You were everything to Valarr, every bit of good in this world, every bit of sunshine and moonlight and every hope. You were every wish he’d ever had come to startling fruition. You were the world and the sun and the stars and everything in the universe. You were, simply, everything.

            You had been everything and his for years, since the moment he met you as a child, since he asked you at five years old to marry him—not because he knew what marriage was, only that he never wanted to lose you. You are everything to him and yet here you are, dying. 

            You are dying bringing forth your child, his child. You are his everything, his sun and moon and stars and yet you are dying. You are withering. 

            The one person who has always held him upright is dying, the one who was calm and gentle, who weathered every storm of his mind. The one who cared for him, not a crown or a legacy but him. Him entire and yet the world was trying to take you from him. 

            The world was trying to take you, the Stranger trying to steal you from him, your blood leaching out onto the mattress as a baby tried to leave you. The proof of your love was taking you from him. He did not want you to leave, he could not handle if you left. 

            He knew when he was five. He knew when he was six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He knew that all his life. 

            He knows that now—there is no him without you. 

            And there never was. 

***

            Valarr is tired of the festival, the tourney, the rowdy shouts and cheers of the people. He wants quiet and solitude. He wants to disappear and just be allowed to be a child, but he cannot because he is a prince. The heir of the heir and that means something to these men. These men who set the rules on his life, rules he doesn’t yet understand. 

            Rules of duty and piety and propriety. Things that are strange, things that his mother tells him not to think too much on, that it matters not, not yet. And yet they haunt the young prince as he wanders, a small toy dragon held tightly in one hand, tiny little fingers curled around the carved wood. 

            He heard the men whisper of betrothals and brides and alliances, his father answering back in an angry whisper, words harsh, “my boy will marry for love before we ever choose one of your houses!” Valarr didn’t understand quite what was going on, just that it was about him. As it always is. 

            Which is why he is running. Not forever of course, he’ll need to be back by dinnertime or else his mother will panic and panic isn’t good for the baby in her belly—or so his father tells him. But he is running now, running from the weight of the crown which he doesn’t even want. 

            “Why do you run, little prince?” calls a soft voice, one light and airy and it startles Valarr, the sound so unlike what he has heard all his life. The sound is that of peace and innocence and things Valarr doesn’t understand. 

            Yet.

            “I’m tired of the court,” he answers, his head swivelling around, eyes scanning every inch of the forest, the glade just behind the tourney fields looking for whoever spoke, whoever spoke in that perfect voice that seems like something that he needs even if he doesn’t understand it yet. 

            “Courts are very tiring, aren’t they?” the voice continues, the words seeming to come from everywhere in the forest all at once. “But something being tiring is not a reason to run. My father says there is never a reason to run—Baratheon’s are the storm and storms flee for no man.” 

            “Where are you, voice?” Valarr asks, his head still spinning, sight only that of tree trunks and leaves and foliage on the grassy ground. 

            “Look up,” the voice says and he does, glimpses of clear blue sky visible through the shadowed stretches of tree branches. 

            “I do not see you, forest sprite,” he says and he can hear the voice laugh, the sound perfect and precious and like the sound of silver bells pealing and yet at the same time like the rumble of thunder during a storm before the first crash of lightening. 

            “I sit in a tree, little prince. I am not the sky nor no forest sprite,” the voice says and Valarr looks, peering at every tree until he finds the owner of the voice—until he finds you. You are as young as he, resting on a tree branch, halfway up a tall, towering oak, a dagger spinning in your two small hands, large eyes glimmering with mischief and focused solely on him, looking every inch the forest sprite he believed you were. 

            “Then what are you? A fairy or a nymph, perhaps?” he calls out, running towards your tree, jumping and catching a branch in his two hands, hauling himself up and towards you, his dragon resting at the base of trunk. 

            “I am but a girl,” you reply as he reaches you, climbing onto the branch beside you, his back against the trunk, head twisted to you—taking in every inch of you, this forest spirit complaining of the tiring nature of court. 

            “My father is talking with the court about marriage and betrothals for me,” he tells you, unsure why he tells you this, yet not choosing to think so much on it. That is the nature of children after all. “But I am just a boy! What do I know of marriage and love and alliances?”

            “My father is the same,” you reply, your voice light, carrying through the woods, ringing and echoing. “He says the Storm needs a match. Someone proper and strong; someone who will not try to bottle the power. Whatever that means.”

            “You do not want the marriages?” he asks you and you turn to him, exasperation in those forest sprite eyes and you shake your head. 

            “I do not want to be caged!” you cry, standing now, tucking the dagger into a makeshift belt at your waist, jumping once on the branch, Valarr’s heart rushing into his throat, a strange and foreign feeling constricting his throat and his chest, making breathing difficult as he watches you hop up and down on that thin branch. 

            Fear, that’s what he’s feeling. Fear. 

            Fear that you will fall and die. Fear that you will die and he will be alone again and just when you were becoming friends. He told you of his fears and now you court death?! That’s hardly fair!

            “Stop that!” he demands, his voice every inch the spoiled prince he is. 

            “Why? I am a storm beholden to no man and I do what I want,” you answer, not rude simply plain. The words simply facts to you. 

            “Because I do not want you dying!” Valarr cries and he can feel tears welling in his eyes, the same feeling as when his cousin mocks him for his dark hair, saying he’s not Targaryen, not truly—just a bastard in noble garb. “You are my friend and I do not want you leaving me!” He watches you sigh and stop bouncing on the branch, simply sitting down, legs dangling off the edge, eyes wide as they look at him. 

            “Fine. But the you cannot leave me either since I have no friends either,” you tell him and he can feel the fear abate, a smile growing on his face as the tears dry up, disappear. 

            “Since both of our fathers speak of marriage…” he muses, lips curving up in a mischievous smile, “why don’t we marry each other and then we never leave each other and are married to our friend?!” He’s excited, very much so and even more so when you nod, once, assent to the arrangement. 

            “Very well,” you reply, “have you a ring? To marry someone you need a ring?” And Valarr looks down at his hands where the signet ring his father gave him when he was born rests as it always has. He likes the little ring but he doesn’t want to lose you, the first friend he’s ever had, the forest sprite made of storms. 

            “I have this,” he says, pulling it off his hand and holding it out to you in his palm. “Will it do?”

            “Very much so,” you tell him, lips curving in a smile. “Now you have to put it on my finger and then we’re married…Or I think so…that’s what all the Storm’s End ladies tell me makes a marriage and they shouldn’t lie.” He takes the ring and slides it onto your small, chubby finger, the left ring one that you indicate. 

            “Now we’re married!” he cries and you smile at him once, a pleased sort of smile before you slide off your branch, hopping down until your feet rest on the forest floor and you look up at him, cupping your hands around your mouth and yelling up at him: “Come on, little husband! We must inform our parents of the matters!”

            And Valarr follows you, his only friend, the storm in girl’s skin. He doesn’t understand it yet, but he thinks he would follow you forever, no matter where you went. 

            He did not want to lose you.

            Not ever. 

***

            You were a storm in a human body, a storm wrapped up in beauty and grace and perfection but a storm nonetheless. And storms are strong, they are not supposed to die like this. Die in agony and pain and blood. 

            Storms are supposed last for a long time, slowly slowly slowly going out, fading away so perfectly, so painlessly. Not like this. 

            Never…like this. 

            Never with hands clutching and squeezing, voice screaming and blood seeping and body just…stopping. Storms are supposed to fade not just stop. There must be an end not a sudden disappearance. Storms reshape lands, they don’t just disappear, just stop. 

            Storms are infinite. 

            You are infinite. There should be no end to you. Not yet. Not yet. You’re still so young, there is more life to live. More life to live with him. He can’t lose you, he could never lose you. You have been everything to him since the moment he heard you call him little prince, a nickname you have never let go of. 

            “Just…just hold on, my storm…please, just hang on!” he cries, falling to his knees by your bed, both of his hands clutching yours like lifelines, holding onto you, trying to anchor both you and him here, in this world. He wants his touch to prevent the Stranger from taking you, he wants to be like his ancestors of old. 

            He wants to be strong enough to keep you here. 

            “I…love…you,” you wheeze, breaths constricted as the midwives pull the baby, its cry shattering through the room, so strong, so full of life. 

            The life it stole from you. The life it took from you, the life it takes from you. It is the reason you are dying when there is still so much to live, so much to do, so much to see. 

            You promised him you would never leave. 

            And you cannot break a promise. 

***

            He watches as you step from the carriage, dressed in pure gold, spun through with threads of black, every inch the Baratheon daughter. Every inch the Young Prince’s promised bride. 

            “Lord Lyonel,” Baelor calls and Valarr turns, orienting unconsciously to his father like always, still ever the boy who wanted to be a man like his father, who wanted nothing more than his father to tell him he loved him. That he was proud. “Wonderful to see you again.”

            “And you, Prince Baelor,” your father responds in kind, face splitting in a wide grin, the one that is whispered about by the women of the court as they plot and plan to become the second Lady Baratheon, your mother having passed when giving birth to you, the only Baratheon heir. 

            “Little prince!” you call out as soon as you see him, those forest sprite eyes glimmering with mischief, lighting up like lightening cutting through the darkness of a stormy night, the stars and sun cutting through the dark clouds. “I did not expect to see you so soon! Is it not bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the wedding?”

            Valarr cannot take his eyes from you, wanting nothing more than to take you in his arms and run away with you, ceremonies and propriety be damned. You are his and he is yours and that is the most basic truth of his existence. He exists for you and you alone. 

            He discovered that when he met you at five, placed the signet ring on your finger—the one still sitting there, glimmering the sunlight, catching off the three-headed dragon. 

            “You have never cared for luck before, my forest sprite,” he answers, stepping towards you, crossing the distance in two bounds, catching up to you, his hands taking yours, pulling them up to his chest, forehead resting against yours, your breaths his air. 

            “I am no forest sprite, little prince,” you counter, voice teasing but a thread of iron, hardened and unbreakable, running through it. “I am a storm. One infinite and powerful that cannot be bottled, caged or broken. Ours is the fury, after all.” He watches as you smile, that mischievous smile that you have always had, the one that makes you seem more fairy kin than storm—not that you listen. 

            “Infinite, hmm?” he asks you and you nod once, the movement echoing through him. It would even if his forehead were not pressed to yours because he would feel every movement of your body always. You are his and he is yours. 

            “That is the nature of a storm,” you whisper, tone lilting and falling and rising and soaring. “You think it has broken, but it is never really gone, simply biding its time before returning.”

            “Then if you are an infinite storm,” he muses, “that must mean you’ll never leave me.” The two of you are all that exist in the moment, every around you having faded to nothing more than blurs on the side, focus on each other and each other alone. 

            “I promise, little prince,” you whisper and the teasing tone is gone, the words not a continuation of a jest, but a vow. An informal one, but one just as powerful nonetheless. 

            “I shall hold you to that, my…storm.”

***

            “Stay! Just stay with me goddammit!” he cries, his head falling to the mattress, pressing against your joined hands, pulse stuttering and slowing to a stop beneath his fingers. “You need to stay! You promised!” His words are not truly words, not truly screams or cries or yells, no they are roars. They are animal and primal because he needs you. 

            He has always needed you and even more so now. 

            “We…cannot—always…maintain…that which…we need…to…little prince,” you whisper, the words ragged and wheezing and he lifts his head, looking at you through eyes that cannot truly see, so lined with tears that the world is barely more than blurs, smudges. 

            “But…you promised me,” he whispers, the fire inside of him dwindling in the face of you, of your love, of your dying eyes still faintly glimmering with the shine of mischief, of fairy troubles. 

            “And…I never…shall,” you breathe out. “Am always…in…here,” your one hand presses against your chest, above your heart, the one that’s slowing slowing slowing, dying dying dying. “Never…gone.”

            “But I need you here,” he cries, the tears falling too fast to truly try to stop. They fall and burn like fire, like the nature of his blood has only truly come alive in the wake of losing you. “I need you with me!”

            “I…love…you,” you breathe, your hand rising, shaking and quivering from your breast to fall upon his head, sliding to rest upon his cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth, the gesture like that of a butterfly kiss, barely there and quivering all the while. “Always…will.”

            “Please,” he begs but you are gone, hand slipping from his face, body going lax and eyes now glassy and dead, the glimmer of fairy kin gone. 

            Stolen.

            “COME BACK TO ME!” he roars, crawling up the bed, crawling to you, pulling you against him and shaking you. 

            Begging you, to just come back and be with him.

            To maintain your promise. 

***

            He watches you as you approach, mismatched eyes glimmering as you twirl, dancing around the dancers on the stone floor of the Keep, exasperation glimmering in those perfect, fairy kin eyes. 

            “Why do weddings take so damn long?” you cry, falling into his arms, his body reacting, twirling you just slightly as he lifts you up, managing to somehow pull you closer against him, yet it is not enough. Will never be enough.

            “People love us, my storm,” he whispers, voice happy and relaxed, tone full of love and amusement. Amusement that only grows when you place your feet back on the floor and look up at him, exasperation growing, fairy kin eyes narrowing at him, the storm of your nature shining through. 

            “They could love us a little less,” you mutter, glaring at the people around you, lips, those perfect, plush lips, pressing into a line at the sight of the courtiers dancing and laughing and talking, drinking deeply from their cups. “Or you could love me a little more.”

            And that is when Valarr realizes what you want, what you are waiting for. You were waiting for him, possibly for a long time and he had been too dense to understand. To notice. 

            And so he remedies his mistake, guiding you from the hall, up the stairs to the chambers you shall share, the ones which will be the walls of your future, the walls that protect and guard the two of you, shelter you and your love, watch as they grow. 

            He shuts the door behind you, his gaze falling to you, hands careful and gentle as he undoes the laces which hold your gown upon you, slipping the dark red and gold gown from your body, guiding you out of it, of your small clothes, letting you strip him, his body coming alight under your touch. 

            And then his lips find yours, the kiss sweet and innocent before deepening, a collision of tongue and teeth, hands roaming over each other’s bodies, naked form to naked form, the two of you walking to the bed, him pressing you down, his body entirely too hard and rigid, but he ignores. 

            He ignores it, taking to you, to your body, your pleasure. He worships you as you were always meant to be, delighting in the way you unravel around him. Delighting in the way you cry for him. Not his touch, but him in you. The joining.

            And he obliges, sliding inside of you, the feeling too much and yet not enough, strange and all too perfect. He would happily remain like this for all his life, but desire surges and he finds the rhythm of snapping his hips forwards, driving up into you, his tongue still covered in your flavour, the taste of perfection, of storms and dreams and wishes and sins. 

            And when he comes undone, you coming undone around him at the same time, he collapses beside you, pulling you close against him, your chest to his, delighting the way he can feel your heartbeat in his chest, knowing you have the same. 

            Knowing you can feel the evidence of his life as clearly as he can feel yours. And for a moment it is enough, more than enough with the way your lips are pressing against his, lazy kisses, soft kisses, deep kisses. But it’s not enough. 

            “Did you mean your promise that you would never leave me?” he asks now, his voice surprisingly quiet and you look at him with surprise, those fairy kin, storm-bred eyes glimmering with surprise and hurt and fear and love. 

            “Yes, of course,” you whisper, voice fierce, tone fiercer. “I meant every promise I have ever made to you.” And he holds you closer, the feeling of more than enough spreading through him, calming at your words. 

            “I just cannot lose you,” he whispers, watching as your perfect eyes widen in knowing, understanding. 

            “I promise I shall never leave. Never.”

            “I shall hold you to that, my storm.”

***

            “Your Grace,” one of the midwives calls out, her voice cutting through his cries, his desperate pleas of come back to me, just come back. “What about your son?” He glances over, eyes still so full of tears and pain and loss, betrayal anger and inevitability that he cannot see, not truly, not clearly, but at the same enough because he can see the colour of your eyes in the bundle that the midwife holds. 

            And it is too much—and not in the right way. 

            He knows that there are two ways having a child and losing a wife in the same breath can go, knows because your father chose when you were born to love you and because his chose to love Matarys, but he cannot. 

            He cannot love the child that took you because if it had never been born, you would still be here, alive and vibrant and warm in his arms, laughing and dancing and twirling, causing mischief as every inch the storm. 

            He cannot love the thief of your life. 

            “GET HIM OUT OF HERE!” he screams and the midwife is startled, taking a step back and away, the child held loosely in her hands and Valarr wishes she would drop it, that it would die as punishment for taking yours. 

            “But he is your son!” she argues and he only pulls your body, pulls you, closer to him, tears still streaming, sight now impossible and he thanks the tears for he cannot see your eyes in that thief. 

            “GET IT OUT OF MY SIGHT!” he roars and the midwife runs, the Maester following behind until the room is empty, empty of all but you and him. 

            And he pulls you against him, catching the scent of you, cutting through the metallic smell of blood and the sour scent of death. He can smell you, can feel you, can almost pretend that you are warm and alive, blood pumping through your body, that it has not seeped and dried into sheets. 

            No. No, you are alive. You are. He is holding you and you are breathing and your heart is pumping. You must be because you promised. 

            “Come back,” he whispers against your skin, voice cracking and breaking and shattering, throat thick with both shed and unshed tears. “Come back to me. Come back and love me. Please. You promised me!”

            And that is what he whispers into your body’s skin over and over and over, you promised me. 

***

            “I thought I would find you here,” he calls out to you, watching as you stand with your arms spread wide, spinning and twirling in the rain as if you are embracing the storm, dancing with it. 

            “Where else would I be, Valarr?” you reply, your voice sounding like heaven, calm and quiet and joyful, the sound of laughter in a voice and he loves it, loves you. “When the sky opens up, it is because it calls me home!”

            “Home is underneath the rain?” he asks, stepping out into the yard, feeling the droplets land warm and light upon his skin, his hair, plastering it down onto his forehead as he walks to you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, holding lightly as he begins to sway with you, your arms wrapping around his neck in response. 

            “I am a storm, little prince,” you tell him, lips curving up into your fairy kin smile—the one that matches the gleam in your perfect eyes. “And a storm should find peace in the chaos of itself.”

            “Why are you more poetic when you speak of storms then of me?” he asks and is delighted by hearing your laughter, the sound still that of thunder in a lightning storm and silver bells cutting through stillness and silence. The sound so perfect that he wants to bottle it up and save it for whenever you are apart. 

            Which is never, but it could happen. One day. Maybe. 

            “Because I need not be poetic of you,” you answer when your laughter has quieted, one hand coming to cup his cheek, the rain still falling on the two of you, faster and heavier than before. “I love you and I am yours and you are mine and no poetry could ever express that. We,” you lean forwards, pressing your lips to his, the kiss turning deep and hungry, tasting of love and fire and spring rain, “are infinite,” you finish when you pull away, storm and fairy kin eyes turning black as pupils spread. 

            “That we are, my storm,” he replies, leaning forwards, capturing your lips in another kiss. And another and another and another because one is never enough. “That we are.”

***

            Valarr knows not how long he stays there, holding your body to his, only that it has been long enough for the sun to set and rise again, for the moon to sleep and wake again, for night to eat away at day and for day to grow stronger, defeating night for time again. 

            He knows not how long he stays there, holding you close, only that it is long enough for your body to grow rigid in his arms, stiff and unyielding. Only that it is long enough for you to truly disappear, soul disappearing with the Stranger, the body in his arms no longer you and yet still you.

            He knows not how long he stays there only that it is long enough for his tears to turn to memories, images of you and only you dancing through the room. He can see you as a teenager on your visits to the Keep, climbing trees and swearing and teasing. He can see you dancing in Baratheon gold and the Targaryen red. He can see you, you, you, you—a thousand different iterations, but always still you.

            He can see you and where else would he want to be? He is surrounded by every you that you have ever been. He can see you at five, ten, fifteen, twenty. He can see you as you were weeks ago and years ago and it is enough. 

            It has to be. 

            Because you are all there has ever been. All there ever will be and he wants you and only you and yet you are not here. Not truly at all, no. No, he’s surrounded by memories of you, hearing your voice, but not being with you. 

            Your warmth is gone, your tender touches are now just ghostly skims of memories against his skin and it is not enough but it has to be because he can never get you back. 

            But this? These memories, as much as he wants to stay here, he cannot because this is no life. This is a half-life and he promised you a life, not one half-lived. He promised you life and death. Sickness and health. 

            Life…and death.

            And it is then that the memory he needed surfaces, the sight of you smiling, a Queen piece in your hand sitting at the edge of the bed. 

            And he lets himself fall into memory one last time. 

***

            “What would you do if I ever died?” he asks you, eyes on you, not the chessboard as they should be because he is, after all, losing. And losing badly. 

            “Depends,” you answer, your bishop taking his final pawn. “Do we have children in this hypothetical or no?”

            “Children,” he answers and you shrug, watching as he moves his knight forwards, scoffing at the location on the board. 

            “I would mourn you and wear black for the rest of my life and never marry another,” you tell him and he looks at you, confusion in his eyes, confusion warring with happiness, knowing that even if he were gone, he would be the only one for you.

            “And without children?”

            “I’d hurl myself off the balcony,” you tell him, tone thoughtful as you move a pawn to the left, taking the knight he’d just moved. “I wouldn’t want to live without you in either hypothetical but children need a mother. No children…well, I’m free to follow you into the Stranger’s hold. And personally, I like the idea of meeting my end and seeing it happen and watching it as my soul takes the Stranger’s hand and my body smashes into the ground.” To punctuate the statement, you clap your hands together, a giggle escaping from your lips as he moves his rook forwards two spaces. 

            “Very graphic,” he tells you, watching as you lift your queen, twirling it between your fingers. 

            “What about you? What would you do if I died?” you ask, slamming your queen on top of his rook, the chess piece ricocheting off the board and landing on the stone floor with a clatter. 

            “Children or no?” he asks you, noting that he only has one more rook and his king—at this point, you’re just toying with him. 

            “Both, humour me,” you tell him as he slides his rook to the side. 

            “If we have children…I’d have to stay because that’s what’s necessary but no children? I’d follow you to death…just not sure how,” he answers, watching as in one move, you take his rook and place him into checkmate, the game done. 

            “The balcony is a solid choice, my love,” you tell him, giggles leaving your lips as you take in your win, but the giggles don’t last long because he pulls you to him, across the board, pressing his lips to yours. 

            And then he follows you down to the bed. 

***

            Valarr stands, knowing that when he joins you in the After, you will be angry, but also, that you will get over it. You must. Because he promised you life and death and so he must follow you. 

            He has to. 

            There is no him without you, you know this. He’s told you this and you promised him you’d stay. That you would never leave him and he cannot let you break that promise. He must follow you so that you are not a liar. 

            He is doing this for you, for him because he only exists with you. He is Valarr and he is a prince and he is yours. Above all else, he is yours and he only knows how to be yours. How can he live without you?

            The truth is, he cannot. 

            And it is that truth which pulls him from the bed, his arms still holding onto your body, unwilling to let you go, unwilling to be parted from any form of you. Instead, they will find his broken, dead body with yours. 

            Life and death shared. 

            He rises and crosses to the balcony, holding tight to you and looking down at the grassy knoll far below, the one that will soon plummet up to meet him and he looks at the body in his arms, the one that is you but not and he nods. 

            And then he steps forwards, falling off the ledge, gravity taking its toll. He watches as the ground comes rushing up at him, not a single scream leaving his lips because this is what is needed. What he promised you and what you promised him. 

            And he will not see the two of you made liars. 

            It is when the ground is oh so close that he sees you standing there, your hand outstretched and he reaches forwards, taking it and stepping towards you and away from what once was. 

            He is gone before his body hits the ground, before it shatters with yours, before his blood mingles with yours upon the ground. He is gone, with you. 

            To the After. 

            He is not there when his father, holding the bundle of child made of him and you, finds the corpses, the silent screams of a strong man echoing. He is not there to see his father break, to see his brother break. To see a strong family shatter.

            To see his father cry and his brother curse. No, he is gone, blissful and unaware, knowing only the after, knowing only you. 

            Because it is there, in the After, when he is able to tell you why he followed. Why he will always follow you, through all the lives there could ever be. 

            “There is no me without you,” is what he told you but he needn’t have because you knew. You had always known. 

You are curled into a tight ball on the "bed"—that massive, reinforced platform layered with every soft textile and scrap of insulating foam salvaged from the Hail Mary. Every few minutes, a sharp, white-hot wave of pain rolls through your abdomen, a familiar monthly visitor that feels particularly cruel when you’re light-years away from a pharmacy.

Under your shirt, the jagged line of your "Rocky Scar"—the mark left behind when your Eridian friend saved your life—pulses in sympathy-like with the cramps. It’s a reminder of survival, but right now, you just feel like a mess of malfunctioning nerves and a waste of carbon.

A heavy, metallic thump-clack echoes across the floor. You don't have to look up to know it’s Rocky. His five-legged structure is as familiar to you as your own mind. Beside him, the lighter, more melodic tapping of Adrian’s claws follows.

"Question?" Rocky’s synthesizer voice rings out from the nightstand, clear and inquisitive. "Why is Human Y/N still in the insulation pile? The 'sun' has cycled twice. Teaching time is soon. Grace confused. I also confused."

You groan into your pillow, a sound that translates to the Eridians as a low-frequency distress signal. Adrian moves closer, her form rotating with concern. She reaches out a warm, stone-like limb, hovering it just inches from your back.

“Temperature is high,” Adrian’s whistles and clicks are translated by the small device clipped to her harness. “You are leaking heat. Is there a hull breach in your biology? Is human dying!? Please do not die! It would be very inconvenient and sad.”

"I'm not dying, Adrian," you wheeze out, squeezing your eyes shut as another cramp ripples through you. "It’s just... a human thing. My body is resetting. It hurts. A lot."

Ryland wanders in then, looking disheveled, holding a mug of chamomile tea the Eridians replicated. He sees the three of you huddled together and immediately softens. He knows the look in your eyes; he’s seen you power through lab accidents and alien microbes, but he knows this particular brand of misery is one that requires total surrender.

"They're worried about you," Ryland says softly, sitting on the edge of the platform and placing a hand on your shoulder. "Rocky thinks you’re melting because your core temp jumped a degree. I tried to explain human reproductive cycles to him, but he just got offended that your body 'destroys its own systems' once a month. He thinks it’s bad engineering."

“It IS bad engineering!” Rocky interjects, his claws clicking rapidly against the floor. “Why break the internal walls? Just keep the walls! If I built a ship that melted its floor every thirty days, Grace yell at me!”

"He's not wrong," you mutter, pressing your face into Ryland's thigh. "Ryland, tell them I'm okay. I just need to be a potato for about four days."

Adrian tilts her head, her eye focusing on where you are clutching your stomach. “You are in pain. Pain is for when predators bite. There are no predators in the dome. Except maybe the vacuum, but the dome is strong. If you are in pain, we must fix.”

"You can't fix it, Adrian," Ryland says, stroking your hair. "It just has to happen. Heat helps, though."

The word heat seems to trigger something in the Eridian pair. On a planet where the surface temperature could melt lead, "heat" is their specialty. They are technically biological furnaces, their carapaces radiating a steady, dry warmth that far exceeds any electric heating pad.

Rocky steps up onto the platform. The bed groans under his weight, but it’s sturdy. “I am heat, statement.” he declares with a flourish of his limbs. “I very good at being hot. I am the best heater on Erid. Adrian is also a good heater. We will insulate the problem.”

Before you can protest, Rocky moves with surprising gentleness. He doesn't crowd you; instead, he maneuvers his heavy, five-sided body so that he is braced against your back, his warm carapace pressing firmly against your spine. The heat is immediate and intense, sinking through your shirt and into your aching muscles. It’s a dry, deep warmth that seems to vibrate.

Adrian doesn't want to be left out. She climbs onto the other side, tucking her limbs in and resting her front-side near your abdomen, being careful not to put her full weight on you. She feels like a living stone warmed by a desert sun.

Ryland watches them with a look of pure, unadulterated affection, full of care. "I think you've been secured by the Eridian Heating Company," he jokes. He crawls into the middle of the pile, slotting himself behind Rocky so he can still reach over and hold your hand.

"This is... actually amazing," you whisper. The crushing weight of the Eridians combined with their radiating heat acts like a full-body pressure therapy. The sharp stabs in your stomach begin to dull into a heavy, manageable ache.

Then, the sound starts.

It begins as a low-frequency hum, so deep you feel it in your teeth before you hear it. It’s a rhythmic, pulsing vibration coming from both Rocky and Adrian. It isn't the musical whistling of their speech; it’s more primal, a steady thrum-thrum-thrum that echoes the beat of your own heart.

"Are they... purring?" you ask, your eyes fluttering shut as the tension finally drains from your shoulders.

"Yeah," Ryland whispers, his voice thick with sleepiness. "Rocky told me about this once. When they have 'pebbles'—their young—they communal-sleep. They produce a resonance in their carapaces. It’s meant to stabilize the heart rates of the young and keep them calm while they grow. It’s a biological lullaby."

“You are small,” Rocky’s translator chirps, though his voice is lower now, hushed. “You are un-harmonic. You are pebble today. We vibrate buzz pain away. Sleep now, statement. Grace, sleep. You are noisy when worry.”

Ryland chuckles, his fingers interlacing with yours. "Copy that, Rock'. Sleeping now."

The dome is silent save for that incredible, ancient purring. It’s a sound that has existed on Erid for millions of years, a song of protection and kinship. Nestled between the two aliens and the man who traveled across the stars with you, the pain in your body feels insignificant.

You feel the scar on your side—the one that matches the one on Ryland's arm. It feels warm, almost glowing against the heat of Rocky's shell. You aren't just a human in a dome anymore; you are part of their kin, a family that doesn't care about biology or species, only about the fact that one of their own is hurting.

The lavender and apricot light of the artificial sunset fades into a deep, restful indigo. As the Eridian purring synchronizes, your breathing slows. Ryland’s head drops onto your shoulder, his breath hitching in a soft, rhythmic snore. Adrian shifts her weight, her claws making a tiny, comforting tink against the bed frame.

The last thing you feel before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep is the overwhelming sensation of being loved—not just by a man, but by a planet. You are tucked into the safest place in the universe: a cuddle pile at the edge of the galaxy, guarded by two biological furnaces who think you’re a very poorly engineered, but very dear, friend.

Outside, the Eridian winds howl and bash against the glass, but inside, there is only the warmth, the purring, and the steady, unbreakable bond of home.

- jack specific facts:

- jack is missing his leg BELOW the knee. around the mid-calf area. his prosthesis is called a transtibial. his specific make/model is unknown. though it looks most like a conventional prosthesis. edit: i’ve been informed his prosthesis is an Enchelon Endolite, not sure what specific model, though it’s a few years old.)

- people with leg prosthetics will often shift their weight on their feet—sometimes almost constantly—to keep their balance. it can also SOMETIMES be called a Trendelenburg gait, and will only worsen over time. but a Trendelenburg gait can also be completely unrelated and different/occurs more at and in the hip area. (thank you to the person who sent in the information about that, it was very helpful !! you can find that here.)

- jack is missing his lower limb which means: he removes it/changes it before bed, showering, swimming, running etc.

- jack/amputees often have a rail or bench specifically made for showering for better accessibility and to keep themselves steady in the shower if they are standing/not wearing a waterproof prosthesis.

- he can sleep with it on, but it’s usually not comfortable & most amputee’s let their limbs air out overnight to reduce swelling, sores/irritation, chafing, etc. it’s feasible that he’d take his limb off right after a shift, and if he doesn’t; be in more pain/uncomfortable with the leg on.

- fluid fluctuates in the limb during the day cause the residual limb to swell/decrease in size, they require the addition or removal of sock “plies” to make sure the limb keeps a snug fit.

- his limb will require daily inspection and massage to check for blisters/keep proper blood flow to the limb.

- also requires daily cleaning of the limb and prosthetic liner to prevent skin breakdown and infection.

- amputation often causes anxiety, depression, and other emotional challenges; it’s reasonable to perceive that jack suffers/has suffered from one or more of these. he goes to therapy canonically.

- phantom pain is a thing !! nerve endings can still fire and cause pain/sensation of a lower limb even after it’s missing. it never goes away. jack has been portrayed with this at the end of pittfest in season 1 !! he absolutely suffers from it, and it’s important to represent !!

facts about prosthetic legs/prosthesis:

- first off; prosthetic vs prosthesis; a prosthetic is the field of study, design, and fitting of the device. a prosthesis is the artificial limb itself.

- the socket is the most critical part; it’s custom molded to fit each person, it connects the prosthesis to to the body.

- the suspension is how the prosthesis is held on; can be put in place by suction, vacuum, or locking pins.

- the pylon in the internal frame or pipe that provides the structural strength.

- modern prosthetic legs feature advanced materials—depending on the amputation level—that’s specialized in knee and ankles.

- temporary prosthetics are given right after amputation, permanent prosthetics are fitted 2-6 months after amputation, when the swelling has gone down.

- all prosthesis are fitted and customized based on each person’s lifestyle and activity level, and physical capabilities; including foot/shoe size.

- a prosthesis and parts usually need replacements over time from wear and tear, even though they are durable. (most last around five years.)

- poor fit can cause blisters, pain, swelling, and skin sores.

- prosthetic weight varies; thermoplastic models often being the lightest.

- amputation often causes anxiety, depression, and other emotional challenges.

- most prosthetics are made of titanium, aluminum, and carbon fiber.

- most regular/everyday prosthetics are not designed to get wet/be submerged and will rust.

- all amputees have to wear a sock or stump shrinker, it prevents swelling in the limb and when the prosthesis is not attached. it’s basically a carbon fiber cup. if the sock does not fit correctly, it can cause restricted blood flow; forcing blood into the distal end and cause more swelling.

- swelling in the residual limb called edema (occurs especially when irritated) can cause the sock and prosthesis to not fit/fit uncomfortably.

- there are special types of prosthesis; including waterproof, adjustable, and microprocessor controlled.

-

different types of below knee prosthesis;

- conventional:

conventional prosthesis are the most traditional prosthetic legs, and are the most common form of below-knee prosthesis. they consist of a plain socket, pylon (the supporting rod), and foot. They are strong and cost-effective, making them a popular option for most users.

a conventional prosthesis is usually constructed from lightweight materials; such as plastic and metal. they are plain with few moving parts, have basic mobility, are ideal for everyday use, and usually cost-effective compared to advanced alternatives.

- endoskeletal prosthetic legs:

endoskeletal prosthetic legs have an internal support-build, usually with a cosmetic outer covering. they are usually made to appear more natural and provide better mobility and comfort.

endoskeletal prosthesis are usually lightweight and flexible, they can be made to look more natural, are usually easier to fit and alter, and are better for individuals who want a more realistic appearance.

- exoskeletal prosthetic legs:

exoskeletal prosthetic legs are usually made of a strong, long-lasting, rigid outer casing, but are not as commonly used today. the prosthesis lacks the internal frame that an endoskeletal prosthetics have. the main structure is instead the rigid outer casing.

exoskeletal prosthesis are usually very hard and long-lasting. they are more damage and wear-resistant. better for those with heavy-duty requirements. are usually less customizable in looks.

- dynamic response prosthetic legs:

also called specialized energy-storing feet, these are created to help more energetic/athletic people move easily. they store energy/movement better when each foot is on the ground release it when each foot is off the ground; making walking and running easier.

a dynamic response prosthesis usually allows for more natural movement, improves walking, can reduce stress on the other leg, and is better for very energetic people; like athletes.

- microprocessor-controlled prosthetic legs:

these legs use more diverse forms of advanced technology to improve mobility and stability within the prosthesis. they usually have sensors that detect movement and can adjust in real-time; they enhance the quality of balance and walking.

microprocessor-controlled prosthesis usually have advanced sensors that respond to changes in movement. they can make you steadier if the ground isn’t flat, put less stress on the joints, are best for active individuals who need movement control, and are rather pricey but still usually efficient.

- waterproof prosthetic legs:

are usually made from materials that are not susceptible to corrosion or wear down. they are intended for people who use their prostheses in aquatic/water filled areas; like pools, or showers.

waterproof prosthesis are made using waterproof materials, can be used in wet conditions, are strong and more resistant to rust, and are best suited for swimmers and water sports athletes.

- adjustable prosthetic legs:

adjustable prosthesis allow a person to change how the socket fits around their limb as needed. they are better for children or those with changing weight/strength.

adjustable prosthesis have an adjustable fit, are a good option for children and people with fluid retention, can provide more support and comfort, and help to prevent discomfort from poor fitting.

- blade prosthetic leg:

a blade prosthesis is a high-performance prosthesis made from carbon fiber, usually designed for running, jumping, and high-intensity sports. similar to a dynamic response prosthesis, but not the same.

blade prosthesis are typically shaped like a “cheetah’s hind leg” to maximize energy return, are lightweight, usually J-shaped, they store energy upon impact and expel to propel the person forward. they act as a type of spring rather than a walking foot. the sole of a running shoe/sneaker can sometimes be glued to the bottom of the blade, as they can be slippery.

- below are pictures of different types of prosthesis:

- conventional prosthesis:

- endoskeletal prosthesis:

- exoskeletal prosthesis:

- dynamic response prosthesis:

- microprocessor-controlled prosthesis:

- waterproof prosthesis:

- adjustable prosthesis:

- blade prosthesis:

- jack’s prosthesis:

if there’s any other questions you have, please let me know and i’ll see if i can figure it out !! i hope this helps some of you and i can’t wait to (hopefully) see more representation of jack’s prosthesis/disability !! i know im going to try my best to include some of this stuff !!

As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.

Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.

That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.

Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.

He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.

Harry had thought it ridiculous.

Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.

By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.

Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—

And you were completely, utterly oblivious.

The irony was cruel.

You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”

You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.

You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.

You—who read people like open books.

Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.

And had been for two years.

At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.

Apparently not.

Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”

He’d nearly choked on his tea.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.

The worst part?

They were right.

Everyone had noticed.

Everyone—except you.

So Harry tried something different.

He stopped hiding.

He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.

There was none.

He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.

You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.

Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.

Not anonymous. Not vague.

A proper Valentine.

You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.

“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”

He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.

That was the day he’d given up.

You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.

And yet.

He still didn’t tell you.

He couldn’t.

Because losing you altogether was not an option.

He could survive loving you quietly. He could survive pretending. He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.

But he could not survive you walking away.

That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.

So he chose silence.

He chose the quiet torture of it.

And he told himself that it was enough.

It had to be.

But Merlin—

You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.

It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.

Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.

So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.

“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.

Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.

“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.

He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.

“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”

There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.

Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.

It started with a bang.

Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.

Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.

“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.

The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”

Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.

“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”

Brilliant.

Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.

Harry was scanning the staircase.

Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.

And then you appeared.

Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.

And—

Wearing his Quidditch jersey.

It swallowed you whole.

The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.

You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.

Heat crawled up his neck.

“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”

You blinked at him, still half-asleep.

“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”

You yawned.

Actually yawned.

As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.

Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

But you didn’t notice.

You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.

It was instinctive.

Unthinking.

Comfort.

His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.

For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.

You fit far too perfectly there.

It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.

His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.

Instead, he swallowed.

“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Like you would’ve said no.”

His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.

His.

And yet not.

You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”

He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”

You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.

McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.

Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.

You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.

Harry watched your retreating figure.

And the name stretched across your back.

Potter.

Something in his chest clenched painfully.

This—this was it.

As close as he would ever get.

The only way he would ever see you with his last name.

On the back of an old, worn jersey.

Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.

“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”

You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”

Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”

Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.

He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.

Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.

“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”

Harry froze. His stomach dropped.

“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”

“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.

You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

Friend.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.

You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.

He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.

He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”

You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.

As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.

Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.

But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.

He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.

At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.

He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.

“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”

Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”

Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”

Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”

“You have bets?” Harry demanded.

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”

Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”

Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”

“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

And then closed it again.

Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”

Harry hesitated.

Just for a second.

Because part of him wanted to.

Merlin, he wanted to.

The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.

He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.

No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.

With every single fiber of his being.

With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.

And then—

Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”

That one landed wrong.

A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.

Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”

The boys burst out laughing.

Harry didn’t.

Because that was the worst part.

They weren’t wrong.

His jaw tightened.

Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.

“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”

Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”

That one felt like a punch to the ribs.

So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.

Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”

“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”

“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”

Harry paused at the bottom step.

He didn’t turn around.

Worst she can say is no.

But that wasn’t what terrified him.

What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.

Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.

You’d grow cautious.

You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.

You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.

And he would lose you.

Not just the possibility of you.

You.

His best friend.

The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.

And that—

That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.

The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.

Too soft for this hour.

He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.

“Hi.” You said quietly.

Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”

You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”

Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.

“And?” He asked gently.

“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.

His heart skipped.

“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”

Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”

You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.

The air shifted.

This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.

It wasn’t new.

But something about tonight felt different.

Harry swallowed.

For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—

Why not Ron’s bed?

Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?

The question burned at the back of his tongue.

But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.

The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.

You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”

“Good night.” He said quickly.

You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.

It took less than five minutes.

Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.

Like it belonged.

Harry stared up at the ceiling.

Wide awake.

Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.

You were so close.

So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.

And you slept.

Just like that.

No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.

Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.

That was what hurt.

You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.

He wanted to wrap an arm around you.

He wanted to pull you closer.

He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.

He wanted to ask why him.

Why always him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.

That should have been enough.

But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—

If you knew.

If you knew how badly he wanted you…

Would you still sleep this easily?

Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?

His throat tightened.

Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.

And Harry finally closed his eyes.

Not because he was calm.

But because it was easier than letting himself cry.

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.

If he had at all.

Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.

You.

Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.

He released you at once.

And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.

He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.

But you didn’t.

You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly. Why would you?

A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.

“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.

Harry swallowed, “Morning.”

You didn’t jump away. You didn’t gasp. You didn’t even hesitate.

You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.

He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.

It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.

You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

You saw him as safe. Familiar. Harmless.

Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him. Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe. Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.

You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”

“Yeah.” He said automatically.

There it was again.

That warm, affectionate smile.

And then you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.

He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.

You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.

And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.

He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.

Valentine’s Day was a week away.

And he was running out of ways to survive this.

It started with the heat.

Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.

This was different.

This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.

You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.

Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.

Today, every touch felt like friction.

He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.

You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah.” He muttered.

He wasn’t.

He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.

You didn’t think about it.

You never thought about it.

By lunch, it had gotten worse.

The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.

Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.

Harry told himself it didn’t matter.

You laughed like that with everyone.

But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.

You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.

You tilted your head, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t push. You never did.

And that made it worse.

Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.

The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.

By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.

You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”

“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”

You blinked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

You followed.

“Harry.”

He didn’t answer.

“Harry, wait.”

He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”

You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”

That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.

“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”

“Then what is it about?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

He walked away.

But you didn’t let him.

You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.

By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You followed.

Now it was just the two of you.

The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.

You shut the door gently behind you.

“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He stared at everything else in the room but you.

At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.

He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.

Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.

You hesitated.

Then you reached for his hand.

The contact was gentle. Familiar.

It felt like static shock.

Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.

His entire body reacted before his mind did.

He jerked away.

“Just—stop it.”

Your hand froze midair.

“What?”

“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”

Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”

“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”

You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”

“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”

Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”

“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”

“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”

The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.

They echoed in the quiet room.

You stared at him.

“What are you talking about?” You whispered.

He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.

“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”

His voice wavered, but he pushed through.

“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”

His throat tightened.

“But I was wrong.”

You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”

“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”

And finally — finally — he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

“I love you.”

Silence swallowed the room.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”

His hands trembled at his sides.

“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."

His laugh was brittle.

“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”

His voice cracked.

“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”

Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.

“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”

The words nearly undid him.

“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

The room felt too still.

Too tight.

He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.

The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.

It was a burn.

And it hurt.

Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.

That might have been easier to bear.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.

He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.

“I think you should go.” He said quietly.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Just… spent.

For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.

He didn’t.

He stepped back instead.

And that — that was what made your chest crack open.

You left without another word.

The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.

Everything sounded distant. Muffled.

You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.

By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.

The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.

You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.

Your heart was still racing.

Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.

I’m in love with you.

The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.

You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.

You’d thought you knew him.

But tonight had been different.

Tonight he had looked raw.

You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.

The confession replayed again.

And again.

And then—

You inhaled.

And froze.

That wasn’t your pillow.

You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.

Harry’s jumper.

Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.

You hadn’t meant to keep it.

It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.

He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.

Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.

You never gave it back.

Your throat tightened painfully.

Would you have to return it now?

The thought felt unbearable.

You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.

Your eyes landed on your nightstand.

The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.

Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.

A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.

Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You’d laughed.

You hadn’t asked why.

It was everywhere.

He was everywhere.

Not in grand, sweeping gestures.

Not in dramatic declarations.

But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.

Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.

There were dozens.

Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.

Not the gift.

You.

At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.

Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.

Longing.

How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?

Your vision blurred again.

You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.

You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.

Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.

And then—

You found it.

A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.

Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.

Be my Valentine?

The memory hit you all at once.

A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.

But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.

You had seen the signs.

Some quiet part of you had always known.

It’s been like this for years.

Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.

You always thought it was just that.

You and him. Best friends. A matched set.

Your chest tightens painfully.

The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.

The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.

This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.

It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.

You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.

You loved him.

Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.

And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.

You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.

At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.

You needed to know.

You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.

So you kept your distance.

And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.

He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.

He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.

It wasn’t cruel.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t punishing you.

He was protecting himself.

Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.

You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.

It was restraint.

And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.

Harry hated it.

He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.

It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.

A miracle.

Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.

Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.

One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.

Harry remained behind.

He told himself he didn’t care.

He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.

But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.

Stupid, really.

He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.

And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.

He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.

The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.

He didn’t return it.

By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.

And there you were.

Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.

His second was fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.

“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”

His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.

“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.

“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.

He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.

You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.

He let you have the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small when they finally left you.

And he felt his stomach drop.

There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.

“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”

“(Y/N), hold on.”

He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.

You stopped mid-breath.

Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.

You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.

“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”

Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”

His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.

Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.

“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”

The room seemed to still entirely.

The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.

“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”

His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.

“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

For a moment, he didn’t react at all.

It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.

You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.

He didn’t find it.

Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.

Reverently.

“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.

You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”

The words didn’t tremble this time.

They landed between you solid and undeniable.

Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.

“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.

Just awe.

Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.

“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”

For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.

Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.

His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.

Then he stepped forward.

Hesitantly.

Cautiously.

As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.

He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.

But you were real.

Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.

The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.

The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.

He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.

It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.

But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.

All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.

You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.

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The emergency room of PTMC was exactly how you remembered it - too bright, too busy and full of people who all seemed to be having worse days than you.

You stayed close to Amy, guiding her to a waiting chair and helping her fill out her admittance forms as her pain worsened.

“There's so much work to do, you shouldn’t be wasting your time here with me.” She muttered guiltily.

“You’re being ridiculous.” You reprimanded, although your tone was gentle. “I’ve got it sorted.”

You tried to ignore the constant buzzing of your phone in your pocket.

“Although, I think you’re banned from stilettos for a little bit.”

“But they’re Jimmy Choo.” She pouted.

You huffed a laugh despite yourself.

“Amy Saint-Clair?” A nurse called.

You glanced down at her ankle. It had nearly doubled in size since you first walked in.

“We might need a wheelchair.”

-

You followed closely as the nurse wheeled Amy through the swinging doors.

If you thought the waiting room was chaotic, the actual ER was something else entirely.

A hive of activity that somehow seemed to function as one organism - a single stream of consciousness, doctors and nurses weaving through the chaos with practiced fluidity.

“What have we got here-“ Another nurse stops, eyes dropping to Amy’s ankle.

You didn’t miss the way the nurse’s eyes widened ever so slightly as they looked up at their colleague.

“Dana, is there a room open?” The nurse called out as a blonde woman swept past them.

“Room 8’s free.” She replied without looking back.

“Great.”

In one fluid motion, the first nurse handed the wheelchair over, disappearing back to the admittance area before you could blink.

Finally, the nurse turned to you both.

“Sorry about that, today has been chaotic. I’m Perlah.”

“That’s ok, I’m Amy.”

You introduced yourself when Perlah turned to you before tacking on "concerned co-worker."

Perlah smiled. “Alright Amy let’s see what we can do for your ankle.”

Your heels hit the polished floor loudly as you hurried to keep up with Perlah, who was moving the wheelchair at an impressive pace given her size.

The sound carried.

Unbeknownst to you, heads turned. Subtle at first, then less so.

Santos let out a low whistle.

Whitaker cut her a look out of his peripheral. “Nice. Very professional.”

“What? She's hot...in my professional opinion.”

He shook his head, forcing himself to stare back at his computer.

“Who’s the hottie in room 8?” They both glanced up to see Javadi peering around her monitor.

“Who the hell says hottie?”

"What's this about a hottie?" McKay's ears piqued, causing her to divert from her route immediately.

"Pretty friend of a patient in Room 8." Jesse piped up from his desk.

"You lot are worse than teenagers." Dana roused, looking at them over the rims of her glasses.

She glanced up at the electronic board.

"We do actually need someone to go check-"

"-I'll go." Santos volunteered, already moving to jump up from her stool.

"Sit back down missy." Dana snapped. "You're way too behind on your charting."

Dana's gaze swept over the pitt, then paused.

She did a double take when she saw a flash of dark hair accompanied by a familiar slouch and forlorn expression.

"Doctor Langdon."

Frank looked up, mildly startled at the sound of his name being called.

"Just the person I wanted to see." Dana smiled as she inclining her head. "Patient for you in Room 8, looks like a nasty ankle trauma."

Frank swallowed a very obvious sigh. He'd been hoping for even just a ten minute respite from what had been an incredibly shitty shift so far.

"On it."

Everyone watched him leave. Then almost in unison, their attention snapped back to Dana.

"Dana, what the hell-" Santos began to protest.

"Save it." Dana continued typing, sliding her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

"He's moody today." She added as she glanced over her shoulder to Room 8 as Frank pulled the curtain aside.

"So?"

A small smirk twitched up onto her lips as she shrugged innocently.

"Thought it might cheer him up a bit."

-

"A doctor should be with you shortly." Perlah reassured Amy as she helped settle her onto the hospital bed.

You thanked her, your hand coming up to pat Amy's shoulder, thumb brushing absentmindedly in a soothing rhythm when you caught her grimace.

"Jake's still coming, right?" You asked, trying to pull her focus somewhere other than the pain.

"Yeah." Amy nodded, exhaling shakily. "Said he'll get here as soon as he can but traffic's a nightmare. Said something about a six car pile up on the motorway."

You both looked up as the curtain slid open.

He was tall.

That was your first thought.

Dark hair, slightly tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. A stethoscope hung loose around his neck, like it belonged there rather than being placed there. And his eyes - a striking shade of blue.

Those piercing eyes flicked from you to Amy and then back to you again.

"Hopefully none of them need a trip to the ER."

His voice was warm. Grounded and steady in a way that immediately made you feel like everything was a little more under control.

"No I don’t think so, my boyfriend said it didn't look too serious." Amy chuckled awkwardly.

“Well that’s a relief. I’m Doctor Langdon by the way.” He introduced himself as he squeezed a pump of sanitizer into his hands.

“Amy.”

“Nice to meet you Amy.”

His eyes met yours again, this time holding your gaze just a touch longer.

You offered your name, hoping it sounded more casual than you felt, as you resisted the urge to stare longer than was appropriate.

Then he smiled, just slightly.

Ok, he was hot.

He took the tablet from Perlah, glancing through the intake notes.

“Now, I’ve heard we had a nasty fall on your ankle, is that right?”

“I wouldn’t say it was nasty-“

You shot her a silencing glare. “It was nasty. Her shoe got caught in a grid at a crosswalk and she practically faceplanted."

Frank nodded, attention sharpening on Amy’s ankle.

“That sounds painful.”

“Very.” Amy admitted.

“Alright, let’s take a look Amy.” He slid on a pair of gloves and crouched beside the bed.

He had barely even brushed a finger over the area when Amy let out a hiss of pain.

Frank glanced over his shoulder to Perlah.

“Push four of morphine.”

You didn’t mean to watch him so closely.

The way he moved - careful, deliberate. The way his brow pulled together just slightly as he focused. The quiet, almost automatic gentleness in the way he handled her ankle.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket again.

You ignored it.

You told yourself it was because Amy needed you, and definitely not because you were suddenly, acutely aware of the attractive doctor in front of you.

"Does this hurt?"

His voice softened as he gently rolled her ankle forward.

Amy flinched, "yeah that really hurts."

“Alright. That’s helpful. Not fun, but helpful.”

There was something about the way he said it - dry, but kind - that made Amy visibly relax despite herself.

After a moment he stood, unfolding back to his full height.

"Well Amy, we're going to need to do a CT of your ankle to see if there are any fractures."

"Do you think it's broken?" She asked anxiously.

"Unfortunately it's hard to say right now given the amount of swelling. It might just be a really bad sprain."

He turned slightly, murmuring something to Perlah, pointing at the tablet.

You watched the folds of Amy's face crease into an anxious frown. You crossed your arms as an unexpected bubble of irritation burst in you.

"You know, it’s ridiculous that there’s even a grid there. That’s where you’re supposed to walk.” You huffed to Amy. “And it’s right in the middle of the city where thousands of women in high heels walk every single day.”

Frank’s mouth twitched faintly.

He and Perlah exchanged a look.

“It is kind of silly.” Amy agreed half heartedly.

“It’s not just silly, it’s negligent." You insisted, the familiar rhythm of advocacy settling within you. “I should write to the council you know. Threaten to sue or something, because otherwise nothing will actually get done about it like usual because they're-“

You stopped yourself abruptly when you remembered where you were.

You were not at your desk angrily typing out a letter to an opposing party, you were in a hospital.

You cleared your throat.

"Sorry." You glanced sheepishly between Doctor Langdon and Perlah. "I can get...worked up sometimes."

"More like highly strung." Amy grumbled, causing you to shoot her a glare.

"What are you, a lawyer or something?" Frank asked as he slid his gloves off, a quiet thread of amusement in his voice.

You winced.

"Just a little bit, yeah."

He looked up at you again, his eyes wide. "Wait seriously?"

"She's not just a lawyer, she's a great lawyer." Amy boasted proudly.

Langdon glanced between the two of you.

"So you're-"

"-a concerned colleague." You jumped in.

"She's my boss." Amy corrected. "I'm her paralegal."

"Ok firstly, you're not my paralegal, you're a paralegal at the firm I work at. And secondly, I am not your boss - you're making me sound old."

Frank huffed a laugh at that. It slipped out of him easier than it had all day - maybe even all week.

Amy rolled her eyes fondly at you in a way that only someone in a great working relationship could.

"We were coming back from court when I tripped." She explained.

Frank nodded, but his eyes still hadn't quite left you.

"Well...boss or not, it's very nice of you to come and wait here with her. Not a lot of coworkers would do that."

"Oh." You glanced at Amy and then back at him. "Well... she always uses the correct font type and size, so I'm a little attached."

Amy snorted. "And who says romance is dead?"

That loosened another quiet chuckle out of Frank, and for a second his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than necessary.

You felt it. That small shift, like the air had changed pressure. A flicker of something as your heart skipped a beat.

Perlah smirked as she slipped out of the room.

"Ok well-" Then Frank's attention was on Amy again, as if that moment had never happened, like flipping a well worn switch. "it might take a while before your CT, so just try to relax and if your pain gets worse let a nurse know and we can increase your morphine dose."

“What’s a while mean in doctor speak?”

“Could be half an hour, could be a couple of hours. It really depends on if we get anything urgent come in. But we’ll try and get you through as fast as we can.” He reassured her.

Amy shot you a panicked look.

"Ok, thanks doc.” You answered for her as you grasped her hand and squeezed.

"No problem."

His eyes flickered to you once more before he disappeared through the curtain.

Frank pulled the curtain shut. Unable to help himself, he hovered outside as your muffled voices pierced through the thin fabric.

"You should go, seriously. I can't ask you to stay here for hours."

"I'm not leaving you here on your own."

"But there is so much work to do- ok wait pass me my laptop and I can start-"

"Amy, you're not working, you're in the hospital for christs sake. Nothing we do is that important."

Frank knew he should walk away, but he couldn't bring himself too.

"But-"

"-no buts." Your voice was gentle, but had a firm edge, one that made it clear you weren't budging. "I can do it all tonight."

"But you already have so much to do." Amy's voice grew softer as her resolve waivered.

"Exactly, so what's a couple more things to add to a never ending list?"

Frank heard Amy let out a defeated sigh. "Well at least there's one positive to all this."

"Oh yeah? what's that?"

A beat, and then-

"Doctor Langdon is hot."

He didn’t let himself hear your response.

Frank moved fast. Down the hall, around the corner, going anywhere but there.

His jaw tightened, heat creeping up the back of his neck despite himself.

Perlah made her way back to the desks clustered in the middle of the ER, the hum of monitors and overlapping conversations swelling around her again.

Princess pounced immediately.

“Javadi says there’s a gorgeous woman in Room 8.”

“There is. She’s a lawyer.”

“Oh." Princess' brows lifted. "Beauty and brains.”

“I like her, seems fiery.”

They both looked up, falling silent as Langdon walked past.

“And Langdon’s the primary?” Princess murmured in Tagalog, their eyes tracking his every movement.

“Yep, and he’s smitten.”

Frank stopped at one of the computers and swiped his ID.

He glanced over at Princess and Perlah to see them giggling. They fell silent when they noticed his gaze, before sharing a glance and bursting into another fit of involuntary laughter.

He shook his head, jaw tightening as he turned back to the screen, willing the faint heat creeping up his ears to disappear as he began typing.

"Heard you've got a stunner in Room 8."

Frank didn't bother to look up from his screen as McKay leaned across the desk, her tone far too casual to be innocent.

"Really? I can't say that I noticed."

McKay scoffed. "Sure you didn't."

She paused for a moment and then, "so... is she single?"

Frank finally looked up at her over his monitor. "I don't know." He said flatly. "I was busy treating my patient, you know - doing my job."

McKay rolled her eyes. "Why is everyone so boring today?"

He shook his head and cursed quietly under his breath.

Frank Langdon had handled a lot in this ER. He'd intubated critical patients, manually pumped hearts, stood knee-deep in chaos during mass casualty incidents without flinching.

And yet, the truth was, he was more rattled by you then anything else he'd stumbled upon in the pitt.

He'd nearly tripped over his own feet when he pulled back that curtain and saw you sitting in that chair.

You were a blur of long and graceful limbs, legs crossed neatly, posture perfect despite the chaos around you. Those sky-high heels tapping faintly against the floor, like you carried your own rhythm into the room.

Then, your eyes met his.

Your hair fell in soft, deliberate curls, framing a face that was too gorgeous to be sitting under harsh fluorescent lighting in the middle of an emergency department.

It had taken everything in him not to stare.

He was a professional, he had to remind himself. One who was lucky to even still be practicing.

Then, you'd started speaking. And that had somehow made it even worse.

You were fiery, well-articulated, confident - something that no doubt came as a result of your profession.

But there was a softness to you too, a kindness that made him slightly weak in the knees.

The way your hand had settled on Amy’s shoulder. The way your voice shifted when you spoke to her.

It had caught him off guard.

After a few minutes, he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Dana a few feet from him, writing something out onto a chart.

"You knew."

Dana didn't even look up at first.

"Knew what?" She asked innocently.

Frank pursed his lips and kept his eyes glued to his charts as he muttered his next words. "You knew that she was gorgeous when you sent me in there."

"Really? I can't say that I noticed."

His eyes narrowed as she echoed his words back at him, a knowing smile on her lips as she shot him a wink.

He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Now that you were satisfied Amy was comfortable, you finally dared to look at your phone.

Three missed calls, thirty unread emails, seven teams messages and a voicemail from a very unimpressed partner.

"Go." Amy insisted, nudging your arm when she saw the look on your face. "Call whoever you have to call.”

“It’s fine-“

“You’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re not stressed but you’re actually two minutes away from having a meltdown.”

“I am not-“

“-you are.”

You sighed, your shoulders dropping just slightly as you glanced back down at your screen.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m morphined up and have endless tiktoks to scroll through. I’ll be fine.” Amy insisted.

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“Ok…just try not to injure any other part of your body.”

“No promises.” She beamed back.

You shot her one last glare as you yanked the curtain back - and stepped straight back into the chaos.

It hit you all at once.

Voices overlapping. Monitors beeping. The constant movement like a fast flowing tidal wave.

You paused for half a second, scanning for someone who looked even remotely interruptible.

“Excuse me.” You hurried over to a young doctor with a mop of curly brown hair who was typing away frantically.

He swivelled around in his chair at the sound of your voice.

His eyes widened as he looked up at you.

“Sorry- is there somewhere I can take a phone call?” You asked as you held up your buzzing phone.

"Um-" His cheeks grew red. "Uh well you could maybe uh-"

"Ignore Ogilvie. He's new." You looked up to see the older blonde nurse from earlier.

"Work call?"

"Unfortunately."

She flashed you a sympathetic call as she jerked her thumb behind her. "Go use the ambulance bay sweetheart, just make sure you stay out of their way if one of them rolls in."

"I will, thank you." You flashed her and Ogilvie a smile before hurrying in the direction she pointed you in.

Ogilvie watched as you walked away, his mouth slightly ajar as your hips swayed in your tight skirt.

"Sweet lord have mercy." He breathed out.

You moved quickly, heels clicking sharply against the floor, cutting a clean line through the chaos.

You passed an older doctor, offering a polite, automatic smile as your eyes met his.

Robby slowed slightly, turning around to watch you as you walked past.

He blinked slowly, then glanced toward Dana, who was flipping through a stack of folders like nothing unusual had just walked past.

"Is there a lawsuit going on that I don't know about?"

"More like Ogilvie's about to get served with a restraining order if he doesn't stop gaping." Santos remarked dryly as she walked past.

Robby's stare hardened. Dana slid off her glasses, using them to point vaguely in your direction.

"She's the co-worker of the patient in Room 8, Langdon's looking after her."

"I bet he is." Ogilvie muttered.

Robby shook his head slightly as he raised his hands up in defeat.

"On second thoughts, I don't want to know."

You groaned softly, rubbing at your temples as you leaned back against the cool brick wall just outside the ER doors.

You'd successfully calmed down two partners, delegated three tasks and promised to 'circle back' and 'touch base' on something that you absolutely did not want to circle back or touch base on ever again.

And in the process, created an impossibly large to-do list for yourself.

A familiar tension headache was starting to creep up the right side of your neck, settling stubbornly at the base of your skull.

You closed your eyes briefly, exhaling through your nose.

Frank had come out to take a breather.

Robby had been on his ass the entire shift, Santos was still giving him the evil eye and his back had started that low, persistent ache that never really went away - like it was just waiting for the worst possible moment to remind him it was there.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you.

You, in his usual hiding spot, tucked just out of sight from everyone unless they actively came looking.

Now that you were standing, he could take you in properly. You'd abandoned your matching suit jacket at some point, but the rest of your outfit was still immaculate - leaving you in a tight skirt that fell just below your knee and a structured top with capped sleeves.

You looked like you'd just stepped out of an episode of Suits.

Completely out of place, and yet somehow not at all.

He cleared his throat, causing you to startle slightly as your eyes snapped open.

"Hi." You blurted out.

"Hi." He echoed.

There was a small beat where you just looked at each other.

"Sorry I um- one of the nurses said I could take a call out here. I hope that's ok."

He smiled softly. "Yeah of course." Then he nodded towards the phone still clutched in your hand.

"Everything ok?"

"Oh, yeah." You said automatically. Then, after a second - "I mean no, but it will be."

He nodded like he understood.

"Work stuff?"

You let out a dry chuckle. "Always."

His eyes moved over your face more carefully this time, catching the faint shadows beneath your eyes - half-hidden by makeup, but not invisible.

"We're in the middle of a big trial." You explained. "So it's a little hectic at the moment, client's stressed, partner's stressed, so naturally... everyone's stressed."

Frank nodded again. "Sounds..."

"Stressful?" You offered, pulling a chuckle from him.

"Yeah, stressful."

"It is." You admitted, chewing the inside of your cheek. "But I mean-" You waved towards the ER. "it's nothing like what you guys deal with in there."

Frank frowned slightly at your deflection. "Stress is still stress."

"Yeah but when I'm stressed over a typo in a court document I have to remind myself that I'm not performing heart surgery to calm myself down." You tilted your head, looking up at him. "While you guys are literally performing heart surgery."

"Alright touche." Frank raised his hands in mock surrender. "But still, sounds like you've had a big week."

"More like a big year." You huffed, the honesty slipping out before you could catch it. "But yeah, big week."

"Lot of late nights?"

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "Is that your polite way of saying I look haggard?"

Frank let out a huff of disbelief, "trust me, you are far from looking haggard."

You tried to ignore the annoying way your stomach flipped at that.

He seemed to realise what he’d said a fraction too late.

He straightened slightly, clearing his throat, one hand lifting in a vague, corrective gesture.

"I just mean-" he motioned toward you, "you look like you’re running on about three hours of sleep."

You folded your arms across your chest, leaning more into the wall. "Is that your professional medical opinion?"

"It's a guess." He shrugged his shoulders. "But I'm usually right."

Your eyes narrowed further at the slight humour in his expression. There was no chance in hell you were going to admit he was practically right on the mark.

Before you could answer, your phone buzzed again.

Langdon watched as your eyes darted down, a grimace flashing across your features as you read whatever email had just come through. Your grimace only deepened as your phone began ringing.

“I’ll let you get that.” He made to go back inside.

“No it’s fine, I’m very intentionally ignoring it.” You shoved the phone back into your pocket, as if to emphasise your point.

“He’s a partner on the other side of this matter.” You explained, shaking your head. “He thinks ringing me is somehow going to make him get his way.”

"I'm guessing that happens a lot." Frank leant his shoulder against the brick, angling his body towards you.

"People underestimating you."

You studied him for a moment, searching for any sign of insincerity or expectation of praise for acknowledging something that was quite literally the bare minimum.

You were pleasantly surprised when your fine tuned bullshit detector didn't sound alarm bells.

"It does." You acknowledged after a moment. "But it makes it more fun when I inevitably run rings around them."

Your accompanied smirk made Frank let out a genuine laugh. "I have no doubt about that."

As his laughter faded, your eyes stayed locked. You felt it again - the shift. Something you couldn't quite name, or maybe were too afraid to just yet.

Your phone buzzed entitledly again.

"Sorry-" You glanced down at the caller ID. "I do actually have to take this one."

“Partner?”

“Oh- no I’m single.”

Frank blinked. Then a smirk broke through, unguarded.

“I uh- I meant law firm partner.”

“Oh.” Your phone was still buzzing in your hand, now completely forgotten as you tried not to spiral about how embarrassing that was.

“But that’s very good to know.” Or something of that ilk is what Frank wanted to say.

"Amy should be next in line for her CT, so it shouldn't be too much longer of a wait."

Is what he said instead as he pushed off the wall.

Professional, safe, controlled.

"Thank you doctor."

"Frank." He corrected you automatically. "What I mean is- just Frank is fine, you don't have to call me doctor." He added hastily as he began to slowly back away.

Smooth.

A smirk tugged at your mouth. "Ok." You said lightly.

"Well thank you... just Frank." You teased before finally placing your phone to your ear.

The way you said his name - low, deliberate, just teasing enough - landed in his chest, in his throat, somewhere inconveniently deeper than either.

He shook his head as the sound played over and over in his head as he slipped back inside the ER.

Frank exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

He was, to put it professionally, completely and utterly fucked.

Half an hour later, Amy was no closer to getting her CT scan.

You were back in your waiting chair beside her, posture far less composed than before, one leg bouncing slightly, still frantically glued to your phone.

And while you were trying your best to work, annoyingly all it seemed you could think about was Frank Langdon.

You exhaled sharply, dragging your focus back to the email in front of you.

The two of you looked up from your phones as the curtain slid across the railing.

And as if you'd manifested him with your thoughts, your eyes locked with Frank's blue ones.

Frank stepped inside, a coffee cup clutched in one hand, his other already reaching to pull the curtain closed behind him.

"Hey Amy, sorry for the wait. I just wanted to check to see how you were doing?"

"Oh I'm fine, just keep the morphine coming." Amy grinned.

"We can definitely do that." Frank chuckled.

He shifted his weight slightly, glancing between the two of you.

"You were next in line for CT but a trauma came in, I don't think it'll be too much longer now though."

"No problem, thanks for letting me know." Assuming the interaction was over, Amy glanced back down at her phone.

Suddenly, Frank's eyes were on you. There was the slightest pause, like he was debating something.

His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip as he extended his hand holding the coffee out towards you.

"I got you this-"

"oh-"

"-figured you might need it if you're going to have a late one."

Amy’s head snapped up so fast it was almost comical.

"You really didn't have to do that Frank." Despite your words, your mouth was already salivating at the prospect of caffeine. Your hand already reaching, your focus locked on the cup like it might disappear if you hesitated.

"Thank you."

Your fingers brushed against his as the cup changed hands.

"You're feeding my addiction you know."

Frank’s mouth lifted as he adjusted his grip on his stethoscope, buying himself a second.

"Luckily you're not my patient then."

As if suddenly remembering Amy - his patient and whole reason for being here - was in the room, his attention snapped back her.

"Sorry Amy, no liquids other than water before a CT."

Amy's eyes darted between the two of you, a knowing grin forming on her face. "Oh that's ok, don't worry about me Frank."

You shot her a warning look behind his back.

If Frank noticed, he didn't say anything. Instead he just shot you another smile.

"Alright." He said, glancing back at you one more time - quicker now, but no less intentional. "I'll check back in after your scan is done."

You pressed the cup to your lips, using it as a shield to avoid Amy's stare as he left.

"Ok. What the fuck was that?"

"What was what?" You answered innocently as you busied yourself with your phone.

"You really didn't have to do that Frank." She mocked in a low, sultry tone.

"I do not sound like that." You snapped, your eyes finally meeting hers.

"You were practically eye fucking him."

"I was not!"

A heartbeat later you added quietier, "we talked for a bit when I was outside making work calls. He told me to call him Frank."

"Oh my fucking god." She let out a cackle of disbelief. "You want him."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do. Admit it! You want to fuck the hot doctor-"

"-would you keep your voice down!" You hissed, glancing over your shoulder.

"Yes, obviously he is attractive ok?" You muttered reluctantly.

"And-" She sat up straighter in her bed. "He clearly wants you too."

"Ok no-"

"- he just bought you a coffee." She interrupted, ticking it off like evidence, "which was clearly an excuse to come and talk to you by the way, and he couldn't keep his eyes off you. What kind of doctor does that unless they're into you?"

"Really nice ones?" You meekly suggested.

She shot you a deadpan stare. "You're too smart to be saying such dumb things."

Your brow furrowed. "I don't like your tone missy."

"What are you going to do about it? I'm not your paralegal, remember? Besides why is any of this a bad thing? Honestly when was the last time you actually got laid because-"

"Alright Amy-" Perlah barged in before you could retort back. "Finally time for your CT."

"Saved by the bell." You muttered.

Perlah tried her best to fight the grin threatening to spill onto her cheeks. Neither of you had to know that she'd heard every word.

As time wore on, your stomach started to grumble, promptly reminding you that you had not eaten anything since stuffing down a muesli bar this morning on your way to court.

The idea of hospital cafeteria food was enough to turn you off the idea of eating all together.

You could hear two staff chatting outside.

"Thank god this shift is nearly over."

"I know, I'm starving."

"I really could go for an unethical donut right now, but don't tell Dana I said that."

An idea started to take shape.

You googled the number of a local pizza place that you knew was half decent and open. You pressed the phone to your ear, tapping the well worn arm of the chair impatiently as it rung.

"Hello? Hi yes- look I was just wondering- would you by any chance deliver to a hospital?"

-

Frank glanced at the clock.

Only an hour left of this seemingly never ending shift.

Despite how busy they had been, it seemed the entire emergency department had found the time to learn about your existence and more annoyingly, his apparent thing for you.

Every time he walked past someone he was greeted with a shit-eating grin and a snarky remark.

"I didn't know you liked Legally Blonde, Langdon."

"Permission to approach the bench?"

"Is your girlfriend going to sue me if I stuff this intubation up?"

He slowed as he watched his co-workers flocking towards the break room.

"What's all this?" He asked Mel.

"Oh um- someone got us pizza."

"Upstairs send another gift?"

"Nope.” Mel shook her head. "An anonymous delivery apparently."

"Anyway." She shrugged after a moment. "I'm getting a slice. I just hope they ordered Hawaiian."

Frank frowned slightly, watching as Mel joined the feeding frenzy.

Dana stopped beside him, silently handing him a receipt.

"What am I looking at?"

"The online order receipt." She smirked up at him. "You might want to cross check it with Room 8’s emergency contact."

While still waiting for Amy to come back from her scan, you had finally relented and pulled out your work laptop.

You'd kicked off your heels at some point, abandoning them beneath the chair, and were now perched awkwardly with one leg tucked under you, using Amy’s side table as a makeshift desk.

You peeked over the top of your monitor at the sound of a throat being cleared.

Frank stood tentatively at the threshold, as if he was mindful not to intrude.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I thought you might be hungry."

You glanced down to see he was holding a slice of pizza on a paper plate, a napkin folded neatly underneath.

The way the napkin was folded so deliberately made something unfurl beneath your ribs.

"First a coffee and now pizza?" You teased as you closed your laptop halfway. "I didn't realise food delivery was in the job description of an emergency doctor."

"It's an unwritten but vital part of the job." He answered smoothly, handing it over to you.

Your fingers brushed again as you took it.

Except this time, neither of you pulled away particularly quickly.

You glanced down at the plate to see two pills placed neatly beside your pizza.

“Pain killers."

He motioned to his own neck. "You keep bunching your shoulders up around your ears, probably because your neck’s tight from sitting at a desk all day."

You tilted your head slightly.

"Which means, you more than likely have a tension headache right now.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“What are you, a doctor or something?” You teased, repeating his question to you hours earlier.

“Just a little bit, yeah.” He echoed your words right back.

You huffed out a quiet laugh, your head pounding a little too hard for you to bother to try and deny its existence.

"Well, thank you." You shot him a smile as you placed the pills on your tongue, reaching for the water beside you. As you tilted your head back you were very aware of his attentive gaze.

He took a seat on the edge of Amy's bed, leaving just enough space between you to be appropriate.

"You know." He cleared his throat again, glancing down at his hands. "Dana forced the delivery driver to give her the contact number for the order. Said she needed to make sure it wasn't a poisoning attempt or something."

You let out a real laugh at that. "A mass poisoning event? Sounds like the perfect opportunity for a class action, my firm's great at defending those."

Frank hummed, observing you take your first bite.

"You know you put your phone number down as Amy's emergency contact right? So it shows up in the system."

"I’m innocent until proven guilty."

"You didn't have to do that." Frank was unable to hide the affection in his voice.

"Do what?"

You held his gaze for a second and then broke, a smile tugging at your mouth as you finally relented and offered up an innocent shrug.

"I wanted to. You guys work hard."

You glanced back at your laptop. "I was going to come and grab some but I got stuck."

"Ignoring misogynistic partners?"

You snorted. "I wish. Putting out fires instead."

"Another late night?"

"Looks like it."

Frank hummed again, his teeth catching briefly on his lower lip as he watched you.

"I know you're worried about work and Amy." He said slowly. "But it's important to take care of yourself too."

You looked up. There it was again. The sincerity, the kindness, the softness in his voice that made your stomach flutter.

"Should I take that as official medical advice?"

"I'm just saying-" Frank emphasised. "I've seen a lot of hardworkers end up in here, I wouldn't want that to happen to you."

"Well it's a little too late for that." You remarked dryly.

You glanced up when silence followed. Your eyes widened as you realised you'd said those words out loud.

"I um- what I meant was-"

"You don't have to explain." Frank cut you off, but you were already shaking your head.

"No it's fine, I um-" You hesitated, then exhaled. "I got admitted here once during law school." You admitted quietly.

Frank stiffened.

"I was so stressed and studying so hard and getting no sleep obviously, and then next thing I know a friend of a friend is suggesting I try these pills that apparently made you focus for like twelve hours straight."

You let out a small, humourless breath as the words continued to pour out of your mouth. The weeks of sleep deprivation weakening your usual posterity.

"Of course I told myself it was safe because everyone at law school was using them so why couldn't I? And I was smart so I could control it and-"

You cut yourself off when you realised how much you had been rambling.

"Sorry." You pinched the bridge of your nose between your thumb and pointer finger as your headache pulsed, too soon for the painkillers to take effect. "I don't know why I'm telling you this." You confessed.

"I've been clean for years, so no need to report me or anything."

Your attempt at lightening the mood flatlined.

You inwardly cursed yourself, glancing down at your lap. Why did you have to open your mouth? Any chance of him being interested was going to completely fly out the window-

"Benzos." Frank murmured.

You looked up with a start. "What?"

"Benzos." He repeated, this time a little louder, his eyes meeting yours. "That was my vice."

Your face faltered. You closed your laptop lid fully, slowly, as if you might spook him if you made any sudden movements.

"Dexies."

Something deeper formed between the two of you. Recognition, understanding.

You both saw the irony then too. You were two sides of the same coin, two professionals albeit in vastly different fields - one chasing a high, the other a low.

You saw the pain in Frank’s face, unable to be concealed by a weak attempt at a smile.

Your struggle had been years ago.

His… wasn’t.

“You know-“ You began gently. “-addiction doesn’t define us.”

Frank let out a sharp chuckle, more terse then he’d intended.

You winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like an Alcoholics Anonymous brochure.”

That got a genuine but short lived smile out of him. “You don’t need to apologise. The last few months have just been…” he paused, like he was trying to choose between words.

“Shit.” Was what he finally settled on.

You nodded slowly in understanding.

“It's hard not to feel like it defines you." He continued. "Working here."

"I know that feeling." You said quietly. "Like you've failed at something. Like you were supposed to have control over this innocuous thing and couldn't handle it."

He looked at you intently.

"That you should have been able to fix it yourself, without anyone else knowing. That everyone else is judging you for it."

His eyes stayed on you.

"How do you not feel like that?" His voice was smaller this time.

"I try and remember that everyone has shit going on, even if they're good at hiding it."

You smoothed your skirt as you shifted your weight.

"I have clients - CEOs, executives - the type of people you think would have everything under control, who royally fuck up and I mean royally. It usually starts with something small. Something they think they’ve got handled. And then it spirals."

You gestured outside. "You see people at their worst here everyday. People who ignore your advice, who try to convince themselves they can take care of themselves just fine without help."

Your gaze softened. "And you save them."

You offered him a small shrug. "So yeah, addiction sucks. But it isn't going to be what people remember. Not unless you give them a reason too."

You reached out instinctively to take his hand, to offer another layer of comfort. You stopped just shy, remembering yourself in time. Instead, you patted the edge of the hospital bed awkwardly.

Frank studied you for a moment. He barely knew you, and yet, you were one of first people since coming back to make him feel like he wasn't just a problem to be fixed. Like he was wanted, seen.

Frank ran a hand through his hair, letting a few strands of hair flop forward. His eyes flickered down to see that you still hadn't moved your hand from the bed.

"You know." He began, his voice lighter this time. "You're quite persuasive when you want to be." He placed his hands by his side, fingers curling over the iron frame of the bed.

"Oh yeah?"

The edge of his pinky brushed yours.

"Yeah. You should think of making a career out of it."

Your lips curved, "I'll keep that in mind."

You could have asked further questions - you had every right to want to know. But you didn't pry further, as if you knew the wounds were still so fresh they had barely begun to scab. Like you knew he wasn't ready to rip the temporary band aid off just yet.

That restraint said more than anything else could have.

It made something in his chest tighten.

It only made him want you more.

Like always, Jack Abbott had arrived early for his shift.

He strolled through the ER, taking stock of patients and preparing himself for whatever mess the day shift had left for him to mop up.

He glanced briefly through the slightly ajar curtains of Room 8.

He came to a stop as his brain caught up with his eyes. Then slowly he took a step backwards.

He blinked a few times, letting himself process what he was seeing before turning around and walking back towards the epicentre of the chaos.

"Someone want to tell me what's going on in Room 8?"

A few heads lifted as he glanced around at his colleagues.

"Is Langdon getting sued or something?"

Javadi snorted. "He's getting something alright."

Jack looked around for someone to promptly resolve his bewilderment.

"She's the co-worker of one of his patients." Whitaker supplied.

"Yes." Robby cut in, not bothering to look up from what he was doing. "So like everyone who walks in here, she should be treated with dignity and respect."

Jack raised a brow.

"Well, whatever's going on in there-" He said, glancing back towards Room 8. "I volunteer to be next in line."

Laughter erupted. Mohan shot him a glare from across the room.

"Oh for the love of god." Robby buried his head in his hands. "Would you please stop encouraging them."

"Robby!" Dana called out. "Trauma incoming, two minutes tops."

The laughter stopped just as quickly as it had started.

-

You peaked out from behind the curtain, watching as the doctors and nurses sprung into action.

Frank had bolted the second he'd heard the word trauma.

You watched as he kitted up for the trauma room, pulling on gloves, movements quick and efficient.

He slid his glasses on, those annoyingly attractive strands of his fringe still flopping over his forehead.

It was like the Frank who had been sitting beside you minutes ago, quiet and open and real had ceased to exist. He was replaced by something precise, calm, unmoveable.

You watched him step into the trauma room without hesitation.

And something about that - the competence, the confidence, the way the chaos seemed to bend around him instead of swallowing him - it did something to you.

Looks were one thing. But this? It was enough to make you weak in the knees.

-

"Don't worry kids, the adult has arrived."

Frank stepped back as Garcia sauntered into the trauma room, Robby immediately jumping in to explain the patient's symptoms.

"I'm going to need to make an incision."

Wordlessly a scalpel was placed into her outstretched hand.

"So Langdon-" She started casually. "I've heard you've got a hot lawyer down here." She said it so nonchalantly it was like she was running a knife through butter, not a person's chest cavity.

"Jesus- OR knows about this?"

"Everyone knows about this." She corrected him.

"Must be a slow news day." He grumbled as he went to check the patient's vitals.

"She bought us all pizza." Mohan unhelpfully added.

Garcia glanced up. "Really?"

"Really." Mohan confirmed.

Garcia's brow lifted slightly as she worked.

"So this woman is hot, smart and buys your co-workers food seemingly out of the goodness of her own heart?"

McKay let out a snort.

"Better find a way not to screw this one up Langdon."

"Trust me, I'm working on it." He mumbled under his breath.

Across the room, Robby noticed it.

There was something different in Langdon. He moved like he was more sure of himself, less in his head.

That dark, heavy layer that he'd been carrying since he'd returned was not gone completely, but it was like something had finally cut through it, even just a little.

Robby’s expression didn’t change, but he watched him for a second longer than necessary.

He was still so angry at him, the sting of the betrayal of his adopted prodigy still fresh. But he couldn't ignore the flicker of something in him. It was brief, gone as quickly as it came, but still identifiable.

Relief.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Amy and Perlah trundled back into the room from her journey upstairs.

Frank wasn’t far behind.

"It’s just a bad sprain." He confirmed. "Painful - but nothing we can’t manage."

Amy let out a dramatic sigh of relief.

“We’ll put you in a moon boot and give you some crutches." He added before crouching down at the foot of her bed.

You tried to focus back on your phone, but your attention kept drifting.

To the way he worked. The quiet focus. The gentle way he handled her ankle, explaining everything as he went.

And occasionally, to the way his eyes flicked up to you.

From somewhere just outside the curtain, voices filtered through.

"Have you seen the lawyer yet?"

"Yeah she's really pretty."

"I know. Langdon's whipped. He's doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The soft voice."

"He always has a soft voice."

"No - this is softer."

Your cheeks burned.

Frank very intentionally ignored them.

"This is amazing." Amy whispered.

"Please stop." You whispered back.

"Ok!" Frank jumped up with just a touch too much enthusiasm to be natural.

"You should be all good to go. You’ll have to keep weight off it for at least a week.”

“So no Jimmy Choos?”

“Definitely no Jimmy Choos.”

Amy pouted out her lower lip.

“I’d be happy to look after them for you.”

Amy cut you a side eye. “You have enough pairs of shoes to supply a small village.”

Frank smirked to himself at your bickering. Your eyes met briefly, training on one another long enough for Amy and Perlah to exchange a look.

"Um actually I think I need to go to the bathroom before I go." Amy announced loudly. "Perlah, do you think you could help me?"

"Of course."

"It might take a while." Amy held up one of her crutches. "You know, being impaired and everything."

"So plenty of time to talk." Perlah piped up.

You watched them go, both of them barely containing their giggles as they slipped out through the curtain.

Silence fell, thicker this time.

"Well, that was subtle." Frank remarked once the two of you were alone.

You let out a breathless laugh.

"Very."

Another pause.

It felt different now. Quieter. Like something was waiting to be said.

The two of you eyed eachother for a moment, as if daring to see who would break the silence first.

"So-" Frank relented first. "I um- I finish my shift in about ten minutes and I know you're busy but-" He paused, his cheeks tinging pink as he tried to phrase his words eloquently.

"I was wondering if maybe you'd like to go have dinner? There's a decent Japanese place just around the corner."

You couldn't fight the way your mouth instantly curved upwards.

"I thought doctors couldn't date their patients."

"We can't." He said quickly. "But you're not my patient. I even checked the hospital's guidelines just to be sure."

Your brow quirked up. "Did you now?"

"I did. Section 14, paragraph 5 provides the definition of patient - in case you wanted to do your own due diligence."

You laughed as if he might not be serious.

You didn't need to know that ten minutes ago he had been frantically flicking through the guidelines on his phone. Checking once, twice and then a third time just to be safe.

He was still on shaky ground here, he didn't want to do anything to rock the boat further. But there'd been a part of him that would have been willing to risk it regardless, to listen to the voice shouting at him that you were worth it.

"So technically ok but maybe just morally grey then?" You teased.

Langdon shrugged. "Maybe, but isn't that the area where you lawyers love to operate in?"

You snorted. "Wow. You know, if you ever decide you need a career change, you should consider the law Doctor Langdon."

"Something tells me the law is better off in your hands."

Your smile widened.

"So-" He said after a heartbeat, a little softer this time. "Is that a-"

"-it's a yes."

You surprised yourself at how quickly you answered.

There was a time not that long ago where you would have hesitated.

You hadn't dated in a long time, you were too busy with work, telling yourself that you weren't going to waste your limited spare time with mediocre men - which Pittsburgh seemed to supply in abundance.

But now, standing in front of Frank, you felt all of those worries fade away into the background.

Relief flickered across his face, quick but unmistakable.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Frank smiled - warm, a little shy, genuine.

"Ok, cool."

"I'll wait outside with Amy, her boyfriend should be here soon - finally."

"Sounds good, I won't be too long."

You moved to gather your things, slipping your laptop away, but paused as you reached for your bag.

"Everyone's going to be staring at me out there, aren't they?"

"...probably."

"And it's not because they want free legal advice?"

Frank chuckled. "I'm afraid not."

You nodded slowly as you digested that information.

Then, your mouth curved into a small smile.

“Well-“ You slipped your heels back on, straightening to your full height.

"Better give them something worth looking at then."

Frank let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head, not even bothering trying to look away as you walked past him.

As the faint click of your heels echoed once more down the hallway, something settled in his chest. He felt more grounded, more sure of his place here.

And for the first time since walking back in through the doors to the pitt, Frank Langdon felt truly glad to be back.