Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x wife! Reader/ Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader
Word count: 8.6k
Synopsis: You end up marrying Aerion but your heart belongs to Lyonel. What happens if your true love comes to King's Landing and cleaves your relationship with your husband into two? Will you listen to your heart's desire?
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, Based on my series "Where's my Husband!", what if AU, Alternate ending where Aerion didn't commit crimes at Ashford tourney, CW suggestive, one sided love, Aerion is obsessed with you, love triangle, no one is a good guy, hurt/comfort/fluff.
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Aerion doesnât love the same as anyone in the realm. He doesnât love like you do. He sinks his teeth in your throat, right on your pulse, feeling your heart beat underneath your flushed skin, biting down, drawing blood to coat his lips that drips from his opened maw.
He loves intensely, purposefully, an obsession. A love that could have been made into a ballad that people misinterpret as pure saccharine love when the truth is that he loves with his claws sinking into your flesh, never letting go. You should scream, flinch from his touch, or push him away with damning words, instead, you turn your head at his throat, take his chin in hand and bite down just as hard, tasting him on your tongue. Like two dragonsâ no, a falcon tearing at a dragon hatchling.
He has his moments, those soft days where he would lie down upon you, letting his weight fall on you with his hands underneath your chemise, palms right on your stomach as it lays there, resting, content, feeling your warmth. He always seeks your warmth, warm-blooded, with those purple heat seeking eyes. During feasts his hand is around yours underneath the table, a thumb brushing along your pulse point, drawing ancient runes upon your skin. Valyrian runes, youâve come to know after keenly studying his movements and drawing it on a piece of parchment under the cover of darkness and flipping through old texts to understand them. One is for protection, sweet and caring. A few for life, wishing for longevity. And one for fire, all consuming, death and searing flames.
One day this man will kill you with his love, or mayhaps you end up killing him first.
There were tears in your eyes when you wed him, lips tightly pursed as you mumbled the vows that echoed around the sept. âI am his and he is mine.â You wish it wasnât true.
When you kissed him, you wished, imagined that it was someone else holding you, someone else who wouldnât draw blood, someone who would love you just as you love himâ softly, tender, and unabashed love. And that someone is Lyonel Baratheon.
No matter how much you protested, cried, kneeled before your father and the Lord hand, but the union persisted, you had no say, you had no power. But now you do, you are now a princess by marriage, married to a prince, who thinks he is a dragon reborn, a dragon you have tamed despite the teeth marks left on your skin.
You did your duty, married him, kept your honour despite your wantâ your need to be with the Laughing Storm instead. With every kiss granted by your husband, with every touch, every whispered words in your ears, you all wished it was Lyonel kissing you, holding you and whispering at the shell of your ear. Like you always thought it would be. You canât keep beating yourself up over for wanting a better life for yourself.
You wanted a gallant husband, someone kind and loving. And yet you got a man who struck a knightâs horse and he broke his legs in the process. Thank the seven that it was all he did during the tourney, but you wish that he did something worse, something that would break the betrothal. You feel horrid for wishing it so. But youâre stuck in your gilded cage, holding your husband by the scruff of his neck whenever his fatherâs eyes are turned away from him, which is almost always.
Youâve been told that youâll learn to love him, and the ladies of the court giggle and whisper about how much your loving husband dotes on you, always so caring, caressing you, eyes never straying too far from you. But you only tolerate him, and yet somehow, in some odd misshapen way, Aerion Targaryen is utterly devoted to you.
Heâs in love, but you wouldnât call it that when youâve seen real love from your father and mother, and youâve felt it with Lyonel. Whatever Aerion feels for you, itâs lust, an obsession. Heâs obsessed with you, desiring you. A year of marriage with him and you thought it would wane, but no, it only grew.
Heâd whisper atop your sweaty skin, pupils blown, swallowing the sounds you make and kisses you right above your pulse to say, âmine, all mine.â His grip never loosened, nor his kisses ever felt light. As if heâs trying to carve his name inside of you, right in your very soul. Trying to have you forget every other hand that has touched you.
But thereâs a part of you that knows his obsession would soon fade because you are not Valyrian, you do not share his features, and you do not have his blood. One day heâll get bored of you. What would he do to you once heâs grown tired of you? Would he discard you? Would he forsake you for another? Bring shame to your name?
After the wedding, your husband would not leave you at peace, when dawn breaks heâs already on you, pawing at your small clothes, panting in your ear, breath fanning your cheek, asking for your warmth. And after every supper, without fail, heâs immediately on you, ripping his doublet off, eyes staring right into your soul. And youâd take him in your bed, let him unravel you, devour you whole, sometimes, youâd devour him too, you take him as he is. You made it your mission to tame him, to not let him bend you to his will, to never bend over for him. It wasnât easy, but you learned, you learned how to push his buttons right, where to touch, what to say, and the moment you saw his eyes soften, lips agape, breathing into you and pleading for your touch with tears in his purple eyes, you won. But now he wants more.
Aerion wants a dragon he said, a child born from the union of a falcon and a dragon. A child who will surpass the conqueror himself. A child whose blood runs thick with old Valyria and the Andals. Heâs obsessed with the prospect of having you swell with child, to hold onto your belly and whisper high Valyrian prayers onto your skin before the babe is even born.
A year into the marriage and it hasnât happened yet. You thank the mother for not letting his seed take, when you know heâll inherit his fatherâs delusions of grandeur. That you would truly be shackled to his side if you would have a child with him. Because despite everything, he would still be yours, half a falcon, your child.
Aerion is kind enough, a smile here and there, and the conversation is easy with him. An intelligent chat over a game of Cyvasse where he never lets you win, and yet you beat him in a few rounds, knowing his moves already. You two would make fun of a Lord at the great hall, whispering japes in your ear as you stifle a laugh. Heâs quite charming, a disarming kind of charm that if you didnât know better wouldâve made you think that heâs not the same man who gazes into the fire at the dead of night whilst muttering a valyrian prayer.
Youâd think to yourself, âhe isnât so bad.â But then Aerion does something cruel to someone, he tends to ruin lives that he thinks are insignificant to him. A poor stable boy, who didnât ready your horse fast enough, a handmaiden, whose only crime is dressing you in your Arryn colours, or a Lord of no renown who looked at you too long. Heâs overprotective, to the point that itâs stifling, he has forgotten, or ignores the fact that you could wield a sword just like him.
You could call him a companion at least, but definitely not the husband you always dreamed of.
Where Lyonel has the easy kind of charm, where you find yourself laughing easily around him, where every smile from him is genuine, Aerion isnât any of that. Itâs like pulling teeth with him. Perhaps itâs because your heart is with another that you can never love him the same way, but Aerion was never the right man for you, even if you have met him first, even if you learned to love him, somehow, he does not fit well with you. As if there is something wrong with the union, that you are meant to be somewhere else with someone who isn't him. Before the wedding, the wheel of your carriage broke apart. Your gown was ripped at the hem, the wedding cloak went missing. And during the wedding feast the old king grew ill and collapsed mid-feast. Itâs as if fate didnât want any of this to happen, as if something went wrong and you were not supposed to be here.
Everything feels wrong around the red keep. You shouldnât be walking these halls, wearing Targaryen colours as you walk arm in arm with your Aunt, as she reassures you that it is not easy to grow heavy with child when she had troubles with it as well with her own Targaryen prince.
âIt will soon take.â She says softly, eyes shimmering with sympathy. âSoon you will have heirs of your own. And they shall grow with their cousins.â Her finger fixes a strand of your hair, smiling sweetly at you as you two stand over the balcony overlooking the courtyard.
The sky is gloomy, breeze cold against your skin, freezing the golden rope around your neck that is laden with rubies and two curled dragons meeting in the middle, a gift from your dear husband. It seems that there is a storm coming.
âHeirs to what exactly?â You bluntly answer, you found that dancing around your words doesnât always go inside the thick skulls of the people at court. Youâd rather fling yourself through the moondoor than skirt around them just to try not to offend them. You love your aunt, and sheâs great company, but she has spent too much of her time at court that she hasnât truly lived for herself in a long time. Sheâs just trying to survive to see the next moon with her children.
Her brows knit together, giving you a pursed look as she squeezes your arm. âDo not say that out loud, niece.â She warns, and you see the real her. Not the polite princess smile, not the smile that doesnât quite reach her eyes. âYou must refrain from saying such things, understand?â
âBut, auntââ
âPromise me.â Leaning close, she whispers, talking amidst the cover of the whistling wind that flutters the skirt of your gown. âThe court is volatile, soon itâll be Baelor on the throne and you and your husband will need to stand in front of him when his older brother can barely see through the fog of wine. I know you do not wish for children, but do not let your wishes be heard by another.â
âThis isnât the life I wanted.â Is all you could muster, too tired to pretend, too exhausted to argue.
You donât want a perfect love, that is nigh impossible to obtain and you know it so. You just want something that is better than this, something that isnât volatile, a love that you can be yourself with, a love that is bone achingly real.
âDo you think I wanted this too?â Her voice falters, before clearing her throat and standing upright. As if a curtain fell over her face, your aunt smiles like nothing happened. âNow, shall we have tea in my solarâ?â
The heavy doors open in the courtyard, and the unmistakable sound of hooves echoes around as a whole caravan enters the keep. People turn their attention at the arrival, some bow, some look with a pensive expression. One of them is your platinum haired husband, Aerion comes out of the stables, wind swept hair from his afternoon ride that he invited you to come but you declined his offer, citing that you have a headache. He rolled his eyes at you then, scoffing under his breath and yet he gave you a kiss to your cheek.
As always, Aerion manages to find you within the crowd, head tilted up to look at you on the balcony. He gives you a smile, that smile he only gives you across the room, it could be genuine, or it could be feigned, you still have a hard time recognizing which one most days. His boots are already moving to climb up the steps over to you.
You donât pay your husband heed when a familiar golden banner flusters in the strong wind.
âSeven hellsââ the curse dies in your throat as you see the crowned stag on a golden field. âGodsâŚâ Lyonel. His name echoes inside your head, saying it over and over again in a chorus, like a prayer, wishing, hoping it is truly him walking through those doors.
Your hands grip the bannister, leaning over it to look through each face that passes through. There, in the middle of the caravan, wearing the same gold cloak that he draped over your shoulder that night, is your Lyonel. He looks just the same as before, grinning that same grin you fell for, but his eyes, it doesnât have the same shine to them, as if the light in his eyes were taken from him.
âWife.â Aerion appears by your side, smelling like grass and the perfume he always asks you to help put on him every morning, which in turn makes you smell like him. His hand immediately finds yours above the bannister, intertwining his fingers with your own. âI thought you were too ill to come outside.â
âHm?â You had to unstick your gaze from Lyonel as your neck turned to Aerion, eyes still lingering on the stag drenched in gold before finally looking back at your husband. âThe maester gave me a tincture to help.â
He doesnât look too convinced, jaw set, grip tightening around your hand. âIs that so?â He shifts his weight, eyes glancing at the man before flicking over to you. Does he know? Aerion is many things, but he isnât an idiot. âSweet aunt, thank you for bringing my wife out for some air. She prefers the comfort of our chambers and less company nowadays.â
âOf course, my prince. I was about to have tea with her, do you wish to accompany usââ
âNot today, aunt.â He flashes her a false smile, before taking you away from her. âI must rest, the ride took the wind out of me. Come.â Tugging you away, you look back at your aunt as she gives you an apologetic look.
You only wish to see Lyonel again, but as you go further into the keep, you could only see a glimpse of his sigil fluttering in the wind. Just like that fateful day on Ashford.
If only you couldâve seen him look up at the balcony just as Aerion took you away.
The walk to your shared chambers was in silence, but you didnât falter beside him, keeping pace with his longer strides until you reached the doors of your chamber.
Aerionâs hand leaves yours, shutting the doors right behind him.
âDid you really have to embarrass me in front of my aunt like that?â Your arms cross over your chest, facing him head on. âAerionââ
âI wanted to take a ride with you.â He says, still facing the door as his jaw clenches. âI wanted to bring you to the lake.â
âTo drown me perhaps?â
Turning to face you, his expression falls, shoulders tensing. âDo you think of me cruel? No, I wanted to see the sunrise with you.â
âWhy?â You blink, hands falling to your side, twisting towards the table to pour yourself a cup of wine. A familiar companion for you nowadays.
âWhy?â He lets out a scoff, taking the cup from you as the drink sloshes on the rim. âIs it a crime to want to spend time with my wife?â
âNo, it isnât. But youâre only sweet when you have done something or want something. Which one is it?â
Aerionâs eyes turn away from you, before taking a gulp of the wine. âThe latter.â He says lowly, eyes flicking dangerously to yours. âYou, I want you.â
This is desire, not love, an all devouring desire that encompasses the prince. Itâs all gnashing teeth and nails digging into your hips, not the soft gentle love that has your heart aflutter, not the kind of love you want or deserve.
Nevertheless warmth pools in your stomach. Desire has everyone in its grip, not even you are an exemption. âWhy the lake?â Your fingers bring your skirt to wring, trying to tamp out your desire as your eyes rake upon his corded neck.
âChange of scenery.â Shrugging, he puts the rim of the cup over to your lips. âDrink.â
Youâre drained, longing for that kind of love that youâll take whatever warmth is in front of you, and that warmth is Aerion. In his own twisted kind of love, he gives you warmth, arms to hold you when the nights grow cold, a voice that is sometimes tender in your ears, a voice that is real, not a memory. And those intense eyes that never glance away from you, never turning towards another. He may not be the husband you wanted, nor the man you chose to love, but you stayed anyway. Because the alternative is destruction, loneliness, a dishonourable end. And disappointment, you donât want to disappoint your father. But a year into the marriage, youâre not the same woman you once were, the same woman who wore a threadbare cloak and danced barefoot around Lyonel and a hedge knight like there is nothing else happening in the realm. Now youâre the woman who stays in her seat, nursing a cup in her hand and watches the revelry from far away when you want to join and dance and to laugh carefree again.
âYou are insufferable.â And yet you take a drink, and yet you welcome him in your warm embrace. Still, you kiss him with hunger, hold him like heâs about to fly away. And yet your thoughts were on Lyonel the whole time.
â
âDo you know why heâs here?â You blurt out, warm and sweaty under the covers as he lays his head on your chest like always.
âWho?â His cheek is pressed on your skin, cheeks flushed and red, still panting atop you. His index draws the rune for life over your stomach, a prayer.
âBaratheon.â You simply say, if you said his name he would know from how sweet you uttered it.
Aerion hums, a deep rumble you could feel in your ribcage. âOh, him, his lord father passed.â His breath tickles your bare skin. âPerhaps he was called to bend the knee to grandsire.â
âWhy is that needed?â Your fingers rake through his platinum hair that he always melts at the act. âHis late father already did that years before.â
His head turns to you, chin resting right on your sternum as his purple eyes tries to gaze into your mind. âHe despises us, thatâs why.â Us, not him, or his house, us. He believes that you are a part of his house as much as he is, youâre starting to think so too. âWhy are you so curious about this Baratheon, hm?â
Why this specific Baratheon? Why this specific man? When there have been plenty of Lords who have walked through the keep and you did not pay them any heed.
âI saw him at the tourney at Ashford. And I will not lie to you but he was almost betrothed to me. He was a suitor.â
âAlmost.â Moving, he looms over you, elbows perched on the side of your head as he smugly smiles down. âAlmost. But you ended up betrothed to me,â his knee parts your legs under the covers, leaning down to press a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. âMarried to me. In bed with me.â
Jealousy is worse than a cup of wine. Heâs drunk off it.
âOh, Aerion.â Taking his face in your hand, you make him look at you. âAre you jealous?â
âA dragon doesnât concern himself with a mere stag.â Leaning against your touch, he pecks the inside of your palm, all the while gazing into your eyes tenderly.
And yet that mere stag still holds your heart.
â
You hate it when Aerion is right.
The great hall is buzzing with life, it seems that everyone got the news of the new arrival at court. From the Lords and Ladies of the court, to the Baratheon bannermen drenched in their house colours, the great hall is filled with nobles. On the right side of the throne are mostly Targaryens and their kin, watching the other side with pensiveness, some with intense gazes full of suspicion.
You stand beside your husband, staring at Lyonelâs squire whose eyes lingered too long on your face. And yet the young man didnât flick his gaze away, he even looked at the prince with the same intensity. You surmise that he was staring at you because he recognized you from the tourney, the same girl who was in a raggedy cloak, smiling and dancing with his Lord liege, who is now holding hands with a prince of the blood, clothed in black and red.
Your father settles beside you, face weary, heâs always weary around the red keep after getting the position as master of coin the moment you married Aerion. That was the deal, an exchange, but he now wonders if itâs a worthy one when he sees the weary look on his daughterâs face. The same expression his sister has as she stands alone, her children too young to participate in court, her husband too engrossed in his own mind to ever notice her gone.
The Arryns in the Red Keep are stuck in a gilded cage they have locked themselves in.
You miss your brothers, you miss your mother, and you miss Juniper, who Aerion dismissed without your say when she didnât bite her tongue when she saw your tear stained cheeks and the love marks all over your skin.
The old King sits on the throne, back hunched, skin pulled taut around his bones. He wheezes, but tries to keep his composure as his son and heir stand beside the throne as the hand pin on his lapel catches the light.
Someone coughs amidst the awkward silence, waiting for the double doors to open as you twist a strand of your hair around your index.
âThe gall of this man.â Aerion hisses in-between his teeth, fingers digging into your hand tenderly. âMayhaps we shouldnât have wasted our time coming here.â
âWe were called upon, Aerion.â Sighing, your eyes are glued to the doors, waiting impatiently, feet shifting, hair pulled by your index.
âStop that.â He takes your wrist away from your hair, pushing it back to your side. âItâs unbecoming.â
âI cannot help it.â You bite back, eyes steely at your husband instead of unabashed love.
You feel your fatherâs guilty eyes bore into your back.
âThen try to, my sweet.â Aerion tugs your hand to his side again, weaving his long fingers around your own, engulfing your palm.
You tug back, harder, until his hip hits your own. âNo.â Taking your braid, you twist it around your finger, adding to his frustration.
âNow whoâs being insufferable?â His breath brushes along the shell of your ear, you could feel his desire roll off him from your petulance.
âWe both are,â your head cranes to look into his eyes, not backing down, nor folding underneath his gaze. âguess we are in fact perfect for each other, husband.â
The corner of his lip curls, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. Then the doors open with a loud creak, announcing his arrival.
Murmurs bounce off the stone walls as the herald thumps his cane against the floor.
There, standing like he owns the castle, in all his glory, sun shining on his back, drenching him in more gold, is Lyonel himself.
âLord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Stormâs End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, the Laughing Storm.â
The cane smacks again, and Lyonel finally moves.
Your heart cinches in your chest, tighter than how Aerion is holding onto you. You havenât seen him in a year, youâve longed for him for a year, said his name in your head for a year so you would not forget it, so you wouldnât forget his face. He looks just the same as you remembered, more handsome than you imagined in your mind at the dead of night.
Seeing him this close is guttering, when you thought you have controlled your longing for Lyonel, it rears its head whenever your thoughts grow heavy, stronger, more heart wrenching than the last good bye. Gods, you missed him, you still love him.
He still has his cloak on, draped over his shoulders, a golden river dragging right behind him. The same earring you felt in-between your fingers dangles in his lobe, and those dark eyes, the eyes youâve gazed into lovingly, tried to imagine in your year long longing is finally right in front of you.
Lyonel isnât wearing his stag crown, he isnât an idiot, and he doesnât have a death wish when it could be seen as traitorous in front of the King. He doesnât wish to see the stranger just yet when his eyes subtly glance around the crowd looking for you.
There, right beside the bastard he loathes, is you. Still the same woman he danced with through the night, the same woman he talked to beside the river and laid your heart for him as he showed you his soul. Youâre the same woman he fell madly and deeply in love with. Lady Arryn, he shouldâve known from the start it was you, no longer in a threadbare cloak, no longer having the same smile he always looked for in the crowd.
Itâs cruel how they took the light from your eyes. How cruel it is to subject you to this shackled life when you shouldâve been soaring freely.
Lyonel couldnât help the scowl from appearing on his face the moment he sees Aerionâs hand wrapped around your own in a bone crushing hold.
You interpret his expression as fury, anger towards you, and whatâs left of your heart shatters.
A year at court and nothing has fazed you, nothing threw you off guard, whatever Aerion says bitingly never truly hurt you in a way that matters. But Lyonelâs anger, his thunderous fury, is the one thing that pained you so.
Aerionâs eyes glances at you, fingers loosening around your hand for a moment. âWife, you look sickly.â
âHeadache.â You simply say with the lump in your throat. âI feel ill, Aerion.â You watch as his intense eyes turn tender, the edges of his face softening as his grip turns loving. âTake me away from here.â
He inhales deeply, arm curled around your back. His purple eyes flashes with something. Was that sympathy? âCome.â
The prince leads you away, parting the crowd for the both of you just as you hear the King greet Lyonel.
If only you saw how his head moved, following you as you walked away from his life once again.
â
âIs there a chance that you are with child?â Aerion asks as he places a cold damp cloth over your forehead. His touch is gentle and caring, a glimpse of a better man.
âNo, I am not.â Eyes shut, you donât see his face tighten at your words. âI may be barren, Aerion, you mustnât hold up hope.â
Water splashes on your face as you crack an eye open.
âDonât talk like that, my love.â He calls you that as if it is true. Perhaps it is true in his mind, but you donât see it. You never felt it, only glimpses of that love when heâs soft and pliant after a coupling, or when the morning sun shines on his face as he slept. Just a glimpse of what couldâve been. âWe shall have a dragon, Iâve seen it.â
âTheyâre dreams, my prince. Nothing more.â Shaking your head, you feel his sword roughed hand cup your stomach. âIâve heard the whispers, you know, from your grandsireâs men.â
His jaw tightens, moving at the hinges as he huffs a breath. âWhat kind of whispers?â He knows.
âThat you should just annul our marriage when there hasnât been a child born from our union.â His head falls, and yet hope blooms in your chest as you give him the idea, planting it in his head. âThe high septon would allow it soââ
âBut I do not.â His tone lowers dangerously, his hand gripping onto the blanket over you. âI will not. You are my wife until the stranger comes for us. And I know we will have a child soon, that is not cause for an annulment. We do not heed the words of men beneath us.â He utters it with absolute certainty.
Perhaps this is Aerionâs version of love. And itâll be your undoing.
âItâs this fucking air.â He vaults from the bed, a hand raking through his hair as the sun shines on him. He faces the opened window, shutting it with a slam. âWe are not the only ones having trouble having a child, Valarr and his wife, my uncleâŚâ exhaling, his nostrils flared with frustration. âItâs this damned keep.â You could practically see his head churning.
âAerionââ
âWe shall move to Summerhall. Where the air doesnât smell like piss and death, and there will be no annoyance there apart from my father and siblings.â With quick strides, he moves over to you, taking your hands, and laying his head on your stomach, cheek pressing upon your skin, hearing your insides curl and groan. Under the light, he looks lovely, so innocent, so in love. âItâll just be us.â
âJust us.â You mutter back, chest feeling tight, eyes wide as he leans for a kiss upon your shocked lips. âWhat if I die in my birthing bed? That you have to choose between me or the babe just like King Viserys did with his Queen Aemma.â
âNo,â his palm cups your face, heavier than before. His desperation and fear ebbs from his hold. âThat will not happen, you are healthy and still young, if it comes to that IâŚâ Aerion falters, Aerion doesnât falter. But he does in this instance, chiseled face contorting right in front of you. âIt will not happen. Say it back to me, my love.â
âIt wonât happen.â
â
The feast the King held in honour of the Laughing Storm came as a surprise to everyone, but not to you. You always knew that Lyonel could befriend anyone, even the people he hates.
Heâs performing, quite well in fact as he sits beside the King on his left, laughing and conversing with the old man, whom you havenât heard laugh this hard ever. Baelor has this polite look on his face, he always has that expression, a retrained face that he never lets slip in front of anyone.
The music is jaunty and happy, the same music that was playing in Lyonelâs pavilion the day you danced with him. Perhaps he asked for it to be played, or perhaps itâs fate mocking you.
Youâre at the end of the long table in the great hall, seated beside your aunt and her mumbling husband as Aerion picks at his food. You wish to look at Lyonel, but youâre afraid that once you do, youâd sob and break.
âYou must eat, niece.â Your aunt piles another piece of ham onto your plate. âHaving an empty stomach wonât do you any good.â
âYou need to keep your strength up for when the babe comes.â Aerion declares as if you are already with child. You know you are not when all your illnesses were feigned.
âWhat babe, Aerion?â Your spoon twists in your hand as you turn pointedly at him. âThe maester confirmed it, I am not with child.â
Aerionâs jaw clenches, biting his lower lip as he chuckles dryly above the rim of his cup. âThen why are you always ill, hm? Or was it all feigned?â He knows, Aerion has always been good at reading people, but not always with you. You keep to yourself, a closed book that heâs desperate to read.
âWould you even love the child?â You ask, heart already broken as it lies beside your feet. âOr do you just love the prospect of having one before your cousin does?â
His goblet slams against the table as wine spills over the glass. The conversation around the hall silences, heads turning towards the source.
Head lowering, a hand grasping at your skirt in a grip, his eyes narrow at you. âThe child is mine, ours, do you think me so vain and cruel to not love my own? The proof of our love?â
Taking his hand atop your skirt, you unfurl his fist, taking his fingers slowly until itâs around your hand instead. âDo you actually love me, Aerion?â
His narrowed eyes blink, twisting into softness, irises blooming, lilac eyes turning almost black. His breath hitches in his throat, a thumb brushing along your palm, as his jaw is unclenched, features softer, kinder. âWhy would you even ask me that?â Youâve never heard his voice sound so small, so delicate, a tone broken at the edges with hurt. âAm I still not enough?â
âWhatâ?â
âWhy did you even marry me?â Hurt flashes across his face, a brief moment of vulnerability before his jaw clenches, fisting your skirt, lashes clumped together, before he abruptly stands up, fuming.
Heâs hurting, why is he hurt?
âAerionââ You vault from your seat to follow him, but a hand stops you, rough, sword calloused familiar hands. Following the source of the ringed hand, you see the Laughing Storm himself. âMy Lord LyonelâŚâ
âMy Lady.â Lyonel appears in front of you like in your dreams, giving you that same sweetened smile that has doomed you to love him forever. âIf your husband permits it, may I have this dance?â
âLyonelâŚâ You take a deep inhale, air stuck in your throat as you gawk at him. âIâmâ Iâm afraid my husband is feeling quite ill. He left.â
Everyone has their eyes on you and the Lord of Stormâs End, whispering amongst each other, keenly watching the interaction. It does not help when the king and Baelor are keeping watch also, making sure that you and Lyonel act that is befitting your station. They know that he was once your suitor.
âHowâŚunfortunate.â And yet his amused smile betrays his words. Lyonelâs hand slides down from your wrist and over to your hand, a thumb brushing along your palm tenderly. âThen, may I have this dance, my Lady Arryn?â
You let out a choked laugh, a genuine one as you go around the table and over to him. âItâs Lady Targaryen now actually.â
âOh, yes, my apologies.â He doesnât mean it as he guides you towards the middle of the room with the rest of the court as they dance to the beat of the drums and harpsichord.
The crowd parts for the two of you, bowing down respectfully, whilst sharing glances with each other from the delicious gossip happening right in front of them.
Your gaze flickers down to the joined hands, a sight you never thought youâd ever see again. You feel for his callouses, the same one you tried to recall in your head whenever Aerion held yours in his slender hand.
âYou need not worry, my Lady.â Lyonel whispers to you, smirking underneath the candle lights as his familiar earring catches the light. âI will stay at a perfectly respectful distance.â Just as he says it, he pulls you in against him, a hand on your waist, fingers pressing gently. Whilst the other glides across the length of your arm, touch lingering until his fingers intertwine with yours. âComfortable?â
âVery much so.â You shudder, breath stuck in your throat as you gaze at the joined hands, feeling the familiar warmth blossom in your chest. âHello, Lyonel.â
âHello, my doe.â His eyes are soft, a lopsided smile that has you chuckling under your breath.
âI havenât heard that in a while.â
âGods, I cannot believe that Iâm standing in front of you again.â He utters just for your ears only, the Laughing Storm, who prides himself in his loud voice, whispers to keep you safe in the wandering eyes and ears of the court. A bright grin spreads across his rakish face, bottom lip bitten to stifle a laugh bubbling in his throat as his eyes sparkles with mirth. Lyonel says your name, saccharine and honeyed, as if no time has passed between you, as if he has been practicing saying your name during your absence so as to not forget the taste of it on his tongue.
âYou look quite well, Lyonel.â Your voice is as tender as his hold upon your waist. Whilst you two dance along the memorized practiced steps like the crowd around you, you see his mask fall.
âFor a man so heartbroken, I do look quite handsome, hm?â He starts to lean against your face to nuzzle at your neck, until he remembers where he is. Heâd give anything to hold you affectionately again, like that day in Ashford where he danced through the night with you until you were laughing in his arms and saying his name like a lover would.
Your brows furrow, guilt flashing in your eyes, regret marring your pretty face. âIâm sorry. I shouldâve fought harderââ
âNone of that.â Shaking his head, earring dangling with every movement, a curl falls over his face that you intensely want to move away to see his eyes fully. Lyonelâs smile falls, dark eyes glossing over with the same grief as he tips your chin up with his index and thumb. âNone of that, my love. There was naught to be done. I wouldâve fought tooth and nail for you but when I awoke from my injuries after the tourney to announce you as my queen of love and beauty as rightfully so, you were gone with the blonde headed bastards.â
âThe princes wanted it to be done quickly to rein in Aerion. They thought I could do that, pull him away from unchivalrous deeds or perhaps change him.â
âWell, did you?â Brows knitted together, his steps glide across the floor as your skirts whirl around the two of you. âYouâre quite good at that but youâre not a miracle worker.â
âI tamed him at most. Smooth out his edges butâŚâ shutting your eyes tightly, he waits, Lyonel has always been patient with you, unlike Aerion who pulls and tugs at you towards what he wants, but not towards what you need. âI donât think youâd like to hear how I managed it.â
Stormlander fury bursts in his eyes. âHas he hurt you in any way?â
You purse your lips, giving him a wobbly smile. âNot in a way that matters.â
âYou shouldnât be here.â
âI know.â Your tone breaks in the middle as the crowd continues to dance around the two of you, obscuring you from your kin. âIâd give anything to be away from here. Aerion has his moments, where I could see his love, but not alwaysâŚnot always.â
âI scarcely recognized you in these colours, I scarcely recognize you at all, my doe.â Lyonel, strong, defiant Lyonel, who would face the storm himself with a booming laugh breaks in front of you.
âAnd you, you look just like in my dreams.â His face cracks at your painful confession. âI thought you had forgotten about me, Lyonel.â
âI would never.â What have they done to his falcon? Theyâve taken your talons and cut your wings, so much so that it has taken the warmth from your eyes. âI did promise you, havenât I? That Iâll come looking for you, if only you have made it easier for me by telling me of your true nature.â
âThat was quite foolish wasnât it?â You look at him apologetically. âI did plan on telling you the next day, or mayhaps run far away with you if you would have me but that was also a maidenâs foolish desire.â
âVery much so, my Lady.â Lyonel twirls you gently, before you meet with him again in the middle. âBut not the latter. When was the last time you danced?â
âAt my wedding feast.â Swallowing the lump in your throat, you feel the back of your eyes warm, tears threatening to spill over. Whether from sheer relief and happiness or grief, you do not know, but you donât let it spill.
âTell me that isnât so.â His heart breaks for you one more time whilst his hand squeezes you.
âUnfortunately it is.â Sniffing, you blink away the tears. âMy husband isnât one for dancing. Nor revelry.â
âYou donât belong here.â
âI know. I feel like I donât belong anywhere.â His hands lift you by your waist briefly, keeping up with the crowd. Keeping face when there are far too many eyes around.
âWhat have they done to you?â
âIâve told you, nothing that would matter.â Your gaze roams around warily.
Lyonel stops abruptly, hands still on your body as his shoulders tighten, jaw clenching as he breathes out a shallow breath. âIt matters when your smile doesnât reach your eyes, when you flinch at loudness, when you donât look like yourself. They made you into thisâŚthis shackled thing and clipped your wings.â
âIâm surviving.â
âNot living.â Lyonelâs anger isnât pointed at you, but at the people seated at the highest table. âThis isnât the life you deserve, my love.â When he calls you that, you truly believe him that he does love you, as simple as that. As easy as that.
âLyonel,â a tear escapes from your eye as you quickly wipe it away. âIt gladens me to see you here but why are you here?â Your voice cracks, terrified for his sake. âYou said you came to look for me but here I am. What now?â
âTo ask you what you want. To give you a choice that they took away from you.â
âLyonelâŚâ
âDo they know of the story at the lake with the fire? Do they know what you are capable of?â His grip onto your hands turns bruising before loosening, thumbs caressing along your skin as an apology. âNot just being their pretty princess to bring more half baked dragons into this world. The real you, the one who fought a man twice as large as her and lived, the version of you who challenged me from across the room without faltering. The woman who wedged herself in my heart and clung there as I fell for her. You do not deserve this life, youâre supposed to soar, not to be kept in this cage.â
You finally break in front of him. Tears stream down your face as he brings his sleeve over to your cheeks, wiping the tears away gently.
âMy love, my doe.â His hands cup your face gingerly in his hands, not because heâs afraid that you will break, but because heâs afraid that they will take you away from him if he holds on tighter. âWhat do you want? Your wish is my command.â
You meet with his eyes, finding no lie nor jest in those dark eyes you dream about, eyes that you adore so much. Your next words break you. âWillâ will you take me away from here?â
Itâs what he wanted to hear from your lips, itâs what he predicted you would ask of him. He didnât bring a whole army with him for no reason. He might have kneeled before the King and swore a vow, but what is that vow worth to be with his great love? Knights have traded their honour for far worse things, unchivalrous things, but this, saving you and taking you away from this wrenched place is part of his vow as a knight. Protecting the innocent. For him that is the most consequential vow, not the one he swore to a bloodline that has done worse to his realm.
âI know itâs too much of an ask, please forgive me, just forget itââ
âYes.â Lyonelâs eyes spark with determination. âWhy do you think I came all this way?â
â
In the dead of night, you stare at your husbandâs sleeping face. He almost looks angelic under the moonlight, peaceful, pleasant. With your letters shoved under your fatherâs chamber door, explaining to him what youâve done and telling him to go back home if he was smart. And with ravens flying towards Stormâs End and the Vale, you lean down to Aerionâs sleeping face and kiss his forehead.
He smells of wine, he drank himself to sleep after the feast, he never does that. You may never know why he acted that way, or why he said those words to you, as if you were his great love and not just someone to breed and call his own. But you donât care enough for his reasoning when he has already carved his name into your ribcage. Itâll forever be there like a scar that wonât heal, but itâs a reminder of your familyâs failings, a reminder that you survived it, a reminder that you lived to be with the one you were supposed to be with.
Youâve got a lot of regrets, maybe you shouldâve accepted Lyonelâs proposal the moment the letter landed on your table instead of whinging about it. Perhaps you would already be married to him, save yourself some hurt. Or perhaps fate weaved another path for you and Lyonel to be together instead, one of those paths lay before you now as you grab your cloak and clasp it over your shoulders.
Youâve shed every Targaryen heraldry from your body as you wear your house colours once again, a brilliant blue with a soaring falcon right on the bodice. Mayhaps you may wear Baratheon colours one day. For now, you must leave all this behind.
Turning away, you stop abruptly at the weak tug on your skirt.
Aerionâs holding onto the silk of your gown, eyes half lidded and fogged from the wine as it dulls his senses, weakens his façade.
âMy wifeâŚâ he sighs out, collar stained with wine, fingers curled weakly around your gown. âWhereâŚwhere are you going?â
Taking his hand, you slowly unfurl his fist. âSomewhere that isnât here.â
âDonâtâ Donât go.â You almost falter at how soft and tender he is. âPleaseâŚmy love.â
Taking a shuddered breath, you kneel before him on the settee, placing a kiss right on his knuckles. Heâs awfully drunk, he will never remember this conversation.
âDid you really love me, Aerion?â
âWhy wouldnât I?â He licks at his dry lips, brows furrowed, face contorted into hurt. âI didâ I do. I do love you.â
âThen let me go peacefully.â You donât cry for him, instead you mourn what couldâve been.
He couldâve been good to you if he showed his love that doesnât leave bite marks, a love that you only see briefly whenever he lays his head against your chest, a strand of your hair curled around his finger as he listens to the beat of your heart. He loves like heâll never love ever again, a love that heâs afraid would be taken away from him forcefully. So he loves fiercely, agonizingly devout, a terrifying desire to be loved back. He loves with dragon fire that ended up burning you. And itâll burn him too if he doesnât change.
Aerion hums, something in him wants to hold on tighter, to fight, to yank you back to his side. But the wine warms his insides, the wine hinders his thinking. His eyes close again, he must be dreaming an awful dream.
Soft breaths fill the shared chambers once again. And you finally pull away, placing his hand atop his chest as you hitch your skirts and flip the dragon tapestry away to reveal the hidden passage out of the castle.
Lyonel greets you in the dark together with his bannermen that are all armoured up with their swords at their hips, ready to fight beside their liege Lord if need be.
His beaming grin could light the way for you as he holds a hand up for you on his horse.
âWas there trouble?â He asks, voice laced with concern as he yanks you up on the horse.
âNo,â you sit behind him, arms curled around his middle as you lay your cheek against the cool steel of his armour. âNo trouble, let us go, Lyonel.â
The Laughing Storm doesnât need another confirmation as he rides away with you. Just like he dreamed of. Just like he once promised.
â
The noise from Aerionâs chambers wakes the whole castle when he found out about your treachery. He wields his sword, swinging it around the room as he breaks everything inside. And on the other, he grips your necklace, the one he has fashioned just for you. He holds on it so tightly that it draws blood upon his palms.
No one could calm him down. The one person who could is now miles away from him, riding away with another man.
Shards of glass fling away, broken wood lay littered across the floor where he once had you. The bed wasnât spared, goosefeathers fly around him as he stabs and slashes at the bed that still smells like you.
âI want Lyonel Baratheonâs head!â His guttural screams carry around the keep.
To Aerion, you were kidnapped, taken from him while he was at his most vulnerable. To him, you loved him just like he has loved you. To him, Lyonel Baratheon is malignant, a vile and evil man. And the prince has cursed his name, and named him as the sworn enemy of the crown for what he has done.
The heir and the Lord hand himself writes an urgent letter to his younger brother, and another asking Lyonel to give you back to your husband before anything untoward happens, before a war breaks between the noble houses that were once kin.
Your father and aunt left the red keep before Aerionâs anger flooded the castle. Theyâre headed over to you and plead with you to go back to your husband. Lyonel has closed his borders to them and anyone that allies with the crown.
Ser Duncan greeted you and Lyonel at the door of Stormâs End, he did not look quite happy at the turn of events, but once he met with your eyes and saw the grief and pain underneath them, he understood why Lyonel had to take you away. He has sworn his sword and shield to him, and in turn, before he was in Lyonelâs care, he swore to you first.
And as you lay beside Lyonel in Stormâs End, with your hand in his curls as he lays upon your chest, smiling and telling you stories of what you missed. You ignore the lightning and thunder outside, and you tuck away the looming conflict around the realm as you laugh and smile with your great love with a lighter heart. The light in your eyes slowly comes back, and Lyonel finally feels that he is complete.
And yet, despite all the happiness that you could feel in your bones, thereâs a war coming. And you started it.
A/N: Thank you for reading please consider reblogging if you liked it!
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Summary: 5 times Colt asks you if you have feelings for Ryland plus 1 time you admit Colt is right.
wordcount: 10,274 (OOPS)
warning(s): none really?
authors note: Firstly want to say a thank you to @drcaptrylandgrace for listening to my ideas about this one! Thank you diva.
This is based on a fic I wrote for a different fandom a while back. But I thought why not revisit this classic format with a little bit of Coltland twins. Not sure how I handled Colt's character or Ryland's tbh, but I tried my best!
This is also maybe a little self indulgent with the stuff about academia, but hopefully it's interesting enough for you to stick around.
this is a little proofread, i'll fix any mistakes as i notice them AHHH.
you can find this fic on ao3 here, and you can find my masterlist here.
_____________________________
One
When one of your friends from college â Colt Seavers â had a deadly harness malfunction â leading him to fall 150 feet off a building on set â he had apparently asked for you by name to see him.Â
Colts brother, and your best friend from college, Ryland Grace, called your mobile phone once, then twice before you picked up and heard the news. So obviously you called in sick for a week, packed your dufflebag, and got on a plane that night heading to LA. At approximately midnight.Â
Okay so, Ryland wasnât exactly your best friend at the moment. But he used to be. You hadnât seen him for two years, your final year of collegeâŚRyland was moving to a different city for his PhD, deciding on skipping his masters at a university that would allow him to.Â
You had still been in constant contact with Colt texting and calling, but you just didnât know what to say to Ryland. You had been overthinking it for too long. You thought it was too late.Â
You were at a college graduation party in some college kids, jank party house. There were streamers, red solo cups, cases of any kind of alcohol you wanted scattered around. There was music too, some engineering student with a DJ deck and a laptop. It was only midnight, maybe even closer to one in the morning. You had arrived at the party separately from Ryland, but had found him across the room, giving you that same awkward adorable smile.
When you stepped into the kitchen, where a bunch of other college students were dancing to whatever up beat song was playing, the music started to fade into something a little softer and slower. You laughed, it felt like a high school dance.
Ryland walked toward you, placing his drink on a makeshift coffee table beside the kitchen table.Â
âDo you want to dance?â He asked.
And you couldnât help, but be a little nervous. The way he looked in your eyes, made it seem like it was phrased seriously, but that you could take it as a joke if you wanted. You didnât want to. You and Ryland had been physically affectionate for years, but this was something you had never done.
âYea, yea I do actually.âÂ
Ryland guided you to put your arms around him, on his shoulders, as he placed his arms very respectfully around you, his hands sitting on your waist.Â
You let out a sigh, relaxed as he guided your head to rest on his shoulder. And for the first time in your friendship, you could feel palpable tension. You could hear his heart rate speed up as your own did, you could smell his scent so strongly, and it made you want to explore what this shift was. A shift that made his hands on your waist and your head on his shoulder mean something elseâŚsomething more.
âYou're tired.â Ryland whispered, not an ounce of surprise in his voice.
You nodded, nuzzling your head into his shoulder.
âSometimes I wonderâŚnevermind.âÂ
Ryland lifted your head to look at him.
âNo, what is it?â
âWell, I just sometimes wonder if Colt is right about things. What if this whole academia thing isnât working.â
Ryland went silent, as if he was holding back from saying anything. You grumbled.
âI mean, I guess not for me or you though, I mean Iâve got my Masters work all set up for me and youâre doing your PhDâŚâ You let yourself shut up, as you swayed more.
As the music shifted to a more upbeat song, you lifted your head from Rylandâs shoulder. Already missing its presence there, an example of what was to come. Ryland leaving you to pursue his PhD in another city, you staying and doing your Masters, Colt leaving for Los Angeles. You were losing the two most important people, the people that helped you through everything.
You looked Ryland in the eyes, and watched his smile fade, you liked to hope he had been thinking about the same thing. You felt yourself tearing up, and Rylandâs face turned into a frown, noticing you. His hand raised to cup your cheek.
âDonât do your Masters.â He spoke, matter of factly.
âWhat?â You asked.
âCome to the city with me, work, donât do your Masters.â
You backed away from his hand, shocked and confused.
âRyland, you know Iâve been wanting to do my Masters here for years, now youâre saying I shouldnât?â
You shook your head, and separated further out of his grasp.
âCome with me, Iâll do my PhD, weâll live together, youâll work, youâll do something that actually inspires you.â
âIâm not going to throw my opportunity away so I can move with you and watch you pursue a variation of my dream.âÂ
âYou are exhausted, I know you!â
âClearly this is the one time youâre wrong,â You said abruptly. your head shifting quickly from his gaze to around the room.
You cleared your throat, your eyes drifting to the ceiling to find any kind of reprise, before muttering a quiet, âExcuse me.â
You pushed past him and past the crowd, walking past all the college boys and cool girls, out of the living room and into the kitchen. You spotted Colt, standing with a red solo cup across from you, his face immediately dropped, he could read you so well.
You shook your head at him, after he sent you a questioning thumbsup, you rushed past him, and ran into the bathroom. You stepped in, locking it for extra measure.Â
You collapsed on the sticky ground, and began sobbing. You pulled your hands to your face, embarrassed, laughing at your absurdity between sobs. Maybe Ryland was right, you werenât good enough, maybe you were too exhausted, but you knew damn well you had to try even if it killed you.
When you were done, you opened the door and Colt was standing outside, he caught your arm, and tried to speak. But you pulled away from him.
âDonât. Iâm leaving. Go talk to your brother.â
When you landed you took a taxi to the hospital. You rushed into the hospital, swinging your duffel bag over your shoulder. Once you found out what room he was in you ran, caught an elevator, got off on the wrong floor, got back onto the elevator and made it down the hall.
You pulled back the curtain that was in front of the bed and when you saw Colt laying on the bed you frowned, relieved to see he was alive, but sad for his pain.
âThank god youâre here.â Colt grumbled. âRylandâs been bothering me all day.â He said, pointing his thumb towards his brother.
You watched Ryland cross his arms sarcastically, and rolled his eyes under his gold framed glasses. You rolled your eyes in response, catching Rylandâs smile peek out from the exchange. This one tiny gesture, making it feel like those two years of not speaking had slipped away, like you were back with your best friend, and Colt.
You instantly dropped your bags and crawled on the bed, hugging Colt gently.
âThank god youâre alive.â You mumbled into Coltâs chest. You could feel the laughter he was giving off. âI missed you so much, Iâm so glad youâre okay.â
âGod, people are gonna start calling me the Fall Guy arenât they?â Colt asked.
You sat back up and took everyone in. Ryland was still so familiar. Except he had a little more muscle than he did in college. Okay, a lot more muscle. He was toned. His hair was longer and messier, he had more facial hair that you could see, but he still was that same guy that gave the cutest smiles your way, the same awkward guy that wore science pun shirts âlike the one he was wearing now.Â
âIâm gonna go get some coffee. Iâll be back.â Ryland said.
âIâll come with.â You responded.
Ryland nodded awkwardly, and you slipped off the bed and followed him back into the hall toward the coffee machine. Ryland put a cup in and pressed the dispenser buttons. You rocked on your feet, taking notice of him, trying to figure out what to say. You sighed and tried with,
âIâm sorry how things ended with us. I guess I was just thinking about what to say.â
âI know. Itâs okay, really. I felt like an asshole telling you not to pursue your dream, Iâm the one who should be sorry.â Ryland replied.
He lifted one of the cups out of the dispenser and handed it to you, before putting his in and waiting for it to be filled.
You cringed, feeling like you werenât saying what you had been needing to say for a while. You were like Colt with those types of thingsâŚyou both liked to think about what to say, until it inevitably became too late to say anything at all. Which is why you and Ryland hadnât spoken in two years.Â
Ryland pulled his cup out, and pulled his glasses to sit on his head. God, when did his hair get so good? It wasnât so long ago since he had a buzzcut â you shaved in his dorm room after messing up his hair â and scraped knees from falling off his bike on the campus cobblestone.Â
âI ended up dropping out of my Masterâs program three months in, now I do journalism full time.â You explained.
Rylandâs head quirked up in surprise, then he nodded.
âYea Colt told me about the journalism thing, but I just assumed you were doing that along with your studies.â
âI'm moving to San Francisco. Which is where youâreââÂ
âDoing my PhD work. Yea.â
âAre you still as smug a student as you were during undergrad?â You asked, lightly smacking his arm.
âI wasnât that smug,â Ryland replied.
You gave him his world famous âreally?â look, that would be as impressive as his if you had glasses sliding down your nose to peek over.
âOkay fine I was a little smug, but unintentionally!â
You both burst out laughing, and it was suddenly normal again.
âThen I guess weâll have no choice but to hang out then?â He asked, as if genuinely asking but his tone was slightly joking.
You nodded in agreement.
âI missed you. I just missed my best friend. Of course we will hang out.âÂ
When you heard the sound of wheels rolling against the linoleum you and Ryland turned to look down the hall. What you saw was Colt in his hospital gown, walking with his IV stand rolling against the floor as he walked. He was holding his back and groaning dramatically as he walked toward you both. He grabbed Rylandâs coffee out of his hand, and drank it.
âYou two friends again yet?â Colt asked.
You and Ryland rolled your eyes at the exact same time, and Colt laughed pointing at you both dramatically.Â
âThank God! Now I donât have to deal with this one alone.â
âColt, why are you out of bed?â You crossed your arms, looking at him like a parent.
âIâm hungry.â He whined. âPlus I wanted coffee all day.â
You turned to Ryland, his face immediately catching what you were about to ask him.
âIâll go get him a sandwich from the cafeteria.â Ryland grumbled.Â
âIâll get this one back to bed.â
Ryland walked away from you both determined, and you held out your arm to lead Colt back into the room. As you entered his room again, you helped him onto the bed and he smirked at you. You grimaced at his face, and you rustled his hair as he laid back.
âYou know in college I always thought you two would end up together.â Colt murmured.
âWho? Me and Ryland?â You asked, surprised.
âDo you have a crush on my little brother?â Colt asked, sending you a mock expression.Â
The same one Ryland used to send you when he wanted you to tell him what stupid thing you did that time.
âYou and Ryland are literally the same age.âÂ
âOh my god, just answer the question.â
Fine. You often thought what would have happened between you and Ryland if you actually addressed that weird little shift at the party that made things feel slightly less platonic. You just assumed you were the only one who felt the shift.Â
And when you hadnât spoken for so long, you often wondered who Ryland was dating, whether heâd be a good boyfriend, and sure you thought about what it would be like for you to have had the chance to date him specifically. And yes maybe you stalked his socials, staring a little too long at his terrible selfies. But Ryland had been your best friend for so long, and you didnât have time to think about the consequences of that. And you werenât going to start thinking about that now that you finally broke the tension.
âNo. I guess I just never thought about him like that.â You lied, and he let you leave it at that.
âCan I tell you about Jody?â Colt asked, sighing really lovesick.Â
You squealed excitedly and snuggled up beside him on the bed like old times ready to hear the story of his latest crush.
Two
In preparation for your date Ryland offered to share some of his beer beforehand, and obviously you agreed. Despite the reluctant excitement you could hear in his voice.Â
When you arrived, Ryland had the lights down low, and two bottles of beer on the coffee table. You had to admit, the candle he lit when you sat down was a little too romantic for someone you swore was your best friend, but after all you were preparing for a date.Â
You laughed as you sipped on your beer, a response to one of his corny science jokes, you were both now sat on the ground in front of his couch.
âWait, we should be practicing your answers for the questions they ask on first dates.â
âGod no, please donât subject me to this.â
Ryland chuckled, he crossed his legs scooting closer to you, he brushed his shoulder against yours.
âCome on! Youâre going to have to answer these questions anyway when you seeâŚwhatâs his name again?â Ryland asked, taking his glasses off to think.
You rolled your eyes, you had told Ryland your dates name a total of five different times days leading up to the date. Your friend from work proposed that you go on a blind date with her brother, she had sent you a photo of a guy twice your age in a golfing quarter zip and khaki pants, apparently a professor at the college, not the university, with a Masters and a PhD in communications.
âEthan.â
âRight. Youâre going to have to answer Ethanâs questions.â
You placed your beer bottle down on the coffee table and turned slightly more to look at Ryland fully, placing your hands in your lap. Ryland placed his glasses back in front of his eyes.
âFine, letâs hear them.â
âWhat do you do for work?â Ryland asked, squinting his eyes, pretending to not know the answer.
You giggled.
âHey, take this seriously.â Ryland teased.
You sighed, lifting your shoulders up and then down in defeat.
âUh I work in journalism, I went to school for Communications.â
Ryland put his hand on his chin in pretend thought.Â
âHave you done any postgrad education?â Ryland asked.
You furrowed your eyebrows, why was he proposing this question?
âRy, heâs not going to ask that.â
âHe might.â Ryland said, shrugging. âEspecially since heâs a professor.â
âAnd if I explain that I dropped out of my Masters programâŚ?âÂ
Ryland went silent, your goofy scene practice came to an end. A question you had been wanting to ask him since you became friends again entered your mind, one you had been holding back for months.
âDo you think less of me because I couldnât finish my Masters program?â You asked, accusingly.Â
Ryland looked at you with confusion spreading across his face, he stood up, you followed suit, as he grabbed your beer bottles and placed them on the kitchen island, the case of beer sitting there too, ready to be dove into.
âWhy are you asking me this right now? I thought we were having a good time.â
âHey, Iâm just practicing those first date questions you talked about!â You yelled sarcastically.
When he didnât answer right away, you scoffed.Â
âOf course I donât think any less of you, Iâm only happy to have you back in my life.â Ryland responded, his back facing you.
You shook your head, he turned around, another beer in hand, afterall he was well trained with his responses.
âYou were happy you were right, you couldnât admit it in the hospital, but you can admit it now.â You moved your hands to emphasize each point, your gaze punctuated on his.
Ryland scoffed back, stepping closer to you, his arms crossing defensively, beer still hanging in his hand.
âIf I remember correctly then I know you missed two years of our friendship because you were way too stubborn to admit that you were tired.â He rambled, his hands moving back and forth between you two for a second to display his point.
âYou know that isnât fair. You chose a PhD program in a different city. Youâre the one who left.â
âAnd I asked you to come with me!â
You felt leftover rage overcome you. This was something you shouldâve addressed months ago in the hospital, but didnât for Coltâs sake. But then you were addressing it for your sake. You had forgotten for a second what it was like to not have Ryland in your life, purposely, to suppress the loss you felt for those two years.Â
Deep down, you had known Ryland was right. You had been suffering from burnout your entire academic career, you had been pushing yourself to the limit, because you swore all you wanted to do was be an expert in your field. Even if that meant it was killing you. And in the end it did kill you.Â
âWhat the hell do you think youâre going to talk about on this date anyway? He wears khakis and goes golfing!â He quipped. âSurely Ethanâs not interesting enough for you to be spending even a minute of your time with â god forbid all night.â
You couldnât believe where this conversation was going. You looked away from him in anger.
âWell what guyâ if not this guyâ would you rather me spend all night with?â You asked.
A silence rushed over you both, and you had the stupid thought that maybe Ryland was suggesting he was the guy you spend all night with. And when you finally turned back to look at him the only thing you saw on his face was regret, like maybe he had realized he had said something he shouldnât have.
âYou know what? You canât even say anything. You havenât been on a date in years.â You grumbled.
âNobody is as interesting asââ Ryland stopped himself, before swallowing. âI havenât had the time.â
You nodded, and grabbed your coat that was by the door, and Ryland went back to the couch as if acknowledging some kind of surrender. You stood there, lingering. Your date was at 7:00pm.Â
âIâm gonna go.â You whispered.
Ryland turned to look at you from his green couch. He shifted his leg to cross over the other, and rested his arm on the back of the couch, his hand drifting to hold his head.Â
He gave you a very specific Ryland smile, the one that he gave you when he was trying to be supportive, but maybe wasnât entirely. You could read Ryland as much as he could read you, he could hardly notice it.Â
He muttered a simple, âGoodluckâ, and you smiled politely. An uncertain feeling, telling you that you needed to stay right there, flowed into your stomach. You ignored it.Â
Ryland picked up a book hiding under the coffee table, and began to read.
You walked out the door and realized Ryland was right. Ethan wasnât interesting enough for you to spend all night with. Because instead, you texted him to cancel, grabbed a pint of icecream on your walk back to your apartment and facetimed Colt to cry about your argument with Ryland.
You cried as you scooped ice cream into your mouth, already twenty minutes into your rant to Colt â who was staring at you in fear from the other end.
âYou guys need to call this a wrap. I mean this happened so long ago,â Colt whined. âNot that your feelings arenât valid, or I donât know. Why are you calling me for this type of thing? I canât even sort out my own issues with Jody.â
You ignored Coltâs talking, and continued your rant.
âOh and he had the audacity to say that my date wasnât going to be interesting enough!â
âYou cancelled the date!â Colt yelled.
âYea well, only because he isnât really my type.â
Coltâs eyes squinted before he gasped, and his eyes widened.
âOh my god. Is Ryland your type? Heâs totally your type.â
You stopped scooping ice cream into your face, and whined.
âUgh, no, Iâm hanging up in response to you even suggesting that.â
Colt rolled his eyes before you hung up and threw your phone across the room.
Three
You often wondered why you didnât just take Rylandâs advice years ago and moved in with him. Now it had been 9 months since you and Ryland had been reunited, and you were basically living at Rylandâs apartment half the time anyway.Â
After resolving the argument a couple months back, you finally started to stay over most nights of the week, had a spare key, and yet still paid rent for your apartment you stayed in on and off.Â
You spent hours on his small green couch, chatting with him, and watching his TV, cuddled up and giggling â like you always used to do. It's also where youâd sleep, a lot of the timeâs in his hoodies that youâd secretly smell because you loved the cologne he wore.Â
Heâd make you breakfast in the kitchen before work, and if you were working from home, you would sit in his living room typing away at your laptop writing your latest article.Â
It felt natural, normal, like you were finally back with your best friend. Like everything that made you pull away from him in the first place was finally gone.
But there were moments that you couldnât ignore that had you questioning what it would be like to actually live with him, not just an occasional house guest. You thought maybe you could spend the rest of your life being fed eggs by Ryland, and you were too afraid to ask what that meant. But you had been sharing clothes with Ryland since college, so why now did it mean more?
âIâm borrowing a shirt.â You yelled in Rylandâs general direction.
âOkay.â He responded. âI already knew youâd want to, I ironed all of them yesterday.â
You giggled a little, picturing Ryland ironing shirts tediously, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as if he was working on his dissertation or looking at a slide under a microscope.Â
You were in Rylandâs bedroom, sifting through his shirts, trying to figure out which one to wear that night, which ones would match the kind of jeans you were wearing.Â
You heard knocking at Rylandâs apartment door, more like banging actually, and you heard the couch shift as Ryland got up.
âI got it!â Ryland called.
âItâs probably Colt! He said heâd stop by and weâd grab dinner, remember?â
Your question was answered when you heard Coltâs booming voice enter the room. You rushed to put on one of Rylandâs buttonups and rushed into the main room. When you spotted Colt you rushed to give him a giant hug. He lifted you off the ground and you laughed as he set you down. He ruffled your hair and sent you a giant grin.
âIs that Rylandâs shirt?â Colt asked.
Ryland turned to you, he pulled his glasses down in front of his eyes, and you watched him stare at you for a moment, a smile forming on his lips. You smiled at the sight of him in his stupid fox cardigan. You felt that shift again, from years ago pulling at the air in front of you both. You had the foresight to recognize you were blushing and awkwardly shifted one your feet.
âYea, I havenât done laundry yet.â You explained.
You shrugged and Ryland stepped toward you and rolled up the sleeves. His hands grazing your skin, this too now feeling exactly how it felt years ago at that party. Â
Somehow, these things as simple as borrowing clothes, fixing each otherâs outfits, touching each otherâs skin, felt like it was meaning something more. How stupid of you it would be to assume that heâd felt it too. You felt weirdly purplish about the situation, sad and yet full of desire you maybe werenât sure you were ready to unpack just yet.
âThatâs because they havenât gone back to their place in five days.â Ryland explained.Â
âWell it looks good on you.â Colt complimented. âNot thatânot that it doesnât look good on you Ry, although I will say you dress too much like a professor. Not that thatâs bad I mean you technically are a teaching assistantââ
âOh my god.â Ryland groaned. âYou over think it too much and thatâs coming from me.âÂ
Colt laughed, and stopped talking. You gave him a curt smile. You had to admit the compliment came from the brother you didnât want it to come from. But youâd take it.
âThanks.â
âOkay, Iâm going to send my paper over to my supervisor, and then weâre ready to go.â Ryland said, turning to Colt.Â
Colt nodded, walking into the kitchen away from you both. He stood beside the kitchen island, noticing the way you and Ryland gravitated toward each other. He knew you made Ryland the happiest heâd ever seen him.Â
Ryland struggled a lot to make friends growing up, Ryland struggled a lot because he was as Colt would call him âa huge nerdâ, and suddenly when Ryland met you in college, you were all he could talk about, he knew you offered a space where he could be himself unapologetically. It helped that you were both huge nerds. Then when Colt met you in the theatre class you both had to take for your degree as a public speaking requirement, he knew he was going to love you too. So much so he allowed you to write an article all about his experience as a stuntman for one of your feature pieces.
Colt decided to look around the apartment, he didnât visit a lot and wanted to snoop and take it all in. He made a detour to the bathroom, away from the kitchen.
Ryland placed a hand on your back before leaning down and saying,
âBy the way, the shirt looks better on you than it ever did me.âÂ
You blushed unintentionally and all of a sudden Ryland got very smug, a smirk appearing on his face, until the shyness came through and he bowed his head and walked into his room, closing the door, before even letting you mutter a response, as if he thought he said something stupid. The way he reacts when he tells you fun facts and regrets it immediately even though you love hearing them.
âWow!â Colt exclaimed.
You turned around startled, remembering Colt was there amidst the interaction with Ryland. He was standing at the bathroom doorway having just peaked inside.
âWhat?âÂ
âWowâŚitâs like nowâŚa tooth brush, a coat, a pair of shoes, they all come in doubles!â Colt said, sarcastically. âI mean seriously, itâs almost like two people live here.â
You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.
âI donât live here, I just spend the night sometimes.â
Colt gave you the same look Ryland gave you, and you laughed out loud at the brothersâ mannerisms.
âFive nights each week is what I heard last I called.â
âYea, itâs no big deal.â You replied, playing with the front of your shirt.
âYou like him donât you?â Colt said, accusingly, like a middle schooler asking another middle schooler about their crush.
âUgh you are so odd!â You yelled, a weak reply, thankful Ryland couldnât hear.
Colt started poking you and you squealed as he chased you around the room.
Four
You had proposed to your editor that you go to the UNESCO conference instead of your science writer and report back all the scientific findings and research done that year in a pitch meeting.Â
You had just been recovering from your boss's harsh attitude after a series of failed articles when you pitched it. When your boss said yes, handing the piece to you, you were beaming with excitement. You were given two press badges, which meant you decided you were absolutely going to sneak Colt in to watch his brothers panel.Â
So there you were, sitting on a folding chair in the front row of all the other press guys, scribbling in your tiny spiral notebook. Your press badge displayed proudly, and you recording device tucked in your other hand intently.
Colt had been watching beside you for about thirty minutes before he decided he wanted to go find the refreshments table in the hallway.Â
Ryland was arguing with another scholar about waterbased lifeforms or something, the only time you had seen his glasses stayed firmly on his face. You didnât entirely know what any of it meant, but youâd know Ryland would fill you all in once you were done.
God you were so glad you werenât still in academia.Â
âLook, there is nothing special about hydrogen and oxygen. Water is required for life on Earth, sure. But a completely different planet might have completely different conditions! I donât know why that makes me such a nut.â Ryland explained, his lips pressed close to the microphone.
âNo one in your field wants anything to do with you because you refuse to back down from a very unpopular view Dr. Grace.â The other scholar with an accent replied.Â
Your mouth fell open as you looked up from your notebook, you stopped your scribbling as Ryland caught his eyes with yours for a second.Â
âAnd youâre a staggering waste of carbon.â Ryland mumbled into the microphone.Â
There were audible gasps in the ground. Press was going wild, you had to admit this was a press worthy story now.Â
You watched as the moderators went to silence the crowd, directing everyone on the panel to leave, ending it early for damage control.Â
When Ryland stepped down from the panel stage, he found you in the front row. He was staring at you intensely, like he was mortified. You stopped your recording device and stood up to punch his shoulder gently.
âRy, that was so badass.â You excitedly claimed, you shoved your things back into your pockets, now hands free.
Ryland grabbed your hand quickly.
âLetâs go.âÂ
âOkay letâs find Colt-â
You didnât have time to ask why, or where you were going. You didnât even have time to scan the room for Colt, because Ryland was tugging you out the room and into the hallway, navigating through the crowd that was beginning to form around you.Â
âRy, where are we going-â
Ryland turned you both around the corner, spotting a supply closet.Â
âGet in.â Ryland instructed.
âWhat? Youâve gotta be kidding me.â
Ryland sighed frustrated.
âQuick!âÂ
âOkay okay!â
He opened it and you stepped inside before he did. He closed the door fast. It was tight, there was no light, just complete darkness. You were literally standing on Rylandâs feet to fit into the room, and you felt yourself wobble. You were about to fall toward the wall before Ryland caught you, his hands on your hips. It was kinda hard not to be close in a situation like that.
âRyland?âÂ
âYea?â
âWhy exactly are we in a supply closet right now?âÂ
âI donât know, but I definitely shouldnât have called that guy âa staggering waste of carbonâ.âÂ
You laughed hysterically, breaking the brief silence at his words.Â
âYouâre embarrassed? Really? That was the most epic thing Iâve ever seen. Itâs going in my article.â
âOh god no.â Ryland groaned.
âOh come on, you force me to be in a tiny supply closet with you, and I get to write about what you said today.â
Ryland couldnât answer, you started to feel something crawling up your leg and you screamed.Â
You went to swat whatever it was off of you, you were pretty sure it was a spider, but it was kinda hard to see in total darkness.Â
You yelled jumping up, and Ryland was quick to pull you closer into his chest, away from your side of the room where the spider was. His hands rubbed soft circles into your lower back, the touch sent undeniable sparks up your spine. And you instinctively grabbed onto his shoulders.
And he had the audacity to laugh.
âAre you seriously laughing at me right now? There was a spider!âÂ
âItâs just funny how afraid of them you are.â
âMay I remind you, that youâre the one hiding in a closet from a scholar youâre afraid of.â You argued. âBesides, it wasnât even that bad. Youâre right you know, we canât possibly assume all life forms in our universe are water based. He is a staggering waste of carbon for assuming so.âÂ
âYou think so?â
âYea, I do, donât doubt yourself.â You replied.Â
âYou can use what I said in your article.âÂ
âThanks.â You mumbled insanely aware of Rylandâs body heat. Â
Your hands went back down from his shoulders to grab on his biceps, and you asked yourself why on earth you didnât notice how attractive his arms were earlier? If there was a light in that closet youâd turn it on to look at them. God you were pathetic, all you needed was close proximity, or maybe you just hadnât been laid in a while.Â
âI think weâll be in the clear in a couple more minutes.â Ryland mused, interrupting your inner debate. âThey usually clear out into other panels or peel back to their hotels.âÂ
You nodded finally relaxed, well as relaxed as you could be cramped inside a dark closet. You planted your feet on the ground in between his, your faces were close together and your pelvis was so close to his that you let yourself imagine what it would feel like to roll them into his.Â
You could feel his breath on your cheek, his glasses grazing the side of your face, and when you attempted to move your head, you felt him breathe in, his stubble brushing against your skin.Â
Rylandâs hands shifted to grab your waist, steadying you and the silence that overcame you both felt like it was the first definitive sign that your dynamic was really shifting, that you werenât crazy.Â
You couldnât see Rylandâs face, but you couldnât stop wondering if he was looking at you expectantly. You might even consider, doing something stupid, and leaning up to-
Suddenly the door popped open and the light from the hallway streamed in. Colt was standing outside, a cookie in his hand, his eyes wide in confusion.Â
You separated out of Rylandâs arms and jumped out of the supply closet. You couldnât even begin to think about what that all meant because Ryland was muttering something about returning his conference badge, before he stepped out of the closet and left down the hallway.
Colt looked at you, his eyes squinting.
âHow did you find us?â You asked.
Colt laughed, like it was the funniest thing ever.
âYou know that multiple people saw you getting into this supply closet right? This building is literally full of people.â
âHey this wasnât my idea, it was your brothers.âÂ
âYea that checks out, heâs like never fully aware of his surroundings.â Colt laughed.Â
He chuckled to himself, taking a bite of his cookie. He looked at you up and down again, before looking at the closet, and you watched as he formed puzzle pieces in his head.
âOh my godâdid you and Rylandââ
Your eyes widened at the innuendo.
âNo, we were hiding from that stupid scholar Ryland name called!â
Colt nodded, sending you a wink, punching your shoulder.
âRight. âHidingâ. I understand.â He teased.Â
âUgh I hate you!â You whined, before storming off to find Ryland again. Â
Colt cringed, regretting his joke, he turned around ready to do damage control.Â
âY/n, I'm sorry, I shouldnât have made that joke!â Colt called after you as he rushed behind you.Â
Five
When Colt had facetimed you one day after work to tell you he and Jody were engaged that was no surprise to you. Jody and Colt were perfect together, of course in the beginning Colt had a bit of trouble expressing his feelings towards her, but in the end it all ended up fine. Now it had been a whole year since they got back together. They were both equally infatuated with each other, they shared the same jokes, they worked in the same field, everything about their relationship was what you wanted.Â
However, when Colt told you he and Jody were inviting you and Ryland to their engagement getaway in Bora Bora that did surprise you. Although after a thought, you realized how very Colt the whole trip was.Â
Colt said it was just going to be the four of you at a luxury hotel covered entirely by them, and Coltâs main interest specifically was the tiki bar â which made you roll your eyes. You had agreed to go, but were worried about Jody. You had met her only a handful of times, and you couldnât tell if she liked you or not.Â
All of that to say you were stressed. You were trying to be normal about it.Â
You were going on vacation â you were being invited on Colt and Jodyâs engagement trip, alongside your best friend Ryland, who you were probably, secretly, in love with. What could possibly go wrong?
When you arrived in Bora Bora on the first day, you couldnât believe your eyes. Of course you were recovering from the flight, and the seasickness you had experienced. Everything was surrounded by a gorgeous shade of blue water, the mountains were magnificent, and you were all staying in little huts along a huge boardwalk.
Ryland accidentally drops his glasses off the deck and they take their clothes off to dive for them
âRyland, Y/n! You made it!â Jody squealed as she ran toward you.
She pulled you and Ryland into a group hug, ignoring the dufflebags swung both over your shoulders, you and Ryland let out a gasp at her tight grip. You stood there letting her hug you both stood on the boardwalk leading to the resort. You and Ryland pulled back, and you sent Jody an awkward smile.
âCongratulations!â Ryland exclaimed, he fixed his glasses that Jody made askew during the hug.Â
âYea, congrats! Show me the ring, please!â You begged.
Jody held her hand out to you, showing you the perfect wedding band. Colt had gone all out, and for the right reason, that was her person. You wondered whether youâd have one of your own one day.Â
âThatâs awesome.â Ryland spoke, taking in the ring too.
Jody pulled her hand back, and sighed happily.
âThank you so much for inviting us, I mean wow, this must have cost you guys a fortune.â You mumbled.
âDonât mention it,â Jody said, waving her hand dismissively. âCome come, Colt is swimming at the beach around there before dinner, letâs meet him and then head to dinner.â
You watched Jody point her hand to the end of the boardwalk, where the water became deeper. The sun was starting to go down, you werenât surprised, all the travel was well spent.Â
You all walked toward the end of the boardwalk, and you and Jody walked a little ahead of Ryland. You both seemed to be naturally fast walkers. There was another awkward moment of silence before Jody said,
âYou know, Colt says wonderful things about you.âÂ
You turned to her, her blonde hair reflecting in the sun, her blue eyes scanning your face, as she smiled wrinkles formed at the corners of them. You knew at that moment Jody was as lovely as Colt had told you. Just by a simple statement like that.
âLikewise.â You whispered.
âHe wants you to be his best man, or I guess best person, alongside Ryland.â Jody explained. âOf course thatâs up to you.â
Your heart melted at the thought of Colt planning out his wedding, and picturing you as his best person. You beamed in pride.Â
When Colt had told you he was dropping out of university to pursue stuntwork, you thought he was a fucking idiot. But he had proved you wrong, and you watched every single movie he was featured in. When Colt told you about his crush on Jody, you couldnât believe how stupid he was being. But there you were, in their engagement trip. You were unbelievably proud of Colt, even though he drove you crazy.
âHow were your travels, you know, with that one?â Jody asked, pointing her thumb behind you both at Ryland.
You laughed, as you all continued your walking. The boardwalk creaking under your feet.
âGood. Ryland was very patient with me.â
It was true Ryland had known you werenât a very good traveler. You were afraid of flying, so he held your hand the entire flight, only letting go to force you to eat the airplane food. He navigated you both around your second airport during your connecting flight. He rubbed your back when you threw up over the side of the boat â the first time you discovered you got seasick.Â
It was things like that, that made it harder for you to deny that you were melting into Ryland, that you were falling for his kindness, that you couldnât imagine yourself spending time with anyone besides him. It made you regret not moving with him to New Jersey all those years ago in the first place.Â
âNot a fan of travel?â Jody asked.
You shrugged, tilting your head side to side slightly.
âI like it when Iâm at the destination, I just hate the process of getting there.â
Jody laughed.
When you got to the far end of the boardwalk, you and Ryland dropped your duffel bags on the deck and you peered into the water. Colt was smiling, he was swimming, he waved at you before he pulled himself up on the deck again to sit beside you. You all lowered yourself to sit beside Ryland.Â
âIt is so good to see you two! Iâm getting married to the most beautiful woman, and weâre celebrating on an island, with a Tiki Bar!â Colt exclaimed, punctuating his points.
You all laughed, and Colt leaned over to kiss Jody on the cheek.
âHim and his Tiki Bar.â Jody said, rolling her eyes.Â
âI think our rooms should be ready, they are the huts closest to this side of the boardwalk.â Colt said, drying his hair with a towel.
He looked like a wet dog, you loved how happy he looked in the sun. Like a child. Moments like those made you wish you had grown up with Ryland and Colt. Instead of just âgrowing upâ together in college.
Colt pointed at two huts behind you about a couple steps away. The first one was smaller than the second one, probably because their hut had only one bedroom.
âWhy donât me and Colt get dressed for dinner, you can both drop your bags in your room, and weâll meet you at the dining hut?â Jody suggested.Â
You all nodded your head and Colt and Jody stood up and walked hand in hand away from you. You and Ryland sat shoulder to shoulder, taking in the view.Â
âItâs so nice, seeing him so happy.â Ryland whispered. âWhen he first told me about stunt work, I was so worried.â
The sun reflected on the water, you both swung your feet over the deck in unison. You turned your head to take him in, the tiredness under his eyes from all the traveling becoming evident. You wanted to hold his face, and hold him to sleep. Something you had never done before.
âBecause of the injuries?â You asked.
Ryland pulled his glasses to hang below his chin.Â
âYes thatâŚbut also I think because I was worried heâd be lonely.â
You thought about it for a moment. You guess you had been worried about the same thing.
âYou and Colt are so different, but you still had each other.â You reassured him.Â
Ryland went to say more, went to pull his glasses over his eyes, but they fell off his face and he scrambled to catch them, but it was too late they had fallen into the water, you were watching them sink into the blue.Â
You didnât even think twice when you saw Rylandâs shocked face, one of amusement, and also concern. You knew he was trying to be chill and not make a big deal out of what had just happened, but you also knew that he needed his glasses, to finish the book in his suitcase, that the glasses had been a gift from Colt. Coltâs first paycheque â paying for Rylandâs eyeglasses instead of going through insurance, a luxury for Ryland who was making minimum wage.
You scrambled to pull your shirt off and Rylandâs arm went in front of you to stop you. You moved it away and stood up, pulling your shorts off leaving you in nothing but your underwear and barefeet. You might have been insanely down bad, or just straight up insane, but you jumped off the deck and into the water with a big splash, and dove down into the water. The water was deep, you couldnât stand in it, but not too deep you couldnât see or reach the bottom.
When you saw his glasses on the bottom, you grabbed them and pushed yourself to the surface with your feet. You gasped for air, your head popping out of the water, and raised your hand showing Ryland his glasses.
âAre you crazy? You didnât need to do that!â Ryland shouted.
You swam closer to the edge of the deck where Ryland was still sitting. You handed him the glasses, and he put them on top of his head like a headband instead of in front of his eyes.Â
âYes I did.â You heaved in exhaustion. âYou canât read without them.â
Ryland reached to grab your hand, pulling you out of the water onto the deck beside him again. You were completely soaked, your wet knees grazed his dry bare knees under his shorts. You didnât let go of his hand as he looked you in the eyes, a look you couldnât decipher for the first time.Â
âYou just jumped into the ocean to save my worthless glasses.â
You shrugged, allowing yourself to melt into his warmth, only slightly.
âThey arenât worthless, Colt gave them to you, I know how important that is.â
Ryland reached over and raised his hand to swipe your wet hair out of your face. His gaze shifted to your mouth. You both let out a fit of giggles.
âYou are crazy, but I like that.â Ryland simply responded.
Your hair felt like seaweed, and you were undressed in front of your best friend for the first time. You didnât like how he was looking at you, not because you hadnât considered it, but because you were afraid of admitting that your stubbornness wasnât letting you have him in that way.Â
You cleared your throat and pulled yourself away from him.
âI guess Iâd like to get dressed before we go to dinner.â You laughed.
Ryland chuckled.
âYou did just get soaking wet, so I think thatâs fair.â
You grabbed your clothes and stood up, following Ryland to your hut.
When you and Ryland got inside you and he took in the place. It was a luxury resort for sure. You and Ryland set your duffle bags down in the âliving roomâ area.Â
You had white bedding, flowers in a vase, a small area with a couch, and the bathroom was gorgeous with a massive bathtub. When you stepped into the next room, expecting your beds, your heart dropped as you saw it. One king sized bed in the middle of the room, two bedside tables and a lamp.Â
You swore to god Colt had something to do with this.Â
âHey, I mean it could be worse.â Ryland replied to your grumble, having heard your swearing.Â
âHow so?â You asked.
âWell, we could have no couch.â
You nodded, realizing what he was saying. Ryland was right, you slept on the couch at his apartment all the time anyway, you hadnât ever slept in a bed with him before, even in college. And there was no way you were going to start now, especially when you were trying to hide the feelings you suspected you had for him, and were trying to get rid of.
âI guess thatâs true, I could take the couch.â
âWe can alternate.â Ryland suggested.Â
He was always the one good with solutions. You nodded agreeing.
âOkay. You take the bed tonight.â
âAre you sure?â Ryland asked.
You nodded, sending him a smile which he reciprocated. You could already feel an uncomfortable tension forming between you two.
âIâll get dressed then we can head to dinner.â You replied, picking clothes out of your suitcase.
You went to head toward the bathroom, your bare feet moving against the hardwood.
âHey,â Ryland called, gently.
âYea?â You asked.
âThanks for getting my glasses.â He said, taking them off and putting them on the bedside table.
âOf course.â
Jody, you and Ryland all had a fantastic dinner. You had been sitting outside, on a patio beside the water, candles lit on all the tables around you, since it was dark. The sky was clearer than ever revealing stars you probably couldnât see if you were in a city at the very moment.Â
You celebrated their engagement, and Colt and Jody were pleasantly surprised when the waiters brought them a celebratory dessert. It distracted you from how romantic this all would be if it was just you and Ryland. You all chatted and laughed and only when the dinner ended did you feel a sense of dread wash over you.Â
So when Jody and Ryland mentioned heading to bed and Colt asked you to join him at the Tiki bar you immediately said yes. Avoiding the tension for as long as you could.
You ordered something fruity, the same drink as Colt. And when it arrived in a Tiki cup you expected an excited squeal from Colt, which is exactly what happened.
âOnly Colt Seavers would choose a resort with a Tiki bar.â
Colt lifted his drink towards you.
âHey, I deserve it after what a shit year itâs been.âÂ
âI heard you want me to be your best person.â You whispered.
Colt visibly got nervous.
âIf thatâs okay with you, I mean if youâd rather be Jodyâs best person, or if youâd rather just be a guest orââ
âColt. Youâre my best friend. Of course I canât just be just another guest. Iâll be your best man. Or best person whatever you wanna call me.âÂ
âThank god. I was so nervous to ask you.â Colt let out a relieved sigh.
You took the moment of silence to hit him on the shoulder hard, Colt winced and you glared at him, pulling your drink toward you.Â
âWhat? We were having a moment!âÂ
âYou put us in a hut with only one bed on purpose, didnât you?â You accused.
Colt huffed, playing with his paper umbrella.
âI have no idea what youâre talking about, mustâve been a mistake with the booking.â He said, feigning innocence.
âYou are making this so much harder than it needs to be!â You whined.
Colt gawked at you, the chatter around the bar dimming down as people headed back to bed.
âWhat are you talking about? I donât know why youâre whining honestly, you are sharing a hut on a tropical island with an attractive man.â Colt argued.Â
âNever mind. Letâs just talk about something else.â You argued back, juvenile.Â
âNo. Tell me honestly. Just you and me. Do you have feelings for Ryland? Do you feel how I think you feel?â Colt asked, the most serious you had ever seen him.
It was strange to you that in moments like this, you could tell which expressions were unique to Colt, that were acquired by Ryland and which expressions Colt was missing from the ones Ryland had taken on from being away from Colt for years.Â
You could barely manage your words, feeling already as though they betrayed your truth. You looked down at the ridiculous drink in front of you, stirring it with your straw, plucking out the paper umbrella and placing it on the bar.
âNo, no I do not.âÂ
You felt as if you were speaking in the tone of a Jane Austen character who was denying something everyone could see was so obvious. Maybe that was and had been the case for so long. Maybe Ryland wasnât the only one who could read you.
âYou keep saying that, but you wanna know what I think?â Colt asked, he took a sip from his straw.
âWhat do you think?â You asked.Â
âI think youâve already fallen for him. And thatâs hard for you to admit because itâll be the first time you realize that you are becoming inspired by something other than your own stubbornness.âÂ
+1.
When you and Colt headed back to your huts, you tried to shrug off what had just been said. Maybe Colt was right, but now wasnât the time to bring it up.Â
You pushed open the door, closing it behind you as you walked through the darkness. You spotted the couch, Ryland must have grabbed a blanket from the closet or something, because there was a pillow and blanket tucked in to make a makeshift bed.
You headed to the bathroom past the bedroom, peeking in to notice Ryland facing the other way under the covers. You brushed your teeth, and headed back to the âliving roomâ couch.Â
As you got settled under the blanket, you tried to fall asleep. You closed your eyes and tried to relax. But you couldnât stop thinking about what Colt said. You had to admit he was pretty damn accurate. You had been falling for Ryland for years.Â
Ryland was one of the only people you thought about consistently when you woke up in the morning, and he was the last person you thought about before you fell asleep. Your favorite memory involved Ryland bringing you your birthday cake â fully lit â on your birthday, and sending you a childlike smile without saying a word as he placed it down on the table in front of you.
You loved his stupid science facts, his ambition for his work, his kindness and his awkwardness, you thought he was killer with his floppy hair, youâd let him take you anywhere. Everything that made him him was exactly the kind of person you imagined yourself being with.Â
You sat up at the thought, your heart beating fast. Surely this could wait for the morning.
You sighed as you tried yet again to fall asleep, but the thought of staying on that vacation in that little hut for a moment longer without knowing how he felt grasped you.Â
You sat up and pulled the covers off of you. If Ryland didnât feel the same, then surely you could fly back home, or beg Colt to get you another hut. You just needed to tell him.
You stepped quietly against the hardwood floor, and pushed the bedroom door open a little more. Before you could question if Ryland was still asleep, and maybe that this was a horrible horrible idea. Ryland groaned and turned over to face you, when he saw you, he turned back around and turned on the small lamp.
âCouldnât sleep?â Ryland asked, tiredly.
You nodded, still in the doorway.
âYea, uh, I feel like Iâm still on San Francisco time.âÂ
Ryland let out a quiet, âmmâ, and for a moment you both stayed there looking at each other like deer caught in headlights.
âCan I maybe join you?â
âIn bed?â Ryland asked, and you didnât miss the blush that spread across his face,
âI mean, itâs fine if not, weâve never really slept in the same bed together, butââ
âNo!â Ryland said a little too loud. âI mean no, itâs okay, get in.â Ryland pulled back the other side of the comforter.
You got in, laying down facing him. You both were at a hilarious distance from each other, looking at each other like animals in an exhibit not sure if you should interact. You let out a laugh.
âCan I come closer to you?â You asked.
Ryland simply nodded.Â
You moved closer to him, not daring to move your hands to touch him yet. Then you were practically nose to nose, your legs not touching though, and your hands awkwardly in front of you.
âI donât know why this is so awkward, I mean, we cuddle all the time.âÂ
You smiled at this response.
âThen cuddle me right now.â You demanded.
Ryland was very quick to grab onto you, pulling you close to his chest without hesitation. Your legs became intertwined, and one of your arms was around his shoulder, playing with his hair while the other was pressed against his chest. The feeling of Rylandâs face in your shoulder, under your chin, made you realize you never wanted to let him go.
Maybe that moment wasnât the moment to confess your feelings, but it just slipped out, the moment Rylandâs hand moved to run up and down your spine, sending shivers to your body,
âYou know, Colt was right all this time.â You confessed.
You shocked yourself at how brave you were being, how natural it was to begin saying it. Maybe it was the fact that you couldnât possibly know whether this would be the last time Ryland would hold you, you had no idea how he felt.
Ryland pulled back, looking at you with his drooping eyes, his hands still very much on your waist.
âAbout what?â
You gave him a smile that was your attempt at allowing him to read you. To say âabout how I like you you idiotâ, without having to say anything at all. When he didnât move, his expression softening to an almost discernable reflection, you spoke,
âAbout how I like you, how I wasâhow I am falling for you. I canât stop thinking about you.â
Ryland chuckled, and brought one hand to graze your face, to cup your cheek. His thumb rubbing softly against your skin.
âOf course he was right.â He mumbled.
You began pulling back, taking that as his rejection. But Ryland stopped you, looked you in your eyes softly, then back down to your lips for a second. He leaned his face down, so your noses were side by side, and he kissed your bottom lip softly. Just one solid long kiss, and your body relaxed, relieved, you took that as your invitation to deepen it. Smiling as he chuckled into your mouth as you leaned your head up a little more to chase after his lips.Â
Ryland was laughing when you pulled apart, and you could feel the burn his stubble applied to your skin. Your foreheads pressed together and he flipped you on your back, kissing you into the mattress, your hands tugging at his hair. In response, he kissed your neck, mumbling words you couldnât hear, only catching him say,
âI want you. Iâve wanted you for a long time.â He groaned.
You pulled him down so he was laying beside you again, kissing his forehead once, so he could really look at you.
âYou can have me, however you want. For as long as you want.âÂ
Rylandâs eyes lightened up, and he grinned sheepishly, ready to show you all the ways heâs wanted youâŚshow you how much you mean to himâŚhow much he was falling for you all these years and he was ready to do that, not just for one night on a tropical Island. But for the rest of his life.
âI know everyone changes, but I know nothing will change the way I feel about you.â He replied.
Your heart melted at his words, and he pulled you back into his arms, sleepily running your hands in his hair, as he let out a happy sigh, sleep overtaking the both of you.
They/Them used for reader , mentioned child not having a father figure || domestic fluff, no cws || long-form version of this fic idea
â 2k words
Summery: your son has always had trouble in school, one teacher has managed to change that. He's ended up changing you, too.
A/N : this one's been in the works for a minute! Let me know if yall prefer longer fics like this or the shorter ficlets/ideas I post more regularly.
your son has always had trouble in school, he never had a proper father figure and tended to attach himself to male teachers. one in particular had caught his adoration since he started at Grover Cleveland middle; Mister Grace. Noah often came home rambling and raving about what they did in class that day or how mister Grace made things sound so easy to understand.
you were supportive, happy he had found a teacher who seemed to be on his wavelength as him who seemed to be a good teacher too. Noah would burst through the front door, backpack half-unzipped and shoes barely kicked off, immediately launching into a story about something that had happened in science class.
"And then Mister Grace dropped the egg from the ladder and everyone thought it was gonna break, butâ" he had rambled, telling you all about the amazing demonstrations and lessons given by this mysterious mister grace.
The few times you'd interacted with Mister Grace at pickup or school events, he'd struck you as the sort of teacher who genuinely cared. A little disorganized, maybe. The type who always seemed to remember every students birthday, even when he's forgot where he'd left his coffee. Still attentive. Engaged.
You met him properly for the first time at parent teacher conferences. He greeted you with a smile and pulled out a little file of Noah's work from the quarter, a little yellow sticky note sitting on top of it. "Ah! Here we are" he flipped through papers precariously until he found what he was looking for "Noah's test scores are good, great even. He's always engaged in class and really one of my best kids" he grins, handing you one of Noah's assignments to look at; gold star sitting proudly at the top. He glances around, giving Noah a tense but kind smile "hey, buddy, you should show them your model, it should be with the rest of em" Noah lights up, excitedly rushing across the lab to find it.
As soon as Noah is out of earshot Mister Grace lowers his voice, frowning "I have a few concernsâNoah seems incredibly emotionally attached to some of his teachers, myself includedâ" he swallows hard "not that there's anything wrong with that! I'm just a little concernedâŚis everything okay at home?" Your cheeks flush, and you laugh awkwardly "ohâyeah he, doesn't really have a father figure yknow? Its just me at home so" you shrug helplessly "I'm sorry, he really looks up to you"
He frowns, nodding as he scribbles something down "I'm sorry to hear that, that's perfectly normal in kids his age" he smiles warmly at you as Noah comes back carrying a model of an atom made of pipe-cleaners and pompoms, showing it to you proudly rambling about each part and what they represent and to your delight Grace continued to encourage him.
As you and Noah left, Grace slid something into your palm as he shook your hand. his cell number, accompanied by a note reading "in case you and Noah need anything. or not. :)"
The number sat on your kitchen counter for nearly a week.
You weren't sure why you kept it.
Teachers gave parents their contact information sometimes. It wasn't strange. It wasn't inappropriate. Still, there was something about the little smiley face at the end of the note that made you hesitate every time you looked at it.
Then Noah got sick.
Nothing serious. Just a nasty fever that kept him home for three days. By the second afternoon he was miserable, sprawled dramatically across the couch beneath three blankets while cartoons played quietly on the TV.
"Can you tell Mister Grace I'm gonna miss the project presentation?" he groaned.
"I'll email the school."
"No," Noah insisted. "Mister Grace." You rolled your eyes. "You act like he's the president." "He'd answer faster."
You laughed despite yourself but that evening, while Noah slept, you found yourself staring at the number again. After a moment's hesitation, you typed out a quick message.
Hey. This is Noah's parent. Sorry to bother you. Noah's been home sick and wanted me to let you know he'll probably miss the project presentations tomorrow.
You expected nothing. Instead your phone buzzed barely thirty seconds later, like he had been waiting, you let yourself hope.
No bother at all. Tell him his project wasn't nearly ugly enough to earn an extension, but I'll give him one anyway.
You couldn't help smiling.
A second message followed.
How's he feeling?
The conversation should have ended there. Instead, somehow, it didn't. One message became two. Two became five. five became discussing Noah's science project, then school funding, then the terrible cafeteria food that apparently violated several laws of nature.
You found yourself laughing quietly in your kitchen at nearly eleven at night.
Ryland Grace was funny. Not in the polished way some people were. His humor seemed accidental, like he'd simply let every thought wander out of his mouth and somehow they all ended up entertaining.
You started texting often. More often than just checking in on Noah or asking for help with homework he was struggling with. Actually texting. Nearly every day you were talking to Ryland every chance you got, and he would respond in minutesâseconds if he was ableâit made you feel special.
He asked you out for coffee on a foggy Tuesday, that's what friends do right? Get coffee? You assumed it was friendly, it was your son's science teacher no way would you cross any professional boundaries with him. No matter how badly you want to.
The coffee shop sat tucked between a bookstore and a florist downtown, warm light spilling through fogged windows onto the damp sidewalk. By the time you arrived, Ryland was already there.
Of course he was.
He spotted you through the glass and nearly knocked over his own coffee trying to wave.You couldn't help laughing as you pushed through the door.
"That was smooth" you laugh "I know," he said gravely. "They love a man with zero spatial awareness."
What was supposed to be a quick coffee somehow became two. Then pastries. Then a conversation that drifted from Noah's science fair project to favorite movies, childhood disasters, weird students he'd taught over the years, corny jokes, and everything in between.
When the sky outside finally darkened and the coffee shop employees started stacking chairs, neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave. Still, eventually you found yourselves outside. The evening air was cool, carrying the smell of rain.
"Can I walk you to your car?" Ryland asked. Your heart immediately decided to become a problem. "Sure." The walk wasn't long. For someone who never seemed to stop talking, Ryland had gotten remarkably quiet.
You found yourself smiling. When you finally reached your car, neither of you moved to leave. There it was.
The awkward, impossible moment. The one that only happened in movies. Streetlights glowed softly through the fog. Ryland stood with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking suddenly unsure of himself.
"Well," he said.
"Well."
"That was fun."
"It was." Another pause. A longer one.
His eyes flickered down toward your mouth before immediately darting away. Your pulse stuttered. For one terrible, hopeful second, you thought he might kiss you. The possibility hung between you, fragile and terrifying.
Ryland took a small step forward. Then stopped. You could practically see the argument happening behind his eyes.
The war of professionalism, friendship, and the fact that you were the most captivating person he had ever met. You listened when he rambled, laughed at his stupid jokes, you even had some of your own to share. He adored you. And that was terrifying. If he had misread this as a date when it wasnt and you simply wanted to be friends, he could ruin his relationship with not only you, but one of his favorite students.
He wanted to have his cake and eat it too.
He stepped forward again, just a little and let his hands hover in the air "can Iâ" he clears his throat "I'm sorry can I kiss you?" He whispers, looking around as if to bolt as soon as the words leave his lips. "Yes" you plead "please" you bare get the words out before his lips are on yours, hands shakes and breathing hard but he's kissing you.
You pull back for air and he looks just as flustered as you, biting his lip to hold back a grin. "Uhm" he starts, small and afraid of sounding needy "drive safe. Maybe text me? So I know you got there in one piece? You don't have to, justâ" "I'll text you" you agree, climbing into the car.
You think about him the whole drive home.
Its 3 months in that Noah starts talking about it. "Mister Grace kept checking his phone today, can you believe that?" Or "Mister Grace is happier, I think he had a girlfriend" he would theorize, spinning on a bar-stool and completely unaware that the object of his theories was making his lasagna.
"Thats nice, sweetie, I'm happy for him" you dismiss despite the way your heart flutters and flips at the thought of you making him visibly happier.
6 months into the relationship, you decide you need to tell Noah. You tell him you've been seeing someone (he already figured this out, but now you've confirmed it) and that you wanted to introduce them, he was tentatively receptive as you assured him it would be okay if they didn't click.
Ryland arrived thirty minutes early, saying something about helping set up, and brought a bouquet of pink and white Chrysanthemumsâthe stems already cut and in inch deep water in a small vase with a baby blue bow tied around it.
You let him help you set the table, three plates, three cups, three forks. It felt so domestic, you could get used to this; fluidly moving through the kitchen with him by your side.
When everything is ready, you call for Noah, bracing preemptively for his reaction. You could tell Ryland was too, he loved Noah, really. He was a great kid and a good student, there was little not to love about the kid (or his parent).
Noah descended the stairs with little care, not so much as looking up from his phone until he reached the dining room, to which he was greeted by a smiling Ryland offering him a seat at the table. His phone slipped out of his hand and his jaw hit the floor "Mister Grace?!" He gaped, looking from you to Ryland to you again. You offer a sheepish smile. "Mister Grace is your boyfriend?!" It would have felt like an interrogation if it wasnt for the grin beginning to split your son's cheeks.
You had never seen Noah so lively at dinnertime, usually it was idle chatter about school or plans or nothing at all; his eyes never meeting yours. Now he was rambling, smile bright as he tried to very hard to make it clear he was happy about this development. Ecstatic even, his two favorite adults. Together. He loved it.
After dinner, Ryland stayed to help with dishes (to which he was shooed out of the kitchen) and chat with Noah for a while longer. It was nearly 10 by the time he finally left, with a Tupperware of leftovers and a promise to help Noah with his homework.
That night, you got a barrage of texts from Ryland, raving about how well it went and how much he adored the two of you. He insisted on repaying you and Noah for such a wonderful evening, though you insisted it wasnt necessary.
So you two made abstract plans to take Noah out somewhere, to dinner maybe or to do something. As long as it was with you Ryland didn't care what you did.
You knew it went well when the next morning, Noah looked a little sheepish at breakfast and asked, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, if you could have Mister Grace over for dinner again soon.
Yeah, you said, knowing entirely that it wouldn't even be a question to Ryland.
đđ. & đđđ. đđđđđ
part I part II
đđđđđŽđŤđ˘đ§đ ryland grace & fem!reader
đŹđ˛đ§đ¨đŠđŹđ˘đŹ you're the medic on the hail mary and come across a photo that must've slipped from your personal supplies which changes the entire dynamic between you and who you thought was your co-worker.
đ°đ¨đŤđ đđ¨đŽđ§đ 1.6k
đđŤđđđđ¨đŤâđŹ đ§đ¨đđ i CANNOT believe it has taken people this long to jump on the ryan gosling train. as always, i this nawt proof-read whatsoever #lewl. nerdy silly white boy with biceps, i want you.
you thought you had it all figured out.
well...most of it anyway.
you thought that you know who you are, why you're here, etcetera or whatever, but a single photograph you discovered that had slipped into a nook of the ship has single-handedly destroyed all of the progress you've made in terms of remembering yourself.
your breath shakes just as badly as your hands, and you feel a nervous pounding in your chest accompanied by a pattern of drums in your ears.
this photo can't be real.
you repeat your name in your head. you are an astronaut, and one hell of a doctor. you are on this ship to assist in completing a mission with your co-worker, ryland grace, the only other crew member to survive the journey's coma.
co-worker.
so why the hell are you staring at a photo of the two of you kissing.
there's a little more context to it though, which actually makes everything a hundred times worse.
there's an arch decorated with an array of lush white flowers that frames you both on a sunny spring day, grace is dipping you into the kiss, a beaming expression on each of your faces as he does so. he looks happy, so you look happy, and you're also dressed in a traditional white gown while grace is wearing a tailored suit, but not black, becauseâ
"black is boring," ryland uttered, elbow propped up onto your dining table while his chin rested on his fist. you looked up at him from your laptop where you were browsing websites to get him a suit.
"then don't wear black," you giggled. he reached for your left hand to toy with your fingers, eventually brushing a thumb over your engagement ring. "i thought you said you wanted 'traditional'," he teased.
you scoffed, "i did not say that!"
"you did say that."
"ryland."
"honey," he mocked with a smile. you grinned and smacked his hand away, tending back to your laptop.
"obviously if you don't want to do something, you don't have to do it. and i agree with you, black is boring."
ryland sighed dreamily, tilting his face into his palm after settling his elbow up onto the table again. "i love us. we're so compatible," he hummed.
you smiled shook your head a little in amusement, eyes still on your screen. "you're ridiculous."
"yeah, well, you're marrying me. probably makes you the ridiculous one."
ryland then wordlessly took the laptop from you to scroll through the options, then clicked on one of the sites. he scrolled a little more in silence, squinting slightly even though his glasses were right there that he could've put on. ryland clicked on the touchpad once more before turning the screen to you, dead serious.
"i want this one."
you blinked at the screen. he had pulled up one of the site's photos of one of their models showing off a tacky purple suit and an ugly gold tie, all pulled together by a matching purple fedora. your eyes flicked to your groom-to-be.
"now you're really being ridiculous."
"what's wrong with it?"
"you'll look like a pimp."
"nothing wrong with that," he shrugged.
you snatched your laptop back and deleted the tab with another smile and shake of your head. this time, he smiled back.
"i love you," he uttered.
you looked up again, lingering in those three words. he slid his hand towards you, palm facing the ceiling.
"i love you too," you murmured back.
you slid your hand into his, and ryland laced your fingers together, giving you a squeeze.
you thought you would carry on from there, but of course ryland had to open his mouth again; "even if i dress like a pimp?"
"oh my god."
the memory ended in a flash, and you dropped the photograph. looks like grace settled on a brown corduroy suit with a burgundy tie for a pop of colour. your own voice echoes in your head again; 'the brown will look nice in spring.', as does ryland's; 'i do look incredible in brown, don't i?'
you feel like your wedding ring is burning into your skin.
both you and grace knew you were married via your rings of course, you just couldn't remember who to yet, and it never occurred to either of you that it might've been to each other because why would it?
you take a deep breath, closing your eyes, before picking up the photo again to go find the supposed love of your life.
you navigated your way through the ship with a sense of urgency, photograph clutched in hand. when you heard a crash and a clumsy âuh-ohâ coming from the lab, you stopped by the doorway. suddenly the urgency disappeared. maybe this could wait until tomorr-
âwho goes there?â
graceâs chair creaks when he leans back to get a peek of you hiding behind the doorframe.
when you look at him now, it all comes together.
ever since the two of you woke up from the coma, thereâs been a gravitational pull that brings you two together. in terms of the mission, you operate in perfect unison and create such a steady flow that it makes everything feel oddly domestic. grace flicks a couple of switches there, you repair a part of the control panel here.
every time you both finish a task, itâs tradition to wrap it up with a high-five. however, one time when the two of you got too lost in the work, your fingers ended up intertwined and fell to your sides in a ten second hand-holding session where neither of you flinched.
as soon as the both of you realised, you each recoiled and spent a few beats staring at each other, marvelling at how natural the encounter felt like it was a subconscious effort. all grace could do was clear his throat and walk off, saying something about lunch.
âwell, well, look who decided to come back,â grace quips as he wipes down a piece of equipment with a cloth. his glasses are practically hanging off of his face as they so usually do.
âyâhad me thinkinâ you were going for a space walk.â
âgrace.â
âwithout a helmet.â
âgrace.â
âyeah?â
he finally looks up to see you holding out the photograph.
rylandâs hands freeze before he gently sets down the XRF analyser which looks to be like it was dropped in ramen water.
he rises from his chair, eyes refusing to peel away from the picture as he steps closer. he carefully plucks it from your fingers and slides his glasses onto his face properly to look down at it. white flowers, white dress, and a brown suit, because black is boring.
his head lifts back up to meet your nervous gaze.
âweâre married.â
it sounds like heâs saying it to himself rather than you.
you nod, trying to see through the blank stare heâs giving. dr. ryland grace, possibly one of the smartest men from earth has had his brain turned to mush by a photograph.
âyouâre myâŚweâre-â
âmarried, yes, i know,â you snap.
âoh my god."
he inhales.
"oh my god..."
he blinks.
he pauses.
"oh my god-"
"grace!" you plead.
"you're my wife, and we're-â
âyes, grace, weâre married. can you please say literally anything else?â
he takes a deep breath, then suddenly hands you the photo again to start pacing around in a circle with his hands on his hips.
âgraceâŚ?â
âyeah.â
âare you okay?â
he stops, facing away from you and rubs a hand across his face.
âumâŚâ he pivots to you on the spot, âi think so.â
you remain standing with your feet together, slightly curled in on yourself as you hold the photograph in front of you with two hands.
âdo youâŚremember anything?â
ryland settles both hands on top of each other on the back of his head, inhaling deeply. âiâm starting to,â he says with the exhale, âdo you?â
you nod. âbits and pieces.â
you drag your feet over to one of the lab tables and sit on the surface, staring down at the photo.
what now?
âi proposed to you at the beach,â ryland says.
you look up, and in his eyes, you see waves and a bright grey sky. you smile.
âyou did,â you hum, setting the photo down on the table next to you. âwhen you got on one knee, you were too close to the water and it washed up on you so your pants got soaked.â
you giggle at the sudden memory. ryland smiles, âi donât think i remember that partâŚâ
âyes you do, youâre just embarrassed,â you grin. âand you stayed on one knee to ask the question because you were too proud to admit you made a mistake even though i was laughing at you.â
youâre in a fit of giggles now, and ryland just chuckles as he approaches you. his eyes land on the two bands around your finger; your engagement ring, and the basic wedding ring that so clearly matches his now that he looks closer.
suddenly, he reaches for your hand, thumb grazing over the humble gemstone on the engagement ring. your favourite gemstone, he suddenly remembers.
he lets the tender moment pass, then carefully drops your hand to place his hands on his hips.
âlooks cheap. you probably deserve better.â
you give him a look before your eyes drop to the ring on your finger. you twist it a little, observing the gem from different angles.
ânoâŚitâs actually pretty perfect,â you decide.
ryland watches you over the rims of his glasses, his heart beating quicker when he catches the complete genuineness in your tone. his eyes flick back down to the photo next to you on the table.
âwe're really married, huh?"
you lift your head, gazing at him with a fond curiosity. what else could you learn to remember about this silly man?
âi guess so,â you hum.
ryland gives a nod and glances down at his own ring.
âokayâŚâ he murmurs.
then, louder; âthen letâs be scientists and figure this out.â
Fly Me To The Moon : ĚĚâ Ryland Grace x Reader
Pairing: Teacher!Ryland Grace x Teacher!Reader
Summary: The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.
Warnings: pre-Project Hail Mary and should not include spoilers but caution anyways just in case, pre-movie storyline, tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance, friends to lovers, slightly suggestive-ish comments but no smut, female reader but no characteristics described, definitely some incorrect science information but I am not a scientist so apologies, I am also not a teacher so I am sorry for any inaccuracies there lol, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
Word Count: 14,596 words
Requests are open! : ĚĚâ Find my masterlist here
âCan anyone tell me why it was that Penelope asked her suitors to string Odysseusâs bow?â
The silence that followed was deafening. Your eyes shut for half a second, a tiny sigh escaping through your lips. Reopening your eyes, not a single one of your students had dared to raise their hands. No one except for Olivia, your star student, who waved her hand repeatedly in the air from the back of the classroom. A single glance to the clock told you all you needed to know.
11:55. These kids were already in lunch mode, and there was zero way you were getting them to listen to you.
With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.
âPenelope didnât want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,â
âWhy does she always know everything?â
Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldnât hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.
âYou are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,â there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. âPenelope knew the only person that could string her husbandâs bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-â
There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You werenât surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.
âUh- sorry! Didnât mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,â the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. âIâm early, Iâm sorry. Didnât think youâd want to have a cold burger for lunch.â
âI told you!â Marcus still didnât understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. âTheyâre totally dating!â
âAs if Mr. Grace could pull her,â
There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you mightâve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.
Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.
âPlease come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!â you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. âYour unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.â
They werenât listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didnât have the energy to try and argue with them.
Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.
Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the schoolâs favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Rylandâs terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a âlight snackâ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.
Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.
Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw himâhell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.
He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principalâs hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.
âI didnât mean to interrupt,â he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. âI had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-â
âSalâs?â you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. âTheyâre, like, 10 blocks away. Whyâd you go that far?â
âBecause I know theyâre your favorite,â
The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.
Well, he certainly didnât do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. Youâd mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.
âHow sweet of you to remember,â Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. âYou even remembered tomatoes this time!â
âI forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,â laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. âI caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?â
âIsnât she always,â you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. âI swear sheâs the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.â
âTo be fair, can you blame her?â Rylandâs words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldnât even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. âShakespeare was justâŚso interesting. Couldnât get enough of his stuff. Donât know why your kids donât want to read it.â
There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.
âYou know weâre currently learning The Odyssey, right?â
âYes?â
âIâll let you think about that for a second,â
He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes youâd made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Rylandâs eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.
â...that wasnât written by Shakespeare, was it?â
The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.
âNo, but Iâm sure Homer wonât be too offended,â feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Rylandâs shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. âThe attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.â
Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didnât dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.
There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.
âI promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!â
The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.
âRight, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-â
âI mean it!â It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. âI was justâŚdistracted.â
âUh-huh, distracted,â as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. âBy what, exactly?â
If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.
âNevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,â
With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.
âBack to the previous topic,â you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. âI donât understand why itâs so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!â
âI heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe theyâre too distracted to read,â
You shot him a skeptical look.
âMarcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,â
Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.
âW-well, maybe he just doesnâtâŚknow how to express his feelings,â he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. âIt can be hard for boysâand menâof all ages, toâŚtell someone how they feel.â
âWell, I donât know where heâs learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isnât the right way to go about things,â you shot back.
âThen teach them!â Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like heâd come up with the worldâs greatest idea. âClassic literature, thereâs plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.â
âAlright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,â
âRomeo and Juliet,â he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. âGreatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.â
âExcept they donât run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes heâs dead she stabs herself,â
Rylandâs excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little âoâ shape.
â...oh,â
âDonât think thatâs what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-â
âDaisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,â
âIt was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. Iâm not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesnât even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,â
Rylandâs eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.
â...does anyone not die in these old books?â
The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.
âIâm going to get lucky on one of these guesses!â
What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.
â¤ď¸
âIâm sorry, youâre trying to tell me that arenât currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?â
âEvelyn!â
Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, youâd become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.
She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now âvicariously living through youâ as she always said.
âThereâs not a single child left in this entire school right now,â she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. âPlease, Iâm tenured, what are they going to do?â
âIâm more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,â was your reply through laughter. âRyland and I are good friends, thatâs it.â
It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.
âOh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-â
âI never said I was denying that,â you cut her off. âLord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I arenât anything besides friends. Iâm not lying.â
Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. Youâd rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.
âWhether youâre telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks soâteachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!â The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into yourâs playfully. âHe brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever youâre craving that day.â
âItâs usually just something random-â
âConstantly in your classroom, or vice versa,â she cut you off, and you quickly realized you werenât getting a single word into this conversation. âIâm pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so heâll stop being late to classes because heâs busy talking to you.â
OkayâŚyeah, you didnât have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Rylandâs own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.
Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once heâd slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didnât matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.
âAwe, look at you blushing about it-â
You slapped Evelynâs hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didnât really hold any true malice to it.
âLook, all Iâm saying is the ball is in his court,â was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. âRyland is nothing but friendly to me, so if heâs interested then heâs got to show me.â
âYouâre acting as if youâve made your own feelings clear, honey,â
âNo, but I clearly donât do a good enough job of hiding them,â
Speak of the devil: there he was. Rylandâs head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.
A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.
All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.
âDoesnât have interest in you my ass,â
Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.
âYou didnât have to save me a seat, you know,â your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.
âWanted to sit next to you,â he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. âYou make these slightly less boring.â
Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasnât helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.
The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.
âDid anything fun happen in class today?â you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.
âUh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,â you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.
âHow could she possibly think that?â
âYouâd be surprised,â Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. âThe National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.â
âJesus, that many?â
âWell, 100% of them are stupid, so,â
Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.
Ryland didnât care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.
âIf you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, theyâre going to separate us, Ry,â
âI met Madisonâs parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,â he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. âThey are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.â
You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Rylandâs gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.
âFlat earthers are ridiculous. Theyâre just scared of science,â
âWell, you know what they sayâŚthe only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,â
There simply wasnât enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.
âDr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?â
Principal Marshallâs voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if heâd just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.
âI-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,â he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick youâd picked up since the moment youâd met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that youâd already apologized to once. âJust getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. Iâm like a mushroom, getting allâŚhyphaeâŚâ
A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.
âPlease justâŚpay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,â
Other half. Thatâs not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.
Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.
Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways youâd never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.
It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.
And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldnât understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.
â¤ď¸
âAlright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?â
Not a single middle schooler, packed into the buildingâs planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkinâs class, Damien, finally raised his hand.
âUh, Mr. Grace? Wouldnât thatâŚbe today?â
âExcatly!â Graceâs clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. âInternational Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.â
Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.
When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.
The way he captured every single childâs attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.
âYuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,â the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. âOver the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.â
âWait, so we werenât the first people in space?â one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.
âNo, we kind of sucked,â you rolled your eyes with a grin at Rylandâs statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. âNo, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.â
âHe really is good with them, isnât he?â
Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.
âHe is, in a way that I just donât understand,â
Those blue eyes youâd become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetariumâs dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkinâs elbow dug lightly into your side.
âCareful, youâre giving him major âheart eyesâ across the room right now,â
You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Rylandâs gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.
âWhy do I feel like Iâm about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?â
âI mean, itâs not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,â
âMr. Grace?â one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Rylandâs attention. âMy mom told me the other day that thereâs 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?â
Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.
âNo, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasnât a planet anymore,â
Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.
âWell, your teacher isnât wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,â he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. âBut thereâs 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sunâhonestly, he should just accept that heâs slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.â
The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.
âUh, Mr. Grace?â some student in the back called out. âWhy did you call Pluto âheâ? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?â
Rylandâs head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.
âIâwellâŚplanets donât reallyâŚIâm not trying to misgender the planets, you know? Thatâs not for me to decide, thatâs for them toâyou know what, does anyone else have any other questions that arenât related to Pluto?â
You really didnât want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.
It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before sheâd even been called upon.
âAre you sure the Earth isnât the center of the universe?â
Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girlâs comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.
By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.
âYes, Madison, Iâm sure the Earth isnât the center of the universe. And I can show you,â his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. âBut to do that, Iâm going to need this volunteer that Iâm not quite giving a choice.â
âItâs not volunteering if you didnât ask, Ry!â
You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.
âI need you for this,â he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. âYou trust me?â
A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Rylandâs smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.
âAlright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,â
Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Rylandâs little slip in of the word âgorgeous.â There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.
âThen whatâs Mr. Harkin?â
âOh, heâs Pluto,â Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. âSuits him.â
Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.
âAnd I am the Earth,â he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didnât trip over his own two shoelaces. âThe Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means itâs packing some massive gravity.â
Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.
âBecause the Sun holds such intense gravity, itâs actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?â
The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Rylandâs hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.
âOur speed changes!â Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didnât even try to look and find her. âWhen weâre closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.â
âVery good, Olivia!â Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. âMadison, we also know this works because thereâs other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.â
âIs the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?â
Rylandâs eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adamâs apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.
âI-It isâŚfor a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earthâs entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,â
Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.
âWithout the SunâŚthe Earth would be nothing,â
There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Oliviaâs smug little voice.
âThe Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,â
âShe is,â his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. âTHE SUN I mean! I-Iâm talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!â
Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.
Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.
âMake good choices,â Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. âDonât uh, I donât know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.â
You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.
âEvery time I think youâre doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,â
âYeah, well, whatâs new?â
When you met your class outside, you didnât let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about âshippingâ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.
â¤ď¸
Ryland Grace didnât understand how he had ended up here.
Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a âstaggering waste of carbonâ at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field heâd studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.
Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasnât great, though.
Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.
And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason heâd been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didnât take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent.Â
Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.
âRyland, please tell me you arenât thinking of riding your bike home in this?â
Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, heâd thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.
âI canât be that bad,â he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. âJust, you knowâŚthe slight threat of bodily harm.â
He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate heâd take what he could get from the universe.
âYeah, absolutely not,â was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. âIâm giving you a ride home, canât risk the best science teacherâs life over a dumb storm.â
Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, heâd sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasnât the first time heâd had to do it.
âI canât let you-â
âThis isnât up for discussion,â Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. âIâŚcare about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.â
There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Rylandâs cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.
Ryland decided he wasnât going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasnât going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.
âAt least let me save you from getting drenched,â
âYouâre going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,â Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didnât help as he held the jacket up around you.
âActually, itâs not windy today,â he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. âThat means if we run, Iâll be drier than if we walked, because the rain thatâs hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-â
âRyland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if weâre going to runâŚwe should run,â
Ryland was thankful that you couldnât see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.
Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.
None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managedâin his signature fashionâto slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.
Heâs spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely âwhippedâ for you. Whatever that meant.
The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.
Then the laughter resumed.
He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldnât stop his own laughter. Yourâs grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.
âI was right, you look like a wet dog,â
Rylandâs only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.
Whipped. He still didnât get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.
There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasnât enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the carâs bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.
Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.
âFrank Sinatra,â Ryland couldnât help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. âOld books and old music. Didnât know you had such an old soul.â
âYou calling me old, Ryland?â
âN-no!â Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. âI might say some stupid stuff someâokay, most of the timeâbut I know better than to comment on a womanâs age.â
âIâm just teasing you,â he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. âBut yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.â
âItâs a nice songâŚjust not scientifically accurate,â he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldnât help but jump slightly. âJupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesnât experience seasons like we do. Marâs would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tiltâŚâ
Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.
â...I went full science-nerd again, didnât I?â
Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.
âYou always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,â
If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Rylandâs apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work.Â
Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.
âThanksâŚfor this,â he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.
You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.
The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.
HeâŚcould ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.
Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman heâs been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.
Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman heâs been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.
âI should probably get home-â
âStay,â Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. âI-Itâs just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-Iâd hate to know something happened to you.â
You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.
âRyland, I couldnât ask you to let me stay,â
He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling heâd kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.
âIâŚI care about you. I want to know youâre safe,â
Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.
Rylandâs hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front doorâs lock. The last time he had guests overâŚwas never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.
âDonât, uh, mind the mess,â he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didnât realize he was holding.
Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.
The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup heâd abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.
It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.
âItâs not messy, itâs homey,â your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. âDo you maybe have something a little lessâŚwet?â
He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.
His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasnât letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasnât letting you see his room in a state like this.
Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldnât be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.
âGreat idea, Ryland,â he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. âAlmost get the woman youâre in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.â
You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.
âYou can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,â
âThanks, Ry,â your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. âFor all of this.â
If it wasnât for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he wouldâve forgotten how to breathe again.
He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldnât make him seem pathetic. All he could come up withâŚwas a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.
Yesterday. Heâd stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.
âGreat,â he muttered into his palm. âJust absolutely freaking great, Ryland.â
Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.
From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since heâd had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasnât wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.
He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshallâs papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But youâd joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.
It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. Heâd rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.
Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why heâd traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-
Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.
âPeanut butter and jelly? Sounds like weâre eating like royalty tonight,â
He shouldnât have looked over at you. He really, really shouldnât have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy âI had potentialâ shirt heâd been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didnât trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didnât just slide right off your hips.
Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.
âSorry, I donât exactlyâŚlive a life of luxury,â Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. âHope this doesnât ruin my perfectly curated image.â
His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.
âThat image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,â
The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.
âThat was one time!â he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. âI learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.â
âDonât worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,â
Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.
âYou know what? That explains that really loud âHELLâ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,â
âOh, shut up! It wasnât that bad!â
Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.
Mornings just like this, where youâd both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but heâd make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didnât want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.
Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-
Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.
âT-This is nice,â he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. âMaking dinner with someoneâŚno matter how sad the dinner is. I havenât done this in awhile.â
âRight,â your voice responded after a momentary pause. âSarah, wasnât it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uhâŚwhat ever happened to her?â
âOh, we broke up a long time ago,â Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. âShe just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didnât think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasnât wrong. It was for the best, though. She hatedâŚall of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was justâŚtoo much for her. But sheâs with Mark now, so Iâm sure sheâs happy.â
Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before sheâd even broken it off with him.
He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.
Fingertips just barely ghosted over Rylandâs cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldnât help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadnât felt in so long.
Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.
His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.
âYou are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. Theyâll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes youâŚyou,â
The Sun. Thatâs what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you.Â
The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the SunâŚthe Earth would be nothing.
Without youâŚwell, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didnât understand what it was like to truly live until heâd met you.
Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.
The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.
âY-you knowâŚI canât tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,â
Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.
âSince peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,â
âI almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,â you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. âOh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?â
Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.
âHah, uh, no I didnât. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kidsâ favorite âmemeâ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,â
He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.
âI think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,â he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. âSign-up? For me?â
Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.
Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.
âFor you? Totally,â
Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.
And he sworeâand hopedâfor just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.
â¤ď¸
The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.
As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middleâs building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.
âA space theme?â you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. âI hadnât heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.â
âNevermind the theme, youâre finally here!â you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. âAnd look at this dress, oh my god!â
The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.
âThank you,â was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. âIâm sorry Iâm late, I caught one of my studentâs parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.â
âNot a problem,â she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. âJust get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.â
If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.
Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.
Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-
The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.
He wasnât in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes youâd seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.
Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.
For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure youâd forgotten how to breathe.
Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and youâd been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.
Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.
You always blushed around your friend, every time heâd manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summerâs day.
Moments where heâd find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when youâd simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each otherâs but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.
Something was different, and you werenât sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when youâd seen the side of him beyond these school walls.
You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasnât at least a small chance that he felt the same.
âI need your help,â
The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.
âMarcus? Honey, whatâs wrong?â you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.
âIâŚI like Olivia,â
Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Oliviaâs direction, the formerâs eyes still locked onto you from across the room.
âI did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,â
âShe is,â he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. âI-Iâve been really mean to her. I didnât mean to be.â
âI know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,â you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. âDo you want to dance with her?â
âI do,â
You held your hand out toward him with a smile.
âThen why donât we start by going and apologizing to her?â
With Marcusâs hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Rylandâs as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.
âDr. Grace, Iâm sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,â you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcusâs shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. âBut Olivia, thereâs something that Marcus here wants to say to you.â
The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.
âI, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didnât mean it,â
Oliviaâs eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.
âOh! Itâs, um, itâs okay. Thank you,â
âSay, Marcus?â Ryland called out to them both, catching the boyâs eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. âWhat do you think of Oliviaâs dress?â
âIâŚI think she looks really beautiful,â
That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.
âOh! IâŚthank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,â
âThank you,â his posture seemed to straighten out at Oliviaâs reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. âDo you want to dance with me?â
Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.
âLook at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,â
âI think they did that for themselves, we just helped,â you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Rylandâs, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. âHi.â
âHi,â he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. âI got worried when I didnât see you. I was ready to call you.â
âYou couldâve,â
âIâll remember for next time,â he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. âIâm proud of him for that. ThatâŚmust have taken a lot of guts to do.â
You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.
âLike you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,â
Ryland laughed beside you.
âYeahâŚI should probably follow in his footsteps,â
You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.
Rylandâs mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldnât quite seem to get right. You didnât even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.
âStay here,â
There wasnât even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.
âRyland?â you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. âWhat did you just do?â
As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.
Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars
âIâm pulling up my big boy pants,â he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. âAnd asking you to dance with me.â
Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Graceâs without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You werenât in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.
It was just you and Ryland Grace. Thatâs all you wanted it to be.
Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.
In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.
"I didn't tell you yetâŚ,â his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. âBut you look beautiful,"
"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"
"No, really, you look-"
"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"
He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adamâs apple before he spoke again.
"...like the sun,"
You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.
Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you werenât at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?
"Ryland-"
"I wasn't lying,"
You cocked your head.
"...about what?"
"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"
That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Rylandâs smile.
"Right, you were just distracted,"
"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"
In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.
You took a deep breath. Heâd crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.
âIâm always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,â
The song faded away, melting into the next. There couldâve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.
Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seenâand you knew your own matched his perfectlyâbefore he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.
âCome with me,â
âRy, weâre supposed to be chaperoning!â
âI donât see Principal Marshall anywhere. Whatâs the worst she could do, fire us?â
âQuite literally, yes!â you shot back with a laugh.
Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didnât even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.
âWorth it,â
Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds heâd look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before youâd yell at him to look at his own feet before youâd both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.
The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.
The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.
âWhat was your plan here, Dr. Grace?â you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything youâd just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.
âIâm not going to lie,â he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. âI hadnât thought this far ahead.â
âThen stop thinking,â
No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.
Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Graceâs mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldnât exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.
Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldnât believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.
The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Rylandâs mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.
His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that youâd had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.
The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Rylandâs forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.
âIf I havenât made it clear already, youâre my best friend,â his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. âAnd Iâm completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.â
You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.
âIâm completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,â
The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Rylandâs hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.
The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.
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Pairing: Epilogue Charles Smith x F!Reader/ Former Arthur Morgan x F!Reader
WC: 7K
Summary: Arthur is dead, and the years are long.
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, piv, unsafe sex, oral sex, hand jobs, grief, pregnancy (don't boo me!) canon typical violence, racism and misogyny, death, animal death, sickness, photo credits here, here, here
A/N: This is a continuation of my fic I miss the sun, he knows. If this doesnât go in a direction you were expecting, that makes two of us! But I have to post, or I'll keep stewing in self-doubt. I hope you enjoy it and consider letting me know what you think.
1899, Wapiti Reservation
"Stay here. Help Charles, help them."
"Stay? You piece of shit."
You wish you could hit him. The arm that you are sure is broken has been strapped to your chest, and you cannot. Arthur's face is exhausted, worn with grief. Eagle Flies lies dead behind the veil of the tent, and the air is thick with the song of mourning. He does not flinch, and Charles turns away, muttering that there is much to do. So it is just you and Arthur, standing on the ruined camp.
"Please. Please, I'll come with you." You are begging, now. Folding your good hand into his worn jacket, you clutch at him. "My arm is fine. I can ride andâ"
"Sweetheart," Arthur says, patience lacing every word. His bloodshot eyes are soft with affection "You're hurt." He peels back the fingers fisted in his lapel and flattens them over his heart. Each breath rattles through his lungs. His heartbeat, once steady and reassuring, is erratic against your palm.
Sighing, he gathers you to him, curling his arm around your good side. He threads his other hand through your hair, cradling your head to his chest. Your cheek moulds to his heart. You let him protect you with his body for the last time.
He's so thin. He needs to eat more.
. . .
1902, Cumberland Forest
The throat under the steel toes of your boot swallows with fear. The muzzle of your gun presses hard into the skin of a liver-spotted forehead. Just an old man. You wait for pity to pierce the crocodile-hide of your heart. It doesn't. Grinding the tip of your boot into the paper-thin skin of his neck, you watch as he splutters. Droplets of spittle coat the toe of your boot and soak his tobacco-stained moustache. This putrid show of weakness sends a wave of revulsion over you. You press the gun into his forehead so far back that it smushes the back of his rotten head into the dirt.
"He's no good to us dead," Charles says mildly.
"Ain't no good to anyone alive." You ease the pressure of the gun back.
"Three hundred dollars seems like a pretty good reason to keep him alive."
William Randall. Killed his young wife, killed his children, too. Then lit off to live like a wild man in the woods. A three-hundred-dollar bounty for a man approaching his seventies. Wanted alive so the good people of Valentine can see the Sheriff enact justice. Light work for you and Charles. Apparently not.
You look back at Charles. He stands, quite at ease. The ends of his long, dark hair lift in the wind and pieces come loose from the cord, pulling it off his face. They drip into the collar of his coat. His face is unreadable. You take your boot off the old man's chest, and he coughs. Chest rattling, he curls in on himself, coughing and writhing. You flinch violently at the sound, and your grip falters on the gun. Before you can gather your wits, Randall yanks the knife from your boot and a starburst of pain explodes on your shoulder. It sends you reeling back. The old bastard is spry. Charles is on him in a moment, dragging his body up and slamming him face down into the dirt.
You groan and drag yourself up.. Charles has his knee planted on the old man's thin back. Blood soaks into your old duster coat. Arthur's old coat. Charles turns his head to look at you, his brow knit.
"I'm fine." You call. "Just my shoulder. He slashed it." You lift yourself from the mud, pressing the heel of your palm, trying to stop the slow spread of the blood over your coat. The mud soaks into your breeches, cold and slimy. Charles grabs Randall by the wisps of grey hair covering his skull and holds his hunting knife to his throat, beads of blood collecting at the razor edge.
"Want me to kill him?" He looks at you, solemn as an owl.
"Nah. Like you said, no good to us dead." You manoeuvre yourself to your feet, and with all the strength in you, kick the old man's jaw sideways.
Charles ties the man up, lest he wake up and try to escape. Fat chance of that happening with a broken jaw and the ankle Charles obligingly shattered. You lean against Guinevere heavily, and she noses at you, anxious. A little blood drips onto her silken red coat. Your initial assessment was correct; it is just your shoulder. But the blood loss makes your vision swim. Charles turns into an amalgamation of colours, blending in against the backdrop of the woods. Once Randall is stowed on Taima, who paws restlessly, he catches your elbow. You hadn't even realised your knees were trembling.
"That's a lot of blood." His voice is calm. Carefully, he peels open the collar of the coat and feels along the wound. His hand is warm, and you watch minute movements of his jaw as he checks you for any serious injury. From his saddle bag, he takes a clean rag and, with a soft apology, tourniquets your arm. You gasp and clutch at the frayed sleeve of his coat. Murmuring soothingly, he adjusts your wrist against your side so you do not jostle the wound.
"Think you can ride?"
"'Course I can ride." You scoff, and then wince as speaking jostles you. He does not contest this, but helps you onto Guinevere all the same, boosting you up with his hand braced on your calf.
A six-mile ride feels like six years. Your vision swims, and a steady drip of blood is pooling under your coat. You fist the reins and blink hard. Every rock and ditch makes itself known to your shoulder. Even the sway of Guinevere's flanks makes you gag a little, your head stuffed with cotton.
"Camp here tonight. I can ride into Valentine tomorrow to deliver. You can rest."
"So you can claim all my money?" You giggle very unseriously. Charles's brow knits with concern.
"I wouldn't." He says quietly. "But we can wait to deliver him, I was only worried his heart would give or somethin'."
You feel rather foolish, looking at his serious face. The blood rushes to your head, and when you dismount, he is there to catch you. Gratefully, you slump into the circle of his arms. He's warm, and the fabric of his coat is rough against your cheek. Charles's breath comes quick and panicked against your hair, but when he speaks, his voice is steady as ever.
"Could use a few stitches. Still bleeding."
You find yourself eased onto the ground and steered into a sitting position. When you slump into the broad bulk of his shoulder, his arm goes around you, and you feel his flask against your lips. The whiskey in it burns against your mouth pleasantly. He is talking, low but urgent. You cannot make out words, only the deep rumble in his chest. He smells like smoke and leather. Familiar.
Drifting, a velvety sleep overcomes you. The quiet, even voice in your ears turns gravelly and accented. The hands on your face and hair do not touch you impersonally, like a carer's. Instead, it is a lover's touch. You go, willing.
You wake to the crackle of a fire and a piercing pain in your shoulder. Blearily, you get your bearings. Charles sits across the fire, a piece of wood and a carving knife in his hands. Wood shavings curl into scrolls, falling at his feet. You sit up, feeling at your shoulder. It has been sewn and bandaged neatly.
"Charles?"
Looking up, he rises from his spot at the fire, and he kneels beside your bedroll. The shirt you wear is one of his, you realise. Soft and brown, the collar sags around your clavicle.
"I cut you out of your shirt." He says apologetically. "Don't think it'll scar too badly, though."
"When have I ever cared about that?" You snort with wry laughter. Once, a long time ago, a whole lifetime ago, you were ashamed of them. You had wanted to look as pretty and as lovable as Mary Beth or be as graceful as Tilly. All those women, like beautiful flowers in the desert of your life. Arthur used to kiss the scar where he shot you and tell you that it looked like a comet against your skin.
Charles has seen you, you realise. Your cheeks burn hot.
"Where's Randall?" You say suddenly, thinking of the three hundred dollars.
Charles grins a rare, wide grin and rises. With Charles no longer blocking your vision, you are treated to the sight of William Randall, the family killer, trussed up like a hog and tied to a tree in his shirtsleeves.
You feel better already.
. . .
1902, Valentine
"Is my nose really so big?"
The woman in the bounty poster stares back at you, her face hardened by rough living, her eyes sharp and mouth downturned. The cloud of hair rendered around her head makes her look wild and unkempt. The scar on her face cuts through her brow viciously. You touch your hair. Three thousand dollars for the woman in the poster. Good thing that isn't you, you have long since changed your name. Ripping the poster from the board, you shove it into your coat pocket. Your shoulder aches from the wound. Stitched up at Charles's insistence, it throbs under your ruined coat.
"The saloon's got a room. Could ride out to the reservation in the morning." Charles says from behind you. The sun is beginning to set, and staying in plain view is unwise. Valentine has expanded from the backwards cattle town; it is harsher and darker. Buildings have sprung up from where there was only flat earth and soft grass. Eyes are everywhere. A woman in men's garb and a man as scarred and massive as Charles are sure to attract attention. But the two of you are effective. So you go by different names and drag in criminals of a lower status than yourselvesâand you get by.
The saloon room is dark and small, but clean. It is not crowded, but there is no point getting separate rooms. You would not be able to sleep without the even sound of Charles's breathing. You lie side by side, faces turned to the slanting ceiling. A thin shaft of light illuminates the room. The bed is too soft.
Charles speaks first.
"Arthur's grave is out this way."
You shut your eyes.
"Could ride past it. If you want." He says, no pressure behind his voice.
You have not seen Arthur's grave. You only know that it was Charles who buried him, and you are grateful that it was. If it had been you, given the chance, you might have crawled into the grave with him. You would have curled yourself around the bones that had carried him for so long and let yourself be taken by the elements. A hillside, Charles said. Where he would have wanted to be. As long as you do not see it, Arthur is where you want him to be. You might wake and find him snoring next to you. You can imagine that you hear the scratch of his pen, or feel the scrape of his beard against your face.
You wake slowly to the faint light seeping through the saloon window's grimy panes. Sometime in the deep of night, Charles must have shifted in his sleep, his arm now slung heavily across your waist. He's warm, and you can feel his heart beating steadily against your spine. Mumbling, he buries his face in the loose masses of your hair.
You shift in his arms, and he stirs into wakefulness, not before you feel the hard press of him against your lower back. There is a heartbeatâs worth of stillness where neither of you moves, where the creak of the bed and the faraway buzz of the waking town are the only sounds in the room. Then he draws in a sharp breath.
âSorry,â he mutters, voice thick and low, and his arm jerks away as if burned.
"Itâit's fine." But he is already turning away, dressing hastily. You exhale, an odd, brimming guilt in your stomach. Sleeping side by side under the stars is one thing; the whole land is your witness. Despite how quiet he is, it is never awkward between you two; there is always that steady companionship. The peace of knowing he will never push you to speak.
Charles is so warm.
. . .
1903, Temporary Wapiti Settlement
Hidden in a wide crevice of rock near the settlement is a creek. Water has been scarce, and you have had to make do by washing yourself by wiping the sweat and grime off your bodies with rags. Bounty hunting alone is tough on the body, and having Charles with you has made it easier.
Carefully, you work the buttons of your shirt open. Your shoulder aches from the wound, but it has healed considerably better than you thought it would. You unwrap the bandage, flexing a little. It will leave a scar, one of many. You survey yourself without emotion. The scars on your stomach and arms, and slashing over your collarbones. Vanity no longer afflicts you, and you have come not to worry about beauty any more. Undressing, you remove your hair from its plait and comb it out with your fingers. It has grown since you took a pair of shears to it and cut it to your jaw. It just sweeps the tops of your breasts, now. It is not convenient to have long hair in the wild. Charles does, though. It had struck you as odd that he would keep it so long. When you asked him, he said that it was something his mother believed was important.
The water is warm. Slipping in, you let it soothe your aching muscles.
Footsteps crunch softly on the gravel. You turn your head. It is Charles. Fully dressed, still in the clothing you wore while travelling. His shirt, tucked into his trousers, and his vest open. The afternoon sun slants through the crevice, gilding his dark head. His hair has been freed from the piece of twine he had been using on the ride, and the breeze picks it up so it curls in the air like black smoke.
He stills completely when he spots you, dark eyes widening a fraction as they find you among the water-worn stones of the creek. Surprise distorts the strong planes of his face, and his hand goes to the back of his neck as he averts his eyes. Even though it is just your shoulders and the hints of your breasts he can see, you feel oddly exposed. How ridiculous. It is only Charles who has seen you undressed a thousand times before. His voice carries over the bubble of the creek and the call of the birds.
"Didn't know you were here." His voice, low and steady. His skin is so smooth and dark that you never see him flush, but you can hear it in his voice. Fixing his eyes on the ground, he takes a half-step back. "I can go. Give you some peace."
"IâIt's alright. Nothing you haven't seen before." In all these weeks travelling to see Rains Fall, how many times have you curled into the same bedroll for warmth? How many times has he woken you from the nightmares that plague you and held you till you fall asleep again? You have lived in such proximity that it should not be strange for him to see you undressed. Still, he hesitates, "There's no point to riding back. Stay."
Quietly, he sheds his clothing on the gravel surrounding the spring. You turn your head to give him some privacy, but in your periphery, the expanse of scarred skin is slowly revealed with every movement. His ribs are a bruised, blotchy purple, just visible in the deep, warm brown of his skin. He winces as he unbuckles his belt and shucks his trousers off. He is so graceful that you forget how large he is sometimes. Arthur had never been graceful, his bulk always apparent in the way he fought, the way he made love.
This thought dissolves as the water ripples with Charles's entry. Sighing, he shuts his eyes as he leans against the rock basin. The ends of his inky black hair swirl at the surface of the water.
"Feeling better?" He says, angling his head towards your shoulder.
"It's my own fault." You say, "I lost focus."
He shuts his eyes again, and you find yourself oddly struck by his nakedness. He is not hairy, as Arthur had been; the skin of his chest is smooth and deep brown, littered with scars. The ball of his bicep flexes as he takes a cupful of water in his hand and splashes it onto the laceration on his ribs. You had not noticed he was hurt. Then again, he does not let you worry about much.
You turn in the water, and Charles reaches for you, that instinctive movement so like the one where he draws for his shotgun.
His hand catches your elbow to keep you from slipping against the slick rock. You look up at him. He is already looking at you.
The body keeps score, you have realised. While your mind roils with guilt, your body wants and wants. Charles's hand has curled to cradle your elbow, and a keen desire to read his mind strikes you. Immovable as he seems, Charles is a man. He must have desires, too. Unconsciously, you have turned your body to his, the way a flower faces the sun. If you could not see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, you would think he was made of stone.
Turning your palm inward, you brace it against the inside of his forearm. The veins in his forearm pulse with his breath. You slide your hand upward, along the swell of his bicep, the slashing scar on his pectoral. The scar is ridged against your fingertips. He is still now, barely breathing. His heartbeat slams against your palm.
Slowly, his hand begins to search you. The pads of his fingers are rough as they travel up your shoulder, thumbing the healing wound.
"It's healing well." He says, you can almost hear a tremor in his voice.
"Yeah. It's thanks to you. I wouldn't have stitched it if I were on my own."
Somehow, you stand close in the sway of the creek, braced on each other for balance. Something brushes your thigh. Charles tenses, all the muscles in his body locking. Oh.
Shifting, he leans his body away from yours. "I didn't mean toâ" He mutters, the scar on his cheek turning pink.
âNo.â Your fingers tighten around his wrist before you can stop yourself. âDonâtâyou donât have to pull away.â
His eyes flick up to your face, searching. The sound of the water, like bells.
"I want to. I do." You splutter. "But Iânot all at once."
He exhales. His other hand comes up to rest at your waist, careful, like heâs afraid youâll break. âAlright,â he murmurs. âAlright.â
Curling your arm about his neck, you press close. His hair is thick and silky against your hand, and you tentatively pull your fingers through it. Then, he sighs and presses his mouth to yours, tentatively at first but then with a swift urgency that leaves you gasping and clutching at him. How long has it been since you have been touched? Mumbling, you brace your back against a rock. He crowds you against it. Both of you deserve something to ease the loneliness.
Reaching under the water to grasp him, you circle your hand around the heft of his cock. He grunts and twitches in your hand. Tentatively, you stroke upward, and he makes a strangled noise. He is hard and thick in your hand. Pressing your thighs together, you twist your wrist experimentally. The thick fringe of his eyelashes brush the tops of his high cheekbones. The scar on his cheek pulls taut. Slowly, you move your hand, studying the play of his muscles. Groaning, he drops his face to the slope of your neck, tasting the droplets of water collected there.
Then, his hands search between your thighs and find the parting in between. He, too, moves experimentally. Easing one thick finger in, he mouths the curve of your neck. You tighten around him, and he gentles the movement, those deft archer's fingers making you gasp. Everything in you is aching and crying out, desperate to be touched. He eases a second finger in, and you whimper, a desperate, animal sound.
"Too much?" Charles whispers, mouth brushing your temple. You kiss his cheek, his jaw.
"Go on, Charles."
. . .
1904, Three Sisters
Taima is dying. Her head rests in Charles's lap, his big hand smoothing along her shuddering neck. She is felled by a bullet, a flyaway one from a stage you and Charles foolishly tried to rob. And now Charles, always proud, always steady, comforts his dying horse. The spots on her flank blur as you blink away tears. You stand in the grove, the wind whistling around you. His hair lifts in the breeze, but otherwise, he is still.
"It's getting dark. Should bury her." You say softly. He says nothing. You cannot see his face.
Tentatively, you reach out and touch his shoulder. He flinches as you do, and you withdraw your hand.
"Go." His voice is choked. "I'll catch up with you."
"Charlesâ"
"Go." His tone is so final that all protests die on your tongue.
You leave him to mourn her.
. . .
1904, Temporary Wapiti Settlement
Dragging the comb through your hair, you peer into the wooden-framed mirror. The scar curving along your temple and through your brow is softened by the low light. The new Wapiti settlement is small, and the people are tired. Rains Fall has more streaks of grey in his hair by the day. Still, you had wanted his blessing. Any family you have is long dead or long gone; it has just been you and Charles. You are handfasted on the settlement, with as much ceremony as is possible. But it is enough, and the ceremony has never meant much to you anyway. It means something to Charles, though.
The tent flap falls shut behind Charles with a soft rasp of canvas, sealing the night outside. The wind murmurs against the walls, distant firetalk fading to a hush, leaving only the two of you in the low glow of a single lantern. You sit on the edge of the cot, still in the soft, borrowed dress. He stands a moment too long by the entrance, broad silhouette filling the space, his hair loose and catching gold in the light. When he turns, his eyes find you with that rare flicker of uncertainty you've only seen in private. Slowly, he lowers himself beside you, close enough that the heat of him cuts the chill.
"I ain't got much to give youâ" He begins.
"Don't be foolish."
He takes your hand and presses something cool and beaded into it. Turquoise and bone, and smooth wood. It slips through your fingers. The necklace you have never seen him without.
"Charles. This is your mothers. I couldn't possiblyâ"
"It's yours." He says simply. "Like I am."
You want to tell him you have been his for years now. That you will be his for as long as you live. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Charles takes your hand, the necklace still fisted in it, and kisses your knuckles. His mouth is soft against the scarred, bruised skin. Silently, he draws you to your feet and steps behind you, the cot creaking softly as your knees brush it.
Your pulse stumbles as Charles gathers your hair over one shoulder with infinite care, his knuckles brushing the back of your neck. The beads are cool against your skin, and rest just below your collarbone. He hesitates, and you feel the soft press of his lips at your nape, where he fastens it. Charlesâs hands slide slowly down your arms until they rest at your elbows. When you lean back against him, you feel the hitch in his breathing.
Turning, you face your husband. You lean up on your tiptoes and press your mouth to his. There is only his sigh into your open mouth and his arms around you. You reach for the top button on his shirt and giggle as it slips from your hands, trembling with anticipation. You loosen another one, and his breath hitches. His fingers find the ties at your collar and undo them with the same reverence he shows everything else. He presses a kiss to the column of your throat, and you twist your fingers into the thick, soft hair at the base of his skull. Pushing the shirt off his shoulders, you touch him, the hard planes of his chest and stomach.
"Charles." You say softly, sweetly. "Charles, you are so beautiful." You press another kiss to his sternum. He tips your head back in his hands and kisses your eyelids, slow. When you kneel, kissing the spot above his navel, he catches your shoulders, stroking the line of your jaw.
When he eases you onto the cot, he settles on his knees. You look down at his face, framed by your thighs and watch the lamp dance in his brown eyes. He takes your ankles in his wide hands and lifts them onto his shoulders. From this angle, you are laid bare and open for him. Charles bends his dark head to the soft inside of your thigh, the rasp of his stubble making you shiver. The want building all day is met with his soft mouth. Crying out, you twist your fingers into his hair and arch into his face. To steady you, he reaches up and flattens his big hand over your quivering belly; you grasp it blindly. Once you are left gasping and sweaty, he relents and rubs his cheek against the soft thatch between your legs.
Breathlessly, you beckon him closer. Crawling over your prone body, he cages himself over you. His long, muscular legs hang over the edge of the cot, tangled with yours. As he picks open your dress, you finally relieve him of his breeches. Then the two of you are joined. Strands of his dark hair are plastered to his face, and his eyes are sealed with pleasure. You take a moment to appreciate the architecture of his body, lined with heavy muscle and golden brown skin. Cradling his face in your hands, you kiss away the sweat beading at his temple, the bridge of his nose. You push at his chest, urging him to roll over.
"Charles." You whisper. "Lie down."
With difficulty, he opens his eyes and loosens his grip on you. You flatten your palms against his chest, and he falls back willingly. There is a shimmer of sweat on his chest, and the heavy length of his cock is angry red at the tip. Pulling the dress over your head, you swing your leg over his thighs to straddle him. He groans as you grasp his cock to guide it into yourself. Bracing your hands on his stomach, you sink on him slowly. Steadying you with one hand to your hip, he reaches up with the other to lay his palm over your sternum; your heart kicks against him. Tightening around him like a vice, you undulate your hips a little faster. Suddenly, he heaves himself up so you can twine your arms around his neck and he can mouth the peaks of your breasts. Cradling his head to your heart, you stroke his soft, dark hair as he comes. You kiss him as you reach your finish, you mouth at the salt on his cheek.
Afterwards, you lie with your cheek against his chest on the little cot. Throwing your leg over his hip, you lift his hand and bring your mouth to the rough pads of his fingers.
"Don't. I'll want you again." He says, a little helplessly.
"Mmph." You draw his index into your mouth. His cock stirs again, and he rolls onto his side, taking you with him. This time, he draws your leg over his thigh, chest to chest. He takes you again, with less ceremony than the first time. When you sleep, it is with him still inside of you, his head to your breast.
Dawn filters through the canvas, and you wake to Charles's broad form dressing next to the cot. You tuck your hand under your head and watch him. How many times have you watched him dress before, but never as his wife. Only as his companion. He buttons his loose shirt over his broad chest and ties his hair up with a piece of twine. When he draws his bow over his shoulder, he notices you watching. Leaning over the bed, he hesitates and then presses a kiss to the peak of your bare shoulder.
"Rains Fall asked me to go hunting with him." He says softly. "I thought I'd let sleep."
"Mm. He must miss Eagle Flies." You yawn. "I can help out around here."
"Could join us."
âIâd only slow you down,â you murmur.
âThatâs not true.â
A small smile tugs at your mouth. âIt is a little.â He smiles in response. "And, you can get used to Falmouth. He's still skittish." Your wedding present to him had been Falmouth, a spotted stallion that had taken you three bounties to purchase. He will not replace Taima, Charles's companion since he was eighteen, but Charles had needed a horse.
"Rains Fall. He doesn't say much these days." Charles says, thoughtfully.
"I know. Go. It'll be good for him." And for you too, you think.
"You'll be alright here?" He says, fingers still lingering on your arm.
"Sure. They're packing up this camp, I'll keep myself occupied."
Charles leaves, pressing a last kiss to your hair, his eyes lingering on your body under the pelt.
You stretch. The tent feels large without him. You've been pressed so close to him that the beads around your neck have left divots in your skin.
It must be early; the air is chill. Nobody would grudge you another hour of sleep.
. . .
1906, Saint Denis
"It's okay. It's just me. Wake up."
Charles's hands are soft on your hair. When he lifts you into his arms, you go limp. Regaining your senses, you can smell the oil from the lamp and the cool night air from the cracked-open window. The rented room that has been your home for months now is small and cramped. Charles hates it. Sometimes, he wakes in the night and sits on the small terrace, smoking for hours. He says he cannot breathe in Saint Denis, that the city doesn't suit him. It doesn't suit you either; you miss the open plains and long to press your cheek to cool grass. To sleep under the stars and smell fresh country air. Shivering at the draft, you cuddle into his broad chest. The acrid tang of sweat and drink clinging to his skin makes you wrinkle your nose.
"Bad dream?" He says against your hair. Pulling back, he cups your hot cheek in his hands. Nodding, you snuffle closer.
"I didn't hear you come in."
"Got back a few hours ago." He says softly, stroking your loose hair.
"You smell bad." You say, but slip your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder anyway.
"Was too tired to wash." He says, and you lift your head to look at him. Charles's face is distorted with concern, and the light from the window illuminates his eye, swollen half shut. "And, too drunk."
"Did you lose?" You reach up to touch his swollen eye, he winces a little and then kisses the heel of your palm.
'Course not. He got a lucky hit in." The hint of indignance in his voice brings the slightest of smiles to your mouth. He relaxes when he sees it. "What about you? You get him?"
"Some idiot with a whole crew got to him first." You roll your eyes as you recount the day. "Don't know why you'd need a whole crew to get him. He came up to my shoulder. A strong gust of wind would've sent him to the grave."
Bounty hunting in Saint Denis has proved a little easier. Charles throws fights, and you pick up petty criminals off the outskirts of the city. This time, it has been a bespectacled doctor who had been lacing his medicines. It would have taken you an hour had that buffoon Jared Golding not gotten to him first. A whole crew of thoroughbreds. Guinevere, fast and faithful as she is, had been no match.
"S'alright. The payment from this fight should tide us over a while."
"Oh, your poor eye." You say, the guilt is hot and sudden. Tipping your head up, you press a kiss to the purpling mess.
" It ain't too bad." He says, a little embarrassed at the affection. "The other fighter came off a whole lot worse."
"I'm sure he did." You say, nuzzling his cheek. "But it's my fault you're throwing fights. I shouldn't have killed him."
"He started with you. I'd have killed him if you hadn't."
"I know." You say mournfully. "But you hate this." Nosing at your hair, he kisses your forehead in response.
The sun is beginning to spill through the windows, and there is no point trying to sleep. You slip out of bed and make two cups of coffee in tin mugs and hold a cool cloth to Charles's eye as he drinks his. You assuage your own guilt by kissing his battered face and combing out the tangles from his long hair.
"Got no bounties today." You say, buttoning your shirt. He sits at the small, round table, clad only in his breeches and nursing his third cup of coffee. "Could take the day off."
"A day off." He says slowly. "You alright?"
"Fine." You do not meet his eyes.
"What do you want to do on your day off?" He catches your wrist and pulls you to stand between his knees. Bracing your hand on his shoulder, you look down at him. His eyes are steady, but you can see the concern behind the question.
You do not tell him that you dreamt of Arthur, his voice wrecked with illness and pain, lying white-faced and feverish. You do not tell him that Arthurâs face had gone strange and blurred at the edges, then changed not all at once, but in terrible pieces until it was Charles looking at you through the same pain. Charles with Arthurâs voice. Charles begging you, over and over, to save him from the slow erosion of his insides.
âI want to go to the gunsmith,â you say. âGet my gun fixed.â
He nods once. âAlright.â
âThen I want to walk through Chinatown.â
âMm.â
You swallow, then let yourself smile a little. âAnd then I want you to take me to bed.â
That gets the ghost of a smile from him. âThat so?â
âThat so.â
His hand tightens lightly around your wrist. âAlright, then.â
The knot in your chest does not ease until later that night. You lie on your belly with Charles over you, his weight warm and solid along your back. His hand rests over your hip, while the other braces beside your head as he ruts with slow, careful rhythm. His breathing is rough against your shoulder, but his touch stays gentle. You sleep easily.
. . .
1907, Mount Hagen
Charles has been shot.
The frost bites through the worn knees of your breeches as you kneel beside him, his blood bright and terrible against the snow. For one blank second, you cannot make sense of it. Then he makes a low, ragged sound, and your body moves before your mind does, half-dragging him behind the boulder as another bullet cracks past.
âCharles.â Your hands are already on his shoulder, pressing, slipping, pressing again. âCharles, stay with me.â
His face has gone ashen. Blood pours between your fingers, warm enough to make you feel sick. âIâm okay,â he says, but the words are thin.
âNo, youâre not.â Your voice comes out too sharp, too fast. âYouâre bleeding too much.â
âI said Iâm okay.â
âYou donât know that.â You press harder, as if you can force the wound shut by will alone. âHas it hit anything important?â
âI donât know.â
âHow can you not know?â Fear knots your throat so tight you can hardly breathe around it. âCharles, look at me.â
He does, and the sight of his eyes half-lidded with pain almost makes you fold in on yourself. Snow has fallen onto his hair, his shoulders. The bright glitter of it makes your eyes burn.
The shooting has stopped, you realise dimly, and the silence is worse than the gunfire. Sadie appears through the snow, breath ragged. âHey. Youâre okay,â she says, though she sounds like sheâs trying to convince herself. âYouâre okay.â
Charles lets out a rough breath. âI will be.â
You sag closer, hands still pressed to the blood. âThen weâre getting you out of here.â
âNo.â He shifts weakly and winces. âGo on with John.â
You shake your head once. âNo.â
"Move fast. Or they'll come down that hill and kill us all."
"I won't."
âGo,â he says again, quieter now. âI can follow. Just not fast.â
You stare at him, at the blood soaking through his shirt, at the strain in his mouth that heâs trying so hard to hide. Your fingers tighten on his coat.
âI donât care about Micah. I donât care about any of it. Let John have him.â
Sadie glances between you and Charles, then steps back, leaving the two of you in the cold. Charlesâs gaze stays on your face.
âJohn and Sadie need you.â
âDonât.â You blink hard, but it does no good. âDonât ask me to go.â
He studies you for a long second, blood still spilling through your fingers, his own breath shallow. âWhy? This is what you wanted.â
The words tear out of you before you can stop them.
"Because I'm not having this child without you."
Even Sadie does not speak. The wind seems to go quiet around the boulder. You stare at Charles, suddenly sick with the fact that it is out now, impossible to take back, impossible to bury in the lining of your skin.
For a long moment, he only looks at you.
Then his face changes â not in disbelief, exactly, but in shock so deep it seems to cut straight through pain. âYouâreââ
You give a tiny, helpless nod. âI was going to tell you.â
âWhen?â
"After this. After I kill Micah."
Madly, you wonder if he is upset with you. With his blood spilling through your fingers and his face grey with pain. You wonder if he thinks what a reckless, selfish woman he has married. One who will risk anything, everything for vengeance.
But then, his hand comes to cover yours. You exhale, a cold puff of air that makes your relief visible. The light weight of Sadie's hand is on your shoulder, but you barely feel it. You watch Charles's eyes, glazed with pain and love.
"I'm sorry." You whisper, stroking his hair away from his face with your free hand. His skin is slick with sweat despite the cold, but his heart, thrumming beneath your hand, is strong. "I should have told you. I thought you wouldn't let meâ"
âNo.â His voice is low, roughened with pain.âNo.â
He swallows, and you see the effort of it. See him try to gather himself for you.
Then his fingers tighten over yours with weak insistence, as if he can tether himself on earth, simply by touch.
âYouâre not leaving me,â he says.
. . .
1903, Ambarino
"I'm getting married."
The breeze sifts through your hair. You look down, feeling idiotic. Arthur's grave is a cross. On it, inscribed;
"Blessed Are Those Who Hunger And Thirst For Righteousness"
Blessed. Arthur would have laughed. Are you supposed to weep? That is what women are supposed to do. Weep into hankies and lay flowers on the tombs of their lovers. You do not have flowers. What you do have is the mad urge to laugh.
Arthur Morgan is dead. Dead! His massive, powerful body has been reduced to bones underneath your feet. The man who loved you and fucked you and danced with you by the fire is dead. The man who killed for you and killed with you and seemed tall as the mountains, as bright as the sun.
Charles has buried him, and you think what it must have been like. Charles shooing crows off Arthur's rotting flesh, picking maggots out of his sunken face. Charles has said none of this to you, but you know.
He had been so tired. He had been so brave.
"I don't want to leave you." Arthur's eyes are bloodshot. Exhausted. He has woken at midnight, his skin burning with fever. He sits at the edge of the cot, his aching head cradled in his hands. You sit beside him, kissing the sharp jut of his shoulder blade. You taste sweat.
"I'm hard to get rid of." Your voice trembles. You force a smile.
"I know." He enunciates slowly, forcing the words through the feverish delirium. "But I'm tired. Real tired."
"Rest a while, then."
"You'll wake me?"
"'Course."
"Will youâwill you rub my head a little? It hurts."
You sit up on the cot, patting your lap. Crawling over your legs, he puts his head in it. Silently, you run your fingers through his hair, press your thumbs against his sweaty temples. His breathing evens, and he drifts. You lean down and whisper in his ear.
"Rest, my love. Rest."
The soil is cool beneath your cheek. The sun breaks through the clouds, blanketing you in light.
âThe yield matches what they claimed.â Maekarâs voice is quiet and rough from your left, where he stands with his hands clasped behind his back. âI reviewed the reports myself.â
Manderly shifts in his seat. âWith respect, Prince Maekar, reviewing reports isnât the same as knowing a Houseâs character.â
The solar goes just a fraction quieter. You can feel the distance in Maekar even as he speaks, the space he keeps between himself and this place that is meant to be his home. He came North out of duty and a kingâs command and a woman who loved his brother first. The whole court knew it. But Maekar came anyway, because thatâs what iron does: it bends, or it breaks.
He just goes cold instead, the prickly dragon temper dampened by something deeper inside.
âLord Cerwyn,â you say before the silence can curdle. âYour concerns about the Gift?â
Cerwyn pulls out a parchment. âThe wildlings have been bolder, my lady. The mountain clans wonât ride north without incentive, and they donât trust southerners. Theyâll want to negotiate with someone who knows how things are done.â He glances at Maekar from the corner of his eye, clearing his throats. âNo offence meant, my prince, but this is northern business.â
âMy lord husband spent a fortnight in the clan camps this autumn,â you cut in coolly.
âAye, well.â Cerwyn shifts his weight at the look on your face. âUnderstanding and commanding are different things. Winter is coming, Lady Stark, and we need lords who know winter in their bones.â A deliberate pause, so heavy you donât think anyone in the room is breathing. âNot some southern prince whoâs never seen snow stick.â
The room falls deadly quiet. You can hear the fire crackling somewhere behind you, wood snapping in the fire, the wind hammering at the shutters. The other lords are watching, waiting to see what youâll do.
Maekar doesnât move. His jaw tightens, but he says nothing, the tendons in his hand ripple with restrain as he slowly clenches his fist. Heâs learned that silence in the North is sometimes the only armour worth wearing, but you also see the rigid line of his shoulders, the careful blankness of his expression.
He thinks theyâre right, you realise with a sharp pang.
âLord Cerwyn,â you begin, and your voice cuts clean and cool through the room. âMy husband was on the Wall with the Nightâs Watch this autumn. Were you?â
Cerwynâs mouth opens, then closes.
âHe rode with the mountain clans through the first storm to settle a border dispute you said was too dangerous. Heâs overseen every roof repair in Winter Town, inspected every granary from here to the Gift.â Your fingers curl around the armrests, claws sinking into wood, your brows rising slightly. âHe knows winter. Heâs learning it by living it. What have you done besides complain?â
The lords stare openlyâsome with approval, others with surprise. Cerwynâs face goes red, but he doesnât argue back. Perhaps the wisest thing heâs done all day.
âMy lady,â Maekar says carefully, âLord Cerwyn speaks from concern. Itâs not misplaced.â
Heâs giving Cerwyn an out, letting the man retreat with dignity, because Maekar understands the politics of pride as a man who grew up in court even if heâs never been particularly good at navigating it. This is what Baelor would have done, you think dismayed, smooth, measured, strategically smart.
But itâs not Baelor beside you.
âConcern does not excuse discourtesy,â you say flatly. âAnd I will not have my lord husband questioned in his own hall.â You sweep your gaze across them. âWinter is coming. I want lords who will stand with us, not against us because they donât like where a man was born.â
You rise. âThis council is dismissed.â
The lords file out at once, stubborn or not the north is loyal and you imagine the look on your face is stormy enough for them not to test their luck. Cerwyn moves among them with his head hung low. You donât watch them go. Youâre watching Maekar instead, the blankness gone from his face and something guarded taking its place.
âYou didnât have to do that,â he says when the door closes.
âYes, I did.â You cross to him before he can retreat into that cold distance he wears like armour. âThey donât get to dismiss you. Not in my hall.â
âYour hall,â he repeats, and thereâs something bitter in it. âThatâs the problem, isnât it? Itâs yours. Winterfell, the North, all of it. Iâm justââ
âMine.â The word comes out fierce, almost possessive. Your hand fists in the front of his tunic, pulling him closer in a gesture that startles you both. âYouâre mine, Maekar. My husband. My lord. And I donât let anyone disrespect whatâs mine.â
His breath catches, just a touch, tiniest of hitches. You can see his throat work as he swallows, the muscle there jumping. âSeven hells, woman. You canât justââ
âI can.â Youâre close enough now to feel the heat of him, to see the way his pupils dilate. âYou came North for duty. You stayed because youâre too stubborn to quit, but youâre here now, and that makes you mine to protect.â
âProtect,â he echoes, and something in his voice cracks just slightly, a scowl pinching his expression even as his hands come up to grip your waist, fingers digging in just shy of bruising. âIs that what youâre calling it?â
âWhat would you call it?â
âClaiming.â The word is rough, almost accusing, but his hands tighten on you. âYou claimed me in front of them. Made it clear Iâm yours.â
âYou are.â
He makes a sound low in his throat, hard-edged and mean. âYou donât know what youâre doing to me.â
âThen tell me, husband.â
Maekar just stares at you, jaw working, that iron control warring with something hungrier. Then he yanks you against him properly, one hand sliding into your hair to angle your head back. âYou stood there and defended me like Iâm something worth keeping. Like youâd gut anyone who tried to take me from you.â
You watch him from under your lashes. âI would.â
âGods.â His forehead drops to yours, breath coming hard. âYou mean that.â
âEvery word.â Your fingers curl tighter in his tunic. âYouâre mine, Maekar. I donât care who I loved before or what anyone thinks. Youâre what I have now, and Iâm not giving you up.â
Something shifts in his expression, the last of that careful distance crumbling . âSay it again.â
âYouâre mine.â
âAgain.â
âMine.â You pull him down and press your lips lightly to the uneven texture of his cheek. âMy husband. My lord. My problem to deal with.â
He laughs, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. âYour problem.â
âMy responsibility.â Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble. âAnd if Cerwyn or anyone else wants to question that, they can answer to me.â
âFierce little wolf,â he murmurs, but thereâs heat in his eyes now, something possessive matching your own. His thumb traces your bottom lip. âDidnât know you had claws like that, wife.â
âIâm a Stark. We always have claws.â You bite gently at his thumb, making his eyes darken. âAnd youâre pack now. That means I protect you.â
âPack,â he repeats, testing the word. Then, quieter: âYours.â
âMine.â
He kisses you properly this time, harder and claiming, no room for doubts, backing you against the table until the edge digs into your spine. His hands map your waist, your hips, claiming in turn, and you let him, give as good as you get, until youâre both burning with it.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and his voice is gravel. âIf this is what northern marriages look like, Iâve been underestimating the North.â
âYouâve been underestimating me.â You straighten his tunic where you wrinkled it. âDonât make that mistake again.â
âWouldnât dream of it, my lady.â But thereâs something raw in his face, something grateful and hungry and almost soft, as much as a hard man could get. âYour hall. Your husband. Your dragon to protect.â
âGood.â You press one more kiss to his mouth, quick and fierce. âNow letâs go show those fools weâre a united front.â
His hand catches yours as you turn, lacing your fingers together. The grip is solid, sure, no hesitation. âTogether, then.â
I got so insanely carried away, but again, I just cannot write a short story. I also never write smut so stfu (áľâ Ě áľ ). There will absolutely be mistakes, this isn't entirely proofread, and I cba rn so I'll do it later.
Summary: Duty weighs heavy when the clan expects you to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the one youâve spent years convincing everyone you loathe. Your father is the clanâs greatest warrior, closest friend to the Oloâeyktan, and their bond sealed your fates together long before you could draw a bow. You grew up running wild with the Sully children but the flawless eldest son always seemed to shadow your every step and youâve perfected the scowl reserved only for him. The clan believes it and they accept your envy. Everyone except the parents who watch with quiet amusement, because they see what you both still refuse to name.
Or in which; youâre the warriorâs daughter, bound by expectation to the perfect future leader you claim to hate. You insist itâs true and everyone believes you. Except, parents always know their children best.
enemies to lovers, holy slowburn, slight soulmates (but not really?), childhood rivals, forced proximity, aged up Neteyem, so much smut!!! as always, my terrible gramma
Your composure is a facade. He knows it.
He knows it because he sees it.
In the way your scowl falters just a fraction as you swirl colorful insults through velvet words and he finally bites back. In the way you push against him when he even tries to offer his help â because the basket youâre lugging looks absurdly full, and yet you still let him walk you the rest of the way to the village.Â
You snarl at him when he even attempts to correct your bow arm, and it used to make him flush with something sharp and ugly â envy, maybe? â because you didnât have a problem with authority, he knows because you seem to take his fathers criticismâs just fine. When anyone else rectified you, you adjusted.
It was only ever a him problem.
Because when he corrected you, you hissed at him like his correcting hand was tipped with arrowheads and poisonous herbs.Â
You had a problem with Nateyam.
As a teenager, it used to irk him to no end. Because as the firstborn son of the Oloâeyktan, he was meant to carry himself like the leader he would one day become, like an authority the clan respected without question and trusted to guide them through storm and calm alike. Yet the one thing expected of him above all else, the one duty his father never let him forget, was simpler and far more aggravating.
He was supposed to get along with you.
You â the daughter to the clan's most formidable warrior, his fathers right hand man.Â
You â who did not listen. Who did not trust him. Who always â always â questioned him.Â
It may as well have been written in the stars by Eywa herself that the two of you were fated to fold neatly into the same position as your fatherâs. And yet you resisted with every breath possible.
You rebelled, and scowled, and cursed at the mere mention of his name. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with the Olo'eyktan's first born despite your role, and that made it so exceedingly hard to get along with you. It left his skin flushing that embarrassingly dark purple colour which made his mother chuckle whenever he spoke of you.Â
He tried to make sense of it. Of the way you rolled your eyes at his advice, or scowled when the two of you were paired in training once again and he couldnât recall doing anything wrong. Not really.
You fought as normal children had, argued and competed as two eldest children to high-ranking parents would, but never with anything sharp enough to leave a lasting wound.. Nothing that should have haunted him like this.
However, he wasnât a young boy anymore and time had an ironic way of sanding things down. He noticed what once felt like a raw hatred you wore like a book written in some foreign sky-language, suddenly became much more legible as his years grew to start with a two, almost as if he learned how to annotate his memories of you with the clarity he lacked as a teen.Â
One in particular he remembers most vividly. That evening by the central fire, where you were seated opposite him, and the air still carried the echo of that afternoonâs argument. He sat closest to the basket of ripe utumauti fruits, something he always recalled being your favourite through the years of shared meals, and he remembers the way it sat just beyond your reach on the woven mat.
When you asked for it low and casual, he didnât think twice. Of course he picked it up and of course he leaned forward to pass it, because why would he not? He sat the closest, and both your siblings and his own had been too occupied in animated conversations with each other to notice.
He also remembers the way you had slapped his hand away with a guttural scoff, almost as if he was utterly ridiculous for even offering. The sting on both his knuckles and his pride had his brows furrowing instantly and that familiar anger, the kind only you could kindle so effortlessly, surged hot beneath his skin once more.
But it was only when the soft snickers rose from nearby â his mother and yours, seated side by side and watching the exchange with far too much interest âthat he noticed.
You had still taken the basket.
âHey!â He remembers the way your fathers voice cut from just to the left, âPlay nice.âÂ
And heâd assumed, as always, that your father was less than impressed at his daughterâs rude manners toward the Oloâeyktanâs son. But the reprimand softened almost immediately, chased by a low chuckle that started only after Jake failed to hide a snort of his own beside him.
The two men were already leaning into one another, shoulders touching, Jakeâs head tipped low as one hand, holding a piece of half bitten meat hung limply by his mouth, trying and failing to hide his laughs through a mouthful of food.
The nudges of your sister's elbow into your side was the last thing he remembered noticing, sharp and mocking but quickly followed by the look you shot her. It was a silent warning in that strange language heâd never understood as a boy â the one you did with your eyes alone, but one he was now, uncomfortably, starting to. Because you ate your fruit without ceremony, eyes trained forward and stubbornly refusing to drift his way, yet the basket sat firmly in your hands all the same.
That was when Neteyam stopped letting it irk him. When he realised why everyone else around him seemed to find that mean spirit you reserved only for him so humorous, despite his distress. You were composed, yes, but he finally understood why.
Your composure was a lie.Â
And once it stopped irking him, once it settled into something he thought he understood, all the memories of you persistently adorning that scowl that seemed to exist only for him suddenly lost their bite. For a moment he felt like he had maybe started to figure you out.
But recently, something had changed, subtly at first, then all at once. What was once harmless irritation had suddenly sharpened into something more volatile. You didn't just brush him off anymore, you snapped before he'd even opened his mouth, and flinched away the moment he so much as reached to steady the basket. It was as if every breath he took was a disruption, and his presence had become something you could no longer tolerate in silence.
That mean spirit wasn't funny anymore, because now it was relentless.
Which was why, standing across from you now, he didnât brace for your signature fang baring scowl. He expected it in a way that made him sigh with knowing fatigue, and yet a little bit of smugness all the same.
âWhy must you always be so difficult?â The words surfaced in that defeated tone he reserved only for you and your impertinence for him.Â
Your body shifted back and you leaned against your heels to glance over your shoulder at where he stood behind you. You were still kneeling over the stump of braided vines you had been meticulously shredding into winding fibres with your knife.Â
âI am not.â And there it was â that scowl he expected. It twisted your face into that familiar snarl, upper lip curling to flash the set of fangs he saw more than his own. âYou just insist on hovering.â
âWe were sent out here to collect fibre together. You âinsistâ on making it a one man job.â
You didnât look at him again, instead, turning back to the vines where your blade already resumed its steady work, as if his presence were nothing more than a distraction.
âI do not need a partner to cut fibre,â Your response was flat as if it were such an obvious observation, and then you sighed, a long drawn out exhale to yourself. âSo ridiculous.â
The scoff that followed was harsh and hidden under your breath.
Despite its low delivery, the sound didn't slip Neteyamâs ear, and he raised an unassertive brow at what he thought he heard, the corner of his mouth tipping low in confusion. âWhat is?âÂ
His confusion hit you like a sudden gust of wind, and with a growl that spoke as if you couldn't believe he dared asking, you quickly shot up with a whirl, tail whipping fast with a force Neteyam had to step back to avoid. You were facing him completely, now.
âThat our fathers insist on sending us out here together like we are still little children. I do not need a partner and I certainly do not need any partner of mine to be you.â
The words landed harsher than the scowl ever could. For a moment he only stared at you, really observing your features twisted with perplexed anger, yet comically softened by what he could only describe as a pout in your lip. He took in the way your stance squared and the way your grip curled around the knife with agitated force.
You may not think you acted like one, but great mother, you looked like a child right now.
âRight, you are not a child.â He said at last, voice level. âBut maybe our fathers would not feel the need to treat you like one if you stopped acting as one.â
âExcuse me?â
The grip on your knife tightened, handle creaking under the pressure of your grasp that almost splintered the wood. The corner of your mouth twitched up once again in that scowl that bared the top of your right fang to his watchful eyes, and your tone was so even it almost made him falter. Â
Neteyam held his ground, though. And instead, he replied carefully in an attempt to diffuse that constantly building tension just a little.
âYou make an enemy of me in everything we do, as if we havenât been paired together since we were barely old enough to hold a blade. If you wish to be met as an adult, you cannot bare your teeth at every word spoken to you, Fang.â
That age old nickname rolled like honey off his tongue but struck your ears and curdled into venom. Your fists curled so tight your claws bit crescent marks into your palms, and the muscles along your jaw tightened until you felt the throb of it.
Fang. You despised when he called you that. The way he reduced you to nothing but the sneer he so often deserved.
With a slow drawn out breath that carried no warmth, you bared the edge of a laugh that held no humour, letting your mocking reply land bitter and sour on your tongue.
âPerfect Olo'eyktan's son, always so composed and responsible. Maybe I would enjoy my time with you more if Eywa hadnât shaped you so stiff in the tail you forgot how to bend, Tawtute.â
For a heartbeat, the words hung between you like a knocked bowstring waiting to snap with release. Then Neteyamâs jaw tightened, because he always hated when you commented on the human in him, as if it made him less Navi. Less than you.
A Tawtute, a sky-person, as if it were an insult. Spoken like a curse, when all heâd ever done was try to prove it wasnât.
He let the silence stretch a moment longer, before taking one deliberate breath to regulate his reeling thoughts, choosing to ignore your bait. Low hanging fruit as his father would call it.
âYou forget how many times that stiffness kept you from getting hurt.â
You turned back toward the vines with a scoff, knife biting down harder than before. The fibres split unevenly, curling away beneath the force of your hands. âI do not need to be helped by someone who can barely hold their bow arm high enough to knock an arrow. I do not listen to you.â
âYes,â Neteyam scoffed a humorless laugh, âyou never do.â
He sank down into a squat then as well, finally turning his attention to the pile of finished fibres you had shoved aside. His hands were quick to gather a few filaments between his pointer and thumb, testing the strands between the fingers as he twisted the two together, before giving them a short, sharp tug. They held for one, and held for another as he stretched them further, then finally faltered with a snap as he pulled them taught enough.
His mouth twitched down.Â
âYou cut angry,â He observed with a growl. âUneven. Wasteful.â
You spun once more, this time in your squatted position to meet him at eye level, the knife still gripped between your four fingers almost as a threat. âYou waste them with your stupidity! Of course they break when you only weave two fibres!â
âThey need to be thick enough for bowstrings, to hold knocked arrows in new bows.â He countered.Â
You sneered with a slight hiss, leaning further into him. âThen donât use them.â
âOh no, I will.â He smirked, as he finally began his job, looping the fibres together, securing them with practiced ease. âSomeone has to make sure we donât come back empty-handed.â
You shot him a glare. âI said I do not need your-â
âYou do not need my help,â He finished for you, clearly way too amused now. âI know. You have said it at least five times since we left the clearing.âÂ
He leant closer as he spoke, not directly into your space, but just enough that you had to shift your stance to keep working without him intruding. His looming shadow falling over the stump you worked on, over your hands and the blade that suddenly seemed to falter under a different kind of pressure now.
âAnd yet,â he continued, eyes never leaving the strands as he calmly coiled the fibres, âyou keep cutting while I bind. Funny how that works.â
You stopped your movements, sending him a glare out the side of your eye, one that had your lashes feeling heavy and jaw slightly agape.
âGet out of my way.â You spat, but it was as if you couldnât convey the weight of anger you meant to land. Your tone was weak and almost a little desperate.
âYou always rush when you are angry,â he ignored your demand - if it could even be called that - with a tone that was almost conversational. âYour tail gives you away.â
Your eyes flashed with the realisation that he had even been looking long enough to notice your tells, and your cheeks suddenly flared with something warm and hot that turned you purple.
âStop watching me, Tawtute.â This time your voice really did sound desperate.
âI canât. You make it difficult.âÂ
You were close enough to see the faint curve of that infuriating smile he loved to wear, and to feel the heat of him radiating that smug confidence he wore like a headpiece.
Years of success at keeping him as far away as one could be from someone they worked with on a near daily basis, you felt had suddenly dwindled into an endless array of interactions where he always managed to dominate the conversation. Reduced to this. To the way he always stood too close now, and spoke too smugly, as if he had suddenly decided that he finally had you all figured out.
Despite your lack of response, he broke the silence, voice dipping just enough to grate, âYou know, for someone who insists she doesnât listen to me, you react an awful lot when I speak.â
âBecause you are provoking me!â You snapped in a low growl.Â
âYou glare like you are about to strike me." He replied, entirely too amused.
âLucky I am working, because you would deserve it if I did.â The words landed like a pathetic cry, and suddenly it felt like you were deficient of every insult you had ever known, reduced to the same childish fury youâd sworn youâd outgrown.
âOh are you? Would not have guessed, with the way you are looking at me like a Yerik in the firelight.âÂ
Eywa, if you didnât look angry before.
âNeteyam!â
This time, you hissed it like a venomous mantra, fangs bared and legs snapping up to your full height as you leaned into his space, close enough to let the words bite the air. Your ears pinned sharp against your braids, and his jaw set as he met your glare without yielding, tension pulling tight between you like that drawn bowstringâ
âOh good, youâre fighting again.â
A sudden unexpected third voice had both your heads spinning towards the break in the clearing just a few yards East, where a very unimpressed Loâak tread carelessly down the path with a barely-contained giggling Kiri besides him. Kiri moved with a balled fist pressed against her pursed mouth, supported by an arm crossed along her chest in an attempt to hide her amusement.Â
âItâs more like flirting again.â The words Kiri muttered were small and meek but Eywa, if they didnât hit large.
Both you and Neteyam froze at the intrusion, then stilled at the implication, a beat passing before you each stepped back in the same beat of time. He rose to his feet far too quickly besides you, your eyes blown wide in something too closely resembling horror, while Neteyam merely rolled his, tired and resigned, straightening back into the perfect son like it was second nature once more.Â
âStop being a skxawng, Loâakâ.â
ââWe are not flirting, Kiri.âÂ
The words collided in the air, yours to Kiri a hiss and his to Loâak a sigh, overlapping with a defensive tilt that had the other two chuckling harder.
Loâakâs mouth twitched. âWow." He stated. âTouched a sensitive nerve.â
And Neteyam, the all mighty responsible son he is, didnât reach for the bait Lo'ak hung so low for him, instead, he crossed his arms with a sigh at his unexpected presence. âWhat are you doing here?â
The answer came before either of them could speak, as a sudden fifth voice came echoing from the brush of leaves. A small, blurred figure soon came dashing out of the tree scape, making a b-line straight to the centre of the clearing in a full stumbling sprint. She was headed directly towards where you stood in a pout next to Neteyam.Â
âDad said to come get you two because youâre taking too long!â
Kiri and Loâak's eyes grew wide. And with a quick exchanged glance of horror, at the same time they barked. âTuk!âÂ
But she ran right past them, as if their voices fell silent to the wind.
Loâak lunged forward, catching her by the arm just before she could skid to a stop at your feet. The glare he sent her sharp and immediate enough to make her shrink in on herself, ears drooping as she braced for the scolding she knew was soon to come.
âDad told us to come get them,â He corrected, gesturing between himself and Kiri. âThat wasnât an invitation to follow.â
Tuk's round eyes glint up with that innocent reasoning you just couldn't deny, her pupils glossing over as she pouted heavy in protest and twisted her head to look at you and Neteyam.
âBut Dad said youâve been out here alone long enough!â
Tuk protested, twisting free of Loâakâs grip with a determined wriggle and darting straight to you. The moment she was within your range, she grabbed your forearm with both of hers, tugging urgently as she looked up with those wide, worried eyes.
âHe told mom that if you and Neteyam keep fighting like this, youâll probably end up at the Tree of Souls by tonight!â She paused, then her voice pitched higher with pure betrayal. âBut you canât! You promised youâd help me braid my new beads tonight!â
For a heartbeat, the clearing went unnervingly still. You stared still as stone down at Tuk, mortification burning hot beneath your skin at the implication that flew right over her head but knocked you right up yours instead. And besides you, Neteyam fared no better, looking as if the world had briefly knocked him off balance too, His eyes widening just enough to betray him before he could pull himself back together.Â
In stark contrast just a ways away, Loâak let out a sharp bark of laughter, doubling over with his grip on Kiri's arm, just as she finally outright lost the battle sheâd been silently fighting, turning away from the set of two dazed and angered eyes with a hand clamped over her mouth.
She shook with quiet, uncontrollable cackles, restraint entirely gone, fed by the matching looks of mortification plastered across both your faces. The two of you looked ridiculous.
And Tuk, sweet innocent Tuk, oblivious to the chaos her words had detonated in the once silent clearing, glared up at Neteyam's shell-shocked face with furrowed brows and that pouty sneer.
âStupid Neteyam.â She declared, voice ringing with righteous indignation. âYou canât take Y/N anywhere tonight. Eywa heard it - sheâs with me today!â
She punctuated the proclamation with the scrunch of her nose and a quick, defiant flick of her tongue, poked in his direction.
For a split second, Neteyam only stared at her, still caught somewhere between the weight of what had just been said and the very real presence of his little sister. Then he blinked, jaw tightening as the annoyingly-older brother instinct finally won out over shock. With a sharp, almost automatic motion, he reached out and pinched her tongue between his fingers. An act that had Tuk squealing and flailing in protest.
âOi!â Tuk yelped, recoiling instantly, clutching her tongue with a gasp.
Neteyam let the sound settle before he spoke. He shot you a brief, weary glance, as if checking whether youâd reacted at all, then turned back to his sister, composure sliding firmly back into place. His voice level and measured with a delicate care he reserved specifically for her.
âThat is entirely enough out of you. Someone needs to give you a lesson about eavesdropping." He glanced back at his brother and sister, motioning a hand to the two still giggling. "Time to take you home before we all get scolded.â
Tukâs ears drooped immediately, shoulders curling inward as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers still hovering protectively near her mouth. She opened her lips as if to argue, then thought better of it, gaze flicking between Neteyam and the ground with exaggerated remorse.
That was when Kiri scoffed, the tension finally cracking as ahe straightened, still grinning as she shouted. âHe's right, youâve caused enough trouble. Come on, teylupil.â
She didnât wait for her to comply, instead walking to grab her, planting two steady hand on each of her shoulders, then began steering her away with decisive finality, already turning her toward the path before she could wriggle free.
âBut I didnât do anything!â Tuk protested.
âTell it to dad.â Kiri laughed.
Tuk craned her neck back toward you one last time as Kiri dragged her away, voice pitching higher with urgency. âY/n, donât forget my hair-!â
âI know,â you cut in quickly, the words tossed over your shoulder like a promise already made as the two disappeared down the winding path in a lingering bicker.
Loâak remained a heartbeat longer. His gaze flicking between you and Neteyam, something quiet and knowing glinting behind his eyes as his mouth twitched with barely restrained amusement.
You caught it quickly, and shut it down even quicker, face smoothing into neutrality as you turned away, dropping back into a crouch before the stump as if nothing had been disturbed in you.
âWe will collect the threads and follow.â Your voice came out flat and deliberately ungiving, spoken without the fault or fracture he was clearly waiting to see. Whatever reaction they had hoped to draw out of you never came, instead, your expression smoothed into something unreadable, as if nothing at all had happened in the last few minutes.
When he didn't get it from you, Loâak redirected his attention to Neteyam with a long, assessing look. He was waiting for the reaction you refused to give, and when he found nothing but the faint quirk of Neteyamâs mouth, he huffed a quiet laugh and finally began his own descent toward the start of the winding path back to the village.
âDadâs pissed.â He called over his shoulder. âTry not to be too long.â
The brush swallowed him soon after as well, laughter and murmured whispers dissolving into the low hum of the forest. And then the clearing fell still again.
You let out a slow breath you hadnât realized you were holding, shoulders rolling as the tension finally bled off. Remembering yourself, you turned back to the stump, your hands moved quickly now, rough and efficient, gruffly snatching clumps full of fibre from the scattered pile. You stuffed them into the woven basket Neteyam had brought, as if keeping busy might quiet everything still coiled tight beneath your skin.
For a moment, Netayem watched. It almost seemed like that armored composure of yours was taut as rigid as usual, as if nothing in the last five minutes had made you falter for even a moment. To anyone else, maybe, it did appear as so, but he knew you well enough to see the way your jaw clenched so tight heâd envisioned you cracking a molar, and the harsher than necessary grip in your fingers as you haphazardly tossed the fibre around. Not to mention the stutter in your tailâs path, the tell heâd learned long ago as the one that always surfaced when you were lying.
It left him releasing a chuckle he couldn't contain, a deep, rumbling sound which made your ears twitch sideways in annoyance. You paused in your frantic movements, head snapping to the side in a motion which left your glowing amber eyes glaring daggers at his towering form.Â
âWhat?â You spat, tired, irritated and painfully obvious to him â embarrassed.
âStill upset about what Kiri said?"
Your jaw clenched, fangs peeking as you whipped fully around to face him, rising to your full height at the implication. The basket thumped forgotten at your feet as the tension tipped to a peak beyond your capacity, and you stalked towards him with an almost predatory sway.Â
"I am not angry about that ridiculousââ You cut yourself off, taking a moment to collect the basket off the ground, along with a breath of humid air, allowing it to sit in your lungs before releasing in a desperate attempt to somewhat self-regulate. âDo not flatter yourself, Tawtute. Flirting? With you? I'd sooner make Tsaheylu with a thanator."
His eyes gleamed with mischief, but it wasnât the boyish, innocent kind he wore when messing with his siblings. This one was the kind he wore only where you were involved, deliberate and cocky, slipping neatly beneath the cracks in your composure because he knew where to press.Â
The careful, responsible mask he wore all the time loosened just enough to reveal the tease underneath, a glimpse of something warmer and far more dangerous than his jabs at you ever were. He didnât crowd you with his body so much as he crowded you with his unyielding certainty, leaning in just the smallest amount, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in the a dark room rather than under the open light of tree canopies.
âFunny,â He murmured, and Eywa, the way he said it made your spine want to curl. âYour tail is flicking like it does when you lie. And you react so much when I get close, almost as if... as if you enjoy it.â
Heat hit you so fast it was humiliating, up your neck, across your cheeks, down your chest - anger and something you refused to name twisting together until you couldnât tell which was which. Your hand shoved into his chest on instinct, a firm press meant to reassert space, meant to remind him you were not something to be read and teased apart like the vines beneath your knife.
But his skin under your palm was solid and warm, his breath even, his posture maddeningly steady. You hated that he didnât move. You hated that the push didnât become a shove, that your body betrayed you with restraint and a split-second hesitation that had nothing to do with strength. Your pulse seemed to jump when he watched you like this.
âBack off,â You snapped instead, aiming for venom and getting something too light, too strained. You lifted your chin as if height alone could restore your pride. âI do not enjoy anything about you hovering like a skxawng who thinks he is Eywaâs gift to the clan.â
You couldnât handle it anymore, the way his eyes bore into yours like they read every thought, so you moved to leave the clearing, to be as far away from him as can be.
Neteyam didnât move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, the gold in them catching the filtered light until they looked almost feral. The smirk was gone and in its place was something colder as he took one slow step forward, crowding you until the basket handle dug into your hip and the scent of him, warm skin, crushed leaves, the faint sweat from the summer heat, filled every breath.
âGift?â He repeated, voice quiet and flat, the kind of quiet that made your spine prickle. âI am the one stuck dragging your half-finished work back to the village every time you storm off. That sound like a gift to you?â
Something in his words snapped the tension in a way that almost had a stifled laugh escaping you. The image of perfect Neteyam, future Oloâeyktan, the ever-responsible son, trudging behind you with a basket full of your messy fibers and a everpresent moping frown to match struck you as absurdly funny considering he was the one who always offered to do it anyways. That short, sharp laugh escaped before you could stop it, low and mocking, cutting through the thick air between you.
âPoor you.â You sang, voice dripping with false sympathy as the anger flipped into something crueler and entirely more enjoyable. âAll that dragging must be so exhausting for such meek shoulders to carry.â
His eyes narrowed, the feral glint sharpening into irritation, but you were already moving. You jerked the basket from where it pressed against your hip and shoved it hard into his front, the woven edge leaving him doubling slightly from the sudden jab to his ribs, a smack that landed with a satisfying thud.
A few loose fibers fluttered to the ground as he stumbled back a few steps and caught the basket on reflex, fingers curling tight around the rim. The motion finally giving you the space you longed to breathe once again.
âExcept, you came here knowing you were going to do it anyways. So, there,â You said, stepping back with a grin that showed too many teeth. âProblem solved. You can carry it all the way home anyways, like the dutiful son you are. Try not to strain yourself complaining about it later.â
Neteyamâs jaw clenched hard enough that you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, his ears pinning back flat against his skull. The feral edge in his eyes flared hotter, and for a second you thought he might actually snap, toss the basket aside and give you the fight you both pretended you didnât want.
Instead, he gripped the handle tighter, knuckles paling and barked, âFnaweâtu skxawng!â
The insult landed far too humorously for you to care, Instead you tilted your head back with an overly delighted smirk, very amused by his irate slurs and the way his facade cracked. âYou call me the stubborn idiot? But you carry the basket anyway. Funny how that works?â
He exhaled through his nose, blood boiling at the way you managed to throw his earlier words back at him. The sound was almost a growl, and he took one deliberate step onto the path after you. âStart walking, Fang. The sooner we get back, the sooner I am rid of you for the day.â
âPerfect!" You grinned, but the grin quickly dropped. "Twelve whole hours before you find another excuse to follow me around tomorrow.âÂ
You barely glanced back to see if he was following when you took off towards the village, because you already knew he was.
The clearing was loud with voices and laughter, bodies packed close as food and weapons were passed around in uneven circles, and it felt like the whole village had decided to breathe in the same place at once.
Someone had dragged a fresh kill in not long ago and the smell still hung in the air, mingling with roasted meat, crushed herbs, and the faint sting of smoke from the fire that kept getting fed as if it might swallow the night. Nets of fruit were being unknotted and handed off, cups passed between hands, blades checked and re-sheathed in the same idle rhythm people used when they were safe enough to relax but still too wound up to sit still.
You were wedged between a few of your friends near the edge of one of the many circles, packed close enough that their shoulders kept bumping yours when someone laughed too hard or shifted in their seat. Kiâtiri had been retelling an exaggerated recall of her day on patrol, her eyes gleaming with irate exasperation as she animatedly spoke of the moment Loâak decided to start throwing stones out of boredom, nearly nailing Moâat on the head from the overhang.
Tuk sat too. She had found you the moment you settled onto the woven mat, darting straight to your side to claim her usual spot and spend her evening meal with you instead of her siblings or friends. It's something that had become so common during communal mealtimes that your friends had come to expect the young Sully girl attaching herself to your side like a second tail. It was as if the decision had been made somewhere in her head and the rest of the world simply had to accept it, and now she perched happily at your side like she belonged there.
Her small hand gripped your wrist with the possessive certainty only children had, and she fidgeted with the jewels decorated across your fingers, twisting the woven strands carefully as if she were inspecting treasure. The beads youâd braided fresh not even a few weeks before clinked softly each time she moved, and every now and then she would lean her head against your arm and sigh, pleased with herself like sheâd taken down a Thanator.
âWill you make these for me too?â She asked â more like stated â for what had to be the third time tonight, thumb brushing the tiny knotwork with awe.
âWhen you stop trying to steal mine..â You murmured back, and she grinned, utterly unbothered by the threat.
You let yourself settle into it for a moment, letting the noise wash over you because it was easier than thinking after long days training, because nights like this were meant to feel simple and unwinding. You were halfway through listening to your friend complain about yet another act of stupidity Loâak had attempted on their patrol together, when Tukâs fingers suddenly stilled on your ring, halting and tightening hard enough that the movement forced you to glance down at the girl with a concerned furrow of your brow.
âWhat?â You muttered, eyeing her of an answer before she spoke it.
Tukâs eyes flicked past you toward the centre of the clearing, eyeing something in the distance that left you searching the vicinity in hopes of catching the focus of her gaze. Her mouth fell slightly, an almost angered look settling across her face before she scoffed, turning back to you in a huff that had her drawing closer.Â
âNeteyam is with that noisy woman again. Anâaya.âÂ
She spat the name in that high-pitched mocking tone children did, and at first, you didnât react. Not outwardly, at least. But something in your chest tightened all the same, small and sadistic, as if it even mattered at all.
You followed Tukâs gaze without meaning to, your eyes slipping past the firelight and moving bodies until they found him almost instinctively. Neteyam sat just beyond the centre of the clearing, leaned back against a stack of supply crates, relaxed in the way you only ever saw when he was amongst people he trusted, his shoulders were loose and his attention tilted toward the woman beside him.
Anâaya was speaking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke and laughed so easily, and Neteyam had angled himself toward her without thinking, one knee bent beside his chest, head dipped slightly so he could hear her better over the noise.
It irked you. And it irked you more that it even irked you in the first place. Because you hated him. You told yourself it irked you because you hated that he was enjoying himself. Right. Of course.Â
But the irritation still sat heavy and ugly in your chest, coiling tighter the longer you watched, and you hated that too, hated that your attention wouldnât let it go, and that your mood had soured so fast despite being so fine just a moment ago.
There was no reason for it. None that made sense. You hated that stuck up tawtute more than anyone else and you argued with him so much you made a sport out of it. So why did your chest tighten when he didn't brush away the hand she put on his shoulder?
Tuk noticed the shift in your mood right away. Her nose wrinkled as her grip tightened again and she leaned in closer, glaring openly now.
âI donât like her,â she muttered, voice fierce and final. âShe talks too much. And she sits too close to Neteyam. And she laughs at his jokes even when theyâre not funny.â
You attempted for even a minuscule moment to draw yourself back, to brush it away and forget it ever made you feel anything by resorting to your usual self regulation habits â insulting the man.
âNothing Neteyam says is funny.â But not even that seemed to work to calm you because that irrationally confusing feeling still clawed at your chest.
âThatâs not true,â Tuk called out immediately, tilting her small face up at you with those wide eyes. âYou laugh at him all the time! Just not when heâs looking.â
She leaned in closer, voice dropping into something hurt and almost bordering a whine. âHeâs supposed to sit with us.â
âThat is not how this works.â You snapped the reply too quick, eyes diverting from the scene to pick up another piece of utumauti fruit as if it never bothered you.
Tukâs eyes rolled at the response she should have predicted. She never understood why you acted so weird about it, when it was obvious to her that you liked her brother - because that was just what people did when they liked someone. They got weird and sharp and pretended they didnât. She didn't see it elswhere often, but she knew it because that was what you and Neteyam did.
Your friends had gone quiet at the sudden stir occurring just beside them. Kiâtiri quickly noticed the shift in your mood and tilted her head, studying you now with open curiosity.
âWhy are you angry?â She cut in plainly. âDid he do something again?â
âNo." You replied stark. âHow could he? Neteyam is all the way over there.â
Kiâtiri exchanged a quick, knowing glance with the friends beside you. âI didn't even mention his name." And the corner of her mouth lifted as a chorus of light giggles sung around the circle.
You answered with a quick, harsh warning glare, a motion that had the laughs slowly dying but the smiles still lingering in a knowing gleam. Kiâtiri leaned in again, allowing you the dignity of ending her teasing, feeling almost a little bad at how astoundingly purple you looked.
"Youâre getting upset,â She stated simply and not unkindly. âYou do that only where Neteyam is involved.â
âI am not upset.â But you were too far maddened for that to be convincing. âAnd he is not involved. I have been sat here, and he has been there this entire time.â
The lie hung heavy and brittle as you clicked your tongue. Tsk.
"Yeah, sat with that healer girl." Mikatxi interjected low and humoured.
Your chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like the threads Neteyam pulled too taut in the woods and before you could bite it back, the denial tore out of you, louder than intended and edged with fury.
âI do NOT care who he sits with!â You hissed, voice cracking on the volume. âHe can sit in her lap for all the stars in the sky care! I would not notice if Eywa herself told me!â
âSeems like you doâŚâ
ââWhat is going on!?â
The voice carried across the fire, calm but accusatory, and edged with something that made the fine hairs along your arms rise. In your bladed fury, you let your voice spike too high and missed the one pair of eyes that had locked onto you from beyond the fire.
Neteyam hadnât stood, he hadnât even moved from his spot. But he had leaned forward with a watchful, almost concerned eye, braids swinging low and hand hanging off his elevated knee as he observed with what you knew was that stupidly disingenuous concern.
The way he intervened like he was already rehearsing for Oloâeyktan burned you, as if he believed he could snuff out any simmering flame with his big, proud words simply because his blood said so.
And that wasnât even half your problem. The problem was that Anâaya followed his gaze immediately, curiosity sparking as she turned to see what had drawn his attention, blinking and glancing between the two of you, clearly lost by why he interrupted her mid sentence.
That alone was enough to make your teeth grind. Because what was your relationship with that skxawng any of her business?
âWeâre fine.â You called back, sharper than necessary, your eyes not even bothering to glance his way once. âTry having your own conversations instead of monitoring everyone else, tawtute.â
Neteyamâs mouth tightened just slightly at the insult, a breath leaving him slow and measured as if he were counting to three in his head. He didnât rise, not yet. Only tipped his chin and let a quick âEywa help me,â fall to the air before pushing himself to his feet at last.
He crossed the space between you in a way that had your fist tightening in anticipation for yet another argument, only fueled by the image of Anâaya hot on his heels like a second tail of his own, close enough to the boy that it felt intentional whether it was or not. Tuk sat up, planting herself more firmly at your side like a guard animal half her size.
âI said we are fine,â you warned as he stopped in front of you.
Your friends ogled at the two of you, already bracing for the next round of your endless bickering.
âAnd I said I was just asking.â His voice was calm but firm, and his eyes began searching your face for something, as if he could find whatever it was if he looked hard enough. âYou are upset.â
You sputtered a short sudden laugh but your tone held no humour. âRight, I forgot I am only allowed to feel some way once you have approved of it first. I forgot I need my warden to tail me through the village and make sure I am behaving. Shall you go report my mood back to our fathers now?â
Neteyamâs jaw flexed, his calm finally straining at the edges.
âThat is not what I am doing. You know I do notââ
âYou do!" Your outburst came hard against his sentence, not having the patience nor heart to hear his excuses. âMy tail flicks too harshly, and it is enough to call council with our fathers! Tell them to rest easy, golden son. I am not about to reign war over one evening meal.â
Neteyam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was bracing himself. âWell, you donât have to turn everything I say into a fight.â
âAnd you donât have to turn everything I do into your problem to solve. The mantle still sits on your fathers head, you are allowed to have a personality until then.â
An overdramatically long groan suddenly sounded to the left of you, and both your eyes snapped over to Tuks exaggeratingly agitated from, as she sighed in that childish way she did.
âStop fighting!â She begged, voice whiny with pure childish exasperation. âYou guys always pretend like you don't want to talk, and then Neteyam comes and you fight forever because he wonât leave you alone, but then you don't tell him to go away, and it's annoying!"
âTuk!â Both you and Neteyam barked simultaneously, horror gleaming in both of your eyes because that was so obviously not true!
âThat is what happens." She insisted stubbornly. "You do it all the time.â
"No!" You rejected. "We argue because he hovers!"
Anâaya, from the shadow of Neteyamâs shoulder, suddenly appeared forward, finally establishing her presence with a smile that was not wide nor warm, but enough to show she was not very fond of the girl her friend had been talking to.
"Maybe, if we did not worry about what you might do next, Neteyam would not be expected to hover and act like Oloâeyktan already."
Your head turned slowly toward her, blood finally boiling beyond that point that only Neteyamâs presence could push it to. Because who was she to imply you were a burden he had to shoulder, a mess he had to trail behind and fix every time you existed too loudly for her liking?
And especially who did she think she was inserting herself into Neteyamâs problems as if they were her own. âIf we did not worryâ â as if she had any right to speak for the frustration he supposedly felt?
You let your eyes trail to her far too self-satisfied form, sneering with the scowl you usually only reserved for that gawking fool besides her. But if she insisted on acting as his equal, she could be handled like him too.
âOh, is that your healerâs wisdom speaking, or are you only borrowing the golden sonâs voice while he is too busy ogling to use it himself?â
Her smile faltered and her chin lifted a fraction as her eyes narrowed in something mimicking offence. And then your gaze snapped to Neteyam, fury bright and uncontained now that the girl he had dragged to your circle had suddenly felt all too comfortable insulting you in front of all your friends.
âMaybe our fathers should stick her as your new training partner since she is already so good at handling me."
"Fangâ" Neteyam's voice was eerily low.
"âNow that my guard dog has a guard dog.â
And then he stiffened. âEnough.â
But you didn't stop. âIs this what you tell people about me?â
Neteyam opened his mouth to speak, visibly caught off guard by the sudden accusation.
âThat is notââ He started for the umpteenth time but again you didnât let him finish.
âI would think you respected me even a little, enough, considering all my father has done for you and your family. Enough considering you always like to remind me that 'we are partners.' But you let your women speak to me like I am beneath you.â You scoffed softly, the sound carrying just far enough to be heard.
âA leader, they say you will be.â You continued, words mocking. âTell me how this is keeping the peace. Seems your peace is built on my silence. Both your peace and our fathers.â
You rose without haste, the motion deliberate enough that the space around you seemed to shift with it. The ground felt steady beneath your feet, solid in a way your chest had not been for the last several breaths, and for the first time that night you welcomed the clarity that came with deciding to leave rather than be dismissed.
âY/n, noâ please donât be mad,â Tuk whined, the plea tumbling out of her in a rush as she reached for you, fingers brushing the edge of your wrist but failing to catch hold. Her face pinched with genuine worry. "I didn't mean to make it worse."
âYou did not.â You said shortly. âThis is not on you, Tuk.â
And then you turned and left without a word, the sudden absence of your presence cutting through the clearing sharper than any insult you had ever sent him, and for the first time Neteyam did not know whether you were just angry or actually hurt by what had happened.
It was confusing because you had never let any interaction between the two of you get to you like this, yet now that you had chosen distance in place of where you would usually just choose name calling, he couldnât help the feeling like heâd missed something far too important while it was happening.
The noise resumed all too quickly behind you, laughter reclaiming the air as if nothing had shifted at all, but he stayed where he was, unease settling low in his chest as he watched your retreating form saunter away, hips swaying with jolting anger and body tempting his eyes to never shift.
He didnât know when he started noticing things like that. The way your hips rolled as you walked, the flex of the muscles along your thighs with each step, and the way the line of your back shifted as you moved.
It sat wrong that he noticed these things about you, because he didnât notice them on anyone else. More than anything else, the fact that you hadnât looked back sat even worse. And the fact that he felt that hollow pull, tight and wrenching in his chest because of it, sat the worst of all.
âAt least you don't have to worry about watching her anymore." Anâayaâs voice cut in beside him, light and coaxing, like she was trying to pull him back by the wrist.
Neteyam nodded absently, already half elsewhere, the hollow feeling in his chest refusing to settle. Even as he turned back toward the fire, his attention lagged behind, tethered not to the laughter or the conversation resuming around him, but to the quiet space youâd left behind. To the quiet, unwelcome understanding that this time, you hadnât walked away to cool off â you had walked away because he had apparently crossed a line he didnât even realise he was dancing.
One delicate, purposeful step after the other. Neteyam watched your sultry hips as they worked against the motion of your legs, swaying against the gracefully deliberate rhythm of your strut. Every step was intentional, not a single wasted motion and certainly no hesitation, each one drawing a slow, tightening circle around him. You eyed him like prey and circled him like a predator.Â
He, too, circled your figure. Less graceful in his approach, his steps heavier and more grounded, but just as analytical with his eyes all the same. He told himself he tracked your figure because he had to, that he noticed how dangerously alluring you looked in your stride because he was being tactical, certainly not because he found it mesmerising.
Partnered again. You almost rolled your eyes had it not been for the undivided attention you locked onto his solid figure.
You suspected that they were doing it on purpose now, because whenever given the opportunities, your fathers paired the two of you as if it was something written into the roots of the forest itself. As if Eywa refused to separate you.
Jakeâs voice cut through the air before either of you could make a move.
âEnough posturing,â he barked from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. âThis isnât a mating dance. Someone's going to have to make a move soon enough. Engage.â
The command barely left Jakeâs mouth before you jolted.
You didnât rush him all at once because that was never your style. You shifted your weight and pivoted to your right instead, just as your tail came down with a sharp snap to the left, a deliberate ploy to feint him around you with sound.
Neteyam stuttered for a moment, nearly diving left and falling for the bait, but caught himself immediately, because of course he did. His jaw tightened as he corrected, blocking you by widening his stance, shoulders settling into a space much larger than you had accounted for.
You collided with his chest, steadying yourself with a tight hand clamped around his forearm that flexed under your grip. It was a successful motion that kept you upright, but your proximity to Neteyam left you vulnerable to an open hand palm against your shoulder, knocking you a step back. It was a warning shot, not meant to land hard, but it angered you all the same.
âGood feint, Y/n. Nice recovery, Neteyam.â Jake called out.Â
Your eyes never pivoted from Neteyam, but Jake's words riled you further, knowing he got praise for the first hit.Â
"Is that all you have?" You taunted, circling again, your breath steady despite the fire igniting in your veins. "Afraid to hit me for real, golden boy?"
Neteyamâs ears flicked at your taunt, but his expression stayed infuriatingly calm. He rolled the shoulder youâd nearly landed on earlier, circling with you, mirroring your steps like heâd memorized every rhythm youâd ever moved to.
âWell, would not want to mess up that pretty face.â
You flared your teeth in a hiss at his words, fangs bared and all, as the implication of them did not evade you. The idea that you were too feminine to fight. Bullshit.
It was bait, you knew it deep within, and yet you lunged for it all the same.
You dropped low, striking dirty with a sweeping leg that made contact with his ankles while your hands aimed for his torso. He leaped back to counter, but you were faster, leaping with a twist and raking your manicured claws down his ribs just to watch him hiss.
You landed in a crouch behind him, tail lashing with triumph at the hit but he countered instantly, arm hooking yours, using your momentum to flip you over his hip, but you held tightly, and this time you both went down. You snapped right to the ground, landing with a splat and a breathy groan, which he followed taut behind with, and soon you were caged beneath him as his braids fell around your face like a curtain.
âCareful,â he murmured, voice rough, eyes dropping to your mouth, âkeep rubbing up on me like that and people may talk.âÂ
Damn his Sully tongue and their dirty human minds. Only they â only he, were rash enough to say such vulgar words.
Heat flared in your face, nothing else but pure rage, and you answered with a growl, driving your knee up sharp between his legs. Not hard enough to hurt, you think, but just enough to make him block instinctively and give you room to twist.
You both rolled again, a tangle of limbs and snarls across the dirt, kicking up dust around you until you came out to a stop, this time you were on top, straddling his waist, thighs clamped tight, hands slamming his wrists into the dirt beside his head.
âI will kill you!â
Neteyamâs eyes blazed up at you, all traces of amusement gone. His ears pinned flat against his skull, jaw clenched so tight you saw the muscle jump. He bucked hard beneath you, trying to throw your weight, muscles straining as he fought your hold.
âGet. off. of. me.â He snarled, voice low and dangerous through his squirms against you, wrists twisting against your grip. âWhy must you always turn it into this?â
You dug your nails in deeper, refusing to budge, chest heaving with anger. âYou started it with your filthy mouth. Think you can say whatever you want and I will just take it?â
He arched again, harder this time, nearly unseating you from his lap and you slid to settle on his chest. His breath came in harsh pants now, struggling under the weight of you on his lungs, but his eyes still burned up at you with pure defiance.
The shift gave him a perfect view of you, sweaty and furious as you loomed above him, your braids wild, chest heaving and skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. A deep flush crept up his neck and face at the sight, dark purple blooming across his cheeks and he prayed to Eywa it looked like it was from a lack of air to everyone watching.
âIâm trying to win a damn spar, not deal with your tantrum. Yield!â He said through short breaths.
âForce me, Tawtute,â you hissed, grinding your knees harder into his sides.,âor keep dancing for your sempul like the skxawng you are.â
His face darkened at that, a fresh wave of fury rolling off of him. He surged up with a grunt, flipping you both violently in a cloud of dust that kicked as you grappled. It was a flurry of elbows and knees jabbing at whatever body parts they could reach, claws scratching, fangs baring, and hisses sounding out like a tussle of five years olds.
He landed a sharp elbow to your ribs and you responded by snatching at his long swinging kuru braid and tugging at it, pinning him for a split second before you broke free with a snarl.
The spar had turned ugly so fast, no one had time to register what it was until it already had become it. There was no technique or poise left, just primitive fighting and petty aggression mixed with ragged breaths and dirt covered bodies, every strike fuelled by years of building resentment.
And Jake was done watching it.
"That's enough!" he barked again, the sound cracking through the clearing like a whip. He dragged a tired hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before turning on you both with an outstretched arm that sliced downward in a sharp, commanding arc. "Get off!"
His voice was so demanding and final, it had you cowering in your skin and scampering clumsily off and away from Neteyams similarly heaving figure. You subtly brushed the dirt clinging to your arms in an attempt to salvage even an ounces worth of dignity, but it wasn't working, because your hands still shook and beneath it all, that ugly vulnerability lingered heavy as Jakes eyes beat down on you.
Jake continued.
"It was funny at first, cute even, when you two were teens and it didn't matter. But by Eywa, you're adults now. You have responsibilities and the clan is going to depend on you."
The authority in his voice pinned you both in place.
"I'm sorry, sir," Neteyam spoke with a breathy compliance, eyes trained downwards in a way that almost left you scoffing at how pathetic he looked - at how quickly he folded under the pressure of his father despite talking so big against you moments ago. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes while being lectured by his father about acting mature.
So, you muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," forcing the words out while fighting every instinct that screamed at you to glare at Neteyam instead of Jake.
Jakeâs gaze flicked between you. âYou two are going to be the leaders of this clan some day.âÂ
As he spoke the words, there was a pause as he immediately noticed the sudden way the two of you began shifting apart, blue faces crawling into flushed purple ones. It only took him another moment to realise the implication of his words, and he saw it. Of course he saw it. Eywa, the two of you couldnât even look at each other at an implication he didnât even mean!
Realization dawned on his face, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh. "And this â this right here â is exactly what I mean. Every little thing between you turns into a problem. You donât know how to keep things contained when itâs the two of you.â
He jabbed a finger toward Neteyam, ready to correct your misunderstanding.
"You will be Olo'eyktan one day." Then the finger swung to you. "And you will be the clan's head warrior. His right hand. His most trusted." Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sooner or later, you have got to get along. The People need to see unity, not... whatever the hell this is."Â
He said the line so defeatedly, as if his two greatest proteges had become his two biggest failures in that moment, and it left you deflating in embarrassment at the notion that your rivalry with his son had turned into something beyond comprehensive words. Instead, reduced to âhellâ - to some weird sky people word.
Shameful.Â
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at the ground, heat crawling up your neck, wishing the woven walkway would just open and swallow you whole because it was almost like your own father had just admitted that you were acting a fool.Â
As Jake Sully, the man who raised you almost as his own in the proximity of your father and their strict training regimes, was sighing down at you and his idiot son with weary frustration.
You knew he didnât mean it cruelly. This was that strange sky-people thing he did, where he slipped into what was described as the âmilitaryâ tone, meant to correct rather than offend. That didnât make the cut sting less deep, though.
You were mid deliberation when you suddenly heard it, the tiniest huff of breath from Neteyamâs direction. Not quite a laugh, but close enough, and it had you glancing up at him with the scowl you reserved only for him.
Neteyam wasnât looking at his father anymore. Now he was looking right at you, glaring through the corner of his limp braids, head still hung low as one side of his mouth twitched upward in that infuriating half-smirk he saved just for you too.
His amber eyes glinted with something resembling a shocked amusement, almost as if he couldnât quite believe you were actually compliant. Like your mortification was the funniest thing heâd seen all day.
You knew you shouldnât. You knew this was a horrible time. But in that moment it was like something inside you finally snapped with finality for the first time ever.
Where you usually would have met him with snark, now you were meeting him with red vision and a complete lack of respect.
Your ears flicked back, pinned taught to your hair like an animal on its prey only moments away from pouncing. Tail lashing once almost like a whip.
âWhat?â you hissed, so low it was almost swallowed by the breeze, meant only for him, but almost so quiet that Neteyam nearly missed the fact that you had spoken entirely. âSomething funny, Tawtute?â
He caught your words all the same, the perfect, golden son act completely slipping away, traded for a smirk that widened a fraction larger at your beyond irked facial expression. âA child, Fang.â He taunted, hitting right where he knew you hurt most. âYou look like a child scolded by her elder. Itâs pretty damn funny.â
That was all it took.
You stepped forward, voice rising despite yourself, despite the voice telling you that only awful consequences would come from acting out right now. The worst part of you could not have cared less that his father wasnât even through with lecturing the two of you yet, the bigger part of you so enraged, so encompassed by Neteyam and his stupidity, his audacity, that you just-
Did. Not. Care.Â
Your figure snapped upright, tall and menacing, body twisting to face him fully as your large blearing eyes glossed over, unblinking and fear-provockingly wide.Â
âOpen your mouth again, Tawtute, and I swear to Eywa and everything she deems sacred, Iâll slam you down and make you swallow every sorry sound you choke in front of the whole clan.â
Neteyamâs smirk froze, then vanished almost as quickly as it came. His ears were the ones to flick forward now, sharp at the ends and persistently alert. His golden eyes that had been mocking you a heartbeat ago had darkened into molten amber pits, pupils narrowing to slits. The perfect son was gone entirely.Â
His tail lashed once, hard enough to slap the air as he twisted his body entirely to tower over yours. It was the first time in all your years of knowing him where he had ever intimidated you, because it was the first time in all the years youâd known him that his size truly registered. Tall, and broad, and built like the future leader he was meant to be.Â
Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, tracing the sharp lines of his frame all the way down until they stopped to linger on the bold stripes that curved low around his hipbones and disappeared beneath the edge of his loincloth. They had always stood out more than anyone elseâs, as darker, thicker, more prominent than the others. The Tawtute genes, you told yourself, thatâs why they were like that, no other reason, certainly. A flush crawled up your neck, hot and confusing, and what would have been disguised as pure rage to any onlooker.
It pressed in on you though, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin. Because, it didnât feel like pure rage alone. Your mind could try to convince you, but your body would do otherwise, betraying your thoughts with that persistent betraying flicker of your tail.
And Neteyam noticed. Of course he noticed.
âKeep staring like that, Fang,â he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temple, âand Iâll give you something real to choke on.â
The words hit low and vicious, a promise wrapped in threat and before you even processed which arm had lifted first, your hand, with pre-curled fingers was already moving toward his chest to shove him back as hard as you possibly could. A hiss so guttural and sharp tearing from your gaping mouth, decorated by the furiously purple hue that painted your face like a white canvas.Â
His own shot up just as yours had, catching your wrist mid-air in a grip like the metal on the ships the sky people flew. Not painful, but almost entirely unbreakable.
For one suspended heartbeat you were locked there, with his fingers around your wrist and bodies inches apart, both of you breathing hard, tails thrashing in mirrored fury. The space between you felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.
Then Jakeâs voice cracked through it like a whip.
âI said enough!â
He was on you in two strides, one massive hand clamping the back of Neteyamâs neck, the other seizing your upper arm and hauling you both apart with force that made your feet skid on the woven mat.
Jakeâs eyes were wild, ears pinned flat, chest heaving.
âYou two are done,â he growled, voice shaking with barely-leashed anger. âDone acting like feral animals that canât control their emotions. Grown adults and Iâm still treating you two like I did when you were twelve.â
He exhaled sharply, making the decision at that moment.
"You're going out to the eastern watchpost. Tonight. Just the two of you." He held up a hand when you both opened your mouths to protest. "No arguments, not a goddamn word. It's an hour ride so that's plenty of time to cool off and you'll spend the entire night there.âÂ
Jake was not having it. âI want the supplies inventoried, the platforms repaired, and I want every corner of every ridge scouted for any signs of human activity, and you're going to do every moment of it together. You'll eat together, sleep in the same goddamn hammock if you have to, and you'll come back tomorrow morning acting like the future leaders you're supposed to be."
He released you with a shove toward the rookery.
âGo saddle your Ikranâs.âÂ
When the two of you hesitated, Jake snarled âNow! And if I hear one more word out of either of you before youâre out of my sight, I swear to Eywa Iâll tie you both to the same tree instead.âÂ
Jake's voice sounded so tired and the clearing had gone deathly quiet. Neteyamâs jaw flexed, but he said nothing and he was the first to turn without even so much as a glance in your direction, stalking toward the rookery with rigid shoulders, his braids swaying with each step, and every taut line of him vibrating with a restraint he almost lacked.
You stood frozen for half a breath longer, heart hammering against your ribs, wrist still burning where his grip had been. Then you turned too, spine straight with the kind of discipline that fooled everyone but the Sullys, because Neteyam and Jake could both see the bruise that adorned your ego, they just both knew better than to comment on it this far in.
The young warriors scattered around the training grounds let their conversations die and bows lower as you both strode past. Your ikran sensed the rage rolling off you and answered your call with shrieks and flared wings, and an agitation that mimicked your own. And you mounted without glancing at Neteyam once, attaching your queues to the end of your Ikrans with what was probably a little more force than necessary. He did the same and Jake watched it all with a tired stare as Neteyam banked east first, cutting through the darkness like a blade, before you followed silently behind him without a glance back.
Jake finally let out the breath heâd been holding, dragging a tired hand down his face. The forest answered him with the soft rustle of leaves and distant night calls of your fleeting Ikrans, nature utterly unconcerned with the problem heâd just sent walking into it. He had broken up enough sparring matches to know the difference between anger and whatever that had been.
Eywa help them, he thought. Because I am officially out of patience.
Behind him, the rustle leaves and heavy approaching footsteps had his ears perking up, expecting the presence before the sound of a low chuckle could startle him. The sound of a man who had already arrived at the same conclusion and was simply waiting to see if Jake would catch up.
Jake turned to find your father standing there, arms crossed, tail swaying lazily behind him as his eyes tracked the two figures disappearing into the trees. There was concern there, yes, but there was also something else that Jake had seen displayed on his face every time your families met and you and his son fought. Something almost⌠entertained.
Your father watched the treeline a moment longer before he spoke, his expression thoughtful rather than amused, though the hint of it lingered all the same.
âYou finally snapped.â He said, eyes not glancing at Jake, but to the sway of trees that shielded your retreating forms in the distance. âOnly took till the moment they stopped trying to fight clean.â
Jake let out a slow breath and rubbed at the back of his neck, because that had been the exact moment his stomach had dropped, when the spar had stopped looking like training and started looking like something feral. âI told myself it was just their temper getting the best of them,â he admitted. âThat theyâd settle once one of them landed a solid hit, but Iâve never seen them go at it like that.â
Your father hummed softly in agreement. âEven anger has rules.â He said. âWhat I just saw forgot them. No form. No distance. Just hands⌠wherever they could reach.â Your fathers eyes finally glanced over to Jake, a knowing smirk leaving him chuckling at the revelation.
Jake snorted quietly, humour slipping through despite himself and soon they were laughing low in unison. âMy son knows better than that.â
âAs does my daughter,â He replied, and there it was, that note of worried pride that always crept in when he spoke of her. âWhich is how I know they have reached a point where the body starts answering questions the mind refuses to ask.â
âYouâre worried.â Jake observed.Â
âI am a father,â he simply replied, and then after a beat added, âAnd I have eyes. I know Neteyam is fond of her.â
âHe wontâ,â Jake moved to start comforting his friend, shifting to place a hand on his shoulder when your father let a short snort leave him.
âI do not worry about Neteyam, I worry about her,â he said, with no effort to soften the curve of his mouth. âNeteyam has always known where the line is even when he pretends not to, and I have watched him choose restraint around her provoking comments time and time again. When it would have been easier not to.â A pause, then quieter, âThat matters to me. It is her who has no restraint.â He ended with a chuckle.
Jakeâs smirk lingered, but it softened at the edges, tempered by something more careful in tone. âYeah, well, they have both been very good at lying to themselves.â He let a beat pass before he chuckled. âWell, maybe not your daughter, she canât lie to save her life.â
âIt really is her we should worry about.â Your father laughed. âIf I were foolish enough to wager,â he suddenly turned, clapping a hand to Jakeâs shoulder, âI would bet they return insisting the night was torture, then flinch every time their queues touch because they finally know what theyâre used for.â
This time, the laugh Jake let out was almost too loud for his liking, glancing around in hopes that no one had heard the less than tasteful wording.Â
âIâm not taking that bet,â he said, then hesitated, the amusement fading just enough to let the doubt through. âI expected you to be angrier with me for sending them off together.â
Your father snorted. âYou did the same with Neytiri,â he replied. âAnd you didnât exactly handle it with grace.â
Jake grimaced. âThat was different.â
âNo, It was not,â he said lightly, his gaze flicking back toward the trees, âand Neteyamâs trying too hard not to cross the same line. My daughter has never been good at pretending there isnât one.â
Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, rubbing yet another exhaustedly stressed hand down his face at the implication of his words. âIâm not gonna sleep tonight.â
âGood,â Your father said quietly. âSomeone should keep watch. In case they burn the forest down. Let us just hope we do not share the name Grandfather and time soon either.â
Your feet hit the platform before his did, heavy with a careless thump that transitioned quickly into long strides against the creaking wood, riddled with the intention of getting as far away from Neteyam as possible, who was landing close behind you. There wasnât anywhere far to run off too, especially in the dark of night on a foreign base you had visited not even twice before, so you settled towards the end of the platform on a pile of large crates that rattled against your weight.
Neteyam dismounted much slower than you had, gently detaching his queue, before petting his Ikran three times, signalling its dismissal to perch elsewhere. It left with a shriek, chasing your own which had scattered the moment you landed.Â
Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, adorning everything in a bleary silver and deep shadows illuminated by bioluminescent blues. The base was rickety and barely large enough to accommodate a few people with all the supplies stolen and housed from the sky-people around. The wooden branches sagged and the leather tarp frayed, neglected and unkept for what seemed to be decades. But it was going to have to work considering you were banished here for the night.Â
Neteyam didnât look at you right away. He took the first few moments to busy himself checking over the boxes, silently counting the stock in the typical Neteyam way that forced him to be a stickler for the rules, to listen to every authoritative voice, to be the most stuck up Naâvi to ever grace Pandora's blue planet.
It took him a second of a forced and uncomfortable silence before he finally broke the tension, his voice low and failing to hide the tinge of irritation behind it despite his attempts to at least try and get something done. âWe should start with inventory. Get it over with.â
You didnât move from your position on the crate farthest south. And you almost laughed at how pathetically authoritative he attempted to sound, because you knew his blood still seared hot with boiling anger at being scolded not even an hour ago. Instead, you tugged at the string of the bow you had picked up from beside you, slowly swaying the one foot you left dangling as you fidgeted with the fraying thread.Â
âDo it yourself.âÂ
Your voice â so dismissive and blunt in tone â had Neteyamâs pointy ears pinning back and deep amber eyes snapping at you in a quick, sharp warning.Â
âDo not start.â
You took the first moment since he entered to direct your attention away from the flimsy bow, finally looking up at him with an all too unimpressed glare. âToo late.â You sneered, your typical fang glaring snare on full display. âYou started it the second you opened your skxawng mouth back at the training camp. Even children know to be silent when Toruk Makto speaks, yet somehow you can not manage to get that through your thick skull?â
âMy thick skull?â Neteyamâs big eyes bore straight through your own, blown wide and non-blinking almost as if trying to read you for an answer he wasnât going to find. He looked absolutely exasperated and a breathy laugh that held no humor escaped his lips as he shook his head. âThats rich coming from the one who is sat on a crate of knives, doing absolutely nothing.â
âWe are only here because perfect son could not bite his golden tongue long enough to remember his father was still speaking. You listen to him when we're here but not when it counts back home. I thought you were supposed to be the smart and disciplined one.â
âKind of difficult to concentrate on a lecture when the woman threatening to make me choke is attempting to swing her claws into my chest.â
âI only reacted because youâ!âÂ
The words stuttered in your throat, dying in your mouth as heat flooded your face in a violent wave, remembering what led to your outburst in the first place. Remembering the explicit words he let slip from soft yet smug lips like he had any right saying it in the first place.Â
âBecause you speak lewd words that should only be muttered between the most established of mates.Â
ââBecause I what?â Neteyamâs voice was softer now, but the smirk that followed was anything but gentle. It spread slow and lethally arrogant across his face, eyes glinting with a new light that felt almost predatory, as if heâd just found the one loose thread that would unravel you completely.
âBecauseââ Your face was so flushed, you could hardly bring the words to the surface. ââBecause you- you have a vulgar mouth! Y-You speak filth just to provoke me.â
 âVulgar?â Neteyam's eyes glinted with something completely different from the irate exasperation from earlier, it was like his entire demeanor had calmed, replaced completely by that arrogant smirk, like he was the only one able to translate the book the two of you had been trying to read your whole lives. âMe? I think I recall you mentioning something about slamming me down on my back.âÂ
A sharp gasp tore from your throat. The words hit like a physical blow, twisting your earlier threat into something raw and unmistakable. Your face burned hotter, if that was even possible, violet spreading across your cheeks as you instinctively looked him up and down.
âThat is not what I speak! Why must you keep bringing up those words?â The words tumbled out too fast and breathless to be convincing, and you almost kicked yourself for the delivery.
âBecause you are the one who said them, you just donât like what they mean.â
He began stepping closer. His strides were so deliberate, as if planned in advance, and unhurried, as if you were not another moment away from clawing out his eyes.
âThey meant nothing,â you shot back, chin lifting in defiance. âYou twist everything.âÂ
The sound of Neteyamâs footsteps drew your eyes to lock on his figure, tall and looming as he strutted one slow step at a time closer, and you found your eyes doing that traitorous thing they did a lot now, wander. Wander down. And down.Â
It started with his face, as you watched the sway of his braids while he strode with that infuriating arrogance, brushing the sharp lines of his jaw with a clatter of his beads. Then it was his impossibly round eyes fixed right on you â which they always seemed to be when you were around â unblinking and heated through a downwards gaze. They were eyes that masked what you knew to be such a conceited personality as so deceivingly innocent.Â
Soon your gaze fell to the wide frame of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, and it dawned on you that youâd only just noticed how much broader they had become over the years spent together, carved from tireless hours of drawing bowstrings and traversing the harsh landscape of Omatikiya forest, lean with muscle that shifted under blue skin with every stride he took closer.
Your eyes wandered again until they finally fell right to where they seemed to stop at a lot now; his lower body, narrow hips marked by the most vibrant stripe pattern youâd ever seen on any man â on any Naâvi youâd laid eyes on. They were darker and thicker, more pronounced and unlike any others, they trailed off and disappeared so low into his loin cloth it almost felt purposeful in the way they pulled your eyes. Like they were specifically made to draw your eyes and your eyes only, and hold them there by design.
Those lines were unnatural in their perfection and it wasnât fair. It wasnât fair that they made your face so hot and your heartbeat feel as if it could move to places it should not be, and it especially wasnât fair that it wasnât a you thing, it was a him thing. You only liked it on him.
You told yourself for the hundredth time â that it was the Tawtute genes making everything about him just a little too defined, a little larger. Not that you were staring, of course, just studying. Because he was different and you were always curious, you told yourself. But your tail flicked once, another betrayal that told you that was a lie, and you prayed the shadows hid it..
The shadows did not hide it. And of course he noticed.
Neteyam slowed, stopping just close enough that the space between you felt inconsequential. He wasnât touching you, at least not yet and somehow it still felt as if he had pressed his entire body against yours. As if you were suffocating beneath him.Â
His gaze dipped and it wasnât hurried, but it wasnât subtle either, following the same path yours had just taken; down the line of his chest, over the sharp cut of his hips, to the stripes adorning his body next to the band of his loincloth before lifting again, eyes glinting with the most unbearably smug sense of amusement youâd imagine possible from a single man at the realisation he had just made.Â
It was silent for a beat, air heavy with tension before Neteyam spoke.Â
âYou must really like my loincloth.â
Your ears shot straight up and outwards, standing tall and perky as if alerted by a lingering predator, eyes blowing wide as you shot your head up to meet his gaze head on.Â
âShut upâ!â
ââYou know, my mother makes themââ
â âI donât careâ!â
â âShall I ask her to make another? She does adore youââÂ
ââYou do not know anythingâ!â
ââI know exactly when you lie.â
The words were being sputtered so fast, they crashed into each other in an overlapping, frantic mess. To any onlooker, it would have almost sounded as if you were talking in unison.Â
Your tone was desperately sharp, doused in mortification and hidden in anger. And his was flooded with pure, unadulterated tease, knowing very well how every word he spoke rolled down your ears and crawled beneath your skin. You blushed so often around him he could almost mistake you as a purple Naâvi now.Â
The overlap fell apart as abruptly as it had started. You glared at him, chest tight, ears still rigid with embarrassment and fury, daring him to say one more thing. He didnâtâŚÂ
At least, not right away.
His gaze dipped instead, unashamed and bashfully amused, tracking back down to where yours had been just moments ago. His mouth curved like heâd found something amusing he was excited to explain. But you knew he was only rubbing the fact that he caught you staring in.Â
âMy mother uses five beads on each knot,â he said smugly, and you followed his fingers as they brushed against the small carved beads on the loinclothâs cords. âShe says it is the number of balance. Five for the senses and all.âÂ
Then he suddenly looked up at you, those overly round, innocent eyes portraying that innocence all too well. âSeems it is not working, you do not look very balanced right now.â
If you were in half a mind with any common sense, you would have scolded him once again and shoved him as far back as your arms would allow in hopes for a little space and clarity. Unfortunately for you, however, that sense was ripped directly out of your already fumbling grasp the moment your eyes followed his hands to where he gripped that damned loincloth you really couldnât escape.
They were larger and longer than others, scarred from weaponry and cliff climbing, and calloused in places where the overuse was notable. His fingers grasped the thread of the cloth, and as his grip tightened, the purple veins littering the surface of his skin protruded along with it.Â
Watching the way his fingers curled, and the way his veins pulsed, it sent heat crawling up your throat and pooling behind your ears. Every flex of a tendon, every faint flicker of those tiny freckled lights, felt like a private taunt aimed straight at whatever composure you had left.
You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady even as it came out breathier than you wanted. âFive is a greedy number anyway.â You muttered, eyes still traitorously fixed on his hands. Â
His gaze followed yours until it landed on his hands  â on the way your eyes lingered there too long, and the way your breath had betrayed you before your mouth ever could. A slow smile curved across his lips, smug and knowing.
âGreedy?â He echoed softly. Without haste, he lifted those hands, the ones you couldnât stop staring at, toward your face. âIs that what you think this is?âÂ
His long fingers spread deliberately to parade all five fingers to your wide, helpless eyes, and began wriggling them in slow, teasing beats as if he, too, were suddenly fascinated by the anatomy youâd just mocked.Â
âTawtute.â He uttered, his voice dipped low with smug delight. âThat is what you call me.â
He let his hands hover close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palms, close enough that if you stuck your tongue out just slightly, youâd be able to taste the skin. Close enough, that the fact you had even entertained that thought made you sick to your stomach with dizzying confusion.
âTxampay tawtute.â He purred, eyes half-lidded and glinting as he drank in the flush climbing your neck.
Then, unhurried and impossibly sure of himself, he leaned in. His body now crowding every inch of air yours occupied, chest nearly brushing yours, until he reached past your shoulder and caught your wrist in one smooth motion. He brought your hand up between you to display the four fingers you always had, and his golden eyes gleamed as if it was the first time he had seen it. Slowly, he lifted his own hand to mirror yours, five fingers spread to contrast the four of your own just across from his, hovering directly opposite it.
âDemon blood.â He muttered, though he wasnât offended. It was more a statement, or amused even, awaiting a reaction.
You watched, breath caught, as he hesitated for a single heartbeat, watched in your peripheral as his eyes bore into your face, searching for any flicker of protest or resistance. A sign that never came.
And once he realized that, he dipped one long finger down between the gaps of yours. Then another, and another until he slid each one of his fingers between your own, interlocking your hands like he was claiming every unoccupied space he could find.Â
âDo you call me tawtute so often because you think about how my hands would feel on you?â
Then he guided your joined hands, fully intertwined, up and back, lifting them slowly until your knuckles brushed the rough-woven wall behind you. He pressed them there and the motion brought him so much closer, it was as if he had taken up all the air, because why were you suddenly finding it so much more difficult to draw a breath?
âNeteyam.â The name came out like an unsure whine, nothing like the sharp hiss youâd wielded against him a thousand times before. Because the last place you had ever imagined yourself being was here, pinned beneath the steady weight of his gaze, his body, his five greedy fingers laced so perfectly through your four and it confused you that no fiber of your being was begging to reject it.Â
You watched with greedy eyes as his face twisted from out of your view, head shifting down towards the crook of your neck and the frantic rate of your breath betrayed every last pretense of calm. His mouth stopped just on the cusp of your left ear, and you felt the warm, velvet skin of his lips brushing the sensitive shell of it, tied with the cherry on top by the soft sway of his braid against your cheek and the smell of him. That intoxicating scent which smelt of eclipse leaves and sweet hearth vines.
They had been your favourite scents for as long as you could remember, and it was only just dawning why that is now.
He took a beat, his breath warm on your skin before he spoke. âI know you hate me.â
You did. You hated him, the Olo'eyktan perfect first born. The boy that followed you like a shadow through the winding roots of Hometree. The child you had been measured against since the first time a blade had been pressed into your palms.
âNeteyam learns quicker,â
âNeteyam already wields a bow,â
âNeteyam never loses his temper.â
You had heard it from your father your entire life and you hated him for being the excellence you couldnât be. You hated that he wore it so smug. And more than anything, you hated that he actually tried to soften it and make space for you beside him instead of behind. He was so good to you, and you hated that he never got mad when it counted.
And now â now â you couldnât reconcile that boy with the man standing close enough to steal your breath, hands steady where your resolve should have been. You couldnât fathom how you were letting him do this. How the same Neteyam youâd spent years resisting, spitting at, and training like Eywa herself had told you to do so in order to best him, had slipped past your defenses without even raising his voice. All it took was him invading your space closer than he ever tried before and your resolve dwindled.Â
âI know you think you hate me.â He repeated, but this time you could hear the smirk that crept up his irritatingly gorgeous face. âBut you never look at me like this when you say it. And thisââ his free hand drifted down, fingertips ghosting along the tense line of your hip until they found the base of your tail, â--this is the most still your tail has been all night.â
The gentle, knowing stroke along the sensitive underside made your spine arch involuntarily before you could stop it, so far into him you could feel the press of everything below his loincloth against your lower belly and it made you whine. A guttural, involuntary sound you didnât mean to make, nor had you realised escaped you until Neteyamâs glowing amber eyes widened alongside his smile.Â
You struggled to find your voice, with the overwhelming feeling of Neteyam all around you, touching every inch of your skin, all consuming and intoxicating but when you did, it was breathy and weak.Â
âDo notââ you stuttered, pausing your words to find breath.
Then your voice came again, interrupting his thoughts in a moment where his grip faltered slightly around your fingers and tail. You sounded so primitive and defeated, it was like the entire forest in a ten-mile radius had stilled.
ââstop.â
Neteyam stilled, mind reeling and eyes searching every inch of your face in desperate search of an answer to an unspoken question you sparked within him. Do not? Stop?Â
Do not stop?
He gawked at you, ogling at every inch of your face in hopes of an answer. Your eyes, droopy and half-shut, turned sideways as if too ashamed to look him in the eyes. Mouth just a touch open, drawing long and heavy breaths, and your beautiful blue skin, flushed that purple colour he was becoming so fond of seeing, gleaming with a layer of warm, sleek sweat.Â
You looked absolutely ruined. And he absolutely detested the idea that you might have been telling him to stop â truly stop â his advances because now that he had a glimpse of such a sight, he cursed the idea that he may never see it again knowing exactly what you looked like underneath him. So he waited with baited breaths, a wait you did not make him stand long for, and then you delivered.
âDo.. not.. stop.â You spoke between heavy breaths. âNeteyam, please.â
And then he saw it. The way you had been pressing up against his right thigh, locked between both your own thighs and rubbing against your core, just close enough to create friction. The sight and the plea shattered whatever thin thread of control heâd been clinging to as he finally realised what you meant.Â
A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest, a half growl, half reverent thanks to Eywa herself, as he surged forward, releasing your tail momentarily, only for the hand to sweep through the air, landing right on the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him with a roughness he rarely displayed.Â
And that's when it finally happened. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, swallowing the next broken gasp that spilled from your lips. His fingers curled into the sensitive skin just below your hairline in a way that made your knees weaken, and had you not still been sitting on this crate, you were sure you would have faltered and folded to the ground.Â
His tongue pushed at the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart with a devastating hunger, as if he had been waiting far too long to claim this moment, only clarified with the roll his body made to press into your own. The muscles of his abdomen elongated and protruded against the skin, screaming at you to touch them, to feel them, as he pushed your intertwined hands further back into the wall.Â
That was when his hand around your neck finally began its descent downwards. It started at your shoulders, brushing against your collarbone and lingering just a moment around your breasts. He swirled against the curve underneath the soft fat and the trail left hot tingles in its wake, sending blood rushing to every nerve the pinpoint of his fingertips lined.Â
It continued on, searing down the arc of your waist, against the curve of your hips and drew a curl to stop just a few paces below your belly button, and yet not even a breath above from the band of your loincloth.  Â
Your breath hitched as those fingers paused there, so achingly close, tracing lazy, maddening patterns just above the thin strip of woven fabric â the only thing left between you and completely surrendering to the man who haunted your every waking moment. Neteyam pulled back from the kiss, only far enough to watch your contorting face, the molten amber of his eyes now nearly non-existent, replaced almost entirely by his pupils, blown wide with lust and a restraint that was seconds from snapping.
He could feel the heat radiating from you, and could tell you were trying to resist whatever thoughts were happening in your head, unsuccessfully so. He could see it in the way your thighs tremored ever so subtly, and in the way your hips shifted restlessly against him, as if seeking friction but hating who the friction you seeked came from. A low, approving, yet humoured growl rumbled in his throat as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged.
âYou are always so responsive.â He murmured, voice gravelly, lips brushing yours as he spoke and fingers still working their patterns at the lowest part of your belly. âEvery touch⌠you light up for me.â
âYou always think you know what I feel.â The words spat harsh but breathless, trying desperately to deny him the satisfaction of winning.
But Neteyam just laughed, stating flatly. âYour freckles glow, fang.â
And your flush deepened knowing your body was betraying your mind.Â
âStop talking. I still despise you.â
Neteyam took the opportunity to lean back, making enough room to have a full view of your body without disconnecting your lower bodies. Finally his hand strayed from your belly, sliding to the left of it before stopping right at the rope that knotted your loincloth into place. He glanced down at it expectantly, then up to meet your eyes, his own glinting with mischief. Â
âFunny way of showing it.â He commented.
Then his fingers pulled at the string, and all you did was let your head fall back against the wall in response.Â
The knot gave with a soft tug, the woven cord loosening until the loincloth sagged against your hips, and you felt the cool air kissing at your newly exposed skin. It left your sighing, and Neteyam actually laughed at the sight of you.Â
His next move was to grab at your right leg, lifting it high until it settled on top of his right shoulder. The motion had you shifting forward slightly, nearly hanging off the edge of the crate now. Once it was placed, he leaned down, meeting the slant of your body against the crate until his face met just above yours. Â
âNo fangs now, huh?â He taunted, voice dripping with smug triumph, his breath hot against your lips as his free hand slid up the thigh draped over him with the most reverently possessive grip.
Your eyes narrowed, a spark of fury cutting through the haze of pleasure. âIâll silence you.â
Before he could fire back another cocky word, you flexed the leg hooked over his shoulder and shoved hard. Your heel dug into the muscle of his back as you pushed, using every bit of leverage to force him downward and surprise flashed across his face for a split second before he dropped to his knees in front of you, left hand disconnecting from yours and instinctively reaching to grip your hips as a means to steady himself.
There he was â all mighty Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto, future Oloâeyktan â kneeling between your thighs, directly in front of your exposed core, with amber eyes flicking a mix of shock, defeat and drooling hunger.
You let your head rest back against the wall again, eyeing him through the brush of your lower lashes and fingers threading roughly into his braids to hold him exactly where you wanted him.Â
âI told you I would make you swallow your sorry sounds.â And with a sharp tug forward, the control had been shifted to your hands. âNow swallow.â
The low, involuntary groan that vibrated through his chest and into your core was the only answer he managed before his mouth obeyed. His head moved first then his tongue dragged slow and deliberate, tasting you like heâd been starving for years and refused to rush the meal. But the grip you kept in his braids, tight and unforgiving, told him exactly who set the pace.Â
Heat slammed through you, ugly and mixed with the pure rage of having him under you. You hated him for making your body clench like this, hated the way your thighs shook because his tongue felt so damn good, but hated it more that you questioned if the reason he felt so good was because he had done this before. Hated that the idea made you jealous.Â
You were a mix of pleasure and shame â that Neteyam was on his knees, eating you out like he had no choice and that he was disgustingly good at it. And when you rolled your hips forward, demanding more, he gave it without hesitation, lips sealing around you, tongue curling deep and relentless, then it dawned on you that he was worshipping your clit like he was singing a prayer.
Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, the leg still hooked there locked tighter, heel pressing between his shoulder blades to keep him exactly where you wanted him  â on his knees, serving the woman whoâd sworn to hate him forever. And he did it so well you had been reduced to a moaning, whining and squirming mess beneath his hands that were holding you down.
âEywa, shitâ Y/nâ â The name slipped out raw and whiny, and the vibration of his voice had you absolutely feral, snapping in an instant. But not to your end. No.
Because the only thing you could think about was why he felt so good. Why he was so talented at everything. The idea of him having experience with this, of him doing this to someone else, made something vicious twist in your chest.
So your hand in his hair tugged hard, snapping his head back and away from your core to glance up at you with daze in his eyes and your slick dripping down his chin.
He blinked up at you, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in rough pants. For once, the smugness was gone, replaced by raw, hazy want and a flicker of confusion at the sudden stop.
You stared down at him, chest heaving, jealousy burning hotter than the aftershocks still pulsing between your legs, and the words came sharp, cutting through the air like an arrow.
âWho else?â You spat, voice accusatory and ugly with envy, fingers tightening in his braids in a visceral way you couldnât help.
âWhat?â He sounded so breathless, and so confused, eyes still foggy from being buried between your thighs.
âYou move like this is not new to you.â You snapped, the words spilling out jagged. âPeople do not learn that by accident.â
âFang, what are youââ
Then your mouth spat the words like the answer was so obvious, like you had been just waiting for the name to be mentioned. â âIt is Anâaya, isnât it?â
âAnâaya!?â He said it like the name didnât belong here at all. Because it didnât. Because twenty seconds ago he was face-deep drowning in what he deemed to be his new favourite flavour, and now heâs thinking of a girl heâs barely spent more than 10 minutes alone with.
âYou lie with her too!â The accusation came out sharp enough to feel final, as if it wasnât something to be debated and you had already made up the answer.Â
Neteyam stared up at you for a beat, eyes wide, mouth still wet and open like he couldnât decide whether to laugh or groan. Then the laugh won, short and completely disbelieving as the weight of your words settled into him. He searched your eyes, stern and glazed, angry with something he knew you barely understood and it dawned on him. Holy shit.
âYou are jealous.â He said it so incredulously, like it was the best revelation he made all week. A rough laugh tore out of him, head tipping back in your grip, the sound raw and disbelieving. And it was like you couldnât even deny it, all you could do was sneer your usual fang baring scowl and snap your head away with a tsk of your tongue.
âAnâaya?â he rasped, grin sharp and crooked, chin still dripping with you. âEywa fang, you think I have ever touched her? Ever wanted to?â
He shifted forward on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs as he finally raised to his feet off his knees to meet you at eye level. His face was inches from yours, grip firm but not pushing and you watched as that aggravating amusement melted into the softest look you think he had ever sent you. His smugness fell, the cocky edge dulling into something so honest.
âI do not lie with Anâaya. Just you, fang.â He spoke so slowly, voice low and steady, and almost gentle despite the filth of the moment. âI only ever think about you.â
The words hit harder than they should have. Heat flooded your face, your chest, mixing between the jealousy and the flattery until you couldnât tell which burned more. You didnât know if you believed him â or more so didnât know if you wanted to believe him. So you picked your arm up to pinch the side of his ear, using it to drag his face impossibly closer. Your gaze flickered between both his eyes, searching for something, an answer to a question you werenât even sure you knew what.
For a split second, something in your grip faltered. The idea that he might be telling the truth was somehow worse than the lie. So you tightened your fingers on his ear for a beat before yanking his head back with a force meant to hurt.
âProve it,â you snarled.
Neteyamâs breath hissed through his teeth at the sting, but the look he gave you was pure lust, not a single trace of softness left. In one brutal motion he tucked one hand under your ass, and the other around the curve of your waist, before spinning you around so fast the world tilted for a fraction of a second. Your chest slammed against the crate, palms scraping metal as he kicked your legs wider and pressed his full weight into your back.
You heard him before you felt him, the quick tug and rustle as he worked the knot of his loincloth free behind you. Something involuntary dragged your head back, forcing you to peek over your shoulder. The fabric fell, and it was like every silent inkling youâd ever felt bite at you, every reflexive moment that told you to study his stripes despite never knowing why, finally dawned on you why it had always been so urging.
Those large, vibrant stripes were only a preview into what the loincloth hid. They tapered lower and thicker up the base of his cock, before finally crawling into a thinning stretch that ended just beyond the tip of his head, which was slick with precum and the most angry, swollen shade of red. Red. Like a Tawtute.
And it was in that moment you realised that all those little characteristics that made him slightly different â the broader shoulders, the extra finger, the sheer size of him below the cloth and the way his tip skin flushed pinker than any Naâvi youâd ever seen â werenât the flaws or accidents you convinced yourself was the reason you fixated on them. They were proof that he had Toruk Maktoâs blood running through him, the son of a leader, born to be a leader. And right now that blood had him hard and leaking for you, the girl whoâd spent years calling him sky-demon scum.
The realisation twisted hot and ugly in your gut, hate and want braided so tight you couldnât pull them apart but that was so swiftly disrupted by the feeling of him pushing forward, the tip of his achingly large cock making contact with your swelteringly wet entrance, and it had you absolutely unraveling at the mere contact of it.
You couldnât help the moan that slipped out of you at both the stretch he gave with just the top of him, barely even a quarter full, and at the sight of him ogling down at the space between you, at the way the tip of his cock looked barely swallowed inside of your warm hole, his fist gripping at the base.
Neteyam caught the sound, eyes snapping up just in time to see you bury your face in your arm and he laughed that irritatingly smug laugh that vibrated through his chest and into your back.Â
âAlready moaning for me, Fang?â He murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. âYou canât even pretend to hate me anymore.â
âDo notâŚ,â you hissed with a breathy sigh, the words cracking despite your best effort to sound venomous, ââŚdare assume you know what I feel.â
He hummed, amused, like your denial was the sweetest thing heâd ever heard.
âI do not think I'll have too.âÂ
Goosebumps rose in its wake, your hips stuttering back despite yourself before you could correct it. His hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady, while the other slid up your spine in a slow, deliberate path until his fingers closed gently but firmly around the thick base of your kuru, the long, sacred braid that cascaded down your back.
The feeling of his hand around your kuru had your entire body jolting, a sharp, electrifying shock racing through every nerve in its wake. You spun in his grip with a surprise heâd never seen on you before, eyes blown wide, breath caught, and all that sharp defiance from before suddenly fractured by something he had never seen painted so vulnerably on you.
You looked so unsure, so confused, so conflicted, staring at his hand like it was both a threat and a gateway to something new.
At your face, Neteyamâs expression softened too, the smugness fading completely as he brought the end of your braid up between the two of you, turning it so the the wispy ends of your braid went limp to expose the pink tendrils beneath. They snaked in the air, searching the air as if awaiting what was yet to come.
His own kuru hung over his shoulder, and he used his other hand to grab at it, settling it so close to yours that the tendrils already began reaching for each other, drawn like magnets, but far enough that they did not touch.
âI will not force this, and I will not continue with this if you say no. I honestly donât think I can.â he said, voice low, rough with restraint but steady. âTsaheylu with me⌠or we stop right here. Your choice, Fang. Always your choice.â
The words hung heavy. You hated him for giving you the out. Hated him for making it feel safe to say yes even though you really thought you would have said no. Hated how much you wanted him, and wanted to know what it felt like to be bound to the one person youâd spent your whole life trying to push away.
Your chest rose and fell fast. The tendrils of your kuru twitched, brushing the air toward his and you didnât speak as you watched them try to connect. Slowly, deliberately, you reached your hand up to wrap around his forearm, watched as the hand that held his kuru faltered at the intrusion and met his eyes as he searched yours for answer.
It didnât come as a verbal one, but your mind had been made the moment you tugged his arm forward to allow his kuru to connect to yours. And in an instant the tendrils met, wrapping and fusing, snapping the bond into place.
A gasp tore from both of you at once, backs arching, eyes fluttering as raw sensation flooded through. The pleasure was intense and overwhelming, but more than that: every buried feeling, every unspoken want, every flash of anger and longing and need crashed together in a single, shared current that left you both moaning messes.
He groaned your name like it hurt and you whined his so helplessly, fingers digging into his shoulders and the world narrowed to just the two of you.
Neteyam moved first, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he spun you both around and sank to his knees. He laid you gently on the cool floor beneath him, settling between your legs, face-to-face now with his forehead pressed to yours, kuru still joined, the bond pulsing with every heartbeat.
He slid back into you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, letting you feel everything â his awe, his hunger, the years of wanting you heâd hidden behind every smirk and fight. And you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and for the first time with there being no crate, no wall, no anger between you, nothing but the bond, neither of you could deny the truth that lingered between you for years anymore.
The bond made it unbearable in the best way because you could feel everything.Â
You could feel every slow drag of him inside you echoed back through the link. You felt his pleasure at how tight and wet you were, your helpless clench around him, and the ache that flared harder with every inch he gave. You felt the way your body gripped him like it never wanted to let go, and he felt it too, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as his hips finally seated flush against yours.
âFuckââ he breathed, voice ragged, forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, the golden amber almost gone. âYou feel⌠I can feel you everywhere.â
You couldnât answer with words. The bond carried it for you: the rush of heat, the ache, the impossible fullness of him stretching you open while his emotions poured into you
He started to move, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged the thick length of him along every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust sent a wave through the bond, pleasure looping between you until it built on itself, amplifying, stealing your breath. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines over his stripes; he hissed and answered by snapping his hips harder, driving a sharp cry from your throat.
Through the link you felt how much he loved that sound, how it made him throb inside you, how close he already was to losing control and you responded by sticking your mouth to his neck, and sucking hard in an attempt to quiet yourself.
âTell me,â he rasped, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your faces close, noses brushing, âtell me you feel it too.â
You did. Eywa, you did. The anger was still there, flickering at the edges, but it only made the pleasure sharper, almost as if the bond was burning it clean and turning years of hate into something so much more overwhelming.
âI feel you,â you finally gasped as your mouth left his neck with a slimy pop, and you noticed the angry purple mark that sat in its wake. Your voice cracked, legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly deeper. âAll of you. Donât stopâ!â
The next thrust ended with another broken sound from you, a half-moan, half-word that slurred through your tongue almost incomprehensibly.
âMmmâ âtayemââ
Neteyamâs rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then picked up again, faster now with a cocky triumph you felt flooding the bond like heat. A low, smug chuckle vibrated against your neck as he nipped the skin, sucking and pinching at it with pride.
âI got you that good, huh?â He murmured, voice rough but dripping with satisfaction, hips rolling deep and deliberate. âGot the stubborn Fang stuttering my name?â
You tried again, desperate, the pleasure coiling so tight you could barely think.
âMaâ tayemââ
He laughed again, breathlessly arrogant and loving every moment of this â loving that you, always so sharp-tongued and composed, always throwing insults at him and trying to embarrass him in front of your families, was reduced to this, such a moaning, whiny mess you couldnât even get his name correct.
âCa not even get your words right,â he teased, smirking against your lips, eyes gleaming down at you with such amusement. âIf only everyone could see you now.â
âMa âteyam.â You managed it this time, much clearer and insistent of every syllable that trembled out of you on the next thrust. And he froze.
Not completely, his hips still rocked shallow and instinctively, but the rhythm stuttered hard, like someone had yanked his hips backwards and held them still. His eyes widened, searching yours through the haze, the cocky smirk smacked off his face in an instant as the meaning finally slammed into him.
Ma âteyam.Â
Your Neteyam
The bond flared hot with it, your claim, raw and unfiltered, pouring straight into him. A ragged groan tore out of his chest, half between shock and something much, much deeper, like a stirring pot of pleasure and disbelief and possession all tangled together into two bodies merged as one. His forehead dropped to yours again, losing every trace of that smug control because the words were echoing through the link like a vow, and it broke him.
A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, deep and wrecked and his whole body shuddered as the realization hit him harder than any phrase ever uttered to him. His hips jerked forward once, hard and uncontrolled, completely unlike his usual poise, as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, and that was it. He came with a broken cry of your name, voice cracking on the syllables as he spilled hot and deep, pulse after thick pulse flooding you.
The bond amplified everything and you felt every throb of his release as if it were your own and that made yours follow soon after, the overwhelming rush of his pleasure crashing into yours, the way his heart slammed against his ribs, the dizzying mix of disbelief and euphoria that Neteyam was now claimed by you in the most intimate way possible, solidified by the way your attached kuru still hung besides you, your deep purple marks decorated his neck, and your bodies lay against each other, sleek and fucked out.
His forehead pressed hard to yours, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants against your lips. His arms trembled as he held himself above you, hips still twitching with aftershocks, grinding slow and shallow as if he couldnât bear to pull out.
âFuck⌠fuckââ he gasped, voice hoarse and trembling, nothing left of the smug warrior whoâd been teasing you since you got to this forsaken watchpost. âYou⌠you saidâŚâ
âThat I despise you?â You murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you breathed him in, beyond exhausted, tail finally curling loose and lazy behind you. âI do.â
A broken laugh tore out of him, warm and disbelieving, his nose brushing yours as his breathing slowly began to steady. âI donât even need to see your tail to know you lie.âÂ
And as if to prove his point, he brought his hand around to the place where your kurus joined, stroking the exposed, sensitive nerves gently with his thumb. The bond hummed softly at the touch, sending a lazy ripple of warmth through you both and your tail flicked once, then curled deliberately around his thigh, holding him close.
He felt it, of course and a quiet, satisfied hum left his chest.
âSee?â He whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. âEven your tail is done fighting me.â
You opened one eye, glaring weakly up at him. âDo not get used to it, skxawng. The second we are back with the clan, I am telling everyone you cried after your father yelled at you.â
Neteyam snorted, shifting his weight so he could prop himself on an elbow and look down at you properly. His braids fell forward, framing his face, and the bond carried the soft glow of affection he was trying, and miserably failing to hide behind his usual smirk.
âThen I will have to tell them how the almighty daughter of our clan head warrior begged for me toââ
You slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing. âFinish that sentence and I will bite you again.â His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter muffled against your palm and you narrowed your eyes as you spoke once more. âI could still push you off this ledge. No one would find the body till morning.â
âMaybe so.â He conceded easily. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your kuru in a way that made your spine shiver despite your best effort to stay at least a little defiant. âBut then who would keep you company on patrol anymore? You would miss arguing with me.â
You huffed, shoving at his chest. âI would finally earn peace.â
âPeace is boring.â He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it, soft and infuriatingly gentle. âAnd you would miss my family interrupting us every five minutes, thinking they will catch you slipping in the act. My dad likes messing with us too much to let you go.â
You snorted, but the sound lacked real venom. âYour father likes me because I am not afraid to yell at you when you are being an arrogant teylupil. That is not the same as liking me.â
Neteyamâs grin turned softer, eyes crinkling at the corners. âHe likes you because you are strong. And because you force me to be stronger. Even when you are threatening to skin me alive.â
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but your tail betrayed you again, curling tighter around his leg like it had decided it wasnât letting go anytime soon.
âFlattery will not save you,â you muttered, dropping your head back to his chest so you didnât have to look at that stupid, fond expression on his face. âWhen we get back at dawn, we say nothing. We walked the perimeter. Inventoried the stock. End of story.â
Neteyam arched a brow, amusement flickering through the bond as his eyes flickered around at the area even messier then it was before you two had arrived. âYou think they will believe that? Nothing has been done here. And you lookâŚâ He brushed a thumb over your neck, tracing where his mouth had been earlier. ââŚthoroughly ruined.â
You swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat in it, not like before. âYou look worse, Tawtute. Like you lost a fight with an Ikran.â
He laughed, full and unguarded this time âThen let them think what they want, I already won.â he whispered when you parted.Â
You rolled your eyes, but your tail tightened around his leg again, betraying you.
âI still despise you,â you muttered into his neck.
Summary: When Sam returns from Iraq, alive but gravely injured, heâs not the man you met âat least, not physically. The war followed him home, stitched into every scar, every nightmare. The letters, the words that once bonded you across oceans suddenly become real. And healing is a battlefield of its own, and loving him might demand more courage than anything. Can your love survive the battles heâs still fighting?
You survived the distance but the real war starts now.
Warnings: movie spoilers, angst, war, death, serious injuries, parental loss, epistolary relationship, mentions of life in the military/active duty, trauma, family dynamics, PTSD, angst, traumatic past, letters, a little smut, soft, fluff, injuries, jealousy, sam being an idiot
Word Count: +23k
Note: First of all, thank you guys for all the love and the positive feedbacks received on the first part. I'm really happy you liked it and I hope you love this chapter too as much as I loved writing it. This couple has a special place in my heart, it always will, and writing about them was like going on a rollercoaster... of emotions. So, let me know what you think and if you'd like to see more of them in the future, maybe a few bonus scenes. The story is inspired on Taylor Swift's song The Great War, so you will find lyrics from it in both chapters. Just a little reminder: english isn't my first language, so please be understandable. Enjoy it!
Taglist: @exorcist912 @meetmeatyourworst @beau-hawkins
The words echoed in your mind, hollow and sharp, drowning everything else.
Heâs been injured.
Heâs been injured.
Heâs been injured.
Your vision blurred as your eyes became glossy. The room tilted slightly out of focus. You could still hear your father talking, but his voice sounded far away, muffled, like underwater.
He was alive âbut at what cost?Â
-
That was the night I nearly lost you
I really thought I'd lost you
-
When you finally managed to process your father's words, you asked him to repeat everything again, slower this time â every detail, every piece of it. You needed to understand, no matter how much it hurt.
He told you about the mission. About the explosion.
Samâs unit was evacuating a conflict zone when enemy forces launched an IED at them. They had just reached the extraction point when the blast hit. The whole unit had been caught in it. Sam and another soldier had been both gravely wounded.
Your father remained calm as he spoke, almost clinical, the way he always sounded whenever he talked about work.
Sam had suffered multiple injuries to his legs. Heâd been flown from one hospital to another in the last days, undergoing saving surgeries in quick succession until they had finally stabilized him.Â
Now he was finally stable enough to be moved home. In a few days, they would bring him across the ocean to continue treatment in the States. Even though doctors managed to save his life, they weren't sure he would ever be able to walk again.
After talking to you father, you started to make some calls and used every contact, every favor you could call in to make sure heâd be taken to your hospital â where he could receive the best care possible, where you could be close to him. Not just as a doctor, but as you.
-
A week later, you were standing outside the hospital, waiting for the ambulance that was bringing Sam back to you.
Your fatherâs words kept echoing in your head â the explosion, the injuries, the surgeries. Everything.
You kept replaying the timeline too, analyzing the events. You father had told you that the mission had started a few weeks later youâd started writing to Sam again.Â
Which meant he might have never read your last letters.
That was why he hadnât answered.
The realization struck hard, hollowing you out. If youâd only written sooner, if you hadnât hesitated too long, maybe he wouldâve known how you felt. Maybe he wouldnât have gone into that mission believing youâd walked away. The idea that heâd faced hell believing you didnât care made your stomach twist.
But he was alive.
That was what mattered now.
You had a second chance, and this time you werenât going to waste it.
No more silence. No more running.
You were so lost in your thoughts that you didnât even notice the two figures walking up beside you until one of them spoke.
âEhi.â The familiar voice of Anthony pulled you back to the present. âWe figured you could use some company,â he said, smiling. But you could see the worry on his face. You tried to smile back at him, grateful for his presence in that moment. He was both colleague and friend â the kind who could make a joke out of anything, even when you least expected it. Beside him stood Jenny, her eyes soft with concern too. Sheâd been the one who pushed you to write to Sam in the first place, so she knew exactly what all this meant for you, how difficult it was.Â
âHey,â she said quietly, putting gently her hand on your shoulder. âYou doing okay?â
You managed another small smile and nodded. âYeah. Thanks for coming.â
It helped, having them at your side. Beneath the thin surface of calm, your stomach was in knots. It wasnât the injuries that scared youâ youâd seen worse, on the field, in the ER. You werenât even afraid of the long months of recovery that awaited him. None of that scared you, in fact you were ready to fight that battle.Â
What terrified you was something else entirely.
What if Sam didnât want to see you?
What if your silence had made him change his mind about you?
You exhaled shakily, the question slipping out before you could stop it. âWhat if he doesnât want me here?â
Antony and Jenny exchanged a quick glance, then they looked back at you. It was Anthony who broke the silence first, a grin tugging at his lips. âSweetheart, that man wanted to see you so badly he practically blew himself up to come home. I think youâre fine.âÂ
âAnthony!â Jenny scolded, her eyes wide, half amused and half horrified.
But you were already laughing, really laughing, for the first time in days. It burst out of you, raw and real, breaking the tension, shattering the tightness in your chest. âYouâre an idiot,â you said breathless.Â
You were still smiling when the sound of sirens filled the air. The ambulance turned into the hospital drive, lights flashing over the glass doors. Your smile faded instantly.
âHeâs here,â you whispered.Â
Your heart stuttered as the vehicle parked in front of you. When the the back doors opened, you finally stepped forward to help.
And there he was.
He looked different from the man youâd last seen almost one year ago â the one who had smirked at you, who had challenged you to darts just to have an excuse to buy you a drink.
Back then, heâd been strong, confident, radiating that quiet defiance that was hard to ignore, even for you. Now, lying on the stretcher, he looked pale, thinner, a faint stubble darkening his jaw. Fragile, almost â and yet, he was still him. Still your Sam.
âHow is he?â you asked the paramedics, forcing your voice to stay steady.
âThe trip was long,â one of them replied. âHeâs stable, but heavily sedated. Heâll probably need more morphine for the pain when heâll wake in a few yours.â
You nodded. âThank you. Weâll take it from here.â
Together, you, Jenny, and Antony guided the stretcher upstairs, through the sterile corridors that suddenly felt too bright, too small.
Once he was settled in his room, hooked up to the monitors and IVs, you thanked them both.
âThanks, guys,â you told them softly. âYou can go now. Iâll stay with him.â
âCall us if you need anything,â Jenny said before they left.
The door clicked shut, and for the first time, it was just you and him.
You approached slowly his bed, while the rhythmic beeping of the monitors filled the silence. You adjusted his blanket and checked his bandages with trembled hands. Seeing him like that hurt in a way youâd never been trained to handle.Â
And yet you were grateful and relieved.
Because he was alive.
He was there with you.Â
You slipped your fingers through his, your thumb brushing his knuckles. âIâm here, Sam,â you whispered. âAnd Iâm not going anywhere.â A faint smile tugged at your lips. âBesides⌠You still owe me a rematch at darts. So youâd better wake up soon.â
You pulled up a chair beside the bed and opened his medical file. The words on the pages blurred as you read through the details â bilateral tibia and fibula fractures, extensive soft-tissue damage and third-degree burns. You knew what those injuries meant. Multiple surgeries already done, others still to come. And months of rehab ahead of Sam.
With every line, you realized how close heâd come to losing everything â not just his legs, but his life. And the damage went far beyond the physical. The injuries would heal, eventually. But what worried you were the ones you couldnât see â the invisible scars, the psychological damage that kind of trauma could leave.
His road to recovery would be long, brutal even, both physically and mentally. But this time, you were ready, you werenât running.
You had been given a second chance too, and you werenât going to waste it.
-
Hours slipped by. Nurses came and went, checking on him, adjusting his IV, updating the monitors.
Outside, the city lights began to flicker against the windows, painting soft reflections across the room. You barely moved as you wanted to be there when he would wake up.
You looked around, smiling faintly at the irony of it all â how months ago you hadnât even wanted to write him back, and now you were there, sitting beside his hospital bed and waiting for him to wake up.
If someone had told you that, you wouldâve laughed in their face, not believing him.Â
A soft, broken sound â a groan â interrupted your thoughts.
Your head snapped up toward him.
Samâs eyes were fluttering open, the lids heavy, struggling against the light. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to focus. His breathing was uneven, shallow.
You leaned in, taking his hand. âHey⌠itâs okay. Itâs me. Y/N. Youâre safe. Youâre home.â
At the sound of your voice, something in his face softened.
âY/NâŚ?â His voice cracked, rough and dry. âIs it really you? Am I dreaming?â
You reached out and brushed your fingers along his cheek, gentle, deliberate. âItâs me. Iâm right here. Youâre not dreaming.â
A faint smile ghosted across his lips before his expression contorted again as a spasm of pain tightened his jaw. His body tensed, his breathing more uneven.
âSam,â you whispered, alarmed. âAre you in pain?â
He nodded weakly, his hand tightening around yours.
âOkay, okay. Iâve got you,â you breathed, reaching for the morphine syringe. Your hands trembled as you filled it â ridiculous, you thought, because youâd done this a thousand times before. But he wasnât just any patient.
You prepared the morphine carefully and administered the dose. âThere. Youâll feel better soon,â you murmured.
He exhaled shakily, his eyelids growing heavier. âDonât go⌠Stay⌠Please,â he whispered, barely audible.
You squeezed his hand firmly, your voice steady. âIâm not going anywhere.â
Little by little, his body relaxed, the pain fading, his breathing evening out.
You sat back, watching him breathe, the rhythm of the monitors blending with the slow beating of your own heart.Â
For the first time in days, you let yourself breathe too â really breathe.
Because he was home.
And you were exactly where you needed to be.
-
At some point during the night, exhaustion had won.
You hadnât even realized when your eyes had closed â one moment you were reading his folder on the couch across the room, the next you were asleep beneath a thin hospital blanket.
When you finally stirred, it was still dark outside. You blinked, rubbed your eyes, and then remembered where you were. Your gaze moved immediately to his bed.
Sam was lying against the pillow, pale against the white sheets, tired, but conscious â and looking straight at you.
He was awake.
There was disbelief in his eyes, something raw and hesitant, fixed on you as if he were afraid you might disappear if he blinked.
You sat up quickly, heart pounding. âYouâre awake,â you whispered as you crossed the room, stopping beside him.
His lips curved faintly, his gaze still on you. âAnd youâre really here. I thought I was dreaming.â
You smiled softly, the tension in your chest easing. âYouâre not. Itâs all true. Iâm here.â
For a moment he simply looked at you, quietly absorbing the sight of you. Then he swallowed hard, voice uncertain. âI thought⌠after my last letter⌠I didnât think Iâd ever hear from you again. Least of all see you.â
You hesitated as guilt washed over you again â sharp, familiar, unwelcome. Youâd rehearsed this moment countless times in your mind, in private but nothing could prepare you for the reality of his voice, the vulnerability in it. âI know,â you said quietly. âYour letter â it⌠it caught me off guard.â You paused for a brief moment, choosing your next words carefully. âEven after all these years, itâs still difficult for me to talk about him⌠my brother. Sometimes even just the thought of him hurts. I didnât know what to say at first or how to behave once you knew the truth. But I did write to you, in the end.â
He blinked, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his face. âYou did? You answered me?â
You nodded. âSeveral letters, actually. But you were already gone. On the mission. You probably never got them.â
Silence stretched between you, thick but not uncomfortable, as Sam absorbed your words and the meaning behind them.Â
Then he smiled again â small, but real. âGuess we werenât done after all.â
You felt your own smile answer his. âGuess not.â
He let out a low laugh that quickly turned into a wince. You immediately leaned forward.
âHow do you feel? Are you in pain again?â you asked softly.
âI feel like an IED went off a few feet away from me,â he muttered dryly.
You let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan, then gently pressed a hand to his chest â careful but firm. âNot funny.â
He winced dramatically. âEasy there, doc. Iâm fragile.â
You rolled your eyes, but before you could step back, his hand lifted slowly, trembling slightly as it found yours. His fingers brushed yours â almost testing if you were real.
You didnât pull away and let him take your hand. His fingertips skimmed across the back of it and something inside you tightened â sudden, electric, painfully familiar. Itâd been months since heâd touched you. Months since the heat of his skin had been on yours.Â
All the distance collapsed at once.
âYouâre really here,â he said again, quieter this time, as if he really believed it this time. âItâs actually you.â
You nodded, your throat tightening. âYeah. Itâs me.â
He held your gaze, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes â a mix of relief and disbelief. He sighed and then, with a faint grin, he said, âGod, youâre even more beautiful than I remembered.â
Heat rushed instantly to your cheeks, not expecting those words from him. You didnât even try to hide it. âI wish I could say the same about you, but you definitely looked better last time,â you said smiling.Â
He gave a soft laugh, then winced again, hand going to his ribs. âBrutal. That one hurt.â
âYouâll survive,â you said, your voice gentler now. âYouâve seen worse.â
The words hung between you, heavier than they seemed â a quiet acknowledgment of everything that had happened. It lingered in the air, like smoke that refused to fade. But neither of you pushed it. There would be time for it later, when the wounds were less raw. For now, being there with him was enough. It was everything.Â
He studied you for a while after that, quiet, thoughtful. Then, choosing his words with care, he murmured: âYou know⌠I imagined this moment so many times while I was over there. Seeing you again. I used to wonder if Iâd ever get the chance and how itâd be, what Iâd say. But I neverââ His voice faltered. âI never thought it would happen like this.â
You exhaled, a small, bittersweet smile touching your lips. âI know. But nothing between us ever happened the way it was supposed to. Weâve never really followed rules or the order of things, have we?â
He smiled faintly. âGuess not.â
You stepped closer, your voice low, steady. âBut look at you. Youâre alive, youâre here. Thatâs what matters now. And when youâre better⌠weâll finally have the time to do things right.â
He didnât answer right away â just nodded slowly, his gaze softening.
A knock broke the silence. A nurse stepped in with a bright morning smile. âGood morning, Dr. Y/Ln. Sam. Just doing a quick check.â
You smiled back. âMorning, Evelyn.â
Sam turned his head toward you, brow furrowing.Â
âYou two know each other?â Sam asked after the door clicked shut behind the nurse.Â
âSheâs a colleague,â you replied casually.
It took him a moment to process that. His eyes widened slightly. âWaitâ this is the hospital where you work?â
You hesitated, then nodded. âYeah. I work here.â
A flicker of realization crossed his face. âSo⌠are you one of my doctors?â
You shook your head, smiling. âNo. But youâre in good hands. I promise.â
He stared at you a moment longer, thoughtful. âStill⌠how did I end up here? Out of all hospitals, I get sent to yours?â
You looked away, pretending to fix the edge of his blanket. âWell⌠itâs one of the best trauma centers in the city,â you said, trying to sound casual.
âUh-huh,â he murmured, clearly not buying it.
You sighed â then smiled, caught. âOkay. Maybe⌠I made a few calls.â
His eyebrows lifted, the corners of his mouth twitching. âSo youâre telling me you pulled strings to get me transferred here?â
You shrugged lightly, pretending indifference. âWell, someone had to keep an eye on you. Make sure you didnât get into more trouble.â
He laughed â a small, genuine sound. âYou really did that.â
You smiled softly. âGuess I did.â
His gaze lingered on you, filled with something unspoken â gratitude, affection, and something more.
âSo,â he said finally, âdoes this mean Iâll get to see you often?â
You leaned a little closer, feigning seriousness. âOh, you can count on it. You might even get tired of me.â
His grin widened, slow and warm. âI donât think thatâs possible.â
You laughed softly, shaking your head. âWeâll see about that, OâNeal.â
You talked a little longer after that â small things at first, the kind of quiet conversation that feels both new and familiar. There was no rush, no need to say everything all at once.
You stayed with him while he drifted back toward sleep, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.
And for the first time since the day you got the call â you felt peace.
-
December 2006
The days that followed blurred together in a slow, exhausting rhythm of surgeries, checkups, and half-awake moments that never lasted long enough. Sam drifted in and out of consciousness, hovering somewhere between the dull haze of painkillers and the fragile edge of awareness.
Every time he woke, especially after surgery, confusion clouded his eyes. Sometimes he didnât remember where he was; other times he didnât remember what had happened. But no matter how disoriented he was, he always asked for you. If you were still there. If youâd left.
And, as promised, you were always there.Â
You split yourself between the chaos of your shifts in the ER and the stillness of Samâs hospital room. Sometimes you only had a few minutes before running back to a trauma case. Other times, after ending your shift, you stayed with him for hours â sitting beside his bed, holding his hand when the pain crept back in, or talking softly when the nightmares pulled him under.
Whenever he underwent another surgery, you took days off so you could be there when he woke up.Â
Luckily, you werenât alone. Sam's parents and his sister would go back and forth to be with him.
Despite the nervous knot in your stomach at the thought of meeting them the first time, it was good and comforting having them around.
Between your shifts and the constant pull to check on him, you had barely time to breathe. But when his parents were there, you allowed yourself to slow down a little. To take a break.
They had been gentle from the start. His mother had pulled you into a tight, trembling hug after youâd introduced yourself, recognizing your name instantly. She already knew who you were. His father thanked you more than once, awkward but earnest, the kind of man who felt things deeply and spoke sparingly. His younger sister â tired-eyed, hair in a messy bun, still glowing faintly from new motherhood â had taken to you immediately. Within minutes, she was scrolling through her phone, showing you pictures of her newborn daughter with the enthusiasm of someone whoâd known you for years, not days.
They made you feel welcome, like someone who already belonged in the small orbit of their family. And yet, you suspected â from the way his motherâs eyes lingered on you sometimes, from the way his sister smiled knowingly â that they knew more than they let on. About you and Sam. But they never pushed, never asked questions about what Sam was to you or the opposite. And both of you were grateful for that. They just⌠let you be there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe, by then, it was.
-
Then there were also Sam's friends who came to visit and kept him company.
The first time you met them, you recognized a few from that night at the bar. Others, instead, felt familiar only because Sam had described them in his letters â their faces already tied to stories you remembered more vividly than youâd ever admit.
Mac was the loudest, bursting through the door with a grin that didnât quite hide his relief. âJesus, OâNeal,â he said with a dramatic grimace, ânext time you want time off, maybe try a vacation? Preferably one that doesnât involve explosives.â
Sam rolled his eyes. âMissed you too, buddy.â
Ray and Tommy followed, carrying takeout coffee and a small speaker, while Erik offered a quiet nod and a pat on Samâs shoulder. The room filled instantly with noise â teasing, laughter, easy banter that didnât need to tiptoe around what had happened.
When they turned their attention to you, Sam cleared his throat â already bracing for whatever was coming.
âGuys, this is Y/N,â he said. âSheâs⌠sheâs the one whoâ well. You know.â
You shot Sam a questioning look â what exactly did they know? â while the boys exchanged amused glances.Â
Tommy stepped forward first. âJesus, man, you suck at introductions,â he told Sam. âYou couldâve just said sheâs the one you smiled at like an idiot every time you read her letters.â
Sam went crimson instantly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, completely defeated. There was no escaping that one.
You barely managed not to laugh, glancing at Sam again.Â
âAnyway,â Tommy said, turning to you with a warm grin, âIâm Tommy. Itâs nice to finally meet you.â
The others followed suit.
âIâm Mac,â he said with an overly dramatic bow. âAnd thank you for your service. We know putting up with him isnât easy.â
âIâd like to remind everyone Iâm here,â Sam muttered, âand I can hear you.â
âLuckily,â Erik added, deadpan, âotherwise how would we make fun of you?â
The room dissolved into laughter, easy and familiar â a kind of normalcy you didnât realize youâd missed until it was there again.
You moved to the small couch tucked in the corner, wanting to give them space. As they talked and joked, you watched Samâs face light up. For a moment, he looked like himself again â the man youâd come to know through letters, the one who could make you laugh or smile with a single line, even from thousands of miles away.Â
Every now and then, Sam glanced your way. And every time he did, one of his friends noticed.
At one point, Mac nudged Samâs foot â gently, carefully avoiding any injuries â and said, âGotta say, man⌠you did good.â
Sam frowned. âWhat?â
Mac nodded subtly toward you. âHer. You did real good.â
The others nodded in agreement.
Sam hissed under his breath, âLower your voice or sheâll hear you.â
But he didnât deny it â because Mac was right. Heâd hit the mark with you just as perfectly as youâd hit his that night at the bar. The guys snickered, sharing looks that made Sam groan softly into his hands.
From the couch, you pretended you didnât hear â but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
When they finally left, the room felt quieter, but not empty. You gathered the cups and napkins theyâd left behind, setting them on the tray. Sam watched you, his expression soft, unreadable.
âYou know,â he said, voice low, âthey like you.â
You looked up, half-smiling. âYou think?â
âI know,â he replied. âTheyâre not exactly subtle.â
You laughed quietly, shaking your head.
Without even realizing it, you were quickly slipping into his life, into all the people who mattered to him.
And Sam liked that.
You liked it too.Â
-
One morning, when you stepped into his room, you found Sam already awake. He looked tired, but clearer somehow, more present than he had the days before after his last surgery. Sunlight filtered through the blinds in thin, pale stripes, catching on the metal railing of his bed.
 He smiled when he saw you â soft, warm.
âMorning,â you said.
âHey.â He shifted slightly, winced.Â
âHow are you feeling today?â you asked, approaching his bed and checking the monitors out of habit. He watched you with quiet amusement â and something gentler, something warmer.Â
âBetter, thanks.â He cleared his throat. âI, uh⌠Iâve got something for you.â
You blinked. âFor me?â
He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. âWell⌠Itâs more a⌠return.â There was a hint of nervousness in his voice â unusual for him.
âA return?â you repeated, confused.
You watched him as he pulled something out of his pocket, his hands shaking. And then you saw it.
Your necklace.
The one youâd forgotten in his bed that morning.Â
Your breath caught.
âRemember? I promised Iâd bring it back to you,â he said quietly. âI fixed the clasp. I didn't want it to get lost again.â
You gently took the necklace from him. His fingers brushed yours briefly â warm, calloused, careful.
âI see youâre a man of your word, OâNeal,â you said, turning the necklace over in your hands and managing a small smile despite the tight ache in your chest.
He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was something heavier beneath it.
âIt kept me going, you know?â he admitted. âThe promise that I had to bring it back to you. â
Your chest tightened.
âIt gave me something to hold onto,â he continued, voice growing rougher with each word. âA reason to fight. A reason to come back.â
Your throat ached. You couldnât look away.
âOut there, after the explosionâŚâ His jaw flexed, remembering. âWhen I was on the ground â bleeding, barely able to breathe â I kept thinking I couldnât die. Not without seeing you again. Not without returning this to you. It felt important.â
You stared down at the pendant resting in your palm. For a moment, all the noise of the hospital â distant voices, beeping monitors, rolling carts â faded into nothing.
The confession hitting you harder than you expected. Because in that moment, it felt like part of the reason he was alive â part of the reason he was there â was tied to you. To a forgotten necklace tangled in his sheets a year ago. For once, you were grateful for losing something.
âIt was. Important, I mean. It was my brotherâs,â you said suddenly.
Sam looked up sharply, surprised, like he hadnât expected you to explain. His eyes softened. âYou donât have toââ
âNo, itâs okay,â you interrupted, voice firmer than you felt. Then quieter, âI want to.â
Something in his expression shifted â gratitude, relief, a touch of awe. He nodded, slow, giving you space.
You closed your fingers around the necklace. âHe used to wear it every day,â you continued. âIt was his good-luck charm. Heâd touch it whenever he was nervous⌠or before doing something stupid with his friends. Like a ritual.â A small smile ghosted across your lips. âExcept the day he died. I donât know why.â You inhaled, shaky. âBut I always wondered if that meant something.â
Sam listened without interrupting, his full attention on you in a way that made your chest tighten.
âI donât know if it really brings luck,â you murmured. âBut it seems to have worked for you. And⌠Iâm glad it did. That kept you safe.â
Sam smiled, not knowing what to say. Still shocked that you were opening up to him about it.
âYou two wouldâve liked each other,â you added. â I think he⌠my brotherâd have liked you. Youâre both stubborn as hell. But you make people feel safe without even trying.â
Samâs lips lifted, just slightly. âSounds like my kind of guy.â
Silence settled again between you â not heavy, just full.
You glanced down at the necklace again, then lifted your gaze. âWill you⌠help me put it on?â
He nodded immediately. âYeah. Of course.â
You turned, brushing your hair aside. His fingers were gentle on your neck, warm against your skin. The chain brushed your collarbone, cool at first, then familiar.
The soft click of it closing felt louder than it should have. âThere,â he said, voice low.
You touched the pendant instinctively, as if reassuring yourself it was really there. âThank you,â you whispered. âFor bringing it back.â
Sam watched you with an expression so open, so quietly full of something you didnât dare name yet, that you felt the world shift just slightly under your feet.
âYouâre welcome,â he said softly. âIâm⌠Iâm glad I made it back at all.â
-
The hospital cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday noise â trays clattering, nurses talking over half-finished salads, someone complaining about the coffee machine again. You sat squeezed between Anthony and Jenny, picking at your sandwich while they argued about whoâd had the worst patient that morning.Â
At some point, the conversation shifted â naturally, inevitably â to Sam.
âSo,â Anthony began, voice dripping with nosy enthusiasm, âhow are things going with soldier boy?â
You had barely opened your mouth when he added, âHave you already jumped each other like wild animals?â
You almost spat out your food. Jenny slapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laugh as you coughed into your napkin, glaring at your friend.
âJesus, Anthony,â you managed to say.Â
He grinned, wholly unrepentant. âWhat? Am I wrong?â
You hesitated. Then, you exhaled sharply. âFor your information, no, we havenât⌠done anything.â
Anthony paused mid-sip of his drink and stared at you like youâd just confessed something scandalous. âHold on,â he said, blinking twice, then raising his voice. âYou two havenât even kissed yet? Not once? Since he got here?â
Finishing lunch suddenly felt like an Olympic sport.
You shook your head. âNo, Anthony. We havenât. Happy now?â
Anthony threw his hands up. âUnbelievable. You wrote letters to each other for, what, almost a year? The tension should be illegal at this point.â
You rubbed your forehead. âMay I remind you this is a hospital? Not exactly the most romantic or discreet place.â
âOh, sweetheart,â Anthony said, leaning back dramatically, âwe both know that never stopped you, and these walls are witnesses.â
You felt your face heat instantly. Jenny raised her eyebrows and added, âYeah, even some of us are witnesses too.â
Your cheeks went from warm to burning. âWhy am I friends with you two?â you muttered.
Anthony pointed his fork at you like a judge delivering a verdict, ignoring your comment. âSo what are you waiting for? A written invitation? A sign from above? You know you have our blessing.â
You sighed, pushing your tray away. You were no longer hungry. âItâs not that simple. This thing between me and Sam is⌠different. Itâs delicate. And⌠he has more important things on his mind right now.â You toyed with your napkin. âItâs complicated.â
Anthony scoffed. âOk, youâre right. But, honestly, a kiss can only do him good. Love speeds up healing â everybody knows that. And it would make you less nervous.â
You looked at him pretending to be offended.
Jenny instead nodded enthusiastically. âFor once, I agree with him. Heâd probably recover in half the time.â
You tried â and failed â not to smile. They meant well â even if they could be insufferable sometimes.Â
âJustâŚâ Anthony shrugged, finishing his drink. âDonât overthink it too much. The perfect moment doesnât exist. Just do it.â
-
Later that night, when your shift finally ended, you dragged yourself down the quiet hallway to Samâs room. The lights were dim. The world outside his door felt heavy.
Inside, Sam was asleep.
You paused a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful as you checked the monitors and the IV, trying not to disturb him.
Only when you were sure he was okay did you let yourself lay down on the small couch. As you curled up, you closed your eyes, telling yourself it was only for a moment â but you slipped into sleep before you could finish the thought.
You woke to the sound of him gasping.
Your heart lurched. You were on your feet instantly, crossing the room as Sam thrashed lightly against the sheets, breath ragged, panic written into every line of his body.
âSam,â you whispered urgently, leaning over him. âSam, hey. Wake up. Itâs okay. Iâm here.â
His eyes snapped open.
He was trembling â chest heaving, forehead damp, fear still clinging to him. But the second he saw you, something in his expression eased.Â
âHey⌠It was just a nightmare,â you said softly, taking his hand in yours. âYouâre safe. Youâre here.â
He swallows hard, still trying to catch his breath. âCan you⌠stay with me? Here?â His voice was small, raw, a fragile whisper.
You hesitated. âSam, youâll be uncomfortable.â
âI donât⌠I donât care. Please. I⌠need you.â
His words, his tone broke you.
There was no way you could say no to that.
You nodded. âOkay.â
He shifted over carefully, making space. You climbed onto the bed and lay on your side while he stayed on his back. His arm slipped around you, drawing you close but not too tight, as if afraid you might disappear if he held any harder.
You rested your hand on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart gradually slowing beneath your palm. For a while, neither of you spoke. His breathing, which was slowly, steadily returning to normal, was the only sound in the room.
Being this close to him again was familiar in a way that made your chest ache.
Every point where your bodies touched sent small waves of heat through your nerves.
When you glanced up at him, he was staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight with unsaid thoughts. You studied him quietly â the soft shadows on his face, the worry still etched between his brows.
Then, he finally broke the silence.
âIt wasnât really a nightmare,â he murmured. âNot completely.â
Your hand stilled. âWhat do you mean?â
He exhaled shakily. âI dreamed the accident. Or⌠remembered it.â His throat bobbed. âIt felt so real. Like I was back there and it was happening all over again. The blood, the screams⌠Everything.â
You swallowed hard as you knew that feeling too â the way trauma didnât fade, only slept. How it woke you in the dark, dragged you back into moments youâd tried to bury.
After your brotherâs death, you had relived his last moments for months â sometimes even now they clawed their way back into your dreams.
You touched his cheek gently. He closed his eyes at the contact, leaning into your hand. You guided his face toward you.
âSam,â you whispered. âLook at me.â
He opened his eyes.
âYouâre not there,â you said. âYouâre here. Alive. Safe. And with me.â
He didnât answer. He just looked at you â eyes tired, vulnerable, open in a way he rarely allowed. The distance between your faces was barely a breath. Your noses almost touched.
His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, full of something unspoken and overwhelming. You looked away for a split second, unable to hold the intensity of his stare.
He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made you forget how to breathe again. His voice dropped to a whisper. âTell me to stop and I will.â
Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs.
Anthonyâs words echoed in your head: âDonât overthink it too much. The perfect moment doesnât exist. Just do it.â
âDonât stop,â you whispered.
The word broke whatever restraint he still had, closing the distance between you.
The kiss began soft â hesitant, careful, like rediscovering a language you once knew by heart. But then your hand slid over his chest, and something inside both of you broke open.
The kiss deepened.
Slow turned urgent.
Gentle turned hungry.
A yearâs worth of longing spilled into it â all the unsent words, all the nights spent wishing and remembering, all the almosts and not-yets finally collapsing into now.
It was like both of you were trying to memorize the other all over again.
It was like coming home after a long time away.Â
When you finally pulled apart, you stayed forehead to forehead, breathing the same air, his thumb brushing your cheek, slow and tender, as if he couldnât quite believe you were real.
âIâve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you again,â he whispered.
A quiet, shaky laugh escaped you. âMe too.â
He kissed your forehead â warm, soft â before drawing you closer into his chest. You rested your head against him, his arm tightening protectively around you in a way that felt completely natural.Â
Within minutes, the two of you drifted to sleep.
Wrapped around each other, breathing in sync, as if something in the universe had finally clicked back into place.
And that kiss â that long, overdue kiss â turned out to be the first of many.
From then on, any moment was an excuse to kiss each other: a quick peck whenever you entered the room, a lingering kiss when no one was around.
You hadnât put a name to whatever the two of you were but you didnât need to.
For now, that was enough.
-
You stepped out of the elevator, still smoothing the wrinkles out of your scrubs. The hallway of Samâs floor smelled of antiseptic and fresh coffee.
You spotted Daniel, one of Samâs doctors, leaning over the nursesâ station, scribbling notes.
He looked up as you approached, pen paused mid-air. âHey,â he greeted. âYou headed to see OâNeal?â
You nodded.Â
âGood,â Daniel added, lowering his voice. âThen maybe you can talk some sense into him.â
You froze. ââŚSorry? What?â
Daniel blinked. âI assume he hasnât told you yet.â
Your stomach tightened. âTold me what?â
He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. âSam agreed to the operation. The additional one Harding suggested last week.â He lifted a shoulder. âHeâll do it in a few days.â
For a moment, you genuinely wondered if youâd misheard him. âWaitâ what?â
Daniel nodded, sympathy flickering across his features. âI was surprised too. I donât think heâs ready. Not physically. Heâs still stabilizing from the last surgery he had. But from what I've seen, he seems determined to proceed.â
You stared at him, speechless. Anger and disbelief twisted inside you, sharp and hot.
âBut that's not the right thing to do!â You exclaimed. âItâs too soon. He needs to recover first.â
Daniel sighed. âI agree. MaybeâŚâ He paused. âMaybe you could try talking to him.â
You swallowed, your throat tight. âOh, you can bet I will. Immediately. Thanks, Daniel.â
And you left before he could say anything else.
Your pulse hammered, frustration building with every step.
By the time you reached Samâs room, you didnât bother calming yourself.
Erik and Ray were inside, sitting on chairs near the foot of the bed and chatting with Sam. They both smiled when they saw you â until they saw the expression on your face and their smiles fell instantly.
Sam looked up too, eyes warming, already opening his mouth to greet you. âHey,â he started, âI was justââ
You didnât let him finish. âWhatâs this story about you agreeing to Hardingâs operation?â you demanded, walking straight toward his bed.
Sam blinked, taken by surprise. âOh. Right. I was going toââ
âGoing to tell me?â you cut in. âWhen? During surgery?â
Erik and Ray exchanged a silent âwe should leaveâ look, but neither dared to move.
Sam exhaled. âLook, itâs not a big dealââ
âItâs a big deal, Sam,â you snapped. âYou just had surgery and youâre still recovering. Why would you even consider another one?â
âBecause it will help,â he said, jaw tight. âItâll speed things up.â
âOr slow you down,â you shot back. âIf it goes wrong, Sam, youâll set your recovery back by weeks. Maybe even months.â
He shook his head, sighing. âI know. Iâm willing to take that risk.â
âWell, youâre being reckless!â The words came out louder than you intended.
Ray shifted uncomfortably, Erik rubbed his jaw, both lowered their eyes to the floor.
Samâs eyes flashed with irritation â something you had never seen turned toward you before. âAnd youâre acting like you get to decide what I do with my own body! Youâre not my doctor.â
You stared at him, stung. Silence fell so abruptly it felt physical. You saw the regret on his face the moment the words left his mouth â but it was too late.
You kept your face steady, but inside something cracked. â Youâre right. Iâm not your doctor.â You paused for a moment before continuing. âSo what am I, Sam?â you said quietly.
Samâs irritation vanished instantly, replaced by panic and regret. âWait, I didnâtâ thatâs notââ
âI should get back to work,â you said, cutting him off. Your voice was thin, trembling. âIâll⌠come back later.â
You turned before he could answer.Â
âHeyâwait,â he called, voice raw. âPleaseâjustâlistenââ
And even though you heard him call your name â once, twice â you didnât look back.
-
The cafeteria was nearly empty during mid-afternoon. You sat alone at a table by the wall, fingers wrapped around a cup of tea that had gone lukewarm without you noticing as you tried to calm down.
Anger simmered beneath your ribs, tangled with something far more painful.
The argument kept replaying in your mind â his tone, his words, the way heâd snapped at you like you were overstepping. Like you didnât matter.Â
And maybe you didnât. Not really.
After all, a few kisses didnât make you important.Â
You hated how much it hurt.
The uncertainty of not knowing what you were to him.
You lifted the cup to your lips when someone stepped into your line of sight.
âMind if I sit?â
Erik.
You shook your head slowly.
Even though you didnât know him well, you liked Erik. He was the anchor of the group, calm, reflective and steady. The kind of man who always knew what to do, that you could trust.
He sat across from you with deliberate quiet, studying your face in that gentle, perceptive way people trained to recognize pain often did.
You broke the silence first. âIâm sorry you and Ray had to see that,â you murmured, voice low, a little embarrassed.
Erik shrugged. âDonât apologize. If anything, Sam is the one who should.â Then he offered a small, knowing smile. âHe can be a real pain in the ass.â
Despite everything, a faint laugh escaped you. âYeah,â you agreed softly. âHe really can.â
Erik nudged his cup aside and leaned forward a little. âAnd youâre right about the surgery. He knows it too. Deep down.â He paused, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. âBut⌠do you know why he wants it so badly?â
You rolled your eyes. âBecause heâs desperate to walk again. Obviously.â
But Erik shook his head. âThatâs part of it, of course. But itâs not the only reason heâs pushing himself this hard.â
You frowned, not understanding what he meant. âThen why?â
Erik folded his arms, eyes lowering as if choosing his words carefully. âHe wants to walk again for you.â
Your breath stilled. âFor⌠me?â Your voice was barely audible.
Erik nodded once, leaning back on the chair. âHe wants to take you out. On a real date. He wasnât to pick you up in a car. Go somewhere that isnât this hospital. Hold your hand without being stuck in bed. You know, do all the things he imagined while he was stuck overseas reading your letters.â He hesitated, then added with a soft huff, âhe has probably already planned the entire date in his head. Every detail.â
Your breath caught in your throat, not expecting that confession.Â
Erik went on. âBut now that heâs finally here â now that youâre here with him â he canât. He still needs to wait because heâs trapped in that bed. And itâs killing him, slowly.â
You stared down at your tea, shocked, your pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. âI⌠I didnât know,â you whispered. âI thought he wanted to recover quickly so he could go back. You know. To the field.â
Erik shook his head firmly. âNo. Honestly? I donât think heâs even thought about that. Not now. Not when he has something â someone â here worth staying for.â
Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his.
And you understood.
Every unspoken word.
Every implication.
You swallowed hard.
He touched your arm briefly â a gesture of reassurance, nothing more. âLook, heâs probably better at talking about his feelings in letters than saying them out loud. But talk to him,â he added softly, a faint smile ghosted across his lips. âHe didnât mean what he said. Heâs just tired. Scared. And probably in a lot more pain than heâll ever admit to anyone.â
Your heart clenched so sharply it almost hurt. You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat.
Erik hesitated â then offered what felt like the closest thing to a secret. âIâve known Sam a long time, and Iâve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you.â He paused, letting the words settle. âYou matter to him. More than he knows how to show right now. You may not be his doctorâŚâ A small smile tugged at his lips. âBut youâre definitely someone important.â
For the first time since you walked out of Samâs room, something inside you eased â not completely, but enough to calm the storm inside you â and you let yourself believe Erik might be right.Â
You nodded slowly, fingers tightening around your cup.
Erik gave you one last reassuring nod and looked away, giving you space to feel everything without the pressure of being watched.
-
When you pushed open the door to Samâs room a few hours later, you were still in your uniform. Your lab coat hung slightly crooked over your scrubs, the fabric creased from the long shift.
A nurse was standing by his bedside, tightening the cuff around his arm as she checked his blood pressure. She gave you a polite smile as you stepped inside.
You stopped just past the doorway, hands tucked loosely into your coat pockets, letting the nurse finish.
Samâs eyes found you the second you appeared â not surprised, but intent, almost relieved, as if heâd been waiting for you the entire day. You met his gaze for a brief moment; then you looked down, overwhelmed by everything unsaid. His attention hovered on you, steady and cautious, as if he feared you might change your mind and disappear before he could speak to you again.
When the nurse finally stepped away and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her, silence settled again. You remained where you stood, unsure if moving closer would help or hurt, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It wasnât that you didnât know what to say â you knew too well â but saying any of it felt like peeling something raw open.
âIâm sorry about earlier.â Sam said first, his voice softer than you expected â unsteady at the edges, stripped of all defensiveness.Â
You looked up at him.Â
âIâm sorry too,â you replied quietly, taking a slow step closer.
He exhaled shakily, eyes lowering. âItâs just that⌠I had all these plans,â he muttered. âThings I wanted to do when I finally got home. Things I wanted to doâŚwith you. Like ââÂ
He hesitated, helpless.Â
You couldnât help it â a small, involuntary smile pulled at your lips, remembering Erikâs words. âLike inviting me out and taking me to dinner?â
Samâs head snapped up. Confusion flickered across his face for half a second before realization settled in. âErik talked to you, didnât he?â
You nodded. Sam groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow. âThat little snitch.â
âActually, you should thank him,â you murmured. âIt was⌠enlightening.â
âReally?â Sam looked at you, cautious, waiting.
You nodded again, this time more earnestly. âReally. At least now I understand better your decision. Even though I still donât agree with it.â You held his gaze, steady. âIâm not changing my opinion, Sam. But you were right about one thing: itâs your body, your life, and the choice is ultimately yours. If this is what you truly want, then⌠fine, go ahead. But do it for yourself. Not because you think I need some perfect date with you walking around like nothing ever happened.â
His jaw loosened, something vulnerable slipping through.
You continued, softer, âI donât need that. I mean, it would be nice someday but now what I want is for you to get better. Iâll be here, in any case â whether it takes two weeks or two months for you to recover. And when youâre better⌠we can have all the dates and the walks you want.â
And you really meant that. Every single word.Â
He stared at you as though he wasnât sure he deserved any of it.
âSo,â Sam said after a beat, a tentative smile tugging at his mouth, âyouâre saying we have a date?â
You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your amused exhale. âThatâs the only thing you heard of my speech?â
âPossibly.â
âWell,â you said, crossing your arms, âthat depends on how you ask me, OâNeal. And on how you behave.â
His laugh was short, quiet, but real â the kind that made his shoulders relax for the first time since the argument. Then his expression softened into something earnest. âSo⌠do you forgive me?â he asked, almost timid.Â
You stepped closer to his bedside, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of antiseptic on his sheets mixed with his cologne.Â
âI do,â you whispered. âBut donât make a habit of it.â
A relaxed, relieved smile spread across his face, transforming him. Then he hesitated â only a second â before admitting, âI spoke to Harding, anyway. Iâm not doing the surgery. Iâll wait.â
You stared at him, startled. You didnât expect him to change his mind. âAre you sure?â you asked carefully.
âYeah,â he replied. âYou were right. It's not worth it... not when there's so much at stake.â
You swallowed, moved more than you could say. You felt heard.Â
A small spark of mischief lit his eyes. âSo⌠what else did Erik tell you? Please tell me he didnât reveal all my plans, or Iâll need to come up with new ones.â
You laughed softly. âIâd say you have plenty of time to do that.â
He huffed, pretending to be offended. âRude.â
âFor someone who almost got himself scheduled for surgery just to go on a date, youâre surprisingly sensitive.â
He pointed a halfhearted glare at you. âI take these things very seriously, okay?â
You talked like that for a while â gently, cautiously, letting the earlier tension dissolve until the conversation settled into something warm and easy.
Time slipped by unnoticed, until the window light had shifted into the muted gold of early evening.
âI should go,â you said reluctantly, glancing at the clock. âIâll see you tomorrow.â
âYeah,â he murmured. âIâll be here.â
You leaned down slightly, and he met you halfway.
The kiss was gentle, unhurried â the kind of kiss that didnât try to prove anything, that didnât ask for anything. Just a soft press of lips, warm and reassuring, a quiet weâre okay after the storm. His hand rose briefly to your waist, your fingers brushing his cheek for a moment before you pulled back.
You gave him one last small smile before slipping out into the hallway.
Inside the room, Sam stared at the door long after youâd left.
He let out a slow breath, sinking into the pillow, his mind spinning in a direction entirely different from before.
All that talk about plans⌠about dates⌠about waiting⌠But he didnât want to wait anymore.
Not until he could walk.
Not until he got discharged.
After everything youâd done for him, he wanted to do something for you too. Something small but meaningful. Something that told you, unmistakably, that you mattered.
A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
The first date didnât have to wait for him to walk.
He could bring the date to you.
-
Tears on the letterI vowed not to cry anymoreIf we survived the Great War
-
The next morning, you decided to stop by Samâs room before your shift began.
It was still early, the hallway was quiet.
As you passed his window, you saw him speaking on the phone. He sat upright, hand running through his hair in that way he did whenever he was trying to keep something under control.
When you entered the room, his eyes widened, and he ended the call so fast it was almost clumsy.
You raised a bow and stared at him. âSorry, did I interrupt you?â you asked, curiosity breaking through despite your effort to sound casual.Â
He straightened, pretending to appear relaxed.
âNo,â he said too fast. âIt was just Tommy. I asked him to stop by my place and grab a few things. Heâll bring them later.â
You nodded, though doubt still tugged at you. But before you could interrogate him further, he cleared his throat. âI wanted to ask you something. Do you⌠have plans tonight?â
You frowned. âNo. Why?â
âWould you like to spend it with me?â
Your suspicion only grew. âWhat do you have in mind?â
âCome here at eight,â he said, trying â and failing â not to smile. âYouâll see.â
You raised an eyebrow. âOkay, now Iâm curious. Do I need to bring something?â
âNo.â He hesitated, then added, âI just need you to do one thing.â
âWhat?â
âBefore that time⌠you canât come into my room.â
You blinked. âWhaâ what? Why?â
You were used to going to visit him several times a day, whenever you could and Sam had always been happy about it
âItâs part of the surprise.â
You stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Then, slowly, you sighed, giving up. âFine. But thatâs a weird request.â
âI know,â he said, grinning. âBut itâll be worth it. Trust me.â
âAlright. I guess Iâll see you later, then.â
-
A few hours later Jenny appeared in the hallway, nearly gasping when she saw you still in your uniform.
âWhat are you still doing here? You should be getting ready!â
âReady for what?â you asked, genuinely confused.
She stared at you. âYouâre going to Samâs, arenât you?â
âYes, when I finish my shift, like always.â
âYouâre going like this?â
You glanced down at yourself. âI mean⌠I was going to take off the lab coat or put on the clothes I wore this morning.â
Jenny looked genuinely offended. âWhat is wrong with you? You canât go to a date dressed like this!â
You opened your mouth. âItâs not aââ
And then you froze.
Jennyâs words echoed in your mind.
Samâs request.
His tone.
The way he acted.
And heâd talked about a surprise.Â
Jenny watched your realization dawn, eyebrows lifted.
âOh my God,â you almost screamed. âIt could be a date.â
âItâs definitely a date!â Jenny exclaimed, almost exasperated.Â
You looked down at yourself again in horror. âBut I have nothing suitable to wear! And I look horrible. And I need a shower!â
âThen go,â Jenny said, already pushing you toward the locker room. âI handled the clothes. Move.â
Thirty minutes later â heart still racing a little â you stood in front of the mirror. Somehow, against all odds, you looked⌠good. Surprisingly good.
The black dress Jenny had chosen hugged your figure perfectly, simple but elegant, the thin straps framing your shoulders and the soft V-neck flattering but not too much. The skirt fell below your knees. The short green cardigan added just the right touch of casual softness. The black boots grounded everything. Your hair was loose, falling naturally and your makeup was light, just enough to brighten your features. And around your neck â always â was your brotherâs necklace.
Now you looked like someone going on a date.
At 7:58 p.m., you started walking toward Samâs floor, pulse quickening with every step. It was ridiculous how nervous you felt â as if this were a proper date, not an improvised hospital version of one. And yet⌠it was a real date. The first one, technically.
When the elevator doors slid open, you spotted him immediately. He was waiting outside his room, sitting in a wheelchair.
Heâd trimmed the stubble along his jaw â not clean-shaven, but tidy in a way that made your stomach twist. He wore a dark navy long-sleeve shirt, the kind that stretched across his shoulders just right, and grey sweatpants that still somehow looked good on him.
At the sound of your footsteps Sam lifted his head, his breath caught.Â
âYou look amazing,â he said when you were close enough to hear him.Â
You stared at him. âAnd youâre supposed to be in your bed.â
He ignored that entirely and reached behind the wheelchair, pulling out a small bouquet of flowers. âThese are for you.â
You took them, heart doing something strange in your chest. âOk, youâre forgiven. But just this time.â You stared at the flowers. âThey are beautiful, thanksâ you murmured.
He grinned â that rare, boyish grin he didnât show often. âGood. Because I also have something else.â
You watched, suspicious, as he dug into the pocket of his sweatpants. When he pulled out what looked like a blindfold, you blinked. âIs thatâ Sam. Seriously?â
âA blindfold,â he confirmed, as if presenting a perfectly reasonable object.
âAnd Iâm supposed to do what with that?â
âPut it on.â
You gave him a long, unimpressed look. âSam, Iâd like to remind you that we are in hospital, we cannot do anything inappropriate.â
He laughed softly. âItâs not for that. Trust me. Pleaseâ he said, soft, almost pleading.Â
Your heart flipped. Damn him.
âFine,â you muttered and tied the blindfold, fingers brushing your own temple. It was weird how much you suddenly relied on him, on his voice, on his presence.
âNow what?â
âNow open the door please and go in.â
You reached blindly for the handle, fingertips grazing metal. Your pulse thudded, loud in your ears â not nervous, exactly. More like anticipation. A different kind of adrenaline.
You stepped inside his room and immediately stopped.
It felt different. It didnât smell like disinfectant or plastic or anything remotely hospital-like. It smelled warm, like vanilla, cedar and something faintly sweet, like amber or brown sugar.
And there was music too: a low, gentle melody with soft piano and strings, something that wrapped around the space instead of filling it.
âCan I take it off?â you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
âYes.â
Your breath caught as you lifted the blindfold.Â
The room was dark except for dozens of tiny warm lights strung across the walls and ceiling, twinkling like scattered stars. The table was set â plates, napkins, a small candle flickering between you. Two pizza boxes sat on top from your favorite pizzeria.
You turned slowly, looking around, overwhelmed by how thoughtful and intimate it all felt.
For several long seconds, neither of you said anything.
Then Sam finally murmured, âI know itâs not the perfect dateââ
âNo,â you whispered, shaking your head. âItâs beautiful.â
His eyes lit up. âReally? You like it?â
You nodded, still staring around in awe. âNo one has ever done anything like this for me. How did you even do all this?â
He smirked. âI had some accomplices. Some good friends.â
You didnât need more explanation.Â
You sat at the small table it had been set up by the window â white hospital linens disguising the tray table, real cutlery, even a tiny battery-powered candle flickering between the pizza boxes. Sam rolled into place across from you, adjusting the footrests with one hand.
When you lifted the lid of your box, you laughed softly. âMargherita,â you said. âYou remembered.â
âSometimes the simplest things are the best,â he said, softly, timidly.Â
Dinner passed in warm, unhurried conversation â soft banter, small jokes, a few lingering glances that said everything words wouldnât.
After eating, Sam gestured toward the projector you hadnât even noticed earlier and showed you a DVD. âAnother favorite of yours,â he said. âRear Window.â
You smiled, touched to your core.Â
You helped him back onto the bed, adjusting pillows behind him until he was comfortable. Then you climbed in beside him, both of you semi-reclined against the raised mattress and stacked cushions. Your shoulder brushed his chest; your head fit naturally against the curve of his shoulder. His arm settled around you with slow, careful certainty, fingers resting just above your hip.
Halfway through the film, you felt Sam shift slightly â not away, but closer, just enough that your bodies aligned more fully. His thumb began tracing idle patterns against your arm. Not intentional at first. Then⌠maybe just a little.
By the time the credits rolled, neither of youâd moved. The space between you felt charged â a soft, building warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets.
You turned your face toward him at the same moment he angled toward you.
The kiss happened naturallyâinevitable, quiet. His hand slid into your hair; your fingers brushed along his jaw. You shifted closer, half draped over him, his arm tightening around your waist. The warmth deepened, your breaths mingling.
Another kiss.
Then another.
Slow at first, then quicker, hungrier.
You kissed like two teenagers hiding in a place where you absolutely shouldnât be caught. It made everything sharper, sweeter, reckless.
His breath trembled against your lips. âGod,â he whispered, forehead pressing to yours, âI donât think Iâve ever hated being stuck in this hospital more than I do right now.â
You laughed softly, brushing your fingers along the back of his neck. âRemember, this is our first date. Youâre lucky I even let you kiss me.â
He stared at you. âReally?â
You smirked. âConsider it a special privilege for having fought bravely for our country.â
He laughedâa low, warm, undone sound. âWell, Iâm honored. And extremely lucky. Not everyone gets a smart, sexy doctor taking care of them.â
You raised a brow. âI thought I wasnât your doctor,â you teased, quoting him without malice.
He looked at youâsoft, honest. âNo, youâre not,â he said quietly. âYouâre a lot more than that.â
Your breath hitched and you kissed him againâslowly, tender âyour fingers tracing his jaw, his hand settling carefully on your waist. His fingers traced the line of your spine.
You stayed like that for a long time â soft kisses, quiet breaths, your bodies tangled in the gentle glow of the projector light. And eventually, with your head resting over his heart and his arm still securely around your waist, the exhaustion of the day slipped over you. Little by little, your breaths matched. And still wrapped around each other, still holding on, you both drifted into sleep.
-
You pushed Samâs door open with the same casual confidence you had every time you came to check on him, expecting to find him alone. But the moment you stepped inside, something in you snapped taut.
Red hair, perfectly curled at the ends.
Green eyes.
Full lips.
And a chest that her scrubs were definitely not doing enough to hide.
An unfamiliar nurse was standing close to Samâs bed. Far too close, in your opinion. She was laughing at something heâd said, touching his arm in a way that made your stomach twist. A light, flirty, unnecessary touch.
She was so focused on Sam that she didnât even glance your way when you entered.
But Sam did. His eyes flew to you immediately, face lighting in that way he only reserved for you.
âLet me fix your pillow, Sam,â the nurse said in a sugary tone, still looking only at him, her hand on his shoulder. âIt looks a little low.â
Watching another woman touch himâtouch something that was yours in a way, even if neither of youâd said it aloudâsent a flare of something hot and sharp down your spine.
You cleared your throat, stepping closer to Samâs bed. âThanks. Iâll take it from here,â you said with a forced smile, your voice calm but carrying an edge she absolutely heard.
She looked up at you âfinallyâacknowledging your existence with a tight, polite, utterly fake smile, that you didnât reciprocate.Â
âOh, sure,â she said cheerfully, adjusting a strand of her copper hair behind her ear, âIâll⌠come back later.â
You rolled your eyes the moment she wasnât looking.Â
She winked at Sam before leaving, without greeting you. Again.
You tracked her until she disappeared into the hallway. Only then did you exhale and turn back to Sam who was watching you with an amused, knowing expression.
You raised your brows dramatically, mimicking the nurseâs soft, breathy tone. âSo, Sam,â you said, fluttering your eyelashes with exaggerated sweetness, âDo you want me to fix your pillow? Maybe bring you a glass of water? Do you need anything at allll? Everything for my brave soldier.
Sam laughedâwarm, deep, unguarded. âNo,â he said, still smiling. âI have everything I need.â
âOh, really?â You crossed your arms. âThen maybe you should tell that to Miss A-ha-ha-ha.â
âShe was just being nice,â he said lightly.
You narrowed your eyes. âOh, please. So nice she forgot I existed.â
He tilted his head slightly, studying you. âAre you jealous?â
âNo,â you said quickly, raising your voice slightly. âI just think her behavior was⌠unprofessional.â
âUnprofessional,â he repeated, lips twitching.
âYes,â you insisted, gesturing with your hands. âShe was touching you, laughing at every word you said⌠Come on, she was flirting with you. And itâs inappropriate.â
His brows lifted slightly, and for a moment he looked like he was trying not to laugh. âYou do realize,â he said slowly, âthat you and I have been⌠very unprofessional in this room too. More than once.â
Your mouth fell open. âThatâs different.â
âIs it?â he asked, eyes sparkling.
âYes, and you know that.â You crossed your arms, chin tilting. âBut fine. If professionalism is suddenly so important to you, maybe from now on I should behave. No more kissing you. No more lying down on your bed or being too close. No more⌠anything. Is that what you want?â
He blinkedâthen let out a soft, incredulous laugh. âOh no, thatâs not happening.â
You narrowed your eyes, pretending to be offended. âWhy not?â
âBecause,â he said, voice dropping to something warm and certain, âyou can be as unprofessional with me as you want.â
You stared at him for half a second, heat flickering up your spine despite yourself. Then you shook your head, muttering, âyouâre such a naughty boy, OâNeal.â
His smile turned slow and absolutely sinful. âOnly with you.â
-
January 2007
After a few weeks from his final surgery, Samâs body was finally strong enough for daily physical therapy, and heâd been transferred to the rehabilitation wing.
His days were now built around a strict schedule: three hours of physiotherapy a day, two of strengthening, balance work, mobility drills, and endless tests to measure progress. His doctors were optimistic â with time and patience, they believed he would walk again. If he continued improving at this pace, he would soon be able to go home to continue rest and care in his own bed.
At first, Sam had almost been relieved to start the rehab program as he was determined to regain the ability to walk.
Physiotherapy felt like proof that his body hadnât given up on him, like a tangible sign he was getting closer to leaving the hospital.
On the good days, when his legs responded, he managed to bear a little more weight, raise his leg without shaking or stand supported for a few seconds longer.
But those days were rare. More often, the bad ones and the pain he was still feeling outweighed everything else, making Sam feel like his body belonged to someone else.
The deeper he went into rehab, the worse his mood became, turning him into someone you barely recognized anymore.
Every session left him more frustrated, more defeated and more convinced he wasnât improving fast enough. If he managed to take one assisted step, he hated that he needed help. If he took two, he hated that he hadnât taken five. It reminded him that his body refused to obey him the way it once had.
And when a session went poorly â when the pain sharpened or the muscles trembled too soon â, those were the worst days. He shut down completely, struggling not only with physical pain but also with his mental state.
Day by day, he grew more withdrawn. Irritable. Snapping at people who tried to help, refusing small things out of pride â water, assistance, even your hand when he struggled to sit up. He lashed out more often than he apologized.
There were moments when he could barely look at you, as if your presence alone reminded him of everything he couldnât do.
And yet you stayed. Through every bitter silence, every clipped answer, even when he turned you away.
-
One afternoon, when you pushed the door open, Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the black athletic shorts he wore for his sessions. His shoulders were hunched and his hair was damp with sweat, sticking unevenly to his forehead and temples. He didnât look at you.
You didnât need to ask to know itâd been a bad day.
A bad session.
âHey,â you said quietly, closing the door behind you. âHow did it go?â you asked anyway, hoping you were wrong.Â
He exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh. âSame as always.â
That meant bad.
Even though you knew it wasnât. His therapist told you every day that he was progressing exactly as expectedâsometimes even better. Everyone was satisfiedâexcept him, who already wanted to walk out of the hospital on his own two feet.Â
He was blinded by haste and impatience, pushing too hard, too fast, every chance he got.
His hands were shakingânot from pain, but from frustration. Anger.
You took a step toward him. âSamââ
âIâm tired,â he muttered, voice low and flat in a way that made something in your chest tighten.
He still didnât look at you.
You moved toward him, ready to help him lie back properly, but the moment you reached out, he shiftedâjust an inch, barely a movement, but enough to withdraw. His hand lifted in a small, dismissive flick, the kind that wasnât meant to hurt but did anyway.
Then he eased himself back on the mattress with a strained breath, turning his head sharply to the opposite side, away from you. His jaw clenched as he stared at the wall, refusing even the chance of eye contact.
âIâll try to get some sleep,â he said. âYou can go.â
The words hit harder than he probably intended. But the message was clear: he didnât want you there.
You swallowed and forced a small smile, even though he couldnât see it. âAlright. Iâll see you tomorrow.â
He answered with a noncommittal âMm,â not even glancing at you.
You hesitated at the doorway, hopingâfoolishlyâthat he would call your name and ask you to stay.
But he didnât.
So you walked out, pulling the door closed behind you with a soft click that felt far louder than it should have.
-
The next day he barely looked at you.Â
A nurse wheeled him back from the gym and you intercepted them halfway down the hallway. You greeted them and placed a hand lightly on the wheelchair handle. âI can take him from here,â you told the nurse. âThank you.â
She nodded and walked off.Â
Sam didnât acknowledge you. You tried small talk while pushing him through the hallâupdates from your morning, anything to lighten the heaviness around him. He answered with grunts, one-word replies, or silence.
When you held the door open for him, he snapped: âI can do it myself.â
Your hand froze on the handle. âI was just trying to help.â
âMaybe you shouldnât.â
You inhaled slowly, counted to three, then let the irritation slideâmostly. âIâm not the enemy, Sam,â you said quietly.
He froze for a second, guilt tightening his expression. Then he looked away and rolled himself inside without another word.Â
You followed, heart sinking.
-
After that, things only got worse.
A few days later, you came in and found him halfway through transferring from the wheelchair to the bedâforcing the movement, pushing well past what he was cleared for. His arms trembled with the effort. His injured leg shook violently.
âSam!â You rushed forward. âYouâre going to fall!â
âI wonât!â He snapped, even as his body swayed, betraying him.
You caught him by the arms just before he could hit the floor.
His breathing was sharp, furiousâat himself. At the weakness he couldnât hide. At the fact that you were there to witness it. And he couldnât stand that.Â
âLet me go,â he barked, voice breaking with humiliation.
âYou shouldnât be doing this alone.â
âDonât you have other patients to take care of?â he cut in sharply.
The words landed like a blade under your ribs. You froze, his weight still half-supported in your arms.
âI donât need a babysitter,â he added, harsher this time, as if he needed it to hurt.
That one hit deeper. You swallowed, stepped back, letting his weight shift carefully as you guided himânot as tenderness, but as instinctâ into the bed. Once he was safely seated, you let your hands drop.
âI'll let you rest. It looks like you need it,â you said quietly.
Sam closed his eyes, jaw locked, like he wished he could sink into the mattress and disappear.
You waited one breath. Two. Three.
You gave him every chance to stop you.
But he didnât.
So you walked out and closed the door behind you.
-
The next morning, before entering to his room, you hesitated for a moment, hoping that things would be different. Better.
Oh, how wrong you were.
When you pushed the door, Sam was trying to stand on his own again, this time gripping the crutches so tightly his knuckles were white. Sweat clung to his hairline. His injured leg trembled visibly.
âSam, what are you doing?â you asked, immediately stepping toward him.
âCanât you see it?â he said through gritted teeth.
âYeah, but you canâtââ
âI know what I can do.â
You moved closer. âSit down before youââ
âDonât tell me what to do!â He turned too fast, the motion throwing him off balance. You grabbed him again, hands firm on his sides, preventing the fall, and putting him on the wheelchair.
âLet me!â he yelledâat himself more than at you.
âSam,â you said sternly, âyouâre going to hurt yourself.â
âAnd what if I do? It canât get any worse than this.â The words came ragged, hollow.
You were running out of patience.
It was like dealing with a child, if not worse.
You looked at him, sighing. âWhy⌠why are you acting like this?â you asked quietly, but with an edge sharp enough to cut.
He finally looked at you, his eyes tired, defeated, full of something he was trying too hard to hide. âAnd why do you care?â he asked, nervously, ignoring the question. âWe both know you didnât want any of this.â
The world fell silent as his words hit you like a punch in the stomach. Something hot surged through your veins. âWhat? What⌠are you saying?â
He let out a humorless laugh. âCome on. You didnât want this. A broken soldier. Someone who canât even stand on his own damn legs. Someone you have to take care of. You didn't even want to deal with a soldier in the first place.â
He was throwing your own words back at you â twisted, painful. And a small, terrified part of you wondered if he really believed it.
Your breath left you and for a moment, you couldnât even speak. Then the anger hitâslow, cold, controlled. âNow youâre being cruel, Sam. And unfair.â
His face folded into something like guilt and rage mixed together. âIâm just telling the truth. Maybe itâs better if you⌠go.â
You laughed, incredulous. âYou want to speak about truth? Fine, letâs talk about it,â your voice shaking but strong. âYouâre right: I didnât want this.â
He blinked, surprised, but you kept going. âOf course I didnât want this. I didn't want you to get hurt on duty. I didnât want you to be here because of an explosion. No sane person would want that, Sam.â
He stayed silent, his jaw tightened, pain flickering in his eyes like a struck match.
âBut it happened anyway,â you continued, stepping closer. âAnd do you know why?â
He didnât answer.
âBecause I canât control my feelings. It happened despite everything I tried to prevent. Just like you didnât wake up that morning knowing an explosive would go off a few meters away and change your entire life.â You leaned in, eyes burning. âWe canât undo what happened to you. The only thing we can do is face it and move forward.â
He exhaled, shaky, but you didnât stop. âAnd I am facing it. Every single day. Iâm here. Iâm choosing this. Iâm choosing you. So donât you dare tell me to leave.â You stepped back just enough to look him in the eyes fully. âYOU started this. Months ago. YOU wrote to me. YOU, not me. And now that Iâm here, youâre pushing me away?â
Sam opened his mouth, but you didnât let him speak. âYou think this scares me?â you whispered fiercely. âSeeing you hurt? Having to help you? Sam, Iâve been in warzones. I work in an ER. I deal with death and pain every day.â Your voice softened, but didnât lose strength. âI can handle this. But I canât stand you pushing me back. Do you really think I'd be here putting up with all this if I didn't want to? Do you know what would have terrified me?â You swallowed hard. âThe thought that youâd died.â
The room went silent.
âIâm not going anywhere,â you said. âUnless you want me to.â Your voice broke only slightly. âBut if you do, youâll have to say it to my face. Tell me you donât feel anything for me. Tell me you donât want me here.â
For a moment he just stared at you, breathing heavy. Then his expression broke â completely, painfully â like someone finally cracked the armor heâd been holding together by force. âIâm⌠sorry,â he whispered. âIâm⌠such an asshole.â His voice cracked â the first crack you had ever heard from him. âIâm so damn sorry,â he said, voice shaking. âI didnât mean any of that. I donât want you to go. I just⌠Iâm tired. Angry. All the time. And I hate all this. I hate needing help. I hate not being able to be⌠the guy you deserve. And I know Iâve been pushing you away, I know Iâve been unbearable, and Iââ His breath stuttered. âI donât want you to go,â he said hoarsely. âI never wanted that. I just donât know how to handle all this. And sometimes I think youâd be better off without this. Without me. And that scares the hell out of me.â
You felt your own chest tighten.
He dragged a hand over his face, eyes damp. âI donât want you to leave,â he whispered again as if he wanted to convince you, scared that you might leave. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in the world. âThereâs no one else I want here. Just you.â
Your anger softened, melting into something aching and tender. You knelt slightly so you were eye-level with him, cupping his face gently. He leaned into your touch like he hadnât let himself in days, eyes closing, breath trembling. âSam, listen to me,â you murmured, thumb brushing his cheek. âI know itâs not easy at the moment for you but I donât want better. I donât want someone else. I want you.â
The words slipped out before you could stop them. And the moment they left your mouth, you knew there was no going back.
He took your hand in his â and held it tightly.
âI want you too,â he whispered.
âYouâd better,â you said, smiling.
He exhaled a long, shuddering breath, head bowing slightly as if the weight of everything heâd been carrying finally loosened.
You leaned in until your forehead rested lightly against his.
You knew the future would be difficult, that the road back to walking would be long and that his demons would visit again. But the argument had cleared something. Itâd taken both of you to the edge and forced the honest lines into daylight.
-
I vowed not to fight anymore
If we survived the Great War
-
You were halfway through the movie when you noticed it againâthe quiet shift of sheets, the way Samâs gaze cut toward you before snapping back to the TV like heâd been caught doing something he shouldnât.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.
Heâd been doing it since the opening credits.
A restless kind of tension rolled through him every few minutesânot pain, not discomfort. Nerves. Pure, unsteady nerves. Youâd never seen him like that, not even the night you met him at the bar when heâd thrown that first reckless challenge your way.
Every time he glanced over, his lips partedâjust barelyâas if he was about to speak. And every time, he shut his mouth again, swallowed hard, and pretended to care about the movie he clearly wasnât watching. After the fourth failed attempt, you lowered your gaze, pretending to adjust the blanket just to hide your smirk.
At one point he exhaled sharply through his noseâfrustrated with himselfâand you turned your head just in time to catch him looking.
He jerked his gaze away too quickly, like a teenager trying to hide a crush.
That was the moment you stopped pretending you were paying attention to the screen.
You picked up the remote and turned the TV off.
Samâs head whipped toward you.Â
You shifted to face him. âWhatâs going on?â
He blinked. âWhatânothing.â
âDonât.â You tilted your head, studying him. âYouâve been strange all day. And now, instead of watching the movie, youâre watching me.â You raised an eyebrow. âSo? Are you going to tell me whatâs happening or do I have to guess?â
He didnât answer. Instead, he reachedâslow, hesitantâbeneath his pillow.
Your brows pulled together. âSamâŚ?â
He cleared his throat. âI, uh⌠I have something for you.â
When his hand came back up, he was holding a plain envelope. Your name written on it in his handwritingâthe one you recognized instantly.
Your breath caught.
Itâd been months since heâd written you a letter.Â
âA letter?â you whispered, taking it gently from his hand.Â
âCan I read it here?â you asked quietly.
A long hesitation. You could see the fight in himâa part of him wanting to say no, to tell you to wait, to run from whatever came next. But finally, he inhaled slowly and nodded.
You opened the envelope carefully, as if the paper might fall apart in your hands. When you glanced at his handwriting, you noticed the faint tremor in some of the letters.
Sam watched you like a man bracing for impactâtense, alert, terrified.
You looked at him one last time before lowering your gaze to the page.Â
Y/N,
This is probably the hardest letter Iâve ever written. Harder than anything I wrote overseas, even when rockets were going off in the distance. But this one⌠this one scares me more.
First, I need to tell you thank you. For staying. For showing up. For putting up with me even when I made it impossible.
You didnât walk away and Iâm glad you didnât because you make the worst days bearable and the good ones better.Â
In the last months, my life has changed in ways I never expected, but something hasnât: how I feel about you. If anything, itâs only become clearer, stronger. I don't think I can ever thank you enough but I want to try, day after day.
Thereâs something I shouldâve asked you weeks ago. But even though Iâm better at writing than speaking, this is a question I need to ask out loud, not on paper.
So when youâre done reading, look at me.
Sam
Your throat tightened as you lowered the letter, your hands trembling slightly.
You looked up, just as heâd asked.
He was already staring at you, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too quickly. He tried to look confident, but you saw right through himâsaw the fear, the hope, the vulnerability he almost never let anyone see. You set the letter gently on the bed.
âAsk me what?â you said quietly.
Sam swallowed hard, then he reached for your hand. His fingers brushed yours, warm and uncertain and with a steadiness you knew he had to fight for, he said: âDo you want to be my girlfriend?â
For a moment, you just stared at him. Not because you were surprised by the questionâno, youâd felt it coming for weeks. You already acted like a couple, cared and worried like one. But hearing him say the wordsâhearing him askâit made something inside you settle. Like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.
Your lips curved. âWow,â you said, leaning back slightly. âTook you long enough, OâNeal.â
His jaw dropped. âTook meâ?â
You held up a hand. âHold on, Iâm still thinking.â
He blinked, genuinely confused.
You crossed your arms dramatically. âI mean⌠I donât know. I told myself I donât date soldiers. And technically, Iâm not even supposed to date patients. Are you worth the risk, OâNeal?â
He stared at you, deadpan, completely unamused. âWhat? But wait⌠Youâre not myââ He stopped at the sight of your amused expression. âYouâre hilarious. And cruel.â But his voice was soft, the kind of softness he only saved for you.
âI know,â you said. But I will admit thisââ you tapped the letter, ââis a damn good piece of writing. One of your best. So maybe you earned a chance.â
He rolled his eyes, but the smile breaking across his face was unmistakableâsoft, relieved, almost disbelieving.
You let the teasing fall away, stepping closer to the bed. Your voice lowered. âYes, Sam. I want to be your girlfriend.â
He exhaled like heâd been holding his breath for weeks. Then he tugged gently at your hand, pulling you closer. You sat on the edge of the bed, while his hand reached for your waist instinctively.
âCome here,â he murmured.
You leaned down and kissed him.
It wasnât rushed. It wasnât desperate. It was slow, certain, like two people finally stepping into something theyâd already been living without naming it. His hand curled behind your neck, pulling you just a little closer, and you felt the way he melted into itâthe way he kissed you like he finally understood you werenât going anywhere.
When you finally pulled back, foreheads touching lightly and your thumb brushing against his cheek, he whispered, âI know Iâm not exactly the ideal boyfriend right now. And this probably wasn't how you imagined starting a relationshipâŚâ
You pressed a finger to his lips. âStop.â
He froze. âSam,â you said softly, âwhen I met you, I didnât even want a relationship. After my brother⌠I convinced myself it was safer not to love anyone. I thought it could be dangerous, that would only bring suffering. And I didnât want to suffer again.â Your voice shook but you kept going. âI didnât imagine this because I didnât let myself imagine anything at all. And then you showed up, you made it real. You made me want something again.â You smiled, brushing his hair gently. âItâs real. And we have all the time in the world to make it perfect.â
âCanât waitâ, he said, smiling.Â
You smiled back and kissed him again, a soft brush of your lips against his.
-
Nothing had really changed after Sam had asked you to be his girlfriend. Life didnât suddenly flip or reinvent itselfâyou were still the two of you, just a little steadier, a little more certain in the way you reached for each other. The world stayed the same; what shifted was the quiet awareness that you belonged on the same side of it, that you belonged to each other.Â
Within those four hospital walls, you tried to settle a rhythm, to create a temporary version of a life that felt like yours.
Sam kept pushing through therapyâ some days he was optimistic, joking with the nurses; other days he was in pain and exhausted. But he didnât spiral like he used to. Because now he knew he wasnât carrying the weight alone, that he could count on you.
Whenever you could, you accompanied him to therapy. You learned how to steady him when he practiced with the crutches, how to help without taking over. He tried not to show it, but he liked when you were thereâliked the way your presence made the hard parts feel less heavy, less impossible.
You spent as much time together as your schedules allowed. You visited him between shifts and sometimes you brought dinner after work, sitting on his bed while he ate and listened to you talk about your day. Then he told you about his âwith honesty now, without the old habit of pretending everything was fine. He shared the small victories, the frustrating setbacks, the things he used to hide from everyone else.
Some nights you watched movies without finishing them and ended up falling asleep or you played cards, talking about everything and nothing.
You were learning each other in the gaps between interruptions, trying to make the best of a place that wasnât made for beginnings. But you didnât let that stop you. Youâd already wasted too much time apart.
And the tension between you â God, it grew. It sharpened, deepened, coiled beneath every shared moment. The more time you spent tangled up in small intimacies â your fingers in his hair, his hand resting on your thigh, the way his body leaned instinctively toward yours â the harder it became to ignore the pull under your skin.
Sometimes, kissing him felt like standing on the edge of something overwhelming. His hands would slide up your back; yours would curl behind his neck; your breaths would catch in the same moment. You felt how much he wanted you in the way he exhaled against your mouth, in the tension running through his body as he held himself back, in the soft, frustrated sound he tried to hide when you finally pulled away. And you wanted him with the same urgency, the same quiet hunger that made your pulse jump every time his lips brushed yours.
But you had to wait. He was still healing, and you were in a hospital. The circumstances werenât right, not yet. So you stopped yourselves every time, breathless, frustrated, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. And still, there was something strangely tender in that restraintâsomething comforting in knowing your connection wasnât just physical longing. It was deeper, intimate, intense. Something that already felt like love.Â
Somewhere inside that calm, imperfect routine, you realized just how deeply youâd fallen for Sam.
-
You'd only meant to stop by his room for a minute before joining your colleagues for a drink.
Just a quick hello, a kiss before you left. Nothing more.
You were already dressed to go outâhair styled, jacket pulled tight around you, the faint scent of your perfume tracing the air behind you.
Sam looked up as soon as you walked in, like heâd been waiting for that exact moment. He sat propped against the pillows, a book open on his lap and a pen tucked behind his ear. His face softened immediately when he saw you.
âWell, look at you,â he said, amusement warming his voice. âGoing somewhere? Somewhere I should be jealous of?â
âJust a few drinks with the others,â you laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. âNothing to worry about.â
He tilted his head thoughtfully. âI wish I could come.â
âNext time you will,â you said, stepping closer and taking his hand. âYou still owe me a rematch at darts, remember?â
He smirked. âOh, I didnât forget it. Iâm training for it mentally. Are you sure you want to lose again?â
You rolled your eyes. âShut up,â you said, unable to keep the grin from breaking through.
And before he could fire back, you leaned down and kissed himâsoft, warm, enough to cut him off mid-smirk. When you pulled away, his lips parted in a quiet exhale as if the kiss had taken something with it. His expression caught somewhere between amused and helpless.
âThatâs cheating,â he murmured, voice low, eyes fixed on your mouth. âStraight-up cheating.â
You laughed softly. âThen stop talking.â
His smile deepened, slow and fond.Â
You straightened, smoothing your jacket. âI really have to go now,â you said gently.
He nodded once, like he knew but still hated it. âHave fun,â he said quietly. And then, effortlessly, instinctivelyâ like a breath, like a reflex â âI love you.â
The words came out so naturally that for a fraction of a second neither of you realized what had happened.
I love you.
Like it was the most normal sentence in the world.
Like heâd said it a thousand times before.Â
Both of you froze.Â
His eyes widened at the exact same time yours did, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
âIâshit,â he blurted, hands flying up as if to physically catch the words hanging between you. âI didnât meanâno, I did mean it, I just didnât mean to say it like that or right nowââ
Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you felt it in your throat, while your mind flooded with panic, going a hundred miles an hour. âSam,â you whispered when you finally found the words, âitâs okay. Really.â You began to back away towards the door. âDonât worry. Itâs fine. Actually, I should go, theyâre waiting for me⌠at the bar.â
âHey, wait a seconââ
But you were already out the door, leaving him mid-sentence.
Your footsteps echoed down the hallway, too fast, too loud, chasing your own heartbeat. You practically sprinted down the hall, your heartbeat outpacing your footsteps.
-
Anthony spotted you first, waving wildly from their table. The bar buzzed with laughter, low music, clinking glasses. You slid into the empty chair beside Jenny, still dazed.Â
âYou look like youâve seen a ghost,â Jenny said, raising a brow.
âHe said he loves me,â you blurted.
Silence.
Four jaws dropped, exchanging looks between them and then their voices exploded at once.
âWHAT?â
âNo, he didnât.â
âOh my god. I knew it.â
âFinally!â
You groaned and covered your face with your hands, wishing you could crawl under the table.
Lizzie leaned forward. âOkay. Start over. Every detail. Slowly.â
You told them everythingâhis slip, the panic in your eyes and the way youâd bolted out of the room like youâd been set on fire.
Kate slapped her palm on the table. âDo you love him?â
Jenny gently put a hand on your shoulder, while the others collectively leaned in.
You hesitated at first. âI donât know,â you answered weakly. âI meanâI think soâno, I doâI justâhe caught me off guard. How do you even know if you love someone? Iâve never⌠Iâve never really been in a serious relationship. I donât know what love is supposed to feel like. How do I know if I am or not in love with him?â
Anthony nodded thoughtfully. âFair question.â
âOkay. How much do you like him?â Lizzie asked.
âA lot,â you said without hesitation. Maybe too quickly. âI really like him⌠He makes me feel safe. And happy. And insane. All at once.â
Jenny smiled at your words. âDo you think about him when heâs not around?â
âYes,â you admitted.
Kate raised a brow. âMore than anyone else?â
You hesitated, not because you didnât know the answer but because you were a little embarrassed to admit that it was true. So you nodded.Â
Lizzie continued, âDoes it scare you? Caring that much about him. In a good way, I mean.â
Your heart tightened. ââŚyes. A little, I guess. Sometimes.â
They exchanged looks. Then Anthony inhaled dramatically and leaned closer to you, taking your hand. âSweetheart,â he said softly, âI donât want to shock you, but you wrote to that man for months. The minute you learned heâd been injured, you moved heaven and earth to get him transferred in the same hospital where you work. You take care of him. And, last but not least, you spend every free moment you have with him.â He squeezed your hand. âIf this isnât love, I honestly donât know what is.â
The words hit you like a quietly detonating grenadeâsilent, bright, rearranging everything inside you.
Love.
The word echoed in your mind.Â
Anthony was right.Â
Samuel O'Neal loved you.
And you loved him too.
Your breath wavered. âOh my god,â you whispered. âI love him.â
âThen why didnât you say it back?â Kate asked gently.
You let out a shaky breath. âI was terrified. It felt too big. Too real. And I panicked.â
They exchanged another round of knowing looksâlike theyâd all expected this long before youâd.
Jenny squeezed your arm. âThen go tell him.â
âWhat? Now?â
âYes, now,â Lizzie said. âBefore you overthink it and combust.â
âItâs not too late,â Anthony said.Â
You checked the time. It was still early.Â
Your heart made the decision before your brain caught up.
You stood, grabbed your jacket, muttered something like âI have to go,â and rushed out of the bar.
-
You were half-running, half-tripping through the corridor, breath unsteady from the cold night air. A coworker walking out of a patient room blinked in confusion at the sight of you.
âHey! Forgot something?â
You swallowed, heart pounding. âYeah. Something⌠important.â But you didnât explain further. Instead, you kept running.Â
Your pulse pounded as you made your way down the hall and pushed open the door to Samâs room.
He looked up from the TV, remote loosely in his hand. When he saw you, his brow furrowed immediately.
ââŚHey,â he said slowly, checking the time. âYouâre back early. Did something happen?â he asked, a little worried.Â
You were breathless. Chest heaving. Heart racing for too many reasons. âSam,â you said, stepping inside and closing the door behind you, âearlierâwhen you said you loved meââ Your voice cracked on the word. âDid you mean it? Really?â
He blinked. Then, without hesitation, he nodded. âYes,â he said softly. âI meant it. I know it wasnât the right moment, or the right place, butââ His eyes softened. âI think Iâve been in love with you for a long time. Maybe since that night at the bar. So yes, I love you. I really do.â
Your breath left you all at once. You felt tears sting your eyesânot from fear this time, but from relief so sharp it nearly buckled your knees.
âGood,â you breathed, voice trembling, a tear slipping down before and unable to hold back a smile. âBecause I love you too.â
He stared at you like heâd been struck, chest rising hard, eyes warming so quickly you felt it like heat across the room. âYou donât have to tell me back if you donât want to. I can ââ
You stepped closer, tears slipping down your cheeks, cutting him off. âNo, no, I do. I really do. I didnât say it earlier because I panicked. Iâm not used to this,â you said, pointing at you two. âTo feeling this much. I didnât know what being in love was supposed to feel like,â you swallowed. âBut now I do. IâŚâ
He leaned forward and kissed youâdeeply, urgently, holding your face like heâd been waiting his entire life for this exact moment. You melted into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, breath catching in your throat.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. âSo you love me, huh?â he teased, voice barely above a whisper.
You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. âYes. Donât get cocky now.â
He smirked. âToo late. Already did.â
You shoved his shoulder lightly, and he gently caught your wrist, pulling you down into another kiss.
-
You walked into Samâs room that morning expecting a quiet five-minute visit before your shift startedâ just an innocent kiss, a quick âgood morning. Instead, when you opened the door, you found him talking to a man youâd never seen before.
You recognized the type instantlyâstraight posture, regulation haircut, that unmistakable military sharpness. A soldier. Like Sam.
He was dressed casually, leaning against the wall, arms crossed and talking like he owned the place.
Sam looked⌠annoyed. Deeply, profoundly annoyed.
âMorning,â you said, smiling. âSorry, I didnât know you had company.â
Both men looked up. The strangerâs eyes traveled from your face to your shoes, then back up again, slow enough to make any other girl want to fold her arms over her chest. He grinned, bold as hell.
âWell, damn,â he said. âSam, you didnât tell me your doctor looked like that.â
You blinked once, while Samâs eyes rolled so hard it was a miracle they didnât get stuck.
The man stepped toward you, extending his hand. âJohnny. Same unit as Sam.â He jerked a thumb toward Sam. âI was in the area and figured Iâd swing by to see how the crippleâs doing.â
You stared at him flatly, shooting his hand out of politeness, nothing more. âIâm Y/N.â
Samâs eye twitched.
Johnny kept going, oblivious. âWell, damn, you lucky bastard. If I had a doctor that pretty, Iâd probably take forever to recover too.â
Sam clenched his jaw so hard that you thought he'd break a tooth.
Johnny shook his head. âAnd what a coincidence, I just developed this sudden chest pain.â He pressed a dramatic hand over his heart. âMaybe I need to be checked out, sweetheart.â
You gave him that tight, polite, painfully professional smile you saved for insufferable people.
âIâm sure Sam doesnât mind if you take care of another patient,â Johnny said, elbowing him. âRight, Sam?âÂ
Sam inhaled sharply, ready to speak, but you cut in smoothly: âIâm not his doctor.âÂ
Johnny brightened instantly, clearly thinking heâd just scored. âNo? Even better. Guess that means I might get you all to myself.â
How arrogant, you thought. You hated guys like him, so sure of themeselves and unable to accept a no.
Sam exhaled a long, deadly slow breath, his fingers curled into a fist over the blanket. He was almost out of patience. Â
You smiled again and stepped closer to Sam, resting a hand on his shoulder. âYeah, Iâm not. Treating him would be against hospital policy. Considering heâs my boyfriend.â
Johnnyâs grin didnât even falter at first. âRight, hospital policyâwait.â
He replayed your sentence in his head. Then his eyes widened.
The room went perfectly still.
Johnny blinked once. Twice.
Then he looked at you.
Looked at Sam.
Back at you.
âOh,â he said finally, voice cracking. âIâoh, shit.â
You waited, folding your arms, amused by the discomfort blooming on his face.
âI didnâtâuhâI wasnâtâshit.â He scratched the back of his head. âSorry, I didnât know. Really didnât. Sam, man, congrats. Seriously. Sheâsâuhâwow. Anyway, I should go.â
âWait,â you said sweetly. âIf youâre still having chest pain, I can call someone. Maybe even schedule a full check-up. Prostate exam included. Preventionâs important.â
Sam bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing.
Johnny went pale. âNo! No, Iâmâ Iâm good. Perfectly fine. The pain is gone, actually.â
âSure?â you asked innocently.
âYep! 100%.â He backed toward the door so fast he tripped over his own heel. âGood seeing you Samânice meeting youâbye!â
Johnny practically fled the room.
The door clicked shut.
A beat of silence passed before you burst out laughing.
âWhat an idiot,â Sam muttered.
âWhat a creep,â you said simultaneously.
You turned to him, still laughing. âThank God youâre nothing like him.â
âPlease donât compare me to Johnny,â Sam begged dramatically. âI have actual dignity.â
âYeah. But you were you jealous, werenât you?â
âNo,â he replied immediately.
You raised a brow. âAre you sure?â
Sam held your gaze for half a second, then sighed, shoulders dropping. âFine. Yes. Maybe a little. Johnny looked at you like you were the dessert tray.â
âA little?â you repeated. âSam, you looked like you were about to throw your water bottle at him.â
âI was considering it,â he admitted.
âJealousy looks cute on you.â
âIt doesnât,â he insisted.
âIt does,â you insisted back.
He stared at you, trying to stay irritated, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward âWell,â he murmured, âcan you blame me? He was staring at you like he was starving. And Iâm here stuck in this bed, unable to do anything but watch.â
You softened instantly and reached for his hand, brushing your fingers. âRelax. Watching is all heâs got. The rest is yours.â
He stopped breathing for half a second. âYeah?â he asked quietly.
âYeah. All yours,â you whispered in his ear.Â
Sam exhaled, thumb brushing your palm. âGood. But heâs never visiting again.â
You laughed. âHe was just trying to be friendly.â
âHe was trying to be something,â Sam muttered.
You leaned in and kissed himâslow, sweet, lingeringâerasing whatever irritation Johnny had caused. When you pulled back, Samâs annoyance had dissolved completely, replaced with that soft look he only ever gave you.
âYou know,â he said, âif this is what happens when guys flirt with you, maybe I should be jealous more often.â
You nudged his shoulder lightly. âDonât push your luck.â
He smirked. âNoted.â
You stayed like that for a momentâyour hand in his, the morning quiet again, the room suddenly feeling much smaller and much warmer.
Then Sam added, âNext time someone tries anything, Iâm telling them youâre my wife.â
Your eyes widened. âSam!â You exclaimed but then you burst out laughing.Â
âWhat?â he said innocently. âJust trying to be prepared.â
You shook your head, then you leaned down and kissed him again.Â
-
March 2007
The doctorâs voice filled Samâs hospital room, steady and professional, while you both listened to him with attention. Your arms were crossed loosely, your weight leaned forward just a little, eyes fixed on him.Â
The doctor cleared his throat, smiling. âIf everything continues like thisâ â he tapped the chart â âyouâll be able to go home in a few days, Sam.â
Sam straightened instantly, brows lifting. âSeriously?â
âSeriously,â the doctor confirmed. âYouâll still need plenty of rest. Limited movement, crutches or the wheelchair for a while. And youâll have to come in every day for physiotherapy.â
A smile broke across your face before you could stop it. Samâs eyes met yours, bright in a way you had missed desperately, and before you could even reach for him, his hand found yours. You squeezed back, your chest expanding with something almost painful in its intensity.
He was going home.
Home.
You kept smiling for him, but something cold settled deep in your stomach.
The doctorâs words echoed again, reshaped by all the things they implied. And then the reality hit you like a small, unexpected punch. Because âhomeâ meant leaving the hospital and not seeing him every day, every hour. It meant no more accidental sleepovers in the chair beside his bed, no more breakfast trays meant for one but eaten by two, no more almost-living together in this strange suspended world.
âAnd,â the doctor continued, oblivious to the shift inside you, âit would be ideal if someone could stay with you at home for at least the first weeks. Youâll need help with some day-to-day tasks.â
Sam immediately shook his head. âNo, no, thatâs not necessary. Iâll manage. Iââ
âHe can stay with me.â
The words shot out of your mouth before even one functioning brain cell could object.
It wasnât until you heard your own voice echo in the room that you realized what you had just said.
He can stay with me.
As in⌠live with me.
As in⌠move into your apartment.Â
Samâs head quickly snapped toward you. âAt your place?â
You swallowed. âYes. I mean, temporary. I live close to the hospital and youâll have to come in every day for physiotherapy. It would be convenient for you. And Iâm a doctor, so if you need anything, Iâd beâuhâright there.â You forced a smile. âIt makes sense. Its seems⌠very⌠practical.â
Sam was still staring at you, eyes wide, stunned, like you had just dropped a live grenade on his lap.
The doctor, however, seemed delighted and was nodding. âIt sounds like a good solution,â he said while scribbled something onto his chart. âIâll let you discuss details.â And then he slipped out of the room.Â
Silence pressed in the moment the door clicked shut. A silence so heavy you could hear your own pulse.
After a few seconds, you burst out: âI donât know why I said that. Noâthatâs a lie, I do know. I meant it, I really did, but maybe we shouldâve talked about it first.â You rubbed your palms together nervously, words spilling out faster and faster. âAre you angry? I donât want you to think Iâm rushing into living together, because Iâm notâ I mean, I wouldnât hate the idea one day, sure, but weâve been officially together for, what, five minutes? And weâre still getting to know each other. I know itâs not the best time but in that moment it seemed like the best option, it made â I donât knowâ it made sense. Itâs not a terrible idea, is it?â
âHey.â Sam reached out, gently touching your wrist. âSlow down.â
You inhaled sharply, tryingâfailingâto catch your breath.
He hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully. âIâm not angry. And itâs not a bad idea. I mean⌠on paper it seems great. Itâs justââ He gestured vaguely between you. âIt surprised me. Living together is a big step, even if itâs only temporary.â
You nodded, heat rushing to your face. âI know. A few months ago this would never have happened. I wouldâve shut this idea down immediately⌠if it had been with anyone else. I wouldâve said it was too fast or too much.â You bit your lip. âBut this is us, Sam. When have we ever done things in the right order or followed the rules? We met in a bar. We slept together that same night. We got to know each other and fell in love through letters without even seeing each other for months. And we already spend practically all our time together.â You took a breath, steadying yourself and forcing your thoughts into order.
A slow grin spread across Samâs face.
âI know itâs a big thing,â you added quietly. âAnd that maybe itâs not the right time. But if you go back to your place, seeing each other will be harder. Your apartment isnât so close to the hospital and Iâll be here almost all day. Iâd have to drive across the city every day to see you, itâd be exhausting. But if you stay at my place, Iâll still be here most of the day, but youâd have a whole apartment to yourself. And when I finally get home⌠we could spend some time together. Real time.â
Sam leaned back slowly against the pillows, processing your words.
And then you saw it. The shift.
He went still.
Focused.
He had slipped into soldier mode.
His eyes sharpened, scanning invisible variables you couldnât see.
He was assessing variables, risk, outcomes âjust like he would have on the field. Calculating the chances of survival and considering the possible harms and benefits.
After a long moment, he exhaled. âItâs not that I donât want to stay with you,â he finally said. âBecause I do, actually.â His voice softened, careful, honest. âIâm just scared of ruining what we have. Things are really good between us right now, arenât they?â
A quiet smile tugged at your lips. âYes, better than good.âÂ
He scratched lightly at the bandage on his arm, uneasy. âThe doctor said Iâm still going to need help with⌠well, a lot. And I donât want you to end up feeling like my nurse, or like Iâm a burden. You already have your job, your patientsâŚâ
Your heart softened painfully. âSam,â you whispered. âI already help you. And it hasnât ruined anything. If anything, it brought us closer.â
He held your gaze a long moment, the tension in his jaw shiftingâstill weighing, still calculating.âBut what ifâŚâ he started slowly, âwhat if living together brings out the worst in us? What if we fight about stupid things? Like⌠me leaving clothes everywhere.â
You snorted. âSam, Iâve been to your place. Every single thing was set at a perfect angle. If anyoneâs leaving clothes everywhere, itâll be me.â You softened, stepping closer to him. âAnd if we fight? Then we fight. And we get over it⌠maybe with some good sex. Weâve survived things much worse than dirty laundry.â
He let out a small huff of laughter. Then his eyes lifted to youâuncertain, searching. âAre you sure you want this?â he asked. âActually sure?â
You shocked yourself with how easily the answer came. âStrangely? Yes.â You exhaled. âLetâs see it as a test run.â
âA test,â he repeated, lips twitching.
âYeah. I mean, if things keep going well between us, we wouldâve ended up living together eventually. Thatâs what couples do, right? So itâs better to find out early if weâre good at it. Better than discovering it too late.â
Sam raised a brow. âYou know, thatâs not exactly comforting.â
You winced. âYou know what I mean.â
He looked at you for a long moment. Then slowly, intentionallyâ he nodded.
âOkay,â he said. âLetâs try.â
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach, your eyes widened. âReally?â you whispered.
âReally,â he said, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth.Â
You felt your face break into a grin so big it almost hurt. Excitement, nerves, warmthâeverything collided in your chest at once.
Sam laughed when he saw your expression. âYou look like someone told you you won the lottery.â
âWell,â you said, cheeks warm, âI just like when people say yes to me.â
His eyes gleamed with mischief. âOr maybe,â he said slowly, raising a brow, âyou just canât stay away from me.â
You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. âPlease. I can still change my mind and send you to your own empty apartment, all alone, limping around in the dark.â
Sam laughed, head falling back against the pillow. âYeah, sure. Whatever you say.â
You crossed your arms, fighting your grin. âDonât test me.â
As Sam settled comfortably, the reality of what you had volunteered hit you fully.Â
You were doing this.
You were actually doing this.
He was moving with you.Â
And instead of panicking like you always thought you wouldâsomething calmer and deeper settled into you. Something right.
Sure, it was crazy. Too fast. Most couples waited years before living together, while you had only been together for a few months. But most people hadnât lived what you and Sam had lived. And after everythingâthe time apart, the letters, the fear of losing himâyou couldnât bear the thought of distance. Not after coming this close to a future where he wasnât there.
You wanted every hour, every moment you could have with him.
Yes, there would be arguments and bad days. But there would be also quiet mornings, late-night kisses, and all the messy, beautiful things that made a life with someone real.Â
For the first time in your life, you wanted all of it. And more. Because you knewâdeep in your bonesâ you could face anything. As long as he was beside you.
With Sam, everything felt possible.
You werenât afraid.
Not anymore.
-
You were sliding a folded sweatshirt inside his duffel bag, when your fingers brushed something thick. Paper. A stack of it. You paused, then pulled it out just enough to see the edgesâcream envelopes, worn soft, marked by sand and time.
Your letters.
All of them.
You froze. Sam noticed the change in your posture before he saw what you were holding. When you lifted your eyes to him, your voice was barely a breath. âYou kept⌠all of them.â
He looked almost offended by the obviousness of the answer. âOf course,â he said. âI could never throw them away.âÂ
He sat on the edge of the bed, taking a few envelopes from your hand. His thumb brushed the familiar curves of your handwriting, tracing it the way someone touches a scar theyâve memorized. âI used to re-read them when I was deployed. Over and over.â His voice softened. âThey kept me company. Actually⌠I still read them sometimes.â He hesitated, eyes lifting. âBut reading them now itâs different. Because youâre here with me.â
You swallowed, heat spreading through your chest. âI re-read yours too,â you admitted quietly. âBut having you here is better.â
For a moment, neither of you moved. There was a stillness in the roomâquiet, full, almost sacred. Then you slipped the letters carefully back inside, like something precious, and zipped the bag closed. âReady to go?â, you asked, smiling at him.Â
His answering smile was immediate, bright, unguarded. âNever been more ready.â
The drive was quiet.
Beside you, Sam seemed calm. Peaceful, even. He sat with his forehead leaned against the window, watching the world like someone seeing it for the first time. In a way, he was, after months in the hospital.
You, on the other hand, were anything but calm. With every passing street, every decreasing mile between the hospital and your home, your nerves tightened. You were grateful for the distraction of the road, of your hands on the wheelâsomething to occupy you and your mind while tension curled low in your stomach.
-
By the time you pulled into the garage, your pulse was a drumbeat.
Not from regretânot even close. But because this was new territory for both of you. A shift from almost-living-together in the hospital to genuinely sharing a space, a life.
You helped him out of the car, steady hands on his arm as he found his balance on the crutches. Then you slung the duffel bag over your shoulder and led the way.
Your fingers trembled slightly when you unlocked the apartment door. You stepped inside first, setting everything down. When you turned to him, you managed a small, steady smile. âWelcome home.â
The apartment was clean but lived-in, lights warm, everything arranged to give him space to move comfortably. Youâd made sure of itâcleared pathways, shifted furniture, added soft touches that made the place feel less like your apartment and more like yours, plural. Then he noticed the details.
His record player on your console.
His vinyls stacked neatly next to it.
A framed photo he kept in his bedroomânow sitting on your shelf like it had always belonged there.
He blinked. ââŚIsnât that mine?â
âYeah,â you said softly. âWhen the other day I went to your apartment to grab your clothes, I thought youâd like having some of your things here too. You know⌠so youâd feel more at home. I hope you donât mind.â
He looked at you. Warmth, gratitude, and something deeper flickered in his eyes. âItâs more than okay. Thank you.â He stepped further inside, smiling. âAnd honestly? This record player looks better here than it ever did at my place.â
-
You guided him through the apartment, showing him the little changes you had made. When you reached your bedroom, the air shifted.
After months of hospital walls, sterile sheets, too-bright lights⌠the space felt almost too intimate. Too real. Too charged.
Sam sat carefully on the edge of the bed, his crutches leaning against your nightstand. You gestured toward the open drawers. âI left some space for your things. And you have your own nightstand too. But if youâd rather use the guest room, I can set it up for you. Maybe you want more space, orââ
He cut you off with a small shake of his head. âHere is perfect.â
Your heartbeat stuttered. âDo you want to rest?â you asked. âSleep a little maybe?â
A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. âI wasnât really thinking about sleeping.â
You gasped, scandalized on purpose. âSaaaam.â
He laughedâright until his breath caught and his hand went to his thigh, fingers pressing gently around the scarred skin. You moved instantly, stepping between his legs, your hands sliding into his hair with instinctive tenderness.
âHey,â you whispered. âHow do you feel? Does your leg hurt?â
âA little,â he admitted, forcing a smile. âBut nothing serious. Donât worry.â
But you already were. You always were, especially nowânow that he was here, in your room, on your bed, where you had spent so many nights staring at the ceiling imagining what it would feel like to have him close again.Â
You held his face, guiding his gaze back to yours. âLet me take care of you, Sam.â
His breath hitched. He nodded once, slow, like he was surrendering to something heâd been fighting for months.
You helped him ease back against the headboard, while you climbed onto the bed. The tension between you was quiet but electricâmonths of closeness without touch, months of wanting without being allowed to want.
You knelt at his feet and gently took off his boots, one at a time, careful. He watched you the whole time, breath steady but too deep, like he was trying to keep it under control.
Then your fingers went to the waistband of his pants. His muscles tensed immediately.
âIs this okay?â you asked softly.
His answer came out rough. âYeah. Itâs⌠itâs more than okay.â
You worked slowly, careful not to drag the fabric against the sensitive scars on his thigh.
You moved your hands along his calves first, gentle, slow circles that eased the tightness he carried there. His breath deepened almost immediately, shoulders dropping as the tension slipped away under your palms.
Then you moved higher, deeper, closer to where you knew he wanted you most. Your touch skimmed up his legsâ over muscle still healing, over history carved into skin and bone. It was slow, deliberate and torturously patient. You felt the way his muscles twitched beneath your fingers, the way his breathing grew uneven, catching at the back of his throat.
His breath deepened, while his eyes followed your hands, darkening with every inch.Â
You werenât rushing.
You wanted him to feel every second, every inch, every moment youâd spent wanting him, missing him, fearing for himâall of it rose to the surface like heat under your skin.
You slid your hands along the inside of his thigh with a feather-light touch, and Sam sucked in a sharp breath, his head falling back against the headboard.
âYouâre killing meâŚâ he whispered, voice already rough.
You only hummed, pretending innocence, fingers drifting a little higherâthen retreating, tracing down again. Up. Down. Slow.Â
His fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together molecule by molecule. âYou have no idea what youâre doing to me,â he murmured, voice frayed at the edges.Â
But you did. You saw his thighs tense every time you got close, saw the way he fought for control and lost a little more of it each second you touched him. Every twitch, every shiver, every breath told you exactly how hard he was holding on.
And how close he was to snapping.
When your fingers dragged upward one more timeâa little too slowlyâhe broke. His hands shot out, catching your wrists, not rough, not demanding, but desperate. In one fluid motion he pulled you toward him, guiding you carefully, gently, until you straddled his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. You steadied yourself, mindful of his injuries, your palms braced on his shoulders for balance. His hands slid to your waist, holding you as if afraid you'd vanish. Your faces hovered inches apart, both of you breathing hard. Then he kissed you, hungrily, as if heâd been starved for itâstarved for you.
You kissed him back, fingers threading through his hair, while his hands slid slowly up your back, under your shirt, pulling you closer. He groaned into your mouth, the sound low and raw, like itâd been trapped in his chest for too long.
It was months of need, distance crashing all at onceâhungry, desperate, impossibly soft in the same breath.
Between kissesâragged, breathlessâhe whispered against your lips: âI need you. Now.â
Your heart stuttered and you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, searching. âSam⌠are you sure? I donât want to hurt you.â
His grip tightened on your hipsânot painful, just pleading. âYou wonât.â Another kissâbrief, trembling. âIâm sure.â His voice dropped to a whisper, almost a plea. âPlease.â
That one word undid whatever restraint youâd left. You cupped his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. His eyes were dark, wide, full of trustâfull of you.
You tugged at his shirt, he pulled yours over your head, and suddenly every movement became frantic with urgency. Clothes parted from skin with clumsy, impatient hands. In minutes, your clothes were a trail on the floorâhis, yours, all tangled together.
He pulled you back into another kiss, deeper this time, the kind that stole your breath and made your stomach flip. Your mouth found his throat, his jaw, his shoulder.
You started moving slowly at first, carefully, deliberately, checking every shift of his body for even the slightest sign of discomfort. But his hands on your hips urged you closer, guiding you deeper into him.
You took your time. Both of you didârediscovering each other, relearning the shape of each otherâs bodies, letting the world fall away until there was only the warmth of his mouth and the tremor in his voice when he whispered your name like it was something holy. You whispered his like a confession, like something youâd been holding under your tongue for months.
It was slow, consuming, the kind of release that left your whole body trembling against his.
You collapsed onto his chest, breathless, flushed, your heart racing against his.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, slowly finding your way back into your bodies.
Finally, he let out a shaky laugh, still breathless. âI feel⌠so much better now.â
You laughed softly into his neck. âGood. But I didnât hurt you, did I?â
He cupped your face, tilting it up so youâd look at him. âIt was perfect,â he murmured. Then, with a smirk that sent heat straight to your stomachâ âBetter than perfect.â
You traced a finger along his chest, teasing.âGood. I thought Iâd be a little rusty. After almost a year.â
He blinked, thinking he misunderstood. âA year?â
You hesitated only a second, then nodded. âYeah. I havenât been with anyone else⌠not since that night.â
His breath caught, sharp, stunned. âReally?â
âYes. You were the last person I was with.â You paused before continuing, without embarrassment. âI went out with a few guys, even kissed some of them⌠but I couldnât go further. I kept thinking about that night with you and⌠everything else just felt short. I think I was just trying to convince myself that what was happening between us wasnât real. That I wasnât falling for you.â
He stared like youâd just undone something inside him. His fingers brushed your cheek, unbelievably gentle and pulled you into his arms, smiling against your hair.Â
âThen we have to make up for all the time we lost,â Sam said, with that smile that lit up his eyes more than he meant to show.
And over the next days, you did âover and over again, with a mixture of tenderness and urgency. You rediscovered each other in stolen moments, in long nights, in quiet mornings, memorizing each otherâs bodies, intertwined in passion and love.
You made up for all the time you had lost it in every possible way.
On the bed, of course.
But then also on the couchâwhere all it took was for you to sit beside him, or for Sam to brush his fingers against your waist, for something inside both of you to snap. Any movie you tried to watch never made it past the first ten minutes.
In the kitchenâ where an ordinary conversation turned into a kiss against the counter, Samâs hands sliding around your hips, lifting you just enough, his mouth finding yours with a need that felt dangerously addictive.
It was as if you had both spent too long holding yourselves back, and now nothing could stop that hunger, that mutual pull that seemed to ignite every room of the house.
You were always careful, delicate. Every movement measured, every shift of Samâs body accompanied by a look asking for permission. But behind that gentleness, the passion was fierce enough to steal your breath every time.
And you matched him. Every time your fingers slid over himâhis neck, his chest, the line of his ribsâhis whole body responded immediately. A kiss behind his ear, a slow stroke under his shirt, was enough to make him melt back into you, completely and hopelessly yours.
-
1 year later
Nothing had changed, and yet everything had.
In the end, Sam never went back to his apartment. He simply stayed with you.
At first, when heâd moved in with you, itâd been a temporary arrangement, a practical solution â something youâd both agreed would last âonly until he was back on his feetâ.
But days folded into weeks, then months, and by the time either of you addressed it out loud, he was already home. His clothes stayed in your closet, his toothbrush beside yours, his body pressed against yours on your bed every night.
In the meantime, Sam had finished the intensive phase of his rehabilitation and was walking again. Sometimes his leg still hurt, a low ache that never fully left him, but you were always thereâmassaging the scars, bracing his weight, pressing soft kisses where the pain lingered.
Youâd finally gone on a real dateâno hospital bracelets, no sounds of monitors beeping, no rushing nurses. Just the two of you, sitting in a dim restaurant, knees touching beneath the table, pretending not to stare at each other like idiots in love.
He also never returned to service. Instead, heâd taken a job at a private security agency â still helping people, still purposeful, but far from gunfire, far from the desert, far from goodbyes. And you couldnât be more happy about it. Also deeply, honestly, overwhelmingly relieved.
The nightmares still came sometimes. In the darkest hours, his face would tense as if the world had tilted, and heâd wake gasping, sweatingâdragged back to a place you both knew by scent and memory. When it happened, you were there to bring him back to reality, whispering truths until the nightmare loosened its grip: âYouâre safe. Youâre home. Iâm here.â
You still wrote each other letters. For holidays, anniversaries, birthdaysâ even for no reason at all. Not because you needed to, not anymore, but because itâd become part of your language. Sometimes youâd find a note on his pillow; sometimes heâd discover one inside his pocket.Â
And then there was Guinness. The golden retriever you swore you would never name after a beer⌠until he looked up at you with those big brown eyes and somehow it just fit. He became your third roommate who begged shamelessly under the table and always managed to charm food out of someone.
There were arguments, too. Days when you fought about dishes or whose turn it was to walk Guinness, and others when old wounds resurfaced and fears clashed. But you always came back to each other, stronger, closer.Â
Slowly, day after day, you were building a life together. And you liked that.Â
Rayâs laugh pulled you from your thoughts, making you look around.
You and Sam were hosting dinner in your new apartment. All your friends were there. The place was loud, warm, alive. Mac was in the middle of some ridiculous story, Guinness weaving between everyoneâs legs hoping for scraps, laughter echoing against the walls you thought youâd never share with anyone.
Across the table, Sam looked at you. You smiled at him, softly, and in that simple exchange, you both felt the same thing.Â
You were home.
-
2 years later
Three years after that night in the barâ where everything had begunâSam asked you to meet him there again.
You thought it was a simple anniversary date to commemorate your first encounter. A quick drink, then dinner.
But when you arrived, something felt off. There was no crowd spilling onto the sidewalk, no music drifting through the door. The neon sign wasnât glowing and the windows were dark.
You frowned, checking the time on your phone. It wasnât early. If anything, the bar shouldâve been at its loudest.
When you reached for the handle, the door opened easily, and you stepped inside.Â
The bar you knewâthe warm chaos, the clinking glasses, the buzz of chatterâwas gone.
Instead, many tiny lights suspended from thin wires across the ceiling, glowing like constellations in a soft, shimmering night sky. Candles flickered everywhere, casting gold across the dark wood floors. Shadows danced gently against the walls. In the center of the room a small table was set for two. On one of the plates there was a white envelope with your name scrawled in a handwriting youâd read a thousand times.
Your chest tightened.
Your fingers trembled as you opened it.
Y/N,
Do you remember? Three years ago, everything started here. And to think I didnât even want to go out that night. But Iâm grateful every day that Mac and the guys dragged me along.
After that so much happened, between us, and in this place too. Anniversaries, birthdays, dates⌠and all those darts rematches.
It felt right to bring you back here â because thereâs something important I need to ask you.
If youâre done reading, turn around.
You hesitated a few seconds before turning around.Â
Sam stood a few meters away.
âHey,â he said softly. âYouâre beautiful.â
âThanks. Youâre not bad either.â Your voice broke on the last word. âI think you have something to ask me.â
He took a slow step forward. âThree years ago I saw you from right over there,â he said, nodding toward the spot. âAnd from that moment on, I couldnât get you out of my head. I knew instantly that I had to talk to you. To know you. Even if it had been the last thing I did. Even if I had to beat you at darts to have a chance with you.â
You scoffed, playfully indignant. âYou beat me by one point.â
He grinned, laughing under his breath. âYeah. But truth is⌠when I hit the bullseye, youâd already hit the center of my heart.â
Your breath faltered. Tears stung your eyes.
His voice softened. âBefore you, I never belonged anywhere. I was always⌠moving. From base to base, country to country. Until I met you. Then, for the first time, I didnât want to wander anymore. I felt at home.â
Your knees almost gave out as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.
You froze, your vision blurred.
âEverything started here,â he said, voice trembling faintly. âAnd this is where I want the rest of our life to begin. If you want it too.â
He knelt down and opened the box. An elegant ring sparkled up at you. âWill you marry me?â
Your hand flew to your mouth as tears spilled free, slipping down your cheeks.
Before Sam, youâd never pictured marriage. Never even wanted it.
After losing your brother, youâd convinced yourself love was too dangerous, that it only carved out new spaces for grief. Youâd kept people away and buried every thought of marriage, of a future with someone, deep where no one could reach it.
But Sam changed everything.Â
He made you want a future.
A home.
A family.
A life built side by side.
With him, you wanted everything youâd once feared.Â
âYes,â you whispered, then stronger. âYes, yesâof course I will.â
He laughed softly, almost disbelieving, then swept you into his arms and kissed you as if to seal a promise. His hands shook as he slid the ring onto your finger.Â
You laughed and smiled through your tears, while he held you tight around his arms.Â
Half an hour later, the doors burst open and your friendsâclearly in on the planâpoured into the room cheering.
You looked at Sam across the chaos.
Youâd both survived different wars and somehow ended up there, stitched together by letters and feelings, by the stubborn decision to stay.
The place where everything had begun had just given you a new beginning.
-
I will always be yours
'Cause we survived the Great War
-
6 months later
Youâd never imagined what you wanted your wedding to be like, much less imagined a grand one. And neither had Sam.
So when the day arrived, it felt right that it was quiet, simpleânothing extravagant or chaotic, nothing that didnât belong to the two of you.
A small civil wedding, intimate and warm.
The ceremony took place at the town hall, in a small sunlit room where the windows were open just enough to let the breeze move the curtains. The place was filled only with the people who mattered most â your closest friends and families, the ones who had seen you through every storm and calm, witnesses of your love.Â
You wore a short white dress, effortless but still elegant, the kind that made Sam look at you as if he couldnât believe you were real. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, soft and natural, and a delicate veil framed your face.
When Sam saw you for the first time, as you made your way to the altar, everything in him stopped.
âJesusâŚâ he breathed, stunned. Then, softer, with a smile pulling slowly at his lips: âYouâre breathtaking.â
The ceremony was brief, but emotion thickened every word. A few vows spoken with voices that trembled more than either of youâd expected.
Samâs hand was warm around yours, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles as he promised to love you, to grow with you and to stay.
You said âyesâ again â this time without tears, but with the same certainty, the same quiet joy with which youâd said it when heâd proposed to you six months ago.
When the officiant declared you married, Sam kissed youâslowly at first, reverently, then with a smile you felt against your lips as your families and friends erupted into cheers.
Outside, Guinness barked excitedly when he saw you, tail wagging hard enough to shake his whole body. Sam laughed, bent down to scratch his ears, then took your hand again as if he had no intention of ever letting it go.
âReady to go, Mrs. OâNeal?â he whispered.
You smacked his arm, blushing and nodding.
Sam smirked â he wouldnât stop saying it for the rest of the night, as if he still couldnât quite believe he finally got to call you âwifeâ.
After the ceremony, all of you walkedâtogetherâto the place where your story had begun.
Your bar.
For the occasion it'd been transformed entirely â warm lights, candles, soft music drifting through the air. The tables had been rearranged to make space for dancing. Flowers sat in mason jars on the counter. And the same bartenderâwho had been there the night you metâwaved at you with a grin.
Your families mingled with your friends, laughter weaving through the room like a melody, while you and Sam could barely keep your eyes and hands off one another.Â
Sitting beside him, his arm draped over your shoulders. âFour years ago, we were just two strangers sitting there⌠and now look at us,â he whispered in your ear.Â
You followed his gaze to the counter of the bar where youâd sat down to have a drink. Your chest tightened.
You thought about everything youâd lived.
Everything youâd survived.
And how youâd still found your way back there.
In that same bar.
Four years later.
But this time as husband and wife.
You looked back at him, leaning into him. âWeâve come a long way,â you whispered.
His thumb brushed your cheek. âEvery step worth it.â
And as you rested your head on his shoulder, you felt it again, with absolute certainty.
You were exactly where you were meant to be.
In the bar where it all started, your forever was beginning.
-
There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair
summary: you hadnât seen him in years, eddie, with his wild hair and softer eyes, standing onstage like some ghost from your past come to life. you were just there for the music, not for fate to punch you in the chest. but the second your eyes met, the world tilted. later, you sat on the curb outside that grungy bar, trading confessions and sips of warm cider, his voice low as he murmured he never stopped thinking about you. you told him the same. and when he kissed you, slow, aching, familiar, it was like breathing again after years underwater.
warnings: emotional angst, mentions of past grief/breakup, mutual, pining, alcohol, fluff, eddie and reader in their 30s
You always thought youâd forget.
His voice. His laugh. The way he drummed on his steering wheel while humming some obscure Sabbath riff. The way his fingers curled when he lit a cigarette. The soft, sleepy grin he used to shoot you after whispering some bullshit in your ear and making you snort laugh at 3am.
Time was supposed to dull those things.
And for a while, it did. Sort of.
You got older. Moved out of Hawkins. Lost your favourite jacket. Got a new job. Started sleeping on the other side of the bed. You stopped crying when âyour songâ came on shuffle. Mostly.
But fate? Sheâs a sneaky little bitch.
It starts at a show.
A dive bar on the edge of the city. One of those âused to be a laundromat, now it's got a stage and two for one jello shotsâ kinda joints. Youâre there because your friend bailed, the music sounded decent, and youâre trying to remember what being spontaneous feels like.
You're halfway through your whiskey when the band on stage announces a guest guitarist.
And there he is.
Eddie fucking Munson.
Older now. Hair still long, but tied back. Jaw sharper, tattoos darker. His rings glint under the lights like tiny pieces of your past being scraped raw again.
You freeze. Your heart skips. And for a second, you're seventeen again, back of his van, his hoodie around your shoulders, his voice murmuring âyou ever think weâre gonna make it outta here?â
He hasnât seen you. Not yet.
But after the first song, oh, he does.
Heâs laughing with the drummer, sweaty and electric, until his eyes drift across the crowdâŚ
âŚand stop.
On you.
He misses the next cue. Fumbles a chord. Looks like heâs seen a ghost. You can practically hear his thoughts short circuiting. His lips part like your nameâs already climbing out of them.
You finish your drink in one long, shaky sip.
By the time he climbs offstage and pushes through the crowd, your bodyâs already reacting, muscle memory tugging you toward the door, that familiar panic ache pooling under your ribs. But his voice hits you like thunder.
âHey..wait...wait!â
You do.
Because you always did, didnât you?
He looks stunned. Speechless. And you canât blame him. You probably look different too. Older. Sharper. Softer. Stronger. Less like the girl he used to wrap around like his favourite riff and more like a stranger who still knows how he takes his coffee.
âHoly shitâ he breathes.
âHi, Eddieâ you whisper.
He swallows, âYou⌠you came to the show?â
âI didnât know you were playingâ A beat âDidnât know you were hereâ
âJust visiting. Playing a few sets. I live upstate nowâ He pauses, eyes raking over your face like itâs a song he forgot the lyrics to âYou look⌠god, you look goodâ
You huff a laugh âLiarâ
âIâm notâ he says, a little too quickly.
You both fall quiet.
The past hangs between you like a ghost.
You remember the fights. The way you drifted when life got loud. He wanted to tour. You wanted stability. You told him to call. He didnât. He wrote songs about heartbreak. You stopped listening.
Now heâs here. In front of you. And itâs like no time has passed. And also like all the time has.
âYou still got that guitar?â you ask.
He nods, âStill got the sticker you gave me too. The dumb one with the raccoon and the pizzaâ
You snort, âThat sticker was iconicâ
âYou were iconicâ he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and nostalgic.
You glance down, âYou ever stop thinking about me?â
âEvery fucking dayâ he says, then grins lopsidedly, âAnd by that I mean⌠neverâ
You blink. Breathe. Feel the soft crack in your chest start to widen.
âI never stopped thinking about you eitherâ
Somewhere between closing time and sunrise, you find yourselves sitting on the curb outside the bar.
Youâre sipping warm cider from a flask he pulls out of his back pocket. Heâs leaning close enough that your shoulders touch, but not close enough to make promises heâs not sure he can keep.
âI kept waiting for you to callâ you admit.
âI kept thinking youâd moved onâ he says, picking at the frayed knee of his jeans âDidnât wanna ruin anything. Didnât wanna show up and make shit harder for youâ
âYou never made anything easy, Munsonâ
He chuckles, âFairâ
You nudge him with your shoulder, âBut you did make it realâ
The night curls around you like an old hoodie. Familiar. Faintly scented with heartbreak and hope.
You turn to him, really turn, and heâs already looking at you like he did that night in his room, when he first told you he loved you with a whisper and a grin and a Metallica song playing too loud in the background.
âI missed youâ you say, barely audible.
âGodâ he groans softly, leaning in âYou donât know how bad I wanna kiss you right nowâ
You smirk, throat tight, âThen why donât you?â
He does.
And itâs slow. And warm. And sad in that way that tastes like every memory you buried and every dream you never dared dig up again.
He pulls back, breathing like heâs just come back to life, âWeâre different nowâ he says, not quite asking but not quite sure.
âYeahâ you whisper âBut maybe⌠not too differentâ
He walks you to your car.
You exchange numbers.
You promise to talk soon.
He leans in again, forehead to yours, hands in your hair like heâs scared letting go will undo everything.
âI donât know what this is gonna beâ he murmurs, âbut I know I donât wanna lose you againâ
You smile, eyes glassy, âThen donâtâ
And when you drive away, your cheeks still flushed and your lips tingling from his kiss, the song playing on the radio just happens to be yours.
And this time?
You donât cry.
You sing.
Softly.
Like maybe, just maybe, some endings were just preludes in disguise.
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Summary: A simple servant from the Riverlands is forced into the world of Kingâs Landing when she must take the place of a noblewoman promised to Prince Aemond Targaryen.
The Riverlands were heavy with rain that night.
You had always loved the sound of rain, how it muffled the world into something soft and calm. But that night, the calm felt false. The house was too still.
The corridors too quiet.
You were preparing herbs for the kitchens when a young maid entered, breathless.
âThe Lady wants you,â she said, wringing her hands. âIn the great hall.â
You frowned. It was far too late for your mistress to summon you.
âDid she say why?â
The maid shook her head quickly.
âNo, only that you come at once.â
You wiped your hands on your apron and followed her through the dim corridors. The torches burned low, their flames trembling in the draught. Your heart began to pound, though you could not say why. You were a servant, nothing more. Servants were called for many things.
But when you stepped into the hall, you realised this was not one of those things.
Your Lord and Lady stood side by side before the hearth. Their daughter sat behind them, hunched and pale in her chair, her fine gown dishevelled as though she had been crying for hours. You froze where you stood, clutching your hands before you.
âMy lady,â you said quietly, bowing your head.
âCome closer,â she ordered.
You obeyed, each step echoing across the cold stone floor.
When you stopped before them, your Lady studied you with sharp, restless eyes. Her husbandâs jaw was clenched tight, as if every word he had to say might shatter him.
âYou have been in our service for many years,â the Lady began. âYou are quiet, loyal, and no one outside this household knows your face well.â
You hesitated.
âYes, my lady. I have always tried to serve faithfully.â
Her gaze drifted to her daughter, whose eyes filled with tears.
âYou must swear what we discuss here will never leave this room.â
Your stomach turned.
âI swear it.â
The Lord cleared his throat, his voice rough.
âOur daughter has been promised to Prince Aemond Targaryen, the second son of the King. The betrothal was arranged months ago, and word of her journey to Kingâs Landing has already reached the court.â
Your eyes flickered to the young woman in the chair. Her hands were clasped tightly over her stomach.
âShe⌠she cannot go,â the Lady said in a low, trembling voice. âShe carries the child of another man. A knight in our service. If the Crown learns of this, we will be ruined.â
The words struck you like a blow.
âMy lady, what will you do?â
The Lordâs expression hardened.
âWe will send you in her place.â
You blinked, certain you had misheard.
âMe?â
âYes, you,â the Lady said sharply. âYou are of similar build, and with the right clothes, the right manner, few would question it. You will go to Kingâs Landing as our daughter, marry Prince Aemond, and secure our houseâs future.â
Your mouth went dry.
âBut I am not noble. I have no titles, no learning, no-â
Her voice cut through yours.
âYou will learn. You will speak only when spoken to, walk as you have seen her walk, and keep your eyes lowered. They need not know the truth.â
You shook your head in disbelief.
âMy lady, please, they will see it at once. I cannot deceive the King, the Queen, the Prince-â
The Lordâs voice thundered across the hall.
âYou will do as you are told!â
The sound silenced everything. The rain, the fire, even your breath. You stood frozen as he stepped closer, his anger twisting his features.
âIf you refuse, your family will pay the price. Your father works my land, does he not? Your mother tends my orchards? Think carefully before you speak again.â
Your heart dropped. You thought of your parents, their small home by the river, the way your mother smiled whenever you returned with flowers from the meadow. They would not survive without this houseâs favour.
Tears welled in your eyes, but you forced your voice steady.
âI understand, my lord.â
The Ladyâs tone softened, though her face did not.
âYou will be cared for. We will provide gowns, jewellery, and a new name. You are to call yourself by our daughterâs name in every breath you take. If anyone suspects you, deny it. Smile and lie, for all our sakes.â
You turned to the young woman who sat weeping beside the hearth. She could not even meet your gaze.
âMy lady,â you whispered, âis this truly what you wish?â
Her sobs grew louder.
âI cannot marry him,â she cried. âHe is a dragon, and I am already ruined. Please, forgive me.â
Forgive her. That was all she said, as if forgiveness could make you something you were not.
---
The next morning came quickly.
They bathed you in scented water, combed your hair, and draped you in silks that felt foreign on your skin.
Jewels were fastened around your neck, and rings slid onto your trembling fingers. You looked into the mirror and did not recognise yourself.
The Ladyâs maid pressed a folded letter into your hand.
âFor the Queen,â she said. âYou will give it to her upon your arrival.â
You stepped outside to the waiting carriage. The air was cold, and the ground glistened with dew. The Lady and Lord watched as you climbed in, their faces unreadable.
âRemember who you are now,â the Lady said softly. âYou are our daughter. You were born to wed a prince.â
The door shut before you could reply. The horses lurched forward, and the manor faded behind the mist and rain. You sat alone, the letter heavy in your lap, your heart hollow.
The road to Kingâs Landing took four days.
You passed villages and rivers, hills and distant keeps. The closer you came to the capital, the more uneasy you felt.
The Red Keep rose high above the city like a crown of bloodstone, sharp and proud against the pale sky.
When the gates opened, you stepped into a world that was not your own.
Gold cloaks lined the courtyard, their armour gleaming. Ladies in silk whispered from behind fans. You could feel their eyes on you, measuring, judging.
Inside, the Queen herself awaited you.
Alicent Hightower, poised and elegant, with eyes that seemed to see everything. You knelt before her, offering the letter with trembling hands.
âMy lady,â she said gently, breaking the seal. âRise, please. You are welcome in the Red Keep.â
âThank you, Your Grace,â you murmured.
Her smile was small but kind.
âYou must be weary from your travels. The King wishes to bless your union soon, though he is frail and resting tonight. You will meet the royal family at dinner tomorrow.â
You curtsied again, heart pounding.
âAs you wish, Your Grace.â
A servant led you to your chambers, larger than any space you had ever seen.
The walls were draped in red, the bed carved with dragons, and the windows opened to the sea.
You stood there, trying to steady your breathing.
When you finally looked out the window, your gaze fell upon the training yard below. A group of knights sparred with wooden swords, the clatter of steel echoing faintly through the courtyard. Among them stood a man with long silver hair, his movements precise and powerful. When he turned, you caught the gleam of an eyepatch beneath the sun.
Prince Aemond Targaryen.
Even from afar, you could sense the chill that surrounded him.
His stance was proud, his expression unreadable, but there was something captivating about the way he moved, controlled, graceful, as if every strike were a piece of music only he could hear.
You did not know why your chest felt tight as you watched him.
Perhaps it was fear, perhaps awe.
Or perhaps, deep down, it was the first stirring of something far more dangerous.
That night, as you lay in the vast bed that did not feel like yours, you thought of home, the rain, the wildflowers, and your motherâs soft humming by the fire.
Now all of it felt distant, as though you had left not only the Riverlands but the person you once were.
Tomorrow you would dine with dragons.
Tomorrow, your lie would begin.
Morning came with the sound of gulls outside your window and the slow chime of bells from somewhere deep within the Keep.
You woke in a bed far too soft, with sunlight spilling through the curtains like molten gold. For a long moment, you forgot where you were. Then the memories rushed back, the rain-soaked manor, the carriage ride, the letter pressed into your trembling hands.
You were no longer yourself. You were a noblewoman promised to a dragon.
A soft knock came at the door. When you opened it, a young maid curtsied deeply.
âThe Queen requests your presence for the midday meal, my lady,â she said, avoiding your gaze. âShe asked that you join the royal family in the gardens.â
Your throat tightened.
âThe gardens?â
âYes, my lady. Prince Aemond will escort you.â
âPrince Aemond?â
She nodded, her tone respectful but curious.
âHe asked for you himself.â
You could not remember how you dressed, only that your hands would not stop shaking.
When you caught your reflection, you hardly recognised the woman staring back, she looked too composed, too fine. But your eyes, uncertain and afraid, stayed your own.
When you walked to the courtyard, he was waiting.
Prince Aemond Targaryen stood under a stone archway, the morning light falling across his pale hair.
His posture was flawless, his hands clasped behind his back. The eyepatch gleamed black against his skin, sharp and stark, yet it did not mar his beauty. If anything, it made him seem carved from something ancient and unyielding.
He inclined his head when he saw you.
âMy lady.â
âYour Grace,â you replied, your voice soft, unsure.
âShall we?â
He offered his arm.
You hesitated only a second before taking it. His sleeve brushed yours, and though he wore gloves, you could still feel the strength beneath his stillness.
The gardens stretched wide and green beneath the castle walls. Roses climbed over trellises, jasmine spilled down marble columns, and the air was rich with the scent of lavender and warm earth.
You felt a strange sense of comfort here, among the flowers, you could almost forget the deceit woven around your every breath.
âYou favour the gardens,â Aemond said as you walked along the gravel path.
âI do,â you admitted, glancing at a bed of peonies. âThey remind me of home.â
âYour home in the Riverlands?â
You stiffened slightly. You had rehearsed this lie, but the words still caught.
âYes, my prince. My mother kept a garden by the river. It was⌠smaller than this, but very dear to her.â
Aemond looked at you sidelong, his expression unreadable.
âFew of noble birth tend to their own gardens.â
You smiled faintly.
âThen perhaps I am simply unusual.â
His mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement.
âUnusual, perhaps. But not unpleasant.â
You felt warmth creep into your cheeks and turned quickly to the roses beside you. Their petals were the colour of blood, heavy with dew. You reached out to touch one, your fingers brushing the silk of the bloom.
âThey are Targaryen roses,â you said softly, eager to fill the silence. âThey only grow within the walls of the Red Keep. Their roots do not take in foreign soil.â
Aemondâs brow lifted slightly.
âYou know much about flowers.â
You smiled, still facing the rose.
âI love them. They speak in colours and scent. They tell stories without words.â
He said nothing for a long moment, and you dared to look at him. He was watching you, his one visible eye steady, bright as amethyst in the sunlight.
âWhat story does this one tell?â he asked.
You hesitated, glancing back at the crimson petals.
âThat it is proud and unyielding, but lonely. It grows where others cannot reach it.â
Something flickered across his face, surprise, perhaps even pain. Then it was gone. He looked away.
âYou see much,â he said quietly. âMore than most.â
You wanted to ask what he meant, but you sensed the walls closing around him again, and so you said nothing.
The Queen joined you later for the midday meal laid out beneath the shade of an oak tree. The table gleamed with silver dishes, though you could barely eat for the nerves coiling in your stomach.
Aegon arrived first, already half drunk, his grin wide and teasing.
âSo this is the famed bride of my brother,â he said, dropping into a chair. âHeâs been uncharacteristically quiet since your arrival. You must have bewitched him.â
Aemondâs voice was calm but cold.
âMind your tongue.â
Aegon only laughed.
âSee? He even defends you. Perhaps youâll tame the dragon after all.â
You flushed deeply, unsure where to look.
The Queen gave her eldest son a sharp glance, and he fell silent with a sigh.
Helaena was next, smiling dreamily as she sat beside you. Her eyes, pale and distant, flickered between the flowers arranged on the table.
âYou smell like the meadows,â she said suddenly. âDo you like butterflies? They are better companions than men.â
You smiled softly.
âI like them very much.â
âI thought so,â she replied with a nod, and began tracing circles on the tablecloth.
The Queen gave you a kind, if weary, smile.
âI trust the journey was not too difficult?â
âIt was long, Your Grace,â you said honestly, âbut the welcome has been⌠generous.â
Aemond glanced at you from across the table. His expression softened just slightly, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if the lie might be bearable.
After the meal, Aemond offered to walk you back to your chambers. The corridors were quiet as your steps echoed through the stone halls.
âYou endured my brother well,â he said after a moment.
You smiled faintly.
âHe means no harm, I think.â
âHe means only harm. But he is harmless regardless.â
That earned a small laugh from you before you could stop it. His head tilted slightly, as though surprised by the sound.
âYou laugh easily,â he said.
âNot always,â you admitted, lowering your gaze. âBut sometimes, it is all one can do.â
He stopped before your door, looking down at you with a gaze that made your heart twist.
âYou are not what I expected.â
You looked up at him.
âAnd what did you expect, my prince?â
He studied you in silence for a moment.
âSomeone vain, perhaps. Proud. Like all the others. But you are not like them.â
You felt his words settle deep in your chest, too heavy and too tender at once.
âRest well, my lady,â he said finally, stepping back.
âGood night, my prince.â
When the door closed behind you, you leaned against it, breath unsteady. The scent of roses still lingered on your hands, and for the first time since you arrived at the Red Keep, the fear in your chest eased just a little.
You did not know it then, but that morning walk among the flowers had changed everything.
The days after your walk in the garden unfolded like a dream you feared would end too soon.
The memory of the princeâs voice lingered in your head, low and even, with words that revealed more than he meant to. You had seen something then and it had stayed with you.
The Keepâs servants now looked at you differently. Some bowed a little lower, some whispered a little more. You did not dare ask what they said, though you caught your name paired with Aemondâs often enough to know that your quiet existence was no longer unseen.
One morning, as you sat at the window of your chamber, the light spilling through the lattice in soft gold, a knock sounded on the door. When you opened it, Aemond stood there.
He was dressed in dark riding leathers, his hair pulled back neatly, his eye cool and clear.
âI am told you have not yet seen Vhagar,â he said. âThat will not do. Come with me.â
You blinked, startled by his sudden presence, and nodded.
âOf course, my prince.â
He frowned slightly.
âDo not call me that when we are alone. Aemond will do.â
You followed him through the Red Keep, the corridors dim and cool. Servants bowed as you passed, their gazes curious.
The weight of his silence filled the air, though now it felt less distant, more thoughtful. When you reached the outer gates, the air was bright and sharp with the scent of sea and stone.
He led you down the slope beyond the walls, where the cliffs opened toward the dragonpit.
The sound of wings, distant and thunderous, rumbled in the air before you even saw her.
And then there she was.
Vhagar.
A creature of ancient majesty, her wings folded like mountains, her scales gleaming dull bronze in the light. She exhaled a breath that rippled the ground, her single eye, old and knowing, turning to her rider.
âShe is older than the Conquest itself,â Aemond said quietly beside you. âSome say she remembers Valyria. She has outlived every rider but me.â
You could only stare, your heart beating fast.
âShe is beautiful,â you whispered.
He looked at you then.
âMost say she is terrifying.â
You smiled faintly.
âPerhaps beauty and terror are not so different.â
Aemondâs lips curved, a shadow of amusement.
âYou speak like someone born of dragon blood.â
You shook your head.
âI have no such fire in my veins. I am only a woman who sees wonder where others see fear.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind carried the scent of ash and salt, Vhagarâs breath a deep rhythm in the distance. Aemondâs gaze lingered on you, not with the sharpness he wore before, but with a kind of careful curiosity, as though you were another secret of the world he wished to study.
âYou are not like the women of court,â he said after a pause. âThey flatter and chatter, but you... You listen. Even when there is silence.â
âSilence often tells the truth that words cannot.â
Aemond turned his face to the sea, his expression unreadable.
âThere is truth in that.â He took a step closer, his voice quieter. âDo you fear me?â
The question caught you off guard. You looked up and met his gaze, the pale light glinting off his sapphire eye.
âI do not,â you said softly. âShould I?â
His mouth twitched, a ghost of surprise.
âMost do. Even those who claim to love me.â
âThen they have never looked properly,â you said before you could stop yourself. âYou are not cruel, Aemond. Only guarded.â
He inhaled, slow and steady, and for a heartbeat, you thought he might reach for you. But he did not. His hand fell to his side instead, his control returning like a tide.
âCome,â he said at last. âThe light fades quickly here.â
You followed him back up the slope. The silence was no longer heavy, only filled with something unspoken, like a thread drawn between you both. When you reached the Keep again, he paused at the door.
âYou said once that you liked the scent of lilacs,â he said. âThey do not grow in Kingâs Landing, but I will have them brought for you.â
You blinked, caught between surprise and gratitude.
âThat is not necessary.â
âI did not ask if it was,â he replied, though his tone was softer than his words. âGood night.â
And with that, he was gone.
That night, you lay awake, replaying his voice in your head, his nearness, the heat that had crept beneath your skin when he looked at you. Somewhere beyond the window, a dragon roared in the dark, and you wondered if your heart had begun to burn like theirs.
The lilacs arrived three days later.
You found them waiting in a silver vase on your writing table, their petals a pale, trembling violet that filled your chamber with scent.
You had not expected him to remember his promise, nor to keep it so soon. But there they were, fragrant and delicate, their colour a small rebellion against the Red Keepâs cold stone.
Aemond had not spoken to you since that morning by the dragon pit.
You thought perhaps he regretted the attention he had shown, that he had turned his mind elsewhere. Yet the lilacs told another story.
That evening, as you were pressing one of the blossoms between parchment pages, there was a knock upon your door.
You turned quickly, startled, and found him standing there again, the prince, without armour or cloak, dressed plainly in dark velvet.
âI thought you might like to walk,â he said.
There was no demand in his tone, only a quiet certainty that you would agree. You nodded, smoothing your gown.
âOf course.â
The corridors were mostly empty. Aemondâs stride was unhurried tonight, his hands clasped behind his back. You walked side by side through the torch-lit halls, down to the lower gardens where the air was cooler and the lanterns glowed like captured stars.
For a long while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt different now, not distant, but shared.
He was the first to break it.
âYou seem at peace among growing things,â he said. âWhy?â
You smiled faintly.
âBecause they ask for so little, yet give so much. They need only light, water, and time. People, on the other hand, are never content with simple things.â
He glanced down at you.
âYou speak as if you have known much discontent.â
âI have known enough,â you said quietly. âBut I find peace in small tasks. Cooking, tending to flowers... they are things that do not lie.â
Aemondâs gaze lingered on you, and his voice softened.
âHonesty is rare in this place. Perhaps that is why I find myself... drawn to it.â
You felt heat rise in your cheeks.
âYou surprise me, Aemond.â
He gave a low, thoughtful hum.
âYou are not the first to say so, though not always kindly.â
You walked on, and he guided you toward a small stone bench half-hidden beneath ivy. When you sat, you realised he was watching the night sky rather than you. The moonlight caught on the sharp lines of his face, turning his silver hair to white flame.
After a long pause, he spoke again.
âDo you ever wonder what people see when they look at you?â
You turned your head slightly.
âI suppose they see a woman who does not belong here.â
His mouth twitched.
âPerhaps. Yet I see a woman who looks at the world as if she could forgive it.â
You hesitated, unsure how to respond.
âAnd what do people see when they look at you?â
He was silent for a moment.
âA monster, perhaps. A prince to fear rather than love. The boy who lost an eye and gained a dragon.â
You swallowed, your heart tightening.
âDo you think yourself a monster?â
His jaw flexed.
âSometimes. It is easier than thinking myself a man.â
Before you could stop yourself, you reached out, your fingers brushing the side of his face. He flinched, not from pain, but surprise. The rough line of the scar beneath his eye was warm under your touch.
âYou are not a monster,â you said softly. âYou are only what life has made you.â
His breath caught. For a moment, he did not move.
Then, very slowly, he turned his face into your palm, the gesture so fragile it almost undid you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
âYou should not touch me so. It gives me thoughts I should not have.â
Your heart stuttered.
âAnd what thoughts are those?â
His eye lifted to meet yours, bright and searching.
âOnes that would make the gods frown.â
You withdrew your hand gently, afraid that any further boldness would shatter the moment. The air felt charged, heavy with something neither of you dared name.
After a time, Aemond rose.
âYou should rest,â he said quietly. âIt grows late.â
You nodded, unable to find words.
As he turned to leave, he paused.
âKeep the lilacs near your window,â he said. âTheir scent suits you.â
When he was gone, you sat a long while on the bench, the moonlight silvering the petals that had fallen into your lap. You could still feel the warmth of his skin against your fingertips.
You were certain, then, that something within both of you had changed, quietly, like the first bloom of spring underneath the snow.
The Red Keep had a way of making even the smallest whisper feel like a shout.
Every footstep echoed, every glance seemed to carry scrutiny. You had grown used to it in a way, walking the corridors as the Ladyâs daughter, answering questions with careful poise, smiling when required. Yet the longer you remained, the heavier the weight of deceit pressed against your chest.
It began quietly, almost imperceptibly. A servant in the kitchens paused a little too long as you passed, a flicker of recognition in her eyes before she turned away.
A page boy lingered near the stables, watching you with curiosity too sharp for innocence. And Aegon, the eldest prince, asked questions that pricked like needles, probing not only your mind but your past.
But none of these unsettled you as much as Aemond.
He had begun to watch you differently now. His glances lingered, sharp and precise, as though he were attempting to see beneath the careful facade you had been forced to construct. He did not accuse or confront, not yet. But every time your eyes met, you felt his scrutiny as a weight on your chest.
It was late one afternoon when the moment came. You were in the solar, arranging lilacs in the silver vase he had sent, the scent of the flowers filling the room. Aemond appeared in the doorway without knocking, silent as a shadow.
âYou are meticulous,â he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of tension. âAnd careful with your hands. You take care as if everything depended upon it.â
You froze, startled by the intensity of his gaze.
âI⌠I like things to be ordered,â you said softly. âIt makes the world easier to manage.â
He stepped closer, and for the first time, you noticed the subtle stiffness in his stance.
âI wonder,â he said slowly, âif you are always so careful, or if there is something you hide.â
Your stomach dropped.
âI⌠I do not understand, my prince.â
His eye narrowed slightly.
âDo not lie to me.â
You swallowed, your hands gripping the vase until the flowers trembled. âI have never lied to you.â
âHave you not?â His tone sharpened, though his eyes flickered with something softer beneath the suspicion. âYou arrived as another, yet you are not her. You speak of your childhood, your home⌠yet it does not match what I have been told.â
Your heart pounded, and you realised there was no way to avoid this confrontation. The lie had lasted long enough. The warmth between you both, the slow bloom of trust and affection, hung precariously in the balance.
You took a deep breath, setting the vase aside.
âIt is true,â you said quietly. âI am not your promised bride.â
Aemondâs violet eye widened slightly, then darkened with anger.
âThen who are you?â
You stepped forward, your hands open as though offering peace.
âI am a servant of the family you were promised. Their daughter⌠she cannot marry you. She is with child, and she loves another. I had no choice.â
His jaw flexed, tension radiating from his shoulders.
âYou deceived the Crown. You deceived me. Do you know the danger you have brought upon yourself?â
âI know,â you said, your voice steady despite the fear threading through it. âI meant no harm. I only did as I was told. My name isâŚâ You paused, then spoke it softly, the truth finally free. ââŚand I care for you more than I ever imagined I could. From the moment we walked in the gardens, from the day I saw Vhagar, IâŚâ
He flinched, as if your words were a weapon.
âYou speak of love,â he said, his tone harsh, almost incredulous. âDo you think that will absolve you?â
You stepped closer, despite the chill that had settled between you.
âI cannot take it back. I cannot undo what has been done. But you must know⌠I never meant to deceive you for my own gain. My heart is yours, whether you believe it or not.â
For a moment, he did not move.
The silence stretched long enough for your courage to falter, for fear to creep back in. You feared he would turn, leave, and let the weight of your lie be your end.
Then, suddenly, he left the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. You were left alone with the lilacs, their scent bittersweet, and your chest heaving with a mixture of relief and dread.
You did not sleep that night.
Every creak of the Keep made you flinch. Every shadow seemed to harbour judgement. You imagined the worst, that the prince would never forgive you, that the Queen would learn, that your life would crumble entirely.
Yet when morning came, the world had not ended.
The corridors were quiet, the servants unaware of the storm that had passed in your chamber. And when you made your way to the training yard, you saw him there, sword in hand, striking with precision and fury that made your heart ache in ways you could not name.
He paused when he saw you. His chest rose and fell, his expression unreadable.
You felt small, exposed, yet compelled to approach.
âMy prince,â you said softly. âI⌠I would beg your forgiveness. I will leave, if you wish, and never return. I only wanted-â
âDo not,â he interrupted, the word sharp but not cruel. His sword lowered slowly, the tension in his shoulders giving way just enough for you to see the struggle beneath. âDo not speak of leaving. You have no choice, and⌠neither do I.â
He stepped closer, and for the first time, you saw the storm behind his eye. Not rage, not suspicion, but something darker, possessive, fierce, and undeniable.
âYou are mine,â he said quietly, yet with force enough to make your heart skip. âAnd I will not let you go.â
Before you could speak, he closed the space between you, his lips pressing against yours.
It was harsh, demanding, yet tempered with the care he had shown in small ways before. You felt yourself yield, trembling, caught in the weight of his claim, the fire in his touch, and the quiet warmth that had grown between you both.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
âWe will face this,â he murmured, voice low and unsteady. âTogether.â
And for the first time, the fear of the lie, the uncertainty of your place in his world, seemed bearable.
Sleep did not come that night, only the restless turning of thoughts that refused to still.
You laid under the soft linen sheets, staring at the ceiling while the faint sound of waves carried through the open window.
Every word he had spoken repeated in your mind, You are mine, and I will not let you go.
The taste of his kiss still lingered, a mixture of heat and fear, and you could not decide which part of it unsettled you more. He had left without another word after that, his expression unreadable, his steps heavy with something you could not name.
You rose with the dawn, hoping that the day would offer clarity, but instead, the Keep felt colder than before. The servants seemed quieter, the air heavier.
You could not shake the feeling that everything hung by a thread, your life, your secret, his mercy.
You found yourself in the gardens once again, where the lilacs had begun to fade. The petals trembled in the breeze, falling to the ground like the last remnants of a lie too heavy to bear. You touched one, your fingers tracing its fragile edge.
When you turned, Aemond was standing behind you.
You startled, your heart leaping to your throat. He wore his dark tunic, the one embroidered with subtle silver dragons. His sword belt hung at his hip, though his hand rested loosely on it.
âYou should not walk alone,â he said. His voice was calm, but it carried an undertone of tension, as though he were restraining something.
You inclined your head slightly.
âI did not think you would come.â
âI considered not doing so,â he replied, stepping closer until you could see the faint bruise along his jaw, the mark of recent training. âYet I found no peace without you in sight.â
You drew a breath, unsure how to meet his gaze.
âYou should not have to see me again. You should tell the Queen the truth and-â
âI will not,â he interrupted sharply. âIf you think I would hand you over to my motherâs judgment, you do not understand me at all.â
You hesitated.
âThen why have you come?â
He was silent for a long moment, the breeze shifting his hair, the sunlight catching the gleam of his sapphire.
âBecause I do not know what to do with what I feel.â
You looked up at him, heart hammering.
âAnd what do you feel, my prince?â
He exhaled slowly, his voice low and rough.
âAnger, because you deceived me. Confusion, because I cannot hate you for it. And something far worse, because I know I could not bear to lose you, no matter the truth.â
You took a tentative step closer.
âYou think it weakness.â
âIt is weakness,â he said, though his tone had softened. âBut one I would rather live with than the emptiness that came before.â
The confession was quiet, raw, and it stole your breath. You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing his sleeve, the warmth of him grounding you in the moment.
âI never wanted to deceive you,â you said softly. âI was told I had no choice. I thought I would come here, play the part, and fade into the background. I did not think you would ever notice me, let alone care.â
He turned his head toward you, his eye sharp but no longer cold.
âAnd yet you caught me unawares. No courtly woman could have done that.â
You gave a small, broken laugh.
âBecause I do not know how to be one.â
âPerhaps that is why you are honest,â he murmured.
Silence fell again, but this time it was tender. The space between you was alive with everything unspoken, fear, longing, the ache of uncertainty that had become something more than either of you had intended.
âI will protect you,â he said suddenly, his hand lifting to touch your chin, tilting your face toward his. âWhatever the cost. But I will have your truth from now on. No more pretence.â
âYou have it,â you whispered. âAll of it.â
His gaze searched yours for a long time before he spoke again.
âThen say it,â he said quietly. âSay what you feel.â
You hesitated, your pulse racing. Then you breathed the words that had burned in you for weeks.
âI love you, Aemond. I love you, though I should not, though I do not deserve to. I love you still.â
He inhaled sharply, as though struck by the force of it. His hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until his forehead rested against yours.
âYou should not,â he whispered. âBut you do.â
You closed your eyes.
âAnd you?â
He was silent for a heartbeat, and then his lips brushed yours, softer this time, deliberate and certain. When he drew back, his voice was quiet but steady.
âI do.â
The words settled between you like a vow.
That evening, the Keep seemed quieter than usual. You ate alone, as you often did, but your heart was no longer burdened by fear. The lie was gone. What remained was fragile, uncertain, but real, a truth born of fire and forgiveness.
You sat by the window until the stars appeared, watching the flicker of the training yard torches below. Aemond would be there, you knew, working his blade against the dark.
You touched the lilac petals on your table and smiled faintly, knowing that from this moment onward, whatever the world said, you would not face it alone.
The Keep had begun to change around you. Where before every glance and whispered word had carried the weight of suspicion, now it carried a different tension, one of curiosity, some awe, and, you suspected, a little fear.
Aemondâs presence had become inescapable, whether in the training yard, the gardens, or the long halls of the Red Keep. And the way he looked at you, lingering and deliberate, left no doubt in anyoneâs mind that he considered you his.
You discovered the extent of that claim one afternoon when he appeared at your chambers unannounced. You were arranging herbs in a copper bowl, the scent of rosemary and thyme heavy in the warm air.
âYou should not be alone here,â he said quietly, stepping inside. His eyes caught yours, sharp and intense, and the air seemed to thrum with his presence.
âI am careful,â you replied, trying to sound calm, though your pulse had quickened.
âNot careful enough,â he said, closing the door behind him. His hand rested briefly on the edge of the table, near yours, and the heat of him made your fingers tremble. âYou belong to me now. I will not have harm come to you.â
You looked up at him, startled by the intensity in his voice.
âI am yours?â
âYes,â he said simply, firmly, his one eye burning with emotion. âDo you doubt it?â
âIâŚâ Your words faltered. You had feared this declaration, yet now that it came, it made your chest ache with something sweet and terrifying. âNo,â you whispered.
He stepped closer, closing the gap between you. The faintest brush of his fingers against yours made your heart stutter.
âYou will be mine in every sense,â he said softly, âand the world will have to accept it.â
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself.
âI⌠I do not know what that means.â
âIt means that I will guard you,â he said, his voice low, almost a growl. âI will fight anyone who dares to challenge you, and I will claim you before all the world. You will not walk this Keep as a shadow. You will walk as my equal, my companion, my-â
He faltered, his words choking slightly.
His hands hovered near yours, uncertain, though the tension in his body made it clear he was close to losing control.
âYour wife,â you breathed, almost before you had thought it.
His head lifted sharply, eyes widening, and then he laughed softly, a low, astonished sound.
âYes,â he said, the word carrying a weight and promise that made your knees weak. âYou will be my wife.â
Your lips curved in a smile, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the full warmth of hope.
âThen I am yours,â you said, steady despite the tremor in your heart. âAs you are mine.â
He drew you into an embrace then, strong and possessive, but careful enough not to hurt you. You could feel the power beneath him, the fire of his Targaryen blood, yet it was tempered by tenderness.
His cheek pressed to yours, and his breath whispered against your ear.
âI will never let you go.â
The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation, both subtle and public.
Aemond began to appear at your side more openly, and though he spoke little, his hand brushed yours in the halls, and his eyes lingered on you in ways that left the courtiers murmuring.
Aegon, ever curious, asked pointed questions at meals, testing both your composure and your knowledge of courtly customs. You answered cautiously, aware of Aemondâs watchful gaze.
Helaena, with her strange, ethereal smiles, observed quietly.
âYou are his,â she whispered once as you passed, eyes wide. âAnd he is yours.â
You nodded, unable to speak, your heart full.
One evening, as the sun dipped low over the Red Keep, Aemond led you to the outer balcony. The wind tugged at your gown, and the scent of the sea mixed with the roses below. He turned to you, his hand brushing yours, fingers intertwining.
âYou are mine,â he said again, softer this time, yet with the same fiery certainty. âAnd I will not allow anyone to take you from me, not the court, not my family, not the world.â
You looked up at him, your chest tight with emotion.
âThen I will stand with you,â you said. âWhatever comes.â
His lips pressed to yours then, slow and sure, a kiss that promised protection, love, and ownership all at once. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
âMy dragon,â he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, âmy heart, my wife.â
And for the first time, you believed it.
The court might whisper, the Queen might question, and the danger might always linger, but in that moment, Aemond Targaryen had chosen you, fiercely, irrevocably, and without hesitation.
The slow burn of your love, nurtured in gardens and libraries and stolen moments, was now a flame the world could no longer ignore.
The Red Keep was alive with whispers.
Servants paused mid-step to glance your way, noblewomen peered from behind fans, and even the guards seemed to notice the small shifts in the air. Yet through it all, you walked beside Aemond as though nothing had changed, the warmth of his hand resting lightly on your back.
He had chosen to make your presence known, subtle yet impossible to ignore. No longer did you move in shadows; no longer were you merely the substitute bride.
Now you were his. And the knowledge, heavy and sweet, filled your chest with a mixture of pride and fear.
The Queen watched you closely at dinner, her gaze sharp yet unreadable. She did not speak of your deception, nor of the girl you had replaced. Perhaps she knew that Aemond would not suffer interference.
Perhaps she simply wished to see what you were, tested under the eyes of court.
Aegon, as ever, was curious and talkative, leaning across the table to study you.
âYou seem unafraid of the court,â he remarked, a smile teasing his lips. âI thought most would falter before my brother.â
You inclined your head, careful to meet his gaze evenly.
âFear is wasted upon the inevitable,â you said softly, your voice carrying more confidence than you felt.
Aemondâs hand brushed yours under the table, and the simple contact sent warmth rippling through your fingers. He did not smile, only met your eye with a single raised brow that made your heart stutter.
After the meal, Aemond led you to the library, your sanctuary among the towering shelves and the scent of old parchment. He moved beside you as you traced your fingers over the spines of books, a hand occasionally brushing yours in passing, deliberate and possessive.
âYou read too much,â he said quietly, almost a growl, though his tone carried a soft edge. âYou study people and flowers and words, yet never the one who claims you.â
You looked up at him, startled.
âAnd what should I study?â
âMe,â he said simply, his voice low, intense. âAll of me. You will need to know me completely, as I will know you.â
Your cheeks warmed.
âI am trying.â
âTrying is not enough,â he said, stepping closer. The heat of him brushed against your arm, and the library seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of you. âI will take what is mine, and I will claim it fully.â
You inhaled sharply, heart hammering, the tension between fear and longing nearly unbearable.
âAnd if the court disagrees?â
He smiled faintly, darkly.
âThey will have to bow, or they will learn the cost of denying me.â
Later, as you walked the gardens, he paused beside a trellis of jasmine, brushing your hair back so that the scent enveloped your senses.
âDo you know,â he murmured, âthat I have never allowed anyone this close?â
You shook your head.
âI could not guess.â
âNot because I could not,â he said, his eye softening, âbut because I did not trust anyone enough. Yet you⌠you have drawn me out. And I am afraid that if I lose you, I will not survive it.â
Your fingers found his hand, gripping it lightly.
âYou will not lose me. I am yours, Aemond. Even in the face of the world, I am yours.â
His lips met yours then, long and certain, the kiss claiming what had already been promised. When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours.
âThen we will face it together,â he said, his voice rough with unspoken emotion.
As the days passed, your bond deepened. You were no longer hidden, no longer quiet.
Aemondâs presence was fierce, protective, and constant. He walked beside you through the halls, ensured the guards watched closely, and allowed no hand to brush yours without his permission.
Possessive, yes, but gentle in ways that left your heart aching for more.
And through it all, the lilacs by your window reminded you of how far you had come from a frightened servant to a woman claimed by fire and shadow, loved fiercely by the dragon prince who would soon make you his bride.
For the first time, the thought of your wedding did not terrify you.
It promised not just love, but belonging, and the certainty that Aemond Targaryen would not let the world take you from him.
The Red Keep buzzed with a tension you had never known. The marriage between you and Aemond was no longer a secret, and the courtâs whispers followed you like shadows.
Noblewomen watched with narrowed eyes, some curious, some jealous, while lords murmured speculation about the future of the Targaryen line. You had expected fear or disdain, but most offered only cautious courtesy, as if testing how far the dragon prince would go to claim you.
Aemond did not hesitate.
His presence was constant, a shadow at your side, and his hand brushed yours at every opportunity. The subtle claims he made, in gestures, glances, and touches, left no room for doubt: you were his.
One afternoon, he appeared in your chambers without announcement, his expression unreadable.
You had been arranging the roses from the gardens, their petals spilling like blood over the marble table.
âYou are far too calm,â he said, his voice low and even, though the heat behind it made you shiver. âDo you understand what this court will demand?â
âI do,â you replied, trying to steady your voice. âBut I am not afraid. I have you.â
His eye softened, the edge of anger and possessiveness blending with something warmer.
âGood,â he murmured. âBecause I will not allow them to test you. Not now, not ever.â
He stepped closer, the scent of jasmine clinging to his cloak. His hand found yours, fingers entwining.
âI will not share you,â he said quietly, pressing a thumb to the back of your hand. âAnd no one will question that without consequence.â
âI would not have it any other way,â you whispered.
He leaned down then, brushing his lips lightly against yours. The kiss was deliberate, possessive, yet tender, a promise sealed in softness and fire. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
âTogether,â he said. âAlways.â
The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation. Robes were fitted, jewels selected, and invitations sent across the kingdom. You moved through it all with quiet dignity, the courtâs eyes upon you, yet you felt no fear. Aemondâs presence was a shield, his hand always brushing yours, a constant reassurance that you were not alone.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the distant hills, he took you to a private balcony overlooking the gardens. Lanterns flickered in the wind, casting shadows that danced across the stone.
âDo you see this?â he asked, his voice soft. âThe world is waiting for us to take our place, yet all of this-â he gestured at the Keep, at the distant city beyond the walls âIt means nothing if we do not stand together.â
You leaned into him, fingers brushing the edge of his cloak.
âI stand with you,â you whispered. âWhatever comes.â
His hands rested on your waist, steady and firm.
âAnd I with you,â he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. âWhatever storms may come, whatever whispers the court spreads, we face it as one.â
The moon rose over the gardens, silvering the petals of the roses at your feet. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his chest against yours, the strength of his hold, and the fire that had grown between you both. In that moment, you knew nothing in the world could take him from you, and nothing in the world could take you from him.
The court might watch, and the world might whisper, but Aemond Targaryen had made his choice, and it was clear, unyielding, and irrevocable.
You were his.
And in the quiet of that stolen evening, with the wind carrying the scent of jasmine and roses, you realised that nothing had ever felt more like home.
The Red Keep was alight with preparation. Lanterns hung along the corridors, tapestries were brushed and polished, and the scent of roses and lilacs filled every chamber. The court buzzed with anticipation, nobles moving about in a careful choreography, yet all their whispers seemed to fade whenever Aemond appeared at your side.
You had grown accustomed to the constant presence of the dragon prince, to the subtle touches and lingering glances that left your heart thrumming.
And now, as the day of your wedding approached, the air between you was thick with excitement, anxiety, and a quiet certainty that had grown stronger with every passing moment.
That morning, he came to your chambers before breakfast, as was his habit. You were seated by the window, arranging fresh lilacs in a silver vase, their scent mingling with the morning air.
âYou are calm,â he said softly, stepping close, his hand brushing yours. âToo calm for a bride.â
âI have you,â you said quietly, looking up at him. âI am not afraid.â
His eyes softened, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.
âThen let them whisper. Let the world watch. Today, you are mine, and I am yours.â
The ceremony was set in the Great Hall, where sunlight poured through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the tapestries of dragons and ancient kings.
The court gathered, all eyes upon you as you entered, your gown flowing like a river of silver and violet, the lilacs from your chamber woven into your hair.
Aemond awaited you at the dais, his armour polished to a faint gleam, his single eye sharp and bright, but there was a softness in his expression reserved only for you. As you approached, his hand reached for yours, and the world seemed to narrow to the space between you.
âYou are breathtaking,â he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
âAnd you are terrifying,â you replied with a small laugh, though your heart fluttered wildly.
He leaned down slightly, resting his forehead against yours before the ceremony began.
âSoon, all of this will be ours,â he whispered. âYou and I, no one to separate us.â
The vows were spoken softly, your words clear and true, his promises fierce and unwavering. When he took your hands in his, there was no pretence, no hesitation, only the certainty that had grown between you over countless stolen moments, quiet conversations, and shared silences in the gardens.
âI, Aemond Targaryen, take you to be my wife,â he said, his voice low but carrying across the hall. âTo claim you, to guard you, to love you, and to be faithful, until the end of our days.â
âI, [Your Name], take you,â you replied, âto stand by your side, to love you, and to be yours, in all ways, forever.â
When he pressed his lips to yours, the applause of the court faded to nothing. There was only the warmth of his hands on your back, the fire of his gaze, and the quiet certainty that you belonged to each other fully, completely.
Afterwards, in the privacy of your chambers, Aemond pulled you close, his lips brushing yours again in a softer, more tender kiss.
âWe have survived the whispers,â he murmured. âAnd now, nothing can touch us.â
You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.
âWe are together,â you whispered. âFinally.â
âYes,â he said, his voice low and possessive, yet full of warmth. âTogether, always.â
The lilacs on your table were still fresh, their scent mingling with roses and candle smoke, a quiet reminder of how far you had come. From a frightened servant of a scheming family to the wife of a dragon prince, you had found your place, and it was here, in his arms, in the fire of his love, in the life you would share together.
And as the sun set over Kingâs Landing, casting gold across the Red Keep, you knew that this was only the beginning.
Your love would endure all things, and Aemond Targaryen would be yours, wholly, for all the days to come.
The Red Keep had grown still. Torches flickered in the corridors, casting long, soft shadows across the stone walls. The court had retired, leaving only the hush of night and the faint scent of lilacs lingering in the air.
You stood at the window of your chamber, the moonlight spilling across your gown. The lilacs you had brought from your rooms earlier were now scattered across the table and in small vases, their fragrance mingling with the warmth of the room.
Aemond entered quietly, his eyes scanning the space before settling on you. He removed his cloak, letting it fall to the floor, and stepped closer. There was no armour now, no demands, only the raw intensity of him, the man you had come to love, fierce and protective, yet tender in ways no one else had ever seen.
âYou are here,â he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. âAnd I may finally breathe.â
You turned to him, a smile soft and quiet on your lips.
âI am here,â you whispered. âAnd I am yours.â
He reached for you, his hands gentle as they lifted your face to his. His thumb brushed along your cheek, and then his lips found yours, slow, deliberate, claiming you again in a way that left no doubt. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the fire of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
âTogether,â he said, his voice rough yet warm, âin every sense. Always.â
You nodded, resting your hands against his chest.
âAlways,â you echoed, your heart swelling with love, relief, and the quiet joy of belonging.
He led you to the bed, where the moonlight pooled like silver silk over the covers.
There was no hurry, no need for words. He held you close, one arm around your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your face. The scent of lilacs filled the room, mingling with the warmth of his skin and the quiet rhythm of your shared breaths.
âYou are mine,â he murmured, possessive yet gentle, his lips brushing against your temple. âAnd I will guard you. Always.â
âAnd you are mine,â you whispered back, your fingers threading through his hair, your heart steady in the fire of his claim. âAnd I will follow you wherever you go.â
They were not grand declarations, no words of court or crown. They were simple, intimate, and real, a promise of love forged in fire and shadow, in gardens and libraries, in stolen moments and whispered confessions.
The night stretched around you, quiet except for the steady rhythm of two hearts, fierce and intertwined.
And as you rested against him, the lilacs blooming by the window, the warmth of his arms around you, you knew that this was only the beginning, a life of love, devotion, and slow-burning passion with Aemond Targaryen.
For in him, you had found not only a prince, but a home.
ofc i had to take this request of an aemond targaryen x stark!reader bc i'll do anything if it involves a stark lol but bear w me bc i've never written for aemond before so we'll see
summary: in order to create an alliance between the north and south, you are subjected to an arranged marriage with the first son of viserys targaryen - well, until alicent throws a fit and it gets altered to the unfortunate second son, who you cannot stand
the raven came in the midst of cregan's fight against your uncle for rule of winterfell. the times were troubled and you hadn't been able to make a visit to king's landing in quite some time, but this wasn't the response you had expected. you'd expected a call to king's landing or perhaps the date of the wedding to be brought up.
it certainly seemed as though the state of targaryen affairs had been a mess as of late.
but this?
you held the thin parchment in your hands, brows knitted tightly as you scanned the words for the fifteenth time in the ten minutes you'd had it in your possession.
at your side, your lady in waiting, cecily, was watching with wide eyes. "this cannot be the truth of it," she breathed out, furrowing her brows. "the arrangement has been in place since you were children."
"and yet it can be altered with the single swish of a quill," you muttered, glaring now at the signature beneath the letter. "all because it was held in the queen's hand."
you let out a dramatic sigh, crumpling the paper and tossing it to the floor as you leaned back in your chair.
"lord stark cannot do anything to mend the situation?" she asked, taking a seat next to you and watching carefully.
you ran a hand through your hair, head falling onto the back of the chair as your eyes rose to the ceiling. "i doubt it. the word of the warden of the north is nothing against the word of the queen. at least, this insistent of one." you sighed again, thoughts drifting to the betrothed just stolen from you. "at least aegon was funny."
in your childhood you had visited king's landing several times, especially after your father, rickon stark, and king viserys agreed that you and his eldest son aegon were to be wed. while in the capital, you spent a lot of time with the boy, and the two of you bonded well. while you wouldn't say you were utterly obsessed with him in the way you'd heard rumor most girls in king's landing were, you enjoyed his company and would consider him a friend. at the least, the idea of marrying him didn't repulse you.
which you couldn't say about the thought of marrying his younger brother.
aemond wasn't half as enjoyable to be around as aegon was. always brooding, reading quietly off in the corner and shooting you glares as you and aegon ran about the keep. as time progressed, he grew boastful and he became a better swordsman. you didn't think he was all that good, and he didn't appreciate your vocalization of it. he was a man of few words, but the ones he did have for you were always cruel and antagonizing, catered to the every insecurity a young girl would have in answer for your teases.
"i pity you, aegon. i couldn't imagine marrying a girl who not only looks like a dog, but smells like one too."
"careful, little wolf, your bark is louder than your brain."
"i wouldn't think she were a stark at all if she didn't act part direwolf."
"if she's the best the north can offer, the wall should fall already."
each time, aegon would defend you, and if aemond persisted he'd just push him over and that seemed to handle him best enough. most of the time, you could brush the insults off, but sometimes they hurt. especially the older you got. especially once your father died.
all in all, you did not like aemond targaryen in the slightest.
and yet, you now were to marry him, and aegon was to marry helaena, their sweet sister.
"will you petition against it?" cecily asked then, relaxing a bit in her seat as she turned to you.
you shook your head. "you read it. aegon and helaena will be married at the end of summer. and as much as i'm utterly baffled she's marrying them so young, i do not put it past her, and that's only a week away."
"but, if you want to marry him instead-"
"the word of the teenage daughter of a dead lord will not change the queen's mind," you said shortly, a frown on your lips as your hand rose to cover your eyes. you let out a thin sigh. "i will do what i must. hopefully with time he will become more bearable. and there's a lot of time until we're married."
not enough, it seemed.
once cregan had taken control of the keep, only aged thirteen himself, and you'd managed to steady the north in the years following, you were summoned back to king's landing.
you were much more grown then, taller, with a more womanly look about you, fuller in places you hadn't been when you were just a girl. you carried a certain grace and confidence about you as well, one that cecily insisted was one exclusive to starks.
it was the first thing the targaryen siblings noticed about you when they greeted you at the gates.
"princess helaena!" you said, taking to her first with a smile. you'd been good friends as children and you'd thought much of her welfare since getting word of her marriage to her brother. "how are you?"
she was soft as she'd always been, accepting a short hug as awkward as it was on her end. "i'm well, thank you, lady stark."
you held her hands as you pulled away, smiling brightly. "that is good to hear. i'm very glad to see you."
"i'm glad to see you too," she said, smile genuine as she met your eyes. "it'll be good to have another girl around."
"yes, i imagine we'll have a swell time," you hummed, nodding encouragingly.
your attention was then caught by the dramatic clearing of a throat and you turned to find a much older, much prettier aegon than you remembered. with his hair cropped short and wavy as it always was and his clothes tailored to fit him in a quite flattering manner, you understood why he had so many committed fans in king's landing.
your smile softened as you met his eyes, his smile lopsided and teasing as he stepped to cut in between you and his sister. he stole your hands from her grasp and turned you to face him entirely before raising both to his lips. he pressed a kiss to each hand and you couldn't help but smile wider.
"i've missed you, my friend," he said almost teasingly, grin widening as you let out a breathy laugh.
"oh, i'm sure you have, my prince," you hummed, tilting your head and matching his smile with a close-lipped one of your own. "i like the hair. it suits you."
he chuckled, squeezing your hands before releasing them and running one through his hair. "thank you. i think it does as well." he took in your appearance; the dark gown with beautiful billowing sleeves and a touch of fur at the shoulders, a shining silver necklace at your collarbone with a direwolf charm that just begged to be replaced at once. his eyes traveled the length of you twice over before he met your gaze again, your brows raised in amusement and expectance. "you look beautiful as ever. though, i look forward to seeing you in a bit less coverage - it is warm here in king's landing, you know."
"oh, i know, aegon," you laughed, rolling your eyes. "we'll see about that, though. i have a particular style to me as a stark, i must keep up with it."
"except you won't be a stark for much longer, will you?"
you looked past aegon to finally meet the singular eye of his younger brother, taller, leaner, with long, pin-straight hair that stood a bright white against the black leather of his tunic. the dragon sigil was stitched into the front of it in red and you frowned at the sight of it. and, well, at the sight of him.
you sidestepped aegon, the prince sighing and rolling his eyes as you did, and moved instead in front of his brother at a distance. aemond closed that distance quickly, reaching for your hand which you reluctantly offered.
"prince aemond," you said with a thin smile as he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. "it's been a long time."
"too long," he told you as he dropped your hand, mustering a matching smile and holding your eyes intently.
"i'd wager our little wolf here doesn't think it long enough, dear brother," aegon laughed, stepping past you to pat him on the shoulder. "come!" he waved a hand, glancing back at you with a grin. "we must get her inside before the sun burns her alive."
you rolled your eyes but followed him anyways, brushing past your betrothed without another thought to go to his brother's side instead. "i'm not a witch, aegon."
"no, you're a bitch," he agreed with a nod. he grinned as he met your eyes before linking an arm through yours and guiding you inside, aemond and helaena following behind you. "purely in the literal meaning, of course. a female dog, a she-wolf, if you will."
"thank you, aeg," you said, breathing out an incredulous laugh. "for that explanation."
he patted you on the hand. "anything for you, my dear. now come. the castle has missed our shared mischief, i'm sure."
behind you, aemond rolled his eyes and helaena offered him a sympathetic smile that he elected to ignore.
after a few days of settling in, you realized how much you'd forgotten about king's landing. you'd become used to the freezing temperatures of the north, the lack of flowers and color in the forests, and the downplayed decoration of your keep. especially during the struggle between your brother and uncle, beauty in temporal things wasn't often found, but here it was plentiful; elegant furnitures, tiles, carpeting, statues, paintings, fountains, and even the candlestick holders were made with a shining silver and had beautiful swirling designs covering their surfaces.
and the gardens, well, they were your favorite place to be.
"you haven't spoken to aemond," helaena pointed out, holding your arm as you walked slowly through the aisles, great rosebushes lining your way as jaehaerys and jaehaera bobbled ahead in front of you both, two years old and full of life. her eyes never actually met yours, instead watching her children or examining the flowers, but her attention was undoubtedly and entirely on you.
you sighed, glancing from her to where jaehaera was pulling at the petals of a lily. "yes, i have."
"you haven't," helaena retorted surely. "not since your arrival."
"i saw him in the hall this morning," you told her with a nod. "we were... cordial."
"not friendly?" she hummed.
you looked past the rose bushes to where the large fountain stood at the middle of the garden, large and beautiful and flowing with water. you wished you'd reached it already and it could be a distraction for you, but unfortunately the rows stretched on for a while. "we're not friends, helaena. not like you and i are."
"or you and aegon," she said, nodding as though she'd discovered some sort of truth in her statement. you frowned and she simply continued. "you've spent a lot of time with aegon."
"we are friends," you answered simply. "we enjoy one another."
her lips pursed. "do you wish he was the one you were marrying?" your eyes widened and you tensed, lips parting to answer but she cut you off, gaze afar off. "there's no need to lie. aegon and i do not love each other in that way."
and as much as you frowned on the incestuous marriage, that statement made you sad. for their sakes, you wished they'd grown to love each other that way, since it was all the chance they would get to do so.
you let out a thin breath, smiling even thinner. "if i were to choose," you started, sighing again. "yes, i would prefer aegon. we're friends. we get on better than i think aemond and i ever will."
"have you tried?" she asked, finally glancing to you. she searched your face for a second as you faltered. "you can't make an assumption of that sort before you try."
you swallowed, biting the inside of your cheek as you avoided her gaze and nodded slowly. "yes. yes, i suppose that is true."
"he's training now," she hummed, looking back to where the twins turned the corner for a final stretch to the fountain. "i think he'd enjoy if you paid him a visit."
you snorted. "i'm sure he would."
it was what you least enjoyed about him and what you were sure had grown the most as he aged; that arrogance that came from a sword.
she didn't answer you in words, simply looking to you with a flat expression that made a wash of guilt pass over you near instantly.
helaena was right. you needed to give him a chance.
you nodded, attempting a smile. "i'll go. perhaps we can take a bit of a walk afterwards."
"aemond enjoys walking," she said, nodding and staring ahead.
you couldn't help but smile as you watched her, nodding as well. "yes, i imagine he does." you didn't care to add that most people did, saving your quippy comments for her brothers instead.
when you both returned to the keep, you took a sharp left and steered instead towards the training yard, waving helaena and the twins away with a smile and a promise to see them at supper. it was then that cecily joined your side, catching your arm and offering you a smile.
"this is a very large castle," she told you, looking around. "the other servants have shown me around the place and i can hardly remember anything."
"you seem to be doing well enough," you answered. "you've found me."
"by chance," she laughed lightly, squeezing your arm. "where are we headed?"
you smiled small, nodding ahead to where the sound of steel on steel was beginning to emerge. "the yard. helaena thinks i need to acquaint myself better with aemond."
"i think she's right," your friend answered with a nod. "if you're going to marry him, why spend all the time you are with his brother instead."
that made you roll your eyes. "because aegon actually makes me laugh."
she rolled her eyes right back. "have you given prince aemond the opportunity to make you laugh?" you frowned and she nodded. "exactly. maybe he'll be even funnier."
you scoffed, muttering as you walked into the sideyard. "not likely."
you pulled cecily to stand with you, watching at the edge of the arena as both princes trained while ser criston cole instructed them. he looked exactly as you remembered him, not different in the slightest, and you almost wanted to smile at the familiar face until you remembered how frustrating he'd been in catching yours and aegon's tricks.
aegon didn't seem half as interested in the fight when his eyes caught yours, but when aemond's sword came crashing down against his he turned back. he grunted, brows furrowing as aemond continued to drive him backwards.
next to you, cecily laughed. "funniness doesn't win fights, apparently."
you pursed your lips. "no, but it will win women."
"well, i'm rooting for your betrothed," she hummed, smiling encouragingly as she glanced at you.
"good," you said. "someone has to."
she frowned, but you ignored it, watching the fight instead.
aegon was doing his best, you were sure, but aemond was simply... well, better. his moves were quick, strong, and sure, and in another minute aegon was disarmed, the tip of aemond's sword to his chest. the older breathed out a laugh, shaking his head.
"well done, brother," aegon said, stepping back to retrieve his sword once more.
aemond smiled amusingly, slowly turning to cross to the other side of the arena once more as he sheathed his sword. "yes, perhaps if you spend more time training instead of drinking, you'll actually-" he stalled as he spotted you, shoulders tensing. his smile disappeared and he finished his walk, coming to you instead at a much calmer pace. "my lady."
"you did well," you told him with a thin smile and a nod. "your skills have increased since last i saw. that or aegon's gotten considerably worse."
"likely both," he hummed in answer. he glanced to cecily at your side, brows knitting just slightly before he looked back to you. "what are you doing here?"
a teasing smile pulled at your lips, much more true than the polite one before it. "what, am i not welcome to watch?"
"no, you are," he said with a nod. "i just assumed you had no interest."
"well, i do have interest in watching my betrothed do what he is supposedly best at," you hummed, smiling wider as he smiled and looked away for a moment.
when his eye returned to yours, his voice dropped just slightly. "i assure you, my lady, this is not what i'm best at."
cecily's grip tightened on your arm as she did her best not to grin openly at you and you tensed, heart thudding frustratingly against your ribcage.
"yes, i've heard you're an awfully committed reader," you said with a short nod and a thinning grin.
he pursed his lips. "i am. do you read?"
"often," you answered simply.
"perhaps you'll join me in the library, then?" he asked, raising one brow.
you thought on it for a moment, the idea a poor taste in your mouth. reading was your only escape from the realities of your life, and you much preferred to keep it a solitary experience. especially when it came to the one-eyed prince.
"perhaps," you agreed lamely.
"i think that is a 'no'," aegon teased, stepping up behind aemond with his usual grin. he shot you a wink as you tried to suppress an amused smile, glad that your friend joined the conversation. "reading is not a very exciting activity for two betrotheds."
"at least it's a quiet one," you answered in tease, glancing to see aemond stifle the slightest bit.
he let out a short breath. "do all northerners have such barbing tongues as you, my lady?"
"it's commonplace, yes," you answered with a slight smile.
"i'd hope the eldest daughter of rickon stark wouldn't be so common, then," he told you.
several seconds passed in complete silence as you paused, finally breathing out a lame laugh as you looked instead to cecily and aegon. "well, that wasn't very nice."
"i'm simply being honest, my lady," he said with a faux smile, and it unsettled you to the max. and then he looked to aegon. "just as i'm being honest when i say aegon's moves were sloppy today. it was hardly a fight."
"i think i distracted him," you said with a smile, trying to bring a bit of humor back into the situation.
aegon laughed and moved to speak, but aemond spoke first.
"you are quite distracting," he told you, and it didn't seem like the compliment or tease it would have been had aegon said it.
you raised a brow, trying at a chuckle. "is that a good thing?"
he smiled thinly. "not if anyone is hoping to get quality practice in the yard."
that had you stalling. he's training now, helaena had said. he'd enjoy if you paid him a visit, she said. and you'd thought so too. especially if you complimented him as you had, and yet here he was, turning you down.
you matched his smile, though it wasn't close to reaching your eyes. cecily and aegon both tensed, brows knitted as they watched the two of you. "i'll be sure not to interrupt again, then."
"oh, it doesn't bother me," he hummed, trying at a fuller smile and nodding to aegon. "it only threw off my brother here. you're welcome to come anytime if he's going to get this flustered every time."
and that only seemed to make you all the more frustrated.
"no, it's fine," you said quickly. "i didn't mean to bother you. and quite frankly, i'd be glad if aegon had a better shot at beating you, so i'll stay far, far away. no worries there."
aemond caught the indirect compliment at his skill, and aegon the indirect insult, though he played it off with a laugh.
"i appreciate that, love," he said. "always looking out for me."
"i do my best," you answered with a small smile.
"hopefully you'll do your best for me as well," aemond said, humming quietly. "especially after we're married." he held your eyes for several long moments as you stilled and then looked past you. "i will see you at supper."
he sauntered on by, his stride slow and careful and long, and he didn't look back. you, instead, looked to aegon, grinning sideways as he met your eyes.
"he's a charmer, isn't he?" he said with raised brows.
"takes my breath away," you answered dryly. cecily gave you a disappointed look and you frowned. "he doesn't like me either, alright?"
"he invited you to the library," she told you.
"yes, out of politeness," you said. "same reason i'm here. we're to be married, but i doubt either of us like it."
aegon clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "it's a shame, really. we would've been one unstoppable duo."
you laughed. "yes, well, now i'll have to suffer along with aemond."
"good luck," he said.
"thank you, i'll need it."
you were probably meant to sit beside aemond at dinner, but you elected to sit beside helaena instead, across from aegon and diagonal to your betrothed. he watched you carefully, lips pulled down as you smiled and laughed with helaena and aegon throughout the dinner.
"that's exactly how it went," you said with a grin, sitting back in your chair as aegon detailed the story of the time aemond fell halfway down the staircase while the three of you were attempting to sneak from your rooms to go to the dragonpit.
aemond didn't have a dragon as a boy, but aegon did, and all three of you were obsessed with him.
"i did not fall," aemond said dryly.
"you did and it was hilarious," you told him, giggling again as you crossed your arms over your belly. "you nearly broke your nose you hit the ground so hard."
"this didn't happen," he said again.
"oh, brother, it did," aegon answered with a grin.
"well, if i remember correctly, that same night you got scared so badly by sunfyre that you nearly had an accident in the dragonpit," aemond said, raising his brows to you as an amused smirk pulled at his lips.
your eyes widened and you shook your head. "i did not!"
aegon was giggling beyond belief, nodding and tapping the table insistently. "oh, i remember that now. screamed so loud we thought you'd wake all of king's landing and give us away."
"didn't it give us away?" aemond asked, glancing sideways at him. "not so long after, ser criston came to fetch us."
aegon laughed harder. "oh, yes! she ruined everything!"
you threw your cloth napkin at him, frowning in an attempt to conceal your growing smile. "shut up, aeg!"
aemond glanced between you both, mustering a short laugh. he leaned forward, forearms on the table. "ah, but you did ruin everything."
your frown turned true then as you looked at him, brows knitting. "i did not!"
"you did," he chuckled, nodding his head. "every single time."
"actually, aemond, you were the one who ruined nearly everything," aegon said, leaning forward with a dramatically ironic smile and wide eyes as he sucked his teeth. "sorry to say."
you laughed, leaning back in your chair again. "see? it wasn't me!"
alicent wasn't impressed, lips pursed as she eyed you and aegon, the both of you getting increasingly more giggly as time passed. and, thanks to aegon's insistence, more drunk.
"more wine for the lady who never ruined anything," he said with a wink, grabbing the pitcher and pouring it into your goblet for you. helaena watched him with knitted brows and aemond quickly pulled it from his grasp.
"no more wine," he answered with a shake of his head, noting that the amount of cups you'd both had were nearing the double digits at this point in the night.
aegon frowned. "and why not?"
"your brother is right. it's getting late, you should all be off to your chambers soon," alicent said, sitting up with a nod.
"no, no," aegon said, shaking his head and standing quickly. "the night has only begun. come, my lady." he rounded the table, holding a hand to you. "let us dance."
"aegon-" alicent started, but she was cut off with a shake of his head and another bout of drunk giggles.
you weren't nearly as drunk as he, but a bit tipsy and excitable, and you placed your hand in his, standing as well.
"come on, come on!" he cheered, laughing as he pulled you back with him and the two of you began twirling around. you grinned, amused by your friend's antics, even as helaena lowered her gaze and alicent dropped her head in her hand, a short sigh slipping from her lips.
even as aemond's eye narrowed at the two of you, his entire body tensing as aegon's hand gripped your hip to pull you around with him, then spinning you before pulling you nearly chest to chest with him. over his shoulder, you caught aemond's gaze and winked, which only had him tensing and frowning deeper.
helaena frowned, obviously uncomfortable with the way aemond was openly glaring at the two of you and alicent sighed heavily.
"aemond-"
"i think it's late enough, now, don't you?" he asked, brows raised as he looked to his mother. when she didn't answer, instead looking past him at where neither you nor aegon had reacted to his stance, instead continuing to dance and giggle, he tilted his head. "don't you?"
"they're just having a bit of fun," she sighed, waving him off and even softening a touch as she watched aegon spin you again, the boy then spinning under your arm and earning another laugh from you.
aemond watched you and let out a heavy sigh through his nose, calming just slightly and standing to step towards you.
"aemond-" but she stopped when he simply held a hand out, brows raised.
"can i cut in?" he asked, almost hopefully.
and as you pulled away from aegon, not as reluctant as you normally would be thanks to the wine, you were quickly pulled away and thrust into another fit of giggles. aegon then took his brother's hand and attempted to twirl him, brows raised encouragingly. "of course, brother! go on, spin for us!"
you covered your mouth with your hand as you laughed, watching aemond and aegon closely. aemond wasn't amused in the slightest, pushing his brother away from him.
helaena took that moment to whisper to her mother, "i'm going to bed," and stood, and aemond had the greatest appreciation for her.
"yes," he said harshly, glaring at his brother. "i think it's time for bed."
aegon faltered, his laugh lowering as he glanced between you and aemond. you shrugged, still smiling, and so he shrugged as well. "if you insist, baby brother." he looked to you again, holding out his hand. "come, i'll walk you."
"no need," aemond said, voice low as he turned his eye to you and stepped between you and his brother. "i can walk my betrothed to her chambers."
the mention of that word shifted the air, a certain tension rising as you met his gaze and aegon faltered, stepping back. a furrow rose between his brows as he watched aemond, almost confused at his suddenly possessive behavior, but he nodded nonetheless.
"of course," aegon said. "how very cordial of you. acting as though the two of you didn't hate each other as children."
even you sighed at that. there wasn't a need to say it out loud, no matter how true it was. "aegon-"
"it's true!" he defended, brows raised. he glanced around the room as helaena snuck from it, breaths a bit quicker as she fled the scene. alicent sighed as she looked between the three of you and aegon nodded. "you despised each other."
"we didn't despise each other," aemond said shortly. "we just-"
"you did," aegon said with insistent nods. "you with your insults and glares," and he looked to you, "and you with your little quippy remarks. it was entertaining, really, and it's very entertaining watching you attempt to be polite and betrothed-ly now."
you sighed, head dropping into your hand. "aeg, that's not a word."
"you know what i mean," he said, waving you off. "you did not like each other in the slightest." he glanced from aemond to you, brows raising. "tell me i'm wrong."
you faltered, glancing between both brothers and then the queen. sure, you didn't have the fondest memories of aemond, but there were very few people that you truly hated.
except that wasn't the question.
and unfortunately, no, you didn't like aemond as a child. and honestly, you weren't the biggest fan of him now. recalling embarrassing memories and glaring at you and aegon and trying to demean you both at the training yard - none of it sat well with you.
"i think it's best we all go to bed," alicent cut in, her eyes only on you still as you let out a breath of relief.
both her boys turned to her with frowns. "mother-"
"bed!" she demanded, and they flinched, taking a step back from her.
aemond moved first, offering you his arm. and, with aegon's judgmental eyes on you, you took it, following him out of the dining hall as he practically dragged you along quickly.
it was dead silent until you reached your hallway, your chambers the only ones within the corridor that was occupied at the moment. your breaths were shallow as he stopped at your door, his grip on your arm switching to hold your wrist tightly as soon as your hand hit the doorknob.
you turned to him sharply, eyes widening slightly as his grip tightened. you tried to pull out of his grasp, but he refused, and you swallowed harshly. "thank you for walking me," you said politely, smile thin as you gave him a nod.
"i'll always be the one to walk you," he answered shortly. "not aegon. yes?"
"yes?" you echoed with raised brows.
"not a question this time," he said sternly. "aegon isn't to hold your arm or your hand or dance with you at dinner or walk you to your rooms. that isn't his job. it's mine."
you laughed. harshly. and he didn't appreciate it. "you know, it would almost be gentlemanly, wanting to do all those things for me, if you weren't being such a freak about it. why can't aegon be kind to me?"
"he isn't being kind," he answered with narrowed brows. "he's flirting. trust me, i've seen it before."
"does it really matter if he is or isn't?" you asked, raising your brows and tilting your head. "we're betrothed, aemond. not married."
he took a step towards you, crowding you against the door. your breath hitched as his face inched towards yours, his stare intense as his eye met yours. "we will be married, as is the agreement, and you will be mine, and you will not have anything to do with aegon or any other man," he promised intensely.
you let out a breath through your nose, your voice dropping as you reached back to wrap your fingers around the door handle. "i thought you hated me, and now you want to keep me for your own."
you didn't miss the way he glanced from your eyes to your lips and back up again, and you despised the way your heart jumped at it.
his voice was low as he answered, "the two aren't mutually exclusive, love."
your breath caught and you bit the inside of your cheek. you twisted the handle slowly, careful to not let it squeak. "don't call me that," you said shortly, and then you pushed the door open with a quick step back and swiftly move in before slamming it behind you before he could stop you, sliding the lock into place and letting out a harsh breath.
several four letter words ran through your mind as your back hit the door for the second time, and you ran a hand through your hair.
ok i'm trying to get in the groove of aemond. i'm not as witty as him, so it's gonna take so much brain power to come up with lines, but i feel like it was fine for a first try at his character
thanks for reading! leave a request in the comments or message me privately! i love writing, so if you've got an idea you need fleshed out on paper i'd love to be the one to do that for you
Summary: In a tragic car accident, Jack loses his wife, who was your best friend, and you lose your husband, the father of your child. Now both of you navigate life together and co-parenting your daughter, Evelyn, while also trying to figure out your feelings for each other.
Warning: death of side characters
The Pitt Masterlist
Yours and Jack's lives were intertwined for years. Your best friend was his wife. You were the Maid of Honor at their wedding. Then the accident and both of you lost the loves of your lives. You and Jack were close but after losing the most important people in your lives, you leaned on each other through grief and therapy. You vowed to each other that you couldn't lose each other now, you were stuck with one another.
Even moreso when you realized you were pregnant shortly after the accident. Jack was there for every appointment, when your morning sickness was really bad, and when you gave birth. Giving birth to Evelyn was a bittersweet thing. She was the most precious thing and she would never be able to meet her father.
"I'll take care the both of you. I promise." Jack said as he stood over you and Evie in the hospital bed.
It was just you and Evie living together for a short time until Jack proposed you move in with him. You fought him on it, tried to convince him that taking care of Evie will be a lot, but Jack has always been stubborn. He wanted to help you, not because you were his wife's best friend but also because he cared about you. It just made sense. So you relented fighting him.
The first year of Evie's life was...a lot. You had a lot of breakdowns because you were a single mother, you missed your husband, and you felt like you were a burden to Jack.
But Jack, despite his own issues, he'd been the stronger of the two of you. Despite his late hours at work, he still offered to watch Evie while you slept or ran errands.
He was your angel.
It wasn't until Evie got older that you started to question your feelings for Jack. Whenever the three of you went out, people thought you were a couple and Jack was Evie's father.
Hell, even Robby, Jack's fellow doctor at PMTC would joke about you being a cute little family.
But you did your best to ignore those comments. Because you couldn't have feelings for Jack. He was your best friend's husband, he was your friend. It just...can't happen.
_____________________________
"Uncle Jack Jack!" Evelyn calls out as you enter the Emergency Department.
Jack pops his head out from behind a curtain and his brows furrow. He excuses himself from his patient and fully steps out, "Everything okay?"
"Mommy got hurt!"
Jack looks looks you over and see's no visible visible injuries until you lift your wrapped up hand, "Evie dropped a glass. I was picking up some pieces and cut myself. It's...kinda deep."
He takes Evelyn into his arms, "Evie, honey, my friend Bridget," he points to one of the night shift nurses, "She's gonna watch you while I fix mommy's boo boo. Okay?"
"Okay," she says shyly as Jack hands her off.
"I'll be back, baby. Be good okay?" Evie nods as Bridget brings her to the break room to color.
Jack guides you to an empty room. You sit on the bed and hold up your hand to him. You watch him work in silence, but it's not awkward. You two are used to the occasional silence between you two. You take the time to enjoy the silence while he works on cleaning and stitching up your hand.
Eventually, he finishes and tosses his gloves in the trash, "Please be more careful next time."
You nod, "I know. I just...today has been chaotic."
He chuckles, "Tell me about it," he murmurs as he fills out your discharge papers.
"I-Thank you, Jack."
He nods, "Of course, sweetheart."
Your heart flutters at the nickname. He'd been calling you that a lot more recently, but you try not to think too much about it. You don't want to get your hopes up. You don't want to think that Jack has started seeing you differently like you with him.
He escorts you out of the room, his hand on your lower back. You hope he can't feel how hot your body has gotten under his touch.
You open the door and peek in. Evelyn and Bridget are coloring on some pages Dana had printed out, "Ready to go, baby?"
"Yeah," she scurries off the chair and to you. You lift her into your arms with a grunt and she holds out the paper she was working on, "Look Uncle Jack Jack!"
He glances at the unicorn coloring page with rainbow scribbles all over it. He smiles at your daughter, "It's beautiful, honey. You gonna put that on the fridge when you get home?"
"Uh huh!"
The three of you step out and bump into Samira, "Well if it isn't my favorite three year old!"
"Auntie Sami, mommy got hurt!"
Samira looks at you and you shake your head, "Cut my hand on glass. Very minor, Jack stitched me up just fine." You hold up your hand.
"That's good. Hope I never see you here under more serious circumstances."
You snort, "Join the club, babe," you bump hips with her, "I'll see you guys. See you at home, Jack."
"Bye Uncle Jack!"
"See you in the morning, baby," Jack waves at your daughter and watches as you exit the ED.
Once you're out, Samira looks at the attending night shift doctor, "Have you told her yet?"
Jack scoffs, "Fuck off, Mohan," and proceeds to walk away.
________________________
Dana sits with you on the picnic blanket, watching Jack and Evie play on the playground. You're laying on your back, sunglasses on, and enjoying the sun.
"You know he's basically Evie's dad, right?"
"Who?" you ask craning your neck to look at the older woman.
Dana chuckles, "Jack, obviously."
"I-I'm yeah. I guess he basically is." You sit up, but lean back, using your arms to prop you up. It always surprises you how much energy Jack still has for your daughter. It brings a smile to your face when Jack catches Evelyn and she squeals in delight.
"Oh brother, you're so fucked," Dana says with a cackle.
You groan falling onto your back again, "I know!"
"Why don't you tell him?"
"Absolutely not. That man has done so much for Evie and I. We've been such a burden and I don't want my baggage to bring him further down than he already is. He's got enough on his plate."
"Honey, you and he share the baggage. You're living out of the same fucking suitcase!" You shake your head and run your hands down your face. Dana tsks, "He cares about you, loves you and Evie. Does he love you romantically? Hell if I know! But what I do know is that man would go through Hell for you and your daughter. If he doesn't feel the same, sure, it sucks. But it's not like he's gonna kick you out if you tell him how you feel!"
You shake your head, "I'm not risking it, Dana. I can't. Besides...I don't deserve someone as caring as Jack. Besides, we're only bound together because of our shared trauma, which, according to my therapist, isn't necessarily good. So I gotta work through that."
"So what, you gonna quit him cold turkey or somethin'?"
You sit up again, watching Jack and Evelyn, "...I've been looking at apartments. Evie is still a hand full, but-but I think I can take care of her on my own now. I got that promotion I told you about, so I'm making more. I can move out of Jack's, become more independent." You look down and start picking at the grass, "I don't want to keep relying on Jack. He's done a lot for me and I feel like I've reciprocated very little to his life. He'll have more peace and quiet once Evie and I move out."
"Mommy!" Evelyn calls out for you, running ahead of Jack.
You smile at her, "You having fun, baby?" She crashes into you and you both fall back, giggling.
"Uncle Jack Jack gonna get me ice cream!"
Jack finally catches up, slightly planting, "Only if you're okay with it, sweetheart," he stands above you, hands on his hips.
You stand, "I'll get it for her. You go rest. I'm tagging you out."
Jack immediately pulls out his wallet, "Here-"
"Nope! Walking away! Don't see you!" You take Evie's hand and guide her to the ice cream truck in the parking lot.
Jack takes up your previous spot, "What were you two gossiping about?"
"You."
"Oh great," he says with an eyeroll, digging into your tote bag where you packed some snacks for the three of you. He opens a bag of trail mix and tosses some nuts and raisins in his mouth, "Should I be worried?"
The older woman shrugs, "That's for you to decide whenever she decides to talk to you."
Jack's face turns serious, "Dana-"
"It's not life threatening or anything. It's just....a potential lifestyle change."
Jack frowns even more and then turns to you and Evie at the ice cream truck. You're accepting a popsicle from the ice cream man and handing it to Evie. You hand the man cash and shake your head. Jack assumes you're telling the man to keep the change. You then turn and walk back towards Jack and Dana, Evelyn walking a little bit ahead of you.
"I got a rainbow pop!" the three year old exclaims in excitement. She plops herself onto Jack's lap.
You chuckle, "Careful, baby. Don't spill any on Uncle Jack Jack." You then catch Jack's gaze, "Everything okay?"
He softly smiles, "Yeah. We're good," he looks at Dana who nods.
______________________
When Jack comes home from work, you and Evie are already awake. The three year old tends to wake up much earlier than you'd like, but what can you do?
Evie is sitting in her high chair eating breakfast at the counter, "Uncle Jack Jack!"
Jack gives a tired smile to the little girl, "Mornin', baby," he kisses her head.
You're currently not the kitchen, but hearing the toilet flush in the distance lets him know you're in the bathroom.
On the kitchen counter is your laptop propped open. Jack doesn't mean to look at it, but something catches his eye. You're looking on an apartments website. His heart suddenly drops to his stomach.
He recalls the conversation he had with Dana weeks ago:
"Should I be worried?"
The older woman shrugs, "That's for you to decide whenever she decides to talk to you."
Jack's face turns serious, "Dana-"
"It's not life threatening or anything. It's just....a potential lifestyle change."
You plan on moving out.
Jack hears you approaching, "Your plate is in the microwa-" you stop when you see him staring at your laptop.
He turns the laptop to you and points at the screen, "You plan on moving out?"
You gulp, "I've been thinking about it."
He clenches his jaw, "Why? Why didn't you bring this up to me?"
You let out a deep breath and slowly approach him, "It's not a for sure thing yet, Jack." You close your laptop and slide it away from him. Avoiding his gaze, you say,"Just think I should be more independent and stop relying on you."
"I said I'd take care of you." In your peripherals, you see him cross his arms over his chest.
You continue to avoid looking at him, "I know and I really appreciate what you've done for me and Evie over the years, but-but I got a promotion. I'm making really good money now and Evie's getting older. I think it'd be best for us to be on our own. It's a good thing."
He scoffs, and leans one arm on the counter, "How'd it be a good thing? Evie should grow up in a house with two loving parents-"
"You're not her dad, Jack!" you burst out, frustrated that he just won't let you go. He grows still and you know you've hurt him, "I'm sorry, but you're not. And us moving out would be good for you! You get to have more freedom and peace-"
"Stop-"
"You can start dating and bring women over without having to worry-"
"Stop!"
"You're not going to be around forever-"
"Yes, I will because I love you!"
You're rendered speechless but his outburst confession. He runs his hands through his hair and sighs, "I love you. I love you and I love Evie like she's my own." He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, "Never, and I mean never, have I ever once regretted having you live with me. Never have I thought you and Evie were a burden. I can't imagine my life without you both. I love our little family and life that we have."
Your eyes are tearing up as you speak, "If you're saying this just so-"
"Sweetheart, I'm saying it because I mean it. It's not a trick. I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm trying to fight to keep what we have."
You begin to pace, "I don't-I don't-"
"Mommy," Evie calls for you and she looks upset, "Mommy sad?"
You sniffle and give your daughter a little smile, "I'll be alright, baby."
Jack takes a step closer to you, "Y/N-"
You shake your head, "Go take a shower and go to sleep. You're exhausted, Jack. We'll continue this later," you mumble, helping Evie out of the high chair and bringing her to the sink to clean up.
You don't see it, but Jack's body sags a bit after your dismissal. He wants to continue the conversation, but you're right. He is tired and maybe some rest will allow him to gather his thoughts properly.
Summary: From a young age, the animal kingdom had fascinated you, and maybe that's why you chose to pursue that passion. You quickly became a force within the field, becoming the leading expert on ape social structures, which is how you found yourself on an expedition into the African jungles searching for a troop of gorillas. What you weren't expecting, however, was to run into the local wild man on one of your excursions... (Tarzan!AU)
Series CW: Language, Inaccurate science jargon, Inaccurate field jargon, Poaching, Animal Cruelty, Inaccurate Climate Depictions, Wild Man who doesn't know much, Wild Man in the big city, Exploitation, Corporate Greed, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Violence. Individual chapters will have their own warnings.
All posts related to this series will be tagged with "SLM," "Stranger Like Me," and/or "Tarzan!Jackâ.
*Denotes Smut
Main Masterlist || Jack Abbot Masterlist || Blog Rules || Writing Rules
content warnings: a lil bit smutty, bit of an age gap, pining, the whole ED gang, fluffy <3
summary: the 4 times they didnât get caught and the 1 time they did
Ë˰â˘*ââˇ
In hindsight, the first time they were almost caught, was probably the closest call.
They were at a lake resort, about an hour or so outside of Pittsburgh, for the annual Emergency Department resident program retreat. The air was muggy - thick with humidity and loud with the mundane buzzing of mosquitoes.
Every year, after the chief residents graduate, the attendings take the whole program on a weekend retreat somewhere. Usually it is some random bed and breakfast that barely has a pool. Not that anyone cares. Everyone is happy for a weekend of relaxation and the chance to actually see the sun for 48 hours.
The hospital funds an abysmally small portion of the retreat since it is technically the time when everyone gives their feedback on the residency program. Graduating residents and attending physicians partake in evaluations on both the program and each other. The attendings rotate every year who pays for the rest of it. This year, it was Dr Abbot's turn.
Dr Abbot had spared no expense. They were at one of the nicest resorts in Pennsylvania. It had everything. Horse riding, axe throwing, two golf courses, bowling, cooking classes, a holistic healing spa, and what the residents had all decided was the one thing more tiring than the ED - the Team Building Adventure Package they were all signed up for.
The attendings spent the weekend doing who knows what while the residents conquered a high ropes challenge course, zip lining, and a climbing wall.
Yes, Dr Abbot had spared no expense but he had spared no free time either.
She was excited for this trip. For the sunshine, sure. But the chance to finally, maybe, get Dr Abbot to crack. She saw the way he tried to pretend not to look at her in the ED. She noticed the hoops he would jump through to have her on a case with him. The random excuses he made up to text her - citing some random medical journal that yes, she was interested in. But she was far more interested in him.
If only he wasn't such a damn good guy. She knew he would never touch his resident no matter how much he liked her. They have had too many late night and early morning conversations up on the roof or at the diner next to the hospital or that bench in the park across the street where he had had his chance. So many times. She knew he was waiting for her to give the green light. For her to make the first move.
One night he started calling the bench in the park 'their bench'. She almost kissed him that night. But she chickened out. Now that residency was over and she would be starting as an attending at The Pitt shortly, she was feeling a newfound sense of confidence. So she bought a new string bikini for the retreat. If only she had had a chance to wear it. Or even see him.
Jack smiles to himself as he dips into the lake. He feels kind of bad. Making the residents work like this on the retreat. But he knew he couldn't see her in a bikini so he packed their schedules with the random team building program the resort had offered.
He already felt disrespectful enough with the thoughts he had about her when she was in hospital issued scrubs. If he saw her in a bikini, he would not make it through this weekend without cracking. Her half naked and technically no longer being his resident was a very dangerous combination and he was thanking his lucky stars that he had made it through the full 48 hours barely even seeing her. He missed her, of course. But she was better off without him. Practically 15 years his junior and Jack was almost certain she didn't see him as anything other than a good boss or a mentor.
Some nights he let himself think otherwise. Usually, when they'd go sit and chat on their bench and something in her eyes was practically begging him to kiss her. Jack would just chalk it up to him projecting onto her. Because gosh, he wanted to kiss her so bad. But he respected her too much to put her in a potentially uncomfortable situation.
Yes, they were close. Yes, they got along. Yes, they laughed together. Yes, they cried together and then comforted each other. But he did not want to be the male attending that took his resident simply being kind to him as romantic interest.
He lets himself actually think about her for the first time since they saw each other at check in. He can't help but huff a laugh to himself at the fact that she is probably pissed off at him for making them do so much physical activity over the weekend. He is definitely going to be hearing about it tomorrow on their shift. He can't wait to see her.
A creak on the dock shakes him out of his thoughts.
He must be dreaming. He did everything possible to avoid her this weekend. Specifically, her in a bikini. And here she was, practically glowing in the moonlight, wearing the tiniest purple string bikini and a knit cover up dress that wasn't doing much covering up. Jack is happy it is dark out because he is pretty sure that his face is tomato red.
She doesn't say anything. Just stops at the end of the dock, staring at him with her hand on her hip.
"What are you doing here?" is all he manages to choke out.
"Well, I bought this new bikini and haven't had a chance to use it because you've had us running around like a drill sergeant all weekend. Figured it would be a shame to waste it."
Jack is trying not to check her out but he knows he is doing a poor job when all he can respond with is, "Yeah, definitely"
She doesn't seem to notice. Just plops herself down onto the dock, her feet hanging in the water.
"Plus, I believe that I'm owed an evaluation with my attending."
Technically, one can do their evaluation of their primary attending with said primary attending, but since that is entirely counterintuitive to honest feedback, they give the residents the option to do it anonymously online or meet with another attending that is not their primary. No one ever does it with their primary attending no matter how good a relationship they have with them.
Jack knew she had already had her evaluation of him earlier today. She did it with Robby. He knew because he went against everything good and honest in him and read her file. He was dying to know what she said about him. And unsurprisingly, it was all good things. All professional things. Too professional for his liking.
Jack is typically a chatter box but the moon shining on her face is making her look more like a princess than normal and he feels breathless. He's happy to get out the couple words he is able, "You're brave."
They just stare at each other for a moment. It feels like a standoff. Who is actually going to acknowledge that they're both half naked and alone for the first time in well...ever?
"And you're stalling. C'mon, you get to give me feedback all day everyday. It's my turn, Dr Abbot."
She flips her hair and tugs her coverup up and over her head - sets it down onto the dock next to his prosthetic. Jack sucks in a breath and doesn't even try to hide the fact that he is checking her out. She's doing the same to his bare chest and biceps. Jack barely notices because he is too busy wondering where the hell she managed to get a bikini that small.
The little smirk on her lips is what confirms for Jack that she knows exactly what she is doing. Two can play at this game, he thinks. He skips the boring questions about patient care and gets right to the questions he knows she is hoping he asks.
"How do you feel your attending's behavior impacts your learning experience as a resident?"
"The praise is encouraging. But the staring, the intense eye contact-" she pauses and Jack would laugh at the irony of it all, her eyes boring into his as she says this, if he wasn't holding his breath in anticipation, "-is distracting. But still encouraging."
Jack is silent for a moment then gives himself a quick mental pep talk. If he can be brave enough to be in combat, he can handle flirting with his colleague, "Well, if my staring is such a problem, why does it sound like you like it?."
"You wish." She kicks her leg as she giggles, splashing him. Her giggles stop quickly, the second Jack's strong hands wrap around her lifted ankle. He feels a sense of pride at her gasp and lets himself think that maybe, just maybe, he makes her feel the same way she makes him feel.
If only he could hear her heart pounding in her chest. He takes her foot in his hands gently, massages the arch of it as he asks the next question, "How stimulating do you find your attending's teaching style?
Jack can't hide the smirk that takes over his face as he realizes that she is struggling to answer - because of his fingers, "Do you need me to repeat the question?"
She rolls her eyes. In the way she does so often, but this time it is a little different - forced. As she answers, she is hoping he hasn't noticed that her faux annoyance is actually just a front for how turned on she is over such little touch.
"Stimulating? Mentally, very. Physically, thereâs a lot to beâŚdesired."
He drops her foot in surprise at her direct answer and for the first time tonight allows himself to believe the fact that this might actually be happening. She takes his brief shock as her chance to dip into the lake. It's pretty shallow. The water line is high enough to lap at her neck , but short enough to where they both could either stand or tread water. He swims a stroke towards her, they are almost nose to nose but they do not dare touch. Jack breaks the silence, but not her gaze.
"To what extent do you feel your attending demonstrates ethical behavior?"
The question she has been waiting for. She doesn't miss a beat in her response, "To an annoying one."
Jack's eyebrows raise in surprise, "That's a first."
Somehow, they both manage to get a small laugh out. Jack is first and foremost a combat medic. There are numerous colleagues of his that would argue his use of, what they would consider risky procedures, isn't necessarily the most ethical thing of all time.
"Can you expand on what is so...annoying?"
"You're always looking but...you're never touching."
"Well, some would say that touching your resident would be unethical."
"Some would say that youâre teasing."
"Oh, really? Who? Did you raise your concern with Robby? What did he have to say?"
They both feel the air shift. It's the fun of their dynamic. He lets her have her fun. Lets her have control. Lets her take the lead. Lets her be her. Because they both know at the end of the day, the only other person she is ever going to follow the lead of, feel safe enough to be vulnerable around, is him. And he is damn honored.
"You know I didn't." He wants to kiss the pout off of her face - it's so cute.
"You know, he didn't mention you going to his evaluation in the tiniest bikini on planet earth so I am going to assume -" Jack traces the bikini strings on her hips then snaps them against her skin as she gasps at him finally touching her. "-that this is all for me."
Now she is the one left speechless. She recovers flawlessly, "Also, meant to put that in your evaluation. Too cocky."
"Why didn't you ask Robby?"
"Jack-"
"When I ask my residents questions, I expect an answer. You know that." Jack's hands move up, rubbing at the sides of her waist. He feels how fast her heart is beating now. The pace matches his own, making his breath hitch. The confirmation that she is feeling as keyed up as he is gives him the confidence to brush his fingers, just under her breast, but careful not to touch it.
"Because I don't want Robby to touch me." His hands drift to the back of her thighs, lifting her legs around his waist. She feels him hard against her and tries not to drop her head back in the satisfaction of finally feeling him. She reaches her hands around his neck, rests them where his curls are. The curls she's imagined running her hands through what feels like a million times. Jack's hands rub up and down the back of her thighs as he holds her up. His fingers are dangerously close to her ass, but again, he's careful not to touch. Not until she says so.
"Who do you want to touch you then?"
She rolls her eyes again. This one is different too. But it's not forced like the first one. It's frustrated - sexually frustrated. "You know who."
"Whitaker? Shen? Langd-"
She mumbles "You're so annoying" before she is going to kiss him. He doesn't know where this sudden will power is coming from, but he stops her, one hand holding her up and the other on the back of her neck - keeping her in place.
"What'd I say about when I ask questions, hm?" Jack can't stop staring at her lips. Her full, perfectly pink lips that are so, so close to his own. They haven't even kissed yet and he's so far gone. They both are. He feels himself harden more than he thought was possible as she practically pants for his kiss.
Jack can't take it anymore, his thumb reaches under her bikini top, grazes across her nipple. He'd rather bite it but he'll save that for later. He can't wait to find out what pretty noises she'll make then if these are the ones she is making now.
"Oh my god! You, Jack! I want you to touch me! Happy!?"
"Unethically so"
And in one swift movement, Jack pulls her lips to his, swiping into her mouth almost immediately. She whimpers at the feeling of his tongue against hers. Jack draws back just a little bit, to snag her full bottom lip with his teeth. He's pressing a searing kiss to her lips again as his hands reach for the strings around her back and then her neck, tugging them loose. His other hand that is kneading her ass grabs the strings on her bottoms, pulls those loose as well. He grabs the scraps of fabric and tosses them onto the dock.
He drinks her in and if he thought the moonlight made her look perfect earlier, he doesn't even have an adjective for right now.
He always assumed there would be a sun in heaven but now he is sure that there is a moon. She tugs at his curls as she presses another hungry kiss to his lips, her hands dragging down his body and slowly scratching his biceps. Yes, definitely a moon.
Jack dips his head, takes one of her breasts into his mouth. Licking and nipping at one with his mouth. Kneading the other with his hand.
He comes up for air and a bit of teasing, "This unethical enough for you?"
She smiles at him in a dazed way that makes his heart stop. "Almost" she whispers in his ear, letting her lips run down his neck - lightly kissing, sucking at the sensitive spots, and then trailing her tongue over them.
She runs her finger under the waistband of his swim trunks. He moans at the feeling of her finally touching him. She feels him smirk into his neck as he takes off his trunks, throwing them on top of her swimsuit on the dock.
Her mouth is on his again. Hot and desperate. Jack can't help but think he is the luckiest man on the planet now that he knows that she is just as needy for him as he is for her. She grinds her center down onto his hard length, and they both let out a groan. Yes, definitely the luckiest man on the planet.
"You know how long I have been waiting for you to kiss me?"
Jack is panting, he whispers back, practically speaking the words right onto her lips. "Didn't want you to feel weird. You deal with enough at work - you didn't need your old attending hitting on you."
"I knew it." That makes Jack pause.
"What?"
"You weren't making a move because you were my attending. I gave you so many damn chances and you would just stare at me. That bikini was my last resort."
"That bikini - is going to give me a heart attack. And I know this is ironic because we are skinny dipping and making out like teenagers who are past curfew but I have way too much respect for you to assume you loved me back without explicit verbal consent."
Jack doesn't even realize it slipped out until he sees the expressions move over her face. First surprise, then just pure joy, "Love?" she teases, her eyebrows raising and her hands clasped at the back of his neck.
Jack just grins, his thumb brushing her cheek as he kisses her again and whispers softly against her lips, "Yeah, I love you."
She tosses her head back and laughs. His favorite sound. Even though they are completely naked right now - it's her laugh that is making him blush the hardest. "God, I love you. I'm gonna leave the world's most positive review for that bikini because I have been trying to get you to admit that for years and if I knew that was all it would take - I would have done this a long time ago."
"Yeah?" Jack can't believe his ears. But she is nodding her head, mumbling to him that he is an idiot, and kissing him again because she can't get enough. Neither of them can. They have about four years to make up for. They could kiss forever. But a door slamming against the wood of one of the cabins breaks them apart.
"Oh my fucking god" she whispers. She would recognize that blonde head of hair anywhere. And under any other circumstances, she would be more than happy to see it.
Jack grabs their swimsuits off of the deck and into his hands, under the water and hidden from view. She flies under the dock. The space is small, but large enough for her to not have to go under water. She's hidden and doesn't have to hold her breath - that is all she cares about. She clamps a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
"I thought I told you that smoking was bad for you."Jack huffs. Dana laughs. There is a flicker of a lighter but it goes out just as fast as it was lit. It's broken. Dana sighs.
"Well, I need to go find a lighter that actually works but since I'm here - you feeling okay?" There's a lilt to Dana's tone. A teasing one.
Jack's brow furrows, "Why would I not be?"
"I don't know - I just transcribed all the attending reviews of the residents and I don't think I have ever read a more glowing review from you. I mean that thing could practically pass as a love letter.â
"She's a great doctor."
Dana cackles, "I didn't even say who it was."
Jack just laughs and for the millionth time that night he is thankful it is dark out because his cheeks are burning. "Okay, you caught me."
"But she is a great doctor. A great person too. Funny, kind, pretty, smart." a pause and then, "No longer your resident" another pause, "...single."
"Dana - what happened to you going to find a lighter that works?" That cracks a laugh from both of them.
"Fine, I'll leave you be - but you deserve to be happy too, Jack. So does she. I think you both do that for each other. Just keep that in mind."
"Goodnight, therapist Dana" Jack sing songs.
"Goodnight!" She yells back from her trek to the cabins. They wait for the click off the door before they are in the clear.
"Don't say a word" is flying out of Jack's mouth at the same time she teases, barely getting the words out between her giggles. "What a wing woman Dana is. Gosh, I just love her."
"Wing woman? Sounds like you have a crush."
Her eyebrows fly up her forehead in faux surprise as she points behind her to where Dana once was moments ago, "Oh, really? Because youâre writing love letters about me to our employer and everything. It sounds like you're obsessed with me!â
Jack mumbles a coy 'Something along those lines' and playfully tosses her bikini at her "Get dressed - lets go."
Jack is pulling his trunks on and jumping out of the lake and onto the dock. He tugs his prosthetic on and reaches out a hand to her. She just stares at him - blank and confused. They were finally there and now he wants to leave just because Dana had to smoke a cigarette.
He silences any doubt in her brain, "I'm not fucking you for the first time in a lake. You deserve a bed and not a UTI."
That tugs a laugh and a smile out of her. She ties on her bottoms and the bottom half of her top before she takes Jack's hand and climbs up onto the deck.
"Who knew what a gentleman you are." She turns her back to him, signalling for him to finish tying her bikini.
His whisper on the back of her neck makes her legs wobble in anticipation, "and I can't properly feel how wet you are for me if we're in the water."
"There he is."
They are a tangle of limbs and kisses and giggles as they slowly but surely make their way back to Jack's cabin. It is truly a miracle they don't get caught.
Ë˰â˘*ââˇ
The second time they'd almost been caught was practically a year from the first. It'd been a year since the lake. A year of finally loving each other. A year of somehow, someway - not being caught at work - despite Jack being absolutely, positively awful at keeping them a secret.
They were head over heels in love and he was a shameless flirt. The only thing saving them was that he was a bad flirt so nobody had really noticed yet. Or so they'd hoped.
She had moved into Jack's house two months ago. If he had it his way, she would have moved in about six months ago. She was always there anyway. That is what he would say.
They had spent all morning hiding her stuff - making it look like she had never even stepped foot in the place. She was even practicing her reaction to 'seeing his house for the first time'. Jack couldn't stop smiling at her. He was just happy she was finally referring to everything in the house as 'theirs' and not 'his' - even if he was being bossed around. He liked it. He loved her. More than anything.
Every year, one of the attendings hosts a welcome barbeque for the new interns and med students that join the program in July. The whole program comes, at least the ones who aren't working, from the newest third year med student to the most seasoned attending.
Usually, if there is a new attending, they are supposed to host after their first year on the job. Jack made up some random excuse as to why he wanted to host. Everyone looked at him like he had three heads when he had volunteered but he knew that she couldn't exactly send out an invitation with the same address as him and not blow their cover.
They had spent all afternoon on absolute opposite ends of their backyard. Jack posted up with Robby at the grill. She was lounging on the pool chairs with Dana, Collins, and Mel.
She was killing him. She wasn't in that purple bikini. This was a work function after all. But she could wear a paper bag and Jack would be sweating so the high cut swimsuit she was in now wasn't helping his case. The only thing getting him through the afternoon was knowing how she would be once everyone was gone.
She likes to tease that he is the needy one. And normally, she is right. But if there's a couple hours where they are on separate shifts or apart for whatever reason, having to pretend like they are not practically engaged, she is on him like glue the moment they're together again. And she doesn't leave him be. Jack relishes in it.
Like he is right now. They're putting the house back together. Getting all her stuff out and back in its rightful place. When they set up this morning, they had basically split the house in half and tackled it that way. Now she trailed behind him like a cute puppy, holding onto his bicep and nuzzling herself into his side. "Can we please do this tomorrow? I just wanna lay with you. I'm tired."
Jack is so giddy, he practically giggles. He slowly lowers himself onto their plush patio furniture. Tugs her down on top of him. Her legs on either side of his waist and her arms finding their usual place around his neck - her hands in his hair. He cups her face, presses a long kiss to her lips and then speaks against them, "From what? Laying by the pool and teasing me all day?"
"From pretending that this isn't our house."
Jack grins at the emphasis, and then they're both in a fit of laughter thinking about the hilarity of the day. Of their situation. Of how they silently communicate that they don't think they can keep sneaking around for much longer. They don't really want to. They know this is it. That they are it for each other. So everyone is going to find out eventually anyways.
He imitates her, "Dr Abbot, where is the garbage can? Dr Abbot, where is the bathroom? Dr Abbot, where is the-"
She covers his mouth with his palm and feigns annoyance as she rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to ask where the bedroom is if you don't shut up."
"Don't need the bedroom. Got you right where I want you, baby." He's slipping off that damn cover up that is really never doing its job anyways and laying her down on the daybed.
He's kissing down her body, slowly. Doing his favorite thing - worshipping her. Her hands pull at his curls and he lifts his lips from her body only to murmur against her hip, "Been dying to taste you all fucking day."
He's pulled her bottoms not even halfway down her thighs when they hear the lock on their fence rattle. She is up and running into the house faster than Jack can even blink. He can't help but double over in laughter - he has never seen her move that fast in their lives - not even for a code.
Robby's voice shuts Jack right up, "Why are you laughing to yourself?"
"Why are you breaking into my backyard?"
"I forgot my sunglasses." Robby walks over to where Jack stands by the daybed. He picks up a pair of sunglasses off of the side table.
Abbot nods to them, "Those look like Heather's sunglasses."
Robby doesn't miss a beat, "And that-" he juts his chin towards the coverup that was left abandoned on the daybed, "-looks like something that belongs to another doctor we know."
Jack feels his face heat up, "She must have left it here."
"I was talking about Shen." Robby jokes, cracking one of those smiles that reaches his eyes. A knowing smile.
Jack just has to laugh. It is Robby after all, "I'll bring it to her next shift."
"Oh, I'm sure you will, brother. I'm sure you will. Along with a coffee and probably an engagement ring if it was up to you."
If only he knew, Jack thought.
Ë˰â˘*ââˇ
After that day at the barbeque, Jack and her fess up to Robby and Collins. They were both their respective best friends. It was getting too hard and they really didn't see a reason for it anymore.
Robby and Collins were about as surprised as Jack and her were when they found out about them giving it another go - so not surprised at all.
It was Tuesday night the third time they almost got caught. A Tuesday night meant Robby and Jack had a basketball game for the ED's rec team and Collins and her would go to yoga and for a walk. Probably stopping at some kind of wine bar along the way that Jack and Robby would eventually meet them at.
Tonight was different though. Collins and her took their walk straight to the park district that the hospital league played at because tonight was the championship game and the whole department was going to support.
âOh look who decided to grace us with their presence.â Robby teases the second they walk into the gym.
The boys on the team are warming up - Robby, Whitaker, Langdon, Shen, and Jack. She feels Jack's eyes looking her up and down - she didn't wear the matching workout set for no reason. The biker shorts were short and tight. The sports bra was low cut and tighter. She had a sweatshirt on over it though - gives him something to take off later.
Jack just smirks and tosses her the basketball. She catches it with ease and effortlessly sinks a shot. She hears Dana and some of the rest of their work friends cheer from their spot in the stands.
âOoo look! Sheâs got better game than you, Dr Abbotâ Robby nudges his shoulder.
She rebounds her own ball and shoves it back into Jackâs chest as she responds. Heâs smiling down at her. He wants to kiss her so bad, "Someone has got to show you fools how itâs done.â
Her and Collins cross the gym and take the steps up into the stands to meet the rest of the department.
"Don't turn around, it'll make it obvious, but Dr Abbot is staring at your ass." Victoria whispers it to her like itâs the most scandalous thing in the world.
Victoria is being so sweet, trying to be helpful - she doesn't want to laugh at Victoria but Dana's response makes her and Collins crack up. They can't help it.
âWouldnât be the first time, kid!â
Oh and Dana knows now too. Dana is like a second mom to her. She couldn't not thank Dana for wing womaning for her that night out on the lake. Even if Dana was a little floored at finding out what she had actually interrupted that night.
"Dana!" She tries to pretend to be shocked. But their facade is fading quickly and neither of them particularly care too much. The only thing they care about now is the bet they have going on who is going to be the one to accidentally get them caught.
"Cheers!" Dana starts as she hands over a solo cup full of wine that she had packed in the cooler next to her. "to Coach Abbot." Dana finishes.
Now she is the one staring. Jack pulls off his sweatshirt, exposing his biceps in the tank style jersey they've all got on. She huffs a laugh at the fact that every other department has a color jersey and the ED's is camo patterned because Jack paid extra to get it. She can't necessarily claim she is paying attention to the game but she is paying attention to him and how good he looks as he plays.
She also feels a tug of pride in her belly. It may sound stupid, but playing a pick up basketball game was once thought to be impossible for an amputee like Jack. She had gotten him the special running prosthetics for his birthday. She had spent an exorbitant amount of money for him to be able to participate in this rec league. But she would have spent much more because it wasn't about the money. It was about him feeling good, feeling like himself, being able to do all the things he loves to do - no matter what. That was priceless.
The game flies by. So does the wine. At some point Dana suggests that if she had enough wine on her they should drink every time Jack looks up at her when he makes a shot and everytime Langdon airballs a shot.
The team sits on the bench as they prepare for the last quarter. A groan comes from Jack, then a low 'Fuck' and she is doing her best not to seem overly concerned. Suspiciously concerned. He doesn't seem hurt. He's been moving great.
But then she sees it. The broken running prosthetic. He places it in his bag and replaces it with his normal prosthetic. He seems fine but her heart sinks for him. He must feel her or something because he turns around and gives her a small smile and a thumbs up. That makes her feel better. Collins nudges her shoulder, pointing towards Shen who apparently had just called her name twice.
She tears her gaze from Jack now that she knows he is okay, âWhat?â
âWe need a fifth person.â
âOkay?â She asks, confused. What does that have to do with her?
âJack said you played basketball in high school.â
âNot particularly well.â She glares at Jack. He knew she wasnât great. Sure, she had a bit of a shot on her, but she hadn't actually played a game of basketball in over ten years.
âWe donât need well, we just need able.â Langdon pipes up in a completely non encouraging way that only Langdon can.
âConvincing.â she deadpans.
âPlease, we just need someone who knows the rules. Unless anyone else in the department would like to reveal that they are secretly a basketball legend.â Shen looks at the department, sitting in the stands behind their bench.
The department looks at her. She sets down her solo cup and stands up, making her way down the few stairs to the bench, âI want it on record that Iâm a glass and a half of wine deep. And Dana is pouring so that probably is more like two and a half."
Everyone claps and cheers and whistles. Then Jack takes off his jersey to hand to her, she takes off her sweatshirt and the whistles get louder.
Her sports bra dips lower onto her cleavage than she was ever planning on letting her coworkers see. She didnât even know she had the mark on the top of her breast until Langdon yelled from down the bench, âWhat are you hooking up with a teenager or something? Whatâs with the hickey?â
She is absolutely beat red and Jack actually does a bit of spit take from his water bottle. Jack and her were adults. They werenât in the habit of giving each other visible marks, but marking eachother in places noone else can see? That was a different story.
"Oh my god." She has never tugged a piece of clothing on to her body faster. The jersey falls over her like a dress, going past her biker shorts and hitting mid thigh.
She quickly scans Jackâs chest as he pulls a plain back tshirt on, praying to whoever will listen that she didnât leave a mark anywhere on him last night. She sighs in relief at the fact that the only marks are his permanent ones. The ones she loves tracing - his freckles, his birth marks, some scars. Sheâs made a habit out of kissing the scars.
She would maybe be a little sheepish about wearing a jersey with a big 'ABBOT' on the back in front of all of their coworkers if Langdon hadn't just made her hickey everyone's business.
"Okay on that note, let's finish this game." She manages to huff a laugh and rounds the bench to sit with the rest of them. Landgon is bent over, tying his shoe. She knocks him over and he mumbles something about probably deserving that. She feels a bit better.
Jack is up and in front of the five of them, explaining some play on his white board as seriously as he explains assignments in the trauma bay. She takes a peak at their teammates, to see if they are also taking this as serious. They are - deadly so.
She can't help but start to giggle as the buzzer goes off and they're making their way to the court. They all look like they've seen a dead body, âGuys, lighten up. Weâre playing radiology, not the 90s Bulls.â
She feels a gentle tug on the back of her jersey, pulling her back to the bench where Jack is. She slowly turns around to him, her eyes basically popping out of her head. Telling him what her mouth can't say. Could he be literally any more obvious?
âWhat can I do for you, captain obvious?â
Jack lets the jersey go immediately, âSorry - habit."
Her heart warms at that because she gets it. It's hard when they're at work - not to reach out and just touch each other. Not even in a sexual way, just in the way that they feel like extensions of each other and it's weird to not be able to touch when they want.
She's technically still on the court and he is technically at the bench, but he is the closest a coach can get to the sideline without being on the court and she is the closest a player can get to the sideline without being out of bounds.
Close enough to hear him say, "Just wanted it also on the record that Iâve seen you accomplish much more impressive, physically demanding activities than a basketball game while a glass and a half of wine deep. Like when you were hooking up with that teenager last night.â
She can't help but whip back around agape at him, a smile threatening to take over her face, âYouâre a dog.â
"And stop looking at me like that."
"What? Iâm in trouble for looking at my coach?"
"You're in trouble for looking at me like that with my last name on your back."
She opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by the referee who she is pretty sure is just a resident from psychiatry, "If the Emergency Department coach is done flirting with their new player, we can get this fourth quarter started."
She hears Collins and Dana cackle in the stands. Jack and her are both flushed for what feels like the millionth time that night and not from the basketball. The whistle blows and then the fourth quarter is well underway.
There is maybe a little more than a minute left in the game and against all odds, they are only down by four. She hasn't done awesome. She hasn't done bad. She's hit a couple mid range shots. Missed some too. But now she was definitely flushed from the basketball - they'd been running up and down the court for eleven minutes straight. And radiology had substitutions.
Robby makes an easy layup and they're back on defense. radiology is passing the ball around, trying to kill time. She hears Jack tell Langdon to foul his player with the ball. He does, the guy misses both his free throws, and now the ball is back in their possession - for likely the last play of the game.
Robby dribbles the ball up the court. Maybe three seconds left and now they are only down by two. He dishes it out left to her. She's out on the left wing, behind the three point line and closest to the bench. The ball reaches her hands. All she hears is Jack muttering, "Shoot".
So she does. The ball leaves her fingertips and swishes through the net right as the buzzer sounds.
She turns around to look at Jack, her jaw dropped and a little shocked. "You did it! We won!"
And then they're both laughing. And his arms are around her waist, lifting her up and spinning her around before they both remember where they are. And who is watching. He sets her down and Robby claps a hand on her shoulder, "Be careful or we're gonna put you on the team next year."
"Absolutely not." She huffs, sipping her water bottle.
"I'm sorry - were you guys just hugging? We're all not going to ignore that, right?" Shen can't help himself. She knew he wouldn't.
"She did a good job." Jack says nonchalantly. As if they embrace like that all the time.
"I've done a good job all season. Where's my hug?"
"Those are reserved for players our coach has a crush on." Robby teases.
"Michael!" Heather chastises from the stands and that gets everyone going even more.
"Michael? Since when do you call him Michael-" Langdon trails off - figuring out for himself what's going on.
Jack and her just look over at Heather appreciatively. She mouths a silent 'Thank you' to Heather for taking the heat off of them.
Ë˰â˘*ââˇ
After seeing his last name on her back at the basketball game, and honestly way before then too, Jack could not stop thinking about calling her his wife.
They both knew that was eventually happening. They'd talked about it. They went ring shopping. She gave him a general idea of what she liked and then she left him to his own devices. She still wanted to be surprised. And she was still waiting to be surprised because he hadn't proposed yet but she was almost positive he had bought a ring because he had been acting so skittish the past week or so.
They're working the day shift together the fourth and final time they almost get caught. Robby and Collins went on vacation and they're covering their shifts for the week.
Jack is charting at the nurses station, trying not to stare at her everytime she walks by. It's been irritatingly slow. At least when it's busy they have something to distract themselves from each other.
âSo Dr Abbot, who is she?â
They both freeze at Perlahâs statement. Jack stops typing. She was on her way to go round on a patient but quickly pretends she needs to make a pit stop at the nurses station to listen in.
âExcuse me?â
âThe girl I saw you ring shopping for the other day.â
So he had bought a ring. She smiles to herself. Even more so when she sees how red Jack is. She winks at him from behind Princess and Perlah's inquisitive stares.
âItâs probably the same girl who decorated his house over the summer.â She pipes up from the back of the station.
Princess and Perlah laugh along with her. They're murmuring something about how they thought his home had a woman's touch to it at the barbeque earlier that summer as they're called away from the nurses station.
They leave Jack alone quicker than they'd leave Robby alone. They know he is not an open book and they'll respect that but that doesn't excuse him from some teasing. Especially if Perlah has got first hand information on him.
Jack stares at her, a smirk twitching, fighting to appear on his lips. She peels out of the station and to the staff lounge. Jack is hot on her heels and the staff lounge is thankfully, very empty.
"I could decorate the house if I wanted to. You just like that stuff." She playfully rolls her eyes and humors him.
"Sure you could, Dr Abbot. Just tell that girl she did a good job, yeah? On the house and the future husband."
"I'm not completely incapable of having taste, you know? I've got a pretty big diamond ring to prove it."
âI heard. Planning on doing anything with that anytime soon?"
He kisses up her neck, slow as his hands rub at her hips. He whispers as he reaches her ear, tugs a bit with his teeth and then, "Planning on doing a lot with it. And you. Exceptionally soon, actually."
Then he's pressing her against the wall next to the door and placing his lips on hers. His hand snaps at the waistband of her scrub pants, then under her top, over her chest and splays across her throat - lightly squeezing it. She whimpers at the sensation, her lips parting a bit further and Jack takes the opportunity to lick further into her mouth. They can never get enough of each other, they don't think they ever will.
This was especially reckless of them, though. They were plenty guilty of sneaking away to the on-call rooms or a supply closet, but the staff lounge during a fully staffed day shift was just further proof they were not keeping this sneaking around stuff up much longer, if at all.
She moans his name, quietly, as she reaches for his waistband. Any other time, when his brain was working, Jack would grab her wrist and tug her to an on-call room. But she's already got his head hazy and he knows they can't go much further in the literal staff lounge but he lets himself relish in her soft hand stroking his hard length.
He tells himself he'll give them just a couple more seconds - tie themselves over until they're off their shift. Or at least can find a supply closet that locks. There usual spot had been compromised two weeks ago since it no longer had a working lock. He is silently counting down from five in his head. Five seconds and then they'll be done. But god, she has no business being so damn good at this.
He only makes it to three when the door handle jiggles and they are flying off of eachother. He sits in the chair closest to them. He can't go back out there until he is a little less...excited. She has made it practically halfway to the staff pantry when Mateo steps in.
She snags a lollipop from the cabinet and unwraps it. Jack has to physically keep himself from groaning out loud when she winks at him and wraps her lips around it. Way slower than necessary, by the way. She waves hello to Mateo and then looks at Jack, "Hope you find your ring, Dr Abbot."
And then she is out the door, but not before she hears Mateo ask Jack, "You wear a ring?" She laughs to herself.
Oh, he'll have a ring on that finger soon. They both will.
Ë˰â˘*ââˇ
Their luck wasn't going to last forever. They were honestly shocked they had made it almost eighteen months with only Dana, Collins, and Robby knowing. Sure, they got some suspicious glances from Shen or Ellis sometimes, but everyone else seemed none the wiser.
They had had the night shift from hell. Nothing tragic had happened, thank goodness, but it had been absolutely jam packed with cases. She doesn't think either of them had gone to the bathroom or eaten or even had a sip of water for the entire twelve hours.
She knew it wasn't healthy. It wasn't healthy for anyone, but especially for her. She had been diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes as a baby and at this point in her life, she could guess what her blood sugar was without some kind of monitor inserted into her skin 24/7.
Of course, she typically wore one anyways. Especially at work. Like right now. She was sitting at the nurses station, head in her hands, waiting for everyone to finally arrive for shift change so she could get the fuck out of there and go home with Jack.
She could feel the shakes coming on and she really did not want to pass out at work. She's kicking herself for not eating the many snacks Jack had been bringing her from the vending machine. Where was he finding the time to go get those? She had no idea. But the incessant flow of cases left every offering unintentionally untouched.
Jack was protective of her. Not in a weird, possessive way. But he loved her, cared for her, wanted her safe. Her passing out at work, or really anywhere, was not safe. He could also intuitively tell her blood sugar, high or low. And if she was having one of those days where she didn't want to take care of her diabetes on top of everything else - he was the one injecting her insulin or making a snack.
Her continuous glucose monitor was old, as a resident she could barely afford the one she had and then she just hadn't thought to change it once she got her pay raise as she graduated to an attending. She usually could just tell her sugar levels anyways.
Jack was the one who came home one day with a new one for her. This was like his super bowl. His two favorite activities - taking care of the love of his life and spending a lot of money on new medical gadgets at the same time.
This new one could connect to her phone, easily communicate her sugar levels in real time. When she never hooked that up because sometimes she just doesn't want to be constantly reminded of her diabetes, he just connected it to his apple watch.
That is how she knew the ED was busy. Because otherwise Jack would be standing over her, feeding her himself, until her blood pressure was back to a normal level.
It was almost like the thought of Jack summoned him. Jack was second to shift change, behind her. He strokes her hair a couple times and drops a bag of peach rings into her lap - taking advantage of the time alone.
âSit and eat before you faint, please.â He says gently.
âJack, Iâm fin-â
âYouâre shaking like a leaf and your blood sugar is-â he pauses and looks at his watch, â64 and dropping.â
âWhy do you know her blood sugar?â Mel asks, as she walks up, genuinely confused.
Both Jack and her are frozen in place, staring at each other.
âAnd where did you get those peach rings? We donât have those in our vending machines. Only at the store across the stre-â McKay trails off as she puts two and two together.
âAnd why do you get her blood sugar sent to your apple watch?â Langdon chimes in, eyes darting in between the pair of them.
âWait, is your glucose monitor connected to Abbotâs apple watch?â Whitaker with the questions now.
Jack just looks at her, shrugs, and digs into his wallet as they both laugh. âI knew youâd be the one to get us caught.â She mutters, satisfied with her victory.
He slaps a $100 bill onto her palm. She pockets it and tosses a couple pieces of the candy into her mouth, still chuckling.
âGet you caught?â
Robby, Collins, and Dana are laughing uncontrollably. Because of course this is the way they would get caught.
âIf the peanut gallery could quiet down over there - I could let you all know that yes, her glucose monitor is connected to my apple watch because my fiance likes to play Russian roulette with her diabetes and that is not happening on my watchâ Jack's voice is serious but the big grin on his face is giving him away.
âQuite literally, actually.â she adds
âFiance?!â
"Yes, now hurry up with this shift change so I can get her home before she faints on a patient."
"I knew that house had a woman's touch!" Perlah yells from across the hall, not letting her patient get in the way of any gossip. Especially something this big.
Eventually, everyone calms down. Her blood sugar slowly rises as she eats. Jack stands next to her chair for the rest of shift change, her head leaning against his leg, his hand softly massaging the nape of her neck and her shoulders as the other hand takes notes for the both of them.
They wrap up shift change, not without a few jokes tossed their way, and then Jack is kneeling down to be eye level with her. "How you feeling?"
"Peachy." She giggles. So does Jack. They're both a little giddy right now. "Take me home?" she asks, intertwining his large fingers with her own.
"Gladly." He smiles as he helps her up and presses a kiss to the back of her hand, both of their backpacks on his back.
They don't escape completely unscathed. They both hear Langdon as they're halfway out the door, "Oh my god, that hickey you had at the basketball game was from Abbot!?"
"Nothing gets by you, Langdon." Jack claps him on the back as they exit.
Once they're outside, Jack presses a kiss into her hair and murmurs "I love you". Right in the middle of the ambulance bay - because he can now.
If he knew getting caught would feel this good he would have slipped a long time ago.
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Langdon and you losing your virginity to one another in med school is highly requested so here we go:
- Med school? Is hard as fuck. So it didnât take long for you to find a group of friends that studied together.
- In that group was Langdon. He looked like a totally asshole at first, if you were honest. Those outrageously good-looking guys who act like they run the show. But you found out he was actually a sweetheart.
- He loved to come over to your apartment, or have you over at his, and study for exams, labs, and finals. He insisted on having study snacks every time and always had your favorites on hand.
- And he was such an easy person to talk to! Your doubts, your fears, troubles you were having personally, he was always there to listen with an open mind. And he was your biggest cheerleader.
- The closer you got, the more time you noticed yourself spending with him. Staying so late you ended up sleeping over his apartment, crashed on his bed with him still fully clothed, on top of the covers.
- Heâd crash at your place and always felt bad he didnât move to the couch, but you didnât mind him sprawled out beside you in your bed, snoring lightly.
- He was always awake before you and would gently shake you awake, his own eyes half closed as he groaned and grumbled at you. âFuck, weâre gonna be late.â
- One night, over drinks to celebrate the last final for the semester, things took a turn. One drink led to another, and both of you ended up tipsy. Not totally drunk, but enough to give you both the courage to act on the bubbling feelings youâd been suppressing.
- He kissed you out of the blue, more for himself so he didnât chicken out. Your hands moved into those dark locks on instinct and he was a goner. He knew he wouldnât be able to hold back.
- It was clumsy in both your parts, that hectic and nervous first time. Tripping over each other as you tried to get to his bedroom, but he was so hooked he wouldnât stop kissing you.
- You practically pawed at one another, clothes getting tossed into oblivious, struggling to get out of jeans and sweatpants.
- It wasnât until you were both naked, his lanky form hovering over yours, that you took a moment to look at one another. Wide eyes, heavy breathing, his hips hesitantly pressing against yours. âI havenât-.. You know, this hasnât ever-..â âMe either, me either, Iâm.. Yeah.â
- Both of you finally released the nervous laughter youâd been suppressing, his lips kissing yours with more gentleness this time, before he whispered. âI have a condom, do you-.. You still want to?â
- Your eager nod made him grin, and he almost knocked the lamp on his end table over in his haste to open the drawer.
- The next hour was a blissful blur. Heavy kisses, panting moans, and the temporary pain as he finally eased his way in, your walls stretching and giving way.
- He was so fucking scared of hurting you, of doing something wrong and upsetting you. Sure, he knew human anatomy, but heâd never done this.
- But he was so fucking gentle and sweet, distracting you with kisses as he slowly worked you open, his own soft grunts and moans echoing yours. âFuck, f-fuck, thatâs-.. God, you feel so good, baby.â
- Both of you tumbled over the edge together, his hips flush against yours as his head nestled into your neck, groaning shakily as you clawed down his back.
- And he is so goddamn sweet and silly afterwards. Cleaning you up and handing you his shirt with your panties, pulling his sweats on before getting you some water, cuddling you to his chest and mumbling. âThat was okay?â âFrank, it was amazing.â âGood.. Wanna do it again..?â
Ë. ŕžŕ˝˛ŕžŕ˝˛ŕ§â¤ď¸ŕ¨ ŕžŕ˝˛ŕžŕ˝˛.Ë We know Jack writes letters.
They're the kind Robby canât read all the way through without stepping outside to gather himself. The kind that cut clean and simple, because Jack doesnât waste wordsâhe means them.
So when he falls in love, of course he writes.
He works nights. You work days. It wasnât supposed to be a big dealâjust a few missed dinners, a couple uneven weekends. But two years in, itâs become a rhythm neither of you like but both of you have learned how to survive. You brush your teeth while heâs lacing up his boots. He lets the microwave run too long reheating the dinner you left him. The sheets are always warm, but itâs rare youâre both in them at the same time.
You see him in fragments.
A half-empty beer left by the sink. His stethoscope on the kitchen chair. The smell of soap and hospital antiseptic lingering in the bathroom when you step out of the shower. Sometimes, if youâre lucky, you catch him in the doorway before you head out and he gets homeâeyes heavy, jaw dark with stubble, scrubs wrinkled. He kisses your forehead like heâs apologizing for the hours he missed.
But then there are the letters.
Tucked in the pocket of your coat. Folded into your planner between work notes and receipts. Once, wedged between the pages of the book you keep meaning to finish, like he knew youâd open it eventually.
Theyâre never longâjust a paragraph or two, scribbled on the back of supply sheets or crumpled chart printouts, whatever scrap he could grab between calls. The handwriting is always the same: rushed, uneven, slanted like he was writing too fast to second-guess himself. He never rewrites them. Never polishes a word. And at the bottom, always that quiet little ââJ,â like heâs hesitant to leave too much of himself behind.
âDidnât sleep today. Kept thinking about the way you were breathing last night, arm over your face like you were shielding yourself from something. I shouldâve held you. Iâm sorry I didnât.â
âNo letter tonight. Just wanted to leave a note saying I need to be near you. Wake me when you get in. Please.â
âYou said something in the mirror yesterdayâsomething about looking tired. I didnât say anything then, but: You are beautiful. Even when you forget. Especially then.â
âThereâs a receipt in your car from our favorite place. You went without me. Iâm not mad. Justânext time, bring back fries. Or lie better.â
âYou leave your rings on the counter and every time I see them, I think, âshe came home.â I donât think you know how much that matters to me.â
âThe plant you named after me is dying. Water it. Or donât. I get it. But if it survives, Iâll take it as a sign you still love me.â
âYou left the light on. Again. Which should annoy me. It doesnât. The apartment feels like you were just here. Sometimes thatâs all I need.â
âTried to be quiet when I left. Still knocked over the shampoo bottle. Sorry. You flinched but didnât wake up. I whispered goodbye anyway. It felt wrong not to.â
âYou made the grocery list and wrote âJackâs weird yogurtâ like I donât have a brand. Youâre lucky youâre pretty.â
"Tonight was rough. Lost one. Didnât want to bring it home with me, but I needed to tell you I love you anyway."
âYou were talking in your sleep again. Said something about stealing a goat. If I come home and thereâs a goat in the yard, Iâm not asking questions. Iâll just name it.â
âYou asked me last night if Iâd still love you if I was a worm. I said no. You hit me with a pillow. Iâve revised my answer.â
âYou bought four new throw pillows. We now have eleven pillows on a three-seat couch. I have nowhere to sit. I love you anyway.â
âYou said you felt off today. Didnât tell me what that meant. Just curled up under the blanket and didnât talk much. I stayed quiet too. I just wanted you to know I noticed.â
âYou made the bed this morning. I know you were late. You didnât do it for you. You did it for me. I love you.â
You keep them all. Pressed flat in a shoebox under your bed, like tiny pieces of him that canât fade with time. Some of them still smell like antiseptic and worn leather and faint traces of his cologne. Sometimes you reread them when the loneliness sneaks in, when the hours between seeing him stretch too long.
And the thing isâhe never asks if you read them. He doesnât bring them up. Itâs not about the response. Itâs not even about being heard.
Itâs about leaving something behind.
A thread. A trace. A heartbeat in your drawer when he canât be in your bed.
Because Jack Abbot may not say I love you in the hallway or across a crowded kitchenâbut heâll write it. Every damn time.
And he knows youâll find it when you need it most.