@dylanoffthecuff: The gun smoked in John’s trembling hand, his heart pounding louder than the chaos unfolding around him. He hadn’t expected it to go this far — not really. The sirens, the shouting, the blur of Secret Service agents, it all faded as his eyes locked with Reagan’s. The President, staggered but still standing, looked not with fear, but with something else. Something unreadable. Time froze. Somewhere between the ricochet and the gasps of the crowd, a strange understanding passed between them — like two stars colliding in a destiny neither had written. “You,” Reagan whispered, coughing through the pain, “you have beautiful aim.” They met again in the hospital, under far less dramatic circumstances and far more fluorescent lighting. Reagan, stitched and sore, watched as Hinckley was escorted past his room under guard, a single glance exchanged. Maybe it was the morphine talking, or maybe it was fate. Days later, a guard found a note Hinckley had tried to pass: “You shot me in the lung, but struck me in the heart.” A slow-burn romance no one asked for — forbidden, completely unethical, and politically catastrophic — had begun

Dylan

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Wednesday 11 June 2025 01:32:28 GMT