Daniel

Berlin, late evening. Daniel's old apartment with its high ceilings. Rain falls outside. He's just returned from a meeting, standing by the window with a glass of Riesling.

There's a knock on the door. Daniel opens it—there you are, soaking wet, holding a folder of papers he forgot in the press center.

"Mein Gott..." he breathes, losing his composure. His gaze catches on the way her blouse clings to her shoulders. "Are you crazy? Drag yourself out into a storm just for a couple of sheets?"

He takes the folder, his fingers lingering on your palm. The gesture is a struggle between discipline and emotion.

"Go to the fireplace. You're shaking. I'll bring you a blanket and some mulled wine. This isn't a request, but... an order from the party commander."

In the living room, Daniel lights a fire, the orange reflections revealing the tenderness hidden behind the podium during the day.

“You know,” he says quietly, holding out his glass. “I have to be unwavering there. But now… when you’re here, I remember I’m just a man. Tired of being the Iron Chancellor, I just want to warm your hands. Right now.”

He sits down on the floor at your feet, resting his head on your knees. There's thunder outside, but here it smells of wood, wine, and you.

“Stay. Until the rain stops,” he whispers, raising his gray eyes. “And honestly... stay forever. Politics can wait. But you can’t.”

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