Iris stared into her French 75 as though the drink might contain the answer to her current predicament.
It shouldn't be this terrifying. He was just a man.
Granted, a very powerful man. A powerful man accompanied by a security guard who looked perfectly capable of body-slamming her into the nearest wall without breaking a sweat.
Still, she needed to talk to him.
All she had to do was walk over, introduce herself, and tell him she admired his work.
Hello, Prime Minister. I am Iris Fairchild. I’m a big fan.
Wait.
Was she even allowed to call herself a fan? Did politicians have fans?
Follower sounded more appropriate.
She had, after all, followed his career since high school, ever since his first term. Now he was halfway through his second, and she had managed to finish university in the meantime.
And now he was here. At her fucking university.
She had to talk to him.
Before she could think better of it, Iris drained the rest of her drink and took three determined steps toward him.
He was standing with her economics professor, engaged in what looked like an effortless conversation. Iris had passed that class with flying colours. Maybe her professor would mention that.
Not that she should.
Not that Iris needed this man to know she was intelligent.
He'd probably find it annoying to be cornered by an overeager college student.
God. This was a terrible idea.
Iris made a beeline and headed straight for the open bar and requested another drink.
She wasn't even supposed to be here.
The reception had been organised by Yale's alumni association and academic staff in the Prime Minister’s honour. Iris had only attended because Abigail—her Global Affairs professor and closest friend—had practically dragged her here.
Being valedictorian had helped. So had the fact that most of the faculty genuinely liked her. If she was being honest, she liked most of them more than she liked people her own age.
Her mother always said Iris was an old soul, and old souls had a way of finding one another. They sought comfort in the familiar while the rest of the world rushed ahead without them.
Her gaze drifted back to him. Again.
It settled on the easy way he stood, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored trousers. He wasn't doing anything particularly remarkable.
He was simply talking—and listening.
He looked like a good listener.
How did one even do that? How could someone look like a good listener? And why was that so fucking hot?
She should probably look away. She couldn't.
It was the complete absence of self-consciousness.
Everyone else in the room seemed to be performing for one another, carefully managing impressions and calculating every interaction. He wasn't. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who no longer had anything to prove.
Maybe it was the age and the experience. The way her uncles and aunts carried themselves.
But this wasn’t just that. He wasn’t just old and experienced.
There was something almost timeless about him.
The feeling reminded her of wandering through museums with her grandparents as a child—standing in front of artefacts so ancient and significant that she simply couldn’t look away.
She watched the man turn suddenly, probably feeling her gaze on him, and immediately turned back to the bar.
The bartender slid another drink across the counter.
"Thanks," Iris muttered, wrapping her fingers around the glass before taking an immediate sip.
Where the fuck was Abigail?
Someone needed to keep an eye on Iris before she humiliated herself any further.
"Should you be here?"
Iris looked up and found herself face-to-face with the Prime Minister.
Ah, shit.
"Prime Minister. Hello." She swallowed hastily, wanting to throw away the drink over the bar. "Um. I'm 21."
"Hermes, please." His mouth curved into a smile. "And I wasn't referring to the bar, Iris. I meant the reception. Shouldn't you be out celebrating with your friends?"
She didn't really have friends. Not close ones, anyway. And celebrating had never held much appeal.
But none of that seemed important compared to the thought currently occupying her entire brain.
"You know my name?" she asked.
"You were valedictorian," he said, looking vaguely amused. "I handed you your diploma. Or have you forgotten already?"
Iris couldn’t forget that moment if she got hit by a car.
She remembered walking across the stage. She remembered shaking his hand.
Most of all, she remembered the brief brush of his thumb against her skin and the way her face had immediately caught fire.
She probably shouldn't tell him any of that.
"Should you be here?" she countered instead.
"As opposed to...?" he frowned, and one eyebrow lifted. Iris wanted to lick it. Oh, Christ.
"I don't know." She took another sip of her drink, hoping it would steady her nerves. It didn't. "Aren't you supposed to be running a country?"
"I think the House of Commons can survive one evening without me."
"So, you're leaving tonight?" she asked before she could stop herself.
The disappointment in her voice was impossible to miss.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm not sure I'm supposed to share my itinerary with strangers."
"I'm not a stranger. You know my name." She tilted her head. "Or have you forgotten already?"
That earned her something she hadn't expected. A smile. A big one.
Not a politician's smile. A real one.
It transformed his face completely. The carefully managed public charm disappeared, revealing something warmer beneath it.
For one dizzying second, it felt like she had won something. Something far more valuable than the title of valedictorian.
"What are your plans?" he asked.
Iris blinked. "For tonight?"
A chuckle escaped him. "No, Iris. For your future."
Heat rushed into her cheeks. She considered throwing herself directly into the Atlantic Ocean.
"Oh. I accepted an internship at the Department of Justice."
"Hm."
The nod that followed was polite. Too diplomatic. Iris hated it immediately.
"You don't think that's a good idea."
It wasn't a question.
The truth was that she wasn't entirely convinced either.
The internship was simply the best offer she had received, and she hadn't known what else to do except accept it and say thank you.
"Your Department of Justice doesn't seem particularly interested in justice these days," Hermes said bluntly. Iris barked out a surprised laugh. "Besides, I don't believe in internships."
"Oh?"
"No one should be working for free."
"It's not free. I'll be paid in experience," Iris noted seriously.
Hermes closed his eyes briefly. "Oh, the naïve optimism of youth."
"You're not that old," Iris scoffed.
He snorted. "I suspect the press would disagree."
"Fuck the press."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Hermes stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed. He actually laughed. Iris wanted to put it on her resume.
"And it's not naïve optimism," she continued. "I genuinely think there's a lot I still need to learn before I deserve a pay check."
Technically, the internship applications had started because Malik wouldn't stop talking about them.
When she'd mentioned skipping the process entirely, he'd launched into a dramatic speech about privilege, legacy admissions, and her last name.
"People do not need to earn the right to survive, Iris." His voice had shifted, suddenly somewhat more serious. "Income should not be conditional upon proving your worth."
Iris immediately leaned forward. "So, it’s true, then? You will be backing a guaranteed income model during your next term?"
The question made him blink. "What?"
She shrugged. "I follow politics."
"I'm not sure the news has covered my economic proposals for the next term in that much detail."
"Fine." Iris lifted her glass. "I follow gossip."
That earned her another grin. "Ragnor warned me about that."
Her eyes widened. "He talks about me?"
"Your Dean talks about you constantly. He mentioned that you have an unusual talent for extracting information from people."
"I prefer ‘excellent conversationalist’," Iris hummed.
Hermes laughed again. Wow. "Have you ever considered a career in the courtroom rather than the parliament?"
"Congress," Iris corrected automatically. "And yes, actually. Law school was my original plan."
"What changed?"
"A lot of lawyers spend their careers reacting to problems," Iris said, after considering the question. "I'd rather help shape policy before those problems happen."
For a moment, he simply studied her.
The noise of the reception faded into the background. His gaze was steady and entirely focused on her.
It made her feel seen in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
Finally, he nodded.
Once. Slowly.
"Yes," he said. "I think that's the right choice too."
Iris inhaled softly at that, taking another sip of her drink.
Across from her, Hermes cleared his throat and lifted his whiskey to his lips.
"I should—"
"Have you visited the library?"
The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
Hermes paused. "Pardon?"
"The library," Iris repeated. "At Yale. We have the largest map collection in North America."
For a second, he simply stared at her. Then the corner of his mouth twitched again. "You know far too much about me."
Maybe admitting that she knew obscure facts about his hobbies wasn't very subtle.
Iris felt a brief surge of courage. "Is that a bad thing?"
Hermes studied her for a moment. "Not in politics."
Something warm unfurled in her chest. "So…library?"
For a split second, she thought she saw genuine temptation flicker across his face.
Then it vanished.
Replaced by something more careful and disciplined.
Hermes set his half-finished drink on the bar. "It was lovely speaking with you, Miss Fairchild."
The words landed on her chest like a physical blow.
Miss Fairchild. Not Iris.
She had pushed too far. Of course she had.
What the hell had she been thinking?
That she could invite the Prime Minister to the library? That they'd spend the evening discussing maps before making out between the shelves?
God. She needed to stop drinking.
"It was my pleasure, Mr. Cain," Iris managed, grateful that somehow, she still remembered her manners. "Enjoy your evening."
Hermes inclined his head and walked away. The security detail followed.
Just like that, he was gone.
Iris stared into her drink. Then immediately ordered another.
Abigail found her halfway through it.
Iris kept the conversation with Hermes entirely to herself.
Partly because she suspected Abigail wouldn't believe her. Mostly because recounting the whole thing out loud would force her to acknowledge how spectacularly she had embarrassed herself.
Who was even stupid enough to flirt with a Prime Minister? A Prime Minister who was alive when Roe v. Wade passed and was old enough to remember the aftermath of the Vietnam War?
What must he think of her? Probably that she was a desperate university student with no sense of boundaries.
The thought made her groan into her glass.
Abigail promptly confiscated it.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur.
They ended up at Abigail's apartment, eating takeout and watching the latest HasanAbi stream while Abigail provided increasingly dramatic political commentary.
For a while, it worked. For a while, Iris forgot.
Then Antoine arrived and the atmosphere shifted immediately.
Not in a bad way, of course. Just in the way it always did when two people were hopelessly in love and completely incapable of hiding it.
Feeling like an accidental third wheel, Iris made her excuses and headed home.
Fortunately, her apartment was only a block away. The night air helped clear her head.
By the time she reached her building, the disappointment had dulled into something manageable.
She climbed the stairs, fishing her keys from her purse.
Her foot nudged something soft. And wet.
Frowning, Iris glanced down.
A bouquet of sunflowers rested against her apartment door.
Bright, fresh, and impossible to miss.
For several seconds, she simply stared. Then she crouched and carefully lifted them into her arms.
Nestled among the stems was a pristine white card. Her name was written across the front in elegant handwriting.
She ignored the delusional theories already swimming in her head and opened it.
A phone number was written inside.
She recognised the code immediately, thanks to her cousin Joan who had moved to London for her studies.
Heart hammering, Iris flipped the card over. The message on the back was brief.
In case you decide to work for someone who believes in paying you with more than experience — H.
For a moment, Iris forgot how to breathe. Then she laughed. A startled, disbelieving sound that echoed through the empty hallway.
She drifted into the apartment, floating more than walking, and immediately put the flowers in the water.
Then she read the card one more time. Then once again, just to be sure.
And then, after finally memorising his words and his phone number, she called Abigail and told her everything.
“Antoine, wake up!” Abigail shouted over the phone. “Iris is going to fuck the British Prime Minister!”
-- Happiest of Birthdays to my dearest @idk-i-just-really-like-tsc. I hope this story about faircain (from the TLND-world, no less) makes you happy 🧡
