— your world narrowed down to a single, impossible focal point the moment duncan the tall entered your life, his staggering height and fiercely earnest eyes making every highborn lordling in kings landing look like nothing more like mindless fools. you spent months convincing yourself it was just a passing infatuation, but love snuck up on you like a fever, turning every accidental brush of his leather-clad shoulder into an ache that keeps you awake until the torches burn down to embers.

— duncan, for all his physical dominance, is utterly defenseless against you; he treats you with a reverence that borders on holy, always bowing a fraction lower than protocol demands just to bring his towering frame closer to your eye level. he notices the exact moment your genuine smiles turned into practiced masks, and it tears him apart inside because he knows a lowborn hedge knight from fleabottom has absolutely no right to ask why a princess is grieving.

— prince baelor is too sharp, too deeply attuned to the shifts in his household to miss the subtle dimming of your light; he watches you during court functions, noting how your eyes glaze over when eligible lords from the reach or the westerlands are introduced. while the rest of the red keep sees a dutiful daughter preparing for her future, baelor recognizes the quiet, desperate resignation of a bird watching its cage door swing shut, and it troubles his fiercely protective heart.

— the stolen moments between you and duncan are laced with a bittersweet agony that leaves you feeling breathless and shattered all at once. during your afternoon walks in the godswood, he walks exactly half a step behind you as protocol dictates.

— you’ve developed a habit of asking dunk hypothetical questions about the free cities and the open road, masking your desperation as mere curiosity, while he answers in his deep, rumbling voice, painting pictures of a life lived under the stars. neither of you will say the words out loud, but you both know you are secretly building a fantasy where you are just a girl and he is just a man, far away from the crushing weight of the targaryen name.

— the breaking point for your composure comes when a formal proposal arrives from a powerful great house, and baelor notices the way the color completely drains from your face at the breakfast table, your silver fork clattering against the arbor gold plate. while your mother smiles and speaks of grand tapestries and high lordships, baelor watches your knuckles turn white as you clutch your skirts, your chest heaving with a panic you are barely managing to suppress.

— that same evening, dunk finds you crying softly by the parapets where the sea breeze bites the hardest, your shoulders shaking beneath your heavy velvet cloak. he forgets all his training, all the rigid rules of the kingsguard, and takes a step into your personal space, his hand hovering just inches from your cheek, trembling with a helpless desire to wipe away your tears even though he knows it’s a treasonous urge.

— “you shouldn’t be out here alone, princess, the wind is rather harsh tonight,” he whispers, his voice thick with an unspoken sorrow that matches your own. you look up into his honest, rugged face—a face that represents everything you actually want but can never have—and the sheer reality of your impending marriage hits you so hard you have to grip his forearm just to stay upright on your feet.

— dunk doesn’t pull away; instead, he subtly shifts his body to block you from the view of any passing guards, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped warhorse as your fingers dig into hiss sleeve. for a fleeting, terrifying moment, the boundary between knight and princess dissolves, replaced by a raw, suffocating grief that you are both bound by chains you didn’t forge.

— baelor uncovers the truth not through some grand betrayal, but by observing the quiet, unspoken language shared between you and the knight during a routine military review. he catches the way your eyes instinctively seek out duncan’s towering form in the crowd for reassurance, and more importantly, the look of profound devastation on duncan’s face when a lord makes a comment about your upcoming betrothal.

— the realization hits baelor fast—not with anger or disgust, but with a sympathy that almost makes him weep for both of you. he knows the world they live in; he knows that a hedge knight, no matter how noble of heart, cannot marry a princess of the blood, and he realizes with clarity that his daughter is slowly dying inside from a love that is fundamentally doomed.

— instead of calling for heads or sending duncan away, baelor summons you to his private solar late at night, a siingle flagon of sweet wine between you and no servants in sight to witness your vulnerability. he doesn't scold you or speak of duty; he simply pulls your trembling form into his arms, letting you bury your face in his tunic as the dam finally breaks and you sob for hours

— “i see the way you look at him, sweetling, and i see the way he looks at the sky whenever your name is spoken,” baelor murmurs into your hair, his voice cracking with the heavy burden of a father who has all the power in the realm except the power to give his child true happiness. he listens to you pour your heart out, confessing how the thought of another man’s touch makes you feel physically ill, and how duncan is the only love you’ve ever known.

— meanwhile, duncan spends his nights patrolling the corridors outside your wing of the castle, his hand resting heavily on the pommel of his sword, his mind a chaotic storm of guilt and honor. he hates himself for allowing a princess to fall for a man with no lands, no gold, and nothing to offer but a shield, yet he knows with absolute certainty that he would burn the seven kingdoms to ash before he let anyone hurt you.

— the dynamic between baelor and duncan shifts into something deeply complex and unspoken; during training sessions, baelor tests duncan’s resolve, looking deep into the giant’s eyes and seeing nothing but an absolute loyalty to you that transcends mere vows. baelor respects the knight’s restraint, recognizing that duncan has never tried to compromise your honor, which only makes the situation more heartbreaking for everyone involved.

— you and duncan share a final encounter in the library beneath the shadow of old valyrian texts, where the dust motes dance in the fading sunlight and the world feels temporarily suspended. he takes your hand for the very first time—his palm rough and calloused, completely swallowing yours—and presses a single, reverent kiss to your knuckles that feels like both a vow and a permanent goodbye.

— “if i could give you a kingdom of my own, i would build it from the dirt up just to see you smile,” duncan whispers against your skin, his eyes bright with unshed tears as he commits the feeling of your hand to memory. you press your forehead against his broad chest, listening to the steady, thumping rhythm of his heart, wishing with everything you have that the walls of the red keep would just crumble and bury you both together.

— baelor uses his immense political leverage to quietly delay the marriage negotiations, using excuses of dowry disputes and political alignments to buy you time, acting as a buffer between your despair and the expectations of the crown. he cannot break the laws of the realm for you, but he can give you a reprieve, ensuring that for a little while longer, you can continue your secret.

— in the end, you carry your heartbreak like in secret, sustained only by the quiet understanding in your father’s eyes and the presence of dunk at the back of every room. you are still a princess, and your future remains a predetermined path, but you walk it knowing that the noblest knight in westeros loves you from the shadows, and that your father loved you enough to let you grieve.

the heavy oak doors of the solar click shut, cutting off the distant hum of the red keep. your father does not sit at his desk. instead, he stands by the window, watching the late afternoon sun cast long, golden rectangles across the stone floor.

you stand near the entrance, your fingers laced tightly together in front of your gown. the silence between you stretches, thick and suffocating. you keep your eyes trained on the floor, tracing the lines in the stone, refusing to look up.

"you are losing weight," baelor says softly, his voice lacking any edge of reprimand, carrying only the deep, aching worry of a father. "and your mind is entirely absent during the council dinners. your mother believes you are simply overwhelmed by the prospect of the tyrell match, but i know my daughter better than that. you look at your plate as if the food is bad."

you turn your gaze back to the window, watching the tiny figures of the gold coats moving along the outer walls, avoiding his piercing stare. "i am only tired, father. the heat in the city has been stifling these past few weeks, and the endless talk of alliances makes my head ache. there is nothing wrong with me."

"do not play the diplomat with me," baelor murmurs, stepping closer until he stands right beside you. he looks out at the courtyard too, his eyes scanning the training grounds below where the squires pack away the blunted swords. "i see the way you look at the sky when the heralds read the marriage proposals. you look like a prisoner counting the days until execution. a princess should not look at her future with such profound dread."

your breath hitches, and you grip the silver stem of your wine cup a little tighter to hide the tremor in your fingers. you want to deny it, to tell him that you understand your duty to house targaryen, but the sheer weight of your sadness makes the words stick in your throat. you feel completely exposed under his gaze, as if he can read the very thoughts you try so hard to bury.

baelor sighs, a sound full of profound weariness, and places a gentle, grounding hand on your shoulder. "and i see the way ser duncan watches the door whenever you leave a room. he stands like a mountain, a shield for my household, but the moment you walk past, his gaze follows you with a desperation that cannot be hidden. he looks like he might pass out when you are near."

the mention of his name shatters your fragile composure entirely. you look up at your father, your eyes wide with a sudden, suffocating panic, your heart hammering against your ribs. your breath comes in short, ragged gasps as you brace yourself for the anger, for the stern lecture on royal blood and highborn expectations that any other prince would give. but baelor’s face only softens with a paternal sympathy that cuts deeper than any scolding.

"how long?" baelor asks quietly, his eyes searching yours for the truth.

"it does not matter," you whisper, your voice cracking as the first tear spills over your lashes and traces a hot path down your cheek. "it changes nothing. he is a hedge knight from fleabottom, and i am a princess of the blood. i know what my future requires, and i know what my name demands of me. i will marry whoever you choose."

"it matters to me because it is killing you," your father replies, his thumb gently wiping the moisture from your cheek. he looks down at his own hands, the hands of the hand of the king, powerful enough to command armies and sign treaties but utterly helpless against the cruel traditions of the realm. "ser duncan is a good man. perhaps the truest, most honest knight i have ever encountered in all my years. that is what makes this a tragedy. if he were a scoundrel, i could simply banish him. if he were an opportunist seeking a higher station, i could have him stripped of his cloak and cast out of the red keep without a second thought. but he loves you with the reverence of a man who knows he is committing treason just by breathing the same air as you."

you lean into his touch, letting your forehead rest against his broad chest as the tears begin to fall in earnest, soaking into the rich fabric of his tunic. the familiar smell of leather, cedar, and faint smoke on his clothes brings a small sense of safety, but it cannot wash away the absolute certainty of your heartbreak. you confess it all in a rushed, desperate whisper—words tumbling out of you because you have kept them locked away for so many torturous moons.

you lean your forehead against his chest, the words spilling out in a broken torrent because the secret has become too heavy to carry alone. you confess how the quiet paths of the godswood have become your only sanctuary, where he subtly uses his frame to block you from the prying eyes of the courtiers. you recount the crowded midsummer procession, where a sudden surge pushed you together, and the brief, accidental brush of his rough skin against yours felt more real than any flattering speech a highborn lord has ever offered you.

you tell him how the agony of it lies in his absolute goodness; he has never crossed a line or whispered an improper word, treating you instead with a protective reverence that only makes your heart ache harder. you weep openly then, gripping the fabric of his tunic as you admit that the prospect of a political marriage feels like a slow execution, and that you would gladly strip away the gold and the 'dragon'‘ tomorrow just to share a life of dust and open roads on the back of his cart.

baelor wraps his arms around you, pulling you in tightly against the crushing reality of the world you were born into, his chest rising and falling with a heavy, sorrowful rhythm. he does not offer empty promises or false hopes of a secret wedding, because he respects you too much to lie about the harshness of the realm, and he knows that a princess cannot simply disappear into the crownlands. instead, he just holds you while you grieve for the giant who guards your door, letting his own body shield your shaking shoulders from the rest of the castle.

you look up from the mattress, letting your gaze drift to garrett. he is currently leaning against your desk, completely relaxed, effortlessly tossing a bottle of your rather expensive body spray in one hand, catching it without even looking. he looks entirely unfazed by the looming deadline, despite the fact that dean and beau's joint birthday party is in exactly four days and you both still have absolutely nothing to wear for the theme.

"we seriously need to lock this in, graham," you say, tapping the cap of your pen against your knee in a rhythmic, anxious beat that matches the ticking of the clock on your wall. "i refuse to be that couple that shows up in matching eighties clothes or generic cat ears because we procrastinated until the absolute last minute. everyone is going all out for the boys, and we are currently failing."

garrett catches the bottle with a sharp smack of his palm, a lazy grin spreading across his handsome face. he sets it down on the desk and crosses his arms, looking at you with that teasing glint in his eye. "hey, i already offered a solid, foolproof option. i wear my home jersey, you wear my away jersey. it’s a classic. it’s effortless. it’s timeless. plus, everyone knows you look ten times hotter with my name on your back anyway."

"that's not a couples costume, garrett, that's just lazy marketing for the briar hockey team," you roll your eyes, though you can't quite stop the smile from tugging at the corners of your lips. "we are brainstorming. proper, creative ideas only. write something down."

he sighs dramatically, throwing his head back before walking over to the bed. he drops onto the mattress right beside you, the springs groaning slightly under his weight. he leans his broad shoulder heavily against yours, peering down at the completely empty page with a look of exaggerated concentration. "fine, fine. let's hear the master plan. what else do you have in that gorgeous brain of yours, scout?"

"okay, option one," you murmur, carefully writing it down in neat, small script. "shrek and fiona. but specifically the ogre versions."

garrett snorts loudly, shaking his head. "absolutely not. i am not painting my entire body green, babe. do you know how hard it is to get body paint off your skin? i'll be sweating green goo at practice for a week. plus, the only time i want you calling me a monster is in the bedroom, and green paint really kills the vibe."

"eww to that last part, but fair point," you admit, a hot blush creeping up your neck as you reluctantly draw a thick line through the words. "okay, option two..."

before you can write anything else, garrett leans in even closer, his warmth radiating against your side as he pulls the pen right out of your fingers. his messy, bold handwriting takes over the next line.

top gun.

you look from the page up to his dark eyes, immediately shaking your head, snatching the pen back, and drawing a massive 'X' over the words before the ink is even dry. "absolutely not. no top gun."

garrett looks genuinely offended, gesturing to the paper with a pout. "why not? it's an elite choice. whichever version lets me wear aviators inside a dimly lit house all night long and look mysterious. i'd look great in a flight suit."

"because it’s dean and beau’s birthday party, garrett," you remind him with an amused sigh, poking his chest with the capped pen. "and they already claimed it weeks ago. dean and beau are literally going as maverick and goose. do you really want to show up to the birthday boys' party wearing the exact same flight suits as them? it's their night."

garrett pauses, considering this for a second, a small smirk playing on his lips. "well, we'd definitely wear it better, let's be real. but fine, i guess i'll let them have their moment in the spotlight. so looking at a blank page isn't working. let's just go to that massive pop-up costume shop downtown. they always have the weird stuff. we can actually try things on and see what feels right."

the costume store downtown is a chaotic sensory overload. it smells like cheap vinyl, fake fog fluid, and the collective desperation of a few college students trying to find a last-minute costume for the party. rows upon rows of plastic masks, neon wigs, and flimsy polyester jumpsuits stretch out under the harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights. garrett grabs a bright red shopping cart, pushing it easily with one hand while keeping his other arm draped heavily over your shoulders, pulling you securely into his side as you walk the aisles.

"alright," he murmurs down into your hair, his lips brushing your temple with every step, making it hard to focus on the shelves. "where are we starting this?"

"the classics section," you say, steering him past the terrifying animatronics toward a wall packed with heavy, bagged costumes hanging from metal pegs.

ten minutes of browsing turns into almost an hour. you end up with an armful of hangers, the plastic bags crinkling loudly against your arms, while garrett follows close behind, his eyes occasionally drifting down to your waist right to your ass. you finally locate the changing rooms at the very back of the store, pushing open a flimsy, slatted wooden door to a tiny cabin.

"stay right there," you command, turning around and pointing a strict finger at his chest. "i need honest feedback. no just saying 'you look great' to get us out of here faster so you can go watch game tape."

"i'm a hockey captain, babe. i can do honesty ands chest, a patient, amused expression settling over his sharp features. "take your time. i'm not going anywhere."

you close the door and start with the first option: a blue 1920s flapper dress. it is covered in rows of scratchy silver fringe that catch on everything, and the cheap fabric clings awkwardly in all the wrong places. to make matters worse, the matching sequined headband is incredibly tight, squeezing your forehead, and the fake pearl necklace keeps getting tangled in the fringe. you pull at the tight hem, trying to make it sit right, before stepping out of the cabin.

garrett takes one look at you and lets out a low, breathless whistle that quickly dissolves into a loud, chesty chuckle. his eyes trace the shiny, shaking fringe down your body.

"i mean, don't get me wrong, you look incredibly hot because you always do," he says, his eyes glinting with pure mischief as he tilts his head. "but you look like you're about to suffocate. every time you breathe, three silver strings fall off onto the floor. also, how am i supposed to get you out of that thing later without a pair of kitchen scissors? it looks like a structural hazard for what i want to do to you after the party. zero accessibility."

"it's a classic great gatsby look!" you protest, shimmying slightly to prove a point, which only makes the cheap fringe shake awkwardly and scratch your inner arms. "it's supposed to be fun."

"next," he laughs, waving his hand toward the dressing room door. "give me something with a little less fringe and a little more accessibility, please. my hands need to actually be able to reach you."

you huff playfully, rolling your eyes as you retreat back into the small room and let the door click shut. you quickly peel off the scratchy flapper dress, tossing it onto the corner chair with a sigh of relief, and reach for the next option—the classic fairy tale costume.

you slide the dark red velvet cape over your shoulders, carefully tying the thick satin ribbons into a neat bow right at your throat. the dress itself fits surprisingly well, featuring a structured, corset-style bodice that laces up the front, cinching your waist and pushing your breast up in a way that makes you take a sharp breath when you look in the mirror. you take a moment to fix your hair, letting the strands fall loosely over your shoulders before pulling the deep, oversized red hood up over your head, letting it cast a dark shadow over your eyes.

you push the door open and step out onto the linoleum.

garrett’s eyes darken instantly. the bored posture disappears completely in a split second. his back straightens against the wall, his crossed arms dropping heavily to his sides as his gaze traces the vibrant red line of the hood, moving slowly down the tight line of the corset, down the length of the velvet cape to the hem of the dress, and then right back up to fixate entirely on your face. the sudden, heavy intensity in his look makes your heart do a familiar, violent flutter.

"okay," he says, his voice dropping an octave, thick and low in a way that sends a sudden shiver straight down your spine. "this is the one. definitely the one."

"yeah?" you smile, a little blush warming your cheeks as you hold the edges of the velvet cape and do a soft, dramatic swirl. "you don't think it's a little too cliché? i mean, everyone knows the story."

"not even a little bit," he says, his voice a gravelly murmur that completely replaces his usual easygoing tone. he steps away from the wall, closing the distance between you in two long strides until he is standing right in your personal space, blocking out the rest of the store. his large, warm fingers reach out, gently catching the soft velvet fabric at the edge of your hood, pulling it back just a fraction so he can look directly into your eyes. "you look absolutely beautiful, babe. seriously. it does... incredible things to your body— especially your tits. that corset is doing things to my sanity."

"well, if i'm little red riding hood, that means you have to be the big bad wolf," you remind him, looking up through your lashes, your hands coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the sudden heat radiating through his shirt. "are you actually okay with that? it requires you to actually wear something other than a hockey jersey to a party."

garrett lets out a soft laugh, an incredibly charming smirk spreading across his lips. his large hands slide down from your hood to settle firmly on your waist, his thumbs pressing into the tight fabric of the corset, pulling you flush against his hard chest until you can feel every line of his body.

"are you kidding me? a costume where my entire job is to chase you around a crowded house, growl at any guy who tries to talk to you, and eventually eat you alive?" his eyes drop to your lips, his grip tightening on your hips just enough to let you know he isn't entirely joking about the last part. "i am entirely, one hundred percent on board. in fact, i might start the roleplay right now. the woods are looking pretty empty right here."

you laugh, your heart hammering against your ribs from his sudden closeness and the promise in his eyes. "not in the middle of a costume store, graham. control yourself. there are families three aisles over looking at pirate hats."

"fine, but only because i want to get this costume home and see how fast i can get that corset untied," garrett murmurs against your ear, a confident, wicked gleam in his eye as he reluctantly lets his hands slide off your waist. "i'll do my half right. a dark flannel shirt, some torn-up jeans, and some ears. i’m not going to wear a mask, though.”

you look past his broad shoulder to the full-length mirror stretching down the hallway, easily imagining the final picture of the two of you.

"it really is perfect," you agree softly, leaning up on your tiptoes to press a warm, lingering kiss to his jawline, feeling the light stubble there that he forgot to shave this morning. "all right, big guy. go grab the wolf accessories from the shelf so we can finally get out of here and checkout."

"on it, captain," he beams, giving your ass a quick, playful swat before turning on his heel, looking completely satisfied.

garrett places a heavy, warm hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the tight crowd waiting near the entrance. even in a packed room of college students, he stands out. he is tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing his blue and white varsity hockey jacket. people whisper and nudge each other as he passes, recognizing the team captain, but garrett’s focus is entirely on you. he leans down, his lips brushing against your temple as he speaks over the din.

"hold onto me, princess. it’s a zoo in here," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

you weave through the clusters of people until you reach the hostess stand. standing behind it is a pretty blonde girl in a tight-fitting malone’s t-shirt. she looks thoroughly bored by the crowd until her eyes land on garrett. instantly, her posture changes. she straightens up, twirling a pen between her fingers, a slow, practiced smile spreading across her lips.

"well, hey there," she says, her voice dropping into a sweet coo. she completely ignores you, her gaze locked dead on garrett's face. "aren't you the guy who scored the winning goal against michigan last weekend? garrett, right?"

you instantly stiffen under garrett's hand, your eyebrows knitting together as you look at her. she isn't even trying to hide it. you cross your arms over your chest, shifting your weight to one hip as you store away the sudden spike of irritation tight in your throat

garrett gives her a polite, casual nod. he is used to the attention, but his hand stays firmly planted on your back, his thumb tracing small, reassuring circles through your jacket, clearly feeling the sudden tension in your posture. "yeah, that's me. just looking for a booth for two."

"for you? i think i can find something right away," she purrs, leaning over the podium a little too far, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw. she taps her pen against her chin, giving him a look that is entirely too suggestive for a diner entrance. "we usually have a forty-minute wait on fridays, but for the captain, i can make an exception. follow me, handsome."

you let out a dry scoff, loud enough for garrett to hear but muffled by the ambient noise of the diner. you stare flatly at the back of her head as she turns on her heel, swaying her hips just a little extra as she leads the way toward the back of the diner. you glance up at garrett, your lips pressed into a tight, unimpressed line. he catches your expression and just smirks, a silent, amused challenge in his dark eyes that says jealous?

you narrow your eyes at him, leaning in slightly. "keep smiling, graham, and see where it gets you," you mutter under your breath. his smirk only widens, his fingers squeezing your hip gently as he guides you forward.

she brings you to a vinyl booth in the corner, far away from the drafty front doors. as she places the laminated menus down, she purposely slides garrett’s right into his hands, her fingers lingering against his for a second too long. your eyes drop to their hands, your jaw tightening. you slide into the booth quickly, your movements sharp, deliberately creating a little distance between yourself and her cloying perfume.

"my name is tiffany, and i'll actually be taking care of you tonight," she says, leaning her hip against the edge of the table, entirely cutting off your side of the booth from her field of vision. she tilts her head, her eyes scanning his face. "can i get you a drink to start? maybe something stiff after a long week of practice?"

you lean your elbow on the table, propping your chin in your hand, and stare directly at her with a sweet, completely manufactured smile. "actually, we're ready to order food too, tiffany. we're both starving."

tiffany blinks, her smile faltering slightly as she finally acknowledges your existence. garrett doesn't look at the menu she handed him. instead, he slides into the booth across from you, his large frame filling out the space. he breaks his gaze away from her completely and looks directly at you, the lazy, confident grin on his face turning into something much more genuine and grounded.

"yeah, we already know what we want," garrett says. his voice is still polite, but there is a distinct shift in his tone—a subtle, firm boundary that lets her know his attention is entirely occupied.

he reaches across the table, his fingers gently tapping the top of your menu, nudging it down until you're forced to drop your defensive glare and look at him instead. "don't even bother looking at that. i've got us covered."

you open your mouth to protest, but he’s already speaking to the waitress, his confidence effortless.

"yeah, we’re going to do a basket of the loaded fries to start. extra cheese, bacon on the side," he says. he pauses, shifting his gaze back to you, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"and for her," he continues, his tone dropping into something incredibly soft, completely ignoring the waitress now. "she'll have the cheeseburger. medium-well, no pickles, extra mayo, with a side of onion rings instead of fries. and a chocolate milkshake with two straws."

your sharp attitude evaporates in a second. your jaw drops slightly, your crossed arms loosening as you stare at him, completely caught off guard. it’s your exact to-go order—the one you always get when you’re studying late or when you’ve had a rough day. you didn't think he actually paid attention to the specifics, let alone memorized them.

tiffany's pen hesitates over the paper. she looks between the two of you, the realization finally dawning on her that garrett is entirely, completely spoken for. her flirty demeanor vanishes, replaced by a professional, slightly stiff nod. "and for you?"

"just a classic burger, rare, and a beer," he says, giving her a quick, polite nod to dismiss her

as soon as the waitress walks away, her shoulders a little slumped, you lean across the table and point a finger at him, the annoyance about the flirting replaced by sheer bewilderment. "you remembered all of that? and since when do you order for me?"

garrett leans back into the booth, crossing his arms over his chest. he looks immensely pleased with himself. "of course i remembered. what, you think i don't pay attention to you? and i ordered because you were too busy trying to laser a hole through tiffany's forehead with your eyes."

"she was practically throwing herself over the hostess stand," you mutter, a little flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck now that you're called out.

"i didn't notice," he says, though the wicked glint in his eye proves he absolutely did, and that he loved every second of you being protective. he reaches out, his warm hand capping over yours where it rests on the table. his thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, sending a pleasant shiver up your spine. "i only notice you. besides, extra mayo? no pickles? that's not hard to remember, baby."

"it's very specific, garrett."

"i know how you eat," he says, his voice dripping with a mix of amusement and genuine affection. "you get grumpy if they put pickles on your burger because the juice soaks into the bun. and you always dip your onion rings in the chocolate shake. it's weird, by the way, but it's cute. so yeah, i memorized it."

the warm flush in your cheeks deepens, completely erasing the last lingering bits of your irritation. it's such a small thing, but coming from him, it feels huge.

"you're unbelievable," you mutter, though you can't hide the smile tugging at your lips.

"i'm attentive," he corrects, his eyes softening as he watches your reaction. "there's a difference. i like taking care of you."

when the food arrives a little later, tiffany drops it off with a lot less fanfare, quickly scurrying away to another table without a single glance in garrett's direction. the loaded fries are swimming in melted cheese, and the burger looks delicious. garrett immediately pushes the plate of onion rings closer to you, then slides the chocolate milkshake right into the center of the table.

you take a bite of your burger, and it's perfect. you look up to find him watching you instead of eating his own food, a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

"good?" he asks.

"so good," you mumble through a mouthful, making him laugh.

you grab an onion ring, dip it squarely into the thick chocolate milkshake, and point it at him. "don't knock it until you try it."

garrett raises an eyebrow, looking entirely skeptical, but he leans forward anyway. he catches your wrist, guiding your hand toward his mouth, and takes a bite of the dipped onion ring right out of your fingers. his lips brush against your fingertips, warm and lingering, making your breath hitch.

he chews slowly, evaluating, before wiping his mouth with a napkin. "okay. it's terrible. but because it's you, i'll allow it."

"you're a hater," you laugh, pulling your hand back, your skin still tingling where his lips touched.

the rest of the date passes in a comfortable blur of easy conversation, shared glances, and the comforting noise of the diner. garrett steals fries from your side of the plate, makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, and keeps his hand firmly wrapped around yours under the table the entire time.

when the check finally comes, garrett slides his card into the little black folder without a second thought, ignoring your reached hand.

after the food is paid, he slides out of the booth first, standing up and stretching his broad frame before reaching down to help you up. his hand is warm, his grip firm and steady as he pulls you close to his side, his arm wrapping securely around your waist as you head for the exit.

the cool, crisp night air hits your face the second he pushes the heavy glass door open, a sharp contrast to the greasy warmth of the diner. you shiver slightly, the sudden drop in temperature catching you off guard.

garrett notices instantly. without a word, he stops on the sidewalk beneath the buzzing hum of the neon malone’s sign. he unzips his varsity jacket, slipping it off his shoulders and draping it over yours. it’s heavy, smelling deeply of his cologne, cold rink ice, and laundry detergent. you slide your arms into the oversized sleeves, instantly engulfed in his warmth.

"better?" he asks, his dark eyes looking down at you, searching your face.

"much better," you smile, burying your chin into the high collar of the jacket.

he doesn't move away. instead, he steps closer, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, gently pulling you into his space. the casual, cocky hockey captain from inside the diner is gone, replaced by the quiet, grounded boy who only looks at you like this.

"you know," he starts, a low rumble in his chest, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. "you looked pretty cute when you were getting defensive inside."

you huff a laugh, placing your hands against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his shirt. "i wasn't defensive. i just don't like people touching what's mine."

garrett’s lips curve into a smile as he raise his eyebrows. "yeah? i'm yours?"

"don't get a big head, graham," you tease, but you can't hide the affection in your voice.

"too late," he whispers. he leans down, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb resting just under your jaw. his lips meet yours in a kiss that is slow, deep, and thoroughly possessive, tasting faintly of the chocolate milkshake. it’s the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl inside your shoes, completely erasing the noise of the traffic and the lingering chill of the night.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a quiet moment, both of your breaths fogging up in the cool air between you. he lets out a soft sigh, his thumb caressing your cheek.

"come on," he murmurs, his voice thick and affectionate as he takes your hand, tucking it right into the pocket of his jacket alongside his own. "let's get you home."

three days of learning where everything is, pretending you know the difference between fifteen nearly identical couches, and trying not to get lost in the warehouse.

it’s going surprisingly well.

you adjust your oversized polo shirt, the fabric still stiff because it is still so new. you are currently clutching a clipboard, looking over your barely memorized map of the showroom floor, when the heavy front doors swing open.

a guy walks in carrying a heavy equipment bag over his shoulder, a camera case balanced precariously under his arm. he is wearing a casual jacket and a baseball cap turned backward. despite being completely loaded down with gear, he has a bright, energetic grin on his face.

it is bobby franklin. clark already told you he’d be coming today to film a commercial.

he takes two steps into the showroom, looks at the endless maze of sofas, and lets out a low sarcastic whistle. "wow. the empire is looking majestic today."

clark hurries out from the back office, looking pale and incredibly nervous. "bobby! thank goodness you're here. i've been practicing my lines all morning, and i think i'm going to throw up. i can't do it. i can't go on camera, bobby."

"hey, relax clark! stage fright is totally normal," bobby chuckles, slipping the equipment bag off his shoulder. "we'll figure something out."

clark just shakes his head, muttering about checking the inventory, and retreats back into his office. bobby sighs half-amusedly, wiping his hands on his jeans. his eyes scan the room to look for a solution, and that is when they land right on you.

instead of looking away, a smirk breaks across his face. he walks right past a row of coffee tables and stops a few feet away from you, his eyes locking onto your nametag.

"well, hello there," bobby says, his voice casual and friendly. "i haven't seen you around the empire before. you the new recruit?"

"i've been here for three days," you admit, holding the clipboard a little tighter to hide the sudden flutter in your chest.

bobby gasps dramatically, a spark of pure inspiration suddenly lighting up his eyes. "three days? perfect. timing is everything in show business."

you blink, confused. "what do you mean?"

"clark is currently having a total meltdown in the back," bobby whispers loudly, flashing a bright grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "he refuses to be the face of the commercial. and honestly? looking at you in that official polo... you have way more star potential."

your eyes go wide. "wait, what? no way. i'm not an actor, bobby."

"oh, you know my name already? see, you're already a fan," bobby jokes smoothly, leaning against the back of a nearby armchair and looking at you with pure amusement. "and as the director of this fine establishment's next big marketing campaign, i am officially casting you as the star of cap'n clark's ottoman empire."

"i seriously can't act in front of a camera," you laugh, your face heating up.

"don't worry, i'm great with talent," bobby says, stepping just a little bit closer. he picks up his camera bag and gives you a playful, encouraging nod. "it's simple. you just have to sit on a couch, look pretty, and tell the people why they need a new footstool. plus, it gets you out of doing actual inventory."

you glance down at your boring clipboard, then back up at bobby’s hopeful grin.

"come on, partner," bobby coaxes, gesturing toward a plush velvet sofa. "let's go do some screen tests. i promise i'll make you look like a natural."

you follow him over to a deep, forest-green sectional that you spent half of yesterday trying to tag correctly. bobby sets his heavy equipment bag down on the floor and begins unpacking his gear with practiced efficiency.

"alright, starlet," bobby says, looking up with a grin. "hop on up there. let's see how you look in the frame."

you nervously sit down on the plush cushions, smoothing out you shirt and keeping your clipboard firmly on your lap. bobby peers through the viewfinder, his brow furrowing in concentration for a second before he looks up.

"oh, yeah. the camera absolutely loves you," he declares, taking a step back. "clark wishes he had this kind of screen presence. okay, for this first test, just look at the lens and say, welcome to the empire."

you take a deep breath, your heart doing a strange little flip under his encouraging gaze. you clear your throat and look directly into the camera. "welcome to the empire."

bobby shakes his head. "too stiff. you look like you're being held hostage by a furniture salesman. give me some warmth! smile like you actually enjoy being surrounded by fifteen identical couches."

you break character, letting out a genuine laugh at his teasing. "i'm trying! it's harder than it looks."

"there it is! that's the million-dollar smile," bobby points at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "keep that exact energy. let's try it again."

for the next twenty minutes, bobby has you trying out different spots in the showroom. you read a few lines off his crumpled script, completely butchering clark’s cheesy dialogue about "unbeatable savings," but bobby just laughs along with you, making you feel completely at ease. by the time clark finally peeks his head out of the back office, looking slightly less green, you are actually having fun.

"alright, bobby, i think i'm ready to try a take," clark calls out, running his hands over his pirate costume to smooth out some remaining wrinkles.

"you got it, cap'n!" bobby calls back. he turns to you, lowering his voice as he starts to move back to the main aisle. "well, you're officially relieved of your acting duties. you were fantastic."

"thanks," you smile, suddenly feeling a little disappointed that the screen test is over. "good luck with clark. you're going to need it."

"oh, absolutely," bobby chuckles. he looks down at his camera, adjusting a dial, and for a second he seems almost uncharacteristically hesitant. then, he clears his throat, steps a little closer to you, and looks up.

"hey, so... i usually charge a pretty hefty fee for acting lessons," bobby says, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur that is just for you to hear. "but since you're a natural, i think we can settle the bill differently."

you eyebrow goes up, a small smile playing on your lips. "oh yeah? and how's that?"

bobby leans his arm against the high back of a nearby armchair, looking at you with confidence. "let me take you out for dinner tonight. after we wrap up this cinematic masterpiece and you're finally off the clock. there's a great little diner down the street, and i promise there won't be a single ottoman in sight."

your heart does a much bigger flip this time. you look from bobby’s face down to your clipboard, and then back up at him.

"dinner sounds a lot better than doing inventory," you admit softly.

bobby's smile widens into a triumphant grin, his eyes lighting up. "awesome. it's a date. i'll find you the second clark finishes his lines."

he gives you a quick, playful wink before picking up his camera and heading back toward the main set, leaving you standing in the aisle with a massive smile on your face, officially deciding that your third day on the job is the best one yet.

baelor breakspear

— baelor always prided himself on being the dutiful son, the perfect heir who never put his own desires above the realm.

— he never expected to be the type of man to steal away a bride, but seeing you dressed for a match meant to secure a political alliance he engineered himself broke something inside him. the duty that always defined him suddenly felt like a cage, and the thought of another man holding you was the one thing his noble heart couldn't endure.

— the planning was meticulous, handled with the same precision he used on the battlefield. he didn't trust anyone else with the logistics, mapping out a quiet, midnight escape from the red keep through old tunnels that even the master of whisperers had overlooked.

— when he met you at the hidden postern gate, he didn't say a word at first; he just wrapped his heavy traveler's cloak around your shoulders to hide your bridal silk and pressed a firm, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his hands trembling just a fraction.

— he chose a ruined, secluded hill overlooking blackwater bay for the ceremony, a place where the wind howled through ancient stones. there were no lords or septons, just the two of you under a dark sky, exactly as he wanted it.

— baelor was incredibly solemn during the valyrian rites, his voice deep and steady as he spoke the ancient high valyrian words. he looked at you not as a prince looking at a subject, but as a man giving up his carefully built reputation for the only woman he ever truly desired.

— as he cut you to bind your blood with his, his touch was incredibly tender, his thumb instantly wiping away a stray tear. he whispered soft, soothing words in your ear, promising that the pain would be the last he ever caused you.

— when he pressed his bleeding mouth to yours, the taste of copper and the warmth of his breath sealed the vow so fiercely it left you breathless.

— wrapping the traditional dragonglass-clasped mantle around your shoulders felt more sacred to him than any crown he would ever inherit; he swore a silent oath to the old gods of valyria that he would shield you from the wrath of the king and your jilted betrothed.

— the morning after the wedding, he didn't look back toward king's landing with regret. instead, he held you tightly against his chest in a small room at an inn, watching the sunrise and softly telling you that he would face a hundred trials at court just to keep you by his side.

— he kept the piece of blood-stained silk from your wedding garment hidden in his breastplate, right over his heart, carrying the physical proof of your secret union into every tourney and council meeting he attended afterward.

— whenever the lord you were supposed to marry was mentioned at court, baelor’s usual polite smile would turn dangerously sharp, a silent warning that he had claimed you completely and would cut down anyone who questioned it.

— he loved the absolute privacy of your life; away from the weight of the iron throne, he became just baelor—a man who would happily brush your hair by candlelight and whisper that choosing love over duty was the best command he ever gave.

maekar targaryen

— maekar spent weeks watching your betrothal feast with a dark, suffocating fury building in his chest. he was always the brother left in the shadows, but he refused to let the woman who actually understood his bitter heart be handed over to some soft, arrogant lord.

— his approach to eloping was abrupt and demanding; he cornered you in the godswood the night before the wedding, gripped your wrists with desperate strength, and told you plainly that if you didn't leave with him right then, he would kill your betrothed in single combat.

— the ride to dragonstone was fast, with you riding pillion behind him on his warhorse, pulling you so close against his armor that you could feel the frantic, terrified thumping of his heart.

— he insisted on a traditional valyrian wedding because he despised the faith of the seven that his brother championed. he wanted something raw, old, and undeniably yours, a bond that no fat septon or political decree could ever dismantle or declare void.

— during the blood exchange, he didn't flinch when his his own flesh was cut. his eyes were locked on yours, fierce and burning with a possessive intensity that made it clear he was laying claim to your soul just as much as your body.

— when it came time to cut your skin, his rough hands became surprisingly gentle, his breathing hitching as he pressed the dragonbone blade against your skin, whispering a harsh, raw apology in high valyrian before making the mark.

— the moment your blood mingled with his, a dark, triumphant smile broke through his usual scowl. he kissed you with a desperate, hungry passion, tasting the iron on your lips and cementing the fact that you were finally his, completely beyond anyone else's reach.

— after the vows were spoken, he wrapped you in a heavy mantle of black and red, holding you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart finally slowing down into relief.

— maekar knew his brother baelor and his father would be furious, but he faced the eventual confrontation with a grim, defiant pride, standing before the iron throne with his arm clamped around your waist.

— he took a dark pleasure in the scandal, relishing the look of utter defeat on your former betrothed's face when maekar bluntly announced that the blood rite had already been consumed and could never be broken by any mortal law.

— in your shared bedchamber at summerhall, he becomes a different man, pouring all his unspoken devotion into quiet, intense embraces, constantly reminding you that he chose you over his own duty.

— he becomes fiercely protective of you after the elopement, never letting you out of his sight when guests arrive and keeping his hand permanently resting on the pommel of his sword whenever anyone dares to look at you with pity or disrespect because of the elopement

— in the quiet hours of the night, he would hold you so tightly it almost hurts, burying his face in your neck and admitting in low, muffled tones that he had never been truly happy until the moment you chose him over a comfortable life.

valarr targaryen

— valarr was usually the golden, obedient grandson, but the thought of you marrying someone else turned him into a rebel overnight. he couldn't bear the thought of your smile belonging to another man, and his usual desire to please his father completely vanished under the panic of losing the only person who truly understood the pressure of being the future heir’s heir.

— he approached the elopement with a sort of frantic, youthful romanticism, slipping a silver ring and a note into your hand during a crowded court session, telling you exactly where his horse would be waiting at midnight.

— he was incredibly nervous during the escape, constantly looking over his shoulder and checking your cloak to make sure you weren't cold, his boyish charm melting into a fierce, protective focus as he guided you away from the castle.

— the traditional valyrian wedding was something he had researched in secret, bringing an ancient text from the red keep's library to ensure every single word spoken was exactly as their ancestors had done before the doom.

— he chose a secluded cliffside on dragonstone where the waves crashed violently below, wanting the ancient elements of fire and water to witness the truth of his love when the rest of the world was forcing a lie upon you.

— his voice cracked slightly as he recited the high valyrian vows, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears of pure relief because he could scarcely believe you actually chose him over your duty and your family's wishes.

— the blood binding terrified him a little because he hated seeing you in pain, but he knew it was the only way to make the marriage unbreakable under old valyrian law. he kissed your forehead repeatedly to distract you before drawing the blade.

— when he tasted your blood during the final kiss, it felt like an awakening; all his doubts about being a good heir disappeared, replaced by a fierce, driving ambition to become strong enough to protect you from the consequences of your flight.

— he laughed with pure, breathless joy the moment the ceremony was over, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around on the dark beach, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders now that you were his wife.

— back in the capital, he had to endure his father’s quiet, disappointed looks, but valarr never broke under the pressure; he just looked down at his boots, thinking of you waiting for him in his private chambers, and felt entirely justified.

— he bought you exquisite gifts with his own coin—silks from lys and old valyrian scrolls—shattering his own allowance just to see you comfortable and happy in the hidden life you had to lead for the first few months.

— he loves combing your hair before bed, whispering sweet, idealistic promises about how one day, when he sits on the iron throne, he would crown you his queen in front of the entire realm.

— every time he looks at the faint, silver scar on your forearm from the ceremony, his eyes would soften completely, and he would press his lips to the mark, reminding you that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

daeron targaryen

— daeron was already a man plagued by terrible, prophetic dreams, but the vision of you clad in another house's colors, weeping at an altar, was the one nightmare he refused to let come true. it gave the usually timid prince a sudden, reckless courage.

— he didn't plan a grand escape; instead, he came to your window in the dead of night, his eyes wide and anxious, begging you to leave with him right then because he had seen a dream where you were lost to him forever if you stayed.

— he was drinking heavily to steady his nerves before the ceremony, but the moment he looked at you beneath the moonlit sky, he set the flask down, his eyes clearing with a rare, sharp lucidity that he only ever possessed when he was with you.

— the valyrian wedding was his idea because he believed the old dragon gods were the only ones who could protect you from the terrible things he saw in his dreams. he wanted a bond written in fire and blood, something the mortal lords couldn't touch.

— his hands shook terribly as he held the dragonglass knife, his voice trembling as he spoke the high valyrian words, but there was a deep, underlying devotion in his tone that made the ancient phrases sound like a desperate prayer.

— when his lip was cut, he pressed his mouth to yours so hard you could taste the iron immediately. the kiss was messy, desperate, and filled with a profound relief that made him sob against your lips.

— he cried softly when he had to draw your blood, murmuring endless apologies against your skin as he made the shallow cut, his tears mixing with the red droplets on your arm before he bound the linen around it.

— after the ceremony, he collapsed against you on the grass, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your lap, muttering that the dark shadows in his mind had finally gone quiet now that you were bound to him.

— he spent his days pretending to be his usual, useless self to throw off suspicion, drinking in appearance while actually spending every spare coin on food and comforts for you.

— he loves listening to you read to him in the dark; your voice is the only thing that could keep his dragon dreams at bay, and he would sleep peacefully only when his head was resting against your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

— he views his scar from the wedding as a badge of honor, often tracing it with his finger as a secret comfort, knowing that whatever terrible future awaited his house, he had managed to save the one piece of light he cared about.

aerion targaryen

— aerion viewed your upcoming marriage to another lord as a personal insult to his royal blood; he believed you were a creature of creature of old valyria, meant only for a true dragon like him, and his arrogance quickly mutated into a wild, obsessive need to take you.

— his method of elopement was chaotic and terrifying; he essentially abducted you from your chambers in the middle of the night, laughing like a madman as he carried you down the castle walls, entirely unbothered by the guards he had to bribe or threaten.

— he took you to the ruins of an ancient targaryen outpost, a place smelling of old stone and sulfur, where he had prepared a lavish altar adorned with dragonglass candles and wild, dark silks.

— he demanded the most ancient, extreme version of the valyrian rites, dressing himself in elaborate crimson silks and insisting that the gods themselves were watching his triumph over the lesser lords who dared try to steal his prize.

— his eyes danced with a frightening, erratic light during the vows, his high valyrian spoken with a dramatic, theatrical flare that made the ancient words sound like a dark, beautiful spell meant to bind you to him for eternity.

— when he cut his lip, he didn't just make a small scratch; he sliced it deeply, his smile turning wicked as the blood spilled, before slamming his mouth against yours in a fierce, bruising kiss.

— he took an almost unsettling pleasure in drawing your blood, his eyes widening as he watched the red line form on your skin. yet, his touch was strangely possessive, his fingers trailing the blood down your arm before he licked a drop from his own knife.

— he draped a heavy cloak of black and scarlet over you, declaring you his dragon-wife and laughing maniacally at the thought of the look on your father's face when he realized his daughter had been claimed by a true prince of valyria.

— he didn't care about hiding the marriage for long; he flaunted your presence in his quarters, daring anyone to challenge him, his volatile temper flaring violently whenever a courtier even looked in your direction.

— he treats you like a precious, stolen relic, showering you with stolen jewelry and demanding that you wear nothing but the colors of house targaryen, effectively erasing any trace of your former life and identity.

— he took a cruel delight in taunting your former betrothed, sending the lord a letter written in your shared blood to inform him that his prize had been taken by a true god of the realm.

— in his quietest, rare moments of vulnerability, his madness would soften into a fierce, almost desperate dependency, where he would press his face into your hair and whisper that you were the only one who truly understands his greatness.

— he made you promise that if the world ever turned against him, you would burn with him, showing you his scar from the wedding as proof that your fates were permanently intertwined in blood and fire, never to be parted by man or god.

your sneakers squeak against the tile as you make your way past rows of lockers, the air thick with the smell of sweat and soap and the mix of several deodorants. your heart hammers against your ribs, anticipation pooling warm and heavy in your stomach. you've been thinking about this all game, watching him from the stands, watching his muscles flex beneath his jersey, the way his hair stuck to his forehead when he pulled off his helmet.

you round the corner and there he is.

he's standing under the spray with his back to you, water cascading down the broad expanse of his shoulders, tracing the valleys of his spine, the curve of his ass. he's not wearing anything. of course he's not. steam rises around him like a veil, and for a moment you just watch, drinking in the sight of him unguarded, unhurried, completely unaware.

then you clear your throat.

garrett turns, water dripping from his hair into his eyes, and when he sees you, his mouth curves into that cocky grin that makes your knees weak. he doesn't reach for a towel. doesn't try to cover himself. he just stands there, letting you look, letting the water run down his chest, his abs, lower.

"miss me that much?" he asks, voice rough, echoing off the concrete walls.

you step forward, already kicking off your shoes, pulling your shirt over your head. "shut up," you say, but you're smiling. he's laughing, low and warm, as you shimmy out of your jeans and then your underwear.

the water hits you first, shockingly hot against your skin, and then his hands are on you, big and calloused. they’re everywhere at once. he backs you against the tiled wall, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat of him pressed flush against you, all hard muscle and wet skin.

"couldn't wait, could you?" he murmurs against your neck, his mouth finding that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp. his hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, teasing, but never quite where you want them.

"you played good," you breathe, arching into him, feeling him hard against your stomach. "real good."

"yeah?" he pulls back just enough to look at you, water running down his face, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "you like watching me out there? watching me work?"

you nod, reaching between you to wrap your hand around his cock, stroking once, twice, watching his jaw tighten, his eyes flutter shut. "love it," you whisper. "love watching you win."

he groans, forehead dropping to yours, hips bucking into your touch. "fuck, baby. you keep talking like that..."

"like what?" you tease, squeezing gently, feeling him twitch in your palm.

he doesn't answer with words. he kisses you instead, deep and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands finally—finally—cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples until you're whimpering into his mouth. the water pounds down around you, loud and insulating, sealing you off from the rest of the world. just you and him.

his mouth leaves yours, trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. he drops to his knees, water streaming over his shoulders, and looks up at you with those eyes, dark and hungry. "hold onto something," he says, and then his mouth is on your pussy, exactly where you need him.

your head falls back against the tile with a thunk, fingers finding purchase in his wet hair as he licks into you, slow and deliberate, like he has all the time in the world. but you can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he's gripping your thighs, his boner still pressing against your leg. he's not as patient as he pretends.

"garrett," you gasp, tugging at his hair. "garrett, please. need you inside me."

he groans against you, the vibration making you shudder, and then he's standing, water sluicing off him, and he's lifting you, hands under your thighs, pinning you to the wall with his body. you wrap your legs around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, feeling him there, hard and insistent at your entrance.

"you sure?" he asks, even though he knows the answer, his voice rough with restraint. "here? like this?"

"yes," you hiss, nails digging into his shoulders. "right here. right now. fuck me, garret."

he doesn't hesitate after that. he pushes in, slow and thick, filling you until you can't breathe, can't think. until can only feel him. you both groan, foreheads pressed together, water running between your faces, mixing with the sweat already beading on your skin.

"god, you feel good," he grits out, starting to move, shallow thrusts at first, testing, teasing. "always so fucking good for me."

you tighten around him, making him curse. he picks up the pace, driving into you with the same intensity he brings to the ice. the tile digs into your back but you don't care, can't care, too busy chasing the friction, the heat, the build of pressure low in your belly.

his mouth finds yours again, sloppy and desperate, all teeth and tongue, and you can taste the victory on him, the adrenaline, the need. he's usually so controlled, so careful, but not here, not now. here he's raw and rough. exactly what you wanted.

"touch yourself," he commands, breaking the kiss to watch your face. "wanna feel you come around me, baby. wanna feel you squeeze me tight."

you reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts. the sensation is overwhelming, too much, him inside you and his eyes on you and the water and the steam and the way he's hitting that spot deep inside you, over and over and over.

"garrett," you whimper, feeling it build, crest, crash. "i'm close. i'm so close—"

"let go," he growls, snapping his hips harder, faster. "come for me. come on my cock, right here where anyone could walk in and see you. see how fucking pretty you look when you come apart."

the thought sends you over the edge, the orgasm ripping through you, making you cry out, your body clamping down on him, milking him. he groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck, and then he's following you, pulsing inside you, spilling deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

for a moment, neither of you moves. the water runs over you both, cooling now, and you can hear your heartbeats thundering in your ears, feel his chest heaving against yours. he stays inside you, holding you up, his hands trembling slightly where they grip your thighs.

"shit," he breathes, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "we should... probably get out before someone actually does come in."

you laugh, breathless, legs still wrapped tight around him. "probably."

he pulls out slowly, both of you wincing at the sensitivity, and lowers you gently to your feet. your legs feel like jelly, barely holding you, and he catches you, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

"you okay?" he asks, brushing wet hair from your face, his expression soft now, tender.

you nod, leaning into him, letting him hold you up. "more than okay."

he smiles, that satisfied smile that makes your stomach flip, and reaches for the soap. "come on," he says, lathering his hands. "let me wash you. then we can go home and do that again. properly. in a bed."

you let him run his soapy hands over your shoulders, your back, between your legs with gentle, thorough care. and you think about the bed waiting for you, and the night ahead, and how you'll probably be sore tomorrow in the best possible way.

"race you to the car?" you ask, grinning up at him.

he laughs, loud and free, and splashes you with water. "you're on."

the uber you have called thirty minutes ago, already stands waiting for you across the street. just as you grab the door handle, you pause for a moment, taking a slow breath, before you climb into the back seat.

"you're y/n?", the driver asks you and you give him a quick nod to confirm that you are indeed not a random creep.

the engine sputters to life as the driver grips the wheel. while he eases the car forward toward the airport, you take a final glance at your old home.

every red light feels like a deliberate attempt to make you stay, and every idling car in front of you pushes your patience to the brink. you curse them under your breath, a frantic rhythm to mask the uncertainty settled deep in your gut.

by the time you reach the terminal, the quietness of the car is replaced by the loud crowds walking around the airport. it is a chaotic blur of shifting gates and the endless, shuffling purgatory of the security line. you spend almost an hour standing in a slow-moving queue at the checkpoint, just to need to sprint through the terminal as your boarding group is called.

the flight to dallas is short, but the humidity hits you the moment you step into the jet bridge. it is a thick, wet heat that makes your clothes stick to your skin instantly. you shove your light jacket into your bag and navigate the crowded terminal, feeling the weight of the move in your tired legs.

in seattle, you put the jacket back on, feeling the first damp hint of a northern winter.

by the time you reach anchorage, the sun is a low, pathetic thing hanging on the horizon, lacking any real warmth.

you sit at the gate with a lukewarm coffee, watching the locals in their heavy-duty gear. they look like they’re prepared for a snowstorm you just look like someone who got lost on the way to a barbecue.

the final leg to ennis is on a plane so small you can feel every shudder of the arctic wind against the fuselage. the cabin is cramped, and as you look out the window, you watch the world simply disappear. the green of the pines bleeds into a jagged, monochromatic nightmare of white and grey. the further north you go, the more the landscape simplifies into nothing but ice.

the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing the descent as you instinctively check your watch. the hands point to mid-afternoon, a time that should be filled with the amber glow of a waning sun, yet the view through the plexiglass is an impossible, ink-black void.

the realization hits you: the long night has begun. for weeks, the horizon will remain dark. and you are already sick of it.

november 23rd

you had exactly three days to settle into your new home in ennis before your first day at the police station. but those three days were hell. your heater didn't work yet, so it had been freezing in your home, and you had absolutely no motivation to unpack the moving boxes. the only time you truly left your house was to buy your new car.

now, the wind hits you the second you step out of the vehicle, cutting through your jacket like a serrated blade. you clench your jaw, pulling your collar up, but it doesn’t do a damn thing against the alaskan freeze. it's really time to buy a thicker jacket.

your knuckles are white from the cold and the sheer, bubbling anger in your chest. you are pissed. whoever signed off on this transfer back at the department is on your permanent list, but right now, you are stuck at the edge of the world.

the sign on the station building looks bleak, half-buried in drifting snow.

you push through the heavy double doors of the ennis police station, the sudden heat making your skin sting. you stomp the snow off your boots. a few (exactly three) officers look up from their desks, their faces tired, worn down by the dark and whatever local misery they deal with every day. they know who you are. the new transfer from the south.

"can i help you?" a woman at the front desk asks, looking at your dangerously thin coat with mild amusement.

you don't smile back.

"i'm the new transfer," you say, your voice sharp and totally out of place in the quiet, grim room. "can you tell me where your chief is?."

you cross your arms, ignoring their lingering stares. you know you are going to hate every single second in this frozen hellhole, but if you have to be in ennis, you are going to do your job and figure out how to survive.

the woman hesitates for a second, taken back by your sharp tone. she finally jerks a thumb toward a frosted glass door at the back of the bullpen. "chief danvers' office. good luck."

the station smells like stale coffee and old sweat. it's not that different from your station in texas, you notice. at least it smells the same. you walk over to the office and push the door open, maybe a little harder than necessary.

liz danvers doesn't flinch. she is sitting behind a cluttered desk, clicking a pen and staring intently at a crime scene photo. she doesn't even look up at first. she just lets the silence stretch, a blatant power play. you don't take the bait. you just stand there, letting the dirty slush from your boots melt onto her floor.

"chief denvers?"

finally, danvers drops the pen and leans back in her chair. her dark eyes rake over you, taking in your completely inadequate jacket, your pale, shivering frame, and the deep scowl etched into your features.

"you're the texan," danvers says. her voice is flat, thoroughly unimpressed. "thought the brass was sending me a detective, not a popsicle."

"i'm a detective," you snap. "and where i come from, the sun actually comes up. you want to critique my wardrobe, or do you want to point me to my desk so i can start counting down the days until my mandated rotation is over?"

danvers smirks, a sharp, humorless expression. she stands up, crossing her arms. "we don't get a lot of sunshine here. we don't get a lot of sunny dispositions, either. if you're going to survive the long night in ennis, you need to lose the southern attitude and buy a real parka. otherwise, the cold is going to eat you alive before the locals do."

"i can handle the cold," you lie through your teeth. your toes are completely numb and your jaw aches from shivering. "please just give me my assignments, chief."

she tosses a file across the desk. it slides and hits a half-empty mug of black coffee. "desk three out there is yours. don't touch the thermostat. and if you see trooper navarro, tell her to stop ignoring my calls."

you snatch the file. the manila folder feels like ice against your stiff fingers.

"welcome to the end of the world," danvers adds, already sitting back down and dismissing you.

you turn on your heel and walk back out into the bullpen, heading straight for the empty desk she mentioned. you drop into the squeaky chair, dropping the file onto the scratched metal surface. you stare out the window next to you, but there is nothing to see. just absolute, pitch-black nothingness. the wind howls against the glass, rattling the window frame like it's trying to get inside.

you close your eyes and take a slow, shaky breath. you picture the oppressive, suffocating heat radiating off a texas highway in july. you hold onto that memory, hoarding the phantom warmth in your chest. you are going to need every ounce of it to survive this godforsaken icebox.

november 24th

you are still huddled at your desk a day later, the heater under the metal frame clicking and groaning as it struggles to push out lukewarm air. the file danvers gave you is open, but the words are blurring.

right now, you are thinking about breakfast tacos.

"detective?"

the voice is soft, startling you. you look up, your eyes narrow and defensive.

standing there is a young man, looking entirely too bright for a place this dark. he’s wearing a thick, high-quality parka and holding two steaming paper cups. he has an earnest face—the kind of face that hasn't seen enough of the world's rot yet. he looks like a boy scout who wandered into a noir film.

"i'm peter prior," he says, offering a small, tentative smile. "officer prior. the chief said we’re working the leads together while the rest of the team handles the station."

you stare at him. he looks like he’s about twenty. they’ve paired you with a kid who probably still gets a christmas stocking from his dad.

"you're the partner?" you ask, your voice raspy from the cold. you don't hide the skepticism. "they sent me a kid?"

he pauses, shifting his weight. he doesn't look angry, just faintly amused. "i'm actually a year older than you."

oh, this is embarrassing. you swallow down the sudden spike of humiliation, refusing to break eye contact or apologize.

peter doesn't flinch. he just sets one of the cups on your desk. "it's cocoa with a double shot of espresso. you looked like you were about to go into stage two hypothermia, so i took a guess."

you look at the cup. the steam smells like heaven. you want to hate him for the pity, but your fingers are so stiff you can barely turn a page. you wrap your hands around the cardboard, soaking in the heat.

"i'm from texas, prior," you say, finally meeting his gaze. "i don't want to become depressed because i’m never going to see the sun again."

"it's just the long night," peter says, pulling up a chair and sitting down with a notebook. he’s focused, ignoring your hostility with a practiced ease. he’s probably used to danvers snapping at him. "you get used to the dark. it’s the silence that gets most people. it’s too loud."

"spare me the arctic philosophy," you snap, though you take a long, desperate gulp of the drink. it burns your throat, and for a second, you feel a spark of life return to your limbs. "just tell me why we're looking at these reports. danvers said it was a routine transfer, but this file is thin as hell."

peter’s expression shifts. the boyishness fades, replaced by something steadier, more grim. he opens his own folder.

"a young woman just... vanished. left her clothes in the closet, dinner on the table. two weeks later, she reappeared. dead. she was found in some back alley with bruises covering her whole body." he says quietly.

you look down at the crime scene glossies spread across the desk. the first few photos show her apartment. a yellow cardigan hanging over the back of a chair. a book face-down on the sofa.

then, there are the other photos.

a black-haired woman laying on the snow covered street behind a dumpster. she was propably in her early twenties when she died.

you look at peter. "can you show me the forensics?", you mutter.

peter pulls a heavy blue folder from a drawer and drops it onto the desk. the thud echos in the cramped office. he flips past the initial crime scene shots, moving straight to the medical examiner’s report and the close-ups from the morgue.

"the bruising isn't consistent," he says, pointing a pen at a photo of the girl’s torso. "some are yellow and fading, some are deep purple, almost black. the m.e. says she was beaten systematically over the course of the two weeks she was gone."

you lean in. "no ligature marks on the wrists or ankles. she wasn't tied up."

"no," peter agrees. "and the tox screen came back clean. no sedatives, no booze. she was awake and mobile for the whole thing."

you look back at the photo of her apartment. the yellow cardigan. it looked so domestic, so safe. "so she walks out of her house, leaves dinner on the table, and spends fourteen days getting the life kicked out of her without being restrained. why didn't she scream? why didn't she run?"

"maybe she knew him," peter suggests. "or maybe there was nowhere to run to. it's ennis. you go a mile in the wrong direction and the cold kills you faster than a person would."

the radiator in the corner hisses, a rhythmic, metallic sound that feels like it was keeping time with the ticking clock on the wall.

"her name was maya," he says after a moment. "she moved here from anchorage six months ago. worked at the fisheries office. quiet, kept to herself. neighbors said they didn't hear a thing the night she disappeared."

"they never do," you mutter before taking another sip of the cocoa. it is too sweet, but at least it's still warm. "let's go back to her place. i want to see that closet. if she left her clothes, she didn't plan on being gone long. but if she left her boots... then she didn't leave on her own feet."

"the closet can wait." he intterupts you before you can say another word.

peter doesn't pull the door open. instead, he turns back to you, his eyes scanning the dark circles under yours. "actually, the whole case can wait six hours. you just got off a flight four days ago and drove here in a blizzard. you haven't even unpacked, have you? or have you even seen ennis yet?"

"i'm fine, prior. i've worked on less sleep," you mutter, though the warmth of the office is finally making your limbs feel like lead.

"i’m sure you have. but if we go to that apartment now, you’re going to miss something because your brain is half-frozen," he says, his tone shifting from partner to something more grounding. "go home. get some sleep. start fresh when the clock says it's morning."

you open your mouth to argue, but a shiver racks your frame before you can get the words out.

"you don't even know where your heater intake is, do you?" he asks, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "tell you what. i’ll drive you back. i’ll make sure your pilot light is actually on and help you move the heavy trunks so you aren't living out of a suitcase in a cold room. call it a professional courtesy."

you look at the stack of crime scene photos, then back at him. the thought of your dark, empty rental is daunting, but the thought of doing it alone is worse.

"i don't need a mover, peter," you say, though your voice lacks its usual bite.

"good, because i'm a terrible one. but i'm a decent mechanic and i know how to rig a space heater so it doesn't blow a fuse," he replies, finally opening the door and gesturing for you to lead the way. "come on. let's get you home before you actually turn into a statue."

the walk to his truck is a brutal sixty seconds of biting wind, but once inside, the heater is already blasting. as he pulls out of the lot, the tires crunching over the packed ice, you lean your head against the window.

"third house on the left past the mercantile," you murmur.

"i know the one," he says softly. "the blue house with the porch that sags. don't worry, detective. we'll make it a true home for you."

the blue house is as cold as the street outside when you step through the door. the air inside feels thin and stagnant. peter doesn't wait for an invitation; he head straight for the utility closet in the hallway, his flashlight cutting through the dark until he finds the furnace.

"man, how have you even survived the past few days in here?'"

you just shrug.

"unloading is easier if you can feel your fingers," he calls out. you hear the metallic click of a lighter, then the low, steady huff of the pilot light catching.

you stand in the center of the living room, staring at the towers of moving boxes that have sat untouched for three days. with a heavy sigh, you kneel beside the nearest one and rip back the packing tape. it’s a disorganized mess of the things you've brought from texas.

you reach for a particularly bulky crate near the hallway, your fingers straining against the cardboard, but before you can even get a grip, peter is there. he maneuvers around you in the cramped space, his presence cutting through the stagnant chill of the room. with a low grunt, he heaves the crate up and carries it closer to the center of the rug, setting it down with a heavy thud.

"where do you want these? bedroom?" he asks.

"just leave them there. i'll get to them," you say, but your voice is flat with exhaustion.

he ignores you, picking up a smaller box and carrying it toward the back of the house. he finds the bedroom and sets it on the mattress. he doesn't pry into the contents; he just starts a steady back-and-forth rhythm, moving the rest of your gear from the truck to the house while you stand in the kitchen, paralyzed by the sheer volume of work left to do.

when the last bag is inside, he doesn't leave. he walks over to the kitchen sink and turns on the tap, waiting for the pipes to rattle and spit out lukewarm water.

"pipes aren't frozen yet. that’s a win," he says. he looks at you, leaning against the counter. his hair is messy from the hood of his parka, and there’s a streak of grease on his thumb from the furnace. "you have sheets in one of these boxes?"

"somewhere," you mutter.

he helps you find them, pulling the plastic off a set of gray linens. together, you stand on opposite sides of the bed, snapping the fitted sheet over the corners. it’s a domestic, quiet task that feels strange given the gruesome photos still sitting on the desk back at the station. his movements are efficient.

'so," he starts, glancing at you. "texas. you ever have a case that didn't make you want to quit? something... not grim?"

you lean your body against a drawer, closing your eyes. a small, genuine smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

"one time," you begin. "i got a call for a suspected meth lab in a trailer park outside lubbock. neighbors were reporting 'toxic fumes' and 'strange glowing lights' at three in the morning. they were convinced the whole block was gonna blow."

peter turns in his seat, fully invested. "you go in with tactical?"

"oh, we went in full riot gear," you say, shaking your head. "gas masks, shields, the works. we kicked the door in, and i swear to god, prior, i thought i’d walked into the sun. the heat hit me so hard i thought my skin was peeling off. and the smell... it was like being pepper-sprayed by a ghost."

you pause for dramatic effect, and peter leans in. "and?"

"it wasn't a lab. it was a guy named bobby ray. he was trying to win the state fair chili cook-off, and he’d rigged up an industrial dehydrator to process ten pounds of ghost peppers in his bathtub. he was standing there in nothing but a gas mask and a pair of neon green speedos, stirring a vat of liquid fire with a boat oar."

peter stays silent for a heartbeat, processing the image, and then he loses it. he lets out a real, chest-deep laugh that echoes in the room. it’s a sound that you haven't heard during your days in ennis yet.

"a boat oar?" he gasps, wiping his eyes.

"a boat oar," you confirm, laughing with him. the tension in your shoulders finally gives way, the anger at everthing receding just an inch. "we had to evacuate the three nearest trailers because the air was literally incendiary. bobby ray cried when we confiscated his peppers. said we were the reason he'd lose."

peter shakes his head, his smile lingering. "god. at least your weird cases involve people trying to be happy. here, the weird stuff just... it just stays in the dark."

he looks at you then, and for a second, the humor fades into something softer. he reaches out, his hand brushing against your sleeve but you pull away before he can actually touch the material of your cotton jumper.

once the bed is made, he stands back and surveys the room. "the heat will take an hour to really kick in. keep your socks on."

you look at him, standing in the middle of your half-empty bedroom. "thanks, peter. for the lift. and the heavy lifting."

"don't mention it," he says, heading for the front door. he stops at the threshold, his hand on the light switch. "get some sleep. i’ll be here at eight to pick you up. don't bother making coffee; i'll bring the good stuff from the bakery."

he closes the door softly behind him. you listen to the sound of his truck engine turning over and the crunch of tires on snow as he pulls away. for the first time since you crossed the state line, the house doesn't feel quite so empty.

november 26th

the floorboards of maya’s apartment groan under your boots. it is cold—the landlord had already cut the heat—and your breath mists in front of your face like smoke. peter stands in the kitchen, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. he isn't poking around like a rookie; he is just standing there, looking at the two plates on the table.

"she wasn't eating alone," he says. his voice is low in the hollow space of the room.

you walk over, standing close enough to feel the radiation of heat off his heavy parka. "you think it was a date?"

"maybe. steak, green beans. two glasses of water. no wine, no beer. keeping it simple." he moves the light to the closet door in the hallway. "you wanted to see her clothes."

you pull on a pair of latex gloves, the snap of the plastic loud in the silence. you open the closet. inside hangs a heavy, fur-lined jacket and a pair of professional-grade arctic boots tucked neatly in the corner. you reach in and felt the lining of the coat. it is dry. bone dry.

"she didn't leave on her own," you muttered. "nobody walks out into the night in this weather without a coat and boots unless they’re being carried or they’re out of their mind. even i have learned that in the few days i’ve been in ennis"

"or unless they think they're just stepping into the hallway for a second," peter added.

you turn to look at him. he is watching you, not the closet. his eyes are tired, rimmed with the red fatigue of a man who hadn't slept since the body was found, but there is a steadiness there. he doesn't look away when you catch him staring.

"you have something on your face," he says quietly.

you reach up, confused, brushing your cheek with your gloved hand. "what?"

"no, the other side. hold on." he steps closer. he doen't use his hand; he reaches out with his thumb and gently wipes a smudge of charcoal—likely from the crime scene photos—off your cheekbone. his skin is rough and warm. the contact lasts a second longer than it needs to, a brief tether of heat in a room that feels like a tomb.

you clear your throat, stepping back toward the kitchen. "right. thanks."

he clears his throat too, clicking his flashlight off and on again. "we should check the back exit. see if the snow depth from two weeks ago matches the height of the scuff marks on the frame."

you head for the door, but stop at the threshold. "peter?"

he paused, his hand on the light switch. "yeah?"

"the cocoa wasn't bad. just... less sugar next time."

he lets out a breath that was almost a laugh, a small cloud of gold in the dim light. "i'll make a note of it, detective. less sugar. more misery. i’m learning."

december 12th

the truck engine idles, sending a steady vibration through the seats. the interior smells like the double cheeseburgers sitting in a white paper bag on the console. the windows are fogged over, turning the world outside into a blur of grey and black. inside, the dashboard lights cast a dull green glow over everything.

you reach into the bag, grab a handful of fries, and lean back. the seat squeaks under your weight. peter is already eating, his movements quiet. he has his parka unzipped, draped over the back of his seat.

he reaches into the bag and pulls out a fry, offering it to you. when you take it, your fingers touch. he doesn't pull his hand away. he leaves it resting on the center console, inches from yours.

"you still haven't unpacked your kitchen boxes," he says, shifting the conversation away from the pump house. "i saw them sitting on the floor this morning when i picked you up."

you shrug, focusing on your food. "there isn't much to put away. a few plates. a coffee maker i haven't figured out how to plug in yet."

"i'll do it," he says. "after the shift. it takes five minutes to set up the kitchen."

you look at him. he’s looking at you, his arm resting on the back of the bench seat. he looks steady, relaxed in a way that makes the small space feel less cramped.

"you don't have to spend your off-hours fixing my house, prior," you say.

"i'm not doing it for the house," he says, "you spend all day looking at crime scene photos. you should at least be able to make a cup of coffee when you go home."

you lean back into the seat, letting your shoulder rest against the door. "is this how it works here? the locals just move into your life until you stop noticing they're there?"

peter laughs, a quiet sound that fills the truck. "mostly just me. the others usually keep to themselves."

he picks up his soda and takes a drink, then sets it back in the holder. the silence between you isn't heavy. it’s just quiet. he reaches over and adjusts the heater vent, making sure the air is hitting your hands where they rest on your lap.

"you haven't looked at your phone once since we parked," he says. he isn't looking at you anymore; he's focused on his burger, but there’s a small dent in his brow like he’s thinking too hard.

"nothing on it i need to see," you say. "you?"

he shakes his head. "just my dad checking in. and a missed call from the station. i'm ignoring both for twenty minutes."

you watch him for a second. he looks different when he isn't standing under the fluorescent lights of the bullpen or waiting for danvers to bark an order. he looks steady. you reach for the salt packet on the dash.

"what do you do when you're not at the station?" you ask. "besides bringing espresso to people who look like they're dying."

he huffs a short laugh, his shoulder moving against yours. "i help my dad with the house — which is a nightmare. i read. i drive. there isn't exactly a nightlife in ennis unless you count the bar, and i try to stay out of there if i'm not on the clock. it's mostly just quiet."

he turns his head then, his face close to yours. the distance is small enough that you can see the light reflecting in his eyes. he doesn't look away. he sets his food down on the center console and shifts his weight so he's facing you more directly.

"it's different having someone else in the truck," he says. his voice is a notch lower. "usually it's just me and the radio. i like this better."

you look down at his hand, resting near the gear shift. his fingers are long, his knuckles scarred from working on the furnace or the truck. you put your hand down next to his. you don't touch him yet, but you can feel the heat coming off his skin.

peter moves his hand, sliding his fingers over yours. his palm is dry and warm, his grip firm. he doesn't make a big deal out of it. he just holds your hand while the heater hums and the wind rattles the door frame. it's the first time since you got to alaska that your heart rate isn't up because you're angry or stressed.

"we should probably check the logs at the power station," you say, though you don't move to start the truck.

december 18th

peter is in the kitchen. he doesn't ask where the mugs are anymore. you hear the familiar clink of ceramic against the counter and the sound of the tap running. he knows exactly which cabinet holds the good tea and which floorboard near the sink creaks if he steps on it too hard.

he walks back into the living room, dodging the stack of case files you’ve left by the sofa. he sets a mug down in front of you and sinks onto the cushion, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours.

he came over an hour ago with a box of pizza that was mostly cold by the time he navigated the ice on your driveway. over the last few weeks, his presence has shifted from a professional necessity to a domestic constant.

you’re mid-sentence, complaining about a piece of paperwork on the still unsolved case, but the words trail off when you notice him watching you. he isn't looking at your notes. he’s looking at you with a steady, unblinking intensity that makes the air in the room feel suddenly very thin.

"what?" you ask, your voice losing its edge.

"nothing," he says softly. he doesn't move away. instead, he closes the gap between you, sliding across the worn fabric of the sofa until his knee is pressed against yours. "i just like hearing you talk."

you should make a joke. you should roll your eyes and tell him to get his head in the game. but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing worth seeing in the whole town—stops the sarcasm in your throat. his hand moves, fingers brushing against your wrist before sliding up to cup your jaw. his skin is firm and steady.

you find yourself leaning into his palm, your breath hitching. the frustration you've been carrying since you left texas seems to quiet down, replaced by a different kind of tension.

he leans in slowly, giving you every chance to move. you don't. when his lips finally meet yours, the world outside the house completely disappears.

peter exhales a shaky breath against your mouth, his hands coming up to frame your face. his palms are calloused but gentle, holding you like you’re something precious, something he’s been trying to protect from the frost since the moment you walked through the door of the police station almost a month ago.

your hand finds the front of his sweater, pulling him closer as you sink into the cushions. he sighs against your mouth, his other hand coming up to tangle in your hair, holding you there like he’s finally found exactly where he’s supposed to be.

the heat of him is everywhere. it’s in the way his fingers slide into your hair, the way he pulls you flush against him until the cold air of the room can’t find a way in. for a few seconds, the the case, the missing girl, and the three thousand miles back to texas don’t exist. there is no long night. there is only the pressure of his lips and the way he’s breathing your name.

when you finally break away, you don't go far. you lean your forehead against his, your eyes closed, both of you trying to catch your breath in the thin, recycled air.

"holy shit," you whisper, your voice a low, jagged mess.

peter lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones. he looks at you with an expression so open and honest it almost hurts to see. "better than any cowboy you've ever kissed, huh?"

you huff a laugh, your fingers lingering on his chest.