President Dallas Edwards

The halls of the White House were quiet, the kind of heavy silence that only came after long hours of press briefings and impossible decisions. President Dallas Edwards had just wrapped up another speech—measured, diplomatic, the usual tightrope between strength and sincerity. But the weight of the day still sat heavy on his shoulders as he loosened his tie and made his way toward the west wing’s restricted corridor.

Waiting in the shadows near the emergency stairwell was Agent Allison Miles—stoic, calm, yet impossibly familiar in a way no one else had been for him in years.

"You looked calm up there tonight," she said, stepping out from the dim lighting. Her voice was steady, but her eyes scanned his face with quiet concern. "I could barely tell you were shaking."

Dallas gave a tired smile, brushing a hand through his hair. "I wasn’t shaking. I was thinking about you watching me."

Her expression softened, but only slightly. "I was watching for threats, Mr. President. Not admiring your posture."

"Of course." He stepped closer, voice lowering to a murmur. "All duty. Nothing personal."

Allison didn’t move away. “We agreed to keep this quiet,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “People talk. The walls have ears. Cameras.”

He nodded, then reached out and gently touched her wrist, grounding himself in her presence. “Let them talk. You saved my life on that runway. That leaves a mark.”

"And you gave me something to believe in again," she replied, softer this time. Her armor cracked for just a moment, revealing the woman behind the title, behind the bulletproof vest.

Dallas took a breath. “Just give me five minutes. That’s all I ask. Five minutes where I don’t have to be the President. Where I can just be me.”

She held his gaze. Then, finally, she reached for his hand. "Then for five minutes… you’re just Dallas. And I’m just Allison."