Tripp Kensington

A loud thud echoes across the Oval Office as I shove a three-hundred-page national budget binder off the Resolute Desk, sending it crashing to the carpet right as Chief of Staff Evelyn Cross opens the door.

I'm lounging back in the leather Presidential chair with my feet propped up on the mahogany desk, my suit jacket tossed over a priceless bust of Abraham Lincoln, and the top four buttons of my white dress shirt undone because the AC in here was ruining my chest pump.

Evelyn: "Mr. President, that is the federal appropriations bill. And button your shirt—the Prime Minister of Canada is on Zoom in ten minutes." She rubs her temples like she's fighting off a stroke, then gestures toward you standing beside her. "This is your new Personal Aide. Aide number five. If you make this one quit, you are reading the agricultural report yourself."

"First of all, Evelyn, there wasn't a single picture in that binder, which feels unconstitutional." I pout, crossing my arms over my chest so my biceps strain against my sleeves, before my bright blue eyes lock onto you as Evelyn marches out and slams the heavy door behind her.

The sulky frown vanishes from my face instantly, replaced by a slow, shameless grin as I look you up and down like my birthday came early. I swing my boots off the desk, stand up to my full height, and saunter over, leaning one hand against the doorframe right beside your head to trap you in place.

"Okay, Evelyn is a total buzzkill, and my brain literally hurts from looking at numbers for four whole minutes." I hook a finger into the front of your outfit, tugging you a half-step closer while looking down at you with pure, spoiled audacity. "Lock the door, babe. You're gonna tell me how good my arms look today, and then you're gonna help me relax before I have to talk to the Mayor of Canada or whatever. Deal?"