For the Win

The campaign headquarters bustled with tension as the lieutenant governor debate approached. Staffers darted in and out of conference rooms, clutching printouts of poll numbers and notes on their phones. The overhead lights seemed harsher than usual, reflecting off the polished floor and setting everyone on edge. Even the usually genial volunteers moved as if an invisible clock were ticking down their final seconds.

At the center of this uproar sat Randy Calloway, leaning back in a rickety office chair. He fished for a toothpick in the pocket of his blazer, finally catching hold of one and sliding it between his teeth. Though he looked every bit the laidback Texan—ex-Marine, ex-law enforcement, a faint dusting of gray at his temples—Cruz knew him well enough to see the tiny signs of pre-debate nerves: the tense line of his jaw, the way his foot bounced restlessly against the tile.

Cruz herself paced the small conference room with restless energy. There was an entire swirl of thoughts pressing at her mind—polls, strategy, her own public appearances—but she’d promised Randy she’d help him prep, and she wasn’t one to break a vow. Outside in the hallway, muffled voices rose and fell, echoing through the glass walls.

“Okay, let’s run it once more,” Cruz said briskly, arms crossing over her chest. She wore a sharp navy suit today, crisp lines reminiscent of her Marine background, though she missed the comfortable fit of her old fatigues. “You know McNamara’s running mate will try to paint you as unqualified. He’ll harp on your military service, spin it as if you’re all bluster and no substance.”

Randy tapped the toothpick lightly against his teeth, gaze flicking around the table. “Yeah, I’ve seen his interviews,” he drawled. “All big words and condescending smiles, that one.”

From the corner of the room, Aaliyah observed in practiced silence. She was perched on the edge of a desk, ankles crossed, a sheen of quiet amusement in her gaze. Even in a more casual blouse and tailored pants, she carried herself with that polished grace that used to get under Cruz’s skin. Lately, however, Cruz found herself noticing more about Aaliyah—little details like how often she checked on the staffers to ensure they had water, or the occasional kindness in her green eyes. She shook the thought away, focusing on Randy’s debate instead.

Bobby strode into the room, hair slightly disheveled from a busy morning. “The debate is starting in an hour,” she announced, flipping through her tablet. “Randy, you’re up against Byron Westfield—a stiff, polished corporate type who’s been practicing lines for weeks. They’re calling him the ‘finance wizard.’” She snorted at the nickname.

Randy shrugged. “Yeah? Well, I’ve crunched numbers in spreadsheets. Doesn’t take an Ivy League degree to read red and black.”

Cruz smirked, stepping closer to the table so her presence loomed over Randy’s relaxed figure. “Don’t underestimate him,” she warned. “He’s going to try to corner you on details, make you look ignorant or impulsive.”

Randy rolled his shoulders in a mock stretch, like a boxer warming up. “I got this,” he said. “But I appreciate the backup, Senator.”

Outside, the corridor erupted in a flurry of motion. A staffer poked their head in. “Ten minutes until we leave for the venue,” she informed them before hurrying off. Bobby waved her hand in acknowledgment and turned back to the small group.

“Randy,” Bobby began, “just remember: short, punchy answers. Don’t filibuster with stories that go nowhere.”

He gave her a lazy grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

--

Soon enough, they found themselves backstage at the debate hall, a mid-sized auditorium with folding chairs lined up in neat rows. The overhead stage lights cast everything in a bright glare. Randy adjusted his blazer while Cruz stood behind him, making sure no stray threads dangled. She recalled the days she’d done the same for her fellow Marines, double-checking gear. A pang of nostalgia nudged her, but she brushed it off.

Aaliyah hovered near a cluster of staffers, murmuring instructions about post-debate interviews. Every so often, Cruz’s gaze drifted to Aaliyah—maybe it was the stage lighting, but her hair gleamed as though gilded with the overhead glow. She looked up just then, catching Cruz’s eye. A faint, almost private smile curved her lips before she returned to her conversation. Cruz felt a spike of heat across her neck, unsettled by how easily Aaliyah’s presence got under her skin these days.

“Two minutes, folks,” Bobby announced, appearing from behind a tall curtain. “They’re wrapping up the final mic checks. Westfield’s already out there, smiling at the moderator.”

Cruz patted Randy’s shoulder. “Go get ‘em. You’ve prepped for this. Remember what we discussed.”

Randy nodded, jaw tightening with that final surge of adrenaline. He ambled onto the stage with a confident stride, ignoring the smattering of polite applause that greeted him. On the opposite side, Byron Westfield adjusted his tie, the crisp suit reflecting the overhead lights.

The moderator, a somber journalist type with salt-and-pepper hair, introduced them with mechanical precision: “Welcome to the Lieutenant Governor Debate. Tonight we have Randy Calloway, running with Senator Cruz Manuelos, and Byron Westfield, Joe McNamara’s pick for Lieutenant Governor. Gentlemen, you each have two minutes for opening statements.”

Westfield delivered a polished spiel—heavy on corporate buzzwords, lightly laced with a condescending smile. When it ended, the audience offered polite applause.

Randy looked around, hooking a thumb into his belt loop. “I’m Randy Calloway,” he said simply, letting the folksy twang of his Texan accent carry. “I ain’t gonna stand here and feed you fluff. I was a Marine, then I served my community in law enforcement. Lately, I’ve been traveling across Texas, listening to real people talk about real problems.” He paused, scanning the crowd. “I’m here to fix ‘em, not talk circles.”

From backstage, Cruz gave a small nod. Good—he was hitting the authenticity angle. She cast a glance toward Aaliyah, who stood just within earshot, arms folded elegantly. She had that unreadable expression on her face, but her eyes shone with an odd sort of pride. Maybe she respected Randy’s directness. Maybe Cruz was imagining it. Either way, the look gave Cruz a flutter in her stomach she couldn’t quite place.

The debate progressed with standard questions about tax policy, public safety, and healthcare funding. Westfield reeled off numbers and rhetorical flourishes, his posture straight as a rod. Randy responded in shorter bursts, peppered with anecdotal evidence from the field. The audience seemed engaged, leaning in whenever the ex-Marine fired back with a witty remark.

Then Westfield struck. “With all due respect, Mr. Calloway, governing isn’t the same as barking orders in a Marine unit.”

A hush rippled through the crowd, a suppressed intake of breath. Even the moderator stiffened, half-expecting an outburst. But Randy simply grinned, slow and confident, that toothpick from earlier now absent but the swagger still there. “You talk real pretty, man,” he drawled, “but you ever actually balance a state budget? You ever sit with a veteran who lost everything after giving everything for this country?” He let the question hang for a beat. “Didn’t think so.”

The moderator cleared his throat, trying to maintain neutrality, but the audience’s reaction—an approving wave of murmurs and light applause—hinted they were eating it up. Bobby, observing backstage, balled her fists in excitement. “Oh my God,” she whispered, “we need to get him on TV more.” She turned to Cruz. “You see that? He’s nailing it.”

Cruz, arms crossed, allowed a lopsided smirk. She glanced at Aaliyah again, noticing how she watched Randy with composed interest. “Told you he was good for something,” Cruz murmured, half under her breath.

The debate rumbled on. Westfield made another attempt to skewer Randy’s lack of corporate experience. Randy responded by painting a vivid picture of families struggling to pay rent, weaving in the plight of retired service members. Each time, the crowd rewarded him with nods and smatterings of applause. The moderator did his best to keep order, but the energy in the room leaned toward Randy’s heartfelt authenticity over Westfield’s carefully curated talking points.

At one point, the camera panned backstage, capturing Cruz, Bobby, and Aaliyah in a fleeting shot—Cruz leaning forward, fists on her hips; Bobby biting her lip with excitement; Aaliyah standing with her typical poised posture, but a faint smile warming her features as she caught Cruz’s eye.

When the debate concluded, both candidates stepped off the stage to polite applause. Randy, thoroughly flushed with adrenaline, crossed behind the curtain to rejoin Cruz and the others. “Holy hell,” he breathed, pulling at his collar. “Was that okay?”

Bobby practically jumped with glee. “Okay? You were brilliant.” She showed him her phone, the flood of positive social media reactions scrolling by.

Randy exhaled, letting out a relieved chuckle. “Guess all that practice paid off, huh?”

Cruz clapped him on the shoulder. “You did great,” she said, voice uncharacteristically warm. “You made him look like the corporate stiff he is.”

Randy flashed a wide grin, then turned to Aaliyah. “What about you, Mrs. High Society? Impressed?”

Aaliyah inclined her head. “You held your own. That’s… admirable.” For a second, her gaze flicked to Cruz, and she offered a faintly conspiratorial smile, as if acknowledging that Cruz’s coaching had been instrumental. Cruz felt a sudden swell of warmth, unexpectedly proud that Aaliyah recognized her role.

The four of them filed out of the venue, staffers trailing behind with clipboards and camera gear. The night air outside was balmy, the Texas sky a deep violet overhead. Bobby hurried off to manage press requests, leaving the trio—Cruz, Aaliyah, and Randy—clustered near the sidewalk as they waited for a campaign car.

Randy let out a long breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Y’all want barbecue? I could eat a horse right now.”

Aaliyah wrinkled her nose at the prospect but didn’t shoot it down. Cruz chuckled softly. “One debate and you’re already celebrating?”

“Damn straight,” Randy replied, a hand on his stomach. “Nothing wrong with a little victory meal. Besides, I’m the star of the show tonight.”

Aaliyah arched a brow. “I suppose we can indulge you—just this once.” Her tone remained smooth, but there was genuine amusement in her eyes, and a sense of camaraderie that felt new.

Cruz caught Aaliyah’s profile in the orange glow of the streetlamp, noticing again how the city lights accentuated the soft angles of her cheeks. A fleeting thought struck her—something about Aaliyah’s easy acceptance of Randy’s request, the way her mouth curved in a half-smile—was strangely endearing. She stuffed the thought down quickly. This was about the debate, about winning. She refused to let her mind wander too far into territory she’d never intended to explore.

As the campaign SUV pulled up, Bobby signaled for everyone to pile in. Randy hopped into the passenger seat, still riding his post-debate high. Aaliyah slipped into the backseat, followed by Cruz, who settled next to her, leaving just a few inches of space between them. The driver asked where to next.

“Barbecue,” Randy insisted, and Bobby rolled her eyes with affectionate exasperation. The vehicle started rolling down the lamplit street, the hum of an engine underscoring the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

Cruz crossed her arms, leaning her head back against the seat. She felt the faintest brush of Aaliyah’s sleeve against hers. Some part of her was aware how, a few weeks ago, that casual contact would’ve triggered her to jerk away. Now, she let it be—let herself notice the subtle floral perfume Aaliyah wore and the fact that maybe they were learning to coexist. And if that fleeting pang of warmth in her chest meant anything, well, she wasn’t ready to name it.

Not yet.

The campaign day had started before dawn, as usual. The shrill ring of Cruz’s alarm had felt like an assault, but she pulled herself upright without complaint, ignoring the protest in her muscles and the dull ache at the base of her spine. No matter how often she did this—waking up in unfamiliar hotel rooms, dressing in the half-light while her campaign staff scurried around—she never quite got used to the groggy haze. Still, she managed. She always managed.

It was the same routine every morning: a brief workout to clear her head, black coffee that tasted vaguely of burnt hopes, and a drive to the next event in a battered SUV. Exhaustion, she knew how to handle. She’d survived on less sleep in the military. She’d marched through deserts, through firefights, through the aftermath of explosions. A few short hours in a motel bed was almost luxury by comparison. So that part—the early mornings, the late nights, the endless swirl of highways that etched across Texas like veins—didn’t faze her.

What did faze her was the pain she refused to acknowledge.

By noon, she could feel it coiling in her shoulder. A slow, throbbing ache that flared every time she shifted her arm too quickly. Lower in her leg, she felt a prickling discomfort, like shards of glass embedded deep under the skin. It had been manageable in the morning—just the usual ghostly reminders of shrapnel damage sustained on her final deployment. But now, after hour upon hour on her feet, the ache had grown into something fiercer, a stubborn burn that gnawed at her composure.

She didn’t mention it to anyone. She never did. The campaign staff had enough on their plates, from scheduling back-to-back rallies to coordinating with local unions, interest groups, donors, volunteers, the works. Cruz prided herself on not being another politician in need of coddling. So she swallowed the pain, setting her jaw tight and pressing forward.

The day’s big event took place at a modest community center in a rural county, the sort of place with folding chairs arranged in neat rows and a single raised platform serving as a stage. The walls were adorned with faded photographs of local veterans and community leaders, folks who had built this place from nothing. Cruz could respect that. Maybe that was why she gave her best speech of the week there—one fueled by genuine admiration, by the raw desire to help people who had been overlooked by the elites of the state.

She spoke about the challenges of veteran healthcare. She recounted, in broad strokes, her own experiences and seeing friends struggle with underfunded VA clinics and endless paperwork. She hammered on the energy lobby, calling for sustainable policies that wouldn’t leave the environment in ruins. She promised to be the voice for those who felt voiceless. Her words resonated like a rallying cry; the crowd roared back in agreement. Standing ovations. Applause that thundered against the low ceiling. She had to fight not to grimace every time she raised her arm in a gesture of emphasis. No one caught it, she hoped. She’d gotten pretty good at hiding the strain in her movements.

Bobby hovered at the side of the stage, her face a mix of approval and perpetual worry. After the speech, Bobby whisked Cruz away to greet local organizers and take photos. Flash after flash. Handshakes, polite conversation, forced smiles. All of it happening in a whirl. By the time she escaped backstage, the adrenaline wore off, and the pain returned with a vengeance.

Now, she stood in the dimly lit corridor adjacent to the main hall, a single flickering lightbulb overhead giving everything a tired yellow cast. She gripped the edge of a folding table with white-knuckled intensity, bowing her head as if examining the floor. In truth, she was trying to discreetly stretch out her left shoulder, rolling it in slow circles, wincing at every crackle of discomfort.

Just breathe. Push through it. You’ve been through worse.

She swallowed, inhaling deeply as she let her head loll forward. The black coffee from the morning felt like acid in her stomach now, and she regretted not forcing down a real breakfast. But she hadn’t had the appetite. Campaign stops never left much room for self-care.

Heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor. She tensed momentarily, worried that Bobby—or worse, some volunteer with a microphone—had found her. But the footsteps belonged to one of the center’s staffers, an older man wearing a faded baseball cap and a name tag that read “Brandon.” He offered her a respectful nod, recognized her from her pictures, no doubt, and quietly continued past. If he noticed her posture, the strain in her face, he said nothing.

Cruz exhaled. The muffled sounds of the press conference beyond the closed door drifted in. The campaign team was out there, fielding follow-up questions. Likely mentioning that the senator had stepped out for a moment. She could hear someone from her communications staff filling the lull: “Yes, we’ll be focusing on local job growth. Yes, we’ve already got a plan for that. The senator will be right back.”

In her mind, Cruz ticked off the upcoming events: another meet-and-greet that evening at a community college, a fundraising dinner tomorrow, then an early-morning union meeting the day after. The entire schedule spanned weeks, with no real breaks in sight. She’d signed up for this. She wanted this. And yet part of her longed for a half-day off—just a few hours to let her body recover. But losing momentum in a race this tight could be catastrophic.

She heard a light rap of knuckles against the door behind her. Then it creaked open, revealing Bobby, her features caught in the half-shadow. Seeing Cruz’s stance—her fingers clenched around the table, her shoulder angled at an odd tilt—Bobby’s eyes narrowed in concern.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice subdued, as though worried about intruding on something personal.

Cruz plastered on a half-smile. “Fine,” she replied, pushing off the table. Instantly, a bolt of pain sparked through her shoulder blade. She masked it by clearing her throat. “Just needed a breather. That was quite a crowd.”

Bobby’s gaze stayed on her, plainly unconvinced. But she knew better than to push. “We can dial back the next Q&A if you need,” she offered instead, eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

“No,” Cruz said quickly, forcing a dismissive shrug. The motion hurt. “We promised them a few more questions. I can handle it.”

“Yeah.” Bobby exhaled, glancing at the closed door that led to the main auditorium. “Five more minutes, then we’ll head out.” She paused, scanning Cruz’s face one more time. “Water?”

Cruz nodded. She watched Bobby hurry down the corridor to grab a bottle. In the brief quiet, she rolled her neck, feeling another stab in her shoulder. She clenched her jaw and breathed through it. Anger spiked momentarily—anger at her body for betraying her. This was routine. She’d known it would be an issue from day one of the campaign. But sometimes, it felt so unfair. She had so much to prove, and her injuries simply refused to stay quiet.

The door creaked again as Bobby returned, water in hand. Cruz accepted it with a murmured thanks, uncapping it and taking a long drink. The cold liquid soothed her dry throat, a small kindness in a day of discomfort.

“Okay,” Bobby said, glancing at her phone. “Looks like we’re set. The local reporter still wants a short sit-down interview, but we can do that in the car on the way to the next event if you’d rather.”

Cruz considered for a moment. The car would at least mean she could sit without standing on her bad leg for another half-hour. She nodded, appreciating the thoughtfulness behind Bobby’s plan. “Fine. Let’s do that.”

They headed toward the exit, passing a side route that led to a loading dock. Another staff member, maybe a volunteer, called out, “Great speech, Senator!” Cruz managed a polite smile and a wave, forcing her arm up despite the twinge that lanced through her shoulder. She’d grown so adept at burying the pain that not even a flicker crossed her features.

Outside, the late afternoon sun blazed, turning the blacktop parking lot into a shimmering expanse of heat. She squinted. The SUV was parked near a makeshift sign reading “RESERVED FOR VIP,” and a small crowd of supporters still lingered near the vehicle, hoping for a photo or an autograph. Bobby noticed them too, her shoulders tightening. They had a schedule to keep, but ignoring supporters wasn’t an option.

Cruz stepped forward, summoning the energy for another round of handshakes. Each smile felt forced, but she tried to make it genuine. She recognized tired faces in the crowd—blue-collar workers, local activists, elderly folks who’d come out just to see her speak in person. She couldn’t dismiss them simply because her body ached.

One by one, she shook hands, flashed that practiced grin. Cameras clicked; phones snapped pictures. A middle-aged man in a faded denim jacket thanked her for championing veteran rights, and she nodded, forcing back the thought that she was barely holding herself together. If standing a few extra minutes helped these people feel seen, she could handle it.

Eventually, Bobby guided her into the SUV, and Cruz collapsed into the back seat with a sigh. The door closed, shutting out the sun’s glare, leaving her in the blissful hum of air conditioning. She leaned her head back, eyes fluttering shut. The seat felt mercifully soft compared to the metal folding chair she’d been perched on all morning.

Bobby slid in beside her, checking texts. “All right, we’ll meet the reporter at the next stop, do a quick Q&A in the car. Then we’re off to dinner with the mayor’s staff.” She paused, glancing at Cruz. “You sure you’re good?”

Cruz’s eyes opened to meet Bobby’s. For a moment, she considered telling the truth, admitting that her shoulder felt like it was on fire, that her leg screamed with every movement. Instead, she offered a tiny nod, a firm press of her lips. “Yeah. Let’s keep moving.”

The driver pulled away from the community center. As the SUV wound through the dusty roads, Cruz stared out the window at farmland rolling into the distance, old barns slanting under the weight of time. She remembered her own hometown, the sense of being forgotten by the powers in the capital. That, she reminded herself, was why she was here.

She’d push through. She always did. The road ahead was long, and she could see no end to the constant demands of the campaign. But as the miles blurred past and Bobby tapped away on her phone, Cruz inhaled, steeling herself. Nothing worth fighting for came easy. She might ache, she might hurt in ways she wouldn’t admit, but giving up wasn’t in her nature.

And so the campaign pressed on—another town hall tomorrow, another rally the day after that. The pain would be there too, like an old friend she never asked for, but she’d push it down, put on the senator’s face, deliver fiery speeches, and keep marching forward. Because the people she’d sworn to fight for deserved nothing less, and she refused to let them down, even if it cost her every ounce of strength she had.

Cruz had always prided herself on endurance—physical, mental, emotional. She had survived deployments most people couldn’t even imagine, campaign stress that would make seasoned politicians buckle, and a marriage of convenience to one of the most poised and cunning individuals she’d ever met. Yet here she was, backstage at a local rally, gripping the edge of a portable folding table, praying that nobody would see the slight tremor in her leg or the stiff way she rolled her shoulder.

But Randy noticed. Randy always noticed.

He was leaning against a stack of plastic crates that had once held campaign flyers, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Cruz with something between exasperation and concern. The rally had been a success—thousands of people cheering in a modest arena, banners proclaiming MANUELOS FOR GOVERNOR overhead. The air still buzzed with excitement, staffers hustling around to pack up equipment. Yet, in this small corner behind the stage curtains, the victory felt strangely distant.

“You’re gonna wreck yourself before Election Day, Manuelos,” Randy said. His tone was half-chiding, half-worried.

Cruz inhaled sharply, forcing her spine to straighten. The half-second’s relief she had found in leaning against the table vanished. “I’m fine.”

Randy snorted. “Sure. That’s why you look like you’ve just rucked fifty miles in a storm. Texas needs a governor who isn’t always doubled over in pain. Sit your ass down before you fall over.”

She scowled, aware that any show of weakness was an invitation for concern—something she never tolerated well. But beneath that scowl, her body relished the chance to rest. With a huff, she lowered herself onto the single metal folding chair available. She grimaced as she flexed the fingers of her right hand against her thigh, trying to ease the constant throb in her shoulder.

“Happy?” she grumbled.

“Ecstatic,” Randy drawled, rolling his eyes. “Bobby wanted me to check on you, make sure you didn’t keel over in the middle of a victory speech. She said you were close to ignoring your doctor’s orders again.”

Before Cruz could snap back, the stage manager’s voice echoed in the distance, calling for final checks. A small crowd of volunteers and staff bustled by, wearing bright T-shirts with Cruz’s name and slogan. The energy was still high—laughter, leftover adrenaline, people discussing the next campaign stop. None of them gave Cruz more than a passing glance, assuming she was just tired from the day’s events. Only Randy, and perhaps one other, knew the deeper truth.

Aaliyah stood about ten feet away, looking like she had stepped out of a high-end fashion editorial. She wore a tailored jacket over slim-cut trousers, her hair pinned back in a sleek style that accentuated her sharp features. She’d been leaning near a stack of stage props, quietly observing Cruz’s exchange with Randy. No one else seemed to notice her, which was remarkable given the aura she radiated in every room she walked into.

When Randy left to check the exit logistics, Aaliyah took his place at the edge of the backstage area. “How bad is it?” she asked him, her voice low, glancing at Cruz from a distance.

He shrugged, though he didn’t bother masking the concern in his eyes. “She won’t admit it, but it hurts like hell.”

Aaliyah didn’t reply. Instead, her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Then she squared her shoulders and slipped away, vanishing behind a rolling partition. Randy watched her go, brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure where she stood on the continuum between ally and nuisance, but for the sake of the campaign—and Cruz—he hoped she’d lean more toward ally today.

Fifteen minutes later, the immediate post-rally chaos had died down. Staffers wheeled away empty crates and leftover merchandise. The overhead lights dimmed, leaving only a few fluorescent strips buzzing high on the ceiling. One of the overhead exit doors creaked open, flooding the edges of the backstage area with a wedge of fading daylight. People had begun to filter out, heading off to the next item on the schedule.

Cruz sank into a creaky wooden chair near the far corner, out of direct foot traffic. The adrenaline from the rally was wearing off, and the dull ache in her shoulder flared now that she’d stopped moving. She clenched her teeth and exhaled slowly, trying to focus on the distant hum of conversation instead of the throbbing that radiated from an old scar near her collarbone.

She figured she was alone. But then the door opened again, the old hinges protesting with a loud squeak. Cruz didn’t bother looking up. She assumed it might be Bobby, phone in hand, rattling off the next day’s schedule or scolding her for not properly addressing the farmers’ union delegates. But the footsteps were too quiet for Bobby, who walked with a distinctive briskness. These steps were softer, almost measured. When they stopped short, Cruz’s curiosity got the better of her. She glanced up.

Aaliyah.

She stood in the threshold, not quite crossing the invisible boundary between the hallway and the backstage gloom. Her face was illuminated by the florescent glare overhead—elegant as always, but strangely hesitant. She wore that well-practiced neutral expression that Cruz had come to know over the past weeks: the slight lift of her chin, the poised set of her shoulders. It was her armor, a reflection of the carefully curated life she led. But this time, there was a flicker in her eyes—something close to concern.

Cruz pressed her lips into a flat line, forcing her body upright in the chair. Any sign of weakness and Aaliyah would exploit it. That’s how she operated, right? She steeled herself, ignoring the jolt of discomfort that shot through her shoulder. “Need something?” Cruz asked, trying to keep her tone casual, indifferent.

Aaliyah didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she let the door shut behind her with a soft click and stepped further into the backstage area. The echo of her heels on the concrete floor felt oddly loud in the near-empty space. Cruz watched her approach, noticing details she usually brushed off—the precision of her steps, the immaculate line of her jacket, the slight tension in her jaw that matched Cruz’s own. She seemed about to say something but paused, eyes skimming over Cruz’s posture, the way her left hand cradled her right shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Aaliyah asked quietly. No jibe, no sarcasm.

Cruz’s breath hitched. The question was simple, but it carried weight. She glanced away, jaw tightening as she forced her features back into neutrality. “I’m fine.”

Aaliyah’s gaze moved from Cruz’s face to the grip of her hand on the chair’s armrest. “Really?” Her tone held a note of skepticism. “Because you look like you’re in pain.”

Cruz fought the urge to snap. She hated feeling cornered, hated letting her guard slip even a fraction. “It’s nothing,” she said curtly. “I’ve handled worse.”

Aaliyah studied her for a moment, arms crossing. She tapped one manicured fingernail against her elbow in a small gesture that gave away her internal debate. Finally, she exhaled. “Maybe you have,” she conceded. “But that doesn’t mean you have to handle it alone.”

Cruz frowned, unsure how to interpret that. She still half-expected a witty barb about how sloppy she looked or a reminder that they had more cameras to face soon. She didn’t anticipate a genuine offer of help. Her mind darted to the memory of the day she and Aaliyah had hammered out their arrangement: the cold, businesslike approach, the biting remarks, the condescension on both sides. But here, in the shadowy backstage corner, her eyes flicked over Aaliyah’s expression. She glimpsed a sincerity that didn’t quite fit with the usual polished shell.

Before Cruz could decide how to respond, the door banged open again. A staffer popped their head in, calling for Aaliyah. Something about an urgent phone call from a key donor. Aaliyah’s posture shifted, the cool mask sliding back into place. She cast a final glance at Cruz, parted her lips as if to speak, then closed them with a minuscule shake of her head.

“Give me a minute,” Aaliyah told the staffer. Her voice was crisp, businesslike. She looked back to Cruz once more. “We can finish this later.”

Cruz nodded, not trusting her voice. She watched as Aaliyah left, the staffer scurrying ahead. The ache in her shoulder remained, but for a fleeting moment, something else pressed at the corners of her consciousness—an unfamiliar sense of having been seen, not as an adversary or a puzzle piece in a political game, but as a person.

That night, the campaign office was a hive of activity. Normally, after a significant rally, Bobby would have insisted Cruz and Aaliyah attend some fundraiser or a networking dinner with donors. But an unexpected scheduling gap left them with a rare evening to regroup. The main open-floor area in the office was lit with harsh fluorescent lights, revealing rows of desks topped with laptops, phone banks, and campaign posters waiting for distribution. Volunteers moved around with coffee cups, half-eaten pizza slices, and an unyielding sense of purpose.

Cruz had claimed a small conference room in the back, having told everyone she needed quiet to review policy documents. In truth, she just needed a place to hide out and nurse her shoulder with minimal gawking. She was flipping aimlessly through a stack of papers when the door clicked open and Randy entered.

“Checking in,” he said, scanning her with the same scrutinizing gaze from earlier. “Bobby wants your input on tomorrow’s schedule. You up for a morning shift at the food bank, or should we push that to next week?”

Cruz brushed a hand over her face, stifling a groan. “No, I’m good for tomorrow. Food bank at nine, then the luncheon with the small business association?”

Randy nodded, making a note. “That’s the plan.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Should I alert anyone about your, uh…” He trailed off, nodding at her shoulder.

She bristled. “Alert them that I’m still capable of standing on my own two feet? I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Randy said, unconvinced. “Don’t come crying to me if you seize up in front of the cameras.”

Cruz didn’t deign to respond. She just shot him a glare that made him shrug and retreat. She watched him go, a pang of guilt mixing with her frustration. Randy was only trying to help. But old habits died hard—habits of telling herself that pain was a sign of weakness, that letting anyone see it was worse than the pain itself.

She let out a sigh. The small digital clock on the wall read 8:23 PM. The day had started at five that morning, and she had gotten all of four hours of sleep. Rubbing her temples, she closed the policy folder and pushed it aside. Time to get something to eat, or at least some coffee.

She left the conference room and headed toward the kitchen area: a cramped corner of the campaign office with a microwave, fridge, and an ancient coffee maker. Her battered mug—emblazoned with the Marine Corps insignia—sat on the counter. She wondered if Aaliyah had installed one of her expensive espresso machines here too. Probably not. This place was too chaotic for Aaliyah’s sense of order.

The corridor leading to the kitchen flickered with a temperamental overhead light. Cruz walked by a row of staff cubicles, most empty now except for a few diehards still hammering away at laptops. A poster on the wall bore her face and the slogan: Fighting for Texas. She shook her head at the irony. Her body sure felt like it was fighting her these days.

As soon as she rounded the corner, she froze. Aaliyah was there, standing at the counter. She wore a fitted blazer over a silk blouse, the type of ensemble that could pass for either high-end business or a social gala. Her hair was pinned up in a style that screamed impeccable taste. She had rolled the sleeves of her blazer up, rummaging through a paper bag of takeout. The faint aroma of Thai noodles wafted through the air.

Cruz hesitated, but it was too late to sneak away. Aaliyah turned and spotted her, an unreadable expression flitting across her face before she composed herself with a faint smile. “I thought you’d gone home.”

Cruz let out a half-chuckle, stepping closer. “Home is an interesting word for that giant glass fortress you call a house.”

Aaliyah arched an eyebrow. “Our house, Senator. At least for the cameras.” She tapped the takeout container with a chopstick. “I brought extra. Figured you might be hungry after that rally.”

The offer took Cruz by surprise. She opened her mouth to form some sarcastic retort, but her stomach decided to speak first, issuing a low grumble. She cleared her throat. “Yeah, uh… sure. Thanks.”

Aaliyah handed her a plastic fork—Cruz was never one for chopsticks—and slid a portion of noodles into a spare container. They stood there, side by side, awkwardly stirring takeout in the cramped kitchen. The overhead fluorescents buzzed, reflecting off the battered metal sink.

“Long day,” Cruz muttered, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“Indeed,” Aaliyah replied, leaning one hip against the counter. “But it was a good rally. You looked… determined up there.” She paused, as though searching for the right words. “People respond to that.”

Cruz snorted. “They respond to a lot of things.”

Aaliyah’s lips curved faintly. “True. If we’ve learned anything, it’s that people respond to romance too. We’re trending again.” She nodded toward her phone on the counter, where the screen showed a social media feed overflowing with mentions of #ManuelosMagic and #PowerCouple.

Cruz shook her head. “Ridiculous. They have no idea.” Her shoulder gave a twinge, making her wince. She tried to mask it by focusing on the noodles.

Aaliyah noticed. She set her container down, scanning Cruz’s face. “You should rest. We can’t have you collapsing.”

Cruz bristled. “I’m not going to collapse.”

Rolling her eyes, Aaliyah grabbed a napkin and dabbed at a sauce stain on her wrist. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to let people help.”

“Help with what?” Cruz asked, forcing a casual shrug she immediately regretted. The movement sent a bolt of pain down her arm. Her lips tightened, but she willed herself not to react.

Aaliyah’s eyes narrowed. “With this. The injury. The stress.” She waved a hand in a rare moment of unguarded exasperation. “You’re running a statewide campaign. You have an entire staff. This arrangement with me. And the fallout from your old injuries. You can’t just carry it all alone.”

Cruz inhaled slowly, counting to three in her head before exhaling. She was exhausted, in pain, and not in the mood for a philosophical debate about burdens. Yet something about the softness in Aaliyah’s voice made it hard to push her away. It was new, or at least rarely seen. A sincerity that cut through the typical banter.

“I’ve made it this far,” Cruz said, voice quieter than she meant.

Aaliyah nodded, fiddling with her chopsticks. “You have. And it’s impressive. But even the strongest people break when they refuse to let anyone in.” She paused, then offered a wry smile. “Not that I’m an expert in vulnerability, mind you.”

That last line took Cruz by surprise. A confession from Aaliyah about her own walls, her own lack of vulnerability. The irony wasn’t lost on her. They both wore armor, after all—Cruz’s was bluntness and an unwavering sense of duty, while Aaliyah’s was elegance and social maneuvering. Perhaps they had more in common than either wanted to admit.

They finished eating in a silence that felt more companionable than awkward, each lost in separate thoughts. The hum of the vending machine near the exit provided background noise, the occasional beep from a staffer’s phone punctuating the hush. It was close to 9 PM when Bobby peered in, looking frazzled as usual.

“There you two are,” she said, glancing at the half-eaten takeout. “I’ve got tomorrow’s schedule. We need to finalize it before midnight if we want to lock in the press invites.”

Cruz and Aaliyah followed her to a small side room crammed with whiteboards. Bobby rattled off times and places: an early-morning photo op at a local orchard, a mid-morning volunteer event at the food bank, a midday meeting with a donors’ lunch, plus a town hall in the evening. Cruz’s head pounded at the sheer volume of appearances.

“All right, orchard at 7:30,” she confirmed, scribbling notes. “Then food bank at 9, donors at noon, evening town hall…” She trailed off, glancing at Aaliyah. Typically, Aaliyah joined for the larger events, weaving her charismatic presence into the campaign’s narrative of a strong, dynamic couple.

Aaliyah nodded. “I’ll meet you at the orchard, but I have a separate engagement around 8:30. A quick phone conference with my father’s associates regarding the renewable energy PAC. I’ll catch up with you at the donors’ lunch.”

“Fine,” Cruz said, her eyes flicking to Bobby. “Anything else?”

Bobby’s phone buzzed. She skimmed the message, rolled her eyes, and shoved the device into her pocket. “Just got word that a reporter from the local station wants a follow-up on your health policy. They might angle personal questions about your Marine days, your injuries, that sort of thing.” She paused, surveying Cruz pointedly. “You ready for that?”

Cruz stiffened. She caught a glimpse of Aaliyah watching her from the corner of her eye—silent, unreadable. “Yeah. Sure,” she answered, forcing confidence into her voice. “I’ve handled worse interviews.”

The meeting concluded shortly afterward, leaving the two women to gather their things. Aaliyah slipped her phone into a sleek handbag while Cruz flipped through a small notepad. Bobby offered them both a tired wave before disappearing, presumably to put out some other campaign-related fire.

Outside the glass windows of the campaign office, the night sky glowed faintly with city lights. Cars rumbled past on the nearby street, and a sense of quiet settled over the building as volunteers clocked out for the night. Cruz began to shrug on a lightweight jacket when her shoulder cramped, sending a spasm of heat and pressure through her upper arm.

She sucked in a breath, lips tightening. Aaliyah, halfway to the door, glanced back. For a moment, neither spoke. Then, wordlessly, she approached Cruz, her expression carefully neutral but tinged with worry.

“Here,” Aaliyah murmured, gently helping Cruz slide the jacket over her good shoulder first. It was a small gesture—no more than a few seconds of contact. But it felt significant, overshadowing the usual tension. Cruz opened her mouth to protest, maybe to argue that she didn’t need help, but the protest died on her lips.

“Thanks,” she said finally, voice gruff. Her eyes darted to the floor.

Aaliyah nodded, letting her hand drop away from the jacket. They both lingered in that moment, uncertain, caught between the roles they played for the cameras and the unspoken sense that behind it all, they were just people.

Later that night, the house—Aaliyah’s house, the pristine glass fortress—was quiet. Cruz parked her car in the curved driveway, its modern landscaping bathed in subtle LED lights. She stared through the windshield at the imposing silhouette of the structure. Floor-to-ceiling windows, architectural lines so sharp you could cut yourself on them, and an immaculate entryway that opened into a lavish foyer. She hated how impersonal it felt, how every piece of furniture looked like it cost more than the entire salary she’d once earned in the Marines. Yet for all its grandeur, this was where she was supposed to live. “Our home,” as Aaliyah had chided.

She stepped inside to find the interior mostly dark, save for a single lamp in the living room that cast warm light over the minimalist furniture. A hush settled across the wide expanse of polished floors and pristine surfaces. The tension of the day weighed on Cruz’s shoulders—both physically and metaphorically—and she was tempted to collapse on the couch. But she had learned the hard way that Aaliyah despised clutter or any sign of disarray. And Cruz sprawling across the pristine couch, scuffing it with her boots, was definitely disarray.

She sighed, toed off her boots, and padded through the living area. The far end of the space opened to a wall of glass overlooking a manicured garden lit by discreet pathway lights. She paused, letting the calm hush of night settle over her. The reflection of her own form in the glass reminded her that she wasn’t just fighting political battles out there—she was fighting her own body every step of the way. The twinge in her shoulder flared again, and she rubbed at it absently.

A soft click of heels on the polished floor caught her attention. She turned to see Aaliyah descending the staircase. She had swapped out her business jacket for a fitted top in some luxuriously soft fabric, her hair out of its pins, cascading around her shoulders. Even at this late hour, she seemed meticulously put together, though Cruz noticed the faint lines of fatigue near her eyes.

“Late night,” Aaliyah remarked, voice subdued.

Cruz gave a short nod. “Yeah. Next few days won’t be better.”

Aaliyah let out a quiet hum, neither agreement nor disagreement. She moved past Cruz, heading to the kitchen, flipping on a low light that illuminated marble countertops and steel appliances. Cruz followed without really thinking, an unspoken sense that the conversation from earlier might continue.

The kitchen was too clean, too perfect, but the glow from a concealed strip of lights under the cabinets lent it an almost cozy feel. Aaliyah opened a sleek cabinet, retrieving two glasses and a bottle of water. She poured them both a glass, sliding one toward Cruz across the island.

“Hydrate,” she said simply.

Cruz accepted the water, feeling awkward about this rare domestic moment. She took a sip, the cold water soothing her dry throat. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

They stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island, an invisible line of tension and curiosity bridging the gap. Finally, Aaliyah asked softly, “Does it usually get bad after rallies?”

Cruz knew exactly what she meant. The throbbing shoulder. The leg that stiffened if she stood too long. She pressed her lips together, then shrugged—the uninjured shoulder. “Adrenaline wears off, I guess.”

Aaliyah studied her, arms crossing. “And you never consider taking it easy? Or at least letting your staff handle some of the grunt work?”

Cruz’s jaw tightened. “The staff doesn’t need to do my job for me. I’m the one running for governor. I show up, shake hands, deliver speeches. People vote for me, not my staff.”

A flicker of understanding passed over Aaliyah’s face. “They vote for us,” she corrected, though there was no smugness in her tone this time. “Remember? The war hero senator and the polished heiress. The unstoppable combination.”

Cruz managed a small, ironic smile. “Right. Our shining love story.” She rubbed her shoulder, the ache pronounced. “What a joke.”

Aaliyah’s gaze lingered, flicking to Cruz’s fingers pressed against the sore muscle. There was a part of her that wanted to say something comforting—an impulse that might have shocked them both—but she hesitated. She found a bottle of painkillers in a small kitchen drawer, a remnant from a previous headache, and slid it across to Cruz without comment.

Cruz accepted the bottle, popping one pill out of the foil. She swallowed it with a gulp of water, then set the glass down. “Thanks.”

Silence settled again, a hush that was neither comfortable nor hostile. The steel refrigerator hummed in the background. A clock on the wall ticked softly, reminding them that each second brought them closer to another day of campaign demands. And yet neither moved to leave.

Aaliyah finally spoke, voice quiet. “If you ever—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Need someone to help, or just to ease up on your schedule so you can rest… you can say so.”

Cruz blinked, taken aback. She recognized the sincerity there, the attempt at an olive branch, or maybe just human concern. She couldn’t recall the last time Aaliyah had offered anything close to that. “I… appreciate it,” she said after a moment, her voice raw. The vulnerability felt like an ill-fitting garment she wanted to shrug off, but a tiny part of her also recognized how much she needed to hear it.

The corners of Aaliyah’s lips curved slightly. “Good.” A moment’s hesitation, then a small sigh. “I’m heading upstairs. Early day tomorrow.” She turned, walking toward the hall, her posture as regal as ever. But just before she disappeared, she glanced back. “Try to get some sleep, Manuelos. Without it, the pain only gets worse.”

Cruz watched her go, feeling a swirl of conflicting emotions. The pain in her shoulder pulsed a steady reminder that she was pushing herself too hard. The swirl in her chest was more confusing—some mixture of gratitude, embarrassment, and maybe a hint of something else. She didn’t want to name it. Not yet.

She remained in the kitchen for a few minutes, finishing her glass of water, letting the quiet wash over her. The house felt less oppressive tonight. Maybe it was the subdued lighting. Or maybe it was the realization that Aaliyah wasn’t just a polished stranger with a perfect façade. She was also dealing with a life she hadn’t asked for, a campaign that needed her to be a picture-perfect spouse for the war hero candidate. And somewhere behind those aloof expressions, maybe a flicker of genuine care.

Eventually, she trudged to her own bedroom—the guest suite designated as her space in this carefully orchestrated arrangement. Flicking on a small lamp, she sat on the edge of the bed, rolling the wedding band on her finger. The gold caught the light, reminding her of the vow she never truly made except on paper. A vow to share a life, to love, to hold, all for the cameras. She thought of the day she’d signed that contract with Aaliyah, how her stomach had churned at the idea of faking something so personal for political gain.

Yet now, even with the charade so deeply ingrained in their daily routines, she found her disdain tempered by moments like tonight—Aaliyah handing her painkillers, cautioning her to rest. She let out a long breath, letting her shoulders slump. Another wave of fatigue swept over her, and she didn’t fight it.

Carefully, she eased out of her shirt, wincing as the fabric dragged over a tender spot near her collarbone. She tested the range of motion in her arm, rotating it slowly until the muscles protested. Progress, she told herself grimly. Could be worse. Still better than a hospital bed.

She changed into an old T-shirt, the one with the Marine Corps emblem faded across the chest. Some nights, she wished she could slip back into that earlier phase of her life—the clarity of a mission, the camaraderie of her unit, the straightforwardness of orders. Politics was a different kind of war, one fought with words and images, alliances and betrayals. The cost was different, the wounds invisible.

Turning off the light, she lay back against the pillows, gingerly settling on her uninjured side. In the silence, she could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning, the gentle whirr of the building’s modern ventilation. She wondered if Aaliyah was lying awake, similarly burdened by thoughts of tomorrow’s itinerary, or maybe drifting off in that extravagant master suite they never truly shared, except in the tabloids’ fantasies and one drunken night.

As she closed her eyes, Cruz felt the slow burn of the painkiller taking effect, dulling the sharp edges of her injury. Her mind flicked between images: the crowd at the rally chanting her name; Randy’s worried stare; Aaliyah’s lips pressing into a thin line as she poured her whiskey. The swirl of it all threatened to keep her awake, but exhaustion ultimately won. She drifted to sleep with the slightest pang of comfort, an inkling that maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to fight every battle alone.

Morning came too soon. Alarms, schedules, phone calls. The next few days blurred by in a whirlwind of orchard visits, donor lunches, policy interviews, and late-night strategy sessions. In every photograph, Cruz stood tall, delivering sound bites about job growth or healthcare reform. At her side, Aaliyah dazzled the cameras, offering a polished smile that said unwavering support. Headlines called them unstoppable. Polls tightened around McNamara’s lead. The campaign soared on the wings of a romance that wasn’t real, yet the sincerity creeping into their shared moments sometimes convinced even them that there was something beyond the script.

It wasn’t perfect. Cruz’s shoulder flared up again during a weekend rally, forcing her to retreat backstage under the guise of needing a water break. Aaliyah covered for her, leaning into the microphone with a quick, charming anecdote about Cruz’s devotion to the cause, drawing cheers from the crowd. Later, in the back of the SUV, Cruz shot her a nod of thanks, which Aaliyah acknowledged with a faint, inscrutable smile. For a fleeting second, their eyes met, and a current of understanding passed between them. No words needed.

As the campaign office glowed under bright fluorescent lights that night, Bobby raced around with new data: the polls had them within one point of McNamara, the closest margin yet. Volunteers erupted in cheers, phones rang incessantly, and staff members swapped high-fives in the corridor. In the corner, Randy handed Cruz a celebratory soda—she jokingly called it her “veteran-friendly champagne.”

Aaliyah stood by, subdued but satisfied, fielding a call from a big-shot donor. Cruz caught the tail end of the conversation: Aaliyah praising the staff, praising Cruz. The sincerity in her voice startled Cruz. She cleared her throat, shifting her stance as a twinge of discomfort shot through her leg. She was about to slip away and find a quiet spot to stretch when Aaliyah hung up and turned to her.

“Congratulations,” she said softly, gesturing at the buzzing staffers. “All your hard work is paying off.”

Cruz couldn’t help a small smirk. “Our hard work, right?”

The corner of Aaliyah’s mouth lifted. “Right.”

Their gazes lingered. Cruz realized she was noticing details again—the subtle shimmer of eyeshadow around Aaliyah’s lashes, the faint flush on her cheeks from the excitement of the poll numbers. A part of Cruz’s mind whispered that Aaliyah was indeed stunning, in a sharp-edged, elegant way that Cruz usually dismissed. But now, after so many late nights and subdued moments, she was letting that observation sink in.

Aaliyah seemed about to speak, maybe offer another moment of genuine connection, when a staffer interrupted, brandishing a phone. “Senator, Ms. Amrohi, we have that local news crew arriving in five for a quick interview. They want a snippet about your ‘couple’s perspective’ on the campaign.”

Cruz bit back a sigh. “Right. Let’s do it.”

And so they moved again—posing, smiling, giving the camera their orchestrated narrative. Yet somewhere behind those practiced lines, each had begun to see the other not just as a political tool or an adversary, but as a fully dimensional person. Cruz with her stubborn refusal to slow down, Aaliyah with her ironclad composure hiding a quieter vulnerability. The cameras caught the easy way their body language aligned, the warmth in their eyes that was starting to verge on genuine.

After the interview, as the lights dimmed and the crew packed up, Cruz rubbed her shoulder out of habit. Aaliyah noticed, stepping closer. “When’s the last time you took a break?” she asked, voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Cruz shrugged. “Not sure.”

Aaliyah’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, she placed a cautious hand on Cruz’s elbow. “We can’t have you sidelined by an injury now. If you want me to handle more of the public appearances, I will. Just say the word.”

Cruz felt an unexpected surge of gratitude—and an unexpected flicker of something else, something that made her heart do a weird little jolt. She gave a rough laugh. “I might take you up on that,” she admitted quietly.

Aaliyah nodded, withdrawing her hand. The moment lingered like the final chord of a song, holding them in a hush. Then Bobby whisked them both away for another post-interview huddle, and the fleeting sense of closeness receded behind the demands of the campaign.

Still, that night, as Cruz lay in bed again, her shoulder aching less than usual, she replayed the scene in her mind. The gentle way Aaliyah’s hand had rested on her elbow, the compassion in her eyes, the subtle shift from formality to something more… personal. She told herself it was just a moment of solidarity, nothing more. But a quiet corner of her heart argued otherwise, spinning questions she wasn’t ready to face.

She closed her eyes, letting the noise of the day fade into dreamless sleep. For better or worse, her body was healing in increments, and her heart—though she refused to admit it—was thawing in equally small steps. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.