgerald Grant was fit to return?"
The room is silent.
A few of them shift uncomfortably. One clears his throat. But no one dares to speak first.
Sally presses on. "We were all led to believe he had made a full recovery, that he was ready to lead. But what have we seen since his reinstatement? Hesitation. Weakness. A President who stumbles when he should stand tall."
Her eyes scan the room, calculating. "The American people deserve better. You deserve better."
A murmur ripples through the group. One of the Secretaries, an older man with graying hair, leans forward. "And what exactly are you proposing?"
Sally smiles.
"We correct the mistake. Before it's too late."
The Cabinet members exchange glances.
The seed has been planted.
Fitz leans against his desk,whiskey in hand.
"You've been quiet," he muses.
Olivia glances up."Just tired."
He smirks."Not too tired for me, I hope."
Classic Fitz.
She rolls her eyes."Go to bed, Mr. President."
Fitz chuckles. Takes another sip.
Then—
"I meant what I said earlier, you know."
Olivia pauses.
"About what?"
Fitz shrugs.Casual.
"The education bill. We need to push harder on the funding adjustments."
Olivia stares at him.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Because he never said that.
Not in the meeting.
Not at all.
She tilts her head,studying him now.
"Funding adjustments?"
Fitz meets her gaze. Unbothered. Easy.
"Yeah," he says smoothly, "you know what I mean."
She doesn't.
She could press.
She should press.
But instead—
She lets it go.
For now.
She forces a smile.
"Goodnight, Fitz."
And she walks away.
But the unease?
It lingers.
The morning light is too sharp.
Fitz sits at the edge of the bed, his breathing slow, deliberate—every movement calculated to mask the pain still lingering in his body. The stiffness in his muscles, the ache in his ribs, the tremor in his left hand—all of it betrays the image of a man who is supposed to be healing.
He closes his eyes, willing his fingers to still, but they don't.
The tremor is worse today.
A quiet knock at the door. Tom.
"Sir, your schedule for the morning—"
Fitz exhales, cutting him off. "Give me a minute."
He pushes himself up, gritting his teeth as his legs shake beneath him.His body is fighting him.
But he won't let it win.
Not today.
Not yet.
The city sprawls below, headlights flickering like fireflies, but up here? It's quiet. Removed.
Fitz is standing near the railing, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping a glass of bourbon.
The decanter sits on the small table beside him—half-empty.
He doesn't turn when Olivia steps outside.
Doesn't say anything.
Just keeps staring out, as if the answer to everything is somewhere in the dark.
She watches him for a moment, then quietly closes the balcony door behind her.
Waits.
Fitz finally exhales.
"Drink?" he asks, lifting the bottle slightly.
Olivia tilts her head, studies him. "You offering?"
"Why not?" He pours without waiting for an answer, hands her the glass.
She takes it but doesn't drink.
Just holds it.
"You're drinking alone," she murmurs.
Fitz chuckles, gaze still fixed ahead. "Not anymore."
A breeze moves between them, cool against Olivia's skin. The scent of bourbon lingers in the air. Fitz's shirt sleeves are rolled up, his stance relaxed—but his grip on the glass is too tight.
Finally, he glances at her, his smirk faint, but his eyes…tired.
"How are the kids?" he asks.
Her chest tightens.
Because there it is—his deflection.
She plays along. "Karen had a math test today. Gerry's been at the medical wing with Teddy."
Fitz nods slowly, taking a sip. "Good."
Silence.
Only the soft rustle of leaves, the hum of distant traffic, the faint clink of glass as Fitz rolls his drink between his fingers.
Olivia watches him.
For the first time since the night it happened—since the moment she heard the gunshot, since the second she saw the blood—she actually sits with it.
Not as a fixer. Not as the woman who had to hold everything together.
But as Olivia.
As a woman who almost lost him.
As a woman who still doesn't know if she's losing him now.
She looks down at the bourbon in her hand, the amber liquid catching the soft glow of the balcony lights.
Fitz notices.
"You gonna drink that, or just hold it all night?" he asks, voice light. Too light.
Olivia swallows. "I don't know yet."
Fitz huffs a small laugh. "You're thinking too much, Liv."
Her eyes flicker to his. "And you're thinking too little."
A pause.
A moment where neither of them speaks.
Then—Olivia exhales softly, sets the glass down.
Her voice is quieter when she finally says,
"I sat next to your hospital bed for days, Fitz. I told myself if you woke up, if you fought your way back to us, that would be enough."
She lifts her gaze to his, and for the first time, he actually looks at her.
Really looks at her.
"But now you're here," she continues, voice steady, but something cracks underneath. "And I'm realizing I never stopped holding my breath."
Fitz grips the railing. Just for a second. A flicker of tension in his fingers.Then—he exhales sharply.
"Livvie." His voice is lower now, rougher.
Her throat tightens.
Fitz turns toward her this time.Not all the way, but enough that she can feel the weight of his gaze.
"You can exhale now," he murmurs.
Olivia shakes her head. A small, sad smile flickering at the edges of her lips.
"You almost died once, Fitz," she says softly. "What scares me is that you don't even see the ways it's still trying to take you."
His fingers tighten around the glass.
The muscle in his jaw tics.
For the first time tonight, the mask slips.
But just for a second.
Then, he recovers.
"You won't lose me, Livvie," he says, smooth and certain.
Too certain.
She nods. "I hope not."
And then, softer, a final blow—
"I don't want to wake up one day and realize you lost this fight without even knowing you were in one."
Fitz freezes.
The bourbon in his handdoesn't move.
Something flickers in his eyes.Not frustration. Not anger.
Fear.
But just as quickly as it appears—it's gone.
His grip tightens. His throat bobs with a swallow.
Then, with no expression at all, he lifts the glass and downs the rest of his drink.
Olivia waits.
But this time, she does something different.
She reaches out. A light touch. Just her fingers on his forearm. Barely there.
It's gone before Fitz can react.
She's already turning toward the door.
She's almost inside when she stops.
"Karen wants you to tuck her in tomorrow night," she says, voice softer now. "I know she's too old, but… ever since Mellie…"
She doesn't finish.
Fitz closes his eyes for a second.Like the weight of it just landed.
When he opens them, he doesn't smirk this time.
"I'll be there," he says, voice rougher now. Quieter.
Olivia holds his gaze a second longer. Then, she gives a small nod and walks inside.
But just before the door clicks shut—
"Livvie."
She stops.
Turns back.
Fitz is still staring out at the city, but his grip on the railing is white-knuckled now.
"Did I scare you?"
Her breath catches.
It's the first real thing he's said all night.
She swallows.
"Yeah," she says, voice barely above a whisper. "You did."
Fitz doesn't move.
Just nods once, almost to himself.
Then—he finally looks away.
Olivia exhales, pressing her lips together. Then, she leaves.
This time, he doesn't stop her.
And this time?
She doesn't turn back.
Her phone buzzes. A text from Edison Davis.
Edison: I don't think I can hold the Cabinet much longer. They're leaning toward giving power back to Sally. Looks like Fitz will have 90 days to prove he's fit—or he's out.
Olivia stares at the screen, heart pounding.
Time is running out.
Fitz sits in the residence, a cup of coffee cooling in his hand, his fingers subtly trembling as he watches the steam rise.
Olivia enters, Cyrus just behind her, phone still in her grip from the text message.
She doesn't sugarcoat it. "Edison says they can't hold off much longer. They're giving power back to Sally. You have ninety days to prove you're fit to lead."
Fitz exhales sharply, jaw clenching. Cyrus curses under his breath.
But Olivia remains steady.
"Maybe this isn't the worst thing," she continues. "It gives us time. You can focus on recovering without being in the public eye every second. We can still control the narrative, but on our terms. Small but impactful moves, just like we planned."
Fitz studies her for a long moment, his frustration warring with logic.
Cyrus scoffs. "That's a damn optimistic take."
Olivia holds Fitz's gaze. "It's the only one that keeps us in the game."
Fitz grips the coffee mug tighter.
Ninety days.
The countdown has begun.
Fitz remains seated, gripping the coffee mug as the weight of the ninety-day deadline settles over him. His expression is unreadable, his mind already turning over every possible angle, every way to prove he belongs in that office. That he can still lead.
Cyrus exhales sharply and leans against the desk, crossing his arms. "Do you really think small but impactful moments are going to work?"
Fitz doesn't answer immediately, his jaw tightening.
Cyrus scoffs, shaking his head. "You have ninety days, Fitz. Ninety. That's nothing. Sally is out there rallying every vote she needs to make sure you don't cross that finish line. You think shaking a few hands behind closed doors and giving some carefully crafted speeches is going to be enough? We don't have the luxury of slow and steady."
Fitz finally looks up, his eyes sharp, edged with something dangerous. "You think I don't know that?"
Cyrus narrows his eyes. "I think you want to believe you can win this by playing it safe. But tell me, when has playing it safe ever worked for you?"
Fitz's grip tightens on the mug. The tremor in his hand is barely visible—but Cyrus sees it.
Cyrus steps closer, lowering his voice. "You want to survive this? You don't just need to prove you can do the job, Fitz. You need to make them afraid of what happens if they take it from you."
Fitz exhales slowly, jaw clenched. "And how do you suggest I do that?"
Cyrus smirks, but there's no humor in it. "We stop reacting. We make the first move. We don't let Sally control the game. We take back the board."
Fitz watches him, silent, considering.
Cyrus straightens. "So, what's it going to be, Mr. President? Are you ready to fight? Or should we start packing up the Oval now?"
A long beat.
Then Fitz sets the mug down, steady this time. "Find me a move to make. We start now."
Cyrus nods, satisfied.
Game on.
The medical wing of the White House is quiet, a rare moment of stillness in a world that never stops moving. Olivia sits beside Teddy's bassinet, watching the slow rise and fall of his tiny chest. The nasal cannula still helps him breathe, his fingers occasionally twitching in his sleep.
A nurse moves in the background, checking the monitors, adjusting the IV drip. Olivia barely acknowledges her. Teddy is safe. He's home. That's all that matters right now.
She rests her hand lightly on the edge of the bassinet, her fingers tracing absent patterns against the fabric. There's something grounding about being here, away from the noise, from the calculations and the chaos.
For the first time in what feels like forever, there is no strategy to craft, no damage to control. Just this. Just him.
Her breath steadies as she watches him, the weight in her chest shifting—not disappearing, but settling, just for a moment.
She doesn't pick him up, doesn't press him close. Instead, she simply sits, keeping watch, keeping still.
And for the first time in a long time, she doesn't feel like she's drowning.
The room is dimly lit, the weight of the conversation pressing in like a storm cloud. Fitz sits at the small table in the residence, his fingers curled around a coffee mug, though he hasn't taken a sip in minutes. Across from him, Cyrus leans forward, his expression sharp, unwavering.
Olivia stands near the window, arms crossed, silent. Watching.
"We need to hit them hard, Fitz," Cyrus says, his voice crisp, cutting. "No more waiting. No more reacting. We take control, and we take it now."
Fitz exhales slowly, already anticipating what's coming.
Cyrus continues, laying out his strategy piece by piece. "We control the narrative. First, we push for a carefully curated interview—an exclusive, one where you remind America that you are still their President. No distractions, no debates, just you setting the record straight."
Fitz doesn't respond, just listens as Cyrus pushes forward.
"Then we use the gun control initiative, but not the way Olivia is thinking. No more quiet backroom talks—we go big. A high-profile bipartisan roundtable. Not just shaking hands and nodding along. You lead it. You control the conversation. The press eats it up, and suddenly, you're not just a recovering man—you're a leader shaping policy."
Fitz shifts slightly, his fingers tightening around the mug.
Cyrus's voice lowers, more calculating. "And Sally? We don't wait for her to make a move. We make the first move. We set a trap—feed the media just enough to make her overplay her hand. We know she wants power. We let the country see just how much she's willing to burn to get it."
He leans back, a slow, knowing smirk forming. "We don't play defense, Fitz. We go on offense. Now."
Silence lingers.
Fitz finally exhales, looking to Olivia. She doesn't speak. She doesn't nod. She simply holds his gaze for a moment before turning and walking out of the room.
The residence is quiet when Fitz finds Olivia later, sitting in the corner of the room, her eyes distant, thoughtful.
"You didn't say anything back there," Fitz says, watching her.
She looks up, her expression unreadable. "Because I don't agree."
Fitz sighs, stepping closer. "I figured."
Olivia unfolds her arms, sitting forward. "Cyrus wants to push too hard, too fast. If we make the first move now, we risk exposing you before you're ready. We don't need an all-out war with Sally—not yet. We need to move in the margins, keep the focus on your leadership, not the fight for power."
Fitz doesn't respond immediately, just lets her continue.
"Small but impactful moments," she says firmly. "You don't need a press conference or a high-profile event. You need controlled, deliberate steps. Private listening sessions, meetings behind closed doors—real conversations, not performances for the press."
Fitz tilts his head. "You think that'll be enough?"
"It has to be."
She exhales, standing up. "We use the White House itself as a tool. Bring people to you. Keep you in control without overexposing you. The press will cover everything we do, Fitz. We don't need to chase headlines—we let them come to us."
Fitz studies her. "And you think that'll buy me enough time?"
Olivia steps closer. "I think it's the only way to keep you in this fight long enough to win it."
A long beat of silence stretches between them. Then, finally, Fitz nods.
"We do it your way," he says. But there's something lingering in his gaze. A flicker of doubt. Of frustration.
And Olivia sees it.
They both know this isn't over.
Not yet.
The Roosevelt Room is quiet, the long wooden table filled with survivors, advocates, and experts—those who have spent years fighting for change. This isn't their first meeting. This is a follow-up, a next step.
Fitz sits at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, listening. The conversation is different this time—less about loss, more about solutions. The question at the center of it all: What needs to change?
A woman clears her throat, her voice steady. "We need mandatory universal background checks. No loopholes. No exemptions."
A man across from her nods. "And liability laws for gun owners. If someone's gun is used in a crime, they should be held responsible for how it was stored."
Another survivor, a young man who survived a mass shooting, leans forward. "We need stricter regulations on firearm storage. Safe storage laws that actually have consequences if ignored."
Fitz listens intently, absorbing every word, every demand. This is what leadership should be—not just talking, but hearing.
"The opposition is going to push back hard," Fitz finally says, his voice even. "We have to be prepared to fight for these changes at every level—state and federal."
An older woman, a longtime advocate, folds her hands in front of her. "Then we need an executive action. Something that puts pressure on Congress to move forward."
The room murmurs in agreement. Olivia, standing near the back, watches the momentum building. This is what she planned for—strategic, measured progress.
Fitz nods. "We draft a proposal. Something tangible. We get the legal framework in place, and then we push."
The conversation continues, building with energy, until Olivia's phone vibrates in her hand. She glances down—
A leak.
The notification flashes across her screen. The headlines are alreadyspinning the event against them.
"A President in Mourning: Is Grant Leading or Searching for Meaning?"
"Fitz Grant's Personal Tragedy: An Obsession with Gun Control or Genuine Leadership?"
Her jaw tightens. Sally is already making her move.
She looks up, back at Fitz. He doesn't know yet. Not now. Not here.
But soon, he will.
And when he does, they'll have to decide—stick to the plan, or fight back harder?
Sally Langston stands behind a podium, her expression the perfect blend of solemn concern and calculated precision. The press room is packed, cameras rolling, eager for the latest political spectacle.
She clasps her hands together, looking into the camera as if speaking directly to the American people.
"I want to start by saying this—my heart goes out to President Grant. Losing a spouse is a grief I would not wish upon my worst enemy, and I commend him for his resilience in these trying times."
A pause. Just long enough to let the empathy settle before she delivers the blow.
"But the American people must ask themselves—can a man still deep in mourning, a man balancing the duties of fatherhood and the burden of a sick child, truly focus on the immense responsibilities of this office? The presidency is not a part-time job. It is not something one can shoulder when convenient and step away from when the weight becomes too much."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Sally presses forward, her voice a delicate mix of concern and suggestion.
"We are a nation in crisis. Our economy, our security, our very future require steadfast leadership. And while I have nothing but sympathy for President Grant, I ask—where is his full commitment? Is he in the Oval Office, or is his heart still buried in grief?"
The headline practically writes itself.
As she steps away from the podium, an aide approaches, slipping her a note. She reads it, a slow smirk curling on her lips. The leak has already begun taking hold.
Sally turns to her closest advisor. "Now, let's see how they scramble."
The tension in the West Wing is suffocating. Olivia stands near the fireplace, arms crossed, jaw tight. Cyrus paces the room, the scotch in his hand shaking slightly—not from nerves, but from barely restrained fury. Fitz sits at the head of the table, elbows on the armrests, fingers pressed against his temples. He hasn't spoken in minutes.
Cyrus is the first to break the silence.
"We hit back. Now. Hard. We don't let her frame the narrative—because once she does, we've already lost. We leak every dirty trick she's pulled, every backroom deal she's made. Hell, let's find a grieving widow or a single father who's leading just fine and put them front and center. We turn her concern into an insult. We make her look like she's exploiting grief, not empathizing with it."
Olivia exhales, shaking her head. "No. That's exactly what she wants. We don't engage. We don't validate this attack. If we go on the defensive, we look weak. If we attack, we look desperate. We stick to the plan, stay on course. We don't let her bait us."
Cyrus scoffs. "Bait us? Liv, she's gutting him in front of the American people!"
Fitz finally lifts his head. His voice is quieter than either of theirs. "And what would you have me do, Cy? Stand at a podium and swear I can still do my job? Pretend I haven't been waking up every day feeling like a ghost?"
Cyrus stops pacing. His expression flickers—just for a second—before his mask of determination settles back in place. "I would have you fight, sir. I would have you remind the country who you are."
Olivia's voice is softer now, measured. "You don't have to prove yourself to her. You have to prove yourself to the American people. And you do that by leading, not by playing into her hands. We keep moving forward."
Fitz leans back, rubbing his hands over his face. He looks at Olivia, then at Cyrus, before letting out a slow breath. "I need to think."
Olivia steps forward, her voice gentler now. "Then take a couple of days, Fitz. Spend time with your kids. Be with your family. No decision needs to be made today."
Fitz studies her for a moment, the weight of her words settling in. Then he nods, exhaling deeply. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."
Cyrus opens his mouth to push further, but Olivia shoots him a look. Not now.
As the door closes behind him. The moment Fitz leaves the room, Cyrus turns on Olivia—his anger sharp, his patience gone.
"We don't have time for this, Liv!" His voice is a low hiss, controlled but cutting."Every second we waste, Sally gains ground!"
Olivia exhales slowly, keeping her arms crossed."We're not wasting time, Cyrus. We're controlling it."
Cyrus laughs—a short, bitter sound."Controlling it? Fitz is off playing house while Sally is out there questioning his ability to lead. And you're letting it happen!"
Olivia's eyes flash."I'm making sure we win. Not for a week. Not for a month. For good."
Cyrus steps closer, voice lowering, words like a blade."He's the President of the United States, not a man on bereavement leave. But you? You don't see it that way, do you?"
Silence.
He watches her, waiting for the reaction, for the flicker of something behind her carefully controlled expression. And he gets it.
A crack. A split-second hesitation. Doubt.
Olivia schools her features fast, but Cyrus knows he hit a nerve.
"Do you even care about this presidency anymore?"he presses, his voice quieter now, more dangerous."Or is it just about Fitz for you?"
Olivia lifts her chin, voice cold."I care about keeping him in that office. But I also care about making sure he's still standing when we win."
Cyrus narrows his eyes."You think I don't? You think I haven't given up everything to keep him here?"
Olivia's voice stays even, but her hands tighten into fists."Don't question my loyalty, Cyrus."
"Then prove it," Cyrus fires back."Because right now? It looks like you're playing it safe for a man, not fighting for a President."
A charged beat.
Then Cyrus steps back, his anger cooling into something sharper. Calculated."When this falls apart, don't say I didn't warn you."
He turns, walking out.
Olivia exhales, staring at the empty space where he stood, her mind racing.
Because for a moment—just a moment—she isn't sure if he's wrong.
And for the first time, she wonders if Cyrus was right.
The medical wing of the White House is quiet, save for the occasional beep of monitors and the soft rustling of nurses moving in and out. Fitz sits in the private room where Teddy rests in his bassinet, the baby's tiny chest rising and falling steadily. He's stronger now, but still fragile.
Karen and Gerry sit beside him, the room feeling smaller with all of them together, but not uncomfortably so. It's been a long time since they've shared a moment that wasn't consumed by grief, uncertainty, or the weight of the world outside these walls.
Karen breaks the silence first. "Are you okay?" Her voice is softer than usual, lacking the sharp edges she's carried since Mellie's death.
Fitz exhales, adjusting Teddy's blanket slightly. "I don't know," he admits, his voice honest in a way it rarely is. "But I'm here."
Gerry nods, looking down at his hands. "I just… it's weird, you know? Having you back, but not knowing how long you'll stay."
Fitz swallows hard, guilt curling in his chest. "I'm not going anywhere."
Karen watches him carefully. "You don't have to be strong for us all the time, Dad."
Fitz chuckles lightly. "You'll always be my kids."
Karen rolls her eyes, but there's no real bite to it. Gerry smirks.
Teddy stirs in his bassinet, letting out a tiny noise before settling again. Fitz leans forward, pressing a gentle hand on his son's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. He presses a soft kiss to the baby's head, his grip tightening just slightly on the edge of the bassinet. "I needed this," he admits. "Just… being with you all."
Karen leans back against her chair, her expression softer than it's been in weeks. "We needed it too."
For the first time in a long time, there's no politics, no battles, no noise.
Just them.
A family trying to find their way back to each other.
The house is quiet—as quiet as the White House ever gets.
Olivia isn't sure what pulls her downstairs. Maybe it's the weight of everything. Maybe she just needed a second to breathe.
What she wasn't expecting?
Karen and Gerry sitting at the kitchen island, a carton of ice cream between them.
At midnight.
Olivia stops in the doorway, crossing her arms."You two do realize it's late, right?"
Karen doesn't even blink."So?"
Gerry, half-asleep, lazily shovels another bite into his mouth."Yeah, Liv. It's late. You should be in bed."
Olivia gives him a look."Oh, I'm sorry—did you just tell me to go to bed?"
Karen smirks."Bold move, Gerry."
Gerry shrugs, unfazed."Look, we're already breaking the rules. What's one more?"
Olivia exhales, rubbing her temple."I cannot believe your father lets you get away with this."
Karen smirks."He doesn't. He's just bad at catching us."
Gerry lifts a spoon, barely awake."It's a skill."
Olivia shakes her head, moving toward them."So, what's the excuse? Couldn't sleep?"
Karen shrugs, looking away."Something like that."
Olivia studies her for a moment but doesn't push. Instead, she nods toward the ice cream."You do realize your father would lose his mind if he saw this, right?"
Karen grins."Then it's a good thing he's not here."
Gerry stifles a laugh. Olivia sighs.
Karen watches her for a second, then—she nudges the ice cream container forward."You want some?"
Olivia hesitates.
It's just ice cream. But it's also something else.
It's an invitation. A test. A moment.
Gerry barely lifts his spoon."If you say no, Karen's gonna start psychoanalyzing you."
Karen glares at him."I do not—okay, maybe a little."
Olivia exhales, then grabs a spoon from the drawer, sitting across from them.
Karen watches as Olivia takes a bite, then smirks."Okay. You're not a total lost cause."
Gerry snickers."High praise, coming from her."
Olivia smirks back."I'll take what I can get."
The conversation doesn't go much deeper than that—just quiet, small talk, moments where things feel lighter than they should.
For once, Olivia isn't managing a crisis. She's just here.
And for the first time in a long time—Karen doesn't seem to mind.
The scent of popcorn lingers in the air as the movie flickers across the screen, casting shadows over the dimly lit room.
Fitz exhales slowly, sinking into the couch like it's the first time he's allowed himself to breathe all day.Karen and Gerry are half-buried under blankets, the glow of the TV washing over them as they argue over whether the hero's last stunt was ridiculous or iconic.
Olivia lingers near the doorway, watching.
"You're hovering," Fitz murmurs, eyes flicking toward her.
Olivia lifts a brow. "I don't hover."
Karen snorts from the other side of the couch. "You totally hover."
Olivia gives her a look, but Karen just smirks and turns back to the screen.
Fitz pats the empty spot next to him."Come sit, Liv."
She hesitates.
Not because she doesn't want to. But because it's too easy. Too comfortable.
Fitz sees it—the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. But instead of pushing, he just nudges the blanket toward her, a silent invitation.
Olivia exhales, then finally moves toward the couch.She perches on the edge at first, but Fitz just shakes his head, reaches over, and tugs her down next to him.
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"His voice is low, teasing.
She could pull away. She doesn't.
The warmth of him is steady beside her, his arm stretched along the back of the couch—not touching, but close enough that she canfeel the heat of his skin against hers.
Karen rolls her eyes."Are you two gonna whisper the whole time, or can we focus on the masterpiece in front of us?"
Fitz chuckles, shifting slightly—just enough that his knee brushes Olivia's."Oh, excuse me. Didn't realize we were in the presence of cinematic greatness."
Gerry grins."Exactly. Finally, someone with taste."
Karen throws popcorn at him."It's terrible, and you know it."
Fitz feels Olivia's breath catch—just slightly—as she leans back against the couch. Her fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the blanket before she relaxes.
It's nothing. But it's something.
He doesn't move his arm.
He just lets her stay close. Lets her settle. Lets himself believe, just for a little while, that maybe—just maybe—she's not pulling away.
And Olivia?
She lets herself stay.
The medical wing is dim, the rhythmic beep of monitors filling the silence. Fitz sits beside Teddy's bassinet, watching the slow rise and fall of his son's tiny chest. He looks peaceful, content, a rare sight these days. Olivia stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.
For a moment, she lets herself breathe. This is the Fitz she fights for—the father, the man who isn't carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. But Cyrus's words creep in, poisoning the quiet.
Do you even care about this presidency anymore? Or is it just about Fitz for you?
She pushes the thought away, stepping inside. Fitz notices her, his gaze shifting from Teddy to her. He studies her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression.
"You're not saying anything," he finally murmurs.
Olivia shakes her head, trying to deflect. "Just taking it in."
Fitz doesn't buy it. "Cyrus got to you, didn't he?"
She hesitates. "He thinks we're waiting too long."
Fitz exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Do you?"
Olivia wants to say no. Wants to reassure him. But she hesitates.
That's all the answer he needs.
Fitz leans back in his chair, letting out a slow, humorless laugh. "You know, I've been wondering about something."
Olivia tilts her head. "What?"
He looks at her then, really looks at her. "How invested you actually are."
The words hit harder than she expects.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice is controlled, but he catches the slight edge.
Fitz shrugs, his expression unreadable. "You've been distracted, Olivia. You think I haven't noticed? You're here, but you're not really here. Your mind's been elsewhere. Everything but this. But me."
She exhales sharply. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Fitz challenges. "Because from where I'm sitting, I've had to fight just to get your attention. And now, when I finally feel like I'm ready to push forward, you're the one hesitating."
Olivia shakes her head, arms tightening around herself. "I'm trying to protect you."
Fitz scoffs, shaking his head. "No, you're trying to control me."
Silence.
It lingers between them, heavy and suffocating.
"If I'm not ready now, then when?" Fitz finally asks, his voice quieter, but no less intense.
Olivia looks at him, words failing her for the first time in a long time. Because she doesn't have an answer. Not one that satisfies either of them.
Fitz exhales, pushing himself up from the chair. "That's what I thought."
He doesn't wait for a response. He walks past her, leaving Olivia standing in the dim light, the weight of everything pressing down on her shoulders.
Olivia sits on the edge of her bed, the room dark except for the dim glow of a lamp. The weight of the last few hours settles deep in her chest. Cyrus's accusations, Fitz's doubts—they're all tangled inside her, a storm she can't silence.
Her phone buzzes on the nightstand.
She reaches for it slowly, swiping the screen. A message from an unknown number. Attached is a video.
She presses play.
Edison Davis, standing at a press conference, answering a reporter's question.
"President Grant is a grieving man, a father balancing enormous personal tragedy with the responsibilities of the highest office in the land. I don't doubt his strength, but I do believe the American people deserve to know—can he truly give this job his full attention right now?"
The air leaves Olivia's lungs.
Edison just planted the seed.
Doubt. In Fitz's ability to lead.
She grips the phone tighter, her pulse quickening.
Because she knows exactly what this means.
Sally isn't the only one making moves.
Olivia doesn't hesitate. She dials.
Edison answers after one ring. "Olivia, I—"
"You didn't just question him—you gave them a reason to take him down," she cuts in, her voice sharp with restrained fury.
Edison exhales. "I didn't want to do this."
"But you did."
A beat of silence.
"They're moving the timeline up, Olivia. Sixty days. Maybe less."
Her grip tightens around the phone.
"I bought you time. That's all."
"You broke something that won't be easy to fix."
Edison's voice is quiet, but certain. "I did what I thought was right."
Olivia inhales shakily. "Then I hope you can live with it."
She ends the call.
And for the first time, she realizes the fight just got even harder.
The weight of it all sits heavily on Olivia's shoulders.
She stands at the window of her office, arms crossed, her mind running through every possible move, every scenario, every piece of leverage she has left.
Time is slipping away faster than she expected.
Sixty days. That was supposed to be the safety net. The window to get Fitz stable, to make strategic moves, to prove he was fit to lead. But after Edison's call, she knows the truth—they might not even have that long.
She should tell Cyrus. Should tell Fitz. But not yet. Not until she has something solid. Something to counter the Cabinet's shift before it reaches critical mass.
The plan, if she could even call it that, is forming piece by piece. She needs a foothold inside the Cabinet. Someone who will push back against the growing doubt.
But to pull it off, she needs her team.
And right now? Her team doesn't trust her.
OPA feels different. The air is thicker. The energy is off.
Harrison, Abby, Quinn—they're all still reeling from Huck's situation, still questioning her priorities.
And Huck? He's not even here.
No one says it right away, but it lingers. The empty chair. The missing presence. The weight of his absence.
She sees it in the way Harrison leans back in his chair, arms crossed, skepticism in his eyes. In the way Abby keeps her expression neutral but doesn't rush to fill the silence. In the way Quinn, once eager, now looks at her with quiet distrust.
She lays out the situation as cleanly as she can.
"We need a move inside the Cabinet," Olivia says, standing at the head of the conference table. "Someone who can keep them from making a decision before we're ready."
No one speaks right away.
Then Harrison. "Before we're ready?" The emphasis is sharp. Accusatory.
Abby doesn't even look at her when she speaks. "Are we still pretending this is about the country?"
A beat.
Olivia's fingers curl slightly against the tabletop. "It's about making sure the right person is leading it."
"And that person is Fitz?" Quinn finally speaks up, voice cool. "Because you haven't been acting like it lately."
Silence stretches, thick and weighted.
Then Harrison, a little quieter, but no less pointed: "Huck's not here."
Olivia's spine stays straight, her expression unreadable. "I'm aware."
Quinn leans forward. "Are you?"
Olivia doesn't flinch. "We don't have time for this."
She pushes forward, keeps her voice even, keeps control.
But they all see it.
Everyone knows the truth.
The trust is broken. And Huck's absence? It's proof.
Still, Olivia keeps going. Keeps pressing the strategy forward. Keeps them focused. Because that's what she does.
She doesn't stop to acknowledge the fracture.
But it's there. And it's widening.
As Olivia fights to keep control behind the scenes, Fitz is trying to hold steady in the public eye.
But the cracks are starting to show.
His team notices. Olivia notices. And soon? Sally notices, too.
A political sparring match is coming.The first real public clash between Fitz and Sally.And after that? She'll come for him in private.
Fitz'sspiral will be slow but inevitable—a combination of exhaustion, doubt, and the crushing pressure closing in around him.
And when Cyrus finds out what Olivia's been keeping from him?
It will all explode.
The laptop sits open on Olivia's lap, screen dim, long since forgotten. She's staring at it, eyes unfocused, exhaustion pressing heavy on her shoulders. The weight of the day, the weeks—it all sits inside her like something she doesn't have the energy to name.
She knows she should go to bed. She won't.
Footsteps pad softly across the floor. She looks up as Gerry steps into the dim light of the room, balancing a textbook under one arm and a massive bowl of popcorn in the other.
Olivia raises an eyebrow.
"You planning on pulling an all-nighter?"
Gerry shrugs, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth. "History test. Might as well try to keep up with the family legacy."
The joke lands somewhere between humor and weight. It doesn't sit right with her.
He doesn't wait for a response. He just walks over and shoves the bowl in her face.
Olivia blinks at it. Then at him.
"Seriously?"
Gerry doesn't even blink. "You're the reason the Grant family now has a popcorn addiction. You deal with the consequences."
A soft, tired laugh escapes her before she can stop it. She takes some, tossing a piece into her mouth. Gerry nods in satisfaction and drops onto the couch beside her, like he's been doing it forever.
The room hums with the soft glow of the TV, background noise filling the silence.
Then, after a long beat, Gerry speaks.
"Mom used to do this."
Olivia stops mid-chew. Swallows.
The words are soft. Unassuming.They land like a quiet, devastating bomb.
But Gerry doesn't move. Doesn't look at her. Just keeps eating popcorn like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She watches him for a second, something shifting inside her—something deep, something she isn't ready to name.
Without thinking ,without hesitation, she lifts a hand and runs her fingers absently through his hair.
It's natural. Thoughtless. Like she's been doing it forever.
Then she realizes.
She freezes.
Gerry doesn't. He doesn't react. Doesn't tense. Doesn't pull away.
He just keeps eating popcorn, completely at ease.
So she does it again. Just once.
And that? That's it.That'sthe moment everything changes.
Because this isn't forced. This isn't her trying to be something.This just is.
And that? That terrifies her. But maybe, just maybe, it's also the best thing that's ever happened to her.
Then, without a word, Gerry shifts—leans his head against her shoulder.
Olivia stills.
Not because she doesn't want it—but because this is real.
This isn't just taking care of them.This isn't just making sure they're okay.
They are choosing her.
Slowly, she relaxes. Lets him stay.
Lets the moment happen.
The TV hums in the background. The popcorn bowl sits between them. It's small. Simple. But it's everything.
Fitz stops in the doorway.
He wasn't expecting this.Wasn't expecting to see them like this.
But when he does—his breath catches.
He stands there, frozen, something burning deep in his chest, something he can't name but feels like a dream mixed with a nightmare.
This? This is everything he ever wanted.
Olivia. The kids. A quiet night. A home. A family.
But this isn't Vermont.
Mellie is dead.
He is a mess.
He can't be with Olivia the way he wants to, the way he needs to.
Worst of all—he knows something is wrong with him.
But he can't worry about that.
He has a country to run.
He watches a second too long. Then he turns away. Keeps walking.
And that? That's the moment it happens.
His vision tilts. The hallway stretches, warps, bends in ways it shouldn't.
His stomach twists. Something is wrong.
Fitz stops. Braces a hand against the wall.
His left hand twitches—he can't feel his fingers.
He tries to move. His body doesn't listen.
His chest tightens. A sharp, piercing pain stabs through his skull, white-hot and blinding.
His legs buckle.
The ground rushes up to meet him.
He barely registers hitting the floor.
Then—
The voices start.
It is father's voice, the cold biting drawl, "You're supposed to be a Grant, boy."
Fitz gasps. His chest locks tight—like something is pushing down on him.
Then Cyrus, it's low, sharp, unrelenting, "Do you think Olivia Pope would love a weak man?"
Pressure. A grip at his throat. Fitz claws at the carpet, but his fingers are numb.
They're laughing at him, "Look at you. On the damn ground. Pathetic. "Big Jerry bites outs, a hand—huge, strong, crushing—grips his shoulder. It's not real. It's not real.
Cyrus follows, "If you can't even stand, what the hell are you good for?"
Laughter. It echoes. Twists. Crawls down his spine like ice.
Just when Fitz thinks it over, like he finally gets some reprieve, Big Jerry's voice filters in like a gravel, like God, like Death itself, "What was the point of surviving if you were just going to be weak?"
His body locks up.Trapped. Trapped inside his own skin.
His breath—it won't come.
And then—
He feels it.
A shadow looms over him. Not real.Not real.
But it feels real.
A figure standing over him, dark and towering. Big Jerry.
Fitz squeezes his eyes shut.
He doesn't want to look.He can't.
Because if he looks—if he sees him standing there—he'll break.
The words linger landing like a hammer.A brutal, deafening crack to his chest.
He believes it.
Maybe Big Jerry is right.
Maybe he shouldn't have survived at all.
He can't move. He can't breathe. His body is betraying him, and his mind is swallowing him whole.
And the voices—they don't stop.
MOVE.
His arms shake violently as he tries again.
It takes everything.
Every muscle. Every ounce of pride. Every inch of rage.
He forces himself onto his knees.Hands shaking. Chest heaving.
He grips the nightstand. Hauls himself up.
The mirror stands before him.
For a second—just a second—he sees Big Jerry.
Not his own reflection.
Not himself.
His father.
Staring back.
Eyes full of disappointment.
And then—he blinks.
It's gone.
Just him. Just Fitz.
But the feeling? It lingers.
He turns the sink on. Splashes water on his face.
Wipes at his mouth. His throat still burns.
He straightens.
The mask goes back on.
Like nothing happened.
And in the morning, when Olivia sees him, he'll smile.
Because weak men don't survive.
And Fitz Grant refuses to be weak.