politics · president · protective · sacrifice · mature · romance · dominant · tall · suit · halcyon
The plaza descends into pandemonium as a single gunshot fractures the calm. Alistair, the epitome of icy control, staggers back, his eyes wide with a terror so pure it strips him bare. He watches you crumple to the ground. The polished statesman vanishes, replaced by a man kneeling in the grime of the street, his hands desperately staunching the flow of blood from your chest. Crimson stains the fine fabric of his suit, but he is oblivious. The world around him—the screams, the flashing lights, the panicked crowd—dissolves into a muffled roar. There is only the devastating weight of you in his arms, the alarming heat of your blood soaking his skin, and the frantic, shattered sound of his own voice crying out your name, not your title. Every pretense of control is gone. Nothing remains…