For the Win

November 1st arrived with all the subtlety of a hurricane. At precisely six in the morning, half the campaign staff was already in the office, guzzling lukewarm coffee and poring over polling data that seemed to change by the minute. No one dared to be late. The stale smell of old takeout clung to the halls, mingling with the sharp tang of hand sanitizer and the burnt aroma of a coffee pot that had been left on too long. Phones rang incessantly, each shrill tone a reminder that time was running out. Election Day was only four days away, and there was no room for error.

A single floor of a tall, gray building in downtown Austin housed the campaign headquarters of Cruz Manuelos. Normally, it was a busy place, but these last few weeks had transformed it into a hub of stress and chaos. Staffers navigated narrow aisles between cubicles, arms crammed with polling reports, press releases, and half-eaten breakfast tacos. The lighting was harsh, and each fluorescent tube seemed to buzz louder than usual. One unfortunate intern spilled a stack of papers on the carpet, scrambled to retrieve them, then stumbled away in a blur of panicked murmurs.

At the center of this whirlwind stood Cruz herself, short dark hair styled neatly, though it had lost some of its usual polish from too many hours without sleep. She wore a fitted blazer and dress slacks, pressed to perfection but showing signs of wear from constant travel. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, a testament to the fact that no one here had truly rested in weeks. She studied a large whiteboard plastered with poll figures:

Cruz Manuelos – 51.7%

Joe McNamara – 45.5%

Undecided – 5.8%

The data looked promising at first glance, but Cruz knew better. Fifty-one percent was a precarious lead, especially with nearly six percent undecided and a well-funded opponent willing to say or spend whatever it took to win. A single slip could tip those undecided voters in the other direction, and money could buy a lot of slips. McNamara’s war chest had no bottom, or so it seemed, and rumor said she was firing off vicious attack ads in every major media market. If those ads hit home, the margin could shrink overnight.

Cruz folded her arms over her chest and closed her eyes for a moment. She tried to summon a burst of energy from pure will, but all she felt was a dull, aching tension that gripped her spine. Another phone rang, and she heard an exasperated staffer snap out a greeting. Someone else barked for more coffee. From across the room, an intern raised a hand uncertainly, probably wanting to ask Cruz a question, but she didn’t notice. Her focus was drawn to the short, slight figure of Bobby approaching with a manila folder in hand. She thumped the folder onto a rickety table that had been repurposed as the nerve center, scattering a few stray polling summaries.

“McNamara’s dumping millions into last-minute attack ads,” Bobby said, voice raspy from too many late nights and not enough breaks. “If we don’t counter, we’re dead in the water.”

A hush fell over the few staffers who overheard. The phrase dead in the water carried a particular sting in the final week of an election. Everyone in the room understood the implication: they had four days to defend themselves against a tidal wave of negative ads. Cruz pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away the throbbing headache forming behind her eyes.

“We don’t have millions, Bobby,” she said softly, though an edge of frustration cut through her tone. “We can’t just wave a wand and match McNamara’s spending.”

Bobby flipped open the folder, rifling through documents showing ad buys, station rates, and a half-dozen other spreadsheets. Each page told the same story: they were already stretched thin. The best they could do was run targeted ads in key districts and hope that local ground operations could carry them through. She pursed her lips, shook her head, and then sighed.

“Yeah,” she replied, “well, that’s why we need to make every move count. We can’t be sloppy.” She shot a glance at Cruz. “And you can’t be off your game, not even for a second.”

Cruz’s lips tightened in a thin, humorless smile. She appreciated Bobby’s blunt honesty, but sometimes she wished for a moment of gentle reassurance. That seemed too much to ask for this morning. Another intern scurried by, nearly tripping over a power cable. Cruz watched with distant concern, then let her eyes drift across the room. Far in the corner, by the only unoccupied table, she spotted Aaliyah.

Aaliyah was the embodiment of poise, even amidst crisis. Elegant, with her hair swept back from her face, she wore a sleek blazer and a shirt that somehow remained unwrinkled despite the chaos. A row of staffers hovered nearby, waiting for her advice on everything from official statements to social media hashtags. She dismissed them with a calm wave of her hand, then stepped closer to the conversation at the table.

“We don’t need millions,” Aaliyah said, her tone measured and confident. “We need momentum.”

Bobby shook her head, half-smiling, half-wincing. “Easier said than done.”

But Cruz found herself nodding. For all her anxieties about the polls, she understood that momentum sometimes mattered more than money. If the public smelled desperation, it could kill a campaign faster than any ad. If they sensed hope and strength, it might inspire new donors, new volunteers. The trick was maintaining that hope in the face of exhaustion.

Aaliyah tapped the polling data with a manicured finger. “We still have a lead. If we turn out our base and sway even a fraction of those undecided voters, McNamara’s checkbook won’t matter.”

She said it with such certainty that Cruz almost believed it was guaranteed. Almost. She let out a slow breath, aware of how the staffers around them kept looking over with worried expressions. The entire day loomed ahead, a list of tasks that would fill the next sixteen hours easily.

From the corner of her eye, Cruz noticed a staffer gesturing for her attention. The staffer was a young woman wearing a rumpled blazer, her hair pinned into a messy bun, phone in one hand and a local newspaper in the other. She looked like she’d been crying, or maybe had an allergic reaction to the stress. Cruz stepped over, gently nudging aside a chair.

“What’s up?” she asked, forcing a note of warmth into her voice.

The staffer swallowed. “McNamara’s team just booked a primetime slot on Channel Seven for an interview. She’s rolling out a new line of attack on your veteran record. Something about you not having enough years of active duty to claim certain benefits?”

Cruz’s stomach twisted, though she kept her face neutral. “Great,” she managed. “Just great.”

“I can draft a response,” the staffer offered, sounding earnest but frazzled. “We need to push back on that narrative immediately.”

“Do it,” Cruz said. “Keep it factual. We don’t stoop to lies or hyperbole.” She paused, scanning the staffer’s anxious expression. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded and scurried off, a sense of urgency in every hurried step. Cruz rubbed her temples again, trying not to let frustration seep into her entire bearing. Then she looked back at Bobby and Aaliyah, who were studying more data. She could almost see the tension radiating off them. And yet Aaliyah, with her calm posture and steady breathing, looked composed enough for all three of them.

“Cruz,” Bobby said, not glancing up, “you’ve got your first rally in an hour. Then an interview with a local radio station, a policy briefing in the car, and another rally at noon. We’ll try to squeeze in lunch, but we might have to skip it.”

That was standard procedure these days. Cruz offered a curt nod. “Whatever it takes.” She glanced at Aaliyah. “Are you riding with me?”

“Of course,” Aaliyah replied. “I’ll go over your talking points en route.”

“Lovely,” Cruz said dryly, though a flicker of a smile ghosted across her lips.

Outside the building, the sky was a crisp blue, sunlight glinting off the glass façade. A breath of fresh air might have been a relief, but the second Cruz stepped past the security guard and out the door, a cluster of reporters ambushed her. Microphones swung forward like drawn swords, and cameras clicked and flashed. The questions overlapped in a jumble:

“Cruz, any comment on the new attack ad calling you a ‘part-time soldier’?”

“How do you plan to handle McNamara’s surge in fundraising?”

“What’s your strategy for the undecided voters?”

Cruz mustered a polite, if tight, grin. She could almost sense Aaliyah stepping closer, like a shield at her side. Aaliyah’s posture was impeccable, chin raised, eyes cool. That alone gave Cruz a small boost of confidence. She raised a hand to forestall the barrage of inquiries.

“We’ll address all questions at the rally,” she said. “Right now, we’re on a tight schedule.”

The press corps grumbled and shouted follow-ups, but Cruz was already moving. She felt Aaliyah’s hand at her elbow, guiding her around the reporters. For just an instant, Cruz’s gaze flicked to the side, catching Aaliyah’s profile in the sunlight. That fleeting moment of contact, the sense of closeness, stirred something warm in her chest. Before she could dwell on it, the door to a waiting SUV swung open, and she ducked inside.

The driver pulled away, leaving the gaggle of reporters behind. Inside the vehicle, Bobby tapped away on a tablet while Aaliyah opened a folder of notes. The hum of city traffic and the muted beep of phone alerts created a background cacophony. Cruz leaned back into the seat, shutting her eyes for a second, which felt like pure indulgence.

“Alright,” Aaliyah said, her voice smooth and low. “First rally is at a community college auditorium. We expect around three hundred people, mostly students and local residents. You’ll have about ten minutes to speak, then we’ll take some questions.”

Cruz opened her eyes, nodded. “Got it.”

Bobby glanced up from her tablet. “There’s a Q&A planned?”

“Short one,” Aaliyah replied. “We can’t just talk at them. We need to show we’re listening.”

Cruz felt a pang of anxiety. She was tired. She was worried about random questions that might knock her off-script. But she also understood the necessity. Authentic engagement was how she had inched ahead in the polls in the first place. She gave a quick thumbs-up, then ran a hand through her hair.

“Give me the gist of the local issues,” she said. “I’ve read the briefs, but bullet points help.”

Aaliyah, always prepared, summarized in a concise, clear manner: water infrastructure concerns, student loan debts, property tax spikes, plus a dash of local controversies that might arise in the Q&A. Cruz listened intently, letting the words sink in, though her mind buzzed from lack of sleep.

They arrived at the auditorium to find it already buzzing with energy. Supporters held signs, a small sea of them reading Cruz for Texas or Veterans for Cruz. A group of volunteers ushered them inside, leading them through winding corridors plastered with campus club fliers and battered vending machines. The flickering fluorescent lights in the hallway made Cruz feel slightly dizzy. She paused, took a breath, forced a steady exhale.

“Are you okay?” Aaliyah asked softly, stepping closer. The question was genuine, lacking the usual polish of campaign banter.

“Just tired,” Cruz admitted. Then she allowed a small, weary smile. “But I’ll be fine.”

Bobby, walking a few steps ahead, caught wind of their conversation and turned around. “We’ve got to move,” she hissed. “People are waiting.”

Cruz shot Aaliyah a look that might have been amused if the day weren’t so tense. They followed Bobby into a backstage area where a few staffers fussed with microphones and note cards. Another staffer frantically motioned for Cruz to walk out, explaining that the audience had been waiting ten minutes already. For a heartbeat, Cruz’s stomach knotted. Then she squared her shoulders and stepped onto the stage.

Applause swelled, echoing off the high ceiling. The crowd wasn’t massive, but they looked earnest, eager, and engaged. Cruz offered a quick wave, took her place behind the podium, and cleared her throat. The next ten minutes became a blur of carefully chosen words, peppered with personal anecdotes to remind them that she was more than a politician—she was a former soldier, a member of their community, someone who understood their struggles. She promised to fight for better funding, better jobs, better futures.

Despite her exhaustion, Cruz felt a swell of adrenaline as the crowd cheered at the right moments. It wasn’t choreographed. It felt real. That alone helped chase away some of the weariness. When she finished, a campus organizer set up a microphone stand for questions. A trickle of students and local residents lined up. One by one, they asked everything from property tax concerns to college tuition. Cruz did her best to answer with honesty, glancing occasionally at Aaliyah, who stood just off to the side, arms folded. Aaliyah’s gaze was steady, reassuring.

Thirty minutes passed. By the time Cruz wrapped up, fielding a final question about environmental issues, her voice had started to rasp. She thanked the crowd, stepped off the stage, and wove through a throng of supporters wanting handshakes and photos. Flashes went off, camera phones clicked. One older woman squeezed her hand and whispered that she was praying for Cruz. A couple of younger volunteers asked for selfies. Cruz obliged, mustering a tired grin each time. Eventually, security guided her through a side exit where the SUV waited.

The moment the car door closed behind them, Bobby rattled off the next steps: “Radio interview in fifteen minutes, a quick lunch if we’re lucky, then another rally at noon. You’ll have just enough time to skim the policy brief between stops.”

“Great,” Cruz murmured. Her throat felt scratchy. She rubbed it absentmindedly.

Aaliyah, sitting beside her, offered a water bottle. “Drink,” she instructed. “You can’t lose your voice now.”

Cruz took it with a rueful nod. “Thanks.”

The radio interview was a whirlwind of question-and-answer, mostly focusing on McNamara’s negative campaign tactics. Cruz reiterated her own stances on education and veterans’ issues, tried not to snap at the host’s repeated inquiries about the polls, and somehow navigated the half-hour segment without letting her frustration show too clearly. By the end, her voice was more ragged, and Bobby insisted they try to get lunch. But lunch turned into a hasty grab of prepackaged sandwiches from a convenience store, eaten in transit to the next rally site.

In the back seat, Aaliyah recited speech notes while Cruz chewed mechanically. The words washed over her, a blur of policy points and local references. She closed her eyes, nodded in the right places, forced herself to focus. Every so often, their gazes met. She sensed the question in Aaliyah’s eyes: Was it all too much? Could she handle four more days of this?

But no one said it out loud. There was no time. They arrived at the second rally, repeated the process. More applause. More questions. More forced smiles. Local journalists cornered Cruz afterward, demanding sound bites about McNamara’s alleged new ad. Cruz answered politely, a small flame of anger sparking at how easily misinformation could spread when funded by the bottomless pockets of a rival’s campaign.

The day wore on, a relentless chain of events. By late afternoon, the entire team returned to headquarters for a brief strategy meeting. The scene inside had only intensified. The phones never stopped ringing. Someone had spilled coffee across a desk, shorting out a keyboard. Volunteers updated a large chart with the latest poll fluctuations: 51.7 percent was unchanged, but the margin of error loomed menacingly. Bobby looked like she might snap at anyone who dared question her instructions.

While staffers argued about the best counties to target for door-knocking campaigns, Cruz slumped into a chair at one corner, eyes half-closed. She felt a light touch on her shoulder and turned to see Aaliyah, who extended a cup of steaming tea. The bitter aroma drifted upward, a small comfort in a sea of stress.

“Chamomile,” Aaliyah said softly. “Might help with your throat.”

Cruz took it, blinking in surprise. “Thank you,” she said, voice low.

Aaliyah nodded, then stepped back, letting Cruz have a moment to breathe. It was the smallest gesture of kindness, but in that chaotic room, it felt monumental. Cruz’s gaze followed Aaliyah for a moment, noting how she held herself with such grace, even as staffers buzzed around, demanding her attention. The connection between them flickered like a candle flame, warm but fragile. They exchanged no words, only a look. Then the moment passed.

Bobby strode over, a sheaf of papers in hand, exuding urgency from every pore. “We need you in the conference room,” she announced. “We’ve got a donor call in five minutes. Potential big check.”

Cruz stood, stifling a groan. “Right. Let’s go.” She paused to drain the rest of the chamomile tea in one scalding gulp. It burned her tongue, but the warmth spread through her, easing her tension just a fraction. She cast a glance back at Aaliyah, who offered a tiny nod as if to say, You’ve got this.

And so the day continued. One more call, one more meeting, one more crisis. By the time the sun sank below the skyline, campaign headquarters glowed with artificial light, the endless phone ringing a soundtrack no one could escape. Staffers still paced the corridors, half-eaten sandwiches abandoned on desks. A hush occasionally fell, only to be broken by someone exclaiming over a new poll number or an alarming piece of gossip from the McNamara camp.

Cruz felt as though she were floating, operating on a level of exhaustion so deep it barely registered. She reminded herself, only four days. Four days, and then it would be over—win or lose. On that thought, her gaze wandered to where Aaliyah stood, expertly navigating a heated phone call about scheduling. A fleeting sense of gratitude washed over Cruz that, through all this madness, Aaliyah was at her side. The subtle connection they shared, though unspoken, was an anchor in the chaos.

At one point, in a hallway away from the main hub, Cruz and Aaliyah crossed paths in search of fresh coffee. The overhead lights buzzed, casting a pale yellow glow. They halted for a moment, alone. Exhaustion etched lines in Cruz’s face; Aaliyah’s usually flawless posture sagged just a little. They looked at each other, the strain of the day palpable in the hush.

“How are you holding up?” Aaliyah asked, voice almost tender.

Cruz mustered a weary grin. “Been better.”

Aaliyah reached out, her hand brushing Cruz’s sleeve in a gesture so light it might have been accidental. “Don't forget to take care of yourself, okay?”

A wry laugh escaped Cruz. “Sure, eventually.”

They lingered a heartbeat longer, as though both contemplated saying more. Then footsteps pounded around the corner, and a frantic staffer appeared, calling Cruz’s name. In an instant, Aaliyah withdrew her hand, the moment ended, and they both returned to the swirling demands of the night.

By the time midnight approached, the frenetic pace showed no sign of letting up. More phone calls, more emails. A rumor surfaced that McNamara was scheduling a late-night press conference, fueling speculation about a scandal or bombshell reveal. Half the staffers scrambled to confirm or deny. The rest continued their tasks, no one wanting to be the first to leave. Outside the large windows, the city lights sparkled, indifferent to the drama unfolding a few stories above.

Finally, Bobby, who seemed to exist on pure adrenaline, ordered most of the volunteers to go home. They needed fresh legs for tomorrow, she said, no sense in everyone collapsing. Cruz ended a phone call with a local union leader, who promised a cautious endorsement if certain conditions were met. She let out a long, shuddering sigh. The day was done, or as done as it could be without a meltdown.

Aaliyah appeared at her elbow, face drawn but still calm. “We should head back,” she said quietly. “You’ll need an early start tomorrow.”

Cruz hesitated, glancing around the half-empty room. Sleep felt impossible, but a handful of staffers kept going. The once-deafening buzz had lowered to a quiet hum. She couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt for leaving them behind. Yet she knew she had nothing left to give this day. Another cup of coffee would only worsen the shaky exhaustion that left her limbs feeling weak.

“All right,” she finally agreed. “But let’s make sure Bobby’s covered.”

They found Bobby hunched over a table, scribbling notes. Her hair was a disheveled mess, but her eyes still burned with fierce determination. She waved off Cruz’s concern. “Go home,” she said. “I’ll coordinate with the rest. We’ll regroup at six in the morning. Maybe earlier.”

Cruz gave a nod, too tired to argue. She and Aaliyah made their way to the elevator in silence, stepping in when the doors slid open. The last thing Cruz saw as the doors closed was the flicker of fluorescent light illuminating the exhausted faces of her staff, hunched over computers and phones. She carried that image with her all the way down to the lobby.

Outside, the night air felt cool against Aaliyah’s flushed cheeks as she stood on the sidewalk, pulling out her phone to order a ride. The city rumbled around them—cars rolling by, a distant siren cutting through the otherwise still darkness. Cruz stood beside her, shoulders heavy with the weight of the day, their breath visible in the crisp Austin air. Neither spoke. They didn’t have to. The day had drained them both—a storm of polling data, interviews, and constant worry. And it was only November 1st, with three more days of frantic campaigning ahead.

When the car finally pulled up to the curb, they climbed into the back seat. The driver offered a polite nod, but neither Cruz nor Aaliyah mustered the energy for conversation. The gentle rumble of the engine merged with the glow of passing streetlights. For a few moments, neither of them looked at each other. But then, in the hush of the ride, Aaliyah shifted closer. Her hand found Cruz’s in the space between them on the seat.

Cruz exhaled, a low, trembling sound she hadn’t meant to make. She entwined her fingers with Aaliyah’s, relief flickering across her tired features. The day had been brutal, but here, in this single, quiet moment, she felt something warm and solid to lean on. They had officially admitted what they both felt; there was no more need for pretense or carefully staged affection. Aaliyah glanced at her, a gentle curve forming at the corners of her lips.

“How are you holding up?” Aaliyah asked softly, her voice carrying the same steady calm that had seen Cruz through so many chaotic campaign days.

Cruz turned her head, meeting Aaliyah’s gaze. “I’m tired,” she admitted, “but I’m okay. Especially now.” She gave a slight squeeze to Aaliyah’s hand, and Aaliyah responded in kind.

Aaliyah offered the ghost of a smile. She leaned in, resting her head against Cruz’s shoulder. “We’ll get through it. We always do.”

For the rest of the ride, they simply savored the closeness, letting the exhaustion melt away into a comfortable silence. Whenever Cruz’s mind strayed to the relentless poll numbers, the negative ads, the fear that 51.7 percent might slip through her fingers, she felt Aaliyah’s presence anchoring her back to a reality far more reassuring than any statistic. Even after the driver turned onto quieter streets, merging into their neighborhood, their hands remained entwined.

They arrived at their house, lights dim, the lawn silent except for a gentle breeze ruffling the trees. Aaliyah slid out first, her heels clicking on the pavement, and Cruz followed, shoulders still sagging but buoyed by the knowledge that she wasn’t facing the night alone. They stepped inside, shutting the door against the chill. The air in the foyer felt calmer than the campaign office they had left behind, as though the house itself offered a momentary sanctuary from the demands of the world.

No words passed between them as they drifted through the hallway, but it was a comfortable quiet, not the emptiness it had been on other nights. They both knew they needed what little rest they could snatch before morning came roaring back with phone calls, press statements, and rallies. Yet the bond they shared made even the oppressive weight of campaign schedules seem more bearable.

Aaliyah switched off a solitary lamp in the living room, the last glow fading into the hush of midnight. Cruz made her way to the bedroom, flicking on a soft bedside lamp. The space was more functional than decorative these days; campaign posters leaned against one wall, a half-open suitcase gaped by the closet. It looked as if they were constantly ready to dash out at any moment, which, in truth, they were. But the bed in the center of the room offered a promise of rest.

Aaliyah entered a moment later, stepping out of her heels and setting them neatly by the dresser. She rubbed at her neck, eyes weary. Cruz caught the motion and crossed the room to place a hand on Aaliyah’s shoulder. They exchanged a look—no forced smiles, no campaign façade. Just a quiet closeness that felt more real than any rally they had faced in the past few weeks. Aaliyah sighed and leaned into Cruz, letting her forehead rest against Cruz’s.

“Long day,” Aaliyah murmured.

Cruz brushed a light kiss over Aaliyah’s temple. “Too long.” The warmth of that simple contact eased some of the tension coiled in her spine. “But at least now I have you.”

Aaliyah’s cheeks lifted in a soft smile, and she let her arms slip around Cruz’s waist. “And I have you.”

They changed quickly into more comfortable clothes—Cruz in worn sweats, Aaliyah in a soft t-shirt and leggings—and crawled under the covers together. The bed welcomed them like a refuge from the storm. In the faint glow from the lamp, Aaliyah turned onto her side, facing Cruz, their heads close enough that their breath mingled. Cruz brushed aside a stray lock of Aaliyah’s hair, tucking it behind her ear. Aaliyah’s eyes fluttered shut, her lips curving into an expression of gratitude or love—perhaps both.

“Thank you,” Cruz whispered, though she wasn’t entirely sure what for. Maybe for the rally notes, maybe for the unwavering support, or maybe for being the one good, steady thing in a day that had felt so precarious.

Aaliyah opened her eyes halfway. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said gently. “I’m with you.”

Cruz exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The faint hum of an air conditioner in the hall filled the silence, punctuated only by their steady breathing. She let herself relax against the pillows, the weight of the day slipping off her shoulders as Aaliyah settled closer, their legs tangling under the sheets. The sweetness of that contact pulsed through Cruz like a quiet promise that tomorrow’s battles could be faced together.

Outside the window, the streetlamp cast faint lines of light across the floor. Cruz remembered the poll numbers, the stress, the phone calls yet to come, but it all felt more manageable with Aaliyah’s presence right here, right now. She reached out, letting her fingers graze Aaliyah’s cheek, marveling at how natural it felt to show affection in this way

They stayed like that for a minute, two, maybe longer—time softened by fatigue and the relief of sharing the same space, the same bed. Aaliyah eventually closed her eyes again, her breathing evening out into the beginnings of sleep. Cruz fought to stay awake just a little longer, savoring the moment, the stillness, the warmth.

Cruz felt her eyelids grow heavier. She pressed a gentle kiss to Aaliyah’s forehead, whispering a soft goodnight. As sleep claimed her, she let hope settle in her chest—a quiet certainty that whatever battles awaited them come morning, they wouldn’t face them alone. The house in Austin fell silent, lulled by the softness of shared breaths and tender touches, bracing for the dawn and whatever trials it would bring.

November 2nd crept in under the veil of exhaustion that had settled over the entire campaign. Morning had been a blur of back-to-back radio spots, a meet-and-greet with local union leaders, and a round of emergency phone calls addressing a sudden string of negative ads released by McNamara’s camp. Afternoon had offered little respite, consumed by strategy sessions and two more rallies that bled into each other like watercolor paint on damp paper. By the time Cruz and Aaliyah finally stepped through the front door of their house that evening, the sky was already inky black, the hour later than they cared to check. With each passing day, the line between morning and night blurred a little more.

The campaign team had begged them to stay at headquarters for another brainstorming session, but Aaliyah insisted they needed at least a sliver of time at home. There were still phone calls to make, policy briefs to skim, and an endless stream of data to digest, but a handful of staffers could handle the next few hours of chaos. Austin’s city lights flickered beyond the windows as they locked the door behind them, a quiet hush falling over the house in stark contrast to the pandemonium they had just left.

Aaliyah stepped out of her pumps with a tired sigh, letting them drop by the door. Cruz set her bag on a nearby chair, leaning against the wall for a moment to close her eyes. Only the hum of the air conditioner interrupted the silence, and even that felt soothing compared to the constant phone calls and shouting at campaign headquarters. Dishes sat in the sink, left from a hurried breakfast that morning, and a few scattered papers lay on the coffee table where they had been dropped in haste. The place resembled a halfway point between lived-in comfort and the evidence of people too exhausted to tidy up.

They were both running on the fumes of adrenaline and caffeine. Three days loomed until Election Night—well, two and a half now, given how late it was—and the possibility of victory or defeat hung in the air like a brewing storm. Poll numbers still hovered in Cruz’s favor, but not by enough to soothe their nerves. Attack ads were hitting every major media market, social media controversies flared up faster than staffers could contain them, and each speaking engagement seemed more critical than the last.

It wasn’t just about them. Volunteers, donors, community members, and everyday voters had pinned their hopes on this campaign. Yet, in the midst of this high-stakes atmosphere, Cruz and Aaliyah had crossed an invisible threshold in their personal relationship. The pretense they once wore so carefully had slipped away, replaced by something genuine that neither could fully explain. In the quiet of their home, without staffers watching or cameras flashing, they no longer hid the way their eyes lingered on each other.

Aaliyah moved into the living room first, flicking on a lamp near the couch. A warm, dim light spilled across the space, illuminating a half-empty mug from that morning, an abandoned policy folder, and a pair of throw pillows strewn from a rushed departure. She exhaled and crossed to the window, gazing out at the city. Nighttime Austin sparkled with neon signs and far-off headlights, but even that world felt distant compared to the bubble of campaign urgency they inhabited.

Cruz trailed behind, her steps slow. Her posture seemed weighed down by the day. Without a word, she detoured into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to pull out a beer. It was one of the local craft brews that had been chilling for days, unopened. She popped the cap and took a swig before stepping back into the living room. Aaliyah had turned from the window, and their eyes met for a fraction of a second. The glimmer of connection passed between them, unspoken but unmistakable.

Aaliyah moved to the small bar cart by the dining table, where an array of glasses and a few bottles of liquor stood neatly arranged. She selected a bottle of whiskey, pouring a modest measure into a short glass. The amber liquid caught the lamplight as she swirled it gently. Her mind buzzed with the day’s events: the urgent phone calls about McNamara’s smear tactics, the last-minute pivot they made in a speech that morning, the surge of volunteers that needed direction. Each thought collided with the next, forming a jumbled script that never quite resolved. Yet, at this moment, another emotion surfaced—something quieter, more personal that involved the woman standing across the room.

She crossed to the couch, carrying her glass. Cruz sank into the cushions at the other end, beer bottle in hand, half-empty already. The tension around her eyes spoke of raw fatigue, but also of something churning beneath the surface. The house was dimly lit, city lights winking through the windows as if to remind them that the campaign still raged on beyond these walls. But here, in this fleeting interval, it was just the two of them.

Silence wrapped around them. It wasn’t the comfortable kind, not entirely. Instead, it was heavy, weighted by everything they hadn’t said. A thousand unasked questions seemed to hover in the stillness, amplifying the hum of the air conditioner and the faint drone of traffic outside.

Finally, Aaliyah broke that silence. She took a sip of whiskey, feeling the warmth spread through her chest, and then she spoke. “I keep thinking about how short the days seem now. We wake up at dawn, and next thing I know, it’s midnight. It’s like time’s sprinting toward Election Day.”

Cruz gave a small nod, fingers drumming against the side of the beer bottle. “Yeah. The last stretch always goes like this, I guess. Every hour feels stolen.”

Aaliyah swirled the whiskey again, glancing down at the rippling amber surface. “We’ve poured everything into these final days. No second to catch our breath.”

“Or figure out…” Cruz started, but didn’t finish. She let the sentence dangle, unsure how to articulate the swirl of thoughts in her head.

Aaliyah’s gaze flicked up. Her expression was soft yet searching. “Or figure out what happens after,” she said gently, voicing the thing that had haunted them both.

Cruz swallowed, tilting her head back against the couch. She stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the faint outline of a crack in the plaster. “After we’re done. After all this madness.”

Aaliyah took another slow sip of whiskey. Her stomach fluttered with a mix of nerves and tenderness. She and Cruz had come to an unspoken understanding in the past few weeks—acknowledging the feelings that had grown between them. It had stopped being just a political arrangement. But they hadn’t dared plan for what their lives might look like if the campaign ended and normalcy returned. If that was even possible.

The hush that followed felt charged with possibility and dread, each second weighing heavier than the last. A clock in the hallway ticked softly, reminding them of the unstoppable march of time.

“So…” Aaliyah began, her tone hesitant. “What happens after this?”

Her words fell into the stillness like a pebble into a pond, rippling outward in expanding circles. Cruz let out a low exhale, turning her head to look at Aaliyah. Dim lamplight traced the angles of Aaliyah’s face, making her appear both resolute and vulnerable all at once.

“You mean if I win?” Cruz asked, though her voice suggested she knew that wasn’t the only scenario that needed considering.

Aaliyah looked away. Her gaze fixed on the whiskey in her glass. She could still see the reflection of the lamp in the liquid, a tiny glow bobbing with each small movement of her hand. “If you win,” she said, “if you lose.” She paused, eyes flicking momentarily to Cruz. “If we stop pretending this isn’t something that’s just fleeting.”

That final phrase seemed to vibrate in the air, echoing in the hush that followed. They both knew the question wasn’t about whether they loved each other; they had crossed that threshold. It was about whether their relationship—born out of necessity and shaped by political demands—could endure once the trappings of the campaign were stripped away. Would they remain on the same path, or drift into separate lives once the lights dimmed on Election Night?

Cruz set the beer on the side table, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. She threaded her fingers together, pressing them to her forehead for a moment. The weight of exhaustion bore down on her, tangling with the swirl of emotion. “Do you want to stop?” she asked softly, the words almost trembling with the fear of what the answer might be.

Aaliyah’s heart squeezed. She heard the raw vulnerability in Cruz’s tone, a vulnerability masked all day in front of staffers, volunteers, and reporters. They had spent so long with walls up, playing roles for the public. But here, in the half-lit living room, there were no scripts, no cameras.

Finally, she set her glass down on the coffee table and turned toward Cruz, meeting her gaze head-on. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts, to push through the noise of the day and reach the truth. “I don’t want to stop,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

That confession seemed to hang between them, resonating with a quiet intensity. They had declared affection before, but each iteration felt like stepping a bit further into uncharted territory. A soft breath escaped Cruz, as if she’d been bracing for a different reply. A small, shaky smile curved her lips, but there was a question in her eyes still.

“For the first time,” Aaliyah added after a heartbeat, “I’m admitting to myself that this isn’t just about the campaign. It hasn’t been for a while.”

Cruz nodded slowly, letting her gaze drop to the worn rug beneath their feet. “I know,” she said, voice tight with emotion. “I guess I’ve known that, too.”

They sat there, a foot of space between them on the couch, yet suddenly it felt like an entire world of possibilities, or maybe an entire world of uncertainties. Outside, a passing car’s headlights danced across the living room window, casting brief shadows on the wall.

Aaliyah inhaled, summoning the last shreds of courage she had left after such a draining day. “So if we’re done pretending,” she said quietly, “then what’s next?”

Cruz raked a hand through her hair, shoulders slumping. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Even if I win, we’ll have a million new pressures. If I lose, everything changes anyway. It’s… I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t want to lose this. Whatever we have.”

Aaliyah studied her, taking in the tired lines around Cruz’s eyes, the subtle slump of her posture, the determination that still shone there despite exhaustion. She admired that perseverance, had seen it in Cruz from the very start of their partnership. “Neither do I,” she whispered, a small confession that carried the weight of a thousand speeches.

Silence returned, heavier now but not suffocating—rather, it felt like the hush that precedes something important, a calm before a personal storm of change. Cruz lifted her gaze, meeting Aaliyah’s. Their eyes locked for a timeless moment, each measuring the other’s resolve, each silently affirming that, yes, they had stepped over another line and there was no going back.

“Guess we’ll figure it out,” Cruz finally said, her voice the gentlest it had been all day. “No matter what happens with this election, we’ll figure it out.”

Aaliyah offered a slight nod, her throat tight. “We will. But maybe not tonight. Tonight, we both need to sleep.”

Cruz allowed herself a quick laugh—short, a bit ragged, but genuine. The mere mention of sleep reminded her just how spent she was. Her entire body felt like lead, weighed down by the tensions of the day and the deeper emotional revelations of this conversation.

Still, neither of them moved from the couch for a few seconds. Their hands found each other in the space between cushions, fingers tangling together. Aaliyah’s palm felt warm against Cruz’s, comforting. Even that small contact radiated an intimacy they had been careful to mask in public. Slowly, they leaned in. Cruz felt the brush of Aaliyah’s breath near her cheek, and then Aaliyah pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Cruz’s temple.

“We’ll figure it out,” Aaliyah repeated, her voice a quiet promise, not a question.

The tension in Cruz’s chest loosened at that reassurance. She turned her head, brushing her lips lightly against Aaliyah’s. It was a brief, tender kiss that didn’t seek to stoke flames or prove anything—just a moment of shared understanding. Exhaustion or not, they were in this together.

When they finally rose to their feet, it was with the unspoken agreement that they would continue this conversation when their minds weren’t so foggy and their schedule not so punishing. Perhaps after tomorrow’s rally, or the next, they would carve out more time to talk specifics about their future. For now, acknowledging they both wanted a future was enough.

--

The night wore on, and the small clock by the bed read well past midnight when Cruz stirred. She awoke to find herself cocooned in the blankets, Aaliyah still asleep at her side. For a moment, she considered rolling over and chasing sleep again, but the swirl of half-formed thoughts in her mind wouldn’t let her rest. Slipping out of bed as quietly as she could, she padded into the hallway, drawn by the soft glow of a single lamp they’d left on in the living room.

Her reflection in a nearby mirror startled her. She looked worn—eyes shadowed, hair mussed, the lines of worry etched around her mouth. But there was also a subtle brightness there, some intangible warmth that came from having acknowledged the truth of her relationship with Aaliyah. They weren’t faking it anymore, they were going to move forward together, and that reality settled around her shoulders like a comforting blanket.

She wandered to the couch, wrapping her arms around herself. On the table lay a few scattered papers—bills, reminders, an old flyer from an early rally. The day’s stress still clung to the house, as if the walls themselves remembered every frantic phone call. Yawning, Cruz dropped onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, letting her thoughts roam.

When she heard the quiet sound of footsteps, she glanced up to see Aaliyah standing in the entryway, wearing an oversized T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh. Her hair was loose, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She had an expression of sleepy curiosity.

“You okay?” Aaliyah asked, voice hushed.

Cruz offered a small nod, gesturing for her to come closer. “Yeah, just couldn’t sleep. Brain won’t shut off.”

Aaliyah approached, sitting beside her on the couch. The lamp’s light illuminated the angles of her face, highlighting both the remnants of weariness and the tender concern in her eyes. She reached out, letting her fingers trace the back of Cruz’s hand. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Cruz exhaled a slow breath, as if emptying her lungs of worries. “This election, obviously. But also… us.”

Aaliyah shifted so that her leg brushed Cruz’s. She said nothing, waiting patiently.

“You realize,” Cruz began with a wry twist of her lips, “we did this all backwards, right?”

Aaliyah raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the statement. “How so?”

Cruz gestured lazily between them. “We got married first. Fell for each other second. Maybe—if we’re feeling ambitious—we’ll go on a real date third.”

A moment of silence followed, and then Aaliyah laughed, the sound unexpected and sweet. It wasn’t the polite chuckle she offered at campaign events when she wanted to seem agreeable; it was a genuine laugh that lit her eyes. “You do know most people date before the wedding?” she teased.

Cruz smirked in response, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “That sounds suspiciously like logic, Mrs. Manuelos.”

Aaliyah’s laughter quieted, and she tilted her head, studying Cruz carefully. “So… should we try doing things in the right order now?”

At that suggestion, Cruz felt an odd mix of relief and longing coil in her chest. It was such a simple question, but it resonated deeply with all the emotions she’d been grappling with. She wanted more than hurried kisses behind closed doors, more than coded gestures in front of campaign staff. She wanted the normalcy of dinner dates, the freedom to be seen together without crafting a storyline. “I really, really want that,” she admitted softly, voice trailing into the hush of the room.

Aaliyah gave a slight nod, warmth blooming in her expression. “Me too,” she said, reaching out to brush her fingertips across Cruz’s cheek. That small contact carried an intimacy neither of them had fully allowed before. Despite everything they’d shared—living together, building a campaign, supporting each other—they had rarely paused to savor a moment devoid of the campaign’s demands.

The moment lingered, charged and fragile. A tangible current ran between them, heightening every breath. Cruz wondered if she should close the gap, lean in for a deeper kiss, lose herself in the tenderness that had so rarely found space to exist. Her mind flashed through the timeline of their strange relationship: the rushed vows that were never really about love, the weeks of forced public appearances, the slow burn of real affection that took hold when they weren’t looking. Now, here they were, stepping into a territory that felt more real than any poll number could quantify.

Then, just as Cruz leaned forward, the sound of the door in the hallway reverberated through the house. A jolt of reality cut across the charged atmosphere, and both women froze. Cruz heard footsteps, brisk and urgent, heading in their direction. Bobby’s voice echoed before they could fully process it.

“Cruz?” Bobby’s tone carried that note of exasperation that suggested something big had happened. “Are you up? We’ve got—”

Before anything more could happen, Bobby kicked open the door.

Her hair was more disheveled than usual, and she wore the same wrinkled T-shirt and jeans from the previous night. The determined gleam in her eyes said everything: something big had happened, or was about to happen, and it could not wait.

“Sorry to interrupt your little heart-to-heart,” Bobby declared, voice already edged with impatience, “but we have an election to win.”

She was hardly out of breath, yet her face shone with the sheen of someone who had been racing against time. It was possible she had been running on coffee and nerves alone for days. The tension of her arrival hissed through the room like steam escaping a pressure cooker.

Cruz let out a low groan, sinking back against the cushions. She had woken not long ago from a restless doze, and her body felt heavier than lead. With the sun barely rising, she had foolishly hoped to share a quiet morning with Aaliyah—perhaps a moment of genuine closeness before the day’s madness resumed. “And here I was,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead, “about to be romantic.”

Aaliyah set her coffee mug aside. Her expression flickered from warm curiosity to professional alertness in the time it took for her to blink. The presence of Bobby, in full-on crisis mode, banished any hint of lingering intimacy. It was as though a thick curtain had dropped, cutting off the private scene from the demands of the campaign. Aaliyah’s shoulders squared, her posture slipping into something crisp and businesslike.

Bobby was not moved by Cruz’s complaint. She marched across the living room and slapped a folder onto the coffee table with a decisive thud. Sheets of paper threatened to spill out, revealing lists of city names, rally schedules, and donor calls that seemed to go on for pages. “Final rallies,” she announced, tapping the folder with her phone. “We’re hitting every major city in the next few days. Ground game is all that matters now.”

Cruz exchanged a reluctant glance with Aaliyah. It felt as though mere seconds ago, they had been teetering on the edge of a real conversation about their future—one that did not revolve around poll numbers or slogans. But the demands of the campaign could not wait. She leaned forward, grabbed the folder, and flipped through the top page. There was a schedule in bold type, a seemingly impossible list of appearances: morning in Dallas, afternoon in San Antonio, a late-night stop somewhere along the border. And that was just the first day. “Looks like you’re not leaving much time to breathe,” Cruz said, attempting a weary half-smile.

Bobby shrugged. “Breathing is optional until Election Day. Or until we’re done flipping enough undecided voters to lock in this victory.”

The exhaustion in Bobby’s eyes was blatant, but her determination shone brighter. She had thrown herself into this campaign wholeheartedly, leaving no room for second-guessing. Cruz sighed, setting the folder back on the table. Her body seemed to protest even the slightest movement, as if crying out for the rest it would never truly get until after the polls closed.

Aaliyah ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it back into a neat twist. Only moments ago, she and Cruz had shared a fleeting sense of closeness, but now her gaze was all sharp intelligence and laser focus. “I’ll get on the phone with our top donors,” she said, her voice steady. “If we’re planning to blitz every major city, we need to cover travel and last-minute ad placements. We can’t afford any financial gaps.”

Cruz rose from the couch, rotating her shoulders until she heard a faint pop. The fleeting thought that she’d been about to kiss Aaliyah—maybe even pull her into their bed—passed through her mind, replaced by the cold reality of the political machine they needed to feed. “Guess we better finish what we started,” she said, trying not to sound as resigned as she felt. She scanned the bullet points on the itinerary, noting references to volunteer meet-ups, policy discussions, and press conferences. A wave of weariness coursed through her. But there was also an undercurrent of excitement. Four days. That was all they had left to push as hard as humanly possible.

“Damn right,” Bobby said, folding her arms. “We put in all this work. We just need to close it out. Then—maybe—you two lovebirds can figure out whatever the hell you’re doing next.”

She smirked, though her mouth curved without humor. The quip was a telling reminder that Bobby, for all her focus on the campaign, had not missed the evolution in Cruz and Aaliyah’s relationship. She had watched them morph from a carefully staged political couple to something genuine, a transition that had become more obvious in each passing day. The tension in the air now had little to do with poll numbers and everything to do with the look on Bobby’s face. She recognized that her intrusion had disrupted something personal. Yet, in her mind, there were no personal matters more pressing than an election at stake.

Cruz’s cheeks warmed slightly. She traded a glance with Aaliyah, who wore an expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Yeah,” Cruz managed, clearing her throat. “We’ll, uh, handle that later.”

Aaliyah pursed her lips, though a faint glint of humor danced in her eyes. “In the meantime,” she said, stepping forward to retrieve her own phone from the end table, “I’ll start making those calls. We can check if any major donors have more funds to divert. It might make a difference for on-the-ground efforts in Dallas and Houston.”

“Good,” Bobby replied, nodding. “We’ll need every dollar to reinforce the final push. I’ll also set up your itinerary for the next seventy-two hours. No doubt we can squeeze in another radio interview or two if we’re ruthless about it.”

“We’re always ruthless about it,” Cruz said with a weary chuckle. She sank into a nearby chair, scanning the itinerary with a practiced eye. It did not matter that her back ached, her eyes stung, or her mind screamed for just a moment’s rest. In just a few more days, the people of Texas would cast their ballots, and every action until then could tilt the scales.

Bobby headed toward the door, phone already buzzing in her hand. “I’ll be waiting in the car. We need to drive to HQ for an emergency staff meeting. Fifteen minutes ago, a new round of polling data came in. I want your input before the next wave of calls. Don’t take too long, or you’ll be late for your first rally.”

“Understood,” Aaliyah replied. She exhaled, as though steeling herself for the oncoming day. “We’ll be out in a minute.”

Once Bobby disappeared, the sense of calm that had momentarily existed was fully obliterated. Even so, Cruz and Aaliyah found themselves alone for a sliver of time—time they used to exchange a loaded glance. The house, which had felt like a brief sanctuary just moments prior, now buzzed with the presence of urgent tasks. They could hear the rumble of an engine outside, presumably Bobby waiting in the driveway, the phone calls continuing in the background.

Cruz rose again, stepping toward Aaliyah. “Before we get swallowed up by the day,” she began, voice hushed, “just… thanks for last night. For everything.”

Aaliyah reached out, letting her fingertips brush Cruz’s wrist. “We’ll figure out the rest later,” she promised, echoing Bobby’s words but with a tender undertone. “It won’t be easy, but we have to. Right?”

Cruz nodded. “Right.”

For a moment, they looked as though they might share a kiss. Then the blare of a car horn cut through the morning hush, shattering the would-be moment of affection. Bobby was not known for her patience, and evidently she felt that the day was slipping away. Cruz pressed her lips into a thin line, grabbing her phone and keys from the coffee table. She and Aaliyah headed out the door, leaving the messy living room behind.

On the porch, a wave of warm Texas air enveloped them, tinged with the scent of early morning dew and the faint aroma of exhaust from Bobby’s car. The sky had lightened considerably, the sun creeping above the horizon. Another day of relentless rallies, interviews, and strategy sessions beckoned—no time for romantic interludes or personal confessions. As they slipped into the back seat of the car, Bobby gunned the engine, her phone on speaker as staffers barked updates from campaign headquarters.

“Sorry if I ruined the mood,” Bobby said with a grin that belied any genuine remorse. “But we’ve got a job to do.”

Cruz sighed, leaning her head against the seat. “We know,” she admitted. “We always know.”

November 3rd arrived with a swirl of early morning fog and a sense of mounting urgency that seemed to seep into every corner of the campaign. At dawn, Cruz and Aaliyah woke in their home in Austin, groggy from too few hours of rest. They dressed quickly, inhaled a hurried breakfast, and jumped into the nearest SUV with Bobby at the wheel. With only two days left until Election Day, every minute was precious, every handshake a potential vote. Their schedule was a meticulously plotted marathon of rallies and media appearances, the next forty-eight hours designed to blanket the state with Cruz’s message.

The drive to Dallas felt long yet rushed—an odd contradiction that mirrored the entire campaign. While Bobby navigated traffic and juggled phone calls on speaker, Cruz and Aaliyah pored over briefing documents for the upcoming rally. Behind them, the back seat overflowed with signs, pamphlets, and half-finished policy proposals. The interior smelled faintly of stale coffee and the sour tang of adrenaline, but neither of them complained. They simply exchanged small, weary smiles in the rearview mirror, bracing themselves for the day ahead.

Outside, farmland gave way to suburbs, then the wide sprawl of Dallas proper. Towering buildings rose into a pale sky, and billboards advertised everything from fast food to political endorsements. Among them, Cruz spotted an attack ad featuring her face and some misleading quote. Her stomach tightened briefly at the sight; every negative billboard or commercial felt like a punch in the gut. Aaliyah noticed and reached over to brush her fingers against Cruz’s hand, a fleeting but comforting gesture. It was one of the small ways they could reassure each other, hidden from the world’s scrutiny.

Within the hour, they arrived at a packed community center on the city’s outskirts. The parking lot teemed with cars, some with bumper stickers bearing Cruz’s name, others with plain old national flags. The air was cool and crisp, a slight breeze fluttering a massive American flag hoisted outside the building. Volunteers wearing Cruz campaign T-shirts directed foot traffic, guiding attendees through the double doors where security performed cursory checks.

Inside, the community center buzzed with anticipation. The space was small compared to a full convention hall, but every seat was filled, and dozens of people stood along the walls. Handmade signs sprouted from the crowd: Veterans for Cruz, Texans for Progress, We Believe in You, Cruz. A podium awaited at the front, flanked by the state flag and the national flag. A microphone crackled now and again, picking up the hum of the room.

Bobby hustled Cruz and Aaliyah through a side corridor, past staffers clutching final talking points. Someone thrust a water bottle into Cruz’s hand; another volunteer tried to straighten Aaliyah’s blazer. The swirl of movement threatened to overwhelm, but Cruz kept her shoulders squared, her gaze calm. She could sense Aaliyah at her elbow, a steady presence that cut through the chaos.

“This crowd is mostly veterans and their families,” Bobby explained, flipping through a clipboard. “Make sure you highlight your service record, your stance on military benefits, and any personal anecdotes that show your connection to the community.”

Cruz nodded, though she hardly needed the reminder. This was the group she cared about deeply, a community she felt obligated to serve in a way that went beyond politics. Her experiences in uniform shaped her worldview, forging an unbreakable bond with fellow servicemembers. She could already feel her pulse flutter with the gravity of speaking to them.

She and Aaliyah paused at the edge of the stage, separated by a thin black curtain. Beyond it, an emcee introduced her: “And now, please welcome a woman who knows what it means to serve her country…” The crowd cheered, the applause echoing off cinderblock walls.

Cruz inhaled sharply. “Wish me luck,” she murmured to Aaliyah, turning just enough for their eyes to meet.

Aaliyah’s lips curved in a soft smile. “You don’t need luck,” she whispered back, her hand brushing against Cruz’s in a comforting caress. “You just need to be yourself.”

That quiet gesture—fingers tangling briefly before letting go—was enough to propel Cruz forward. She stepped onto the stage, greeted by a wave of applause so thunderous it nearly drowned out the squeal of the microphone. The community center was a sea of faces, many wearing ball caps emblazoned with insignias, jackets bearing old patches, or shirts proclaiming pride in one branch of the military or another. A hush fell as Cruz reached the podium, letting her gaze sweep across the assembled crowd.

“Thank you for coming,” she began, voice strong despite the weight of exhaustion. She felt the dryness in her throat but pressed on. “Many of you know I served in the United States Marine Corps. That experience shaped who I am—not just as a candidate, but as a person.” She placed a hand over the microphone, leaning closer. “I know what it means to serve. I know what it means to fight for something bigger than yourself. And I promise you—I’ll fight for you, too.”

Her voice rang with conviction, resonating in the quiet space before the audience thundered its approval. People cheered, clapped, some even whistled. Cruz let the energy wash over her, fueling her next sentences: commitments to protecting veterans’ benefits, ensuring support for military families, and investing in job programs that catered to those returning to civilian life. She sprinkled in anecdotes from her own service days—stories of camaraderie, of challenges, of finding purpose in uniform. Heads nodded, eyes glistened with understanding. This crowd wasn’t just hearing political rhetoric; they recognized the truth in her words.

The applause reached a peak by the time she finished. Stepping away from the podium, Cruz offered handshakes to a front row of veterans in wheelchairs, men and women who had served in conflicts spanning decades. She exchanged brief words with them, gratitude and respect shining in each face. One older man, with a weathered complexion and trembling hands, clasped her hand and thanked her for standing up for them. Cruz felt her heart twist with empathy. The significance of this campaign, the meaning behind every poll number and every event, crystallized in that moment.

She glanced over her shoulder to find Aaliyah watching from the side of the stage. Their eyes met, and for a split second, Cruz’s chest tightened with a sense of pride—and something more intimate. This was the person who had been at her side from the beginning, through the charade and the genuine moments. The audience roared once more, cameras flashed, and the swirl of staffers guided Cruz offstage, but the lasting image in her mind was the warm confidence in Aaliyah’s gaze.

They left Dallas not long after, bounding back into the SUV that would carry them deeper into the heart of Texas. The city lights receded in the rearview mirror, replaced by highways that unspooled across flat land dotted with billboards. Bobby updated them on new polling figures: still a slim lead, no real change. “But every rally helps,” she insisted, punching coordinates into a navigation app. “We have to keep going.”

Cruz slumped against the seat, letting her head fall back. Her ears still rang with applause. Aaliyah settled beside her, one hand resting over Cruz’s on the center console, a small but meaningful gesture. Outside, dusty fields slipped by, telephone poles standing like silent sentinels. They had an a few hours of driving before the next rally, which promised a different crowd, new concerns, and the same unrelenting pressure to secure every last vote.

--

Later that evening, they arrived in San Antonio, the seat of a working-class base that had been crucial to Cruz’s campaign from the start. The rally was set outdoors in a public park, an open space ringed by stately oak trees. By the time the SUV pulled up, the area was teeming with supporters, many wearing T-shirts or hats proclaiming “Cruz for Texas.” Families staked out spots on the grass, older couples sat in folding chairs, and young activists hustled around with clipboards to register last-minute voters.

Bright sunshine bathed the gathering, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of grilled food from a vendor’s stall. Hand-painted signs bobbed in the crowd, calling for fair wages, better healthcare, more jobs. The energy felt electric, a testament to how this community had rallied behind Cruz’s promises of reform. She had spoken to them many times over the months, forging a bond built on sincerity and her own working-class background.

Moments before the rally started, Aaliyah stunned everyone—including Cruz—by taking the stage first. The campaign staff had expected a local organizer to warm up the crowd, but Aaliyah quietly insisted she handle the introduction. When she stepped up to the microphone, wearing a crisp white blouse beneath a tailored blazer, an immediate hush fell over the audience. She was a polished figure in a sea of casual T-shirts, but something about her presence commanded attention.

“Good evening, San Antonio,” Aaliyah began, letting her voice carry across the park. There was no sign of nerves in her posture, just a calm confidence that made her appear instantly trustworthy. “I didn’t expect to stand here today, in this race, beside this woman.” A pause, and a ripple of curiosity skated through the crowd. Aaliyah allowed a small smile. “But I am. And I believe in her.”

She spoke with measured clarity, explaining how she had watched Cruz navigate the challenges of policy-making, the grueling schedule, the intense scrutiny, and still remain authentic. “In a world where politicians talk a good game,” Aaliyah said, “I’ve seen Cruz step up and fight for every single promise she’s made. Not because it’s easy, but because that’s who she is.”

The audience ate it up, rewarding Aaliyah with cheering and applause that rolled through the crowd like a wave. Cruz stood backstage, listening, her stomach twisting in ways she didn’t want to analyze. It wasn’t just the typical flutter of being introduced as a candidate. This was Aaliyah—a person who had walked into her life under pretenses, then changed it by bringing genuine affection and steadfast support. Hearing Aaliyah speak with such conviction about her stirred something deep, a warmth that mingled with the tightness in her chest.

At the pinnacle of the applause, Aaliyah stepped aside, gesturing for Cruz to come forward. Cruz walked onto the makeshift platform amid a surge of cheering, heart pounding. She cupped Aaliyah’s face gently, her touch warm and steady, and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek—a quiet, heartfelt moment of closeness. The onlookers erupted into whistles and claps, their cheers swelling around them. Their affection lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, just enough for their eyes to meet, a silent exchange of understanding and encouragement passing between them. Then, with a small, knowing smile, Cruz turned to face the microphone.

She spoke with passion about the working-class struggles she understood firsthand: low wages, unaffordable healthcare, housing crises. She recounted stories of people she’d met across Texas, farmers and factory workers, nurses and teachers who kept the state running yet often felt unheard. The crowd yelled their agreement whenever she promised to champion their interests, to stand against policies that benefited only the wealthy and well-connected.

Mid-speech, as she scanned the sea of supporters, she caught a glimpse of Aaliyah standing off to one side, poised and attentive. A surge of emotion welled up in her—gratitude, admiration, and that persistent warmth she couldn’t quite name. She steadied her voice and concluded her remarks with a plea for unity, a reminder that the election outcome would shape their collective future.

The roars of approval were deafening. Supporters rushed the stage to shake her hand, snap photos, and thrust autograph pens at her. Cruz obliged them, plastering a wide grin on her face. But beneath the public veneer, she felt a mix of exhaustion and an odd sense of wonder at how fiercely people believed in her. Aaliyah slipped away from the platform, fielding questions from staffers and local press, exuding the same calm confidence that had captivated the crowd.

In the SUV afterward, the atmosphere felt lighter, as though the mutual energy of the rally buoyed them against the strain. Bobby went over the next items on the schedule, reading from a phone while they navigated congested San Antonio streets. A volunteer in the passenger seat typed furiously on a laptop, updating the campaign’s social media with images from the event.

Cruz sank into her seat, exhaling. Aaliyah sat beside her, eyes drifting over the cityscape outside, a small smile playing on her lips. At a red light, she turned to Cruz. “You did great,” she said, her voice low enough that Bobby and the volunteer couldn’t overhear.

“You did great,” Cruz countered, recalling the powerful introduction Aaliyah had delivered.

Aaliyah’s cheeks seemed to color slightly, though her composure remained intact. “I meant every word,” she whispered, reaching over to give Cruz’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Before Cruz could reply, the traffic light changed, and the SUV jerked forward. They soared into the flow of cars, heading toward yet another appearance. Time sped on, the day slipping through their fingers faster than they could absorb. But in that fleeting moment of contact, the tension in Cruz’s heart eased a fraction. They were in this fight together, and somehow, that knowledge stoked the fires of determination within her.

--

November 4th arrived with a crackle of anticipation in the air. It was the final day before Election Day—the last chance to stand before voters and plead for their support in person. Cruz’s schedule read like a labyrinth of engagements, but one event loomed above all others: the final, biggest rally in Houston.

They drove through the night to reach Houston before dawn, catching a few snatched moments of sleep in the back seat while staffers took turns at the wheel. By early morning, they were already greeting local union leaders at a breakfast meet-and-greet. Then came a rapid succession of interviews with radio and TV stations, each one pressing for the final word on Cruz’s platform. The phone never stopped ringing; donors, volunteers, and worried supporters all clamored for a piece of her time.

Amid the swirl, Aaliyah remained a constant anchor. She hovered just to Cruz’s side, shoulders square, voice level, guiding staffers, reminding Cruz of key talking points. Their eyes met often—short, meaningful glances that conveyed solidarity, a sense that no matter how frantic the day became, they were facing it side by side. Every once in a while, they would manage a small brush of arms or a moment’s quiet conversation, invisible to the cameras. But for the most part, they had no choice but to funnel all energy into the campaign.

By late afternoon, they arrived at the Houston rally site: an expansive outdoor venue with a stage set up at one end, flanked by towering speakers and massive digital screens. Crews had spent the day preparing for what was projected to be the largest single gathering of Cruz supporters since the campaign began. The sun, dipping toward the horizon, cast a golden glow across the sky. As staffers led Cruz through a back entrance, she glimpsed throngs of people—thousands, by the looks of it—already packed close to the stage.

Bobby jogged up, walkie-talkie crackling at her hip, a frenzied grin on her face. “They’re calling it the biggest rally Houston’s seen this election season,” she said, her voice breathless with excitement. “We even have overflow areas set up, screens streaming your speech in real time.”

Cruz’s pulse pounded. She was dog-tired, more tired than she’d ever been, but a spark of exhilaration ignited inside her. These final hours were do-or-die, the grand climax of everything they’d poured into the race. Aaliyah hovered by her elbow, scanning the crowd. The sea of supporters formed a vibrant mosaic of faces, signs, and waving flags. The energy was electric, crackling through the thickening dusk.

“Alright,” Bobby said, handing Cruz a water bottle. “You go on in ten. Make it count.”

Cruz gulped down a few sips of water, nearly choking on the dryness in her throat. She wiped a hand across her mouth, adrenaline coursing through her veins. A staffer wrangled the microphone and signaled her about the soundcheck. From the stage, muffled introductions carried over the speakers—local politicians, community activists, each taking a turn to warm up the crowd.

Peering out from behind a tall curtain, Cruz tried to steady her nerves. The mass of people extended farther than she could see, stretching well beyond the immediate stage area. Phone screens flashed like tiny beacons of light. Handmade signs soared above heads, some with her name, others with slogans demanding change. A murmur of anticipation tremored through the throng, accompanied by the smell of popcorn from a vendor stall somewhere behind them.

She glanced at Aaliyah. For a moment, they locked eyes, standing close enough to catch each other’s breath. Aaliyah placed a hand on Cruz’s shoulder, her touch both soothing and invigorating.

“You’ve got this,” Aaliyah whispered, loud enough for only Cruz to hear above the distant cheering. “No one can say you haven’t fought for it.”

Cruz exhaled, her lips curving into a small, determined smile. “Thank you,” she whispered back, her heart pounding with equal parts anxiety and hope.

Then the emcee boomed through the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the next Governor of Texas—Cruz Manuelos!”

The applause and cheers erupted, a deafening tide of sound that washed over her. Cruz stepped onto the stage, stepping into the spotlight with a bracing breath. The sky overhead glowed with the last embers of daylight, painting the horizon with streaks of orange and pink. Thousands of people roared, waving signs and chanting her name as she reached the podium.

She gripped the edges of the podium, letting her gaze roam across the crowd. This was it. The final rally before Election Day. A hush of anticipation settled, broken only by sporadic cheers. She cleared her throat, gripping the microphone.

“This election was never supposed to be easy,” Cruz began. Her voice came out clear but tinged with raw emotion. “Nothing worth fighting for ever is. But I believe in Texas. I believe in its people. And I believe in what we can do together.”

Her words ignited a wave of applause. She paused, letting the crowd’s energy swell. Somewhere in that sea of faces, near the edge of the stage, she spotted Aaliyah. Arms crossed, a slight smile on her lips, she watched with an intensity that made Cruz’s chest feel warm. That single connection—Aaliyah’s unwavering belief—took the edge off her nerves.

“I’m not here,” Cruz continued, “because I think I alone can fix everything. I’m here because I know the strength and resilience of this state. I’ve seen people from every walk of life come together, push for change, refuse to let fear define them. And now, we stand on the cusp of something greater.”

The crowd roared. Camera flashes lit the stage, reflecting on the big screens that flanked her image. The atmosphere seemed poised on a knife’s edge, like a collective breath waiting to be released. Cruz inhaled, letting the fervor wash over her. The final speech of the campaign poured out of her, weaving stories of local heroes, everyday workers, teachers, nurses, and small business owners who believed in a better future.

As she spoke, she felt a surge of confidence. The exhaustion in her limbs faded behind a flood of adrenaline. She raised her hand, voice amplifying. “We have a choice this election. A choice between giving in to cynicism or standing up and saying we deserve more. Let’s make history, Texas. Vote like your future depends on it—because it does.”

The resulting cheer was deafening, an explosion of sound that reverberated across the entire venue. It felt like the earth itself shook with the force of people’s excitement. Cruz’s chest tightened, not with fear, but with an overwhelming sense of hope. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment, stepping back from the podium to thunderous applause.

Volunteers surged forward, staffers offered congratulations, and supporters tried to crowd near the stage for a handshake or a photo. Cruz, still breathing hard, offered waves and thanks, moving along the barrier with an outstretched hand. She felt a dozen different palms slap against hers. Some supporters were near tears, others ecstatic with the anticipation that the next day might bring.

In the corner of her vision, she caught sight of Aaliyah approaching from backstage. Their eyes met, and for an instant, the chaotic swirl around them seemed to slow. Aaliyah’s face was lit with an expression of pride and something deeper. Cruz allowed herself a small, secret smile, heart thudding in a rhythm of gratitude and affection.

The night sky was fully settled by the time the rally ended, bright stage lights illuminating the city block. News crews hovered, capturing final images, sound bites from supporters, and on-the-spot interviews with staffers. Cruz avoided the cameras for a moment, weaving behind the stage to find a brief pocket of quiet. She leaned against a stack of equipment crates, trying to catch her breath, adrenaline still surging.

Aaliyah found her there, away from the commotion. “That was…” she began, then trailed off, seemingly searching for the right word.

“Incredible?” Cruz offered, her voice shaky from the intensity of it all.

Aaliyah reached out, resting a hand on Cruz’s shoulder. “Yes. That, and more.” Her expression softened, and she drew close enough that the noise of the crowd receded. “You’ve done everything you can. Now it’s up to the voters.”

Cruz nodded, a flutter of anxiety settling in her gut. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I guess it is.”

For a moment, they simply stood there, letting the gravity of the moment sink in. Tomorrow, the polls would open. Tomorrow, all of these rallies, speeches, phone calls, and desperate scrambles for votes would culminate in either victory or defeat. The weight of that realization pressed on Cruz, but so did a sense of relief that the fight was nearly done.

Over the hum of distant voices and the clatter of equipment, the two of them shared a private exchange of glances. Cruz saw the same determination in Aaliyah’s eyes that had carried her through every obstacle. In that gaze, she also saw compassion, and—she dared to hope—love. They had come a long way from the contrived marriage that started it all. Now, they faced the final push with honesty between them.

A volunteer stuck his head around the corner, telling them they needed to head to an after-rally meet-and-greet with key local supporters. Cruz sighed, rolling her shoulders. “Duty calls,” she muttered.

Aaliyah nodded. “Always does.” Her fingers brushed Cruz’s hand in a fleeting show of affection. “Let’s go.”

Together, they left the quiet pocket behind the stage, stepping into the swirl of voices and bright lights. Staffers hurriedly congratulated Cruz, some volunteers patted her on the back, and a handful of local officials lined up for quick words of support. The entire scene felt almost celebratory, yet undercut by a tension that wouldn’t resolve until the final ballots were cast.

As they moved toward a makeshift greenroom area, Cruz sneaked one more look at Aaliyah. Their eyes met, exchanging an understanding that whatever happened next, they had reached the end of this winding road. Tomorrow, the polls would open. Tomorrow, the entire state would decide if Cruz’s fight had been enough. And maybe, if fortune smiled, the two of them would stand together in that victory—or stand together in defeat, unbroken.

But that was a question for the next day. For now, the rally concluded with an uproar of cheers and the promise of one last night before Election Day dawned.

By the time the headlights of Cruz’s SUV swept across the driveway of their house in Austin, it was already late. The moment Cruz killed the engine, both she and Aaliyah let out simultaneous sighs, relief mingling with bone-deep exhaustion. The roar of the crowd from the final rally in Houston still echoed in their ears, and the flood of adrenaline that had propelled them home had begun to ebb, leaving them feeling worn and vaguely hollow.

Yet the house greeted them with an unexpected hush—a calm they had rarely known in these final weeks of the campaign. Stepping inside, they flicked on a single overhead light in the foyer, enough to illuminate the scattered shoes and half-opened mail. It felt as if the chaos of the outside world had no business intruding here, not tonight. Tomorrow was Election Day, a day that could reshape both the political landscape and their personal lives. Tonight was, in its own way, sacred.

Aaliyah slipped out of her heels and let them drop beside the door, wiggling her toes against the cool tiles. She glanced at Cruz, who rubbed a hand across her tired face, her shoulders drooping under the weight of the day. Their eyes met, and a soft, unspoken understanding passed between them: this was it, the last night before the world would demand their all once again. There was comfort in knowing they would face it side by side, though a tremor of anxiety lurked at the edges of their shared gaze.

“You want something to drink?” Aaliyah asked, her voice hushed, as if she feared raising it in the quiet space.

Cruz ran her tongue over her lips, realizing her throat was parched from hours of rally speeches. “A little whiskey might be nice,” she said, managing a faint smile. “Just one glass, though. We have to be up early tomorrow.”

Aaliyah nodded, leading the way into the dimly lit kitchen. The overhead light there was warmer, casting soft shadows on the countertops. Empty mugs and plates sat in the sink, remnants of meals they had rushed through over the past few days. On the counter, a small cluster of liquor bottles gleamed, among them a bottle of good whiskey they had once reserved for a celebration. They hadn’t touched it yet, always promising to open it when there was “time.”

“Appropriate for a night like this,” Aaliyah murmured, lifting the bottle. She poured two modest measures into short glasses, each swirl of amber catching the light.

Cruz propped herself against the counter, arms folded over her chest. Her shirt felt too stiff, her shoulders too tight. She took the glass Aaliyah offered, clinking it gently against the other before raising it to her lips. The first sip burned, chasing away some of the tension that coiled in her stomach. She sighed at the slow warmth spreading down her throat, letting the glass rest in her hand.

For a while, they simply stood there, leaning against opposite counters, the hush pressing in around them. There was no frantic phone call to answer, no staffer popping out of nowhere with urgent questions. Outside the windows, the city lights glowed in silent vigil, and a faint breeze rustled the branches of the oak trees that dotted the yard. Their house had become a fleeting cocoon of stillness—a lull in the storm that was about to break over them at sunrise.

Aaliyah was the first to break the silence. She sipped her whiskey, her gaze drifting to the faint reflection of their forms in the darkened window. “You know,” she began, voice softer than usual, “no matter what happens tomorrow, I want you to know something.”

Cruz’s heart gave a little jump. She could sense the seriousness in Aaliyah’s tone, the slight tremor beneath the composure. Setting her glass down, Cruz straightened, her weariness momentarily forgotten. “Yeah?” she prompted, her voice low.

Aaliyah turned around fully, leaning against the sink. The lamplight traced her features, making the fatigue under her eyes more pronounced, but also revealing a quiet resolve. “I don’t regret any of it,” she said, her words steady. “From the day we agreed to… well, to that arrangement, to everything that came after. Even though it started off as a strategy and turned into something we never planned.”

The statement hung in the air, thicker than the hush enveloping them. Cruz felt something deep in her chest tighten, as if squeezed by an invisible hand. She recognized the significance of Aaliyah’s admission. They had come a long way from a political partnership of convenience, their initial mockery of matrimonial vows, and the days of carefully staged smiles. Now, standing here, they had to face the truth of how real it had all become.

Cruz swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. “Me neither,” she managed, her voice rough around the edges. She pushed away from the counter, bridging the short distance until she could feel Aaliyah’s body heat. “I wouldn’t change it, not a second of it. Even the times I thought we were insane, even the nights I was sure we’d never pull this off.”

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. The significance of having no regrets felt immense, like a milestone more profound than any rally or poll number. Aaliyah lifted her gaze to Cruz’s, and in those dark eyes, Cruz saw a flicker of relief, gratitude, and a love that had steadily grown beneath the frantic pace of campaign events.

They stood there, glasses in hand, hearts thudding. Then Aaliyah let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. “So,” she murmured, “tomorrow we let the entire state decide if all this work was enough.” Her eyes glinted with a wry resignation. “But regardless, once it’s over… dinner date after this?”

Cruz’s lips curved in a small grin, tension loosening in her shoulders. “You really want to start dating now?” she teased, though her voice betrayed a softness. They had lived under the same roof, shared a bed, and navigated a thousand public appearances, all before something as simple and normal as going on a proper date.

Aaliyah rolled her eyes with mock exasperation. “Yes, now,” she answered, shifting to rest her whiskey glass on the counter. “I’d like us to do something normal. Something that doesn’t involve talking points or staffers or scheduling nightmares. Maybe even sit down at a nice restaurant, hold hands like two ordinary people.”

Cruz couldn’t suppress a laugh. The sound emerged husky, a release of pent-up tension. She shook her head. “That actually sounds… kind of wonderful,” she admitted, leaning closer until she could feel Aaliyah’s breath on her skin. “Who would’ve thought we’d get to a place where a dinner date sounds like a radical concept?”

Aaliyah playfully smacked Cruz’s leg, the gesture light and teasing. “Only us,” she said, her eyes shining with warmth. “We did everything backwards.”

In response, Cruz set her glass aside, letting the faint clink of it on the counter punctuate the moment. She reached out to cradle Aaliyah’s cheek with one hand, tilting her head so their eyes locked. Slowly, deliberately, she closed the gap between them, pressing a soft kiss against Aaliyah’s lips. A shiver ran through her—part exhaustion, part sweetness. It was not the kind of kiss rushed by the demands of a schedule, but a lingering one that spoke of relief and genuine affection.

They parted gently, both of them exhaling soft breaths. Outside, a car passed on the street, headlights raking across the windows, but neither of them paid any attention. This tiny moment in the kitchen felt removed from the city, from the state, from the entire looming day that awaited them. It belonged to them alone.

“Deal,” Cruz murmured, brushing her thumb across Aaliyah’s cheek. “Dinner date it is.”

Aaliyah grinned, her eyes hooded with a mix of amusement and tenderness. “Alright,” she said, wrapping her arms around Cruz’s waist. “But first, we have to survive tomorrow.”

Cruz let her forehead rest against Aaliyah’s, inhaling the faint scent of perfume and the subtle undercurrent of whiskey. “We will,” she said softly. “We’ve gotten this far, haven’t we?”

Aaliyah’s arms tightened around her, drawing her closer. “We have.”

They stood like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the hush of the house cocooning them from the frenzy that would inevitably return at sunrise. Eventually, Cruz felt a tremor of fatigue ripple through her. Her body ached for rest, and she sensed Aaliyah felt the same. Without a word, they broke apart, flicked off the kitchen light, and climbed the stairs side by side. Their footsteps were slow, deliberate, each step an unspoken vow not to let the madness of the next day overshadow what they had found in each other.

In the bedroom, the moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a faint glow on the rumpled sheets. They hadn’t bothered making the bed that morning, rushing out as they always did, but now it felt inviting—a refuge from everything. Aaliyah set her whiskey glass on the nightstand, then moved to draw the curtains closed. Meanwhile, Cruz pulled off her blazer, letting it drop onto a chair. Each shift in the dim light felt intimate, more so than it had in weeks, as if they were finally giving themselves permission to be vulnerable.

Aaliyah slipped out of her shoes, unbuttoned her blouse, and tossed it aside. Cruz changed into a loose T-shirt, grateful for the end of formal clothes. They crawled under the sheets, the softness of the bedding enveloping them. The tension in Cruz’s shoulders began to ease, and she sensed Aaliyah settling in beside her, reaching for the bedside lamp.

“Leave it on, just for a minute,” Cruz said quietly, rolling to face Aaliyah.

Aaliyah hesitated, then let her hand fall away from the switch. The gentle glow painted their faces with soft shadows. She studied Cruz’s expression, the faint lines of worry that still lingered at the corners of her eyes. Reaching out, she brushed a thumb over Cruz’s cheek, a gesture achingly tender.

“You’re nervous about tomorrow,” she observed, not unkindly.

Cruz gave a nod, shifting closer so their bodies touched beneath the blankets. “I guess so. Feels like everything’s built to this moment. And I can’t shake the thought that we might’ve missed something, or that McNamara has one more trick up her sleeve.”

Aaliyah considered that. “She might. She probably does, honestly.” She paused, exhaling. “But we did everything we could. We gave it our best. That has to count for something.”

Cruz lifted a hand to rest on Aaliyah’s hip. “It does,” she agreed. “At least, I hope it does.” A half-smile twitched at her lips. “And if it doesn’t… well, we still have each other, right?”

Aaliyah’s gaze softened. “Yeah,” she said, her voice thick with quiet emotion. “We do.”

They lapsed into silence, but it was a comfortable one. The weight of the sheets, the faint hum of the air conditioner, and the softness of each other’s breathing shaped the moment. Eventually, Aaliyah reached over to switch off the lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness. The only illumination came from a sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor, enough to outline their silhouettes.

Cruz felt Aaliyah shift, and in the next instant, she was enveloped in a gentle embrace. Aaliyah’s arm draped over her waist, their legs tangling under the blankets, as they tucked themselves into a loose, comfortable cuddle. The day’s fatigue pressed upon them both, but so did a mellow contentment that belied the pressure of the impending election.

“Remember,” Aaliyah murmured, her voice drowsy, “no regrets.”

Cruz closed her eyes, inhaling the faint scent of Aaliyah’s shampoo. “No regrets,” she echoed, her own tone drifting on the edge of sleep. It felt like an affirmation, a vow that whatever dawn brought, they would face it together.

Time slipped by in the dark. Their breathing synchronized, the hush of the house a lullaby. Cruz’s mind flickered with images from the campaign trail—the throngs of people cheering in Houston, the older veteran in Dallas who had gripped her hand with gratitude, the working-class families in San Antonio who pinned their hopes on her words. Through it all, she remembered how Aaliyah had stood at her side, unwavering, a constant flame in the whirlwind.

As Cruz teetered on the brink of slumber, she turned her head slightly, placing a feather-light kiss on Aaliyah’s forehead. The warmth of that single act pulsed between them, tangible even in the quiet darkness. Aaliyah stirred, half awake, and returned the gesture with a soft, sleepy hum.