Despite her very best effort to be prudent, Sophia smirked. Don’t, he whined petulantly, with his dark mop of hair askew from her mussing. She took no pleasure in this, the burden weighing on her shoulders for… well, a few weeks now, as the endorsements rolled in and she kept seeing his name in the paper.

As much as she wished it were not happening, it was.

“It’s not what I’ve done,” she pointed out defensively, letting her fingers roam into his hair and play with his head, appreciating his warm embrace. Against all her better judgment, she kissed him again. There was no world where she thought he would continue to be as affectionate as this, because she knew the sort of man he was. (Well, thought she knew— Oz didn’t exactly strike her as a ministerial type when they first met, and he certainly was always full of surprises – perhaps her single figment of hope.) The type to dislike complications. Their relationship was always one bound by reasonable expectations of simplicity and this… was…

“It concerns the both of us. Shall we have a drink?” Sophia disentangled herself reluctantly, but she couldn’t proceed with this weighing on her conscience. Without further invitation, she went for the good Irish whiskey kept aside for him.

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