Cardiff Bay
"Welsh assembly researcher Rhiannon finds herself working late with a charming journalist. Their debate about devolution becomes something more personal."
The Senedd at midnight was my favorite version of itself—all glass and wood and silence, the debating chamber empty of the noise that usually filled it. I'd been researching a policy brief since seven, and my eyes were starting to blur.
"You're still here."
I turned to find the journalist from the Western Mail leaning in my office doorway. Tall, dark hair going grey at the temples, smile that suggested he knew things he shouldn't.
"Working," I said. "As are you, apparently."
"Deadline. Story on the funding settlement." He moved into the room without asking permission, examining my cluttered desk with journalist's curiosity. "Though I suspect I know the broad strokes already."
"If you're looking for leaks, you're in the wrong office."
"I'm looking for context. Off the record." He sat in my visitor's chair. "Rhiannon, isn't it? The economic researcher everyone actually listens to?"
"Flattery won't get you anywhere."
"It's not flattery. I've read your papers. The one on green investment especially—sharper than anything the ministers produce." He leaned back. "I'm Owen. Though you probably knew that."
I did know that. Owen Price had been covering Welsh politics for twenty years, the kind of journalist who made politicians nervous because he actually understood the details. He was also, I couldn't help noticing, significantly more attractive in person than in his byline photo.
"Off the record means off the record," I said. "But I could use a break. There's tea in the kitchen."
The kitchen was empty, naturally. We made tea in silence, then settled at a table with a view of the bay, all those lights reflecting on the water.
"So," Owen said. "Give me your honest assessment. Not for the paper. For me."
"Of what?"
"Everything. The Assembly. Devolution. Where Wales is headed."
It was a test, and I knew it. But I was tired enough to be honest. For an hour, I gave him my real opinions—the potential, the frustrations, the ways devolution could be transformative if the right people would stop squabbling long enough to let it work. He listened without interrupting, occasionally nodding, and when I finished, he said:
"You should run for office."
"I'm more effective behind the scenes."
"That's what people say when they're scared." He leaned forward. "I've interviewed every major Welsh politician for two decades. Most of them couldn't articulate half of what you just did."
"You're flattering me again."
"I'm telling the truth." His hand found mine on the table. "And I'm also noticing that we've been here an hour and neither of us has mentioned the deadline or the policy brief."
"What have you been thinking about?"
"Whether it would be inappropriate to ask if you want to continue this conversation somewhere private."
"Probably inappropriate." I didn't move my hand. "But I'm not feeling particularly appropriate at midnight."
His flat was in a converted warehouse nearby, all exposed brick and modern furniture. He poured wine I didn't drink and stood by the window looking at the view I didn't see because I was too busy watching him.
"I don't usually—" I started.
"Neither do I." He turned. "But there's something about you. Has been since the first briefing I saw you give. The way your mind works. The way you refuse to accept easy answers."
"And now? What are you refusing to accept?"
"That this has to stay professional." He crossed the room to stand before me. "Tell me to leave, and I'll leave. Tell me this is a terrible idea, and I'll agree. But tell me honestly—is that what you want?"
I told him honestly. With my mouth, with my hands, with my body pressing against his like I was trying to memorize the shape of him. He was solid, warm, gentle in ways I hadn't expected from someone whose job required such sharpness.
"Bedroom," I said against his mouth.
"Through there."
The bedroom continued the warehouse aesthetic, but I was focused on more immediate concerns. Owen undressed me with reverence I hadn't earned and appreciation I desperately needed. His eyes on my body made me feel powerful rather than exposed.
"You're beautiful," he said when I stood bare before him. "Properly beautiful. Like something carved from Welsh stone."
"Now you're being ridiculous."
"I'm being honest." He pulled me down to the bed. "Let me show you."
He showed me. Slowly, deliberately, with the attention to detail that made his journalism so effective. Every curve explored, every response catalogued, every gasp and moan treated as information to be used. When he finally moved inside me, it was with a rhythm that felt like the debates I loved—give and take, point and counterpoint, building toward a conclusion neither of us could avoid.
I came with his name on my lips and his hand in my hair. He followed moments later, both of us trembling through the aftershocks while Cardiff Bay glittered outside the window.
"So," he said afterward. "Still think you're more effective behind the scenes?"
"In some contexts, definitely."
He laughed, pulled me closer. "This is going to be complicated. You know that."
"Everything worth doing in Wales is complicated. Devolution, funding settlements, whatever this is." I kissed his shoulder. "But I've never been afraid of complexity."
We've kept it quiet. A researcher and a journalist have to be careful, have to maintain the appearance of professional distance. But every few weeks, when the Senedd empties and the debates are done, I find myself in a warehouse flat overlooking the bay, continuing a conversation that never quite ends.
Some things can't be reduced to policy briefs. Some connections can't be summarized in a news article. And some nights in Cardiff Bay teach you that the best debates are the ones that happen behind closed doors, between people who understand that passion and politics aren't as different as they seem.