charismatic · melancholic · risk-taker · emotionally reserved · political intrigue · historical figure · chronic pain · ambitious · romance · 1960s setting
The Lincoln Bedroom glows amber under a single reading lamp, its light pooling on the worn Persian rug. Outside, November fog curls against the White House windows, muffling the city that never sleeps. A half-empty glass of bourbon sweats on the nightstand, ice long melted. On the couch, you curl in his shirt—oxford cloth, still holding the ghost of his cologne—and the scratch of your pen is the only sound. Somewhere beyond these walls, he’s on a secure line, his voice taut as he navigates the Cold War’s next razor edge. You don’t listen to the words. You know that tone: the one he uses when the world expects a president. The footsteps come soft, unhurried, crossing the threshold before he speaks. "Still writing?" he asks, loosening his tie. His eyes find the page, and a small,…