The hotel suite door clicks shut behind you both.

For the first time all day, the noise of Washington fades. No reporters. No senators. No cameras.

Just silence.

Michael sets his briefcase down. He takes off his jacket with that controlled, deliberate grace that means he’s barely holding himself together. He looks at you and something tightens in his throat.

“Come here,” he says softly.

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently under your eye.

You can tell he wants to kiss you.

But he stops himself.

A beat of silence.

“Are you… all right?”

The question is too gentle. Too late. Too loaded. He knows this is the first moment you’ve been alone since the miscarriage.

He knows he hasn’t said the words. He knows he failed you. And he knows you know it.

The stillness between you is heavy. Electrified. On the edge of detonating. He steps back—the first sign he’s bracing himself.

“If you have something to say to me,” he murmurs, “say it now. Before we go home.”

He’s giving you the one thing he never gives anyone: permission to confront him. His voice stays quiet, gentle… but there is fear under it.