A fascinating glimpse of the floodlit Capitol enthralls me as I peek out the arched glass wall of the restaurant, a goblet of red in my hand. The place Peter picked for dinner, I have to admit, has in all probability the best Italian food in the whole city, besides being intimate and sophisticated just enough. Still, I haven't quite figured out yet how I did end up here in the first place.

It was my turn to follow Grace to Springfield - the fourth? Ever since we agreed on these arrangements - when she bailed out on me, opting instead for a weekend with a couple of friends. I thought I'd stay home, maybe work, or simply enjoy for once the sweet doing nothing. But when I updated Peter about our daughter's change of plans, he joked around, protesting that no, we had said no pretenses. Albeit sure that Grace's absence can't be qualified as pretense, my initially strong attempts to decline his invitation got milder and milder until I realized that I had no real reason to say no, so I ended up ceding and fulfilling my promise. What were we even supposed to do two days alone in Springfield was beyond me. Without Grace, good chances were we would end at each other's throat by the time I had to come back home.

It still surprises me how instead the time spent together wound up being pleasant, probably more than I will ever allow myself to admit out loud. To Peter. Or to anyone else, for that matter.

"You know, you still haven't told me what you dislike so much of Springfield." Peter's voice pulls me back from my racing thoughts.

I swallow the remaining drop of wine, well-aware it won't help me come up with an answer. I exploited a nonexistent personal antipathy toward this city as an excuse so many times that now that I need a concrete, offhand reason I can't seem to find one. Even more so after spending here some quality family time over the last weeks, rather than constantly posing and playacting for press and politicians. With a casual shrug and a raised eyebrow, I place my glass on the table and throw out, "It's not my city?"

Peter's uproarious laughter fills the hall. "This is not a reason!" he admonishes me playfully.

"Who says?" I defend myself, as I peep around, striving to hold back laughing myself. The restaurant is empty, excepting us and a young couple sitting at a near table. It's probably very late, but I resist the urge to check the time; Peter would definitely read it as a sign that I'm bored and impatient to leave, when instead I don't think I'm ready to call it a day yet.

"Oh, come on," he says, as he shifts to rest comfortably against the back of his chair, trying to smother the last bit of hilarity.

"And for the records, I never actually said I dislike Springfield," I correct him.

"No, actually you just eschewed being here in every possible way," he sets me before actions I can't deny having done.

"Uhm… I can grant you this," I admit with a mild laugh.

When the silence settles between us, I'm not precisely sure where this entire, a tad bizarre confrontation is going to lead. With one quick glance at my glass, I curse at my thoughtlessness of drinking up all the wine and not saving the last drop for the awkward moments that would inevitably step in. Hidden in the comforting view of the lights outside, I relish the quietness for a while, until I hear Peter clear imperceptibly his throat and feel his eyes on me.

"It was a nice date," he states quietly, almost in a whisper.

Upon hearing those words, I slowly turn to face him, tilting my head lightly to the right in mild disapproval. "This wasn't a date, Peter," I make clear. No, I would remember agreeing on a date. This was an entirely different thing.

And Peter's amused reaction makes me stiffen in my seat. "You. Me. A nice dinner. I invited you. You accepted. This is what people would generally define a date."

"What… Nooo, this is you tricking me into coming to Springfield, to begin with, so this is not a date!" My voice quavers, cracked by a nervous chuckle. If of disbelief or plain amusement it's hard to say right now.

Before I even have time to finish my arguments, Peter has leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Why can't you just admit it?"

"Admit what?" I ask, defensively, not sure I actually want to know.

"That we have just spent a beautiful night together." The bluntness of his words, the audacity of his eyes as he speaks them, leave me struck dumb for a moment.

I debate inwardly how to object to this one, then realize I just can't. "Okay, we did. And so?" Then my mind recalls that guy in Lake Victoria park, this same morning. Funny how political disagreements can cloud even the sunniest of the day. "Well, except maybe that small accident at the park."

Peter's lips curl in a half-smile. "Yeah, I know… Sorry for that, being the governor has its drawbacks."

"But," I move the topic back on us, "this doesn't mean anything."

"When was the last time we've been this good together?" he suddenly asks, his gaze lost in the empty bottle of wine between us. His knitted brows make me wonder for a moment if the question is aimed at me or at himself, until he looks up and our gazes meet. In this moment I understand it's for me.

"I can't even remember," I observe in a feeble voice. And there's probably a veil of bitterness in my words, but at the same it's astoundingly pleasant to witness how we can get on really well with each other when we manage to leave out the imperfections of our past. Imperfections I might never be able to leave completely behind, yet they hurt less and less with each day and I'm not exactly sure if that's a good thing or a bad one. Because disremembering makes me feel exposed and vulnerable to suffer again. "But I guess I'm happy we sort of broke the trend?" I half admit. "It was a nice change. Just this once," I quickly add with a smirk.

Peter nods in agreement, then smiles at me, slightly impish. A smile that can't mean anything good. "Except that when a first date turns out successful, there's usually a second one."

"What are you even talking about?" I laugh.

"I'm talking about meeting. Again." The confidence in his tone dispels every possible doubt about the volition of his words.

"Why should I?" I ask, because I need much more than a romantic restaurant and a pleasant weekend this time.

Peter looks down, then away, getting lost in the same view as I did before. For a moment, he remains quiet, so I give him the time he needs to come up with something convincing, until he finally looks back at me. "You said you can't trust your husband anymore."

It probably wasn't a nice thing to say, back when I did. But we were being honest with each other, and I would probably tell it again. "I said it."

"Forget about it," he invites me to do something we both know I can't.

And my soft chuckle gives away all my disbelief. "Peter, I can't forget 20 years of my life!"

"No, and I would never want you to. But… If you'd give me the chance to show you who I am now…" he almost pleads.

With a frustrated exhale, I shake my head and look outside. "This makes no sense." Or does it? I don't know anymore. Could I go back, I know I'd relive every single moment of these past two days without changing the least little hair.

"It was making perfect sense until I pointed it out and you got all defensive. You admitted it yourself. We used to be happy together and this weekend is the proof that we still can."

Another date. The word feels so odd, almost funny. Going on a second date with your separated husband. There would be room for a fair number of therapy sessions, and the image makes me crack in an unexpected – and a bit out of place – laughter.

Peter's confusion is etched all over his face as he stares at me, probably wondering what's going through my mind.

"Okay." With a shrug and a resigned shake of my head I accept on a date. Whether it's the first or the second, it's just a technicality.

The grin on Peter's face and the glow in his eyes tell me that maybe we are doing this right. Then, a thought lays hold of me, as I remember how dating used to work. "Just… on one condition…"

"Anything you want," he whispers, knowing best than to deny me something in this moment.

"Don't even think about the third date rule because that's not going to happen…" I admonish him playfully, as I know very well how his mind works sometimes and that's not how he's going to win me back.

"Which third date rule?" he plays along.

The end

A/N: I decided to leave the end open so you can take them where you want. This was the fix I had planned from the start but which took four chapters instead of two lol (my muse sucks at math :D )