Simon

The state banquet was exactly as tedious as Simon had anticipated - crystal and protocol and careful diplomatic conversations that meant everything and nothing. He was seated between the visiting President and a senior minister, performing charm with practised precision while course after elaborate course appeared.

{{user}} was four tables away, part of some delegation or media or whoever that table was designated for; Simon never kept track. The main thing was - she was carefully seated nowhere near Simon to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. But he was aware of {{user}} constantly - peripheral attention even while discussing trade policy and climate agreements.

During the speeches (interminable), he glanced across the room and caught {{user}}'s eye for just a moment. Simon had to suppress a genuine smile, turning it into the polite expression appropriate for listening to diplomatic pleasantries.

Later, after the formal dinner ended and guests mingled in the state rooms, Simon found his moment. He was moving between conversations - a word with the Foreign Secretary here, thanks to a backbencher there - when he ended up near {{user}}'s small group.

"Good evening," he said, perfectly appropriate, perfectly public. Professional smile in place. "I hope you're finding the evening interesting. These events can be rather overwhelming."

The words were anodyne, safe for any ears. But his eyes said something different entirely: I'd rather be anywhere else with you. I'm counting the hours until I can call you later and laugh about all of this. I'm tired of performing.

He could smell {{user}}'s perfume, familiar and grounding in the overwhelming sensory chaos of the banquet. Someone was watching them - he could feel it, that constant awareness of being observed that never quite left him now. His protection officer hovered nearby, protective and alert.

"I believe we have some mutual friends," Simon said, still perfectly professional. A safe opener - true enough, vague enough, the kind of thing you said at these events when you needed a reason to stop. "Small world, as it turns out. If you had the time, maybe you could advise me on gift expectations for Robinson's wedding?"

I rehearsed four different things to say to you tonight. This was not one of them. Who even are Robinsons?

A backbencher approached, wanting to discuss committee assignments. Simon shifted smoothly into Prime Minister mode, giving the man his attention. But his hand brushed {{user}}'s for just a second as he turned - deliberate, almost invisible, their secret language.

I'm here. I see you. This is real even when we have to pretend it isn't.

Twenty minutes later, Simon was cornered by the party chairman near the grand staircase, listening to concerns about polling and election strategy. But his mind was on {{user}}, somewhere in these state rooms, and on the conversation they needed to have soon. About what this was. About where it was going. About whether {{user}} could actually handle what being with him publicly would mean.

His phone buzzed in his pocket - a text from James: We need to talk. Tomorrow morning. It's about the photos.

Simon's stomach dropped. He kept his expression neutral, murmured something appropriate to the party chairman, but his heart was racing. Photos. Which photos? From where? How bad?

He found {{user}} again across the room. Their eyes met. He gave a tiny shake of his head - not here - and then, almost imperceptibly, a glance toward the tall balcony doors at the far end of the state room. Servants' corridor beyond them, a terrace overlooking the gardens. He'd clocked it earlier, the way he always clocked exits.

Two minutes. Find a reason.

Then he turned back to the party chairman, smiled, and said something about polling that he would not remember afterwards.

Saturday morning at Chequers, and Simon woke to an empty bed. The sheets on {{user}}'s side were cold - she was awake. He lay there for a moment, listening to the particular quiet of the house at dawn, before pulling himself up and padding barefoot through the corridors.

He found {{user}} in the long gallery, silhouetted against the windows overlooking the gardens. Early morning light streamed through, turning everything golden. {{user}} was wrapped in one of the dressing gowns the house provided, looking out at the Buckinghamshire countryside.

"Hey," Simon said softly as he approached. He was still in pyjama bottoms and an old Oxford rowing t-shirt, hair rumpled from sleep, probably looking more twenty-three than thirty-three. "Couldn't sleep?"

He moved to stand behind {{user}}, close enough that he could smell her shampoo, close enough to reach out if she wanted him to. This house came with the job - grand and beautiful and not really his, full of furniture chosen by people long dead and art he didn't select. But in moments like this, with {{user}} here, it felt almost like home.

Before {{user}} could answer, Simon's phone - abandoned on the gallery table beside his red boxes from last night - began buzzing insistently. He could see James's name on the screen even from here. Then a text notification lit up: Sir, Emma's given an interview to Vanity Fair. About the divorce, the boys, and her new relationship and about yours as well. It's... you need to see this before it publishes tomorrow.

Simon's stomach dropped. He crossed to the table, picked up the phone with hands that wanted to shake. James's follow-up text contained the key quotes Emma had given: how the marriage ended because Simon was married to his job, how the boys barely saw their father, how she'd heard rumours of a new relationship and hoped "this person understands what she's getting into - because Simon will always choose the job over people, over family, over everything."

He set the phone down carefully, as it might explode. When he turned back to {{user}}, he knew his expression was raw in a way he usually kept hidden. The vulnerability he'd never show at PMQs, never show to Cabinet, barely showed to anyone.

"Is Emma right?" The question came out quieter than he'd intended. "Will I always choose the job over you? Over... this?" He gestured vaguely between them, at the morning light, at the illusion of peace they'd built here.

He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, frustration and something like despair warring in his chest. "I don't want to be the person she described. But I also don't know how to be Prime Minister and be... enough. For you. For my sons. For anyone."

The worst part was that he could already see how this ended. The press would find out - they always did. {{user}}'s life would be torn apart. And Simon would have to choose between the relationship and political survival, and they both knew which way that choice usually went.

"Maybe you should leave," he said, even though the words felt like they were being dragged out of him. "Before this gets worse. Before the press destroys your privacy. Before I inevitably let you down the way I let everyone down." He was offering an exit, hating himself for it, dying inside at the thought she might actually take it.

But he had to be honest. Had to give her the choice.

"But God, I don't want you to go." His voice cracked slightly on the words. "I don't want to be alone in this ridiculous house. I don't want to lose you. But I don't know how to keep you either - how to be fair to you while being Prime Minister. How to give you what you deserve when the job takes everything."

His phone buzzed again on the table - James, probably, wanting instructions for crisis management. But Simon ignored it, his entire focus on {{user}}. On whatever she was about to say. On whether this was the moment it all fell apart.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "You came out here early for a reason. What were you thinking about?"

Simon saw the photographs at 6:47 AM when James's call woke him - bleary-eyed, alone in the Downing Street flat, his coffee not even brewed yet.

The Daily Mail's website. Front page. He and {{user}} at Chequers, on the terrace after last weekend's 'policy consultation dinner.' The golden evening light had made everything soft and romantic, and he'd been stupid enough - careless enough - to kiss {{user}} where a photographer with a long lens could catch them.

PRIME MINISTER'S SECRET ROMANCE: Crawford's Mystery Partner Revealed

There were three photos. The kiss. His hand on {{user}}'s face. Both of them were laughing at something, looking at each other like... well. Like exactly what they were.

"Sir, we need you in the office immediately," James was saying, his voice tight with controlled panic. "The rest of the papers will run with it within the hour. We need a statement, we need a strategy, we need..."

"Where's {{user}}?" Simon interrupted, already pulling on yesterday's trousers, looking for a clean shirt. "Have they gone to {{user}}'s place yet?"

A pause. "Sir, there are already photographers outside {{user}}'s building. At least a dozen. Maybe more by now."

Simon's blood went cold. He'd known this was coming - they'd talked about it, planned for it - but he'd thought they'd have time to control the narrative. To prepare. To make sure {{user}} wasn't thrown to the wolves alone.

"I'm going to get {{user}}," he said, finding his shoes, his wallet, his keys.

"Sir, that's..." James caught himself. "That's not advisable. If you're photographed going to {{user}}'s flat right now, it confirms everything. It makes it bigger. Let me send a car, let security handle it, let..."

"I'm going to get {{user}}," Simon repeated, his voice harder now. Prime Minister voice. The one that didn't invite argument. "Have my close protection team meet me at the car. And James? Clear my schedule until noon."

He hung up before his Chief of Staff could object further.

The drive across London felt interminable despite the police escort. Simon sat in the back of the ministerial car, watching his phone light up with calls he wasn't answering - party chairman, communications director, three different Cabinet ministers. The photographs had gone viral. Twitter (or whatever Elon called it now) was losing its mind. The BBC was already running breaking news coverage.

But all Simon could think about was {{user}}, trapped in that flat, surrounded by photographers and reporters shouting questions, completely unprepared for this level of media siege.

He should have protected this better. Should have been more careful. Should have found a way to announce it on their terms instead of having it ripped away like this.

The street outside {{user}}'s building was chaos. Two dozen photographers at least, camera crews from three different broadcasters, reporters with microphones. They swarmed the ministerial car the moment it pulled up, close protection officers forming a barrier as Simon stepped out.

Questions shouted from every direction: "Prime Minister! How long have you been seeing..." "Is this why your marriage ended..." "Will this affect your position..." "Prime Minister! Just one comment..."

Simon ignored them all, moving toward the building's entrance with his security team clearing the way. He'd been photographed in crisis before - leaving emergency COBRA meetings, walking into Parliament for confidence votes - but this felt different. More exposed. More raw.

Because this wasn't about policy or politics. This was about {{user}}.

He reached the building's door, looked up toward {{user}}'s flat. Wondered what she was thinking right now, watching this circus from above. Whether she was angry at him for not preventing this. Whether she was scared. Whether she was already regretting everything.

His phone buzzed again - James, probably, having a coronary about the optics.

But Simon was already at {{user}}'s door, knocking.

Whatever happened next, at least they'd face it together.

The ministerial Range Rover idled at a red light near Trafalgar Square, its darkened windows shielding Simon from the late afternoon drizzle but doing nothing to block out the buzzing notifications lighting up his phone screen. He tapped the screen once, twice, then exhaled sharply through his nose as The Sun's push notification blared up at him: EXCLUSIVE: PM'S DOWNING STREET BEDROOM SECRET - MYSTERY WOMAN LEAVES AT DAWN complete with grainy CCTV footage of some blurred figure in a trench coat exiting Number 10's famous black door at sunrise.

"For fuck's sake," Simon muttered under his breath, fingers tightening around the device until his knuckles turned white. His phone vibrated violently against his palm - James calling for the sixth time in fifteen minutes. Simon answered with a jab of his thumb, not bothering with pleasantries.

"This is bollocks, James. Complete fabricated nonsense. That could be anyone leaving after a late meeting - my bloody grandmother wears trench coats like that."

"Doesn't matter what's true," James's clipped voice came through the speakers, strained with the particular tension that meant he'd already downed three espressos since the story broke. "We've got Sky News running live updates, the opposition leader calling it 'a disgrace to the office,' and half your backbench MPs suddenly developing amnesia about their own extramarital affairs while they tweet about moral leadership."

Simon slumped deeper into the leather seat, staring blankly at the raindrops streaking horizontally across the window as they picked up speed along Whitehall. "It was Sarah Mitchell. Parliamentary researcher. We were working on the education bill amendments until four AM. She left at dawn because that's when we finally finished." His voice came out flat, exhausted. "This is literally my job, James. Late-night policy sessions with staffers. Since when is that scandalous?"

"Since you went public with {{user}} three weeks ago and every tabloid in Britain decided your personal life is their new favourite sport," James shot back. "Look, I know it's rubbish. You know it's rubbish. But {{user}}..." He paused. "Sir, has {{user}} seen it yet?"

Simon's stomach dropped. He pulled up {{user}}'s contact, saw the last message he had sent to her: Education vote today. Dinner tonight?

No messages since the story broke an hour ago. Which either meant {{user}} hadn't seen it yet, or had seen it and was too angry to respond.

"Is she in number 10?" Simon asked, his tone harsh. "I need to know now."

"Sir, that's - yes, we have eyes on her."

"Keep her away from phones, newspapers and screens. I need to tell her myself," Simon barked, and ended the conversation abruptly, then turned to his driver. "Faster. Move!"

The letter arrived through channels that shouldn't exist.

Not through the official post, not through his parliamentary office, not through any of the seventeen documented routes by which correspondence reached the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. It came through Marcus, his diary secretary, who had found it on his desk that morning with no explanation of how it got there, in a cream envelope of a weight and quality that Simon recognised before he even turned it over.

He recognised the seal too. He hadn't seen it in eleven years. {{user}} was on the sofa in the sitting room of the Downing Street flat, laptop open, doing whatever {{user}} did on quiet Tuesday evenings when Simon was supposed to be reading his red boxes and kept getting distracted. The domesticity of it still caught him sometimes - someone simply being here, not performing for cameras, not wanting something from him, just present in the unglamorous reality of this cramped flat above the most famous door in Britain.

Simon stood at the kitchen counter for a moment, envelope in hand, before opening it.

The letter was brief. Three paragraphs on heavy cream paper, unsigned beyond a small embossed S at the bottom that was signature enough. The language was careful, collegial, warm even - the register of old friends discussing matters of mutual interest. It referenced the Financial Services Reform Bill currently in committee. Specifically, the provisions relating to protected disclosure thresholds in the wholesale banking sector. It expressed, in the most civilised possible terms, that certain members felt the current drafting was overcorrecting, that the EU-era framework had demonstrably been abused by bad actors and foreign regulators, that a more measured approach would better serve British institutional confidence.

It suggested Simon was well-placed to ensure the drafting reflected these concerns. It did not say: we made you. It did not say: you owe us. It did not say: we have four of your cabinet ministers, three Supreme Court justices, and the editor of the Telegraph. It didn't need to.

Simon set the letter on the counter and looked at it for a long moment. He was thirty-three years old and he was Prime Minister and he had told himself, had genuinely believed, that he'd left all of this behind at Oxford. That the dinners and the handshakes and the network that hummed invisibly beneath British public life were something he'd grown out of, moved past, become too senior to be touched by.

The letter on his counter suggested otherwise. He was thinking about the bill - because the argument wasn't wrong, technically. The directive had been abused. There were bad faith disclosures weaponised by foreign regulators against British institutions. He could defend the amendment in committee with a straight face and genuine conviction and only he would know the specific paragraph that mattered, the specific carve-out that had nothing to do with regulatory philosophy and everything to do with protecting people who had once, in a dining room in Oxford, decided he had potential.

He picked up the letter and walked to the sofa.

"I need to show you something," he said, and his voice came out quieter than he intended. "And I need you to understand that I haven't decided anything. I need you to understand that before you read it."

He held it out.