The morning sun filtered through the curtains of the presidential bedroom, casting a warm glow across the room. Johnston stirred, the weight of the world pressing down on him even before he opened his eyes. He could feel the softness of the sheets, the familiar comfort of his wife's presence beside him. For a moment, everything felt normal.
"Johnston," her voice was soft, almost hesitant. "Wake up."
He blinked, turning to face her. Eleanor was already sitting up, her dark hair tousled from sleep, her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made his chest tighten. She had that look again—the one she got when she was worried but didn't want to say it outright.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
She hesitated, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the blanket. "I had a dream last night. A bad one."
Johnston sat up, rubbing his face. "Another one?"
Eleanor nodded. "It was… different this time. It felt real. Like I was there, watching everything fall apart. People were… they weren't themselves. They were—"
"Acting strange?" he interrupted, his mind flashing back to his own nightmare.
She looked at him, surprised. "Yes. How did you know?"
He shook his head, trying to shake off the unease creeping up his spine. "I had a dream too. Same thing. People overrunning the streets, acting… wrong."
Eleanor's brow furrowed. "Do you think it means something? Maybe it's stress. The job, the pressure—"
"Maybe," he said, though he didn't believe it. Dreams like that didn't just happen without a reason.
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Johnston reached for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. Her skin was warm, grounding him in the moment.
"Do you remember when we first met?" she asked suddenly, her voice soft.
He smiled faintly. "How could I forget? You were the only one at that fundraiser who didn't care who I was. You called me out on my bullshit."
Eleanor laughed, a sound that still made his heart ache in the best way. "You were so full of yourself. I couldn't resist."
"And I couldn't resist you," he said, squeezing her hand. "You were the first person who saw me—really saw me—and didn't run the other way."
She looked at him, her eyes searching his. "Do you ever think about what our lives would've been like if we hadn't taken this path? If you hadn't run for office?"
Johnston sighed, leaning back against the headboard. "Sometimes. But I don't regret it. This life… it's not easy, but it's ours. And we've done good things. At least, I hope we have."
Eleanor's expression softened. "You have. You've done more than most people ever could. But…"
"But what?"
She hesitated, her gaze dropping to their joined hands. "I just worry. About you. About us. About what's coming."
Johnston frowned. "What do you mean?"
Before she could answer, a sharp knock at the door interrupted them. Johnston's Chief of Staff, Daniel, stepped in, his face pale and his tie slightly askew.
"Mr. President," Daniel said, his voice tight. "We need you in the Situation Room. Now."
Johnston's stomach dropped. He exchanged a glance with Eleanor, who nodded silently, her worry etched into every line of her face.
"I'll be right there," he said, his voice steady despite the dread pooling in his chest.
As Daniel left, Johnston turned back to Eleanor. "We'll talk later, okay?"
She nodded, but her eyes were distant, as if she were already bracing herself for what was to come.
Johnston dressed quickly, his mind racing. The dreams, Eleanor's unease, Daniel's urgency—it all felt connected, like pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite see yet.
As he left the room, he paused at the door, glancing back at Eleanor. She was still sitting on the bed, her arms wrapped around herself, staring out the window at the rising sun.
"I love you," he said quietly.
She turned to him, her eyes filled with something he couldn't quite name. "I love you too. Be careful."
He nodded, then stepped into the hallway, the weight of the world settling firmly on his shoulders.
The morning sun filtered through the windows, casting long shadows on the polished floors. But as Johnston walked toward the Situation Room, he couldn't shake the feeling that the light was fading—and that something dark was coming.