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# The Congressman's Intern: CH. 1
- URL: https://adrianthorne.com/the-congressmans-intern-part-one/
- Published: 2025-09-29T12:01:17.000Z
- Updated: 2026-08-14T15:38:52.000Z
- Description: Gay Erotica, Scandal, Cheating, 18+
- Author: R. Adrian Thorne
- Tags: The Congressman's Son, Fiction, Queer Fiction, Adult Fiction, Erotic Fiction, M/M Romance, Serial Fiction, #Migrated-1783026506603, #Import 2026-07-02 21:09

## CHAPTER ONE: THE CONGRESSMAN'S INTERN

---

The room was too warm.

I woke tangled in sheets that smelled like bourbon and sex, skin damp, throat dry, one leg hooked over his, as if my body hadn’t gotten the memo. The air conditioning buzzed above the window, struggling against a July morning already thick with heat. Outside, a sprinkler ticked on—mechanical, distant, steady. The kind of sound you hear in suburbs. Or in towns pretending not to notice what’s happening behind closed hotel doors.

Congressman Alexander Blake lay beside me, perfectly still. One arm tucked behind his head. The other at his side. The sheet had slipped low, baring the long line of his torso—chest dusted with hair, stomach taut, skin still marked faintly where I’d touched him.

His cock lay across his thigh, soft now, but heavy and unapologetic. The way power looks when it isn’t trying. I remembered what it felt like when it was hard. Thick. Deliberate. The press of him inside me, not rushed, not hesitant. Just certain. He fucked like a man used to being obeyed. And I had let him. Eagerly. Quietly. Completely.

I sat up slowly, the ache still lingering in the backs of my thighs. I didn’t check the clock. I didn’t need to. The hour didn’t matter—only that I wasn’t supposed to be here when it came.

My clothes were folded. Neatly. Not mine—his doing. My belt coiled on the dresser. My campaign pin nowhere in sight. I dressed in silence, the room still thick with everything we hadn’t said. I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t look back again.

Not until I had to.

At the door, I turned once more.

He hadn’t moved.

Just lay there—flushed, spent, haloed in morning light.

It should’ve felt like a victory.

Instead, it felt like a countdown.

---

The hallway was dim, carpet muffling my steps. I carried my shoes. My collar was open. The elevator blinked somewhere down the hall, patient and indifferent. I made it halfway there before I heard my name.

“Mr. Cole.”

I turned.

Carter Vance was standing near the service alcove, just past the vending machine, framed by shadow and the bitter smell of bad coffee. No jacket. No smile. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms like always, and the campaign lanyard hung around his neck like a blade.

He stepped forward. No rush. Just gravity.

“You left something,” he said. He held out my gold campaign pin, between two fingers like it was toxic.

I reached for it.

He didn’t let go.

“I warned you what would happen if you came near the congressman again,” Carter said, voice low, clean, surgical. “You’re done.”

Then he let go.

The pin dropped into my hand like a verdict.

Carter turned and walked away—no raised voice, no threat. Just a man crossing something off his list.

That’s me.

Adrian Cole.

The congressman’s intern.

Fired before the campaign even got off the ground.

---

***THREE WEEKS EARLIER***

The conference room smelled like coffee and ambition.

Fifteen folding chairs. Two standing fans. A whiteboard someone had written *WEEK ONE: PUSH HARDER* across in blue Expo marker. It was barely 10 A.M., but already the heat had settled like a dare. The Nashua field office ran out of a repurposed insurance agency, and it showed—framed certificates still hung crooked in the hallway, and the receptionist’s desk had a crack running down the center like something tried to split it in half.

I sat in the second row. Not the front—too eager. Not the back—too detached. Just close enough to be noticed. I wore a pressed shirt, a quiet tie, and the expression of someone who already knew how this worked.

Around me: college juniors, poli-sci kids, overachievers with summer lanyards and tote bags full of sunscreen and good intentions. Some were local. Some had driven up from Boston or taken the train from D.C. A few still smelled like dorm rooms.

We were in the intern class. Fresh meat.

They handed us welcome packets and thin folders marked with our names. Inside mine: a schedule, a code of conduct, a nondisclosure agreement, and a small square box. I opened it carefully.

A gold lapel pin.

Simple. Round. The campaign’s logo engraved in the center.

It wasn’t real gold, but it caught the light when I held it up.

Someone behind me whispered, “Whoa,” like it meant something.

It did.

You don’t hand out pins unless you expect people to wear them.

And you don’t expect people to wear them unless they’re part of something bigger.

That’s what I wanted.

That’s why I was here.

The room quieted. I looked up.

Carter Vance walked in like someone had pressed play.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t smile. He stood at the front of the room in shirt sleeves, tie crisp, holding nothing, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier or a surgeon or something in between.

“Welcome,” he said. “You’re here because you were chosen.”

He let the silence sit.

“I’m not going to thank you for your time. You’ll be giving more of it than you realize. No one’s going to clap for you when you knock your hundredth door or when your shirt sticks to your back from walking three miles in the heat. This campaign will not reward effort. It will reward outcome. If you need a gold star, join a startup.”

He paused.

“You are here to serve a machine. And the machine serves something larger. If that bothers you, now is the time to leave.”

No one moved. Not even the kid picking at the corner of his folder.

Carter nodded once. “Good.”

Then he stepped aside and motioned to a woman with a clipboard—mid-thirties, blazer over a sleeveless blouse, efficient in that deadly HR way. Her name was Bridget. We would never see her smile again.

“Assignments,” she said.

We stood and lined up. Names were called. Teams were made.

When she got to mine, she didn’t look up.

“Cole, A.—you’re with Hudson.”

A guy two spots ahead turned. Tall. Dark hair. Muscle tee under an open button-down. He looked like he belonged on a rowing team or in an ad for preppy deodorant. He gave me a tight smile that said, *I’ll be pleasant until proven otherwise.*

“Canvassing,” Bridget added. “Wards four and five. Start with the church on Elm.”

That was it. No fanfare. No handshake. Just two bodies assigned to walk neighborhoods and push literature on strangers who’d already decided who they hated. I shook Hudson’s hand anyway—his grip was firm, his eyes distant, the kind of guy who’d done this before. We left the room with clipboards and voter maps and sunscreen packets that smelled like compromise. And as we stepped out into the parking lot—into heat so thick it made my shirt cling to my back—I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t going to spend my summer sweating on doorsteps. I was meant for something higher. I just had to find the fastest way up.

The first thing I learned about canvassing in July was that every house smells a little like dog. Wet dog, old dog, or dog that’s recently been bribed into silence with treats while its owner half-listens to a political pitch. By noon, I’d knocked on fourteen doors, sweated through my collar, and decided the sun hated me personally.

Hudson took it in stride. He had the kind of unbothered gait that made him look like he wasn’t sweating, even when he was. His clipboard was tucked under one arm, a bottle of water in the other. He smiled with teeth when people answered the door. Thanked them for their time even when they shut it in his face. Every now and then, someone would nod and say, “We like Blake,” and his whole face would light up like he’d just received confirmation of faith.

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/ac/06/ac06f9b1-2fc6-4cd6-af9f-72147c562e72/content/images/2026/07/92e3218a-c973-4fba-8f80-4b796eff9620_768x512-heic.jpg)

We walked in silence between houses, crushed gravel underfoot, signs of rot on every front porch. Most of Nashua was working class and sun-faded. You could feel the desperation in the siding. The need in the way people looked at you when you wore a button and carried a clipboard.

On our second break, we sat on the edge of a low stone wall outside a shuttered barbershop. I wiped the back of my neck with the corner of a voter map. Hudson unscrewed his water bottle and offered it without looking. I took a sip. It was still cold.

“So,” he said, “what made you pick Blake’s campaign?”

His tone was casual, but his eyes were steady. He actually wanted to know.

I leaned back on my hands and looked out across the street. There was an old man watering a strip of grass that didn’t look like it wanted to be saved.

“You first,” I said.

Hudson smiled faintly. “I’m from Vermont. Blake came to speak at my high school senior year. He talked about public accountability like it was something sacred, not just a sound bite. I followed his committee work after that. Especially on oversight.”

I glanced at him. “You were watching House hearings in high school?”

He shrugged. “I liked seeing someone ask real questions and not flinch. Thought maybe that was still possible.”

I let that settle for a moment. He wasn’t performing. He believed it. That kind of earnestness always made me feel like a fraud.

“And you?” he asked. “What’s your angle?”

I peeled the corner of the map where it had started to tear. “I’ve got family in New Hampshire. Blake’s the most powerful person in the state. Interning for him was a good move.”

Hudson gave a slow nod. “Smart. But kind of clinical.”

“I didn’t come here to collect signatures,” I said. “I came here to watch how power works up close.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You could’ve done that in D.C. Why not try for a White House internship?”

I smiled. Not mocking—just faintly amused. “The White House is a limited run. A season. You get a West Wing badge, a few photos, and in a year or two you’re replaced by the next round of future speechwriters.”

Hudson squinted toward the road. A truck rolled past, the bed piled with old fencing and bent bicycles.

“I want more than that,” I said. “I want proximity to the people who last. Not the ones just borrowing the office.”

For a second, neither of us said anything. The heat pressed in again. Hudson tapped his pen against the edge of his clipboard.

“You’re ambitious,” he said.

I looked at him sidelong. “You say that like it’s a warning.”

He shrugged. “Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s the reason you’ll get exactly what you want.”

A cicada droned nearby. Someone opened a window across the street and slammed it again.

I stood. “Let’s finish the route.”

Hudson stood with me. We crossed the street together, stepping back into the sun, into the long stretch of doors we hadn’t yet knocked on.

The office was quieter in the evening.

The fans were still going—oscillating back and forth with that mechanical sigh—but most of the noise had drained out with the interns. The whiteboard hadn’t been updated since morning, and someone had left a melted granola bar on the corner of the supply table, half-unwrapped and sagging in the heat.

Hudson and I were sitting at a folding table with our clipboards between us, voter lists half-input into the campaign’s data portal. His collar was open, sleeves rolled, one shoe kicked off beneath the table. He looked like every campus activist I’d ever seen in a photo from the ’70s—idealistic, exhausted, sunburned at the tips of the ears.

He rubbed a hand over his face and leaned back. “We can finish these tomorrow. No one’s reading field data at midnight.”

I nodded, but didn’t move.

He caught the hesitation. “You staying?”

I shrugged like it didn’t mean anything. “Might as well knock it out while it’s fresh. I’ve already got the rhythm.”

Hudson watched me for a second, then nodded. “Suit yourself. Just make sure someone walks you out. This place turns into a furnace after dark.”

He pushed his chair back and grabbed his backpack. As he passed, he clapped a hand briefly on my shoulder—friendly, earned, nothing performative.

I waited until I heard the door close behind him before I moved. Switched chairs. Stretched my legs out. Let the silence settle.

I wasn’t here to log data. Not really.

I was here to be seen.

The office layout was simple—conference room to the left, bullpen straight ahead, campaign manager’s nook behind a frosted glass door. I’d walked through it once during orientation, but tonight it felt different. Like the walls had stopped pretending to be welcoming.

Somewhere down the hall, I heard voices. Two, maybe three. Older. Measured. The tone was casual, but the cadence was professional—brief pauses between sentences, space for decision-making. One of them laughed, low and controlled. A sound that expected agreement.

I knew that voice before I even saw him.

Congressman Blake stepped into view from the hallway behind the bullpen, trailed by Carter and someone I didn’t recognize—female, mid-forties, clipboard tucked tight to her chest. Blake wore his jacket unbuttoned, shirt collar open, no tie. The casual uniform of a man still working but above everyone who was.

He didn’t see me. I was in the corner, behind the angle of the divider wall, partially hidden by a stack of unopened mailers.

But I saw him.

He moved like someone used to being followed. Confident, deliberate, but not theatrical. The kind of man who walked in his own silence and expected the room to adjust accordingly.

I’d seen photos, of course—headshots, committee stills, a few campaign ads. But in person, it hit different. There was gravity to him. Not just charisma. Weight. He didn’t fill the room so much as anchor it. His presence shifted the air.

They disappeared into the conference room without pause. Carter closed the door behind them.

I sat still for a long moment, fingers frozen on the keyboard.

He hadn’t looked in my direction.

He didn’t know who I was.

But I knew exactly who he was.

And I wasn’t going to stay anonymous for long.

---

We started early.

The sun hadn’t climbed high yet, but the heat already felt personal. The kind that stuck to your spine and turned every cotton shirt into a mistake. Hudson handed me a breakfast bar and a new route list, and we hit the pavement again—just the two of us and a red-wheeled cooler filled with water bottles that would be warm by noon.

The houses blurred together: single-story homes with cracked steps and plastic wind chimes, lawn signs from three elections ago still planted in the dirt like proof of loyalty. At one place, a woman answered in a Patriots jersey and asked if we were selling religion. Hudson laughed. Said, “Only the kind that gets roads fixed.” She took a pamphlet and promised to think about it.

We paused on a corner near an elementary school. I rubbed the back of my neck and squinted at the map.

“Did you ever think about trying to move up?” I asked.

Hudson raised an eyebrow. “Up?”

“In the campaign. Something more than door-to-door.”

He took a long drink from his water bottle. “Sure. I mean, yeah. Eventually.”

I watched him. “But?”

“But I didn’t come here to chase a title. I came here to learn.”

“That’s not mutually exclusive.”

Hudson smiled faintly. “For some people it is.”

We kept walking. Cicadas screamed in the trees. I could feel my calves starting to itch where the sweat pooled behind my knees.

“I just don’t see the point of staying in the shadows,” I said. “The congressman’s got one of the safest seats in the state. This campaign isn’t about survival—it’s about positioning.”

Hudson glanced at me. “So you want to be positioned.”

“I want to be useful,” I said. “To the right people. At the right time.”

He nodded slowly. “Well, you’ll get your chance tonight.”

I looked up.

“The dinner,” he said. “Donor event at the hotel. We’re on logistics.”

I hadn’t realized we were included.

Hudson pulled a folded schedule from his pocket and tapped the bottom of the page. My name was there. His too.

“Technically, we’re supposed to help with check-in. Badges. Seating charts. Probably stand near the wall and try not to look like interns.”

“But the congressman will be there,” I said.

“Yeah,” Hudson said. “Which means half the staff will be on alert and Carter will be counting who breathes too loud.”

I smiled. “Sounds like a party.”

He shook his head. “It’s a donor dinner, Adrian. Not prom.”

“Depends who you ask.”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled his phone out, checked the time, and nodded toward the last block.

“We finish these by lunch, we’ve got an hour to shower and find something that doesn’t smell like yesterday.”

I folded the map and tucked it into my back pocket.

Tonight, Blake would be in the same room.

And this time, I wasn’t going to watch from the corner.

---

The ballroom had been borrowed, but it didn’t look it.

Cream-colored walls, up-lighting in soft gold, a rented podium dressed with the campaign’s banner in navy and white. Round tables filled the floor, linen-draped and already set with name cards and heavy flatware. Staffers moved like ants across the edges of the room, dressed in muted tones, clipboards in hand, earbuds tucked discreetly behind hairlines and jacket collars.

Hudson and I were stationed at check-in. Two interns with a paper list, matching lanyards, and a laptop that had already frozen twice. We greeted people we didn’t recognize, pointed toward name tags in alphabetical rows, tried not to sweat through our jackets. The donors smiled the way people do when they’re looking past you for someone more important.

I didn’t mind.

This wasn’t my night to be seen.

It was my night to watch.

Blake entered twenty minutes in—flanked by Carter and a woman I’d seen once at HQ but hadn’t yet been introduced to. She leaned in close as she spoke to him, hand hovering near his elbow but never touching. Carter trailed half a step behind, his expression unreadable, his eyes scanning the room the way a handler always does—checking corners, exits, angles. The people with power in the room moved toward Blake like they didn’t mean to, like the air pulled them.

He looked effortless.

No tie tonight—just an open collar and the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed to his forearms, jacket draped over one arm, campaign pin catching the light as he turned to shake hands. He laughed twice—once with a hand on a shoulder, once with a nod that said he’d already heard the joke before and was laughing anyway.

He didn’t look at me.

But Carter did.

Just once. A flicker. A glance toward the table where Hudson and I stood, still logged into the check-in spreadsheet. The briefest beat of eye contact. Not a threat. Not yet. Just a reminder.

I know who you are.

The speech came at the hour mark. They dimmed the lights by two degrees, and the campaign manager took the podium to offer a warm, practiced introduction about service and accountability and “our shared fight for the future.”

Then Blake stepped up.

He didn’t use a microphone. He didn’t need to.

His voice was lower in person than it was on video. Calmer. Measured. The kind that didn’t rise so much as draw you down into it. He opened with a story about his father’s hardware store in Hanover. Made a joke about potholes. Talked about integrity like it was a muscle, something that had to be used or lost.

And when he said *this campaign isn’t about changing one seat—it’s about raising the standard*, people actually applauded. Not out of obligation. But because they believed him.

Even Hudson stood a little straighter.

I watched Blake’s hands. His posture. The way he met the room’s gaze without blinking.

He was a man who could have anyone listen.

And I wanted him to look at me.

The applause came again, sharper now. Staffers reappeared at the corners of the room. Carter moved first, whispering something into a junior aide’s ear as Blake stepped down from the stage.

I checked my watch.

We were almost done at the check-in table. Hudson was folding up the list.

“You can go ahead,” he said, glancing at me. “I’ll drop this at the registration desk.”

I hesitated.

Just a second.

Then: “I’ll wait.”

But I wasn’t waiting for Hudson.

I was waiting for a seam to open.

The ballroom had gotten louder after the speech.

Music hummed low under the sound of clinking forks and slow conversations. Aides moved efficiently between tables, collecting stray wine glasses and answering soft-voiced questions. Donors clustered near the dessert trays, complimenting the pecan tartlets and pretending they hadn’t already given the number they intended to.

I slipped out unnoticed. Hudson was still inside, probably deep in some policy-adjacent small talk with the woman from logistics. My jacket felt too tight. My collar, a mistake.

The balcony doors were unmarked, tucked behind a folding partition and half-shadowed by a banner stand that still had last quarter’s slogan on it. I pushed them open and stepped outside.

Heat rushed back in.

The balcony was narrow, the stone rail waist-high, and the air smelled like pavement and honeysuckle and the faintest trace of chlorine from a pool I couldn’t see. Above, the sky was thick and soft with humidity. Crickets chirped faintly beyond the hotel lot. I leaned against the rail and exhaled, shoulders dropping for the first time all day.

And then I heard the door open behind me.

Footsteps. Slower. Unhurried.

I turned.

It was him.

Congressman Blake.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t pause. Just stepped out beside me and glanced toward the parking lot, like he was surveying something private.

Then, without looking at me, he said, “I give this same speech in this same hotel three, sometimes four times a year.”

I swallowed. “Sir?”

He smiled faintly. “That ballroom in there—it’s like a wedding cake that never changes. Same wallpaper. Same podium. Same plastic smiles.” He paused. “This is the best part of the building.”

His voice was lower out here. Softer. Less performative. It didn’t project — it drew you in.

I straightened instinctively. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just—getting some air.”

“No need to apologize,” he said, finally turning toward me. His eyes were sharp but not unkind. “You’re with the intern cohort?”

“Yes, sir. Adrian Cole.”

He nodded like he was filing it away. “New Hampshire native?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “But I’ve got family in the district. I’m at Brown.”

“Smart place,” he said, then added, “Not always the smartest people.”

That made me smile before I could stop myself. “I try to be the exception.”

He looked at me fully then. Not searching. Just… seeing.

“That’s a dangerous thing to aim for,” he said. “Standing out.”

“I’ve heard.”

“And yet here you are.”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to.

The silence settled between us. Not uncomfortable—just thick. Like the air itself had changed shape.

Blake leaned his elbows on the railing, relaxed now, his shirt sleeves still rolled. He looked out at the dark horizon like it was a thing he owned.

“Do you like this work?” he asked. “Campaigning?”

“I like learning how it’s done.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I hesitated, then told the truth. “I like being close to where things happen.”

He nodded once. “That’s an answer.”

I could feel my pulse in my throat. The crickets were louder now, or maybe the silence between words was just deeper than I expected. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I held the railing tighter.

“I should get back inside,” I said, suddenly unsure if I was supposed to stay.

Blake didn’t move. Just said, “They’ll manage without you for five more minutes.”

So I stayed.

And he didn’t ask me why.

Blake didn’t rush the silence.

He leaned on the railing like it was a habit, not a pose—his weight balanced, elbows braced, fingers loose. The kind of posture that said he wasn’t there to prove anything. I watched the curve of his forearm as he shifted, the soft roll of muscle beneath skin still warm from the ballroom.

“You’re what—twenty-one?” he asked, voice low.

“Twenty,” I said. “Just finished my junior year.”

He nodded without looking at me. “Figures.”

There was no compliment in it. No challenge either. Just fact.

A beat passed.

He turned his head slightly—just enough that I caught his profile, sharp and calm under the hotel lights. “You ever think about running?”

I blinked. “I think about it.”

He smiled. “Good. Be a shame if that face went to waste shaking hands for someone else.”

I didn’t smile back. Not yet. But I felt the words land. Not like a compliment. Like a test I didn’t know I was taking.

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/ac/06/ac06f9b1-2fc6-4cd6-af9f-72147c562e72/content/images/2026/07/a9862422-033c-469f-bd65-1acf329e51ad_768x512-heic.jpg)

He shifted again, this time angling his body just enough that we were facing each other fully. His jacket, still folded over one arm, slipped slightly as he adjusted—first his stance, then himself. A subtle gesture. One hand brushing across the front of his trousers, fingers flattening fabric. Not performative. Not rushed. Just necessary.

But I saw it.

Saw the shape of him there, pressed against the inside of his slacks, thick and undeniable. Not aroused—at least not obviously. Just present. Heavy the way some men carry their power. It wasn’t the kind of thing you’re supposed to notice. And certainly not the kind you’re supposed to keep staring at.

I looked away. Too slow.

The air between us wasn’t charged—not exactly. Just tighter. Less room for pretending this was still a coincidence.

“You’ve got the look,” he said. “That thing young men get when they haven’t been told no enough times to believe it yet.”

“That a compliment, sir?”

He smiled again, slower this time. “That depends on how you use it.”

I felt the heat crawl up my neck. Not shame—just recognition. Of what he was doing. Of the fact that I wanted him to keep doing it.

His eyes flicked down briefly—my jaw, my collar, the undone button near my throat. The kind of look that wasn’t hungry, but evaluative. As if he were reading something already written.

“I’ve had interns before,” he said. “Smart ones. Polished. Eager to please.”

I opened my mouth, not knowing what I meant to say.

Then the door behind us opened.

Carter stepped out.

He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t clear his throat. Just let the screen door whisper shut behind him like he’d always been there. His hands were in his pockets. His expression was still.

“Congressman,” he said. “They’re asking for you inside. Press wants a quote before the crowd breaks.”

Blake didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered on me for half a beat longer than they had to.

Then he pushed off the railing and adjusted his sleeves.

“Of course,” he said, as if none of it had happened.

He turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back.

“Mr. Cole,” he said. “I imagine we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

Then he disappeared into the ballroom, Carter falling in behind him like a shadow that knew exactly where to land. Not a glance at me. Not a word. But I felt the cold shape of his presence long after the door shut.

I stayed where I was, hands still on the railing, the echo of Blake’s voice settling somewhere I hadn’t expected.

The night air had cooled slightly. But my skin hadn’t.

The ballroom was cooler after the balcony.

Or maybe it just felt that way because I’d been standing outside too long, my skin still humming, my collar damp, my thoughts running out ahead of me. People had shifted. Tables half-cleared, plates scraped clean, donors lingering by the bar. Hudson caught my eye near the back wall and gave me a look—half nod, half question—but I didn’t make it to him.

Carter was already moving toward me.

Not fast. Not with any urgency. Just… deliberate.

He intercepted me near the campaign banner, just far enough from the cluster of staffers to keep the exchange private. His expression was the same one he wore on logistics calls and field briefings: neutral, efficient, unreadable.

“Mr. Cole,” he said. “Enjoying the event?”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes flicked past me, toward the balcony doors. “Good. That’s what these nights are for. Mingling. Learning. Watching how the system works.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to say something. So I didn’t.

Carter stepped a fraction closer. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to erase the space between formality and warning.

He looked me in the eye, calm and exact.

“Let me be clear about something,” he said. “The congressman is a busy man. He doesn’t have time for distractions.”

The words were smooth. Practiced.

But the edge beneath them wasn’t.

“If you’re here to do the job, do it,” he continued. “But if I see you drifting off-message again—especially during events—this internship will end faster than it started.”

Then he smiled.

Just a flicker.

Professional. Chilling.

“I’d hate to waste talent.”

He stepped back before I could answer. Turned. Vanished into the crowd.

I stood there a moment longer, the buzz of the room returning in pieces—ice clinking in glasses, low conversation, a polite laugh three tables away.

And under it all, a new rhythm settling beneath my skin.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

But something close enough to matter.

---

We got back late.

The motel wasn’t far from the hotel ballroom, but it felt like another world. Fluorescent lighting in the lobby, a clerk who didn’t look up when we checked in, a stack of vending machine snack wrappers crumpled under the ice dispenser. Hudson tossed his bag onto one of the twin beds and peeled off his shoes without a word.

I took the other bed. Sat on the edge. Let the room settle around me.

We hadn’t spoken much in the car. He’d asked how check-in went. I’d said fine. That was it.

The air conditioner rattled. Something buzzed from behind the wallpaper.

I lay back fully dressed and stared at the ceiling while Hudson shifted under the thin motel blanket, muttering something about lights. I turned them off.

For a while, I just lay there.

Carter’s voice came back first.

*Drifting off-message. Internship ending faster than it started.*

The smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

I rolled onto my side. Faced the wall.

It should have stung. Should’ve scared me straight.

But it didn’t.

Because what stuck even more than Carter’s warning was Blake’s voice—smooth, low, half-amused.

*You’ve got the look.*

*That depends on how you use it.*

*We’ll be seeing more of each other.*

My breath caught.

I pressed my thighs together, just slightly, under the sheet.

I hadn’t touched myself in days. There hadn’t been time. But now, alone except for Hudson’s slow breathing four feet away, everything in me throbbed with the memory of that balcony. The way Blake had adjusted himself. That moment his hand had smoothed across his front. Not an accident. Not indifference. A message.

And I’d read it.

My cock stirred, half-hard already, heat coiling low in my stomach.

I waited.

Listened.

Hudson’s breathing stayed steady. Deep. Asleep.

I slipped one hand beneath the waistband of my boxers, slow and careful, barely moving my hips. Just pressure. Just friction. Just the weight of the congressman’s voice in my head, saying my name.

Not Adrian. *Mr. Cole.*

I didn’t stroke right away. Just let my palm rest there—flat against the heat, fingers curved slightly around the base. My cock was hard already, pressed tight against my stomach. I adjusted my hips, slowly, careful not to shift the mattress. Hudson’s breathing stayed even. Deep. Asleep.

I wrapped my fingers around myself and gave one slow pull from root to tip. Then another. Each stroke measured, tight. The kind of pressure that kept everything inside—sound, breath, need. My body ached to thrust up into my own hand, to chase friction, to rut into the mattress until I went blind. But I held still. Because Hudson was four feet away. Because silence was part of it now.

I kept stroking—short, deliberate jerks, thumb teasing the head. I imagined Blake’s voice in my ear, low and close. I imagined the weight of him, thick in my mouth, his hand at the back of my head. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek. My whole body tense. My free hand gripping the sheet.

The orgasm hit hard—tight and fast. My back arched slightly. I stifled the sound against the crook of my arm. My cock throbbed in my hand, warm and wet, and I held it there until the pulses slowed and the heat bled out.

After, I wiped my hand clean on the inside of my undershirt. Lay still. Listened.

Hudson didn’t stir.

But I didn’t close my eyes for a long time.

Because I knew—without question—this wasn’t going to be the last time.

---

The phones hadn’t stopped ringing since nine.

Two rings, then a pause. Then another. The system was old—every call routed through a clunky shared interface that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the last administration. I’d taken six calls in twenty minutes. Three hang-ups. One woman who wanted to know if the congressman supported bike lanes. One man who didn’t say anything at all. Just breathed heavily for a while, then hung up.

Across from me, Hudson rubbed his eyes and reset the dialer.

“Remind me again why we didn’t go for press internships?” he said.

“Because we’re masochists,” I muttered, and sipped my third coffee of the day.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching until his spine cracked. “The hotel bed last night was basically two box springs fighting each other under a sheet.”

I didn’t respond. Not because I disagreed—mine had been worse—but because I wasn’t thinking about beds anymore.

I was watching the conference room.

It wasn’t obvious. My screen was still open, headset looped around my neck. I had my clipboard in front of me and a pen in hand, like I might jot something down at any moment. But my attention kept flicking to the glass-walled room near the front of HQ, where the congressman had been closeted with Carter and one of the senior policy aides since before we’d logged in.

From my desk, I could see the edge of Blake’s shoulder. The shift of his posture. The angle of his head when he leaned forward. Not much. Just enough to remind me what it felt like to stand close to him. What his breath had felt like when he leaned in at the balcony railing and said *They’ll manage without you for five more minutes.*

I took another call. Another hang-up.

The phones rang on.

Eventually, Carter stood. Spoke to Blake—two words, maybe three—and left the room. The aide followed, tablet in hand, heels clicking against the tile. Neither looked hurried. Just purposeful. Like the meeting wasn’t over, but the next part didn’t include them.

Blake stayed seated.

Alone.

I didn’t shift in my chair. Didn’t lean forward. Just logged another note on the call sheet and watched as he stood slowly and walked to the door.

He didn’t check his phone. Didn’t call for Carter. Just opened the door and stepped into the hallway like it was routine.

Then—he turned. And saw me.

Not a long look. Not a nod. Just a glance that held steady for half a second too long. Not recognition. Not surprise.

Acknowledgment.

And then he walked.

Straight down the hall, toward the far end of the office. Past the copier. Past the storage closets. Somewhere no one ever went without a reason.

I stood. Took the clipboard without thinking. My headset unplugged with a small click. Hudson glanced at me.

“Bathroom?”

I nodded.

He went back to dialing.

I walked down the corridor with even steps. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just steady. Like I knew exactly where I was going and had the right to be there.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have. Every footstep sounded louder than the last. A stray breeze from the vents kicked up the edge of a campaign poster taped to the wall—*DELIVERING ACCOUNTABILITY FOR NEW HAMPSHIRE*—and I kept walking.

Up ahead, I caught the last second of the door easing shut.

The copy room.

No sound. No lock.

Just the hush of something waiting.

My hand reached the knob.

And only then—only right then—did I feel my pulse spike. Just enough to taste it.

The handle was warm under my palm.

I turned it slowly, careful not to rattle the latch, and pushed the door open just wide enough to slip inside. The room was dim—one light above the copier, the others flickering faintly overhead like they hadn’t been replaced in years. The air smelled faintly of paper and toner and something sharper beneath it. Heat, maybe. Breath. Restraint.

He was there.

Standing by the back wall, hands in his pockets, tie loosened, sleeves still rolled. He hadn’t moved since I’d seen him last, and yet everything about the room had shifted around him. Like the air knew who he was. Like it had taken his side.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked at me.

My hand let go of the door. It clicked shut behind me.

We stood there for a beat, maybe two. No movement. No signal.

But we both knew why we were here.

I crossed to him slowly, one step at a time. The room was small. Each footfall closed the distance like a held breath. His eyes didn’t leave mine. His posture didn’t shift. He didn’t reach for me. Didn’t instruct. Just waited.

When I got close enough to feel the heat off his body, I stopped.

Still, he said nothing.

So I kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t innocent. It was the kind of kiss that starts long before it lands. I pressed my mouth to his, hard and certain, and felt him respond in kind—his lips firm, warm, the pressure even. His hand slid up, cupping the back of my neck. Not possessive. Just controlled.

Like everything else he did.

The kiss deepened without permission.

He parted my lips with his, breath steady, no rush. His other hand settled at my waist, fingers tightening just enough that I felt it—*I’m stronger than you, and you’re going to let me show it.*

I did.

I let him take the lead.

Let him press me gently but unambiguously backward, until the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the table beside the printer. I reached out, bracing myself, but didn’t break the kiss. I couldn’t. His mouth moved with terrifying confidence. Like he’d kissed a thousand people and forgotten all of them. Like he didn’t need to remember me to ruin me.

He broke it first.

The kiss ended clean—no gasp, no stumble. Just a breath pulled back and a final press of lips before the space between us opened.

I stood there, still leaning against the copier table, unsure of what to do with my hands. My mouth still tingled. My chest rose and fell faster than it should have. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t say a word.

He turned and walked away.

Not fast. Just… away. Back toward the door.

For a second, my stomach dropped. I thought maybe I’d overstepped. Misread the look. The meeting. The moment. Maybe I’d chased too hard, moved too fast, kissed a man who only ever meant to stand in a room and *look*.

Then he reached the door.

And locked it.

He turned the knob slowly, the bolt sliding into place with a soft, mechanical click that might as well have been a starter pistol. Then he turned back to me. Same calm face. Same measured stance. Only now, something behind his eyes had changed.

His voice was even when it came.

“We don’t have long,” he said.

Low. Grounded. Matter-of-fact.

Like everything that was about to happen was already written.

And we were just following the script.

Blake didn’t touch me at first.

He stood by the locked door, watching me. Waiting. Like he wanted to see what I would do now that the room belonged to us and no one else. I didn’t hesitate. I stepped forward, slow and certain, until we were toe to toe again—close enough to feel the breath between us. My fingers moved to his waistband. I undid the first button.

He didn’t stop me.

Didn’t help, either.

Just stood there with his hands at his sides while I unzipped his slacks and slid them down over his hips. There was nothing hurried in it. Nothing frantic. I kept my eyes on his face until the moment I couldn’t anymore.

Because that’s when I saw it.

His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, arching toward his stomach with a weight that made my throat go dry. I had imagined it, yes—on the balcony, in bed, in a dozen moments that came before this—but imagination had left something out. The sheer size of him. The shape. The way it looked like it belonged in someone’s mouth. In mine.

I dropped to my knees without a word.

The carpet scratched against my shins. The light buzzed overhead. Somewhere, a printer ticked awake and went quiet again. But none of that mattered.

All I could focus on was the fact that I was finally here. That he’d let me do this. That I was about to take something I’d wanted since the moment he first said my name.

I wrapped one hand around the base. Felt the weight of him. The heat. The pulse.

Then I leaned in and took him into my mouth.

Not halfway. Not carefully.

I swallowed him like I meant it.

My lips stretched wide. My jaw ached immediately. He was thick and long and so hard it made my eyes water, but I didn’t stop. I wanted it. All of it. I wanted to feel his cock fill my throat, push past the point of comfort. I wanted to choke on him and not pull away. I wanted him to know—to feel—how badly I needed to be here.

My hand tightened at the base while I sucked harder, deeper, letting spit slide down my chin as I pulled him in again and again. My tongue worked around the underside of his shaft, tracing the vein that ran like a promise all the way to the head.

Above me, he exhaled once—just a quiet sound, barely audible. But it landed like praise.

So I kept going.

Faster. Deeper.

Like nothing else I’d ever do in my life would matter as much as this.

His hand curled into my hair, not yanking—just holding me there. A weight at the back of my head. A signal.

I sucked him deeper, took as much as I could, spit pooling at the corners of my mouth. My throat protested, but I didn’t stop. I wanted him to know I could take it. That I would.

Then suddenly—he pulled back.

His cock slid free with a slick, wet sound, and I looked up, lips swollen, breath ragged, chest heaving. My mouth felt empty. My body felt worse.

“Fuck,” I muttered, wiping my chin with the back of my wrist. I looked up at him—towering over me, flushed but composed, his cock hard and glistening between us. “Is this what they mean by big dick energy?” I panted. “Because you’re fucking huge.”

He smiled.

Not wide. Just a subtle curl at the edge of his mouth. The kind that said he already knew.

“Watch your mouth, Mr. Cole,” he said, voice still steady. “Or I’ll find a better way to keep it busy.”

I exhaled a sharp breath through my nose. Laughed, a little. “That was a compliment.”

“I know,” he said. “Now get up.”

I did.

Legs unsteady, throat raw, cock hard in my slacks.

He stepped forward, pushed me back with just one hand at my chest until I hit the copier again. His fingers hooked into my belt, and just before he undid it, he leaned close—his mouth at my ear.

“Let’s see how smart you sound when I’m inside you.”

The belt came undone in two practiced pulls.

He didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate. Just popped the buckle, slid it through the loops, and dropped it on the copy room table behind me like it didn’t belong between us anymore. My pants followed, dragged down just far enough to bare me—boxers pulled low, my cock already flushed and leaking, straining against nothing.

He looked down. Took it in. No comment.

Then he turned me.

One hand on my shoulder, the other guiding me by the hip. He didn’t push. He didn’t need to. My palms hit the edge of the copier, my chest lowering to the glass. The machine clicked under me, sensors waking. My breath fogged the surface as I braced myself, waiting for the next move.

His hand moved down my spine—slow, possessive, steady.

“This what you wanted?” he asked, voice low behind me.

“Yes,” I said, hoarse.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” I said. “I want you now.”

A beat of silence. The rustle of him slicking up—he’d come prepared. Of course he had.

Then the pressure.

Blake didn’t tease. Didn’t ease in inch by inch. He pressed the blunt head of his cock against me, one hand gripping my waist, the other braced on the copier beside mine, and pushed inside with one slow, unbroken thrust.

I gasped.

He was huge—just like I’d joked, only now there was nothing funny about it. My body stretched around him, wide and hot and perfect. The burn was sharp at first, but it lit something in me. I bit my lip and didn’t stop him.

He bottomed out and held still, letting me adjust.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

“Still with me?” he asked, mouth at my ear.

“Barely.”

He laughed once—quiet, controlled—and pulled back.

Then thrust again.

Harder this time. Deeper.

And again.

He fucked me like he had somewhere to be. Like he wanted to be done in five minutes but also wanted me to remember it for the rest of my life. My hips hit the edge of the copier with every stroke, the table rattling under us, the sound of skin on skin sharp in the small room.

“Is this what you imagined?” he asked.

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

“You think you’re the first intern to want this?”

“No,” I choked out. “But I’m the one who got it.”

That made him groan—low, feral, pleased.

His thrusts got faster. Deeper. Each one knocking the air out of me, driving me closer to the edge. My cock was trapped between my stomach and the copier, every movement pushing me closer to the point of no return.

His hand came around to stroke me, rough and fast.

---

I returned to my seat without speaking.

Hudson looked up from his headset, eyebrows raised slightly, like he wasn’t sure how long I’d been gone but knew it had been longer than a bathroom break. I didn’t offer an excuse. Just sat down, picked up the call sheet, and logged the next voter like nothing had happened.

My body still felt too hot. My belt was too tight. My shirt clung to the small of my back, and I could feel the way my knees hadn’t fully stopped shaking.

I adjusted the headset. Plugged in. Cleared my throat.

“Good afternoon, may I speak to—”

My voice didn’t crack.

But it was a near thing.

They had us unloading folding chairs from the back of a rented U-Haul.

The event space was a converted gymnasium, still lined with faded state championship banners and one of those old scoreboards with missing bulbs. By noon, the air was already thick, the floor sticky underfoot. Someone had dragged out an industrial fan and pointed it at the corner stage where the candidates would sit. It sounded like a helicopter stuck in reverse.

Hudson moved like he’d done this before—efficient, unbothered, sweat darkening his collar in clean symmetrical lines. I was half a step behind, my body still sore from the copy room, my head two beats behind every sentence he threw at me.

“Once we’re done with chairs, we’re on signage,” Hudson said, glancing at the clipboard. “Then candidate placards, then step-and-repeat. You think Blake’ll show up early?”

I shrugged. “He’s not the early type.”

Hudson grinned. “Neither are you.”

I didn’t answer. Just dropped another chair into line and moved to the next one.

That’s when I heard the voice behind me.

“Hey—sorry. Mind if I ask you two a couple questions?”

I turned.

Carson Slater was younger than I expected—maybe early thirties, dressed like a guy trying not to sweat through his blazer. His press badge caught the light. *The Washington Post.* His voice was easy. His smile too.

Hudson smiled back. “Sure. What do you need?”

“Just a few quotes for a piece we’re doing on first-time campaign staffers. Ground-level stuff. What it’s like being in the trenches. Why you got involved.”

Hudson nodded, already half-performing. “I grew up watching these guys,” he said. “Blake, especially. He actually came to my high school once. I remember thinking, ‘That’s someone who knows what the hell he’s doing.’ You don’t forget that.”

Slater scribbled something into a small notebook, eyes flicking between us.

“And you?” he asked, turning to me.

I blinked. “Sorry?”

“Why’d you sign on?”

The question was soft. Casual.

But it felt surgical.

I cleared my throat. “I—I study policy. Wanted to see how it works from the inside.”

He nodded like that made sense. Like I’d said something safe.

But something in me still buzzed.

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the echo of Blake’s voice still buried under my skin. Or maybe it was the way Carson was looking at me—friendly, open, but watching too closely. Like he could sense it. Smell it.

I forced a smile. “Long hours. But it’s worth it.”

Hudson clapped me on the back. “It’s romantic until you remember you’re getting sunburned on your lunch break.”

Carson laughed, made another note, and tucked the pen behind his ear.

“Well, if either of you feel like chatting more, I’ll be around. Or send something along. Tips, rumors, frustrations—I take it all.”

He handed us a card. Standard. Email, cell, no social.

Then he moved on.

Hudson looked after him. “Friendly guy.”

I nodded, fingers tight around the next chair.

But inside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Carson had seen something I hadn’t meant to show.

And worse: that if I wasn’t careful, he’d come looking again.

By the time the last chair was placed and the signage taped, the gym had started to fill with heat and people in equal measure.

It was a townhall-style event—open floor, rows of chairs fanned out from a low platform where the candidates would sit. No podium. Just handheld mics and the illusion of accessibility. Folding tables along the walls overflowed with buttons, pamphlets, and local pastries that had started to sweat in their plastic clamshell containers.

Hudson and I were stationed near the press riser, checking passes and redirecting confused volunteers toward the staging area. We were mid-way through a conversation about whether we’d ever get actual staff lanyards when two interns from another campaign wandered over—one tall and boyish, the other short with a lanyard that had clearly been chewed at the edges.

“You guys with Blake?” the tall one asked.

Hudson nodded. “Yeah.”

“Cool. I’m Eli, that’s Marcus—we’re with Deveraux.”

“Congresswoman from Manchester?” I said, offering a handshake.

“Yep. She’s nice in public and meaner than God in the van. Good balance.”

Hudson laughed. “You get hazard pay for that?”

Eli grinned. “Only if we make it through to August.”

For a while, it was easy.

Just interns shooting the shit. Swapping horror stories about call sheets, hotel logistics, and the mysterious absence of cold water at every event over ninety degrees. I relaxed a little. Even smiled.

Then Marcus spoke.

He was leaning over the cooler, pulling out a bottle of orange Gatorade when he said, “You guys hear the rumor about Patel?”

We looked up.

Eli rolled his eyes. “Marcus—”

“What? Everyone’s saying it.”

Hudson raised an eyebrow. “Saying what?”

Marcus unscrewed the cap and said, “That she’s been hooking up with one of her drivers. Like, campaign stops and then straight to the back of the RV.”

I choked.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. But enough that the sip of lemonade I’d just taken went down wrong and came back up in a half-cough, half-sputter that turned heads.

Hudson looked at me. “You good?”

I nodded, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Wrong pipe.”

Eli laughed. “You should hear the version the finance guys are telling. Apparently she told her scheduler, quote, ‘I’ll take my briefs with cream and a side of dick.’”

Marcus snorted. “Honestly, kind of iconic.”

I was frozen.

Heart racing. Thoughts spinning. I looked at them, at Hudson, at the press still weaving between tripods and extension cords across the room.

But no one was looking at me.

No one was whispering Blake’s name.

No one knew.

I exhaled slowly.

And drank the rest of the lemonade just to have something to do with my hands.

Marcus was still laughing when he added, “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if half these candidates had someone stashed behind the curtain. I heard one of the donors say Blake swings both ways.”

The words hit fast.

I didn’t react. Not outwardly. I kept my face still, my hands calm.

But inside, my whole body went still.

Hudson straightened immediately.

“That’s bullshit,” he said, too quickly to sound casual. “He’s a family man. Through and through.”

Marcus shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything in politics.”

Hudson shook his head. “No, it does with him. He’s got three kids. You ever see the way he talks about his wife? That’s not fake. That’s—real.”

Eli glanced between them. “I mean, who cares anyway? It’s just gossip. Probably started from someone seeing him talk to a guy in a parking lot or whatever.”

They moved on—back to jokes, back to snacks—but I didn’t.

I was still holding the empty lemonade cup, but I couldn’t remember finishing it.

How did that rumor start?

Who saw what?

We were careful. Weren’t we?

The copy room had been locked. Carter was gone. The hallway had been empty.

But someone had looked too long. Or said something in jest. Or noticed the way Blake’s eyes had lingered when they shouldn’t have.

And now there was a whisper in the air.

Nothing confirmed. Nothing traced.

Just a sentence thrown out between interns and laughed off.

But I knew better.

Sometimes whispers were where the real stories lived.

The week after the townhall moved fast.

Hudson and I got pulled off canvassing—no explanation, just a quiet word from the campaign manager and a new assignment in the form of a manila folder and a login to an internal tool no one else seemed to use. We were told to “analyze county-level voter engagement data.” What we did was build a targeting model.

It wasn’t that complicated—just smarter than what they’d been using.

We pulled census data, layered it with voter files, and fed the whole thing through a model I’d half-written for a political science seminar the year before. Within three days, we had a live dashboard showing which counties were vulnerable, which could be flipped, and which were bleeding support even if the topline numbers looked strong.

It caused a minor earthquake at HQ.

Suddenly staffers who’d ignored us were asking for access. Field leads started changing canvass routes based on what we’d tagged as priority zones. Even Carter asked for a one-sheet summary, though he didn’t say thank you. Just stared at the screen, nodded once, and said, “We’ll see if it holds.”

Hudson called it a win.

I called it leverage.

We worked late most nights. The office emptied out by eight, sometimes earlier, which left us alone with the glow of the monitors and the hum of the fans still running to push air through the vents. The first few days, it was just work—quiet, focused, a rhythm that felt almost clean.

Then the congressman stopped by.

He didn’t say much. Just nodded at the map and asked a few questions. But his eyes lingered longer than they needed to when I stood to explain one of the scatter plots. And when Hudson excused himself to call his ride, Blake didn’t leave.

That was how the second time started.

Same office. Same copier room. Same lock on the door. But faster, rougher, needier. He barely got my pants down before he was inside me. One hand braced against the wall, the other across my mouth to keep me from making too much noise.

It was over in minutes.

We weren’t alone this time. A staffer passed in the hallway while he was still buried inside me. We froze, breath caught between us, his body holding mine completely still. When the sound of footsteps faded, he didn’t say anything. Just finished what he started, cleaned up, and left first.

I followed five minutes later, shirt tucked in, hair combed flat with my fingers, eyes sharp. Hudson didn’t ask where I’d gone.

No one did.

But I started to notice Carter watching me more closely.

Nothing overt. No accusations. Just a glance that held too long. A silence that seemed a little too rehearsed when I entered a room. Once, I caught him standing outside the conference call room while I was inside organizing printouts. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look surprised when I opened the door.

Just stepped aside and let me pass.

It wasn’t confirmation.

But it was enough.

**TO BE CONTINUED…**

[The Congressman's Intern – Part TwoThe campaign bus was quieter at night.![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/ac/06/ac06f9b1-2fc6-4cd6-af9f-72147c562e72/content/images/2026/07/f04dc99a-9c2a-4b6b-acf7-0f0b9c19e99e_768x768-5.png)The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/ac/06/ac06f9b1-2fc6-4cd6-af9f-72147c562e72/content/images/2026/07/b6e25b08-ade3-4edb-b8c6-180d1d10afe4_768x512-jpeg.jpg)](https://adrianthorne.com/the-congressmans-intern-part-two/)