longfics:

Dracula A Love Tale (2025)

LOVE WILL TEAR (ongoing) - Mature | mortal!Vlad x vampire!Elisabeta

Harvest (2024)

the wind that shakes the barley (complete) - Mature | Walter Thirsk x female!reader

Antiviral (2012):

sanguineus: the chronicles (complete) - Explicit | Syd March (Antiviral) x reader

to name and soothe (complete) - Mature | trans!Syd March x reader

Age Out (2018)

still water (complete) - Swim x OFC ~ Mature

Queen and Country (2014)

Lilac Wine (complete) - Percy x OFC - Mature

Billy the Kid (mgm+ series)

Sing Your Body Electric (complete)- Mature | BtK

The Lily of The West (ao3) (complete) - Mature | BtK

Down Bad (ongoing) - Explicit | dark!BtK AU

Other:

Syracuse (complete) - Mature | Plainclothes (2025)

Forbidden Colours (ongoing) - Mature | Coriolanus

oneshots:

Caleb Landry Jones (other characters and RPF)

flip a switch: you make him take you hard - Explicit

he will be loved - Red Welby x reader - Mature

War on Everyone (2016):

Russell Birdwell crack/smut drabbles-one shots - pt 1 - Mature

Antiviral (2012):

possessed: reader rescues Syd for their own gain - Mature

sub!Syd drabbles - Explicit

Dracula: A Love Tale:

Vlad and Elisabeta’s lovemaking - oneshot

The Kindness of Strangers:

A soft hurt/comfort fic on Jeff x reader

Low Down:

fingering/oral - Cole x reader

falling in love - Cole x reader

Tom Blyth’s characters:

body worship (for Billy) - Billinea

body worship (for Dulcinea) - Billinea

Billy & Dulcinea’s tender moments under a tree - Billinea

Billy’s sad, needy and looking for comfort - x saloon girl

Billy’s got a praise kink - Billy x reader

Alex taking care of you after a tough day - Alex Nilsen (pwmov)

beta-read:

Wear Your Heart On Your Sleeve - Billinea

With You At Last - Billinea

Little Pockets of Happiness - Billinea

Billy healing from his wounds - Billy the Kid

Burning Ice - Vlad x Reader (Dracula: A Love Tale)

my ao3

By half past four, the sitting room curtains were pulled wide, letting the October light spill across the carpet and warm the polished wood of the sideboard. The coal grate stood cold and empty. The house had stopped bracing itself against the winter.

In the kitchen, the radio played a low orchestral number, the music drifting between the clink of crockery and the ordinary sounds of the afternoon.

Percy watched the light hit the walls without any of the old silence to hold it back.

On the small table by the sofa, tea and biscuits sat on a china plate. The cups were already warming. It wasn't a spread laid out for bad news or a quick, awkward drink while waiting for a doctor. The clock on the mantel ticked in the background, but the noise of the house drowned it out.

Mary soon stood in the doorway, and Percy looked at her, watching the profound change in her face. The grey cast was gone from her skin. A soft warmth sat on her face instead, and a gentle pink flush touched her cheeks.

When she lifted her hands, he saw her fingernails pale and healthy, the old violet shadows completely gone. He swallowed hard against the sight of her breathing easily and found himself quietly smiling.

She soon stepped into the room and held herself guarded around the middle, her hand hovering near her ribs as she moved. She drew her thick, soft cardigan tight across her chest, shielding the place where the surgeons had worked.

She took each step carefully out of habit, but her breath didn't falter anymore. She didn't have to pause to gather air, and her mouth didn't tighten as she waited for her lungs to catch up.

She crossed the floor at her own careful pace, moving through the light of the sitting room.

She was breathtaking.

Percy moved to her side before she had fully entered the room. He noted her balance and watched for the slight hesitations in her stride. He kept one hand near her elbow, offering support without grabbing her. When she inclined her head, he stepped in and guided her toward her armchair.

He lowered her into the seat, supporting her weight. He tucked a cushion behind her back and adjusted the armrest so she could settle her weight without straining her ribs. He handled her with the gentlest care, moving tenderly as he smoothed the fabric of the chair.

He straightened up and took his place beside her. He watched her with a fierce, contained pride, fixed on the way she settled into the room, ready to move the moment she needed him. And she never asked for much.

Mr. Rohan soon walked in from the kitchen, carrying the teapot. The lid rattled softly against the rim as he crossed the room. His eyes were clear of the old calculation. He stopped and gave Percy a brief, steady nod.

Percy returned the look, sitting at the table as a man who finally belonged there without the weight of scrutiny.

Mary watched them both with a smile on her lips before she turned toward Percy. He went still the moment she shifted in her seat.

"You don’t have to hold your breath every time I stand up, Percy," she said warmly. "The doctors said I’m mended."

Percy only laughed and shook his head."I’m not holding my breath, Mary. I’m just enjoying the fact that you’re keeping yours."

***

Later that day, Mary stood before the tall mahogany wardrobe and reached for the buttons of her day blouse to undo them slowly, letting the fabric slide from her shoulders until it pooled on the floor at her feet.

She stood for a while in her undergarments, looking at the reflection of her own torso, specifically the side of her chest and the curve of her back where the thoracotomy had been performed. The scar was a long line of angry red that tracked through the spaces of her ribs, making a violent, raised mark that seemed to vibrate against the paleness of her skin.

She turned then, twisting her torso to see the full length of the intrusion, and gasped in the quiet of the bedroom.

She long failed to see the mark of a surgeon’s success or the physical evidence of her survival. She finally felt like a woman, and only saw a mutilation. She ran a fingertip an inch away from the ridge of the scar, trembling as she stared at the way the skin puckered and pulled.

To her eyes, she looked like a cracked plate that had been clumsily glued back together.

The heavy creak of the floorboards echoed from the hallway, and she recognized it instantly as Percy’s stride. A wave of sharp and hot shame hit her, and she lunged for the flannel nightgown draped across the foot of the bed.

She fumbled with the heavy fabric, pulling it up clumsily over her shoulders, tangling her fingers in the sleeves as she scrambled to hide the angry red line of the scar.

She jerked the gown down to cover her ribs, fighting to calm her breath as she tried to pull the collar closed before the door could open and expose the brokenness of her body to his gaze.

Percy soon entered the room, stopping short when he found her frozen by the wardrobe. Mary’s face flushed a deep, burning red that went beyond the healthy pink of her new circulation. He noticed how her hands still clutched the half-buttoned flannel at her throat.

He moved toward her with his large hands held open and visible at his sides. He crossed the small space between them until he was close enough to gently stay her hand. He then rested his palm flat over the fabric of the gown, placing it directly over the long line of the incision and let the heat of her beautiful, healing body radiate against his calloused skin.

Mary trembled beneath his palm, hunching her shoulders as if she could pull inward and disappear. She looked up at him with eyes that searched his face for the first hint of disappointment or the inevitable pull of a wince.

"It’s ugly, Percy," she whispered and her voice cracked in the quiet room as she gripped the flannel tighter against her throat. "You shouldn't look at it. You didn't sign up for a wife who's been cut open like a Christmas goose."

She turned her face away toward the dark mahogany of the wardrobe, and her jaw visibly tightened as she waited for him to agree or to pull his hand back from the heat of the scar.

Percy only stepped closer until the toes of his boots brushed the hem of her nightgown.

"I was a soldier, Mary," he said, his thumb making a single, slow pass over the fabric covering the ridge of the incision. "I’ve seen what real brokenness looks like in the mud and the dark, and I’m telling you now that this isn't it. I know a victory medal when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. That’s not a crack, and you aren't a piece of china to be tossed out because it's got a mark on it. That line? That’s where the light finally got in. It's the most beautiful thing about you, Mary, because it's the only reason you're still in this room and still dealing with my messy head."

The tension snapped in Mary’s shoulders, giving way as she finally leaned her weight into him. Percy moved in close, pressing his forehead against her chest until their skin bonded in the heat of the room.

He reached for the heavy flannel of her nightgown and peeled it back, working slowly as he pushed the fabric past her shoulders and down her arms.

His fingertips began to trace the pale, sensitive skin around the ridge of the scar, and he kept his touch firm and hungry as he followed the swell of her breasts. He claimed the space where the surgeons had been, replacing the memory of cold steel with the friction of his palms and the steady, mounting heat of the body that carried a man who loved her.

He soon slid his hands upward until his thumbs and forefingers caught her perky nipples, rubbing them in patient circles that made Mary gasp. He watched them peak and harden against his skin with his wide eyes and a mesmerized heat that coiled low in his belly. His breathing broke into a ragged pace at the beauty of her. He then pressed his palm flat against her ribs, pinning her gently toward him so he could feel the healthy thud of her heart against his hand. He lingered there, keeping his fingers busy and his gaze on her chest, making it plain with every rough, needy breath that he wasn't looking at a patient, but at the woman he had been starving to touch for months.

***

Her parents still made Percy sleep in the guest room, despite everything else, and to say it infuriated him to bits would be an understatement.

The room was a drafty tomb of old books and silence. He lay on the narrow cot, staring at the ceiling, but his mind was down the hall. He knew the rhythm of this house now, the way the heating hissed but never quite reached the corners, and the way the upstate autumn pressed against the glass. Most importantly, he knew Mary’s body now. He knew that despite the surgery, she still had to fight the external chill at times.

At 2:00 AM sharp, he couldn't simply stand it anymore.

He rose and moved in thick wool socks not to make a sound. He knew which floorboards groaned, sidestepping them with a phantom-like precision.

When he slipped into Mary’s room, the air hit him. He noted that it was significantly colder here.

He saw the shape of her under a mountain of quilts—a small, tight knot of a person. As he approached, he heard the rhythmic, tiny clicking of her teeth. She was shivering so hard the bedframe hummed.

"Mary," he whispered.

"P-Percy?"

"Move over," he murmured. He didn't undress. He kept his heavy flannel shirt on, knowing he needed to act as a furnace. He slid under the layers of wool and cotton, and the second his body was within reach, Mary lunged toward him. She made a soft, whimpering sound of pure relief, and pressed her forehead into the crook of his neck.

"You're like ice, sweetheart," he breathed, his large hands coming up to rub her back through her nightgown.

"I can't... get warm," she chattered, small and exhausted. "The blankets... they don't do much."

"I know. I've got you."

He shifted, sitting up against the headboard to gain leverage. He reached down and found her feet. They were terrifyingly cold; numb, waxy, and stiff. Without a word, he pulled her legs across his lap. He tucked her feet firmly between his thick, warm calves, using his own body heat to take the initial, painful burn of the cold away.

Then, he began the work.

He took her right hand first. It felt like holding a porcelain doll that had been left in a freezer. Percy brought her palm to his mouth, cupping his hands around hers, and blew a long, steady stream of hot breath into her skin. He did it again and again until he felt the slight softening of her muscles. Then, his thumbs began to move. He worked in deep, slow circles into the meat of her palm. He moved to each finger, rubbing them from base to tip, over and over, coaxing the blood back into the capillaries until her skin turned from a ghostly blue-white to a healthy pink.

"Better?" he whispered.

"Mmm... yes," she sighed, lolling her head against his chest.

He moved back to her feet. He took her heel in the palm of his hand, wrapping nearly all the way around her ankle. With the other hand, he used his knuckles to knead the arch of her foot. It was their nightly and morning ritual by now. He wasn't rushing; he was devoted to the task, furrowing his brow in concentration as he watched the life return to her skin in the silver moonlight.

Mary watched him too as her breathing finally evened out. The violent tremors had soon died down. She looked at his face, at the line of his nose, and the way he looked at her feet as if they were the most precious things in the world.

"Percy?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

"Do you... do you want me?"

Percy stopped his movements for a second, resting his thumbs against her skin. He looked up, and his blue eyes were dark and serious. "Always. You know that."

"No," she whispered and moved to touch the hair at the nape of his neck. "I mean... do you want me in bed? Now? I don't want to wait anymore. I don't want to be… safe tonight. I want to be yours. Make love to me, Percy."

His heart gave a heavy, singular thud against his ribs. He looked at her and saw the fire in her eyes that the world had tried so hard to douse.

He saw a woman. His woman.

"Are you sure?" he asked carefully. "I don't want to tire you out, Mary. I don't want—"

"I’m warm now," she interrupted, pulling his hand up to her cheek. "I’m warm, and I’m awake, and I want you."

He didn’t need more coaxing as he moved with an aching tenderness. He decided not to pull her beneath him. Instead, he lay on his side and settled behind her, pulling her back against his chest so they were spooning. He kept his movements slow, his large hands wandering gently over her curves.

When he entered her, it was with a long, slow exhale. He was incredibly tender, as his hips moved in a shallow, rhythmic pulse, making sure her pleasure was his own.

"Oh... oh, Percy," she gasped as her head fell back against his shoulder. She reached back, clutching at his arms, digging into his flannel sleeves. "Percy... oh, oh, oh..."

He buried his face in the crook of her neck. He was kissing her shoulder, her jaw, her temple, and kept his voice low as he mumbled his praises. "You're so beautiful, Mary... so strong. My girl. Just breathe with me. Just like that."

She was making small, squealing sounds of surprise and pleasure at his deep, gentle thrusts, and her heart raced from the wonderful, dizzying rush of him. Every time she gasped his name, he squeezed her tighter, his large frame acting as a shield against the rest of the world. He fondled her stomach, his hand splayed wide over her ribs, feeling the frantic, happy thrum of her life force.

"Oh, Percy... Percy... yes, right there... oh!"

It was quiet, private, and intensely real. There was no bravado, or a chase, only a profound, mutual desire to be as close as two humans could get.

Mary sighed softly as she felt him touching the delicate skin of her thighs, his thumb soon finding the sensitive, swollen peak of her clit.

"Right here," he whispered.

He began to rub her in slow, heavy circles. He wasn't being light; he was using the weight of his hand to create a deep, thrumming friction, working his thumb over the hood of her clit into a frenzy. "I want to hear you squeal, Mary. I want to hear you lose your mind. I want to be the reason you can't walk straight tomorrow."

When it was over, they stayed joined, trying to slow down their breathing in the dark.

Percy eventually pulled back just enough to tuck the blankets around them both again. He stayed behind her, curled around her small frame. He reached around and took her hand, interlacing their fingers, while his other hand rested flat over her chest, feeling the steady, calming beat of her heart.

"Thank you, Percy," she whispered in a voice thick with sleep.

"I’ve got you," he replied, kissing the back of her neck. "Go to sleep. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."

He stayed awake for a long time after her breathing went deep and even, acting as her anchor, her heater, and her protector.

***

The morning sun filtered through the thin, floral curtains of Mary’s childhood bedroom. The room was no longer the icy tomb it had been at 2:00 AM. Now, it was sweltering with the trapped heat of two bodies and the heavy, sweet scent of their shared night.

Percy was already awake. He was propped up on one elbow. His pale skin was luminous in the morning light, and his red hair a wild, chaotic halo.

He was watching Mary breathe with wide grin splitting his face. He looked proud.

Mary stirred, squinting against the light. As the memories of the night flooded back, the gasps, the closeness, the way Percy had taken her like a husband had his wife for the first time, she suddenly felt a wave of bashful heat creep up to her cheeks. She pulled the quilt up to her chin and looked at him.

"Morning," Percy rumbled, and his voice was raspy and deep with sleep. He lifted his hand to stroke the side of her neck.

"Morning," she whispered and looked away, biting her lip. "Percy... about last night."

"It was the best night of my life. In case you were wondering." He leaned down, nuzzling her temple.

Mary turned back to him, feeling a little bit awkward. "Was it... I mean, was it actually good for you? What we did?" She fiddled with the edge of the sheet. "I know I’m... I’m small, and I was making those sounds, and I didn't really know where to put my hands. I’m worried you might have found it... I don't know, clumsy? Was I good in bed?"

Percy shifted, pulling her closer until her chest was flush against his own, and his arms enveloped her completely.

"Mary, look at me," he commanded gently. When she did, he continued, "You felt perfect. Hearing you... hearing those little squeals and the way you kept saying my name? It nearly drove me out of my mind. You weren't clumsy. You were alive. You were with me. I’ve never felt anything more… beautiful."

He squeezed her, splaying his hands over her backside. "I want to do it again. And again. Every single night we have. Not just to keep us warm—though that’s a pretty great excuse—but because I can't get enough of how you feel when you lose your breath a little bit. For the good reasons."

Mary’s face went a brilliant shade of red as her blush spread down her neck. She buried her face in his forearm, and let out a muffled groan of embarrassment and delight. "Every night? Percy, we’d never get any sleep."

"Sleep is overrated," he teased, kissing the top of her head.

She peeked up at him feeling her curiosity overcoming her shyness. "If we... if we did do it again... how else would you want to?"

Percy’s eyes darkened, a playful but hungry spark igniting in them. He leaned into her ear, sharing his hot breath. "I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it, actually. I want to see you. Last night was wonderful in the dark, but I want to see every freckle on your skin while I’m inside you. I want to try it with you sitting in my lap so I can hold you up and look you in the eye. I want to find all the spots that make you make those sounds. And I want to take even longer next time. I want to spend hours just... exploring."

Mary gasped and her heart did a frantic little dance against her ribs. She was blushing so hard her ears felt hot. "Percy! That’s... that’s a lot of ideas."

"I'm a creative man," he whispered, sliding his hand down to her hip, pulling her firmly against him so she could feel exactly how much he meant it. "And you’re a very inspiring woman."

He didn't give her a chance to be shy anymore before he rolled her onto her back, and his heavy frame hovered over her. He gifted her with a deep, slow, possessive kiss that tasted of the morning and a thousand future nights.

***

They were, indeed, love-starved. And they acted at it every time they could.

Since their wedding, that is.

It was a quiet ceremony on a sun-filled day. Once the gold bands had settled onto their fingers, Mary’s parents finally relented. Percy was moved out of the drafty guest room at the front of the house, and the two of them were given a room of their own at the far end of the hall, a quiet, tucked-away space that felt, at last, like something resembling privacy.

That small mercy came with its price, of course.

The night before the wedding, Percy found himself wedged into a velvet armchair in Mr. Rohan’s study, while his new father-in-law spoke plainly about Mary’s body, about how much it had already endured, about the fragile work done by surgeons in Baltimore and the time it would take for her to truly mend. He warned Percy about care and patience, about restraint, about the very real danger of a pregnancy too soon.

A year earlier, Percy might have flushed or fidgeted or tried to laugh his way through it. But that night, he only nodded when he was meant to nod, agreed when it was expected, and kept his thoughts, and his feelings, carefully leashed. He played the obedient son-in-law because he understood what was being asked of him, and because the reward mattered.

It meant a closed door. A shared bed. The right to be with his wife, undisturbed.

On their wedding night, when he told Mary about it, they laughed softly together beneath the covers. They made a whispered promise there, that they would stay under her parents’ roof only as long as they had to. Only until she was strong enough and until they could leave for the little house Percy had already made plans to buy with his army savings. One with the wide windows, the patch of earth out back, and a garden waiting to be brought to life from the sketches Mary kept folded in her notebooks.

One evening, Percy barely had the door to her room closed before Mary turned into him and placed her hands flat against his chest.

"Percy?" she whispered, looking up at him. The shyness was still there, but it was being overtaken by a new, bold curiosity. "Can I... can we try what you said? Now?"

Percy’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He dropped his hat on the small table, and soon moved his hands down to rest on her waist. "You mean right now? Sitting in my lap?"

Mary nodded. "Maybe. If you still want to."

"God, Mary, I haven't thought about anything else for the last week," he rumbled.

He didn't carry her to bed, for he respected her strength too much for that, but he kept his arm draped heavily over her shoulders as they walked.

They sat on the edge of the mattress first. Percy began to undress her. He unbuttoned the oversized flannel shirt—his shirt—and watched it slide off her shoulders. He followed with his own clothes, heaving with a controlled sort of excitement.

"Come here," he murmured.

He slid back toward the headboard, sitting with his back against the wall, keeping his long legs spread.

He reached for her waist and guided her until she was straddling him. Her knees were tucked at his sides, and for the first time, she was looking directly into his eyes without having to crane her neck.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, sliding his hands down to squeeze her bum, pulling her flush against his heat.

"It’s... a bit different, isn't it?" Mary whispered, resting her hands on his broad shoulders. She felt a bit clumsy, shifting her weight, trying to find the right angle. "How do we...?"

"Slowly," Percy said encouragingly. He reached down between them and guided his length to her entrance. He was incredibly slick and warm, and as he began to slide inside, they both groaned. It was a tight, full sensation.

"There. Just like that. You okay? Heart feeling alright?"

"It’s... it’s perfect," she gasped and her head fell onto his shoulder for a second as she adjusted to the depth of him.

Percy took hold of her hips, digging gently into her skin. "I’ve got you. Look at me, love."

When she lifted her head, he began to move her. Not just up and down, he showed her how to tilt her pelvis, how to grind her weight against him.

"Like this, sweetheart. Lean into me. Circular... yeah, just like that."

Mary let out a high, sharp squeal of surprise as the new friction hit a nerve she hadn't known existed. "Oh! Oh, Percy—that... that’s..."

"I know," he groaned, closing his eyes shut.

He then cupped one of her breasts and teased her nipple until it was a hard peak. He leaned forward, taking her into his mouth, sucking gently while his hips gave a firm, upward thrust.

"Percy! Oh!" Mary’s voice rose in a series of desperate, happy gasps. She began to move on her own now, finding the rhythm he had shown her. She was clutching his red hair, tangling her fingers in the messy curls as she rocked against him.

Soon enough, Percy’s hands were everywhere, squeezing her hips, reaching back to fondle her behind, then coming back up to hold her face so he could kiss her deeply mid-thrust. He was careful, measuring his movements as not to overwhelm her, but the desire was written in the tension of his muscles.

"You're doing so good," he whispered against her lips. "So good for me. Do you feel that? Do you feel how much I want you?"

"I feel... everything," she sobbed out a sound of pure, untamed pleasure. She was lost in it, her eyes rolling back as the sensation built into a coiled spring of heat in her belly.

He gripped her tighter, his thrusts becoming a little more urgent, a little deeper, as they reached the peak together. Mary’s gasps turned into a long, shaky moan. Her body trembled as she collapsed against him. Percy held her through it, and his own release was a quiet, shuddering force that left him leaning his head against her shoulder. They were both drenched in sweat.

"See?" he whispered after a long minute, full of pride and tenderness. "I told you I wanted to see your face."

Mary could only nod as her heart hammered a happy rhythm against his. She felt powerful, loved, warm and—completely, utterly healthy.

After an hour, they were still tangled together on the bed, simply because Percy hadn't let her move. He had leaned back against the headboard, pulling Mary’s smaller frame flush against his chest, keeping her legs still draped over his.

He was in a rare, playful mood, the high that comes from total vulnerability and success. He gave her hip a quick, affectionate pinch, making Mary jump and let out a startled yelp.

"Percy!" she giggled, trying to swat his hand away. "Behave."

"I don't think I want to," he murmured, making his voice vibrate through her back. He began to trail his long, freckled fingers down her sides, finding the sensitive spot on her ribs and giving it a light tickle.

Mary squirmed, laughing and breathless, until he trapped her hands in one of his.

"You were so loud, baby girl," he teased. "Those little squeals you made when I hit that spot... I thought your folks might check if I was murdering you. You were gasping my name like I was the only thing keeping you breathing."

Mary hid her burning face in his neck. "I couldn't help it. You were... you were being very persuasive."

"Was I?" He chuckled, his hand wandering down to rest flat against her tummy. He squeezed the soft skin there with immense tenderness.

"I love this part of you. So soft. And your hips... God, Mary, having them flare out in my hands while you were moving like that? I’ve never felt anything better. You’re built so perfectly for me. Tiny breasts that fit right in my palms, and that little sigh you make when I touch them..."

He leaned in, nipping gently at her earlobe. "You felt so tight, so warm. Like you were molding yourself around me. Every time you squeezed, I thought I was going to lose my mind. I love you, Mary Rahon. I love you, Mary Hapgood.”

EPILOGUE

EIGHT YEARS AND TWO MORE SURGERIES LATER

Mary turned from the window and lowered herself onto the wool rug, easing down between Percy’s knees and leaning back until her shoulders pressed against his shins. He adjusted his weight, bracing one hand on the floor and curving his legs around her.

He rested his hands over her stomach, warming his palms against the knitted fabric of her smock. For a moment, they watched the fire burn down to a deep, pulsing red while the wind hissed at the eaves.

Percy then felt a sharp movement thumping beneath his palms he’d always been eager to witness, again and again. He sucked in a breath as his fingers spread wide over his wife’s belly to feel the firm protest of the life moving inside her. He leaned his head forward, letting his chest rise and fall in time with hers, no longer listening for a hitch in her breath or the telltale sound of a heart failing.

He bent his head and pressed a long kiss into the crown of Mary’s hair. His face stayed settled and calm, the old restless noise in his head finally gone. He shifted his hands as another kick brushed his palms, gentler this time, and he leaned down until his mouth was beside her ear.

“She’s got a strong kick, this one,” he murmured.

Somehow, they were both sure she was carrying a baby girl. By the of the time, thirty was a late start for a first child, and the neighborhood whispers usually favored younger mothers with fewer complications. They had wanted a child from the very start, but the doctors had been immovable, insisting they wait until the surgery in Baltimore had taken hold and Mary’s body had endured possible future procedures to be fully mended. They had spent those years in a quiet, disciplined holding pattern, guarding her health and counting the months until the specialists finally gave them the nod, and now the wait felt like a small price for the steady weight currently shifting under Percy’s hands.

“I think she’s trying to knock the tea tray over already.”

Mary laid her hands over his. The gold of her wedding ring caught the low firelight as she smiled into the dark.

The taxi skidded to a crooked halt beside the customs shed, tires shrieking, and Percy vaulted out before the engine even died. He slapped coins into the driver’s palm and bolted.

The dock welcomed him with the stink of diesel and river water, steam whistles screaming through the fog and machinery thundering. He moved with a blind, desperate force, his body shoved forward by sheer willpower. His suit was a rumpled, salt-crusted wreck, his tie hung crooked, and his face was drawn tight over his bones, eyes burning red from the long nights of staying awake.

He plunged into the dockside crowd, cutting through men and machines as if the world had to make room for him. A porter swore as Percy twisted away from a rattling trolley and the wooden wheels clipped his heel, but he didn't slow down. He stepped over a thick coil of mooring rope slick with damp and rust. Fog clung to his legs and then peeled back, revealing the soot-blackened warehouse walls and the steel flank of the liner looming like a cliff. Men shouted in clipped bursts, but Percy didn't apologize or joke to soften his path. He aimed every long stride at the gangplank ahead, his heart hammering against the possibility that it was already lifting, driven by the single fear that he might be too late.

Percy hit the open apron, but a sudden hiss of steam from a nearby crane swallowed him in a wall of white. His boots splashed through shallow puddles as he shoved through the damp heat and noise. The plume drifted aside, and he saw them.

The Rohan family stood apart from the rush of porters and passengers. Percy’s charge faltered and he locked his eyes on the center of the group.

Mary sat on a large, metal-banded steamer trunk. She was bundled into a heavy overcoat that hung off her shoulders, swallowing her frame until only her hands and face showed. The flat morning light turned her skin a dull, exhausted grey. She leaned into Bill’s side, her head tipped forward as if the weight of the trip had already hit her.

Bill stood braced beside her, one arm curved around her shoulders. Mary stayed folded inward, conserving her strength, oblivious to the tall, ruined ginger man watching her from the edge of the crowd.

Twenty yards away, Percy slowed. He forced his strides to shorten and his lungs to settle, counting each breath until the frantic panic died. He lowered his shoulders and unclenched his fists, moving through the roar of the dock with a controlled calm.

Bill’s stare turned flinty and Mr. Rohan stepped forward to intercept him, but Percy didn't look at them. He kept his eyes on Mary, watching the tired set of her shoulders until his shadow reached her feet.

He dropped to one knee on the oil-stained gravel. The grit bit into his skin through his trousers as he folded his tall frame, bringing his face level with hers. He felt vulnerable in the middle of the working dock as he rested his hands open on his thigh. He saw the cold living beneath her skin and the exhaustion in her eyes. He kept his voice low and even, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the machinery.

“I’m not here to be your savior, Mary. I was a fool to think I was the one doing the protecting. I’m here because the world went cold the minute I walked off that terrace. I’ve got my papers, I’ve got my savings, and I’ve got a coat thick enough for two. Don’t go across that water alone. Let me be the one to hold the umbrella.”

He held her gaze, unwavering and level.

Mary tilted her face and studied him quietly, scanning his eyes while the shouts of the stevedores and the shriek of the cranes drifted into a distant hum. Percy kept his hands open and his face still, offering no crooked grin or clever phrase to hide behind. He waited while she looked for the jester and found only the tired, steady resolve in his expression.

Her breath hitched. She lifted her hand, moving it slowly through the air between them until her fingers reached his face. Her fingertips were ice-cold against his unshaven cheek. She pressed them there, and the knots in his chest finally loosened. She looked into his eyes and gave a single, small nod. Her gaze shone with unshed tears, and Percy’s vision blurred as he breathed out unsteadily.

The ship’s horn then tore through the air with a raw, thunderous blast. The ground trembled under the noise. They soon embarked together.

***

On the third afternoon, the ship creaked and breathed, offering a world of brass railings and scrubbed teak.

Percy walked a half-step behind Mary’s shoulder. The salt-heavy wind tugged at his hair and the engines thrummed deep below his boots, but he didn't fight the deck or try to fill the space. He turned his body sideways in the narrow companionways and kept his hands quiet, hovering just an inch from her elbow.

The promenade deck was nearly empty. A few bundled figures leaned against the railings, staring at the grey horizon. Percy matched his stride to Mary’s. He watched her the way he’d watch the weather. When she hesitated before a step or tightened her mouth against the wind, he angled his body to block the gust.

He steered them toward a sheltered bench or paused by the railing, making it look like the view had caught his eye.

He didn't make a scene or look for an audience. He kept his eyes on the faint movement of her coat and listened to the rhythm of her breathing. The Atlantic stretched out in every direction, immense and indifferent, but Percy focused on the few feet of deck between them. He stayed steady, keeping his pace slow and his presence constant, moving exactly as fast as she did.

She was the queen of his heart.

They reached the pocket of calm beneath the curve of the superstructure. Percy then moved into the ritual, spreading thick wool blankets over Mary’s lap and shoulders. He tucked the corners around her shoes with the same precision he’d used on barracks bunks, smoothing the fabric down until no skin was left exposed to the wind. Only then did he sit in the wooden deck chair beside her.

The sea air stung his cheeks, but he focused on her hands. They were pale, the violet tint showing at her fingertips. He reached out and took them both, enclosing them between his palms. His thumbs rested still against her knuckles. His hands, rough and callused, radiated heat against her skin.

Percy soon leaned toward the hood of Mary’s coat as her shoulders finally eased. He watched a stiff-backed man with a massive moustache march past their chairs.

"See that one?" Percy murmured, nodding toward the man. "That’s a colonel who barks at battalions by day but lives in mortal terror of his wife’s canary. The bird is the size of a teacup, but it rules the house through sheer spite."

Mary’s mouth lifted at the corner.

A woman followed the colonel with a trembling poodle tucked under her arm. Percy lowered his voice further.

"She’s no ordinary lady, Mary. She’s a French agent. The dog is just a cover for passing microfilms at cocktail parties. One bark means the bridge is rigged."

Mary laughed in amusement and turned her head toward him. He noticed how bright her eyes were despite her greyish skin.

"Honestly, Percy," she whispered. "Does that mouth of yours ever actually close? Even in the middle of the Atlantic, you can't stop spinning tales."

Percy grinned, but he kept his voice soft and steady. "It closes occasionally. Usually for food or sleep. But I’ll tell you what—once we’re through Baltimore and the doctors have patched you up, I’m going to find much better uses for it. I’ll be kissing you wherever I please, from your forehead down to your toes, and you won't be able to get a word in edgewise."

Mary’s cheeks took on a genuine flush. She didn't pull her hands away. Percy held them firmly, feeling the engine’s strength and wishing he could give that same steady, tireless beat to her own heart. He looked out at the grey water and the iron sky, silent now, praying that the surgeons in Maryland had hands as reliable as the machinery carrying them toward the coast.

The Atlantic stretched out before them as a featureless expanse of infinite grey, the horizon line so blurred by mist that the sky and the water seemed to bleed into a single, restless element.

Looking out over the railing, Percy felt the staggering scale of the ocean, a cold and hollow distance that should have made their own troubles vanish into insignificance, yet the effect was exactly the opposite. Everything that had happened, the crushing silence on the terrace, the sharp smell of rain in London, and the gamble of this crossing, felt suddenly epic, like a heavy, internal history that outweighed the thousands of miles of salt water surrounding them. He realized then that this ship was nothing more than a narrow, thrumming bridge, a temporary path suspended between the wreckage of the life he had known in the barracks and the fog-shrouded uncertainty of what waited for them in America.

He felt the weight of the water beneath the soles of his boots, miles of dark pressure held back only by a few inches of riveted steel, and he knew that they weren't staying afloat because of the engines or the navigation charts. They were being carried across the world by the iron will of the girl sitting beside him who possessed a strength so quiet and concentrated that it made the massive power of the ship’s hull seem fragile by comparison.

The wind began to whistle through the brass railings with a sharper, more insistent note, but Mary tilted her head and let it rest firmly against the heavy wool of his shoulder. Percy moved to accommodate her, and tightened his arm around the cocoon of blankets until the cold air was shut out entirely and the only thing left was the shared heat of their bodies.

A single, sudden spray of saltwater arched over the side and hissed across the teak deck just a few feet away.

They sat held in comfortable silence that felt more substantial than any conversation they had ever had, like two souls suspended between the continents they had left and the one they hadn't yet seen. The thud of the engines continued to pulse through the chairs and into their bones, marking the time as they waited for the grey mist to break and for the distant clock of the world to finally strike Baltimore.

***

By half past ten, the cabin felt like their own world, sealed away from the ocean by polished wood and the heavy brass latch of the door. The ship groaned and shifted, but inside, the only sounds were the hum of the brass lamp and the steady, shallow measure of Mary’s breathing.

The air smelled of her rose water and the lingering tobacco on Percy’s coat, which hung over the back of the chair.

Mary lay propped up against a stack of pillows, angled exactly the way the doctors had ordered. Her eyes stayed closed and her mouth went slack. Her chest rose and fell quietly, like it always did when the fatigue finally took hold.

Percy sat in the small chair beside the bed with his shoulders curved forward as he watched the blankets rise and fall with her breath. He tracked every slight adjustment she made in her sleep, listening to the way she moved against the pillows.

On his lap, Percy balanced Mary’s heavy medical textbook, angling the spine so the lamp hit the pages but missed her face. The book looked small against his thick, freckled fingers. He turned a page, and traced the diagrams of the heart. He moved his lips, whispering the Latin names to himself, repeating the long, difficult syllables until he got them right. His accent stayed rough, but he kept his voice low, sounding out each word as if he were memorizing a set of orders.

He studied the charts and the fine notes Mary had scribbled in the margins. He followed the lines showing where the blood narrowed and where the valves failed to open, memorizing the map of her body the same way he used to study terrain before a march.

He didn't shy away from the drawings of the misrouted blood or the labels of the defects. Instead, he leaned closer to the lamp, squinting at the fine print and the complex diagrams, fixing the shapes in his mind. He worked his way through the chapters, turning the softened pages one by one, watching the lines of her heart on the paper while Mary slept a few feet away.

Her fingers soon twitched against the wool blanket as she drifted awake. She opened her eyes and found Percy. She watched him for a moment, following the serious set of his jaw and the way he bent over the diagrams, before she whispered his name.

Percy looked up immediately, keeping his place in the book but giving her his full attention. They didn't mention the music from the saloon or the ship's movement. They spoke about Baltimore instead.

The panic didn't send Percy reeling this time. He felt the tightness in his chest as she talked, of course, but he sat through it, bracing himself while she adjusted her weight against the pillows. She spoke about the operation in a calm, precise tone, sounding out the details as if she were lecturing a student, though her voice carried a slight tremor.

“They call it a shunt, Percy,” she said, looking past his shoulder at the dark cabin wall. “Like a railway switch in a station. They’re going to try and redirect the flow, to get the oxygen where it’s meant to go.” She stopped, creasing her brow. “My chest will look like a minefield after that. I wonder if I’ll feel the difference immediately. If the cold will just snap away and I’ll suddenly feel… warm.”

Percy listened, picturing the points of a track shifting and a train jumping to a new line.

He soon closed the book and set it on the small table. He took her hand and held it between both of his hands, his thumbs anchoring her still, and spoke with a low voice.

“You’ll feel it, Mary. I’ll make sure of it. If the doctors don’t get the fire started right away, I’ve got enough heat in these bones for both of us. I’m not going back to the barracks or London. I’m staying in that chair until you’re warm enough to walk out on your own.”

Mary tightened her grip as her fingers slipped into the spaces between his knuckles. She looked up at him. "Lay with me, Percy. Just for a bit."

Percy grinned and the old spark returned to his eyes. "Careful what you wish for, Mary. You get a man like me in your bed and my hands might end up in places they shouldn't be."

Mary laughed softly and held his gaze. "I think I’d like that."

Percy’s eyes went wide, and his mouth hang open for a second as he stared at her.

This. Woman.

Mary laughed again, reaching up to touch his face. "If you can still stand to look at me all patched up and scarred after the surgery, then you can make love to me. Like I've always wanted to."

Percy leaned down and kissed her, long and slow. "I’ve been thinking about that more than I should probably admit," he rasped.

Mary playfully booped his nose with a chilled finger. He rose and eased himself down beside her, careful not to jar the bed. He curved his body around hers, placing one arm firm across her back and the other steady at her waist. He held her without pressing, sheltering her against his chest.

When a heavy wave struck the hull and the ship lurched, Percy’s hand shot out to brace the bedframe. He adjusted to the motion instantly so that his body absorbed the shock. He felt it like a newfound instinct, welcoming it with his heart open.

***

The surgical ward at Johns Hopkins welcomed them with an aggressive cleanliness that Percy felt the moment the doors swung open. Long fluorescent tubes buzzed above them, bleaching out every shadow and bathing the room in a hard, white light.

The floors shone like glass, reflecting the wheels of passing trolleys and the shoes of doctors who moved with a sharp speed. The air bit at his nose, smelling of ether and industrial soap instead of the coal smoke and damp wool he had left behind in London.

Percy walked through the ward and saw no soot on the walls or dark corners of age; everything looked polished, gleaming, and designed to outrun the very idea of failure.

Hopeful.

In this white space, Percy’s dark coat and broad shoulders stood out against the pale walls, but he didn't try to shrink himself. He softened his steps, keeping a quiet pace beside Mary, and his head bowed to the serious rhythm of the ward. He moved among the chrome rails and the glint of steel instruments in awe. He stayed close to her side, watching the way she held herself and the slight catch in her breath as they passed the nurses' stations.

Percy’s hand slipped into his coat pocket as they walked, and gripped the velvet ring box there. It didn't feel like the heavy brick that had dragged him down on the terrace or burned against his leg in the London streets. He felt the unexpected lightness of it now, the blooming promise. He stopped hiding it and stopped bracing himself against its weight. He kept his hand on the box, waiting for the right moment to use it.

He reached her bed and stopped. He was then told to leave and let Mary change into a hospital nightgown.

When he opened the door again, she lay in a thin white gown that blended into the bleached sheets, and her dark hair spread across the pillow in a soft fan. The harsh fluorescent glare drained the remaining color from her face, making her look small and quiet against the sterile room. Chrome rails rose on either side of her, and the cold metal framed her like a cage.

Percy moved to the edge of the mattress, careful. He looked down at her porcelain stillness and felt the ache in his chest turn into a fierce resolve.

Now or never. Now or never.

The room pretended to be quiet, but the oxygen tank beside the bed hissed and filled the silence. Down the corridor, a nurse’s trolley clattered over linoleum.

Percy leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and rolling his shirtsleeves back to his elbows. He left his jacket slumped on the chair behind him and sat with his jaw set, and his body held in a taut, combative line as if he were waiting to intercept a physical blow. He stared at the machinery and the bed, squaring his shoulders against the hum of the hospital.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box. He didn't look away from Mary as he rested the object in his open palm. He kept it closed, tracing the worn fabric and the softened edges of the corners.

He then carefully lifted Mary’s hand from the white sheet, pressing his warmth against the stark blue of her fingernails. He flipped the velvet box open, tipped the ring into his palm, and slid the gold band onto her finger.

The ring sat loose, sliding toward her thin knuckle, so he steadied it with his thumb, pinning it gently in place. He drew a slow breath and looked her in the eye.

"I’ve carried this for a long time. I was going to ask you at your parents’ house, but I was a coward. I thought I could outrun the clock. But I don’t care about the… set number of steps your father talked about. If we only have ten steps left, I want to walk them with you. Every single one."

Mary looked down at their joined hands and the gold ring. A single tear slid down her cheek, catching the blue hospital light. "It’s a terrible bargain, Percy. Look at me. You’re marrying a girl who might be dead by breakfast. You’re signing up for a life of waiting rooms and cold tea."

"Then I’ll be the man who loved a ghost," Percy said. "I’ve been a ghost myself these last few weeks without you. But you aren’t going anywhere. You’re too stubborn to leave me alone with all this noise in my head. You’ve got to stay, just to keep me in line."

Mary searched his face. Her fingers tightened around his hand, and her thumb pressed back against his with surprising strength. "If I wake up… if I see that Baltimore sun tomorrow… I’m holding you to that, you great, thumping oaf. You’re never getting that ring back."

Percy bent over the bed, dodging the tubes to kiss her lips. He lingered there against her chill, holding the loose ring in place on her finger. On the wall, the clock clicked over to 2:01 AM, and it sounded sharp in the quiet room as the ward moved one minute closer to the morning. And one minute into their engagement, too.

***

The squeak of rubber soles against the polished floor broke the quiet of the morning, and Percy looked up to see two orderlies pushing a gurney toward the bed.

Their white uniforms were stiff and clean against the green corridor walls. They moved efficiently, transferring Mary from the bed to the gurney as soon as she opened her eyes. At the nurses' station, papers flipped and pens scratched as voices murmured in clipped, low bursts, signing her over without a wasted word. Percy watched the exchange, curling his hands into fists at his sides as the hospital machinery took over.

The orderlies settled Mary under a thin sheet, making her nearly vanish against the white linen. They tucked her hair beneath a surgical cap, leaving her face bare. Percy looked at her hand, focusing on the strip of medical tape he had insisted the nurses place over the gold ring to keep it from sliding off.

He stepped forward as the gurney began to move, matching the pace of the orderlies for a few strides until a nurse’s hand pressed against his chest, stopping him at the threshold of the ward.

He squared his shoulders and watched her, memorizing the line of her shoulders and the shadow beneath her eyes as the gurney receded.

Mary turned her head to find him one last time, and smiled.

She fucking smiled.

The squeak of the rubber wheels grew fainter, echoing down the long hall until the corridor swallowed her.

Percy then spoke under his breath. "Keep the clock ticking, Mary. I’m right outside."

The doors swung shut, and he stared at the blank wood until a nurse cleared her throat and motioned him toward the waiting room.

It was a square space filled with hard wooden chairs bolted to the floor. A scarred table sat in the corner, smelling of burnt coffee.

Outside, trams rattled along the Baltimore streets and voices carried through open doors as the city started its day.

Percy sat in a chair that creaked under his weight. He leaned his head back against the cool wall and placed his palms flat on his knees. He sat motionless, letting the silence and the ticking of the clock press in on him. He stopped reaching for distractions or stories to fill the time. He stayed in the chair and accepted the weight of the wait.

He soon closed his eyes and focused his thoughts into a quiet, stubborn appeal. "I don't need her to be a mountain, Lord. I don't need her to be a furnace. Just let the glass clock keep ticking. Just one more second, then another. Give her the strength to stay in the world, and I'll do the rest."