vee

Three weeks later, you're sitting at your computer, a strain in your eyes as you stare at the screen, mindlessly typing your report for the mission—the bruises on your face are starting to yellow at the edges, blending with the deep purple into a sickly, painful color. The rest of your body isn't faring much better after falling nearly twenty feet through a skylight during a chase through an old Umbrella facility. Honestly, it's a miracle you didn't break a limb or two—or your neck.

"What happened to you?" The voice prompts you to crane your head toward the source, causing a wince as you see Leon standing next to your desk with a worried frown. You take a moment to observe him, noticing a few scrapes on his cheeks that weren't there the last time you'd seen him. He and his partner had been on cleanup duty for the mission—not that you'd left them much to clean up; there's a reason the DSO hired you, and it wasn't because of sloppiness.

"Fell through a skylight," you answer blankly. When his eyes widen, you let out a huff of laughter that only causes your ribs to ache. "Could've been a lot worse, trust me."

"Looks like it," he says. "Maybe avoid high places next time."

The tone in his voice sounds like it's a reprimand—a warning for something most people would see as a rookie mistake—you're not a rookie—but you notice the smirk that flickers at the edges of his mouth. "I'll make sure to put the request in," you joke as you take a sip of your coffee that has, admittedly, been sitting on your desk for way too long, grimacing when the bitter liquid hits your tongue. "God, that tastes like sludge."

"Someone should've warned you about the break room coffee," he jokes. "I'm pretty sure it could be considered a biohazard."

You purse your lips, willing the taste from your tongue, knowing it's going to linger in the back of your throat all day as you nod in agreement. "I'll file a complaint with OSHA."

The small smile that creeps onto his face at your joke makes the butterflies in your stomach go wild. He shifts slightly on his feet, looking as though he wants to say more, or maybe he's just reluctant to end the conversation. Regardless, he taps lightly on the top of your cubicle wall with his palm, signaling he's going to take his leave. "Well, I'll let you get back to your reports," he says, about to walk away before pausing, hovering for a moment before adding, "I'm glad you're alright."

The sincerity in his voice makes you soften, your shoulders dropping as you stare at him with gratitude. "Thank you, Agent Kennedy," you say, turning back to your computer, though you watch him leave from the corner of your eye until he's gone from your sight.

Later that night, you're joylessly chewing on a bland granola bar while walking back to your desk after a much-needed break among a sea of cubicles that have long since cleared out for the day. You come to a stop just a few feet from your destination when you notice a paper coffee cup deliberately placed in front of your keyboard. The logo of the fancy coffee shop down the road stares back at you—the one you always tell yourself you're going to stop in on the way to work but never wake up early enough to do so.

Your head swivels from side to side, glancing around the office to make sure you didn't just miss some other poor soul lingering after hours under the threat of looming deadlines, but the rest of the office remains resolutely dark except for the glow of your own computer and its blinding blue light—probably why you've had an impending migraine for most of the night.

Stepping closer, you see a bright pink Post-it note tucked underneath, one taken from your own stack that sits right under your monitor. You toss the half-eaten granola bar into the trash beside your desk before picking up the coffee cup and then the note, gazing down at it curiously.

'Hope this is better than the breakroom sludge.

P.S. Don't stay too late.'

There's no name or even initials signed at the bottom, but you still know who it's from. You huff through your nose as if trying to dispel the ridiculous amount of giddiness that swells in your belly at the kind gesture. You were only gone from your desk for thirty minutes, so you're surprised you didn't even see him skulking about like some wayward food delivery driver.

The coffee is still pleasantly hot when you take a sip; it's a medium-roast, smooth, and a bit sweet. You savor the taste, warming your palms against the cup. As you take a seat, you tuck the note into your top desk drawer with a fond smile.

Despite his words, you stay later than you intend to, but he doesn't need to know that.

Thus begins a little song and dance between you and Leon.

You leave a cup of coffee for him on his desk the next morning—just a black coffee with no extras, but you set a small bag filled with creamers and a variety of sugar packets you pilfered from the coffee shop next to it, along with a note that says:

'Didn't know how you like it.'

You drop it off quickly before you can talk yourself out of it, telling yourself you're just returning the favor from last night, and ignoring the fact that you specifically woke up thirty minutes early to ensure you had enough time to stop at the coffee shop this morning before work.

If you're a bit more aware of who comes in and out of the office, peeking over your cubicle wall for a familiar mop of dirty blonde hair, that's your own business… at least until your neighbor gives you an inquisitive look and asks if you're waiting for someone. You blanch, shake your head, and sink a little deeper into your seat, then redirect your gaze to your computer. The blush of being caught spreads to your cheeks as you idly pretend to check your emails.

When you finally see him, it's in passing in the hall, but he's holding a familiar cup and sends you a shy smile, mouthing 'thank you' before ducking into a conference room. It's a high you ride through the rest of the day, even if you're mildly embarrassed by how the man and his pretty blue eyes have invaded your frontal lobe.

You feel like a teenager pining after a crush.

Between him being sent out on assignment and you being medically cleared for field work again after your fall, you don't see each other for a few weeks. Luckily, when you return from this mission, you're mostly unscathed, though the same can't be said for Leon. Scrapes that are just beginning to scab over mark his face, and one arm is cradled in a sling. Overall, he looks rather pathetic—you hate how much it's working for you.

Leaning over his cubicle wall, you place a coffee cup down in front of him before giving him a sympathetic glance. "Skylight get you too?" you ask, straight-faced.

He lets out a hoarse, wheezing chuckle, wincing and putting a hand over his ribs. "Don't make me laugh," he says as he grabs the coffee. "Try an elevator shaft."

Grimacing, you take a sip of your own drink before muttering, "Bummer."

"At least I get some good coffee as a reward," he offers optimistically with a playful smile on his lips as he reclines more comfortably in his chair.

"I fear your standards may be too low, Agent Kennedy," you tell him.

"Leon," he quickly interjects.

Quirking a brow, you let out a curious hum, not understanding what he means.

"Leon," he repeats. "You can call me Leon."

A moment of silence passes between you two before the corners of your lips curl up, and you lean closer to him over the half-wall of his cubicle. "Okay, Leon," you agree, your tongue curling around his name experimentally, low and intimate in a way that's completely inappropriate for the workplace.

You notice the subtle change in his expression—how his pupils dilate, and his mouth hangs open slightly. Someone in the office coughs somewhere, and he snaps back to himself, his one good hand gripping the armrest of his chair as he looks away from you, shifting in his seat. You smirk, eyes glinting with amusement; you hadn't expected the man to be so shy.

As much as you'd like to stay and prod him a bit more, you decide to take pity on the poor man instead. "I'm glad you're alright," you say, echoing his sentiments from a few weeks ago as you turn to head back to your own desk.

He calls your name before you can get more than a foot away, and you stop, glancing over your shoulder with raised eyebrows. "Would you—" He closes his mouth, swallowing thickly as if his throat suddenly has gone dry. "—Would you like to get dinner sometime?"

Several heads peek over their cubicles, curious coworkers probably eager to hear this juicy bit of office gossip—Infamously aloof Agent Leon S. Kennedy asking out the pretty transfer from the West Coast? Yeah, that's going to make its rounds.

Leon is so absorbed in you that he doesn't even notice the nosy onlookers. There's nervous tension around him; you can see his jaw muscle twitch as he clenches his teeth, anticipating your reply—maybe even thinking you'll say no, as if you haven't been flirting with him since day one.

You step back toward him, holding a hand out expectantly, and when he gives you a confused stare, you clarify, "Your phone."

He scrambles to grab his phone from his pocket, and it's surprising how endearing it is to watch a man in his thirties eagerly offer it to you. When you swipe up on his phone and see he doesn't have a passcode, you give him an incredulous look but say nothing before typing in your information. You even send yourself a message, ensuring you have his number, knowing the chance of him chickening out isn't exactly zero percent. You feel your phone vibrate in your jacket.

In a swift motion, you lock his phone and toss it back to him, which he catches with ease, calling out, "Text me," as you walk away.

It takes him three days to text you.

Even as you continue to see each other in the office, leaving coffees on each other's desks and chatting in the break room, the only text in your message thread with Leon is the little coffee emoji you'd sent from his phone. It's Wednesday, and for the first time in weeks, you've managed to leave work at a decent time, and to celebrate, you're plopped on your couch, folding laundry and enjoying a glass of cheap wine while watching your favorite shitty reality TV show.

The muffled pings of your phone—three times in rapid succession—catch your attention, making you pause and toss the towel you'd been folding aside. When you search around for it, you realize you must've accidentally buried it under piles of clean clothes. "Fuck," you mutter as you carefully begin to peek under each stack until you find it in between pairs of underwear.

You're only mildly surprised to see three texts from Leon—or rather, 'Large Coffee, Light & Sweet,' as you've named him in your phone after learning his preferred way to take his coffee. A little surprising because you definitely pegged him for a plain black coffee kind of guy.

Hey.

It's Leon.

…Which you know already because you have my number.

You snort as you read the texts, hesitating to tap out a reply, thinking you might make him suffer for making you wait so long, but unfortunately for you—or fortunately for him—you lack that kind of impulse control.

Still, you can't help but make him sweat a bit, and only reply with a simple:

hi

The response is almost instant and makes you immediately regret the slight pettiness:

How was your day?

The question makes you want to do unspeakable things to him, you think sourly as your eyes narrow at the message on your phone. Every lackluster interaction you've had with a man in the last decade flashes before your eyes when you realize not one has ever asked you something as simple as how your day was.

Probably a talking point to bring up to your therapist.

finally got to leave the office on time :)

You send a picture of your hand holding your half-empty wine glass, backlit by your TV, being careful not to include any piles of laundry in the background—you don't want to scare him away with pictures of your delicates after he finally worked up the courage to text you.

You wait a few moments, biting the inside of your cheek as you watch your phone expectantly. When you finally set it down on your coffee table to resume folding laundry, it pings again. The speed with which you pick it up would be embarrassing if anyone else were around to witness it, but in the safety and solitude of your apartment, you permit yourself this humiliating instance of desperation.

He sends a picture back, with the top half of his face at the bottom, as the rest of the image shows the empty, dark office behind him. Unashamed, you click on the picture and zoom in to get a better look at him—his sandy hair, which usually falls into his eyes, is pushed back slightly, offering you a clearer view. The back of your neck warms as your gaze meets the still image of his that stares back at you, and you quickly click away to read the message.

Wish I was as lucky. 

And just as you're about to type a reply, another message comes through.

What are you watching?

crappy reality tv

You type back.

gonna be a late night??

Resolutely, you put your phone back down, watching intently as the little dots pop up signaling that he's typing as you absentmindedly fold the rest of your laundry, knowing if you stopped now, you'd never get it all done tonight. It stops and starts several times before you finally get another message.

I hope not, all I have is the breakroom sludge to keep me awake.

Smiling, you speed through the rest of your laundry before replying:

maybe you should spend a little less time texting women then?

Woman.

You frown, brows furrowing.

what?

I'm only talking to one woman.

An unnamed feeling swells comfortably in your chest, as if it belongs there. You stand, hooking your laundry basket onto your hip with one hand while staring down at your phone in the other. You walk the entire way to your room with your eyes fixed on your screen, setting the basket on your bed before gnawing your bottom lip raw as you type and erase a response.

After several attempts, you hit send before you can rethink it anymore.

is she cute?

He doesn't make you wait long for an answer; clearly, he doesn't intend to get his reports done tonight.

I think beautiful would be a better word.

You toss the phone away from you as if it burned you, hands on your hips as you sway your weight from one leg to the other—nervous energy flooding through you. Maybe you expected him to deflect or be coy about it; you definitely didn't expect such a sincere response.

Another message pops up in the chat.

I'm also hoping she'll agree to go to dinner with me on Friday even though I was a coward who took three days to text her.

A grin works its way onto your face as you grab your phone.

i suppose it depends on where you plan on taking her. it'll have to be somewhere prettyyyy nice if you made her wait three days for a text

He sends a link to a restaurant—it's an Italian place, and a quick glance at the menu shows it has no prices listed—pretty nice, indeed.

Is this nice enough?

If he were any other man, you might think he's being facetious, but in the few months you've known him, you've exchanged numerous sarcastic remarks with each other, never with any malice.

Another text pops up, as if he's getting nervous by your lack of reply.

I can find a different place if you don't like that one.

You smile to yourself, tapping out a response.

no that's perfect

I'll pick you up at 7

sounds good, i'm gonna head to bed, don't stay too late

I won't, I promise.

When you see Leon the next morning, he's already at his desk like he never left last night, and there are bags under his eyes. The sling he'd been wearing all week is notably missing; likely, he'd finally been cleared to stop wearing it. As you hand him his drink, you tease, "Hey, look at you, two working arms again."

"As good as new," he replies, accepting it tiredly.

"I take it you ended up staying late," you say.

He takes a gulp of it like it's the elixir of life, sighing contentedly into the cup. "Yeah, and I still didn't get the report done—might be easier now that I have two hands." His eyes finally scan over your figure, brows pinching together like he's taking notice of something. "You look nice."

The urge to poke at him a little wins out before you can even think better of it. "Do I not look nice normally?" you ask, no trace of humor on your expression.

His eyes widen, and you can see the way panic tenses through his entire body. "No," he says quickly. "That's not what I meant. You always look nice. I've just never—" His gaze flicks down to the pencil skirt you're wearing, different from the normal pantsuits you wear in the office, even more so from the tactical gear he's seen you in heading out on missions.

You come round the side of his desk, sitting against the edge of it as you lean over, voice low so none of the office busybodies hear, "Does the skirt do something for you, Agent Kennedy?" you question.

It's like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, gripping the faux leather of the armrests on his chair before lowering them to rub his sweaty palms flat against the tops of his knees. "Yes," he admits shyly at first, but he sees the teasing glint in your eye and grows bolder. "Would like to know the occasion so I might see you in it again."

You chuckle at his words, take a sip of your drink, and say, "I've got a deposition this afternoon on the Hill." You're not thrilled about it, and it's clearly written on your face. "Those idiots in Congress already like to rip into me for some shit that happened in West Africa a few years ago, like that wasn't BSAA's screw-up. I try not to give them much ammunition to use against me, which means dressing to old white conservative men's standards."

Leon seems to take affront to this answer, brows furrowing as a sneer makes its way onto his lips. "They make a habit of commenting on your clothes?" he asks.

Laughing a bit louder, you cross your arms before staring at him and realizing he's serious. "Leon, I'm a woman, of course, they comment on my clothes." That answer does nothing to diminish the perturbed expression. You soften your stance a bit, reaching out to comfortingly pat his shoulder. "Trust me, it's nothing I can't handle."

Before you can pull your hand away, he grabs it. You remember his skin being rough and callous from when you shook hands on your first day. It should be off-putting, but the way his thumb carefully caresses the top of your hand is anything but. "I know you're capable of handling a bunch of asshole politicians," he says softly. "I've seen you in action, I've read the reports—I know you're a great agent, and I wish you didn't have to bend to the whims of those people."

You fall silent for a moment, warmth spreading through your body originating from where your hands are joined. Admittedly, it's nice to hear someone acknowledge your hard work—you've spent so much of your career fighting and clawing to get to where you are. It hasn’t been easy; the constant dismissal you've faced because you’re a woman in this field—you just want to be taken seriously.

"I appreciate you saying that," you say. You squeeze his hand before reluctantly drawing away. "I gotta go meet my lawyer before we head down, but I'll see you later?" You don't mean for it to come out like a question, but there's a twinge of hope in your voice.

"Yeah, you'll have to let me know how it goes," he says with a smile.

"Bye, Leon," you breathe out as you leave.

Leon's eyes stay glued to you until you disappear into the elevator.

Several excruciating hours later, you're finally stepping out of your deposition, your ass numb from the god-awful chairs they force you to sit in, and you squint as if you've never seen sunlight before when you walk out of the building.

Pulling your phone from your purse, you see you have a text from Leon from only a few minutes ago.

Thought I might try this place.

It's accompanied by a picture of a coffee shop's storefront, different from your usual one. Cute is the first word that comes to mind as you stare at the photo—the building is bright pink with neon signs and flowers in the window.

feeling adventurous today agent kennedy?

The heels you're wearing are digging into the backs of your ankles and pinching your toes in all the wrong ways. You can't wait to shuck them off in favor of the more sensible shoes you have back at the office that you regrettably forgot to take with you to change into. Your phone pings again.

Are you finished with your deposition?

While you're walking, you snap a quick selfie—not caring that your hair is windswept or that it's probably from a bad angle. You just flash a thumbs up to the camera before sending it.

all done! mostly painless though congressman fowler is going to get my size 8 shoved up his ass if he makes another comment about how i conduct myself before the "esteemed members of congress" gagggg

As you make it to your car, your feet feeling like you're stepping on shards of glass with each step, you burst out laughing at Leon's next message.

I can call in a bomb threat to his office if you want.

is there actually going to be a bomb?

You reply as you slide into the driver's seat before typing out a second message.

actually don't tell me, i need to have plausible deniability

If I go down I'm taking you with me.

and just when i was beginning to think we were friends </3

You receive another picture: a cup holder safely placed in his passenger seat with two drinks in it.

I guess I just got these two drinks for myself then since we're not friends.

They must be from the new place he'd found, and for some reason, it amuses you to think of Leon Kennedy, dressed in all black with his furrowed brow, in a cute coffee shop ordering you coffee.

nvm all is forgiven <3 what did you get me?

Oh, how quick your tune changes when coffee is at stake.

You wonder if he's smiling like you are you type out your response.

i am a simple woman please don't take my coffee from me i had to deal with politicians today :(

I'll see you back at the office.

what does that mean leon

There's no answer.

leon what does that meaaaaaaan

When no reply comes, you figure he must be driving, so you start your car and head back to the office. As you pull into the parking garage, you spot a familiar figure leaning against a sleek black car. You pull into a nearby parking spot, not caring that your feet are aching as you saunter up to him, watching him as he watches you. "So, what did you get me?" you ask as you reiterate your previous query, reaching out toward the cup in his hand that he isn't drinking from, but he holds it up just out of your reach at the last second.

"Who says this is for you?" he questions with a smirk.

Your mouth drops open as if scandalized, as you recoil back dramatically with a hand poised at your chest. "I didn't know you could be so hurtful, Agent Kennedy."

In the privacy of the underground garage, Leon bends down closer to you, tilting his head as his gaze meets yours, eyes flicking briefly toward your lips before quickly looking back up. You feel your cheeks flush, nervousness flooding your insides from the intensity of his stare. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you glance down at the small space between you.

A fond smile forms on his face—maybe with a satisfaction at being the one to fluster you for once. "I'm just kidding," he assures softly as he gives you the coffee cup. With his now free hand, he plays with a lock of your hair that falls over your shoulder. "I'm excited for tomorrow."

You study his features, the sharp cut of his cheekbones contrasting with the gentle pout of his lips. There's an earnestness in his eyes—they burn cold, sharp like the ice that cracks beneath your feet on a frozen lake.

It is a plunge you think you'd gladly take.

A smile spreads across your lips as you take a sip of your drink, eyebrows rising at the new flavor. It's flowery—not as sweet as one might expect, but not bitter either. This is part of the little game you and Leon have been unintentionally playing over the past few weeks. While you've been able to pin down his favorite drink, he hasn't managed to find yours, so each time he gets you a coffee, it's a different one.

You've begun texting him a star rating for each one, though a 5-star rating remains elusive.

"Getting braver with your choices," you comment slyly.

He raises his eyebrows. "Do you like it?" he asks, and you see the flash of worry in his eyes. "I can go back an—"

Pressing a hand to his chest, you stop him mid-sentence, feeling how he leans into your touch. "Leon, I like it," you assure. "A solid... 3-stars." He frowns at the rating but seems at least pleased that you don't completely hate the drink he got you. "As much as I'd love to sit here and chat all day, these shoes are killing me, and I left my comfy pair at my desk."

"I can carry you," he offers quickly.

You glance up at him incredulously. "Yes, because that wouldn't make people talk, seeing you carry me into the office because of my poor choice of footwear." Your eyes quickly shift to the faint outline of his biceps through his suit jacket before a mischievous smile spreads across your face. "Besides, I don't think you'd be able to carry me that far." With that, you turn on your heel and begin walking toward the elevator.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he questions, clearly offended by your little quip.

"Nothing," you call out in a singsong voice, hearing his footsteps scramble to catch up with you.

You think he starts to say something about how much he can bench before deciding how self-absorbed that sounds, and instead he settles on a muttered, almost pouting, "I could carry you no problem."

"Mhm," you hum as you push the button to call the elevator and take a sip of your drink; for some reason, it tastes even sweeter with the simmering agent beside you.

You step in as the doors open, and he's close behind; you can feel the warmth of his body at your back. "Now who's being hurtful?" he whispers into your ear as he leans into you. The tickle of his breath against you sends a tingle all the way down to your practically numb toes.

When the doors close, you spin around and lay your hand against his chest. He seems surprised, but he doesn't resist as you push him back until he feels the cold metal of the elevator wall through his suit. "I'm just kidding, Leon," you murmur as you close the gap between you. His free hand moves to your hip, thumb tracing circles into the fabric of your skirt—resisting the temptation to dig his fingertips into your waist, to become more intimate with the curve of your body. "I know you could carry me."

"I could," he confirms quietly. His lips are so close to yours that you can almost taste the coffee on his tongue. There's something ravenous building in you, and you see it reflected in Leon—can see how he's about to surrender to the hunger as his eyes flutter shut and he slants his head to the side.

You're a hair's breadth from the edge when the elevator dings, signaling you've arrived at your floor. "I know," you whisper, then step away as the doors open. "Thanks for the coffee, Leon."

He's leaning against the elevator wall, left staring at you as you walk away, his gaze dropping to the gentle sway of your hips in the pencil skirt, committing it to memory.

That night, you're tearing through your closet, the panic of your date finally setting in. It's been far too long since you've gone on a first date—the nature of your job didn't leave much time for a social life, and even less time for relationships. Most people you've been with have been less than understanding of the weeks, sometimes months, you spend away on missions—if you even get to that point to begin with.

The perpetuity of an endless cycle of talking stages is soul-crushing.

You had almost given up on anything that wasn't a quick, one-time hookup.

As such, most of your wardrobe is dedicated to business wear for the few stretches of time when you're home long enough to be in the office, and more sensible, tactical clothing you wear when you're in the field. With the entirety of your closet now spread across your bed in various piles labeled 'no' and 'absolutely not', you're left staring at the final piece of clothing in your wardrobe.

It's a slinky black dress you bought on a whim a few years ago, probably a size too small now, if you could manage to squeeze into it, and made of a sleek silk. It's simple—maybe too simple for a first date, but your only other option is to find something tomorrow... if you even have time before the actual date.

You groan, grabbing the dress from the hanger, cursing Leon for scheduling a date so soon, and yourself for agreeing to it so easily. You hold your breath as you pull it on, and only after ensuring it actually zips do you release it, relief washing over you. Standing in front of your long mirror, you twist every way, smoothing your hands over the fabric.

You look… nice.

Really nice.

At least, you think you do.

You will yourself not to focus on where the dress hugs a little too tightly, knowing you'll only hyperfixate on things that you have no control over. Instead, you nod to yourself, muttering a soft and accepting, "Okay."

Excitement wells up in you as you take the dress off, carefully hanging it up on the back of your bedroom door. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you snap a picture of it, sending it to Leon with the message:

a little preview for tomorrow night :)

Setting your phone face down on your nightstand, you start putting everything back in your closet, trying not to give in to the impulse to just sit there staring at your phone until he responds. Even when you hear it vibrate, you resist the urge, only looking at it after you've put everything away nearly thirty minutes later.

Are you trying to kill me?

You grin.

no if i was trying to kill you, i'd show you what i was going to wear underneath

You quickly send a second message before putting down your phone.

goodnight!

You hear your phone go off once, then twice, and then a third time as you settle into bed. You take a peek at the notifications while promising yourself you won't respond.

Wait what are you wearing underneath?

Hellooo?

Sweet dreams.

Walking into the office the next day, you're smiling when you spot Leon hovering around your desk. It quickly drops from your lips when you finally see the grim expression he's wearing. As you set your stuff down in the chair, you ask, "What's wrong?" There's already anxiety tightening your chest.

"I'm being sent out on a mission," he says, a frown on his face.

You try to keep a neutral countenance as you accept the coffee cup he holds out, cradling it in your hands, appreciating the warmth it provides when the rest of your body suddenly feels cold. "When do you leave?"

Glancing down at his watch, he can hardly look you in the eye as he says, "Three hours."

"Oh," you murmur, trying not to let your disappointment show but ultimately failing. It's not like you didn't know this was a possibility—maybe you just naively thought you'd at least get through the first date without your jobs getting in the way.

Reaching out, he grabs your hand. "Can we reschedule?" he asks.

You nod, forcing a smile—this isn't Leon's fault, and you don't want him to feel worse than he already no doubt feels. "Yeah, of course."

"I'll text you, okay?" he offers—it's an olive branch, one you're glad to take.

"Okay," you say. "Make sure to check in when you can—" You freeze and grimace, realizing you might be overstepping some boundaries. You're not his girlfriend, you have no right to request him to keep in contact while he's away. "—If you're able to, or want to—"

"I will." He cuts you off before you can dig yourself deeper into a hole, a tender smile on his face as he holds your hand in his. "I'm really sorry," he murmurs.

"It's okay," you assure him, because it really is. "I get it, trust me, I get it." Your fingers play with his, thumb mapping the callouses built up along his hand from shooting—there's one right on the pad of his index finger that you find yourself delicately brushing against. "Just means I get to order the most expensive dessert on the menu when we go."

"Gonna make my wallet hurt, huh?" he teases.

You wink. "Think of it as a rescheduling fee."

He carefully extracts his hand from yours, as it pains him to do so, and checks his watch. "I have to go to the briefing, but I'll see you when I get back," he says as he pulls away, but he stops short just a foot or so away from you as if he's remembered something."You didn't answer me last night."

"Hm?" You pretend not to have a clue what he's talking about, sipping at your drink—it's a caramel macchiato, you realize.

He lowers his voice to make sure no one else can overhear. "About what's underneath."

Your eyes are wide with faux innocence. "Nothing," you answer.

His brows furrow. "What?"

"Nothing is underneath."

Understanding dawns on his face gradually, and you can see the flush that spreads up his neck to his cheeks, tinging the tips of his ears. You hide the shit-eating grin behind another sip of your coffee. "Right," he chokes out, as he forces himself to walk away before any of the follow-up questions escape his mouth.

You watch him go, eyes tracing the broad planes of his back, the tension clear in his shoulders, and you giggle to yourself.

You're not given much time to dwell on Leon's absence, as two days after, you're sent to Alaska—of all places—to follow up on a lead about a suspected BOW facility. It's cold, but a change in scenery is always welcome—especially when it helps distract you from the blue-eyed, brooding agent who's been plaguing your thoughts lately.

Speaking of—

You snap a picture of the snowy landscape—the sun has begun to set behind the snowcapped mountains. The clouds rolling across the sky are bathed in the purple of twilight, casting a soft pink glow against the white-coated crags. It's beautiful in a way that makes you feel insignificant.

You send it to Leon, not expecting an answer as you haven't heard anything from him since he left.

hope you're some place warmer than me right now

You get an answer four days later, and smile at the simple picture of a nondescript forest and the message that reads:

Why don't we ever get sent somewhere nice like Hawaii?

The lead ended up being a bust; you'd spent the better part of your time here trekking through the Alaskan wilderness with your team, though it wasn't as bad as you'd thought it'd be, even when you were trudging through snow waist-deep that left your entire body frozen to the bone. You send a selfie back, cheeks flushed red from the cold and face surrounded by the insulating fur of your heavy jacket.

idk the tundra has kind of grown on me

It's late in the day when you touchdown back in D.C., you snap a picture on the tarmac of the sun setting, sending it to Leon.

home

It's nearly 2 AM when you receive a similar message from him, though the sky is dark and the moon faintly hangs behind a cloud bank.

Home.

Even being woken up out of a dead sleep by your phone going off, you grin like an idiot against your pillow, barely able to type out a 'yay' in response through your bleary-eyed vision before you promptly pass out again, knowing the jetlag is going to be killer in the morning.

Predictably, you're dead on your feet as you walk into the office, two cups of coffee securely in your hands as you shuffle instinctively toward Leon's desk. You spot him hunched over his desk, seeming just as tired and miserable, though he lights up when he sees you coming his way. He's on his feet, meeting you halfway and guiding you toward the empty breakroom with his hands on your shoulders, where no prying eyes can watch your reunion, though you notice a few curious eyes following you both.

You let out a laugh as you hold out his coffee to him. "Good morning." He takes it before gently pulling you close. The tenderness he shows makes your heart swell. You reach up to wrap your arms around his waist, being careful not to spill your drink, inhaling his scent of smoke and gunpowder, muttering into the shoulder of his jacket. "Did you miss me or something?"

"Shut up," he murmurs into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Did you know there's no cell service in rural Poland?" He withdraws slightly to catch your eye, his hand reaching up to trace the line of your jaw with something like reverence. You take a moment to survey him, searching for any injuries—you notice some bruising around his eye, a scab just above his lip, but apart from that, he looks unscathed.

"Probably about as much service as Alaska," you answer. "Deluca almost got mauled by a bear."

Leon's brows raise high on his forehead, eyes wide at the sudden shift in conversation, though he can tell by the giddiness in your voice that you've been waiting to tell him this little bit of information. "What?" he asks.

You're already laughing as you take your phone out of your pocket. "Yeah, I got it on video. The idiot thought he was a bear whisperer," you say as you hold your phone up for him to watch.

His gaze keeps darting between you and the screen, too distracted by your own reaction as you giggle behind your hand, watching Agent Deluca run for his life from a large grizzly bear he tried to approach like a scared dog in the streets. He's so captivated by the sparkle in your eye and how a dimple forms in your left cheek from smiling so hard.

"I was thinking, maybe this Saturday we could try for our date again," he says abruptly, cutting over the faint screams of Deluca in the background of your video.

You pause the video, tucking your phone back into your pocket as your face softens and you nod. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"I have a mission in Bethesda on Thursday, but it should be a quick turnover," he assures.

"From your mouth to God's ears, Leon Kennedy," you joke as he draws you back into a hug, and you feel his lips press to the top of your head. "Don't jinx yourself."

He jinxed himself. It's the only thing that comes to mind when you hear the news that his team, along with their target, Senator Eyre, were killed by explosives rigged to their vehicles. Remarkably, Leon managed to walk away relatively uninjured, or at least, that's what the report states.

He hasn't answered any of your texts or calls.

You try not to take it personally. You understand how this career can be—it's isolating, and most days, it's tough enough just to get out of bed. When something like this happens, though, it's devastating even for the most seasoned agents.

So you keep texting—sharing little updates, sending pictures of the sunset, your morning coffee, a bird hopping around on the sidewalk, just because it reminds you of him. You figure he hasn't told you to fuck off yet or blocked you, so maybe he's seeing them, or maybe he's not.

But you still want him to know you're thinking of him.

"Hi," a voice hesitantly calls out.

It jolts you, so focused on the screen in front of you that you didn't hear anyone sidle up next to your desk—and admittedly, you're running on barely any sleep after returning from a week-long mission in Vietnam.

You glance over at the blonde woman standing at your desk—she's young, and wearing a smile. Your gaze flicks down to her name badge—Sherry Birkin. "Hi," you greet back a bit awkwardly. You know the name—you're aware of her association with Leon, although it's only from official reports.

"I'm sorry, I know we haven't met before," she says as she extends her hand. "Sherry Birkin." The warmth in her demeanor makes it easy to respond kindly, so you take her hand to shake and offer your name, although you suspect she's already aware of who you are. "We share a common acquaintance—" She pauses. "Leon Kennedy."

Coldness washes over you as your stomach fills with dread. You turn in your chair to face her, giving the woman your full attention. "Is he okay?" you ask, voice shaking slightly as if you're anticipating the worst.

"I… think so," she says, uncertain. "He hasn't spoken to me—"

"—Hasn't spoken to me either," you interject, your expression mirroring her own dejection, though you suppose there's some solace in the fact he's not just ignoring you.

She frowns. "That's what I was afraid of," she murmurs to herself. "I may have… looked into it."

You quirk a brow. "Oh?"

She nods, leaning closer and talking in a hushed voice. "After he didn't answer my calls," she explains. "I… politely inquired with HR about his whereabouts—" You give her an amused look that signifies you definitely don't believe her. "—He's in Colorado, apparently he put in for an… extended vacation."

You're not sure what it is that swirls in your stomach—disappointment or maybe hurt, but your face falls. "Ah," you breathe out.

It's easy for Sherry to pick up on the sudden shift. "I just wanted to let you know," she says. "He… talked about you—a lot."

This information surprises you. "He did?" Your voice raises a pitch.

"He was really looking forward to your date… wouldn't shut up about it. I just—" She glances down, contemplating her next words. "—I want to ask you not to give up on him."

You're quiet for a moment as you observe her, seeing the way concern pools in her eyes. You don't know their relationship, but it's clear they're close, and she cares a great deal about him—you expect the opposite to be true as well. "I don't plan on it," you assure her.

A soft smile tugs at her lips. "Thank you," she says. "He's… he's gone through a lot, and I just worry."

"I get it," you tell her. "This job—this life… it takes a lot out of you."

You've faced more than your fair share of horrors and lost plenty of people along the way—you've fought your own demons and had to scrape and claw your way out of despair. Some days, it still feels like you're drowning in it—those are the days when you think it might be easier to just give in to the feeling.

Even before you befriended Leon, you knew who he was—of course, you did. One of the survivors of Raccoon City, the USSTRATCOM Agent who saved the President's daughter from the Los Iluminados nearly a decade ago. You can only imagine what he's seen—what he's had to do.

"Yeah," she agrees softly. "It does."

"I appreciate you letting me know," you say. "If—If you hear from him, could you let me know? Just so I know he's okay?"

"Of course." There's something so sincere about Sherry Birkin, you note. "It was nice to finally meet you—we should… get drinks or something sometime."

You smile. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

An incoming call from Leon lights up on your screen a week later. You're out on assignment—stateside, luckily, or rather unluckily, given the recent events that transpired. You answer the call immediately. "Hey," you greet casually, as if you're not perched atop a building, peering through the scope of your sniper rifle, phone cradled between your ear and shoulder.

"Hey," you hear him reply. He sounds tired, and there's a tug on your heartstrings.

"How was New York?" you question, eyes scanning through the scope as you track your target through the streets below—too many people around, you realize.

The question is enough to break the tension, and he gives a huff of laughter, though he sounds no less exhausted. "Not all it's cracked up to be," he answers. "Chris Redfield says 'hi', by the way."

You let out a disgusted noise at the mention of him. "I can't stand that man," you say bitterly.

The BSAA operator has been a thorn in your side for years, even before you started working for the DSO. His impulsive and stubborn disposition was the cause of most of your headaches when you first joined the FBI after leaving the army, thinking you'd left the world of military jugheads behind you—oh, how young and naive you were.

"He only had nice things to say about you," Leon muses, and you can tell from his tone that’s most definitely not true.

"Oh, I'm sure," you snort as you adjust your grip, keenly watching as your mark breaks from the crowded streets toward a more secluded area. "How did I even come up in conversation anyway?"

You hear him cough as if he had breathed in awkwardly. "I was… telling him about you."

"Oh?" you hum. "And just what were you telling him, Agent Kennedy?"

"Told him I had a date planned before everything went to shit… that I probably fucked it all up—"

You take the shot, and the man goes down like a sack of potatoes. "Target down," you say into your comms before giving the coordinates.

"—Are you on a mission right now?"

You begin to disassemble your rifle, quick and precise, as the clean-up crew no doubt makes their way onto the scene to take care of the body. "I was," you say. "It just ended." You press the clips on your gun case back into place with a firm click. "You didn't fuck anything up, by the way."

There's silence on the other end—you almost think you lost service as you enter the stairwell of the building through the roof access door you'd kept propped open until, "You free tomorrow?" he asks.

You smile, moving swiftly down the steps. "I'm sure I could pencil you in," you reply.

"I'll pick you up at 7," he says. "Get home safe, okay?"

When you reach the fire exit door at the bottom, you push through and find yourself in a side alley. "Good night, Leon," you say before hanging up, pulling your hood up as the police sirens start flooding the streets, and then you're gone, blending into the crowds.

He's at your door at 6:59 PM, and you're busy fastening an earring when you open it. The air leaves his lungs as he takes you in—seeing you in your black silk dress, hair done up, and a bit more makeup than you normally wear to the office.

You're busy giving him a once-over, you don't see the subtle shift in his expression, the way he closes himself off. "You clean up nice," you compliment as you finally get your earring in, fluffing your hair a bit more as you look in the mirror by your entrance.

"Thanks." He's quiet. "So do you."

"You ready to go?" you ask as you grab your purse.

"Yeah," he nods, and you lock your door behind you, offering him a smile that he doesn't return.

A frown forms as he begins to walk away—part of you expecting he would have offered his arm or hand. You try to shake off the uneasy feeling settling in your stomach, thinking maybe he's just nervous—you definitely are.

It only gets worse as the night progresses.

The car ride is mostly silent except for the low rumble of the local rock radio station — you try to ask a few questions, but are met with one-word, noncommittal answers that leave you feeling defeated before you even reach the restaurant. Every time you glance over at him, his eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

When you arrive at the restaurant, he maintains a respectful distance from you as you walk in, only doing the small courtesy of holding the door open for you. After you're finally seated at a small table, a candle burning low between you, hope flickers that now, face to face, he'll be more willing to talk as you both thank the hostess. "Any idea what you're going to get?" you ask.

"No," he answers, gaze focused solely on the menu in his hands.

"I was thinking—"

"Good evening," the waiter greets as he sidles up to your table, pouring water from a pitcher into the empty glasses in front of you. "Any drinks to start?"

"Just a glass of your Cabernet Sauvignon, please," you reply, and the waiter smiles at you before turning to Leon.

"Just the water is fine," he says, not even looking up at the man.

You see the waiter's brow twinge just slightly, and you give him an apologetic smile. "Thank you," you say weakly.

He inclines his head to you. "I'll be back with your wine," he assures.

Silence settles over the table. Surrounding you are other people—couples—talking and laughing together over their meals, and your heart tightens as you watch Leon from behind your menu. He hasn't even looked up at you once since you've sat down—probably has read the menu seven times by now.

"Do you know what you want?" Your voice is small—unsure and so unlike you that you can hardly believe it's your voice coming out of you, but now you're feeling like this whole situation has been a huge mistake that you've somehow pushed him into. There's a chasm forming in your chest, filling with dread.

"Yeah," he murmurs, though he doesn't set the menu down.

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek until you taste blood, mind desperately trying to find something—anything—to talk to him about that he hasn't already shut down in the car with his lackluster answers. "I met Sherry the other week," you decide on.

For the first time, his eyes briefly flick up to you. "She told me," he says.

"She's really sweet," you continue. "She… she seems really fond of you."

"I've known her since she was a kid," he answers in a way that doesn't invite any further comment.

You try to smile—try to come up with something else to say, but you're left floundering until the waiter returns with your glass of wine and takes your order. He must see the disappointment on your face because he offers you a sympathetic look as you tell him your order, while handing the menu back to him, and Leon does the same.

Without anything to focus on, he fidgets with the cloth napkin in front of him, expression impassive except for the clench in his jaw, as if he's grinding his teeth. You feel a familiar sting in your sinuses as you idly sip your wine, which is practically tasteless in your mouth, trying to stave off the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

With every second that passes, your heart pounds against your ears so loudly it feels like the world around you is muffled, though you're keenly aware of your own breathing. A thin sheen of sweat forms on your skin even though you feel completely freezing. The dress you were so excited to wear now feels suffocating, as you've become hyperaware of all the parts of your body that it fits too tightly on.

Abruptly, you set your glass down and say, "Excuse me, I'm going to go to the bathroom."

You don't give him a chance to say anything with how quickly you get up, though you doubt he would have anyway. Once inside the safety of the bathroom, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror, taking a inhaling deeply to hold back the tears welling in your eyes. Your chest feels like it's caving in, and you're now sure that you've somehow misunderstood the situation between you and Leon.

It's making you feel crazy.

You exhale shakily, grabbing your phone to scroll through your message thread with him, searching for any sign that he wasn't as interested as you initially thought. It only makes his current behavior even more confusing. You try to recall every single interaction you've had, where he was the one to reach out to you, and you can't understand this sudden coldness.

There's a second when you consider calling Sherry to see if she might have any insight into why he's acting this way, but it feels wrong to involve her in whatever is going on, especially since she was the one who told you how excited he had been about the date. Instead, you tuck your phone back into your purse and try to breathe steadily as you turn the faucet on.

As you pump some of the fancy-smelling soap into your hands, you start to scrub your skin, your mind spinning in circles. Maybe while he was away, he realized he didn't like you as much as he thought, and this dinner was meant to let you down easy. Or maybe he met someone else and doesn't know how to tell you.

Every single reason that comes to mind only causes anger to grow inside you because there's no excuse for him to treat you so coldly. You at least believed you were good enough friends for him to be honest with you.

When you think you've rubbed your skin raw, you shut off the water and violently grab the paper towels to dry your hands. Your walk back to the table is more dignified, the tears gone from your eyes, replaced by a quiet fury.

You see that your food was brought out while you were gone, and Leon is slowly picking at his plate. As you sit down, you grab your wine glass, knowing you might need the extra bit of courage for whatever is to come, and down the rest of it in one gulp. "Food good?" you ask as you wipe at the corners of your lips.

He gives an indecisive shrug, and that's your breaking point.

"What is going on?" you question, low, but firm.

He must hear the anger in your voice because he actually looks up at you, expression feigning confusion as if he doesn't know where your unexpected question is coming from. "We're… having dinner?" he offers.

"You've barely spoken to me all night," you say, voice rising slightly as you swallow the lump in your throat, feeling the hot sting of scorned fury prickling under your skin.

"We've… talked," he tries to assert, though you can tell even he doesn't believe his own words.

You cock your head, staring at him like he's the stupid one. "Are you serious?" You twist the napkin in your lap so hard you think you might tear through the fabric. "Do you even like me, Leon?"

He seems taken aback, recoiling away from you as if you struck him, and his eyes drop to the table between you, but he stays silent, which is more than enough of an answer for you. Swiftly, you push your chair back, toss your napkin onto your untouched food, and grab your purse.

"Wait, where are you going?" he calls out, but for the first time tonight, you're the one ignoring him as you march out of the restaurant, unconcerned with the curious stares that follow you, intending to walk down the street before you realize he'd driven you here.

You huff in frustration, pulling out your phone to find a number for a taxi service, but your anger has shifted to sadness, and tears cloud your view, making it impossible to read the screen. You hear him call out your name, and you let out an exasperated noise as you begin to walk further down the street away from him.

Hurried footsteps approach you, and you feel hands gripping your shoulders, stopping you in your tracks. You finally realize how cold the night air is when you feel the warmth of his body behind you. "What are you doing?" he asks, confused.

"Calling a cab," you manage to say, though your throat constricts as you try to pull away from him to no avail. Embarrassment wraps around you as your voice breaks, despising how pathetic you sound.

"Hey," he murmurs tenderly, with more care than he's shown you all night, as he circles around to face you, hands gripping the exposed skin of your upper arms. "No, if you—if you want to go home, let me drive you."

"Why?" you spit out. "So you can ignore me some more?" It should feel childish to say that, and maybe tomorrow you'll think differently, but right now your feelings are hurt, and you just want to go home.

He shakes his head. "No, c'mon," he urges, trying to get you to look at him, but you're stubbornly refusing, settling to stare at the repeating pattern on his tie—you'd thought it was cute that he'd worn a tie on your date. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"If you didn't like me, you could have just said so from the start instead of pretend—"

"I do like you," he interrupts like he's desperate to get you to understand.

Sharply, your eyes snap up to him, and his face falls when he sees the tears that are beginning to streak down your cheeks. "You're sure not acting like it tonight," you argue. "I thought I was going crazy—that I… that I just missed some sign that you didn't feel the same about me."

"You didn't miss anything," he says. "I'm just… I'm an idiot who is terrible at this."

You give him a look of disbelief, nostrils flaring. "At what? Conversation? Yeah, I'd say so after tonight's performance."

He winces even though he knows he deserves that scathing remark. "No—I mean, well, yes, apparently. It's just… being vulnerable, and… letting myself look forward to something," he explains. "Everything just kept going wrong, and you're just… so understanding even after I fell off the face of the earth for weeks."

"You went through something traumatic, Leon," you murmur, arms crossing and gaze settling on the lampost just over his shoulder.

"See?'' he says, gesturing toward you. ''You're… you're so put together, and I'm a mess.'' Your eyes jerk back up to him, and you see the defeat in his eyes, like he thinks he doesn't deserve the kindness you've shown him. It makes the tightness in your face soften, hands falling to your sides, abandoning your defensive posturing. ''You opened the door tonight, and I realized you're something I don't ever want to ruin, and I'm so afraid I'm going to do that.''

"Do you think I'm not a mess, Leon?" you question with a humorless chuckle. "You don't get into this business without having more than a few skeletons in your closet. Some people are just better at hiding theirs than others."

His brows come together. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make it sound like you don't understand what I'm going through."

"I was worried for you," you admit, reaching out and tugging him closer by his tie to bridge the gap between you. "You can't just… disappear to Colorado to get shitfaced. It's not healthy—and I…" You pause. "I felt sad for you, but you can't just keep it bottled up. You need to talk to someone—me, Sherry, or hell, even Chris fucking Redfield."

He lets out a laugh. "Yeah," he nods, staring down at you fondly. "You're right."

"I know I'm right," you say sharper than you mean to, but you take a deep breath to calm yourself. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I just… I really like you, Leon, and you hurt my feelings tonight."

"I know," he exhales as he reaches up to cup your jaw. "I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot."

"And you're not going to ruin me," you say. "I'm built pretty sturdy. I just need you to be willing to communicate with me."

A small smile forms on his face. "Okay," he agrees softly.

You feel lighter, most of the anger and sadness of the night washing away. "Okay," you repeat back, tender and pliant as your thumb rubs at the fabric of his tie.

"I really like you, too," he says. "Probably more than is appropriate."

At the confession, you simper, head tilting into his touch as you gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. "Is that so?" you ask.

"Mhm," he confirms, thumb brushing up against your cheek. "And now I keep thinking about what you told me about the dress."

Confusion tints your expression. "What about the dress?"

"About what's underneath." You can see his pupils blown wide as his hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"Would you like to find out?" His fingertips dig into your hip at the question, breath hitching in his throat. "I could think of a few things that would turn this night around."

He's leaning closer, like he's caught in your orbit. "What would that be?"

You think it must be the glass of wine finally kicking in as you say, "I might be inclined to forgive you depending on how many times you can make me cum."

The muscle in his jaw flexes as he clenches his teeth. You can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows thickly. "How many times for me to repent?" he asks.

You pretend to think, gaze flicking up to the dark sky above as you hum. "Maybe I'll consider it after two."

He exhales a shuddering sigh. "C'mon," he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as he leads you toward where he parked his car. A perfect gentleman now, he opens the door for you, ensuring you're settled into the passenger seat before closing it and rounding to the driver's side.

His hand stays on your thigh throughout the drive—firm and steady. The closer he gets to your apartment, the tighter his grip on your thigh becomes—anticipation coiling inside of him. You're no better, the heat of desire scorching through your veins, though a small part of you wants to make him suffer just a little, so you diligently keep your hands to yourself.

If he pulls into the parking spot a little crooked, you don't comment on it as he cuts the engine before sending you a warning look when you go to open the door. With more patience than you probably should have at this point, you wait for him to open the door for you, grabbing his outstretched hand and letting him haul you out of the car.

He holds you to his side as you walk into your apartment building, and once you're inside the elevator, he's behind you, arms wrapped around your waist as he kisses into your neck, leaving you a giggling mess.

"This is the slowest elevator ever," he complains gruffly into the bare skin of your shoulder just as it dings, signaling your arrival on your floor.

You already have your keys in your hand, knowing that if you take too long to open your door, he might just break it down. He's quick to usher you into the apartment once you've gotten the door open, closing it behind him.

In one swift motion, your back is pressed to the door, and before he closes the distance between the two of you, he questions, "This is okay, right?"

You nod hastily, breathing out a soft 'yeah', and then there's just the warmth of his lips against yours. Your heart feels like it's about to burst out of your ribcage as he deepens the kiss, a noise of contentment resonating from his throat as he runs his hands up your sides. Your own trail up his chest coming to rest at the base of his skull, curling your fingers through his hair to draw him even closer.

His mouth is hot against yours, growing braver with each passing second as his tongue licks against your bottom lip before he nips it gently, drawing a gasp from you. He's grinning as he pulls back to look at your flushed cheeks, adoration heavy in his gaze. "Leon," you pant out, eyes half-lidded and want swelling in you.

"Turn around." He doesn't give you the chance to, as he manhandles you into position, the coolness of your door against your cheek as you brace yourself with the palms of your hands. As he rucks up your dress, you hear the sharp inhale as he pulls it over your ass. "Fuck," he practically groans, hands kneading the globes of your ass, spreading them just enough to see the glistening slick of your bare pussy from behind. "You weren't lying."

"Did you think I was?" you ask, breathless from the way the cool air hits your hot core.

"Didn't want to get my hopes up," he admits as he kicks a leg in between yours, forcing your legs apart before sliding a hand down to rub at your cunt. Moaning, you arch your back against his touch, a shiver running through you as he brushes against your clit. "God, you're so wet."

You close your eyes, focusing on the slide of his fingers against you, coating his fingers in your juices. His nose jams into the crook of your neck as he plunges a singular finger into you, lips pressing against the quickening pulse in your neck.

"All this for me?" he murmurs, as his other hand slips one of your dress straps off your shoulder, palming one of your breasts with a satisfied noise, before adding a second finger just as he tweaks your nipple, relishing in the way you gasp, arching back into him.

You're nodding your head to his answer, gasping out a 'yes' as you turn to lay your forehead against your door to cool off the fevered temperature of your skin, though it does nothing for the rest of your body, which feels like it's on fire.

"Can't wait to taste you," he murmurs lowly into your ear, sending goosebumps trailing up your spine. "Need you to cum on my fingers first though." The hand on your breast trails down your front, the pads of his fingers catching onto your clit and circling it in slow, purposeful patterns. "Can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," you moan, fingernails scraping against the wood, trying to find purchase on anything as the coil in your stomach tightens with every precise swipe of his fingers. You feel it in your toes, head dizzy as he whispers words of encouragement into your ear, pressing soft kisses into your jawline so sweetly like he's not knuckle deep in your pussy with your slick dripping down his wrist. "Leon, oh—"

He can feel the way you clench around his fingers as you teeter over the edge, gasping out his name in a way that makes him strain painfully against his pants. "That's it," he says, talking you through it. "Sound so pretty when you cum, know that?"

Your moans pitch higher as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, ensuring you're thoroughly worked through your orgasm before finally withdrawing them. The steady presence of his body behind yours is the only thing keeping you upright as your legs feel like they might give out beneath you at any moment. His hands grip your waist as his lips press to your temple.

"Where's your bedroom?" he asks quietly.

You vaguely gesture over your shoulder toward the hall. "First door on the left," you manage to say as you think you're finally regaining feeling in your lower limbs, and then you're being hauled up with a surprised squeak, your hands coming up to grab Leon around his neck as if he would drop you.

"Told you I could carry you," he grins as he heads toward your bedroom.

"Mm, yes," you murmur, a renewed desire pooling in your cunt at the display—not that you would ever admit that to him aloud. "Glad those muscles aren't just for aesthetics."

He laughs as he carefully navigates through the doorway of your bedroom, then haphazardly throws you onto the bed while tugging at his tie, loosening it just enough to undo the top two buttons on his shirt before grabbing your ankles and dragging you until your backside hits the edge of the bed.

"Leon—"

"Told you I wanted to taste you," he interrupts as he kneels in front of you like you're a sacrament he's about to receive. His fingers bore into the plush flesh of your thighs as he spreads you open for him, your dress gathering up at your hips, leaving you bare before him. "Fuck, you're so pretty." His voice is practically a whimper as he fights the temptation to palm himself through his slacks, mouth watering at the way your cunt glistens in the dim light of the moon that filters through the sheer curtains on your window.

He leans down, gently kissing your inner thigh before nipping at the tender skin, taking pleasure in the sharp gasp that escapes above him. Trailing his lips up until his breath fans against your pussy, and your chest blooms with suspense, the anticipation of his hot mouth against you consumes your thoughts. His eyes flick up to meet yours as you're propped up on your elbows, staring down at him through half-lidded eyes. Your breasts spill out of your dress, heaving. "You waiting for an invitation or—"

His tongue licks a wide stripe up your center, your words getting caught in your throat as you moan. He doesn't tease; instead, he dives in as if he intends to devour you, eyes staying focused upward, watching as your head tilts back. One hand grasps desperately at the comforter beneath you, while the other instinctively finds purchase at the back of his head, fingers weaving through his hair in an unrelenting grip that sends a wave of searing thrill straight to his cock.

The noises are obscene as he eats you out, his own spit mixing with your slick, dripping down his chin. The sting of you tugging at his hair only drives him, paired with your hitched moans, and the way you gasp out 'fuck, Leon' when he sucks at your clit just right. He's savoring the taste of you, swallowing you down with every flat press of his tongue against you, moaning into your pussy as your scent envelopes him.

While one hand stays firmly on your thigh, feeling the way your muscles tense with every swipe of his tongue, he uses the other to thrust two fingers into you in a way that makes your eyes roll back in your head, your head lolling. No longer able to hold yourself up, you collapse onto your bed. He doubles his efforts, crooking his fingers to make your toes curl as your orgasm rapidly approaches.

He's steady in his administration, keenly listening to every one of your reactions to every flick of his tongue, and thrust of his hand, deciphering precisely what you like in record time.

"Leon, I'm—"

That's all the warning he gets as your thighs clench around his head, fingernails biting into his scalp as you thrust your hips up against his face, and he only groans, not caring when he finds he can't breathe, and his eyesight gets spotty, all noise muffling around him in favor of the sweet pressure of your thighs crushing him.

As the final waves of your second orgasm crash over you, your legs fall open as you pant heavily, the world sounding like you're swimming in a fishbowl, a thin layer of sweat covering your skin. Leon is no better, cheek resting against your inner thigh as he catches his breath, pressing one last kiss to your cunt before crawling up to you and gently laying a kiss on your lips. You return it with much more enthusiasm, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and mashing your mouths together, not caring that his is covered in the taste of you.

He licks into your open mouth, before pulling back just slightly, leaving a trail of spit between you. "That was two," he murmurs against your mouth. "How am I doing?"

"Exceptional," you sigh out. "I'm almost inclined to say all is forgiven."

He grins; it's far too endearing when he has your slick glossing his chin. "What else does a guy gotta do to earn your forgiveness?"

You press a hand to his chest, and he moves away willingly until he's sitting at the edge of the bed, watching with curious eyes as you stand before kneeling between his legs, which spread to accommodate you.

His breath stutters as he exhales your name. "What're you doing?"

"Sucking your cock," you say as you begin to undo his belt.

"Oh," he says rather lamely. "This is supposed to be about you—"

"Well, I want to suck your cock," you reaffirm, gazing up at him. "You gonna stop me?"

"God, no," he says as his hands scramble to join yours, undoing his pants and adjusting so he can pull them down. You're met with the pretty sight of his cock bobbing in front of your face, and you wrap your hand around him. He's painfully hard, tip reddened and leaking with precum—the weight of him in your palm makes your pussy clench around nothing, and as you give him an experimental stroke, he gasps.

You bite your lip to hold back a smile, slowly moving your hand up and down, spreading the precum along the shaft, appreciating how you can see the muscles in his lower abdomen tighten as he pulls up his shirt out of your way.

Tentatively, you lean down, licking the fat tip of his cock, and he whines out a 'fuck' as he gathers your hair up into his fist, keeping it out of your way as you open your mouth to take more of him in. Carefully, you bob your head up and down, taking more and more of him into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat. Letting your jaw hang open, you will yourself to relax while he tries to restrain the way he wants to cant his hips up to gag you on his cock.

"You're so good," he groans. "Fuck, you're so good for me."

You can feel the way you're dripping down your thighs at his words as you hollow your cheeks and suck in a way that makes his vision go white while your one hand works the rest of his shaft that you can't fit into your mouth. Drool pools out of the corners of your lips, and you moan around his cock as you shove your other hand in between your own thighs, plunging your fingers into your cunt, though after being stuffed full of Leon's, it hardly compares, and you're only left aching.

The sight of you in between his legs, fingering yourself while you're sucking his cock makes his control falter. His fingers curl around the back of your head, forcing you further down onto his cock in a way that makes you gag, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, but it doesn't deter either of you as you try to swallow around his cock, the sensation causing his breath to catch in his throat. "Fuck, fuck," he whines, and he can feel his balls tightening, his own orgasm quickly about to settle over him.

Hastily, he yanks you off him, panting heavily as he tries to rein himself in. You wipe the corners of your mouth, blinking back the tears that had gathered from how deep in your throat he'd been. "You okay?" you ask.

"Almost came," he admits.

You give a huff of hoarse laughter. "Yeah, that's the point, Leon."

He shakes his head, grabs you, guiding you back on your feet, so you're standing between his legs. He gathers your dress, pulling it up and over your head, leaving you standing naked in front of him. "I'll cum down your throat another time," he says as he allows you to completely undo his tie, tossing it somewhere in your room before you start to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way. His fingers wander up your bare skin, indenting into the plushness of your curves. "Wanna cum in you first."

You grin as he palms your breasts, something like satisfaction in his expression at the weight of them in his hands, while you settle yourself into his lap, his cock pressed between the two of you as you bend down to kiss him. "Awfully bold of you," you murmur.

His hands reach down, grabbing the globes of your ass and pulling you further against him, grinding the shaft of his cock against your pussy. "Name your price, sweetheart," he whispers. "I'll do whatever you want, just wanna be dripping out of you by the end of it."

"How about—" You lift up, grabbing his cock with one hand as you usher him toward your entrance. "—You be a good boy and let me ride you, and once I cum again, I'll let you cum inside, okay?"

He's nodding eagerly, the words 'good boy' coming from your mouth instantly making him compliant. His eyes roll to the back of his head as his tip slips into you; the wet, tight heat of your cunt would probably make him agree to anything you request at this point. "Whatever you want," he repeats in a desperate whimper, fingertips digging into your waist—it would no doubt leave bruises in the morning—as you slide down his cock in one fluid motion that knocks the wind out of both of you.

"Leon," you moan, and his head drops forward, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as you start to rock your hips back and forth in a delicious cadence.

"God, you're so tight," he grits out, mouth biting at the delicate skin at the crook of your neck, intending to leave his mark on you. "Been thinking about this for so long."

"Yeah?" you murmur. "Spend a lot of time thinking about me bouncing up and down on your cock, Agent Kennedy?"

He groans. "You're the reason half of my reports are late."

Your hand rises, lightly pressing against the base of his throat, and when you hear his sharp inhale, you increase the pressure slightly. "Poor Agent Kennedy," you lament sarcastically. "How will you ever cope?"

He lets out a shuddered sigh as the rhythm you've set begins to build him back to the precipice. Lips press to your shoulder before his teeth dig in; his bruising grip is constant, but not unpleasant—the painful sting is just enough to make your cunt flutter around him.

Closing his eyes, he tries to stave off his release; the need to please you is far greater than his need to cum. "Hopefully buried deep in this pussy," he answers before opening them to look at you once more.

You grin, it's devastating and vicious, hips canting faster as the muscles in your thighs burn, but it only adds to the pleasure pooling in your core. You grab one of his hands that has a death grip on your hip, wrenching it from you to bring it up to your mouth, tongue flicking out against his thumb before your lips wrap around it, and he is enraptured by the sight, cock twitching inside of you as his gaze grows hazy.

"Fuck," he whines, watching you coat his thumb with your spit.

"Make me cum," you order as you guide his hand down to your pussy, and he follows your lead, thumb finding your swollen clit to begin tracing slow circles against it. He sees the way your eyes briefly close at the sensation, your hips stuttering just a bit before you continue to ride him in earnest, every sweet drag of his cock in your pussy driving you closer and closer to the end.

"C'mon," he nearly begs, trying to compel you toward completion, not knowing how much longer he himself can hold out. "Cum for me, sweetheart, c'mon," he says.

With one last swipe against your clit, you feel yourself fall over the edge as you grind down on him. "Shit, shit, shit," you moan as your thighs shake, movement coming to a shuddering halt as pins and needles start to prick all throughout your body. Leon feels the gush of your liquid release around his cock, and that's all it takes for him to have you on your back in the next instant.

He's pounding into you now with reckless abandon, the slap of your skin against his paired with the sound of his cock bullying into your sopping wet pussy is intoxicating. He gives you no time to recover from your orgasm, enjoying the way the overstimulated tears streak down your flushed face before his eyes focus on the way your breasts bounce up and down with each hard thrust.

"Gonna let me cum in you now?" he asks breathlessly as he cages you between his arms, muscles tense from the strain.

You're holding onto his shoulders, gasping with each hard thrust into you, still bleary-eyed from your last orgasm, nails biting into his skin, digging crescent divots into him, but nodding desperately. "Want your cum," you keen. "Please, Leon."

"Fuck." His hips snap into yours as he sinks his head into the crook of your neck, moaning out your name as he cums, burying his seed deep inside of you. You can feel the warmth of it, the twitching of his cock as he empties into you, and you clench around him, listening to him whimper into your ear. He continues thrusting until he's sure he's filled you.

You're both gasping for air as the aftershocks of your orgasms subside, and Leon pulls away just slightly to press a kiss to your lips, tenderly cupping your jaw.

"Was that okay?" he questions, panting heavily.

You laugh, and it makes him smile. "Five stars," you say, giving a weak thumbs up, your entire body shaking.

He chuckles against your cheek, kissing up the side of your face to your temple. "Where's your bathroom?" he asks.

"Across the hall," you answer.

He's careful as he pulls out of you, gently massaging your hips when you wince. "You okay?"

"We're going to be putting your ability to carry me to the test tomorrow," you say. "I don't think I'm going to be able to walk."

He rolls his eyes, but there's a fond grin on his face as he makes his way to the bathroom. He comes back a few minutes later with a warm, wet washcloth, and the care he takes in cleaning you up almost brings you to tears. You mutter a soft 'thank you' as he tucks you both into bed, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you into him.

The lull of sleep settles over you rather quickly, and you're barely awake, listening to the steadiness of Leon's breathing behind you as his thumb traces circles onto your hip. "You're forgiven," you murmur into your pillow, unsure if he's still awake or not.

He holds you tighter in response.

The next morning, you're both cuddled up on your couch, watching reruns of your crappy reality TV show, sharing a plate of slightly burnt pancakes, and enjoying your morning coffee… or well, tea for you.

"Why didn't you tell me you preferred tea?" Leon asked as he watched you prepare your beverage.

You only grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "I don't mind coffee, plus… I enjoyed seeing what you thought I might like."

"So, why is she mad at Gino?" he questions as he tries to follow along with the drama.

As you're busy explaining the intricate dynamic of the couple on the screen between bites of breakfast, his phone pings, and you both instinctively look down at it. That's when you notice the lockscreen—it's a picture you'd sent him a few weeks ago of a cute sidewalk mural you found, with the shadow of your figure cast over the ground, holding up a peace sign.

"Is that my photo?" you question, already knowing the answer.

"Uh," he stutters, embarrassed. "Yeah."

You blink, processing the information. "I wasn't sure you were looking at those," you admit.

"I was," he says before opening the gallery on his phone. "I saved them all."

You're unsure why tears form in your eyes upon seeing a folder in his phone; no actual name, just a small coffee cup emoji as the label, and when he opens it, you notice every single picture you've sent him safely stored inside.

When he hears you sniffle, he stares at you, startled. "Wait, why are you crying?"

"That's just so nice!" you blubber, nearly sending the plate of pancakes flying as you quickly reach up to brush away the tears.

prologue

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three ♰

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight ♰

chapter nine ♰

chapter ten

chapter eleven ♰

chapter twelve ♰

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen ♰

chapter seventeen ♰

chapter eighteen ♰

interlude ♰

chapter nineteen ♰

chapter twenty

chapter twenty-one

chapter twenty-two

chapter twenty-three

Life became a sequence of controlled, quiet routines because routine was safer than thinking. You woke in a bed that was yours, in a room that still felt like a guest space wearing your clothes. You bathed. You dressed. You went down to breakfast or didn’t, depending on how much noise you could bear, depending on how steady your hands felt when you poured yourself coffee. You read in the library. You took short walks. You listened to the house breathe around you, and you trained your own breathing to match it.

What you didn’t do—what you couldn’t afford to do most days—was remember the first night in this house as anything other than a wordless blur of weight and pressure and the knowledge that you had been taken without your yes.

You didn’t say the word out loud. Not to Marta. Not to Maria. Not to yourself in a mirror. But your body knew it anyway.

It knew it when a door clicked too softly behind you. It knew it when footsteps paused outside your room. It knew it when you caught the faint ghost of his cologne on a banister rail and your stomach tightened as if it had learned a new reflex.

You told yourself you were adjusting.

You found yourself drifting to the small sitting room off the main corridor more and more. It wasn’t grand like the formal salon. No chandelier, no heavy art. Just soft chairs, a low table, a narrow bookshelf, and a window that caught the late afternoon light and poured it in like honey. Someone, probably Marta, kept a folded blanket on the arm of the sofa and a small vase of rosemary on the sill, green and sharp and alive.

You sat curled at one end of the sofa, a book open on your lap, letting the hum of the house move around you without touching you. Somewhere deeper in the west wing, distant voices rose and fell: Tommy’s laugh; the clipped murmur of a phone call cut off mid-sentence when a door closed.

You were halfway through the next chapter when a shadow fell across the doorway.

Your body reacted before your mind did. A hard little hitch in your breath. A tightening low in your ribs. Your fingers clamped on the spine of the book like it might anchor you.

You looked up.

Joel stood there with one hand braced lightly against the frame. No jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled. His hair looked a little mussed like he’d run his hand through it one time too many. He didn’t step fully inside, but just hovered at the threshold, as if he knew this room had become yours by accident and he was careful not to take that away, too.

The last month had been all restraint. A careful civility, doors left open, questions asked through Marta when he could help it, like he understood he’d crossed a line and the only thing he could offer now was distance, and time, and the decency of not demanding forgiveness.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he finally said.

“You’re not,” you replied automatically, because politeness was a shield you didn’t know how to put down. Your eyes flicked to the line you’d been stuck on for twenty minutes. “I wasn’t getting very far anyway.”

He shifted his weight, like he was still deciding whether to retreat or stay, as if he was measuring the distance he owed you. And you watched him do it, watched him hold himself back, and felt the sick, complicated twist of it: restraint didn’t erase the fact that he had crossed the line once already. Restraint didn’t change what it had been.

“There’s somethin’ I oughta ask you,” he continued carefully. “About tomorrow night.”

Your fingers tightened a little around the spine of the book. “All right.”

He came one step closer, but still didn’t sit, keeping the coffee table between you like a deliberate buffer. “We’ve been invited to the Delgados’ place,” he said. “Up north. Old family. They have been solid with us for a long time.” His gaze flicked briefly to the window, then back to you. “They asked if we’d both attend dinner.”

You heard what he didn’t say: They expect to see my wife. 

“If you don’t feel up to it, I can tell ‘em you’re not well,” he added, a little too quickly. “We can make an excuse. But that’ll start talk, and I’m tryin’ not to give anyone extra reasons to poke at this alliance.”

You watched him. For all the control in his voice, you could see the tension in the set of his shoulders. Asking you wasn’t easy for him. He could have sent Marta with a message in the morning. He’d chosen to come himself.

And you hated that some small part of you noticed things you didn’t want to notice. How the rolled sleeves showed strong forearms, how his voice went lower when he tried to be gentle, how he stood like a man who could fill a room without raising his voice.

You smoothed the edge of the page with your thumb. “It’s important they see us together,” you said quietly. Not a question.

“It helps,” he admitted. “Shows we’re… aligned.”

You almost laughed at that. Aligned. As if that’s what this was.

You had a choice, technically. He’d given you one. But you could already picture the whispers if you refused; the sideways glances; the way it would land on you and on him, both. You’d grown up understanding that sometimes the only power you had was how well you played the part you were given.

You lifted your chin a little. “Then I’ll go,” you said. “If it makes things easier, I’ll be there.”

For you, lay quietly under the sentence, whether you liked it or not.

He studied you, as if trying to work out whether you were acquiescing out of habit or deciding. There was no good way to explain that it was always, somehow, both.

“Maria’ll help you pick something,” he said, sounding faintly relieved. “The Delgados like to pretend they’re runnin’ a European court.” His mouth twitched, the faintest hint of dry humor. “So maybe nothin’ that’ll blind ‘em.”

A small breath escaped you. “I’ll try not to offend their sensibilities,” you said.

He inclined his head, that same quiet, careful politeness you were starting to recognize. “I’ll let you get back to your readin’,” he said.

And then he was gone. You stared at the doorway long after he’d disappeared, the book growing heavier in your hands, and your pulse thudding like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that he’d left.

Maria turned up the next day with a dress over her arm.

“This is for tonight,” she said, pushing the door closed with her hip. “The Delgados are fond of theatrics. Let’s give them something elegant to gossip about.”

The dress was a deep, nearly-black blue, cut simple but sharp. It wasn't girlish, nor overly decorative. It had clean lines, a subtle structure. It was truly elegant, a woman’s dress.

“It’s…” You searched for the right word. “Serious.”

“Good,” Maria said, amusement clear in here voice. “So are you.”

She helped you step into it, her fingers quick and sure at the zipper. When you turned toward the mirror, you hardly recognized yourself. The dress skimmed your frame, the neckline modest but decisive, the color making your eyes look darker, and your mouth more defined.

You didn’t look like someone’s sheltered daughter. You looked like someone men would have to think twice about underestimating.

“Mrs. Miller,” Maria said lightly behind you, as if testing the name in the air. “I’d say you look the part.”

You met your own gaze in the glass, the title settling over your shoulders. You still didn’t know if you wanted it. But you knew, suddenly and fiercely, that you didn’t want anyone else defining what it meant.

“Do you remember your first dinner like this?” you asked, not taking your eyes off your reflection.

“With Tommy?” Maria’s mouth curved. “Yes. I wore something I thought made me look grown-up. His mother told me I looked like I was going to a funeral.” She shrugged. “She wasn’t wrong.”

“Did you hate it?” you asked hesitantly.

“I hated being watched,” she said honestly. “But I liked knowing they had to watch me. That I was in the room and they couldn’t pretend I wasn’t.” She met your gaze in the mirror. “You don’t have to enjoy it. You just have to survive it. Enjoyment can come later.”

Maria adjusted your sleeve, then stepped back. “If you don’t know what to say tonight,” she added, “ask a question instead. People love hearing themselves more than they love hearing you.”

A huff of breath escaped you. “You’re very good at this.”

“I’ve had practice,” she said. “You will too.”

Joel waited for you at the bottom of the stairs when you came down. He straightened, just a little, when he saw you. His gaze moved from your shoes to your face, taking in the dress, the neat sweep of your hair, the small dark bag in your hand.

You saw it: that split-second shift, the approval in his dark brown eyes. The was even the faintest thread of something like pride.

“You ready?” he asked.

“No,” you said, before you could stop yourself. Then, quickly, “But I’ll manage.”

Something like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Fair enough.” He opened the car door for you himself.

The Delgado estate was all white stone and long driveways, the kind of house built to make visitors feel small before they even reached the door. Warm light spilled from its tall windows and laughter drifted into the night like a practiced performance.

Joel offered his arm as you stepped out of the car. You hesitated for half a breath, then rested your gloved fingers lightly on his sleeve. His suit was midnight dark, with a simple silk tie. His hand brushed the back of yours once, steadying you, or himself, you weren’t sure.

Inside, the reception hall was all high ceilings and crystal chandeliers, tables draped in white, the Delgado name etched into every small thing that could bear it. A quartet played something tasteful in the corner. Waiters flowed like a current, with the trays balanced effortlessly in their hands.

You felt eyes turn as you walked in at Joel’s side.

“Joel,” Rafael Delgado greeted, appearing from the crowd with the ease of someone born to it. “Good to see you. And this must be your wife.” His smile was perfectly cordial, the kind that never quite reached the eyes. “Mrs. Miller.”

The title slid over your skin like something too heavy.

“Thank you for having us,” you said, the words smooth from a lifetime of rehearsed politeness. You felt, more than saw, Joel’s subtle glance down at you.

You could feel it the moment you stepped into the sitting room: the curious eyes, polite smiles, the subtle assessments. What did Miller get? What did Moretti give up?

Conversations rose and fell around you. Joel stayed near but not glued to your side, like a man careful not to crowd a skittish animal. When someone approached, his hand would appear just briefly at the small of your back, then fall away again as you engaged.

“Mrs. Miller,” said a woman in cream, with a glass of white wine and eyes too sharp to match her smile. “We were all so surprised when we heard about the wedding. It must have been quite a… change. From East Austin to here.”

The way she said East Austin made it sound like a stain.

You felt, for a split second, the old urge to smooth, to deflect, to vanish. Instead, you thought of Maria’s voice, of the way Joel had said aligned and how much you hated the idea of anyone assuming you’d simply been placed.

You smiled, small and cool. “Most of my life was spent in rooms like this,” you said. “Listening to men redraw maps of a city they rarely walk through.” You took a slow sip of your drink. “So I’d say the décor has changed. The conversations haven’t.”

The woman blinked. Her smile thinned.

“Oh, I didn’t mean—” she began.

“I know,” you said pleasantly. “That’s the point.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a small, surprised burst of laughter from the cluster around you. Even the older man’s mouth twitched. From the corner of your eye, you caught Joel watching. When you glanced up at him, his eyes caught yours. They were warm, dark, focused, with something like reluctant amusement hiding at the edges.

By the time dessert came—a narrow slice of citrus tart with a sugared peel twist—the room had relaxed around you. Conversations had loosened, ties had shifted, and people laughed a little too loudly. You’d answered enough polite questions to last a lifetime, and your cheeks ached from holding a composed expression.

When the Delgados finally began the ritual of goodbyes, you rose beside Joel. He thanked the hosts in that measured, respectful way of his, while you accepted the inevitable final comment:

“We hope you’re settling in, dear,” Señora Delgado said, air-kissing your cheek. “New houses can feel strange.”

You smiled, careful and mild. “I’m still learning where the light falls best,” you said. “But I’ll find it.”

Joel’s hand hovered a moment at your back. A shadow of support instead of a claim.

Outside, the night air was cooler than you expected. The Miller car waited at the bottom of the drive, headlights cutting twin paths in the gravel. When you shivered, more from exhaustion than cold, Joel wordlessly shrugged out of his jacket.

“Here,” he said. “You’ll freeze in that thing.”

You hesitated, then let him settle it over your shoulders. It was warm, faintly threaded with his cologne and a hint of cigar smoke picked up from the terrace. Too much, and oddly anchoring all at once.

The driver opened the rear door; Joel waited for you to get in first, then followed, leaving a careful distance between you on the leather seat.

For a while, the only sound was the engine and the muted hiss of tires on the road. Austin slid past outside the windows. Pockets of light, then dark, the glow of a gas station, the blur of a late-night diner.

“Thank you,” he said eventually, breaking the quiet.

You blinked, turning your head slightly. “For what?”

“For comin’ tonight,” Joel said. His gaze stayed on the road ahead. “And for holdin’ your own,” he added, quieter. “They’ll remember it.”

You looked back out the window, watching your own faint reflection over the passing lights. “It’s strange,” you admitted after a moment. “Being Mrs. Miller. Hearing it over and over. It feels like they’re talking about someone I haven’t met yet.”

He was quiet for a beat. “You’ll grow into whatever version of that name suits you,” he said. “They don’t get to define it.”

No one had ever phrased it that way before: as something you could shape, rather than something being stamped on you.

You didn’t know how to answer that, so you didn’t. The rest of the drive passed in a gentler silence, but still thick with things unsaid.

When the car pulled up in front of the house, Joel got out first and offered his hand to help you step down. You took it, more out of practicality than anything else, the gravel unsteady under your heels. His grip was firm, brief, and gone as soon as your feet were steady.

Inside, the foyer was dim and quiet, most of the lamps already turned low. Marta had long since retired. 

You slipped his jacket from your shoulders and folded it once over your arm before offering it back. “Thank you,” you said.

“You’re welcome.” he said. He was careful not to brush your fingeres as he took it.

You turned toward the stairs; he fell into step beside you, not crowding, not hanging back. Outside your door, you paused, fingers resting lightly on the handle.

“Goodnight,” you said softly.

He dipped his head. “’Night. Get some rest. You earned it.”

You nodded and stepped inside, closing the door with a quiet click. For a moment, you stood in the dim room, listening. Out in the hallway, his footsteps retreated, slow and steady, then faded.

You stood in front of the mirror in your room, fingers working the clasp of your earrings. You slid the dress off your shoulders, the fabric whispering as it pooled at your feet. In the glass, you saw the faint lines of the day written on your face: the careful smile, the polite tilt of your chin, the way your eyes were just a little too bright from the constant strain.

You picked the dress up and laid it over the back of a chair, smoothing the wrinkles out with your palm. Someone else would hang it up tomorrow. 

They like her, you thought. Mrs. Miller.

You lifted your gaze, studied the woman in the mirror: loose hair, bare shoulders, eyes that no longer quite matched any version of yourself you used to know. You still weren’t sure who she was.

Late morning light lay soft and warm across the tiles of the sunroom, pooling in pale rectangles at your feet.

You sat curled into one corner of the cushioned bench by the window, a book open in your hands. The sound came first: a small scuff of rubber on tile. Then another. Hesitant, uneven. You looked up.

Benji hovered in the doorway, half in shadow, half in sun. He was in a soft blue T-shirt with a crooked superhero logo, his dark curls mussed, and his cheeks faintly flushed from whatever adventure he’d been on before. One of his socks had slouched halfway down his ankle. In one hand, he clutched a plastic pirate ship with a missing mast; in the other, a little figure with a chipped hat.

He saw you looking and froze, as if he’d been caught somewhere he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be. You closed your book around one finger. “Hey,” you said softly. “It’s all right. You can come in.”

He edged a little farther over the threshold, sneakers squeaking very faintly. “Um,” he said, brown eyes flicking from your face to the book and back again. “Are you busy?”

You glanced down at the page you hadn’t really turned. “Not very,” you admitted. “Why?”

He brightened a fraction at that, feet carrying him the rest of the way into the room. “I wanted to show you somethin’,” he said, words tumbling out fast now, like he was worried he’d lose courage if he stopped. He held up the pirate ship, its plastic hull scuffed and beloved. “This is my ship. It’s called the Sea Dragon.”

You had to bite back a smile at the seriousness in his tone. “The Sea Dragon,” you repeated. “That’s a good name.”

Benji nodded with grave satisfaction and came closer until he was standing right beside your knees. “It goes on missions,” he explained. “Important ones. Uncle Joel says it’s the bravest ship in the whole ocean.”

“That sounds very impressive.”

He nodded harder, curls bouncing. Then he glanced at the space beside you on the bench. “Can it sit here?” he asked. “So you can see?”

Something loosened somewhere in your chest. “Of course,” you said. You set the book aside and patted the cushion next to you. “Bring the Sea Dragon over. Show me how it works.”

Benji scrambled up onto the bench with careful effort, little hands gripping the edge. He plopped down beside you, the pirate ship landing between you both. Immediately, he launched into an enthusiastic explanation: where the captain slept, how the cannons worked (they didn’t), how this little plastic man had fallen overboard last week and needed “rescuin’.”

You listened. Your knees turned toward him, your hands resting in your lap, your attention following the arc of his endless story.

At one point, he tugged your wrist, earnest eyes wide. “And this is where the treasure goes,” he said. “Right here. You can’t see it till we get it. But it’s gonna be gold. Real gold.”

You laughed before you could help it. A quick, startled sound that felt foreign in your own ears. You saw his face light up in response, delighted that he’d gotten that reaction out of you.

“I’ll have to trust the captain then,” you said, still smiling. “Seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

Benji puffed up a little at that, shoulders squaring. “Yeah. He’s real brave. Uncle Joel says the bravest people are the ones who do scary stuff even when they’re scared.”

Your breath caught, just for a second. “Does he?” you asked quietly.

“Mm-hm.” Benji nodded, completely unaware of what he’d just dropped between you. “He says that’s what soldiers do. And cowboys. And ladies in old movies.” 

There was a soft rustle at the doorway. You glanced up and saw Maria leaning one shoulder against the frame, half-hidden by the trailing leaves of a potted plant. She must’ve followed the path of small footsteps and silence. Her arms were loosely folded, expression unreadable for a moment as she watched her son steer plastic pirates through sunlit fabric.

When your eyes met hers, something in her face softened into an almost-smile.

“Benji,” she said gently. “You didn’t run off without tellin’ me where you were, did you?”

He twisted around, caught, then relaxed when he saw it was only her. “I told Elias,” he said quickly. “He said it was okay.”

Maria rolled her eyes skyward in a way that suggested she’d be having words with Elias later. Then she looked back at you.

“He likes you,” she said simply. “He doesn’t do that with everyone.”

You glanced down at Benji, who was now making explosion noises under his breath and gently bashing the pirate ship against the back of the bench. “I like him too,” you said. It was the easiest truth you’d spoken in weeks.

Maria’s gaze lingered, searching your face the way only another woman could. Then she pushed off the doorframe. “Lunch in ten, sailor,” she told her son. “Don’t sink the house.”

“I won’t,” he said seriously, already halfway back into his ocean.

She stepped away, leaving you in the warm quiet again.

After a few more minutes of very intense pirate business, a voice called from down the hall. “Benji! Food!”

He groaned dramatically. “I gotta go,” he told you, like this was deeply unfair. He scrambled off the bench, grabbing the ship under one arm. Then he looked back at you, eyes bright. “Will you be here later? I can show you the Sea Dragon’s secret cave.”

“I might,” you said with a smile. “If I’m not, you can always come find me.”

He seemed satisfied with that answer. “’Kay. Bye!” He took off at a lopsided run, ship clutched close, sneakers squeaking faintly on the tile.

The sunroom felt very big and very quiet once he was gone. Your face still held the ghost of the smile he’d pulled out of you. When you became aware of it, you smoothed it away with a thumb, as if someone might walk in and see it and ask you to explain yourself.

For a few minutes, talking to a four-year-old about pirate ships and treasure, you hadn’t felt like a bargaining chip. You’d just felt like a person. An adult listening to a child, sitting in a patch of sunlight in a house that wasn’t quite yours. Guilt flickered up, hot and irrational. As if any small flicker of warmth here was a betrayal of the girl who had stood in your mother’s dress in a chapel full of men bargaining over your life.

You picked the book back up, but your eyes didn’t find the words. Benji’s voice echoed in your mind: the bravest people are the ones who do scary stuff even when they’re scared.

You didn’t feel brave. You felt tired, and hollow. And also a little less frozen when a small boy tugged you into his world and demanded you admire his ship.

When the housekeeper called you for lunch a little while later, the cushion beside you was empty again. But the warmth of that patch of sunlight stayed with you as you rose, as if some part of you had remembered how to exist in a room without being entirely made of duty.

Joel’s office looked like a storm had passed through and decided to stay.

Papers fanned out in uneven stacks across the desk: route manifests, shipment logs, security reports. A large printed map of Austin and its outskirts lay spread open, corners pinned down by a stapler, an ashtray, and a half-empty glass of water. Red and blue lines traced through streets and along the river, small notes in Joel’s tight handwriting crowding the margins.

He stood behind the desk, one hand braced on the wood, the other resting on the edge of the map as if he could steady the whole city with his palm. Tommy perched on the corner of the desk, leaning back on his hands, boot heel hooked on the lower drawer.

Elias stepped in just far enough to place a folder on the free edge of the desk. “West Lake update,” he said. “And Riverside. Alvarez signed off.”

Joel nodded without looking up yet. “Thanks.”

Elias dipped his head once and slipped back out, the door closing with a soft click that left the three of them alone.

Tommy reached for the folder, flipping it open with his thumb. “All right,” he said, eyes skimming the top page. “Alvarez is still staggering the West Lake trucks like you said. No collision with Moretti routes, not even close.” He tapped a line with the back of his knuckle. “We’re two hours clear on either side. They blink, we’re already gone.”

“Good,” Joel said. His gaze tracked the red route line across the map, jaw tight. “Keep ‘em staggered. Nobody gets to say we’re crowdin’ their streets.”

Tommy snorted softly. “Moretti’ll say it anyway if he wants to.”

“Then he’s gonna have to lie to do it,” Joel replied. “And I’m not givin’ him clean ground to stand on.”

Tommy flipped to the next page. “Riverside shipment’s tight,” he went on. “No new hires, no cousins-of-cousins tryin’ to hitch a ride. Alvarez shut that shit down before it started.”

Joel’s mouth flattened. “Good. We’re not runnin’ charity out there. If anyone so much as sneezes around Riverside, I wanna know who, when, and why.”

Tommy glanced up, studying him. “You’re wound a little tighter than usual, brother.”

Joel ignored that. He reached for a pen and circled a small junction on the map where the blue and red lines came close but never quite overlapped. “No side deals,” he said. “I mean it. Nobody improvises on these routes. We do it clean, or we don’t do it.”

Tommy’s expression softened a fraction. “Then we keep it straight,” he said. “Routes, deals, everything. No wiggle room for anyone to twist it.”

“That’s the plan,” Joel said.

He closed the folder with a decisive thud, smoothing his palm over the top like he was pressing the issue flat.

For a moment, the office was quiet. The late afternoon light slanted through the high window, cutting across the map, painting the West Lake route in a wash of gold.

Tommy slid off the desk. “You headin’ up to eat?” he asked, casual on the surface, not quite underneath. “Maria’ll start givin’ me looks if you keep missin’ lunch.”

Joel glanced at the clock on the wall. Later than he’d thought. He exhaled through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “Don’t want her thinkin’ I live down here.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched. “She probably does already.”

“Then I can at least prove her wrong once a day,” Joel muttered.

Tommy chuckled and headed for the door, leaving it half-open behind him.

By early afternoon, you had retreated again to the small sitting room, the book open on your lap. You’d read about a third of it when you heard it: a quick, uneven patter of small footsteps down the corridor, then a breathless, “Hi.”

You looked up.

Benji stood in the doorway, curls slightly askew, T-shirt half untucked. This time he held a small toy horse in his fist so tightly its plastic legs bowed.

“Hello again,” you said softly. “Shouldn’t you be with your mother?”

“She’s on the phone,” he announced, as if that explained everything. “She said I can go see Duke if I don’t touch the fence.” He frowned. “But she said I can’t go alone.” His gaze fixed on you with solemn expectation.

You blinked. “Duke?”

“The horse,” he said, like it was obvious. “In the stables.”

You hesitated only a moment. 

“All right,” you finally said. “If it’s all right with your parents.”

“Mom said I can ask you,” he replied immediately. “She said you could use sunshine.”

A startled huff escaped you, half laugh, half disbelief. That sounded exactly like Maria.

“Very well,” you murmured. “Lead the way.”

Benji beamed and grabbed your hand without hesitation. His small fingers were warm and sticky with something that might have been jam. You let him tug you through the back corridor, past the mudroom, and out into the bright, open air.

The path to the stables cut across the rear lawn, the grass springy under your flats. The sun was mild, not punishing; a breeze carried the smell of earth, hay, and something sweet from the distant orchard. Benji swung your hand as you walked, hopping over cracks in the stone just because they were there.

The stables came into view: a long, low building of pale wood and stone, doors open to let the light in. Inside, the world changed. It smelled of warm hay, leather, and horse. Dust motes floated in the shafts of sunlight cutting across the aisle.

“Stay here,” Benji whispered conspiratorially, even though he was the one dragging you deeper in. “He doesn’t like loud.”

“Who doesn’t—”

“Easy, Duke,” came Tommy’s voice from somewhere ahead, low and rhythmic. “That’s it. Good boy. Don’t make me look stupid in front of my son, huh?”

You rounded the corner with Benji and saw him: Tommy in worn jeans and a T-shirt, one hand on the halter of a large bay gelding, the other skimming along its neck. The horse snorted softly, ears flicking, but stood mostly still, watching you with big, curious eyes.

Tommy glanced up. Surprise flickered across his face, then settled into something warmer. “Well, look at that,” he said. “You brought company, Benji.”

“Can she pet him?” Benji demanded, already pulling you closer.

“If she wants,” Tommy said, looking to you for permission. “He’s gentle. Just keep your hand flat.”

You hesitated, more from unfamiliarity than fear, then stepped forward. The horse lowered his head as you approached, as if he understood you were uncertain. You lifted your hand, your palm open. His breath huffed warm over your skin before his velvety muzzle touched your fingers.

Your lips parted on a small, involuntary sound. “He’s so soft,” you murmured.

Tommy’s mouth twitched. “Mostly. He’s also stubborn and eats more than my brother.”

Benji giggled at that, pressing his small palm next to yours against Duke’s neck.

Something in your chest loosened.

“C’mon,” Tommy said after a moment, nodding down the row of stalls. “There’s somethin’ else you should see. Figured Benji would drag somebody down here eventually.”

He led you a few doors down and stopped at an open stall where the straw looked fresh and mounded. At first you saw nothing—just shadow and hay. Then a dark shape shifted, and the barn dog stepped forward. She was a stocky, graying shepherd mix with kind eyes and a tired dignity, lying half-curled around a tangle of movement at her belly.

Puppies.

Five of them, tiny and clumsy, all soft ears and big paws and uncoordinated enthusiasm. One was mostly black, another a mottled mix of browns, one with a white blaze on its forehead, all tumbling over each other in a chaotic knot.

You forgot, for a moment, to be careful with your face. “Oh,” you breathed.

Benji made a small, delighted sound that was almost a squeal. “They’re awake, they’re awake,” he whispered, like it was a sacred event.

“Mama’s very patient with visitors,” Tommy said. “Long as you move slow.”

You lowered yourself to a crouch just outside the stall threshold, the straw crinkling under your shoes. The mother dog lifted her head, sniffed toward you, then set her chin back down with a soft grunt, apparently satisfied.

One of the puppies—not the boldest, not the shyest, a sandy-colored one with darker ears—stumbled away from the pile and made an ambitious, wobbling beeline straight toward you. He tripped over his own paws, recovered, then bumped into your knee with a tiny thud, nose working overtime.

Your heart did something strange. “Hello there,” you whispered, reaching out with tentative fingers.

He sniffed your hand, then promptly attempted to climb it, little claws scraping gently at your wrist. You laughed, a real, unguarded sound that startled even you. It floated up into the dust-speckled air, brighter than anything you’d heard from your own mouth in weeks.

Benji plopped down beside you, already reaching for a different puppy with wide-eyed reverence. “This one’s mine,” he announced. “He likes my shoelaces.”

“You can’t just claim a dog because he goes for your shoes,” Tommy said, but there was no real admonition in it.

You lost track of time. It narrowed to small, ridiculous things: the way the mottled puppy kept tripping over his siblings; the gentle pressure of tiny teeth on your finger; the puff of puppy breath against your wrist; Benji’s delighted commentary as he named each one something increasingly absurd.

The sandy-colored pup kept coming back to you. If you moved your hand away, he followed, legs splaying, tail wiggling with determined effort. When you scratched gently under his chin, his eyes half-closed, and he leaned into your palm like he’d been waiting his whole short life for this.

You were so focused on the chaos in the straw that you didn’t notice the new arrival at first. But Tommy did. He glanced past you, eyes flicking toward the stable entrance. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly, straightening, not in alarm but in acknowledgment.

“Brother,” he called, easy. “Didn’t expect you down here.”

You turned, hand still buried in soft puppy fur. Joel stood just inside the wide doorway, light from outside framing him in silhouette for a heartbeat before your eyes adjusted. He’d changed out of his usual darker shirt into something lighter, his shoulders strong but relaxed in that typical way of his. Elias was a step behind him, a folder in one hand.

“We needed a break in the office,” Joel said, addressing Tommy. “Figured I’d come see whether Duke decided to throw you today.”

“Not in front of the kid,” Tommy replied. “I got a reputation to maintain.”

Joel’s gaze shifted as he stepped into the cool shadow of the stable. It moved automatically to Benji first. Then, inevitably, it found you. You, sitting on your heels in the straw-dusted aisle, dress creased, hair slightly mussed from where Benji had tugged you earlier, one hand cradling a wobbly, determined puppy to your chest.

For a second, the air changed. He didn’t stop walking, exactly. But something in his step faltered, almost imperceptibly. His expression didn’t do anything dramatic, but his eyes shifted. The lines around them eased, his jaw unclenched, and something quiet and raw moved behind the brown.

You realized, with a jolt, that you were genuinely smiling. Not the tight, polite curve you wore at dinner, but a real smile. It felt almost indecent to be seen like that.

You straightened automatically, fingers tightening around the puppy in your lap. “We were just—Benji wanted to—” You faltered, suddenly aware of straw on your skirt and hay dust floating in the air like you were in a world far removed from marble floors and contracts.

Joel’s gaze flicked to the mother dog, then to the cluster of puppies, then back to your hands. The sandy pup chose that exact moment to lick a determined stripe across your knuckles, tail going like a metronome.

If Joel noticed the way your cheeks warmed, he said nothing. Behind him, Elias hovered just inside the doorway, silent as always, taking everything in. Joel shifted slightly toward him, voice dipping even quieter.

“What’s the plan for ‘em?” he asked, chin tipping toward the puppies.

“Ma’am Prescott’s neighbor,” Elias replied. “She’s lined up families. All spoken for once they’re weaned.”

Joel’s jaw worked once, in thought rather than anger. His gaze returned to you: skirts dusted with straw, Benji pressed against your side, that sandy-colored pup still trying his best to occupy as much of your lap as possible.

You looked different here. Loosened, if only by degrees. The pain and wariness were still there—those wouldn’t vanish in an afternoon. But for this one small slice of time, they’d been overshadowed by something simpler. A child’s hand gripping your arm. A puppy’s clumsy enthusiasm. Your own laughter echoing off stable walls.

Joel exhaled slowly, something almost like relief threaded through it.

“All spoken for,” he repeated, mostly to himself. You didn’t hear the soft, thoughtful note in it. You were too busy trying to keep the sandy pup from chewing on the hem of your dress.

“Can we come back tomorrow?” Benji asked, looking between you and Tommy and, without meaning to, Joel.

“If your mom says yes,” you said automatically.

Tommy nodded. “Duke and I’ll be here. And so will this chaos.”

Joel huffed out something, but his eyes cut to Elias again as he turned away.

“Come see me after you’re done here,” he said quietly. “We’ll talk.”

“Yes, sir,” Elias replied.

You didn’t see the way Joel looked back once, over his shoulder, at the exact moment the sandy pup squirmed higher into your arms and you bent your head instinctively to nuzzle your cheek against his soft fur.

You only felt the absurd lightness in your chest. The fragile, dangerous sense that for a handful of minutes, you’d stepped outside the sharp, brittle outline of your new life into something that felt normal.

When Benji finally dragged you back toward the house, straw clinging to your clothes and puppy fur still ghosting your hands, you caught yourself smiling at nothing in the corridor.

The smile vanished the moment you realized it was there. You smoothed your skirt, straightened your shoulders, tucked the warmth back behind your ribs where no one could see.

But the barn, the horse, Benji’s laughter, and the insistent weight of that sandy-colored pup in your lap stayed with you long after you’d washed the dust from your hands.

By the time you reached the dining room, the house had settled into its usual, composed evening rhythm.

Soft light pooled over the long table, catching on glassware and the silver edge of cutlery. Maria was already seated, a glass of white wine in front of her, her posture relaxed but alert in that way she always carried herself. Tommy sat opposite, idly spinning a knife between his fingers until Maria stilled his hand with a look.

Joel came in just after you, sleeves rolled, expression smoothed back into something calmer than the hard focus you imagined he’d worn in his office. He paused when he saw you, that brief, assessing flicker you were getting used to, then pulled out the chair beside you.

Marta appeared with plates. It smelled simple and comforting. Conversation started where it always seemed to with them: business at a distance.

“Alvarez checked in,” Tommy said around a bite, glancing at Joel. “West Lake’s staggered. No overlap.”

“Good,” Joel replied. “Keep it that way.”

You didn’t know what West Lake was in this context—neighborhood, warehouse, something else—but the names had started to form a quiet map in your head. Roads you didn’t travel, deals you didn’t witness, but all of it humming under the surface of this house.

The talk drifted. Maria mentioned a charity luncheon she’d turned down because “those women only show up when there’s press,” earning an eye roll from Tommy.

Then, unexpectedly, the topic shifted.

“Did you see Elena’s latest?” Maria asked, turning slightly toward you. “She sent pictures from Houston. They’re opening a new gallery. Contemporary stuff. Abstract, mostly.”

“I told her half that stuff looks like Benji got loose with finger paint,” Tommy said.

“That’s because you have the taste of a twelve-year-old,” Maria shot back.

Your lips twitched before you could stop them.

Maria caught it. “You read much about art?” she asked, tone curious rather than testing.

“Not… directly,” you said. “But some about the artists. Their letters. Or journals. And criticism. Sometimes it’s more interesting than the pieces themselves.”

Tommy snorted. “Knew there was a brain hidin’ under all that quiet.”

Heat crept up the back of your neck. You stared at your plate. “I just like context,” you said timidly. “How things came to be. What people thought they were doing at the time.”

Maria tilted her head. “Books, then.”

You nodded, a little more firmly. “Books, mostly.”

“What kind?” she pressed, but gently, genuinely interested.

You hesitated. “Novels. Some philosophy. Essays. Old travelogues sometimes. And letters. Between writers. Or painters… — anyone, really.”

“Letters?” Tommy echoed. “Like—actual letters?”

You nodded again. “People are different when they think they’re only speaking to one person. It’s less self-conscious.”

Maria’s gaze sharpened, thoughtful. “Any favorites?”

You should have stopped there. A polite “oh, nothing in particular” would have been safer. But the question brushed against a part of you that hadn’t been spoken to in a long time.

“Woolf’s letters,” you heard yourself say. “Rilke’s, too. Some of the French realists. And there’s a collection of letters between a Russian painter and his wife before the war, I—” You stopped, realizing you were leaning forward, your fork still hovering mid-air. “Sorry, I’m talking too much.”

“No,” Maria said at once, decisively. “You’re not.”

Tommy nodded. “You lost me at ‘realists,’ but you sound like you know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You risked a glance at the head of the table. Joel was watching you, elbow on the armrest, his fingers resting lightly against his mouth.

“What is it you like about the letters?” he asked then, voice even.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of all three of them focused on you. “They’re honest, I think,” you said slowly. “Or at least they try to be. People are always curating themselves in public. But in letters, you can see the cracks. The doubt. The ugly parts.” A small, almost rueful smile pulled at your lips. “It feels more human.”

Silence hovered for a heartbeat.

“Sounds like somethin’ we could all use a bit more of,” Tommy muttered.

Maria shot him a look. “Don’t encourage him. Next thing you know he’ll be writing manifestos.”

“I can barely write grocery lists,” he said.

You laughed. It came out quieter than theirs, but real. The sound startled you. It startled them, too, if the way Maria’s expression softened and Joel’s eyes warmed by a barely noticeable degree meant anything.

You realized, all at once, how much you’d said and how easily it had spilled out. Suddenly shame flickered, quick and irrational. You dropped your gaze back to your plate and let the conversation move on.

They didn’t mock you. They didn’t change the subject to shut you down. In fact, Maria circled back once, mentioning a book she’d seen on the entry table—one of yours—that she’d been meaning to ask you about.

“You can borrow it, if you like,” you said quietly. “If you don’t mind marginalia. I sometimes write in them.”

“Margi-what?” Tommy asked, his eyes wide.

“Notes,” Maria translated patiently. “And yes,” she told you, a corner of her mouth lifting, “I’d like that. If you’ll trust me with it.”

You nodded, the answer lodged somewhere between your throat and your chest. “Of course.”

By the time dessert came—something simple with berries and cream—you’d said more at this table than you had in all the days since your arrival combined. When you finally fell quiet again, it wasn’t because you’d been pushed back into your shell. It was because you were suddenly, acutely aware of how exposed you felt. How easy it was to think of their attentiveness as safety.

Marta cleared the plates. The evening thinned at the edges. Tommy announced he had to “go convince Benji monsters don’t live in the closet,” and Maria excused herself with a soft, “Goodnight,” resting a hand briefly on your shoulder as she passed.

You murmured a goodnight back, fingers unconsciously tightening around your napkin.

Then it was just you and Joel. He didn’t fill it with small talk. He only said, “If you ever want more books in the house, you tell me. We’ll get ‘em.”

You blinked. “I have plenty.”

He shook his head. “You got what fit in one suitcase.” His gaze held yours, steady but not pressing. “That ain’t the same thing.”

You only dipped your head a fraction, and he seemed to take that as enough.

“Goodnight,” he said, rising.

“Goodnight,” you replied, quietly.

You left the dining room in opposite directions, your footsteps echoing faintly down different halls.

A week later, you’d taken to spending late mornings on the terrace outside the sunroom, the garden stretching out in careful lines of green, when measured footsteps sounded on the stone. You glanced up, expecting Marta or one of the maids.

It was Elias.

“Ma’am,” he said with his usual short nod.

“Good morning,” you replied, automatically straightening in your chair. “Is… something wrong?”

“Not at all.” His tone stayed neutral, but there was a faint, almost hidden hint of something softer at the edge of it. “Mr. Miller asked me to bring him to you.”

You frowned slightly. “Him?”

Elias stepped aside.

A small, sandy-colored shape trotted out from behind him on oversized paws, ears still too big for his head. The puppy from the barn, the one who’d thrown himself at your lap over and over, ambled forward, his nose working overtime and his tail wagging with an enthusiasm that nearly knocked his back end sideways.

You stared in surprise. “Oh.”

He made a beeline for you, of course. No hesitation, no caution. He bumped his head against your knee like it was the most natural thing in the world, then tried to climb your shin, little claws scrabbling at the fabric of your trousers.

Your hand moved before your mind caught up. You reached down and let him sniff your fingers. He licked them once, promptly declared them acceptable, and pressed closer until you had no choice but to lift him into your lap.

Warm. Solid. Wiggly. He smelled faintly of straw and puppy breath.

“He was ready to leave his mother,” Elias said. “The others went to their new homes this morning.”

Your heart gave a small, traitorous lurch. “And this one?”

Elias’s mouth twitched. “Mr. Miller thought it’d be best if he stayed on the estate. Said you should have more security when you’re out here alone.” He paused. “And that you seemed like you’d know what to do with him.”

You looked down at the soft, squirming bundle curled against your stomach. He’d already found a loose thread on your sleeve and was determined to chew through it.

“He —he sent him for me?” you asked quietly.

“If you’d like him,” Elias said. “If not, he’ll stay down with the hands.”

The puppy chose that moment to nuzzle under your hand and let out a contented little huff, as if answering for you. You felt something sharp and warm rise in your chest. “I don’t think he’s giving me much of a choice,” you murmured.

This time, Elias did smile. Just a small, quick thing that faded as fast as it came.

“He was called Scout on the ranch,” he said. “You can change it if you prefer.”

You let the name roll around in your head. It fit: the way he’d marched across the straw to you that first day, the way he’d trotted onto the terrace just now like the place already belonged to him.

“No,” you said softly. “Scout is good.”

Your fingers threaded into the soft fur at his neck. He sighed, settling heavier into your lap, as if he’d been waiting weeks to end up exactly here.

“Thank you,” you said, looking up at Elias.

You meant him, but you also didn’t. The gratitude slid past him, aimed at someone not present. “I’ll let Mr. Miller know he arrived,” Elias said simply.

He gave another short nod, then turned back toward the house, leaving you alone with the puppy and the gentle rustle of the garden.

For a long moment, you just sat there, one hand stroking Scout’s back in slow, absent lines. He tipped his head to look up at you, eyes dark and unguarded, as if the world had never given him a reason to doubt it.

Your throat tightened all of a sudden. You weren’t going to cry. Not over this. Not over a dog sent by the man who—

Your vision blurred.

You shifted, sliding off the chair to sit cross-legged on the warm stone. Scout clambered into your lap without hesitation, paws pressing into your ribs as he tried to get even closer. You folded your arms around him, burying your face in the soft fur at his neck.

The first sob came out small, more breath than sound. The next wasn’t.

No one was there to see. The terrace wall hid you from the windows; the garden stretched empty and still. Scout only huffed once, then licked at your cheek, as if the salt there puzzled him.

“I’m all right,” you whispered into his fur, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. “I’m… all right.”

He wriggled once and settled more firmly against you, like that was his answer.

For the first time since the wedding night, you let yourself cry without swallowing it down, without smoothing it over for anyone’s comfort. The tears soaked into his coat, invisible once they dried. Your shoulders shook; your arms tightened around his small, solid weight.

Somewhere inside the house, a door closed. A man’s voice carried faintly, too distant to catch the words. You held Scout closer.

The man who had put you in that bed had sent you something soft and loyal and wordless to curl up beside you on the floor. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t erase what he’d done. But as Scout’s heartbeat thudded steady against your palm, it became harder to pretend that Joel Miller didn’t care what happened to the woman who wore his name.

After dinner you had changed into a soft nightgown and a bathrobe. Scout had followed you from room to room like a shadow with paws. He refused to be left behind when you fetched a book, when you refilled your water, when you paused at your window to look out at the dark silhouette of the orchard.

Eventually, the walls of your room began to feel too close. You scooped up your book, scratched Scout behind the ear, and opened your door. “Come on,” you murmured. “Let’s see if the library remembers what it’s for.”

The corridor was dim but familiar now. Scout’s claws clicked lightly on the floor as he trotted ahead, nose already working, his tail relaxed.

You pushed open the library door and stopped.

Joel was already there.

He sat at the main table under one of the green-shaded lamps, with a ledger open in front of him. There was a heavy book propped beside it, margins full of small, neat notes in dark ink. His glasses — you hadn’t seen those before — rested low on his nose, making him look older and somehow more human.

He looked up at the sound of the door. For a beat, neither of you moved.

“Oh,” you said, your hand tightening around the book at your side. “I didn’t realise you were here. I can—”

The rest of the sentence backed up in your throat. Leave. Retreat. Hide.

Scout, completely uninterested in human tension, trotted past your ankles as if he owned the place, circled once, then flopped down near the armchair by the fireplace with a satisfied grunt.

Joel rose halfway from his chair, hand braced on the back of it. “You’re not disturbin’ anything,” he said. “I was just lookin’ over some old contracts.”

You shifted, weight already tipping back toward the hall. “I don’t want to be in your way.”

He watched you for a moment, eyes steady behind the lenses. Then he shook his head once. “It’s a big room,” he said. “If anyone’s in the way, it’s me.” His mouth tugged at one corner. “I can clear out if you’d rather have it.”

He sounded like he meant it. Like he would pack up and leave his own library so you could have somewhere to breathe. You swallowed. “You don’t have to,” you said quickly, before he could move. “Really. I just came to read a bit.”

He searched your face, as if confirming there wasn’t some answer you were giving out of habit. “You sure?”

You nodded slowly. “Yes.”

He dropped back into his chair with a small, careful movement, as though any sudden shift might send you bolting.

You chose a spot by the fireplace, half because it was far enough not to feel crowded and half because it felt like the right place to sit with a book. Scout lifted his head as you passed, then settled again with a sigh, resting his chin on his paws.

The room was cooler than the others, with high ceilings. You felt it through the knit of your bathrobe, a shiver running lightly along your arms. You rubbed your hands over them without thinking.

Joel noticed.

He didn’t comment, he didn’t ask. He just pushed his chair back, crossed the room with quiet steps, and knelt by the hearth. His hands were practiced as he arranged the kindling, coaxing the embers Marta had left into a new, steady flame. Within a minute, heat began to seep out into the room, the fire catching and then holding.

“It drops colder in here than the rest of the house,” he said, almost apologetic, still crouched down.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He glanced back and met your eyes just long enough for you to see something flicker there. “You’re welcome,” he replied, then straightened and returned to his side of the room.

For a while, there was the soft crackle of the fire. The rustle of pages. The scratch of Joel’s pen moving across paper. Scout’s breathing, slow and even, a warm weight against your nightgown where he’d shifted to rest his head on your foot.

You read the same sentence three times before it stuck. Eventually, the words found their way in. You lost a small piece of time to the familiarity of paragraphs, to the comfort of someone else’s story unfolding under your hands.

On the other side of the room, Joel worked. You could feel his presence like you’d feel a storm on the horizon. It didn’t feel like a threat, but it felt rather strange. Fragile and new.

When he finally closed his ledger, the sound was soft but distinct. You looked up instinctively. He stacked his papers with careful hands, slid the glasses from his nose, and slipped them into his shirt pocket. At the door, he paused and turned back.

“Goodnight,” he said.

You hesitated. Then, slowly, you met his gaze across the space and heard yourself answer, quieter than you meant to:

“Goodnight, Joel.”

His expression changed almost imperceptibly: the smallest easing at the corners of his mouth, a fraction less tension in his shoulders. He gave a short nod, then stepped out into the hall. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the library full of firelight and the faint scent of paper and smoke.

You stayed. Scout shifted, snuffling in his sleep, his head still heavy on your foot. Your book lay open in your lap, the words blurring for a moment as you stared into the flames.

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You shrank back against the headboard, arms wrapping around yourself like paper could stop what was coming. Joel’s eyes shut for a single heartbeat. When they opened again, the gentleness was still there —horrible, unbearable gentleness — but it was banked behind something iron.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “God knows I am.”

He looked at you for a beat longer, then moved to sit on the edge of the bed, leaving a respectful space between you.

His voice, when it came again, was soft. Low, not unkind. “I know this isn’t how it should be.”

You stared down at your hands, clenched tight in your lap. You didn’t trust your voice.

He didn’t push. “I won’t hurt you,” Joel said.

You looked at him then. His jaw was tight, not from anger, but restraint. His hands rested on his thighs, still. He wasn’t coming closer. He was waiting.

“I don’t want this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “Neither do I.”

You shook your head. “I can’t— I don’t—”

Your hands trembled at your sides. The room felt too warm, the light too soft for what was happening. You got up from the bed suddenly and backed up, toward the door. You didn’t even know what you’d do if you got there.

Joel froze, just for a second. “I’m not here to scare you,” he said, voice low. Steady. “I told you, I’d be careful.” He saw it on your face, realized you were unraveling. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“You want to—” Your voice cracked. “You’re here to—”

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t want to,” Joel said, quietly. But then, he opened them again, and his gaze was steadier than before. “But I have to.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“There was a clause in the prenup,” he said. “We both signed it.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t know what it meant—”

“I know that now,” he said, and his voice was softer now. Like it hurt him to say it. “They buried it in the legal language. That wasn’t your fault. And I wish it was different. But it’s done. And if we don’t follow through—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Then your feet moved. Not rational, not decided. You bolted.

You were halfway to the door when he caught you, his hand sliding quick and firm around your waist. Not rough or harsh, but absolute. “No,” he said, quietly.

You struggled and kicked backward, heel connecting with his shin. He didn’t so much as grunt. Your elbows flew, nails raking at his forearm, but his grip only tightened, pulling you back against the solid wall of his chest, your voice a tangle of panic and breath: “No—no, please—don’t—don’t make me—”

He didn’t shout. Didn’t even raise his voice. He just held you. Then he lifted you, one arm under your legs, the other cradling your back. You screamed, kicked again, tried to twist free, but his grip was solid. He carried you back toward the bed like you weighed nothing. When he set you down, it was slow and controlled.

You scrambled, still trying to pull away, but he caught your wrist. “I know,” he said. “I know you don’t want this.”

You froze. His voice was ragged, not from anger, but from restraint. “I don’t want it like this either. I swear to you, if it weren’t required—if it didn’t mean a war—I wouldn’t lay a hand on you tonight.”

Tears slipped sideways into your hair. “You promised me time.”

His eyes glistened and he leaned down until his forehead rested against yours. “I’m breakin’ every promise I ever made tonight,” he whispered. “Startin’ with the one I made to myself.”

You went very still beneath him.

His thumbs stroked over the insides of your wrists, a tremor running through his hands. “I’m gonna let your hands go now,” he said, voice barely audible. “You can hit me. Scratch me. Scream. I ain’t gonna stop you. But I’m not leavin’ this room until it’s done.”

Your breath came in gasps. Your chest rose and fell like you’d been running for miles. You stared at him, wild-eyed.

“You think I don’t feel like a bastard for this?” he said, softer now. “You think I don’t know what this looks like?” His hands loosened. “I’ll be careful,” he said. “I’ll make it quick.”

You hated him in that moment. You hated the law. The family. Your father. Yourself. "I didn’t ask for this!" you cried. He didn’t flinch. "I don’t want you!"

"I know," Joel murmured.

Your palms burned from the fight, your lungs tight. You thrashed against him until you had nothing left. He let you, arms steady, holding without hurting. When you finally collapsed against his chest, he held you there.

"I don’t wanna do this like this," he said quietly. His other hand brushed your hair. "But it has to be done. If we don't… you're not safe. I'm not safe."

You tried to speak, but your throat was raw.

"I’ll talk you through it," Joel said, his voice hushed, almost ashamed. "You can tell me to slow down. I’ll listen."

You looked away, eyes stinging. "But you’ll still do it."

He nodded, once. It was quiet, then. Quiet as his fingers reached for the back of your nightgown. Gentle. He kissed you once, soft, at your temple, as if to apologize. As if that made this okay. “I’m sorry,” Joel whispered against your skin. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

Your skin crawled the moment he leaned closer.

“No,” you whispered, fiercely. Your hand pressed to his chest, the last sliver of control you could grasp. “Don’t.”

His breath hitched as his eyes searched yours, jaw clenched like he hated himself more with every second that passed. “We have to,” he said, voice hoarse. “You know we do.”

You shook your head. “No. No, we don’t. There has to be another way—”

“There ain’t.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the words still landed like iron.

You pushed harder, tried to twist away beneath him. Your limbs thrashed, the panic rising again, desperate and wild. A trapped, trembling thing beneath him. But he didn’t let go. His body covered yours, strong and steady, holding you down with quiet strength.

Your voice cracked. “Please, Joel—don’t do this.”

He bent down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said. “Not if I can help it.”

Joel’s hand came to your face, warm, rough, shaking a little. He cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed under your eye, where tears had already started to fall.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said again, as if repeating it would make it true.

You turned your face away, but he followed, lips ghosting over your cheek. His touch was feather-light now, reverent. His other hand slid down, caressing your side, just to soothe. Or maybe to convince himself this wasn’t what it was.

You whimpered when he moved between your legs. Your thighs clenched shut instinctively, but he eased them open with a slow pressure, murmuring something you couldn’t hear, or didn’t want to.

“Just breathe,” he said against your skin. “You’re doin’ so good.”

You hated that he said that. Hated how soft his voice was, like he was trying to make this a kindness. You fought one last time — twisting your hips, hands pushing feebly against him — but Joel caught your face again, kissed your temple. Then your jaw.

You froze. His lips were gentle, slow, heartbreakingly tender. And that, somehow, broke you more than force ever could.

You lay beneath him, barely breathing. Joel’s body hovered over yours, caging you in with nothing but quiet pressure. He wasn't crushing or violent, but impossible to escape. His knees were planted to either side of your hips now, his arms braced at your shoulders, keeping you pinned between his warmth and the cold sheets. You tried to shift, to slide out from under him, but it was useless. His weight, even held back, was too much. He watched you, eyes shadowed and unreadable. Joel didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, he sat back on his heels.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt. You tensed immediately. “No—Joel—”

One by one, the buttons slipped loose. The shirt opened, revealing a wide chest, lined with scars, muscle, history. He shrugged it off without ceremony, letting it fall behind him. Then his hands moved lower, undoing the belt at his waist.

You turned your head away, heart pounding, eyes stinging. But you felt it when he pushed his pants down. The heat of his skin, the weight of his presence settling more fully between your legs.

You looked back, and you saw him. Thick. Heavy. Big in a way that made your stomach twist and your throat tighten with panic. You scrambled back instinctively, pushing against his stomach, trying to wedge yourself further into the headboard.

His hands caught your wrists, just firm. “Don’t —,” Joel said softly. “You don’t have to be scared.”

You looked at him like he was insane. “I am scared,” you spat. “I can’t—Joel, I can’t do this.”

“You can,” he said, and his voice, for all its calm, left no room for argument. 

Then he reached for you. Your hands flew up to block him, grabbing at the neckline of your dress, your eyes going wide. “No—don’t—”

“Shhh,” he murmured, gently but unrelenting. 

You turned your face away as his hands moved to your dress, loosening the fabric, slipping it down inch by inch. You squirmed and whimpered, trying to tug it back up, but he caught your hands again, holding them at your sides.

“You don’t gotta hide,” he said, more firmly now. “Not from me.”

The dress slid away. And then he saw you. Exposed, trembling, tear-streaked, but still fighting him with everything you had left. And still, his hands were gentle. His voice softened. “You’re beautiful.”

You shook your head, lips trembling. “Don’t say that. Don’t lie.”

“I ain’t lyin’,” Joel said. “You don’t have to believe it. But I’ll say it anyway.”

His hands moved slowly over your sides, warm and steady. “You’re scared. I know. But I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

You couldn’t stop the tears. You didn’t have the strength. Joel’s body lowered over yours again, warm and heavy, his bare skin brushing your chest. You turned your face to the side, biting back a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite anything at all. He was so close now. Lined up perfectly. He wasn’t inside yet, but he was right there, nudging against your entrance, your body already tensing around the pressure of what was coming.

You whimpered and pushed against his chest. “Please—Joel, I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll help you.” He kissed your cheek, your jaw, his voice low and steady like it was just the two of you in the quietest place on earth.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he whispered. “Just let me in, baby. Let me take care of you.”

And then he pushed forward.

The pressure was slow, but it stole your breath. It was a lot, wide and stretching and so real it felt like your body might tear around him. You cried out, hands fisting the sheets as he breached you inch by inch. Joel groaned softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Shhh, almost there. You’re takin’ me so good,” he murmured, his voice trembling with restraint.

When he pushed inside you further, your whole body arched in pain. It was too much. Too thick. Too deep. You whimpered sharply, your hands clawing at the sheets. Your legs tried to close again, but he kept them parted with his hips. Every muscle in your body locked up, your chest heaving as the pain bloomed.

It burned. Your nails dug into his arms. You gasped his name. Not with want, but desperation. “Joel—it hurts—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing the tear on your cheek. “I know, baby. But you’re almost there. I got you. Breathe,” Joel coaxed, his voice low and pained. “I got you. Just a little more. You can take it.” He held you through it, his chest against yours, murmuring soft, broken things. “You’re safe,” he said again and again. “I promise. I got you.”

And slowly, after what felt like forever, he sank in all the way. He stilled.

His weight hovered just enough to let you breathe, but the stretch of him inside you felt impossibly deep, like you’d been filled beyond what you could bear. You couldn’t stop the tears. Silent and steady, they slipped down your temples as your body adjusted to the heat of him, the fullness.

He wiped them gently. “I’m here. Just breathe. Let your body get used to me.”

Joel moved slowly, like he didn’t want to push too far, too fast. But you felt every inch of him. The stretch still burned, even though the worst of the pain had faded to something dull and distant.

Your eyes were closed. You didn’t want to see his face. You didn’t want to see what this was doing to him, or what it had already done to you. He lowered his mouth to your shoulder, pressing a kiss there. Then another. His hips rocked against you, just slightly faster now. His weight shifted over you, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

You were trembling beneath him, eyes squeezed shut, heart racing like it might break through your ribs. You still felt stretched, invaded. Wrong. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple. Soft things that didn’t match the heaviness of what was happening between your thighs. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and full of ache. “I know it’s hard. I know.”

Your hands were clenched in the sheets. He covered one with his own, lacing your fingers together.

“Just breathe for me. That’s it. You’re bein’ so brave.”

You didn’t know why his words affected you. Maybe because he sounded like he meant them. Maybe because no one had ever called you brave before.

He moved in slow, shallow thrusts, careful, like he was afraid of breaking you completely. His other hand stroked your hip, your side, soothing you like a frightened animal. “Let me take care of you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me try.”

You couldn’t speak. But something inside you loosened, just a fraction. The burn softened, shifted into a deeper kind of fullness. Still strange, still too much, but different. It started small, the tension in your thighs beginning to melt. Your hips, once tight and resisting, softened beneath the weight of his.

Your breath hitched. Not from pain, but something else. Something warmer. Joel froze above you. He noticed it instantly. “That’s it,” Joel said softly. “You feelin’ that now?”

You hated that you did. The stretch still ached, but something warmer started to bleed through. A slow, molten heat. The kind that crawled through your belly and made your breath catch for a different reason.

Joel shifted, just a fraction, his hips rocking once, barely moving. You gasped and your eyes flew open.

“There she is,” he breathed, brushing his nose against your cheek. “You’re startin’ to feel me now, huh?”

You turned your face away in shame, but your hips twitched upward. A reflex you couldn’t control.

Joel kissed the side of your neck. “Don’t fight it. Let yourself feel it.” He rolled his hips again, slower this time, deeper.

And your body reacted with a shaky breath and the slightest moan that slipped out before you could stop it. Your eyes widened. Joel smiled against your skin, tender. “I told you I’d take care of you,” he whispered. He stayed inside you, slow and still, his hands cupping your face like he couldn’t bear to look anywhere else. “You’re doin’ so good for me, baby.”

You didn’t answer, but your lashes fluttered. Your body, traitorous and confused, pressed up into his a little more. “That’s alright,” he murmured. “Don’t be scared of it. That’s just your body trustin’ me, lettin’ me in.” He moved again, just a little deeper this time, coaxing. “You’re doin’ so good. I got you.”

You felt it when he started to lose control: the breath caught in his throat, the tension in his body winding tight. He was trying not to come too fast. Trying to make it bearable. You felt the change in his rhythm, the soft grunt against your neck, the stutter in his breath.

Then —

“Shit—” he groaned, deep and low.

His hips pressed flush to yours as he spilled inside you, body shuddering against yours. His arms wrapped around you tight, like he needed to hold you together. He stayed like that, panting, head buried in the crook of your neck.

You stared at the ceiling, numb and aching and silent. He pulled out gently, wincing as if the act hurt him, too. You flinched when he moved, instinctively curling into yourself.

Your body ached in a way you’d never felt before: dull, deep, more ache than pain. You felt split into two people, the one lying on the bed and the one watching from somewhere far away.

He sat beside you on the bed for a long second, shoulders hunched, head bowed. Then he got up without a word and disappeared into the bathroom. A few minutes later, he returned with a warm, damp cloth and knelt beside the bed. You tensed as he touched you, but he only wiped you down. Slow, careful movements, like he was afraid to hurt you more.

“Easy,” he said softly, voice thick with something you didn’t want to name. “I got you.”

You flinched anyway.

He went slower after that. Careful, almost clinical in the way he wiped you clean, as if afraid that if he lingered it would make everything worse. The cloth was warm, his hands steady, but your skin crawled all the same. Neither of you spoke. The silence made every small sound louder—the rustle of linen, the faint catch of his breath when you tensed, the soft drip of water into the bowl when he wrung the cloth out.

When he was done, he folded the cloth and set it aside. He shifted, and for a heartbeat you thought he was going to reach for you. Your muscles went tight, every nerve braced. His hand landed on the blanket instead, a few inches from your hip. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t close the distance.

He reached for the sheet, instead, then drew it up over you to your collarbone with a touch so careful it almost wasn’t there. For a second his hand hovered at the edge of the blanket, as if he might tuck it in around your shoulders the way someone might with a child.

He thought better of it. His fingers closed on empty air instead.

“You should try to sleep,” he said. His voice sounded wrong in the small room—hoarse, too low, like it belonged in a different night entirely.

You stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the lamplight pooling on the wall. The sapphire on your finger glinted whenever your hand shook.

Joel sat down on the edge of the mattress, not close enough to touch you, not far enough to pretend he wasn’t there. His hands hung useless between his knees; he looked like he didn’t know where to put them, or himself.

“I don’t…” He stopped, exhaled, tried again. “I don’t have words that make this better.”

The silence lengthened, dragging at the air between you. You could feel him wanting to move, to do something—sit closer, leave, apologize again—but whatever instinct he had kept running into the wall of you lying there, rigid as glass.

“I meant what I told you before,” he said finally, forcing the words out like they hurt. “About space. And time.” He shifted, palms flat on his thighs, staring at the floor. “I know I didn’t… start off real well on that promise.”

You swallowed, throat raw. “No,” you said. “You didn’t.”

He flinched, just a fraction. It was almost worse that he didn’t defend himself. No excuses. No ‘you signed.’ Just acceptance, settling heavy on his shoulders.

“I’m not—” He broke off, exhaled slowly. Tried again. “I’m not gonna come near you again unless you want me to. You have my word on that.” He paused. “I’m gonna—” He broke off, gestured vaguely toward the door without quite looking at it. “I should give you the room. Give you a chance to breathe without me sittin’ in your eyeline.”

You stared at the pattern in the quilt, at the small stain on the sheet you were trying very hard not to see. For half a heartbeat, something traitorous in you wanted to ask him not to go. Not because you wanted him near, but because the thought of being completely alone in this house, in this moment, scared you in a different way.

But no sound came out. Your tongue felt thick, your chest tight. By the time you’d swallowed the panic down, he’d already taken your silence for what it was. He stood up. The mattress lifted, the absence of his weight oddly jarring. He smoothed his shirt like a reflex, fingers fumbling the first button before he realized it was already done.

“If you need somethin’,” he said, still not quite meeting your eyes, “I’m down the hall.”

You nodded once, the movement barely there. “All right.”

It sounded brittle. Polite. Wrong for the wreckage sitting between you.

He paused at the foot of the bed, finally looking at you fully. There was so much in his expression you couldn’t bear to unpack—regret, shame, something like worry—that you had to drop your gaze.

“I’m…” He swallowed. The word caught. “Goodnight,” he finished instead.

“Goodnight,” you echoed, because you’d been trained your whole life to close every conversation neatly, even this one.

He turned the handle slowly, as if a quieter exit could somehow soften what had happened. The door opened with a soft click of latch and hinge, letting a thin strip of cooler, darker air into the room.

For a second, he hovered in the gap. You felt his eyes on you again, one last time. Then he stepped out. The door closed behind him with a small, final sound. His footsteps faded down the hall.

The quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful. You lay stiff on your side, staring at the crack of light beneath the door until it blurred and doubled. Your body ached when you tried to move; your legs stayed very still instead.

After a while, you pulled your hand out from under the sheet and stared at the ring on your finger. The sapphire looked darker now, heavier. You slipped your thumb under the band as if to push it off, then stopped halfway and let it slide back into place.

You were a bride. A wife. Alone in a bed that still smelled faintly of him. You pressed the heel of your hand hard against your mouth to keep any sound from getting out, and let the first sob shake through you in silence.

You woke to light on your face and the wrong weight on your body.

For a moment, in that blurred space between sleep and waking, you thought it was the dress—that heavy, careful silk pressing on your ribs. Then the memory caught up, slow and sharp, and you realized it was just the sheet. Too warm. Too tight across your waist.

You opened your eyes.

The room was soft and quiet. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a pale stripe of morning. The lamp on the bedside table had been switched off; only the thin, steady daylight remained. The other side of the bed was empty. The pillow there looked used, faintly indented, the linen slightly creased.

It still smelled like him. Not strongly, just the trace of his cologne, something woody and clean, threaded with the ghost of smoke. A reminder that he had been here. That he had left.

You lay very still.

Your body registered itself in fragments. The heaviness in your limbs. The dull ache between your thighs. The faint soreness in your hips where you’d tensed too long. Not sharp pain—nothing that would have sent you gasping to a hospital—but enough to make you aware of every inch where you hadn’t felt anything at all before last night.

Your fingers tightened in the sheet.

If you let yourself, you knew you could replay it. Not in detail, but in flashes—the weight of his body, the sound of his voice when he told you to breathe, the moment when realization had hit his face as he understood you truly hadn’t known.

You didn’t let yourself.

You stared instead at the ceiling, breathing slowly, counting the lines along the plaster until your heartbeat crawled down from your throat. You told your mind, firmly, to stop. To move. To do something. Your body didn’t want to.

The knock at the door was soft. Two taps. Familiar. You flinched anyway.

“Miss?” came Marta’s voice, muffled but gentle. “It’s just me.”

You swallowed. Your throat felt raw, like you’d swallowed sand. “Come in,” you managed, though it came out quieter than you intended.

The door opened with a quiet click. Marta stepped inside carrying a tray, shoulders squared in her usual, practical way. Her eyes were kind, but they didn’t widen, didn’t flick anywhere they shouldn’t. She took in the room in a single, quick sweep: the rumpled bed, your position half upright against the pillows, your hair tangled around your face.

“Good morning,” she said softly.

It felt like the wrong phrase for a day like this, but you nodded anyway. “Good morning.”

She set the tray down on the small table by the window. Coffee, toast, a small bowl of berries. Steam curled up from the cup. The smell of chamomile drifted toward you, warm and faintly sweet.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d manage,” Marta said. “So I kept it light.”

You pushed yourself up a little straighter against the headboard, biting back a wince as muscles protested in places you didn’t want to think about. You tried to make it look like nothing. She noticed anyway.

“I brought something for the pain,” she added, almost casually, sliding a small blister pack and a glass of water onto the bedside table. “Headache. Or anything else that might be bothering you.”

Your eyes flicked to the pills, then away. Heat touched your cheeks, sudden and unwelcome.

“Thank you,” you said.

She didn’t comment, didn’t ask. That, more than anything, made your chest tighten. In your father’s house, everything was either ignored or interrogated. There was rarely this space.

“If you’d like,” Marta continued, “I can draw you a bath. Hot water helps with long days.” She chose her words with care, leaving out everything that hung unsaid between them.

You hesitated. The thought of being naked, even alone, made your skin prickle. But the idea of washing the night off you—of stepping into something clean and warm and normal—pulled harder.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “I’d like that.”

She nodded, as if she’d expected that answer, and moved toward the bathroom. You heard the faint rush of water, the tap turning, the creak of old pipes. For a moment, you just sat there, watching the doorway, listening to the mundane, domestic sound of a bath being drawn as if this were any other morning.

You reached automatically for the tea. Your hand shook enough that the spoon chimed once against the rim when you picked it up. You steadied it with your other hand. The first sip burned your tongue slightly; you hadn’t waited long enough. You welcomed the sting. It was simple. Understandable. Something your body knew how to process.

When Marta returned, she wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s ready,” she said. “Take your time. There are fresh towels on the chair.”

Standing took more effort than it should have. Your legs felt stiff, the muscles in your thighs protesting as your feet found the rug. A faint, deep ache pulsed low in your body when you straightened fully. Not sharp, but insistent. A reminder.

The bathroom was filled with steam. The scent of lavender rose from the water, soft and familiar. It reminded you of the sachets Anna used to tuck into your drawers back home. For a moment, your vision blurred, memory and now colliding, but you blinked it away.

“Call if you need anything,” Marta said, stopping at the threshold. “I’ll be just outside, in the hall.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

She closed the door, leaving you alone with the mirror.

You didn’t look at it at first. You focused on the practical things: slipping the nightgown over your head, keeping your eyes on the floor as the fabric skimmed your skin, placing it neatly over the back of a chair. You peeled off your stockings with careful fingers, folded them automatically. Routine, even here.

Only then did your gaze rise, drawn unsteadily to your reflection.

You looked normal. A little pale, perhaps. Eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. Hair tangled, falling around your shoulders in loose waves. There were no obvious marks, nothing that shouted what had happened. Nothing that would have startled anyone passing in the hall.

It felt obscene. That the worst night of your life could leave so little on the surface.

You looked away quickly and stepped into the tub.

The water was hot enough to make you hiss through your teeth as you sank down. It loosened something in your muscles, though, warmth wrapping around your hips and thighs, seeping into the places that ached. You lay back slowly, letting the water lap at your collarbones, your head resting against the cool porcelain edge.

For a few precious seconds, all you registered was heat. Lavender. The muffled sound of water moving against your skin.

Then, inevitably, your mind began to move. Not in sharp pictures, your brain seemed to have erected a barrier there, a protective blur, but in sensations. The pressure. The way your body had tensed and refused and then finally, reluctantly, yielded because there had been nowhere else for it to go. The sound of his voice above you, roughened, saying you were brave when you’d never felt smaller.

Your stomach turned. You pushed the memories back, down, under the water with your knees.

He had left. That was the one thing that kept circling back. He had done what the papers demanded and then he had put his shirt back on, button by button, and walked out of the room like a man leaving the scene of something he didn’t quite know how to name. You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

Steam clouded the mirror. Time slipped. You lost track of how long you were in the bath until the water began to cool and goosebumps prickled along your arms. You pulled the plug, watched the water spiral away, and stood carefully, grabbing a towel before the chill could fully reach you.

You dried off quickly, briskly, as if efficiency could keep thoughts at bay. In the bedroom, you dressed in quiet, neutral armor: soft cotton underwear, a long-sleeved blouse, a modest skirt that fell mid-calf. Nothing fitted. Nothing that clung. You braided your hair back from your face, fingers steadying with each twist.

On the bedside table, your ring lay where you’d set it before the bath. The gold band. The sapphire.

You stared at it for a long moment. Then you slipped it back onto your finger. The metal felt cool against your skin at first, then warmed. It didn’t feel like yours. It felt like the visible proof of something you hadn’t entirely agreed to, didn’t quite understand—and couldn’t take off without causing questions.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap. Downstairs, faintly, you could hear the muted sounds of the house: a door closing, distant footsteps, the clink of china from the direction of the kitchen. Life, ticking on.

You could stay here. You could ask Marta to tell them you weren’t feeling well, that you needed rest. But the thought made your chest tighten. Hiding had never helped you in your father’s house. It had just made you easier to ignore.

You took a slow breath and stood.

Lunch, you thought. It had to be nearly that time. People expected brides to appear at tables, to sit, to smile—even brittle, fragile smiles. If you stayed upstairs all day, you’d feel the walls closing in. At least downstairs there would be other voices to fill the space where your thoughts would otherwise echo too loudly.

You smoothed your skirt, checked once in the mirror that your braid was straight, your collar lying flat. The woman looking back at you was composed. Pale, yes, and tired, but put together. Nothing about her suggested she had spent the night being broken into a shape that wasn’t hers.

You opened the door.

Marta was just outside, as promised, wiping her hands on a folded cloth. She looked up, assessing you quickly in that quiet, efficient way.

“Lunch will be served soon,” she said. “Shall I have a tray sent up, or…?”

You shook your head. “No,” you said, surprising yourself with how firm it sounded. “I’ll come downstairs.”

For the first time that morning, Marta’s mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. Not bright. Not cheerful. But approving.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll let them know.”

As she descended the stairs ahead of you, you followed slowly, hand resting on the banister. Every step felt like walking into a role you didn’t want but knew how to play: composed daughter, polite bride, quiet woman who did not make scenes.

You had swallowed worse before. You could swallow this, too.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself as the scent of roasted vegetables drifted up from the dining room and your heart began, quietly, to race.

When you stepped into the dining room room, the first thing you noticed was how quiet it was. No clinking of multiple sets of cutlery, no hum of staff moving in and out. Just the low murmur of voices, the faint scrape of a chair.

Joel, Tommy, and Maria were already there.

It was the same room as your first dinner—pale walls, heavy curtains drawn halfway to let in light, the dark wood table laid far more simply than last night’s spectacle. No flowers. No candles. Just plates, glasses, a carafe of water, a bottle of wine unopened.

Tommy was telling some story when you entered, his hands sketching a loose gesture in the air. He saw you first.

“There she is,” he said, the brightness in his voice deliberately easy. “Right on time.”

Maria looked up next. Her gaze swept over you once. Nothing in her face changed, but something in her shoulders softened.

“Good afternoon,” she said. 

Joel turned last.

He was in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled, no tie. The kind of casual that still looked put-together on him. His eyes flicked over you quickly, checking, assessing, but he didn’t let them linger anywhere too long. Not on how carefully you held yourself, not on the ring back on your finger.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You up for joinin’ us?”

You nodded. “Yes,” you said. “Thank you.”

It was an absurd thing to add—thank you for lunch—but the words came out anyway. Politeness like muscle memory.

Marta appeared from the sideboard to pull out a chair for you, the one beside Maria and opposite Joel. You murmured a soft “thank you” again as you sat, smoothing your skirt under the table.

On the plates, lunch was already laid out: roast chicken sliced cleanly, a simple salad with vinaigrette, a side of roasted root vegetables. Comforting, modest food. Nothing that tried to impress anyone.

“Water?” Joel asked.

“Yes, please.”

He poured it himself, passing the glass across rather than nodding to Marta. When you took it, his eyes caught on the sapphire at your finger for a heartbeat, then moved on.

“You sleep all right?” Tommy asked, too casually, reaching for the salad. “These beds’ll wreck your back if you’re not used to ‘em.”

You kept your gaze on your plate. “I slept,” you said. “Thank you.”

Tommy opened his mouth like he might make a joke out of that, then thought better of it. He just nodded and started talking about something safer.

“Benji was up at dawn,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Decided today was the day he would ‘feed the horses by himself.’ Maria damn near tackled him in the hallway.”

Maria’s mouth twitched. “He took a whole bag of sugar cubes,” she said. “I found him in his pajamas, boots on the wrong feet.” She shook her head lightly. “He’s lucky the horses are more patient than he is.”

You tried to picture it. A small boy in oversized boots, determined and crooked. The image felt strangely far away, like something from a softer world.

“He likes the stables?” you asked before you realized you were going to.

Tommy brightened immediately. “Loves ‘em,” he said. “Thinks Elias is some kind of cowboy. Keeps askin’ when he gets his own horse.”

“Not for another ten years,” Maria said dryly. “At least.”

Joel listened, fork idle in his hand. He wasn’t pushing food around his plate, exactly, but he hadn’t taken more than a few bites. His attention kept drifting back to you, then away again, like he was trying not to be obvious and failing by inches.

You forced yourself to eat. Small, careful bites. Chicken. A piece of carrot. Lettuce. Your stomach didn’t want any of it, but your body needed something solid, and the act of cutting, lifting, chewing gave your hands somewhere to be.

Conversation skimmed over you, light and inconsequential. Tommy talked about a supplier who kept trying to switch cut of meat on them. Maria mentioned a charity event she was helping coordinate in two weeks. None of it brushed the edges of last night. No one said the word “wedding.” No one said “honeymoon.” The absence was its own kind of presence.

At one point, Joel set his knife down, glass balanced in his hand. “If you feel up to it later,” he said, directing it to you but making it sound almost like an afterthought, “there’s a library at the end of the hallway off the foyer. Door with the green glass. You can use it whenever you want. Marta’s got a key if it’s locked.”

You blinked. “Thank you,” you said. “I’d like that.”

“Garden’s your space, too,” Tommy added, eager to be helpful. “Nobody’ll bother you out there. If they do, Elias’ll scare ‘em off.”

“Tommy,” Maria said mildly.

“What?” he protested. “It’s true.”

You let the corner of your mouth lift. Just a little. Joel saw it. His shoulders eased a fraction.

Marta moved in and out, clearing plates as you finished, topping up water. Her presence was a quiet buffer that kept the conversation from sinking too deep.

When the meal was done, Maria dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and set it aside. “I need to check in with the volunteers about that fundraiser,” she said, pushing her chair back. Then to you, “If you’d like some company later, I’ll be in the sitting room off the terrace.”

You nodded. “Thank you. I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s allowed,” she replied, and offered you a small, real smile before she left.

Tommy stood as well. “I’m gonna go see if Benji convinced someone to sneak him to the stables,” he said. “If you hear screaming, it’s probably Maria.”

“Oh, it’ll be you screaming,” came Maria’s voice from the hall.

He clapped Joel once on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t scare her,” he muttered, not quite under his breath.

Joel gave him a flat look. “Get outta here, Tommy.”

Then it was just the two of you and the quiet tick of the clock on the sideboard.

You lowered your gaze to your water glass, tracing the rim with your thumb. You could feel him looking at you, but not in the way you’d grown up with—no calculation, no evaluation. Just watching. Measuring how much you had left.

“If you don’t feel like comin’ down for meals the next few days,” he said at last, voice low, “you tell Marta and she’ll fix you a tray. Nobody’s gonna knock your door down askin’ why.”

You nodded once. “All right.”

“You don’t owe anybody a performance,” he added. “Not here.”

The words landed in a strange place inside you. In your father’s house, everything had been performance. Here, the man who had just taken more from you than anyone ever had was telling you you didn’t owe them a show.

“I know,” you said. You didn’t, not really. But you wanted to.

He watched you a moment longer, then pushed his chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor. “If you need anything,” he said, standing, “you can ask Marta. Or me. I’ll make sure you get it.”

You dared a brief glance up. His eyes were tired. There was guilt there, yes, but also something else: an almost dogged determination, like a man who had done something unforgivable and was already looking for ways to start paying it down.

“All right,” you said again. The words felt small, but they were all you had.

He nodded once, as if that were answer enough.

“I’ve got some things to handle,” he said, falling back into that neutral, practical cadence. “You won’t see much of me this afternoon.”

It sounded like both a courtesy and an apology.

You folded your napkin carefully. “I understand.”

He hesitated as if there was something more he wanted to say. Then, with the smallest shake of his head, he let it go.

He left you there at the table, dishes cleared, sunlight slanting across the wood, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall.

You sat a moment longer, hands clasped in your lap, the taste of vegetable and chicken still on your tongue, trying to decide whether what he’d just given you was distance, or something that might one day become a kind of care.

The house felt bigger once you were alone in it.

Now you stood in the foyer, fingers laced together, unsure whether to go back to your room or simply stand there until the walls decided what to do with you.

Marta appeared, as if summoned by the pause. “You don’t have to rush upstairs,” she said gently. “If you’d like to stretch your legs a bit, I can show you more of the house.”

You hesitated. The idea of trawling through someone else’s life felt intrusive. But the thought of sitting still in your room, with nothing but your own head for company, felt worse.

“Yes,” you said, smoothing your sleeve. “I’d… like that.”

She nodded, pleased but not effusive, and started down the corridor off the foyer. You followed.

“The library,” she said, stopping in front of a dark green door with the frosted glass Joel had mentioned. She unlocked it with a twist of an old brass key. “Mr. Miller spends more time in here than he admits.”

Inside, the air smelled of cedar and paper. High windows spilled clear light across rows of shelves lined with leather and cloth spines. There was a heavy desk in one corner, scattered with files and a closed notebook, and two deep armchairs by the window with a small table between them, holding a single, finished glass ring from some previous night.

You stepped in a little, fingertips brushing along the edge of the nearest shelf. Titles blurred past—history, economics, fiction worn soft at the edges. It was a quiet, serious room. Lived-in, but not messy.

“You may use this whenever you like,” Marta said. “We’ll make sure it’s kept tidy.”

“Thank you,” you said. “It’s… beautiful.”

“And quieter than the rest of the house, most days.” A hint of a smile touched her mouth. “When Tommy isn’t arguing with someone on the phone, that is.”

You almost smiled back.

From there, she led you on: down another hallway, through a smaller door you might have missed on your own.

“This is the sunroom,” she said.

It was lighter than any place you’d seen so far: walls of glass, pale tiled floor, plants clustered in whitie terracotta pots. A small sofa, two chairs, a low table with a stack of magazines, a blanket folded neatly over the armrest. The kind of room meant for afternoons and tea and conversations that didn’t change the world.

“This is lovely,” you murmured, drawn toward the window.

“When the weather’s kinder, it’s very peaceful,” Marta said. 

After Marta had shown you around, you found yourself on the back terrace. The air had cooled a little, the sky washed paler. The garden stretched out in organized lines: lavender beds, olive trees, the murmuring fountain, the paths edged in stone that you had walked with Joel before the wedding. The same place, only you felt different in it now.

You stepped off the terrace, following the gravel path. Lavender brushed your skirt, releasing its scent like an exhale. The fountain’s water whispered over stone, steady and indifferent.

You noticed it slowly at first: a flicker of movement near the far wall; the glint of metal at someone’s hip; a dark shape half-hidden by a cypress trunk. Security. Not hovering close, not stalking your every step, but present. Adjusting as you moved.

When you turned toward the far end of the garden, one of the figures shifted position. Elias. You recognized the broad shoulders, the stillness. He’d taken up a spot near a side entrance, one hand resting lightly at his belt, eyes scanning the perimeter in slow, measured sweeps.

He didn’t call out, he didn’t intrude. He just dipped his head in a brief acknowledgment when your eyes met his. Then his gaze moved on, back to the treeline, the distant fence, the cracks in the system you didn’t know how to look for.

After a while, the cool started to seep through your clothes. You turned back toward the house. As you stepped onto the terrace again, you didn’t have to look to know the men in the garden subtly adjusted their positions. The formation changed with you.

The house breathed around you, watchful and calm. You were both centerpiece and liability now. Everyone felt it.

You went back inside and found yourself in the library again. The room was the same as before: the desk, the shelves, the armchairs. You chose one of the chairs by the window and sank into it, the leather creaking softly under your weight. You reached for a book at random—something with a dark green spine and gold lettering—and opened it in your lap. But you didn’t see a single word.

The afternoon light slanted in, warm and slow, striping the floorboards. Somewhere deeper in the house, you could hear faint office voices, the low murmur of a man on the phone behind a closed door. Joel, probably. Or Tommy. Or both.

You stared past the page, past the glass, past the garden.

He left. The thought came quietly, stubbornly, like a refrain.

He still did it.

Your thumb worried the edge of the paper until it bent slightly. The ring felt like a weight someone had slipped on you while you weren’t looking.

You sat there for a long time, the book open and unread in your hands, the house humming softly around you. Not quite a prisoner, and not quite a guest. You were something in between.

The corridor was quieter in the late afternoon. You’d left the library because the light had shifted and your eyes hurt from staring at pages you weren’t actually seeing. The house hummed softly around you, with distant footsteps, the faint clink of glass from somewhere downstairs and a murmur of voices you couldn’t quite place.

You turned down the hallway that led toward your room. As you passed one of the heavier doors on the right, a sound cut through the murmur. Joel’s voice. Low, contained, edged with something sharper than you’d heard at the table.

The door wasn’t fully closed, just resting in the frame. A narrow line of light cut across the hallway floor.

“... -- You told me she understood!”

You stopped. Not quite meaning to, but your body stilled before your mind caught up, your breath caught halfway between your ribs and your throat.

You shouldn’t listen, you knew that. This was his business, his house, his office. But your feet didn’t move. Your fingers curled against your palms instead.

Silence, then Joel again, quieter, but harder.

“Don’t you ever call it implied consent to me, Carter.”

The words hit you like a physical thing. Implied consent. Your stomach twisted.

On the other end of the line, Carter’s voice came faintly through. You couldn’t make out every word, but enough.

“It was standard language, Joel,” he was saying, fast, defensive. “Moretti insisted— I tried to flag it—”

Joel cut him off. “Then you should’ve tried harder.”

You stared at the thin line of light under the door. Heat rose in your face. Not from shame this time, or panic. Something else entirely.

“I signed what they put in front of me,” you’d told him last night. “He said it was standard.”

Inside the office, Joel’s tone dropped even lower. It wasn’t loud, it didn’t need to be.

“Next time you bury shit like that in a contract, you’re out. I don’t do business on lies to my own people.”

Your heart thudded, once, hard. Joel wasn’t done.

“Antonelli can play his games with Moretti,” he said. “He’s their viper, not mine. You work for me. That means you protect my wife from bullshit like this. You don’t help shove it in front of her.”

Wife.

On the other end, Carter tried again, his voice thinner through the door. “Joel, I wasn’t trying to deceive her. It was standard, it’s always been there. I assumed—”

“Yeah,” Joel said flatly. “That’s your problem. You assumed. You ever assume again when it comes to her, we’re done. You understand me?”

You didn’t wait to hear Carter’s answer. Some instinct made you move then, stepping back on silent feet, putting distance between yourself and the door before the conversation could end and the knob could turn.

By the time you reached the bend in the corridor, your heart was racing. You leaned your shoulder lightly against the cool wall, eyes closing for a moment.

So I wasn’t crazy. The thought came sharp, almost dizzying. It wasn’t just you being naive. It wasn’t you misunderstanding. It was wrong. They’d buried it. They’d decided for you.

There was a small, sharp twist of vindication in that, a fragile relief that burned on its way down. You hadn’t failed some test you didn’t know how to take — he test had been rigged.

But layered over that came something far more complicated: He knows. And he’s angry. Not at you, at them.

The same man who had come into your room last night, who had touched you because a piece of paper said he had to, was now tearing into his own lawyer for letting that paper exist the way it did. For letting you sign it blind.

It didn’t undo anything. Your body still ached. Your chest still felt split along a line you couldn’t see. Nothing he said to Carter could take away the fact that he’d still gone through with it. But it shifted something.  

He isn’t indifferent, you realized, with a kind of hollow unease. He isn’t shrugging and calling it business. He’s furious. On my behalf.

That should have made you feel safer.  But it didn’t, it made everything muddier.

You pushed away from the wall and walked the rest of the hallway. When you reached your room, you closed the door quietly behind you and leaned your back against it for a moment, breathing in the stillness.

Outside, the sky had begun to tilt toward evening. Light stretched long and thin across the floorboards. Your dress from the day before hung neatly in the wardrobe. The nightgown lay folded at the foot of the bed, white and harmless. You crossed to the window, fingers brushing the edge of the curtain.

Somewhere under the same roof, Joel was still on the phone, or pacing after it, or staring at a wall and thinking of clauses and signatures and the line he’d stepped over. You didn’t know. All you knew was this: the man who had hurt you last night was also the man who had just told another man, in no uncertain terms, that you should have been protected from it.

It didn’t absolve him. But it lodged itself in your chest like a small, unwelcome stone you couldn’t quite spit out.

You turned your ring once around your finger, the sapphire catching the last of the light, and let the knowledge settle there with the rest of it.

Joel stood near the window, then near the desk, then halfway between the two, unable to settle. The late light cut across the room in long stripes, catching in the glass of the bookcase, the edge of a framed map, the half-finished tumbler of whiskey he hadn’t actually touched.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. The echo of her face from the night before wouldn’t leave him. She’d looked at him like a stranger coming to do harm.

And he’d proven her right.

The conversation with Carter still rang in his ears. Implied consent. Standard language. Moretti insisted.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

A knock came at the door. Once. Then again, more pointed. Joel didn’t answer. He didn’t trust what might come out of his mouth if he tried.

The handle turned anyway. Tommy slipped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“You gonna put a hole in the rug, keep that up,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the door, eyes tracking Joel’s pacing.

Joel shot him a quick, sharp look, then resumed moving. “You told me he said she understood,” he muttered. 

Tommy’s gaze sharpened. “What happened?”

Joel stopped near the desk, fingers flexing once against the polished wood like he needed something solid under his hand. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“She didn’t know,” he said. The words felt heavy, dragged out of him. “Not about that clause. Not about what it meant for last night.”

Tommy straightened, the easy slant of his body disappearing. “You sure?”

Joel looked at him then, and whatever Tommy saw in his face made his own soften with something like concern.

“I saw it,” Joel said, voice rough. “In her eyes. I brought it up—what the contract said about the first night—and she looked at me like I was speakin’ a different language.” He gave a short, humorless huff. “Then like she’d been pushed off a cliff.”

Tommy didn’t say anything.

“I walked into that room thinkin’ we were on the same page,” Joel went on. “Thinkin’ she’d read what mattered, that Carter and Antonelli had laid it out. She signed, I signed. I figured she knew the cost.” His jaw worked. “She didn’t. Not that part.”

Tommy moved closer, hands sliding into his pockets. “Carter was supposed to spell it out,” he said. “Antonelli sure as hell wasn’t gonna do it for her.”

Joel laughed once, short and sharp. “Carter told me she ‘seemed clear.’ Said Antonelli called it standard. Said he didn’t wanna ‘embarrass the bride’ with details.” He shook his head, disgust curling his lip. “Embarrass the bride. That’s what they called hidin’ it from her.”

He could still see her on the bed. Nightgown, wide eyes, hands clenched in the sheets. Not understanding why he was there until he said it out loud.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger walkin’ in to hurt her,” Joel said quietly. “And I was.”

The last word hung in the air for a moment, heavier than all the others.

Tommy’s throat worked. He took a step closer, voice dropping. “You came up here thinkin’ you were doin’ what had to be done,” he said. “Doesn’t make it right. But it ain’t the same as you enjoyin’ hurtin’ her.”

Joel’s gaze snapped up, sharp. “That supposed to make a difference?”

“It makes a damn bit of one,” Tommy shot back, but softer than his words sounded. “Moretti let it happen because it served him. The lawyers stacked the deck. You played the hand they dealt you.”

Joel’s fingers closed into fists again. “Yeah,” he said. “And I’m the one who still put my hands on her.”

Silence settled between them for a beat.

“She was shakin’,” Joel said, quieter now, the anger folding in on itself. “Turned white as a sheet when she realised what I was talkin’ about. I had a whole speech in my head—about duty, about what the contract meant. Thought I was bein’ decent tellin’ her before instead of just doin’ it.” His mouth twisted. “But I was standin’ there, explainin’ it like business, and she didn’t even know she’d signed away the right to say no.”

He forced himself to meet Tommy’s eyes.

“She’s in this house because I agreed to this,” Joel said. “Whatever those bastards did with the paper, I still walked into her room. I still closed the door. I still put my hands on someone who didn’t get the chance to say yes.”

Tommy’s expression shifted, lines etching a little deeper around his mouth. He nodded once, slow. “Then you don’t forget that,” he said. “You let it sit where it needs to sit.” He took a breath, voice softening. “But you don’t pretend you’re the only one who did her wrong. Carter could’ve stopped this. Antonelli sure as hell engineered it. Moretti handed his own daughter over with that clause sittin’ in the middle of the damn deal like a tripwire.” Tommy’s jaw clenched. “You’re carryin’ weight that belongs on all of ‘em.”

Joel said nothing. His hand drifted to the edge of the desk again, thumb running along the groove in the wood he’d worn over years of similar nights, similar decisions that hadn’t felt quite like this.

“Carter’s on thin ice,” he said finally. “One more stunt like that, he’s gone.”

Tommy nodded, following his rhythm. “And her?” he asked. “What’re you gonna do with the part where she can’t even look at you?”

Joel went still. For a moment, he let himself feel it: the way she’d flinched when he got too close, the way her voice had gone paper-thin when she said I don’t want this. The hollow look in her eyes when he’d left that morning and she’d wished him a polite good day like nothing had happened at all.

He swallowed. “I give her space,” he said. “Like I promised and didn’t deliver on the first time.”

Tommy’s gaze stayed on him, steady. 

Joel’s hand curled loosely at his side. “I don’t touch her,” he said, voice low and certain now, “unless she wants it. Unless she asks for it. Not because of some clause, not because of what’s expected. Because she says so. Or it doesn’t happen.”

“And if she never does?” Tommy asked gently.

Joel’s jaw flexed once. “Then she never does,” he said. “And I live with what I already did.”

He didn’t look at Tommy when he added, almost under his breath, “I can’t undo last night. But I can make damn sure every move from here on out looks like a yes. From her.”

Tommy exhaled, long and low. He pushed off the door and headed for the handle, then paused, glancing back. “She’s not blind, you know,” he added. “She’ll see it. If you mean it.”

Joel didn’t answer. His eyes had drifted to the window again, to the slice of garden visible beyond it. Tommy let himself out, the soft click of the closing door leaving Joel alone with the fading light and the echo of his own promise.

He stood there for a long time, the anger still there but quieter now, shaped into something more focused. 

If she ever let him close again, it would be because she chose it.

And until then, he would do what he should have done in the first place: Protect her. Even if she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

The knock came just as the sky outside your window had started to turn the color of cooled ash.

You’d been sitting in the armchair again, ankles tucked under you, the same page of your book open and unread in your lap.

“Come in,” you said.

Marta stepped inside with the practiced grace of someone who had been entering rooms like this all her life. Her apron was a little more rumpled than in the morning; a few strands of gray hair had worked loose from her bun. She carried a tray, covered with a folded linen napkin.

“Mr. Miller asked,” she said gently, “if you’d prefer to have supper in your room tonight.”

You blinked. “He… asked?”

She nodded. “Said you might be tired. Thought it best you decide for yourself.”

The idea of walking downstairs again, sitting at a table again, reaching for cutlery while he sat across from you — his brother beside him, Maria’s quiet eyes taking everything in — made your stomach knot instantly. You felt tired.

“Yes,” you said too quickly. “Here is fine, for now. Thank you.”

Marta’s gaze flicked over your face, taking in the washed-out look you hadn’t bothered to hide. She set the tray down on the desk.

“It’s nothing heavy,” she said. “Soup, a bit of bread. Some fruit. Tea.” She hesitated, then added softly, “You don’t have to finish it all. But try a little, hm?”

You nodded, because that was easier than answering. “Thank you, Marta.”

When the door closed behind her, the room felt even quieter. You moved to the desk and lifted the napkin. A white bowl, steam curling gently from the surface of a pale vegetable soup. A slice of crusty bread. A few thin apple slices, their edges turning the slightest bit brown at the tips. A pot of tea and a small cup, stacked neatly.

Your stomach was an empty knot, more hollow than hungry. You sat down anyway, picked up the spoon. The first mouthful tasted of thyme and something faintly sweet. You swallowed it. And another. It was easier than you expected to make your hand go through the motions. But halfway through the bowl, the taste turned to paste. Your jaw moved, but it felt mechanical. You broke the bread in half, then smaller pieces, until crumbs dotted the edge of the plate. The apples sweated under the light.

Eventually, you gave up. The soup had cooled, skin forming at the surface. You pushed the tray back, appetite gone as completely as if you’d never had one.

You stacked the dishes carefully on the tray, hands steady, and lifted it. It was heavier than it looked. You carried it to the door, opened it with your wrist.

The hallway was dim, lit by a single lamp at the far end. You stepped out, intending to leave the tray by the staircase for Marta to find. You’d barely taken three steps when you heard footsteps approaching from the other direction. You looked up.

Joel was at the far end of the corridor, coming up from the main staircase. He’d changed out of his suit; now he wore a dark henley and jeans, the sleeves pushed to his forearms. He looked less like the man from the chapel and more like the one from the garden that first morning, only his eyes were different. Tired and sharper at the edges.

He stopped when he saw you. His gaze dropped to the tray in your hands, then back to your face. You felt the heat creep up the back of your neck for no good reason at all.

Neither of you spoke at first.

“Evenin’,” he said finally. His voice was low, careful.

“Good evening,” you replied, your fingers tightening slightly around the tray.

He nodded toward it. “You get enough to eat?”

You glanced down, suddenly aware of the half-finished bowl, the untouched fruit, the bread torn into anxious pieces. You could say no. You could tell the truth. The words tangled somewhere behind your teeth.

“Yes,” you lied softly. “Thank you.”

His eyes lingered on your face a moment longer, as if he heard everything inside that single word anyway. He didn’t call you on it. His jaw flexed once, almost imperceptibly.

“Marta said you’d stay up here tonight,” he said. “Seemed like the right call.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t want to… trouble anyone.”

One corner of his mouth tipped. “You’re not trouble,” he said.

You didn’t know what to do with that, so you did nothing at all.

A beat of silence stretched between you. Like both of you were standing on either side of something you couldn’t name.

“If you need anything,” Joel said at last, words measured, “please let me know.” His gaze held yours, steady but not pressing. “If you’d rather Marta speak to me for you, that’s fine too. I’ll listen.”

The way he said it made something tighten in your chest. I’ll listen. As if he knew very well that last night had been the opposite of that.

You nodded, because you didn’t trust your voice. “All right,” you managed. “Thank you.”

He shifted just enough to one side to give you a clear path along the hallway. It was a small movement, but deliberate. He wasn’t blocking you. You stepped past him, careful not to let the tray bump his arm. For a moment, as you moved by, you caught his scent: clean soap, something faintly woody beneath.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly, after you’d passed.

You paused, just for a heartbeat, the tray balanced carefully in your hands. Then you looked back over your shoulder, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Goodnight,” you replied, and kept walking.

You left the tray on the small sideboard near the landing, where a carafe of water and a neat stack of glasses waited. Then you turned back down the corridor, your steps slowing as you neared your door.

You slipped into your room and closed the door behind you with more care than necessary. The lamp still burned on the bedside table, casting a warm circle of light over the bed, the chair, the faint impression your body had left in the duvet earlier.

For a long moment, you just stood there. Then you went to the bed and sat, fingers going automatically to the ring again. Turning it. Again. And again. The metal was warm from your skin.

You thought of the garden. The way he’d walked a half-step slower so you wouldn’t feel rushed. You’ll have space. And time.

You thought of last night. The weight of him. The shock. The sense of your own body becoming something you didn’t recognize.

You thought of the conversation you’d overheard that afternoon, his voice sharpened with anger, the words protect my wife from bullshit like this lodging somewhere you couldn’t quite reach.

You thought of the corridor just now — the way he’d stepped aside, the way he hadn’t tried to touch you, the way his offer had come out rough but sincere: I’ll listen.

And none of it fit neatly.

You had never felt more betrayed by a man. And yet, as the house settled into silence around you and the ring turned one more time around your finger, you were uncomfortably aware that the same man was now the only thing standing between you and the world that had put you in his bed.

Warnings: 18+ • minors do not interact • age gap (reader early 20s, Joel late 40s) • arranged marriage • emotional manipulation • controlling parent • themes of coercion and loss of independence• power imbalance • mentions of violence (mafia context) • isolation • slow-burn tension • dom!Joel one could argue • eventually smut • grief / parental death • complex morality • rape/non-con • virgin/inexperienced reader

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“Why not?” you challenge, always so girlishly gentle in your stubbornness. “Everyone will be at the feast, Marcus— No one will see us, I’m sure of it.”

Your eyes flit between his kissed mouth and dark-eyed gaze. Universes shine in your irises despite the shadows of the labyrinthine tomb. Marcus feels a white-hot knife twisting in his chest as he resists the urge to hold you.

“It’s the world we live in now, petal. There is little use in questioning it.”

“But why?” you question, anyway. “Why must we live in this world, hm? The war is over— We could make our own, somewhere far away from the city. Somewhere no one could ever find us—”

You create heavens with your naivety.

Marcus burns them down with words.

“The Emperors would not stand for losing their general. For them, the war is never finished,” the General interjects in a sorrowful deadpan, aching when your face twists with grief. “And if they misplaced you? They… They would burn cities to the ground in their hunt… They would set the world aflame before they stopped searching for you.”

Marcus knows this because he knows himself — every star in the sky would burn out before he stopped looking for you. He knows this, too, because he knows the Emperors. Perhaps better than anyone else in the entire world. 

Geta and Caracalla were born with the belief that they possessed ownership over everything they touched. Anyone stealing from their Empire would meet a swift and tortuous demise. They were merciless gods who dangled life and death on their fingertips. Only those who kissed the ring would make it out of their rule alive.

And you knew it, too. 

That was the worst part of it all: you knew it.

Tomorrow comes and passes like rolling summer clouds, slow and heavy and suffocating. You watch from the royal garden as the sky turns from a glittering sapphire to milky shades of peach and lavender. Another day gone by that you’ve spent grieving on your own. 

Though time marches mercilessly on, threatening to untie unbreakable bonds, it changes little of how much you and Marcus have grown together. Like cherry trees kissed with the promise of spring, with your roots tangled gracelessly together. It’s a knot that cannot be undone, not even by the promise of death. 

And for that, you figure you must be grateful.

Because as you sit on the stone steps of an artificial lake, twirling your fingers in the warm water of the koi pond, you wonder how dreadful it must be for the multi-colored carp. To swim in circles your whole life, to think the world is only as big as the bricks holding you hostage. 

At least you know what it means to grow up in the rolling green of an infinite countryside. At least now you have gardens to roam in the greatest city in the world. At least now you get to live.

A breeze sweeps suddenly through the garden, rippling the crystalline water and rustling the bright green leaves over your head. It carries the soft sound of footsteps scraping the stone trail. Your ears perk, your heart stops, and your head whips over your shoulder. You hope to see Marcus standing at the steps below you.

Your chest tightens and deflates all at once at the sight of Emperor Geta.

He’s adorned in his white-gold cloak, with his laurels sat atop his strawberry-blonde curls, and carrying a jeweled ring on each finger. The sunlight paints the man in flaxen rays of light. The rainbow-colored flowers seem to bloom with every one of his steps. All you can think is how beautiful he is — much too pretty to be so cruel.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” the Emperor concedes, eyes wide and palms splayed in surrender. His sandals scuff the cobbles with each hesitant stride.

“No, of course not,” you blurt with a rapid shake of your head, a quickness sure to give away your choked-back terror. “I just… I only thought you’d be at the dining hall with the rest of the court.”

“I was. Until the handmaidens notified me of your absence.”

You meet his wide-eyed expression with a narrowed gaze, lips curling into an unsure smile. “How can I be absent from a place I do not belong, Your Majesty?” you quip, though your voice threatens to shake.

Geta’s brows furrow. His ringed fingers twitch at his sides. “Belong?” he echoes.

“The feast is for nobility, and I grew up in a brothel,” you answer, giggling quietly under your breath. “I am certainly the farthest thing from royalty.”

You flash him a gentle smile and playful gaze, but the Emperor only frowns. 

He can hardly stomach the thought of it — of his most precious thing living in the countryside, surrounded by filth, touched by unworthy hands. He’s glad you’re now, where only he can touch you. Where he can make you clean.

“There is a place for you there, nonetheless,” Geta tells you and takes another step closer. He stands at the bottom of the stone steps and tilts his chin to his chest. His chocolate eyes harden as he presses more firmly, “And I will see that you attend.”

His sudden glacial disposition makes your stomach wrench. You’ve grown so used to him now, learned all the ways to keep him satisfied, that you’ve forgotten how quickly angered he can be. You don’t want to remember his wrath. 

You nod at the invitation with a wavering smile, knowing you aren’t at liberty to turn him down, and rise from your spot by the pool.

You hold your gown in both hands as you descend the stairs, flinching slightly when Geta rushes to help you. Sometimes, you think he can sense your worry, or that he regrets snapping at you the way he does. Either way, his efforts to pivot the situation are apparent to you — like he never learned how to apologize, so he’s forced to improvise in the matter.

His warm, petaled hand engulfs you to ease you down the tricky cobbles. 

“I only mean that… it is strange. Being without there… Or anywhere, really,” he admits, talking slowly like each word is foreign to him. His gaze darts from yours to the vacant path ahead. “I find that I am looking for you in places I knew you could not be. It’s foolish, I know.”

His gentleness is perhaps more striking than his rage.

“It isn’t foolish, Your Majesty,” you insist as you reach the bottom of the staircase. You peer at him through your lashes and fake another smile. “I just didn’t know you were such a poet.”

Geta doesn’t understand your meaning. Where was the poetry in his words? How did such burdensome feelings of tenderness make him a poet? 

“Neither did I,” he muses, guiding you out of the garden with his hand in yours.

Though still riddled with feelings of uncertainty, Geta is strangely moved by how you’re looking at him now — with the sun sparkling in your softened gaze, more gentle than anyone deserves to be looked at. So he figures he can be a poet for you, if he must.

You bathe again in the rosehip oil Geta always insists you wear, and dress yourself in the fine silk gown you know he prefers. The pale blue fabric drapes off your shoulders and flows to your ankles, cinched at the waist with a jewel-encrusted belt of gold. Your skin and body are adorned, in this moment alone, with perhaps more money than you’ve ever seen in your life. 

The thought makes your head swim as you amble to the dining hall. 

The silent guards at your side make no effort to rush you for fear of the Emperors’ wrath. Still, though, the notion that they are commissioned to ensure your attendance is not lost on you. Any attempt to flee will surely be met with force — if not from the knights, then from Geta himself.

The feasting is long done by the time you arrive. Mingling bodies flit around the crowded manor in a blur. Live music swells distantly as rose petals fall from thin air to decorate the marble floor. You wring your hands nervously together as you weave through the bustling court, gravitating to the large open window at the back of the hall — where you know the Emperors rest on their plush, velvet chaises.

Caracalla notices you first.

The boy rises from his lounged position — laurels crooked on his blonde head and robe shifting up his pale thighs — and smiles at you with all his crooked teeth. His lone golden tooth glints in the sunlight. 

“You showed,” he announces to no one in particular, just before his wild head swivels to his brother on the other side of the couch. “See, brother? I told you there was naught to worry about. Did I not?”

Geta does not appear happy to see you. His features remain in an emotionless scowl while his smokey eyes rake over your form. “You did,” he responds distantly, if only to appease his younger brother.

Caracalla doesn’t seem to notice the tension caging him on both sides as he flashes you another toothy grin. “He threatened to send the Praetorians after you,” he lilts like it’s some kind of silly secret. 

The Emperors’ bodyguards line the wall behind them, as well as all the entrances and nearly every window. They were like your Marcus — military veterans, strong and sharp and ruthless — though you imagine the only soft side you’ll ever see of them is a fist. They are certainly not the kind of people you want sent after you.

“Well, you were right, Your Majesty,” you grin. “There was naught to worry about. I was simply making myself presentable for the court.”

Caracalla holds his ringed hand out for you as you near him. You bend at the waist to kiss the emerald on his ring finger. The motion is muscle memory to you now. “You look beautiful,” he slurs like a child. “Like a fairy, almost.” 

“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” you nod politely and rise to full height again. 

You feel his ocean eyes on your body as you pass him by, glassy and sparkling with a boyish sort of wonder. A stark contrast to the way his brother glares daggers at you. 

“You certainly took your time,” Geta monotones in place of a greeting.

You stand obediently at his side and twist your clammy hands into knots. “I was only getting dressed, Your Majesty. I wanted to look pretty for you—”

“Nonsense,” the Emperor spits and turns away. You’re always pretty, he’d say if he could get the words out. Instead, he softens his suddenly hardened edges and flashes you a gentler glance. “I thought you’d defied me,” he confesses, as though in lieu of an apology for his fleeting hysterics.

“I couldn’t,” you murmur with a quiet smile.

Not wouldn’t, he notices. Not shouldn’t.

But couldn’t. Like your body was fated to listen to his command.

A funny feeling sparkles like gold in his chest. It makes him fidget uncomfortably on the couch. “Sit down,” he instructs with a wave of his ringed hand before slouching back in his seat, pale arms splayed along the edge of it. His brows pinch when you descend onto the empty spot beside him. “Not there.”

You freeze in place. Your eyes widen and dart to his thighs, spread out and hidden beneath the skirt of his robe. You look to Geta once more and cower beneath his expectant look. You sink hesitantly onto his lap, feeling like your heart’s in your throat as you lean into his chest. 

Your unsure hands curl around his shoulders. His curls brush your cheek. He smells overwhelmingly of musk and wine and cinnamon. Something about it makes you dizzy.

You survey the room from your position in Geta’s lap. Most people aren’t looking, you find, too busy talking and flirting and dancing together. A few noblemen across the way leer incredulously at you, though, like they’re trying to gauge if they know you from somewhere. You presume you likely slept with one or more of their sons during the war, most of which are likely dead now.

A few women crowd behind the chaise — all dressed in muted shades of silk, all dripped in jewels and gold. They’re pretty, effortlessly so, as they talk into their goblets full of wine. Some looked relieved to have the Emperors’ attention off of them. Others sneer at you for it, having no idea you’d switch places with them in a heartbeat if you could.

Your eyes dart across the dining hall, almost instinctually so. They lock immediately with Marcus the moment he enters the room. 

The General wears his black-gold armor and a faraway look in his eye as he leads a group of foreign gladiators into the manor. A hush lulls over the crowd, which parts for him without thinking. Marcus navigates through it with an absentminded sternness, like every step is muscle memory. 

He softens only when his gaze meets yours. 

His puffed-out chest deflates with a wavering exhale at the sight of you, a lamb on the lap of a man who holds a knife to your throat. He blames himself for it most of all, knowing he’s the one that brought you to slaughter. 

“Finally!” Caracalla shouts into the silence, voice ringing through the hushed court. “Where have you all been— In the showers together?” 

A bout of laughter rolls over the crowd as the blonde boy leans over to you. You try not to grimace at the bitter smell of wine on his breath. “Who nearly missed the games, little dove,” he croons too close to your ear. 

The nickname makes you tense. You muster a smile, anyway, and remind yourself to breathe. “What a shame that would’ve been,” you lilt in response.

“The armor is tricky, Your Majesty,” Acacius confesses, voice deep like a cathedral organ. “Especially for those who have not donned it before. Such as yourself.”

There is a bite to his words despite their monotoned delivery. Caracalla pays it no mind as he lounges back on the couch, wine sloshing in the chalice he holds in a limp hand. “Get it out with it, then,” he slurs.

Each gladiator faces the other. One is tall and sturdy, like an oak tree. The other is shorter and lankier, much too young and far too pretty to fight in such gruesome battles. As Marcus’ voice booms throughout the quiet dining hall to introduce them — The Barbarian versus The Might Vincenzo — Geta presses his mouth to your ear. 

“Which one shall we bet on, little dove?” he whispers to you as his hand curls tighter around your waist. His other idles over your skirt, pale and jeweled and warm, though his long fingers threaten to dip between your thighs.

You blink hard to keep your head from swimming. “Hm?”

“Which one of these imbeciles do you think will win?” Geta repeats.

“Oh, um, I— I don’t know, Your Majesty,” you stammer in response. It’s hard to think about anything other than how close Marcus is to you now. How pretty and wartorn he looks. How desperately you wish to hold him.

“Just guess,” the Emperor presses, squeezing softly at your hip. “It’s only for entertainment, anyway.”

How could certain death possibly entertain you? your mind races as your mouth blurts, “The little one, then.”

“Really?” Geta hums in amusement. His dark eyes, smudged with brown liner, squint softly at your glossy profile. They flit across your features like he’s seeing you for the very first time, though you aren’t looking back at him to notice. “Hm. I would’ve picked the oaf.”

“Well, it is the most obvious choice, Your Majesty. Though, I find it’s often the smaller ones that surprise you—” 

You turn your head to look at him. Your breath catches audibly in your throat when you find the Emperor much closer than expected. He’s so close your eyes nearly cross to meet his gaze. So close, that the tip of his large nose threatens to brush the bridge of yours. So close, you get drunk on the alcohol tainting his breath.

Geta’s wine-stained mouth curls upwards in a cynical smile. “They do, indeed,” he croons quietly, raspberry breath fanning warm over your jaw. 

Chills pebble along your skin accordingly. It takes great strength from you to break his magnetic chocolate gaze. You turn away from the Emperor and focus instead on the gladiators circling one another. Vincenzo moves in seemingly practiced motions, unfazed by the brutality of such duels. The nameless Barbarian houses a great sadness in his young eyes — a hardened look of regret, perhaps, for what he knows he must do. 

“Let’s not entertain them for our amusement, brother,” the Barbarian mutters lowly to his opponent, blade hanging limp at his side.

The larger man charges like a rhino. A deep roar sounds in his throat as he thrusts his knife towards the younger boy’s neck. The Barbarian dodges the swing with ease, possessing all the swiftness of a snake as he ducks past his opponent and slices his muscular bicep with one fell swoop.

The crowd gasps in a mixture of horror and amusement as Vincenzo’s blood drips onto the floor like deep red wine. It stains the marble in fat droplets, blending with the rose petals littered at the gladiators’ feet.

You flinch at the sight. Your breath hitches as you turn away — eyes squeezed shut, brows tightly furrowed. Geta chuckles with merriment. You feel it rumbling in his chest as he murmurs, “Don’t be frightened, little dove. It’s only a game.”

Something in you aches when the Emperor reaches for the jeweled goblet at his side. Your fearful eyes remain fixed on his face while the hall erupts in a symphony of violence — of battle cries and laughter, of dropped blades and dull smacks. 

“Here,” Geta offers with the wine in hand. “Drink. It will calm your nerves.”

He presses the rim of the chalice to your mouth. His gaze never waves from your lips as they part to welcome the bittersweet raspberry. The wine pools like blood on your tongue. It tastes like guilt going down.

Dusk falls over the city like a wounded swan. The velvet darkness outside your window makes shadows of everything it touches, only partially diminished by blinking stars and waning silver moonlight. The crescent shape of the bright white orb would fit just perfectly beneath Marcus’ jaw, you think to yourself. 

The thought alone sends a warm, melancholic feeling down your spine — with such an intensity only the tenderness of twilight could elicit.

You slide from the crimson satin of your mattress with a tight chest. You migrate towards the entrance — bare feet padding faintly along the floor, thin cotton nightgown trailing behind you. You stand before your bedroom door and rap your knuckles rhythmically against the wood. 

Twice, once, three times. 

And then you wait.

“It’s me,” you hear Marcus murmur from the other side.

Your heart swells like sunshine in your throat. You smile wide despite yourself, with no one else around to see it. “It’s been Romulus for nearly a fortnight,” you tell him, panting slightly from where you’d held your breath in anticipation. “I was starting to think you’d been banished from your post here forever.”

“You know the Emperor likes to torture me,” he quips, though his usual monotone never wavers. 

It might’ve been easier on you both, if Geta had shipped him off to lead another meaningless campaign. At least then Marcus could miss you from leagues away. Instead, he has to guard your bedroom door and miss you from the other side of it. Torture is an understatement.

“Well, I quite like it when you’re here,” you confess quietly, tracing shapes onto the doorframe with an absentminded hand. “Makes me feel safe.”

You wait patiently for a response.

“Good,” is all the General can think to reply.

Your face pinches with concern. Your chest does, too. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry with you?”

“I don’t know… Our conversations together have grown so short— I worry you do not wish to speak with me at all.”

Though you cannot see him, Marcus flinches at your words. He stands like a statue outside your door, in the middle of the dim corridor, and glares over his shoulder into nothingness. “It isn’t true,”  he insists, voice low but honeyed still. “I wish to speak with you always.”

“Then why do you not?”

“Because it isn’t safe,” he repeats, though you never seem to hear him.

“Will it ever be?”

Marcus goes silent as he ponders for a moment. Quiet engulfs the bedroom all over again, filled only by crackling candles. “No,” he answers after a few long moments. “Not for a long while.”

You feel like he’s stabbed you with a freshly sharpened blade, right between your ribcage and into your bleeding heart. It would hurt less, anyway.  “Why?” you wonder aloud in a pained whimper, knowing the answer will do nothing more than twist the knife.

The answer sits ready on Marcus’ tongue, as though the question of why has plagued him long before you asked it.

“Because I… I ruined you. By bringing you here.”

“You saved me,” you correct.

“I destroyed you,” he retorts, voice heavy with choked-back emotion.

“I would be dead if it weren’t for you,” you remind him of the blatant reality, which threatens to consume you every time you see his face. You wish you were holding it now, cradling Marcus’ bearded cheeks in your supple palms, so that he might understand the weight of your words. “I would’ve lost everything if you hadn’t taken me with you. I would’ve been tortured, probably killed. But now I get to—”

The word gets caught in your throat. You swallow hard and fake a smile at nothingness. The pretending comes naturally to you now.

“Now I get to live. Both of us do.”

There is a brief moment of knowing silence. This isn’t what living is supposed to feel like — fleeting touches in dark crypts and whispered conversations through bedroom doors. Both of you know it, but it’s a truth too brutal to admit out loud.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“You know… We aren’t unspectacular things, Marcus,” you speak slowly and with a strangled intention. “We’ve already come so far. We’ve survived so much— We can survive a little more, can’t we? Until it’s safe again?”

“I don’t presume we have any other choice.”

“We don’t,” you sigh. “Because I love you.”

“I know,”  Marcus nods, with an air of surrender in his words. “Because I love you, too.”

You fall into the heavy wooden door as though it were your lover’s body. You did not need to see him to feel held by him. He hadn’t touched you, and he didn’t need to. His presence alone affects you in such a way that it feels like he has been caressing you for a long, long time.

Marcus’ heavy armor clunks faintly on the other side of the door as he stands up straighter. Emperor Geta enters his line of sight, a shadow slinking down the candlelight corridor. He clears his throat. “Your Majesty—” the General announces, for you and you alone.

He hears your feet pad against the floor as you scurry from the entrance.

“Dog,”the Emperor greets in a cynical deadpan. 

His sandals scuff the cobbles when he stands before the taller man. The torches hanging on the walls bathe Geta’s face in flickering amber hues, highlighting his tired features where the makeup had worn throughout the day. He seems weighed down by a certain kind of grief. The kind that makes Acacius feel ten feet tall.

“Have you been guarding my Empress like a good little hound?”

Marcus nods politely, though the term of endearment catches him momentarily off guard. To be the Emperor’s whore was one thing, but it was entirely another to be referred to in such high regard. The General tries to contemplate what that must mean as he answers, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Geta grins despite his visible fatigue. “Good boy.”

You’re already back in bed by the time the door swings open. You lounge along the expensive satin sheets and pretend you’ve done nothing but wait obediently for the Emperor, while simultaneously swallowing down any remaining feelings of longing and heartache.

Geta enters the room like a rolling storm cloud. He wears all the chaos of the day in his mussed blonde curls, smudged makeup, and wrinkled garb — a palpable sort of disarray. You scramble on the mattress to greet him, like you often do, until he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“No. Don’t,” he commands. “Stay there. Don’t get up.”

You obey, freezing partially upright, with your elbows holding most of your weight. Your face swirls with concern at his look of annoyance. Your heart drops to your stomach in fear.

“Are you alright?” you ask him, though the Emperor pays you little mind as he migrates to the table by the window. 

He pours himself a chalice of wine. The glugging flagon fills the heavy silence. You swallow hard and stare timidly at the back of him. “Are you angry with me?” you repeat once more — a question that seems to accompany womanhood, especially when bound by the innate violence of man.

“I couldn’t be,” Geta answers like it’s obvious, sparing you a fleeting glance over his shoulder. He turns away to down the full goblet in three lengthy gulps, then wipes his stained mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s only my brother,” he confesses through labored breaths. 

Your worry lessens, but only slightly.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s acting like a child,” Geta spits, angered all over again, as he pours himself another cup. “More so than usual.”

“Has something happened?” 

“Nothing that should concern you.”

“Well, it’s certainly bothering you, Your Majesty,” you coo in slow and calculated measures as you rise from the many cushioned pillows. “So, forgive me, but it cannot help but concern me as well.”

Geta is unaccustomed to such tenderness. He tenses beneath it, glances hesitantly over his shoulder like he plans to find a ghost sitting in your place — as though he’d only heard the words in the wind and not from your mouth. A foreign feeling swirls again in his hollow chest, like a blizzard of snow or a flurry of rose petals.

“He’s jealous of me. Just as he always has been,” the Emperor tells you as he stalks toward the bed. He gestures mindlessly with his hands, and the wine sloshes over the rim of the gold chalice until it hits the stone floor. He raises it to his mouth, tips his head back, and down the bittersweet pomegranate.

His neck is long and milky white. His protruding adam’s apple bobs with each languid swallow. A drop of deep red trails from his mouth and down his chin once he’s finished. He rubs it away with a fist. You forget to stop staring.

“Lay down,” he commands, chest heaving. 

Your body obeys without a second thought. You lie back on the velvet cushions, docile and willing, in a way that comes naturally to you now. You’ve been Geta’s thing for so long that a part of you has grown used to it. Needy for it. 

The mattress dips beneath the Emperor’s wait as he kneels beside you. Your mind starts to reel. 

Your brain seemingly anticipates an inevitable pleasure, which comes to you like clockwork most nights. It makes your mouth water like a drooling hound that knows when it’s feeding time. A funny feeling stirs in the pit of your belly and pools like honey in your undergarments. Your thighs clench together when a subtle throbbing begins to pound between them.

You should be grateful when Geta crawls beneath the sheets only to rest his head on your chest.

You’re shocked, most of all, by such a foreign act of tenderness.

Your breath catches when his cheek presses to your breast. He nods gently to rub his burning skin over the smooth cotton. A deep exhale fans from his nose as he rests his body weight against you. 

You cradle him with hesitant hands and remind yourself to breathe. Your fingers scratch lightly over his clothed shoulder while your others comb through his strawberry-blonde locks. It’s a warmth so foreign to the two of you that it threatens to bring you both to tears.

“He says he wants someone like you— my brother,” Geta admits after a few moments of long silence.

“A whore?”

“A paramour,” the Emperor corrects, face twisted in irritation at your use of the term. He focuses on the muffled sound of your heartbeat when anger threatens to consume him. A heavy sigh deflates his chest. His anxious fingers twist in your nightgown. “I told him he could have his pick— Between us, we have plenty of women to go around, but… He insists his mind is stuck on you.”

Your bated breaths come to you in trembling inhale-exhales. You hope he doesn’t sense how frightful his words have made you. 

Geta is cruel, yes, but he is at most times predictable. Though Caracalla may be kind, he is most of all volatile. And there is nothing more dangerous than an erratic, easily excitable ruler.

“And what did you tell him?” you wonder with a feigned sense of curiosity.

“That you were mine, of course,” Geta blurts like it’s obvious. “He offered to share, to which I told him that he should be grateful that I’m sharing the throne alone with him… And now he’s off with his monkey, crying like a child…”

You feel strangely comforted by his words. You breathe a sigh of relief through your nose and rake your fingers through his blonde-brunette curls. “Your brother is a fragile thing, Your Majesty,” you advise in gentle murmurs. “You must be gentle with him.”

“I don’t know how to be gentle with anything,” Geta confesses, half-muffled into your chest. “Least of all, with someone like him.”

“Shall I speak with him? Perhaps I can calm him— make him understand?”

“It’s my burden alone.”

“It is mine as well, Your Majesty. So that mustn’t be true.”

Geta turns slowly to face you, with all the hesitance of someone unused to such kindness. His chin rests on your clothed sternum and bobs with each word. “You shouldn’t have to carry it,” he whispers into the honeyed silence of the candlelit bedroom.

You muster a small smile. “I know. But I will, anyway,” you shrug. “When you care for someone, your brain has little say in the matter.”

Geta falters at your admission. A foreign emotion swims in his chocolate button eyes. He’d rather blame it on the flickering flames strewn around the room. “Is that what this is?” he mutters, almost to himself, when he finds the breath to say the words.

Your fingers in his hair slow to a stop. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

“This… This tenderness,”  the Emperor answers, spitting the word like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted it. His face scrunches distantly, as if it were sour on his tongue. “Sometimes it overwhelms to the point of tears. It’s a… a blinding radiance, like… a knife— lodged somewhere deep in the body…”

You cup Geta’s freshly shaven face between two, gentle hands. He swears he sees the sun.

“Why do you speak of love like it hurts you, Your Majesty?”

He swallows hard. “Because it does,” he confesses before rising from your body. 

You mourn his warmth as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress. He sits with his back facing you. His dove white robe hangs off one pale shoulder when he bows his head.

“I never believed in it as a child— the permanence of it all, of… love. And yet, I… I find myself longing for it anyway. Like a fool.”

You rise on one elbow and resist the urge to touch him. “Wanting to be understood by someone doesn’t make you a fool, Your Majesty.”

“I know that I… That I haven’t been the most gentle with you at times. But I am… I am sorry for it,” Geta tells you in near inaudible murmurs, flashing you a sheepish glance over his freckled shoulder. “I understand it must be difficult for you.”

“What, Your Majesty?”

“To be caught between all that was. And all that must be.”

Your stomach wrenches at his words. Your chest tightens beneath the weight of them until you have to fight for every wavering breath. You take a trembling inhale and rise so you’re sitting at his side, taking careful calculation in the following words you speak.

“We cannot… We cannot choose who we love, Your Majesty. We can fight ceaselessly against it, perhaps, but it doesn’t change fate.” 

You reach out for him with one tremoring hand. You rake a rogue curl behind his ear and hope he doesn’t know Marcus’ face is the one stained permanently behind your eyelids. 

“We love who we love, Your Majesty. And the rest stay ghosts.”

Geta’s eyes glitter with an emotion you’ve not seen from him before. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, as though searching for something in your gaze — sincerity, perhaps, or maybe an equal sense of longing. 

You blink, and his mouth is on yours. Geta kisses you back onto the velvet-satin and settles over you once more. It’s wet. Hungry. Unforgiving.

You kiss him back with a similar intensity, clutching his robe in both hands, desperate to understand him.

Marcus remains on the other side of your door — an invisible ghost, an unwilling witness. He hears all of it, as clearly as he would if he were seeing it with his own eyes. A hollow feeling of yearning and hunger gnaws at the pit of his stomach as he tries to imagine your pleasured form. The painting behind his eyelids is blurred and distorted with time.

He wishes he could see you now, even with Emperor Geta fucking you into the mattress.  He could pretend that he was the one fucking you, at least, and let the image alone bring his withered form back to life. 

You’re together in his head, entwined still, with your mouths bruised in a relentless kiss.

Marcus hopes you’re still together in yours, too.

General Acacius spends most of his nights in the crypt, which he feels is rather fitting for a half-dead thing like him. When he is not surveilling your bedroom door, or being otherwise taunted by Emperor Geta, he finds a strange sanctuary in the dreary tombs. It is perhaps the only place where he is left alone. 

Caracalla is petrified by thoughts of ghosts, and Geta detests history, so neither is likely to show their face in such an ancient mausoleum. Which is ideal for someone plotting an insurrection.

You find him there in the wee small hours of the late, late night. He wears a deep red cloak over his white robe, perhaps to conceal himself, as he shuffles around the room to snuff out flickering candles. You wonder who he lit them for because you know he does not need them. He’s grown too used to navigating in the shadows.

Your sandals scuff suddenly against the damp cobbles. Marcus does not seem startled by the intrusion. He knew you were there by the sweet scent of your perfumed body alone. There is nothing about you he would not immediately notice.

“What are you doing here?” he wonders with his back facing you, voice low with a timbre that bounces off the tomb walls.

“I wanted to see you,” you answer sheepishly.

Marcus says nothing in response.

You wring your hands into knots and shift your weight on your feet. He extinguishes the torch on the far wall, and shadows engulf the windowless crypt — save for one lone candle flickering atop Emperor Commodus’ cracking tomb. Your eyes flit from the flame to Marcus’ silhouette, gaze swimming with uncertainty.

“May I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see why not,” he monotones and flits across the room like a ghost.

“What do you do down here?” you ask. When your voice inevitably trembles with distant alarm, you quip, “I only mean it mustn’t be healthy— Spending so much time in the dark.”

“It’s none of your concern,” Marcus insists with a venom that makes you flinch. He hooks his pointer finger around the hook of the candle holder, and the dancing flame paints his statuesque features in shades of amber. He softens immediately at the sight of you.

“I just do not wish to incriminate you,” the wartorn man confesses.

Your chest aches with an immediate concern. “What does that mean? Please do not tell me that you’re doing something perilous—”

“No,” Marcus interjects firmly, then amends. “Not yet, at least.”

“Explain it to me, then. Help me understand.”

“It’s best you do not know, petal. It’s safer that way.”

The word alone makes you cross. You wish he’d stop using it.

“But I will tell you when the time is right, I swear,” he assures you, though his voice threatens to tremble with wavering strength. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, heavy with an emotion you cannot place. “I will keep you safe no matter what, you know that—”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, Acacius,” you murmur with a stern glint in your eye, clutching the downy fabric of his robe in your fists.

“There is naught to worry about, petal. I assure you.”

Marcus takes a step closer to you despite the voice of reason in his head telling him otherwise. He lifts his free hand and swipes a callused palm over your cheek, soft and warm with sleep. You lean into his touch like a cat. A funny feeling blossoms in his chest.

“I’ve been thinking… About what you said some days ago… Making a new world for ourselves…” He talks slowly and deeply and nearly to himself. You nod against his palm to egg him onward. “You were right. We deserve better than this— Why should we have to live like dogs?”

Marcus swipes his thumb over your jaw and takes another daring step closer. You feel the heat from the candle he holds in his free hand, though your eyes remain on his face. You couldn’t look away from him if you tried. A part of you is hesitant to blink even, for fear that you might miss him for a millisecond too long.

He angles your gently head upward with his weathered palm. You can smell the musk on his tanned skin from here, as well as the ale and mint leaves on his breath. It’s dizzying. The ground seems to sway under your feet at the dwindling proximity between you.

“We love each other, don’t we?” he murmurs in a honeyed voice.

You nod without a second thought. Your mouth waters with the hopes of tasting him.

He nods with you. “So fuck the war.”

Marcus ducks down to press his mouth to yours. His lips swallow your own in a kiss, lingering and languid and deep enough to drown in. 

You melt into his touch with a heavy sigh exhaled through your nose. The warm breath fans across his unshaven cupid’s bow while your hands migrate to his hair. You twist the greying tendrils in your fingers, keeping him impossibly close against you. 

When Marcus goes to grip the fabric of your nightgown in both his hands, the candle holder tumbles to the ground. The gold clatters audibly across the cobbles. The wax light falls on his side, and the flame begins to dwindle on the murky stone floor. 

You wonder, briefly, if it will take fire — if the smoke will give you away, or if the tomb and all its history will burst into flames, or if the inferno will take you and Marcus with it.

Though it snuffs quickly out, bathing the two of you in a navy blue darkness, you figure you wouldn’t care if it did burn you to ash. Not as long as Marcus was there to kiss you into embers.

Marcus’ face consumes your dreams. 

The details are blurred with the haze of sleep, but he was there — touching your face, asking to try again. You merged into one another like ghosts. Like drops of melted honey. Like lovers of Pompeii turned to ash. Every day, you tell yourself that it is unsafe to love him more than you do now. And yet he haunts your dreams, and yet you find more love in you for him.

And yet…

A violent hand pulls you from your gentle slumber. It jerks mercilessly at your arm, snatching you from your peaceful dreams and waking you into a nightmare.

“Wake up!” a strident and familiar voice bellows into the quiet bedroom, lit only by the faint blue of an early morning. The words are punctuated by another rough tug at your wrist. You awake to the sharp aching in your fingers.

“Wha—” you slur, trying to blink away the bleary mist as you lift your heavy head from the pillows. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

“Up!”

You’re urged from the mattress by the unforgiving fingers digging bruises on your arm. You squint through the sleep and ebbing darkness to find Geta looming over you — blonde curls mussed on his head, swollen eyes wide and wild, velvet robe askew on his shoulder to reveal his pale chest. His skin there is flushed red with anger. You don’t know what you did to deserve his wrath.

“Geta?” you gasp through a faint whimper in your throat, trying to pull your wrist from his grip. He only holds you tighter. “What are you doing— You’re hurting me.”

“Liar!” is all he shouts in response, like he doesn’t even hear you.

The crazed Emperor drags you out of bed just to drop you to the cobbles. The thin sleeves of your nightgown slip off your shoulder; the skirt of it bunches at your thighs. You make yourself as small as possible as you shrink away from the man towering above you. 

“I don’t understand,” you squeak through the heart in your throat.

“Liar!” he shouts again.

His voice rings through the shadowed bedroom. You cower in response. He sobers at the fear twisting your features, but only slightly. His heart pounds hard against his ribcage, beating red-hot rage through his veins. He can hardly hear you through the rushing in his ears.

“What have I done?” you whisper, voice trembling.

“You have made…” Geta trails off, swallowing the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away burning tears and spits, “A mockery of me.”

Fear ebbs into confusion. “I have not—”

“You lie!”

“I do not!” The volume of your voice startles even you. You blink up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching for any ounce of mercy within him. 

You find none. 

Just a man made of towering orange flames, threatening to set you ablaze. 

“I have given up everything to be here,” you whimper. “To be at your side. To understand you—” 

“Make no mistake… Your lies no longer have an effect on me, little dove,” Geta interjects through a bout of cynical laughter. He shakes his head and grins despite the tears glittering in his eyes. “You think you are so clever. That you were brought here, to my Empire, to be cherished...”

The Emperor takes slow, daunting steps towards you. You shrink away from him and choke back a sob bubbling in your throat. Tears fall from your lashes in fat droplets down your burning cheeks. 

Geta grins like it pleases him.

“Let me be clear, so there is no longer any misunderstanding…” he tells you, speaking in slow, deep murmurs as he crouches before you. You can see the flecks of gold glimmering in his deep brown eyes from here. You can see the fire swimming within them, too, as he assures you, “You were created merely for me to destroy you.”

The throne room is absent of its usual bright red roses and ornate gold decoration. The chandelier overhead has not yet been lit. Instead, the spacious room is illuminated by an ever-rising sun — which basks everything it touches in shades of melancholy blue. 

The servants light torches along the wall while you and Marcus stand together before the scowling Emperor. Something about it strikes a feeling of nostalgia in your chest, though these circumstances are much different than the ones you were brought here under. Geta no longer looks at you with lust in his dark eyes. He looks at you, instead, with betrayal.

“Thanks to the civic virtue of some good men…” the eldest Emperor quavers into the silent room. “…Your insurrection has been revealed.” 

Your stomach twists at his words. Your mouth falls softly agape with shock. Of any explanation you could’ve been given upon your sudden imprisonment, you couldn’t have expected this one. You thought, perhaps, that he had somehow found out about your meetings in the crypt with Marcus. You would’ve been able to stomach that, at least. Your love for Acacius is something you’d be willing to die by.

But not this.

Not something you were completely unconscious of.

Geta continues tearily. “The honor… The dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you— All this, you have forfeited by your treachery.”

“Emperor Geta, please,” Marcus sighs. His deep voice echoes through the empty throne room like a heavenly, sorrowful instrument. He bows his head and swallows hard, knowing now that he must beg for mercy. Not for himself. But for you. 

“Torture me, if you wish, but let her go. She had no part in this—”

“Forgive me,” Geta spits emotionlessly. “But I have no cause to believe you, General.”

Marcus turns to you then, tired eyes wide and pleading. “Tell him. Go on, it’s alright,” he urges gently, though your silence makes his chest ache. “Petal, tell him— Tell him you were unaware.”

You say nothing.

“Tell him!”he repeats in a shout that rings through the quiet throne room. His trained apathy splinters for the first time in front of Geta. He is perhaps more fearful now than he has ever been before. No war was nearly as frightening as the thought of losing you.

“What does it matter?” you mutter in response, voice fragile like glass. “He made up his mind the moment he found out.”

“Then take me if that’s what you want,” Marcus says, pleads to the merciless Emperor. His sandals scuff the stone floor as he takes a step closer in surrender.  “Put me in the Colosseum— Crucify me on the royal steps, if you must— But please, do not make her suffer for something I brought upon her. Do not punish her for my sins.”

“You are the Great General Acacius…” Geta croons bitterly. “What could one more splash of blood possibly mean to you?”

“Everything,” Marcus answers without a second thought, voice heavy with a predestined grief. “It would mean everything.”

Something in Geta shifts. You see it flickering in his dark, teary eyes. A surge of power, almost, like a stroke of bright white lightning. The corner of his pink mouth twitches as he tilts his chin upward. “Step back ten paces,” he commands suddenly.

Marcus’ brows pinch first in confusion, then relax a moment later when he inevitably obeys. His feet sound along the cobbles as he takes ten slow steps backward. He mourns the distance it puts between the two of you.

“Turn around,” Geta’s voice echoes through the vacant throne room.

You hear Marcus take a wavering breath in. He spins on the heel of his leather sandal until his back is facing you. His heavy eyes flutter shut as his chin falls to his chest. He searches for an ounce of hope within himself, knowing he’d lost all of it some time ago now.

The Emperor smirks. “Good dog.”

Acacius seethes.

Geta’s dark eyes, rimmed red with emotion, flit back to you. Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach — dread, perhaps, or maybe acceptance for what’s surely to come. 

“Was it a lie?” 

“What?” you ask with bated breath.

Geta shrugs, then readjusts his robe when it falls from his shoulder. “Any of it.”

“No.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I am.”

Geta snarls at your subdued emotion. “I am the Emperor of Rome. I could have my pick of whores— You being here is a privilege. Do you understand?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“You came from filth— to the greatest city in the world,” Geta spits the words like so many drops of venom. He waves his hands up and down your form, pale fingers now void of their usual gold rings. “You were just… some whore without a face before I made you better. I did this!” 

He gestures wildly around the darkened manor, voice breaking at the volume of his shouting. His robe falls askew to reveal more of his bare chest as spit coats his bitten lips. You remain in place while the Emperor inches closer. The fear has left you, as well as any instinct to cry — your grief is too violent for that now.

“I brought you here,” Geta convinces himself. His saliva splatters on your cheek in faint droplets. Tears glitter on his cheeks like stained glass windows. A fire flickers in the deep brown of his eyes. 

“I willed this— I cared for you with every bit of conscience as I was born with.” He takes a deep breath and steps back, shaking his head in disgust. “And yet…”

He turns away. 

You’re able to take in a deep breath for the first time in several minutes when he parts from you. The leadened weight on your chest remains.

“If you do not wish to be here, I certainly will not make you,” Geta rambles in teary blubbers. “One whore is as good as any other— Perhaps I can find one who is capable of pretending she cares.”

You step towards his retreating form. “Geta—”

“Go!” he shouts, looking back at you with a crazed look in his sleep-worn eyes. He wipes spit from his chin and quietens, strangled by an unavoidable emotion. “Now. Walk through those doors, and I promise no harm will come to you. Just do not stand before me and patronize me in this way, I will not stand for it.”

His promise makes your chest swell with hope. You remain frozen even still, stuck at an unnavigable crossroads. Such assurances of safety mean little to you when Marcus

has a sword to his throat. 

You look at the man over your shoulder. He has not moved from his spot some feet behind you. His back still faces you, though you notice his hands are balled into trembling fists.

Even if it were true — even if Geta really planned to let you go without a knight slitting your throat — it would mean little without Marcus. You would not know where to go without him. You would not be able to live with yourself if you left him here, not knowing what Geta planned for him. You would be away from the city, yes, but it would not be freedom.

Your instinctual will for survival is replaced by the primal need to keep Marcus alive.

To do that, you must reach for the bloodied hand of death.

You turn away from your lover — away from the opened cage door and the promise of freedom — and rush to the heartbroken Emperor. You clutch his cotton robe in your fists and tug at the gold trim to pull him closer. You meet him in the middle, entwining your mouth with his.

You kiss him. Hard. With enough ardor to snatch the breath from his lungs. His pink lips part for yours, almost instinctually so, and you swipe your tongue over the rough pad of his own. He tastes of sleep and honey and very distantly of wine. He gets heavy against you as he falls into your kiss. His hands cling to the skirt of your nightgown until his fists start to shake.

You pull away only when he’s melted for you all over again, when the red-hot anger has ebbed from his milky white body. A thin string of saliva keeps you connected until it splits against your chins.

“I know… I know you are hurt, Your Majesty,” you speak in slow murmurs, and through uneven breaths. Your fearful eyes dart over his face and find him utterly kissbitten — mouth swollen, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. “And I know that it is difficult to forget pain. But I’ve found it’s harder to remember happiness. Glory.”

Each word from your mouth is stamped with intention. 

You speak of glory only with the hopes that he might remember his many useless wars, all of which Marcus has won for him without complaint. There would be no Empire to rule without the Great General Acacius, who dares not to sneak a glance at the two of you over his shoulder. He, instead, keeps his heavied gaze on the torch hanging by the door. The flame sears his vision until he can see you dancing within it.

“We have no scar to show from sweetness, do we?” you quaver with a forced smile, cupping Geta’s burning cheeks between both your hands. You swipe your thumb over a fat tear clinging to his cheekbone. “How can we allow ourselves to be blinded by anger when there is still so much love?” 

Geta snivels and rests his forehead against yours. His long lashes flutter against his glowing cheeks.

“I wept for you,” the Emperor confesses quietly, words weighed down by tears. “I had come to believe that… If I wanted something badly enough, the sheer strength of my desire would make it mine. I see now that it was foolish—”

“Perhaps it is true,” you whisper to him, breaths entwining and kissing both your cheeks. If he notices your voice shaking, you hope he confuses it with desire and not with fear. “Perhaps that is why I’m standing here now. Because I am yours…”

A moment of silence lulls over the blue hour. The quiet feels deafening in the large throne room, quelled only by the sound of heavy breathing. Yours hitches in your throat when Geta parts wordlessly from you. He sniffles once, then exhales hard through his mouth. 

Your gaze remains fixed on his face in an unwavering stare as you try to gauge his reaction. His features are emotionless, but his heavy-lidded eyes flit back and forth between yours — as though he, too, were trying to measure your sincerity. 

Your fate, in that split second, teeters on a knife’s edge. You hold your breath and wait for him to raise his hand. Not to hit you, maybe, but to sic his guards upon you like dogs — either to drag you into a cell or to be kind enough to kill you on the spot.

Geta lifts his palms only to cradle your jaw between them. His long fingers wrap around your neck like he intends to choke you there. He drags your mouth back to his instead. Your noses smush together with the intensity of his touch. It’s all teeth and tongue and spit. Desire and anger and grief. A billion things he licks into your mouth.

The weight of his hunger smothers you. Consumes you. He could kill you this way, if he wanted. There is little difference, you’ve found, between a bite and a kiss. It only matters how deep he buries his teeth into you.

Your chin shines with his spit when he parts from you. Geta’s chest heaves with labored breaths, flushed and swelling with proud. He hasn’t yet let go of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your thrumming pulse against his fingers.

“Show me, then,” he pants. “That you’re mine… Prove it to me.”

The Emperor goes to step back from you. Your hands dart for his wrists, holding him there when he threatens to pull them away. Geta’s eyes widen in shock.

“Don’t make him watch,” you plead in a delicate whisper.

His wide, chocolate eyes flit over your shoulder. He seems to forget about Marcus’ presence until that very moment. He looks back to you, at the plea swimming in your eyes, and nods once in response. 

“Take him,” he calls to the knights lurking in the darkness.

Their heavy armor clinks together as they comply without complaint. They lead Marcus to the door with their hands on the hilts of their swords. You watch him leave from over your shoulder, in the very corner of your eye. You hope he understands, but you wouldn’t blame him if you didn’t. You find it hard to forgive yourself even now.

Marcus always said that people find out who they truly are during times of war. Maybe this is who you are. Maybe you cannot kiss the devil without taking some of his sin.

The door closes with a heavy thud across the room. 

The weight of being alone with the Emperor washes heavily over you. Like drops of ice-cold rain. Like warm, melted honey.

Geta peers at you with a similar uncertainty. Head bowed slightly, wide eyes glittering from beneath his lashes. You do what you have always done — take care of this man the way he’s asked you to, placate his anger with your body. Giving yourself away is as natural as breathing most days.

“Sit down, Your Majesty,” you urge in a gentle whisper.

The Emperor listens as obediently as his knights. 

The sound of his sandals padding along the cobbles fills the suffocating quiet. He descends upon his throne like he was made for it, spreading his legs before him and propping his arms along the golden rests. He looks like a painting upon his seat of power, bathed in the deep blue of an early morning. An angel dragged to hell.

Geta watches you with an unwavering stare as you take slow steps toward him. His brown-eyed gaze goes glassy at the sight of you, an angelic thing all dressed in white. His thighs part to welcome you between them. He tenses under your palms when they smooth over his milky white chest, past the sparse chestnut hair littered there and down to the tie of his robe.

His stomach rises and falls in heavy, uneven pants under your touch. You unknot the string with bated breath, then brush the golden trimming to his sides. He’s bare underneath it, likely from where he’d been brutally roused from his slumber. His cock is on immediate display — resting on his fuzzy thighs, half-hard and glowing red at the tip.

You descend to your knees to take care of him on instinct. His hands dart to your shoulders to stop you. “Ride me,” he commands, though it sounds more like a plea as it spills his swollen mouth.

Wordlessly, you straddle his thighs. The cotton fabric of your nightgown bunches at your hips. You spit into your palm and reach between your bodies for his cock in a single practiced motion. He feels like velvet in your fist. 

Geta’s nostrils flare with a heavy exhale when your hand drags up the length of his cock. His head tips back onto his throne when your fist falls back down again. Your lips find the expanse of his long, white neck like a deep-seated compulsion. You kiss his pulse as though it were his mouth. He cradles the crown of your head and brings his lips to your ear.

“You love me,” he sighs within a moan when your thumb brushes the head of his drooling cock.

You can’t tell if it’s a command to repeat the words back to him, or an affirmation he repeats only for himself. Either way, you nod in response and line his stiff cock at your entrance. Geta’s mouth parts in a silent moan at the feeling of your silky cunt. 

“I do,” you whisper just before you mount him. 

There is a dull ache in your belly when he pierces you, though you’ve grown accustomed to his length with time. Your satin folds split to welcome every inch of him accordingly. Your hips rock back and forth over his supple thighs and your velvety walls pulse around him, swallowing him further inside.

Your breathy moans entwine and fill the air. You keep a white-knuckled grip on the back of the golden throne as you ride him, without break and without mercy — in spite of the burning sensation in your thighs. You tell yourself it’s to finish him quickly, though a primal part of you chases after your own pleasure.

Geta’s breaths leave his parted mouth in huffed exhales as you bounce on top of him. He mourns the sight of him disappearing in and out of your glistening pussy but fights to keep his eyes open to watch the rest of you. Your fucked-out face swirls in a mixture of concentration and pleasure as Geta lifts his hand for the collar of your gown.

He unties the dainty knot at your sternum and tugs the fabric down your chest, baring your breasts for him. His mouth waters at sight of your plush skin, moving in time with your rhythmic grinds over his lap. 

A strangled moan sounds in your throat when he takes your left nipple in his mouth. You caress the back of his head, twisting your fingers in his honey hair in an effort to keep him close. He runs the rough pad of his tongue over your sensitive tit and smiles when he hears you whimpering. 

“You love this,” he mutters against your chest. “You love when I fuck you. ”

You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“God—” he grunts through gritted teeth, tipping his head back when one particular grind makes him twitch inside you. His hands grip your thighs over your skirt. His fingers threaten to sear bruises onto your skin. “Your pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it?”

You nod again.

His right hand parts from you only to come down a moment later. The dull smack of his palm against your clothed hip echoes through the throne room. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes,” you squeak with your face scrunched, trembling when your clit drags across the thatch of pubic hair at the base of Geta’s cock.

“Who’s cunt is this?”

“Yours—”

His hand lifts again. You hear the impact of his palm against your ass before you feel it, a subtle stinging you find a strange comfort in. Geta laughs in maniacal, breathy chuckles when you keen for him. 

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yours!” you exclaim in a feeble gasp, clutching the Emperor to your chest. You shudder on top of him when an orgasm rakes suddenly through your body. It flows quickly and without mercy, but never quite ebbs. You’re left a whimpering, weeping mess while the aftershocks of your pleasure consume you. 

“It’s yours,” you squeak in nearly inaudible blubbers, pressing your kissed mouth to the shell of Geta’s ear, repeating the phrase like it’s the only one you remember. “’S your pussy… It’s yours…”

The words alone are enough to make Geta burst inside of you. 

He tenses all over. His dull nails press crescent shapes into the skin of your thighs. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a guttural moan. You feel his cock jerk with your drooling confines right before he spits several loads of cum inside you. Your cunt pulses around him, instinctually milking him for every drop of liquid pleasure, and a whimper sounds in Geta’s throat.

You feel it bloom in the pit of your belly like a flower — something soft and warm and seeping. As the two of you relax against one another with wavering exhales, you feel his cum leaking out of you like drops of summer rain. It pools on his lap and drips down to the throne underneath him, tainting the gold with a mixture of your sin.

It proves a point. Marks a territory.

Geta swells with pride.

Your back slouches as you melt into his body. You hide your burning face in his neck as his feverish grip on you loosens. Geta twitches beneath you when your cunt pulsates around his softening cock. “Mm…” you hear him hum, mixed with a laugh you feel rumbling in his chest. His head tilts back as a lopsided smile tugs deliriously at his mouth.

He runs a gentle hand up and down your spine, a reminder of his being there despite your feeble efforts to dissociate your brain from your body. You can’t ignore the warmth of his touch on your tingling skin, or the way your hearts press together and beat to the same rhythm.

A distant feeling of acceptance pools in the pit of your belly along with the Emperor’s cum. Your grief is a much more discreet thing, however, and you miss Marcus like an unstitched wound that won’t stop bleeding. Like a knife lodged somewhere deep in the body.

“I think… I think I’ve found an adequate punishment for the General,” Geta pants, the crooked grin audible in his words. “Perhaps he will learn his lesson when I’ve fucked a child into you—”

You tense when the Emperor’s palm splays over your stomach.

“—Perhaps then he’ll understand that you’re mine.”

You were only a small child when the world ended.

You have no recollection of the headlines on the news, or the warnings on the radios. Just the look on your mother’s face as she shut the television off, mid-sentence, face pale, hands trembling. You remember your father, stern faced, throwing bags into the back of the family pick-up. As the sirens wailed, you watched out the car window, looking back at your childhood home. Recognizing that your family as you know it will change.

As you got older, people would tell you it would pass, but it never did. The infected never got better, the numbers continued to rise. Each passing day it seems things got scarier. The infection got worse, soon as you’d meet a family with a kid your age they’d be gone. No stable friends and no one to lean on except your parents—until your father went out for a small supply run and never came back.

You recall the alarms, ID checks, and the sounds of footsteps, almost always, running for their lives. You remember being in a rundown, dingy house with mold covering the single mattress in the living room. Hiding under the table as your mother whispered. “No matter what happens to me, you must stay quiet.” You remember three gunshots. Her Screams. Silence.

Since then you’ve always been moving. The best way to stay alive was to not stay in one place for too long. Teaching yourself to sleep light and run fast. You learned how to trade, how to fight, and how to kill. Soon stopped asking what happened to people who went missing. You learned how to put yourself first, and finally, stopped waiting for someone to save you.

But now, twenty years later, miraculously you’re still alive. Some would thank god or some other wonder of the world but you can only thank yourself, and now, your community.

Moving to Jackson shortly after people found you on their patrol routes, cooped up in an old shed, eating peaches with a knife. Pale, malnourished, and screaming they never judged your state instead—they took you in. You got your own small home, hot meals and a job. With you being young and strong, your thick skin and experience was put to task, training for patrolling duties.

Although weary, you learn to slowly trust others and make yourself a part of the community. Some days waking up, tank top drenched in sweat, shaking, you expect it to all be gone, yet you look up and see the moonlight shining through the curtains everything is still here. You still belong to something.

As the seasons changed, the night terrors got less frequent, finally smiling back at the children who’ve never seen the horrors outside of Jackson’s walls. Although softer, you became sharper. You learned how to handle weapons you’ve never touched before. You perfected your stealth, quiet footsteps became silent. The next step was getting healthy, sustaining your body with the nutrients it was lacking, you were stronger than ever before.

Outside the walls, things slowly start to slow down. Red leaves turned brown and full trees became bare. Skies turned to daily snowfall. Raiders and infected are few and far in between. Routines become easier and although they roam outside. Inside Jackson, life is flourishing, and so are you.

You don’t talk much about anything that has happened before; about the years between then and now. Not relating to the average pre-outbreak story, yet, you sit and listen, imagining a life as a normal adult. But, as time goes on, every time you help teach someone to shoot or, lending a hand with picking crops in the greenhouse, you feel a feeling you haven’t felt since you were younger.

You feel like maybe, you’re finally living.

You liked your patrol partner Joel. He was quiet, older, and kept to himself. You two could go days without speaking of anything unimportant. The casual conversations, although easy, weren’t needed. You two really learned to get one another. Although unsure if he’d consider you a friend, you enjoyed his company.

To him you were a fresh face, officially meeting a couple weeks back training with Jesse, during the end of your preparation for patrol duty. Soon after you two became a team, pairing together as you're new and he’s older, and much more experienced. You each learned about each other, you studying him and him studying you. For you both, body language and silent cues suddenly became your strong suit.

A couple weeks into your fairly new route, you landscaped a small abandoned shed, squatting over in a corner out of his direct sight. As you were scavenging through cans older than you, suddenly, something came at you faster than you could pull a weapon. Falling back with your arms raised above you face, clamping your eyes shut, you prepared for the bite. Before you could scream, shots rang in your ears as the creature was taken out. Opening your eyes dumbfounded, you were met with Joel's gloved hand.

“Y’needa stick with me darlin. can’t risk you getting’ hurt” He said, eyes boring into yours as he helps, gently lifting you up.

From that day on you started to look at Joel differently. Knowing he not only respected you but protected you. He’s crouched down examining a berry bush, for you of course, finding the bush, you barreled towards it, squealing. Joel’s taking a glove off before flipping through the worn, sun bleached ‘Forageables for Beginners’ book, you find yourself staring.

Around his broad shoulders lies the rifle sling, resting behind him over his battered leather jacket. His brown jacket reminds you of his coffee colored eyes and how quickly they can sense danger. The sun spotted crows feet, sharp yet soft, shape his eyes in a way in which they have slowly become your favorite painting. The bright sky and white snow reflects against his features, soft jawline feathered with the same silver hairs that graces his head of soft curls.

Suddenly Joel rises, boots crunching in the snow. He glances at you and suddenly, your frostbitten cheeks feel warm. You pretend you weren’t just counting the freckles on his cheeks, or memorizing his faint scar on his nose. Quickly, you drop your head down to your feet a little too fast, feeling dizzy. You know he had just caught you red-handed, staring. Of course, Joel doesn’t say a word about the sudden shift in the air, just nods his head to the bush.

“Bitter berries ... safe, but with that name probably ain’t gonna taste that good.” He grunts, knees cracking, as he stands upright.

He steps closer, walking past his shoulder brushes yours. As if right on time, your body tingles as you catch his scent, earthy, sweaty yet clean, evoking a primal feeling throughout your body. Quickly, heat trickles down your neck, you bend down picking a handful of the fruit sticking the red berries into your satchel.

By the time you reach home, the sky has turned dark blue, clouds long gone slipping behind the slopes in the Wyoming mountains. Your body feels heavy, peeling the gloves off numb fingertips and unlacing your muddy soot covered boots. Your bones are aching, joints sore as you slip off the wet jacket. Staring out the small living room window you began watching the snow fall.

Unfortunately for you, the only thing on your mind is him.

You can’t stop thinking about Joel as you get ready for bed. Your hot lavender tea turns cold as it sits on your nightstand. Laying down, you replay his movements in your head. His mouth when he talks and licks his lips, or how he grips his knife, the veins on his arms bulging out. How you meet his eyes shamelessly but he doesn't look away.

You’ve spent your whole life successfully avoiding this feeling, pushing others away, building up walls to protect yourself. But there’s just something about him that drives you crazy. How he’s able to perfectly seep into every aspect of your life, how you've adapted to each other, moving together seamlessly through danger. You sigh, standing up, cracking the window, allowing the icy weather to fill your small bedroom. Laying back down you close your eyes, goosebumps invade your skin as you wonder, maybe he’s thinking about you too.

It could be possible, in his bed where he lays, heavy, as the bed rises slightly on the empty side, imagining it was you there instead. Maybe he feels the glances, the tension building up. He could watch you, bent down staring at the curve of your ass in his favorite blue jeans. He watches, as you shed winter proof layers, preparing for some sleep as he takes the first shift. He’s watching, mouth agape, eyes following the steady rise and fall of your breathing. The swell of your breasts in the lace bra, the color and shape poking through the thin, aged henley. He watches in town, how your hair falls over your shoulder and how your head tilts back as you belly laugh when something’s funny. Surly, he’s watching, the weeknight gatherings at the Tipsy Bison, your hips swaying slowly to the old ballad playing as you nurse your favorite drink. Maybe just maybe, he’s hopeful, your thinking of him too.

Joel thinks the years haven’t been the kindest to him. Ellie often tends to even tease him, bantering on about his old age and hearing problems. Looking in the mirror he sees a monster, a deeply troubled man who doesn’t deserve to love. A violent killer, with a broken heart and walls of steel. Losing everyone and everything important to him has caused him to be a shell of his past self, one that left the same day his daughter did. With getting older, he believes he can simply push his feelings down. But at the end of the day, he is a man first and foremost.

When he first saw you, he felt as if he couldn’t stop staring. Cheeks hot he cleared his throat as a shitty attempt at pulling himself together. Joel believed becoming partners with you would be his worst nightmare, until he got to know you. Joel knew the longer he spent around you the walls would come down and before he could build them back up, you destroyed them.

In the morning, Joel stood at your usual meeting spot around the stables and realized you hadn't shown up. He's confused, as you always show up at the same exact time every patrol. At fifteen after, he decides to start the walk over to your home, assuming maybe you overslept or you’re running late. As he approaches your door he softly knocks, then knocks again louder this time but there's no answer.

“Dammit girl.” He mutters, becoming worried, hoping everything’s okay. He snatches the key under the dead plant on your doorstep and steps in.

Joel takes note of your living room, decorated with clutter on the counters as he calls your name. Suddenly, he’s hearing a faint noise; stepping toward the open bedroom door. The cold air from the open window washes over his face as he looks in, seeing you his jaw drops.

Your see-through, white tank top has ridden up your body, revealing the slope of your waist. The faint outline of your nipples exposed perked from the cold winter air. Looking down, he sees your smooth legs straddling a pillow in your sleep. The large wet spot on your tiny panties is doing little to the imagination as your lips engulf the fabric as you slowly grind against the pillow, the friction causing you to whimper.

Joel feels dirty, his movements still as all he could do is watch. The very moment he’s dreamt about, during late nights fisting his cock, feeling guilty as he cums, falling asleep thinking of you. Washing his shame away in the shower the morning after.

Seconds that feel like hours go by but as he’s about to turn away he hears it.

“Joel.” You purr, his name fluttering across your lips.

That makes him do a double take. At first he thinks he imagined it, but now, he can’t think straight, throat dry and chest tight, he’s shocked. He knows by now he needs to leave but he can’t. He should be walking out, shutting your door and you’d be none the wiser and things could remain the same but, he couldn’t.

Joel allowed himself to stand there, heavy feet planted against the hardwood floor and feel it.

He felt on fire, the tent growing in his jeans. All the feelings he’s bottled come rushing through his mind, he feels like he's drowning. You’re too young, he thinks, a girl with her whole life ahead of her, he believes he’d hold you back. He believes no one could have such thoughts about him anymore and yet, you lay sleeping, fucking your pillow, dreaming about him. You were mewling his name like he was the church and you were the choir. As fingers tensed against his sides, he knew it wasn’t right, if he started something he wouldn’t be able to stop, and that scares him.

Abruptly, your eyes shoot open toward his direction, you gasp, making direct eye contact with the very man from your dream.

“Joel, what the hell are you doing here!” You screamed, panicked, thrashing your arms around in an attempt to cover yourself.

“Why didn’t you knock? How much did-” you started, heat rising up to your ears, tears prickling your waterline.

Joel cut you off before you could finish “You were late, didn’t answer the door or nothin’ and I- just I thought-“

Grabbing your comforter, you sat up dumbfounded, blinking at him. “You barged into my house?”

“Swiped the key, y’told me bout it, for emergencies. Thought this was one.” He said feeling defeated.

You just sat there speechless, tears streaming down your face head spinning figuring out what to say next as you just destroyed any normalcy between you and the older man.

“Why don’t you go on and get dressed, I’ll be out on the porch, I’ll even put your key back.” Joel said awkwardly, turning around and heading out your bedroom door.

As Joel continued to walk out the house you called out to him. Legs weak, he stopped.

You didn’t need to say anything else to him and he couldn’t look back.

Joel started, “You were moaning my name like you meant it.” His voice low, “and darlin’, I don’t think you realize what that does to an old man like me. But I sure know, I'm going to be thinking about it all damn day, hell, I’ll be thinking ‘bout it rest of my life.” He ended, painfully stepping out of your house.

You stood there, watching him walk away too scared to confront the issue.

You and Joel didn’t talk about what happened all week. That morning you rinsed your face with cold water, got dressed and marched over to Tommy’s house to let him know you needed a new patrol partner and confided, vaguely, that you and Joel currently aren’t on good terms. Similarly that same evening over a beer, Joel let Tommy know about his own change of plans. Asking if he could be put on patrol with him or Eugene truly, anyone but you.

Your days went on, running smaller patrols with Tommy, picking up shifts around town wherever you could to keep yourself busy. Avoiding Joel was easy, knowing the older man’s schedule you only saw him once, walking into the dining hall as you were walking out. You glanced over at him, taking a mental note of his appearance. Eyes sunken in with his hair in an unruly state, you could tell, the guilt was getting to him as much as it was to you.

Joel always considered himself a respectful man towards women, he knew there were lines and how not to cross them. He decided to back off and give you space, hoping you’d come around. He realized you were successfully ignoring him, as every time he saw you he’d blink, and you were gone. He has accepted his fate, realizing he messed up things with the one person in Jackson who understands, he messed up things with you. The guilt didn’t subside, instead he learned to carry it with him just how he carries everything else.

Later in the week, Joel was getting ready for bed, opening up a new book he found when he heard it.

She knocked once. It wasn’t a quiet knock, nor an aggressive one of someone demanding answers. She knocked only once and waited.

Instantly, Joel knew it was you, he didn’t even have to look. As he opened the door slowly, stepping aside,you barged in. She had been here before once, in the early days of patrol before everything had changed. Back before looking at her didn't kill him inside.

“So… you started, are you going to tell me why you're acting like a stranger?” You started, walking deeper into the wide space. “Or, am I going to have to take a guess?” Continuing, as Joel closed the door behind him.

“I don’t wanna fight.” Joel claimed, refusing to look at you.

“I don't want to fight either, I just want the truth.” You replied, staring up at him. “You saw me that morning, you saw everything and decided to avoid me. You didn’t even check on me.” You went on softly, sounding defeated.

That’s when he finally looked at you. The expression on his face made your stomach turn, it wasn’t just guilt, it was shame.

“I ain’t proud of it.” He said quietly “I wish I could've looked away but I couldn’t.”

“Why?” You said,daring him for the truth.

“Cus I wanted that moment to be real.” He said, voice raw.

That stopped you.

“I needed that moment to be real. The way you were breathin’ my name made me feel wanted. I felt like I meant something to you, like I’m not just some old, broken man.” He confessed, brown eyes skimming over your features.

You stood there breathless as he proceeded.

“You think I don't dream about you too?” Voice rough. “You think I don't wake up reaching for someone who ain’t there?”

That’s when he stepped forward.

“I’ve spent every day tellin’ myself you deserve someone better, someone younger, and that I’ve been keeping my distance for your own good.” He exclaimed, waving his hand in the air.

“And how’d that make you feel?” You said, stepping forward, continuing to cross the line of friendship.

“All it did was make me want you more.” He said, stepping close enough to catch your breath on his face.

“Then prove it.”

Suddenly, his lips crashed against yours. The kiss is all teeth as you both feel the frustration leave your bodies, your pulling away.

“You stood in that doorway.” You said, “and you saw how I felt before I could say it out loud. And you walked away from me.” Breath shallow, you rest your forehead against his, eyes scanning his face.

Joel swallowed hard, looking into your eyes. “Because I was afraid.”

“Me too…think I still am.” You hummed softly, placing your trembling hands on his warm,calloused ones.

“Darlin’ I don’t know if I deserve you.” He whispered.

“I think I know exactly what I want.”

Without another word spoken, Joel kissed you again. But this time, it was harder. His lips tasted of whisky and mint, as stubble grated against your cheeks, lips matching his, you both melted together. Afraid to let someone in—you were terrified, finally letting go of the last feeling holding you back from living, you felt complete.

Joel's hand rose to caress your cheek, trying to get as close to you as possible, as his other trailed down to grab the small of your waist, you gasped.

“You have no clue how long I've waited to do this.” He said, planting kisses against your neck. His kisses trail back against your earlobe, sucking the soft spot you breathed out, body relaxing into his touch, as the tension left your body, you needed more, you needed all of him.

“Joel, I-I want you, I need you.” You stammered, as he looked up.

“Are you sure about this? About me?” He whispers.

You nod, flustered “Ye-yeah, I've never been more sure of something.”

That ignites something in Joel, he lifts you up bringing you to his empty bedroom, placing you on his bed he crawls over you, thick arms caging you in. You kiss him first this time, arms running down his chest signaling for him to take this shirt off. He realizes, lifting up to rip his shirt off before his hands are on you, peeling your shirt off. He plants soft kisses down your abdomen as he looks up at you, like you were the prettiest picture he's ever seen.

“Been thinking about this darlin’, how you'd feel against my skin, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful.” He said, hands winding around your back, asking for permission to take your bra off. “We don't have to do this if you aren't ready.” He murmurs, “wan’ ya to trust me.”

Your arms reach behind you, unclasping your bra. “I'm ready, I'm yours, promise.” You say, breasts falling out of your bra.

He takes one into his mouth. He groans against the tender skin, tongue circling the small bud you become winded, pushing your chest closer to his face, causing his teeth to bite down—you moan. Joel’s mouth, goes back and forth, licking and biting, alternating between each breast. Your nipples harden as he massages the other breast in his hand.

“You're so perfect, most perfect tits I've ever seen.” he says, face pressed against your chest. His mouth travels lower, tongue trailing against your abdomen, placing a light kiss to your navel, before he's unbuttoning your jeans, helping you shimmy them off.

“Gonna go real slow baby, gonna make ya feel real good.” He says, sturdy digits reach down as his thumb starts slow circles against your covered bead. You whimper, as the small wet spot becomes darker, slick coating his thumb as you groan, needing more. He continues to tease you, warming your body up for him, you grow impatient. Licking his thumb he hums, kissing down your thighs as rough hands trace down the plush flesh, he hooks his thumbs under your underwear, peeling off the drenched material.

As your sex hits the cold air, he inhales your scent groaning, trying to get a hold of himself; his warm tongue licks a slow stripe up your mound. Gasping, your fingers find his hair, gripping the salt and pepper locks as he eats you like he's starving. He comes up breathing heavily, face glistening.

“You ever touched her down here?” He questions, as you nod.

“Show me how’d you do it.” Joel says, sitting back on his legs, waiting.

You take your fingers and rub them against your sensitive slit, embarrassed by how wet you are. You start to move around the tight opening, collecting the shinning liquid, you move up to your clit rubbing it in slow circles. You look up at him embarrassed, awaiting his approval.

“Good girl, how about down here?” He tuts, moving your hands back as his thick finger teases your entrance. “Gotta open her up, get er ready for me.” He continues, pushing the digit inside your pussy, you groan.

Your back comes off the bed as he curls his finger in a ‘come here’ motion, finding that gummy sweet spot inside your walls. His tongue finds your clit, repeatedly flicking against the bud as he adds another finger in your hole, scissoring them in and out.

“Jo-el I-I’m close.” you whimper, eyes closing as you squirm around in his grip. He holds you in place with a hand clasped over your thigh, he hums, continuing his momentum. Your eyes flutter open, looking down at him already staring at you.

“Come for me.” Joel mutters against you, nose nudging your clit just right, as you climax. You scream out, hands gripping tufts of hair as your legs shake against his head. He helps you ride out your high, kissing against your inner thighs. Coming up from your sex, he pops his fingers into his mouth, sucking the essence of his digits, cleaning up you mess.

You grab him and kiss him, running your tongue against his lips, tasting yourself in his mouth, sweetness coating your tongue, you moan. Your hands rush down, fumbling with his belt buckle. He undresses for you, tugging his pants and underwear down in one go as his cock springs up.

“‘s not gonna fit.” You whine, eyes wide taking his large size in. Pumping his hand down his cock, precum glossing against his red tip he sighs.

“We’re gonna go real slow, make sure of it. Gon’ make you feel real good.” Joel said, tapping your ankle. Coming up right behind your waist, he’s grabbing your legs as he positions himself against you. He takes his cock in his hand, running it up and down your slit collecting your juices, he hisses, resisting himself.

“I’m ready, please Joel, make me feel good, I trust you.” You whimper, breath shaky arms gripped around his broad shoulders.

“You sure about this?” He questions again, lining up against your entrance.

Your small hand grabs his cock and he’s hissing as you push the tip in your entrance. You're a mess, hair spread over his messy sheets, as he maneuvers the head in and out slowly, getting you used to his girth. Long nails digging into his back as he continues, inserting the rest of his cock until he’s fully sheathed in your walls. Wincing at his large size, he gives you time to adjust to the stretch, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, rubbing your waist.

“Look at ’cha” Joel says, placing a hand over your belly. “She took all of me, stuffed with my cock.” He chokes, as he takes your hand you placing it on your stomach pushing down.

You shiver, feeling it against your palm as he pulls out and slowly pushes back into you setting his pace. You both are panting, pleasure filling your senses.

For the first time in years you feel protected, Joel has snuck himself into every part of your mind, body and soul and you welcome it, allowing yourself to let go.

The smell of sweat fills your nostrils as you look down, his face digging into your neck, mouthing words of affirmation in your ear, sweet like honey. You lick your swollen lips, as the faint taste of you remains on your tongue. He’s drilling into you faster now, hand running against your breast he squeezes, traveling down to your clit, he begins slow circles pushing you closer to your release.

“Come on darlin’ cum for me, need to feel it.” Joel grunts, and you’re seeing stars, vision turning white as your ears ring. You scream, as your orgasam washes through you. Joel continues, hips stuttering not far being you.

“Want it inside, need to feel all of you.” Cooing, as your hand reaches up, nails scratching his scalp. He stares at your puffy lips and damp face, groaning.

“You’re s-so perfect honey, all mine yeah?”Joel stutters, hips faltering.

Stroking his arm “Always been, always will be.” you say, watching his eyes shut, face pressing against yours. You feel him pulsating against your walls and he’s grunting, thick ropes releasing inside of you, pumping until he’s run dry.

Rubbing small circles against his back, he remains on top of you as he finally pulls out. Wincing at the loss of him, you watch as he steps back, feet platting against the wood grain, you hear him turn the water on. Joel comes behind you, scooping you by the armpits he kisses your forehead.

“Gonna sting.” He remarks, as he opens your sore thighs, cold washcloth in hand wipes you clean.

“I think we need to have a talk, fix the patrol schedule.” You say, giggling as he grunts against your shoulder.

“How about tomorrow I take ya out to breakfast, then we’ll go together.” Joel says, reaching beside him to flick off the lamp.

“What a gentleman, you gonna let me stay the night too?” You joke, poking his chest.

“Long as you let me, I'll let ya do anything, hell how bout you just go on and move in, makes everything a little easier” Joel offers teasingly, snuggling into your side, getting ready for bed.

She was a bright and sweet girl, her mother-in-law often said, strong and resilient but kind and obedient, despite the occasional arrogance. The prospect of war had soothed her edges and calmed her fires, and she took the responsibilities that befell her more seriously than the young king did. She made a good queen, one that protected her people, and as the war tore the realm apart, she brought them comfort and strength.

Day after day and night after night, Gwayne shadowed the young queen as any threats against her were taken with the utmost seriousness and concern. On the other side of the Keep, brought back from the battlefield injured and without a dragon, King Aegon spent both his waking hours and resting ones in pain, a sweat taking over his body as the burns suffered at the hands of Rhaenys and her dragon spread across his skin in rashes that would never heal.

His younger brother Aemond was now regent, and as he took over with the guidance of Otto Hightower, Ser Gwayne was left to guard the queen away from matters of the realm. Even though he admitted to having felt cast away at first, hurt in his honor to be protecting a woman instead of defending his king on the battlefield, he soon came to understand that his mission was of the utmost importance.

As the queen's belly started to swell, Gwayne accepted that it was not simply a woman that he was protecting, but the future of the realm, as a male heir would secure Aegon's position further and lift the troops' morale as they fought across the lands.

It was a noble charge, a delicate one, and in Gwayne's mind, a holy one. He would keep the queen safe, insuring she would carry her child in as much safety, peace, and quiet as he could offer her, and in the end the realm might be rewarded with a new king to lead it, one with a golden crown of hair, with the soul of both a lion and a dragon.

As the queen's belly grew and the quickening was felt, the child keeping her awake at night and uncomfortable during the day, her mood soured. It was not a happy pregnancy, nor was it an easy one, and Gwayne felt for the young woman. He could see the shadows growing under her eyes, their shine becoming more dull—he didn't voice his concerns, as it was not his place.

He knew the bearing of a child could weigh heavily on a woman's mind and health. Such was a woman's curse, and a man could only pray that the gods would lift her burden.

Gwayne spent his nights in prayers, his eyes trained on the queen's door but his mind deep in pleas to the gods, reciting the texts he had learned. He prayed for an ease to come to the young woman, for relief of her pains, whether they were physical or of the mind, and for the strength to bear what was still to come. He feared she would not survive if she did not regain some sort of strength, spiritual if not any other.

Which is why his heartbeat quickened one night as the queen's first lady-in-waiting came out of the royal chambers with an unusual request.

The rooms were still lit with many candles despite the late hour, and the hearth was blazing hot and bright. She could not bear to sleep, not even to lie down, and even after two baths over the course of the evening, both with scalding water despite the Maester's recommendations, she still could not settle.

She was not one to beg nor reduce herself to ask service from her guards, and she kept to the schedule that was decided for her, but on this night, the burden was too much for her to bear silently.

"The queen wishes to visit the Sept," she heard her lady instruct the knight, but his answer wasn't the one she expected. Instead of agreeing as he usually did to everything she asked of him and leaving to attend to what he had been given, he stepped into the room and after a customary nod, spoke in a measured tone.

"The hour is too late, my queen," Gwayne tried politely, worried etched over his noble features. "Traveling through the city to the Sept is not safe."

Gwayne carried himself with pride and nobility, a quality that she had admired from the beginning, even more so when the knight had been assigned to shadow her day and night. He made the perfect sworn protector, with a non-threatening demeanor that allowed the young queen to feel at ease in his presence, as well as a galant and reverent disposition that brought warmth in her chest.

He was deferent and respectful to a fault, which is why it made her take a step back as he entered the room without being prompted or invited, and for a moment she feared he was acting on the king's orders, as the young man was his beloved nephew.

"The hour doesn't matter," she insisted, hoping her orders would be the only ones he was following. "Wake as many guards or servants as it will require."

Gwayne shifted where he stood, curling his shoulders inward and narrowing his stance, and for a second she thought he looked much younger than she knew him to be, before fright took over any affection she had for the man. "Surely whatever ails you can wait until the morning, your Grace," the man tried to placate, but a sudden burst of anger rose in her chest until she thought she might suffocate with it. 

"No it cannot!" she roared, so sharply that her delicate voice broke in her throat and her maidservant flinched. Never had she seen her mistress speak as such, and it was with a trembling hand that she brought a warm cloth to the queen's cheek, delicately wiping her tears away.

"It cannot wait," she wailed, then covered her mouth in panic when her chest heaved and her stomach rose.

Her maid was quick to respond as the young queen turned and fell to her knees, surely grateful for the bucket the servant provided. She wept as she coughed and heaved, holding her stomach with one hand and gripping her maid's arm with the other.

"My queen, is it the babe? Shall I call for the Maester?" Gwayne asked worriedly, ready to bolt out of the room in search for help. 

"Call for the Septon, I beg of you," she whined as the maid stroked her hair and back soothingly.

Gwayne swallowed his worried protests and nodded again, retreating from the room quietly as the queen cried and begged in whispers, a despair so sharp that it brought tears to his eyes.

From this night on, Gwayne watched his sworn charge with rapt attention, following the young queen dutifully as she visited the Sept each day, morning and evening, and prayed on her knees with a fervency rarely seen outside of the order of the Sisters. His worries he kept for himself, although they must have shown on his face, and his prayers were silent on his lips as well.

As he watched over the young woman, he prayed without words, asking the gods for wisdom and guidance so that he could protect his queen to the extent that she needed.

She was in danger, at war with a despair so profound it could only come from inside, but no matter how many hours Gwayne spent on the issue, he could not figure out what threatened the queen so much. Her marriage with King Aegon had been young and loveless as the war started, and now that the pregnancy made her position more secure, she was neither saddened by her husband's condition nor joyful at the prospect of an heir.

Something terrible was afoot, Gwayne could sense, but his imagination failed him and he could not decipher it.

Whenever the hour or the weather did not permit traveling across the city to the Sept, she instead spent time under the Weirwood, which she found comforting. Back home in Casterly Rock, the cave where the ancient tree dwelled was a place of peace and harmony for her.

One evening, as her maid and her sword protector waited on the edge of the courtyard, she wondered with sadness if she would ever see it again. She remembered the way her whispered prayers would echo in the deep chamber, as though the rock was murmuring them back to her, repeating them as a parish would repeat a Septon's sermon.

"Ser Gwayne," she suddenly called, smiling as she heard the clinging sound of his armor.

"Yes, my queen," the man answered, and his melodic voice brought a warmth to her chest.

The man was often silent, but never cold, and she enjoyed his presence more than she had initially thought. He was pious and gentle, and he had the utmost trust of the dowager queen—a trust she found herself giving him as well, as each act of loyalty brought her comfort.

Kneeling under the large tree, a book of prayer on her lap even though her thoughts had strayed, she looked up at the man and found his piercing green gaze trained on her eagerly. There sometimes was an earnestness on his features, one that endeared him to her.

"There is a Weirwood tree where you grew up, isn't there, Ser Gwayne?" she asked, and he seemed taken aback by the question.

"Yes, there is, my queen."

"Did you visit often?"

"Not often enough. I wasn't so devout in my youth, I admit." 

She smiled as the ghost of a laugh passed her lips. Gwayne allowed the corner of his lips to stretch to the side, comforted by the fact that this detail of his childhood seemed to amuse the queen, and he wished he had more peaceful or cheerful memories to share with her. He had been sworn in to the Kingsguard not long after his mother's passing, and most of his childhood memories were now tainted with her loss.

"How strange for a man who was raised in the cradle of the Faith of the Seven," the queen pressed as a gust of wind blew across the courtyard.

She picked her shawl from her lap and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering her back with the bright red fabric where a golden lion was embroidered. 

"Without a doubt, your grace," he replied, and it seemed she found his answer lacking.

"Do you miss it?"

"No, I don't," he answered honestly, and as her bright green eyes lifted to him once more, he continued. "I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, your grace. My life is here, serving the royal family."

"Which is also your family. You are a loyal man, Ser Gwayne. A man of honor," she praised, and she could swear she saw him blush in the dimmed light of the evening, pink erupting under the starlight spatter of his freckles.

For a moment she feared her secret would tumble out of her lips and her chest swelled with the raw emotion of it. She took a deep breath under his attentive gaze, wondering whether he would accept her confessions and bear her burden as she was forced to.

As she took in his noble features, the breeze making his copper strands dance, shame suddenly rose in her stomach and the words died on her lips before she could even give them shape. How could she even begin to voice the terrible secret that she bore, how could she ask such a devout and honorable man to keep her confidence, one that was rooted in utter disgrace and the most unholiest of acts.

Her hesitation must have shown, as the knight took a step forward and offered his arm to help her rise from the cold ground, but as he spoke she was reassured that he had not the faintest idea of the shame and self-loathing she carried.

"The hour is growing late and the air has quite a chill. Perhaps my queen would like to go back," Gwayne offered as he saw her shiver again, and she took his arm with a whispered thank you.

She rose in silence, wrapping her shawl around herself tighter as they walked back to the castle, still tormented by the moment she had just lived. She had been tempted to take the plunge into complete honesty and bare her shame to her sworn shield. 

She desperately wanted to be seen, just as she viciously wished to protect her secret and her shame. The duality of such a burden weighed heavily on her, and she was afraid she would die, crushed under this unsurmountable trial. 

"Shall I call for a bath to be drawn?" Gwayne asked from where he walked, always a step behind her on her right side.

"This is above your function, ser," the queen remarked casually, almost glad for the distraction. Still, her tone was almost breathless and the knight stopped for a second and dipped his head in silent apology.

"My apologies, I have overstepped," he replied in a demure voice and this time it was the queen's turn to stop. Standing under the archway leading back into the Keep, she turned to face her sword protector, an open expression of gratefulness overshadowed by her sadness.

"You have not, Ser Gwayne. I merely meant that it is unusual for a knight to concern himself with such mundane tasks."

"I concern myself with your comfort, not only your safety," Gwayne explained, keeping his eyes low in what could be interpreted as reverence, but in truth he was unsure if he could bear to look her in the eye at that moment. "You are carrying the future of the realm, after all."

"Of course," she replied, but this time her tone was clipped and cold, and by the time Gwayne raised his eyes to her, she had stepped away again. One of the layers of her shawl was floating behind her as she rushed inside and up the stairs, as though she was eager to take her leave of him. 

Shame curled in his stomach as he realized he had crossed the young queen somehow, and for a moment he wondered whether she had been expecting something of him, something he had failed to deliver. He thought of her words, of her emotions that played so openly in her eyes; if one knew how to look past the regal air she gave herself as armor, and he found himself caught on a delicate edge.

He was unsure where the line between insolence and amicable conversation was, whether or not he was meant to speak of his own volition or wait for her prompting. There were times where he felt she waited for his words, as though they bore some profound meaning that soothed her.

"Did I overstep this time, my queen?" he quickly asked, their footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.

This part of the castle was deserted at that hour, since most of the lords and ladies had retreated in their quarters for dinner, but Westerners dined at later hours, he had found out.

"No, you didn't," she assured, glancing at him over her shoulder. Curls had come loose from the breeze, bringing layers to her updo.

It wasn't until they were back in the antechambers of her quarters that Gwayne realized there were tears in her eyes, and as she turned toward him to dismiss him, her gaze looked like a forest in the rain, a storm drowning acres of pines.

"I have upset you," he stated with mild panic. "Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, my good ser. I have upset myself," she replied with a smile that further concerned him. She took a breath that seemed to rattle her chest or heave her stomach, and her hand drifted to her abdomen. 

Gwayne suddenly remembered the night his worries had arisen, and the question that he had kept contained for fear of being insolent suddenly pushed past his lips. "Is there something wrong with the babe?"

The young queen took a step back as though he had struck her, and heaved once more. "Now you are overstepping," she accused, tears rising in her eyes, but Gwayne knew he had found an element, if not the source, of her enduring despair.

Part of him defended that it was his duty as a sworn knight of the realm to protect the future of the crown, but he knew deep inside that his concern for the queen overtook his concern for the realm.  

"I am your sworn shield, my queen, your protector. How can I protect you if I do not know what ails you?" he pushed and her hands curled into fists, holding the brightly-colored shawl in front of her like it was giving her composure. 

For a suspended moment Gwayne thought she would strike him across the face or order for him to be disciplined, but she did neither. Instead, her face smoothed over and all emotions left her, like a steel vault closing. She took measured steps backward into her chambers and beckoned him inside with a quiet word.

"Leave us," she ordered to the girl who was currently preparing her bed, propping pillows and smoothing the covers. "I need a private word with Ser Gwayne."

The girl left without a word, barely a quick curtsy, leaving him alone with the queen. She looked strangely calm, all of her emotions swimming in her eyes behind her blank expression. She walked to the fire, observing it for a moment as though it held the words she was looking for. The orange light illuminated her features and she spoke without looking up at Gwayne.

"Would you keep a secret for me," she whispered, as though the mere question was a treason, something reprehensible. 

"I would never betray your confidence," the knight replied, his heart galloping in his chest as a wild horse. He knew they were on the edge of a confession, that there would be no coming back from it—he would likely never forget her words, and she would likely see them on his face every time she looked at him.

"Swear to me," she said, barely turning her head, and her gaze was fierce and burning.

“I swear to you, my queen, upon my sacred vows, that I would never reveal your secret," he swore, shivering under the intensity of her eyes.

"You once asked if the king hurts me, do you remember what I replied?" she asked bluntly, turning to him and crossing her wrists at the top of her round belly.

"The king doesn't touch me," Gwayne recited coldly. 

The queen took a deep, steadying breath, facing her burden and the gaze of her sworn shield with a courage that inspired him.

"The full truth is, the king doesn't need to touch me in order to hurt me,” she said regretfully. "He makes me... perform acts, for his viewing pleasure," she whispered with the look of a frightened deer, gauging his reaction.

He held onto his composure, relief loosening his shoulders slightly. He could easily imagine how a noble woman could feel debased by this, but what she had just confessed didn't touch the more horrible images his mind had conveyed over the last few weeks when he had wondered about her sorrows.

"There is nothing shameful about an act that was performed under duress. The shame is his," Gwayne replied fervently—he knew well enough of his nephew’s proclivities, and regretted that his temper was so ill-matched with that of his queen.

"You do not understand, Ser Gwayne. It is worse than what you are imagining,” she whispered tearily, rushing to him in desperate steps and for a mad second he thought she would reach out, place her hands on his arms.

He lifted his hands from the pommel of his sword, and her gaze quickly flitted to them as though she was considering his touch, but refrained. They remained in heavy silence for a moment, her eyes peering into his with such an intensity, he despaired words could not be shared in this way. Her lower lip trembled and she looked at him with visible heartbreak, as though she was about to bid him a definitive farewell.

"The baby isn't his,” she whispered, quiet and pleading, as though uttering those words would have the gods strike her down before she could finish her breath. "When he came back from battle, before the sweat took over his body, he already could not perform anymore," she explained, a great flush of shame upon her graceful features.

"Then, who..." Gwayne swallowed, unsure how to reconcile this terrible truth with her earlier admission. "Is it Prince Aemond?"

"Gods, I wish it was," she replied with a mirthless smile, twin tears making their way down her cheeks. "But the prince is too honorable and would have slain his brother at the mere suggestion. He would never betray Princess Helaena."

Gwayne shifted his weight, considering his next words carefully in the face of her frailty, but she spoke again before he could find them.

"Aegon had Ser Arryk scout the streets of King's Landing, rounding up the illegitimate children of Prince Daemon or King Viserys. As you surely know there are many working the docks or the brothels," she explained. "He had them brought back to the Keep for a specific purpose, and brought to his chambers one by one."

"I understand," Gwayne assured, but it seemed that now that her terrible secret was out, all the words she had kept to herself and the gods were pouring out of her sweet lips.

"Every night until my moons stopped coming," she recounted, her gaze staring into a void he could not see, her frame trembling as though the pain was cursing through her body once more. "I thought that now that I was with child, he would stop, and for a while he did. However the Maester confirmed that the child is alive and strong, and that there is no reason for me not to perform my wifely duties."

"The night you begged me to bring you to the Sept in the middle of the night..." Gwayne closed his eyes in shame, dropping his chin. Bitterness coated the roof of his mouth as he recalled the two scalding tubs of water she had had delivered to her rooms, her urgency, the way she wailed in despair when he refused to escort her to the Sept.

"I pray to the gods every night... I do not know what to pray for. I pray that it is not a son and that the future of the realm is not compromised, that a second war is not about to erupt," she sobbed, her hands coming to shield her face from his gaze. "And I pray that it is not a girl, because he will not stop until I have given him a son."

Gwayne's face contorted with her agony, and he wished he could lift the burden from her shoulders, and give it to its perpetrator. He loved his nephew—he had loved him as a prince and had often indulged his proclivities, and he loved him as king, but such depravity was beyond what he was prepared to forgive.

"Now my shame is plain for you to see, good ser," she said, looking somehow more rested than she had in weeks, her shoulders dropping in relief. 

"The shame is not yours. It is his, and mine. His for betraying your honor, and decency itself, and mine for not having seen it," Gwayne replied fervently. 

He took a careful step forward, too close to what was deemed appropriate, and yet she allowed him with wide eyes and parted lips, caught in the pull of his devotion. She took a deep inhale when he picked her hand up, slowly brought it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. "I will not fail you again," he vowed, and she sighed, her small fingers curving into his hold.

He swallowed, suddenly feeling the closeness of her skin like the sun at the highest point of summer, scorching his cheeks, and he could not help himself. He pressed a second kiss to the back of her hand, feeling himself falter—his head spun as he pictured himself kissing along the delicate bones of her wrist, up her arm until he reached the soft skin at the crook of her neck.

He let go of her hand suddenly, taking a sharp step back, and at that she looked bereft; but he was sworn to protect her, and he would not tempt her into sin, no matter his desires and his conviction that he could please her as she deserved.

He saw the moment her emotions burrowed under the surface again, and her features closed over them, her face smooth as marble once more. "Would you call my maid back in?" she said, her voice firm and flat, and somehow Gwayne felt more wretched from that simple question than his own shame.

The next few weeks passed in much a similar fashion than they had before her confession, except that this time Gwayne was much more attentive to her outward signs of distress. He had hoped that the queen's confession would relieve her of much of her burden, as shame was the most wretched companion, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect, and any warmth she had once shared with him was gone.

His mind seemed to clear from the fog of yearning he had found himself caught in before her revelation, and he clung to the mission he had assigned himself as a lifeline. He stood proud and unyielding as a servant came to fetch the queen night after night, refusing for her to be summoned, even when the young man was replaced by Ser Arryk. 

His devotion to the queen came in the form of his steadfastness, fueled by the ache in his chest now that he knew of her burden. It came in the form of his silent presence at the door when the time of labors came, and midwives rushed in and out of the rooms to fetch linens and water. 

The girl that was born to her was pale as the moon, and yet made her mother smile as bright as the sun. Gwayne looked down at the babe with delight and fondness as he was introduced to her, his second charge, and he instantly took it on with pride.

"She looks like you, your grace," he said quietly, and the slow nod the queen gave him in return was charged. They both knew this time was only a reprieve and that her nightmare would soon start again.

"How marvelous it is, that such a pure and perfect being shall be born of such darkness," she murmured, only for him to hear, pressing her bundle closer to him. 

Gwayne dipped his head until the line of propriety was crossed and he could smell the milk on both his charges. "As long as I am sworn to you, I vow that her purity will not be touched by this corrupted world."

The smile she bestowed on him at those words was as soft as a kiss, and he felt it on his face as though she had pressed it into his skin. 

With the beauty of that new life shining a light on the queen, came the shadow of what would follow. As she took to her chambers to rest and bond with her baby daughter, and he guarded the door more often than he effectively guarded her. Gwayne felt a tension mount in him, scalding and bitter. It colored his tongue in a way he usually controlled, but this time he could hardly contain himself. 

Words came bolting out like a wild horse one morning and he lost his grip on them and on his impulses, until he found himself waiting in the antechambers of the queen, his sheath in hand but his armor nowhere to be found. He felt unworthy of wearing it, his head down like a scolded child after the heated words the hand had spoken to him.

The heavy doors opened and he was summoned, stepping inside with his gaze tilted downward in the foolish hope of concealing his bruised cheekbone and split lip.

The rooms were bathed in the soft morning light and in the smoke from the night's candles. In the middle of those ribbons of white, the young woman sat. Upon seeing her, all shame vanished from Gwayne's chest and instead came a great conquering feeling, and he knew he would not be able to summon an honest apology for his actions.

"It was reported to me that you disrespected your lord commander," the queen said slowly, and Gwayne could only nod. There would be no use denying the truth of his deeds and his words, and he found he had no wish to conceal them from her.

"I confronted him. I asked him how he could allow the king to treat you in this way and never intervene," Gwayne said solemnly, a hint of defiance in his voice, and to his delight the queen huffed a sad laugh.

"You needn't defend my honor, ser," she said, lowering her eyes.

"Yes I do," he replied, widening his stance and looking up at her with the impertinence she knew he sometimes had. 

It was the righteous insolence of nobility, of not being a simple knight of the kingsguard, come from squiring for a noble lord, but the son of the Hand to three kings. She found beauty in the way he dared step over the line, and in the impudent way he was looking at her in that instant, showing pride in what he had done.

"You have hardly been able to look at me these last few days," she murmured, licking her lips.

"You misunderstood, I am ashamed, yes, but of myself!" he cried out, taking a step towards her once more, and heat bloomed in her stomach as she remembered the last time he had allowed himself to get close to her. "I was sworn to protect you and I failed to do so."

"Ser Gwayne, you forget yourself!" she admonished, but in truth she wished to reprimand herself for the way her thoughts strayed. 

Her hands came to rest on her belly and she closed her eyes, looking for composure. "I did not mean to offend you, or bring you shame," he said, quieter, his temper settling. He knew aches and pains came to her more often now that her term was near, and for all his pride at having struck his commander, he did not wish to distress her.

"You did not. My disdain for Cole is known, if anything I am grateful you spoke your truth to him," she conceded, then licked her lips over a smile that threatened to appear on her face. "I heard you bruised his face."

"I did," he replied, lifting his chin and unfurling his shoulders.

"A shame that he bruised yours," she said, rising from where she was sitting. She fumbled for a moment, troubled, but found steadiness as she dipped a handkerchief into the small basin of fresh water her maid had left on a table. 

Without another thought, she came to him in quick steps and reached up, pressing the wet cotton to the split side of his lip. "Your father and nephew won't have you dismissed. We need good soldiers at this delicate time," she soothed although it was unnecessary.

She watched as Gwayne's lashes fluttered, casting shadows on his freckled face, and her chest swelled in yearning. He looked so young in that instant, without the bulky armor that kept his lean frame hidden, and she flushed as she realized she had never seen him so uncovered. Her treacherous gaze flitted downward, along the planes of his chest and stomach under the simple cotton shirt he wore, to the cream-colored trousers where a tantalizing line of buttons rested over a slight bulge.

She averted her eyes but the silent sin had been committed, and when she met Gwayne's face again, he was watching her raptly. He reached up to hold her hand against his face, leaning into her until his nose and lips were nestled in the crook of it.

"Gwayne," she murmured, forgoing his title and all propriety along with it. 

His piercing eyes remained on her as his lips followed the line of her veins from her palm to the inside of her wrist and arm, uncovered from her large sleeve pooling at her elbow. They both sighed as she gently threaded her fingers through his copper mane, and a lick of heat went through her as his parted lips revealed his tongue.

She retracted her hand as though his fiery hair had burned her, tears coming to her eyes. “I was soiled, ser. Do not debase yourself," she murmured regretfully as his hand caught her elbow, keeping her close.

"You were not. You are made holier and purer to me because of the suffering you have been put through," he pressed, fervent as ever, and she desperately wanted to believe him, to cling to the reverent way with which he looked at her and hold on to whatever scraps of honor she still had.

"Please," she said, taking a few steps back and he let her go, her arm slipping out of his grasp until her fingers were falling from his, their fingertips grazing. 

The cut on his lip was stinging more fiercely now, and he nodded a few times as he pressed his tongue against it subtly—he bent down and picked up the kerchief she had dropped, white tainted with a few spots of his blood, and slipped it into his pocket.

He watched feebly as she closed her eyes against hot tears, taking deep, steadying breaths until he saw her surrender spread across her face. 

"The maester has informed me that my afterbirth confinement is to end, and that I may return to the King's bed," she said before she opened her eyes again, and Gwayne swallowed heavily under the implication.

“It may be over soon, my nephew won’t live to be an old king", the words fell from his lips before he could think them through.

“Hush, you must never be caught uttering those words!" she cried out, rushing to him again and pressing her hand to his mouth. "Mind your tongue, even here with me.”

Fear coursed through him and it must have shown on his face—for a second he wondered if he had willfully ignored affection she bore to the king despite his transgressions. However she shook her head, the pressure of her hand lessening until her fingertips were barely grazing his lips.

“I simply meant…" she softened. "You are safe with me and I shall keep your confidence, but I could not stand you being disgraced, or worse, if you were heard.”

The pads of her fingers lingered on his lips, and he could not help but lean into them, seeking her warmth. She gasped as the tip of his tongue came to taste the salt of her skin but did not retract her hand.

They were both breathing heavily, caught in that suspended moment, and he wondered if she would suddenly push him away as she had in the past.

"I will endeavor to remain by your side, always, my queen," he said reverently, dipping his face until his mouth was hovering over hers; such sweet lips deserved to be kissed, to be worshiped. Her fingers dropped from his face but his mouth grazed her cheek as she turned.

"Ser Gwayne, you forget your vows," she whispered.

"What are the meaning of those vows if I cannot protect you and serve you as you deserve? I am sworn to you," he pressed, his breath hot on her face, his eyes full of adoration. "I am yours. In every way you might require."

He tilted his head, seeking her mouth again, and this time she allowed him. Her fingers curled in his shirt as his mouth pressed to her gently, firm but chaste, his lips molding perfectly against hers. He waited with batted breath as she pressed back, letting her guide him, sighing quietly as she pulled back only to push herself up on her toes and kiss him again.

Ever mindful of how delicate she was, he wrapped an arm around her waist softly, enjoying the delighted sigh that came from her parted lips, and the way she melted against him as his tongue prodded hers. Her hand was back in his hair, carding through the thin strands and making the back of his neck prickle, while she tasted his passion and explored his lips with hers.

He was gentle and slow, yielding to her instead of taking, but she could feel the tremble of his body as he restrained his desires.

The healing touch of her sworn protector turned firmer as her hands pressed into the muscle of his chest, and she felt him quiver as she followed the plane of his flat stomach until she reached his waist. His belt was somewhere else with the rest of his armor and she delighted in the softness of his clothes, the ease with which she could reach his skin. 

He pressed his moan into her mouth, his tongue curling against hers as her fingers fell to the buttons of his breeches. He buried his face in her neck as she boldly curled her hand over him; he encouraged her, his own hand coming to rest at her bottom.

She rubbed him through the linen, feeling the weight of his stones and the length of his shaft; she relished in how it hardened in her palm. For once she had a choice, and in her arms was leaning a man that desired her, adored her beyond the shadow of a doubt. In his arms, she felt free, cherished—she soared as he moaned aloud when the heel of her hand pressed harder against his tip.

He widened his stance and heat washed over her as he did so.

"Your grace," he murmured in her neck, his voice edging on a whine, pleading and reverent.

"Not here," she whispered in his ear, breathing in the scent of his hair, sweat and soap. "I'm not your queen here. Please."

"You're always my queen..." he replied, his mouth pressing hot, wet kisses along the column of her throat, down into the collar of the gown she was wearing. "My lady of light."

His eyes were clear and piercing as he looked up, his fingers following the path of the tight laces until they found the knot at the base of her neck and pulled. She held his head to her chest, then to her abdomen as he removed the laces expertly, taking her dress and shift down as he went. She shivered as his hair grazed her breasts, his mouth following an invisible line from her collarbones to her navel.

Finally, as his knees hit the floorboards and two rings of fabric laid at her feet, did he look up again. His eyes were dark, blown wide, his cheeks flushed a dark pink and his lips parted on a sigh that could have been her name.

"Gwayne," she called, and he went swiftly, rising gracefully and picking her up, her legs around his waist. Her silk slippers fell to the floor as he brought her to the bed, his breath in her mouth and her core flush with his abdomen.

He laid her down on the edge of the bed with a care that brought tears to her eyes and kneeled in front of her once more. He picked up her feet one by one, and after removing her stockings, kissed one of her ankles, his lashes fluttering.

"Look at me," he said, his gentle tone bordering on commanding and it made her shiver. 

She was so used to having him at her call, obeying her every whim, and it felt good to lay back and allow him to take the reins. This control she was giving him didn't make her feel afraid, in fact she relished in it, and in the trust she had in him.

He kissed her ankle, then her knee, pushing her leg up until it came to rest over his shoulder, and finally, he reached the place she so desperately wanted him to kiss. 

She braced despite herself, but gasped when the press of his lips was merely a graze, the gentlest of kisses. It made her shudder, a blazing path running from her core up her spine, and she found herself rocking up against him, seeking more friction.

"Oh gods, Gwayne," she sighed as he kissed her pearl firmly, the very place she touched when the night was thick and she was alone, closing her eyes to visions of piercing green eyes and fiery hair.

She watched him as he savored her, his tongue coming to lick a careful strip up her folds, then prodded past the soft flesh to find her most sensitive spots. Soon she couldn't hold herself upright and fell to the sheets, her hands tangling in his luscious hair as her legs curled over his shoulders.

The cut on his lip stung but he ignored it, if anything the low burn incensed him, as though it was a mark of his devotion. She arched her back as he flattened his tongue on her core, and he felt her legs shake over his shoulders, her heels digging into his upper back.

"Gwayne," she whined, her grip tightening on his hair.

"Let go," he pleaded, desperate to feel her peak under his mouth. 

Curling his hands around her thighs, caged between her knees, he savored the ache in his jaw as she rocked back against him, gently then more pressing. He felt a tension mount in him as she grew stiffer under his grip, frantic, her body tight like the rope of a bow until it snapped.

She cried out as Gwayne's tongue pulled shudder after shudder of pure ecstasy from her pearl, irradiating her entire body. Heat spread in her core, her most intimate place pulsing with molten waves, curling her toes and arching her back. 

As she regained her breath, Gwayne was kissing the inside of her thigh, one of his hands stroking her soothingly while his other was busy between his legs, no doubt working the buttons of his breeches.

"Allow me," she panted, and he obeyed without hesitation; he climbed after her on the bed, his hips on either side of her and she reached up. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the tight buttons for a moment, and by the sight of her knight holding himself over her, his head hanging between his shaking shoulders.

He climbed off the bed as soon as the buttons were undone, pulling his shirt over his head and messing his copper strands even more. She found herself mesmerized by them, wanting to card her fingers through them again as he took his pleasure this time. She traced the curves and planes of his upper body with her eyes—from his defined shoulders to the swell of his pectoral and the carved lines of his abdomen.

Time slowed as they both looked at one another, her gaze caught by the open lapels of his breeches, showing the tented line of his small clothes, while his own gaze was running appreciatively over her curves. Pleasure had left a sheen over her skin, her breasts were peaked, and the long lines of her legs led him to the apex of her thighs where he now dreamed to bury more than his mouth.

Gwayne hesitated—serving and pleasuring her on his knees was one thing, but laying atop her, breaching her and seeking his own peak was another. "Are you certain?" he asked, and he saw hesitation spread over her face in turn, her cheeks flushing in shame.

He licked his lips. "I've broken my vows before, I am not proud of it, but..."

"I've thought of you," she confessed. "To make my nightmares endurable, to make my solitude bearable..." she trailed, then lowered herself to her elbows once more, bringing her knees up to part them. 

Without a second thought he pulled his boots off, and soon a pile of rough cloth and linen was joining it, and he stood fully bare in front of his queen.

"Wait," she said timidly as he stepped forward, ready to join her again, and he shivered as he realized she meant to look upon him a moment more.

He flattened one of his hands on his stomach, hoping to soothe the throbbing of his cock. It stood hard and leaking, pink at the tip, his stones heavy under the shaft. He bit his lip as she watched, her eyes blown wide in obvious pleasure as he succumbed to temptation and gave himself a slow pull, but instead of soothing the ache, it made his skin stretch tighter over his hardness.

"Do you ever think of me?" she asked, more brazen than she was a second ago, and her newfound confidence excited him.

He shook his head. "I faltered a few times but I never allowed myself. Not fully," he confessed.

"Would you do it now?" she asked, and he knew there was more to it than simply a woman asking to watch a man—it was a wounded girl taking back her power, taking her place as the one in charge for once, and he felt more honored than when he had taken his vows that she felt safe enough to ask it of him.

"You can refuse," she added, and her care broke his heart. He shook his head again. 

"I wouldn't refuse you that," he said, starting a slow rhythm, his skin prickling with excitement as she watched him take pleasure by his own hand. He felt his face and chest flush and he widened his stance slightly, only for the satisfaction of seeing her press her knees together at the gesture.

"Gwayne," she called again, and he knew he would never tire of her saying his name in this way, breathless and adoring.

"One time in the Sept, you caught me watching you, praying on your knees," he reminded her.

"You blushed, I had never seen you so flustered," she chuckled, then bit her lip as his hand sped up.

"I thought of it that night, and I could hardly help myself," he recounted. "I asked a brother to take his place at the watch, else I'd have sinned against you."

"It's not a sin to desire me," she said, then pushed herself further back onto the bed, and he followed her silent call. 

He crawled after her, coming to kneel on the sheets, his hand still lazily stroking his length. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he bent forward, and he captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. 

She let him press her into the sheets, and they shared a moan when her knees came up to his hips, her thighs resting against his. He let go of his cock to steady himself, his arms caging her in. Soon her hands were roaming his back, his flanks, mapping the shape of his buttocks, pressing him forward until he was flush against her core.

He gasped then, rocking down against her, quivering in her grasp when one of her hands slid between their bodies and guided him to her entrance. His face tucked against hers, breathing into each other's cheek, savoring the first slow press of his cock into her.

He let her guide him, first as the tip breached past the dip that led into her body, then as the stretch made her gasp. He bit his lip as her walls molded perfectly around his length and she clenched, taking him in slowly. He audibly gasped as he bottomed out and she kissed it from his lips with a smile.

They both looked down between their bodies as they rocked cautiously together, but soon her gaze was caught on his face, alive with pleasure. His eyes were closed, his brow smoothed over in delight, his pink lips parted over sweet sighs that he could barely restrain.

Soon she couldn't keep her own eyes open, so taken with his warmth as she was—she fell against the sheets, arching her back against the delicious weight of him. The gentle way with which he was thrusting into her was easing her into it, a slow build of heat at her core.

He dipped his head into her neck, and his lovely moans in her ear only spurred her on. He pressed soft kisses into her skin, seeking the soft spot behind her jaw that made her mewl and grip his back harder.

"My love," the confession slipped from his lips and she gasped, tightening her hold on him, her legs coming to wrap around his waist.

Incensed by her reaction, he murmured it again in her ear and one of her hands slithered back into his hair, pulling him in for another wet kiss that left him breathless. They swallowed each other's names, their tongues curling in time with the rocking of their hips, and their rhythm gradually sped up.

Gwayne could feel a tension building at the base of his spine and he bit his lip, trying to keep it at bay until she was herself in the throes of it, or perhaps even on the edge. He reached down to one of her thighs, propping her leg up until it was almost curled at his shoulder, the back of her knee kept in the crook of his elbow.

The new angle made her nub catch against his abdomen, and he held steady as she ground up against him, chasing the dual sensation. Between the stretch of his cock inside of her, sending sparks up her spine, and the pressure at her pearl, setting her whole core ablaze, she could only surrender and allow the current to take her.

"Gwayne," she whined as she felt herself fall, the edge ever so close.

"I love you," he replied, his own peak approaching and loosening his tongue. 

She sobbed and he licked it from her mouth, the grinding of her hips turning frantic as she grew wetter around him. He wanted to laugh, victorious that she would accept his love and have such a deep, carnal reaction to it. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry, her back arching as she threw her head back onto the sheets, her core pulsing around his cock.

He held on, groaning through gritted teeth as his peak threatened to crash over him but he held on until the frantic rocking of her hips slowed to a stop and she grew loose and pliant. He pulled away and she clenched around the sudden loss, whining as the last waves of her pleasure still made her shudder.

She watched as he spent across her belly with a few moans and whimpers, his hair falling into his eyes as his hips stuttered into his own hand. 

She mewled as he fell forward, pressing grateful kisses into her chest as her own hands mapped his shoulders, eager to share a few more moments of bliss. She pulled him in by the back of the neck and he kissed her again, sweet and slow. 

"Allow me," he said as he pulled away again, this time climbing off the bed in search of a cloth and water to clean her skin.

She sat up, taking stock of the cooling seed on her stomach, and risking a glance to his lean back and buttocks as he turned. He was littered with freckles as stars on the night sky, and she wanted to tell him, but suddenly her words were caught in her throat.

"Are you sore?" he asked almost timidly as he returned with a wet cloth and wiped her skin clean, then folded it and gave her a gentle pat between her legs.

"No," she replied, looking up at him with something akin to adoration.

She sighed pleasantly as he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, his thumb coming to stroke the side of her face, the edge of her smile—she reached up to do the same, grazing the cut that had brought him to her in the first place.

"Do not ever let anyone touch you in this way," she murmured, and he huffed an endeared laugh.

"I swore to ward you and give my blood for you," he replied.

"Cole doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you," she pressed, her brow furrowing in earnestness.

Gwayne grew serious again, but didn't pull away until he had kissed her temple and murmured his love once more. She watched as he dressed again, their silence rather contemplative, until a knock at the door interrupted it.

He turned to her, a slight panic to his gaze and she slid from the bed quickly, picking up a robe from the back of a chair. "Hold!" she shouted. "Merely a moment!"

Yet the knock started again, more frantic this time, and she threw a look to Gwayne, gesturing from him to remain behind the screen that shielded her bed from the entrance of her chambers.

"Who is it?" she called. "I am in no condition to receive visitors."

At that the door opened and a sliver of a pale face and dark head of hair appeared—the young queen ushered the maid in quickly, and from his hiding spot behind the screen, Gwayne could only hear hushed voices. 

A heavy silence settled before the door opened again and quiet footsteps hurried out. The wood creaked loudly as it was closed, the silence broken by a wavering sigh from the queen.

Gwayne took a few tentative steps further into the room, squaring his shoulders and bracing for a terrible announcement, but when she turned to him, her face was one of utter relief.

She breathed a wet laugh, holding her hands to her chest as her eyes brimmed with tears. Gwayne felt breathless, hope and joy bursting in his chest as she spoke.

"You shall need your armor again, Ser Gwayne. The Prince Regent is calling an assembly in the Throne Room," she announced, and he couldn't have been less surprised. "It is all but a coup, my good ser."

"Long live King Aemond," he murmured as she picked up his sheathed sword and handed it to him, their fingers tangling over the engraved pommel.

Dividers by @/saradika

Beta read by the wonderful @arcielee, thank you so much ♡♡

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The clock read 12:21 a.m. The Baxter Building was quiet now—muted circuits humming like distant crickets, floor lights casting long shadows. You returned to the spare study room, sliding the glass door almost shut behind you.

The soft buzz of vinyl static mixed with the familiar strum of the intro of Beast of Burden drifting from the corner turntable. Johnny stood in front of the chalkboard, chalk pinched delicately between his fingers, his posture all relaxed frustration, one hip cocked, his free hand in his hair. The board was scrawled with half-solved equations, almost unreadable notes on the margins of the board, pieces of a puzzle the two of you couldn’t stop chasing–your shared obsession. 

“Rolling Stones?” you asked, setting your refilled mug on the glass table.

“Mhm,” he murmured, not looking away. “We’ve been at this for six hours. I need some music.”

You stepped beside him. Your shoulders brushed. Neither of you moved.

He was quiet—lip pulled between his teeth, brow furrowed—and when he finally turned, it wasn’t to answer you. It was just to see if you were stuck too. You met his gaze.

“You won’t find the answers written on my face,” you said dryly.

He flirted, “You’re sure? It’s a nice face.”

You scoffed, eyes flicking back to the board. “Alright hotshot, think of the other dimension like a second membrane. Energy isn’t lost—it’s exchanged. Like solar flares. But interdimensional.”

“Brane cosmology,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re straying into string theory now. Careful, you’ll give Reed ideas.”

“You’d love that.”

Again, your shoulders brushed—closer this time. Still, neither of you moved.

Johnny turned toward you, “Remember back in college when we used to talk about starting a rogue lab in Switzerland?”

You smiled. “With solar panels and cows.”

“And that greenhouse you kept trying to design even though you killed every plant you owned.”

“You said you’d handle the compost.”

His laugh was soft, nostalgic. The equations behind him faded into the background.

“That was before you joined Reed’s think tank,” he said, tapping the badge on your lab coat.

“And before you got famous.”

Johnny smirked. “Was I ever not famous?”

You gave him a long, amused look. “Still as insufferable as before.”

He grinned. “Fuck off.”

Then, with sudden mock seriousness, he looked at you, wiggling his shoulders with a grin, dancing slightly as he sang off-key:

“Am I hard enough? Am I rough enough? Am I rich enough—”

“Don’t,” you warned, groaning.

“I’m not too blind to see…” he finished, grinning wide.

“You are the burden, Johnny.”

He laughed. “Classic,” he said, unbothered. “It’s a masterpiece.”

“You’re impossible, I’m gonna tell Reed on you.” You tossed a piece of chalk at his shoulder, and he caught it with exaggerated flair. 

He turned back to the board, started to write—but the chalk slipped. You both lunged for it at once. Your foreheads collided. A soft thunk. You hissed as hot coffee sloshed down the front of your shirt.

“Shit—sorry!” Johnny reached out, panicked. He grabbed your lab coat from the table and patted your chest, trying to dry it.

“Johnny!” you snapped, slapping his hand away, half-shocked. You unbuttoned your shirt halfway as the heat soaked through the fabric. “It’s hot!”

“I’ll get you something,” He hurried from the room.

He came back a minute later, a royal blue sweater in his hands. His. Familiar, soft, worn at the sleeves.

“Seriously?” you asked.

“It’s clean,” he said gently.

You took it and raised an eyebrow. “Turn around.”

He obeyed after a beat. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. And you’re the one who flashed half the dorm, remember?”

“That was years ago,” you muttered. “And I was drunk.”

“You were also covered in vomit. I was doing you a favor.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Just saying—it wasn’t the worst night of my life.”

You rolled your eyes and pulled the sweater on. The scent hit first: warm, slightly smoky—like campfire and ozone. It hung loose around you, the sleeves long past your wrists.

When you turned, he was already watching. So you threw your stained shirt at his chest.

“What the hell, I told you to turn around.”

He caught it, smiling sheepishly. “Like I said. Nothing I haven’t seen.”

You crossed to the chalkboard, trying to regain your composure. He joined you, standing beside you, eyes flicking toward your face.

You pulled your hair back with a pencil, loose hair strands fell that framed your face prettily. When you looked up, he was still staring. Not glancing. Memorizing.

You raised an eyebrow. “I know I’m pretty, flame boy. Try not to fall in love.”

He blinked, then laughed, the sound soft and careful. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Just don’t set the room on fire again like before, alright?”

He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes all the way. “Only if you stop wearing my clothes. I’m trying to stay focused here.”

The sun hung low like a burning brand in the sky, casting gold over the dust that curled and drifted in the air. The grandstands of the fairgrounds were packed, filled with the sounds of country rock and distant hoots from half-drunk cowboys and girls with rhinestones on their jeans. The scent of fried food and sweat clung to everything, thick and familiar.

You hadn’t planned to lose your friends. It was supposed to be a carefree Saturday—a little too much seltzer, too much flirtation, and too many selfies taken under the banner for the “State Bull Riding Finals.” But somewhere between the snack stand and the beer tent, they vanished into the crowd. You didn’t panic, though. You drifted instead, letting the music guide your hips and the heat kiss your skin, your crop top tied just right above your navel, your denim skirt fluttering dangerously high with every step. You knew how you looked, and the trail of glances you left behind proved it.

Then came the roar. A surge of excitement, collective and hungry. You turned, drawn toward it like a moth to fire, and slipped through the crowd until you stood by the edge of the arena fence, right as the announcer’s voice cut clear through the speakers:

“Now y’all hold your breath for this one—eight seconds of hell comin’ up with the one and only, the undefeated, Joel Miller!”

You weren’t expecting him.

The man that strode into the center of the arena wasn’t just some local boy in too-tight Wranglers. No, this one carried the kind of weight that made every inch of the world feel smaller. Broad shoulders, thighs like pistons under faded denim, a salt-and-pepper scruff shadowing a jaw that looked carved out of goddamn Texas itself. His eyes were hidden under the brim of a worn, black hat—but you felt him anyway.

He mounted the bull like he’d done it a thousand times—because he had. The animal twisted beneath him, already wild with rage, hooves gouging the dirt, snorting steam like a demon. The gate opened. Time shattered.

You’d never seen something so fucking beautiful.

The way his body moved with the bull—controlled chaos, all muscle and instinct. Eight seconds felt like a lifetime. The crowd counted down, breathless. He lasted. He always did. And when he dismounted, dust coating the sweat on his arms, his hat flew free—spinning once, twice—before landing at your feet, just on the other side of the rail.

You leaned down, fingers brushing the brim. It smelled like sun, leather, and something darker—masculine in the most dangerous way.

Then you heard his voice. Low and slow, like whiskey poured over ice.

“Looks better on you, darlin’. Keep it.”

Your eyes met his. There was a curl at the corner of his mouth—half smile, half dare.

You gave him a smile as sweet as pie, lashes fluttering just enough to bait the hook.

“Might be the first thing I’ve stolen that no one’s tried to take back.”

He raised a brow, those stormy eyes lingering on you longer than polite. “Well… maybe I don’t want it back.”

Your fingers gripped the hat a little tighter.

And just like that, something started. Not a spark—no, this wasn’t delicate. This was heat and dust and the promise of something wild.

Joel Miller had noticed you. And you weren’t planning on letting him forget.

The fair had started to melt into late afternoon, that honey-colored hour where everything looked softer, slower—like time itself was leaning back with a drink. You’d wandered off from the arena, Joel’s hat snug on your head, brim tilted just low enough to make you feel like trouble. The stalls stretched out along the grass, strung with fluttering pennants and rows of handmade goods—leatherwork, turquoise jewelry, candles that promised to smell like bonfires and bad decisions.

You stood before one of them, idly thumbing a braided bracelet, pretending to care about the craftsmanship while your other hand toyed with a red lollipop between your lips. You liked how it tasted—sugar and cherry—but you liked even more the way men looked at you when you sucked on it slow, tongue tracing the hard curve before slipping it back into your mouth with a soft pop.

That’s when you felt him.

Not saw—felt.

The air changed. Heavy. Like gravity pulled harder when he walked near. You didn’t even have to turn your head to know it was Joel. You felt that same weight you’d felt in the ring—like some old god in denim, slow and carved from dust.

“Heard red’s your color.”

You looked over your shoulder, the sucker shifting between your lips, eyes half-lidded beneath the brim of his hat now snug atop your head. Joel stood there, arms folded across his chest, forearms thick and sun-kissed, his white tee clinging to a chest built to hold sin. He was grinning like he’d been looking for you—and like he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find you right there, in his hat, licking candy like you were born to torment.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d come lookin’,” you said, voice syrupy, playing dumb with your eyes all lit up. “Didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

“Ain’t lookin’ for my hat.” He glanced down at you, gaze slow like a drag off a cigarette. “Figured it found the right head. But I was wonderin’ what a girl like you’s doin’ out here all alone.”

You stepped a little closer to the stall, just enough to make him lean in to hear you better. The lollipop clicked against your teeth as you pulled it free, letting your lips linger on the glossy red tip.

“Didn’t know I was alone. Figured you were watchin’ since the arena.”

Joel’s brows ticked upward, amused. His eyes didn’t move from your mouth.

“Might’ve been. Hard to look away when someone’s wearin’ my hat, suckin’ on candy like that.”

You smiled slow, that soft, sweet expression that always got people to underestimate you. Then, tilting your head, you held the lollipop out toward him between two fingers.

“Wanna taste?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, that long, unreadable look that said he was weighing his options—or maybe the trouble you came with. Then he stepped forward, real close, shadows and heat wrapping around you both.

Joel didn’t take the candy. He leaned in, just enough to speak low into your ear, his breath warm.

“Darlin’, if I start tastin’ you, that sucker ain’t the first thing I’ll be wantin’.”

And then he leaned back, not touching you, just looking at you like he already owned your next move. Like he knew you’d follow, whether you meant to or not.

The sucker stayed in your hand. Your heart kicked up under your ribs.

Something in the air snapped tighter between you two.

The tension hummed, a slow-burn kind of heat that didn’t demand anything—it just waited, sure as a storm in a dry sky. Joel stood there in the dying sunlight, all rough edges and coiled charm, and you felt his gaze settle heavy on you again—like you’d been branded by it.

He tipped his chin toward the back of the fairgrounds, where the floodlights were starting to flicker on over a spread of lawn chairs, pickup trucks, and coolers. Laughter drifted through the air, along with the twang of a guitar and the occasional clink of glass bottles.

“We’re settin’ up by the trailers. Cold beer, good company. You oughta come.”

It wasn’t a question.

You twirled the lollipop back between your lips, leaning a little on one hip. That crop top rode higher, teasing the smooth line of your waist. You didn’t say yes right away—no, you let the silence stretch, watching him, letting him want the answer before you gave it.

Then you gave a soft shrug, playful.

“Sure. Long as no one minds me showin’ up lookin’ better than all the other girls.”

Joel chuckled, deep and rough, like a growl wrapped in velvet.

“Sugar, you walked in lookin’ better than the rest. They’ll live.”

You fell into step beside him, the brim of his hat shading your face as you walked across the fairgrounds. He didn’t touch you—but he didn’t need to. The way he moved beside you, easy and tall, the occasional sideways glance full of unspoken things—it was enough.

The closer you got, the louder it became. Three trucks were backed up in a horseshoe around a crackling firepit, chairs and blankets scattered around, and a big cooler overflowing with beer and melting ice. Joel’s buddies were already gathered—broad men with sunburnt arms and worn-out boots, laughing like they hadn’t known hard days.

One of them spotted you and let out a long, appreciative whistle.

“Well damn, Miller. You didn’t say you were bringin’ a dessert.”

Joel didn’t even look at the guy. He just reached over to grab two beers from the cooler, popped them open with a bottle opener hanging from his belt, and handed one to you with a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Play nice,” he told them, calm but firm.

You took the beer, nails clinking against the glass, and let your lips curl slow around the rim before sipping. You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but your attention didn’t stray from Joel. Not for long.

“So,” you said, tilting your head, your voice a teasing whisper meant only for him, “you always share your toys with the boys?”

He grinned, finally letting his eyes drag slow over you.

“Ain’t a toy if it bites back, darlin’. And somethin’ tells me… you bite real good.”

The night stretched ahead, thick with heat and the smell of smoke and beer. Someone strummed a guitar, another tossed firewood onto the flames. But you? You leaned into the curve of your chair, beer in hand, and let the hat tip forward to shadow your grin.

You were right where you wanted to be.

And Joel Miller? He was definitely lookin’ at you like the game had only just begun.

The fire cracked behind you, throwing golden shadows across Joel’s broad chest. The beer bottle in your hand was sweating, beads of condensation rolling over your fingers as you nursed the last few sips. You’d laughed at some story his buddy Tommy told—something about a steer getting loose and chasing a drunk out of a porta-potty—but your eyes had stayed mostly on Joel. The way he sat, heavy and relaxed, one arm draped over the back of his folding chair like he owned the whole damn county. He hadn’t stopped watching you either.

You swirled the last of your beer in the bottle, then let your voice cut low, sweet, just enough to make him lean in to hear.

“So… where does a cowboy like you sleep on the road?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just cocked his head a bit, eyes narrowed, amused and curious like he was tryin’ to read your angle.

You smiled, teasing your bottom lip between your teeth, then looked out toward the edge of the field where a row of trailers sat under flickering sodium lights. You nodded toward them.

“I wanna see it,” you said softly. “Your trailer. Where you sleep.”

Joel’s lips curled into something not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. More like a knowing. His fingers reached down into the cooler again, pulling out another bottle—cold and dripping. He popped the cap against the edge of the metal grate by the fire and handed it to you without a word.

You took it, brushing your fingers along his in a way that said this ain’t innocent.

Then he stood. The firelight caught his frame, tall and cut from something older than time—something that didn’t bend easy. He jerked his head slightly toward the trailers.

“C’mon then.”

You followed, your boots crunching soft in the grass, that little skirt of yours swaying with every step. He didn’t walk too fast. Didn’t walk too slow. Just kept beside you, matching your pace like you’d been walking together for years.

When you reached his trailer, it was exactly what you imagined—beat-up in a charming way, streaks of red dust on the aluminum sides, an old Texas flag decal peeling off the back. He swung the door open and motioned you in with that big hand of his, letting you go first.

The inside was dim, a narrow space full of lived-in scent: leather, sweat, and faint cologne. A small bed in the back corner, sheets messy, denim jacket tossed over the edge. There was a shelf lined with personal things—a few old rodeo belt buckles, a photo pinned to the wall of a much younger Joel, clean-shaven and grinning next to a bull the size of a truck.

You wandered in slow, looking around like you belonged there.

Joel leaned against the doorframe, watching you with arms crossed, his beer dangling from one hand.

“Didn’t figure you were the type to get real interested in travel accommodations.”

You looked back over your shoulder, lips brushing your beer bottle.

“Maybe I just wanted to know where the big Cowboy Daddy, Joel Miller, lays his head down after a long, hard ride.”

He laughs. Loud, and it looked like just the view of you amused him.

His eyes dropped to your legs, then to your mouth. Real slow. That silence fell again—thick silence. The kind that begged for something to break it. A breath. A whisper. A touch.

“You always this curious?” he asked, voice rough.

You turned fully, letting the light from the tiny trailer window catch the curve of your waist, the sweet, sharp smile on your lips.

“Only when it’s worth it.”

Joel took a long drink of his beer, then set it down on the counter. You could feel the shift—he hadn’t moved yet, but something in him had. Like a bull behind the gate.

The air inside the trailer felt tighter than it should’ve—low ceiling, narrow walls, but that wasn’t it. It was the weight of Joel’s stare. The way his shoulders filled the doorway like he was trying real hard not to let anything in—or let you out.

You’d wandered your way to the little counter near the sink, fingers dancing along the edge of a battered cutting board, an old coffee mug, a half-used bottle of cologne that smelled like cedar, smoke, and sin. You took a sip from your beer, slow, savoring it like the pause between heartbeats. You could feel him watching your mouth.

“Ain’t much, but it’s home when I’m on the road,” he said.

You looked over your shoulder, head tilted, giving him that same syrupy smile that made most men melt—and always got them to show their hand.

“Not bad. Cozy. Probably gets a lotta use.”

Joel stepped closer, boots whispering across the linoleum. His voice dipped low.

“Only when I got someone worth sharin’ it with.”

Your lashes fluttered just enough to tease, but your mouth quirked into something sharper. You turned, leaning back against the counter, your hip jutting out just enough to catch his eye.

“Lotta women think they’re worth it, huh?” you murmured.

He didn’t answer. Just stepped in, slow and steady, like you were a skittish mare he didn’t wanna spook—but he still intended to saddle. His hand came up to the counter beside your waist, the other brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

“Can’t lie, darlin’. Ain’t been starvin’ out here.”

Then his eyes dropped to your lips. And he leaned in.

That smell—dust and leather and just a hint of beer—wrapped around you. His mouth hovered a breath from yours, just close enough to make your pulse skip. You let it hang there. Let him think he had you. Then you tilted your head back—not away, but just enough.

Your eyes met his, a flicker of fire behind the softness.

“You fuck a woman in every town you stop in, don’t you?” Your voice was honeyed, sharp beneath the sweetness. “Flash a grin, tip your hat, make ‘em feel special for a night—then ride out like a ghost.”

Joel didn’t blink. But that smile? It changed. Less wolf, more… curious.

“And you think you ain’t like them.”

“No,” you said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “I know I’m not. You want me, cowboy, you gotta earn me.”

There was a pause. Heavy and deep.

Then Joel laughed—low and warm in his chest, like he hadn’t heard something that real in a long damn time.

“Well,” he said, drawing back just enough to breathe, “guess I picked the right girl to hand my hat to.”

Your lips curved, slow and wicked.

“Guess you did.”

He didn’t try to kiss you again. Not yet.

But the promise hung thick in the air, clinging to every slow glance, every breath.

And Joel Miller? He’d never had to earn a damn thing before.

But he looked at you like maybe this time… he wanted to.

Your phone buzzed against your thigh, tucked in the waistband of that tiny denim skirt. The vibration broke the heat in the air, snapped the taut string stretched between you and Joel. You looked down slowly, reluctant, fingers brushing over the screen.

[Maddie: girl where the HELL are you?? we lost you like hours ago 😭]

[Maddie: we’re at the Ferris wheel—text me NOW]

You smiled faintly, a little breath through your nose. Damn. You’d forgotten they even existed.

Joel leaned back slightly, still close enough to feel the heat of him, his hand resting easy on the counter beside you. He glanced at the phone, then back at you, one brow raised.

“They send out a search party?”

“Somethin’ like that,” you murmured, tucking the phone away again, your fingers brushing over his wrist as you stepped slightly back—not far, but enough to signal it.

He nodded once, jaw flexing like he didn’t love the idea of you leaving—but he wasn’t gonna stop you, either.

“That friend of yours got a leash on you?”

You gave him a slow grin, stepping around him toward the trailer door, beer bottle still dangling from your fingers. The sway in your hips wasn’t an accident.

“No one’s got a leash on me, cowboy.”

You paused at the door, glancing over your shoulder, eyes lit with something dangerous.

“But don’t worry. I remember the way back.”

Joel watched you go, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, his mouth pulled into a smirk that looked equal parts amused and intrigued.

“I bet you do.”

You stepped out into the thick summer night, the fair still glowing in the distance, the sound of music and laughter calling you back. Joel’s hat still sat snug on your head, brim casting shadows over your grin.

You didn’t look back again.

Didn’t have to.

He was already planning on seeing you again.

The morning cracked open mean and loud.

It started with the slamming of a cabinet door. Then the sharp clink of glass bottles rattling in the sink—half-empty, sticky, the smell of stale liquor already thick in the air before the sun had fully risen. You moved through the kitchen with your jaw tight, boots hitting the linoleum with purpose, your little bag slung over one shoulder. Eyes down. Don’t engage. That was the rule.

But of course, your dad was already drinking.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’ dressed like that?” his voice slurred out from the recliner, worn leather groaning under his weight.

You didn’t stop moving.

“Out.”

“Rodeo again?” he barked, dragging himself up with a grunt, bottle clutched tight. “What, you think some goddamn cowboy’s gonna fix your life?”

You froze at the door, back to him. Your fingers curled around the strap of your bag tighter.

“You wouldn’t know anything about fixing lives,” you muttered, voice sharp and flat. “You just burn everything down and wait for someone else to clean it up.”

That set him off.

“You little bitch—”

Glass shattered. Something thrown. Not at you—but close enough to make the wall rattle. You didn’t flinch. You’d stopped flinching years ago. Just sucked in a breath, jaw locked hard.

“Mom left you,” you said, voice cold now. “And all you’ve done since is try to drown me in her place.”

Then you turned the knob. Walked out.

The sun outside was blinding compared to the nicotine-stained dark behind you. Your boots crunched the gravel of the drive. But what stopped you wasn’t the light.

It was the rumble of an old truck engine.

And Joel Miller, leaning against the driver’s side, one boot hooked over the other, arms folded across his chest like he’d been there a while. The hat you wore last night still sat snug on your head, shielding your eyes—but you didn’t miss the way his gaze moved over you. Not hungrily. Not like the men who looked too long at gas stations. It was measured. Careful. A quiet, burning kind of look.

“Hey,” he said simply. “Was just about to knock.”

You blinked. A full second passed before your body remembered how to move.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

He pushed off the truck, that easy gait of his moving him toward you. He looked good—too good for a morning this fucked. Flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, jeans dusty, the lines of sleep still soft in the corners of his eyes.

“Asked around town,” he said. “Figured if I didn’t find you, I’d spend the day wonderin’ if you were real or somethin’ I dreamed up.”

Your mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

He asked for you around the town. Motherfucker.

“You borrow this too?” you asked, nodding to the truck.

Joel gave a low chuckle.

“Yeah. Tommy’s. He’s still drunk from last night. Won’t notice it’s gone ‘til it’s too late.”

The screen door behind you groaned. You didn’t look back. Joel’s eyes flicked to the sound but didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. He’d seen enough.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low now, serious.

You lifted your chin.

“I will be when we’re not standin’ in this goddamn driveway.”

Joel held your gaze for a moment, then stepped back and opened the passenger side door.

“Then get in.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You climbed in, tossing your bag in first. As you slammed the door shut, the house behind you might as well’ve been a hundred miles away. Joel circled the front of the truck, climbing in behind the wheel, the engine growling to life.

The silence between you settled soft. Heavy.

After a minute, Joel glanced over, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed near the gear shift.

“You don’t gotta talk about it.”

“Good,” you said quickly, cutting him off. Then, after a beat, quieter: “But thanks.”

He nodded. Eyes back on the road.

The truck pulled onto the gravel road, dust trailing behind you like smoke. Ahead, the fairgrounds waited. The noise. The lights. And Joel—Joel wasn’t looking back.

Neither were you.

The truck rolled down the long stretch of two-lane road, the kind that cut through fields and dust like it had nowhere important to be—but today, it had you. The open windows let the wind snake through, lifting strands of your hair, tugging at the brim of Joel’s hat still perched on your head. The same one he’d let you keep the night before.

Your arms were folded tight across your chest, your body turned slightly toward the window, jaw clenched like it had been all morning. That fight still clung to you, like smoke that wouldn’t wash off. Joel didn’t press. He didn’t say a damn thing about the bruised look behind your eyes. But he saw it.

And after a few miles of silence, he decided he’d had enough of it.

“Y’know,” he said, voice easy, drawl thick and smooth, “if you were mine, I wouldn’t let you leave the house wearin’ that skirt either.”

Your head snapped toward him.

He was smirking now, eyes still on the road, like he hadn’t just thrown a match into dry grass.

Your brow arched, mouth twitching like you wanted to be mad—but couldn’t quite stop the smile threatening to crawl across your face.

“You flirt with every girl you pick up outside their daddy’s house, or am I just special?”

Joel let out a low chuckle, one hand drumming against the steering wheel. You saw the way his eyes cut toward you—amused, admiring.

“Nah. You’re special. I don’t chase girls who bite back. Usually I like ‘em soft.”

“And I’m not soft?”

“Not even a little,” he said, slow and glancing at you again, grin spreading wider. “You’re sugar-coated mean, darlin’. All that sweetness up front, but underneath? Ain’t nobody taming you.”

You looked out the window, but the smile finally cracked through. It started small—just the corner of your mouth—but Joel caught it.

“There she is,” he said, real quiet. Like the sound of that smile meant more to him than the rest of the damn day.

You shook your head, huffed a laugh.

“You got a bad habit of knowin’ exactly what to say.”

“No, I just pay attention.”

He reached over, real casual, and brushed his fingers just once against your thigh—low and slow. Not grabby. Not pushy. Just a reminder he was there.

The rodeo grounds were coming into view up ahead. Flags flapping in the breeze, trailers lined up like soldiers, the dust already rising from boots and hooves.

But in that truck, in that moment, there wasn’t any noise. Just the sound of your quiet laughter returning. The faint blush on your cheeks you didn’t bother hiding.

Joel smiled too, his hand slipping back to the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s better.”

The rodeo grounds came into focus like a scene from some dusty postcard—trucks lined along the fields, folding chairs popped open under shade tents, the air buzzing with the low drone of generators, country music bleeding from too many speakers at once. Dust rose in lazy spirals with every step of a boot.

Joel swung the truck into a gravel lot behind the competitor trailers. The second he threw it in park and stepped out, it was like blood hit the water.

She spotted him fast—a blonde, tan like leather, long legs poured into skin-tight jeans, with lips glossed up and ready to be kissed. One of those rodeo girls who knew exactly what her hips could do when she walked, and she walked straight up to Joel before you had a chance to even get out of the passenger side.

“Well look who showed up early,” she purred, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she looked him up and down. “Joel Miller, back again. Still makin’ bulls look tame and hearts look breakable.”

You rolled your eyes. Subtle, but not subtle enough.

Joel stood easy, relaxed in the heat, arms hanging loose at his sides—but you saw the shift in his eyes. He glanced at you through the windshield. Then back at the woman.

“’Preciate the compliment,” he said, voice even. Then, casual as anything: “But I’m here with my girl.”

You blinked. What?

The woman cocked her head, all that sugar in her smile suddenly turning brittle.

“Oh?”

Joel turned then, motioning toward the truck. His eyes met yours through the open door—steady, warm, the barest flicker of something smug just behind them.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s the one wearin’ my hat.”

Your heart did a dumb little flip before you could strangle it.

You stepped out slowly, making sure your boot hit the gravel just loud enough to announce your entrance. You didn’t strut—but you didn’t hurry, either. The sun caught the edge of your bare legs, skirt riding dangerously high as you adjusted the hat slightly, just to drive it home.

“Hey,” you said, keeping your tone mild, but your eyes were sharp when you looked at the woman.

The blonde gave a little smirk, the kind that meant she was chewing on jealousy but didn’t want to choke in public.

“Didn’t know Joel had a type.”

“He didn’t,” you said, stepping up beside him. “I’m the exception.”

Joel gave a quiet chuckle, then reached out and rested his hand low on your back—real easy, real sure.

The other woman’s smile twitched, brittle and breaking. She gave a tight shrug, turned on her heel with a swish of hair and attitude, and stalked back toward the trailers.

As soon as she was gone, you tilted your head toward him, lips curving.

“Your girl, huh?”

Joel looked down at you, eyes dark and amused.

“Would’ve said it earlier, but figured I’d ease you into it.”

You snorted, looking away before he could see the way that heat was crawling up your neck.

“You’re real full of yourself, cowboy.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning in just enough to murmur it against the brim of his hat on your head, “just full’a good taste.”

And with that, he stepped around you, grabbing his gear from the back of the truck like he hadn’t just branded you with two words in front of half the damn rodeo.

But that hand on your back? That lingered.

And so did the grin on your lips.

The rodeo grounds buzzed with noise and heat—riders tightening ropes, bulls kicking up dust in their pens, announcers testing mics with long drawls echoing from the PA. Joel slung his duffel over one shoulder, the weight of it resting against his thick frame like it belonged there. He was already shifting into game-face mode—less flirt, more steel. Focused.

You could see it in the way his jaw set, his shoulders squared. All that swagger he wore like a second skin turned just a little more serious.

“I gotta get over to the prep stalls,” he said, jerking his chin toward the far end of the arena where the riders gathered behind the chutes. “Get my gear set, check the draw. You good gettin’ to the stands?”

“The what?” you asked, squinting.

“The grandstands,” he said, half-smiling. “Where my folks watch. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

He reached for your hand without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, his fingers curling around yours as he led you through the maze of trailers, hay bales, and riders hollering across the dirt.

The grandstands loomed up ahead—metal bleachers already packed with people in cowboy hats and sunburns, waving programs and drinking from sweaty cups. Joel brought you right up to the fence that divided the crowd from the arena, then turned to face you.

“You sit right up there, center row,” he said, nodding to a spot with the best view of the chutes. “Ain’t hard to find. I’ll be able to see you from the ring.”

You looked up toward the seats, then back at him. His face was in shadow from the sun behind him, but his eyes were clear. Focused. Present.

The air between you turned still for a moment. The sound of everything else—boots stomping, bulls bellowing, distant country music—faded to a dull thrum behind your ribs.

You stepped close.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Joel looked down at you, brows raised.

And then, without asking, you reached up and kissed him.

Not shy. Not sweet. Sure.

Your hand slid up his chest, fingers brushing the collar of his flannel as your lips met his—warm, firm, and steady. Not long. Not sloppy. But full of a promise. You tasted dust and leather and beer and him.

When you pulled back, his eyes hadn’t moved. They stayed locked on yours, quiet heat in every inch of that gaze.

“For luck,” you said, voice low.

He huffed a breath through his nose—half-laugh, half-growl—and smirked.

“If I ride that bull clean, it’s ‘cause of that damn kiss.”

You turned toward the stands, boots clicking against the wood as you climbed the steps. Halfway up, you looked back.

Joel was still watching you.

And even from that distance, you could see it:

That kiss wasn’t leaving his mind anytime soon.

The crowd was already humming before his name was even called.

You sat center row just like he told you, legs crossed, elbows resting on your knees, heart thudding faster than it had any right to. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the arena, and the dust in the air glittered like gold as the announcer’s voice rang out over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, next up—hold on to your goddamn hats—we got Joel Miller comin’ to the ring!”

The crowd erupted, a swell of hoots and whistles and stomping boots. You didn’t cheer—not yet. You just leaned forward, fingers curling around the edge of the metal seat as the chute gate creaked open and there he was.

Joel.

Mounted on the back of a bull that looked like it was forged in hell—massive, muscles twitching, eyes wild. But Joel sat like stone. Perfect form, one hand in the rope, the other lifted, loose but ready. His legs locked, his core tight. He looked like a man about to go to war with something ancient.

And then the gate blew open.

The bull burst into the ring like a living explosion, hooves slamming the dirt, muscles bucking in furious rhythm. But Joel didn’t falter. Not once. His body moved with the beast like he wasn’t fighting it—like he’d become part of it. The crowd screamed as the seconds counted down, the announcer barking into the mic, but none of that reached you.

You didn’t hear a damn thing.

You just watched him ride.

Eight seconds. Clean. Sharp. Perfect.

When the buzzer sounded, he threw himself off in a practiced dismount, landing heavy in the dirt but already rising again like gravity didn’t matter. The bull stormed off, wrangled by the pickup men, but your eyes were only on Joel.

He looked up toward the stands.

Right at you.

And then, grinning like the devil just gave him permission to sin, he jogged toward the fence—straight across the arena, brushing off the dirt clinging to his shirt and jeans. The crowd was still cheering, but it thinned around you as he stopped right below the railing where you sat.

“Well?” he called up, breathless, chest heaving. “You see that ride?”

You leaned down toward him, your face only a few inches from his. The brim of his hat still sat low over your brow.

“Told you it was the kiss.”

Joel reached up and gripped the top rail of the fence, hoisting himself halfway up with one powerful pull. He was still covered in dust, shirt damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead.

“Think I earned another one,” he said, low and rough.

You didn’t make him ask twice.

You leaned in and kissed him right there in front of everyone—hot, full, lips pressed to his like you weren’t in the middle of a cheering stadium. His hand came up, strong and warm on the side of your neck, keeping you there just long enough to turn heads and raise eyebrows.

When you finally pulled away, your mouth tingling, breath caught in your chest, Joel grinned.

“Told you I’d ride clean.”

“Told you,” you whispered, “you had to earn me.”

His eyes narrowed, smirk curling wider.

“Think I’m startin’ to.”

And with that, he dropped back down into the arena dirt, tipping his head once as he turned and walked off—leaving behind a roar of noise, a cloud of dust, and you, heart pounding, smile wide, and lips still tingling with his.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, barely cutting above the thundering crowd:

“And with a score of 92.7, your winner tonight—Joel Miller!”

The stands erupted, boots stomping against metal bleachers, hats flying into the air, people slapping each other’s backs and hollering like they’d all known him forever. You didn’t holler, though. You just smiled—slow and sure—watching him stand there in the dirt, backlit by the last lick of sunlight, dust curling around his boots like smoke around a flame.

He didn’t milk it. He wasn’t the type to throw his arms in the air or shout victory.

He just looked up toward the grandstands. Toward you.

And that was louder than anything else.

Later, after the arena started to clear out, after he shook a dozen hands and signed a few shirts for sweaty, wide-eyed kids, Joel found you again. You were leaning against the side of his borrowed truck, arms crossed, that crooked smile playing on your lips.

“So,” you said, “gonna ride off into the sunset or what?”

He snorted, grabbing a bottle of water from the backseat and downing half of it in one go.

“Sunset can wait. My back’s soaked through and I’m covered in three layers of dirt and pride.”

You quirked a brow. “What’s your plan then?”

“Trailer,” he said simply. “Gotta get outta these clothes before they stick to my ribs.”

He paused. Looked at you. “C’mon. Ain’t askin’ for anything. Just… I don’t feel like goin’ back there by myself.”

That last part was quieter. Almost under his breath. And it hit a little deeper than you expected.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just pushed off the truck and nodded.

“Alright, cowboy. Lead the way.”

The walk back was quiet, the noise of the rodeo fading behind you like a dying song. The trailers sat in a crescent under strings of yellow lights, buzzing soft with mosquitoes and late-night air. His was toward the end, the same beat-up metal box you remembered from the night before.

He opened the door and stepped inside first, shrugging off his gear and tossing his gloves onto the counter. You followed him in, the door clicking shut behind you.

Inside, it was quiet and warm. The smell of leather and sweat thick in the air, mixed with something softer now—something like soap and the faint echo of cologne on his clothes.

Joel peeled his shirt off with a grunt, the cotton sticking to his back before finally sliding free. His skin glistened, damp with sweat, the muscles in his back catching the low lamplight as he tossed the shirt aside. You watched him without shame, eyes tracing the curve of his spine, the faded scars that whispered stories you hadn’t heard yet.

“Told you I wasn’t gonna do anything,” he said without turning, voice low, rough. “But hell, if you keep lookin’ at me like that…”

You smirked, stepping closer just enough to grab the water bottle he’d left on the counter. You brushed past him, cool plastic trailing his bare side.

“Didn’t say I didn’t want to look,” you said lightly.

He turned then, a towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling slow.

“You want me to step out while you clean up?” you asked, though your voice wasn’t exactly eager to leave.

Joel shook his head.

“You stay.”

And so you did.

You sat at the edge of the bed while he toweled off, pulling clean clothes from the little cabinet above the sink. A fresh shirt, soft with wear. Loose sweats that clung to his hips in the right ways. No tension. No pressure. Just quiet.

He didn’t try to impress you now. He didn’t need to.

He just let you be there.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else could’ve been.

The trailer filled with the soft, rhythmic hiss of running water—the kind of sound that drowned out everything else, muffling the world to a low, warm hum. You sat on the small bench by the narrow bed, one leg crossed over the other, his hat still resting comfortably on your head, tilted just low enough to shade your eyes.

Joel had disappeared behind the thin sliding door at the back of the trailer, the space where the cramped little shower was hidden—barely big enough for a man his size to move in without bumping an elbow or two. You heard the low creak of the faucet handle, the thunk of something (probably his elbow) knocking into the wall, and then the sound of water hitting skin.

The image came easy—him, head bowed under the spray, steam curling around thick shoulders, water gliding down the ridges of his back, dripping over the curve of his spine, soaking into the faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. You didn’t try to fight the heat curling low in your belly.

But still, you stayed put.

Mostly.

You glanced at the wall separating you from him, lips twitching as the water shut off with a sharp squeak. A beat passed. Then the door creaked open again.

And there he was.

Joel stepped out, steam rolling into the trailer behind him, clinging to his skin like a second layer. A single white towel was slung low around his hips, barely knotted, just enough to keep from slipping—though not by much. Droplets still clung to his chest, trailing down the defined lines of muscle, soaking into the towel’s edge. His hair was damp, darker with water, a few strands clinging to his temples. His jaw was freshly scrubbed but shadowed, that permanent 5 o’clock scruff giving him a wild, worn edge.

You didn’t look away.

Not even close.

He caught your gaze instantly. And for a moment, he just stood there, towel hanging on his hips, heat lingering on his skin—and something darker sparking behind his eyes.

“You enjoyin’ the view, or should I come back out with jeans on?” he asked, voice low, a teasing rasp undercutting the question.

You tilted your head, slow smile blooming on your lips as you leaned back on your hands, legs still crossed.

“Depends. You plan on droppin’ that towel anytime soon?”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head as he moved toward the little drawer near the bed, pulling it open and grabbing a pair of soft, well-worn gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered, not even trying to hide the grin.

“So I’ve been told,” you said lightly, watching as he turned just slightly—just enough for the towel to shift low, low enough to flash a dangerous line of hip, the kind of line that invited sin and poor decisions.

You bit your bottom lip and looked away finally—just long enough to breathe.

He noticed.

“Ain’t doin’ it to tease,” he said behind you, voice quiet but rough. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

You looked back at him. Really looked.

The towel still hung in place, barely. His eyes, though? They weren’t pushing. Not hungry. Not leering. Just watching you like he wanted to be seen, like it didn’t bother him if you looked—so long as you were the one lookin’.

You stood slowly, walking past him to grab the water bottle you’d left on the counter, brushing close enough to feel his damp heat radiating off his skin.

“I don’t mind,” you said, voice soft but pointed. “But you already knew that.”

Joel didn’t move. Just let you pass. But when you turned back, he was still watching you with that low-burning, steady heat.

He didn’t need to touch you to make you feel it.

And even when he turned to pull on his clothes, that damn towel still clinging for its final seconds—your eyes followed.

You weren’t in a rush to look away again.

Joel pulled the soft black T-shirt down over his head, the fabric clinging for a moment before settling across his broad chest. He scrubbed the towel through his damp hair, chest still faintly damp, his scent filling the narrow trailer—soap, skin, something deep and warm that made the air feel heavier.

You sat again, this time perched casually on the edge of the little bench, watching him with that same half-smile playing on your lips. You weren’t trying to be subtle, and he wasn’t pretending not to notice.

As he tucked the last of his things back into his bag, Joel glanced your way.

“Alright,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “You dragged me to the grandstands, into a kiss, and halfway to hell with that look you keep givin’ me. Think it’s only fair I let you pick where we go next.”

You tilted your head, expression thoughtful now. The playfulness dulled just a little as something softer crept into your gaze. Not shy. Just real.

“There’s a place,” you said. “Bit of a drive.”

Joel raised a brow, one arm hooking around the back of his neck as he leaned against the counter, waiting.

“There’s a lake. Little ways outside town, tucked in the woods off the back roads. Ain’t many people know about it. My mom used to take me out there sometimes. After she left…” you hesitated for a moment. “I started goin’ there alone. Just to breathe.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. Just nodded, slow, understanding etched in the hard lines around his mouth.

“Sounds like the right kind of place.”

“It is,” you said, eyes flicking up to meet his again. “I don’t usually bring people there.”

He stepped closer, one hand resting easy on the edge of the counter beside you.

“You don’t usually do a lot of things you’re doin’ lately, huh?”

Your lips curled slightly, and you gave a slow shrug.

“Guess you’re the exception too.”

That earned a real smile from him, wide enough to show the edges of his teeth.

“Alright then,” he said. “Show me this lake.”

You nodded, standing again as he grabbed the keys off the hook near the trailer door.

“You drive,” you said as you passed him, brushing your shoulder just slightly against his chest. “But you better not bitch about the roads. They get rough near the trail.”

Joel opened the door with a huff of amusement.

“Darlin’, you think I’m scared of a little dirt road after ridin’ a thousand pounds of pissed-off bull?”

You glanced back at him as you stepped into the cooling evening, boots hitting the grass with that same lazy sway in your stride.

“Fair. But just wait. This place don’t like to be found easy.”

Joel grinned as he followed you out, locking up the trailer behind him.

“Neither do you.”

And with that, the two of you disappeared into the slow-falling dark, headed down a road most people wouldn’t bother finding… but Joel Miller was already the kind of man who chased what others couldn’t hold on to.

The drive took a while—long enough for the heat between you two to settle into something slow and comfortable, like sun-warmed honey. The roads had narrowed into little more than dirt paths wound through tall trees, the kind that curved and dipped like the woods themselves were trying to hide something.

And then the lake appeared.

It wasn’t big, not something you’d find on a map with a name and a dock and a rules sign hammered into the ground. Just a deep stretch of water nestled quiet among the pines, still and shining under the blush of the setting sky. Fireflies already winked in the tall grass, and the air smelled like earth, summer, and something faintly sweet.

Joel killed the engine.

You slid out first, stepping onto the wild grass barefoot now, your boots left in the truck. The hat—his hat—still sat on your head, tilted at an angle that made your eyes almost smug beneath the brim.

He followed slower, still moving like a man who expected the ground to shift beneath him at any second, always carrying tension in his shoulders. But when he looked around—at the water, the trees, you—some of that weight seemed to roll off him.

“Well,” he muttered, “hell. You weren’t lyin’. Place is damn near perfect.”

“I don’t lie, Joel. I just don’t share easy.”

You dropped into the grass with a soft oof, stretching out on your side before propping yourself up on an elbow. Joel eased down beside you, one leg outstretched, the other bent just enough for balance. His arms rested behind him as he leaned back, eyes on the water.

For a long second, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t awkward. Just… settled.

Then you spoke.

“So,” you said, voice a little softer than your usual sass. “Tell me somethin’. What made you wanna travel the country to get thrown around by angry livestock for a livin’?”

Joel chuckled, the sound deep in his chest.

“You make it sound like I’m out here tryin’ to get killed for fun.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Nah. I’m just too damn stubborn to do somethin’ safe.”

You raised a brow.

“That’s the whole reason?”

Joel shifted, pulled a blade of grass from the ground and started to twist it between his fingers.

“Nah… My brother and I, we grew up rough. Ranch work, every kinda odd job you can think of. When I was sixteen, this old guy down the road—real bastard, had a mouth like a belt sander—he paid me fifty bucks to ride a bull named Whiskey Jack ‘cause his regular guy didn’t show.”

“And you said yes?”

“Hell yeah. I needed gas money and I was dumb as rocks.”

You laughed, leaning into the side of his arm.

“So you just climbed on?”

“Didn’t even have the right boots. Slid right off that bastard after three seconds and nearly cracked my jaw on the chute rail. Thought I’d never do it again.”

“But?”

“But next week I was back. And I stayed on for five seconds. Then six. Then eight.”

You were grinning now, teeth catching your bottom lip.

“So, what—you just fell in love with the pain?”

Joel looked over at you, eyes dark but amused.

“No, sweetheart. I fell in love with the fight. The noise, the crowd, the way it all goes quiet when the gate opens. Nothin’ else exists in that moment but holdin’ on.”

You let that sit for a second, staring at him.

Then you smiled.

“You’re deeper than you look, Miller.”

He snorted.

“Don’t tell anyone. I got a reputation to uphold.”

You scooted just a little closer, your bare leg brushing his denim-covered thigh.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Joel looked down at you, and for a moment, he didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just looked. Like maybe he’d found something even quieter than the inside of that ring.

“Thanks for bringin’ me here,” he said low. “Even if it’s just to make me spill my life story.”

You grinned, head tilted.

“I didn’t bring you here to talk, cowboy.”

Joel’s brow rose, interested. “No?”

“Nah. I brought you here so you’d shut up and let me admire how good you look in the moonlight.”

Joel laughed then—deep and warm—and leaned just a bit closer.

“Darlin’, you keep flirtin’ like that, I’m gonna forget we’re sittin’ next to a lake and not a motel bed.”

You batted your lashes, all mock-innocence.

“Who said anything about stoppin’ you?”

And just like that, the quiet between you turned electric again—laced with heat, with laughter, with something new simmering slow beneath it all.

And the lake just sat there, still and calm, reflecting back the kind of night you both weren’t ready to end.

The air had turned thick with silence again—but not the peaceful kind this time.

It was charged. Hot. The lake shimmered under the rising moonlight, pale and glass-still, but everything between you and Joel felt like it was rolling just under the surface, waiting to break.

You stared at him, really stared. His face softened in this light—less hardened cowboy, more man. His jaw was still shadowed, lips still curled in that half-damn smile, but his eyes had stopped playing games. They were locked on you. Watching you think.

And you’d thought long enough.

Your fingers brushed against his knee, light at first—then firmer, a glide up over the denim toward his thigh as you sat up, knees tucked beneath you in the grass. Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

He was waiting.

And you didn’t ask.

You just leaned in and kissed him.

Hungry. Desperate. Like every look he’d thrown you today had carved away your patience until nothing was left but fire and need. Your lips crashed into his, full and open, tongue sliding against his in the kind of kiss that tasted like possession. Your hand gripped the back of his neck, fingers threading into the damp curls there, holding him close like you’d waited your whole goddamn life to finally stop holding back.

Joel groaned into your mouth, low and broken, his hand coming up to your waist, squeezing—firm, possessive, like he’d wanted to do it since the minute he saw you in that skirt. You didn’t give him room to talk, didn’t give him breath. You kissed him like you were trying to drag something out of him. Something real.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, your voice dark and breathless.

“I’m so fucking tired of pretendin’ I don’t want this right now.”

Joel’s chest rose hard beneath your hands, his breath hot as it hit your cheek.

“Then don’t pretend.”

You kissed him again—deeper. Slow but dirty, the kind of kiss that made the world tilt, made your thighs squeeze tight where you knelt in the grass. His hands slid up under your top, rough palms skimming hot skin, but he still held back. Still let you lead, like he knew you needed to.

You dragged your lips down to his jaw, kissed the scrape of stubble, bit lightly beneath his ear.

“You drive me crazy, Joel,” you breathed. “You look at me like you wanna ruin me… and then don’t.”

He laughed—dark and low, voice cracked.

“Don’t tempt me, sugar.”

“Who says I’m temptin’?” you murmured, dragging your teeth over his throat. “I’m beggin’.”

He groaned again, louder this time, and the sound of it settled deep in you. His hands clenched around your hips like he was fighting every damn instinct in his body.

And still… he didn’t pull you down. Didn’t flip you over. He just kissed you back like it meant something. Like he’d waited just as long to feel something real.

The grass was cool against your knees, but your body burned like fire beneath the moonlight. Joel lay back on his elbows, legs spread wide, sweatpants shoved low on his hips, chest rising with uneven breath as you settled between his thighs.

He was already hard—thick and heavy in your hand as you gripped him, your touch bold, unforgiving, like you weren’t here to tease anymore. No more pretending, no more playing soft. You wanted him wrecked—and he knew it.

Your lips hovered just over the head, and you let your breath hit him before your tongue did. He twitched at the heat of it, groaned low in his chest as your tongue flicked once—slow, deliberate—then again, dragging up the underside with purpose, tasting sweat, salt, skin.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, his head falling back, hand sliding into your hair. “You ain’t takin’ it slow tonight, huh?”

You looked up at him through the brim of his hat still perched on your head, eyes glinting, mouth curling just slightly around him.

“Don’t want slow,” you breathed, voice thick. “Want to feel you lose it.”

And then you sank down.

Your mouth took him deeper, stretching wide as your jaw opened around the weight of him. The sound was obscene—wet, eager, your spit mixing with every movement as you took him farther, one hand gripping the base, the other pressed to his thigh to keep him right there.

Joel’s groan was rough and sharp, pulled straight from his gut.

“God damn, girl—”

You didn’t stop. Your head bobbed, slow at first, then faster, your rhythm building with every low curse that slipped from his mouth. You wanted him undone, trembling, wrecked by the feel of your throat tightening around him, by the wet heat and the way your tongue curled under the tip just right.

You moaned around him, and the vibration made him jerk, his hips flexing before he grabbed the back of your head and groaned again—trying not to thrust, not to take control.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that and I swear—fuck—”

You held eye contact, never breaking it, your lips stretched around his cock, cheeks hollowing with effort and hunger. Spit dripped down your chin, shining in the moonlight, but you didn’t wipe it. You let it stay, let him see the mess you were making of yourself for him.

And he watched you—eyes blown wide, mouth parted, chest rising like he was already chasing the edge.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he growled, voice hoarse, fingers tightening in your hair. “You want me to come down your throat?”

You moaned again—louder. A yes without words, mouth full and greedy.

You could feel it in him—the tension, the twitch of his hips, the way his muscles coiled. He was close. You didn’t let up. You sucked harder, deeper, filthy sounds filling the still night around you.

Joel choked out a broken curse, his head falling back as his grip on your hair tightened.

And then he came.

Hard.

His body tensed, jaw clenched, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as you swallowed every bit of it, never pulling back, never breaking eye contact. You kept going until he twitched from overstimulation, until his thighs trembled beneath your palms.

Only then did you finally pull off—slow, messy, a string of spit and release still clinging to your lip.

You wiped it with the back of your hand, licking it off as you grinned.

“Told you,” you whispered, breathless. “I don’t do things halfway.”

Joel was wrecked—chest heaving, eyes dark, his voice barely a growl.

“Jesus… You just ruined me.”

“Good,” you whispered, crawling up to straddle his lap. “That was the plan.”

You were still straddling his lap, the curve of your thighs flush against his hips, your breath ragged, lips wet from where you’d ruined yourself on him. Joel’s chest rose slow beneath you, and he looked up at you like he hadn’t caught his breath yet.

But something had shifted in his gaze.

That control you took? He was about to take it back.

His hand slid up your bare thigh, slow, possessive—fingertips dragging just under the edge of your skirt. He didn’t ask. Didn’t check. He just looked at you, that rough kind of stillness settling over him. One hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lip.

“Open,” he said softly, and when you parted your mouth, he slipped his thumb in—watching you suck it, wet and slow, your eyes locked to his.

“Good girl.”

His voice dropped lower, a gravel drag through your spine.

Then both hands moved. One grabbed your waist, grounding you in place. The other dipped between your thighs, fingers sliding under the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked cotton of your panties to the side.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “You’re drippin’, darlin’. You got that messy just from suckin’ me off?”

You couldn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Your body spoke for you—hips twitching at the first touch of his fingers sliding through your slick, teasing just outside where you needed him.

He leaned in, lips grazing your throat, the stubble on his jaw scraping your skin in the best kind of burn.

“Want you to ride somethin’ now,” he murmured. “And I ain’t talkin’ about my cock… not yet.”

His middle and ring fingers slid inside you—slow at first, deliberate, curling deep with that exact kind of pressure that made your spine arch. You gasped, thighs twitching around his wrist, and he grinned.

“There it is,” he whispered.

He didn’t move them yet. Just kept them buried in you, palm flat against you, thick fingers pulsing with subtle pressure—making you feel the stretch, the shape, the slow burn.

“Now ride.”

You met his eyes—your lips parted, chest heaving, legs trembling—and obeyed.

Your hips rolled down against his hand, grinding slow over his fingers, deeper, needier. Joel didn’t move them for you. He just let you do it, watched you work for it, mouth half-open, eyes burning.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching the way you rocked on him. “Look at you, baby. Filthy little thing, makin’ yourself come on my fuckin’ hand.”

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingernails digging into muscle as you moved faster—moaning, riding the pressure, the angle of his palm hitting your clit just right with every roll of your hips. His fingers curled, and you cried out.

“That it?” he growled. “Right there?”

You nodded, desperate, lips trembling.

“Say it.”

“There—fuck, Joel, right there—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He kept his fingers steady, curling deep, his thumb pressing tight against your clit, grinding up into you as your rhythm turned frantic—your thighs shaking, body tensing, that release building sharp and fast, right under your skin.

“You gonna come for me?” he growled, lips at your ear now, voice tight. “Right on my fuckin’ hand like a good girl?”

You shattered.

The orgasm hit you hard—hips jerking, hands clutching him like a lifeline, your moan drawn-out, unrestrained, wrecked. Joel held you through it, didn’t pull his fingers out until your body trembled and your head fell against his shoulder, gasping for breath.

Slowly, so slowly, he slipped his fingers free—and brought them to his lips.

Sucked them clean, watching you the whole time.

“Tastes like trouble,” he said, voice hoarse. “Think I’m startin’ to like it.”

You laughed against his neck, dizzy and full of heat, your voice wrecked.

“You haven’t even seen half of what I can do.”

Joel smirked.

“Then don’t stop now.”

The lake shimmered in the dark like a secret, moonlight sliding across its still surface, broken only by the occasional flick of a bug or ripple of wind. Joel sat back in the grass, legs stretched, fingers flexing in the leftover heat of you still pulsing down his hand. His shirt clung slightly to his chest where your body had leaned against him, his breath still ragged, pupils still blown.

You leaned back, breath shallow, looking over your shoulder toward the water. The corners of your mouth curled like you were about to say something wicked.

“I wanna swim.”

Joel raised a brow, still catching up. “Now?”

“Mmhm.” You slowly pulled the hat from your head and set it on his chest. “You stayin’ here, cowboy, or you comin’ in?”

But you weren’t waiting for an answer.

You stood, legs shaky but defiant, skirt still hitched high from where he’d had his fingers buried in you. Your shirt clung to your back, your thighs gleamed in the moonlight, and you walked toward the edge of the lake like it owed you something.

And then—slow, deliberate—you grabbed the hem of your top.

Joel sat forward.

You peeled the shirt off, over your head, dropping it in the grass without looking back. No bra. Just bare skin kissed by the moon, your back arched slightly, your hands slipping down to the waistband of your skirt.

You pushed it down slow. Tantalizing. Unashamed. The cotton panties followed, dragged down over your hips and thighs until you stood at the lake’s edge completely naked, moonlight painting every inch of you in soft silver and shadow.

You looked back over your shoulder, eyes gleaming with something half-feral, half-mocking.

Calling him again, but silently.

Joel was frozen for a second. Just a second. Then he stood, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving your body. The shirt was off in one pull. The sweats dropped low. But you were already stepping into the water—hips swaying, the cold making your nipples stiffen, your breath hitch just enough to make him twitch with want.

The lake swallowed you, one step at a time, until the water came to your breasts. You turned, hands skimming the surface, watching him through heavy lashes.

“You gonna keep starin’,” you said, voice low, sultry, “or you finally gonna come in here and do somethin’ about it?”

Joel’s voice was thick, hoarse.

“You keep undressin’ like that in front of me, girl, I ain’t gonna be doin’ a damn bit of swimmin’.”

You gave a dark little laugh, then waded deeper—slowly, deliberately, until you dove under and came up slick with water, your hair darkened and clinging, your body gleaming wet in the moonlight.

You looked like sin. Wild. Untouchable.

Joel stepped into the water, muscles coiled, hands flexing like he wanted to grab you the moment he got close enough. The chill made his breath catch, but his focus never broke—he was locked onto you like a predator scenting blood in the water.

You swam backward, just out of reach, teasing.

“You look like you’re thinkin’ real hard, Miller.”

“Tryin’ to decide if I wanna drag you under or pin you against that rock right there.”

“Who says you can’t do both?”

His eyes darkened further. Your body ached from the inside out—not just from what he’d done, but from what you knew was coming next.

Joel was in front of you now, chest heaving. He reached out, grabbed your waist under the water, and pulled you flush to him with one sharp motion.

Skin on skin. Wet. Hot.

Your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct, and you grinned, wicked and wild.

“Told you I don’t share my lake,” you whispered, mouth against his jaw. “But maybe I’ll make an exception… just this once.”

Joel growled low in his throat, lips finding your neck, his hands gripping your ass beneath the water, dragging your hips tight against the hard length of him pressing into your stomach.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

“Then die slow,” you breathed, biting his earlobe.

And just like that—the lake stopped being peaceful.

It became a battlefield.

And you were already winning.

The water wrapped around you both like silk—cool, dark, quiet—but the heat between you was anything but. Joel’s hands were tight on your waist, holding you against him, your bare chest pressed to his, soaked skin sliding on soaked skin, every breath shared, every heartbeat tangled.

You were weightless in the water, legs around his hips, the hard length of him pinned tight between your bodies. And your mouth—god, your mouth—was all over his.

You kissed him like a storm. Not sweet. Not slow. Your lips crushed against his with the hunger of someone who’d waited too long, wanted too hard. His beard scraped your chin, his tongue met yours in deep, messy strokes, and the water sloshed around you as your bodies moved, tangled, greedy.

Joel groaned against your mouth, one hand slipping down to your ass, squeezing hard again, grinding you against him, while the other cradled the back of your head, keeping your mouth right there, right where he wanted you.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled between kisses. “You don’t stop, I ain’t gonna last.”

You smiled into him—wet and smug—then leaned back just enough to see his face. Moonlight cast silver across his cheeks, but his eyes were pure black heat. You dipped one hand between your bodies, under the water.

He gasped—sharp—as your fingers wrapped around him.

“Then don’t stop me.”

Your grip was sure, smooth beneath the surface, the water letting your hand glide effortlessly along the hard length of him. You stroked him slow, tight, then faster, just to feel the twitch in his thighs, the catch in his breath. His head dropped to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, groaning like he was pained by how good it felt.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice rough in your ear. “You do that again and I’m takin’ you right here in this fuckin’ lake.”

“Thought that was the idea.”

Your hand pumped him harder now, teasing your thumb over the head, squeezing just enough to make his hips stutter in the water. His breath hitched again—sharp, torn from him—and his hands tightened on your waist, fingers bruising as he fought for control.

“You tryna make me lose it, sugar?”

You leaned in, bit his lower lip, then whispered against his mouth:

“I wanna watch you lose it.”

And you kept stroking—relentless, greedy, your own body rocking slightly with the water, breasts pressed to his chest, your core aching against his stomach. You felt the tension coil in him, deep in his abdomen, his thighs starting to tremble under the pressure of holding back.

He kissed you again—hard—like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, like if he let go of your mouth he’d lose himself completely.

And with your hand wrapped around him under the water, you were in control now.

“You close?” you whispered, lips brushing his.

“So close,” he growled, eyes screwed shut, hips twitching under your hand.

You stroked him harder, faster, water slapping softly between your bodies.

“Then give it to me,” you whispered, voice dark, low. “I want it, Joel. Right here.”

The lake no longer felt like water—it felt like heat, like tension about to snap.

Joel snapped.

In a flash, his hand was in your hair, fisting it, dragging your head back with a sharp yank that forced a gasp from your lips. His other arm scooped under your thighs, lifting you in the water like you weighed nothing. He slammed your back against the nearest slick rock jutting from the waterline, your legs still wrapped tight around him.

“You want it?” he hissed against your mouth, hot breath sliding down your throat. “You want it that filthy, that rough? Right here in the fuckin’ lake where anyone could see?”

You nodded, panting, eyes wide, lips parted—shaking and ready.

“Do it, Joel. Take me.”

His hand slid between your bodies, gripped your thigh and yanked it higher, opening you wider as he thrust forward and buried himself in one brutal, claiming push. You cried out—loud, no shame, no restraint. He didn’t wait for your body to adjust—he knew what you wanted.

And he gave it to you.

Hard.

The water slapped against your bodies with every savage roll of his hips, his chest flush against yours, teeth gritted as he fucked into you like he’d been starving. You were already raw, already oversensitive from grinding on his fingers, but now—

His hand stayed tangled in your hair, pulling, keeping your throat exposed while his mouth marked your skin with open, wet kisses and bites that bordered on bruises. You dug your nails into his back, clawing at him as your legs locked around his waist.

“Look at you,” he snarled, voice all gravel and sweat. “So fuckin’ pretty… cryin’ on my cock, beggin’ me like it’s the last thing you’ll ever feel—”

“F-fuck, Joel—yes—yes, I want it like this—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He slammed into you harder, each thrust driving a helpless sound out of your throat, your voice turning ragged as your body shook against the rock.

“You feel that?” he growled in your ear. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Yours, Joel. Fuck— don’t let me go—”

His rhythm broke, hips faltering, hand moving from your hair to your jaw, gripping your face as he kissed you—devoured you—growling low in his throat like a man unhinged.

“You come with me, baby,” he hissed. “You feel me come inside you—say my fuckin’ name—say it—”

“Joel,” you cried, shaking. “Joel, fuck, I’m—”

You came hard, clenching around him, body arching off the rock as the wave of it hit, loud, messy, feral. Joel followed with a grunt that turned into a half-roar, slamming deep as he spilled inside you, holding your hips tight, driving himself as far as you could take him—like he wanted to leave a mark.

The lake rocked around you, quiet now but for the sounds of panting, the water lapping gently against the shore.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t speak.

Just held you there in the moonlight, still trembling against him, your lips against his throat, your body wrecked and soaking and satisfied.

“Holy fuck,” he finally whispered, voice rough as sandpaper.

And he kissed you again.

Your bodies stayed locked in the water—his chest heaving against yours, arms still tight around your waist, your thighs wrapped snug at his hips. The night air clung heavy to your wet skin, steam rising between the heat of your breath and the chill of the lake. Moonlight danced on the rippling surface, but beneath it, the tension didn’t fade.

Joel was still inside you. Softening slowly. The aftermath of that raw, ruthless high pulsed through both of you—but you weren’t satisfied. Not really.

Not yet.

He leaned his forehead to your shoulder, chuckling low, exhausted.

“Jesus… I need a fuckin’ minute.”

You smiled, wicked and wet, dragging your fingers through his curls as you whispered close to his ear.

“You’re not gettin’ one.”

“Sugar,” he huffed, voice ragged and rough. “I just emptied every damn drop I had in me.”

You rocked your hips once. Just enough. Felt the stretch of him still inside, not ready… but not unwilling.

“You didn’t pull out,” you murmured, rolling again, slower this time. “You’re still in me. That means I can go on.”

Joel groaned. One of those deep, broken sounds, like your words physically hurt.

“You’re evil.”

“No,” you breathed, biting down on his jaw, “I’m needy.”

You gripped his shoulders and started to move.

Slow.

The water cushioned you, made everything slicker, smoother. His cock wasn’t hard—yet—but it was there, thick and sensitive, twitching with every shift of your hips. You moved carefully, deliberately, grinding yourself against him with slow rolls, feeling him start to twitch, to grow again.

He hissed between his teeth, hands flying to your waist.

You moaned, soft but sharp, mouth right at his ear.

You kissed him—open, messy—tongue sliding against his as your hips kept rocking. The water sloshed between you. You felt him hardening again inside you, inch by inch, your body coaxing him back from that edge of spent exhaustion into something new.

Joel cursed into your mouth, bucked his hips once in reflex. His fingers dug into your ass now, squeezing.

“Goddamn, girl. You ain’t human.”

You laughed—a low, breathy sound against his cheek—and sat up straighter on his lap, water dripping down your chest, your back arching as you ground down harder, the tip of him brushing deep inside.

“Not right now,” you whispered. “Right now I’m just a hole wrapped around your cock.”

His hands snapped to your hips.

And his breath caught like he was ready to burn again.

The water rocked around your bodies, small waves rippling out into the darkness as you rode him—slow, deep, relentless.

Joel leaned back against the rock, lips parted, eyes glassy and dazed as he watched you above him. His hands stayed on your hips, fingers slipping on your soaked skin, but his grip was loose now. Weak.

You were in control.

And you wanted it that way.

He was hard again—not as thick, not as furious as before—but enough. Just enough. Enough for you to keep him inside, to grind down on him and take what you needed while he stared at you like you’d stolen every last thought from his head.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna bleed me dry.”

You didn’t slow. You clenched around him harder, dragging your body in slow, punishing circles, the water rocking with your movement. Your hair clung to your cheeks, dripping onto his chest as you leaned down, breath ghosting over his mouth.

“Good,” you whispered. “I want every last drop.”

Your pace picked up, steady and deep, your thighs trembling now, knees digging into the smooth lake stone under the water. The friction of him inside you was maddening—your body raw from the first time, aching now, but you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

You bounced harder, breathing faster, fingers clawing down his chest as you started to unravel again. Joel’s head fell back against the rock, neck exposed, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “So fuckin’ tight… baby, I can’t—can’t even move…”

“You don’t have to,” you panted, riding him now with broken rhythm, your voice shaking. “Just lay there. Let me come on your cock like it’s mine.”

His hips twitched, barely a thrust, more like a reflex—but it was enough. The extra push made you cry out, your fingers gripping his shoulders, your whole body tensing around him.

“Joel—fuck—I’m coming—”

And you did.

You collapsed against him, arms locked around his neck, your thighs shaking as you pulsed around him, drawing him in deeper, milking every inch. You buried your face in his throat, moaning into his skin, your whole body melting against him as the orgasm shook through you like a fever.

Joel didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

He just held you there—soft, drained, wrecked—his cock still buried in you, twitching weakly, his hands twitching where they gripped your ass.

You stayed like that, tangled and soaked in moonlight, floating half in the water, half in each other.

He finally exhaled, voice a ghost against your cheek.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

The lake was still as glass when you finally pulled yourself off of him—slowly, shakily, his cock slipping free with a quiet, spent twitch. Joel groaned low in his throat, head still tilted against the rock, arms splayed out in the water like he couldn’t remember how to move. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, fully wrecked. And you? You were trembling and grinning, your thighs sore, your skin tingling with the kind of heat that lingered long after the fire burned out.

“Stay there a while,” you murmured, breathless, voice tinged with a wicked edge. “You look real pretty like that.”

He gave a lazy half-laugh, half-growl as you turned away, water lapping at your waist as you waded back to shore. Every movement sent more water dripping down your bare skin—between your thighs, down the insides of your legs, slick and unmistakable.

You reached the grassy bank and stepped out, skin glistening in the moonlight. The wind kissed your body and made you shiver, but you didn’t flinch. You just walked with slow purpose across the soft grass to where your clothes lay strewn—discarded like old thoughts.

You picked up your panties first, still damp from before the lake even touched you. Slid them up over your thighs, pulling the soaked fabric snug between your legs, ignoring the slick mess beneath that still clung to you.

Then came the skirt.

It stuck to your wet skin, the denim heavy and damp as you shimmied it up your hips and fastened it. Your shirt followed, clinging to your chest as you pulled it over your head, your nipples pressing clearly against the cotton, soaked through.

No fixing your hair. No shame.

You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they’d been the storm that ruined a man and left him grateful for the wreckage.

You glanced back toward the water as you slid Joel’s hat back onto your head—tilted low, eyes shadowed, smirk curling your lips.

He was finally standing now, sluggishly dragging himself to the shore, water pouring down his body. Still bare. Still caught somewhere between pleasure and exhaustion. His eyes met yours—and lingered.

You held his gaze as you adjusted the skirt’s hem with two fingers, smoothing it over your hips.

“You comin’?” you asked, voice sweet as sin.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose and dragged a hand down his face.

“Hurry up, cowboy. I wanna watch you die slow.”

And with that, you turned away from the lake, walking barefoot through the wet grass—clothed but still wild, soaked to the skin and grinning like a woman who knew exactly what kind of chaos she carried in her hips.

He followed.

The ride back was quiet—but not awkward. It was the kind of silence that came after something intense, after bodies had been pushed past their limits and souls tugged just a little too close together.

You sat curled in the passenger seat, legs pulled up, arms wrapped loosely around your knees. The denim of your skirt was still damp, sticking to your thighs, your shirt clinging to the curve of your back. Your skin smelled like water, grass, and him. Joel’s hat was still on your head, pushed back slightly now, exposing the bruised swell of your lips and the mess he’d left in your expression.

He didn’t talk much. His hand rested on the top of the wheel, fingers drumming every now and then. His other was in his lap, tapping idly, like he had too many thoughts and not enough words. The headlights cut through the darkness in long silver beams, washing the trees in and out of view.

The town came into sight quicker than you expected—familiar signs, empty roads, cheap lights flickering over storefronts that shut hours ago.

And then your street.

He pulled up in front of your house without a word, engine idling.

You didn’t move to open the door.

Just sat there in the hush between you, watching his profile as he stared out the windshield, jaw tight again. The easy charm from earlier had slipped somewhere on the drive. All that slow, hungry mischief replaced now with something heavier.

You finally broke the silence, voice softer than you meant it to be.

“You stayin’ in town? Or was this all just a ride through?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t look at you.

“Nah,” he said eventually, low and blunt. “I’m movin’ on. Next stop’s Amarillo.”

You felt something in your chest shift—small and sharp.

You nodded slowly, turning to look out your own window now. The porch light buzzed, flickering faintly. You hated that sound.

“Figures,” you muttered. “You ride in, break the bull, break the girl, then disappear.”

Joel’s voice came rough beside you.

“That what you think this was?”

You looked back at him, your face unreadable.

“I don’t know what this was.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at you now, eyes darker than before, not angry. Not sorry either.

Just honest.

“I don’t stay long, sugar,” he said, voice lower. “I don’t belong in one place. And I don’t drag people along when I go.”

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on your knees, watching the keys jingle slightly in the ignition.

“So that’s it?”

Joel shifted in his seat, glancing over at you again. His jaw flexed, lips parted like he wanted to say something else.

But he didn’t.

Just reached up, touched the brim of his hat still on your head—soft, a little trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Keep that. Somethin’ to remember the ride.”

You looked at him for a long second. And though you weren’t the crying type, something pulled tight in your throat. Not sadness.

Just… that ache that came when something good wasn’t meant to last.

You opened the door, boots hitting the gravel.

And as you stepped out, you didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t slam the door.

You just walked up the drive with his hat still on your head, knowing damn well he was watching you the whole way.

And in the silence behind you, the engine eventually rumbled low… and carried him away.

It had been twenty-six days. You’d counted—at first without meaning to, then because you couldn’t stop.

Twenty-six days since you felt his hands on your body.

Since he kissed you like he needed oxygen and you were the only air left in the world.

Since you rode him in a moonlit lake, shaking, soaked, and so wildly yourself it scared you now.

You told yourself it was just a passing thing. He was a drifter, a rider, a man made of dust and distance. Joel Miller didn’t stay. He warned you. And you weren’t the kind of girl who chased after someone who made it clear they wouldn’t look back.

But the hat still sat on your nightstand.

You hadn’t worn it since the night he left. It felt wrong, like it only had power when he put it on you. So it stayed there, untouched, a reminder you pretended not to look at every morning.

And then—on a Wednesday that felt like any other—you walked out the back door of the small diner you worked mornings at, still wearing your apron, the sky thick with heat and early sun, and you saw him.

Leaning against a familiar truck.

Same one. Same dented door.

He was wearing a soft gray shirt, jeans that looked road-worn, and boots with dust that didn’t belong to this town. His arms were crossed, and his eyes—those goddamn eyes—were already locked on you the second the screen door banged behind you.

You froze, one hand still gripping the door frame.

“You son of a bitch,” you whispered, heart slamming against your ribs.

Joel didn’t smile. Not yet. His face was unreadable, jaw clenched, tension in his shoulders. Like he’d driven through three states without breathing right. His voice when it came was low, tired, real.

“Couldn’t get you outta my fuckin’ head.”

Your throat closed up. Everything inside you twisted—heat and ache and something dangerous.

“You said you don’t stay. Said you don’t drag people along.”

“I don’t,” he said, stepping forward. “But I ain’t been the same since I left. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t ride right. Couldn’t even look at another girl without seein’ you in my lap, smilin’ like you owned the fuckin’ world.”

You blinked, breath shallow.

“So what, you here to pass through again? Get your fix, then disappear?”

Joel moved until he was right in front of you, towering, heat rolling off him in waves.

“I didn’t come back to fuck you.”

“No?”

“I came back ‘cause every mile I put between us felt like a mistake. And I don’t do regret. Never have. But you—” he exhaled hard, hands flexing at his sides, “—you got in me. Deep. And I ain’t runnin’ from it anymore.”

You stared at him. Your lip curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Took you long enough.”

Joel’s grin broke through finally—sharp, boyish, relieved.

“Still got that hat?”

“Sittin’ by my bed,” you said, stepping close enough for your voice to drop. “Right where I left it.”

He touched your cheek then. Rough hand, gentle grip.

And this time, when he kissed you?

It wasn’t a goodbye.

It was a beginning.

Joel’s lips were still on yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe—barely an inch between your mouths. His thumb was brushing along your jaw, calloused, reverent, like he still couldn’t believe you were standing in front of him again. Like maybe he’d been dreaming you every night on some godforsaken highway, and now he was scared he’d blink and wake up alone again.

“I ain’t good with words,” he murmured, voice thick, low, “but I been drivin’ on autopilot for weeks, thinkin’ about your voice, your laugh, the way you look at me like you know what I’m gonna say before I say it.”

You didn’t move. Just let his words settle over your skin like a second heat.

“Thought if I got far enough, I’d stop thinkin’ about you,” he said. “But you got inside me like roots. Stuck.”

You tilted your head just slightly, teasing, though your voice shook under it.

“You here to tell me you love me, Miller?”

He huffed a dry laugh, but there was something raw under it.

“I don’t know what the hell this is. But I know I don’t want it without you.”

Then he looked at you fully, steady and real.

“Come with me.”

The words hit different. They weren’t casual. They weren’t a question tossed into the wind. They were solid. Heavy. And they landed deep.

Your breath caught, heart skipping once.

“You serious?”

“I don’t say shit I don’t mean,” he said. “It won’t be easy. Livin’ outta a truck half the time. Worn beds, bad food, long roads. I’m not a man who settles—but I’ll make space for you. I want you in my seat. Next to me. Laughin’, bitchin’, wearin’ my damn hat like you own it.”

He stepped even closer, hand curling around your waist.

“You ride with me, I won’t leave again. I’ll stay—wherever you are.”

You blinked once, swallowed hard.

Then you smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Certain.

“Drive me home. Gimme ten minutes to grab the hat and some clothes.”

Joel grinned like the tension finally broke.

“That’s my girl.”

And just like that, your world shifted again. Not by force. Not by fate.

By choice.

His.

And now yours.

The engagement with his sister Helaena had been broken after a more tempting offer for the princess, which would get them a permanent alliance with the Lannister house that they couldn’t refuse. Viserys himself had agreed to accept and the queen consort had no choice but to give her little daughter in marriage to a blonde lord. The problem was that her son was left without a fiancée.

Aemond didn't worry her, after all he was growing up quite quickly and she knew that he was more inclined to become a warrior than to fulfill his marital responsibilities. But Aegon, however, was a lost cause.

It was no secret that Alicent had always felt disappointed in her eldest son. He was careless, lazy, and a hopeless alcoholic, qualities that couldn’t be celebrated at all. Now that her beloved father had returned, the queen didn’t hesitate to consult him on the matter, hoping that the man had a solution for the problem that afflicted her, and together they analyzed what was the best option to unite the king's first-born son. Especially after, years ago, Rhaenyra and Daemon got married and moved to Dragonstone indefinitely.

“It must be someone we completely trust, someone who cannot dare to hurt us because they know that their blood is linked to ours.”

The Arryns were loyal to the future queen Rhaenyra and some of the houses south of Vale were too. The Westerlands was the richest section of the Seven Kingdoms and was already secured, so it seemed prudent to the king's hand to go for the next widest section: The Reach. The most formidable options within this area were the Hightower and the Tyrell. Obviously taking the first option would be a waste since the members of that house would support Aegon without complaint due to their kinship, so the decision was made with the direct heir of Highgarden.

King Viserys agreed to the idea without putting up many obstacles, since poppy milk clouded his judgment most of the time and also the affairs of his first son had never interested him much.

The union was sealed as soon as the deal was offered to Lyonel Tyrell, who was extremely happy to be able to assure his family a future with said marriage. It was thus that he gave you, his only daughter, to Prince Aegon II Targaryen.

And the second the boy saw you, he absolutely hated you.

He had come to the idea (very unpleasant, by the way) of marrying his younger sister and now that his mother was forcing him to marry a complete stranger, he couldn't be angrier. In a short time he would turn twenty and it seemed pathetic to him that at that point he would have to offer shows like those before the kingdom. Because the wedding wasn’t simple, of course, but thousands and thousands of guests were present at the banquet that Alicent forced the king to prepare, claiming by saying that he had done the same for Princess Rhaenyra's wedding.

“It is a pleasure to finally see each other, your grace. They have told me a lot about you”

You had said those precise words the first time you had met, when your mother organized a walk so that you could 'get to know each other better', although supervised by her own eyes that were behind you, making sure that her son didn’t commit any indecency. But no matter how sweetly you smiled and spoke them, Aegon could sense that you were lying.

There was hatred in your eyes and a clear resentment towards the life from which you were torn, as if it weren’t an honor to have the opportunity to marry the prince of the seven kingdoms. Your hypocritical words represented an insult to the boy and that is why he decided from the first moment that he would hate you deeply.

With your mere existence you would have deprived him of his freedom, his entertainment, his youth. He would be tied to you for future occasions, he would have to take you to all the events, secure your food, your clothes. share the same roof and pretend to be nice to you in the eyes of others. And, besides, he could have thought of a lot of candidates better than you, physically speaking. Your beauty was quite ordinary for his taste, as if he were looking at any painting; cheap and repetitive.

“I regret to admit that I am not so fortunate, Lady Tyrell. But I am happy for the union of our houses” he lied, in the same way that you had done.

And it was obvious that this didn’t go unnoticed by you, that you had the same critical eye as your recent fiancé but that you sought to maintain composure in the presence of your future mother-in-law.

On the wedding day Aegon had a good time only because he was able to drown himself in monumental quantities of liquor and because he was able to eat as much as he wanted of the exquisite banquet. He didn't even pay a bit of attention to how you looked in the wedding dress that the royal seamstresses had been in charge of making in record time, because when the time came he flattered you superficially and then ignored the matter. The ceremony kiss was the first you shared, and it was so fleeting and awkward that the prince felt disappointed. On the wedding night he was so drunk that he didn't even look at you.

You knew that the unfortunate day would come when you would have to carnally please the young man and the simple thought of being defiled in this way caused you terror and nausea in equal parts.

It was a stranger whom you had married, of whom the only thing you knew was his noble title and name.

In the days following your marriage, unfortunately or fortunately, Aegon didn’t even speak to you. You didn't have to share a room, so it was easier for him to completely ignore you while he went about his ways.

You had to admit that the only good thing about having taken this trip was the beautiful landscapes that King's Landing offered you. Your room had a direct view of Blackwater Bay and you spent several days looking out the window at the beautiful sea. Sometimes you could watch Prince Aemond ride his dragon, and honestly, the size of the beast scared you a little. You hadn't had the chance to observe Aegon in Sunfyre yet but if he was as impressive as Vhagar, then he would be quite a sight.

A week passed, then another and another where you were nothing more than a guest in the palace. You didn't talk to anyone, you ate dinner alone, you barely saw the outside of the castle. Sometimes you went to the Sept, pretending to pray, but really just killing the endless boring hours of the day. You were somewhat lucky if you found Helaena, the most sensible and calm within the royal family, because you had pleasant conversations with her. When you met the queen it was a little more difficult, because she asked you endless questions in which you had to fake the answers. How could you be fulfilling your parenting responsibilities if the capricious prince wouldn't deign to lay a finger on you?

After a month, Alicent seemed to take matters into her own hands and forced her eldest son to take you to sleep in the same room as him. However, Aegon seemed to want to blame you for something you hadn't chosen. He never spoke to you and every time you went to bed, he would stand with his back to you as far away as possible. And as if that weren’t enough, he had explicitly ordered his guards not to allow you to leave the room unless it was in his company. It was his way of punishing you, of getting even for the complaints of his mother and grandfather regarding his lack of interest in marriage.

“My mother wants us to attend a dinner tonight” you were so unaccustomed to hearing his voice addressing you that it took you a second to process what he was telling you “I will talk to the maids to bring you a suitable dress.”

You didn't know what to say. You didn't want to go to that dinner, nor did you want to be with him, or wear one of those tight, annoying dresses. Aegon, noticing your silence, deigned to look at you and in your eyes he could see the aversion you felt for him. It was something difficult to mask and he had seen it on so many faces that it was nothing new.

“As you wish, prince.”

A bitter laugh came from your husband's throat.

“Don't be a hypocrite, for God's sake. I know you hate me as much as I hate you. Save appearances for guests, not in the chambers."

You wouldn’t have had the courage to admit out loud what his majesty had said, but you didn’t dare to contradict him either. You had to play the role of a self-sacrificing and suitable wife for the man if you wanted to keep your honor, but above all your head.

You tried, with all your might, to see some quality in Aegon that you liked so that you could treat him in a better way, which always resulted in something useless. Perhaps if he had been nicer to you, you could have known how to forgive his faults, but even that wasn’t granted to you.

The dinner was mostly family-oriented, with the guest of honor being from House Baratheon whose purpose was to discuss some political matters with the king and queen. Due to his health, Viserys didn’t usually leave his room more than necessary, however, that night the occasion warranted it.

“Lady Tyrell, how is your stay in King's Landing?”

The king had a reputation for being gentle with his guests and was the first person to ask you a personal question, so the smile you showed him was genuine.

“Very pleasant, your grace. The servants treat me as well as possible and I must admit that the views from my room are beautiful. Your dragon is impressive, Prince Aemond, by the way.”

The boy, who wasn't all that expressive, just looked at you for a moment and tilted his head down slightly.

“I'm glad you like it, princess.”

"And my son? How is our Aegon treating you?”

That question was more complicated to answer, since it required expressing a lie. Everyone present focused their attention on you, except your husband who had been staring into nothingness for a long time.

“Very well, my king. He’s a good husband and I am happy to have been able to unite our houses.”

The aforementioned snorted, incredulous at what you were saying at the table, and took a long drink from his glass of wine.

“And I hope very soon you can give us strong and beautiful heirs.”

Although that was intended as a compliment, you felt the weight of that responsibility pressing down on you again.

“I wish the same. It will be an honor to serve the crown and bear the progeny of a house as formidable as yours."

The queen was pleased with your answer and for a moment felt sorry for you. She knew her son well, so deep down she knew that it wasn’t a gift from the gods to be married to him. The rest of the table looked at you curiously, wondering if you were serious, trying to be ironic, or just trying to play the good girl role.

Aegon, as expected, became intoxicated during dinner and when Queen Alicent announced that she was going to retire to sleep you thought it prudent to do the same. Your husband, however, had other wishes.

“Stay here,” he asked, his voice serious.

When he was drunk he looked you up and down, probably evaluating how worth it would be to decide to strip you naked and fuck you once and for all. Your body in the dress you were wearing looked better with a few drinks on him.

“I think it would be best to retire, my husband. This way you can stay with the men to chat and… drink”

“But I want you to stay here to keep me company,” he insisted, holding your wrist tightly “Or don't you want to please your prince?”

It wasn’t a loving request, but one for control. He wanted to have you there only to demonstrate his power over you, without paying attention to you or talking; only as an ornament.

“Aegon, enough,” Alicent interrupted, observing the scene that had begun to unfold. “Daughter, let's go to sleep. “I will accompany you”

“Fine, do whatever you want,” he spat contemptuously, abruptly releasing the wrist that was holding you. There was hatred in his eyes, but also pride.

The queen said goodbye to everyone present and then offered you her hand to take you away from there. You spent most of the way in silence, walking through the long, wide corridors of the fortress followed only by the faithful footsteps of Ser Criston Cole.

“You must be patient with him” he began to say “He is a particular man and sometimes… difficult, but I know that with your docile character you will be able to deal with his temperament.”

What did she know about your character? She didn't know you at all.

“So it shall be, Queen Alicent.”

“I understand what you are going through, dear. We both come from the same lands to endure the difficult task of accompanying a monarch. But it is our duty to carry it out with all the honor and temper worthy of our homes. Of course, I can trust that as a woman you will be able to help him fulfill another of the most important marital commitments, such as having children, to maintain the lineage and blood. For a virgin like you, Aegon may be rough, but... patience and resilience are among the best virtues. A woman in royalty must endure these things to give the best to the people.”

You had never wanted to be a princess. And just when you thought the queen was showing you compassion, you realized that she was only looking out for her interests and those of her family.

"Thanks for the advice. I'll keep it in mind"

She smiled and immediately left a kiss on your forehead, which could have been taken as a maternal kiss but which you didn't like at all. The longer you can postpone suffering, the better. If Aegon didn't even want to look at you, it was perfect.

That night, as soon as you touched the mattress and the silk sheets that decorated it, you began to cry until you fell asleep.

SECOND ACT: CONTROL

Time passed again and although the punishment of not leaving your room was not revoked, you found multiple activities with which to entertain yourself in the prince's absence. You filled your mornings and afternoons with reading, writing, knitting and embroidering. The nights were even more boring because most of the time your husband wasn't there either.

Rumors that you hadn’t yet consummated the marriage had spread through the halls of the palace and soon the smallfolk would murmur too. After all, the people couldn’t entertain themselves with anything more than the gossip and the plays that were going on in the poor neighborhoods, making fun of royal affairs.

You no longer even had the energy to deny those accusations and Aegon had given you the perfect opportunity by throwing you out of his room and refusing to leave the four walls of yours: if you didn't leave there, there was no way anyone would question you. And since you didn't have family inside the Keep, you didn't have any visitors either.

One night, however, your husband surprised you by entering your room. It had been days since you two had seen each other and his staggering around the room warned you that he was drunk again. You often wondered how he resisted drinking so much and the long-term effects it would have on his health, but right now your mind could only focus on the fear of what he might want in that state.

“Good night, dear,” he drawled, sounding as sarcastic as possible.

You were in your nightgown and you were carrying in your hand an old book that you had been reading and that you threw on the nightstand as soon as you saw him approaching you. You didn't have time to say or do anything else when he had already approached you in giant steps to grab you by the back of your neck and start kissing you. He was abrupt, careless, with his mouth smelling of wine and tasting even worse. You wanted to cry from helplessness.

“It's what everyone wants, isn't it?” he murmured, separating himself from you, but still holding you by the hair at the back of your neck. “A marriage arranged in a couple of days to form alliances. And that's it, my life was ruined thanks to my father wanting your stupid castle to expand his domain."

The truth is that couldn't be further from the truth. Viserys’s ambition had never been that, as he had been so little involved in the process that he simply didn’t care who his children were or were not married to. Except for Rhaenyra, of course.

Aegon continued:

"I didn’t want this. I didn't want to marry you, or anyone..."

“And you think I do?” you confronted him.

You were tired of the insult, the humiliation and him ignoring you as if you were worthless; even if that was what a husband did. And the most likely thing was that your words would be forgotten due to alcohol or that they would put an end to the wait for your suffering to begin and Aegon decided to take you once and for all.

“You have nothing to lose, prince,” you continued. “You get drunk as much as you want, you run away from your responsibilities and walk everywhere when I have to stay locked up here all day just because you want me to. I have to endure the suspicious looks of everyone because I still don't have an heir in the womb while you go and fuck your whores."

“I'm the prince and I fuck whoever I want, did you hear me?” he hissed. The grip on your hair had already begun to become painful and a few tears slipped down your cheeks “And I stop fucking whoever I want too. I'm not going to please anyone by getting you pregnant. There they will see if they come and force me to put my cock in you”

“Do you doubt that, your grace?” you exclaimed bitterly “Doubts that will force us to conceive?”

“So that's what you want? Do you want me to do it?”

“I want to go home. That is what I want. But my father used me as a bargaining chip and that's why I can't do anything."

“I'm sorry it was like that. If I had chosen my wife, I would surely have chosen someone prettier and more educated than you, but I can't do much either."

Once again, the man pushed you until your lips joined his and the same discomfort settled in you. He didn't kiss you with love, but with fury and violence to the point that you had to push him away when he bit you so hard that a trickle of blood began to come out of your lower lip. Aegon was also stained by it and with an acidic smile he ran the tip of his tongue all over his mouth to remove any traces.

Looking at you he didn't look happy, but he didn't look angry either. He just seemed fed up.

Everyone knew, or suspected, that the prince was very capable of taking sexual advantage of any woman. He had done it before with maids and prostitutes and had slept peacefully throughout that time. However, there was something about you that encouraged him not to. He didn't even think it was something about you specifically but about the situation, because he wanted to do the opposite of what he was ordered: if everyone ordered him to take you to have an heir, it automatically became an unpleasant act and at the same time that he refused.

He was hurt, not because of you but because of years and years of abuse and neglect. He didn't really know you at all, he only knew what you represented.

You were just the unlucky one who had married him.

"I hate you. I hate that you are my wife and you are not worthy of me even touching you” he snapped with disdain. You were still fighting to keep the tears inside your eyes and his vision had also blurred slightly “I wish I had never met you.”

“The feeling is mutual, your grace,” you expressed, your voice breaking. If it was an offense to the crown, you wouldn't even care anymore and if he killed you right there you wouldn't regret it too much either.

Aegon looked at you one last time before staggering back out the door without another word, closing it behind him with a loud gesture and leaving you alone in the room. The reality that you had escaped, once again, from being raped by the man fell on you like a bucket of cold water and your knees weakened until you fell to the floor.

You were hurt, tired, and defeated by the stress of the situation and the fear that had washed over you the entire time. Luckily he was gone, otherwise you didn't know if you would have endured what he had to do to you. It was better to have him busy in a brothel than to have to endure him in your bed.

You wished you could talk to someone and cry on a loved one’s shoulder, only to realize a second later that that was impossible. Aegon was your new family, now you belonged to the Targaryens and you would have to do as they wished.

Anger completely overwhelmed you to the point where you stood up from your seat and began throwing pieces of glassware all over the room, in a violent outburst at what had just happened and the way you felt. None of the guards outside your door dared to come in to check on you and soon enough you fell back to the ground, exhausted from the effort.

As you cried, perhaps for the umpteenth time since you had been married, you thought about how you would never be able to love Prince Aegon. Not even if you tried.

THIRD ACT: PAIN

After months, the inevitable arrived. The truth was that the first time you felt sorrow and anger, but the following times it became more tolerable. Not because it was better, but because you began to get used to it. Aegon didn't change his attitude towards you one bit. You indeed spent more time together, although that didn’t mean that you got along better or that you had begun to have more sympathy for each other.

The only advantage was that you had started to be friends with some people in the palace. Your sister-in-law, to begin with, as well as some of the maids who were in charge of looking after you, as they turned out to be your only company during those days. Those distractions were more than enough for you, considering the situation you were in, and they kept you sane as time went by.

Almost like a punishment from heaven, it seemed that you weren’t pregnant yet, since your biological processes seemed to continue working to the letter. That meant that, unfortunately, you would have to keep trying; when Aegon was lost enough to forget who you were and you had to stand still as a statue to let him loom over you.

You often liked to imagine what your life would have been like if you had stayed in Highgarden. Nobody knew it yet, but there you had found your first love and although it never went beyond a few kisses, you treasured the memory with particular affection. You had always wanted to marry a sweet man who loved and respected you, who would give you your place as a wife and adore you day and night; someone with whom you could feel protected, cared for, but above all happy. You thought, naively, that that boy you had met and who was nothing more than a commoner could have given you that life, but all those possibilities were nothing more than fantasies in which you tried to lock yourself in to feel less miserable with your unpleasant reality.