vee

Across the waiting room, Tommy stood with both hands braced against the windowsill, his back to everyone. He had not sat down once, not since you had arrived. Not since the doors had taken Joel away from all of you and closed with a soft, ordinary sound that seemed impossible after so much blood.

Maria sat two chairs away from you, though she was only sitting because someone had told her to. Her phone remained in one hand, the other was pressed to her mouth, fingers curled tight enough that the knuckles had gone pale. She had spoken to doctors, to security, to someone at the house. Every word from her had been precise, controlled, almost sharp. Now she was unusually quiet.

Elias stood near the far wall with a white bandage wrapped around his upper arm beneath his shirtsleeve. Blood had dried along the side of his neck and at his temple, though no one seemed to care about that nearly as much as you thought they should. A nurse had tried to make him sit. He had ignored her until Maria had said his name in a tone that belonged nowhere near a hospital waiting room, and then he had sat for exactly three minutes before standing again.nThe bandage on his arm had already bled through once. A graze, someone had said. Only a graze. You remembered him beside you on the stone.

Move your hand.

Listen to me.

Put pressure here. Harder.

Your fingers twitched in your lap. For a second, the waiting room slipped. The white light became lantern light. The antiseptic became wet grass and smoke and roses. You saw Joel turning toward you again, not away from the danger but into you, his arm sweeping around your body, his voice cutting through the soft blur of the evening.

Down.

Then the shot, his body jerking against yours. You blinked, and the waiting room returned.

Tommy had turned from the window and was looking at you. You wondered how long he had been doing that. Behind him, the double doors opened, and for one wild instant your whole body seemed to wake at once.

But it was only a nurse. She crossed to the desk, spoke quietly to someone behind it, and disappeared again through another door. You herad Tommy quietly curse under his breath.

You folded your hands together in your lap because they had begun to shake, and that felt unacceptable. Not here, not while Joel was somewhere beyond those doors with strangers’ hands inside his body, strangers saying words over him, strangers cutting and repairing and measuring how much of him could be saved.

No. Not saved. You stopped the thought there. Joel was alive. He had been alive when they took him. He had been pale and half-conscious, breathing wrong, but alive. You held onto that with a steadiness that felt almost violent.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Tommy came toward you then. He stopped in front of you, looked down at the ruined dress, then at your face. His eyes were red.

“You need anything?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“Water?”

Another shake.

“Coffee?”

“No.”

He nodded, but he did not move away. For a moment, he only stood there. Then his gaze dropped to your hands. You followed it and saw the blood on the inside of your wrist. A small dark crescent where no one had washed carefully enough.

“I couldn’t keep pressure when they lifted him,” you whispered. The words came out quietly.

Tommy looked back at you.

“I tried,” you said.

His expression broke. Then he crouched in front of you, one hand closing around the back of the chair beside your knee.

“You did,” he said roughly.

Your throat moved.  “But I don’t know if I did it right.”

“You did.”

“I couldn’t tell where all the blood was coming from.”

“I know.”

“Elias told me to press.”

“And you did.”

“I think I hurt him.”

“No,” he said firmly. “No, sweetheart. You helped him.”

Sweetheart. The word, in Tommy’s voice, hurt different. You looked away. He stayed crouched in front of you for another moment, then stood when Maria touched his shoulder. He went back to the window, but not as far this time.

Elias crossed the room. He moved stiffly, his injured arm held close to his side. There was blood on his cuff. His own, probably, or maybe Joel’s. Maybe both.

He stopped a few feet away. “I should have seen him sooner,” he said. His voice was low and flat.

The words pulled everyone’s attention toward him. For a moment, you did not understand why he was saying it to you. Then you saw his face, the hard guilt carved into it, the way his jaw held itself against whatever else might come if he let it.

The man by the valet stand. The man in the dark coat and the white shirt beneath it. The raised hand. Elias moving. A second crack. Someone shouting. Joel going down anyway.

“You did see him,” you said.

Elias’s face did not change. “Not soon enough.”

“You stopped the second shot.”

Silence followed that. Elias looked at you as if he had not expected mercy from someone wearing Joel’s blood

A doctor came once, but not the surgeon. He spoke to Maria and Tommy first, because they were standing, because they looked like people who knew how to receive information without breaking it. You heard pieces.

Gunshot wound.

Left lower chest. 

Significant blood loss. 

Operating room.

Possible abdominal involvement.

They were looking. They were working. Working. That word remained with you after the doctor disappeared again. Working meant not finished. Working meant not lost. Working meant there were still hands inside him trying to keep him in the world. You stared at the closed doors until your eyes burned.

“You should put something on,” Maria said softly.

It took you a moment to understand that she was speaking to you.

“You’re cold,” she said.

You looked down at your bare arms as though they belonged to someone sitting beside you.

“I’m fine.”

Your voice sounded calm, which surprised you. It seemed to surprise Maria too. She stood, crossed the small distance between you, and crouched carefully in front of your chair.

“You don’t have to be,” she said gently.

The words made no sense. Or they made too much sense, and you could not afford them.

“I’m fine,” you said again.

Maria’s eyes shone. She nodded once, as if she had decided not to argue. She sat beside you then and placed a cardigan over your shoulders. Not asking this time. You let her, because refusing would require more strength than obedience. The wool was warm. 

“I ruined the dress,” you said.

Maria’s hand stilled against your shoulder. Then she leaned closer and said, very firmly, “The dress does not matter.”

You nodded. Of course it did not. You knew that. And still, somehow, it was the only sentence your mouth had found. The dress was ruined. The night was ruined. The almost-kiss. The dance. The soft weight of Joel’s jacket. The thought you had allowed yourself in the mirror.

He could be my happiness.

You pressed your lips together until they hurt.

Mara’s hand moved slowly over your shoulder once.

“You can cry,” she whispered.

You shook your head.

“No?”

“If I start,” you said, staring at the doors, “I won’t hear them when they come out.”

The waiting room blurred for a moment. Something in you had gone too still for crying. You thought if you began, you might not stop, and if you did not stop then perhaps the doors would open and the surgeon would come out and say something you could not survive hearing while undone.

So you remained composed. Your back straight. Your hands folded. The yellow silk cool and ruined around your knees.

Maria did not answer. Her hand closed around yours instead. You let her hold it.

You were still sitting that way when the double doors opened again. This time, Maria stood before anyone spoke while Tommy turned so sharply his shoulder struck the window frame. A man in surgical scrubs stepped into the waiting room, his mask hanging loose at his neck, a colorful cap still on his head. He looked tired.

You stood and Maria’s cardigan slipped from one shoulder.

The doctor looked first at Tommy, then at Maria, then at you. For a moment his eyes paused on the yellow silk.

“Mr. Miller is out of surgery,” he said. His expression softened carefully. 

“He’s alive.”

Tommy’s shoulders dropped as if someone had cut a wire holding him upright. Maria brought one hand to her mouth, then lowered it almost immediately, trying to recover herself before relief could become something louder. You didn`t dare to move.

He’s alive.

The words moved through you slowly, touching nothing at first. Your mind understood them, but your body did not. Your body still knew the wet stone beneath your knees, the heat of blood under your palms, Joel’s fingers closing weakly around your wrist.

Alive.

The doctor waited until the first movement in the room had quieted. He was a man in his fifties, perhaps, with tired eyes and a calm that looked practiced without being cold. His scrubs were clean except for a small shadow of something near one sleeve that you did not let yourself look at too closely.

“He sustained a gunshot wound to the left lower chest and upper flank,” he said. “There was significant blood loss. The bullet path involved the lower portion of the left lung, and there was bleeding into the chest cavity. We repaired what needed repairing, controlled the bleeding, and placed a chest tube to help drain the blood and air from around the lung.”

You listened so carefully that the words seemed to arrive one by one, each placed on a surface inside you where you could examine it without touching it too deeply.

The doctor continued. “He required transfusion during surgery. At the moment, he is stable, but he remains sedated and intubated. We’ll keep him that way overnight at least, possibly longer, depending on how he does. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are important. Infection, bleeding, respiratory complications — those are the things we’ll be watching closely.”

Joel was stable. Not safe. You looked at the doctor’s mouth as he spoke, then at the pale line where his mask had pressed into the bridge of his nose.

“When will he wake up?” Tommy asked. His voice sounded nothing like the one he used at breakfast, in the stables, with Benji, with Maria. It was rougher. 

The doctor turned to him. “Not tonight. We want his body to rest. If the bleeding remains controlled and his breathing looks better by morning, we’ll begin reducing sedation and assess from there.”

You noticed Maria’s fingers curl against her palm. “But he made it through surgery.”

“Yes,” the doctor said. He looked at each of you in turn, careful and deliberate. “He made it through surgery. He is still very seriously injured, though,” the doctor added. “I don’t want to minimize that. But right now, he is alive, stable, and being monitored very closely.”

Tommy let out a breath that sounded almost like pain.

You heard yourself ask, “Can we see him?”

Everyone looked at you then. It was the first real thing you had said since the doctor entered. The doctor’s face softened again with a careful gentleness.

“Yes,” he said. “Briefly. He won’t be awake, and there will be a lot of equipment. I want you prepared for that.”

Prepared. As if there were any preparation for seeing Joel Miller kept alive by machines. You nodded anyway.

The nurse led all three of you down a short corridor that seemed longer than it should have been. The floor shone beneath the lights. Somewhere behind a curtain, a monitor beeped steadily. A cart wheel squeaked once and then faded. The nurse spoke softly as she walked, explaining things you only half-heard.

Do not be alarmed.

Do not touch the tubes.

Tommy’s hand brushed briefly against your shoulder as you walked. At the glass door, the nurse stopped and looked at you all.

“Take your time,” she said. Then she opened it.

Joel looked wrong. That was the thought that came first, brutal in its simplicity. Wrong in a way your mind rejected before your heart had time to follow.

Joel Miller belonged in motion, even when he was still. There was always something held in him. Watchfulness. A force. Now he lay beneath white sheets with his eyes closed, too pale against the pillow, his chest rising and falling with the measured assistance of the machine beside him. There was a tube at his mouth, tape against his skin. There were lines at his arm. A dressing beneath the edge of the blanket where his left side disappeared from view. A clear tube ran from beneath the sheets to a container at the side of the bed, where dark red fluid had gathered in a measured chamber.

Suddenly Tommy made a sound beside you. Something pulled from the center of him and strangled before it could fully leave his throat. Maria stepped closer to him at once, one hand finding his back. Her own face had gone very still, but her fingers pressed hard into his jacket, as if she needed something solid beneath them.

“Oh, Joel,” Tommy whispered. The words were raw enough that you had to look away.

You felt suddenly like you were witnessing something private. Something older than you. Brothers. Blood. A life that had existed long before you entered it, now standing terrified at the edge of a hospital bed.

Tommy moved eventually. He went to Joel’s side and placed one hand very carefully on his brother’s shoulder, avoiding every line, every tube, every place the white sheet seemed to conceal damage.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “You stubborn bastard.”

For a few seconds, none of you spoke. The machines did. The ventilator gave Joel breath with soft mechanical patience. The monitor marked his heartbeat in green light. A pump clicked somewhere near the bed. These were the sounds keeping him here, and you hated them for being necessary.

You stood just inside the room, unable to move closer. The yellow silk whispered faintly around your ankles. A silent look passed between Tommy and Maria. Then Maria stepped toward you and touched your arm lightly.

“We’ll be right outside,” she said.

You looked at her, startled. Then Tommy and Maria left the room together and the door closed softly behind them. The nurse did not hurry you. She adjusted something near the IV, checked a number on the screen, then looked at you.

“You can sit beside him,” she said gently. “He’s sedated, but sometimes they still respond to familiar voices.”

Familiar. Were you that to him?

The question arrived absurdly, cruelly. You stepped forward although your legs felt separate from you until you finally reached the chair beside his bed. The lines of his face were still his. The strong nose, the gray in his beard, the crease between his brows smoothed now by sedation. But the stillness took something from him.  The room had made him untouchable somehow. Medical. Fragile, almost. Your hand rose toward his, then stopped.

You had touched him before. His shoulder while dancing. His chest. His arm. His hand in the orchard. His body on the wet stone, blood under your palms. But this felt different. This felt like crossing a threshold no ceremony had prepared you for.

“You can,” the nurse said quietly.

You had almost forgotten she was there. You nodded once. Then you took his hand. It was warm, and for one foolish, devastating moment, that felt like proof. You sat down carefully and held him with both hands.

His skin was dry. His knuckles broad. There was a small scrape near one finger you had not noticed before. You touched it with your thumb.

The nurse moved softly behind you. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

You looked over your shoulder. She left the door partly open, not enough to make you feel watched. Then she was gone.

The composure held for another few seconds. You stared at his hand in yours. At the place where your fingers curled around his without being held back. Joel’s fingers did not close around yours. His thumb did not move over your knuckles. His eyes did not open to find your face.

Nothing in him reached for you. For one breath, you allowed yourself to be as frightened as you were. You could lose him — not politically, or symbolically. Not as a husband on paper or a man whose protection had become part of your days.

Him. The man who had told you to stay on the horse. The man who had remembered lemon cake. The man who had put his jacket around your shoulders in the mist. The man whose mouth had almost touched yours beneath lantern light.

Your fingers tightened around his hand.

“You promised,” you whispered.

The ventilator answered for him with a soft mechanical breath.

You closed your eyes. It was unfair to say it. You knew that, even then. He had kept the promise as far as any man could have kept it. He had come back. He had walked out of Victor’s house. He had returned to you without blood on his hands. It was the world that had broken the promise afterward. Victor’s world. Your father’s world. The old ugly machinery of men who could not bear humiliation without making someone bleed for it.

Still, you could not stop yourself.

“You promised,” you said again, softer.

Nothing changed. The monitor continued its steady rhythm. You lifted his hand carefully and pressed it against your forehead, bowing over it as if there were some prayer you might still remember if fear had not emptied your mind of language.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you whispered. “I don’t know what to do if you don’t—” Your voice trembled then.

You stopped before the sentence could finish. Instead, you lowered his hand carefully back to the sheet and smoothed your thumb once over his knuckles. Your breath came unevenly now, but the tears still did not quite fall. They gathered and burned and remained there, suspended, the way everything in you felt suspended.

You leaned closer, only enough that, if there was any part of him that could hear you beneath the sedation, it might recognize your voice.

“Come back to me,” you whispered.

The words were almost nothing. A breath. A plea. A command you had no right to give and every right to need.

“Please.”

His hand lay quiet in yours and for a while. The room remained exactly as it was: white sheets, pale light and the steady green rhythm of his heart on the monitor. You sat with your head bowed and his hand between both of yours. 

At some point, the nurse came back in. You heard the soft movement of the door first, then her shoes against the floor. She did not speak immediately. She checked the monitor, looked at the clear tubing near the side of the bed, adjusted something on the IV pole with practiced care.

“Mrs. Miller?”

The title moved through you strangely. You looked at her. Her face was kind in the way people’s faces became kind when they were about to take something from you.

“We need to let him rest now.”

You looked back at Joel. “He is resting.”

A pause followed.

“He’s sedated,” she eventually said. “Yes. But we need to keep stimulation low overnight, and the team needs access to him. You can come back first thing in the morning.”

Morning. As if morning were guaranteed simply because the hospital had clocks. Your thumb moved once over Joel’s knuckles.

“I want to stay.”

“I understand.”

“No,” you said quietly. “I don’t think you do.”

“I know this is frightening,” she said.

Frightening. The word was too small, almost insulting in its neatness. Frightening was a storm, a dark hallway, a threat whispered by a man who knew he had power. This was Joel lying still beneath machines because he had put his body between yours and a bullet. This was not frightening. This was something else.

“I’m not leaving,” you said.

The nurse lowered her voice. “You need rest too.”

You looked at Joel’s face, at the tape at his mouth. The stillness of his hand inside yours.

“So does he.”

“He’ll get it.”

“Then I won’t disturb him.”

“Mrs. Miller—”

“No.”

This time, the word came more firmly.

The nurse looked toward the door. You followed her gaze but did not release Joel’s hand.

“I’m going to speak with the doctor,” she said after a moment. Something in her face told you she understood there would be no simple persuading. She left quietly, closing the door most of the way behind her.

When the door opened again, it was not only the nurse. The doctor who had spoken to you earlier stepped inside first, his white coat pulled over scrubs now, his face marked by exhaustion. Tommy came in behind him, Maria beside him. They must have been just outside. Or perhaps the nurse had found them. 

Tommy’s eyes went first to Joel, then to you. Maria’s face tightened when she saw you still in the chair, still holding his hand, still in the ruined yellow dress beneath her cardigan.

The doctor came to the foot of the bed. “Mrs. Miller.”

You lifted your chin. He spoke gently, but not falsely. You appreciated that, even through the fear.

“The nurse tells me you would like to stay.”

“I am staying.”

A flicker passed through Tommy’s face. The doctor folded his hands loosely in front of him. 

“I understand why. But I need to be clear with you. He is stable, but he is still very seriously injured. Tonight is about keeping him quiet, keeping his oxygenation steady, watching the chest tube output, watching for bleeding. The nurses need to work without obstruction.”

“I won’t be in the way.”

“You may not mean to be.”

“I won’t.”

Maria took a careful step closer. “Sweetheart—”

You did not look away from the doctor. He watched you for another moment, weighing something. “Ordinarily, I would ask everyone to go home.”

You heard the sentence beneath the sentence. Ordinarily. You looked down at Joel’s hand in yours. His wedding ring was not there; they must have removed it before surgery. Yours was still on your finger, small and cold against his skin.

Then you looked back at the doctor. “I’m his wife.”

Silence followed. The words seemed to settle everywhere at once: over the white sheets, the machines, the ruined dress, the wedding ring on your hand, Tommy’s grief-stricken face, Maria’s sudden stillness.

You had been called that before. Mrs. Miller, Joel’s wife. The words had been used like a contract, like a settlement, like proof that men had reached an agreement over your life and expected you to stand still inside it. But not now. Now there was no father to hear you say it, no priest, no room full of watching strangers. No bargain waiting to be enforced.

Only Joel.

Only the man who had kept his promise as far as the world had allowed him to keep it.

Only the right to remain.

The doctor looked at Joel, then back at you. After a moment, he nodded. “All right.”

The relief struck so hard you almost bowed forward over Joel’s hand.

The doctor continued, “Immediate family can sometimes be allowed to remain in exceptional circumstances, but only one person, and only if that person follows every instruction from the staff.” The doctor lifted one finger, firm again now. “One person. You sit in the chair. You do not touch any lines, any tubes, any equipment. If he moves, if he seems distressed, if the alarm sounds, if the nurses ask you to step out, you step out immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You call the nurse if anything concerns you.”

“I will.”

“You do not try to wake him.”

“I won’t.”

“He may not know you’re here.”

Your throat moved. “I know.”

The doctor studied you for another second, then gave a small nod to the nurse. “She can stay.”

“I’ll bring another blanket,” she said.

“Thank you,” Maria whispered, though you were not sure whether she meant the nurse or the doctor or God.

The doctor looked to Tommy. “I’ll be on the floor. If anything changes, you’ll be informed immediately.”

Tommy nodded, jaw tight. “Thank you.”

With that the doctor left, followed by the nurse. Maria came to your side first and crouched beside the chair and looked at your face. In the bright hospital light, you could see how tired she was. How frightened. How much her composure was costing her.

“You should come home with us,” she said softly.

You shook your head.

“He made it through surgery,” she said. “He’s stable for now. You heard him.”

“I heard him.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I`m fine.”

“You’re still in that dress.”

At that, your eyes lowered to the yellow silk with the dark stains. With Joel’s blood where your hands had been.

“Yes,” you said.

Maria’s face twisted faintly, then steadied. “Joel would hate seeing you like this.”

That almost worked. “Yes,” you whispered.

Tommy stepped closer, his voice rough. “He’d tell you to go home.”

You looked up at him then. “He can tell me when he wakes up.”

Maria reached out and covered your hand where it rested over Joel’s.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” she said.

You shook your head. “I’m not proving anything.”

Maria held your gaze.

“I just want to be here.”

She nodded once. “All right.”

Tommy looked at Joel for a long moment, then bent and placed his hand carefully on his brother’s shoulder. His fingers trembled once before he pressed them down.

“You hear that?” he said, voice low and frayed. “She’s not going anywhere. So you better not either.”

With that Tommy straightened. He looked at you, and this time there was something different in his expression.

“We’ll be right outside for a while,” he said. “Then I’m taking Maria home before she falls over.”

Maria gave him a look, but he ignored it.

“If anything changes,” he said to you, “call me.”

“I will.”

“If you need anything—”

“I’ll call.”

He looked like he wanted to argue with you. Then he seemed to remember what had just happened and decided against it. Maria leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. It was so gentle, so unexpected, that your eyes burned at once.

“Talk to him,” she whispered. “Even if he does not answer.”

You nodded. “I will.”

They left quietly and the door closed behind them. And then it was only you again.

You and Joel in the dim hospital room. The machines and the impossible fact of him alive and not awake. The nurse returned a few minutes later with a blanket and placed it around your shoulders without comment. You thanked her. She checked the monitor once more, then left.

You drew the blanket closer with one hand, the other stayed around Joel’s. You leaned forward and brushed your thumb carefully over the back of Joel’s hand. Then you sat beside him, and through the long machinery-breathed night, you kept your place.

The night thinned by degrees. The lights above Joel’s bed never changed. The monitor kept its rhythm. The ventilator breathed for him with soft, mechanical patience. At some point, the corridor outside grew quieter, then busier again. Shoes passed, a cart rolled by. Someone spoke in a low voice and was answered by another.

You remained in the chair. No one asked you to leave again. A nurse came in twice, then a third time. Each time, you moved when she asked, stepped back when she needed access, sat again when she was done. You did not touch anything except Joel’s hand. You had promised that.

Near morning, your body began to lose the argument. You did not decide to sleep. Sleep took you in pieces, briefly and without kindness. Your eyes closed, then opened again. The room blurred, returned, blurred again. Your neck ached. Your fingers had gone stiff around his. The last thing you remembered clearly was the green line of his heartbeat moving across the monitor.

Then something changed. You did not know what woke you. There had been no alarm, no voice calling your name. You lifted your head slowly.

And Joel’s eyes were open. Warm brown. Heavy with pain, darkened by sedation, still hazed at the edges. But open, and already on you.

“God damn it, Tommy, I’m fine.”

The words came out flatter than Joel intended as he did not have the breath for loud yet, and he hated that almost as much as he hated the rest of it. The weakness, the pull under his ribs when he moved too fast. The lingering rawness in his throat when he spoke for too long. The careful, patient way every person in the house had begun to look at him, as if he might break apart from the force of ordinary living.

He was not fine, he knew that.

Across the study, Tommy stood with one shoulder against the shelves, arms folded, his mouth set in the way it got when he was trying very hard not to argue and failing at it in his head first.

“You’re pale,” Tommy said.

“I’ve been pale for two weeks. You got new information?”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed as Joel looked back down at the papers on his desk, though the words had begun to blur a little near the edges. 

It had been two weeks since the hospital. Two weeks since he had opened his eyes to white light and the drag of plastic in his throat, to pain sitting heavy and unfamiliar inside his body, to the first hard, animal panic of waking unable to speak.

And her.

Her head bowed beside him, one hand wrapped around his, her hair loose against her cheek, exhaustion written into the soft line of her mouth. He remembered her lifting her head. He remembered those eyes. He remembered trying to move and not being able to do more than make the machines complain. He remembered wanting one thing with a clarity that cut through sedation and pain and every other useless, hazed thought inside him.

Was she safe? 

He had not been able to ask it then, but she had understood him anyway. She had been there when he surfaced again after the tube came out and the nurses told him not to talk. She had been there when his body betrayed him into sleep and when he opened his eyes again and found, impossibly, that she had stayed.

Joel had never been a man inclined toward foolish thinking. He also did not believe in signs nor that the world balanced itself kindly in the end. But sometimes, when the medication pulled him under and he woke to find her in the chair beside his bed, he had thought something close to prayer without knowing who it was meant for.

She was unharmed. He was not stupid enough to mistake the absence of blood for the absence of damage, though. He had seen the way she watched him breathe when she thought he was asleep. The way sharp sounds still made her shoulders draw in before she caught herself. But she was alive, unmarked by the bullet.

She was whole enough to move through the house with soft steps, to sit in the library with a book and to bring tea he did not ask for and leave it within reach without making a ceremony of it. Whole enough to argue with Marta about whether he preferred lemon cake or almond biscuits, though she thought he had not heard.

Two weeks, and he was at least a little better. The pain had lessened from a constant, white-edged thing into something less and into a deep ache by evening, when pride and medication had worn at each other all day.

By now he could at least walk the length of the upstairs hall without stopping and he could sit at his desk for nearly an hour. He could give orders, sign papers, read reports, receive men for short meetings, and if his body sometimes reminded him that being alive had come with conditions, then that was his body’s concern. Not Tommy’s, not Maria’s. Not anyone’s.

Especially not hers. He did not want her looking at him as if he were fragile.

She never did, though. Everyone else tried not to show him the shape of their worry and failed in different ways. Tommy hovered with irritation disguised as practicality, Maria softened every time she entered, then became brisk when she realized he had noticed. And Marta simply treated him like a man too foolish to be trusted with his own survival and made no apology for it.

But she came near him as if learning a language. Carefully at first, as if she understood that being helped could feel like being cornered if the hands came too quickly.

Once, when he had woken in the library from a sleep he had not meant to take, he had found the blanket over his legs and her chair empty. A book lay open on the table beside him, face down to hold her place. He had sat there for several minutes, one hand resting on the blanket, listening to the quiet house and feeling something in his chest that had nothing to do with the wound.

He had wanted her there.

“You listening to me?” Tommy asked.

Joel blinked and looked up. Tommy had moved from the shelves to the edge of the desk. His expression had changed while Joel had been somewhere else.

“What?”

Tommy studied him, but Joel let the silence stretch until Tommy either spoke or made the mistake of asking if he needed to lie down.

To Tommy’s credit, he chose the first.

“Gideon called.”

Joel leaned back slowly. “And?”

Tommy’s jaw shifted once. “Victor left the country last night.”

For a moment, Joel said nothing. Outside the study windows, late afternoon sat gold and quiet on the lawn. Somewhere downstairs, a pan struck something metal and Marta’s voice rose in immediate correction.

“What does left mean?” Joel asked.

“It means Gideon tightened the board, the foundation, the accounts, the donors, the friends. By yesterday evening Victor apparently decided South America was more welcoming than staying here to watch every door close in his face.”

Joel kept his face still. “How much did he take?”

“Less than he wanted, and more than he deserved. Gideon’s words, not mine. He’s stripped down, Joel. No real access. No useful money. No influence.”

Joel looked down at the papers on his desk.

Victor Moretti was alive and exiled. Reduced. He had to admit to himself that it was not as satisfying as killing him would have been. But death had a kind of dignity men like Victor did not deserve. Death let a man become memory before people had finished fearing him. But exile, irrelevance, the slow starvation of importance — that would rot Victor from the inside.

Joel felt no pity.

“Does she know?”

Tommy’s gaze flicked toward the door.

“No. I thought you should decide how to tell her.”

Joel looked up at him then. The old instinct rose at once: To spare her the details, to place the ugliness somewhere else, to keep her in a room with books and tea and sunlight while men like him and Tommy and Gideon handled what her father had left behind.

Then he remembered the hospital. Her hand in his. Joel exhaled slowly.

“I’ll tell her.”

Tommy nodded. For once, he did not push. Which made Joel suspicious.

“What?”

Tommy’s brows lifted. “Nothing.”

“You look like you’ve got something stupid to say.”

“I always have something stupid to say. I’m showing restraint.”

“Now that would be a first.”

Tommy glanced toward the door again, and this time there was something softer in his face. Something Joel did not entirely like having aimed in his direction.

“She’s good for you,” Tommy said.

Joel’s expression flattened and Tommy quickly held up a hand before he could answer. “I’m not making it sentimental. God forbid. I’m just saying, you’re less of a bastard when she’s in the room.”

“I’m injured.”

“You were a bastard before.”

Joel glared at him. Tommy looked back, unmoved. Then, from somewhere downstairs, came the sound of her laugh. Joel’s attention moved before he could stop it.

Tommy`s mouth curved, gently and without teasing.

“Get out,” Joel grumbled.

Tommy’s smile widened. “Gladly.”

“You can take these with you.” He pushed half the papers across the desk.

Tommy looked at them, then at him. “Are you giving me work because you trust me or because you want me gone?”

“Yes.”

“That’s touching.”

“Leave.”

Tommy gathered the papers with exaggerated obedience and went to the door. He paused there, hand on the frame.

“Tell her before she hears it from someone else.” 

Joel leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes briefly, and allowed himself the smallest admission.

He was relieved to be home, even though safe was too neat a word for any place built on blood and bargains. But because she was here. Because he could hear her in the kitchen, because he could open his eyes and find the book she had forgotten on the library table, because once, in the middle of the night, he had stepped into the hallway and seen light beneath her door and known she was alive on the other side of it. That was enough to make a man grateful.

Then it knocked on the door. 

You had hesitated outside the study for longer than was reasonable, the small plate balanced carefully in both hands and your thumb resting against the edge of the porcelain. From inside, you could hear the low murmur of male voices. Joel’s first, rougher now than it had been before the shooting but still carrying that unmistakable thread of authority. Then Tommy’s, less controlled, answering something with a quiet irritation that had begun, these past weeks, to sound more like worry than temper.

For a moment, you only stood there and listened. Two weeks had passed since Joel had come home, though the days had not arranged themselves neatly in your memory. They had become a collection of small proofs instead. Joel’s hand around a glass. Joel’s voice from another room. Joel moving slowly down the hall with his jaw set in stubborn silence. Joel sitting in the library with a book open across his lap, his eyes closed, pretending he had not fallen asleep. Joel at dinner, pale but present, lowering his gaze to Benji with the same seriousness he might have given to a treaty.

You had thought relief would arrive all at once.

It had not. It came in pieces, and each piece hurt differently.

At first, it had been almost unbearable to look at him without seeing the hospital over him: the tube at his mouth, the sheets tucked too carefully around his still body, the monitor marking his heartbeat in green light. Even after he woke, even after he came home, part of you remained fixed to that chair beside his bed, listening to machines do what his body could not yet manage alone.

He had been irritated by rest, courteous to pain only when no one was watching. Too composed with the men who came to speak to him. Too still when he was tired. Too careful with you in a way that made your chest ache because it cost him nothing to command a room and everything, apparently, to let himself be seen by you.

And you had changed too, though you did not know exactly into what.

You were no longer only frightened of his world. You were frightened for him inside it. You noticed when his voice roughened. When his hand drifted toward his side before he caught himself. When the glass beside him remained too full. When the light through the library windows made him squint, though he would never have said it bothered him.

You had begun to care for him in quiet, almost invisible way: A cup left closer,  a curtain drawn halfway. A blanket placed within reach rather than over him.

You brought him tea he did not ask for, biscuits made under Marta’s severe supervision because somewhere along the way you had learned that Joel Miller liked almonds with coffee.

You looked down at the plate. One biscuit had broken. You had arranged it beneath the others as if that might make it less obvious.

It was foolish, perhaps, to feel nervous over something so small after everything that had happened. After bullets and blood and hospital lights. After the certainty that you had almost lost him before you had even understood what he had become to you.

But maybe that was why it mattered. Because it was small and ordinary. Because no one had ordered you to bring him anything, and no bargain waited behind the door, and no man had placed this plate in your hands as proof of obedience.

You had made something because you had wanted to. For him. The thought warmed your face.

Inside the study, Tommy said something too low for you to hear. Joel answered, dry and clipped, and beneath the irritation you heard fatigue.

You drew a slow breath. Then you knocked.

“Come in,” Joel called.

You opened the door carefully. Joel sat behind the desk, one hand resting near a small spread of papers, the other low against the arm of the chair. He looked tired. Better than he had days ago, but still worse than he pretended to be. The afternoon light reached him from the side and caught the lingering pallor beneath his skin, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the tightness in his mouth that came whenever he had been sitting upright for too long and had decided, privately and foolishly, that pain could be negotiated with.

Still, he was there, at his desk, in his study. The relief of that had still not lessened with repetition. Sometimes it arrived in the middle of ordinary things: the sound of his voice from another room, the sight of his hand around a glass, the scrape of his chair against the floor. Small proofs and daily mercies.

Next to you Tommy had paused, apparently halfway through leaving and not committed enough to finish. Joel’s eyes narrowed as soon as noticed.

Tommy lifted both hands. “I’m already gone.”

“You’re visibly here,” Joel grumbled.

“I was leaving.”

“You’re standing still.”

“I paused while leaving.”

You glanced between them, uncertain for half a second whether you had interrupted something private or merely entered the latest round of a conversation they had been having for most of their lives. Tommy looked at you then, and the irritation left his face quickly.

“Don’t mind him,” he said. “He’s been unbearable all afternoon.”

Joel’s gaze cut to him. “Tommy —!”

“What? You have, brother.”

There was something rough beneath the words, but still affectionate. You stepped farther inside before Joel could answer. The plate felt suddenly more exposed in your hands.

“I brought something,” you said quietly.

Joel’s attention returned to you at once and his eyes immediately moved to the plate, then to your face.

You were very aware, suddenly, of the flour near your wrist, of the loose strands of hair against your cheek, of the fact that one of the biscuits had broken and you had arranged it beneath the others.

“Marta helped,” you added.

Tommy leaned slightly against the doorframe. “You mean Marta supervised.”

You looked back at him. “Yes, she did. Very intensely.”

“She does everything intensely.”

“That is true.”

Joel was watching you both now, and when you turned back, his mouth had moved faintly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Almond biscuits.” You looked down at them, suddenly less certain. “At least, they were meant to be. Marta said you like them with coffee.”

Joel looked at the plate for a moment longer.

Tommy had already begun backing away. “I’m leaving,” he said.

“You said you weren’t here,” Joel replied.

“And now I’m not here somewhere else.”

He gave you one last smile before disappearing down the hall. When he was gone, the study quieted.

You crossed to the desk and placed the plate near Joel’s right hand, careful not to disturb the papers. There were fewer than you expected. You wondered whether that meant he had been sensible or whether Tommy had already confiscated the rest. Joel noticed the glance.

“Tommy took half of them,” he said.

“That was probably wise.”

His brow lifted and you lowered your eyes at once, regretting the boldness of it even though the words had been gentle.

But Joel only looked at you for another second, and then the corner of his mouth moved once again.

“Probably,” he admitted.

You drew in a quiet breath, feeling more encouraged. “I thought perhaps you could take a break.”

The sentence came carefully and not as an instruction. You were still learning where such things belonged between you. The house seemed full of people who told Joel what to do now, and though he tolerated some of it with grim restraint, you did not want to become another voice pressing against a bruise.

Joel leaned back slightly in his chair.

A mistake. You saw it at once: the small tightening under his ribs, the almost invisible pause before he let his shoulders settle. His face remained composed, but his body told the truth beneath it.

“Maybe just for a minute,” you added.

“All right,” he said finally.

You looked back at him, surprised before you could hide it. Joel`s gaze warmed faintly.

“I mean you brought bribery,” he said. “I’m not unreasonable.”

A laugh escaped you, small and startled. His eyes moved over you as if the sound had done something to him.  Suddenly very self-conscious, you looked down at the plate.

“They are not perfect.”

“Good.”

Your eyes lifted in surprise. Joel had already reached for one, choosing the broken biscuit before you could stop him.

“That one fell apart,” you said quickly. “The dough was too warm, apparently. Marta said I handled it too much.”

Joel glanced at you. “I like this one.”

“You haven’t tasted it yet.”

“I like it,” he said again, and this time there was something in his voice that made your face warm.

He took a bite. It was ridiculous to be nervous over a biscuit after everything that had happened. After bullets and blood and hospital lights. And yet there you stood, hands folded against your skirt, waiting for Joel Miller to decide whether something you had made for him was good enough.

He chewed slowly, swallowed. He then took another bite.

“Delicious,” he finally said.

You tried not to smile too quickly. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Marta said they were acceptable…”

“Well, I guees that means your cookies are perfect.”

You quickly looked at the papers again to save yourself from his gaze. “Were you working on something important?”

“Yes.”

“Should you be?”

“No.”

The answer surprised a second laugh out of you. Joel smiled properly this time.

“I appreciate your honesty,” you said gently.

“I have limits.”

“I am beginning to suspect that.”

Then Joel looked at the plate again. “Did you bring coffee too?”

The question was so ordinary that it startled you, and you blinked. “No.”

“A pity.” Joel`s expression on his face softened in a way that made you look down at once.

“I can bring coffee,” you said. When you reached the door, you glanced back. Joel sat behind the desk with the plate near his hand, his face tired, his body still guarded against pain, his eyes on you.

“Take a break,” you said, gently this time.

He looked at the papers, then at the biscuit in his hand.  “I am.”

You wanted to argue. Instead, you smiled faintly. “Then I’ll bring coffee.”

Joel’s mouth curved. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

In the hall, Tommy was nowhere to be seen, though you had a distinct feeling he had not gone far. You decided, for once, not to ask.

Dinner had been quieter than usual, though not unpleasant. Maria had brought Benji by for an hour before bedtime, and his small, careful cheer had filled the room in a way adults no longer quite knew how to manage. He had shown Joel the drawing he had made at school — a horse, a sun, three people with their arms extending too far from their bodies — and Joel had examined it with the grave attention of a man reviewing something confidential.

“That me?” he had asked, pointing to the tallest figure.

Benji had nodded solemnly. “You’re standing up because you’re better.”

Joel had gone still for the smallest moment. Then he had said, “Good drawing.”

And Benji had beamed. You had watched the whole thing from the other side of the room and felt something inside you give way and gather itself again. You took it all in: Joel with a child’s drawing in his hand. Joel alive to receive it. Joel pale and tired and sitting more carefully than anyone mentioned, but there. Grumbling when Tommy tried to take his plate too soon. Accepting coffee from Maria because she did not ask whether he wanted it, only put it down beside him and went on speaking as if he had already agreed.

Ordinary things.

After dinner, you returned to your room and tried to become tired. You had already washed your face and taken down your hair. You had  put on your nightdress, then wrapped a robe around yourself because the evening had cooled. 

You sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the quiet beyond your door, the distant murmur of someone speaking downstairs, the old pipes moving once in the wall, the faint wind against the windows.

You lay back against the pillows, stared at the ceiling, and saw again the plate of almond biscuits on Joel’s desk. The way his fingers had closed around the broken one first. The way he had said good as if it were not a judgment of baking at all but something gentler he had no intention of naming. 

You turned onto your side. The room remained itself. Your room. Your bed. Your own books on the small table. Your shawl over the chair. The window cracked open just enough to let in the damp green smell of the garden. Everything was familiar by now.

And still, you felt restless inside it. You thought of Joel down the hall. Was he sleeping? Had he taken the evening medication? Was the wound troubling him after sitting up too long at dinner? Would he admit it if it were? Of course he would not. He would sit in that large bed with his jaw set and his body held too carefully, making his pain into a private matter through sheer stubbornness and calling it dignity.

A breath left you, almost fond. That was new, too, that fondness.

After another few minutes of failing to sleep, you sat up. A book, you decided. You could read for half an hour, maybe less. Let the words pull your mind into someone else’s life until your own stopped circling the same few images.

So you took a robe from the chair and slipped into the hall. The house was dim but not dark. Someone had left the lamps low along the corridor, warm pools of light falling over the runners and polished wood. You walked barefoot, slowly, the old boards cool beneath your feet.

The library was past Joel’s room. You had made it nearly to his door when you heard the curse. It was immediate enough to stop you where you stood.

At first, you thought he had dropped something. Then came the faint sound of movement, like a drawer pulled open too sharply. Something papered or wrapped shifting against the surface of furniture. You could hear another muttered word, not loud enough to understand clearly but unmistakably impatient.

You stood in the corridor and looked at the closed door. It was late. He might not want company. He might be in pain. He might be angry. He might be angry because he was in pain, which seemed worse.

Then something thudded softly inside the room, followed by another curse, this one sharper. Your hand lifted before you could talk yourself out of it and you knocked.

There was silence. Then Joel’s voice, clipped and irritated enough to make you flinch before you could stop yourself.

“Come in.”

You swallowed and slowly opened the door.

Joel stood near the dresser with his back to you. He was bare from the waist up. For one confused second, that was all your mind understood. Your gaze fell to the broad line of his shoulders and the dark hair at the nape of his neck, grown unruly from days of being too tired to care properly. You could see  his muscles shift beneath warm skin as he reached awkwardly toward his left side. His shirt lay discarded on the bed, and the medical supplies had been spread over the dresser with too much precision to be anything but annoyance: gauze, tape, antiseptic, clean wrapping, the old dressing folded aside.

The wound itself was partly hidden from where you stood, but the bruising was not. It ran along his side in fading colors, yellow at the edges, darker near the bandage, a shadow of violence still written into his body.

You inhaled sharply.

Joel hadn`t turned around yet.

“For God’s sake, Tommy,” he said, his voice low and rough with frustration, “just give me some space.”

You froze. The words struck before you had time to remind yourself they had not been meant for you.

Joel shifted, trying again to reach the tape at an angle his body clearly disliked. Pain caught him. You saw it in the sudden stillness of his shoulders, the way his right hand braced against the dresser, the small tilt of his head as he waited it out without making another sound.

Your fingers tightened around the door handle. Then he must have heard the silence, or your breath. Something made him look back. He turned quickly and his face changed the instant he saw you. The irritation vanished completely and concern replaced it first, then regret, sharp and immediate.

“Sweetheart, what —”

You were still standing in the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other closed around the edge of your robe.

“I’m sorry,” he said at once. “I thought you were Tommy.”

You swallowed. “I heard—”

“I know.” He exhaled, controlled but uneven, and glanced briefly at the mess on the dresser as if the evidence had betrayed him. “I know. I’m sorry.”

His hand remained braced against the wood. His chest rose carefully, not quite shallow, not quite steady. The light beside the bed caught the side of his face and the line of his bare torso, the healing damage beneath his ribs, the stubborn set of a man caught in the exact vulnerability he had been trying to avoid.

You looked at the supplies before your eyes returned to look at him. He followed your gaze and his mouth tightened.

“It’s nothing,” he said. The lie was so poor, and so Joel, that some of the sting left you.

You stepped inside, letting the door fall softly closed behind you. “It does not look like nothing.”

He looked down for half a second, then away. “I can handle it.”

The room was quiet except for the faint movement of rain against the window. You took one careful step closer.

“Joel,” you said softly, “you cannot even see where you are trying to put it.”

His jaw shifted. “I’ve done worse things blind.”

“Let me help you.”

There was no challenge in your voice, no scolding. You glanced at the dresser again. Your heart beat once, hard.

The silence that followed was not refusal. It was something more cautious. You understood that this was not the same as letting you move a glass closer or lay a blanket over his legs. This was his skin, his wound. The place where he had been opened and repaired and left marked by a choice neither of you had yet spoken of directly.

“You don’t have to,” he said quietly. “It’s not pretty.”

Without answering you walked past the dresser and washed your hands in the small adjoining bathroom, taking longer than necessary because you needed the moment. When you came back, Joel had lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. He looked larger sitting there and more vulnerable at the same time.

For a moment, you forgot what you had offered to do. You had seen parts of him before, of course. The strong line of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves. His throat above an open collar. The broad shape of him in a suit, in shirtsleeves, beneath the dark wool of his coat. You had seen his body on the wedding night too, but fear had blurred everything then. Your memory of that night came to you in pieces you had never wanted to examine too closely.

But this felt different. The soft light touched his bare chest and shoulder, the warm brown of his skin marked now by bruising that had faded at the edges into yellow and green. The muscle of him was still there beneath the damage, broad and solid and unmistakably alive, but the wound drew your eye no matter how much you wished it did not.

You carefully put on the gloves. The sound of the paper tearing seemed too loud.

Your hands stilled and you took a slow breath before stepping closer. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “You won’t.”

With that you cleaned around the wound first, as carefully as you could. Joel did not move. He barely seemed to breathe when your fingers touched his side, even through the gloves, even with gauze between your hand and his skin. The bruising looked worse up close, deep, a private violence blooming under his ribs where the bandage had hidden it.

Your throat tightened when you pressed the clean gauze gently into place.

For a moment, the room slipped. Wet stone. Fireworks. His body against your. Your hands pressing because Elias had told you to press. Blood warm beneath your palms.

Joel noticed the change in you before you could hide it.

“Sweetheart.”

You blinked and suddenly became aware of the concerned look he gave you.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said gently.

You shook your head once, but your fingers had stopped moving.

“I just…— I keep seeing it,” you managed to finally say.

Joel stayes silent which made it easier to continue.

“When I close my eyes sometimes. Or when you breathe differently. Or when I hear something too sharp. I see you turn toward me, and then I see you fall.” Your voice caught, and you looked down at the half-secured dressing because his face would be too much. “I know you are here. I know you are healing, I know that. But part of me is still on the ground with you.”

“I remember turning,” he said after a while.

You dared to look at him then.  His eyes were on the far wall, not on you. The light from the lamp on the night stand touched the side of his face, catching the gray in his beard, the tiredness he allowed himself only when the room was private enough.

“Not everything after,” he continued. “I remember piece, some noise. Your face.” His jaw shifted once. “And I remember seeing him raise his hand.”

Your fingers tightened around the tape, and Joel looked back at you. “There wasn’t time to think.”

“I know.”

“No,” he said, quietly. “I mean there wasn’t a choice to make.”

He held your gaze, and for once there was no deflection in him. “My body moved before the rest of me caught up. That’s all.”

That’s all.

As if the fact that his body had known to shield yours before thought could interfere was something small.

Your eyes suddenly burned. “Joel…”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel guilty.”

“But I do feel guilty....”

His expression changed at once. “No.”

You looked down.

He said your name then, not sweetheart. Your name, low and rough and edged with enough authority that your eyes lifted again despite yourself.

“No,” he repeated. “You don’t take that from me.”

You swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“That was mine.” His gaze did not leave yours. “What happened after, what it did to you, the fear, the hospital, all of that — I hate that. I hate that you had to see it. I hate that you had my blood on your hands.” His voice roughened, and he paused long enough to steady it. “But stepping in front of you was my decision. Do not turn it into something you owe me for.”

The dressing remained half-secured beneath your hands. His skin was warm through the glove. His body, wounded and alive, was close enough that you could feel the heat of him.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

Joel’s eyes softened. “I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

His mouth parted slightly, but he did not interrupt.

“I know people are grateful you’re alive,” you continued. “Tommy, Maria, everyone. I know they love you. But I sat in that chair and listened to a machine breathe for you, and I thought—” You stopped, pressing your lips together until you could continue. “I thought I had only just found you.”

You heard Joel`s sharp inhale and looked back down quickly while finishing taping the dressing. If you did not give your hands something to do, you were afraid they would begin to shake.

“I’m grateful you wanted to protect me,” you said. “I am. But I am more grateful you came home.”

The last strip of tape smoothed beneath your fingers. Done. The wound was covered again.

You should have stepped back. Instead Joel’s hand lifted slowly and closed around your wrist, just above the glove. 

“I came home because you called me back,” he said, his voice gentle and low.

Your breath caught. “That is not how medicine works.”

“No,” he said. “Never claimed to be a doctor.”

A fragile laugh escaped you and Joel looked at you as if he had been given something he had not expected to see again so soon.

Then his thumb moved once against your wrist. Slow and barely there. The laughter faded. You suddenly became aware of how close you were standing. Of the bare warmth of him beneath the bandage and bruising. Of the line of his throat when he swallowed. Of his eyes dropping, briefly, to your mouth before returning to your face.

You had seen him wounded and pale and helpless beneath hospital lights.

But he was not helpless now. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, injured and tired and half-undressed, and still there was something in him that pulled the air toward him. Something steady. Something male and warm and alive.

Your silence lengthened, and Joel noticed. At first, he seemed to mistake it. His hand loosened at your wrist. “Did I scare you?”

You shook your head, maybe too quickly, before you had found words.

His eyes searched your face. Then lower, to the place where your breathing had changed. To the pulse at your throat. To the fact that you had not moved away from him, though nothing held you there anymore.

Understanding reached him slowly. You saw the exact moment it did when his expression altered by degrees: Concern first, then restraint, then something darker, quieter, carefully leashed.

Your mouth went dry. The memory came back the. Soft lantern light, music, his hand at your waist. The breath between you when the dance had ended and the whole world had seemed to wait. His mouth almost touching yours. Then the fireworks. Then the shot.

Joel’s gaze held yours as if he had remembered the same thing.

“Sweetheart.”

It was a warning and a question at once.

You removed the gloves slowly, because you needed a reason to look away for a second. The sound of them pulling free seemed much too loud. You set them aside on the towel, then turned back to him.

It was obvious that he was giving you the room to choose the distance. You stepped closer instead. Only one tiny step, but enough that your knees brushed the edge of the bed.

Joel’s hand rose, then stopped before touching your waist. For a second, Joel did not move. Only his eyes changed. Something passed through them so quickly you might have missed it if you had not been standing so close: disbelief first, then hunger, then the hard, immediate restraint of a man forcing both back into his own hands.

His fingers lightly settled at your waist. Too lightly. As if he were still asking, even after you had answered. The touch went through you anyway. You felt it everywhere. Not only where his hand rested, warm through the fabric of your dress, but lower, deeper, in the quiet places of your body that had been waiting longer than you had known how to admit. Your breath caught, and his gaze dropped to your mouth.

The room seemed to narrow around that one movement.

His eyes on your lips.

Your hand hovering near his shoulder.

The bed behind him.

The clean dressing beneath your fingers.

The dangerous, impossible fact that no one was coming through the door. No father. No priest. No witness. No rule. No bargain. No gunshot tearing the night open before the choice could be made.

Only him.

Only you.

Only the distance left between you.

Joel’s thumb moved once against your side with a slow, almost absent stroke.

You felt your entire body answer it.

“Sweetheart,” he said again, low and rough. It almost sounded like a warning. Or like a prayer. It sounded like the last good thing he could give you before wanting took the rest.

You should have been nervous, and perhaps you were. But it was not the old kind of nervous. It had nothing to do with the obedient dread that had carried you through the wedding night with your heart beating like something trapped. This was different. This was heat beneath your skin. This was your pulse rising because he was close and bare beneath your hand and alive, so fiercely alive, and looking at you as if he had crossed every dark place in the world to arrive at this exact breath.

You stepped even closer and felt his fingers tightened on your waist, but not enough to pull. Just  enough to betray him.That was what undid you. The effort. The way he held himself still when every line of his body seemed to want otherwise. The way he gave you room even now, even with his eyes dark and his breath uneven and his mouth close enough that you could have moved further and ended both your suffering in a second.

So you did. You closed the last of the distance yourself.

Joel went utterly still when your lips touched his.

For one heartbeat, he did not kiss you back. You felt it in the sudden tension beneath your palm, in the sharp breath he took through his nose, in the way his hand at your waist flexed once and then held, careful, careful, still so careful that it almost hurt.

Your mouth moved against his again, softer this time.

A question. A promise. A trembling, impossible answer to the kiss that had been stolen from you beneath the lanterns.

Joel broke with a sound so low you felt it more than heard it, his mouth opened over yours and with that you felt the whole world slipped.

The kiss deepened slowly at first, as if he were trying to teach himself the shape of your permission. His lips were warm, rougher than you had imagined, careful until your hand slid from his shoulder to the side of his neck and your fingers found the living beat beneath his jaw.

Then his restraint fractured further. His hand moved from your waist to the small of your back, drawing you in just enough that your knees brushed the edge of the mattress between his.

He did not pull hard, and he did not need to as your body went willingly, almost helplessly, leaning into the space he made for you.

You could feel heat opened under your ribs. For a dizzying second, you forgot the wound, the room. You forgot everything except the taste of him, the warmth of his skin, the scrape of his beard against your cheek when he changed the angle of the kiss and took your lower lip between his with a tenderness that made your breath fail.

You had imagined softness.

You had feared force.

You had not known what to do with this. This careful hunger, his reverence with teeth. Joel kissed you as if he had been starving quietly for weeks. As if every moment he had stepped back, every door he had left open, every silence he had allowed you, had led him here.

Your hand slid into his hair before you could stop yourself. He made another sound then, a broken, restrained thing. His body shifted toward yours, and the movement pulled at the wound. You felt it before he could hide it: the brief catch in his breath, the tightening under your hand. 

You broke the kiss at once.

“Joel—”

“I’m all right.”

His forehead lowered until it rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your mouth. His eyes were closed. His hand remained at your back, fingers spread wide, keeping you near while giving you every chance to leave.

But you did not. Instead you stood between his knees and tried to breathe.

Your lips tingled and your heart hammered so violently you were sure he could feel it through the narrow space between you. His skin was hot beneath your hand, his pulse unsteady under your fingers, and something inside you trembled with the force of understanding that this was what the dance had been moving toward. This was what his eyes had almost said beneath the fireworks. This was what had waited beneath fear and duty and all the ugly arrangements that had tried to make your body a place of negotiation.

This was not duty.

This was not gratitude.

This was not fear.

This was want.

Yours.

His.

Mutual enough to frighten you and steady you at the same time.

Joel opened his eyes. They were dark with barely concealed hunger.

“You okay?” he asked. The question was rough, almost too quiet.

You almost laughed because the answer was impossible. Were you okay?

You were standing in his bedroom with your hand in his hair and his mouth still close enough to ruin you. Your body felt newly awake, your skin too warm, your thoughts scattered in every direction except away from him.

“No,” you whispered.

Something in his face tightened. You realized too late what he had heard.

“No,” you said again, quickly, your hand moving from his hair to his cheek. “Not like that.”

His eyes searched yours and you swallowed.

“I mean… I don’t think I have ever been kissed like that. Given that…— I have never kissed anyone before.”

The words came out small, almost embarrassed.

Joel`s expression changed. Softness, yes, but not only that. There was a certain possessiveness, perhaps, though not the kind that frightened you. More like wonder. More like a man realizing he had been given something fragile and wanted to put his hands around the whole world to keep it from breaking.

“No?” he asked. 

Your cheeks warmed. “No.”

His thumb moved slowly against your back. 

“And was that good nervous,” he asked, voice low, “or bad nervous?”

Your breath left you. Because he knew, of course he knew.

You looked at his mouth, then back at his eyes. “New nervous.”

Joel’s hand softened at your back. His other hand rose, careful of his side, and touched your face with the backs of his fingers. So gentle it made something in you twist.

“Then we go slow,” he said.

Your eyes burned again, suddenly and without warning. “I don’t want you to stop.”

The confession escaped too quickly, too honestly.

For a second, he looked almost pained by it. “I don’t want to stop either.” His voice had dropped lower.

The words moved through you like a strike of lightning. There was no ambiguity, no almost, no interrupted dance, no swallowed desire, no polite distance.

He wanted you. Joel Miller wanted you, and the knowledge was so enormous that you had to grip his shoulder to remain standing.

His mouth curved faintly, but there was no smugness in it. Only heat, softened by something almost tender.

“Careful,” he murmured.

“You’re the one who was shot.”

“And you’re the one looking at me like that.”

Your lips parted. “I am not looking at you like anything.”

“Liar.”

Warmth rushed through you, low and sudden, and Joel’s eyes darkened even more as if he could see it happen. Then you bent to him once more. This time, he met you halfway.

The second kiss was not careful enough to be mistaken for comfort. It began soft and turned deep almost immediately, his hand at your back guiding you closer, your fingers tightening in his hair, your mouth opening under his with a small, helpless sound you would have been embarrassed by if Joel had not answered it with one of his own.

His beard scraped gently against your skin. His lips moved over yours with a patience that somehow made the hunger worse, because he did not rush. He did not take the moment from you. He let you feel every part of it.

The warmth.

The wanting.

The choice.

You shifted closer without thinking, and his thighs bracketed yours where he sat on the bed. His hand left your back only to settle at your hip, steadying you when the kiss made your balance unreliable. His thumb pressed there, a slow, firm point of heat through your dress.

You eventually forgot how to be careful. But Joel remembered for both of you. He broke the kiss with a rough inhale and turned his face just enough that his mouth brushed your cheek instead of your lips. His hand stayed at your hip, holding you, but his body had gone tense again

“Sweetheart,” he said, and the word was almost wrecked.

You opened your eyes. His were still closed, his forehead resting against your temple.

For a moment, he did not speak. He only breathed, carefully, like a man trying not to want more than he had promised himself he would ask for.

Then he said, “I need to stop.”

Your stomach dropped. He felt it, and his hand tightened at once.

“No,” he said, before you could move away. “Not because I don’t want you.”

You stayed still. His eyes opened, and what you saw there made your breath catch all over again.

Want. Clear and unsparing, and beneath it something steadier. Something that had become the reason you trusted him.

“I want you too much to let this happen because I’m hurt and you were scared,” he said.

The words struck softly and deeply. “I’m not scared.”

“I know.”

“I’m not doing this because of that.”

“I know that too.”

“Then why—”

“Because I want to do one thing right with you.”

Your throat closed.

Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your waist again, gentler now. His thumb swept once over the fabric.

“You never got the right order,” he continued. “You never got asked. You never got courted. You never got to decide if you even liked me before you had to stand beside me and wear my ring.”

You could not look away from him.

His voice roughened. “I am not taking the first thing you give me freely and turning it into something that happens because we got overwhelmed in my bedroom while I’m half out of a bandage.”

A breathless, broken laugh escaped you despite everything. Joel’s mouth curved, just barely. You touched his face as he leaned into it for half a second before he could stop himself. That, somehow, felt even more intimate than the kiss.

“What are you saying?” you whispered.

His gaze held yours. “Dinner,” he said.

You blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner. A walk. A bookshop. A movie. Whatever you want.” His thumb moved once at your waist. “Let me take you somewhere first and ask questions I should’ve asked before this started.”

The ache in your chest changed shape. “What kind of questions?”

His eyes softened. 

“Favorite book. Favorite place. What you wanted to become when you were a kid. Your favorite color.” A pause. “Whether you really like lemon cake as much as I think you do.”

Your mouth trembled. “These are very serious questions.”

“Life or death.”

You laughed then, fully enough that Joel’s eyes moved over your face as if the sound had given him something back.

You leaned down and kissed him once more. Only once, very softly. A promise rather than surrender. A beginning rather than a fall.

When you pulled back, Joel’s hand remained at your waist.

You looked at him, at the tiredness on his face, the bandage beneath the clean shirt still hanging loose, the body that had thrown itself between yours and a bullet.

“Yes,” you said.

His eyes searched yours. “To dinner?” he asked.

You smiled. “To all of it.”

Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.

Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.

He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.

Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.

You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.

The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.

Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.

You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.

“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”

The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”

He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.

He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”

Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.

Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.

“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.

You knew it was not a jest.

You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.

He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”

It pains him?

You will show him something that pains him.

There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.

Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.

Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.

day one

You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.

The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.

If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.

Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.

Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.

You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.

“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.

When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.

“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.

He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”

“Tell me one,” you counter.

All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.

Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”

“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.

day two

You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.

“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.

You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.

“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.

“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.

“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.

Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”

He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”

“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”

Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”

“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”

A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”

You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.

“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.

You nod. “I could.”

The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.

It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.

If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.

day three

The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.

Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.

You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.

He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.

When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.

“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.

Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”

You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.

He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”

“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”

You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.

The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.

Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.

Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.

And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.

“Ser?” you whisper.

“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.

You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.

“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.

He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”

You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.

Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.

“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.

Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”

“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.

Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.

You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.

He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.

You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.

The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.

You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.

Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.

“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.

Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”

You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”

“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”

His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.

You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.

The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.

“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”

That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.

You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.

day four

Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.

The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.

You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.

It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.

“What are they?” you whisper.

“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”

“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.

Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”

“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.

He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.

“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.

You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.

“Can I touch one?” you mumble.

He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”

You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.

Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.

Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.

He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.

The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.

His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.

You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.

Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—

Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.

“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.

“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.

“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.

You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.

He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.

“Don’t cry,” he comforts.

You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.

day five

Gwayne did not like to see you cry.

He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.

He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.

Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.

You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.

He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.

Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.

He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.

The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.

“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”

You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”

Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”

“Then why have you asked?”

He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”

“You jest.”

“I do not.”

You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”

“That is unneeded for you to know.”

“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”

His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”

“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.

“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”

“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”

“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.

You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”

“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.

“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”

Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?

“Do you remember his name?” he asks.

“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”

He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”

You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”

“What happened to him?”

You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”

He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”

“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.

“I suppose so.”

day six

The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.

It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.

“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—

“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”

Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.

He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”

The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.

“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.

His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.

The walk to your room is silent.

Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.

“I’m sorry—” he begins.

“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.

He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.

You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.

You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.

As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.

“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.

“It is,” he agrees solemnly.

You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.

Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.

“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.

Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”

Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.

“I fear the same.”

You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”

He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.

“As you wish, my princess.”

day seven

Your horse stops before you instruct it to.

In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.

You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.

You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.

“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”

“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”

The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.

You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.

Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.

Where is Gwayne?

You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.

His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.

He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.

You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.

“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.

Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.

You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.

“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.

“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.

You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?

He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.

The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.

“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.

“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”

You want to keel over and die.

You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.

Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”

“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”

“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.

“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.

We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—

Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.

Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.

He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.

In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.

Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—

His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.

You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.

Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.

You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.

He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.

“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.

It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.

He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.

Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.

“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.

He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”

And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.

The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.

His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.

You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.

His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.

Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.

The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.

It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.

The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.

You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.

Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.

He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”

You nod, but it is not enough.

“Tell me,” he commands.

“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.

Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.

You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.

You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.

His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.

You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.

He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.

Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.

He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.

“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.

You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.

He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.

“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“

You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.

It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.

You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.

You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“

You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.

You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.

“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”

You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.

Still, you breathe out a chuckle.

day nine

The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.

Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.

He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.

You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.

His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.

You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.

He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.

“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.

Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”

“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.

“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.

His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.

He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.

“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”

You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”

“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”

“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”

At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.

“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.

“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.

He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”

“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.

So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.

You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.

But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.

You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.

His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.

Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.

“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.

You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.

Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.

“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.

He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.

It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.

His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.

You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.

“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.

Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.

He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.

He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.

“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”

You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.

“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.

“Why not?” you breathe.

His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”

You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.

“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”

Ah. In that case—

Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.

It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.

Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.

Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.

You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.

It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.

He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.

It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.

His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.

You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.

“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.

He nods once. “As you wish.”

And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.

He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.

He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.

You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.

Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.

You think you might faint.

day fourteen

Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.

It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.

But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.

If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.

Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.

He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.

You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”

Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.

Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I want us to wed.”

Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.

“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.

“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.

“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.

Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.

“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”

“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”

“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”

Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.

As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.

“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.

Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.

You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.

He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.

The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.

The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.

“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”

You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.

Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.

He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.

“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.

It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.

He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.

One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.

The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.

His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.

There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.

He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.

In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.

“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.

day sixteen

When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.

You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.

Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.

You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.

You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.

When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.

He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.

“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.

His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”

For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.

Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.

You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.

It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.

“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.

Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.

You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.

“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”

His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.

The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.

“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.

She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.

You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.

But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.

The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.

day thirty five

You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.

The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.

It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.

But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.

You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.

If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.

He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.

You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.

But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.

These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.

If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.

A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.

You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.

Something deep inside you says it will.

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.