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 dragons— 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, you’ve 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. “I am his and he is mine.” You wish it wasn’t true.

When you kissed him, you wished, imagined that it was someone else holding you, someone else who wouldn’t draw blood, someone who would love you just as you love him— 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 want— 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 can’t 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 knight’s 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 you’re stuck in your gilded cage, holding your husband by the scruff of his neck whenever his father’s eyes are turned away from him, which is almost always.

You’ve been told that you’ll 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.

He’s in love, but you wouldn’t call it that when you’ve seen real love from your father and mother, and you’ve felt it with Lyonel. Whatever Aerion feels for you, it’s lust, an obsession. He’s obsessed with you, desiring you. A year of marriage with him and you thought it would wane, but no, it only grew.

He’d whisper atop your sweaty skin, pupils blown, swallowing the sounds you make and kisses you right above your pulse to say, “mine, all mine.” His grip never loosened, nor his kisses ever felt light. As if he’s 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 there’s 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 he’ll get bored of you. What would he do to you once he’s 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 he’s 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, he’s immediately on you, ripping his doublet off, eyes staring right into your soul. And you’d take him in your bed, let him unravel you, devour you whole, sometimes, you’d 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 wasn’t 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. He’s 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 hasn’t happened yet. You thank the mother for not letting his seed take, when you know he’ll inherit his father’s 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. He’s quite charming, a disarming kind of charm that if you didn’t know better would’ve made you think that he’s not the same man who gazes into the fire at the dead of night whilst muttering a valyrian prayer.

You’d think to yourself, “he isn’t so bad.” 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 didn’t 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. He’s overprotective, to the point that it’s 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 isn’t any of that. It’s like pulling teeth with him. Perhaps it’s 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. It’s as if fate didn’t 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 shouldn’t 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.

“It will soon take.” She says softly, eyes shimmering with sympathy. “Soon you will have heirs of your own. And they shall grow with their cousins.” 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.

“Heirs to what exactly?” You bluntly answer, you found that dancing around your words doesn’t always go inside the thick skulls of the people at court. You’d rather fling yourself through the moondoor than skirt around them just to try not to offend them. You love your aunt, and she’s great company, but she has spent too much of her time at court that she hasn’t truly lived for herself in a long time. She’s 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. “Do not say that out loud, niece.” She warns, and you see the real her. Not the polite princess smile, not the smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You must refrain from saying such things, understand?”

“But, aunt—”

“Promise me.” Leaning close, she whispers, talking amidst the cover of the whistling wind that flutters the skirt of your gown. “The court is volatile, soon it’ll 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.”

“This isn’t the life I wanted.” Is all you could muster, too tired to pretend, too exhausted to argue.

You don’t 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 isn’t volatile, a love that you can be yourself with, a love that is bone achingly real.

“Do you think I wanted this too?” Her voice falters, before clearing her throat and standing upright. As if a curtain fell over her face, your aunt smiles like nothing happened. “Now, shall we have tea in my solar—?”

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 don’t pay your husband heed when a familiar golden banner flusters in the strong wind.

“Seven hells—” the curse dies in your throat as you see the crowned stag on a golden field. “Gods…” 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 doesn’t have the same shine to them, as if the light in his eyes were taken from him.

“Wife.” 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. “I thought you were too ill to come outside.”

“Hm?” 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. “The maester gave me a tincture to help.”

He doesn’t look too convinced, jaw set, grip tightening around your hand. “Is that so?” He shifts his weight, eyes glancing at the man before flicking over to you. Does he know? Aerion is many things, but he isn’t an idiot. “Sweet aunt, thank you for bringing my wife out for some air. She prefers the comfort of our chambers and less company nowadays.”

“Of course, my prince. I was about to have tea with her, do you wish to accompany us—”

“Not today, aunt.” He flashes her a false smile, before taking you away from her. “I must rest, the ride took the wind out of me. Come.” 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 could’ve seen him look up at the balcony just as Aerion took you away.

The walk to your shared chambers was in silence, but you didn’t falter beside him, keeping pace with his longer strides until you reached the doors of your chamber.

Aerion’s hand leaves yours, shutting the doors right behind him.

“Did you really have to embarrass me in front of my aunt like that?” Your arms cross over your chest, facing him head on. “Aerion—”

“I wanted to take a ride with you.” He says, still facing the door as his jaw clenches. “I wanted to bring you to the lake.”

“To drown me perhaps?”

Turning to face you, his expression falls, shoulders tensing. “Do you think of me cruel? No, I wanted to see the sunrise with you.”

“Why?” You blink, hands falling to your side, twisting towards the table to pour yourself a cup of wine. A familiar companion for you nowadays.

“Why?” He lets out a scoff, taking the cup from you as the drink sloshes on the rim. “Is it a crime to want to spend time with my wife?”

“No, it isn’t. But you’re only sweet when you have done something or want something. Which one is it?”

Aerion’s eyes turn away from you, before taking a gulp of the wine. “The latter.” He says lowly, eyes flicking dangerously to yours. “You, I want you.”

This is desire, not love, an all devouring desire that encompasses the prince. It’s 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. “Why the lake?” Your fingers bring your skirt to wring, trying to tamp out your desire as your eyes rake upon his corded neck.

“Change of scenery.” Shrugging, he puts the rim of the cup over to your lips. “Drink.”

You’re drained, longing for that kind of love that you’ll 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 don’t want to disappoint your father. But a year into the marriage, you’re 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 you’re 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.

“You are insufferable.” And yet you take a drink, and yet you welcome him in your warm embrace. Still, you kiss him with hunger, hold him like he’s about to fly away. And yet your thoughts were on Lyonel the whole time.

—

“Do you know why he’s here?” You blurt out, warm and sweaty under the covers as he lays his head on your chest like always.

“Who?” 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.

“Baratheon.” 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. “Oh, him, his lord father passed.” His breath tickles your bare skin. “Perhaps he was called to bend the knee to grandsire.”

“Why is that needed?” Your fingers rake through his platinum hair that he always melts at the act. “His late father already did that years before.”

His head turns to you, chin resting right on your sternum as his purple eyes tries to gaze into your mind. “He despises us, that’s why.” Us, not him, or his house, us. He believes that you are a part of his house as much as he is, you’re starting to think so too. “Why are you so curious about this Baratheon, hm?”

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.

“I 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.”

“Almost.” Moving, he looms over you, elbows perched on the side of your head as he smugly smiles down. “Almost. But you ended up betrothed to me,” his knee parts your legs under the covers, leaning down to press a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. “Married to me. In bed with me.”

Jealousy is worse than a cup of wine. He’s drunk off it.

“Oh, Aerion.” Taking his face in your hand, you make him look at you. “Are you jealous?”

“A dragon doesn’t concern himself with a mere stag.” 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.

—

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 Lyonel’s squire whose eyes lingered too long on your face. And yet the young man didn’t 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, he’s 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 it’s a worthy one when he sees the weary look on his daughter’s 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 didn’t 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.

“The gall of this man.” Aerion hisses in-between his teeth, fingers digging into your hand tenderly. “Mayhaps we shouldn’t have wasted our time coming here.”

“We were called upon, Aerion.” Sighing, your eyes are glued to the doors, waiting impatiently, feet shifting, hair pulled by your index.

“Stop that.” He takes your wrist away from your hair, pushing it back to your side. “It’s unbecoming.”

“I cannot help it.” You bite back, eyes steely at your husband instead of unabashed love.

You feel your father’s guilty eyes bore into your back.

“Then try to, my sweet.” 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. “No.” Taking your braid, you twist it around your finger, adding to his frustration.

“Now who’s being insufferable?” His breath brushes along the shell of your ear, you could feel his desire roll off him from your petulance.

“We both are,” your head cranes to look into his eyes, not backing down, nor folding underneath his gaze. “guess we are in fact perfect for each other, husband.”

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.

“Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, the Laughing Storm.”

The cane smacks again, and Lyonel finally moves.

Your heart cinches in your chest, tighter than how Aerion is holding onto you. You haven’t seen him in a year, you’ve longed for him for a year, said his name in your head for a year so you would not forget it, so you wouldn’t 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 you’ve gazed into lovingly, tried to imagine in your year long longing is finally right in front of you.

Lyonel isn’t wearing his stag crown, he isn’t an idiot, and he doesn’t have a death wish when it could be seen as traitorous in front of the King. He doesn’t 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. You’re the same woman he fell madly and deeply in love with. Lady Arryn, he should’ve 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.

It’s cruel how they took the light from your eyes. How cruel it is to subject you to this shackled life when you should’ve been soaring freely.

Lyonel couldn’t help the scowl from appearing on his face the moment he sees Aerion’s hand wrapped around your own in a bone crushing hold.

You interpret his expression as fury, anger towards you, and what’s 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 Lyonel’s anger, his thunderous fury, is the one thing that pained you so.

Aerion’s eyes glances at you, fingers loosening around your hand for a moment. “Wife, you look sickly.”

“Headache.” You simply say with the lump in your throat. “I feel ill, Aerion.” You watch as his intense eyes turn tender, the edges of his face softening as his grip turns loving. “Take me away from here.”

He inhales deeply, arm curled around your back. His purple eyes flashes with something. Was that sympathy? “Come.”

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.

—

“Is there a chance that you are with child?” Aerion asks as he places a cold damp cloth over your forehead. His touch is gentle and caring, a glimpse of a better man.

“No, I am not.” Eyes shut, you don’t see his face tighten at your words. “I may be barren, Aerion, you mustn’t hold up hope.”

Water splashes on your face as you crack an eye open.

“Don’t talk like that, my love.” He calls you that as if it is true. Perhaps it is true in his mind, but you don’t see it. You never felt it, only glimpses of that love when he’s soft and pliant after a coupling, or when the morning sun shines on his face as he slept. Just a glimpse of what could’ve been. “We shall have a dragon, I’ve seen it.”

“They’re dreams, my prince. Nothing more.” Shaking your head, you feel his sword roughed hand cup your stomach. “I’ve heard the whispers, you know, from your grandsire’s men.”

His jaw tightens, moving at the hinges as he huffs a breath. “What kind of whispers?” He knows.

“That you should just annul our marriage when there hasn’t been a child born from our union.” His head falls, and yet hope blooms in your chest as you give him the idea, planting it in his head. “The high septon would allow it so—”

“But I do not.” His tone lowers dangerously, his hand gripping onto the blanket over you. “I 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.” He utters it with absolute certainty.

Perhaps this is Aerion’s version of love. And it’ll be your undoing.

“It’s this fucking air.” 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. “We are not the only ones having trouble having a child, Valarr and his wife, my uncle…” exhaling, his nostrils flared with frustration. “It’s this damned keep.” You could practically see his head churning.

“Aerion—”

“We shall move to Summerhall. Where the air doesn’t smell like piss and death, and there will be no annoyance there apart from my father and siblings.” 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. “It’ll just be us.”

“Just us.” You mutter back, chest feeling tight, eyes wide as he leans for a kiss upon your shocked lips. “What 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.”

“No,” his palm cups your face, heavier than before. His desperation and fear ebbs from his hold. “That will not happen, you are healthy and still young, if it comes to that I…” Aerion falters, Aerion doesn’t falter. But he does in this instance, chiseled face contorting right in front of you. “It will not happen. Say it back to me, my love.”

“It won’t happen.”

—

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.

He’s performing, quite well in fact as he sits beside the King on his left, laughing and conversing with the old man, whom you haven’t 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 Lyonel’s pavilion the day you danced with him. Perhaps he asked for it to be played, or perhaps it’s fate mocking you.

You’re 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 you’re afraid that once you do, you’d sob and break.

“You must eat, niece.” Your aunt piles another piece of ham onto your plate. “Having an empty stomach won’t do you any good.”

“You need to keep your strength up for when the babe comes.” Aerion declares as if you are already with child. You know you are not when all your illnesses were feigned.

“What babe, Aerion?” Your spoon twists in your hand as you turn pointedly at him. “The maester confirmed it, I am not with child.”

Aerion’s jaw clenches, biting his lower lip as he chuckles dryly above the rim of his cup. “Then why are you always ill, hm? Or was it all feigned?” He knows, Aerion has always been good at reading people, but not always with you. You keep to yourself, a closed book that he’s desperate to read.

“Would you even love the child?” You ask, heart already broken as it lies beside your feet. “Or do you just love the prospect of having one before your cousin does?”

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. “The child is mine, ours, do you think me so vain and cruel to not love my own? The proof of our love?”

Taking his hand atop your skirt, you unfurl his fist, taking his fingers slowly until it’s around your hand instead. “Do you actually love me, Aerion?”

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. “Why would you even ask me that?” You’ve never heard his voice sound so small, so delicate, a tone broken at the edges with hurt. “Am I still not enough?”

“What—?”

“Why did you even marry me?” 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.

He’s hurting, why is he hurt?

“Aerion—” 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. “My Lord Lyonel…”

“My Lady.” Lyonel appears in front of you like in your dreams, giving you that same sweetened smile that has doomed you to love him forever. “If your husband permits it, may I have this dance?”

“Lyonel…” You take a deep inhale, air stuck in your throat as you gawk at him. “I’m— I’m afraid my husband is feeling quite ill. He left.”

Everyone has their eyes on you and the Lord of Storm’s 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.

“How…unfortunate.” And yet his amused smile betrays his words. Lyonel’s hand slides down from your wrist and over to your hand, a thumb brushing along your palm tenderly. “Then, may I have this dance, my Lady Arryn?”

You let out a choked laugh, a genuine one as you go around the table and over to him. “It’s Lady Targaryen now actually.”

“Oh, yes, my apologies.” He doesn’t 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 you’d 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.

“You need not worry, my Lady.” Lyonel whispers to you, smirking underneath the candle lights as his familiar earring catches the light. “I will stay at a perfectly respectful distance.” 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. “Comfortable?”

“Very much so.” You shudder, breath stuck in your throat as you gaze at the joined hands, feeling the familiar warmth blossom in your chest. “Hello, Lyonel.”

“Hello, my doe.” His eyes are soft, a lopsided smile that has you chuckling under your breath.

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“Gods, I cannot believe that I’m standing in front of you again.” 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.

“You look quite well, Lyonel.” 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.

“For a man so heartbroken, I do look quite handsome, hm?” He starts to lean against your face to nuzzle at your neck, until he remembers where he is. He’d 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. “I’m sorry. I should’ve fought harder—”

“None of that.” 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. Lyonel’s smile falls, dark eyes glossing over with the same grief as he tips your chin up with his index and thumb. “None of that, my love. There was naught to be done. I would’ve 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.”

“The 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.”

“Well, did you?” Brows knitted together, his steps glide across the floor as your skirts whirl around the two of you. “You’re quite good at that but you’re not a miracle worker.”

“I tamed him at most. Smooth out his edges but…” 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. “I don’t think you’d like to hear how I managed it.”

Stormlander fury bursts in his eyes. “Has he hurt you in any way?”

You purse your lips, giving him a wobbly smile. “Not in a way that matters.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” Your tone breaks in the middle as the crowd continues to dance around the two of you, obscuring you from your kin. “I’d give anything to be away from here. Aerion has his moments, where I could see his love, but not always…not always.”

“I scarcely recognized you in these colours, I scarcely recognize you at all, my doe.” Lyonel, strong, defiant Lyonel, who would face the storm himself with a booming laugh breaks in front of you.

“And you, you look just like in my dreams.” His face cracks at your painful confession. “I thought you had forgotten about me, Lyonel.”

“I would never.” What have they done to his falcon? They’ve taken your talons and cut your wings, so much so that it has taken the warmth from your eyes. “I did promise you, haven’t I? That I’ll come looking for you, if only you have made it easier for me by telling me of your true nature.”

“That was quite foolish wasn’t it?” You look at him apologetically. “I 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 maiden’s foolish desire.”

“Very much so, my Lady.” Lyonel twirls you gently, before you meet with him again in the middle. “But not the latter. When was the last time you danced?”

“At my wedding feast.” 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 don’t let it spill.

“Tell me that isn’t so.” His heart breaks for you one more time whilst his hand squeezes you.

“Unfortunately it is.” Sniffing, you blink away the tears. “My husband isn’t one for dancing. Nor revelry.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“I know. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.” His hands lift you by your waist briefly, keeping up with the crowd. Keeping face when there are far too many eyes around.

“What have they done to you?”

“I’ve told you, nothing that would matter.” 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. “It matters when your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, when you flinch at loudness, when you don’t look like yourself. They made you into this…this shackled thing and clipped your wings.”

“I’m surviving.”

“Not living.” Lyonel’s anger isn’t pointed at you, but at the people seated at the highest table. “This isn’t the life you deserve, my love.” When he calls you that, you truly believe him that he does love you, as simple as that. As easy as that.

“Lyonel,” a tear escapes from your eye as you quickly wipe it away. “It gladens me to see you here but why are you here?” Your voice cracks, terrified for his sake. “You said you came to look for me but here I am. What now?”

“To ask you what you want. To give you a choice that they took away from you.”

“Lyonel…”

“Do they know of the story at the lake with the fire? Do they know what you are capable of?” His grip onto your hands turns bruising before loosening, thumbs caressing along your skin as an apology. “Not 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, you’re supposed to soar, not to be kept in this cage.”

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.

“My love, my doe.” His hands cup your face gingerly in his hands, not because he’s afraid that you will break, but because he’s afraid that they will take you away from him if he holds on tighter. “What do you want? Your wish is my command.”

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. “Will— will you take me away from here?”

It’s what he wanted to hear from your lips, it’s what he predicted you would ask of him. He didn’t 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.

“I know it’s too much of an ask, please forgive me, just forget it—”

“Yes.” Lyonel’s eyes spark with determination. “Why do you think I came all this way?”

—

In the dead of night, you stare at your husband’s sleeping face. He almost looks angelic under the moonlight, peaceful, pleasant. With your letters shoved under your father’s chamber door, explaining to him what you’ve done and telling him to go back home if he was smart. And with ravens flying towards Storm’s End and the Vale, you lean down to Aerion’s 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 don’t care enough for his reasoning when he has already carved his name into your ribcage. It’ll forever be there like a scar that won’t heal, but it’s a reminder of your family’s failings, a reminder that you survived it, a reminder that you lived to be with the one you were supposed to be with.

You’ve got a lot of regrets, maybe you should’ve accepted Lyonel’s 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.

You’ve 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.

Aerion’s holding onto the silk of your gown, eyes half lidded and fogged from the wine as it dulls his senses, weakens his façade.

“My wife…” he sighs out, collar stained with wine, fingers curled weakly around your gown. “Where…where are you going?”

Taking his hand, you slowly unfurl his fist. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Don’t— Don’t go.” You almost falter at how soft and tender he is. “Please…my love.”

Taking a shuddered breath, you kneel before him on the settee, placing a kiss right on his knuckles. He’s awfully drunk, he will never remember this conversation.

“Did you really love me, Aerion?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He licks at his dry lips, brows furrowed, face contorted into hurt. “I did— I do. I do love you.”

“Then let me go peacefully.” You don’t cry for him, instead you mourn what could’ve been.

He could’ve been good to you if he showed his love that doesn’t 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 he’ll never love ever again, a love that he’s 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 it’ll burn him too if he doesn’t 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.

“Was there trouble?” He asks, voice laced with concern as he yanks you up on the horse.

“No,” you sit behind him, arms curled around his middle as you lay your cheek against the cool steel of his armour. “No trouble, let us go, Lyonel.”

The Laughing Storm doesn’t need another confirmation as he rides away with you. Just like he dreamed of. Just like he once promised.

—

The noise from Aerion’s 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 wasn’t spared, goosefeathers fly around him as he stabs and slashes at the bed that still smells like you.

“I want Lyonel Baratheon’s head!” 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 Aerion’s anger flooded the castle. They’re 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 Storm’s 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 Lyonel’s care, he swore to you first.

And as you lay beside Lyonel in Storm’s 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, there’s a war coming. And you started it.

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. 

“Do you want to dance?” He asked.

And you couldn’t 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 didn’t want to. You and Ryland had been physically affectionate for years, but this was something you had never done.

“Yea, yea I do actually.” 

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. 

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 else…something more.

“You're tired.” Ryland whispered, not an ounce of surprise in his voice.

You nodded, nuzzling your head into his shoulder.

“Sometimes I wonder…nevermind.” 

Ryland lifted your head to look at him.

“No, what is it?”

“Well, I just sometimes wonder if Colt is right about things. What if this whole academia thing isn’t working.”

Ryland went silent, as if he was holding back from saying anything. You grumbled.

“I mean, I guess not for me or you though, I mean I’ve got my Masters work all set up for me and you’re doing your PhD…” You let yourself shut up, as you swayed more.

As the music shifted to a more upbeat song, you lifted your head from Ryland’s 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 Ryland’s face turned into a frown, noticing you. His hand raised to cup your cheek.

“Don’t do your Masters.” He spoke, matter of factly.

“What?” You asked.

“Come to the city with me, work, don’t do your Masters.”

You backed away from his hand, shocked and confused.

“Ryland, you know I’ve been wanting to do my Masters here for years, now you’re saying I shouldn’t?”

You shook your head, and separated further out of his grasp.

“Come with me, I’ll do my PhD, we’ll live together, you’ll work, you’ll do something that actually inspires you.”

“I’m not going to throw my opportunity away so I can move with you and watch you pursue a variation of my dream.” 

“You are exhausted, I know you!”

“Clearly this is the one time you’re wrong,” 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, “Excuse me.”

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. 

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 weren’t 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.

“Don’t. I’m leaving. Go talk to your brother.”

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.

“Thank god you’re here.” Colt grumbled. “Ryland’s been bothering me all day.” 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 Ryland’s 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.

“Thank god you’re alive.” You mumbled into Colt’s chest. You could feel the laughter he was giving off. “I missed you so much, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“God, people are gonna start calling me the Fall Guy aren’t they?” 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 —like the one he was wearing now. 

“I’m gonna go get some coffee. I’ll be back.” Ryland said.

“I’ll come with.” 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,

“I’m sorry how things ended with us. I guess I was just thinking about what to say.”

“I know. It’s okay, really. I felt like an asshole telling you not to pursue your dream, I’m the one who should be sorry.” 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 weren’t saying what you had been needing to say for a while. You were like Colt with those types of things…you 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 hadn’t spoken in two years. 

Ryland pulled his cup out, and pulled his glasses to sit on his head. God, when did his hair get so good? It wasn’t so long ago since he had a buzzcut — you shaved in his dorm room after messing up his hair — and scraped knees from falling off his bike on the campus cobblestone. 

“I ended up dropping out of my Master’s program three months in, now I do journalism full time.” You explained.

Ryland’s head quirked up in surprise, then he nodded.

“Yea Colt told me about the journalism thing, but I just assumed you were doing that along with your studies.”

“I'm moving to San Francisco. Which is where you’re–” 

“Doing my PhD work. Yea.”

“Are you still as smug a student as you were during undergrad?” You asked, lightly smacking his arm.

“I wasn’t that smug,” Ryland replied.

You gave him his world famous ‘really?’ look, that would be as impressive as his if you had glasses sliding down your nose to peek over.

“Okay fine I was a little smug, but unintentionally!”

You both burst out laughing, and it was suddenly normal again.

“Then I guess we’ll have no choice but to hang out then?” He asked, as if genuinely asking but his tone was slightly joking.

You nodded in agreement.

“I missed you. I just missed my best friend. Of course we will hang out.” 

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 Ryland’s coffee out of his hand, and drank it.

“You two friends again yet?” Colt asked.

You and Ryland rolled your eyes at the exact same time, and Colt laughed pointing at you both dramatically. 

“Thank God! Now I don’t have to deal with this one alone.”

“Colt, why are you out of bed?” You crossed your arms, looking at him like a parent.

“I’m hungry.” He whined. “Plus I wanted coffee all day.”

You turned to Ryland, his face immediately catching what you were about to ask him.

“I’ll go get him a sandwich from the cafeteria.” Ryland grumbled. 

“I’ll get this one back to bed.”

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.

“You know in college I always thought you two would end up together.” Colt murmured.

“Who? Me and Ryland?” You asked, surprised.

“Do you have a crush on my little brother?” Colt asked, sending you a mock expression. 

The same one Ryland used to send you when he wanted you to tell him what stupid thing you did that time.

“You and Ryland are literally the same age.” 

“Oh my god, just answer the question.”

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. 

And when you hadn’t spoken for so long, you often wondered who Ryland was dating, whether he’d 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 didn’t have time to think about the consequences of that. And you weren’t going to start thinking about that now that you finally broke the tension.

“No. I guess I just never thought about him like that.” You lied, and he let you leave it at that.

“Can I tell you about Jody?” Colt asked, sighing really lovesick. 

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. 

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. 

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.

“Wait, we should be practicing your answers for the questions they ask on first dates.”

“God no, please don’t subject me to this.”

Ryland chuckled, he crossed his legs scooting closer to you, he brushed his shoulder against yours.

“Come on! You’re going to have to answer these questions anyway when you see…what’s his name again?” 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.

“Ethan.”

“Right. You’re going to have to answer Ethan’s questions.”

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.

“Fine, let’s hear them.”

“What do you do for work?” Ryland asked, squinting his eyes, pretending to not know the answer.

You giggled.

“Hey, take this seriously.” Ryland teased.

You sighed, lifting your shoulders up and then down in defeat.

“Uh I work in journalism, I went to school for Communications.”

Ryland put his hand on his chin in pretend thought. 

“Have you done any postgrad education?” Ryland asked.

You furrowed your eyebrows, why was he proposing this question?

“Ry, he’s not going to ask that.”

“He might.” Ryland said, shrugging. “Especially since he’s a professor.”

“And if I explain that I dropped out of my Masters program…?” 

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.

“Do you think less of me because I couldn’t finish my Masters program?” You asked, accusingly. 

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.

“Why are you asking me this right now? I thought we were having a good time.”

“Hey, I’m just practicing those first date questions you talked about!” You yelled sarcastically.

When he didn’t answer right away, you scoffed. 

“Of course I don’t think any less of you, I’m only happy to have you back in my life.” 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.

“You were happy you were right, you couldn’t admit it in the hospital, but you can admit it now.” 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.

“If 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.” He rambled, his hands moving back and forth between you two for a second to display his point.

“You know that isn’t fair. You chose a PhD program in a different city. You’re the one who left.”

“And I asked you to come with me!”

You felt leftover rage overcome you. This was something you should’ve addressed months ago in the hospital, but didn’t for Colt’s 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. 

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. 

“What the hell do you think you’re going to talk about on this date anyway? He wears khakis and goes golfing!” He quipped. “Surely Ethan’s not interesting enough for you to be spending even a minute of your time with — god forbid all night.”

You couldn’t believe where this conversation was going. You looked away from him in anger.

“Well what guy— if not this guy— would you rather me spend all night with?” 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 shouldn’t have.

“You know what? You can’t even say anything. You haven’t been on a date in years.” You grumbled.

“Nobody is as interesting as–” Ryland stopped himself, before swallowing. “I haven’t had the time.”

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. 

“I’m gonna go.” 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. 

He gave you a very specific Ryland smile, the one that he gave you when he was trying to be supportive, but maybe wasn’t entirely. You could read Ryland as much as he could read you, he could hardly notice it. 

He muttered a simple, “Goodluck”, and you smiled politely. An uncertain feeling, telling you that you needed to stay right there, flowed into your stomach. You ignored it. 

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 wasn’t 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 — who was staring at you in fear from the other end.

“You guys need to call this a wrap. I mean this happened so long ago,” Colt whined. “Not that your feelings aren’t valid, or I don’t know. Why are you calling me for this type of thing? I can’t even sort out my own issues with Jody.”

You ignored Colt’s talking, and continued your rant.

“Oh and he had the audacity to say that my date wasn’t going to be interesting enough!”

“You cancelled the date!” Colt yelled.

“Yea well, only because he isn’t really my type.”

Colt’s eyes squinted before he gasped, and his eyes widened.

“Oh my god. Is Ryland your type? He’s totally your type.”

You stopped scooping ice cream into your face, and whined.

“Ugh, no, I’m hanging up in response to you even suggesting that.”

Colt rolled his eyes before you hung up and threw your phone across the room.

Three

You often wondered why you didn’t just take Ryland’s 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 Ryland’s apartment half the time anyway. 

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. 

You spent hours on his small green couch, chatting with him, and watching his TV, cuddled up and giggling — like you always used to do. It's also where you’d sleep, a lot of the time’s in his hoodies that you’d secretly smell because you loved the cologne he wore. 

He’d 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. 

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 couldn’t 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?

“I’m borrowing a shirt.” You yelled in Ryland’s general direction.

“Okay.” He responded. “I already knew you’d want to, I ironed all of them yesterday.”

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. 

You were in Ryland’s 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. 

You heard knocking at Ryland’s apartment door, more like banging actually, and you heard the couch shift as Ryland got up.

“I got it!” Ryland called.

“It’s probably Colt! He said he’d stop by and we’d grab dinner, remember?”

Your question was answered when you heard Colt’s booming voice enter the room. You rushed to put on one of Ryland’s 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.

“Is that Ryland’s shirt?” 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.

“Yea, I haven’t done laundry yet.” 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.  

Somehow, these things as simple as borrowing clothes, fixing each other’s outfits, touching each other’s skin, felt like it was meaning something more. How stupid of you it would be to assume that he’d felt it too. You felt weirdly purplish about the situation, sad and yet full of desire you maybe weren’t sure you were ready to unpack just yet.

“That’s because they haven’t gone back to their place in five days.” Ryland explained. 

“Well it looks good on you.” Colt complimented. “Not that–not that it doesn’t look good on you Ry, although I will say you dress too much like a professor. Not that that’s bad I mean you technically are a teaching assistant–”

“Oh my god.” Ryland groaned. “You over think it too much and that’s coming from me.” 

Colt laughed, and stopped talking. You gave him a curt smile. You had to admit the compliment came from the brother you didn’t want it to come from. But you’d take it.

“Thanks.”

“Okay, I’m going to send my paper over to my supervisor, and then we’re ready to go.” Ryland said, turning to Colt. 

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 he’d ever seen him. 

Ryland struggled a lot to make friends growing up, Ryland struggled a lot because he was as Colt would call him “a huge nerd”, 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 didn’t 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,

“By the way, the shirt looks better on you than it ever did me.” 

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.

“Wow!” 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.

“What?” 

“Wow…it’s like now…a tooth brush, a coat, a pair of shoes, they all come in doubles!” Colt said, sarcastically. “I mean seriously, it’s almost like two people live here.”

You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.

“I don’t live here, I just spend the night sometimes.”

Colt gave you the same look Ryland gave you, and you laughed out loud at the brothers’ mannerisms.

“Five nights each week is what I heard last I called.”

“Yea, it’s no big deal.” You replied, playing with the front of your shirt.

“You like him don’t you?” Colt said, accusingly, like a middle schooler asking another middle schooler about their crush.

“Ugh you are so odd!” You yelled, a weak reply, thankful Ryland couldn’t 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. 

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. 

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. 

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 didn’t entirely know what any of it meant, but you’d know Ryland would fill you all in once you were done.

God you were so glad you weren’t still in academia. 

“Look, 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 don’t know why that makes me such a nut.” Ryland explained, his lips pressed close to the microphone.

“No one in your field wants anything to do with you because you refuse to back down from a very unpopular view Dr. Grace.” The other scholar with an accent replied. 

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. 

“And you’re a staggering waste of carbon.” Ryland mumbled into the microphone. 

There were audible gasps in the ground. Press was going wild, you had to admit this was a press worthy story now. 

You watched as the moderators went to silence the crowd, directing everyone on the panel to leave, ending it early for damage control. 

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.

“Ry, that was so badass.” You excitedly claimed, you shoved your things back into your pockets, now hands free.

Ryland grabbed your hand quickly.

“Let’s go.” 

“Okay let’s find Colt-”

You didn’t have time to ask why, or where you were going. You didn’t 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. 

“Ry, where are we going-”

Ryland turned you both around the corner, spotting a supply closet. 

“Get in.” Ryland instructed.

“What? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Ryland sighed frustrated.

“Quick!” 

“Okay okay!”

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 Ryland’s 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.

“Ryland?” 

“Yea?”

“Why exactly are we in a supply closet right now?” 

“I don’t know, but I definitely shouldn’t have called that guy ‘a staggering waste of carbon’.” 

You laughed hysterically, breaking the brief silence at his words. 

“You’re embarrassed? Really? That was the most epic thing I’ve ever seen. It’s going in my article.”

“Oh god no.” Ryland groaned.

“Oh come on, you force me to be in a tiny supply closet with you, and I get to write about what you said today.”

Ryland couldn’t answer, you started to feel something crawling up your leg and you screamed. 

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. 

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.

“Are you seriously laughing at me right now? There was a spider!” 

“It’s just funny how afraid of them you are.”

“May I remind you, that you’re the one hiding in a closet from a scholar you’re afraid of.” You argued. “Besides, it wasn’t even that bad. You’re right you know, we can’t possibly assume all life forms in our universe are water based. He is a staggering waste of carbon for assuming so.” 

“You think so?”

“Yea, I do, don’t doubt yourself.” You replied. 

“You can use what I said in your article.” 

“Thanks.” You mumbled insanely aware of Ryland’s body heat.  

Your hands went back down from his shoulders to grab on his biceps, and you asked yourself why on earth you didn’t notice how attractive his arms were earlier? If there was a light in that closet you’d turn it on to look at them. God you were pathetic, all you needed was close proximity, or maybe you just hadn’t been laid in a while. 

“I think we’ll be in the clear in a couple more minutes.” Ryland mused, interrupting your inner debate. “They usually clear out into other panels or peel back to their hotels.” 

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. 

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. 

Ryland’s 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 weren’t crazy. 

You couldn’t see Ryland’s face, but you couldn’t 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. 

You separated out of Ryland’s arms and jumped out of the supply closet. You couldn’t 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.

“How did you find us?” You asked.

Colt laughed, like it was the funniest thing ever.

“You know that multiple people saw you getting into this supply closet right? This building is literally full of people.”

“Hey this wasn’t my idea, it was your brothers.” 

“Yea that checks out, he’s like never fully aware of his surroundings.” Colt laughed. 

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.

“Oh my god—did you and Ryland—”

Your eyes widened at the innuendo.

“No, we were hiding from that stupid scholar Ryland name called!”

Colt nodded, sending you a wink, punching your shoulder.

“Right. ‘Hiding’. I understand.” He teased. 

“Ugh I hate you!” You whined, before storming off to find Ryland again.  

Colt cringed, regretting his joke, he turned around ready to do damage control. 

“Y/n, I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have made that joke!” Colt called after you as he rushed behind you. 

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. 

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. 

Colt said it was just going to be the four of you at a luxury hotel covered entirely by them, and Colt’s main interest specifically was the tiki bar — 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 couldn’t tell if she liked you or not. 

All of that to say you were stressed. You were trying to be normal about it. 

You were going on vacation — you were being invited on Colt and Jody’s 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 couldn’t 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

“Ryland, Y/n! You made it!” 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.

“Congratulations!” Ryland exclaimed, he fixed his glasses that Jody made askew during the hug. 

“Yea, congrats! Show me the ring, please!” 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 you’d have one of your own one day. 

“That’s awesome.” Ryland spoke, taking in the ring too.

Jody pulled her hand back, and sighed happily.

“Thank you so much for inviting us, I mean wow, this must have cost you guys a fortune.” You mumbled.

“Don’t mention it,” Jody said, waving her hand dismissively. “Come come, Colt is swimming at the beach around there before dinner, let’s meet him and then head to dinner.”

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 weren’t surprised, all the travel was well spent. 

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,

“You know, Colt says wonderful things about you.” 

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.

“Likewise.” You whispered.

“He wants you to be his best man, or I guess best person, alongside Ryland.” Jody explained. “Of course that’s up to you.”

Your heart melted at the thought of Colt planning out his wedding, and picturing you as his best person. You beamed in pride. 

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 couldn’t 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.

“How were your travels, you know, with that one?” Jody asked, pointing her thumb behind you both at Ryland.

You laughed, as you all continued your walking. The boardwalk creaking under your feet.

“Good. Ryland was very patient with me.”

It was true Ryland had known you weren’t 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 — the first time you discovered you got seasick. 

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 couldn’t 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. 

“Not a fan of travel?” Jody asked.

You shrugged, tilting your head side to side slightly.

“I like it when I’m at the destination, I just hate the process of getting there.”

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. 

“It is so good to see you two! I’m getting married to the most beautiful woman, and we’re celebrating on an island, with a Tiki Bar!” Colt exclaimed, punctuating his points.

You all laughed, and Colt leaned over to kiss Jody on the cheek.

“Him and his Tiki Bar.” Jody said, rolling her eyes. 

“I think our rooms should be ready, they are the huts closest to this side of the boardwalk.” 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 ‘growing up’ 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.

“Why don’t me and Colt get dressed for dinner, you can both drop your bags in your room, and we’ll meet you at the dining hut?” Jody suggested. 

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. 

“It’s so nice, seeing him so happy.” Ryland whispered. “When he first told me about stunt work, I was so worried.”

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.

“Because of the injuries?” You asked.

Ryland pulled his glasses to hang below his chin. 

“Yes that…but also I think because I was worried he’d be lonely.”

You thought about it for a moment. You guess you had been worried about the same thing.

“You and Colt are so different, but you still had each other.” You reassured him. 

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. 

You didn’t even think twice when you saw Ryland’s 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. Colt’s first paycheque — paying for Ryland’s eyeglasses instead of going through insurance, a luxury for Ryland who was making minimum wage.

You scrambled to pull your shirt off and Ryland’s 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 couldn’t stand in it, but not too deep you couldn’t 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.

“Are you crazy? You didn’t need to do that!” 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. 

“Yes I did.” You heaved in exhaustion. “You can’t read without them.”

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 didn’t let go of his hand as he looked you in the eyes, a look you couldn’t decipher for the first time. 

“You just jumped into the ocean to save my worthless glasses.”

You shrugged, allowing yourself to melt into his warmth, only slightly.

“They aren’t worthless, Colt gave them to you, I know how important that is.”

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.

“You are crazy, but I like that.” Ryland simply responded.

Your hair felt like seaweed, and you were undressed in front of your best friend for the first time. You didn’t like how he was looking at you, not because you hadn’t considered it, but because you were afraid of admitting that your stubbornness wasn’t letting you have him in that way. 

You cleared your throat and pulled yourself away from him.

“I guess I’d like to get dressed before we go to dinner.” You laughed.

Ryland chuckled.

“You did just get soaking wet, so I think that’s fair.”

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 ‘living room’ area. 

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. 

You swore to god Colt had something to do with this. 

“Hey, I mean it could be worse.” Ryland replied to your grumble, having heard your swearing. 

“How so?” You asked.

“Well, we could have no couch.”

You nodded, realizing what he was saying. Ryland was right, you slept on the couch at his apartment all the time anyway, you hadn’t 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.

“I guess that’s true, I could take the couch.”

“We can alternate.” Ryland suggested. 

He was always the one good with solutions. You nodded agreeing.

“Okay. You take the bed tonight.”

“Are you sure?” Ryland asked.

You nodded, sending him a smile which he reciprocated. You could already feel an uncomfortable tension forming between you two.

“I’ll get dressed then we can head to dinner.” You replied, picking clothes out of your suitcase.

You went to head toward the bathroom, your bare feet moving against the hardwood.

“Hey,” Ryland called, gently.

“Yea?” You asked.

“Thanks for getting my glasses.” He said, taking them off and putting them on the bedside table.

“Of course.”

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 couldn’t see if you were in a city at the very moment. 

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. 

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.

“Only Colt Seavers would choose a resort with a Tiki bar.”

Colt lifted his drink towards you.

“Hey, I deserve it after what a shit year it’s been.” 

“I heard you want me to be your best person.” You whispered.

Colt visibly got nervous.

“If that’s okay with you, I mean if you’d rather be Jody’s best person, or if you’d rather just be a guest or—”

“Colt. You’re my best friend. Of course I can’t just be just another guest. I’ll be your best man. Or best person whatever you wanna call me.” 

“Thank god. I was so nervous to ask you.” 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. 

“What? We were having a moment!” 

“You put us in a hut with only one bed on purpose, didn’t you?” You accused.

Colt huffed, playing with his paper umbrella.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, must’ve been a mistake with the booking.” He said, feigning innocence.

“You are making this so much harder than it needs to be!” You whined.

Colt gawked at you, the chatter around the bar dimming down as people headed back to bed.

“What are you talking about? I don’t know why you’re whining honestly, you are sharing a hut on a tropical island with an attractive man.” Colt argued. 

“Never mind. Let’s just talk about something else.” You argued back, juvenile. 

“No. Tell me honestly. Just you and me. Do you have feelings for Ryland? Do you feel how I think you feel?” 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. 

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.

“No, no I do not.” 

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 wasn’t the only one who could read you.

“You keep saying that, but you wanna know what I think?” Colt asked, he took a sip from his straw.

“What do you think?” You asked. 

“I think you’ve already fallen for him. And that’s hard for you to admit because it’ll be the first time you realize that you are becoming inspired by something other than your own stubbornness.” 

+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 wasn’t the time to bring it up. 

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 ‘living room’ couch. 

As you got settled under the blanket, you tried to fall asleep. You closed your eyes and tried to relax. But you couldn’t stop thinking about what Colt said. You had to admit he was pretty damn accurate. You had been falling for Ryland for years. 

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 — fully lit — 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, you’d let him take you anywhere. Everything that made him him was exactly the kind of person you imagined yourself being with. 

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. 

You sat up and pulled the covers off of you. If Ryland didn’t 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.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Ryland asked, tiredly.

You nodded, still in the doorway.

“Yea, uh, I feel like I’m still on San Francisco time.” 

Ryland let out a quiet, ‘mm’, and for a moment you both stayed there looking at each other like deer caught in headlights.

“Can I maybe join you?”

“In bed?” Ryland asked, and you didn’t miss the blush that spread across his face,

“I mean, it’s fine if not, we’ve never really slept in the same bed together, but–”

“No!” Ryland said a little too loud. “I mean no, it’s okay, get in.” 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.

“Can I come closer to you?” You asked.

Ryland simply nodded. 

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.

“I don’t know why this is so awkward, I mean, we cuddle all the time.” 

You smiled at this response.

“Then cuddle me right now.” 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 Ryland’s face in your shoulder, under your chin, made you realize you never wanted to let him go.

Maybe that moment wasn’t the moment to confess your feelings, but it just slipped out, the moment Ryland’s hand moved to run up and down your spine, sending shivers to your body,

“You know, Colt was right all this time.” 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 couldn’t 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.

“About what?”

You gave him a smile that was your attempt at allowing him to read you. To say ‘about how I like you you idiot’, without having to say anything at all. When he didn’t move, his expression softening to an almost discernable reflection, you spoke,

“About how I like you, how I was–how I am falling for you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Ryland chuckled, and brought one hand to graze your face, to cup your cheek. His thumb rubbing softly against your skin.

“Of course he was right.” 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. 

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 couldn’t hear, only catching him say,

“I want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time.” He groaned.

You pulled him down so he was laying beside you again, kissing his forehead once, so he could really look at you.

“You can have me, however you want. For as long as you want.” 

Ryland’s eyes lightened up, and he grinned sheepishly, ready to show you all the ways he’s wanted you…show you how much you mean to him…how 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.

“I know everyone changes, but I know nothing will change the way I feel about you.” He replied.

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, but—" 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 concerns—Noah seems incredibly emotionally attached to some of his teachers, myself included—" he swallows hard "not that there's anything wrong with that! I'm just a little concerned…is everything okay at home?" Your cheeks flush, and you laugh awkwardly "oh—yeah 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 minutes—seconds if he was able—it 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 I—" 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, just—" "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 Chrysanthemums—the 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.

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.

“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”

“Why does she always know everything?”

Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t 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.

“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” 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. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”

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 weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.

“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” 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. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”

“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”

“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”

There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve 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.

“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” 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. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”

They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t 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 school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ 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 him–hell, 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 Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”

“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”

“Because I know they’re your favorite,”

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 didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.

“How sweet of you to remember,” 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. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”

“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”

“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s 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.”

“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t 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. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”

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.

“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”

He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d 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, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.

“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”

The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.

“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”

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 didn’t 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.

“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”

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.

“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”

“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”

“Uh-huh, distracted,” 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. “By what, exactly?”

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.

“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”

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.

“Back to the previous topic,” 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. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”

“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”

Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.

“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”

“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.

“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”

“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”

“Romeo and Juliet,” 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. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”

“Except they don’t 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 he’s dead she stabs herself,”

Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.

“...oh,”

“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”

“Daisy 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,”

“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”

Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.

“...does anyone not die in these old books?”

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.

“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”

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.

❤︎

“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”

“Evelyn!”

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, you’d 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 ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.

“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” 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. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”

“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”

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.

“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”

“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”

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. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.

“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”

“It’s usually just something random-”

“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”

Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s 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 he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.

“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”

You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.

“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”

“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”

Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s 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.

“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”

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.

“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” 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.

“Wanted to sit next to you,” 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. “You make these slightly less boring.”

Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t 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.

“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.

“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” 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.

“How could she possibly think that?”

“You’d be surprised,” 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. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”

“Jesus, that many?”

“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”

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 didn’t 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.

“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”

“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s 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.

“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”

“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”

There simply wasn’t 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.

“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”

Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d 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.

“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d 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 you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”

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.

“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”

Other half. That’s 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 you’d 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 couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.

❤︎

“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”

Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s 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. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.

“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”

“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International 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.”

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 child’s 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.

“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” 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. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”

“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.

“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, 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.”

“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”

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.

“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”

Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s 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. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.

“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”

You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”

“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”

“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”

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.

“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”

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.

“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 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 sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”

The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.

“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”

Ryland’s 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.

“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”

You really didn’t 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 she’d even been called upon.

“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”

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 girl’s 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.

“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” 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. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”

“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”

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.

“I need you for this,” 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. “You trust me?”

A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.

“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”

Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ 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.

“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”

“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”

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.

“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”

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.

“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s 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?”

The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s 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.

“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”

“Very good, Olivia!” 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. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”

“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”

Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.

“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”

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.

“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”

There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.

“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”

“She is,” 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. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”

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.

“Make good choices,” 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. “Don’t uh, I don’t 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.”

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.

“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.

❤︎

Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.

Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d 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 wasn’t 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 he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t 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. 

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.

“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”

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, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.

“I can’t be that bad,” 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. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”

He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”

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, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.

“I can’t let you-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”

There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s 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 wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t 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.

“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”

“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.

“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”

“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”

Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t 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 managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.

He’s 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 ‘whipped’ 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 couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.

“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”

Ryland’s 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 car’s 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.

“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t 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. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”

“You calling me old, Ryland?”

“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”

“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” 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 couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”

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.

“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”

Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.

“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”

If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work. 

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.

“Thanks…for this,” 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.

He…could 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 he’s 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 he’s 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.

“I should probably get home-”

“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”

You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.

“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”

He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.

“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”

Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.

Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was 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.

“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” 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 didn’t 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 he’d 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.

“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” 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. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”

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 wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t 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 wouldn’t 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.

“Great idea, Ryland,” 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. “Almost get the woman you’re 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.”

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.

“You 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,”

“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”

If it wasn’t 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 would’ve 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 wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.

Yesterday. He’d 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.

“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”

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 he’d 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 wasn’t 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 Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d 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. He’d 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 he’d 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.

“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”

He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t 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.

“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” 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. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”

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.

“That 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,”

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.

“That was one time!” 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. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”

“Don’t 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,”

Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.

“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”

“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”

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 you’d 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 he’d 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 didn’t 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.

“T-This is nice,” 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. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”

“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”

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 she’d 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 Ryland’s 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 couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t 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.

“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”

The Sun. That’s 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. 

The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.

Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d 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.

“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”

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.

“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”

“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”

Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.

“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”

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.

“I 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,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”

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.

“For you? Totally,”

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 swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.

❤︎

The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.

As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s 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.

“A space theme?” 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. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”

“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” 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. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”

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.

“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”

“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”

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 wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d 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 you’d 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 you’d 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 he’d 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 summer’s day.

Moments where he’d 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 you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.

Something was different, and you weren’t 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 you’d 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 wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.

“I need your help,”

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.

“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.

“I…I like Olivia,”

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 Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.

“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”

“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”

“I do,”

You held your hand out toward him with a smile.

“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”

With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s 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.

“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”

The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”

Olivia’s 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.

“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”

“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”

“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”

That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.

“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”

“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”

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.

“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”

“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” 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. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”

“You could’ve,”

“I’ll remember for next time,” 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. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”

You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.

“Like 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,”

Ryland laughed beside you.

“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”

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.

Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t 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.

“Stay here,”

There wasn’t 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.

“Ryland?” 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. “What did you just do?”

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

“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”

Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t 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. That’s 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 yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But 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 Adam’s 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 weren’t 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 Ryland’s 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. He’d 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.

“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”

The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve 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 seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.

“Come with me,”

“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”

“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”

“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.

Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.

“Worth it,”

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 he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d 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.

“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d 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.

“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“Then stop thinking,”

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 Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t 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 couldn’t 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 Ryland’s 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 you’d 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. Ryland’s 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.

“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” 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. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”

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.

“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”

The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s 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.

"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 and—"

"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 yourselves—and 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 heartbeat’s 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.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick and low, and his arm jerks away as if burned.

"It—it'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."

"I—It'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 to—" He mutters, the scar on his cheek turning pink.

“No.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist before you can stop yourself. “Don’t—you don’t have to pull away.”

His eyes flick up to your face, searching. The sound of the water, like bells.

"I want to. I do." You splutter. "But I—not all at once."

He exhales. His other hand comes up to rest at your waist, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright.”

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."

"Charles—"

"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 you—" 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 possibly—"

"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. Charles’s 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."

“I’d only slow you down,” you murmur.

“That’s not true.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth. “It is a little.” 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 Arthur’s 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 Arthur’s voice. Charles begging you, over and over, to save him from the slow erosion of his insides.

“I want to go to the gunsmith,” you say. “Get my gun fixed.”

He nods once. “Alright.”

“Then I want to walk through Chinatown.”

“Mm.”

You swallow, then let yourself smile a little. “And then I want you to take me to bed.”

That gets the ghost of a smile from him. “That so?”

“That so.”

His hand tightens lightly around your wrist. “Alright, then.”

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.

“Charles.” Your hands are already on his shoulder, pressing, slipping, pressing again. “Charles, stay with me.”

His face has gone ashen. Blood pours between your fingers, warm enough to make you feel sick. “I’m okay,” he says, but the words are thin.

“No, you’re not.” Your voice comes out too sharp, too fast. “You’re bleeding too much.”

“I said I’m okay.”

“You don’t know that.” You press harder, as if you can force the wound shut by will alone. “Has it hit anything important?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” Fear knots your throat so tight you can hardly breathe around it. “Charles, look at me.”

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. “Hey. You’re okay,” she says, though she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. “You’re okay.”

Charles lets out a rough breath. “I will be.”

You sag closer, hands still pressed to the blood. “Then we’re getting you out of here.”

“No.” He shifts weakly and winces. “Go on with John.”

You shake your head once. “No.”

"Move fast. Or they'll come down that hill and kill us all."

"I won't."

“Go,” he says again, quieter now. “I can follow. Just not fast.”

You stare at him, at the blood soaking through his shirt, at the strain in his mouth that he’s trying so hard to hide. Your fingers tighten on his coat.

“I don’t care about Micah. I don’t care about any of it. Let John have him.”

Sadie glances between you and Charles, then steps back, leaving the two of you in the cold. Charles’s gaze stays on your face.

“John and Sadie need you.”

“Don’t.” You blink hard, but it does no good. “Don’t ask me to go.”

He studies you for a long second, blood still spilling through your fingers, his own breath shallow. “Why? This is what you wanted.”

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 — not in disbelief, exactly, but in shock so deep it seems to cut straight through pain. “You’re—”

You give a tiny, helpless nod. “I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

"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 me—"

“No.” His voice is low, roughened with pain.“No.”

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.

“You’re not leaving me,” 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 you—will 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."

“Aye, well.” Cerwyn shifts his weight at the look on your face. “Understanding and commanding are different things. Winter is coming, Lady Stark, and we need lords who know winter in their bones.” A deliberate pause, so heavy you don’t think anyone in the room is breathing. “Not some southern prince who’s never seen snow stick.”

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 you’ll do.

Maekar doesn’t move. His jaw tightens, but he says nothing, the tendons in his hand ripple with restrain as he slowly clenches his fist. He’s 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 they’re right, you realise with a sharp pang.

“Lord Cerwyn,” you begin, and your voice cuts clean and cool through the room. “My husband was on the Wall with the Night’s Watch this autumn. Were you?”

Cerwyn’s mouth opens, then closes.

“He rode with the mountain clans through the first storm to settle a border dispute you said was too dangerous. He’s overseen every roof repair in Winter Town, inspected every granary from here to the Gift.” Your fingers curl around the armrests, claws sinking into wood, your brows rising slightly. “He knows winter. He’s learning it by living it. What have you done besides complain?”

The lords stare openly—some with approval, others with surprise. Cerwyn’s face goes red, but he doesn’t argue back. Perhaps the wisest thing he’s done all day.

“My lady,” Maekar says carefully, “Lord Cerwyn speaks from concern. It’s not misplaced.”

He’s 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 he’s never been particularly good at navigating it. This is what Baelor would have done, you think dismayed, smooth, measured, strategically smart.

But it’s not Baelor beside you.

“Concern does not excuse discourtesy,” you say flatly. “And I will not have my lord husband questioned in his own hall.” You sweep your gaze across them. “Winter is coming. I want lords who will stand with us, not against us because they don’t like where a man was born.”

You rise. “This council is dismissed.”

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 don’t watch them go. You’re watching Maekar instead, the blankness gone from his face and something guarded taking its place.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says when the door closes.

“Yes, I did.” You cross to him before he can retreat into that cold distance he wears like armour. “They don’t get to dismiss you. Not in my hall.”

“Your hall,” he repeats, and there’s something bitter in it. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s yours. Winterfell, the North, all of it. I’m just—”

“Mine.” 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. “You’re mine, Maekar. My husband. My lord. And I don’t let anyone disrespect what’s mine.”

His breath catches, just a touch, tiniest of hitches. You can see his throat work as he swallows, the muscle there jumping. “Seven hells, woman. You can’t just—”

“I can.” You’re close enough now to feel the heat of him, to see the way his pupils dilate. “You came North for duty. You stayed because you’re too stubborn to quit, but you’re here now, and that makes you mine to protect.”

“Protect,” 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. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“What would you call it?”

“Claiming.” The word is rough, almost accusing, but his hands tighten on you. “You claimed me in front of them. Made it clear I’m yours.”

“You are.”

He makes a sound low in his throat, hard-edged and mean. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“Then tell me, husband.”

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. “You stood there and defended me like I’m something worth keeping. Like you’d gut anyone who tried to take me from you.”

You watch him from under your lashes. “I would.”

“Gods.” His forehead drops to yours, breath coming hard. “You mean that.”

“Every word.” Your fingers curl tighter in his tunic. “You’re mine, Maekar. I don’t care who I loved before or what anyone thinks. You’re what I have now, and I’m not giving you up.”

Something shifts in his expression, the last of that careful distance crumbling . “Say it again.”

“You’re mine.”

“Again.”

“Mine.” You pull him down and press your lips lightly to the uneven texture of his cheek. “My husband. My lord. My problem to deal with.”

He laughs, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Your problem.”

“My responsibility.” Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble. “And if Cerwyn or anyone else wants to question that, they can answer to me.”

“Fierce little wolf,” he murmurs, but there’s heat in his eyes now, something possessive matching your own. His thumb traces your bottom lip. “Didn’t know you had claws like that, wife.”

“I’m a Stark. We always have claws.” You bite gently at his thumb, making his eyes darken. “And you’re pack now. That means I protect you.”

“Pack,” he repeats, testing the word. Then, quieter: “Yours.”

“Mine.”

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 you’re both burning with it.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark and his voice is gravel. “If this is what northern marriages look like, I’ve been underestimating the North.”

“You’ve been underestimating me.” You straighten his tunic where you wrinkled it. “Don’t make that mistake again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, my lady.” But there’s something raw in his face, something grateful and hungry and almost soft, as much as a hard man could get. “Your hall. Your husband. Your dragon to protect.”

“Good.” You press one more kiss to his mouth, quick and fierce. “Now let’s go show those fools we’re a united front.”

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 – because the basket you’re lugging looks absurdly full, and yet you still let him walk you the rest of the way to the village. 

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 – envy, maybe? – because you didn’t have a problem with authority, he knows because you seem to take his fathers criticism’s 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. 

You had a problem with Nateyam.

As a teenager, it used to irk him to no end. Because as the firstborn son of the Olo’eyktan, 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 – the daughter to the clan's most formidable warrior, his fathers right hand man. 

You – who did not listen. Who did not trust him. Who always – always – questioned him. 

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 father’s. 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. 

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 couldn’t 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 wasn’t 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. 

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 afternoon’s 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 didn’t 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 – his mother and yours, seated side by side and watching the exchange with far too much interest –that he noticed.

You had still taken the basket.

“Hey!” He remembers the way your fathers voice cut from just to the left, “Play nice.” 

And he’d assumed, as always, that your father was less than impressed at his daughter’s rude manners toward the Olo’eyktan’s 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, Jake’s 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 he’d never understood as a boy – 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. 

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 didn’t 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.

“Why must you always be so difficult?” The words surfaced in that defeated tone he reserved only for you and your impertinence for him. 

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. 

“I am not.” And there it was – 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. “You just insist on hovering.”

“We were sent out here to collect fibre together. You ‘insist’ on making it a one man job.”

You didn’t 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.

“I do not need a partner to cut fibre,” Your response was flat as if it were such an obvious observation, and then you sighed, a long drawn out exhale to yourself. “So ridiculous.”

The scoff that followed was harsh and hidden under your breath.

Despite its low delivery, the sound didn't slip Neteyam’s ear, and he raised an unassertive brow at what he thought he heard, the corner of his mouth tipping low in confusion. “What is?” 

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.

“That 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.”

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.

“Right, you are not a child.” He said at last, voice level. “But maybe our fathers would not feel the need to treat you like one if you stopped acting as one.”

“Excuse me?”

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.  

Neteyam held his ground, though. And instead, he replied carefully in an attempt to diffuse that constantly building tension just a little.

“You make an enemy of me in everything we do, as if we haven’t 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.”

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.

“Perfect Olo'eyktan's son, always so composed and responsible. Maybe I would enjoy my time with you more if Eywa hadn’t shaped you so stiff in the tail you forgot how to bend, Tawtute.”

For a heartbeat, the words hung between you like a knocked bowstring waiting to snap with release. Then Neteyam’s 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 he’d ever done was try to prove it wasn’t.

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.

“You forget how many times that stiffness kept you from getting hurt.”

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. “I 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.”

“Yes,” Neteyam scoffed a humorless laugh, “you never do.”

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. 

“You cut angry,” He observed with a growl. “Uneven. Wasteful.”

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. “You waste them with your stupidity! Of course they break when you only weave two fibres!”

“They need to be thick enough for bowstrings, to hold knocked arrows in new bows.” He countered. 

You sneered with a slight hiss, leaning further into him. “Then don’t use them.”

“Oh no, I will.” He smirked, as he finally began his job, looping the fibres together, securing them with practiced ease. “Someone has to make sure we don’t come back empty-handed.”

You shot him a glare. “I said I do not need your-”

“You do not need my help,” He finished for you, clearly way too amused now. “I know. You have said it at least five times since we left the clearing.” 

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.

“And yet,” he continued, eyes never leaving the strands as he calmly coiled the fibres, “you keep cutting while I bind. Funny how that works.”

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.

“Get out of my way.” You spat, but it was as if you couldn’t convey the weight of anger you meant to land. Your tone was weak and almost a little desperate.

“You always rush when you are angry,” he ignored your demand - if it could even be called that - with a tone that was almost conversational. “Your tail gives you away.”

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.

“Stop watching me, Tawtute.” This time your voice really did sound desperate.

“I can’t. You make it difficult.” 

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, “You know, for someone who insists she doesn’t listen to me, you react an awful lot when I speak.”

“Because you are provoking me!” You snapped in a low growl. 

“You glare like you are about to strike me." He replied, entirely too amused.

“Lucky I am working, because you would deserve it if I did.” 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 you’d sworn you’d outgrown.

“Oh are you? Would not have guessed, with the way you are looking at me like a Yerik in the firelight.” 

Eywa, if you didn’t look angry before.

“Neteyam!”

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 bowstring–

“Oh good, you’re fighting again.”

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 Lo’ak 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. 

“It’s more like flirting again.” The words Kiri muttered were small and meek but Eywa, if they didn’t 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. 

“Stop being a skxawng, Lo’ak–.”

“–We are not flirting, Kiri.” 

The words collided in the air, yours to Kiri a hiss and his to Lo’ak a sigh, overlapping with a defensive tilt that had the other two chuckling harder.

Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. “Wow." He stated. “Touched a sensitive nerve.”

And Neteyam, the all mighty responsible son he is, didn’t reach for the bait Lo'ak hung so low for him, instead, he crossed his arms with a sigh at his unexpected presence. “What are you doing here?”

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. 

“Dad said to come get you two because you’re taking too long!”

Kiri and Lo’ak's eyes grew wide. And with a quick exchanged glance of horror, at the same time they barked. “Tuk!” 

But she ran right past them, as if their voices fell silent to the wind.

Lo’ak 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.

“Dad told us to come get them,” He corrected, gesturing between himself and Kiri. “That wasn’t an invitation to follow.”

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.

“But Dad said you’ve been out here alone long enough!”

Tuk protested, twisting free of Lo’ak’s 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.

“He told mom that if you and Neteyam keep fighting like this, you’ll probably end up at the Tree of Souls by tonight!” She paused, then her voice pitched higher with pure betrayal. “But you can’t! You promised you’d help me braid my new beads tonight!”

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. 

In stark contrast just a ways away, Lo’ak let out a sharp bark of laughter, doubling over with his grip on Kiri's arm, just as she finally outright lost the battle she’d 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.

“Stupid Neteyam.” She declared, voice ringing with righteous indignation. “You can’t take Y/N anywhere tonight. Eywa heard it - she’s with me today!”

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.

“Oi!”  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 you’d 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.

“That 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.”

Tuk’s 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. “He's right, you’ve caused enough trouble. Come on, teylupil.”

She didn’t 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.

“But I didn’t do anything!” Tuk protested.

“Tell it to dad.” Kiri laughed.

Tuk craned her neck back toward you one last time as Kiri dragged her away, voice pitching higher with urgency. “Y/n, don’t forget my hair-!”

“I know,” 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.

Lo’ak 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.

“We will collect the threads and follow.” 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, Lo’ak 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 Neteyam’s mouth, he huffed a quiet laugh and finally began his own descent toward the start of the winding path back to the village. “Dad’s pissed.” He called over his shoulder. “Try not to be too long.”

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 hadn’t 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 he’d 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 tail’s path, the tell he’d 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. 

“What?” You spat, tired, irritated and painfully obvious to him – embarrassed.

“Still 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. 

"I am not angry about that ridiculous–” 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. “Do not flatter yourself, Tawtute. Flirting? With you? I'd sooner make Tsaheylu with a thanator."

His eyes gleamed with mischief, but it wasn’t 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. 

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 didn’t 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.

“Funny,” He murmured, and Eywa, the way he said it made your spine want to curl. “Your 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.”

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 couldn’t 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 didn’t move. You hated that the push didn’t 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.

“Back off,” 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. “I do not enjoy anything about you hovering like a skxawng who thinks he is Eywa’s gift to the clan.”

You couldn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“Gift?” He repeated, voice quiet and flat, the kind of quiet that made your spine prickle. “I 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?”

Something in his words snapped the tension in a way that almost had a stifled laugh escaping you. The image of perfect Neteyam, future Olo’eyktan, 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.

“Poor you.” You sang, voice dripping with false sympathy as the anger flipped into something crueler and entirely more enjoyable. “All that dragging must be so exhausting for such meek shoulders to carry.”

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.

“Except, you came here knowing you were going to do it anyways. So, there,” You said, stepping back with a grin that showed too many teeth. “Problem 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.”

Neteyam’s 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 didn’t want.

Instead, he gripped the handle tighter, knuckles paling and barked, “Fnawe’tu skxawng!”

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. “You call me the stubborn idiot? But you carry the basket anyway. Funny how that works?”

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. “Start walking, Fang. The sooner we get back, the sooner I am rid of you for the day.”

“Perfect!" You grinned, but the grin quickly dropped. "Twelve whole hours before you find another excuse to follow me around tomorrow.”  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. Ki’tiri had been retelling an exaggerated recall of her day on patrol, her eyes gleaming with irate exasperation as she animatedly spoke of the moment Lo’ak decided to start throwing stones out of boredom, nearly nailing Mo’at 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 you’d 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 she’d taken down a Thanator.

“Will you make these for me too?” She asked – more like stated – for what had to be the third time tonight, thumb brushing the tiny knotwork with awe.

“When you stop trying to steal mine..” 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 Lo’ak had attempted on their patrol together, when Tuk’s 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.

“What?” You muttered, eyeing her of an answer before she spoke it.

Tuk’s 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. 

“Neteyam is with that noisy woman again. An’aya.” 

She spat the name in that high-pitched mocking tone children did, and at first, you didn’t 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 Tuk’s 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.

An’aya 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. 

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 wouldn’t 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.

“I don’t like her,” she muttered, voice fierce and final. “She talks too much. And she sits too close to Neteyam. And she laughs at his jokes even when they’re not funny.”

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 – insulting the man.

“Nothing Neteyam says is funny.” But not even that seemed to work to calm you because that irrationally confusing feeling still clawed at your chest.

“That’s not true,” Tuk called out immediately, tilting her small face up at you with those wide eyes. “You laugh at him all the time! Just not when he’s looking.”

She leaned in closer, voice dropping into something hurt and almost bordering a whine. “He’s supposed to sit with us.”

“That is not how this works.” 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.

Tuk’s 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 didn’t. 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. Ki’tiri quickly noticed the shift in your mood and tilted her head, studying you now with open curiosity.

“Why are you angry?” She cut in plainly. “Did he do something again?”

“No." You replied stark. “How could he? Neteyam is all the way over there.”

Ki’tiri exchanged a quick, knowing glance with the friends beside you. “I 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. Ki’tiri leaned in again, allowing you the dignity of ending her teasing, feeling almost a little bad at how astoundingly purple you looked.

"You’re getting upset,” She stated simply and not unkindly. “You do that only where Neteyam is involved.”

“I am not upset.” But you were too far maddened for that to be convincing. “And he is not involved. I have been sat here, and he has been there this entire time.”

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.

“I do NOT care who he sits with!” You hissed, voice cracking on the volume. “He can sit in her lap for all the stars in the sky care! I would not notice if Eywa herself told me!”

“Seems like you do…”

“—What is going on!?”

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 hadn’t stood, he hadn’t 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 Olo’eyktan 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 wasn’t even half your problem. The problem was that An’aya 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?

“We’re fine.” You called back, sharper than necessary, your eyes not even bothering to glance his way once. “Try having your own conversations instead of monitoring everyone else, tawtute.”

Neteyam’s 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 didn’t rise, not yet. Only tipped his chin and let a quick “Eywa help me,” 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 An’aya 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.

“I said we are fine,” 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.

“And I said I was just asking.” 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. “You are upset.”

You sputtered a short sudden laugh but your tone held no humour. “Right, 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?”

Neteyam’s jaw flexed, his calm finally straining at the edges.

“That is not what I am doing. You know I do not–”

“You do!" Your outburst came hard against his sentence, not having the patience nor heart to hear his excuses. “My 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.”

Neteyam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was bracing himself. “Well, you don’t have to turn everything I say into a fight.”

“And you don’t 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.”

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.

“Stop fighting!” She begged, voice whiny with pure childish exasperation. “You guys always pretend like you don't want to talk, and then Neteyam comes and you fight forever because he won’t leave you alone, but then you don't tell him to go away, and it's annoying!"

“Tuk!” Both you and Neteyam barked simultaneously, horror gleaming in both of your eyes because that was so obviously not true!

“That is what happens." She insisted stubbornly. "You do it all the time.”

"No!" You rejected. "We argue because he hovers!"

An’aya, from the shadow of Neteyam’s 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 Olo’eyktan already."

Your head turned slowly toward her, blood finally boiling beyond that point that only Neteyam’s 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 Neteyam’s problems as if they were her own. ‘If we did not worry’ — 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.

“Oh, is that your healer’s wisdom speaking, or are you only borrowing the golden son’s voice while he is too busy ogling to use it himself?”

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.

“Maybe our fathers should stick her as your new training partner since she is already so good at handling me."

"Fang—" Neteyam's voice was eerily low.

"—Now that my guard dog has a guard dog.”

And then he stiffened. “Enough.”

But you didn't stop. “Is this what you tell people about me?”

Neteyam opened his mouth to speak, visibly caught off guard by the sudden accusation.

“That is not–” He started for the umpteenth time but again you didn’t let him finish.

“I 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.” You scoffed softly, the sound carrying just far enough to be heard.

“A leader, they say you will be.” You continued, words mocking. “Tell me how this is keeping the peace. Seems your peace is built on my silence. Both your peace and our fathers.”

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.

“Y/n, no– please don’t be mad,” 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."

“You did not.” You said shortly. “This is not on you, Tuk.”

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 couldn’t help the feeling like he’d 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 didn’t 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 didn’t notice them on anyone else. More than anything else, the fact that you hadn’t 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.

“At least you don't have to worry about watching her anymore." An’aya’s 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 you’d left behind. To the quiet, unwelcome understanding that this time, you hadn’t walked away to cool off – you had walked away because he had apparently crossed a line he didn’t 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. 

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.

Jake’s voice cut through the air before either of you could make a move.

“Enough posturing,” he barked from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. “This isn’t a mating dance. Someone's going to have to make a move soon enough. Engage.”

The command barely left Jake’s mouth before you jolted.

You didn’t 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.

“Good feint, Y/n. Nice recovery, Neteyam.” Jake called out. 

Your eyes never pivoted from Neteyam, but Jake's words riled you further, knowing he got praise for the first hit. 

"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?"

Neteyam’s ears flicked at your taunt, but his expression stayed infuriatingly calm. He rolled the shoulder you’d nearly landed on earlier, circling with you, mirroring your steps like he’d memorized every rhythm you’d ever moved to.

“Well, would not want to mess up that pretty face.”

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.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dropping to your mouth, “keep rubbing up on me like that and people may talk.” 

Damn his Sully tongue and their dirty human minds. Only they – 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.

“I will kill you!”

Neteyam’s 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.

“Get. off. of. me.” He snarled, voice low and dangerous through his squirms against you, wrists twisting against your grip. “Why must you always turn it into this?”

You dug your nails in deeper, refusing to budge, chest heaving with anger. “You started it with your filthy mouth. Think you can say whatever you want and I will just take it?”

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.

“I’m trying to win a damn spar, not deal with your tantrum. Yield!” He said through short breaths.

“Force me, Tawtute,” you hissed, grinding your knees harder into his sides.,“or keep dancing for your sempul like the skxawng you are.”

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.

Jake’s gaze flicked between you. “You two are going to be the leaders of this clan some day.” 

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 couldn’t even look at each other at an implication he didn’t even mean!

Realization dawned on his face, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh. "And this – this right here – is exactly what I mean. Every little thing between you turns into a problem. You don’t know how to keep things contained when it’s the two of you.”

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." 

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 “hell” - to some weird sky people word.

Shameful. 

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. 

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 didn’t mean it cruelly. This was that strange sky-people thing he did, where he slipped into what was described as the “military” tone, meant to correct rather than offend. That didn’t make the cut sting less deep, though.

You were mid deliberation when you suddenly heard it, the tiniest huff of breath from Neteyam’s 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 wasn’t 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 couldn’t quite believe you were actually compliant. Like your mortification was the funniest thing he’d seen all day.

You knew you shouldn’t. 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.

“What?” 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. “Something funny, Tawtute?”

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. “A child, Fang.” He taunted, hitting right where he knew you hurt most. “You look like a child scolded by her elder. It’s pretty damn funny.”

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 wasn’t 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. 

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. 

“Open your mouth again, Tawtute, and I swear to Eywa and everything she deems sacred, I’ll slam you down and make you swallow every sorry sound you choke in front of the whole clan.”

Neteyam’s 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. 

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 you’d known him that his size truly registered. Tall, and broad, and built like the future leader he was meant to be. 

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 else’s, as darker, thicker, more prominent than the others. The Tawtute genes, you told yourself, that’s 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 didn’t 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.

“Keep staring like that, Fang,” he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temple, “and I’ll give you something real to choke on.”

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. 

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 Jake’s voice cracked through it like a whip.

“I said enough!”

He was on you in two strides, one massive hand clamping the back of Neteyam’s neck, the other seizing your upper arm and hauling you both apart with force that made your feet skid on the woven mat.

Jake’s eyes were wild, ears pinned flat, chest heaving.

“You two are done,” he growled, voice shaking with barely-leashed anger. “Done acting like feral animals that can’t control their emotions. Grown adults and I’m still treating you two like I did when you were twelve.”

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.” 

Jake was not having it. “I 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.

“Go saddle your Ikran’s.” 

When the two of you hesitated, Jake snarled “Now! And if I hear one more word out of either of you before you’re out of my sight, I swear to Eywa I’ll tie you both to the same tree instead.” 

Jake's voice sounded so tired and the clearing had gone deathly quiet. Neteyam’s 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 he’d 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 he’d 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.

“You finally snapped.” He said, eyes not glancing at Jake, but to the sway of trees that shielded your retreating forms in the distance. “Only took till the moment they stopped trying to fight clean.”

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. “I told myself it was just their temper getting the best of them,” he admitted. “That they’d settle once one of them landed a solid hit, but I’ve never seen them go at it like that.”

Your father hummed softly in agreement. “Even anger has rules.” He said. “What I just saw forgot them. No form. No distance. Just hands… wherever they could reach.” 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. “My son knows better than that.”

“As does my daughter,” He replied, and there it was, that note of worried pride that always crept in when he spoke of her. “Which is how I know they have reached a point where the body starts answering questions the mind refuses to ask.”

“You’re worried.” Jake observed. 

“I am a father,” he simply replied, and then after a beat added, “And I have eyes. I know Neteyam is fond of her.”

“He wont–,” Jake moved to start comforting his friend, shifting to place a hand on his shoulder when your father let a short snort leave him.

“I do not worry about Neteyam, I worry about her,” he said, with no effort to soften the curve of his mouth. “Neteyam 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.” A pause, then quieter, “That matters to me. It is her who has no restraint.” He ended with a chuckle.

Jake’s smirk lingered, but it softened at the edges, tempered by something more careful in tone. “Yeah, well, they have both been very good at lying to themselves.” He let a beat pass before he chuckled. “Well, maybe not your daughter, she can’t lie to save her life.”

“It really is her we should worry about.” Your father laughed. “If I were foolish enough to wager,” he suddenly turned, clapping a hand to Jake’s shoulder, “I would bet they return insisting the night was torture, then flinch every time their queues touch because they finally know what they’re used for.”

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. 

“I’m not taking that bet,” he said, then hesitated, the amusement fading just enough to let the doubt through. “I expected you to be angrier with me for sending them off together.”

Your father snorted. “You did the same with Neytiri,” he replied. “And you didn’t exactly handle it with grace.”

Jake grimaced. “That was different.”

“No, It was not,” he said lightly, his gaze flicking back toward the trees, “and Neteyam’s trying too hard not to cross the same line. My daughter has never been good at pretending there isn’t one.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, rubbing yet another exhaustedly stressed hand down his face at the implication of his words. “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”

“Good,” Your father said quietly. “Someone 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.”

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 wasn’t 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. 

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. 

Neteyam didn’t 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 Na’vi 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. “We should start with inventory. Get it over with.”

You didn’t 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. 

“Do it yourself.” 

Your voice – so dismissive and blunt in tone – had Neteyam’s pointy ears pinning back and deep amber eyes snapping at you in a quick, sharp warning. 

“Do not start.”

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. “Too late.” You sneered, your typical fang glaring snare on full display. “You 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?”

“My thick skull?” Neteyam’s big eyes bore straight through your own, blown wide and non-blinking almost as if trying to read you for an answer he wasn’t going to find. He looked absolutely exasperated and a breathy laugh that held no humor escaped his lips as he shook his head. “Thats rich coming from the one who is sat on a crate of knives, doing absolutely nothing.”

“We 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.”

“Kind of difficult to concentrate on a lecture when the woman threatening to make me choke is attempting to swing her claws into my chest.”

“I only reacted because you–!” 

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. 

–Because you speak lewd words that should only be muttered between the most established of mates. 

“–Because I what?” Neteyam’s 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 he’d just found the one loose thread that would unravel you completely.

“Because–” Your face was so flushed, you could hardly bring the words to the surface. “–Because you- you have a vulgar mouth! Y-You speak filth just to provoke me.”

 “Vulgar?” 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. “Me? I think I recall you mentioning something about slamming me down on my back.” 

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.

“That is not what I speak! Why must you keep bringing up those words?” The words tumbled out too fast and breathless to be convincing, and you almost kicked yourself for the delivery.

“Because you are the one who said them, you just don’t like what they mean.”

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.

“They meant nothing,” you shot back, chin lifting in defiance. “You twist everything.” 

The sound of Neteyam’s 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. 

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 – which they always seemed to be when you were around – 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. 

Soon your gaze fell to the wide frame of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, and it dawned on you that you’d 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 you’d ever seen on any man – on any Na’vi you’d 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 wasn’t fair. It wasn’t 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 wasn’t fair that it wasn’t a you thing, it was a him thing. You only liked it on him.

You told yourself for the hundredth time – 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 wasn’t 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. 

His gaze dipped and it wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t 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 you’d imagine possible from a single man at the realisation he had just made. 

It was silent for a beat, air heavy with tension before Neteyam spoke. 

“You must really like my loincloth.”

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. 

“Shut up–!”

“–You know, my mother makes them–”

“ –I don’t care–!”

“ –Shall I ask her to make another? She does adore you–” 

“–You do not know anything–!”

“–I know exactly when you lie.”

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. 

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 Na’vi now. 

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 didn’t… 

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 he’d found something amusing he was excited to explain. But you knew he was only rubbing the fact that he caught you staring in. 

“My mother uses five beads on each knot,” he said smugly, and you followed his fingers as they brushed against the small carved beads on the loincloth’s cords. “She says it is the number of balance. Five for the senses and all.” 

Then he suddenly looked up at you, those overly round, innocent eyes portraying that innocence all too well. “Seems it is not working, you do not look very balanced right now.”

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 couldn’t 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. 

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. “Five is a greedy number anyway.” You muttered, eyes still traitorously fixed on his hands.  

His gaze followed yours until it landed on his hands  – 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.

“Greedy?” He echoed softly. Without haste, he lifted those hands, the ones you couldn’t stop staring at, toward your face. “Is that what you think this is?” 

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 you’d just mocked. 

“Tawtute.” He uttered, his voice dipped low with smug delight. “That is what you call me.”

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, you’d 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.

“Txampay tawtute.” 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.

“Demon blood.” He muttered, though he wasn’t 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. 

“Do you call me tawtute so often because you think about how my hands would feel on you?”

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?

“Neteyam.” The name came out like an unsure whine, nothing like the sharp hiss you’d 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. 

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. “I know you hate me.”

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.

“Neteyam learns quicker,”

“Neteyam already wields a bow,”

“Neteyam never loses his temper.”

You had heard it from your father your entire life and you hated him for being the excellence you couldn’t 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 – now – you couldn’t reconcile that boy with the man standing close enough to steal your breath, hands steady where your resolve should have been. You couldn’t fathom how you were letting him do this. How the same Neteyam you’d 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. 

“I know you think you hate me.” He repeated, but this time you could hear the smirk that crept up his irritatingly gorgeous face. “But you never look at me like this when you say it. And this–” his free hand drifted down, fingertips ghosting along the tense line of your hip until they found the base of your tail, “--this is the most still your tail has been all night.”

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 didn’t mean to make, nor had you realised escaped you until Neteyam’s glowing amber eyes widened alongside his smile. 

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. 

“Do not–” 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.

“–stop.”

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? 

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. 

You looked absolutely ruined. And he absolutely detested the idea that you might have been telling him to stop – truly stop – 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.

“Do.. not.. stop.” You spoke between heavy breaths. “Neteyam, please.”

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 he’d been clinging to as he finally realised what you meant. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.   

Your breath hitched as those fingers paused there, so achingly close, tracing lazy, maddening patterns just above the thin strip of woven fabric – 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.

“You are always so responsive.” He murmured, voice gravelly, lips brushing yours as he spoke and fingers still working their patterns at the lowest part of your belly. “Every touch… you light up for me.”

“You always think you know what I feel.” The words spat harsh but breathless, trying desperately to deny him the satisfaction of winning.

But Neteyam just laughed, stating flatly. “Your freckles glow, fang.”

And your flush deepened knowing your body was betraying your mind. 

“Stop talking. I still despise you.”

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.  

“Funny way of showing it.” He commented.

Then his fingers pulled at the string, and all you did was let your head fall back against the wall in response. 

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. 

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.  

“No fangs now, huh?” 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. “I’ll silence you.”

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 – all mighty Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto, future Olo’eyktan – 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. 

“I told you I would make you swallow your sorry sounds.” And with a sharp tug forward, the control had been shifted to your hands. “Now swallow.”

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 he’d 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. 

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. 

You were a mix of pleasure and shame – 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  – on his knees, serving the woman who’d 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.

“Eywa, shit– Y/n– ” 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.

“Who else?” You spat, voice accusatory and ugly with envy, fingers tightening in his braids in a visceral way you couldn’t help.

“What?” He sounded so breathless, and so confused, eyes still foggy from being buried between your thighs.

“You move like this is not new to you.” You snapped, the words spilling out jagged. “People do not learn that by accident.”

“Fang, what are you–”

Then your mouth spat the words like the answer was so obvious, like you had been just waiting for the name to be mentioned. “ –It is An’aya, isn’t it?”

“An’aya!?” He said it like the name didn’t belong here at all. Because it didn’t. Because twenty seconds ago he was face-deep drowning in what he deemed to be his new favourite flavour, and now he’s thinking of a girl he’s barely spent more than 10 minutes alone with.

“You lie with her too!” The accusation came out sharp enough to feel final, as if it wasn’t something to be debated and you had already made up the answer. 

Neteyam stared up at you for a beat, eyes wide, mouth still wet and open like he couldn’t 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.

“You are jealous.” 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 couldn’t 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.

“An’aya?” he rasped, grin sharp and crooked, chin still dripping with you. “Eywa fang, you think I have ever touched her? Ever wanted to?”

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.

“I do not lie with An’aya. Just you, fang.” He spoke so slowly, voice low and steady, and almost gentle despite the filth of the moment. “I only ever think about you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Heat flooded your face, your chest, mixing between the jealousy and the flattery until you couldn’t tell which burned more. You didn’t know if you believed him – or more so didn’t 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 weren’t 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.

“Prove it,” you snarled.

Neteyam’s 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 you’d 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 – the broader shoulders, the extra finger, the sheer size of him below the cloth and the way his tip skin flushed pinker than any Na’vi you’d ever seen – weren’t the flaws or accidents you convinced yourself was the reason you fixated on them. They were proof that he had Toruk Makto’s 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 who’d spent years calling him sky-demon scum.

The realisation twisted hot and ugly in your gut, hate and want braided so tight you couldn’t 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 couldn’t 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. 

“Already moaning for me, Fang?” He murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You can’t even pretend to hate me anymore.”

“Do not…,” you hissed with a breathy sigh, the words cracking despite your best effort to sound venomous, “…dare assume you know what I feel.”

He hummed, amused, like your denial was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.

“I do not think I'll have too.” 

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 he’d 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, Neteyam’s 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.

“I will not force this, and I will not continue with this if you say no. I honestly don’t think I can.” he said, voice low, rough with restraint but steady. “Tsaheylu with me… or we stop right here. Your choice, Fang. Always your choice.”

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 you’d 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 – his awe, his hunger, the years of wanting you he’d 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. 

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.

“Fuck–” he breathed, voice ragged, forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, the golden amber almost gone. “You feel… I can feel you everywhere.”

You couldn’t 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.

“Tell me,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your faces close, noses brushing, “tell me you feel it too.”

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.

“I feel you,” 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. “All of you. Don’t stop–!”

The next thrust ended with another broken sound from you, a half-moan, half-word that slurred through your tongue almost incomprehensibly.

“Mmm– ’tayem–”

Neteyam’s 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.

“I got you that good, huh?” He murmured, voice rough but dripping with satisfaction, hips rolling deep and deliberate. “Got the stubborn Fang stuttering my name?”

You tried again, desperate, the pleasure coiling so tight you could barely think.

“Ma– tayem–”

He laughed again, breathlessly arrogant and loving every moment of this – 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 couldn’t even get his name correct.

“Ca not even get your words right,” he teased, smirking against your lips, eyes gleaming down at you with such amusement. “If only everyone could see you now.”

“Ma ‘teyam.” 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 ‘teyam. 

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 couldn’t bear to pull out.

“Fuck… fuck–” he gasped, voice hoarse and trembling, nothing left of the smug warrior who’d been teasing you since you got to this forsaken watchpost. “You… you said…”

“That I despise you?” You murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you breathed him in, beyond exhausted, tail finally curling loose and lazy behind you. “I do.”

A broken laugh tore out of him, warm and disbelieving, his nose brushing yours as his breathing slowly began to steady. “I don’t even need to see your tail to know you lie.” 

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.

“See?” He whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Even your tail is done fighting me.”

You opened one eye, glaring weakly up at him. “Do 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.”

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.

“Then I will have to tell them how the almighty daughter of our clan head warrior begged for me to–”

You slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence and I will bite you again.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter muffled against your palm and you narrowed your eyes as you spoke once more. “I could still push you off this ledge. No one would find the body till morning.”

“Maybe so.” 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. “But then who would keep you company on patrol anymore? You would miss arguing with me.”

You huffed, shoving at his chest. “I would finally earn peace.”

“Peace is boring.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it, soft and infuriatingly gentle. “And 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.”

You snorted, but the sound lacked real venom. “Your 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.”

Neteyam’s grin turned softer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He likes you because you are strong. And because you force me to be stronger. Even when you are threatening to skin me alive.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but your tail betrayed you again, curling tighter around his leg like it had decided it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Flattery will not save you,” you muttered, dropping your head back to his chest so you didn’t have to look at that stupid, fond expression on his face. “When we get back at dawn, we say nothing. We walked the perimeter. Inventoried the stock. End of story.”

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. “You think they will believe that? Nothing has been done here. And you look…” He brushed a thumb over your neck, tracing where his mouth had been earlier. “…thoroughly ruined.”

You swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat in it, not like before. “You look worse, Tawtute. Like you lost a fight with an Ikran.”

He laughed, full and unguarded this time “Then let them think what they want, I already won.” he whispered when you parted. 

You rolled your eyes, but your tail tightened around his leg again, betraying you.

“I still despise you,” you muttered into his neck.

“I am aware.”

The words echoed in your mind, hollow and sharp, drowning everything else. He’s been injured. He’s been injured. He’s 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 —but at what cost? 

- 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 — 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. Sam’s 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. He’d been flown from one hospital to another in the last days, undergoing saving surgeries in quick succession until they had finally stabilized him. 

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 he’d be taken to your hospital — 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 father’s words kept echoing in your head — 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 you’d started writing to Sam again. 

Which meant he might have never read your last letters. That was why he hadn’t answered.

The realization struck hard, hollowing you out. If you’d only written sooner, if you hadn’t hesitated too long, maybe he would’ve known how you felt. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone into that mission believing you’d walked away. The idea that he’d faced hell believing you didn’t care made your stomach twist.

But he was alive. That was what mattered now. You had a second chance, and this time you weren’t going to waste it. No more silence. No more running. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even notice the two figures walking up beside you until one of them spoke.

“Ehi.” The familiar voice of Anthony pulled you back to the present. “We figured you could use some company,” 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 — 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. She’d 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. 

“Hey,” she said quietly, putting gently her hand on your shoulder. “You doing okay?”

You managed another small smile and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

It helped, having them at your side. Beneath the thin surface of calm, your stomach was in knots. It wasn’t the injuries that scared you—  you’d seen worse, on the field, in the ER. You weren’t 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. 

What terrified you was something else entirely. What if Sam didn’t 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. “What if he doesn’t want me here?”

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. “Sweetheart, that man wanted to see you so badly he practically blew himself up to come home. I think you’re fine.” 

“Anthony!” 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. “You’re an idiot,” you said breathless. 

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.

“He’s here,” you whispered. 

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 you’d last seen almost one year ago — 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, he’d 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 — and yet, he was still him. Still your Sam. “How is he?” you asked the paramedics, forcing your voice to stay steady.

“The trip was long,” one of them replied. “He’s stable, but heavily sedated. He’ll probably need more morphine for the pain when he’ll wake in a few yours.”

You nodded. “Thank you. We’ll take it from here.” 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. “Thanks, guys,” you told them softly. “You can go now. I’ll stay with him.” “Call us if you need anything,” 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 you’d never been trained to handle. 

And yet you were grateful and relieved. Because he was alive. He was there with you. 

You slipped your fingers through his, your thumb brushing his knuckles. “I’m here, Sam,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.” A faint smile tugged at your lips. “Besides… You still owe me a rematch at darts. So you’d better wake up soon.”

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 — 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 he’d come to losing everything — 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 couldn’t see — 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 weren’t running. You had been given a second chance too, and you weren’t 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 — how months ago you hadn’t 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 would’ve laughed in their face, not believing him. 

A soft, broken sound — a groan — interrupted your thoughts.

Your head snapped up toward him. Sam’s 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. “Hey… it’s okay. It’s me. Y/N. You’re safe. You’re home.” At the sound of your voice, something in his face softened.

“Y/N…?” His voice cracked, rough and dry. “Is it really you? Am I dreaming?” You reached out and brushed your fingers along his cheek, gentle, deliberate. “It’s me. I’m right here. You’re not dreaming.”

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.

“Sam,” you whispered, alarmed. “Are you in pain?” He nodded weakly, his hand tightening around yours.

“Okay, okay. I’ve got you,” you breathed, reaching for the morphine syringe. Your hands trembled as you filled it — ridiculous, you thought, because you’d done this a thousand times before. But he wasn’t just any patient. You prepared the morphine carefully and administered the dose. “There. You’ll feel better soon,” you murmured.

He exhaled shakily, his eyelids growing heavier. “Don’t go… Stay… Please,” he whispered, barely audible.

You squeezed his hand firmly, your voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

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. 

For the first time in days, you let yourself breathe too — 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 hadn’t even realized when your eyes had closed — 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 — 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. “You’re awake,” you whispered as you crossed the room, stopping beside him. His lips curved faintly, his gaze still on you. “And you’re really here. I thought I was dreaming.” You smiled softly, the tension in your chest easing. “You’re not. It’s all true. I’m here.”

For a moment he simply looked at you, quietly absorbing the sight of you. Then he swallowed hard, voice uncertain. “I thought… after my last letter… I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again. Least of all see you.” You hesitated as guilt washed over you again — sharp, familiar, unwelcome. You’d 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. “I know,” you said quietly. “Your letter — it… it caught me off guard.” You paused for a brief moment, choosing your next words carefully. “Even after all these years, it’s still difficult for me to talk about him… my brother. Sometimes even just the thought of him hurts. I didn’t know what to say at first or how to behave once you knew the truth. But I did write to you, in the end.”

He blinked, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his face. “You did? You answered me?” You nodded. “Several letters, actually. But you were already gone. On the mission. You probably never got them.” Silence stretched between you, thick but not uncomfortable, as Sam absorbed your words and the meaning behind them.  Then he smiled again — small, but real. “Guess we weren’t done after all.”

You felt your own smile answer his. “Guess not.” He let out a low laugh that quickly turned into a wince. You immediately leaned forward. “How do you feel? Are you in pain again?” you asked softly.

“I feel like an IED went off a few feet away from me,” he muttered dryly.

You let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan, then gently pressed a hand to his chest — careful but firm. “Not funny.”

He winced dramatically. “Easy there, doc. I’m fragile.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could step back, his hand lifted slowly, trembling slightly as it found yours. His fingers brushed yours — almost testing if you were real. You didn’t pull away and let him take your hand. His fingertips skimmed across the back of it and something inside you tightened — sudden, electric, painfully familiar. It’d been months since he’d touched you. Months since the heat of his skin had been on yours. 

All the distance collapsed at once. “You’re really here,” he said again, quieter this time, as if he really believed it this time. “It’s actually you.”

You nodded, your throat tightening. “Yeah. It’s me.”

He held your gaze, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes — a mix of relief and disbelief. He sighed and then, with a faint grin, he said, “God, you’re even more beautiful than I remembered.” Heat rushed instantly to your cheeks, not expecting those words from him. You didn’t even try to hide it. “I wish I could say the same about you, but you definitely looked better last time,” you said smiling. 

He gave a soft laugh, then winced again, hand going to his ribs. “Brutal. That one hurt.” “You’ll survive,” you said, your voice gentler now. “You’ve seen worse.”

The words hung between you, heavier than they seemed — 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. 

He studied you for a while after that, quiet, thoughtful. Then, choosing his words with care, he murmured: “You know… I imagined this moment so many times while I was over there. Seeing you again. I used to wonder if I’d ever get the chance and how it’d be, what I’d say. But I never—” His voice faltered. “I never thought it would happen like this.” You exhaled, a small, bittersweet smile touching your lips. “I know. But nothing between us ever happened the way it was supposed to. We’ve never really followed rules or the order of things, have we?”

He smiled faintly. “Guess not.”

You stepped closer, your voice low, steady. “But look at you. You’re alive, you’re here. That’s what matters now. And when you’re better… we’ll finally have the time to do things right.”

He didn’t answer right away — just nodded slowly, his gaze softening.

A knock broke the silence. A nurse stepped in with a bright morning smile. “Good morning, Dr. Y/Ln. Sam. Just doing a quick check.”

You smiled back. “Morning, Evelyn.”

Sam turned his head toward you, brow furrowing. 

“You two know each other?” Sam asked after the door clicked shut behind the nurse. 

“She’s a colleague,” you replied casually.

It took him a moment to process that. His eyes widened slightly. “Wait— this is the hospital where you work?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I work here.”

A flicker of realization crossed his face. “So… are you one of my doctors?”

You shook your head, smiling. “No. But you’re in good hands. I promise.”

He stared at you a moment longer, thoughtful. “Still… how did I end up here? Out of all hospitals, I get sent to yours?”

You looked away, pretending to fix the edge of his blanket. “Well… it’s one of the best trauma centers in the city,” you said, trying to sound casual.

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, clearly not buying it. You sighed — then smiled, caught. “Okay. Maybe… I made a few calls.”

His eyebrows lifted, the corners of his mouth twitching. “So you’re telling me you pulled strings to get me transferred here?”

You shrugged lightly, pretending indifference. “Well, someone had to keep an eye on you. Make sure you didn’t get into more trouble.”

He laughed — a small, genuine sound. “You really did that.”

You smiled softly. “Guess I did.”

His gaze lingered on you, filled with something unspoken — gratitude, affection, and something more. “So,” he said finally, “does this mean I’ll get to see you often?”

You leaned a little closer, feigning seriousness. “Oh, you can count on it. You might even get tired of me.”

His grin widened, slow and warm. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “We’ll see about that, O’Neal.”

You talked a little longer after that — 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 — 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 didn’t remember where he was; other times he didn’t remember what had happened. But no matter how disoriented he was, he always asked for you. If you were still there. If you’d left.

And, as promised, you were always there. 

You split yourself between the chaos of your shifts in the ER and the stillness of Sam’s 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 — 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. 

Luckily, you weren’t 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 you’d 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 — tired-eyed, hair in a messy bun, still glowing faintly from new motherhood — 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 who’d 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 — from the way his mother’s eyes lingered on you sometimes, from the way his sister smiled knowingly — 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 — their faces already tied to stories you remembered more vividly than you’d ever admit.

Mac was the loudest, bursting through the door with a grin that didn’t quite hide his relief. “Jesus, O’Neal,” he said with a dramatic grimace, “next time you want time off, maybe try a vacation? Preferably one that doesn’t involve explosives.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Missed you too, buddy.” Ray and Tommy followed, carrying takeout coffee and a small speaker, while Erik offered a quiet nod and a pat on Sam’s shoulder. The room filled instantly with noise — teasing, laughter, easy banter that didn’t need to tiptoe around what had happened. When they turned their attention to you, Sam cleared his throat — already bracing for whatever was coming.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” he said. “She’s… she’s the one who— well. You know.”

You shot Sam a questioning look — what exactly did they know? — while the boys exchanged amused glances.  Tommy stepped forward first. “Jesus, man, you suck at introductions,” he told Sam. “You could’ve just said she’s the one you smiled at like an idiot every time you read her letters.” 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. 

“Anyway,” Tommy said, turning to you with a warm grin, “I’m Tommy. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

The others followed suit.

“I’m Mac,” he said with an overly dramatic bow. “And thank you for your service. We know putting up with him isn’t easy.”

“I’d like to remind everyone I’m here,” Sam muttered, “and I can hear you.” “Luckily,” Erik added, deadpan, “otherwise how would we make fun of you?”

The room dissolved into laughter, easy and familiar — a kind of normalcy you didn’t realize you’d 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 Sam’s face light up. For a moment, he looked like himself again — the man you’d come to know through letters, the one who could make you laugh or smile with a single line, even from thousands of miles away. 

Every now and then, Sam glanced your way. And every time he did, one of his friends noticed. At one point, Mac nudged Sam’s foot — gently, carefully avoiding any injuries — and said, “Gotta say, man… you did good.”

Sam frowned. “What?” Mac nodded subtly toward you. “Her. You did real good.” The others nodded in agreement. Sam hissed under his breath, “Lower your voice or she’ll hear you.” But he didn’t deny it — because Mac was right. He’d hit the mark with you just as perfectly as you’d 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 didn’t hear — 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 they’d left behind, setting them on the tray. Sam watched you, his expression soft, unreadable.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “they like you.”

You looked up, half-smiling. “You think?”

“I know,” he replied. “They’re not exactly subtle.”

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. 

-

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 — soft, warm.

“Morning,” you said. “Hey.” He shifted slightly, winced. 

“How are you feeling today?” you asked, approaching his bed and checking the monitors out of habit. He watched you with quiet amusement — and something gentler, something warmer. 

“Better, thanks.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh… I’ve got something for you.”

You blinked. “For me?”

He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Well… It’s more a… return.” There was a hint of nervousness in his voice — unusual for him.

“A return?” 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 you’d forgotten in his bed that morning. 

Your breath caught.

“Remember? I promised I’d bring it back to you,” he said quietly. “I fixed the clasp. I didn't want it to get lost again.”

You gently took the necklace from him. His fingers brushed yours briefly — warm, calloused, careful.

“I see you’re a man of your word, O’Neal,” 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.

“It kept me going, you know?” he admitted. “The promise that I had to bring it back to you. ”

Your chest tightened.

“It gave me something to hold onto,” he continued, voice growing rougher with each word. “A reason to fight. A reason to come back.” Your throat ached. You couldn’t look away.

“Out there, after the explosion…” His jaw flexed, remembering. “When I was on the ground — bleeding, barely able to breathe — I kept thinking I couldn’t die. Not without seeing you again. Not without returning this to you. It felt important.”

You stared down at the pendant resting in your palm. For a moment, all the noise of the hospital — distant voices, beeping monitors, rolling carts — 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 — part of the reason he was there — was tied to you. To a forgotten necklace tangled in his sheets a year ago. For once, you were grateful for losing something.

“It was. Important, I mean. It was my brother’s,” you said suddenly.

Sam looked up sharply, surprised, like he hadn’t expected you to explain. His eyes softened. “You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s okay,” you interrupted, voice firmer than you felt. Then quieter, “I want to.”

Something in his expression shifted — gratitude, relief, a touch of awe. He nodded, slow, giving you space. You closed your fingers around the necklace. “He used to wear it every day,” you continued. “It was his good-luck charm. He’d touch it whenever he was nervous… or before doing something stupid with his friends. Like a ritual.” A small smile ghosted across your lips. “Except the day he died. I don’t know why.” You inhaled, shaky. “But I always wondered if that meant something.” Sam listened without interrupting, his full attention on you in a way that made your chest tighten. “I don’t know if it really brings luck,” you murmured. “But it seems to have worked for you. And… I’m glad it did. That kept you safe.”

Sam smiled, not knowing what to say. Still shocked that you were opening up to him about it.

“You two would’ve liked each other,” you added. “ I think he… my brother’d have liked you. You’re both stubborn as hell. But you make people feel safe without even trying.”

Sam’s lips lifted, just slightly. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

Silence settled again between you — not heavy, just full.

You glanced down at the necklace again, then lifted your gaze. “Will you… help me put it on?”

He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”

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. “There,” he said, voice low.

You touched the pendant instinctively, as if reassuring yourself it was really there. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For bringing it back.”

Sam watched you with an expression so open, so quietly full of something you didn’t dare name yet, that you felt the world shift just slightly under your feet.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. “I’m… I’m glad I made it back at all.”

-

The hospital cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday noise — 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 who’d had the worst patient that morning. 

At some point, the conversation shifted — naturally, inevitably — to Sam. “So,” Anthony began, voice dripping with nosy enthusiasm, “how are things going with soldier boy?” You had barely opened your mouth when he added, “Have you already jumped each other like wild animals?”

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.

“Jesus, Anthony,” you managed to say. 

He grinned, wholly unrepentant. “What? Am I wrong?”

You hesitated. Then, you exhaled sharply. “For your information, no, we haven’t… done anything.” Anthony paused mid-sip of his drink and stared at you like you’d just confessed something scandalous. “Hold on,” he said, blinking twice, then raising his voice. “You two haven’t even kissed yet? Not once? Since he got here?” Finishing lunch suddenly felt like an Olympic sport.

You shook your head. “No, Anthony. We haven’t. Happy now?”

Anthony threw his hands up. “Unbelievable. You wrote letters to each other for, what, almost a year? The tension should be illegal at this point.” You rubbed your forehead. “May I remind you this is a hospital? Not exactly the most romantic or discreet place.” “Oh, sweetheart,” Anthony said, leaning back dramatically, “we both know that never stopped you, and these walls are witnesses.”

You felt your face heat instantly. Jenny raised her eyebrows and added, “Yeah, even some of us are witnesses too.” Your cheeks went from warm to burning. “Why am I friends with you two?” you muttered.

Anthony pointed his fork at you like a judge delivering a verdict, ignoring your comment. “So what are you waiting for? A written invitation? A sign from above? You know you have our blessing.”

You sighed, pushing your tray away. You were no longer hungry. “It’s not that simple. This thing between me and Sam is… different. It’s delicate. And… he has more important things on his mind right now.” You toyed with your napkin. “It’s complicated.”

Anthony scoffed. “Ok, you’re right. But, honestly, a kiss can only do him good. Love speeds up healing — everybody knows that. And it would make you less nervous.” You looked at him pretending to be offended.

Jenny instead nodded enthusiastically. “For once, I agree with him. He’d probably recover in half the time.”

You tried — and failed — not to smile. They meant well — even if they could be insufferable sometimes. 

“Just…” Anthony shrugged, finishing his drink. “Don’t overthink it too much. The perfect moment doesn’t exist. Just do it.” -

Later that night, when your shift finally ended, you dragged yourself down the quiet hallway to Sam’s 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 — 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.

“Sam,” you whispered urgently, leaning over him. “Sam, hey. Wake up. It’s okay. I’m here.”

His eyes snapped open. He was trembling — chest heaving, forehead damp, fear still clinging to him. But the second he saw you, something in his expression eased. 

“Hey… It was just a nightmare,” you said softly, taking his hand in yours. “You’re safe. You’re here.”

He swallows hard, still trying to catch his breath. “Can you… stay with me? Here?” His voice was small, raw, a fragile whisper. You hesitated. “Sam, you’ll be uncomfortable.”

“I don’t… I don’t care. Please. I… need you.”

His words, his tone broke you. There was no way you could say no to that.

You nodded. “Okay.”

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 — the soft shadows on his face, the worry still etched between his brows.

Then, he finally broke the silence.

“It wasn’t really a nightmare,” he murmured. “Not completely.”

Your hand stilled. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled shakily. “I dreamed the accident. Or… remembered it.” His throat bobbed. “It felt so real. Like I was back there and it was happening all over again. The blood, the screams… Everything.”

You swallowed hard as you knew that feeling too — the way trauma didn’t fade, only slept. How it woke you in the dark, dragged you back into moments you’d tried to bury. After your brother’s death, you had relived his last moments for months — 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.

“Sam,” you whispered. “Look at me.”

He opened his eyes.

“You’re not there,” you said. “You’re here. Alive. Safe. And with me.”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you — 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. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. Anthony’s words echoed in your head: “Don’t overthink it too much. The perfect moment doesn’t exist. Just do it.”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered.

The word broke whatever restraint he still had, closing the distance between you.

The kiss began soft — 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 year’s worth of longing spilled into it — 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. 

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 couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you again,” he whispered.

A quiet, shaky laugh escaped you. “Me too.”

He kissed your forehead — warm, soft — 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. 

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 — that long, overdue kiss — 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 hadn’t put a name to whatever the two of you were but you didn’t need to. For now, that was enough. -

You stepped out of the elevator, still smoothing the wrinkles out of your scrubs. The hallway of Sam’s floor smelled of antiseptic and fresh coffee. You spotted Daniel, one of Sam’s doctors, leaning over the nurses’ station, scribbling notes.

He looked up as you approached, pen paused mid-air. “Hey,” he greeted. “You headed to see O’Neal?”

You nodded. 

“Good,” Daniel added, lowering his voice. “Then maybe you can talk some sense into him.” You froze. “…Sorry? What?”

Daniel blinked. “I assume he hasn’t told you yet.”

Your stomach tightened. “Told me what?”

He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. “Sam agreed to the operation. The additional one Harding suggested last week.” He lifted a shoulder. “He’ll do it in a few days.”

For a moment, you genuinely wondered if you’d misheard him. “Wait— what?”

Daniel nodded, sympathy flickering across his features. “I was surprised too. I don’t think he’s ready. Not physically. He’s still stabilizing from the last surgery he had. But from what I've seen, he seems determined to proceed.”

You stared at him, speechless. Anger and disbelief twisted inside you, sharp and hot.

“But that's not the right thing to do!” You exclaimed. “It’s too soon. He needs to recover first.”

Daniel sighed. “I agree. Maybe…” He paused. “Maybe you could try talking to him.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “Oh, you can bet I will. Immediately. Thanks, Daniel.” And you left before he could say anything else.

Your pulse hammered, frustration building with every step.

By the time you reached Sam’s room, you didn’t 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 — 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. “Hey,” he started, “I was just—”

You didn’t let him finish. “What’s this story about you agreeing to Harding’s operation?” you demanded, walking straight toward his bed.

Sam blinked, taken by surprise. “Oh. Right. I was going to—”

“Going to tell me?” you cut in. “When? During surgery?”

Erik and Ray exchanged a silent ‘we should leave’ look, but neither dared to move.

Sam exhaled. “Look, it’s not a big deal—”

“It’s a big deal, Sam,” you snapped. “You just had surgery and you’re still recovering. Why would you even consider another one?”

“Because it will help,” he said, jaw tight. “It’ll speed things up.” “Or slow you down,” you shot back. “If it goes wrong, Sam, you’ll set your recovery back by weeks. Maybe even months.”

He shook his head, sighing. “I know. I’m willing to take that risk.”

“Well, you’re being reckless!” The words came out louder than you intended. Ray shifted uncomfortably, Erik rubbed his jaw, both lowered their eyes to the floor. Sam’s eyes flashed with irritation — something you had never seen turned toward you before. “And you’re acting like you get to decide what I do with my own body! You’re not my doctor.” 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 — but it was too late. You kept your face steady, but inside something cracked. “ You’re right. I’m not your doctor.” You paused for a moment before continuing. “So what am I, Sam?” you said quietly.

Sam’s irritation vanished instantly, replaced by panic and regret. “Wait, I didn’t— that’s not—”

“I should get back to work,” you said, cutting him off. Your voice was thin, trembling. “I’ll… come back later.”

You turned before he could answer. 

“Hey—wait,” he called, voice raw. “Please—just—listen—”

And even though you heard him call your name — once, twice — you didn’t 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 — his tone, his words, the way he’d snapped at you like you were overstepping. Like you didn’t matter. 

And maybe you didn’t. Not really. After all, a few kisses didn’t make you important. 

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.

“Mind if I sit?”

Erik. You shook your head slowly.

Even though you didn’t 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. “I’m sorry you and Ray had to see that,” you murmured, voice low, a little embarrassed. Erik shrugged. “Don’t apologize. If anything, Sam is the one who should.” Then he offered a small, knowing smile. “He can be a real pain in the ass.”

Despite everything, a faint laugh escaped you. “Yeah,” you agreed softly. “He really can.”

Erik nudged his cup aside and leaned forward a little. “And you’re right about the surgery. He knows it too. Deep down.” He paused, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. “But… do you know why he wants it so badly?”

You rolled your eyes. “Because he’s desperate to walk again. Obviously.”

But Erik shook his head. “That’s part of it, of course. But it’s not the only reason he’s pushing himself this hard.”

You frowned, not understanding what he meant. “Then why?”

Erik folded his arms, eyes lowering as if choosing his words carefully. “He wants to walk again for you.”

Your breath stilled. “For… me?” Your voice was barely audible.

Erik nodded once, leaning back on the chair. “He wants to take you out. On a real date. He wasn’t to pick you up in a car. Go somewhere that isn’t 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.” He hesitated, then added with a soft huff, “he has probably already planned the entire date in his head. Every detail.”

Your breath caught in your throat, not expecting that confession. 

Erik went on. “But now that he’s finally here — now that you’re here with him — he can’t. He still needs to wait because he’s trapped in that bed. And it’s killing him, slowly.”

You stared down at your tea, shocked, your pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. “I… I didn’t know,” you whispered. “I thought he wanted to recover quickly so he could go back. You know. To the field.”

Erik shook his head firmly. “No. Honestly? I don’t think he’s even thought about that. Not now. Not when he has something — someone — here worth staying for.”

Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his. And you understood. Every unspoken word. Every implication.

You swallowed hard.

He touched your arm briefly — a gesture of reassurance, nothing more. “Look, he’s probably better at talking about his feelings in letters than saying them out loud. But talk to him,” he added softly, a faint smile ghosted across his lips. “He didn’t mean what he said. He’s just tired. Scared. And probably in a lot more pain than he’ll ever admit to anyone.” Your heart clenched so sharply it almost hurt. You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. Erik hesitated — then offered what felt like the closest thing to a secret. “I’ve known Sam a long time, and I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you.” He paused, letting the words settle. “You matter to him. More than he knows how to show right now. You may not be his doctor…” A small smile tugged at his lips. “But you’re definitely someone important.”

For the first time since you walked out of Sam’s room, something inside you eased — not completely, but enough to calm the storm inside you — and you let yourself believe Erik might be right. 

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 Sam’s 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. Sam’s eyes found you the second you appeared — not surprised, but intent, almost relieved, as if he’d 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 wasn’t that you didn’t know what to say — you knew too well — but saying any of it felt like peeling something raw open.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” Sam said first, his voice softer than you expected — unsteady at the edges, stripped of all defensiveness. 

You looked up at him. 

“I’m sorry too,” you replied quietly, taking a slow step closer.

He exhaled shakily, eyes lowering. “It’s just that… I had all these plans,” he muttered. “Things I wanted to do when I finally got home. Things I wanted to do…with you. Like —” 

He hesitated, helpless. 

You couldn’t help it — a small, involuntary smile pulled at your lips, remembering Erik’s words. “Like inviting me out and taking me to dinner?”

Sam’s head snapped up. Confusion flickered across his face for half a second before realization settled in. “Erik talked to you, didn’t he?”

You nodded. Sam groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow. “That little snitch.”

“Actually, you should thank him,” you murmured. “It was… enlightening.”

“Really?” Sam looked at you, cautious, waiting.

You nodded again, this time more earnestly. “Really. At least now I understand better your decision. Even though I still don’t agree with it.” You held his gaze, steady. “I’m not changing my opinion, Sam. But you were right about one thing: it’s 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.”

His jaw loosened, something vulnerable slipping through.

You continued, softer, “I don’t need that. I mean, it would be nice someday but now what I want is for you to get better. I’ll be here, in any case — whether it takes two weeks or two months for you to recover. And when you’re better… we can have all the dates and the walks you want.”

And you really meant that. Every single word. 

He stared at you as though he wasn’t sure he deserved any of it.

“So,” Sam said after a beat, a tentative smile tugging at his mouth, “you’re saying we have a date?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your amused exhale. “That’s the only thing you heard of my speech?”

“Possibly.”

“Well,” you said, crossing your arms, “that depends on how you ask me, O’Neal. And on how you behave.”

His laugh was short, quiet, but real — the kind that made his shoulders relax for the first time since the argument. Then his expression softened into something earnest. “So… do you forgive me?” he asked, almost timid. 

You stepped closer to his bedside, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of antiseptic on his sheets mixed with his cologne. 

“I do,” you whispered. “But don’t make a habit of it.”

A relaxed, relieved smile spread across his face, transforming him. Then he hesitated — only a second — before admitting, “I spoke to Harding, anyway. I’m not doing the surgery. I’ll wait.”

You stared at him, startled. You didn’t expect him to change his mind. “Are you sure?” you asked carefully.

“Yeah,” he replied. “You were right. It's not worth it... not when there's so much at stake.”

You swallowed, moved more than you could say. You felt heard. 

A small spark of mischief lit his eyes. “So… what else did Erik tell you? Please tell me he didn’t reveal all my plans, or I’ll need to come up with new ones.” You laughed softly. “I’d say you have plenty of time to do that.”

He huffed, pretending to be offended. “Rude.”

“For someone who almost got himself scheduled for surgery just to go on a date, you’re surprisingly sensitive.”

He pointed a halfhearted glare at you. “I take these things very seriously, okay?”

You talked like that for a while — 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.

“I should go,” you said reluctantly, glancing at the clock. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.” You leaned down slightly, and he met you halfway. The kiss was gentle, unhurried — the kind of kiss that didn’t try to prove anything, that didn’t ask for anything. Just a soft press of lips, warm and reassuring, a quiet we’re 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 you’d 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 didn’t want to wait anymore. Not until he could walk. Not until he got discharged. After everything you’d 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 didn’t 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 Sam’s 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. “Sorry, did I interrupt you?” you asked, curiosity breaking through despite your effort to sound casual. 

He straightened, pretending to appear relaxed. “No,” he said too fast. “It was just Tommy. I asked him to stop by my place and grab a few things. He’ll bring them later.”

You nodded, though doubt still tugged at you. But before you could interrogate him further, he cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask you something. Do you… have plans tonight?”

You frowned. “No. Why?”

“Would you like to spend it with me?”

Your suspicion only grew. “What do you have in mind?”

“Come here at eight,” he said, trying — and failing — not to smile. “You’ll see.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay, now I’m curious. Do I need to bring something?”

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “I just need you to do one thing.”

“What?”

“Before that time… you can’t come into my room.”

You blinked. “Wha— what? Why?”

You were used to going to visit him several times a day, whenever you could and Sam had always been happy about it

“It’s part of the surprise.”

You stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Then, slowly, you sighed, giving up. “Fine. But that’s a weird request.”

“I know,” he said, grinning. “But it’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

“Alright. I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

- A few hours later Jenny appeared in the hallway, nearly gasping when she saw you still in your uniform.

“What are you still doing here? You should be getting ready!”

“Ready for what?” you asked, genuinely confused.

She stared at you. “You’re going to Sam’s, aren’t you?”

“Yes, when I finish my shift, like always.”

“You’re going like this?”

You glanced down at yourself. “I mean… I was going to take off the lab coat or put on the clothes I wore this morning.”

Jenny looked genuinely offended. “What is wrong with you? You can’t go to a date dressed like this!”

You opened your mouth. “It’s not a—” And then you froze.

Jenny’s words echoed in your mind. Sam’s request. His tone. The way he acted. And he’d talked about a surprise. 

Jenny watched your realization dawn, eyebrows lifted.

“Oh my God,” you almost screamed. “It could be a date.”

“It’s definitely a date!” Jenny exclaimed, almost exasperated. 

You looked down at yourself again in horror. “But I have nothing suitable to wear! And I look horrible. And I need a shower!”

“Then go,” Jenny said, already pushing you toward the locker room. “I handled the clothes. Move.”

Thirty minutes later — heart still racing a little — 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 — always — was your brother’s necklace.

Now you looked like someone going on a date.

At 7:58 p.m., you started walking toward Sam’s floor, pulse quickening with every step. It was ridiculous how nervous you felt — 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. He’d trimmed the stubble along his jaw — 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. 

“You look amazing,” he said when you were close enough to hear him. 

You stared at him. “And you’re supposed to be in your bed.”

He ignored that entirely and reached behind the wheelchair, pulling out a small bouquet of flowers. “These are for you.”

You took them, heart doing something strange in your chest. “Ok, you’re forgiven. But just this time.” You stared at the flowers. “They are beautiful, thanks” you murmured.

He grinned — that rare, boyish grin he didn’t show often. “Good. Because I also have something else.”

You watched, suspicious, as he dug into the pocket of his sweatpants. When he pulled out what looked like a blindfold, you blinked. “Is that— Sam. Seriously?”

“A blindfold,” he confirmed, as if presenting a perfectly reasonable object.

“And I’m supposed to do what with that?”

“Put it on.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Sam, I’d like to remind you that we are in hospital, we cannot do anything inappropriate.”

He laughed softly. “It’s not for that. Trust me. Please” he said, soft, almost pleading. 

Your heart flipped. Damn him. “Fine,” 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.

“Now what?”

“Now open the door please and go in.”

You reached blindly for the handle, fingertips grazing metal. Your pulse thudded, loud in your ears — not nervous, exactly. More like anticipation. A different kind of adrenaline.

You stepped inside his room and immediately stopped. It felt different. It didn’t 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. “Can I take it off?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

Your breath caught as you lifted the blindfold. 

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 — 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, “I know it’s not the perfect date—”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “It’s beautiful.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? You like it?”

You nodded, still staring around in awe. “No one has ever done anything like this for me. How did you even do all this?”

He smirked. “I had some accomplices. Some good friends.”

You didn’t need more explanation. 

You sat at the small table it had been set up by the window — 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. “Margherita,” you said. “You remembered.”

“Sometimes the simplest things are the best,” he said, softly, timidly. 

Dinner passed in warm, unhurried conversation — soft banter, small jokes, a few lingering glances that said everything words wouldn’t.

After eating, Sam gestured toward the projector you hadn’t even noticed earlier and showed you a DVD. “Another favorite of yours,” he said. “Rear Window.”

You smiled, touched to your core. 

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 — 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 you’d moved. The space between you felt charged — 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 naturally—inevitable, 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 shouldn’t be caught. It made everything sharper, sweeter, reckless. His breath trembled against your lips. “God,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours, “I don’t think I’ve ever hated being stuck in this hospital more than I do right now.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers along the back of his neck. “Remember, this is our first date. You’re lucky I even let you kiss me.”

He stared at you. “Really?”

You smirked. “Consider it a special privilege for having fought bravely for our country.”

He laughed—a low, warm, undone sound. “Well, I’m honored. And extremely lucky. Not everyone gets a smart, sexy doctor taking care of them.” You raised a brow. “I thought I wasn’t your doctor,” you teased, quoting him without malice.

He looked at you—soft, honest. “No, you’re not,” he said quietly. “You’re a lot more than that.”

Your breath hitched and you kissed him again—slowly, tender —your 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 — 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 Sam’s 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 Sam’s bed. Far too close, in your opinion. She was laughing at something he’d 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 didn’t 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.

“Let me fix your pillow, Sam,” the nurse said in a sugary tone, still looking only at him, her hand on his shoulder. “It looks a little low.” Watching another woman touch him—touch something that was yours in a way, even if neither of you’d said it aloud—sent a flare of something hot and sharp down your spine.

You cleared your throat, stepping closer to Sam’s bed. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here,” you said with a forced smile, your voice calm but carrying an edge she absolutely heard.

She looked up at you —finally—acknowledging your existence with a tight, polite, utterly fake smile, that you didn’t reciprocate. 

“Oh, sure,” she said cheerfully, adjusting a strand of her copper hair behind her ear, “I’ll… come back later.”

You rolled your eyes the moment she wasn’t looking. 

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 nurse’s soft, breathy tone. “So, Sam,” you said, fluttering your eyelashes with exaggerated sweetness, “Do 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 laughed—warm, deep, unguarded. “No,” he said, still smiling. “I have everything I need.”

“Oh, really?” You crossed your arms. “Then maybe you should tell that to Miss A-ha-ha-ha.”

“She was just being nice,” he said lightly.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, please. So nice she forgot I existed.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” you said quickly, raising your voice slightly. “I just think her behavior was… unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional,” he repeated, lips twitching.

“Yes,” you insisted, gesturing with your hands. “She was touching you, laughing at every word you said… Come on, she was flirting with you. And it’s inappropriate.”

His brows lifted slightly, and for a moment he looked like he was trying not to laugh. “You do realize,” he said slowly, “that you and I have been… very unprofessional in this room too. More than once.”

Your mouth fell open. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

“Yes, and you know that.” You crossed your arms, chin tilting. “But 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?”

He blinked—then let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Oh no, that’s not happening.”

You narrowed your eyes, pretending to be offended. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said, voice dropping to something warm and certain, “you can be as unprofessional with me as you want.”

You stared at him for half a second, heat flickering up your spine despite yourself. Then you shook your head, muttering, “you’re such a naughty boy, O’Neal.”

His smile turned slow and absolutely sinful. “Only with you.”

-

January 2007 After a few weeks from his final surgery, Sam’s body was finally strong enough for daily physical therapy, and he’d 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 — 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 hadn’t 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 wasn’t 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 hadn’t taken five. It reminded him that his body refused to obey him the way it once had. And when a session went poorly — when the pain sharpened or the muscles trembled too soon —, 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 — 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t look at you. You didn’t need to ask to know it’d been a bad day. A bad session.

“Hey,” you said quietly, closing the door behind you. “How did it go?” you asked anyway, hoping you were wrong. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Same as always.”

That meant bad.

Even though you knew it wasn’t. His therapist told you every day that he was progressing exactly as expected—sometimes even better. Everyone was satisfied—except him, who already wanted to walk out of the hospital on his own two feet. 

He was blinded by haste and impatience, pushing too hard, too fast, every chance he got.

His hands were shaking—not from pain, but from frustration. Anger. You took a step toward him. “Sam—”

“I’m tired,” he muttered, voice low and flat in a way that made something in your chest tighten.

He still didn’t look at you.

You moved toward him, ready to help him lie back properly, but the moment you reached out, he shifted—just an inch, barely a movement, but enough to withdraw. His hand lifted in a small, dismissive flick, the kind that wasn’t 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. “I’ll try to get some sleep,” he said. “You can go.”

The words hit harder than he probably intended. But the message was clear: he didn’t want you there. You swallowed and forced a small smile, even though he couldn’t see it. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He answered with a noncommittal “Mm,” not even glancing at you.

You hesitated at the doorway, hoping—foolishly—that he would call your name and ask you to stay. But he didn’t.

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. 

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. “I can take him from here,” you told the nurse. “Thank you.”

She nodded and walked off. 

Sam didn’t acknowledge you. You tried small talk while pushing him through the hall—updates 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: “I can do it myself.”

Your hand froze on the handle. “I was just trying to help.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

You inhaled slowly, counted to three, then let the irritation slide—mostly. “I’m not the enemy, Sam,” you said quietly.

He froze for a second, guilt tightening his expression. Then he looked away and rolled himself inside without another word. 

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 bed—forcing the movement, pushing well past what he was cleared for. His arms trembled with the effort. His injured leg shook violently.

“Sam!” You rushed forward. “You’re going to fall!”

“I won’t!” 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, furious—at himself. At the weakness he couldn’t hide. At the fact that you were there to witness it. And he couldn’t stand that. 

“Let me go,” he barked, voice breaking with humiliation.

“You shouldn’t be doing this alone.”

“Don’t you have other patients to take care of?” he cut in sharply. The words landed like a blade under your ribs. You froze, his weight still half-supported in your arms.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” 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 him—not as tenderness, but as instinct— into the bed. Once he was safely seated, you let your hands drop.

“I'll let you rest. It looks like you need it,” 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 didn’t.

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.

“Sam, what are you doing?” you asked, immediately stepping toward him.

“Can’t you see it?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, but you can’t—”

“I know what I can do.”

You moved closer. “Sit down before you—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” 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.

“Let me!” he yelled—at himself more than at you.

“Sam,” you said sternly, “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“And what if I do? It can’t get any worse than this.” 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. “Why… why are you acting like this?” 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. “And why do you care?” he asked, nervously, ignoring the question. “We both know you didn’t want any of this.”

The world fell silent as his words hit you like a punch in the stomach. Something hot surged through your veins. “What? What… are you saying?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Come on. You didn’t want this. A broken soldier. Someone who can’t 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.”

He was throwing your own words back at you — twisted, painful. And a small, terrified part of you wondered if he really believed it. Your breath left you and for a moment, you couldn’t even speak. Then the anger hit—slow, cold, controlled. “Now you’re being cruel, Sam. And unfair.”

His face folded into something like guilt and rage mixed together. “I’m just telling the truth. Maybe it’s better if you… go.” You laughed, incredulous. “You want to speak about truth? Fine, let’s talk about it,” your voice shaking but strong. “You’re right: I didn’t want this.”

He blinked, surprised, but you kept going. “Of course I didn’t want this. I didn't want you to get hurt on duty. I didn’t want you to be here because of an explosion. No sane person would want that, Sam.”

He stayed silent, his jaw tightened, pain flickering in his eyes like a struck match.

“But it happened anyway,” you continued, stepping closer. “And do you know why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because I can’t control my feelings. It happened despite everything I tried to prevent. Just like you didn’t wake up that morning knowing an explosive would go off a few meters away and change your entire life.” You leaned in, eyes burning. “We can’t undo what happened to you. The only thing we can do is face it and move forward.”

He exhaled, shaky, but you didn’t stop. “And I am facing it. Every single day. I’m here. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you. So don’t you dare tell me to leave.” You stepped back just enough to look him in the eyes fully. “YOU started this. Months ago. YOU wrote to me. YOU, not me. And now that I’m here, you’re pushing me away?”

Sam opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak. “You think this scares me?” you whispered fiercely. “Seeing you hurt? Having to help you? Sam, I’ve been in warzones. I work in an ER. I deal with death and pain every day.” Your voice softened, but didn’t lose strength. “I can handle this. But I can’t 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?” You swallowed hard. “The thought that you’d died.”

The room went silent.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “Unless you want me to.” Your voice broke only slightly. “But if you do, you’ll have to say it to my face. Tell me you don’t feel anything for me. Tell me you don’t want me here.”

For a moment he just stared at you, breathing heavy. Then his expression broke — completely, painfully — like someone finally cracked the armor he’d been holding together by force.  “I’m… sorry,” he whispered. “I’m… such an asshole.” His voice cracked — the first crack you had ever heard from him. “I’m so damn sorry,” he said, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean any of that. I don’t want you to go. I just… I’m 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 I’ve been pushing you away, I know I’ve been unbearable, and I—” His breath stuttered. “I don’t want you to go,” he said hoarsely. “I never wanted that. I just don’t know how to handle all this. And sometimes I think you’d be better off without this. Without me. And that scares the hell out of me.”

You felt your own chest tighten.

He dragged a hand over his face, eyes damp. “I don’t want you to leave,” 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. “There’s no one else I want here. Just you.”

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 hadn’t let himself in days, eyes closing, breath trembling. “Sam, listen to me,” you murmured, thumb brushing his cheek. “I know it’s not easy at the moment for you but I don’t want better. I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

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 — and held it tightly.

“I want you too,” he whispered.

“You’d better,” you said, smiling.

He exhaled a long, shuddering breath, head bowing slightly as if the weight of everything he’d 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. It’d 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 again—the quiet shift of sheets, the way Sam’s gaze cut toward you before snapping back to the TV like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

He’d been doing it since the opening credits. A restless kind of tension rolled through him every few minutes—not pain, not discomfort. Nerves. Pure, unsteady nerves. You’d never seen him like that, not even the night you met him at the bar when he’d thrown that first reckless challenge your way.

Every time he glanced over, his lips parted—just barely—as 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 wasn’t 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 nose—frustrated with himself—and 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.

Sam’s head whipped toward you. 

You shifted to face him. “What’s going on?”

He blinked. “What—nothing.”

“Don’t.” You tilted your head, studying him. “You’ve been strange all day. And now, instead of watching the movie, you’re watching me.” You raised an eyebrow. “So? Are you going to tell me what’s happening or do I have to guess?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached—slow, hesitant—beneath his pillow.

Your brows pulled together. “Sam…?”

He cleared his throat. “I, uh… I have something for you.”

When his hand came back up, he was holding a plain envelope. Your name written on it in his handwriting—the one you recognized instantly.

Your breath caught. It’d been months since he’d written you a letter. 

“A letter?” you whispered, taking it gently from his hand. 

“Can I read it here?” you asked quietly.

A long hesitation. You could see the fight in him—a 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 impact—tense, alert, terrified.

You looked at him one last time before lowering your gaze to the page. 

Y/N, This is probably the hardest letter I’ve 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 didn’t walk away and I’m glad you didn’t because you make the worst days bearable and the good ones better.  In the last months, my life has changed in ways I never expected, but something hasn’t: how I feel about you. If anything, it’s only become clearer, stronger. I don't think I can ever thank you enough but I want to try, day after day. There’s something I should’ve asked you weeks ago. But even though I’m better at writing than speaking, this is a question I need to ask out loud, not on paper. So when you’re done reading, look at me. Sam

Your throat tightened as you lowered the letter, your hands trembling slightly. You looked up, just as he’d 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 him—saw the fear, the hope, the vulnerability he almost never let anyone see. You set the letter gently on the bed.

“Ask me what?” 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: “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

For a moment, you just stared at him. Not because you were surprised by the question—no, you’d felt it coming for weeks. You already acted like a couple, cared and worried like one. But hearing him say the words—hearing him ask—it made something inside you settle. Like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.

Your lips curved. “Wow,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Took you long enough, O’Neal.”

His jaw dropped. “Took me—?”

You held up a hand. “Hold on, I’m still thinking.”

He blinked, genuinely confused.

You crossed your arms dramatically. “I mean… I don’t know. I told myself I don’t date soldiers. And technically, I’m not even supposed to date patients. Are you worth the risk, O’Neal?”

He stared at you, deadpan, completely unamused. “What? But wait… You’re not my—” He stopped at the sight of your amused expression. “You’re hilarious. And cruel.” But his voice was soft, the kind of softness he only saved for you.

“I know,” you said. But I will admit this—” you tapped the letter, “—is a damn good piece of writing. One of your best. So maybe you earned a chance.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile breaking across his face was unmistakable—soft, relieved, almost disbelieving. You let the teasing fall away, stepping closer to the bed. Your voice lowered. “Yes, Sam. I want to be your girlfriend.”

He exhaled like he’d 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. “Come here,” he murmured.

You leaned down and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, certain, like two people finally stepping into something they’d 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 it—the way he kissed you like he finally understood you weren’t going anywhere.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads touching lightly and your thumb brushing against his cheek, he whispered, “I know I’m not exactly the ideal boyfriend right now. And this probably wasn't how you imagined starting a relationship…”

You pressed a finger to his lips. “Stop.”

He froze. “Sam,” you said softly, “when I met you, I didn’t 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 didn’t want to suffer again.” Your voice shook but you kept going. “I didn’t imagine this because I didn’t let myself imagine anything at all. And then you showed up, you made it real. You made me want something again.” You smiled, brushing his hair gently. “It’s real. And we have all the time in the world to make it perfect.”

“Can’t wait”, he said, smiling. 

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 didn’t suddenly flip or reinvent itself—you 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. 

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 therapy— some days he was optimistic, joking with the nurses; other days he was in pain and exhausted. But he didn’t spiral like he used to. Because now he knew he wasn’t 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 there—liked 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 —with 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 wasn’t made for beginnings. But you didn’t let that stop you. You’d already wasted too much time apart.

And the tension between you — God, it grew. It sharpened, deepened, coiled beneath every shared moment. The more time you spent tangled up in small intimacies — your fingers in his hair, his hand resting on your thigh, the way his body leaned instinctively toward yours — 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 weren’t 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 restraint—something comforting in knowing your connection wasn’t just physical longing. It was deeper, intimate, intense. Something that already felt like love. 

Somewhere inside that calm, imperfect routine, you realized just how deeply you’d 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 out—hair 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 he’d 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. “Well, look at you,” he said, amusement warming his voice. “Going somewhere? Somewhere I should be jealous of?” “Just a few drinks with the others,” you laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Nothing to worry about.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I wish I could come.”

“Next time you will,” you said, stepping closer and taking his hand. “You still owe me a rematch at darts, remember?”

He smirked. “Oh, I didn’t forget it. I’m training for it mentally. Are you sure you want to lose again?”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up,” you said, unable to keep the grin from breaking through.

And before he could fire back, you leaned down and kissed him—soft, 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.

“That’s cheating,” he murmured, voice low, eyes fixed on your mouth. “Straight-up cheating.”

You laughed softly. “Then stop talking.”

His smile deepened, slow and fond. 

You straightened, smoothing your jacket. “I really have to go now,” you said gently.

He nodded once, like he knew but still hated it. “Have fun,” he said quietly. And then, effortlessly, instinctively— like a breath, like a reflex — “I love you.”

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 he’d said it a thousand times before. 

Both of you froze. 

His eyes widened at the exact same time yours did, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I—shit,” he blurted, hands flying up as if to physically catch the words hanging between you. “I didn’t mean—no, I did mean it, I just didn’t mean to say it like that or right now—”

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. “Sam,” you whispered when you finally found the words, “it’s okay. Really.” You began to back away towards the door. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. Actually, I should go, they’re waiting for me… at the bar.”

“Hey, wait a secon—” 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. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jenny said, raising a brow.

“He said he loves me,” you blurted.

Silence. Four jaws dropped, exchanging looks between them and then their voices exploded at once.

“WHAT?” “No, he didn’t.” “Oh my god. I knew it.” “Finally!”

You groaned and covered your face with your hands, wishing you could crawl under the table.

Lizzie leaned forward. “Okay. Start over. Every detail. Slowly.”

You told them everything—his slip, the panic in your eyes and the way you’d bolted out of the room like you’d been set on fire.

Kate slapped her palm on the table. “Do you love him?”

Jenny gently put a hand on your shoulder, while the others collectively leaned in.

You hesitated at first. “I don’t know,” you answered weakly. “I mean—I think so—no, I do—I just—he caught me off guard. How do you even know if you love someone? I’ve never… I’ve never really been in a serious relationship. I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like. How do I know if I am or not in love with him?”

Anthony nodded thoughtfully. “Fair question.”

“Okay. How much do you like him?” Lizzie asked.

“A lot,” you said without hesitation. Maybe too quickly. “I really like him… He makes me feel safe. And happy. And insane. All at once.”

Jenny smiled at your words. “Do you think about him when he’s not around?”

“Yes,” you admitted.

Kate raised a brow. “More than anyone else?”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t know the answer but because you were a little embarrassed to admit that it was true.  So you nodded. 

Lizzie continued, “Does it scare you? Caring that much about him. In a good way, I mean.”

Your heart tightened. “…yes. A little, I guess. Sometimes.”

They exchanged looks. Then Anthony inhaled dramatically and leaned closer to you, taking your hand. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, “I don’t want to shock you, but you wrote to that man for months. The minute you learned he’d 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.” He squeezed your hand. “If this isn’t love, I honestly don’t know what is.”

The words hit you like a quietly detonating grenade—silent, bright, rearranging everything inside you.

Love.

The word echoed in your mind. 

Anthony was right. 

Samuel O'Neal loved you. And you loved him too.

Your breath wavered. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “I love him.”

“Then why didn’t you say it back?” Kate asked gently.

You let out a shaky breath. “I was terrified. It felt too big. Too real. And I panicked.”

They exchanged another round of knowing looks—like they’d all expected this long before you’d. Jenny squeezed your arm. “Then go tell him.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, now,” Lizzie said. “Before you overthink it and combust.” “It’s not too late,” Anthony said. 

You checked the time. It was still early. 

Your heart made the decision before your brain caught up.

You stood, grabbed your jacket, muttered something like “I have to go,” 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.

“Hey! Forgot something?”

You swallowed, heart pounding. “Yeah. Something… important.” But you didn’t explain further. Instead, you kept running. 

Your pulse pounded as you made your way down the hall and pushed open the door to Sam’s room.

He looked up from the TV, remote loosely in his hand. When he saw you, his brow furrowed immediately.

“…Hey,” he said slowly, checking the time. “You’re back early. Did something happen?” he asked, a little worried. 

You were breathless. Chest heaving. Heart racing for too many reasons. “Sam,” you said, stepping inside and closing the door behind you, “earlier—when you said you loved me—” Your voice cracked on the word. “Did you mean it? Really?”

He blinked. Then, without hesitation, he nodded.  “Yes,” he said softly. “I meant it. I know it wasn’t the right moment, or the right place, but—” His eyes softened. “I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time. Maybe since that night at the bar. So yes, I love you. I really do.”

Your breath left you all at once. You felt tears sting your eyes—not from fear this time, but from relief so sharp it nearly buckled your knees.

“Good,” you breathed, voice trembling, a tear slipping down before and unable to hold back a smile. “Because I love you too.”

He stared at you like he’d been struck, chest rising hard, eyes warming so quickly you felt it like heat across the room. “You don’t have to tell me back if you don’t want to. I can —”

You stepped closer, tears slipping down your cheeks, cutting him off. “No, no, I do. I really do. I didn’t say it earlier because I panicked. I’m not used to this,” you said, pointing at you two. “To feeling this much. I didn’t know what being in love was supposed to feel like,” you swallowed. “But now I do. I…”

He leaned forward and kissed you—deeply, urgently, holding your face like he’d 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. “So you love me, huh?” he teased, voice barely above a whisper. You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Yes. Don’t get cocky now.”

He smirked. “Too late. Already did.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, and he gently caught your wrist, pulling you down into another kiss.

-

You walked into Sam’s room that morning expecting a quiet five-minute visit before your shift started— just an innocent kiss, a quick “good morning. Instead, when you opened the door, you found him talking to a man you’d never seen before.

You recognized the type instantly—straight 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.

“Morning,” you said, smiling. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

Both men looked up. The stranger’s 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. “Well, damn,” he said. “Sam, you didn’t tell me your doctor looked like that.”

You blinked once, while Sam’s eyes rolled so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. The man stepped toward you, extending his hand. “Johnny. Same unit as Sam.” He jerked a thumb toward Sam. “I was in the area and figured I’d swing by to see how the cripple’s doing.”

You stared at him flatly, shooting his hand out of politeness, nothing more. “I’m Y/N.” Sam’s eye twitched.

Johnny kept going, oblivious. “Well, damn, you lucky bastard. If I had a doctor that pretty, I’d probably take forever to recover too.” Sam clenched his jaw so hard that you thought he'd break a tooth.

Johnny shook his head. “And what a coincidence, I just developed this sudden chest pain.” He pressed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Maybe I need to be checked out, sweetheart.”

You gave him that tight, polite, painfully professional smile you saved for insufferable people.

“I’m sure Sam doesn’t mind if you take care of another patient,” Johnny said, elbowing him. “Right, Sam?” 

Sam inhaled sharply, ready to speak, but you cut in smoothly: “I’m not his doctor.” 

Johnny brightened instantly, clearly thinking he’d just scored. “No? Even better. Guess that means I might get you all to myself.”

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.  

You smiled again and stepped closer to Sam, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m not. Treating him would be against hospital policy. Considering he’s my boyfriend.” Johnny’s grin didn’t even falter at first. “Right, hospital policy—wait.” 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.

“Oh,” he said finally, voice cracking. “I—oh, shit.”

You waited, folding your arms, amused by the discomfort blooming on his face.

“I didn’t—uh—I wasn’t—shit.” He scratched the back of his head. “Sorry, I didn’t know. Really didn’t. Sam, man, congrats. Seriously. She’s—uh—wow. Anyway, I should go.” “Wait,” you said sweetly. “If you’re still having chest pain, I can call someone. Maybe even schedule a full check-up. Prostate exam included. Prevention’s important.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing.

Johnny went pale. “No! No, I’m— I’m good. Perfectly fine. The pain is gone, actually.”

“Sure?” you asked innocently.

“Yep! 100%.” He backed toward the door so fast he tripped over his own heel. “Good seeing you Sam—nice meeting you—bye!”

Johnny practically fled the room.

The door clicked shut.

A beat of silence passed before you burst out laughing.

“What an idiot,” Sam muttered.

“What a creep,” you said simultaneously.

You turned to him, still laughing. “Thank God you’re nothing like him.”

“Please don’t compare me to Johnny,” Sam begged dramatically. “I have actual dignity.”

“Yeah. But you were you jealous, weren’t you?”

“No,” he replied immediately.

You raised a brow. “Are you sure?”

Sam held your gaze for half a second, then sighed, shoulders dropping. “Fine. Yes. Maybe a little. Johnny looked at you like you were the dessert tray.”

“A little?” you repeated. “Sam, you looked like you were about to throw your water bottle at him.”

“I was considering it,” he admitted.

“Jealousy looks cute on you.”

“It doesn’t,” he insisted.

“It does,” you insisted back.

He stared at you, trying to stay irritated, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward “Well,” he murmured, “can you blame me? He was staring at you like he was starving. And I’m here stuck in this bed, unable to do anything but watch.”

You softened instantly and reached for his hand, brushing your fingers. “Relax. Watching is all he’s got. The rest is yours.”

He stopped breathing for half a second. “Yeah?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. All yours,” you whispered in his ear. 

Sam exhaled, thumb brushing your palm. “Good. But he’s never visiting again.”

You laughed. “He was just trying to be friendly.”

“He was trying to be something,” Sam muttered.

You leaned in and kissed him—slow, sweet, lingering—erasing whatever irritation Johnny had caused. When you pulled back, Sam’s annoyance had dissolved completely, replaced with that soft look he only ever gave you.

“You know,” he said, “if this is what happens when guys flirt with you, maybe I should be jealous more often.”

You nudged his shoulder lightly. “Don’t push your luck.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

You stayed like that for a moment—your hand in his, the morning quiet again, the room suddenly feeling much smaller and much warmer.

Then Sam added, “Next time someone tries anything, I’m telling them you’re my wife.”

Your eyes widened. “Sam!” You exclaimed but then you burst out laughing. 

“What?” he said innocently. “Just trying to be prepared.”

You shook your head, then you leaned down and kissed him again. 

-

March 2007

The doctor’s voice filled Sam’s 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. 

The doctor cleared his throat, smiling. “If everything continues like this” — he tapped the chart — “you’ll be able to go home in a few days, Sam.”

Sam straightened instantly, brows lifting. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” the doctor confirmed. “You’ll still need plenty of rest. Limited movement, crutches or the wheelchair for a while. And you’ll have to come in every day for physiotherapy.” A smile broke across your face before you could stop it. Sam’s 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 doctor’s words echoed again, reshaped by all the things they implied. And then the reality hit you like a small, unexpected punch. Because “home” 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.

“And,” the doctor continued, oblivious to the shift inside you, “it would be ideal if someone could stay with you at home for at least the first weeks. You’ll need help with some day-to-day tasks.”

Sam immediately shook his head. “No, no, that’s not necessary. I’ll manage. I—”

“He can stay with me.”

The words shot out of your mouth before even one functioning brain cell could object. It wasn’t 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. 

Sam’s head quickly snapped toward you. “At your place?” You swallowed. “Yes. I mean, temporary. I live close to the hospital and you’ll have to come in every day for physiotherapy. It would be convenient for you. And I’m a doctor, so if you need anything, I’d be—uh—right there.” You forced a smile. “It makes sense. Its seems… very… practical.”

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. “It sounds like a good solution,” he said while scribbled something onto his chart. “I’ll let you discuss details.” And then he slipped out of the room. 

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: “I don’t know why I said that. No—that’s a lie, I do know. I meant it, I really did, but maybe we should’ve talked about it first.” You rubbed your palms together nervously, words spilling out faster and faster. “Are you angry? I don’t want you to think I’m rushing into living together, because I’m not— I mean, I wouldn’t hate the idea one day, sure, but we’ve been officially together for, what, five minutes? And we’re still getting to know each other. I know it’s not the best time but in that moment it seemed like the best option, it made — I don’t know— it made sense. It’s not a terrible idea, is it?”

“Hey.” Sam reached out, gently touching your wrist. “Slow down.” You inhaled sharply, trying—failing—to catch your breath.

He hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not angry. And it’s not a bad idea. I mean… on paper it seems great. It’s just—” He gestured vaguely between you. “It surprised me. Living together is a big step, even if it’s only temporary.”

You nodded, heat rushing to your face. “I know. A few months ago this would never have happened. I would’ve shut this idea down immediately… if it had been with anyone else. I would’ve said it was too fast or too much.” You bit your lip. “But 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.” You took a breath, steadying yourself and forcing your thoughts into order. A slow grin spread across Sam’s face. “I know it’s a big thing,” you added quietly. “And that maybe it’s not the right time. But if you go back to your place, seeing each other will be harder. Your apartment isn’t so close to the hospital and I’ll be here almost all day. I’d have to drive across the city every day to see you, it’d be exhausting. But if you stay at my place, I’ll still be here most of the day, but you’d have a whole apartment to yourself. And when I finally get home… we could spend some time together. Real time.”

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 couldn’t see. He was assessing variables, risk, outcomes —just 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. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay with you,” he finally said. “Because I do, actually.” His voice softened, careful, honest. “I’m just scared of ruining what we have. Things are really good between us right now, aren’t they?” A quiet smile tugged at your lips. “Yes, better than good.” 

He scratched lightly at the bandage on his arm, uneasy. “The doctor said I’m still going to need help with… well, a lot. And I don’t want you to end up feeling like my nurse, or like I’m a burden. You already have your job, your patients…” Your heart softened painfully. “Sam,” you whispered. “I already help you. And it hasn’t ruined anything. If anything, it brought us closer.”

He held your gaze a long moment, the tension in his jaw shifting—still weighing, still calculating.“But what if…” he started slowly, “what if living together brings out the worst in us? What if we fight about stupid things? Like… me leaving clothes everywhere.”

You snorted. “Sam, I’ve been to your place. Every single thing was set at a perfect angle. If anyone’s leaving clothes everywhere, it’ll be me.” You softened, stepping closer to him. “And if we fight? Then we fight. And we get over it… maybe with some good sex. We’ve survived things much worse than dirty laundry.”

He let out a small huff of laughter. Then his eyes lifted to you—uncertain, searching. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked. “Actually sure?”

You shocked yourself with how easily the answer came. “Strangely? Yes.” You exhaled. “Let’s see it as a test run.”

“A test,” he repeated, lips twitching.

“Yeah. I mean, if things keep going well between us, we would’ve ended up living together eventually. That’s what couples do, right? So it’s better to find out early if we’re good at it. Better than discovering it too late.”

Sam raised a brow. “You know, that’s not exactly comforting.”

You winced. “You know what I mean.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then slowly, intentionally— he nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s try.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach, your eyes widened. “Really?” you whispered.

“Really,” he said, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth. 

You felt your face break into a grin so big it almost hurt. Excitement, nerves, warmth—everything collided in your chest at once.

Sam laughed when he saw your expression. “You look like someone told you you won the lottery.”

“Well,” you said, cheeks warm, “I just like when people say yes to me.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Or maybe,” he said slowly, raising a brow, “you just can’t stay away from me.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “Please. I can still change my mind and send you to your own empty apartment, all alone, limping around in the dark.”

Sam laughed, head falling back against the pillow. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

You crossed your arms, fighting your grin. “Don’t test me.” As Sam settled comfortably, the reality of what you had volunteered hit you fully. 

You were doing this. You were actually doing this. He was moving with you. 

And instead of panicking like you always thought you would—something 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 hadn’t lived what you and Sam had lived. And after everything—the time apart, the letters, the fear of losing him—you couldn’t bear the thought of distance. Not after coming this close to a future where he wasn’t 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.  For the first time in your life, you wanted all of it. And more. Because you knew—deep in your bones— you could face anything. As long as he was beside you.

With Sam, everything felt possible. You weren’t 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 edges—cream 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. “You kept… all of them.”

He looked almost offended by the obviousness of the answer. “Of course,” he said. “I could never throw them away.” 

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 they’ve memorized. “I used to re-read them when I was deployed. Over and over.” His voice softened. “They kept me company. Actually… I still read them sometimes.” He hesitated, eyes lifting. “But reading them now it’s different. Because you’re here with me.” You swallowed, heat spreading through your chest. “I re-read yours too,” you admitted quietly. “But having you here is better.” For a moment, neither of you moved. There was a stillness in the room—quiet, full, almost sacred. Then you slipped the letters carefully back inside, like something precious, and zipped the bag closed. “Ready to go?”, you asked, smiling at him. 

His answering smile was immediate, bright, unguarded. “Never been more ready.”

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 wheel—something 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 regret—not 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. “Welcome home.”

The apartment was clean but lived-in, lights warm, everything arranged to give him space to move comfortably. You’d made sure of it—cleared 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 bedroom—now sitting on your shelf like it had always belonged there.

He blinked. “…Isn’t that mine?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “When the other day I went to your apartment to grab your clothes, I thought you’d like having some of your things here too. You know… so you’d feel more at home. I hope you don’t mind.”

He looked at you. Warmth, gratitude, and something deeper flickered in his eyes. “It’s more than okay. Thank you.” He stepped further inside, smiling. “And honestly? This record player looks better here than it ever did at my place.” -

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. “I left some space for your things. And you have your own nightstand too. But if you’d rather use the guest room, I can set it up for you. Maybe you want more space, or—”

He cut you off with a small shake of his head. “Here is perfect.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. “Do you want to rest?” you asked. “Sleep a little maybe?”

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “I wasn’t really thinking about sleeping.”

You gasped, scandalized on purpose. “Saaaam.”

He laughed—right 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.

“Hey,” you whispered. “How do you feel? Does your leg hurt?”

“A little,” he admitted, forcing a smile. “But nothing serious. Don’t worry.”

But you already were. You always were, especially now—now 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. 

You held his face, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Let me take care of you, Sam.”

His breath hitched. He nodded once, slow, like he was surrendering to something he’d 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 electric—months 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.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly.

His answer came out rough. “Yeah. It’s… it’s more than okay.”

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 legs— 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. 

You weren’t rushing.

You wanted him to feel every second, every inch, every moment you’d spent wanting him, missing him, fearing for him—all 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.

“You’re killing me…” he whispered, voice already rough.

You only hummed, pretending innocence, fingers drifting a little higher—then retreating, tracing down again. Up. Down. Slow. 

His fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together molecule by molecule. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. 

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 time—a little too slowly—he 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 he’d been starved for it—starved 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 it’d been trapped in his chest for too long. It was months of need, distance crashing all at once—hungry, desperate, impossibly soft in the same breath. Between kisses—ragged, breathless—he whispered against your lips: “I need you. Now.”

Your heart stuttered and you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, searching. “Sam… are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

His grip tightened on your hips—not painful, just pleading. “You won’t.” Another kiss—brief, trembling. “I’m sure.” His voice dropped to a whisper, almost a plea. “Please.”

That one word undid whatever restraint you’d left. You cupped his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. His eyes were dark, wide, full of trust—full 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 floor—his, 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 did—rediscovering each other, relearning the shape of each other’s 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 you’d 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. “I feel… so much better now.” You laughed softly into his neck. “Good. But I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

He cupped your face, tilting it up so you’d look at him. “It was perfect,” he murmured. Then, with a smirk that sent heat straight to your stomach— “Better than perfect.”

You traced a finger along his chest, teasing.“Good. I thought I’d be a little rusty. After almost a year.”

He blinked, thinking he misunderstood. “A year?”

You hesitated only a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t been with anyone else… not since that night.”

His breath caught, sharp, stunned. “Really?”

“Yes. You were the last person I was with.” You paused before continuing, without embarrassment. “I went out with a few guys, even kissed some of them… but I couldn’t 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 wasn’t real. That I wasn’t falling for you.” He stared like you’d just undone something inside him. His fingers brushed your cheek, unbelievably gentle and pulled you into his arms, smiling against your hair. 

“Then we have to make up for all the time we lost,” Sam said, with that smile that lit up his eyes more than he meant to show.

And over the next days, you did —over 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 other’s 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 couch—where 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 kitchen— where an ordinary conversation turned into a kiss against the counter, Sam’s 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 Sam’s 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 him—his neck, his chest, the line of his ribs—his 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 he’d moved in with you, it’d been a temporary arrangement, a practical solution — something you’d both agreed would last “only until he was back on his feet”. 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 there—massaging the scars, bracing his weight, pressing soft kisses where the pain lingered.

You’d finally gone on a real date—no 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, he’d taken a job at a private security agency — still helping people, still purposeful, but far from gunfire, far from the desert, far from goodbyes. And you couldn’t 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 he’d wake gasping, sweating—dragged 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: “You’re safe. You’re home. I’m here.”

You still wrote each other letters. For holidays, anniversaries, birthdays— even for no reason at all. Not because you needed to, not anymore, but because it’d become part of your language. Sometimes you’d find a note on his pillow; sometimes he’d discover one inside his pocket. 

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. 

Slowly, day after day, you were building a life together. And you liked that. 

Ray’s 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 everyone’s legs hoping for scraps, laughter echoing against the walls you thought you’d 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. 

You were home.

-

2 years later Three years after that night in the bar— where everything had begun—Sam 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 wasn’t glowing and the windows were dark.

You frowned, checking the time on your phone. It wasn’t early. If anything, the bar should’ve been at its loudest. When you reached for the handle, the door opened easily, and you stepped inside. 

The bar you knew—the warm chaos, the clinking glasses, the buzz of chatter—was 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 you’d 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 didn’t even want to go out that night. But I’m 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 — because there’s something important I need to ask you. If you’re done reading, turn around.

You hesitated a few seconds before turning around. 

Sam stood a few meters away.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re beautiful.” “Thanks. You’re not bad either.” Your voice broke on the last word. “I think you have something to ask me.”

He took a slow step forward. “Three years ago I saw you from right over there,” he said, nodding toward the spot. “And from that moment on, I couldn’t 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.”

You scoffed, playfully indignant. “You beat me by one point.”

He grinned, laughing under his breath. “Yeah. But truth is… when I hit the bullseye, you’d already hit the center of my heart.”

Your breath faltered. Tears stung your eyes.

His voice softened. “Before 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 didn’t want to wander anymore. I felt at home.”

Your knees almost gave out as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. You froze, your vision blurred.

“Everything started here,” he said, voice trembling faintly. “And this is where I want the rest of our life to begin. If you want it too.”

He knelt down and opened the box. An elegant ring sparkled up at you. “Will you marry me?”

Your hand flew to your mouth as tears spilled free, slipping down your cheeks.

Before Sam, you’d never pictured marriage. Never even wanted it. After losing your brother, you’d convinced yourself love was too dangerous, that it only carved out new spaces for grief. You’d 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. 

He made you want a future. A home. A family. A life built side by side. With him, you wanted everything you’d once feared. 

“Yes,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yes, yes—of course I will.”

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. 

You laughed and smiled through your tears, while he held you tight around his arms. 

Half an hour later, the doors burst open and your friends—clearly in on the plan—poured into the room cheering. You looked at Sam across the chaos. You’d 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

You’d 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, simple—nothing extravagant or chaotic, nothing that didn’t 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 — your closest friends and families, the ones who had seen you through every storm and calm, witnesses of your love. 

You wore a short white dress, effortless but still elegant, the kind that made Sam look at you as if he couldn’t 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. “Jesus…” he breathed, stunned. Then, softer, with a smile pulling slowly at his lips: “You’re breathtaking.”

The ceremony was brief, but emotion thickened every word. A few vows spoken with voices that trembled more than either of you’d expected. Sam’s 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 “yes” again — this time without tears, but with the same certainty, the same quiet joy with which you’d said it when he’d proposed to you six months ago. When the officiant declared you married, Sam kissed you—slowly 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.

“Ready to go, Mrs. O’Neal?” he whispered.

You smacked his arm, blushing and nodding. Sam smirked — he wouldn’t stop saying it for the rest of the night, as if he still couldn’t quite believe he finally got to call you “wife”.

After the ceremony, all of you walked—together—to the place where your story had begun. Your bar.

For the occasion it'd been transformed entirely — 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 bartender—who had been there the night you met—waved 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. 

Sitting beside him, his arm draped over your shoulders. “Four years ago, we were just two strangers sitting there… and now look at us,” he whispered in your ear. 

You followed his gaze to the counter of the bar where you’d sat down to have a drink. Your chest tightened. You thought about everything you’d lived. Everything you’d survived. And how you’d 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. “We’ve come a long way,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek. “Every step worth it.”

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

And we will never go back to that

-

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.

“My lady,” you said quietly, bowing your head.

“Come closer,” 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 husband’s jaw was clenched tight, as if every word he had to say might shatter him.

“You have been in our service for many years,” the Lady began. “You are quiet, loyal, and no one outside this household knows your face well.”

You hesitated.

“Yes, my lady. I have always tried to serve faithfully.”

Her gaze drifted to her daughter, whose eyes filled with tears.

“You must swear what we discuss here will never leave this room.”

Your stomach turned.

“I swear it.”

The Lord cleared his throat, his voice rough.

“Our 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 King’s Landing has already reached the court.”

Your eyes flickered to the young woman in the chair. Her hands were clasped tightly over her stomach.

“She… she cannot go,” the Lady said in a low, trembling voice. “She carries the child of another man. A knight in our service. If the Crown learns of this, we will be ruined.”

The words struck you like a blow.

“My lady, what will you do?”

The Lord’s expression hardened.

“We will send you in her place.”

You blinked, certain you had misheard.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” the Lady said sharply. “You are of similar build, and with the right clothes, the right manner, few would question it. You will go to King’s Landing as our daughter, marry Prince Aemond, and secure our house’s future.”

Your mouth went dry.

“But I am not noble. I have no titles, no learning, no-”

Her voice cut through yours.

“You 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.”

You shook your head in disbelief.

“My lady, please, they will see it at once. I cannot deceive the King, the Queen, the Prince-”

The Lord’s voice thundered across the hall.

“You will do as you are told!”

The sound silenced everything. The rain, the fire, even your breath. You stood frozen as he stepped closer, his anger twisting his features.

“If 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.”

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 house’s favour.

Tears welled in your eyes, but you forced your voice steady.

“I understand, my lord.”

The Lady’s tone softened, though her face did not.

“You will be cared for. We will provide gowns, jewellery, and a new name. You are to call yourself by our daughter’s name in every breath you take. If anyone suspects you, deny it. Smile and lie, for all our sakes.”

You turned to the young woman who sat weeping beside the hearth. She could not even meet your gaze.

“My lady,” you whispered, “is this truly what you wish?”

Her sobs grew louder.

“I cannot marry him,” she cried. “He is a dragon, and I am already ruined. Please, forgive me.”

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 Lady’s maid pressed a folded letter into your hand.

“For the Queen,” she said. “You will give it to her upon your arrival.”

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.

“Remember who you are now,” the Lady said softly. “You are our daughter. You were born to wed a prince.”

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 King’s 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.

“My lady,” she said gently, breaking the seal. “Rise, please. You are welcome in the Red Keep.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” you murmured.

Her smile was small but kind.

“You 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.”

You curtsied again, heart pounding.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

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 mother’s 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.

“The Queen requests your presence for the midday meal, my lady,” she said, avoiding your gaze. “She asked that you join the royal family in the gardens.”

Your throat tightened.

“The gardens?”

“Yes, my lady. Prince Aemond will escort you.”

“Prince Aemond?”

She nodded, her tone respectful but curious.

“He asked for you himself.”

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.

“My lady.”

“Your Grace,” you replied, your voice soft, unsure.

“Shall we?”

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.

“You favour the gardens,” Aemond said as you walked along the gravel path.

“I do,” you admitted, glancing at a bed of peonies. “They remind me of home.”

“Your home in the Riverlands?”

You stiffened slightly. You had rehearsed this lie, but the words still caught.

“Yes, my prince. My mother kept a garden by the river. It was… smaller than this, but very dear to her.”

Aemond looked at you sidelong, his expression unreadable.

“Few of noble birth tend to their own gardens.”

You smiled faintly.

“Then perhaps I am simply unusual.”

His mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement.

“Unusual, perhaps. But not unpleasant.”

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.

“They are Targaryen roses,” you said softly, eager to fill the silence. “They only grow within the walls of the Red Keep. Their roots do not take in foreign soil.”

Aemond’s brow lifted slightly.

“You know much about flowers.”

You smiled, still facing the rose.

“I love them. They speak in colours and scent. They tell stories without words.”

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.

“What story does this one tell?” he asked.

You hesitated, glancing back at the crimson petals.

“That it is proud and unyielding, but lonely. It grows where others cannot reach it.”

Something flickered across his face, surprise, perhaps even pain. Then it was gone. He looked away.

“You see much,” he said quietly. “More than most.”

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.

“So this is the famed bride of my brother,” he said, dropping into a chair. “He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your arrival. You must have bewitched him.”

Aemond’s voice was calm but cold.

“Mind your tongue.”

Aegon only laughed.

“See? He even defends you. Perhaps you’ll tame the dragon after all.”

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.

“You smell like the meadows,” she said suddenly. “Do you like butterflies? They are better companions than men.”

You smiled softly.

“I like them very much.”

“I thought so,” she replied with a nod, and began tracing circles on the tablecloth.

The Queen gave you a kind, if weary, smile.

“I trust the journey was not too difficult?”

“It was long, Your Grace,” you said honestly, “but the welcome has been… generous.”

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.

“You endured my brother well,” he said after a moment.

You smiled faintly.

“He means no harm, I think.”

“He means only harm. But he is harmless regardless.”

That earned a small laugh from you before you could stop it. His head tilted slightly, as though surprised by the sound.

“You laugh easily,” he said.

“Not always,” you admitted, lowering your gaze. “But sometimes, it is all one can do.”

He stopped before your door, looking down at you with a gaze that made your heart twist.

“You are not what I expected.”

You looked up at him.

“And what did you expect, my prince?”

He studied you in silence for a moment.

“Someone vain, perhaps. Proud. Like all the others. But you are not like them.”

You felt his words settle deep in your chest, too heavy and too tender at once.

“Rest well, my lady,” he said finally, stepping back.

“Good night, my prince.”

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 prince’s 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 Keep’s 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 Aemond’s 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.

“I am told you have not yet seen Vhagar,” he said. “That will not do. Come with me.”

You blinked, startled by his sudden presence, and nodded.

“Of course, my prince.”

He frowned slightly.

“Do not call me that when we are alone. Aemond will do.”

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.

“She is older than the Conquest itself,” Aemond said quietly beside you. “Some say she remembers Valyria. She has outlived every rider but me.”

You could only stare, your heart beating fast.

“She is beautiful,” you whispered.

He looked at you then.

“Most say she is terrifying.”

You smiled faintly.

“Perhaps beauty and terror are not so different.”

Aemond’s lips curved, a shadow of amusement.

“You speak like someone born of dragon blood.”

You shook your head.

“I have no such fire in my veins. I am only a woman who sees wonder where others see fear.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind carried the scent of ash and salt, Vhagar’s breath a deep rhythm in the distance. Aemond’s 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.

“You are not like the women of court,” he said after a pause. “They flatter and chatter, but you... You listen. Even when there is silence.”

“Silence often tells the truth that words cannot.”

Aemond turned his face to the sea, his expression unreadable.

“There is truth in that.” He took a step closer, his voice quieter. “Do you fear me?”

The question caught you off guard. You looked up and met his gaze, the pale light glinting off his sapphire eye.

“I do not,” you said softly. “Should I?”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of surprise.

“Most do. Even those who claim to love me.”

“Then they have never looked properly,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You are not cruel, Aemond. Only guarded.”

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.

“Come,” he said at last. “The light fades quickly here.”

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.

“You said once that you liked the scent of lilacs,” he said. “They do not grow in King’s Landing, but I will have them brought for you.”

You blinked, caught between surprise and gratitude.

“That is not necessary.”

“I did not ask if it was,” he replied, though his tone was softer than his words. “Good night.”

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 Keep’s 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.

“I thought you might like to walk,” he said.

There was no demand in his tone, only a quiet certainty that you would agree. You nodded, smoothing your gown.

“Of course.”

The corridors were mostly empty. Aemond’s 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.

“You seem at peace among growing things,” he said. “Why?”

You smiled faintly.

“Because 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.”

He glanced down at you.

“You speak as if you have known much discontent.”