03/02/2025
A work of fan fiction
Follow up to hit short story sparks in the Shadows of Washington.
[A Meeting on Constitution Avenue]
It was a crisp November evening in Washington, the kind where the air carried the scent of fallen leaves and the distant hum of power. Pitir Doosay had just finished covering a late Senate hearing, his press badge still clipped to his suit jacket, when he stepped out onto Constitution Avenue.
As he adjusted his coat against the cold, a flash of familiarity caught his eye—a figure moving with purpose, wrapped in a sleek, navy wool coat, hair pulled back in a style that somehow made her look both polished and untouchable.
Sarine J pier
For a moment, he hesitated. It had been two years since their last encounter—the night of the inauguration, the night she had slipped away like a ghost before dawn. He had wondered if he’d ever see her again, and now, here she was, framed against the amber glow of a streetlamp, looking every bit the woman who had once left him breathless and bemused.
She was on her phone, mid-conversation, when she spotted him. A flicker of recognition passed through her dark eyes, but she didn’t stop speaking. Instead, she gave him the smallest, most knowing of smiles before finishing her call.
“Doosay,” she finally said, slipping the phone into her coat pocket. “You’re still here.”
He smirked, tucking his hands into his pockets. “And you’re still avoiding goodbyes.”
She laughed, a soft, genuine sound that sent something twisting deep in his chest. “I see you’re still nursing that wound.”
“You never left a note the second time,” he quipped.
She tilted her head, amused. “I didn’t think you were the sentimental type.”
They stood there for a beat, caught between the past and whatever this moment was supposed to be. Behind them, the grand dome of the Capitol loomed, a constant reminder that power in this town was always shifting, always in motion.
“What brings you to the Hill?” he asked.
She glanced away briefly before answering. “Private sector work. A client needs a little… guidance with some Senate approvals.”
“So you’re lobbying now?” He raised an eyebrow.
“I prefer ‘consulting.’”
Doosay let out a low whistle. “Didn’t take you for a sellout.”
Sarine chuckled. “And yet, here I am, making more money than you.”
“Debatable.”
“You still chasing soundbites?”
“Someone’s gotta keep this place honest,” he said, rocking on his heels.
She gave him a look that was part admiration, part amusement. “You always were a little too earnest for this town.”
“And you were always too good at playing the game.”
Another silence settled between them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was charged, like static in the air before a storm.
Sarine glanced past him, as if considering her options. Then, she exhaled, her breath visible in the cold night air. “You hungry?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to dinner?”
She smirked. “More like a drink. Maybe two. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Whiskey and Old Memories
They ended up at a dimly lit bar off Pennsylvania Avenue, the kind of place frequented by exhausted staffers and political operatives looking for a stiff drink and plausible deniability.
Pitir ordered a bourbon. Sarine, an old-fashioned.
They talked about the last two years. About the shifting landscape of Washington, the new power players, the old grudges. They danced around their last encounter, neither willing to acknowledge just how much they had thought about it.
“You know,” he mused after their second round, “I always wondered if you ever thought about that night.”
Sarine swirled the ice in her glass. “Which night?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Cute.”
She took a slow sip before meeting his gaze. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t like looking back, Doosay. You know that.”
“But you do.”
She didn’t deny it.
Instead, she reached across the table, resting her fingers briefly against his wrist. The touch was barely there, but it was enough. Enough to remind him of the heat, the rush, the way she had felt against him that night in his hotel room.
She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping just above a whisper. “Are you going to ask me where I’m staying this time?”
Another Night, Another Goodbye
His apartment was different from the last place, but the rhythm was the same. The urgency, the unspoken understanding that this wasn’t about romance or promises. It was about a connection neither of them could quite define but both were drawn to, like moths to a flame.
They tumbled into bed, shedding the weight of the city, of their titles, of the personas they wore in the daylight. For a few hours, they were just two people lost in something fleeting but real.
But Pitir knew.
He knew before he even fell asleep that she wouldn’t be there when he woke up.
And sure enough, when morning light streamed through the curtains, the sheets beside him were cold.
No note.
No trace of her except the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
Peter exhaled, running a hand through his hair, a slow, knowing smile creeping onto his face.
“Damn it, Sarine,” he muttered, shaking his head.
He didn’t know when or where, but something told him their paths would cross again.
Because Washington was small, and some ghosts never stayed gone for long.
