The Senator's New Beau

Chapter 1

**A Fundraiser, A Spark, and a Rival's Gaze**

Senator Jonathan Hale navigated the ballroom like a seasoned pro, although he couldn't recall the last time he'd enjoyed these events. The place dripped with opulence: chandeliers throwing shards of light across polished floors, waiters weaving between clusters of donors in tailored finery. Everything felt carefully orchestrated, from the classical music playing at just the right decibel to the miniature fountains flanking the stage. In other words, exactly the sort of function that made him want to slip out the back door.

He forced a gracious smile. "Of course, Mrs. Abernathy. I appreciate your continued support on the committee's new budget plan," he said, though in truth, he could barely muster the mental space to recall the specifics. He'd spent the past week hammering out proposals, appeasing high-stakes donors, fending off a subtle rivalry from Senator Carlisle--and it was only Wednesday.

Mrs. Abernathy, a donor in an extravagant navy gown, prattled on about the intricacies of energy policy. Jonathan listened, nodding politely. He'd learned ages ago that half the job was making the person in front of you feel like the center of the universe. In the corner of his vision, he caught sight of a familiar figure--**Claire**, his chief of staff, scanning the crowd with hawklike focus. She gave him the slightest nod, presumably a silent question: *All good here?* He answered with a blink-and-you-miss-it lift of his eyebrows: *I'm fine. Don't worry.* Claire's mouth quirked, not fully convinced, before she moved on.

He took a moment to glance around. The fundraiser was exclusive, invitation-only, designed for the ultra-wealthy and the politically connected. At any given time, half of them were out to push their own agendas, and the other half just wanted bragging rights for rubbing elbows with senators. Jonathan used to relish the dance. Tonight, he felt a wave of jaded restlessness.

"Pardon me," he finally managed, smiling at Mrs. Abernathy, "I see an old friend across the way. I'll check in again soon." He eased out of the conversation before she could protest. It wasn't even eight-thirty yet; *how much more small talk do I have in me?* he wondered.

---

Cutting across the room, he nearly collided with **Noah**, a junior aide on his staff. Noah juggled a half-dozen glossy brochures while balancing a flute of sparkling water.

"Careful there," Jonathan murmured, steadying Noah before he toppled. The younger man wore a standard black suit and a wide-eyed look of excitement. Jonathan sometimes suspected Noah took this job purely for the thrill of being around "important people."

Noah breathed a laugh. "Thanks, Senator. I was just about to drop all these donor pamphlets. Claire's orders." He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, as if expecting her to appear. "She wants you to sign a few, do the rounds, you know?"

Jonathan suppressed a grimace. "Right. Of course." *Because that's what I signed up for,* he thought wryly, *autographs in exchange for pledges.* Aloud, he said, "Just set them on a table somewhere. I'll handle it in a bit."

Noah nodded, then leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Hey, Senator, you good? You look... I dunno... preoccupied."

"I'm fine," Jonathan said, keeping it crisp. "Go help Claire. And don't let anyone see you with that many pamphlets; you'll scare them."

Noah grinned, pivoting away with that same boyish enthusiasm. Jonathan watched him for a second. Sometimes he envied that easy excitement. He himself had been so buttoned-up and driven for so long, it was hard to recall a time when he felt truly carefree.

---

He made his way to a quieter corner near the dais, scanning the crowd for Senator Carlisle. *Might as well greet the devil earlier than later.* Carlisle had recently become an aggravating presence--always sniffing around for vulnerabilities, occasionally stoking rumors that Jonathan might be "slipping." The press ate it up whenever two senators had friction. Sure enough, Jonathan caught a glimpse of Carlisle's angular profile across the room. The man was mid-laugh with a group of donors, but it looked more like a predator baring its teeth.

Instead of crossing over, Jonathan hovered by a small arrangement of tall vases, half-hidden behind the swirl of guests. *Maybe I'll lie low for a second.* He sipped the bourbon he'd grabbed earlier--on an empty stomach, not the best choice--and let the hum of conversation wash over him.

When was the last time I had a moment to breathe? he wondered. He had the uneasy feeling that he'd been on autopilot for months, maybe years.

---

He was pondering a discreet exit strategy when he felt it: a prickle at the back of his neck, as if someone watched him intently. He turned, brow furrowed, scanning the patchwork of well-dressed attendees. For a moment, he saw no one in particular--just the usual swirl of society hairdos and custom suits--until his eyes snagged on a figure perched near a sleek marble pillar.

Younger, perhaps mid-twenties, with short, stylish hair and a lithe build. The man wore a fitted black shirt and dark slacks, a choice more understated than the typical tuxes around them. He held a glass of champagne but didn't drink, seemingly content to observe. As soon as Jonathan's gaze landed on him, the stranger's lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

A jolt ran through Jonathan's stomach. He had no idea who the man was, but an unusual confidence radiated from him--like he belonged here, despite not fitting the usual "donor or staffer" mold. Jonathan looked away, a flicker of confusion knotting in his chest. He chalked it up to mild curiosity. *It's just some newcomer.* Yet the sense of being watched lingered.

---

He cut through the crowd, greeting a few more donors--offering the usual handshake-and-smile routine--until he ended up by a lavish display of hors d'oeuvres. He plucked a small crab puff from a tray, fully intending to eat, but found he didn't have much appetite. His gaze drifted, scanning for the stranger again. *He's probably someone's date,* Jonathan reasoned. *Why does it matter?*

A warm voice interrupted, "Senator Hale."

He turned to see a journalist he vaguely recognized--*Wayne something?* The man extended a business card with a friendly but too-familiar grin. "Wayne Muller, D. C. Chronicle. I was hoping I could have a quick word about the energy bill?"

Ah, yes. The Chronicle had been fishing for inside scoops for weeks. Jonathan fought not to sigh outright. "Mr. Muller, isn't it? My office can schedule a proper interview later this week. Tonight is about donor relations, I'm afraid."

"Of course," Muller said with a thin smile. "But you know how the public loves a snippet of real talk--maybe just a sentence or two?"

Jonathan had spent so long perfecting the unruffled persona that the annoyance barely showed. "Contact my staff tomorrow, and we'll see what we can do." He pivoted away, effectively dismissing the reporter. Over the man's shoulder, Jonathan caught a fleeting glimpse of the younger stranger again--this time near the side corridor. Had he moved closer?

Their eyes met. Despite his age, the younger man held Jonathan's gaze effortlessly, and Jonathan felt a quiet intensity behind his eyes. For a moment they lingered, Jonathan frozen in place. Then the younger man smirked, raising his wineglass slightly, before turning and slipping through a discreet side door.

Jonathan's mind raced. Is he... flirting with me? The feeling was... new. Foreign. Exotic. He hesitated briefly, grappling with himself, the crowd around him ebbing and swelling.

Oh what the heck. Swallowing the knot in his throat, he made for the exit, following the footsteps of the mysterious young man.

---

He turned a corner into a narrow, softly lit corridor. Two tall vases flanked the wall, half-shielding him from the party chaos beyond. And there, leaning against the paneling, was the same figure he'd noticed earlier across the room.

Him, Jonathan thought, pulse skipping. A young man in a sleek black shirt and dark slacks, short hair styled with deliberate care. Jonathan opened his mouth, searching for some neutral greeting, but the stranger spoke first.

"Looking for a quick escape?" he asked, voice low with a teasing edge.

Jonathan mustered a faint smile. "Caught me red-handed," he admitted, ignoring the tiny jolt of nerves that fluttered in his stomach. "Sometimes even senators need to breathe."

The man's lips curved. "I can imagine. From what I've seen, this fundraiser is more about donors wanting you to hang on their every word."

Jonathan's defenses flared out of habit--how does this guy read me so easily? "It's part of the job," he said, voice carefully neutral.

"Sure," came the reply. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, eyes glinting with irreverent confidence. Jonathan's heart thudded at the proximity. "But you looked like you'd rather bolt than hear another pitch about farmland lobbying."

A shaky laugh escaped Jonathan. "You make it sound so obvious."

"Don't worry, Senator, the donors haven't noticed you edging toward the exit," the man said, eyes flicking over Jonathan's face. "Only I did."

He held Jonathan's gaze a beat too long, and the air seemed to hum between them. Something in Jonathan's chest tightened--Why am I so riveted by a complete stranger?

"Tristan," the man added suddenly, as if reading the unspoken question. He didn't offer a last name or hold out a hand to shake.

"Jonathan," he replied quietly. The tension in his voice surprised him. Everyone knows me as 'Senator Hale,' yet I'm giving him my first name.

"Jonathan." Tristan tested the name on his tongue. "Sounds more approachable than 'Senator Hale.'"

A faint smirk tugged at Jonathan's lips. "Is that why you followed me out here?"

Tristan let silence linger, scanning Jonathan with an intensity that raised goosebumps along his arms. "No," he finally said, "I'm here because I'm not fond of crowds, and you seemed like the only other person in there who was bored out of his skull."

Before Jonathan could respond, Tristan's gaze dropped to his suit pocket. "Hand me your phone."

Jonathan blinked. "Pardon?"

Tristan arched an eyebrow, stepping fractionally closer. "Your phone," he repeated, but his tone was more command than request. "I like collecting interesting contacts."

An instinctive protest bubbled up--What does he want with my number? But something about Tristan's directness unmoored him. Slowly, Jonathan reached inside his blazer and pulled out his phone.

Tristan took it without hesitation, tapped around for a moment, then handed it back. "There. You'll have mine, too."

Jonathan glanced at the screen--Tristan had plugged in his name (no last name), plus a number. "You're--presumptuous," Jonathan managed, heat crawling into his face

"You'll thank me later," Tristan murmured, slipping his hands into his pockets. "In case you get really bored and want a more interesting conversation."

An electric pulse jolted through Jonathan's veins. He'd never let a stranger hijack his phone, and yet... here he was, phone in hand, heart pounding. Who is this man?

A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the ballroom, breaking the moment. Jonathan cleared his throat, stepping back to reclaim a veneer of composure "Tristan," he repeated. "Well... thanks for the, uh, contact info."

Tristan's lips curved into a half-smile. "Anytime, Senator." Then, with a casual nod, he pivoted and walked away, disappearing around the corridor's corner.

Jonathan remained there, staring after him, phone clutched in his hand. He breathed out shakily. If someone had asked him a minute ago, he wouldn't have imagined handing his phone to a random stranger at a fundraiser. But Tristan was no ordinary stranger.

God, he thought, heart thudding. Why do I already want to text him?

---

Following Claire back toward the main ballroom, Jonathan tried to refocus. *It's just a random guy, Hale. Don't get distracted.* Yet his mind kept drifting to the exchange, the glint in Tristan's eyes.

Claire led him near the dais, where a small knot of VIP donors awaited. Lights flashed from a photographer's camera. Jonathan slipped into the photo lineup, plastering on his politician's smile. The camera clicked. A few donors asked for mini-interviews, and he obliged, autopilot re-engaged.

That was when Senator Carlisle sidled up, posture immaculate in a charcoal suit. He offered Jonathan a handshake that felt more like a challenge. "Hale," he said. "Quite the crowd you've drawn tonight. I see you're extending your network."

Jonathan kept his face neutral. "These events are for all senators to connect with constituents, Carlisle. Nothing unusual there."

Carlisle's eyes glinted. "I caught sight of you in a side corridor earlier. Talking to an... interesting fellow, hmm?"

Jonathan's pulse kicked. Had Carlisle been watching? He strove to appear casual. "Many interesting fellows about."

A small, humorless chuckle. "Indeed." Carlisle let the silence linger. "Well, best of luck courting your new connections, Hale. I'm sure they'll serve you well." Then, with a polite smile, Carlisle drifted off to schmooze with a group of older donors.

As soon as the senator was out of earshot, Jonathan released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He hated how Carlisle's every word sounded like a loaded hint. Why would he even bother remarking on Tristan?

---

Claire reappeared at Jonathan's elbow, phone still in hand. "Everything okay? You look... tense." Her tone was quiet, professional, but laced with genuine concern.

Jonathan forced a reassuring nod. "Just Carlisle being himself," he said, waving a hand dismissively. He glimpsed **Noah** on the outskirts of the crowd, distributing those pamphlets. Spotting the senator, Noah offered a thumbs-up, beaming, and Jonathan suppressed a smile. At least one person in his orbit could maintain a sense of humor about these events.

Claire noticed the exchange and leaned in. "Noah's a bit green, but I'd keep an eye on him. He's too chatty with the press sometimes."

"I'm aware," Jonathan murmured. "Thanks, Claire. Let's just get through the next hour."

She nodded, sliding away to handle other tasks. Jonathan turned back to the donors, who now wanted him for a round of toasts. As he followed them, he scanned the fringes of the ballroom, wondering if Tristan was still around. *Of course you're fixated,* some part of him chided. *He's young, intriguing, and you're bored out of your skull.* It would be just another fleeting curiosity.

---

By the time the final round of scheduled speeches began, Jonathan had worn his standard senator's grin so long it almost ached. He stepped up to the podium, delivering the standard remarks about bipartisanship, the future of the nation, and gratitude for generous supporters. Polite applause followed, cameras flashed.

When it ended, he edged away from the crowd and quietly informed Claire he'd be leaving. "I have an early morning," he said, eyeing the time--barely nine-thirty. She didn't argue, only giving him a small nod. "No problem, Senator. I'll handle any follow-ups."

He slipped out a side exit, shoulders sagging in relief as the cooler night air hit him. The valet brought his car around, and Jonathan slid into the back seat. Usually, he'd review notes for the next day or dictate a memo to staff. Tonight, a restless part of him just wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

As the driver pulled away from the venue, Jonathan stared through the tinted window at the swirling city lights. His mind conjured an image of Tristan leaning against that corridor wall, champagne in hand, looking at him with that half-smile--like he already knew exactly how to unnerve the Senator. It was ridiculous. He knew nothing about the man besides his name. Yet the memory lingered, crackling with energy.

*Carlisle noticed me talking to him,* Jonathan thought, annoyance flaring. *Why should that matter?* Carlisle was always scanning for weaknesses, for potential fodder to undermine him politically. Best not to dwell on it.

But Tristan's expression floated back to him, a quiet challenge in those eyes. Jonathan shifted, a strange tingle of anticipation coursing through him. *It's probably nothing. Let it go.* Still, the whiff of excitement wasn't entirely unpleasant--and he hadn't felt anything like that in far too long.

---

Jonathan's Georgetown brownstone stood dignified in the quiet street. After thanking the driver, he let himself in, flicked on a single hallway lamp. The hush felt heavier than usual, though that might have just been his mood. Setting his suit jacket on a hanger, he loosened his tie, rolling his neck to relieve tension.

He crossed to the kitchen, poured himself a small glass of water, then leaned against the marble countertop. Usually, a night like this meant wading through texts or emails from staffers about tomorrow's schedule. Instead, he caught himself flipping open his phone to check if--*What? Did I expect a message from Tristan?*

He let out a self-deprecating huff. Of course he had no text from Tristan; that was a swirl of foolishness right there. Shaking his head, he forced himself to open tomorrow's briefing notes. Something about the upcoming energy subcommittee meeting, Claire's bullet points on funding proposals, a line from Noah about a potential sponsor. His eyes slid over the words without really absorbing them.

His attention was stuck on an intangible sense of *something*. Perhaps it was the cynicism creeping in--the knowledge that he'd spent so many of these events just going through the motions. Or maybe it was the faint spark of possibility that had flared in the corridor. He set the notes aside, swirling his water glass.

*You're too old for starry-eyed musings,* he told himself, almost amused. But there was no denying that Tristan's direct gaze had, for the briefest moment, made Jonathan feel seen in a way that the typical sycophants never did. A quick rush of adrenaline that reminded him he wasn't just a talking head on the Senate floor. *And that... is probably dangerous,* he acknowledged. *Better to keep your distance.*

---

He was about to call it a night when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. For an absurd second, he hoped it might be Tristan. Then he checked the screen:

**Senator Carlisle (10:48 p. m.)**

*Well done tonight, Hale. You always know how to captivate a crowd. We should talk soon about that next committee hearing.*

He repressed a groan. Of course. Carlisle with his false pleasantries, always aiming to corner him. Jonathan typed a curt reply--*Sure, let's coordinate*--then tossed the phone onto the kitchen island. The brownstone felt colder suddenly.

In the silence, he sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. *Tomorrow's another day. Another routine.* But as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, unbuttoning his cuffs, he couldn't shake that flicker of intrigue. The sense that perhaps, in that stuffy fundraiser, a door had cracked open--someone had glimpsed him not as the unflappable Senator Hale, but as a man capable of... *what, exactly?*

He didn't know. Yet as he drifted into bed, the memory of a certain mischievous, dark-eyed stranger lingered in the back of his mind.

For the first time in a long while, Senator Hale found himself wondering if he still had more to discover about himself--even if it meant venturing down a path that wasn't strictly safe. He shut off the lamp, exhaling into the darkness.

And at that moment, in a different part of the city, Tristan might be musing on the same chance encounter. If only Jonathan had known how drastically his carefully maintained life was about to change. But then, in politics and in passion, it only took a spark to ignite a chain reaction. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

---

Chapter 2

---

Senator Jonathan Hale arrived at his Senate office earlier than usual, a fresh sense of restlessness urging him awake before dawn. He'd tried telling himself it was simply the stack of policy briefs awaiting him. But the truth was, he was still thinking about the previous night's fundraiser--and a particular stranger who had left him more intrigued than he cared to admit.

As he stepped off the elevator onto his office floor, the hallway lights were only half-lit. A handful of staffers, coffee cups in hand, were already trickling in. It was a typical scene: quiet footsteps, low yawns, the soft scuffle of papers. Ordinarily, Jonathan enjoyed the rare hush of an early start before the day's chaos. This morning, though, he felt a prickly sense of anticipation--without knowing exactly what he was waiting for.

"Morning, Senator," called a security guard. Jonathan nodded, offering a half-smile, and continued on to the suite of offices bearing his name. Claire was already there, of course, perched behind a small desk outside Jonathan's private office, coffee steaming at her elbow. She looked up, eyebrows rising.

"You're in early," she noted.

"Couldn't sleep," Jonathan said, mustering a neutral tone. No mention of how he'd lain awake replaying his brief corridor conversation with Tristan--Tristan, who'd teased him about big checks and small talk, who'd offered not a single hint of last name or background.

Claire handed him a sheaf of papers. "Energy committee's preliminary updates. You'll want to review them before the finance briefing at nine."

Jonathan accepted the documents. "Thanks. I'll read them in my office."

He hesitated, half-wishing for a moment of idle chat--something to distract him from the swirl in his head. But Claire had already focused back on her computer screen with cool efficiency. With a resigned nod, he stepped into his private office and shut the door.

---

At his wide wooden desk, Jonathan thumbed through the paperwork. He liked to tackle things methodically--start at the top, annotate, shift to the next. Except his thoughts kept drifting, returning to the same question: *Who exactly is Tristan? Why am I so preoccupied with him?*

He leaned back, exhaling. *It's probably nothing.* Just a moment of novelty, that's all. No sense letting it unnerve him. He tapped his pen restlessly against the desk. Perhaps if he buried himself in the legislative details, he'd forget.

The first hour passed in slow increments. He managed to read about half the energy updates, underlining key points, jotting notes in the margins. He was halfway through a bullet on carbon tax amendments when the phone at his elbow rang.

"Senator," Claire's voice came through. "Noah's here with your schedule. Ready for him?"

Jonathan rechecked the time--nearly 7:45. "Sure, send him in."

Seconds later, Noah breezed in with the usual swirl of enthusiasm. He wore a tie that looked a little too short, and he clutched a tablet listing Jonathan's appointments.

"Morning, Senator," he chirped. "Busy day ahead."

"Always is," Jonathan said. He gestured for Noah to sit, though the younger staffer plopped into a seat with restless energy. "Tell me."

Noah swiped the screen, eyes darting. "We've got the finance briefing at nine. Then a quick donor check-in over lunch. After that, press availability with the local reporters. And--" He paused, glancing up. "Are you okay? You look... I dunno, like your mind's somewhere else."

Jonathan forced a tight smile. "I'm fine, Noah. Just--didn't get much sleep. Let's keep going."

Noah shrugged, continuing. But as he spoke, Jonathan realized he was tapping his foot and glancing at his personal phone--anxiously, almost hoping for some kind of message. The rational part of his mind scolded him. *He's almost young enough to be your son. Don't be ridiculous.* Yet he couldn't stop checking, as if Tristan might text out of thin air.

---

By midmorning, the office bustled. The finance briefing approached, aides scampered with papers, and Jonathan tried to re-immerse himself in actual Senate business. He managed to push Tristan from his thoughts--until he spotted Noah chatting with a visitor near the reception area. At a glance, the visitor was another staffer from a different senator's office. Perfectly normal. Yet Jonathan's heart lurched with an irrational flicker of hope that somehow, it might be the same unknown face from last night.

It wasn't, of course--just a thickly built man in a plain gray suit. Jonathan felt foolish for the fleeting disappointment. *This is truly absurd,* he thought, gripping the briefing folder more tightly. He marched into the conference room, forcing himself to focus.

The finance meeting was the usual swirl of numbers and arguments. Jonathan contributed his share of pointed questions, unveiling that trademark calm authority. On the outside, he was every inch the capable senator. Inside, however, he was counting the minutes until he could retreat, alone, to see if his phone had any stray messages. By the meeting's end, he felt drained from the dual performance--both engaged in policy and privately acknowledging how ridiculous this preoccupation was.

Claire cornered him outside the conference room. "You seemed a bit out of it," she observed softly.

Jonathan pressed his lips together. "Just a rough night's sleep, like I said. I'm fine."

She gave him a measured look. "All right, sir. I've asked Noah to lighten your schedule after lunch, in case you need a breather."

He mustered a faint smile. "Thank you." If only a breather would help.

---

The donor check-in took place at a small bistro near the Capitol. Jonathan sat through talk of campaign fundraising goals--numbers in the tens of thousands, which was modest by Senate standards. The donors, a husband-and-wife team who owned a chain of local businesses, seemed impressed by Jonathan's courtesy.

"Of course we're behind your new energy initiative," the wife enthused. "It's so forward-thinking."

Jonathan nodded politely, though his real thoughts swirled on autopilot. He fielded their questions, promised to have his staff send more details. The ritual of handshake-lunch-handshake. Then, as they were leaving, he glimpsed a familiar shape outside the bistro window: Senator Carlisle, accompanied by an aide, striding past with phone in hand.

Carlisle paused for a fraction of a second, looking in through the glass--locking eyes with Jonathan. He nodded in a tight, polite greeting, but there was an unmistakable flicker in his expression. A recognition? A silent "I see you." Jonathan's stomach tensed. Carlisle seemed to have a knack for popping up at moments when Jonathan least wanted him around. In that brief exchange, Jonathan had the uneasy sense that Carlisle might still be looking for something incriminating. *Could he possibly be investigating who I talked to last night?*

He brushed the thought away. Carlisle was likely just nosy about donors. Still, the tension set Jonathan on edge all the way back to the office.

---

Back in the Senate building, Jonathan labored through the press Q&A, offering carefully measured statements about the finance committee's next steps. Flashes popped, recorders whirred, and by the time it was over, he had a dull ache behind his eyes.

The rest of the day brought the usual swirl of minor tasks. Claire approached with updated schedules for next week; Noah bustled around, handling calls and collecting documents. More than once, Jonathan sensed them exchanging puzzled glances, as though noticing he wasn't his usual composed self.

By five o'clock, the bustle began to subside. Jonathan retreated to his office, ready to gather his things. That's when a subtle beep from his phone startled him. He lifted it, nerves inexplicably jangling. A new text message. It simply read - "Tristan".

> Tristan: "Guess who actually used that number you let me steal? ;) Busy, Senator?"

His heart jumped. For a moment, Jonathan simply stared. A swirl of relief, shock, and a pulse of excitement coalesced in his chest. *He actually texted me.* That immediate sense of fluster made him glance around as though expecting someone to pop out of the woodwork. The door was closed, blinds drawn. He exhaled, replying:

He'd half-expected Tristan to vanish after plugging his info into Jonathan's phone. Now here he was, stepping in like he owned Jonathan's attention.

He typed back, trying to sound controlled:

> Jonathan: "I'm only surprised it took you this long."

The reply came almost instantly:

> Tristan: "Was giving you time to recover. Didn't want to send you into meltdown in front of your staff."

Jonathan huffed a small laugh, cheeks warming. So he's mocking me already. Aloud, he muttered, "He doesn't even know me." Still, a forbidden thrill coiled in his stomach. He fired off another text:

> Jonathan: "Meltdown? I'm quite capable of composure, thank you. Why text me now?"

> Tristan: Because I *like* the idea of distracting you at the end of a long day.

A flicker of heat rose in Jonathan's face. This was happening--some bizarre chain of events bringing them from that corridor conversation to texting about... *what, exactly?* But he couldn't deny the sudden rush of adrenaline. He took a moment, marshalling his dignity:

> You're quite forward.

Tristan:

> Too forward? I can vanish if you prefer.

Jonathan stared at the phone. Part of him knew the wise move would be to politely decline further contact. But after the day he'd had--after the dull normalcy of Senate life--he found he couldn't let it go. He typed:

> **No. Don't vanish.**

Tristan's immediate reply practically radiated smugness:

> **Good. Talk later tonight?**

He typed back:

> **Maybe.**

> **See you later, Senator. ;)"

The text exchange ended as abruptly as it began, leaving Jonathan oddly breathless. He leaned against the hallway wall, phone clutched in his hand, trying to calm his racing pulse. So Tristan had not only put his number in Jonathan's phone--he fully intended to use it, hurling teasing commands to see if Jonathan would comply.

Who the hell is this man? Jonathan wondered, cheeks flushing. And why am I so eager to follow his every prompt?

Jonathan's hand trembled slightly as he locked his phone. A new surge of energy coursed through him. He stuffed the device in his pocket, mind whirling. *This is insane.* And yet, for the first time in months, maybe years, he felt truly awake.

---

Jonathan left the office earlier than usual, half-dreading staff commentary. Heads turned as he strode out of his office, his staffers shooting him curious gazes. But Claire only gave him a neutral once-over, her lips pressed together. A moment later she turned away, seeming to have decided not to pry.

He slid into the back seat of his car, phone clasped in hand. Every vibration made him jump, but no more texts came. By the time he arrived at his Georgetown brownstone, he was on edge again, unsure if Tristan really would message.

Inside, he tossed his jacket aside, rummaged in the fridge. He snagged leftover pasta, but his appetite waned after two bites. His phone lay face-up on the kitchen island.

Ten minutes passed.

Twenty.

An hour.

Still no reply from Tristan.

By eight-thirty, he was pacing, checking emails just to distract himself. *Get it together, Hale.* This was ridiculous. He was a senator, not a lovesick teenager.

Then, at nine-fifteen, the phone lit up:

> **Tristan: You home?**

Jonathan's heart thudded. He typed back:

> **Yes. Working.** (A half-truth.)

Tristan:

> **Working, or waiting to talk to me?**

Jonathan swallowed a self-conscious laugh:

> **Both, apparently.**

Tristan:

> **Call me.**

Just like that. Jonathan stared at the screen, adrenaline spiking. He saved the unknown number under "Tristan" in his contacts--somehow the act felt surreal. Then, with a final steadying breath, he tapped the call button.

---

It rang once, twice--then Tristan answered. His voice had a relaxed purr that slithered right under Jonathan's nerves.

"Senator. Good evening."

Jonathan cleared his throat. "I feel I should ask why you wanted my number, but I suspect I won't get a straight answer."

A husky chuckle. "It's not all that complicated. I simply like... talking to new people."

Jonathan's pulse roared in his ears. "Is this a habit? Picking up senators?"

"Only the intriguing ones," Tristan replied. "And after last night, I'd say you qualify."

Heat prickled along Jonathan's collar. He tried to remain calm. "Why exactly am I intriguing?"

"You carried yourself like you owned that entire fundraiser," Tristan said, a faint teasing lilt. "But behind your polished smile, I saw... bored tension. Like you were dying for something different."

Jonathan's mouth went dry. *He's not wrong.* "A charitable guess."

"Maybe. But I was right, wasn't I? You left early, didn't you? Couldn't stand another night of empty talk."

A reluctant laugh escaped Jonathan. "All right, you've made your point."

Tristan hummed in satisfaction.

---

The conversation slid into an odd dance. At first he felt awkward, not used to casual exchanges of banter. I'm too old for this, he thought. Jonathan stuttered, deflected, clammed up. But Tristan was undeterred, constantly pulling him back into the conversation. And the undertone of relentless flirtation sent heat up his neck, making him giddy, loosening his tongue.

Soon Jonathan found himself blurting details about his hectic day, how tedious the press Q&A was. He never vented to strangers like this. Yet Tristan listened without judgement or complaint, occasionally inserting a witty remark that made Jonathan snort-laugh against his better judgment.

"You sound younger than your official photos," Tristan teased at one point.

Jonathan bristled in mock offense. "You say that like I'm ancient."

"Are you, though?" Tristan returned. "You used the phrase 'these kids today' at any point recently?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his lips. "I'm not *that* old. And you're skipping the question of *your* age."

"I'm old enough," Tristan drawled. "But not old enough to be a senator, apparently."

That made Jonathan laugh fully. "If you keep up the attitude, you'll probably outmaneuver half the Senate anyway."

They bantered for a while longer, voices hushed, the night wrapping around them. Jonathan sank onto his couch, letting Tristan's playful energy pull him out of his political shell. He found himself revealing that he'd been in the Senate for nearly a decade, that it sometimes felt like wearing an iron mask he couldn't take off. Tristan teased him for "being dramatic," but there was warmth beneath it.

Then, almost without warning, Tristan's tone shifted from easy banter to a more provocative edge. "So, Senator. Tell me... am I totally off-base, or do you enjoy being teased?"

Jonathan's pulse skipped. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Last night, in the corridor, you looked like you wanted to snap back at me--but didn't. That tension in your face was... interesting."

He swallowed. "I was being polite."

"Polite, right. Or maybe you *liked* it." Tristan lowered his voice. "Maybe you like being pushed around a little."

Jonathan stiffened, heart pounding. "That's a leap."

Tristan laughed gently. "I thought so, too--until I caught you following me with your eyes."

A flush burned Jonathan's cheeks. He hated how easily Tristan seemed to read him. "You're rather full of yourself, aren't you?"

"Oh, absolutely," Tristan admitted. "But that's part of the fun." A pause, then more softly, "Admit it. You had no idea who I was, but you were curious."

Jonathan exhaled, torn between annoyance and a strangely exhilarating sense of vulnerability. He almost fired back with a stern denial. Instead, he found himself whispering, "Yes. I was."

Tristan's satisfied hum sent a pulse of heat through Jonathan's body. "Good. Now, next question: how far does that curiosity go?"

---

Jonathan felt cornered, but in a way that ignited a thrill in him. He tried for a confident retort. "You assume you can just ask all these questions?"

"Mm, see, there's that meltdown vibe," Tristan teased, tone dripping with amusement. "You must love texting like a teen, huh? Let me guess--you use 'lol' ironically?"

Jonathan barked a laugh, ignoring the swirl in his stomach. "I'm definitely not typing 'lol.'"

"You're an 'omg' kind of guy, then?"

He meant it as a jab, but somehow the challenge provoked Jonathan. "If I were going to say 'omg,' I'd say it ironically," Jonathan tossed back. "Like, 'omg you're insufferable.' That kind of usage."

Tristan cackled. "Oh dear. The Senator's about to have an e-girl meltdown. This is priceless."

"Stop calling me an e-girl," Jonathan demanded, fighting a grin that tugged at his face.

"I will not," Tristan declared. "I fully intend to see you meltdown-text me at 2 a. m. with 'omg stfu rofl' nonsense."

Jonathan massaged his temples, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "You are unbelievable."

"Thank you," Tristan said smugly. "But you like it. Don't deny it. You're *omg-ling* right now, aren't you?"

The mental image of him meltdown-texting "omg omg stfu" to Tristan threatened to break Jonathan's composure entirely. He was a respected senator, for God's sake, yet here he was, flirting with absurd teen slang over the phone. "I--listen, I have work tomorrow. I can't stay up all night texting slang."

Tristan teased, "So you'd prefer a phone call meltdown, then?"

Jonathan bit back a retort. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation."

---

At some point, the tension soared too high for Jonathan's usual stoicism. He snapped--just a little. Letting out a mock-frustrated groan, he exclaimed, "Fine, you want meltdown slang? *OMG, Tristan, you're driving me insane, LOL.* Happy?"

Silence. Then Tristan burst out laughing, a full, rich sound. Jonathan's face burned, but he also felt a bubble of giddy amusement. He could picture Tristan's grin perfectly. And for a fleeting moment, Jonathan felt *free*--unlike the stoic facade he typically had to maintain.

"You're adorable," Tristan finally said, voice warm. "Never thought I'd call a senator that, but... here we are."

Jonathan rolled his eyes, though he couldn't fully suppress a pleased smile. "Don't get used to it."

"Oh, I will," Tristan promised. "Tomorrow, I might even text you some humiliating slang just to see if you slip up in front of your staff. You'll be at your big fancy desk, trying to remain calm while I send you 'omg senator stfu I can't.' And you'll love it."

A jolt of excitement flared in Jonathan's chest. He should be outraged, or at least anxious about the possibility. But if anything, the prospect gave him a heady rush. "We'll see," he said, voice more breathless than he intended.

---

They talked for nearly an hour, drifting to lighter personal anecdotes. Tristan shared glimpses of his life--freelance projects, a rebellious streak that led him to question authority. He didn't delve into specifics, but enough that Jonathan sensed a sharp, inquisitive mind behind the mischief.

Eventually, the conversation wound down, Tristan claiming he had an early errand. Jonathan half-laughed. "That's my line," he teased. "I'm the one with official duties."

"I guess we're both busy," Tristan replied. "But we'll talk again soon, yeah?"

Jonathan hesitated. He almost said, *I'm not sure,* but the warmth in his chest rebelled. Instead, he murmured, "Yes. We will."

"Good night, Senator. Sleep well. Don't meltdown too much thinking about me."

"Good night, Tristan." Jonathan ended the call, phone slipping from his hand onto the couch. He sat there for a long moment, heartbeat still elevated.

It was past ten-thirty now--late for a man used to methodical routines. But for once, Jonathan felt no guilt about it. He felt strangely... alive, cheeks warm from the mania of meltdown slang and Tristan's relentless teasing.

Somewhere beyond the walls of his quiet brownstone, Tristan was likely smirking at his phone, fully aware of how thoroughly he'd rattled Jonathan's composure. And Jonathan, ordinarily stoic and self-contained, found himself smiling like a teenager with a crush. He shook his head, standing up and heading upstairs to bed.

Tomorrow, the serious responsibilities of the Senate would resume. Yet the notion that a single text or call from Tristan might disrupt everything both alarmed and excited him. He switched off the bedroom light, letting the darkness embrace him.

**He** was a senator. **Tristan** was an audacious outsider who'd labeled him an "e-girl meltdown" risk. The combination was ludicrous--and, for the first time in ages, exhilarating.

---

Chapter 3

---

Senator Jonathan Hale wasn't sure how it happened, but over the next few days, Tristan Turner (he'd finally extracted a last name) became a near-constant presence in his private thoughts--and often on his phone. Whenever a lull hit at the office or he paused between meetings, a quick check might reveal a mischievous text:

> **Tristan (Text):**

> "You presenting at that subcommittee? Bet your tie is perfect. Loosen it for me."

Or:

> **Tristan (Text):**

> "I'm bored. Tell me something scandalous about the Senate. :)"

Their banter rarely veered into overtly sexual territory--yet. But the undertone always crackled with possibility. On one hand, Tristan's audacity was exasperating. "I'm a senator with real responsibilities!" He groused to no one in particular, at one point. On the other hand, it also filled with secret exhilaration. With him, I'm Jonathan, not just Senator Hale, he found himself thinking in a lull between meetings.

Jonathan found himself torn and off-balance - not knowing how to deal with the new presence in his life, but finding himself constantly wanting more.

---

On a Thursday morning, Jonathan arrived at his Capitol office, juggling a coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other. He'd stayed up too late again, texting Tristan about everything from sports (Tristan's opinions were, of course, irreverent) to the strangest legislation Jonathan had ever encountered. Traces of that conversation lingered in his head, distracting him.

Inside, the staff was in full scramble. Claire rattled off the day's itinerary: "Budget hearing at ten, lunch with the energy coalition, then a small press gaggle at two." She paused, giving him a look. "Are you with me, Senator?"

"Y-yes," Jonathan said, snapping upright. He lowered his phone--where Tristan's last message still glowed on the screen:

> *"If you were an e-girl, what would your Twitch handle be? I'm thinking something cute but quirky, like Senate. Sub.69 "*

Heat crawled up Jonathan's neck. *He's going to torment me until I snap, isn't he?*

In the corner, **Noah** hovered, an amused twist on his lips. "Everything okay, sir? You were smiling at your phone."

Jonathan stuffed the device into his pocket, clearing his throat. "Just... handling personal correspondence." He forced a neutral expression. "All right. Let's start with the budget hearing prep."

Noah winked, before handing over a folder. "Sure thing."

Claire, eyebrows raised, waited until Noah stepped away. Then she leaned in. "Sir, if there's something going on that could affect scheduling..."

He pulled his shoulders back, adopting a clipped tone, but couldn't keep himself from stumbling. "N-nothing that will interfere with official business, Claire." Kicking himself mentally, he quickly offered a quick, professional smile. "Don't worry."

She nodded but didn't look entirely convinced. "Very well, Senator."

---

That evening, as staffers trickled out and the lights in the corridor dimmed, Jonathan contemplated a text from Tristan that set his pulse racing:

> **Tristan (Text):**

> "What time do you wrap up? I'm in the neighborhood. Maybe I'll swing by and see if senators work late *or hardly at all.* ;)"

Normally, Jonathan would balk at letting Tristan anywhere near his official office after hours. But the notion of being alone with him in that space sparked a rebellious thrill. *Have I lost my mind?* Possibly. Nonetheless, he replied:

> **Jonathan:**

> "I'll be here until at least 8 p. m. Are you serious?"

> **Tristan:**

> "Dead serious. Send me a side entrance or something. Don't want your staff screaming 'OMG scandal' if they see me."

Jonathan hesitated. But if he was going to meet Tristan anyway, at least he could control the setting. He gave instructions for a less-traveled hallway door and told Tristan to text when he arrived. *This is risky,* he thought. *But...*

By 7:45, the office was nearly empty. Claire had left for a networking event. Noah lingered, though, rummaging through a filing cabinet. At 7:50, Jonathan's phone lit up.

> **Tristan:**

> "I'm at the side door. Let me in, Senator."

Jonathan swallowed hard, glancing at Noah. "You done for the night?" he asked casually.

"Soon," Noah replied, eyes on some documents.

Jonathan exhaled. "Good. I'm locking up my office, so text me if you leave." He strode out, nerves jangling.

In the corridor, he slipped down the hall to the side entrance. There, Tristan waited with a cocky little grin, dressed in slim black jeans and a casual dark jacket. The sight flooded Jonathan with both a spike of apprehension and a wave of something warmer.

"You sure about this?" Jonathan muttered, cracking the door open.

Tristan slid inside. "Absolutely." He tilted his head, eyes skimming over the quiet hallway. "Fancy seeing the real Senate guts."

"This is hardly the showy part," Jonathan said. "Most staff have left."

Tristan's lips curved. "Perfect."

---

Jonathan led Tristan toward his private office, steps hurried but hushed. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly. Every small sound echoed in the emptiness.

Just as they turned a corner, Noah's voice rang out: "Senator? Are you still--"

Jonathan froze. Noah stepped around the corner from the break room, eyes widening. In a flash, Jonathan realized there was no time to dodge.

He cleared his throat. "Noah. I thought you'd left."

Noah blinked, gaze flicking to Tristan. "Uh--who's..."

"This is--" Jonathan's mind scrambled. "A consultant friend."

Tristan, cool as ever, extended a hand. "Tristan. Nice to meet you."

Noah's brows soared. He shook Tristan's hand, curiosity radiating. "Sure, hi. I didn't know the Senator had an after-hours consultant meeting."

Tristan shrugged easily. "Last-minute arrangement. We won't be long."

Jonathan tried to keep his tone brisk, senator-like. "Noah, you can head out now. I'll lock up."

Noah looked from one to the other, the corners of his mouth twitching. A flicker of mischief appeared in his eyes, but he only said, "Okay, Senator. Have a good night." Then, with a not-so-subtle grin, he slipped away.

As soon as Noah was gone, Tristan smirked. "That was close."

Jonathan exhaled. "He didn't buy it for a second."

"Not my best cover story, but hey, it'll do," Tristan teased. "At least I'm not wearing a giant sign reading *scandal.*"

Jonathan shot him a look. "Come on."

---

They reached the private office, Jonathan unlocking the door and ushering Tristan inside. He flicked the light switch, revealing a fairly standard senator's workspace: a large mahogany desk, a few chairs, bookshelves lined with policy volumes and binders.

Tristan took in the surroundings. "Nice place you got here, Senator." He trailed a finger along a bookshelf. "Big desk. Must be good for important... business."

There was no missing the innuendo. Jonathan closed the door and twisted the lock, heart pounding. "What do you want to see here?" he asked, struggling for composure.

Tristan turned, leaning against the desk with an easy confidence. "Oh, mostly I wanted to see you in your natural habitat. The real question is--" He traced a slow circle on the desktop. "What do *you* want to do now that I'm here?"

A wave of heat coursed through Jonathan. He'd been so consumed by the risk that he hadn't let himself think about how close they'd be in private. He swallowed, stepping closer. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "You... push me in ways I'm not used to."

Tristan's gaze flickered. He lifted his hand, brushing it across Jonathan's tie with a near-reverent touch. "That's the idea."

They kissed. It was almost inevitable--the tension had been building since the moment Tristan walked in. But the reality jolted Jonathan to his core: warm pressure, the faint taste of coffee from Tristan's lips, a low hum in the back of Tristan's throat that sent sparks along Jonathan's nerves.

Jonathan's mind whirled, even as he felt he was drowning. *I'm in my Senate office, behind a locked door, kissing a man I barely know.* Yet the heady rush of it made him throw caution to the wind. Tristan tugged on Jonathan's tie, pulling him closer until Jonathan's chest pressed against Tristan's. Jonathan gasped into the kiss, a thrill skittering through him at how effortlessly Tristan took control.

---

After a breathless moment, Tristan drew back, eyes gleaming. "I bet you're used to giving orders," he murmured, fingers still hooked in Jonathan's tie. "Let's see how you like *taking* them."

Before Jonathan could reply, Tristan spun him around, guiding him so his hands braced on the desk. Jonathan's heart hammered. Part of him wanted to protest, to reassert authority. But a stronger part thrilled at Tristan's confident hold. He gripped the desk's edge, breath catching.

Tristan leaned in, voice dropping to an intimate hush by Jonathan's ear. "Tell me if it's too much," he said, lips grazing lightly over the collar. Jonathan's only response was a ragged nod, already overwhelmed by how quickly his polished facade was unraveling.

Tristan moved with quiet assurance, hands running down Jonathan's back, then curving around his waist to slip beneath his jacket. Jonathan let out a shaky exhale. He'd never done anything like this in his office--he'd never *dreamed* he would. And yet he found himself arching, letting Tristan press closer.

A soft laugh stirred the hair at Jonathan's nape. "You're so tense, Senator," Tristan teased. "Relax for once."

That gentle mockery lit a new spark in Jonathan's core. He forced his grip on the desk to ease, body loosening, mind swirling with equal parts fear and excitement. Tristan's hands skimmed along his stomach, then rose to tug the tie free, guiding it up around Jonathan's wrists as though testing the waters of restraint. Jonathan swallowed hard--his own tie, about to be used on him?

The thrill was undeniable, but a pulse of practicality cut in. *If Noah forgot something and walked in... or Claire returned...* "Wait," Jonathan breathed, turning his head slightly. "We can't... not here. Someone could see."

Tristan paused. For a moment, tension thickened. Then he slipped the tie from Jonathan's wrists and stepped back, eyes dancing with a roguish grin. "You *are* the Senate. Shouldn't you declare an official recess or something?"

Jonathan huffed a near-laugh despite his frazzled nerves. "Don't tempt me."

Tristan grazed a hand over Jonathan's shoulder. "We can continue elsewhere. Your place, maybe?"

---

Jonathan's heart was still pounding by the time they reached his Georgetown brownstone. They had ridden in tense, charged silence--Tristan in the passenger seat, Jonathan behind the wheel. He could feel Tristan's gaze on him, that cocky half-smile that promised both mischief and something deeper.

The moment they stepped inside, Jonathan turned to lock the door, nerves jangling. When he spun back around, Tristan was already there, pressing in close. "Finally alone, Senator," Tristan teased, voice low. "No donors to impress or staffers to fool."

Jonathan's breath stuttered. The playful spark in Tristan's eyes undid him. He'd spent all evening holding himself in check, but with the front door secured, there was no longer a need for formality. He lifted a hand to Tristan's cheek, letting his thumb graze the stubble along Tristan's jaw.

"Tristan..." Jonathan began softly, unsure what he intended to say. He never got the chance to finish.

Tristan leaned in and captured Jonathan's mouth in a hungry kiss--no cautious preamble, no polite exploration. Their lips crashed together, tongues sliding with an urgency that left Jonathan's thoughts spinning. He moaned into it, startled by how good Tristan tasted, how thoroughly he was being devoured.

He had barely registered the heat in his lower belly when Tristan broke the kiss, eyes flashing. "Upstairs?"

Jonathan's gaze flickered to the dimly lit hallway leading to his bedroom, but for once, he found he couldn't wait that long. "Living room," he whispered, voice rough.

He half-expected Tristan to protest--maybe Tristan had a preference for comfort or privacy. Instead, Tristan smirked and tugged Jonathan by the tie into the wide living room, flicking on a single lamp. Warm light pooled across the sofa and bookshelves, painting the space in gold and shadow.

"Suit off," Tristan ordered quietly, hands sliding to Jonathan's lapels. It wasn't a request.

Jonathan suppressed the flutter of nerves that danced through his stomach and let his jacket fall. He began unbuttoning his shirt, each undone button exposing more skin to the cool air. Tristan's gaze never wavered; it glowed with anticipation.

Once the shirt was gone, Tristan flattened a palm over Jonathan's chest, marveling at the heat of his skin. Jonathan shivered beneath the touch. He'd never let himself be taken over like this, never indulged such a jolt of raw, hungry want.

"Keep going," Tristan said, voice soft but commanding.

Jonathan swallowed hard and lowered his hands to his belt, fumbling slightly as he unbuckled and unzipped. He felt exposed--this was his home, but suddenly, the usual sense of control he wielded in these rooms had vanished. All that remained was the pounding in his chest and Tristan's unwavering stare.

When Jonathan's pants pooled at his feet, Tristan let out the faintest hiss of appreciation. Jonathan stood in just his black boxer-briefs, skin prickling with goosebumps, waiting--heart in his throat--for whatever Tristan intended next.

Tristan stepped closer. One hand snaked behind Jonathan's neck, drawing him down for a deeper kiss. As their lips meshed, Tristan's other hand slid over Jonathan's hip, hooking beneath the waistband of his underwear. Jonathan gasped, arching into the touch, a surge of heat pulsing through him at how intimately Tristan held him.

"Do you always follow orders?" Tristan murmured against Jonathan's lips.

Jonathan's breath caught. "Depends who's giving them," he managed, voice trembling with arousal.

Tristan smirked. "Good. Then let's see how well a Senator takes direction."

He nudged Jonathan's thigh, guiding him backward until he collided with the back of the sofa. Tristan's mouth roamed over Jonathan's jaw, down the side of his neck, pressing hot, openmouthed kisses that left Jonathan dizzy. When Tristan grazed his teeth at the juncture of throat and shoulder, Jonathan let out a raw, startled groan.

"Too much?" Tristan teased, lips brushing the reddened spot.

Jonathan shook his head, voice unsteady. "N-no... want more."

Tristan's eyes gleamed. "Then bend over the sofa."

A tremor coursed through Jonathan's body. He had never done anything like this, and he half-expected to hesitate--but the low rasp of Tristan's voice unlocked something in him. Without speaking, Jonathan turned and braced his palms on the back of the couch, heart thrumming so hard he felt it in his ears.

Tristan pressed up behind him, the warmth of his chest against Jonathan's bare spine. Jonathan's boxer-briefs slipped lower as Tristan tugged them down, revealing him entirely. Jonathan shuddered, feeling the air stroke across his exposed skin. A flicker of embarrassment mingled with an even stronger rush of excitement: Tristan was seeing all of him, discovering the lines of his body that no one had touched in far too long.

"You're shaking," Tristan noted, palming the back of Jonathan's thigh in a calming stroke.

Jonathan closed his eyes, exhaling. "I'm--I'm okay," he said, amazed by how breathless he sounded.

"Good." Tristan's fingers trailed inward, kneading along Jonathan's backside. "Let me know if it's ever too much."

Jonathan nodded, voice hitching. "I promise."

Moments later, Tristan's hand slid forward, gripping Jonathan's hardness from behind with sure confidence. Jonathan hissed in pleasure, pressing his forehead to his forearm as waves of sensation coursed through him. Tristan stroked once, twice, each movement fanning the flames higher.

"I can't believe... oh God," Jonathan breathed, hips jerking involuntarily. Tristan's chest rumbled with laughter, lips teasing the back of Jonathan's neck. "So tense, Senator. Let go."

Jonathan tried to unclench, focusing on the heady friction of Tristan's hand, the press of Tristan's hips. Tristan took his time, stroking Jonathan with an almost leisurely pace that only made Jonathan's pulse pound faster. They had just begun, and Jonathan was already losing himself.

He heard the rustle of Tristan's clothing behind him--Tristan shoving down his own pants, freeing himself. The fleeting thought I should see him, I should watch flitted through Jonathan's mind, but the next second Tristan's bare skin pressed up against him, and all rational thought evaporated.

"Need you," Jonathan found himself whispering.

Tristan's voice came low, almost tender. "I know."

With careful, practiced motions, Tristan slid a hand between Jonathan's legs, an intimate caress that made Jonathan gasp, then let out a stuttering moan. Jonathan's entire body jolted. He clutched the sofa, toes curling into the carpet.

When Tristan reached into his pocket for a small packet of lube--apparently the man was ever-prepared--Jonathan realized just how far he intended to take this. The realization sent another electric thrill through him: I'm about to do something I've never done. And I want it.

The first slick touch of Tristan's fingers made Jonathan jolt, breath catching. Tristan took his time, exploring carefully, coaxing a low groan from Jonathan's chest. The vulnerability terrified and exhilarated him in equal measure.

Tristan pressed a light kiss to Jonathan's shoulder. "Easy," he soothed. "Let me in slow."

Jonathan nodded, forcing himself to breathe, to focus on the warmth and the building pressure. The intrusion was new, almost too intense, but Tristan's measured pace and gentle hushes calmed him. Soon, the discomfort morphed into a strange, rolling pleasure that flooded his senses.

"Tristan," he rasped, voice taut, "please."

That was all Tristan needed. Jonathan felt the hard, certain slide of Tristan's body aligning with his. He pressed his face into his arm, heart hammering as Tristan pushed in deeper, inch by slow inch. Their labored breathing filled the living room.

Time blurred. Jonathan had no sense of anything beyond Tristan's chest against his back, Tristan's hands gripping his hips, and the rhythmic, insistent thrust that sent sparks of sensation across his nerves. Each movement built on the last, tension coiling in Jonathan's stomach until he couldn't keep quiet--his moans turned into ragged, breathy gasps.

"You feel incredible," Tristan groaned, voice nearly lost beneath Jonathan's low cries. He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward, and Jonathan's vision nearly whited out.

At some point, Tristan's hand slid around to stroke Jonathan's front again, wrapping him in a tight, sinful grip that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. Jonathan choked out something--Tristan's name, or maybe a string of curses, he wasn't sure. His entire body trembled on the brink of release.

"Let go," Tristan urged, breath hot against Jonathan's ear.

Jonathan's head fell back onto Tristan's shoulder, lost in pleasure that built to a dizzying pitch. Then, in a surge of rapture so fierce it almost frightened him, he came--his muscles clenching tight, mind going blank, strangled noises catching in his throat. He felt Tristan's body jolt behind him, a resonating groan signaling Tristan's own climax.

They stayed frozen in that tension, locked together, until the ripples subsided. Slowly--oh so gently--Tristan withdrew, leaving Jonathan shuddering from the loss of contact. For a long moment, they simply leaned against the sofa, panting, hearts thundering in unison.

Eventually, Tristan pressed a trembling kiss to the back of Jonathan's neck. "You okay?" he asked, voice soft again.

Jonathan turned, exhaling a shaky laugh. "More than okay," he admitted. He was sweaty, unsteady on his feet, but he'd never felt so electrified. The stern senator façade had completely shattered in that moment--replaced by a man who'd discovered new pleasure in letting someone else take the reins.

A satisfied grin curved Tristan's lips as he gently tugged Jonathan around, guiding him to lean against his chest. "Good," he murmured. "Because that was just a preview. Next time, I'll show you what else we can do."

Jonathan's heart skipped. He should have been alarmed at the prospect of more risk, more vulnerability. Instead, a thrill of anticipation warmed him. Resting his forehead against Tristan's collarbone, he let out a contented sigh.

"Next time," he echoed, half-smiling. "I'm starting to think I could get used to this."

Tristan snorted and brushed his lips over Jonathan's temple. "Be careful, Senator. You might find you like taking orders more than you ever imagined."

Jonathan let out a breathless laugh, relaxing fully into Tristan's hold. And there, in the quiet of his once-lonely living room, he knew something had shifted for good.

---

By the time they disentangled, Jonathan's shirt was askew, tie definitely needing a wash, and Tristan's hair stuck out where Jonathan's fingers had grabbed it. Yet a sense of sated closeness hung in the air.

Tristan smoothed his clothes, flashing a grin. "You're fun to break, Senator. I'll enjoy taking you further."

Jonathan swallowed, cheeks still warm. "This is insane, you know."

"In the best way," Tristan countered. He grabbed his phone, presumably to order another rideshare. "I'll vanish before dawn, so your staff doesn't track me on the security cameras."

A pang of regret tugged Jonathan. He realized he didn't want Tristan to vanish at all. But he nodded, acknowledging the reality of secrecy. "Thank you," he said, quietly. "For... for making me feel alive."

A flicker of genuine warmth passed over Tristan's face. "Sure, you big old dope," he said softly. "Just wait till I really push your limits."

They parted with a final, lingering kiss. Jonathan sank onto the couch after Tristan left, mind spinning. *What have I done?* The knowledge of how risky it was clashed with a surging sense of euphoria at being seen, desired, and released from his perpetual mask.

---

The next morning, he arrived at the office feeling half-buoyant, half-apprehensive. Claire glanced up from her desk and gave him a measured stare. Noah, standing behind her, had the nerve to smirk. "Morning, Senator," Noah said, voice a tad too chipper.

Jonathan forced a neutral nod. "Morning."

They exchanged pleasantries, though Jonathan couldn't shake the sense that Noah noticed something off--maybe the faint bruise on Jonathan's collar, or the slight limp in his posture after last night's tension. The staff seemed more curious than ever.

But as he retreated into his office, phone buzzing with a new text from Tristan ("*Thinking about you, old man. Don't meltdown mid-meeting.*"), Jonathan felt an unstoppable grin sneak across his face. Let them suspect. For once, he had something--*someone*--worth risking the perfect veneer. And if that meant tiptoeing around comedic near-misses at the office, so be it.

This was only the beginning, he knew. But as he texted back a snarky reply to Tristan, every nerve in his body thrummed at the prospect of where their growing chemistry might lead.