erika

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.

It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.

A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.

This is a problem.

A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.

And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.

You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.

“Fuck!”

You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.

A second you don’t have.

With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.

You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.

So vivid.

Stop thinking about his hands.

Stop thinking about his voice.

Stop—

You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.

It doesn’t help.

By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.

“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.

“You’re late,” Dana says.

You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”

“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”

You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.

“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”

You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.

“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.

Only to turn right into something solid.

Warm. Tall. Unmoving.

“Shit, I—”

You look up.

And your entire nervous system shuts down.

Dr. Robby.

“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”

His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.

His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”

“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”

You are not fine.

Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

His head tilts slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.

“I know.”

Neither of you move for a moment.

You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.

“I—I’m gonna—”

You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.

“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”

You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”

She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”

You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.

She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.

“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”

God. You could have chosen better words.

“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”

She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.

He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.

“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.

“Stop what?”

You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.

“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”

He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”

You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.

“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.

“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”

Abbot snorts. “Dana?”

You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”

“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”

Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”

Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.

You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.

You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.

“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”

You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”

She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.

On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.

When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.

After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.

Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.

“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitizer into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”

The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”

You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”

As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.

You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.

Fuck.

Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.

God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.

“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.

When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.

“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.

Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”

Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”

They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.

“Malinaw,” Princess says.

You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.

You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.

“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”

Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.

He points at you as he walks. “With me.”

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.

“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”

“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”

Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.

His arm brushes yours.

Your stomach flips.

Focus.

“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.

You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.

“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”

“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”

You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.

“Trachea midline.”

Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”

“BP holding?” Robby asks.

The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.

“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”

Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”

“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.

“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.

“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”

Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”

“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.

You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.

“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”

You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.

You swallow. “Okay.”

Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”

You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.

The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.

“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.

Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.

You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.

“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”

You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.

“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.

Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.

“Good,” Robby murmurs.

Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.

“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.

Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.

You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.

Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”

His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.

“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.

“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.

You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.

Until it stops.

Too much resistance.

“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”

He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.

You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.

He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.

His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.

Fuck. Now is not the time.

You tighten your grip on the tube and push.

Then—

A rush of air.

“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”

Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.

“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.

“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”

You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.

“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.

Abbot nods.

From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.

“Nice work, Doctor.”

You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.

As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.

You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.

“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”

“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”

Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”

You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.

“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”

You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”

“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”

As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.

And Santos notices—because of course she does.

Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”

You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.

Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.

“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

She stares at you for a second.

“A sex dream?”

You nod miserably.

Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.

Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.

“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”

“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.

She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”

“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”

Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”

She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”

“Because he’s my boss!”

“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”

You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.

“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”

She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”

You nod. “Good.”

Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.

“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.

You sigh. “What?”

She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”

Your pulse jumps.

“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.

You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.

“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”

The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”

You glance up, and he nods.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”

“Will do.”

You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.

The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.

About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.

Except the way it made your spine arch.

Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—

“Doctor.”

You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.

“Sorry—what?”

Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”

You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”

He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”

“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.

You stare at him. “And?”

He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”

You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.

“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”

Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.

Fuck.

You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?

So much for being a vault.

“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.

You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”

“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.

“Lucky us,” you mutter.

She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.

“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”

You shrug. “Just a little off today.”

She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.

She hums quietly.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”

You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”

She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”

You nod. “North Four, on it.”

You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.

“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.

“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.

“Oh.”

“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”

“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”

You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.

“Everything’s fine!”

You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.

On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.

So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.

Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.

You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.

You’re just… nervous.

Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.

You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—

“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”

You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.

Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.

The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.

And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.

“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.

She winces. “Not so good.”

“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”

She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”

You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”

She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.

“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”

“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”

You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.

“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”

She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”

“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”

“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”

“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”

She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”

You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.

“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”

You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.

“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”

Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”

Ms. Park sighs.

“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”

She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.

Not that you can blame her.

Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.

But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.

He’s looking at you.

You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”

Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.

You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.

“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.

Heat floods your face.

“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”

He glances at you over the top of his glasses.

“You had it handled.”

You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”

Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.

“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”

“I supervise,” Robby mutters.

Dana hums.

“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”

Hovering?

You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.

Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?

He hovers around every resident and med student.

It’s not like he was—

You shake your head.

No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.

You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.

Nowhere else to go.

“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.

You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”

You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.

“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”

You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”

Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”

She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.

“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”

She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”

You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”

“Caring?” she offers.

You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”

She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.

“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.

She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.

“Good girl,” she murmurs.

Your entire spine locks.

“What was that?”

McKay straightens, already grinning.

“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”

“But—you just—”

She laughs under her breath, already backing away.

“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”

Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.

You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.

“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.

“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.

Your eyes snap up. “You.”

Her brows lift. “Me?”

“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”

She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.

“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”

“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”

You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.

She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”

“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.

You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”

Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”

Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.

You glare at Santos. “Neither.”

“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”

Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.

“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”

“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”

You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.

“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.

Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”

Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.

“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”

Hovering?

Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”

“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”

Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.

Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.

Your pulse stutters.

“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.

“I threw it,” you blurt.

He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.

“I know.”

You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.

“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”

You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.

Right.

Charting.

You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.

With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.

After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.

The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.

“Back to charting?” Princess asks.

You nod. “The never-ending task.”

She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.

“You seem off today,” she says.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

“And red,” she adds before turning away.

You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.

With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.

Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.

Abbot.

You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.

Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.

Your stomach drops.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.

Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.

“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”

You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”

Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”

Then she shakes her head and walks away.

You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.

And today is not a day you want to stay back.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.

The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—

“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”

Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.

“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”

Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.

“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”

“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”

You tilt your head. “Oh.”

“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”

Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”

Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.

Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.

Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.

There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.

“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.

He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.

Still, your eyes follow it.

They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.

“Deep breath for me.”

Your pulse stutters.

Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.

The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.

His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.

Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.

“Look at me.”

Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.

Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.

Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It wasn’t subtle.

Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.

His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.

You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.

“Breathe,” he said quietly.

The word brushed over your lips.

You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.

God.

The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.

Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.

His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.

And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.

Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.

“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”

You blink at her. “Already?”

She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”

You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.

“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.

You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”

She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”

You glare at her. “I’m charting.”

“You’re drooling.”

You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.

Santos smirks. “Metaphorically.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

“Fuck who?” Whitaker asks, appearing beside Santos.

Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”

“Santos,” you warn.

She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”

“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”

Your stomach drops.

You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.

“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”

She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”

“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.

“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.

Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”

Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”

“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”

Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”

Santos smirks. “Yep.”

“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”

Perlah snorts.

Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.

“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”

Silence.

Perlah is staring at you.

Princess is staring at you.

Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.

And Santos—

Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.

“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”

No one answers.

Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.

Whitaker clears his throat.

Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.

“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.

And there he is.

Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.

Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.

He clears his throat.

Once.

“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”

That’s all it takes.

Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.

Whitaker rushes off toward triage.

Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.

And then it’s just you.

And him.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.

And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.

But that would be ridiculous, right?

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.

How to function.

You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.

God.

This has to be some kind of HR violation.

Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.

Or worse—night shift.

You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.

Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.

Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.

Not when you’ve let it affect your work.

Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.

You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.

All you can do now is your job.

All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.

You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.

The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.

Whispered about, probably.

But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?

By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.

None of it requires you to look up very much.

Which is ideal.

You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.

And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.

Not that you’re avoiding him.

Obviously.

You’re just… busy.

You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.

Like nothing happened.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.

“Hey, you busy?”

You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”

“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”

“Of course. What size?”

“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”

You nod. “On it.”

“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.

You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.

You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.

You’re just being helpful.

But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.

You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.

“Oh—shit.”

It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.

Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.

“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.

McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”

She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.

“Scalpel slipped.”

McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”

Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.

“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”

“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”

Fuck.

You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.

He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.

“Let me see,” he says, voice low.

You hold your arm out obediently.

His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.

“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”

Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.

“Come with me.”

The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.

“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”

Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.

“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.

Robby nods once. “Thanks.”

Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.

You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.

“Lay back,” he says.

Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.

He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.

His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.

You try not to think too hard about his fingers.

“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.

You nod. “Sharp blade.”

Like he didn’t already know that.

He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.

“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.

You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.

He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.

The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.

“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”

“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”

“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”

You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.

He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.

Completely calm.

Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.

The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.

“Breathe,” he says automatically.

God.

If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.

You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.

“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”

His hands pause for the briefest moment.

Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.

“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”

You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”

“Mhm.”

The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.

“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.

Your stomach tightens.

“Busy department.”

He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.

“Not exactly what I meant.”

You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.

“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”

He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.

You feel like you’re about to throw up.

“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”

Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.

“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”

You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”

His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.

“Fired?”

You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”

He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.

“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”

Your face burns.

He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.

“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”

You stare at him.

“Concerned?”

“Mhm.”

He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.

“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”

Your stomach drops.

“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.

Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.

Hovering?

Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.

Why was he even there to begin with?

Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.

I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.

I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.

And suddenly the entire day looks… different.

Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.

Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.

Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.

“Keep that dry for the next—”

And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.

Then you kiss him.

It’s not graceful.

It’s barely even planned.

Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.

For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.

“Oh—fuck. I—”

You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”

The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.

He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.

Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.

Your pulse is hammering.

“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.

His hand lifts.

The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.

Your breath catches.

He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.

Then he leans in.

The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.

For a second it’s almost restrained.

Then it isn’t.

His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.

The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.

He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.

Not stopping.

If anything, the opposite.

His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.

Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.

But definitely knows how to do.

And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.

You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—

The curtain whips open.

“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”

Abbot stops dead.

For half a second no one moves.

You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.

Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.

His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.

“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”

Robby straightens immediately.

Not panicked. Not flustered.

Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.

“Jack,” he says evenly.

Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.

“Michael.”

The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.

Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.

“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”

The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.

“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.

Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.

Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.

“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”

Your stomach drops.

“What?”

His brows lift.

“Your text.”

Your eyes widen.

Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.

“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”

“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.

Abbot’s mouth twitches.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”

You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.

“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”

Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.

Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Your girl, huh?”

Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.

“Shut up.”

You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.

The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.

“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”

“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”

“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”

You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”

“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”

You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.

“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”

She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.

“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.

You frown. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”

She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.

“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”

Your entire face goes hot.

You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.

Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.

“…Oh my God.”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

Your stomach sinks.

Will this day ever end?

That was why, on this particular evening, you found yourself in your chambers, the heavy door creaking shut behind you as he delivered yet another stern lecture. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed off the stone walls, a stark contrast to the twinkling laughter that had filled the night air just hours before. You had been caught, yet again, slipping into the shadows to meet the handsome stable boy.

As you wanted to give yet another snarky comment or even deny the accusations, Maekar grabbed onto your wrist. Pulling you close to him with a force. "Do not test me," he spoke, his voice deep and firm, a warning. His fingers flexed and grasped, applying the slightest pressure, reminding you who held you by the slender neck.

You tried to swallow, the knot in your throat tightening, trembling like a fawn caught in a predator’s gaze. In the flickering light of the hearth, shadows played across the rough-hewn walls, and the air was thick with the scent of smoke and unease. Your father loomed before you, a figure of unwavering authority. 

With just a flick of his eye or a subtle shift in stance, he wielded discipline like a sword. You felt as fragile as a leaf clinging to a branch, caught in the wind's unforgiving grasp.

Maekar observed your attempt at a swallow. His gaze was unwavering, holding you in place, the pressure of his grip just enough to assert his control. His thumb rested on your fluttering pulse point, feeling the beat increase.

"You seem speechless now, little girl," he spoke, his tone holding a note of condescension, mocking. "Yet moments ago, your words were as sharp as claws."

“Stop, stop, father.” You pleaded, voice shaky despite your best efforts to seem unbothered.

Maekar's grip loosened—just slightly—but not enough for escape. His eyes burned with something between fury and grim satisfaction as he watched your chest rise and fall in frantic bursts.

"Now you remember who I am," he hissed, leaning closer so the heat of his anger laced every word. "The same girl who rolled her eyes at me like some baseborn tavern wench?" A sharp shake of his wrist emphasised the point before adding darkly: "Beg better."

Your eyes twitched closed as he squeezed again, causing discomfort in your delicate wrist. “Please forgive me; I acted foolishly. This is not how a princess should behave,” you apologised in a quivering voice.

Maekar exhaled through his nose, but finally released you with a slight shove, as if casting aside something tainted. His fingers flexed at his sides like he was resisting the urge to strangle something else.

"Foolishly?" he repeated, voice dripping with disdain. "This action can stain your name forever." A muscle in his jaw twitched as he loomed over you. "Kneel. Prove this apology isn’t just another one of your little games."

You looked around your room, dumbfounded. “Kn-kneel?” You stuttered. This wasn’t even one of the worst things you had done, and now you had to plead for mercy? On your knees?

Maekar's lip curled like a predator's.

"Did I stutter?" he bit out, taking a single step forward, the weight of his presence pressing down like a blade at your throat. "You want to play the stubborn princess? Fine." His voice dropped to something lethally quiet. "On your knees, or I drag you there by that pretty hair and let every servant in this castle hear how their little wildcat wails for mercy."

You swallowed nervously, feeling humiliated. The situation was made worse by the large, gold-ornamented mirror. From the corner of your eye, you saw yourself dropping to your knees, your dress pooling around you.

You placed your hands neatly on your knees, looking down at first. “I’m sorry. I should have known better.”

Maekar looked back down at you, drinking in the sight before him. Your wide eyes, your face tilted upwards, a mixture of defiance and submission at play. His gaze darkened, a hand reaching out to grasp your chin, pulling with enough force to be uncomfortable.

"That's a better look on you, my sweet little wildcat," he murmured, eyes roaming over you, like he was inspecting a new horse. "All that fire, and yet here you are... kneeling for me like a good girl."

You allowed him to touch and handle you as he pleased, remaining silent throughout the entire ordeal. You felt a strange sense of pride and pleasure as he praised you.

Maekar hummed his approval at your compliance, the grip on your chin shifting to run a callous finger along your jawline. He could feel the heat radiating from you, like a well-behaved animal being tamed.  

"You can be so good when you choose to be, little girl." His other hand moved to stroke your hair, a hint of condescension in his voice. "And you look beautiful like this, a tamed, pretty little thing for her father."

A shiver ran down your spine as he spoke, his voice a low. Goosebumps prickled your skin, igniting a warm rush of desire. An unfamiliar twisting sensation coiled in your stomach, leaving you breathless. Your heart raced, pounding in the stillness.

Maekar observed your reaction keenly, the shiver, the goosebumps, the hitch in your breath. The sight of your pretty features, so responsive to his words, made his lips tug into a smirk, his eyes gleaming.  

He threaded his fingers through your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your throat, as he continued to speak in that same, darkly condescending tone. "You like it, don't you? Being my good girl, kneeling at my feet."

You lowered your gaze, feeling a deep sense of shame wash over you as you realised he was right. “Yes,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly as you struggled to swallow the lump in your throat. It felt as if the truth had stripped you bare, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in this moment.

Maekar's smirk deepened, a predator savouring the taste of submission. "Yes, what?" he pressed, tightening his grip in your hair just enough to make you whimper, a sound that pleased him immensely.

"Say it properly for me," he demanded, voice thick with authority. "Let me hear how much you like it."

“Yes, father,” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it any louder, a mix of nervousness and excitement swirling inside you as you cast a shy glance up at him, your heart racing.

A sharp, satisfied breath escaped Maekar at your whispered confession. His grip tightened in your hair for a brief moment, a reward and a punishment all at once.

"Good girl," he rumbled, the praise laced with something dangerously close to affection. "You'll stay just like this until I say otherwise." A pause. "Understood?" Lip curling up as you nod quickly.

Maekar's grip tightened in your hair, yanking you forward with a sharp jerk. "Now crawl," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for defiance.  

He watched as you obeyed, your knees scraping against the woven carpet, silks pooling around you like liquid amethyst. When you reached the mirror, he forced your head up to face it with brutal efficiency.  

"Look at yourself." His breath was hot on the back of your neck as his fingers dug into your shoulders from behind, keeping you trapped between him and reflection alike: "This is where insolence gets princesses."

You could barely bring yourself to meet your own eyes in the mirror, the heat radiating from your flushed cheeks. A wave of warmth pooled between your thighs, urgency building as his hot breath brushed against the nape of your neck, sending shivers coursing down your spine. You could feel your heart racing. The reflection captured not just your face, but the mix of emotions swirling within you, anticipation, desire, shame.

Maekar saw it––the flush, the shivers, the way your breath hitched. His grip on you tightened as he watched his reflection loom over yours in the mirror: silver hair and dark eyes like twin storms.  

"Pathetic," he sneered—yet his voice was rougher than before. "A Targaryen princess, brought to this?" A sharp jerk of your head back against his chest made you gasp as he leaned down to growl in your ear: "Do you need me to put a finger between those pretty legs? Prove just how weak my little princess is?"

A shudder wracked through you at the crude threat, your body betraying your shameful arousal. Maekar's lips curled into a cruel smirk as he saw it, his grip punishing. You didn't even know how to answer. Saying "no" would be a lie that he would see right through, but saying "yes" meant he could touch you and prove he was right. That you indeed were wet and needy for his touch.

Maekar's smirk widened cruelly as he sensed your hesitation, your inability to deny the shameful truth. His fingers tightened cruelly in your hair, forcing your head back further, your throat exposed. "Silence is not an answer, little princess," he growled, eyes glinting with wicked amusement in the mirror. "You will speak."

His hand slid down further, calloused fingers brushing against the swell of your breast through the thin silk. You gasped sharply, back arching as a jolt of electricity raced through you at the contact. Maekar's eyes flashed with triumph in the mirror, seeing the way your nipple strained against the fabric, betraying your shameful arousal.

"Look at you," he purred darkly, voice rough with satisfaction. "Such a pretty little thing, all hot and bothered. Tell me, sweetling, do you want your father to slip his fingers under these skirts?"

His hand drifted lower still, fingers skimming along your ribs, your waist, your hip. You could feel the heat of his touch even through the silk, your skin burning in anticipation. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, chest heaving as you struggled to maintain some semblance of control.

"Yes," you whispered, voice trembling with desperation. You couldn't bring yourself to look at your reflection, at the pathetic, needy creature staring back at you with those pleading violet eyes. "I... I need you to touch me. Please." The last word came out as a choked whimper, your pride shattered by the all-consuming hunger gnawing at your core. You felt his lips curve into a wicked smirk against your hair, the heat of it searing your skin. "Touch me," you repeated, louder this time, the filthy command laced with desperation.

Maekar's eyes flashed with dark triumph at your desperate plea, his smirk widening into a wicked grin. "There's a good girl," he purred, the rough approval sending shivers down your spine. His hand slid lower, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your skirt to stroke the bare skin of your thigh. You gasped, back arching as a bolt of liquid heat shot through you at the contact.

"I will give you what you need," he murmured, voice a sinful purr against your ear. His fingers crept higher, teasing along the sensitive flesh, inching closer to where you ached for his touch. Your thighs clenched, hips shifting restlessly as you fought the urge to grind against his hand, to seek more of that friction.

His hand slid into your undergarments, calloused fingers brushing against your bare, slick folds. You cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. Maekar groaned, eyes darkening with lust as he felt the evidence of your arousal coating his fingers. "Fuck," he growled, voice rough with desire. "You're dripping, little princess." His fingers slid through your folds, gathering your essence before bringing them to his lips. He licked them clean, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. "Delicious," he purred, the taste of your arousal on his tongue. "My sweet, needy girl."

Soft mewls spilt from your lips as Maekar's fingers teased through your dripping folds, skirts bunched wantonly around your waist. You arched into his touch, a breathy "mhhh" escaping you as you bit down hard on your lower lip, eyes fluttering shut. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, back bowing. You couldn't bring yourself to look in the mirror, too lost in the sensation of his calloused fingers stroking through your slick arousal.

"A-ahhh..." you gasped out, voice ragged with need. The obscene sound of your wetness filled the room as his fingers pumped in and out of your clenching hole. You could feel your heart pounding against your ribcage, blood singing in your ears. The ache between your thighs grew more insistent, your body crying out for release.

Maekar withdrew his fingers from your cunny and tapped your cheek sharply with the fingers slick with your arousal, forcing your chin up and your eyes open. "Look at yourself," he commanded, voice rough with lust and impatience. "This is what an obedient princess looks like. Don't look away again, or I'll stop."

A sharp twist of his wrist had silk tearing under iron-strong fingers—exposing even more bare skin to cool air and hotter scrutiny alike: "Say thank you."

You let out a pathetic, shaky mewl, cheeks flaming crimson as you forced your gaze to remain locked on your reflection, just as Maekar demanded. "I-I'm sorry, father," you stammered out, voice quivering.

Your heart raced wildly in my heaving chest as you watched Maekar's hungry gaze rake over your exposed cunny, now glistening and swollen with need. You could feel your slick arousal beginning to drip down your inner thighs.

Panting softly, you struggled to maintain your composure; your breathing remained uneven and shallow. "Thank you," you managed to choke out, violet eyes wide and glassy with lust as you stared at your reflection.

Maekar's eyes flashed with dark triumph as his finger sank into your tight heat with ease. "Fuck," he growled, voice rough with lust and a hint of cruel amusement. "Such a sweet cunt, it swallows my finger like it was made for it." He pumped slowly, watching your face contort with pleasure in the mirror. Your slick walls clenching greedily around the welcome intrusion.

"Tell me, sweetling, have you touched yourself like this before? Fucked your own little cunny with your fingers until you screamed?" But Maekar knows you have played with your pretty pussy before, touching yourself with curiosity. Seeing what feels good. Rubbing your clit or fingering yourself. He's heard it all through the wooden door while he has walked through the castle during the hour of the owl.

"No, I don't think a proper princess would debase herself so." His tone mocking as he leaned down, breath hot against your ear. "But you're enjoying this, aren't you? Being touched by your father?"

"I like it..." you whimpered, your voice dripping with desperate need. "It feels so much better when you touch me. So much better." You bit down hard on your plump lower lip, trying your damnedest to keep your eyes locked onto our reflection, even as they glazed over with lust. The sight of Maekar looming over you, his hand buried between your thighs, sent a fresh gush of arousal flooding your core.

Maekar's eyes flashed with dark satisfaction at your breathless admission, a wicked smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I know you do, sweetling," he purred, voice a sinful rumble against your ear. "No one can make you feel as good as your father can."

A second thick finger joined the first, pumping steadily into your dripping cunt. His fingers curled inside you, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your core that made your eyes almost roll back.

"This is where my princess belongs," he growled, voice rough with lust and dark promise. "Spread open on my fingers, dripping and desperate. Begging for more." A third finger joined the first two, stretching you wider, filling you fuller. Your gaze faltered for a second, the stretch burning just the tiniest bit. 

"Don't you dare look away," Maekar commanded as he saw you drop your gaze, your body instinctively trying to adjust. "Watch yourself take my fingers."

"Yes, father," you gasped, eyes wide and hazy with lust as you stared into the mirror, cheeks flushed a deep pink. You clenched hard around his pumping fingers. Your slick arousal coated his hand, dripping down your thighs as he pumped steadily, filling you, stretching you.

"I'm going to make you feel good," he promised darkly, free hand sliding up to grope your breast, kneading the soft flesh. "Gonna fuck you until you scream, until the whole castle knows who this cunt belongs to."

His fingers picked up speed, thrusting harder, deeper. The obscene sound of your wetness filled the room as he fingered you, your body shaking with pleasure. "Beg for it, princess," he growled. "Beg your father to fuck this desperate little cunny."

Your hips bucked against his hand, seeking more, the pleasure bordering on pain. The heat between your thighs was unbearable, your pearl throbbing and swollen, aching for his touch. Your body no longer your own, but his to command.

"Please fuck me. I need to be put in my place, father," you pleaded, watching his hand disappear between your spread thighs.

"Such a desperate little whore," he purred, voice rough with lust and cruel amusement. "Don't worry, I'm going to put this needy little princess in her place," he promised, free hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

He withdrew his fingers abruptly, leaving you empty and aching. You whimpered at the loss, hips twitching backwards, seeking more. Maekar chuckled darkly, bringing his slick fingers to your lips. "Taste yourself, sweetling. Taste how much you need it."

"Open your mouth, princess," he commanded, fingers pushing demandingly at your lips. "Show me you can be a good girl." 

You took Maekar's slick fingers into your mouth without hesitation, your small pink tongue swirling around them as you held his intense gaze through the mirror. You could taste the tangy essence of your arousal coating his skin. Your lips sealed around his digits, suckling gently.

Maekar groaned, eyes flashing with lust as he watched you suckle his fingers clean of your juices. "Such an obedient little princess," he praised, voice rough and approving. His cock throbbed in his breeches, straining against the confines of the fabric. He couldn't wait to sink into your tight, dripping heat.

With his free hand, he fumbled with the laces of his breeches until his thick, hard length sprang free. It jutted out, long and thick, the swollen head already leaking with arousal, a tuft of bale white hair at the base of his cock. He stroked himself slowly as he watched you, eyes dark and hungry.

Your breath caught in your throat as Maekar's thick, hard cock sprang free, your violet eyes widening at the sight. You had seen one before, coaxed the handsome stable boy to show you his manhood out of curious teenage daring. But this... this was different. This was real. The pearly bead of arousal at the tip made you lick your lips unconsciously.

"Bend over," he commanded, voice a low growl. "Face the mirror and spread your legs. Show me that needy little cunt."

Without a word, you lowered herself onto your elbows, the plush carpet beneath the hardwood floor digging into your knees. You bent over, back arched, hair spilling over your shoulders. The silk of your dress rode up your thighs as you spread your legs, baring yourself completely to Maekar's hungry gaze in the mirror.

"Fuck, look at that little cunt," he growled, stroking his hard cock slowly as he loomed over you. "So wet and puffy, just begging to be filled."

He pressed the leaking tip against your entrance, the hot, hard flesh parting your slick folds. "This is what a princess needs," he rumbled, voice rough with desire. "A thick, hard cock stretching this greedy hole."

You could feel the heavy weight of his arousal pressing against your ass. Maekar's hand slid down your back, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your rear before delivering a sharp smack. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the room.

"Wait!" You gasped, eyes wide as you felt the sharp sting of Maekar's palm against your tender flesh. "Please, father, I... I've never..." you trailed off, biting your lip nervously as you peeked back at him over your shoulder. "Could you... Could you please be gentle?" You lowered your gaze submissively, but kept your voice steady. "Show me how to be a good princess for you."

Maekar paused, eyes narrowing as he looked down at you. For a moment, he simply stared, his expression inscrutable. Then, slowly, a smirk spread across his face. "Of course, sweetling," he murmured, voice low and soothing. "I will be gentle... at first."

His hand slid up your back, fingers threading through your hair. He tugged your head back, forcing you to arch your spine and press your chest against the floor. "But you must be a good girl," he warned, voice a dark rumble. "No matter what I do, you must take it like a proper princess."

You nodded, wanting desperately to please him. "I can take whatever you give me, father," you said, your voice trembling slightly but filled with determination.

With that, he pushed forward, the thick head of his cock popping past your entrance. He groaned at the feel of your tight heat enveloping him, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Fuck, you're tight," he growled, voice strained. "Such a perfect little princess pussy."

He pushed in further, inch by hard inch, until he was fully sheathed inside you. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust to the stretch, the fullness. "This is the rightful place for a princess," he purred, voice rough with satisfaction. "Impaled on her father's cock."

The pleasure was intense, bordering on pain, but you welcomed it. You wanted to be stretched, to be claimed, to be owned by your father.

Your back arched instinctively, pushing your hips back against him as you let out a long, low moan. "Ohhhh~" you panted, voice breathy and dazed. "I feel so... so full." You clenched reflexively around his throbbing cock, marvelling at the way your untouched walls stretched to accommodate his size. "Is this... is this what it's like?" You asked. Your voice was a needy whimper, hips rolling back to meet his slow thrusts, craving more of that stretch.

Maekar groaned at the feel of your tight walls clenching around his cock, your inexperienced body struggling to adjust to the sudden intrusion. "This is just the beginning, sweetling," he promised darkly, fingers tightening in your hair as he started to move.

He began to thrust, slowly at first, letting you feel every inch of his thick length as it dragged along your sensitive walls. The wet, obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room as he picked up speed, his heavy balls slapping against your clit with each thrust.

You whimpered and arched your back as Maekar's thrusts grew deeper and more insistent, your pert breasts pressing against the plush carpet with each powerful surge of his hips. "Gods, fuck!" you gasped out, violet eyes wide and hazy with lust as you stared at your reflection. Your teeth sank into your plump lower lip, but it did little to muffle the desperate sounds spilling from your throat.

"Gods, you're so deep," you panted, feeling every thick inch of him. "I've only... ahh~!" Your words dissolved into a wanton moan as he hit a particularly sensitive spot, back bowing sharply.

Through the haze of pleasure, you kept your gaze locked on Maekar's reflection, drinking in the sight of your powerful father looming over you, claiming your body. You could feel the heat of his skin, the flex of his muscles as he took you, and it set your nerves alight.

He could feel your arousal coating his cock, making each thrust slick and smooth. The obscene sound of your wetness filled the room, mingling with the creaking of the floor beneath you and the harsh pants of your breath. Maekar's own breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving with exertion as he took you.

"Tell me, princess, does your pretty cunny like being pounded by a real man?" His free hand slid around to grope your breast, fingers pinching and rolling your sensitive nipple. "Does it like being filled with father's cock?"

"Y-Yes, father!" you gasped, back arching as pleasure spiked through you. "I love it! I love being filled by you!"

Maekar's thrusts grew harder, faster, each one driving deeper into your tight heat. "That's it, princess," he growled, voice rough with approval. "Take it like a good girl." His hand came down on your ass with a sharp smack, the sting making you yelp.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "Look at yourself," he commanded, voice a dark rumble. "Look at how your pretty face contorts with pleasure. This is what you were made for. This is where you belong."

His hand slid around to your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you back against him, meeting each of his thrusts with a sharp snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a lewd counterpoint to your gasps and moans. "You're dripping all over my cock, sweetling," he purred, voice thick with lust. "Such a messy little princess."

"F-father! Oh gods—" Your voice cracked as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, unable to handle the overwhelming sensations. The pleasure was too much, too intense—it felt like you were being consumed from the inside out.

You bit down hard on your lower lip, trying to stifle your cries, but it was no use. "Nnngh! I can't—" Your hands fisted in the carpet beneath you, knuckles white. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling filled the room, mixing with your desperate whimpers and gasps.

"P-please..." You sobbed, your voice breaking. "It's too much~!" The words dissolved into a strangled moan as another wave of pleasure crashed over you, your inner walls clenching around his thick length.

Maekar's eyes flashed with dark triumph at your desperate plea, his grip tightening in your hair until you gasped. "Too much?" he growled, voice a wicked purr. "You can take it, princess. I know you can." He slammed into you harder, making you cry out. "This is what you need. This is what your little cunny was made for."

Your eyes rolled back involuntarily, a strangled moan escaping your lips as Maekar's thick length stretched you impossibly wide. "Aaahhn—"

SMACK!

The sharp sting of his palm against your cheek snapped your eyes open, tears pricking at the corners as you gasped. "Stay with me, princess," he rumbled, voice dark and commanding. "Don't you dare look away."

Your mouth hung open, panting breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. "F-fuck... Maekar..." I whimpered, violet eyes struggling to focus on his reflection in the mirror. Your inner walls clenched around him involuntarily, the sensation overwhelming. "Soo good~"

Maekar groaned, feeling your tight walls ripple around his cock. "That's it, sweetling," he purred, voice thick with lust."Your pretty cunt is trying to milk my cock, isn't it?" He reached around, his fingers finding your swollen clit and pinching it gently. "Does this feel good, princess?"

Maekar groaned, feeling your tight walls ripple around his cock. "That's it, sweetling," he purred, voice thick with lust. "You're trying to milk my cock, aren't you?" He reached around, his fingers finding your swollen clit and pinching it gently. "Does this feel good, princess?"

"Y-yes!" you squealed as he pinched your little nub. "It feels so good, I'm... I'm going to—" Your words dissolved into a strangled cry as your inner walls began to clench rhythmically, your body trembling on the edge of release. "It feels weird," you cried out, voice cracking as your body seized, a violent tremor rocking you from the inside out. 

Your cunt clamped down on his cock like a vice, a gush of hot fluid soaking both of you as you came with a sharp, broken cry. "Fuck!"

Maekar didn't stop, fucking you through the intense, shuddering waves of your orgasm, his own release building in his heavy balls. "That's it, princess," he growled, voice strained. "Come on my cock. Milk it all out." He leaned over you, his sweat-damp chest pressed to your back, his hand finally releasing your hair to slide down and grip your throat, holding your head high toward the mirror. "Look at your face," he commanded, his hips slamming into you with relentless force. "Look how you fall apart."

Your reflection was a mess—tear-streaked, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure, violet eyes glazed and unseeing. Hewatched your expression as he fucked you, the sight pushing him over the edge. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, his cock pulsing as he spilt his seed deep inside your quivering cunt.

Maekar's cock twitched and pulsed inside you, pumping out the last of his seed as you trembled beneath him. He stayed like that for a moment, pinning you down, his hand still tight around your throat as you both panted and gasped for breath.

"Mmnh~" you let out a small, breathless whimper as you felt Maekar's cock pulse inside you, his hot seed filling your untouched womb. Your inner walls clenched involuntarily around him, trying to milk out every last drop.

You could feel it sloshing around inside you, a warm, sticky sensation that made your cheeks burn with shame even as your body shuddered with afterglow. "F-father..." you panted, your voice weak and trembling. "I... I can feel it. You're filling me up so much..."

Maekar's lips curled into a wicked smirk as he felt your body tremble beneath him, your tight cunny milking his cock."That's right, sweetling," he purred, voice rough with satisfaction. "Father's filling his little princess up with his seed."

He withdrew slowly, his thick length slipping out with a wet pop, a gush of his cum, and your arousal spilling onto the carpet beneath you. Maekar groaned at the sight, eyes dark and hungry as he watched it drip down your inner thighs.

You whimpered as he pulled out, feeling his seed and your combined fluids trickling down your thighs. Your legs trembled as you tried to hold yourself up on your elbows, your whole body feeling boneless and sensitive.

"Father..." you panted, looking back at him over my shoulder with hazy, satisfied violet eyes. "Did I... did I do well?" The question came out smaller than you intended, your voice still breathless and shaky.

Maekar’s smirk was all cruel satisfaction as he looked down at you, his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. “You did well, princess,” he rumbled, voice thick with spent lust. “Took my cock like you were born to it. Tight little cunt gripping like it wanted to keep me inside forever.” He gave your ass a sharp, stinging slap, making you gasp.

You lay there on the floor like some cheap plaything, knees burning from the hardwood, thighs shaking with each ragged breath. You tried to push yourself up, but your arms gave out pathetically.

"Fuck..." The word came out as barely more than a whimper. Every muscle in your body ached in the most delicious, overwhelming way.

You finally managed to prop yourself up on your elbows, your reflection in the mirror catching your eye. Violet eyes half-lidded and glassy, lips swollen and red, face flushed and dishevelled. You looked absolutely ravaged.

"Father..." you breathed out, voice hoarse and small. "I... I can't..." Your legs trembled as you tried to stand, but your knees buckled, sending you back down to the floor with a soft thump.

Maekar watched you struggle, a flicker of something almost like pity in his stormy violet eyes before it was swallowed by his usual stern mask. He sighed, a long, weary sound, and then he was moving. Not with gentle care, but with efficient, iron-strong purpose. He scooped you up in his arms, your body limp against his chest, your head lolling against his shoulder.

"Pathetic," he muttered, but he held you securely, carrying you as if you weighed nothing. He didn't take you to your bedchamber—that would be too much of a sanctuary. Instead, he deposited you with a soft thud onto the wide, cushioned bench at the foot of the bed, the one he used for pulling on his boots.

"Stay there," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He fetched a basin of cool water from the washstand and a rough linen cloth, dropping them beside you with a splash. "Clean yourself up. You're a mess."

He stood over you, arms crossed, his own spent cock still glistening, his clothing in disarray. His gaze was analytical, critical, as he took in the sight of you—his daughter, his princess, dripping his seed onto his own floor. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"You'll be sore tomorrow," he stated, not a question. "And you'll walk like you've been ridden hard, because you have." His tone was blunt, matter-of-fact, stripping any romance from what had just happened. "My seed is in you now. Don'tscrub it out. Let it settle. It reminds you who you belong to."

He turned to leave, pausing at the door with his hand on the heavy oak. He glanced back, his expression unreadable in the dim light from the corridor.

"Don't make me discipline you again. A good princess knows when she's been given enough."

You stared up at Maekar as he stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted by the flickering torchlight from the corridor. Your heart sank at his cold tone, at the way he dismissed you so easily. You felt... used. Dirty. And yet, even as those thoughts crossed your mind, you could feel your body responding to his dominance, a shameful heat pooling low in your belly.

"I... I understand, father," you whispered, your voice barely audible. You reached for the basin, your hands trembling as you began to clean yourself, the cool water a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating through your body.

As you wiped at the sticky mess between your thighs, you couldn't help but notice the way your inner walls still fluttered, still clenched around nothing. The ache of his absence was almost as intense as the pleasure he'd given you. You bit your lip, trying to stifle a whimper as you struggled to your feet, your legs shaking beneath you.

"Maekar..." you said, your voice small and uncertain. "What... what happens now?"

Maekar's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he looked back at you. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply watching you with an expression that was hard to read. Then, finally, he let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging just a fraction.

"Now?" he said, his voice low and rough. "Now you go to your chambers and try to sleep, princess. Tomorrow, we return to our lives. You are a princess of this realm, and I am your father. What happened here... it stays between us. Do you understand?"

He stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him with a click. He moved toward you, his hand reaching out to cup your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. Your gaze flickered to the floor as you whispered, "Yes, father. I understand."

Maekar's thumb stroked your lower lip, a gesture that was almost tender in contrast. "Good girl," he murmured, the words sending a confusing mix of pride and shame through you. "Now, go. I'll have the maids bring you moontea to your chambers."

You stood there for a moment, your legs trembling beneath you, your body still aching. Then, slowly, you gathered what little remained of your dignity and made your way to the door.

As you passed him, Maekar's hand shot out, catching your wrist.

"You are my princess. My daughter. What we did here... it changes nothing. Do you understand?"

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "I understand."

He released your wrist, his hand falling to his side. You waited for a moment, half expecting him to say something else, to do something else. But he didn't. So, with a final, shaky breath, you turned and left the room, your head held high despite the shame and confusion churning in your gut.

As you walked through the corridor, you could feel the sticky mess between your thighs, the ache of his absence. You tried to tell yourself that it was just sex, just a physical release. But deep down, you knew that was a lie.

You reached your chambers and slipped inside, closing the door behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, your eyes closed, your heart racing. Then, slowly, you began to undress, peeling off the silk dress that was now stained with your combined fluids. You tossed it aside and moved to the washbasin, splashing cool water on your face.

As you looked at your reflection in the mirror, you could see the changes in your face. Your lips were swollen and red, your cheeks flushed.

You sank onto the edge of your bed, your head in your hands. What were you going to do? How were you going to face him tomorrow, knowing what you had done? Knowing what you had allowed him to do?

king’s landing had been your home for as long as you could remember. the city where your childhood had formed into memories and adolescence greets you fairly well, was solemn for a particular amount of time caused by a rather unspoken reason— your mother’s passing. ten and four when you were stripped away of a parent, your elder brothers sharing the sentiment of your loss, valarr and matarys. yet not once had you catch sight of your father baelor show an ounce of anything but the proper regal prince he was. it’s rather fascinating, how a man with so much demands that awaited him from his title and birthright, carry himself with the same grace and honor he was born into despite the loss of his wife.

the gardens were always your safe keeping at moments of kept solitude, the bitter reminders of womanhood eliciting you of how truly deprived you were of a caring touch. staring out onto the great sea by the swaying flowers from the breeze and glimmering waters, all while your fingers fidget with the rings around them— a habit you had developed since you do not recall when.

matarys was good, he held you steady when he sees you barely holding it together in pressuring predicaments, unable to do much more than hold your hand with a quiet look of empathy for his younger sister. it was enough for you, to hold onto his kindness while facing through the burdens of being the heir’s sole daughter. valarr on the other hand, was less present in truth— occupied with sharpening his swordmanship and expanding his knowledge of both history and politics for preparation in being the throne’s first in line once your father baelor ascends it. but he’s gentle, heart a mellow space for you to cry on when shoulders weighed more than you’d wish them to. his split colored eyes carried a sort of discernment that mirror your father’s both physically and metaphorically. he’d inherited it, you remarked, valarr and his true calm demeanor.

you had more than what most girls in the realm could ever form in ambitions: fine jewelry, numerous flattering gowns fabricated in luxury, a regal title and a castle over your head. what else could a young twenty and one lady permit a wish for more? is that not a sort of greed in branches of thorns? to desire more over what one already possess— is blasphemy almost, you believed it so. fear ringing the bones of your ribcage, you had began to dress in even more decent clothing, refusing your maidens suggestion of less fabric due to the hot summer days in the keep to help you cool— shaking your head away as she laces your almost blanket like gown before your neck bared the symbol of the faith of the seven.

it’s unnoticeable alterations at first, the gowns, your sudden interest in faith, demeanor much hushed from all the crying now, less dependent on your brothers— who had taken notice each shift of your demeanor. knees sore from spending most of the day in the surreal serenity of the sept, kneeled before the candles you had spent hours lighting along side the septas. lips chapped at the amount of whispering you had shared in prayer over crossed pleading hands and curled knees in utter devotion— wishing, begging for the gods to hear your prayers.

the subject of said latter? you are not certain. mayhaps you were, but despair often times drive your vicissitude to fruition— swallowing the truth that burned in place of enunciating them even to your own. but the verity of your aching soul? is the covet you’ve mistakenly woven into your flesh in regards to seeking comfort by the sole man you have not once received from. your father baelor.

baelor was a good man, a great son and an even greater husband to your mother— yet, these description fall spurious in the looking glass of actual fatherhood. perhaps to valarr and matarys he was, it painted an unpleasant feeling of alienation and an even anchoring state of hebetude within the already aching bones of your ribs that you had began to regard your own father out of jaundice. praying and praying and praying and begging to the gods for at least a response as to what could possibly be lacking of your end that he deemed unneeded of his affections. a harrowing cycle you’d predicament yourself into.

then the modifications were no longer subtle, reaching the end of the sharp blade they had created whispers among the walls of the keep that sooner reached your grandsire’s ears— immediately calling upon baelor to halt these implications of your becoming wish of a septa.

he stood by the window of his study in the hand’s tower, fingers turning his rings in circles before the sound of the chamber doors open to the pace of footsteps he has memorized in mind. the heavy closing of the four walls had enfold both you and your father who continued to watch the city from above. the bile in your throat had brewed awake at the mere sight of him, let alone surrounded in an unusual tranquility together. you mirrored him unconsciously, fingers fidgeting with your own rings while gazing down to the floor with your taciturnity. he turns at that, two-toned colored eyes regarding you and your befitting gown and headdress that resembled a septa more than a princess— more than his daughter.

baelor leans against the study table of his filled with political parchments, scrolls of alliances and heavy history books— fingers tapping against the dark wood that matches one color of his eyes that continued to take you in.

‘’do you wish for me to announce the reason i have summoned you? or to that will you be as furtive as well?’’ his low voice questions your fidgeting form before him.

‘’.i.. apologize for the bother i had caused, your grace.’’

your response has him intake a sharp air straight to the pounding lungs of his, standing up straight before stepping just until the front of you. his hand does not raise your tilted head, no— it does not. instead, it takes into hold the pendant of your necklace, the symbol of the seven which had caused him to whisper:

‘’when has your faith grown so strong that you forget your station, my child?’’ his thumb stroking the metal against his finger, the barely restrained scowl on your features had spoken more of your truest to him before your lips could utter:

‘’..i do not recall, your grace.’’

‘’father.’’ he corrects you hastily, lifting your head now to meet his carving gaze— the same ones you’ve been too captivated in your own deceptions while wearing the green willow to heed at how it had never strayed from your being in every room you bore with him.

‘’when had i lost you completely, my dear girl?’’ his question earnest, but the abnegation of his neglect was much too strong for you to falter at the softness his tone carried. features slowly etching to your buried anguish before you could ease them back to insouciance.

‘’..i do not have it in me to discuss such plain matters, father. i wish to leave.’’ you utter in true discomfort— not from his knowing looks but by the grace of your own distasteful conclusions about the man you had began to despise.

to that, baelor simply humms, brushing your fallen strand of hair back into your headdress before pressing a tender kiss to your temple— allowing you leave after, which you had hastily taken wordlessly. hands gripping your gown while your chest pants in a sort of swell that threatens the newly self-proclaimed essence of your being to collapse.

if baelor considered your spacious acts a kind of limiting rope between what little relationship exist between the both of you, he had not taken it upon himself to grasp that it was the shallow you’ve demonstrated— head deep beneath the direness of your own ensuring. you were even more distant now than he had wished, in such way that even meals were left with an empty seat of yours, confining yourself in the stillness of the sept or your chamber— with the same kind of act you’ve fallen comfort in: praying.

it was more intense, heated than the flames of the burning candle wicks before you as tears threatened to spill from your close eyes much like their wax. the septas worry over you, worry over the realms princess. at the severity of your continuous murmured prayings that flown like gospels they felt as if old valyrian tongue had resurrected at how eerily resembling it was to your whispered begging to the gods.

baelor permitted your unverbalized demand of expanse from the jargon of your station, from your grandsire’s repeating tirade for proper footing in place of your befitting behavior, and from himself. baelor also ceased the vile whispers against you with a look at the court members— stern and grim, a rare sight of expression the prince carried.

and thus so, a shift within the tides decided your prayers were heard and shall heave you from sin-like turmoil within the pores of your very soul— perhaps the gods might even be so kind to bless their devoted longing child more than what is sufficiently invoked through heavy cycled gospels. oh you have not much time before it arrived.

your usual attempt of escape from meals were put to rest upon baelor fetching you himself from your chamber— compelling you of not a word to utter, merely to have your chair not be so vacant with the family. your father then pays visit in the sept where he often finds you kneeled before the weeping wax in quiet murmuring of your lips against the skin of your joined hands— watching, never to hinder your shown of devotion. it is books after, ones that displayed the subjects of your interest finding space in your own chamber besides the newly tailored gown to your liking.

it irked you indefinitely, how sudden his presence tainted your supposed tightly knitted abhorrence by undoing so through paced and careful gifting affection. you loathe it, repulsed by the thought of not his attempts of cradling your fragile trust once more— but the sentiment it leaves you after each acknowledgement.

his back was to you once you’ve entered his study in the hand’s tower, broad and wide beneath the black of fabric he bore. the doors closes from the hand of the knightsguard, gripping your fingers behind your gown— the fresh one he had gifted you just a few nights ago. red and ivory, laced in the ends like he knew you would appreciate. baelor turns to you with the same piercing eyes that conveyed an unreadable tint.

‘’come, my child. i have something for you.’’

your feet slowly steps uncertainly into the direction of where he stood, fingers still fumbling the rings in your behind until you reach him. once you did so, he offers just a small velvet box, bearing a necklace of silver of valyrian steel with red garnets adorning the chain just before your eyes set onto the pendant: a dainty symbol of the faith of the seven. gasping softly at his gift, he takes it from the box before you turned for him, unneeded to be told. baelor’s hand brushes your pale hair revealing not just your nape but the skin of your chest where the necklace now lay rest against.

you glanced down to it with flushed cheeks, unable to comprehend the much too haste of your thoughts. he turns you gently, just to meet his gaze and it aches— how overwhelming it is to face the fruit of your prayers regarding you in every way you had earnestly crave for. baelor’s hand admires the gift against your skin, thumb lifting to caress your cheek so lightly it felt almost a kind of intimacy.

‘’when have you grown so easy in the eyes, my daughter?’’

you glanced away instantly, unable to prolong contact with his piercing gaze upon hearing the words of innocent affection. baelor smiles to your expressiveness, brushing away strands to the curve of your ears before speaking lowly once again:

‘’i shall let you off for your prayers.’’ and you nodded, a tender kiss against the corner of your left eye before taking leave. heaving and trembling on your path towards the sept where your knees bruised in contact upon kneeling much too harshly from rush. lips taking in broken gasps in effort to still the pounding flesh of your heart between the rattling bones— unable to catch the words necessary for your prayers, hoping the thoughts were sufficient instead. but was this not what you’ve cried for? the labor of your devotion manifesting before you, yet upon so, you answer in disgraceful unappreciation?

shaking your head harshly as hot tears fall into your still flushed cheeks, eyes closed while your forehead press against your praying hands— chasing after air with gasps as the spine of you loom over with a certain kind of need that does not root from the habitual essence of your desire. it’s more. it’s grey, darker and digs into the crevices of what you’ve presumed was innocent. you weeped, you sobbed, you plead for mercy from the unbecoming of the fresh new wound of a much illicit itch— no longer understanding your own.

half a fortnight before you fractured into what you swore an oath before the gods. rising from the sept before your chest pants with adrenaline of choice you’ve fallen faint to, gripping the satin of your gown as your feet climbed the steps that led into the man you supposedly carried unforgiving for. hesitating first, always, then knocking before your mind could switch back to persuasion of solitude. it opens, of course it does— he’s known you by now, he’s always have like a loving sire would in regards of his children.

your lips quiver but remained sealed, eyes blinking up to him with an expression even your own mind does not comprehend— but baelor recognizes it without difficulty, permits you inside his study before he resumes the readings laid before him in the table. frozen in limbs for a few moments, the chair beside the open window was the target for your form; until his voice carries around the four walls enough to have your cease movement.

‘’come.’’ a single word he utters, and already, you nod your head in obeisance— contrasting the malice you regarded your father in only two moons ago. baelor takes your fidgeting hand in his, thumb soothing the smaller knuckles into ease before his eyes lifts to yours.

‘’you are much like me, i observed. entirely so i believe— only you possess much lovelier features from mine own.’’

you blinked back, still mute, incapable of finding your voice to respond, only listening until he rises from his seat— instantly towering over you. baelor takes your entirety selfishly, the hand on yours now commences a trail that followed a sparking path from your arms, into the slopes of your neck up to cradle his palm gently against your cheek— leaning subconsciously to the warmth it omitted.

‘’do the indignities of your childhood cause by my neglect truly rends you incapable of pardon?’’ he breathes, watching you carefully simmer the intent in your own pace. wordlessly, you glanced away and decide the pin on his clothing was much easier to gaze in contrast to his eyes. baelor rests his other hand to your waist now, thumb skimming the smoothness of the gown before murmuring:

‘’will you allow your father to make amends, hm, little dove?’’ eyes closing shut at the question and the fluttering endearment. rose hued lips parting not for response but to inhale sharp and quiet— that was enough for baelor to lean down and peck the smoothness of your flushing skin. temple down to the lashes of your eyes and into the curve of your nose and round of your cheek. your bottom lip finds refuge in between your teeth as he continues to shower you in utter affection: your jaw now and your neck next until the collarbone before.. the swell of your chest. he pulls away after to admire how affected you were from mere simplicity— despite knowing his actions were anything but.

panting and blushing under him and the flickering flames of candles surrounding you both in seclusion that bordered unethical intimacy. your eyes open to meet his darker ones, swirling with heat from what you wish reciprocated the sins you concealed. feeling it before your mind could conjure properly, his thumb traces the shape of your lips until he replaces it with his own— kissing you slowly as if anymore pressure would break his fragile girl.

his stomach curls at the sound you emitted, sweet sweet mewl for him to swallow before pressing your hips to his table. hands unlacing your gown to reveal the supple of your chest which he showers in the same tender affection. with that your head throws back with a gasped moan, holding onto his forearm.

‘’father—‘’ he tsks, pulling away to shake his head, kissing you again with a whisper.

‘’hush, little dove.’’

you nod, obeying any order he utters in fear of being deprived once more from the affection you’ve yearned for far too long. he kisses you as long as you’d demanded, offering every unuttered wish with earnest. your father is a patient man, he is, the realm subjects itself to it— but you’re much too enticing to prolong. facing the flat of his desk, bent over as he ravishes your neck and shoulder while your gown is pushed up to your hips as much as his trousers were pulled down. stroking himself firm in form first, spine curved for him in access.

kiss-swollen lip parts in what resembled the gasps that you’ve echoed in the sept, only this time, it’s much unholier in both the predicament and tone. baelor was not any better with the groan expressed at the at last feeling of condemnation— head falling to your shoulder blade as he slowly fucks himself into you. sobs threaten to draw out as his cock begins to ease you into mellow, head full of nothing but the unearthly feeling of pleasure he shares with you.

it’s filthy, corrupt and blasphemous, what you two indulged in. yet, morals were the last of thought to have because baelor begins to thrusts much harsher now, not enough to break you, but adequately to have your hand engulfed in his. and gods, the sounds and the sight of you together could cause the legitimacy of targaryen accusations.

your closed eyes open as you continue moaning deliciously at each slicked fuck his cock presses against your flesh— shaking your head until the ring on his hand catches your attention, resembling the gifted necklace that swayed on your neck. the thought merely makes you grip his hand harder with sobs now, so so overwhelmed at the blooming in your chest where a neglected wound once ached.

‘’father’s sorry, little dove.. will you forgive me?’’ he moans in your ear with matching impure thrusts that he himself feels the looming light of pleasure.

merely nodding your head for him, unable, incapable and helplessly ruined beneath to search for your voice outside of mewls. baelor bites his lips at the sight, his own ruin warning him of end— so turning your head instead, lips meeting his while you both swallowed each others cries of utter high. conjoined more ways now that you could have ever ambition yourself to wish.

baelor does not pull away, not immediately; instead, he buries himself to the hilt which pulls a whimper from you that he inhales within the kiss. parting for reprieve of air and for him to pepper your bare shoulder with gentleness, fingers brushing your hair away for space to press even more of his loving to your cheek. completely and entirely smitten for you— his pure white.

fin.

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⌞a/n⌝ so.. what do we think? may have taken a little longer than said but here is mr. baelor’s official version of the beloved taboo pairing you little filthy birds seem to flock to.. and who am i but your subject? anyway. thank you for the kind words and support i have received from mr. maekar’s fic! i am so full of inspiration at the moment so requests will come soon after!

it is easier to believe that your mother had left for a particular reason other than the very truth of it, plain and cold, merely a soul taken away from a body where a family of mourning children, seven to be exact, and an even more grieving husband— a widow now, is left behind. many moons have passed, perhaps more than your fingers could count. if you could remember it correctly, it was your ten and ninth name day, just a few fortnights before she was taken away. it matters not regardless, because it all felt constricted and tensed within the walls of your home since.

daeron has succumbed to the lulling of wine and liquor to void his already empty chest but troubled mind, aerion cascading through the days with his new interest in regards of matter in a much cruel taste, aemon sent to the citadel by your grandsire to have him as a maester, your sweet sisters daella and rhae all clinging and dependent to their elder sister, much like egg— all three in desperate need of a loving hand that nurses their fragile hearts. you were there, as much as an elder sister could be; born third out of seven, you had been the warmth that seemed to remain the family intact.

taking it upon yourself to look after the younger ones once you’d turn twenty and one, a sympathetic smile sent to daeron when days are harsher to him and patience longer than your duty as a sister commanded in regards to aerion’s growing depth. it all fell naturally onto you, at the very manner you’ve slowly patched the wound of lacking a mother for your siblings through sweet and gentle demeanor.

it is quiet in most days that befell summerhall. serene almost, specially now that spring has arrived— which meant one of many things, gatherings and events are soon to be held.

the walls had began to warm from many months of cold, metaphorically speaking in between. in ways that matter, you find yourself content to see how your family was much melodic, not any more bonded— it seemed impossible, a dream merely, for that kind of ambition. but, your easiness and motherly like touches and tending had overcome the collective grief that once loomed over the now tightly knitted family— and for that maekar adored you.

silent, of course, in manners that he allowed himself to express. you were his sweet girl, shy and kept mostly to herself but the true personification of a fresh breath of air that soothes your aching flesh after being confined in the desolate state he’d wallowed himself in. he prides in glory of the very fact that he’s at least one proper child from the contrasting likeness of his others— he loves them all, but you, his sweet summer born girl, he favored the most.

a hand around his arm in quiet walks around the garden together during middays, an ear listening to your spoken words when situations weighed the slopes of your shoulders, cold gazes that softens slightly at the sight of yours on his across meals or council meetings, caressing your head with a small grunt of gratitude upon seeing your efforts for the family and in rare occasions— he’ll allow himself to your arms when his title demanded more than he was capable of giving.

and in return: you’d find yourself by his side most hours of the day, eagerly listening to his commanding tone towards men. reminding your sire to relieve himself from unnecessary burden by visiting him in his study with a tray of warm tea with his preferred biscuits and fruits. often times your feet walks the dark path merely lit by torches towards the wing of his chamber at midnight, shyly whispering if he may allow you to be held just until he’s fallen back asleep.

and who was maekar to deny his sweet girl of such simplicity? your father adored you, more than his words could ever form upon sentences. so he merely nods, making space into the warmth of his bed and holding your trembling closely into his embrace as you had wished.

it’s all innocent, a fatherly affection every once in a while but, he is a man, a widowed lonely man— and the blood of the dragon runs thickly into the very veins of his being. so, it would be a lie if he were to deny that he’s grown fonder of you more than anyone, that he has not acknowledge how you’ve slowly grown into a young lady basking in womanhood as if you were always meant to be one, and it would most certainly be unlike him to brush off how he’s taken notice of your shy gazes and bashful demeanor towards him.

but he stalls, tells himself it is befitting and a true sin in every sense of the word to regard your own blood— let alone your daughter, in such light.

sooner or later maekar receives a raven from his brother baelor; an invitation to have the family reside back to the keep for the following months of summer— wishing to be complete in disguise of their father’s last wish, before baelor ascends the iron throne.

the sounds of arriving carriages and horse hooves instantly draws a fond smile to baelor; even more as the sight of his brother dismounting his mare and the rest of the family catches his eyes.

‘’brother. i’m pleased you’ve arrived. was the weather kind?’’ baelor’s low voice greets him with a hand on his shoulder.

‘’the mud whiffs of dead meat and muck— i’m exhausted as it is, fuck me.’’ maekar grunts in return which causes his brother to smile, reminding him of when they were boys.

the younger kids rush to their uncle, all eager to see him after months, perhaps almost two and a half years of being away. daeron and aerion merely nodding in respect and acknowledgement to their uncle until your lilac flowy gown catches baelor’s eyes— standing beside your father with a small look of diffidence. no longer the chatty silver haired girl he once knew.

baelor’s hand lands on your arm with a warm two-toned eyes, admiring his niece with an approving look before smiling.

‘’you’ve grown, niece. much fitting into your features now.’’

you merely nod in return, holding your hands together by the front before glancing to your father for the proper footing— his gaze merely observing both you and baelor.

‘’thank you, your grace.’’

‘’uncle.’’ he corrects, humming as the whole of you make your way into the keep, all escorted into proper chambers just before supper.

the long table is gathered in the finest of wines and freshly cooked meals to indulge, stomach filled with both and a case of laughter as the entirety of targaryen family makes up every seat before your grandsire daeron— whose face you could not read beside a knowing pleased look that his own blood bonds once more over an easy meal. normal, almost, had things been handled properly. it’s quite easy to fall back into comfort within the walls of the keep, your own body remembering steps and turns before your mind could conjure a proper direction to lead. often times than not, you seem to find yourself by the gardens overlooking the great sea; both your younger sisters and egg giggling behind before falling into laughter once you begin to chase them in playfulness.

it had been a fortnight since your arrival.

and despite being away from summerhall, your father seemed to carry the lingering heaviness of an unspoken burden— never leaving, as much as you wish to carry it for him. it aches your quenching heart, you see, to see sight of the man your entire being faintly devotes to, be so solemn even in company of his nuclear family. out of the goodness of your heart, or perhaps.. the sprouting ache that tingles your soul in ways that it shouldn’t, you fall back into care of tending after him— unable to help yourself at all.

sat beside him during meals to nudge the untouched greens on his plate, a small goblet of water placed beside his bed at night with warm tea, seeking him into serene walks by the gardens for reprieve after a particularly heated meeting in the council, your gentle hands massaging the blade of maekar’s shoulders while quietly listening to him converse with your uncle baelor in the privacy of the hand’s tower— all a gentle reminder that he had someone to worry for him, his sweet girl.

‘’must you be so taken by their proper sayings, father? i do not appreciate the intensity of you after these meetings.’’ your soft voice catching his ear as you both walk by the halls of the keep, towards the garden with looped arms.

‘’i am a prince, and these foolish men are to be reminded so. i do not need you to add onto my thinking.’’ his grunt reply to you, still irked by the conjured meeting.

‘’of course not, i merely wish to aid you from so.’’

‘’then allow me to walk with my heart in peace.’’

his reply had caused warmth to your cheeks more than the sun has brushed it with; made you gaze away in true bashfulness before falling into steps beside him by the breezy gardens— hands tightening around his arm before you both sit by the bench. his words ring still in the cranium of your head, perceiving it in secret perversion of selfish desire.

two fortnights now, since your arrival at the keep and since then, maekar had grown an itch. the sort that does not leave your skin, but revels even more at the scratches. steadily digging it’s roots into that scarred soul of his with a forbidden kind of caress that he attempts to growl away at each flash of pure immoral thorough. he’s in the edges now, what he had deemed a mere fleeting sinful thought upon seeing you be so.. motherly towards his children and be so tender towards him with your batting gaze and oh-so-benevolent touches had ripen the fruit of poison in his dark soul. he adores you, he does— truly, he repeats to himself in an almost persuading tone. but it is temptation what you are.

the knocking on his chamber door merely grasps his attention from the book he gripped, usual scowl drawing into his features. feet into the direction before jerking it open to catch sight of you in a crimson colored silk as your nightshift beneath the lace robe, eyes that mirrored his in color were painted in a pleading kind of shade before your lips utter:

‘’may i come in, father? i find myself unable to catch rest..’’

‘’it is past midnight, daughter. this is not summerhall.’’ his words carried meaning which you carefully caught onto, and you were well aware of it’s meaning— because indeed, it was ill looking to have a daughter visit her father past the hour of the owl. it raises concerns.

yet, maekar closes the door behind you after with a sigh, incapable of turning the only source of joy he finds himself in possession of.

‘’what is it that you want?’’ his turns to you with a stern look, softness gazing beneath in reason of your painstakingly look of shyness.

‘’..i wish to rest abed with you. the walls of the keep is much too cold in my chambers.’’

‘’have you a problem now after fortnights of stay?’’ fingers fidgeting on the seems of your silk, his eyes following after which he quickly regrets because seven hells— if one other man sees the sight of you..

‘’..please, father.’’ too soft, too mellow to add onto your pleading eyes but corrupting clothing. his feet stepping back to bed with a grunt, shaking his head from both you and your childlike request, or so he says. a farce over the wicked flutter of his tainted soul.

you follow quietly after, taking his blunt but plain noise as acceptance. he was never a man of too many words anyway. falling into the warm sheets and settling beside him. he continues with his reading, burning the midnight oil with your sweet self now to accompany him. he feels your gaze dragging across the turn of his face, the movement of his fingers into the pages and the way his chest automatically breathes.

‘’have you come here to stare or would you take rest now as you had told me so?’’

question as simple to answer, yet you were anything but the word. because instead, you gathered the courage to move closer until your limbs press against his beneath the blankets and the fur. cheek resting onto his shoulder with your hand holding onto his arm while the other slowly brushes the tips of your fingers onto his beard with a slow murmur:

‘’i see why mother was so taken with you..’’

the statement alone carried questionable intentions that dripped in your secret desire, no longer holding your tongue as his eyes meets yours over the dim light of the candles.

‘’and you mean what by so?’’

ignoring his question, you continued to brush his beard instead, raising yourself slowly to press a longing kiss to his shoulder first, then to his collarbone, up to his neck and jaw before his hand grips your own to halt with a scowl.

‘’what the fuck are you doing.’’ a statement of his own now, no longer a question due to the evident significance of your actions.

your hand wraps around his wrist, staring back into his clouded eyes with your lust glazed pair—no longer bothering to hide before the hand on his arm cradles his cheek.

‘’i feel for you in ways i should not.. i can not help myself no longer, father.’’

maekar quickly sits up with the same grip on your jaw, scowling even more despite the curling on his sternum that your confession brought.

‘’you are mine own daughter— this is nonsense.’’

‘’is it? am i not of your own blood— the very same one we share that earned us a certain reputation since the beginning of our dynasty?’’

his tightening grip earns a whimper from your throat, blinking slowly in attempt to plead for reprieve— only gaining a sneer from him instead.

‘’do not lesson me of our history, girl. i will not have this.’’

‘’…do you not ache for me even in small, father? or have my eyes deceive me of your own deviance?’’

a sharp inhale greets maekar’s collapsing lungs, inner turmoil of his buried sordid impulse being shed to light as your gasped words slowly peels his honor away. so at his answer, of lack thereof, you move closer just until the hand on his wrist falls to hold onto his thigh— moving closer when he does not react and merely stared back in complete puzzlement over his own clouded judgement. taking his hand on your jaw into your own, cautiously leading it to the expanse of your bare skin. lips parted in quiet gasps as you revel in the feel of the sprouting perversion from the act— taking his touch to free your shoulders of the lace robe, eyes urging him to do so. and when he does, you moved closer once more, now only in the crimson of your silk that bled like your shared blood in reflection of the faint flame the candles offered— fingers shedding maekar away from his own linen, until he’s in nothing but his tunic.

when he remains quiet, befitting of him entirely, too occupied with the tethering control he has left over his morals, you dip your head to pepper his chest with fleeting kisses that ascends to his neck with nips that leaves littles ragged breaths exiting maekar’s nose. when you reach the side of his lips with the sweetest press from your own that you prayed was sufficient enough to reveal your unshed obscenity— you pulled away to catch the fire in his violet gaze.

‘’do you burn for me as i do for you, father?’’

and the gods seemed to listen to the harrowing prayer of yours because the moment the question reaches it’s end, his lips were on yours in complete hunger that he no longer deprived himself of feeling. calloused hands trembling at the unrestricted permission to explore the silk like of your pale skin that he’d dreamed of more than admission could be uttered. laying you down so gently it almost felt like agony to not be devoured in untethered corruption. no— gods no, maekar will take his time with you, he will take his time with his sweet sweet girl. slow and certain , just until you comprehend exactly the amount of misery he suffered under his false discipline as both a father and a proper man.

so he does the same, showering your snow skin with kisses that burned away at the leaves of the sprouted tree of your a-normality while his hand slowly caress beneath the silk, stopping just a moment to take in your already ruined look with a finger hooking at the thin strap. his other hand caressing your cheek with the back of his fingers, brushing away your hair before whispering:

‘’my sweet girl. tell me what you want.’’

‘’you. it’s you i want, father.’’

‘’maekar.’’

he glares, humming in response as he corrects you while his thumb traces the shape of your cheek in saccharine affection. tugging you free of fabric, bare beneath him as he had always desire before leaning down to eventually kiss you again, positioning himself in between your legs until he’s greeting your inner thighs with the same treatment— taking his time selfishly despite the pleading mewls of yours.

and when his tongue flats against the pearl of your being, hands pressed against your womb and squirming hips, a wonton moan leaves your lips that urges him to do more— to make you feel more with his tongue through soft sucking, eventually losing himself into your taste that he fucks your core with his tongue. and he does so for however long he wanted, a finger joining his mouth to pleasure your slick cunt while he abuses your little bead— grunting at the sounds of your pleasured cries and feel from your tugging hand on his hair.

once, twice and three highs before he rises from your trembling legs from utter spent by the abuse his mouth had caused. admiring how flushed and corrupt you breathed beneath him. somehow, he smiles at the sight of you leaning up to kiss him again— tasting yourself from his tongue. hands tugging away at his tunic until maekar presses your back against the sheets once more.

then, he pulls away just enough to line his cock against your core, watching your pretty blushing face first before moaning together when he enters your tight warm flesh— forehead falling to yours as he halts for a second, which causes confusion to your face, easily brushed away as he cradles your cheek with a look of pure fondness.

‘’my sweet girl— look what you’ve done to me.’’

with one final whisper, maekar takes you in slow and deep thrusts that began to grew hastily in need. the four walls of his chamber humid now and echoing the unholy sounds of your skin together, his grunts and your mellow cries of pleasure. his hands were everywhere as much as his mouth was. not leaving an inch untouched, unmarked and unburned by him.

your back now against his chest as he flips you over without pulling away, no— he wouldn’t allow even a moment of waste at the feel of your slick. thrusting faster against your much smaller form that draws even more earned sweet gasps for him, hand gripping onto the blankets and holding onto his arm wrapped around your hips.

‘’you feel me, don’t you? am i pleasuring you enough, sweetling?’’

to that you mewled even more, his perverted words whispered in the shell of your ear and relentless thrusts only leaves you truly limp against his hold with soft cries.

‘’tell me, i want to hear you say it.’’

trembling lips whimpered in curled melodies again, mixing with the ungodly sound of you both joined. you glanced back to him with teary eyes of unfiltered pleasure that threatens to submission— if you already weren’t.

‘’y-you do! feel so full of you!’’

maekar’s smile was evil, fucking into your sopping cunt deeply at the confirmation— until you’re both left panting in the chase of your high which had arrived first. cunt contracting around his cock tighter in greater pleasure until he eventually bites down against your bare shoulder with a growl, his own high painting your flesh inside in white ropes of possession.

he held you close to his chest, brushing away your tussled hair with patient hums at the whines that remained even after moments of calm after. he allows you to bury yourself into his own marked chest, whimpering for more proximity if there was any left possible— to that, maekar merely kisses your temple. fond of you entirely before falling into slumber from exhaustion with one last murmur.

‘’my heart.’’

it’s utter bliss after that night, especially now that the veiled longing had gain it’s stepping in reciprocated acknowledgement— concealed before the looks of the others, a giddy feeling in both yours and maekar’s chest. having each other at the hour of the owl, away from prying eyes and spying ears as the roots of your sweet gentle sin began to bloom in flowering adoration.

it’s all so easy to shallowly regard as a proper relationship between a father and a daughter for everyone else, but baelor— your uncle baelor, the very heir to the throne is not just anyone. you know, you should have known, as much as maekar had in the same position.

because when everyone else is too occupied with conversation during meals, baelor sees the lingering looks you cast upon on your father. he catches the joined of your hand to maekar’s beneath the table. he takes note of the way his own brother seemed eager to end the day, or the lightening of his shoulders when you had passed the council chamber for a visit.

too perceptive for his own good, or perhaps, it is to be considered a blessing more than a curse— because now.. baelor was certain with a final thought. he was not displeased with the debauchery of your amoral relationship, he was envious.

fin.

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head thrown back in complete amusement as the table erupts in utter laughter upon recalling stories from earlier years. goblets of wine half full, utensils against porcelain plates and a fuming aerion across from you and maekar— rolling his eyes when valarr merely adds onto the ongoing jest against him.

‘’i remember quite vividly even now— was his name not ‘bright boy’ before it was ‘brightflame’?’’

daeron cackles which causes aerion to instantly hit him upside in the head. the entirety of the table lighting up in laughter, even your father maekar beside you— sporting an unusually lighter expression in front of every other amused targaryen. it goes on, the jesting and collective recollection of memories from the past. chewing on a piece of roasted potato, eyes glancing around before furtively placing a hand on maekar’s lap. back straightens up slightly at your touch, he gazes for measurements first then sets the goblet down and takes your hand beneath the eyes of everyone else. you ease at that, content even if it meant the need for covert.

as quickly as suns past, it had been an entire moon and a half since you’ve arrived in the keep with your family, a fortnight when the blissfully disguised affair bloomed in connection to maekar— your father.

nights spent in hushed moans and uttered oaths of sentiment beneath the safety of his covers; the four walls of maekar’s own chamber offering a sheltered space for each to voice the tenderness carried in beating synced hearts. if he adored you before, worship would be the proper description now as his arms pull you into his embrace, falling into slumber just until he murmurs how you’ve completely bewitched him.

giggling as his hand tugs you into a secluded hall after a particularly tensive meeting with the small court; feet attempting to catch the rhythm of his walk towards the edge of the hall where maekar corners you with a smirk— hand cupping your waist before he leans down to your still giddy smile.

‘’does this amuse you, dearest? seeing me at the ends of my wits?’’ lips murmuring against yours curled with humor, hand holding onto his chest now as you slowly nod. to that, maekar returns the amused look you sported, whispering again.

‘’cruel girl you are.. what shall i do with you, hm?’’

‘’..a kiss would be recommended— midnight is far too long, i crave you now, please.’’

maekar humms to the sound of your silent pleading, chest warming in true adoration you have entirely taken him with— kissing you for a second, pulling away for space at the sound of footsteps. inhaling deeply into composure as he turns to the source of interruption, clearing his throat upon catching sight of your uncle baelor— face unreadable.

‘’brother. sire requests our presence in the court chamber at this instance.’’

your eyes lands away with a look akin to a child caught between acts worthy of retribution, ears picking up the sound of the brothers leaving you with a pounding heart.

their father daeron occupies the seat just ahead of the council table, setting his goblet with a nod to his sons for their own proper seats.

‘’lord redwyne has sent a raven with the subject of proposal.’’ daeron speaks, regarding the two who sat across the other.

‘’did he now? what— has the supposed marriage between his daughter and some tully boy diffuse?’’ maekar slumps against the wood of his seat, much irritated upon the interruption of having you.

baelor eyes him with an acute look, fingers circling the band he wore before lifting his brows in an almost pull of mirth.

‘’no, brother. it has not.’’

‘’what now then? he’s a new a babe to send off in wish that one of our boys to take? mine own are not an option— neither are yours, valarr or matarys.’’ maekar scoffs with a look of insouciance, rather bored of the subject already.

‘’it is not his daughter at the end of the offer.’’ their sire quirks with the same calmness that reflected baelor’s— this odd tranquility furrows maekar’s brows.

‘’then whose hand does he wish to take from our blood?’’

silence that topples between the four walls of the chamber and over the three men plummeted maekar’s heart to his stomach in a sickening count. an instant scoff of disbelief rang almost like laughter before he sat straight with a deep clawing glare.

‘’she is of age—‘’ baelor attempts before his brother’s answer cuts him off before end.

‘’out of question.’’

‘’twenty and one, your daughter and she’s yet answered a single proposal. this is a disgraceful picture for her and for our family, maekar.’’ his sire argues but he was already sporting an even more guarded grip.

‘’she is my daughter. i will decide when she’s to marry—‘’

‘’and when do you plan that is?’’ maekar’s eyes land on his brother from across who regarded him in a glint of pressing tone. he squints slightly when a corner of his soul tugs hims with a faint warning, the kind you feel when the wheels of your fortune meets the primrose path. gripping his tunic without breaking gaze, he leans forward into baelor before uttering in a shade of possession:

‘’the affairs of her does not need neither your concern or father’s— but mine own.’’ he underlines with certainty that baelor can not help but to feel the crack of his neck with a restrained ragged sigh, watching his brother march out of the council chamber, leaving only the slam of closing wood and a lingering feeling of utter bitter spite in baelor’s chest.

the rise of moon over the realms brings an even somber bubble to maekar that pops upon hearing the sweet startling noise from yours when he drags the lock on your door. silk nightshift hugging your form he can not but find himself burying his head to the curve of your neck, arms holding you in proximity before your ears picks up his heavy sigh. that alone softens you into maekar’s preferred tone of speaking— his silver hair brushed gently by fingers.

‘’what troubles you, my heart?’’

he inhales, tightening embrace answering your question without word, and you’d allow it— allow him for the kind of comfort he rarely demands. the bed adds onto maekar’s ease, still mute with closed eyes you could have mistaken it for slumber; still brushing his hair feebly while your lips whisper against his temple in soft pecks. it’s only when you feel fingers pulling down a strap of your silk that announces his very conscious state, lips wrapping around the expanse of your breast that it slips your mind out of worry in replacement of a faint moan. maekar sucks on the pillow of your chest, mewling when he tugs you even more with his own small grunts. he does so for however long he desire, realizing quickly he regresses upon sensing your gentleness— in which maekar’s able to be anything but a man baring anchored shoulders.

limbs tangled in a sort of twisted innocence in rest that night. the gods above watch how one brother dreams of you with a curated motivation in subtlety while the other has your arms around in true affection— they flip a coin instead.

the keep is much hotter now that summer settled in complete much to your despite, eyes rolling and quite irritated as your maiden ushers a shawl to drape over barely covered shoulders— shrugging it off with a sigh that she quickly nod her head to in obeisance. the gardens were no alcove from the beaming heat that takes over the realm. hearing voices as you near, catching sight of your cousin valarr picking from a tray of delights served by a maid.

‘’is it cherry pastries you still flock to?’’ a smile on your face as you pick up a small bar of sugared apples, humming in content as he returns your gaiety through words.

‘’when has it changed? i am a man now with preference to childlike flavors.’’

that causes you to laugh, taking more of the apple to bite before both feet lead towards a walk.

‘’betrothal treats you well, i see.’’

‘’kiera is lovely.. she is, without demands.’’

the sea breeze surrounds your lungs in freshness, a kind wind blows in relief gesture from the torturous almost sun save from the clouds. you nod your head to valarr’s words, a small smile curls your lips to response— glancing at him.

‘’that pleases me, cousin.’’

‘’i wish to say the same for you.. soon, i hope.’’

it’s there, the implication of both the reminder of age and stationary responsibility to have your hand taken for some lord of the realm to kiss and to devote and possibly express what you could only grimace in thought— sickening contrast to the man you had in head.

you merely glance away and decide the lemon bars on the tray were much easier to digest in flavor instead of valarr’s innocent words— both of your heads turning at the sound of a familiar voice.

‘’my son.. leave me with her.’’ baelor nods, both the maid and your cousin following while you slowly chewed the pastry— wide eyes watching them inching away.

‘’your grace.’’

‘’uncle. that is twice now.’’ he humms, beside you by the overlooking part of the greenery.

‘’apologies.. it slips my mind at times.’’ swallowing the citrusy on your tongue in reply.

for a few heedless moments, baelor takes in your features beneath the sun, eyeing exactly the beauty you emitted without effort; touched by the light, kissed by the wind and enveloped by the blue of your gown. you do not notice, much occupied with the lemon bar you finished by sucking fingertips clean to savor— unbefitting for a regal member but so thrilling for his deviant flutters.

turning your gaze to him, shying away in realization of your action— laughing softly before smoothing the fabric of the gown. unaware that he was devouring you entirely in his mind.

‘’you are pleasant in the eyes, niece.’’

you blinked with slightly parted lips, stunned by the suddenness of compliment from your uncle— whom had been recognized as a man of honesty.

‘’..that is twice now, uncle.’’ mirroring his previous words with jest, your arrival in the keep flashing in both heads causing a collective genuine chuckle out of the two. baelor swallows the abhorrent thoughts in replacement of a hand lifting to brush a few crumbs away from your lips.

‘’i’d like for you to join me in my readings. i find your voice soothing for aid in regards to books— perhaps you may learn a thing or two.’’

the lilac eyes he holds himself back from kissing follows the movement of his hand after, he sees how they flash with hesitation. so before you could utter a response of possible decline, he takes it upon himself to decide— using his power in his favor, walking away after one finality.

‘’after supper, my study.’’

and supper arrives, the whole of family once again in a meal where light conversation flows in an attempt to grasp at normality above all the surrounding tragedies of shadowed whispers— baelors eyes never strays from you for long, itching the end of the gathering but remains calm regardless. meanwhile, maekar remains mostly silent, saving himself from even a chance of vexation because he can not— will not admit the truth of ire stringed from how his brother had taken in look when they’ve last spoke in the council chamber. then the gods seemed to decide which brother attains favor when everyone begins to stand and baelor nods his head to you— maekar already piqued darkly upon your marches beside his brother out of the banquet.

‘’..whose name they deemed ‘realm’s delight’ far before it veered into much dimmed light upon the following events of her brother’s own usurping.’’ you read aloud in tone that rises goosebumps in climbing to baelor’s spine— he sleeves them in the way his fingers grip the quill in writing.

‘’go on.’’

‘’princess rhaenyra targaryen was king viserys’ first born child— thus earning her inheritance of both the throne and the title ‘queen’ which sparked controversy throughout the realm. it is said that her husband, daemon targaryen, her father’s brother and her own uncle that set the crown upon her head after the passing of her predecessor.’’ eyes scanning line to line beneath the flickering light of the candles swaying, lashes fanning in soft blinks before your turned your head upon baelor’s low murmur:

‘’our ancestors— the two, did you know?’’

slowly, you shook your head yes with returning low response.

‘’yes.. i have read in a book before— aerion’s interest in our ancestry helps for he’s taken with dragons.’’

‘’that he is.’’ baelor continues to write, dipping back to ink before setting it aside to lift his gaze across to you— two colors, but one prey.

‘’tell me what you think of them.’’

‘’of rhaenyra and daemon?’’

‘’of their marriage.’’

it’s charging, the air around the room, baelor’s look does not offer aid in any manner— so you bestow your eyes back to the page with a whisper, almost.

‘’..i suppose i know too little to form my own sayings.‘’

‘’tell me.’’

you glanced back to him after his persuading, inhaling sharply with a small nod.

‘’..i’ve read their marriage of old valyrian tradition. how it is done with their blood conjoined through a kiss before the gods— that it seals their souls for eternity.’’

‘’and what of them?’’

‘’..i am not following, uncle—‘’

‘’their relationship.’’ he sets in clear, head tilted slightly as baelor regards you with the patterned thrilling look that sets you uneasy.

‘’..we’ve certain particularities in contrast to the other houses of the realm. they say we’re closer to gods than to men for our dragons.. only our features left now.’’

‘’that is right. and the other factor that excludes us— name it for me.’’

the furrow of your brow reminds him of maekar, softer than a scowl but still guarded like his brother was— it makes baelor grip the rings on his fingers slightly, lips wet from licking.

‘’..we marry within the family.’’

he humms, allowing you a second to breathe away from the eyes that chained you to the seat across from his— it is momentarily, for he rises from his own and circles around to stop until to grasp the curve of your jaw where it meets the skin of your neck. baelor reminds himself of constraint, lacking slightly but there nonetheless.

‘’i want you here again in the morrow. and the days that follows— your company is necessary for my thinking. you wish to help your uncle, do you not?’’

‘’but my responsibilities to my younger siblings—‘’

‘’the maidens will help.’’

‘’and of my station? i am a princess—‘’

‘’you are, and by being here will shape you so.’’

‘’but my father—‘’

there it is. the very reason he can not stomach hearing from your lips he desire.

baelor’s a half-second flash of restraint, exhaling the bile of envy in his throat for a show of practiced quietude that he performs by caressing the cheek of yours.

‘’my brother will not be deprived of your care, niece. but i demand you here not as your uncle, but as your prince.’’

to that you stared back in a state of shielded shock, unable to control the broken gasps of air, nodding instead for careful stepping.

‘’understood, your grace.’’

‘’good. now rise, i will walk you to your chambers.’’

it’s less and less moments together, more and more increasing irritability maekar handles each day that he senses what he deems can not be. baelor, his own brother, it seemed has grown a sort of not-so-unpremeditated habit to tear away the strings of his sole column left— his last drop of elation where glass is now marked inch by inch by a hand that is not his own. it’s unpleasant, both feeling and sight to have you stripped away by his own brother— and maekar is reaching the sharp edge of his forbearance. specially now that an entire week had been stolen from him in your embrace.

a view into those days could have maekar’s dagger near pressing baelor’s throat in utter dominion: eyes swallowing every movement of your breathing chest, lips that reads the words written in pages and temple kissed every night he sends you off to your chamber. baelor furtively take great pleasure in having your company to himself— much aware that his time was ticking both from above the gods and with his own brother.

it is not as if baelor’s subtle advances had not meet acknowledgement, in fact, it is the latter. a rather revolting indulgence in your part for his stares rend you always in flushed skin, his tracing touches that prolongs with unencessity welcomed through fluttering blinks and his inconspicuous whispering met with your own prudent ones— curiosity is what you’ve named it, a dip below dark murky waters. all innocent, as you’d described: but you are a smart girl, far too wise to distinguish that this curling interest is fleeting while maekar was lasting. how noble.

it does not take long until maekar’s first retaliation to pursue, a short away from utterly forgetting his own self retained poise if he was to be nicked another day from his beloved.

it’s comical in this sort of setting, having both brothers unknowingly step into the garden where you stood admiring the collection of swaying petaled beauties with an apple to snack. you’re far too drawn in both the taste of sweet and the lulling atmosphere a sunny day offered in your preferred locale to note that maekar steps foot before his brother could in your direction— face almost vigilantly veiled until he speaks:

‘’i have seemed to find you much taken by my daughter these days.’’

‘’i require her assistance in between sittings in my study. a way to prepare her for stationary demands.’’

‘’she needs not devising this early, nor a time soon to come. it is unnecessary for she is far from regal duties much like ours.’’

‘’it is not what i said—‘’

‘’but your fucking implication of her time is. her siblings requires her more—‘’

‘’do you speak for your children or for your own?’’

baelor cuts quite sharply with a reciprocated indignation, both their eyes mirroring a sort of ill-tempered provocation for the other to speak what remained a mere scalding veracity of collective impulse to grasp what belongs entirely to no one but merely favors a side more.

your eyes take in the suffocating measure between the two as your steps break their momentary quiet rivalry. maekar’s fast with a hand on your wrist, pulling you for him until baelor takes the other for the same reason.

‘’i— what is the matter?’’ you voiced at the two men who continued such childlike childishness as if you were a toy to possess. they do not reply for a second, only cold stares sent to themselves until baelor breaks first:

‘’let us be on our way for my study.’’

‘’i wish your company in a walk.’’

the gods above were surely laughing at how pathetically ruined it begins at the ends of these men as brothers, it does not help that you’re regarding them in such keenness that it resembled a mother— their mother’s disapproving gaze upon catching them battle as boys. how completely entertaining. but alas, their mother may have preferences in her children, with baelor— but you were not myriah in any concern.

freeing your wrist from your uncle’s hold, maekar pulls you with him with haste in steps. clasped hand around the tiny of your wrist much gentler now that distance takes in place from his brother baelor and diminishing towards his chamber.

baelor stood with an eery shade of calmness, kneeling for a second to pick at the fallen apple of yours before he rises back to his posture— thumb tracing the proof of you before he takes it upon himself to bite exactly where your lips had pressed. filthy, bitter musing while he allows the sweet flavor to seep through with sordid telling of what his rotten craving intel’s— a sickening view for anyone to see but he cares not, only watches you gone with another man. such description to express, but ‘brother’ was no longer pleasant for baelor to whisper.

the wood of the doors creaks in a groan mimicking maekar’s when his lips meets yours in a kiss, hand already stripping you of fabric the second the lock takes in place. and you kissed him back with the same tone of hunger, days of deprivation completely tipping over the glass of rimmed need that spills entirely in moans like yours when he sets your bare form atop of the sheets— head descending into peppering your skin with his lips just until he meets your core with a growl.

and your moans, gods above help maekar from utterly descending into madness like a true targaryen. his tongue was relentless in ways he knew you’d enjoy, perhaps a tint more selfish that it seemed as your pleasure was his own to feel. fingers pulling at his silver strands, back arched into a familiar curve while his hands fondle with your breast and grip onto the softness of your hips. obscenity in show of true perversity— both you and maekar.

two highs, he notes. two before you pushed at his shoulders with a whine akin to sobbing— glossy pleading gorgeous eyes and tinted cheeks and kissable lips entirely melting him into a man too captivated by his beloved to refuse. pretty pretty face of yours cradled by his hands, a smile on his wet lips before his kisses you again in a light of benignity.

‘’my sweet girl— you have beguiled me truly.’’

the positions switch and so does your hunger, because one second you were wanting more in a state of submission, the next he was beneath you in bare giving— holding onto his broad shoulders you so wanted in vile honesty. maekar’s head digs into the pillow when you sheath into him, his moan urges you to move your hips out of sheer lust fueled by time stolen from both of you having this feeling again.

it’s filthy, it’s prurient, it’s indecent, lewd and absolutely raw the sounds that both of you produced. wet slicks from where you connected emitted a kind of pleasure that’s dizzying in an unearthly feel. maekar’s greed possess him by pushing you into the sheets, back into him while he fucks his cock into your needy cunt— moans mixing in an unholy melody. an arm to balance himself while the other wraps around to grip your turned blissed face to his.

‘’did he touch you? baelor, did he—‘’

‘’no! not more than a kiss to my head!’’ you mewled, feeling the entirety of his thrusts deepening at the question— you welcomed it with wetness. his hips against the curves of your ass sets him ablaze, losing himself in the pleasure your body offered willingly.

‘’and you enjoy them? tell me—‘’ his groan rumble from his chest to your pressed back, eyes closing in complete pleasure and perhaps.. truth. because indeed you had not mind them, maybe even liked the attention your uncle showered you with but baelor was not your father; he could never be in any sense that exists— and so you shook your head with a whimper.

this undoes maekar’s last possessive control, marking your shoulder and neck with his bites before you feel his warm hand press against your womb— his next murmur sending a sick permitted shiver in the crevices of your being.

‘’i ought to fill you with a babe, shouldn’t i? reminder enough that it is i you desired first.’’

such perversion compels ruin to both of your sweaty forms, his chamber a witness to the exact certainty on which maekar fills himself into your flesh in white oath that he renews with more fueled lust that leads to more sinful rounds.

syncing hearts and panting echoes the walls when he slithers your form close, lips loving on the flushed pretty skin of your expanse until they meet your parted lips in a single whisper— paralleling a jagged reminder.

‘’you will always return to me.’’

because maekar may not have felt the loving caress his brother reveled in during their youth, he may not have received the equal footing caused by his features as boys— but he loved his brother baelor regardless. enough to pardon the mistreatment, but insufficient in regards to you.

maekar does not need knowing, not when it is bliss he feels at the ease of your arms around his form after the particularity of your acts that bounds you to his soul unneeded of words.

but the other brother recalls exactly how you’d allow his lips to near yours one night before the doors of your chamber. baelor relishes to the memory of the hesitance you showed when he takes almost the feel of ownership maekar must sense in his chest every night at the kisses shared. it’s devine, the look on your face upon pulling away just a feather from baelor’s lips— loyalty to your beloved father far too anchored in the depths of your true heart. yet, he keeps it safely in the corner of his mind. baelor replays such souvenir while his hand wraps around his own cock seeking for relief. but you were merely a lady grown, and such pursuing from a man may not have taken roots, but it surely has sprouted into a kind of thought in shades of hedonism.

the gods must be truly delighted now as the coin lands on their final virtue: a bitten apple is saccharine to hands it falls ripen to— and you were nothing but maekar’s sweet girl and baelor’s fragrant resolve.

fin.

────────────────────────

You only vaguely hear Baelor’s words through the metaphorical cotton in your ears. You blink hard and whip your head to face him, smiling before you’ve even registered his question. “I think it’s beautiful, Your Grace— Your mother did a wonderful job decorating.”

“While I appreciate the compliment, my lady, I was referring to our… arrangement,” Baelor corrects with a polite smile, half-hidden behind his greying beard. He slows to a stop in front of you, and you catch a whiff of the musky oils he’d bathed in — a stark contrast to your much lighter, floral aromatics.

“Oh. Right. I think— I think that it’s…” You stumble over yourself to find the words; not the ones you want to say, perhaps, but the ones you’ve been groomed to. Baelor ducks his head to flash you a patient look, and your cheeks flare with embarrassment. “I think that it is wise, Your Grace. If our marriage can ease the crown’s debts, I’m glad to be of service.”

“Is that you speaking, my lady?” he presses with a soft squint in his blue-brown irises. “Or your father?”

Your breath stutters. “I— I’m not sure what you mean, Your Grace.”

“What is it you want, princess?”

Your mouth parts to answer him. But, before you can stutter out a response you only halfway mean, the sound of chair legs scraping the cobbles rings through the expansive room. Your heads whip in tandem in the direction of the raucous noise, where you find Daeron trying and failing to catch himself on a table by the door.

He’s well drunk despite the early afternoon, wearing the ale in his wild golden hair, glassy blue eyes, and flushed red cheeks. He struggles to readjust the ornately decorated bench he’d run into with sloppy hands. It takes him several seconds too long to notice the looks he’s getting in response.

“My apologies…” he slurs, pink lips curling into a sloppy grin that doesn’t match the solemn look in his light eyes. “I seemed to have— Lost my way…”

“Aye. That much is quite clear,” Baelor sighs, much too used to his nephew’s antics by now.

The boy had always favored his ale, but never quite this much. He’s been haunting the halls of the Red Keep for some weeks now — the Kingsguard once found him in a ditch off of Flea Bottom the day it was announced Baelor would be wed to you, all bruised and bloody from the fighting pits. He hasn’t been fully sober ever since.

“Apologies, princess,” Baelor murmurs to you. “Do forgive my nephew.”

“No forgiveness needed, Your Grace—”

There’s another grating scrape, followed by a dull thud of a heavy body hitting the ground as Daeron trips over his graceless feet. He groans when he hits the unforgiving ground, writhing with only his long legs visible from your view of him.

Your features crumple with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy as you look on at the drunken boy. “I should take him to his chambers before he hurts himself—”

“The knights can escort him, my lady,” Baelor tells you.

“He’s much too fragile for that,” you quip with a tender smile. “And as I said— I don’t mind helping, Your Grace.”

Daeron doesn’t make it easy for you.

He never has, in truth, but least of all now.

He smells of musk and sweet ale as he falls heavily to your side, forcing you to carry the brunt of his weight as you help him back into bed. He falls heavily onto the feathered mattress, limp and unmoving. You exhale an exasperated breath and reach for his legs to situate him properly on the unmade sheets.

“Why must you make everything so difficult?” you huff.

Daeron’s head lolls against the pillows, golden hair sitting wildly around him.

“Why must you wound me so?” he argues in indistinct slurs. His glassy, red-rimmed eyes blink slowly up at your towering figure. He musters a trembling grin at the confused look you give him in return. “We both know it is not my uncle you want, petal…”

His eyes flutter shut as he lifts a sloppy hand to his face, trying and failing to find the rogue strand of hair clinging to his lashes.

“What I want doesn’t matter, Daeron,” you sigh and help him brush the golden tress back behind his ear.

Your breath catches in your throat when the boy’s warm hand wraps suddenly around your wrist, fingers warm and gentle as they linger on your wild pulse. He peers up at you with a pair of wet, ocean-colored eyes and murmurs quietly, “I don’t matter?”

“You know that isn’t what I meant,” you whisper and jerk your hand from his grip. “The decision is already made. The hall is already decorated. I’m getting married whether I like it or not—”

“You could always change your mind,” Daeron lilts, as if it were so simple. “And it would all be done with…”

“Not all of us are allowed to be so selfish, my prince,” you mutter bitterly and turn on your heel, heading the short distance for the pitcher of water and bowl of dates left on the table by the balcony. “Some of us actually have to think about other people from time to time.”

Daeron scoffs sloppily, folding his lanky hands across his lean stomach. “I think about other people,” he argues like a child.

“Do you?” you hum with a palpable lack of enthusiasm, beneath the sloshing of water you pour for him in a chalice.

“Aye, my lady… You,” he answers, smiling lazily when you glare at him over your shoulder. “I dream only of you— My Flower of Highgarden.”

“The Flower of Highgarden,” you correct him of the silly nickname that’s haunted you since birth, and walk the water and dates back over the drunken boy. You leave both at his bedside, with an air of distance about you that makes his chest ache. “I am getting married on the morrow, Daeron. It’s happening. So please, get a hold of yourself— if not for your sake, then for mine.

The evening air outside the Red Keep swells with the scent of sage and fresh flowers. A silken breeze rushes through the skirt of your dress as you lean over the balcony, bathing in the sweet scent down below, where the smallfolk leave bouquets and handmade trinkets by the castle’s entrance.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur to the man beside you, with your gaze still lingering on the shuffling crowd. “We don’t do this in Highgarden.”

“It’s custom for people to leave their blessings the night before a royal wedding,” Baelor explains. “Though, to be true, I have never quite seen it like this… They have taken quite a liking to you, it would seem.”

The kind smile he gives you makes your cheeks flare red-hot. You despise his attention as much as you crave it, desperately so. You fake a smile and swallow hard, picking again at the scarred skin of your nail beds from where your hands rest on the balcony. “Well, I am— pleased that the realm is, Your Grace—”

Your breath catches in your throat when Baelor’s wide hand splays suddenly over both of yours, effectively ceasing your assault on your delicate fingers. You peer timidly at him from beneath your lashes and cower at the warmth in his mismatched eyes.

“You are the most comely girl at court,” he tells you, gutwrenchingly gentle, as his fingers smooth over the red marks on your skin. “Why must you destroy yourself this way?”

“Apologies, Your Grace,” you murmur shyly, clearing your throat as you slide your hands from his grip, clasping them behind your back. “It’s a habit I haven’t quite been able to break, it would seem…”

Baelor softens and takes a step closer, pervading the scent of the late evening with his mixture of leather and musk. “I understand that… that I am not the husband you wished for,” the man starts slowly, calculating each word from his mouth. “But I will do right by you, princess. I can assure you of that.”

“I know you will, Your Grace. You’re a good man,” you say with an honest smile. “Even if it was not what I desired, I am no less pleased that it turned out to be you, Your Grace—”

“Baelor,” he corrects with a soft grin, taking a step closer and swiping an eyelash for your cheek. Your skin flares when his hand lingers there. You wonder if he notices.

“Baelor…” you repeat, far more timidly in comparison.

His mouth parts to speak, but he stops himself short. A flicker of confusion dances over his scruffy face before he wonders aloud. “Pardon my forwardness, my lady, but… Have you ever been kissed?”

Thoughts of Daeron flash instantly across your mind at his question. He’s always there in some way or another, stashed somewhere within each of your fondest memories — how he held you when you were younger; how he kissed you, how he touched you.

But that was all make-believe, you figure, a game of house you knew was always bound to end.

So you shake your head against the man’s softly calloused palm and answer, half-truthfully, “Never in a way that mattered, Your Grace…”

The answer seems to please him as his kind smile slowly returns.

“May I?” he offers vaguely.

You know you can’t say no. You’re not sure if you want to. So you nod and whisper back, “Of course…”

You tilt your chin to meet him halfway when he ducks down to kiss you. His beard tickles your delicate skin, a rather foreign sensation compared to Daeron’s shaven face. His lips are thinner than his nephew’s, too, tasting of sweet mint leaves and bitter whiskey. It’s different — good different — and you finally forget to be nervous as you reach suddenly for his bearded jaw.

Baelor freezes against you when you lick into his mouth, with far more expertise than someone who had never been kissed before. It surprises him as much as it excites him; the notion that there is still so much he doesn’t know about you. You catch him smiling softly to himself about it when your kissed lips part with a quiet click.

Your glassy eyes widen into a not-so-subtle look of shock at yourself. You bring your trembling hands back down to your sides again. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I— I forget myself—”

“No. Don’t apologize,” the man murmurs in an achingly gentle voice that does not match the fire in his blue-brown irises. “If you apologize every time I kiss you from now on, you’ll be spending a lifetime doing so, won’t you?”

His words, the solemn promise in them, make your stomach do a backflip.

“Aye,” you nod on bated breath. “I guess so…”

You’re still reeling from the adrenaline rush of kissing a somewhat stranger — both your soon-to-be husband and future king — when you return finally to your chambers. Your heart lurches to a fluttering stop at the shadowy figure you find lying in your bed, bathed in a golden sea of flickering candlelight. You exhale a relieved sigh when you find it’s only Daeron making himself at home in your bed, but you are still no less aggrieved to see him this way.

“What are you doing here?” you snap and quickly close the door behind you.

“Waiting for you, of course,” the now mostly-sobered boy responds through a groan, stretching out his tired limbs as if he’d just been sleeping. His thin chemise rises up his torso when he folds his arms behind his wild head, revealing his pale skin and the tuft of golden hair trailing down into his trousers.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” you argue. “What would people think if they saw the two of us in here like this?”

“Who cares?” he scoffs with all the carelessness of a young prince, smiling wider when you scowl at him. “We know the truth of it— What anyone else has to say on the matter doesn’t concern the two of us.”

“That’s because no one ever taught you that it’s not about the truth of it,” you spit and storm his way, yanking your silken sheets from beneath his dirty boots. “It’s about perception. And you know your father would be cross if he found you in here—”

“My father is always cross,” Daeron scoffs.

“Only because you make him so.”

“Tell me, petal…” the boy begins, swinging his long legs off the mattress and peering up at you with a pair of glittering blue eyes. “Have you ever done the wrong thing?”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m looking at him,” you deadpan.

“Ouch,” he grimaces, grabbing at his heart over his baggy tunic. “But I presume I deserve that…”

“Aye. You do.”

He reaches for your hand when you try to turn away, wrapping his warm fingers around your smaller ones to keep you in place. “Come with me. To Flea Bottom.”

“Flea Bottom?” you repeat with an incredulous twist to your features, scoffing out a faint laugh. “Why would I go to—”

“To do the wrong thing,” Daeron finishes for you, tender with a lingering hope. “With me.”

You shake your head and try to pull your hand out of his, but he only holds you tighter. “I can’t, Daeron…”

“Live for yourself for a change,” he tells you, begs you. “Just once. And I will never speak to you of my heartache again, I swear it.”

By all accounts, you probably should’ve known by the subtle glimmer in his soft blue eyes that he only met trouble. Maybe that’s why you went with him in the first place, you think, for a bit of trouble — god knows, that’s all he’s good for. But, even still, you let him dress you in his trousers and baggy shirt, removing any remnants of your status, before stealing you away to the labyrinth that is Flea Bottom.

He keeps your hand clutched in his larger one as he leads you through the unpaved streets of twisted alleyways, reeking of stables, mud, and baked bread. You laugh like a pair of children as you chase gracelessly behind him, forgetting for a fleeting moment that you are to be wed on the morrow — that you will soon be expected to become a wife and a mother before the season is through.

Eventually, the loud chatter and swirling smoke from flickering fires gives way to something quieter, dimmer; smelling of sweat, sex, and soft perfume. Daeron tucks you into his warm side as you duck into a narrow hall, where moans and cries of pleasure bounce off the cobblestone walls. Your footsteps stutter in shock.

“You didn’t tell me you were taking me to a pleasure house—”

“Aye. I didn’t,” Daeron hums with a lazy grin. “Because you wouldn’t have agreed to come otherwise…”

The brothel is dark, lit only by rogue torches growing slowly dim on the walls. The naked bodies surrounding you on either side are bathed in shadow. The hand not clutching the back of Daeron’s cloak rises instinctively to cover your eyes, shielding them from the lurid sight of sex that sits everywhere you look.

“No. Don’t,” Daeron says and reaches for you with his free hand, curling his lanky fingers around your wrist to gently urge your hand from your face. “I want you to watch— To see what it looks like when you take what you want…”

Your eyes are slow to part from his lighter ones. You glance tentatively all around you — at the woman riding the face of a man on a nearby couch, of another man sandwiched between two masculine bodies by the wall, of two women caressing their naked bodies with gentle touches. It’s completely and utterly scandalous. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.

“No princes, no thrones…” Daeron whispers with his mouth pressed to your ear, and his chest against your back. “No debts, no weddings… Just—”

“Fucking?” you tell him.

“Pleasure,” he corrects. “So, ask yourself, petal, and be truthful… What do you want?”

It’s a simple question. One you couldn’t answer if you wanted to.

You want to be queen, like your father always groomed you to be — you want to marry Baelor, to be rich and powerful and idolized. But another, not-so-distant part of you yearns to be without responsibility and consequence — you want to be with Daeron in some far-off place by the sea, you want to fuck and drink and travel the world and never stick around long enough to learn anybody’s names.

You want all of it. And even though you know you cannot possibly have it, you try hard to take it anyway.

You reach out for Daeron and cradle his shaven jaw like you’re holding the sun in both hands. You drag him to you and press a searing kiss to his mouth, wasting little time in tasting him as your tongue licks suddenly between his parted lips, entwining with his own like velvet twisting with velvet.

Daeron grumbles a moan against you. He slides his warm hands beneath your borrowed shirt, up your stomach, and over your ribcage. He leaves faint trail marks along the skin of your back when he scratches his dull nails down your spine. You shiver against him, and he smiles into your kiss — inhaling your gasped breath when he pushes you suddenly into a cobbled wall, breaking the impact with a hand behind your head.

His mouth pulls away from yours with a low smack, lips swollen and rosy and shining with your spit. His eyes are heavy-lidded as he traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.

“What do you say, My Flower of Highgarden?” he slurs, panting hard against your mouth. “Are you going to take it?”

“Depends,” you challenge on bated breath. “Are you going to give it to me?”

The blonde boy nods, with a pink smile blooming lazily on his mouth. “Aye… I am.”

He ducks down before you can blink, kissing you hard enough to bruise. He swallows each of your quiet moans as his fingers creep toward your borrowed trousers, loosening the knot there with eager hands. Your fingers wrench the thin fabric of his tunic into fists to keep him impossibly close while his sneak beneath the hem — past your stomach, over a tuft of coarse hair, and down towards where you need him most.

You coat his middle finger in a thin layer of honey when it slots between your velvety folds, whimpering when he nudges softly at your sensitive clit.

“I can feel you throbbing,” he slurs against you. “’S like a heartbeat…”

“Please…” you sigh, though you’re not sure exactly what you’re begging for — please don’t tease me, please make me feel good, please fuck me.

“I’ve got you…” Daeron murmurs, panting against your mouth and swallowing your moans when his long finger slips finally inside you. His lip quirks into a crooked smile at the pretty noise you make for him.

You only vaguely feel him rutting against your thigh, pressing his stiffening cock against you to ease his own ache while he continues to pleasure yours.

“I’ve got you… Let me have it…”

Your moans fill the shadowed hall, and entwine with all the others.

You scrub the remnants of the sinful night from your body and prepare to become a dutiful bride by early morning. You’re still buzzing from the adrenaline rush as you writhe restlessly beneath your silk sheets. You can almost still feel Daeron’s fingers inside of you, if you think about it hard enough, as well as the outline of his hard cock pressed against your outer thigh, from where he’d gotten off humping your leg like a hound.

You revel in the night as much as you mourn it — pleased to have experienced it at all while simultaneously grieving that you’ll never be that girl again; and still a little surprised that you got away with it at all.

Almost.

A quiet knock from a delicate hand echoes through your expansive, pitch-black bedroom. Your heart lurches into your throat — a fleeting horror that turns into ice-cold panic in your veins a second later. You rise slowly, propping your weight on your elbows, and gazing wearily at the shadow looming beneath your door.

You swallow hard and pray your voice doesn’t shake as you call out, “Come in.”

The heavy door creaks open. A sliver of golden light from the torches in the hallway fills the room as one of your handmaidens shuffles in, gaze averted and hands clasped together. She curtsies and clears her throat, “Pardon me, my lady— but the Lord Hand has requested your presence in his study.”

You hope it’s still too dark for her to see the look of fear that flashes across your features. “The hour is quite late…” is the only thing you think to say, with an audible waver in your voice.

“Aye, my lady,” the young girl nods with an apprehensive gaze. “But he said he was urgent.”

“…Alright, then,” you nod once and hold your breath until the maid scurries off back the way she came. She closes the door behind her with a dull click, and the room returns to a velvet black darkness, with only your trembling breath to fill it.

You’re still in your thin white slip when you make the long trek to Baelor’s study, weaving through the candlelit maze of the Red Keep with two knights flanking you on either side. They work for your father, sworn to protect you and you alone, yet you can’t help but feel a bit like they’re leading you to a slaughter now.

They open the double doors of the expansive study for you and remain just outside of it while you saunter slowly in — slippers scuffing the cobbles like your feet are made of bricks, sweaty hands picking at your worry-worn nailbeds. You wear the guilt all over, like a bad dog with blood on its muzzle.

The fear in your stomach blossoms something fierce in your chest when Baelor’s eyes meet yours from across the way, sitting at his desk with Maekar and Daeron standing just before him. The older men are still in their day garb, made of Targaryen red and black, while the blonde boy remains in the baggy tatters he’d taken you to Flea Bottom in.

Daeron wears the sin all over still, hardly bothering to wash it off his skin, lest some of you go with it.

You cower on instinct when their gazes snap suddenly in your direction. You know you’ve long been caught, even when Baelor gives you a kind smile as you approach him.

“Thank you for coming, my lady,” he says in a gentle voice and sets his quill into the inkpot at his side. “I know the hour is late. I hope I did not disturb you.”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” you assure him and clear your throat when the words get stuck there.

“I thought it prudent to make you aware of some rather… troubling accusations,” the man continues with a knowing glint in his brown-blue eyes, flickers of candlelight dancing in his gaze. “You and my nephew were spied, some hours ago, beyond the walls of the Red Keep, engaging in behaviors that were… unbecoming of a woman of the court…”

“So we snuck out and drank a bit of wine,” Daeron laughs at your side, not yet showered and still reeking of sex and ale. He glances at you with glassy eyes and a lopsided grin before turning back to Baelor. “It’s hardly enough to warrant such arbitration, wouldn’t you say, uncle?”

“You were seen defiling the princess the day before her fucking wedding,” Maekar spits from the boy’s other side, jaw clenched tight behind his silver beard. “You’re lucky I’m not shipping you off to the Free Cities to make a man out of you.”

“Right,” Daeron scoffs. “Punish me for going to a brothel by sending me to the sex capital of the Seven Kingdoms— Ow!”

Maekar’s ringed hand slams hard into the back of the boy’s wild head. He grimaces, rubbing at the crown of his golden tresses with a pale hand.

“Do you not deny it?” Baelor asks you, with a suspicious squint in his gaze, as if he were distantly hoping you would.

“No, Your Grace,” you mutter with an averted gaze, etching new marks onto your delicate fingertips. “I did sneak out—”

“She lies,” Daeron blurts before the words have properly left your mouth. “She did not leave of her own volition, uncle. I forced her out… Wouldn’t take no for an answer…” Daeron’s drunk slurs trail off as he turns to flash you a lazy grin and a pair of squinted eyes. “Better a liar than a whore, right, petal?”

“Watch your tongue,” Maekar scolds from his other side.

“But there was no defiling, father, of that I’m sure,” Daeron continues anyway, head swiveling as he turns to face the other man. His smile widens beneath the strands of blonde hair hanging over his eyes. “I only used my fingers—”

“You idiot,” the father hisses, scooping his son up by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back towards the entrance.

Daeron’s stumbled footsteps echo in the otherwise silent study as he staggers behind him on graceless feet. He’s all but thrown out the door when Maekar swings it open again, only to slam it shut behind him with a booming thud a second later.

The sound rings through the suffocating quiet that you and Baelor are soon left alone in — the kind of quiet that snatches all the air out of a room; the kind of quiet that makes it suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Does he speak the truth of it?” the man wonders after a few long moments, with one arm propped along the arm of his chair and the other folded along the table’s edge.

You inhale a wavering breath.

“He does, Your Grace,” you murmur, lacking the courage to meet his eyes. “I had not planned it— Nor did Daeron, I think— It was simply the circumstances of the moment in which we found ourselves in that—”

“Did you like it?” Baelor interjects your rambling, which he knows is only full of the words you’ve been conditioned to say, and not the ones you truly mean.

You falter at the simple question. “I-I’m not entirely sure what you mean, Your Grace—”

“I’m entirely sure that you’re entirely sure what I mean,” the man hums with a kind smile, chair creaking under his weight when he slouches further into it. “Did you like being undone in a pleasure house like a common whore?”

His words, foreignly brash, and his eyes, foreignly hardened, make your stomach do a backflip.

“I… I don’t know—”

“You never do, do you?” Baelor mutters with a sympathetic squint to his mismatched eyes. “You’re always so concerned about what everyone else wants— What everyone else thinks of you— That you never learned how to form your own opinions…”

You shift uncomfortably before him, feeling utterly dissected under his prying stare and grimacing when you dig a fresh mark onto the skin of your pointerfinger.

“So I’ll ask you again, princess,” the man continues, leaning forward in his seat and never once taking his eyes off you. He peers at you over the flickering candles and repeats, more slowly this time. “Did you… like it?”

You swallow hard and nod once.

“Yes,” you hear yourself say on bated breath. “I think I did…”

“What about it did you like?”

You struggle to catch your breath, more so to find an adequate answer.

“I think that I— I just spent so much time worrying about my duties as the… the wretched Flower of Highgarden,” you laugh bitterly at the stupid nickname. “That I forgot what it meant to feel good. That I was allowed to feel good, and suddenly I was surrounded by people just taking what they wanted, and I felt so…”

“Free?” Baelor finishes for you, brows raised to his hairline.

“Powerful,” you correct, squinting like the word is half-foreign on your tongue.

Something flickers in his brown-blue eyes, something more than just the candlelight, as if he were finally seeing you for the first time.

His chair legs scrape the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height, rounding the table in measured strides, ambling towards you like a predator stalking its prey.

“Is Daeron who you want?” he asks with lowered brows. “Is that where your loyalties lie?”

“My loyalty is to the crown, Your Grace—”

You clear your throat and tilt your chin to meet the man’s gaze when he towers over you, smelling of leather and the old books he spends most of his days studying. Your breath stutters when he suddenly reaches for your face.

“Don’t answer from here,” he murmurs lowly, tapping gently at your skull. His pale pointer finger trails down — past your cheek, over your jaw, and down your thrumming pulse — until it rests along your sternum, just over your racing heart. “Answer from here.”

You inhale a wavering breath, glassy eyes darting back and forth between his unblinking ones.

“In a… In a perfect world…” you start in a trembling voice, struggling to keep the man’s gaze as you turn instead to your reddened nail beds. “Daeron and I would take off for Sunspear or Casterly Rock— Somewhere by the sea, where the sun is always shining— And the world would just be the two of us, fucking and drinking and loving all we want…”

Baelor’s brows perk at your sudden brashness. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because this is not a perfect world,” you answer plainly, half-morose. “And I’m not so selfish as to pretend that I don’t have my own duties here…”

Baelor’s lip quirks in a gentle smile beneath his greying beard as he exhales a laugh through his nose.

“A trait rather befitting for a future queen, perhaps…” he hums and points his mismatched gaze to the silk bow sitting at the chest of your slip, tracing it with the tip of his pointerfinger.

“Despite my… regrettable actions…” you trail off, just barely able to meet the man’s gaze as you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. “My racing mind did inevitably run into thoughts of you, Your Grace…”

“Really?” he hums. “Pray tell.”

“Daeron asked me what I wanted, and I thought first of you,” you confess. “And I realized I had grown quite attached to the thought of becoming your wife. Of ruling beside you— some many years on, of course, but— The sheer thought of it made me… It made me feel like I could conquer worlds.”

“Aye,” Baelor nods, with a fire in his brown-blue gaze that matches your own. “We will.”

He’s kissing you before you can blink, pressing his mouth to yours and cradling the back of your neck in a calloused hand, urging your jaw upward with his thumb. He steals the breath from your lungs under the weight of his searing kiss, as fierce and merciless as taking a bite out of an apple. It’s all tongue and teeth and spit — a passion you weren’t sure a man as wooden as Baelor was able to give, or otherwise cared to.

A string of saliva connects your mouths when he pulls away from you. Baelor smiles softly to himself when you try hopelessly to chase his kiss, swiping the thread of spit away with the pad of his thumb when it clings to your chin.

“Did you cum?” he asks you, then follows quickly at the look you give him. “When my nephew fucked you with his fingers at a whorehouse— Did you cum?”

His prying gaze darts rapidly between your glassy one as you struggle to answer — unsure of whether to be honest or to tell a feeble lie in hopes of placating his ego. You decide, finally, to tell the truth.

“Yes,” you answer and nod once into his hand.

“And I trust it will be the last time?”

“As you command, Your Grace—”

“Baelor,” he corrects.

“As you command, Baelor.”

There’s a twinkle of subtle mischief in your gaze that makes his lips curl into a quiet smile. He leans down again, and you think he’s going to kiss you, but he only traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.

“You are not as soft as the tales would tell it, are you? Flower of Highgarden,” he hums in a melodic voice, breath fanning over your mouth. “Gentle, yes. But not soft.”

“What’s the difference?” you whisper, and he feels the breath of it over his bearded chin.

“A soft person wouldn’t dare touch a knife, would they? But you… You’d kiss my forehead before pressing a blade to my neck— That’s gentle,” he explains, walking you backward with meandering footsteps that rhyme with your own.

Your breath catches in your chest when the backs of your thighs collide suddenly with the edge of the table. It scrapes once on the cobbles, and then again when Baelor urges you suddenly around with a firm hand on your elbow. He spins you away from him and presses you further into the wooden edge with his chest flush against your back.

“And I am— The idiot who would thank you for slitting my throat…” he mutters in your ear, scruff scratching at your neck as his calloused hands crawl up your thighs, pushing up the hem of it as they go. “As long as it meant you touched my skin…”

His wide palms trail over your hip bones, up your stomach, and past your ribcage. They settle finally under your breasts, just lingering there, and you wonder if he can feel the way your breathing stutters beneath them — if he can feel the way you fight the urge to grind your ass against his cock.

“Is this wise, my lord?” you whisper, nose brushing his bearded jaw when you peer hesitantly over your shoulder. “Our wedding is at dawn— They’ll be expecting a bedding ceremony—”

“Aye. They will. And you can pretend to be the sweet, virgin wife for the people on the morrow all you want,” Baelor hums, reaching for his belt with one hand to undo the buckle there. “But there’s no use in pretending when we’re alone, is there?””

Excitement stirs in your flaring chest and down into the pit of your swirling stomach, throbbing somewhere in the depths of your loins the same way you had for Daeron. You keep his stare when he pulls his half-hard cock from the confines of his trousers, mouth watering for a taste of him.

“No… I suppose not,” you say on bated breath and let Baelor fuck you stupid in the middle of the candlelight study — moaning his name within the cobbled walls, mere hours before you recite your sacred vows before the gods.

The pavilion of Lord Lyonel Baratheon was a riot of yellow and black, draped in the ostentatious display of a more than a hundred stag antlers.

You did not wait for an introduction; you simply pushed past the startled guards and stepped into the amber glow of the lanterns.

The very first sight that greeted you as you pushed open the curtains of the entrance was the bare chest of the The Laughing Storm, holding a flagon of ale in one hand and a whetstone in the other as he danced to the loud cheers and applause of his guests, all of whom were equally drunk.

He froze, his black brows arching upward e as he sensed the sudden, heavy hush that fell upon the revelry. And he turned toward the entry, his lips curling into a grin as he glimpsed the flash of pale, moon-silver hair beneath the shadow of your dark hood. He recognized you right away.

“By the Gods!” Lord Lyonel roared, his face flushed with wine-heat as he stumbled toward you, his pace weaving. “A Targaryen princess in my tent at the witching hour? Your Grace, if this is a marriage proposal, my lady wife might have words— but I’m certainly tempted!”

“I come for your help, Lord Lyonel,” you said as you stepped forward, finally pulling your hood back to reveal your face. “My cousin Aerion has invoked a Trial of Seven. He has turned a matter of simple justice into a slaughter.”

Lyonel’s grin faded. He set the flagon down and beckoned you toward the shadows of a private alcove, a pair of scurrying servants hastening to drape a golden cloak around shoulders as he strode passed them, far more concerned than he was about presenting a favourable impression for you.

“I heard the rumors,” Lyonel declared. “They say the hedge knight took liberties. They say he stole your honor in the woods,” he exhaled a sharp, huffing breath and shook his head, a prideful smirk gracing his lips. “That tall man, lucky fucking bastard! Heh, I knew there was something special in him.”

You chose to overlook that, clearing your tightened throat as you tried to cover up your blush.

“You— you know him, my lord?” you asked with some curiosity.

Lyonel affirmed it with a nod of his head, still all smiles, “Aye. We've had drinks together—we're friends.”

Friends? With Lyonel Baratheon?

But that was no surprise to you, since Duncan was the kindest, lovable, and most easygoing soul you had ever encountered. He could undoubtedly melt his way into the coldest of hearts.

“Then you must know that Ser Duncan is a man of honor. He treated me with more respect than any lord in my father’s court. The things they're saying are nothing but malicious rumors.” You held his gaze firmly, letting him see the fraying, desperate edges of your state. But Lyonel knew well enough that only the direst of straits would bring a Targaryen princess to seek the aid of a Baratheon in the dead of the night. “And you, my Lord, I know you love a fight that means something. Will you—”

“I am in,” Lyonel chirped in, the words cutting through your plea before you could even speak of rewards or gold.

You stood there, mouth agape, the carefully prepared promises dying in your throat. “O-oh...”

He let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh at your stunned silence. “You have a dragon’s fire in you to defy your own kin! I’ve always liked your father, Princess, but you? You’ve got the dragon's temper he lacks.”

“My Lord, I—I can not thank you enough,” you stammered, finally finding your breath as you bowed your head in gratitude. “Plaese, name your price. Whatever you desire of my personal stores—jewels, lands, favors, it shall be yours. I swear.”

Lyonel threw back his head and laughed once again, a sound like crashing thunder that made you flinch. At that, he reached out, clapping a reassuring hand onto your tense shoulder.

“Keep your courtesies and your promises, my Princess,” he grinned, his eyes gleaming with a fierce, wicked light. “I should require naught but the chance to plant my fist in the face of a few Kingsguard! It has been too long since I tested my mettle against those white-cloaked beauties. Count me in, little dragon.”

The air near the cider press was thick with the scent of crushed apples and woodsmoke. And as you approached through the heavy rain, you could hear the sharp exchange of voices long before you reached the golden pool of light spilling from the pavilion.

“Maybe the gods figure this is what I deserve,” you managed to discern Dunk’s muffled, deep voice, his words breaking with a hollow disappointment.

“For doing what you were supposed to do?” asked a voice you presumed to be Raymun Fossoway’s.

“For not knowing my place,” Dunk replied.

You stepped just as Egg and a disheveled, very drunken Daeron had made their entrance as well.

The moment Dunk saw the prince who had lied about him and his grief turned to a sudden, violent flash of rage. He lunged, pinning Daeron against a table.

“Stop! Please!” Egg cried out.

“Are you mad coming here?” Dunk’s voice was a low, menacing hiss. “I should drive this through your neck.”

“I’d sooner you pour me a cup of wine,” Daeron drawled, his voice thick with the apathy of a man who had already given up on himself.

“Fuck your wine!” Duncan sneered. “You lied about me—”

“Dunk, let him go!” you called out frantically, stepping into the tent. “P–please, Ser, do not hurt him”

Raymun’s jaw dropped and immediately straightened upon your unexpected appearance, momentarily entertaining the notion that his tent had become a gathering spot for straggling Targaryens. At least the three of you appear to be the sanest of the younger lot.

Dunk’s grip on your cousin slackened as he turned toward you, his eyes wide with a mixture of emotions—above all, an unadulterated terror for your safety. “Princess...”

Daeron blinked his bleary violet eyes, a slow, relieving smile spreading across his face as he observed you, knowing in his heart that you would protect him against all things. It had always been like that, even though he was older, he would turn to you for a sense of comfort and protection.

Ever since he was a little boy, Daeron often would longed for you to be his older sister, it not, even to be your brother, born from Baelor's blood. Many times he found himself belonging more to your side of the family than his own. He would dream for that, too, to have a father as gentle and patient as Prince Baelor.

Instead, Daeron had to live the rest of his lifetime carrying the weight and guilt of Maekar's disappointment.

“Seven hells,” he wheezed, his gaze—clouded by wine and agony—flickering with a faint spark of affection. “The Princess herself... come to witness the mess we’ve made.”

You shot him a stern, scolding glare that made him swallow hard. His gaze drifted away to seek the cup his fingers were already fumbling for on the table, but before his hand could close around the pewter rim, you moved.

With a swift, practiced grace, you reached out and snatched the flagon right from under his nose. Daeron blinked, his mouth hanging open in a silent, drunken protest, but you ignored him. You raised the cup to your own lips and took a long draught of the sour, cheap red wine, feeling the burn settle the frantic fluttering in your chest.

Dunk stared at the sway of your throat as you swallowed, his sky-blue eyes intently observing you, overwhelmed by the storm of emotions that were sweeping through his heart. But the moment you appeared, all the noise seemed to fade away.

“Daeron,” you spoke his name with tender sorrow and when you looked at him again, your gaze softened just a fraction. “It gladdens my heart to see you alive, cousin. Truly, it does. But do not mistake my affection for forgiveness. You have played the coward's part tonight.”

“Forgive me, dear cousin,” Daeron offered with a faint voice, his eyes wandering distractedly toward the ground, leaning still against the table with visible weakness. “I never intended for you to be hurt by any of this.”

You sighed softly, setting the cup down upon the table and helping him right himself so he might sit upon the bench. He gave your arm a small, appreciative squeeze in return.

“Your Grace,” Dunk ventured at last, interrupting the bittersweet reunion with your cousin, bowing low as you both turned to face him. “You should not be here. I—I can not have your reputation destroyed for my sake.”

You let out an exhaustive sigh, shaking your head. “Fuck my reputation.”

Raymun let out a laugh at your words, surprisingly pleased by your honesty; and even Daeron, slumped and weary on the bench, managed to raise an amused eyebrow at you. Sitting next to his older brother, Egg raised his eyebrows, his face lighting up with amusement.

Dunk exhaled a sharp, tethered breath as a smile finally tugged at his lips—a fleeting grace his features seemed to have forgotten for hours.

“She always was the best of us, Ser,“ Daeron commented, aware of the awe-struck look the hedge knight kept fixed on you as you sipped another gulp of wine wholeheartedly, feeling way too sober to be coping with all of that. “If a girl like her said such things to me, I’d fight the Stranger himself with nothing but a wooden spoon.“

“Is that all you came here to say?” Dunk asked, unimpressed, his voice low as he blushed, finally dragging his loving gaze off your beautiful face to stare at your cousin.

The air in the space turned heavier with an oppressive tension as Dunk loomed in front of him like a threatening thunderstorm, worn out and too frazzled to stand any more taunting from another prince.

“Because if you're only here to drink and weave pretty words about her while she carries the weight of your family’s mess on her shoulders,” he continued, his voice lowering menacingly, “then you’ve said enough.”

Daeron let out a weak, wheezing chuckle, holding up his hands in a mocking surrender.

“Seven hells,” the Prince breathed out, a tired smirk playing on his lips as he glanced at you. “He’s got the bite of a dragon and the height of a giant. You certainly know how to pick them, cousin.”

“Daeron...” you scolded him, exhausted.

And at that, Dunk took another step towards Maekar's firstborn, but before he could bark anything to him, Egg sprang to his feet.

“My father has commanded the Kingsguard to fight as well!” he announced loudly, shifting the emphasis of the conversation back to what was crucially significant.

“Only the three that are here,” Daeron added, taking a long, desperate draught of his wine, from the same cup you had been drinking from, snatching it from your hands to prevent you from drinking to excess. You just gave him a dirty look.

Aegon looked up at his tall friend, with despair overflowing from every fibre of his small frame. “Who do you have, Ser?”

“Raymun’s cousin,” Dunk replied, sighing.

You cleared your throat, looking up at him as well. “And Lyonel Baratheon”

“The Laughing Storm?” Daeron nearly choked on his wine, his eyes bulging as he lowered his cup. “You brought the Stag into this? Gods be good, cousin, you don’t play at half-measures, do you?”

Duncan looked back at you, his heart visible in the pained line of his mouth. “Princess...”

“If I must walk into every tent in this meadow to find your seven, I shall do it.“ You tilted your head back as you spoke to meet his gaze, your eyes softening with a quiet, sweet devotion. “You are my friend. I will not let you die for lack of knights, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk exhaled a heavy sigh, nodding slowly. He offered you a gentle smile, though it did not reach his eyes—the weight of his guilt was a shroud he could not yet cast off. Sensing his struggle, you reached out and sought his hand, giving his rough, calloused fingers a small, reassuring squeeze and he didn't shy away from your affection, but held on to it firmly.

Ignoring the gesture of his dear friend Raymun looking down at your intertwined hands and then back up at his face, raising his eyebrows in an obvious teasing fashion.

And then he broke the silence, his voice bright with renewed spirit. “She’s right, Dunk. We have the Stag and the Apple. We need but three more. My cousin must be looking for more knights.”

“I can bring people too, Ser. Knights. I can!” Egg chirped in, stepping in enthusiasm.

Tears of love and pride welled up in your eyes as you looked at your little cousin, wrapping your unoccupied arm around his little shoulders to hold him close to you. “Aegon...”

He embraced you back, gazing up at you with a timid little smile. “I can do it!”

Dunk shook his head, looking pained. “I’ll be fighting against your family, Egg.”

“My father will be well guarded,” Aegon responded firmly, “and you won’t kill Daeron. He told me he’d fall down.”

Daeron let out a soft, broken chuckle at that. “It is the one thing I do with any grace.” He raised his cup in a mock toast after, the wine sloshing against the rim. “To the hedge knight and the princess. A tragedy in the making, or a song for the ages. I suppose we’ll know by noon.”

He wiped a stray drop of wine from his lip, his eyes suddenly sharp and unsettlingly lucid.

Daeron gestured loosely with his cup. “A private word, Ser Duncan?”

Dunk's hand hesitantly let go of yours, following the prince as he lead him outside the tent. The heavy canvas flap fell shut behind them, leaving the three of you in a sudden, suffocating silence.

Raymun stood awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked at you, then at the small, bald prince still hugging you with a protective reassurance, then down at his own boots.

The social gap between a squire and a woman like you had never felt wider or more uncomfortable than it did right now, in the quiet aftermath of a royal outburst. Suddenly, he understood everything Dunk had described feeling in your presence. Small as a mouse.

“You did the right thing, cousin,” Aegon reassured you, his hand seeking yours beneath the fabric of your cloak, and he squeezed it—a tiny gesture of emotional support.

Raymun cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. He reached out and picked up some tray, holding it out toward you and Egg with a stiff, jerky motion. “Does.. either of your Graces... like apples?”

He gestured vaguely at the fruit when you turned to look at him; your powerful violet gaze seemed to swallow him whole, his face turning a deep shade of red. “They’re from the Reach. Very... crisp. Good for the n–nerves, they say.”

Egg shrugged, reaching out a hand to gladly accept the bright red apple, bringing a little smile to your face.

By the time you stepped out from the pavilion, Daeron was already gone, leaving Dunk standing alone beneath the soft rain that had begun to weep from the night sky once again.

He merely looked at you when he heard your approach, reaching out once you stood at his side; his hand hovered in the air for a heartbeat before he found the courage to tuck a rain-dampened lock of your silver hair behind your ear.

His fingers were so light, so careful, so reassuring even as tears began to well up in his own eyes.

Your hand rose to his face at once, brushing away the salt-tears that mingled with the raindrops tracking down his skin.

“Don't cry,” you cooed. “Everything will be fine.

Duncan bowed his head then, leaning down so he could fold you into an embrace, finally breaking within your arms.

He was only a boy who had been born in Flea Bottom with nothing but hunger in his belly and fear in his bones, who had climbed his way into knighthood with blistered feet and blind faith—and who now stood on the edge of losing it all. A boy who had learned, far too early, that the world did not care if he lived or died.

He did not dream of crowns, did not crave glory, he just wanted a full belly. A dry place to sleep. To be a knight. A good man.

That was enough, it had always been enough.

Until you.

Because you were warmth, and he had lived his whole life in the cold. He could feel your voice in his veins, your touch on his skin, your kiss on his soul, he felt like he was made for you. To love you and be loved by you.

Duncan didn't want a day to go by without that feeling, he wanted you, in the sunlight, in the stars at night, in his silence, by his side, in every breath he took and every beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely into your hair, repeating your name over and over under his breath like a prayer.

You drew back just enough to see his face, rain clung to his long lashes, turning his bright blue eyes glassy and unbearably young. To think that he was so young and had to go through all this made you want to weep yourself too, but you held strong for him, to contain him.

“For what, love?” you asked gently.

Love.

Love he did not believe he had the right to feel.

But he could not pretend it was not right there. In your violet, gentle eyes, in your lips pronouncing his name so beautifully, in your hands caressing his skin.

Duncan knew he couldn't die.

Because, to love you was to be alive.

And he was so scared that it made him tremble in your arms.

“For—for being so... so bloody s–stupid,” he sobbed, his lips trembling, bitter and ashamed. “I’m... I’m so afraid of dying— in the dirt like I was born,” he admitted. “Afraid it’ll mean nothing. That I’ll mean nothing.”

Your hands held his face in a gentle embrace, stroking his cheeks with your fingertips, blinking out the tears that were forming in your eyes. “Oh, Dunk...”

“I’m afraid of never seeing you again—”

You rose up on your tiptoes, sliding your fingers from his cheeks to the nape of his neck, bringing him down closer to you. Dunk let out a choked, quivering gasp; his big hands lingered in the air for a beat before finally searching your waist, clutching at your flesh and pulling you closer to his body.

When your lips finally found his, the taste of rain and the salinity of his tears swirled on your tongue. It was a kiss that was desperate and meaningful, a profound pact sealed in the darkness of the night with the gods as silent witnesses. It brought the comfort of a warm fire on a stormy winter's night.

A hoarse groan rolled from Duncan's throat as he kissed you back with a longing and despair so overwhelming that your knees buckled under the weight of it.

To kiss, he was a neophyte, hardly experienced in such intimate matters. Yet, for reasons beyond his comprehension, his lips knew exactly what to do, joining yours in a way that felt natural, like they had been meant to be together ever since the dawn of existence.

He had kissed you before, he just knew it. Somewhere else, in another world, another time, in his deepest dreams.

Your taste, your touch, your body pressed against his. It was all so familiar.

You broke the kiss when your need to breathe made your body start to falter, a faint smacking sound filling the space as your lips finally detached from his.

You both stood in each other's silence for a moment, holding the other, your foreheads leaning together, sharing each other's gasping breaths. The rain kept falling all around you both, soaking your hairs and clothes. But cold was the farthest sensation from your senses.

“Look at me,” you ordered him softly.

And Duncan followed your command without hesitation, opening his eyes, darkened by a shadow of yearning and submission.

“Tomorrow you will fight,” you started, tracing the outline of his lower lip with your thumb, making sure to hold his gaze. Your voice held the authority of a princess and the tenderness of a lover. “And you will win. And I will take you as you are.”

Duncan tilted his head down to capture your lips in another gentle kiss, lingering there, savoring your taste and breathing you in once more. He lingered there as if he could live inside that kiss, inside your body, inside your soul, in your warmth.

He nose nuzzled yours affectionately as he pulled away.

“I am already yours,” Duncan promised. “All of me. Always have been. I’m your man.”

You just couldn't hold it in any longer and fell back into his strong arms, hugging his broad shoulders with all your force. You buried your face in his neck, feeling how fast his heart was pounding right by your ear, hoping you could just sink there forever. In every beat.

Thump, thump, thump.

You, you, you.

“Take this with you,” you told him before heading back in your quest to recruit more knights to fight on his side.

You rummaged into your dress's pocket for a silver silk ribbon, of the exact shade of your hair. “I had intended to grant you this at the tournament. I was so thrilled to do it,” you paused, your lips curving into a sad smile. “But circumstances have changed, I suppose.”

Duncan glanced down at your outstretched hand, breathing tremulously as he reached out not for the ribbon, but for your fingers, raising your hand to his lips to touch your knuckles with a delicate kiss.

His gaze fell then, at last, to the ribbon. Silver. Soft. Like moonlight. You.

“Do you know,” he asked quietly, a faint teasing smile appearing on his lips, “how many men would kill for this, Princess?”

You actually managed to pull off a genuine smile this time as you shrug your shoulders. “Fuck them. It belongs to you alone, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk smiled as well, chuckling quietly as he accepted the token, his eyes locking onto yours.

“Fuck them,” he concurred, pulling you close to to steal one more kiss while the world still was at peace.

Dawn rose with a merciless coldness, casting Ashford's sky in an ominous ash-grey shade. The camp was a hive of tense activity.

The trial was moments away from starting, and Duncan still lacked one knight to complete his set of seven.

Your brother Valarr's armor was a magnificent piece, polished until it gleamed like a night sky, with the three-headed dragon rising in crimson pride upon the chest, but seeing your father in it made you understand the enormity of the act he was about to commit.

“You did well to seek out Lyonel Baratheon, Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Ser Humfrey Beesbury. I am proud of you, my love,” he smiled, his lips twitching with a grimace of effort, as the squires struggled to fasten the straps of your older brother’s black armor. “But Ser Duncan needs a seventh man. Who else will fight for him?”

Just moments earlier, a pale-faced servant had arrived, his voice shaken, to inform you that Ser Steffen Fossaway had withdrawn from his position as Duncan's knight. Aerion's gold and the promise of a lordship had outweighed the honor of the red apple; now Raymun's cousin would ride with the accusers, leaving Dunk with a deadly void in his ranks.

“Not you, Father, obviously,” Valarr stated, as he stood beside you, glancing apprehensively at Prince Baelor, his sharp eyes aware that the armor was too small for his father to wear. “You can't. All of this over some hedge knight?”

“He is not just some hedge knight,” Baelor sent a disapproving look at his eldest son for his choice of words. “And this is much bigger than that, Valarr. As a knight yourself, you surely will understand.”

When he saw the two of you staring back at him with big, frightened eyes, your mouth pursed into a pout and Valarr's jaw tense with unease, Baelor sighed and took a step closer to you so he could lay a gentle hand on each of your faces.

His gaze was reassuring, and his smile even more so. “Fear not, my children.”

“Father...” your voice broke, shattering the pretense of strength you had been trying to hold onto.

“We will win this morning, my sweet dragon. Do not fear,” Baelor affirmed in his characteristic gentle voice. His two-toned eyes shifted to your brother, his hand falling to his shoulder to give him an affectionate squeeze.

He just gazed at both of you for a moment, Valarr standing strong and protective, and you, with your heart in your mouth, but still standing so firm. A shadow of melancholy crossed his face. In that brief moment, he seemed to be memorizing your features for the journey ahead.

The blood of his blood. His children. Such a part of himself that no one could ever deny it.

“You've grown so much…” your father whispered, mostly to himself, with a heart-wrenching tenderness. “Valarr, take care of your sister. Make sure she doesn't get too close to the railing.”

Valarr nodded, gripping his forearm as Prince Baelor stepped away from him to give you one last kiss on the forehead before putting on his helm.

Seated in the royal pavilion, your fingers fidgeted with apprehension and concern as the crowd's cries erupted into a roaring ovation: Prince Baelor was joining the trial and taking Ser Duncan's side.

The initial clash was deafening, a collision of steel and flesh that made the wooden stands beneath your feet shake.

The battle quickly descended into a blur of chaos: you caught sight of Lyonel Baratheon living up to his name; the Laughing Storm’s boisterous roars echoed over the clash of steel as his mace battered down shields and men alike. You saw him drive his weight against the Kingsguard, laughing with wicked delight as he slammed his fist into a white-cloaked helm, testing their legendary mettle with every bone-crushing blow.

Amidst the carnage, your father moved with lethal grace as he parried blows with effortless precision, swinging his weapon with the mastery of a true warrior-prince.

But your eyes always wandered back to him, naturally.

Aerion, with his gleaming menacing armor and madness burning from behind his visor, resembled a hellish fiend, slaying men and cutting flesh as if he had been born for that purpose, to wreak bloodshed and death in his path.

Your cousin, naturally, was more agile, better trained as a warrior, his cruelty lending him an inhumane upper hand. Dunk was bleeding, his movements had become slow and heavy for all the wounds inflicted upon him, and the exhaustion was threatening to close his eyes.

Valarr held your hand tightly, sensing your helplessness as you rose to your feet, too paralyzed to look away from the horrific scene.

Then, in a burst of ferocious determination, Dunk lashed out at Aerion's legs, knocking him down into the mud. It became a brutal, animalistic fight.

Indifferent to the agonizing pain of his broken bones, the slashes and the blood blurring his vision, Duncan immobilized the prince down, slamming Aerion's steel with his own shield in such frenzied rage that seemed to have drained him of all other emotion. All he knew was the instinct to strike.

And strike he did, blow after blow, again and again.

Aerion shrieked and struggled to break free, but Dunk was impossible to break through in his rage.

“Yield!” Duncan roared, smashing the already crumpled shield into Aerion once more. “Say it! Yield!”

Aerion could offer no response but choked, gurgling coughs that bubbled through his visor. Gasping for air, Duncan pushed himself to his feet and—with a strength born of pure desperation—dragged the Prince through the mire toward the main pavilion.

“Tell him!” Duncan threatened, pushing Aerion’s head up to force him to look at Lord Ashford, but his eyes searched only for you, leaning over the railing, looking down at him with a face contorted with concern and dread.

Even there, when you had chosen the man who had snatched you from his side, when you sided with the same man who was crushing him, Aerion thought you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Even there, broken and humiliated, Aerion’s heart beat only for you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you beheld his ravaged, bloodied face, and a wave of horror swept through your bones.

Behind the gore, you saw him, the boy who had chased you through the summer gardens of the Red Keep, his laughter bright and bright as his hair. The Aerion who would hide in the library just to surprise you with a stolen sweet, the boy whose hands were once gentle as he wove wildflower crowns for your head. He had been your sun, your first love, a beautiful, wild thing before the madness and the fire took root.

And now he had been reduced to a miserable, broken shadow of what he once was.

Dunk gave him another violent shake, his shadow looming over the fallen prince. “Tell him!”

In his eyes, all that mattered was you, holding onto the railing, an angel of sorrow witnessing his fall.

You had always been that to him: his beginning and his end. His unquenchable hunger. Aerion knew no other way to love you than by destroying everything around you so that only he could remain. You were the ruin he relished, the poison he craved.

And he knew he would never get to indulge in it again.

“I...” Aerion strained to find his voice, coughing up blood, his gaze locked on you. “I withdraw my accusation.”

As the last syllable of surrender left Aerion’s blood-slicked lips, a herald’s trumpet blasted through the arena, signaling the end of the trial. The crowd roared in triumph.

Dunk didn’t wait for a formal dismissal. With a guttural growl of exhaustion and disdain, he released his grip on Aerion’s gorget. He gave one final, forceful shove, sending the Prince sprawling backward into the filth to recover his breath.

Aerion hit the mud with a heavy, wet thud, his limbs tangling uselessly in his ruined armor.

“Sister—” Valarr tried to stop you, but you were already rushing toward the stairs.

Aegon was right behind you, smiling with joy.

You came in stumbling, your heart pounding in your chest, desperately searching among the faces of the men who had lifted him out of the arena. And then you saw him.

Dunk was slumped on a rugged wooden bench, his massive frame trembling as the adrenaline of the trial was slowly wearing off his senses, leaving only raw exhaustion in its wake. He was gasping for air, his lungs burning with every breath.

“Dunk!” His name tore from your throat, more a sob than an exclamation.

At the sound of your voice, he lifted his head. His face was a map of violence: a deep gash split his eyebrow, sending a steady trail of crimson down his cheek, and his lip was swollen and purple. Yet, when his sky-blue eyes found yours, they didn't reflect the pain—they reflected love.

He called out your name so earnestly, his voice choked with the pain that ravaged his flesh. He followed you with his gaze as you knelt in front of him to examine his injuries, which was a difficult task due to your vision being blurred by your unshed tears.

“I—” He grunted and choked in his pain, struggling to make sure you could actually understand what he was trying to tell you. Those words he had longed to say ever since he first saw you. “I love—”

“Shhh. Don't talk, sweetling. You'll be fine,” you reassured him, nodding with your head lightly. “I'll—”

“I'll send Maester Yormwell to take a look at him,” Prince Baelor's voice interrupted you, using the exact words you were just about to say, “when he's done tending to my brother.”

You turned toward the sound of his calm voice, relief flooding your chest as you saw your father standing just a few feet away.

“Father,” you breathed, a fresh wave of tears escaping your eyes. “You're safe. Thank the Gods, you're safe.”

He still had his helm on and limped a little as he walked towards you, which is why you jumped up and rushed over to his side to hold him steady.

Your father placed a hand on your own around his forearm, squeezing it gently before turning his gaze down to Dunk in front of him. The hedge knight had pushed himself to his knees and bowed.

“Your Grace,” he announced reverently, looking up at him with a grateful and devoted demeanor. “I am your man—I am your man.”

Baelor smiled at him, laying a hand on Duncan's shoulder, “I need good men, Ser Duncan.” His hand moved to his cheek in appreciation as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a tone that felt private, almost fatherly. “And my daughter... she has always had a keen eye for the true heart of a man. It seems she found the best of them. Keep her safe, Duncan.”

Your heart swelled at his words, feeling a fluttering sens of hope—but your smile faltered almost instantly as you noticed the way your father suddenly staggered at your side, his weight shifting unevenly.

“Are you okay, Father?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, thick with a caution you couldn't quite name.

“Fear not, child,” he dismissed with a reassuring wave, though his movements seemed heavy, as if he were wading through water. He gestured toward Raymun Fossoway. “Ser Raymun, my helm, if you would be so kind. I feel... rather suffocated.”

You hesitated, a cold knot forming in your stomach, before stepping back to allow Raymun to approach. Baelor kept his eyes on you, offering a gentle, tired smile as he noticed the deepening worry on your brow.

“Don't look at me like that, daughter,” he teased softly. “The visor is cracked, that is all.” His gaze flickered down to his own hand then; he began to flex his fingers in front of his face, his movements slow, jerky, and disconnected. “Strange... my fingers feel like wood.”

Raymun moved behind him, his breath catching as he spotted the jagged dent at the rear of the helm.

His voice wavered. “Goodman Pate. A hand. Quickly.”

“Your helm is crashed down the back, Your Grace,” Pate cautioned, his hands trembling as he reached for the steel. “It’s smashed right into the gorget.”

Beside you, Dunk’s hand sought yours, his rough fingers lacing through yours with a desperate need for anchor. Baelor’s gaze softened even further, a final flicker of paternal peace crossing his face as he saw your hands clasped together.

“My brother’s mace, most likely,” Baelor noted, his voice growing faint, though his smile remained. “He's strong.”

Pate gave a sharp tug and the helm came away with a sickening, wet sound.

The breath died in your lungs. You tried to scream his name, but the sound perished in your throat as you watched your father’s face change.

He was still smiling at you, that same gentle, paternal smile, but his eyes were no longer seeing you. They had turned glazed and distant, shifting toward the sky as if following the flight of a bird you could not see in the stone.

“Father?” you managed to utter at last, reaching out to him. “Your Grace—”

But Baelor didn't answer to your call this time.

As the helm was removed, the only thing keeping his shattered skull together vanished. A dark, thick slurry of blood and smashed brains began to spill from the back side of his head and down his armor.

“No,” Dunk roared, the sound torn from his soul as he lunged forward to catch the Prince. “No, no—no!”

Your father collapsed and Dunk caught him in his arms as best as he could, cradling the heir to the Iron Throne as if he were a child. You fell to your knees beside them, your hands hovering over your father's chest, terrified to touch him.

“Father! Look at me!” your voice rose into a shrill, desperate wail. “Father? No—”

Baelor’s hand gave a final, pasmodic twitch in the dirt, perhaps reaching for you one last time. His lips parted, a silent word forming— perhaps your name, perhaps your mother’s—and then the light in his eyes simply... went out.

“No! Help him!” you sobbed, turning to the open doorway. “Someone help him! P–please!”

“No, no, no— Your Grace. Get up, Ser. Please... get up,” Dunk pleaded, cradling your father’s body as sobs racked his massive, wounded frame. “I'm sorry— I'm so sorry...”

Your throat choked into sobs as you leaned down to press your forehead against Baelor’s, looking for his gaze, but his eyes were cold, so cold, so uncharacteristic in him, they neither followed your face nor warmed.

You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping that it would somehow snap you out of the nightmare.

Broken prayers slipped from your lips amidst the weeping. “I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not— this is not fair. P–please, please.”

Duncan kept repeating his apologies in a desperate litany, his pleas reaching you like distant echoes.

Aegon, who had been watching from the doorway with bulging eyes and a face as pale as the moon, was unable to bear the silence of death and clung to you, crying quietly on your shoulder. He was shaking as violently as you were, and his small frame was racked with sobs that made it difficult for him to breathe.

“He is not waking up,” whimpered Egg, his voice breaking with the raw, innocent panic of a child. “Why is he not waking up, cousin? W–why?”

Your wails pierced through the world with the omen of death.

Yesterday’s cloak that had graced your chair all day now hung bent over your left forearm. It smelled of smoke mostly, and the hem of it was adorned with crusted mud droplets.

Stone echoed flat beneath you down the dim halls of Lord Ashford’s keep. Torches kept the walls from closing in on you, but the place still felt suffocating. It had already seen too much.

There wasn’t any particular spot for the maids to gather, but despite the hour, you hoped you’d run into one who could rid you of the cloak. The sensation of the muddy rim bouncing off your lower leg as you walked made your jaw lock.

“As you will, Your Grace.”

Soft footsteps neared a closed door on your left. You halted before your frame could come into it, Egg slipping through the small crack in it before closing it shut. A sense of relief washed over you both when you registered one another—you needed to see his little face more than he would ever know. Your head inched ahead towards a crevice and he followed along as you both rounded the corner.

An advantage your little brother had at his age was that he could fit in almost all elements of architecture that were not intended for little kids, or any other size man. He had found a block of stone, moved the candles on it off to the side and lifted himself to sit there, while you leaned on the opposite wall, cloak sandwiched between your crossed arms. “How’s it going in there?”

His eyes would melt the stone beneath your feet if they could. “Ser Duncan did not do any wrong,” Aegon’s voice was quiet, strained with something close to sorrow, “I don’t think uncle sees it that way.” You didn’t bother asking him where he had gone off to with this Ser Duncan. Not with a face like that on him. He had learned to hold back his tears and you didn’t like the idea of that.

Your mouth thinned out, eyes dropping to where his feet were dangling above the floor.

“I think you need to trust that he will try to make the best decision possible, even if the situation is difficult.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Aegon had replied almost immediately, eyes lifting up to meet yours, big and glossy.

Your heartbeat stuttered, a breathy “What?” leaving you.

“If uncle makes a mistake?” A sob seemed to clog his throat, and whether that sob ever made it out into the open largely depended on what you said next.

What you could do was look back at him and pray he doesn’t see in his sister a worse evil than Aerion had been to you both. A fraud who pretended to know all the answers, and still, at that moment, gave her little brother none of the ones he sought.

Wood creaked to the left, a door opening again. Aegon perked up physically, though his face continued to carry the same concern, one too heavy for his age. His feet touched the ground instantly and he walked off to where you’d both come from.

You, however, remained for a couple moments longer. At least until any and all voices ceased to carry down to you—one tiny, one bigger. Only then did you move, cloak slung over your right arm now. The door from which Aegon had come out was fully open when you reached it. A salty swipe of your tongue across your bottom lip held the confirmation you never gave your little brother moments ago. The sole proof of your fraudulent nature. How it stank of dirt and rot where you stood, and how little the grimy cloak in your arms had to do with it.

One step. Two.

A third one would be asking for a whipping.

You planted yourself right inside the frame of the door and let your eyes roam inside just enough to find him. His back loomed on the side of the desk, broad and black and pressed forward by thought and bother. What little you could see of his face all soon turned to you in a flash. His head promptly twitched away again, but that only appeared to show the slow speed of the brain when it dealt with unexpected appearances. A double take made him fully look at you.

You looked right back.

His tongue pressed lightly beneath his bottom teeth, his eyes tearing themselves away from you again with several hurried blinks.

Your cheeks hollowed out at that and whatever emotional self-preservation you had left in you made you look away to the large book spread on his desk. Not that you could see anything within. But it was less bothersome than looking at him while he actively looked where you were not.

The inside of your head boomed with possibilities of what to say, each worse than the previous. When nothing felt good enough, surrender creased your eyebrows together. A frustrated sigh marked the first sound inside this room in the last several minutes.

“Aegon’s very upset.”

His chin tipped downwards at the sound of your voice. His gaze remained there, a curtain for the rendering and reshaping that went on in his mind at all times. All the responsibility he had and how much of himself he needed to shave off to live up to it.

“He has no right to be,” Baelor replied, voice soft, despite. There was no malice. There could never be malice. “He lied to the man,” he raised himself off the edge of the desk gently, “brought him into this instead of coming to me.” A slight raise in his brows was visible even from where you stood. He didn’t near you. The least he could do was offer you his front and not his side, and that was precisely what he did.

Your insides twisted at the sole sight of him—the sensation a mixture of what had occurred yesterday, and what had occurred the day before it. If you didn’t feel bad for avoiding him the previous day, you did now. Because even if you had done your best not to see him, there was nothing else on your mind the whole time you circled the pavilions. What had happened clung onto your back like a malicious spirit, one that occasionally sneaked a long, bony hand down your underclothes, tainting you with its sinful fingers.

By the time your revelations had ordered themselves in your head, Baelor had crossed over and closed the door behind you. He didn’t stop near, didn’t look your way. His desk was where he was headed after, where duty awaited him between sandy pages. Still, you were inside the same space as all of it. All that weighed on him like stones in a satchel.

You weren’t sure if he had said anything while you had spaced out.

It made you all the more unsettled.

Standing by the door, staring at him like he owed you something. A guarantee that he didn’t hate you half as much as he hated himself. A sign that even in this mess of a tourney, he could discern between his professional frustration and what you had made him feel.

Your teeth bit into a raised patch of skin on your bottom lip and lifted it off. The taste of blood coated the tip of your tongue seconds after, but your teeth didn’t let up. Always more to dig in a wound.

“Aerion said you were there,” Baelor’s eyes were on the cloak in your hands, his head lightly tilted. He spoke like a glass overfilled, the liquid shaking at the brim.

“I heard screaming and rushed there with everyone else. He had already done all the damage by then.” The cloak in your hands rustled lightly as you put it down on an empty chair nearby.

“And the hedge knight?”

“He came shortly after.”

His nostrils flared from where he sat, fingers rubbing at his temples. They dropped to his lap promptly. “You’re telling me that you were there before Aegon.” The words were more a statement than a question. And from the way he spoke, your uncle seemed displeased—with you. Uncertainty made your feet grow cold. The ache in them threatened to return.

“I was—”

He blinked away your attempt. Rapidly.

“And you did not think to come to me.” His voice was firm, quiet as can be, but firm. You had never heard him talk like this before. “Aegon, I can understand, he is but a child,” a pause, his eyes dropping to his desk, “It doesn’t excuse him, but I can see why he didn’t know better. You, on the other hand—” Baelor looked at you then. It took you all the strength in the realm to not look away.

His chest heaved, almost imperceptibly so, but it made all the difference on a man so calm.

“You should’ve come to me.”

“I would’ve never made it in time—”

“It could’ve been prevented.” This marked the first time you had heard your uncle’s voice more elevated than the whispery thread he usually weaved. It was in no way shouting, but with the way he had inclined forward on his chair, this was no casual conversation either.

The bottom eyelid on your right twitched lightly.

Your tongue flattened against the roof of your mouth, eyes finally looking away from him. A short huff escaped you before you could think any better. The left side of your face quirked up. “I don’t think it’s fair, blaming me for this.”

Baelor’s gaze followed the turn of your face to the side.

“I’m not blaming you.” Your brows shot up at his words, half amusement, half an attempt to mask the same look you had seen on Aegon’s face minutes ago.

“Right,” you breathed out, looking at him again. Maekar had left the castle hours ago to look for Daeron, but you made sure he never stopped seeing his brother around, whether you were aware of it or not. Your brows had furrowed the same way his had done when he was cross. “Where’s Aerion?”

The slight rasp in your throat hit your uncle right where he was sat. Your voice wasn’t as quiet as his.

“I already spoke to him.”

You nodded at that, a smile appearing, one of bewilderment rather than any positive emotion. It was gone as soon as it appeared.

Something about that made his jaw flex beneath the beard. His eyes squinted your way in response. “You were out the entire day,” the emphasis on entire made it feel more personal than it should’ve. “You ought to carry some sense of responsibility, do you not?”

“Responsibility for what, exactly?” The pitch of your voice tipped so high, he swore at least one person in the vicinity of the room awoke. It was beyond late.

He glanced to the closed door behind you, his mouth parting, the sharp of his canines peeking below his upper lip, visible even from where you stood. For those who looked there, that is.

Baelor leaned back in his seat, a heavy exhale leaving him. His eyes dropped to your hands, one spread across your stomach as if you’d split in two otherwise. A ringed hand moved atop the desk, tapping softly on the surface several times, before he slowly got up. His feet swished along the wooden flooring, coming to stand on the side of the desk again.

Any movement in your direction made you seize up all over again.

“You must understand that this is part of what I do,” your uncle’s voice had quieted down again, “I need to know all perspectives on what went down.”

“You think that’s not clear to me?” It became clear, to him, however, that by the tone of your voice, he had likely wounded you without meaning to. Beyond what he had worried about and spun over in his mind again and again over the last two days.

However, what he said next was counterintuitive to his otherwise very correct assessment of the current situation. It was self-preservation at its best. He knew what all this meant, at least for him. And more than that, he knew it would’ve taken him a lot more to say it in any other scenario. You were the least likely to earn it from him.

“I advise you to keep your voice down.”

You were good. He knew that. So what he said made no sense other than self-servitude. Your father wasn’t here to hear you and if anyone else did, what business was it of theirs to question what the Hand of the King was discussing at this hour. In the solar of all places.

You were so good. You weren’t in the wrong to be angry with him. For what he’d accused you of and for what he’d done to you in your chambers that made you walk the same place like a lunatic just to avoid him.

You were good.

In that moment, in his own eyes, Baelor wasn’t. Beneath the skirt of his robe, he was straining the same way he had that night when you’d touched him. Only, this time, you hadn’t. All you did was stand up to him. Point a mirror in his face so he could look at how honorable he was being.

That was your only offense. Your only fault.

He was grateful that you couldn’t hear any of this in his head. That the only thing he could read on your face was the anger you were clutching at, to no avail.

“Did you say the same thing to Aerion? I’m sure he made a whole mess of your quiet,” you glanced around, dismissively mapping the room with your hand, “ideal.”

His words had no effect on how loud you were being.

Baelor’s feet shifted. His eyes drifted to the door behind you again, worry written all over his face. He blinked it away at the ground.

“The castle is sleeping.” A second warning.

“Fuck the castle.”

Your words made his eyes shoot right up at you. The way they had widened only came afterwards.

I said “fuck me”, not “fuck him.”

His brother’s words from days ago swam up in his mind. You were his little girl. In nature and nurture.

Two strides were all it took for him to get to you. Well, not exactly. Baelor passed you and reached for the cloak you had draped over the chair by the door. He dropped it and kicked at it until it had covered the small gap between the door and the stone floor, where shadows and light could dance for anyone on the other side.

It was only then that he got to you.

A momentum that only his frame and height could give him. A quickness you had seconds to brace yourself for, unsuccessfully.

Two fingers tapped your chin, an urging. A tap to your lower lip followed when you hadn’t given the correct response. His fingers stilled there, stretching the gummy feel of it out until your mouth parted for him. The rest of your uncle’s fingers moved to support your chin from below, or more so, keep it as he had forced it. Open for him.

One of the digits pulling at your lower lip flicked up and went inside your mouth, stopping at the roof of it. He pressed upwards with his nail, parting you wider, even though your lower lip had loosened a bit. He did it until your head tipped back enough for you to be able to see his face and hardly anything below it, unless he allowed it.

“That’s it.”

It seemed as though your form was perfect, because his finger turned with its soft part up against your palate, maintaining your mouth tipped up and open.

His eyes drifted between yours like they were the last threshold for him to cross. You stared back, breathing out against his intrusive touch. Your jaw only dropped lower. It was sign enough.

What you could not see beneath the line of vision he had enforced on you was a hand. One with several rings on it that moved swiftly beneath his robe and undid the safety of his pants. If your eyes dared drop, and they did, his finger only pushed your head backwards more, so you could see his face and only his face.

Baelor had wrapped a large, adorned hand around himself inside his underthings.

The realization only settled when your downward peripheral registered a back-and-forth motion. Nothing quick or obscene, not yet. A slow pull and sheath. A pace in its beginning stages. His eyes were on yours the entire time, and yours had nowhere else to be but on his—right back. A miniature twitch in your brows gave you away, and it made his breath hitch, but not without a slight increase in the speed of his hand.

It seemed as though your gaze was equally as intrusive as his was to you, because the twitch in his neck kept returning. He was trying not to look away from you. Baelor was wrong. Whatever shame he saw in your eyes, it was all his. Pumping himself in front of his niece, in front of her perfect little face. Maekar’s face.

And he had the nerve to lecture you about responsibility.

His eyes dropped to the raised line splitting your right cheek and you didn’t quite know what it was about the way his jaw had slackened then, but you knew that you liked it and if it were any other moment, you would have joined him with your own hand between your legs.

Now, all you could think about was the shine your cunt was accumulating by the second as you bore witness to your uncle with a fist around his cock just at the sight of you. Selfishly trying to indulge your own senses now would ruin it. He was showing himself to you—as much as his consciousness allowed him at that particular moment.

And you were keen on meeting him right where he wanted you.

Aside from the stickiness between your legs, your mouth had begun to drool on and around his finger, which had maintained its deliberate position.

Baelor’s eyes followed one particular string of saliva as it spread down the corner of your open mouth. He didn’t reach for it, only added a second finger in, tilting your head up again so you opened wider. “That’s a quiet girl.”

His voice was all breathy now, merely above a whisper. Worked up more than he had been that night, all of which you had replayed in your mind over the course of the past two days.

When you’d let something close to a whine out just after, one from him followed as he glanced down to where his hand was and stilled. A vein popped on his temple and you could only guess he was squeezing himself as not to come. Or you hoped he was doing it, more like. You reveled in it.

Using his distracted state, you made an attempt to look below what was allowed, but Baelor shot it down quick by pushing up against your palate once more. His hand had begun stroking him again, and something about seeing him in his regal attire, all done up and proper, with not even the sleeves rolled back, doing what he was doing beneath the skirt, made your head spin.

He came closer. His shoulder, or what you could catch of it, was moving rhythmically again. The expression on his face was a delicious mixture of arousal, concern, and a third thing, close to frustration. With what you’d almost made him do just now.

Baelor came to stand in front of you, face to face. You could feel the motion of his hand near your navel, but his eyes were up and on your face. On your eyes and where they might steer again, and what he would need to do to correct that. Despite your curiosity, you had kept your mouth dutifully open in the meantime. Made his cock twitch, how good you were at following along, despite him barely uttering a word of instruction.

While his index and middle fingers propped your mouth as he wanted it, his thumb and ring fingers attached to each of the two corners of your mouth and pulled them wider. When you had made a sound in response, his slick hand rounded his tip, running a finger along the slit. The two fingers attached to your mouth’s roof slid further and felt up more of the ridges along the palate. It was his way of transmitting your mouth to other places, of imagining what it would be like to feel you there, but never allowing himself more than his own hand.

His gaze flickered to your cheek then. The scar pulled across your skin, the right side of your face much tighter than the other. Your right eye didn’t close half as much as your left one, likely because of the diameter of the scar and how it had healed. It was only then that he remembered—the possibility that he might be causing you pain, even years down the line.

Baelor lined his cock against his belly, still pumping himself as he got even closer to you. His mouth aligned with your cheek, and your eyes fluttered shut. You swore your feet would betray you any moment, both from excitement and the pain you had acquired the day before. He didn’t kiss you there this time. Just breathed you in with his mouth open, his eyes on yours from the side. Watching the way your lashes trembled, the way you stood so still while he did the unforgivable.

His fingers had relaxed lightly. You took the liberty of licking up into them, before closing your lips around them fully, sucking them in.

All you heard, and felt, was a rough exhale against your face before he pulled them out of your mouth and kissed you.

It was feverish.

The pool of saliva that had almost tipped over the edge of your mouth moments ago now flowed right into his own. He tried engulfing the entirety of you in one go, his lips dragging atop yours before you felt his tongue going in. It was sloppy and slow. And impossibly sensual. You wanted to believe your uncle hadn’t kissed anyone since your aunt’s passing. It made you all the more worked up, the idea that he had lost training in a way.

Your own tongue met Baelor’s and you enclosed his bottom lip, reveling in the sensation of how soft it was, while he had begun licking up into your mouth. He didn’t hold you. His hand continued to slide up and down the length of him, pausing here and there when it got too much. The position he had assumed reminded you of the one you had when he’d first hugged you that day. It was near endearing. His back was bent forward like he could not bear to part his mouth from yours. But he also wanted to keep touching himself and as much as you had seen him do, he likely still had some sense of bashfulness that made him not want to make you feel every move of his hand.

It was also incredibly hot to have him chase your mouth despite neither one of you really evading the other.

Baelor parted from your mouth for a bit, eyes dropping to where his hand was protruding beneath the skirt of his robe. This time around, your eyes dropped as well. He was close, evidently, from the way he was stilling every few pumps, but he still went on. It was better than any show you could see out there. Your pupils were wide and dark, full of want and something close to marvel. It was your first time witnessing male pleasure, let alone it being your dear uncle Baelor showing it to you.

“…out of his fucking mind.”

Your father’s voice echoed down the passage outside, along with that of one of the stewards, both likely returning after locating Daeron.

Baelor’s eyes shot up from his cock, as wide as you’d ever seen them, and in yours, he found an equal amount of shock. Your mouth parted, eyes falling back down below his waist again. He registered all of that, brows furrowing like he couldn’t believe what either of you were doing in the face of danger, despite the simultaneous quickening of his hand.

“He must be straightened out for tomorrow.”

You looked back up to him when Maekar’s voice rang again, just outside the door, before he disappeared down the corridor, and his voice with him.

Perhaps it was the combination of adrenaline, and the risk of being found with his hand down his pants and his niece along with him. Perhaps it was the sound of his brother’s voice and your face, Maekar's face, combined. Maybe it was just too much constraint for a man his age to take any longer.

But Baelor spilled just moments later, thick, white liquid covering his long fingers and the rings with them. Or so you imagined. You could not see any of it. Your knowledge of the subject extended as far as to the books in Summerhall’s library and what they spoke of. How men who didn’t engage in intercourse for a while tended to ejaculate in greater amounts. Though, you could never be sure if that were the case with him.

You wanted to see his hand. His cock, likely still hard against him. Wanted to know how he did it to himself and what he liked.

Alas, all that was visible to you was the shine on his forehead and the way he didn’t blink once while the orgasm tore through him. The way he had to keep looking you in the eyes the entire time or else, jaw tight and mouth shut, nostrils working overtime to restore his ragged breathing. He had made no sound, and you could tell it was deliberate.

Chest still heaving, his hand came from beneath his robe and rounded his back before you could see anything. His other one reached up, hesitating before caressing both of your cheeks with his knuckles, one after the other.

He could do no more than that. The way his fingers stuck together now was evidence enough that he had overindulged.

The matter of your own pleasure remained at what he had given you tonight—a glimpse of him, the reality of seeing him pleasure himself in front of you—a man you otherwise would’ve never expected to do anything of the sort. He likely didn’t plan on it either.

Your cunt remained drenched long after you had walked out of the solar. Under the covers, you could feel it for the next hour each time you moved around.

And you didn’t let yourself anywhere near it. There was something in denying yourself what Baelor hadn’t, that felt more gratifying than any orgasm could right now. You wanted to feel the proof of what you’d seen and felt as long as you could. A reward of sorts. The occasional thought of almost being caught would reignite you twice before you dozed off, still slick between the legs.

But certainly, that wasn’t the end of it.

No amount of sleep could undo what had been done and no amount of shame could thrust you back into a before that no longer existed. Family was meant to grow together. See one another develop.

Veiled in shadows and swathed in a cloak of crimson red, you moved through the castle’s spine.

Two of your sworn guards accompanied you, silent and grim, one of them carrying a covered plate of food and a small flask of water.

The dungeons of Ashford were cold, damp, and carved deep into the stone beneath the keep, just like any other dungeon. The air smelled of mold, iron, and old despair. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to stretch like grasping hands, with every turn you made on the narrow corners.

Your heart pounded harder with every step.

And when you finally reached his cell, you saw him at once.

Ser Duncan the Tall was seated on a low wooden bench, too small for him, his long legs stretched awkwardly in the cramped space. His knuckles were scraped raw, and there was dried blood on his sleeve that you knew was not all his.

For a moment, you simply stood there, unable to move or say anything.

Poor thing. He looked exhausted, conflicted and achingly hopeless. But when he lifted his head and saw you, his blue eyes widened, seemed to revive in life.

“Your Grace,” he greeted you immediately, making the effort to stand up and offer you a respectful bow.

“Don’t,” you whispered, stepping closer to the bars. “Please. Sit, Ser Duncan”

The prison guard who was on duty outside the cell unlocked the door with a heavy clang for you, saluting you with a nod of respect.

You took the plate from your guard's hands yourself.

“Leave us,” you said quietly, though your voice carried authority. “Both of you.”

Your guards hesitated behind you.

“It’s all right, Jorrel, Clayse,” you insisted, meeting their eyes as you spoke their names. “I am safe. The safest I could be.”

Reluctantly, they bowed their heads and stepped back, moving down the corridor until you were truly left alone with the hedge knight, the torchlight and thick stone the only witnesses. And the rats that tried to squeeze through the cracks of the little window, looking for shelter from the violent rain of the night.

The cell door remained open behind as you stepped inside. Because you know that Ser Duncan could never think of running away—no, not him.

Duncan did not listen to your gentle command and despite the cramped space and the stiffness in his joints, he pushed himself up from the bench, his massive frame looming even larger in the flickering torchlight.

He swayed for a split second, his head nearly grazing the damp stone ceiling, but he finished his bow with a gravity that made your chest ache.

“I won't be c–caught sitting in the presence of a lady,” he declared, his voice thick with a mixture of exhaustion and stubborn honor. “Least of all you, Your Grace.”

A man of surpassing goodness, he was. Likely the most sterling example of manhood ever to cross your path, a rarity in a world of base and hollow hearts, especially in your world. Perhaps the finest soul you had ever had the fortune to encounter in all your days—and dreams.

You didn't wait for another word nor did you seek his verbal consent. That alone was was a reckless thing, so unlike your usual careful ways.

The heavy plate of food felt like a leaden weight in your hands, and you set it down blindly on the small wooden table by the door. The sight of him—battered, and yet still so impossibly good—was too much to bear.

In two quick strides, you crossed the small distance between you.

Before a greeting or a plea could leave his sweet lips, you were already upon him, your arms enveloping him. You buried your face in the wool fabric of his tunic, clutching him with a crushing intensity that betrayed your true fear.

Dunk froze in your arms. He gasped for air as his hands hovered uselessly in the air, his fingers twitching in shock. He looked down at the top of your silver head, his eyes wide, his heart hammering against your ear.

And as you clung to him, a small, choked sob escaped you, the sound muffled against his chest. The tension you had carried since the puppet tent—the fear, the shame of Aerion’s cruelty—finally broke in his arms. You felt a hot tear soak into his tunic, and then many, many more were shed after that.

With a gentle motion so characteristic of him, almost as if he were afraid you might shatter, Dunk finally began to move. His big, calloused hands rose, trembling slightly, before they finally settled on your back. One palm lay heavy and warm between your shoulders blades, his fingers trailing up along the nape of your neck in a soothing stroking motion, while the other found your waist, finding the courage to pull you a little closer into his chest.

Affection was a strange thing to Dunk, and a hug even stranger; Ser Arlan had perhaps held him only once in all the years he’d known him. But he felt as if he were made to hold you. You were so small beside him, so delicate and warm. He knew he could never bear to be without the comfort of your arms again. For a moment, he forgot he was a prisoner in a filthy dungeon."

“Don't—don't cry, please,” he closed his eyes, leaning his chin lightly over the top of your head, a gesture of profound, quiet affection and reassurance. Being this close to you felt natural to him, as though his very soul were guided by instinct, his body was just following his heart. “Don't weep for me, my Princess. I’m but a man.”

“You're more than that, Dunk,” you managed to whisper into the wool of his clothing, your voice trembling. “I'm so s–sorry”

“You’ve naught to be sorry for,” Duncan reassured you immediately after, his voice rumbling deep in his chest, vibrating against your cheek. “You really need to stop apologizing for other people's mistakes, princess.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hands sliding up along your body to gently hold your face and brush away the hot tears that had been rebellious enough to escape from your eyes. How much would he trade to remain there for eternity, immersed in the purplish gorgeousness of your orbs.

A flicker of playfulness suddenly touched his flushed face as you looked up at him, your lips curled into a tight pout, fighting down the urge to keep crying.

“I suppose you’ll be apologizing for the rain next, then? Or the fact that I’m too tall for this bench?” He let out a soft huff of a laugh, despite the gravity of the situation he found himself in. “Or because my horses will neigh?”

Your breath hitched, and despite the tears still clinging to your lashes, a small, watery smile broke through.

“There she is,” Duncan cooed very softly, his expression turning tender as he saw your smile appear again, his thumbs brushing the corners of your lips, tracing the lines of your dimples so delicately. “That’s a better look for a princess. I’d much rather see you laughing at a fool like me than weeping over him.”

You shook your head gently, your hands reaching up to lay on his, caressing his knuckles with affection. “It should never have come to this. You should not be here because of me.”

He huffed out a quiet, humorless breath, his gentle fingers grazing a messy lock of your hair with tender care from your face. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you and Egg, Your Grace. A cell’s better than a grave.”

You bit your lip, the heavy burden of guilt still weighing on your heart, but Dunk’s gaze remained so steady and warm that your sorrow simply couldn't hold its grip on you.

You had to hold on to hope, as you did in the face of uncertainty and fear.

Recalling why you had come in the first place, you stepped back toward the small, rickety table to retrieve the plate you had set down in your haste to hold him. But Dunk would not let go, his fingers stayed wrapped around your hand, his thumb brushing against your wrist as if he were counting every heartbeat beneath your skin.

“Eat, my sweet knight,” you urged, turning back to him and holding the plate out with your other hand. Your fingers brushed against the ceramic edge, trembling just slightly from the adrenaline of the evening. “The guards are... less than attentive to your needs, I imagine. You'll need your strength for the morrow, Dunk.”

He glanced at the delicious meal, his stomach letting out a low, traitorous growl that made his ears turn a deep shade of crimson again. But instead of reaching for the bread, first he guided your hand toward his mouth and bowed his head, his towering frame bending low until his lips met the smooth skin of your knuckles.

It was a soft, chaste kiss—barely a ghost of a touch—yet it felt more significant than any grand gesture you had ever witnessed or felt.

“Thank you,” he uttered your name against your hand, his voice thick with emotion.

He hesitated anyway, clearly unsure if it was proper to accept food right from a princess’s hands when he was her family's prisoner. But hunger won in the end, as it always did with him.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he breathed out again, taking it carefully.

You couldn't help but smile, a soft and bittersweet little thing, seeing him eat with such earnest hunger. You interlaced your fingers in front of you, squeezing hard to still the lingering shiver in your hands.

“Prince Baelor is just. He will hear your truth.” you explained, doing your hardest to be as diplomatic as possible for him.

He lifted his gaze as he ravenously munched on a piece of fresh-baked bread. “Your father?”

You nodded your head, sighing heavily. “He will listen. He always does.”

Duncan swallowed the bread and his edgy feelings. “Even so… striking a prince,” he shook his head. “That’s no small crime.”

“You were protecting the innocent,” you corrected. “Any good person would have done the same.”

“Not anyone. You’re braver than most knights I’ve known,” he praised softly. “And you don’t even carry a sword.”

You gave a small, sad smile. “I don’t feel brave. I feel terrified.”

“That’s what bravery is, princess,” Duncan snorted humorously, smiling at you a tiny bit.

But you didn't smile back at him as you usually would, you just stood there staring at him, your pretty eyes brimming with tears once again, your lips bent into that little pout that made him feel like his heart was sinking.

“I brought him there,” you declared, your voice barely more than breath. “To the puppet tent. It was my idea. He was in a good mood. I thought… I thought it would be harmless. Something simple. Something... fun.” Your fingers twisted together, “and because of that, a girl was maimed. You are locked in a cell. The people are afraid. All because I disobeyed and indulged his whims.”

“Your Grace—” he began, then stopped, lowering his voice. “If we start blaming ourselves for every evil a cruel man commits, then he wins twice.”

You looked down at him, eyes glassy. “That sounds like something my father would say.”

A faint, sad smile touched Duncan’s lips. “Your father is a good man.”

“He is.”

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of torches and the distant drip of water somewhere in the depths of the eerie dungeons.

Then you drew in a shaky breath.

“Your friend,” you began carefully, knowing that it would still be a delicate matter for him, “the puppeteer. Tanselle.”

At the sound of her name, his face changed completely.

“Tanselle,” he breathed out. “Is she—?”

“She is fine,” you reassured him quickly, nodding your head. “In pain. But fine. She was treated. I made sure of it. And I… I gave her a heavy purse of dragons from my own stores. Enough to buy her way to safety. Enough to begin again.” You went on, your voice trembling again. “If the winds were kind, she should be in Dorne by now. Or close to it. She might be safer there. I'm sorry...”

“Sorry? You saved her,” he said, very firmly on his belief.

You shook your head, a bitter taste in your mouth that certainly did not resemble relief or heroism. “I didn’t save her hand. Or her job. I only gave her a road to run on.”

“That’s more than most ever would,” he concluded, with an astonishing gentleness in his eyes which was so out of sync with the situation he was in. But you were there. And that alone was a reason for Duncan to do the exact reverse of what you'd typically expect from a man. “You gave her a future.”

“I wish I could give you one as easily, Dunk,” you added quietly, your voice quivering, your throat tight with unshed tears. “Instead, you sit here because of me.”

Duncan set his plate aside, forgetting his hunger for a moment, even though he had less than a quarter of the meal you had brought him remaining. He stood up once again, and his imposing stature seemed to shrink the walls of the cell.

You looked up at him, your chin lifting as he stood at his full height in front of you.

“I'm not here for you, my princess,” he stated firmly. “I'm here because of my own choices. And I would choose them again a thousand times over if it meant that monster would never touch her... or threaten you again.”

He hesitated for a moment, mindful of the abyss separating a hedge knight from a princess of royal blood, however, upon seeing a stray tear roll down your cheek, his heart won his mind over the rules of etiquette.

One of his hands lifted into the air, hesitating only for a moment before settling reassuringly on your shoulder.

The touch was gentle—almost too gentle for a man built like a tower of muscle. But it was warm. Real.

Duncan’s thumb twitched slightly against the soft fabric of your cloak, as if he’d only just realized what he was doing. He started to pull back, but you leaned into his hand instead.

Your own hand reached out and found his again, keeping it on you and even guiding it closer to your collarbone.

“Aerion is difficult,” you whispered, shuddering as you pronounced your cousin’s name and felt Duncan’s fingers daring to caress your neck with tenderness. “He is... persistent in his cruelty.”

Duncan went very still at the sound of Aerion’s name.

“Aye,” he agreed, marvelling at you from above, his fingertips grazing your exposed skin as he traced the open neckline of your black gown. “That’s one word for him. And a fucking madman.”

“You will demand a trial by combat,” you commanded rather than advised. “It is your right.”

He raised his eyebrows, “and fight Aerion?”

“Aerion will yield, he is no rival for you, Ser Duncan,” you declared decisively. “He knows he stands no chance against you. You would have knocked him out tonight if not for the guards. The prince is skilled in combat, but he is no match for you.”

Duncan stared at you, startled by the certainty in your voice.

Your stomach twisted at the mere thought of them fighting in a trial.

“He is proud,” you continued, somehow feeling guilty for exposing your cousin's weaknesses so blatantly. “Prouder than he is brave. He would never risk being beaten in front of the court. Not truly beaten. He would find a way out. He always does. I know him.”

Duncan’s thumb brushed your skin again, slower now, comforting.

“You are too generous to do all this for me, to tell me such things,” he appreciated, his fingers carefully following your jawline, not with the hungry touch of a lustful man, but with the reverence and respect of a man devoted to his religion. “You'd risk your family’s wrath for a man like me?”

“I'd risk the Seven Hells for a man like you, Dunk.”

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours and closing his eyes.

“You make it hard to remember my place,” Duncan confessed in a trembling whisper. All of a sudden, because what did he have to lose? He was basically trapped in your grasp and that of your family. He might cherish his time and privilege of being with you like this.

A wave of heat swept over your skin from the spot where his fingers were in contact with it, spreading all the way up and bringing a blush to all your face.

You were looking up at him from beneath your fluttering eyelashes, opening your lips slightly to be able to reply.

“Then forget it, Ser Duncan.”

Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

And both of you stiffened at the intruding sound.

Dunk recoiled immediately, his hand pulling away from your face at once, his posture snapping back into something more guarded, more proper. You turned just as a familiar, small figure appeared between the torches.

Egg.

Little Aegon stood there, draped in a heavy doublet bearing the colors of House Targaryen, his shorn head making his eyes look even bigger and sad now. His face was pale with worry, but the moment he saw Duncan, it crumpled with relief.

Egg nodded at you with affection, “cousin”

You tried to smile, but your face felt stiff, your heart still racing from the abrupt end of your moment with Duncan.

And then the young prince turned to his knight, his jaw tightening.

For a moment, neither of them spoke and you could quickly detect tension between them, unspoken matters they needed to clear up.

Egg swallowed hard. “My uncle says I must beg your forgiveness for deceiving you.”

Duncan raised his eyebrows, looking unimpressed, his whole demeanor shifting the instance his eyes finally tore themselves away from you to face the young boy. “Your uncle?”

“Prince Baelor.” Aegon answered in an obvious tone.

Duncan exhaled sharply, “Oh, the heir to the Iron Throne.”

You watched them quietly, your chest aching in a way that felt almost too full.

And you took a small step back.

“I’ll... give you boys some privacy,” you whispered, careful not to be too loud and disturb their conversation.

You turned toward the door.

“After you're done,” before you walk off down the corridor, you peek back through the cell door, “come to the library chamber to see my father. Egg's guards will escort you there.”

Duncan blinked at you. his voice sounding small and pathetic even to his own ears. “Prince Baelor?”

“Yes,” you nodded with obviousness. “He will want to speak to you, Ser. Properly.”

After dismissing yourself with a sheepish little smile, you made your way down the corridor, escorted closely by your two sworn guards. Behind you, in the heavy quiet of the cell, you heard the soft, teasing lilt your little cousin’s voice.

“You’re drooling, Ser,” Egg remarked. “And your ears are so red I’m surprised they aren't smoking. You look like a fuddled calf—

“Be quiet!” Dunk’s breathless voice rumbled back at his friend, making you smile to yourself. “I’m still angry with you. Don't speak to me.”

“You’re not angry,” Egg countered, as sharp as ever, his voice fading as you walked further away. “You’re just besotted. It’s embarrassing, really. She’s a Princess, Ser. You’re just a—ow!”

You knew that the council meeting to decide Duncan's fate would be taking place shortly; your father, had summoned selected people to deal with the scandal before blood was spilled.

You were expecting to find the hall filled with servants and guards at such late hours of the evening and with the buzz of the commotion going on, but when you crossed the threshold, only silence greeted you. Or almost.

A rhythmic, sharp, violent sound echoed off the wooden joists of the ceiling and got you to flinch in fright.

Crack!

Aerion sat alone at the main table, and in front of him was a golden bowl overflowing with nuts. He did not use a nutcracker; in his right hand gleamed a Valyrian steel dagger with a ruby pommel. Using the base of the hilt, he crushed the shells against the wood with excessive force.

Crack!

He stopped when he saw you, and a wry smile, twisted by his split lip and bruised chin, crept across his face as he slowly chewed the pieces of crushed walnut in his mouth.

“You're early for the show, cousin,” he acknowledged you, looking rather enthusiastic now, wiping a piece of shell from the table with his thumb. “Or perhaps you've just come to say goodbye to your pet.”

You walked over to the table, poured yourself a glass of wine, and didn't even glance at him.

“Your face looks worse than I remembered, Aerion,” you noticed, your voice tinged with icy mockery.

It wasn't until you were near him that he noticed your cloak was damp from the rain, and he quickly deduced what you had been doing. Of course, he noticed everything about you.

Aerion stabbed the tip of his dagger into the table, letting it tremble.

“You went to see him... Did you bring him food while I was bleeding?” he gestured to himself in a harsh motion. “He hit me, he made me bleed. And you act as if he were the victim.”

As swift as lightning, he was right there beside you, his hand pushing a lock of hair behind your shoulder so he could look at your side profile with eyes ablaze with betrayal.

“You were torturing an innocent girl, Aerion. You broke her finger on a whim!” you snapped back, recoiling from his touch. “You brought that attack on yourself. If you had an ounce of Duncan’s honor, you’d be ashamed right now for everything you’ve caused.”

Your eyes squinted in fury, holding his gaze unflinchingly, “do you think your father can handle any more problems? Don’t you think he has more than enough already?”

“Duncan,” he sneered, pronouncing the name like a curse. His voice broke out in a short, screeching laugh that made your skin crawl. “You call him by his first name now. How touching.”

“Don't you dare talk about him,” you seethed, your voice quivering between outrage and a fierce desire to protect what you felt, refusing to be ridiculed by him.

“I dare to do more than that!” Aerion roared, lunging his hand toward your body again, capturing your arm to restrain you from escaping further and trespassing into your personal space to the point where you could discern the tiny violet streaks in his bloodshot eyes, darkened by rage and agony. “You gave him food. You gave him comfort. What else did you give him, cousin? Did you let him touch you?”

“Enough, Aerion!” you exclaimed, your eyes brimming with tears of anguish, disappointment, and regret. “Your mind is as rotten as your soul. Not everyone views the world through your eyes of cruelty and greed.”

His fingers gave your arm a little squeeze, pulling you closer to him, allowing you to truly see his frail, wounded state.

“You betray yourself,” he barely managed to whisper, his pain breaking his voice. “You’re nervous. Your pulse races like a scared rabbit every time I mention him. I know you, my little dove. You love him, don’t you? You love that mud-covered freak.”

“You know nothing about love, Aerion,” you somehow managed to croak out, a few tears beginning to roll down your cheeks.

Aerion held your gaze and, raising his other hand to your face, he gently wiped away your tears, his eyes softening just a slight bit when he saw that you didn't flinch at his touch or gestures.

“I know enough...”

Before you could articulate a protest, Aerion dropped your arm, but only to swing his own around your waist, pulling you forcefully against his chest. The impact knocked the wind out of you.

His arms wrapped firmly around you, pressing his body against yours, its feverish heat emanating through his clothing.

“Shhh... don't— don't cry,” he cooed against your ear, his voice rumbling like thunder down your spine. “I'm s–sorry... I'm sorry.”

The resonance of his apologies echoed off the walls of your mind, blurring with the sound of rainfall lashing against the windows, striking as devastatingly as distant thunder.

For a moment, you remained transfixed, your hands hovering in mid-air, reluctant to actually touch him. You could sense the chaotic beating of his heart close to your ear, a violent rhythm that conveyed a type of madness that only you seemed to be able to comprehend.

“Aerion...” you whispered, and his name tasted like surrender on your trembling lips.

And then, your arms embraced his body, you were consumed by his warmth and forgiveness. You clinged to him, pressing your face into the fine fabric of his crimson doublet, tears soaking the fine fabric. You hugged him back with a strength you didn't know you still had.

Aerion took a short, broken breath, an outburst of relief, and tucked his face into the crook of your neck.

“Don't leave me alone in this,” he pleaded, his voice reduced to a fragile thread of weakness that reminded you of the boy you had grown up with before arrogance and darkness had distorted him. “Not for him. Not for a stranger.”

“Promise me you won't kill him,” you implored back in a whisper, tilting your head up, your violet eyes seeking his. “If you love me... if there is any compassion in you, don't turn this trial into a bloodbath. P–please, cousin.”

Your fingers grazed his wounded lip with the utmost tenderness, in the hope that he would have mercy on you. He closed his eyes at your touch, leaning toward your hand like a shipwrecked man reaching for shore.

“That,” he sighed as he lifted his hand to your face to smooth a strand of hair behind your ear, “will depend on how much you’re willing to give me in return, my love.”

“What do you want?” you asked in a faint whisper, deep down well aware of what he already desired.

You feared the answer, yet the need to save Duncan and pacify your cousin’s storm pushed you to the brink of desperation.

His fingers trailed from your ear to your jaw, forcing you to maintain eye contact.

“Take me as your husband,” he demanded, his warm breath tickling your lips.

“Aerion... we're family, our parents would never—” you blurted out, but he hushed you by pressing his thumb against your mouth.

“Say yes,” he urged, his other hand reaching out to take yours, pressing it to emphasize his genuine longing to do this. “Say you’ll be mine, and I’ll let the beast live to see you seated by my side on the court. Let’s turn this scandal into the prelude to our union.”

You did not know if you recoiled or leaned closer.

You did not know if you meant to answer at all.

Before you could made the choice, the massive doors to the hall swung open with a crash. Baelor walked in, followed by a sour-faced Maekar and Lord Ashford.

Your father approached the table with his usual serene grace, but his sharp eyes instantly caught sight of the overly intimate stance between you and your cousin.

“Are we interrupting something important, Aerion?” Maekar questioned in a tone that was like thunder, absolutely furious and sardonic.

“I was just explaining the severity of the situation to my cousin, Father...” Aerion answered as he straightened up beside you, giving him a modest bow.

Maekar stood before him, his eyes scanning his son's injuries: the cut lip, the swollen jaw, and the arrogance in his gaze.

“Look at yourself!” he spat, and the contempt in his tongue was like a lashing whip. “A prince of the blood, beaten in the dirt by a hedge knight because you couldn’t control your impulses in a puppeteer’s show. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Aerion tried to protest, fury reigniting in his eyes. “He laid hands on me—”

“Shut up!” Maekar cut him off, pushing him away by the shoulder. “Sit at the table and be quiet, you foolish boy. You've made enough fuss for one night.”

Silently, Baelor led you to sit on his right, holding the chair open for you and making sure you were seated comfortably before sitting down next to you.

And as he settled, his gaze didn't fall on you, nor on Lord Ashford, who was fidgeting nervously at the head of the table.

Instead, his two-toned eyes drifted toward Aerion.

Your cousin was sitting leisurely, his hand reaching to pull his dagger out of the surface of the table to keep on busting open more walnuts.

The doors groaned open once more and Ser Duncan was led in by some guards, his massive frame looming over the hall, with his hands shackled behind his back.

“Does he have to be chained up like a criminal?” your angered voice pierced the silence as you turned to look at your father.

Baelor’s gaze, steady and dark, moved from Aerion, who was watching your little outburst with a sickeningly smug expression, lazily popping a walnut into his mouth.

“He is accused of striking a prince of the blood, daughter,” Baelor explained calmly, though there was a weight of weariness in his tone. “Under the law, he is lucky to be standing at all.”

“He is a knight,” you countered, nearly offended. “And he was defending an innocent. The chains are an insult to the honor he showed when others,” you cast a sharp, venomous glare at Aerion, “showed none.”

“Enough of this sentimentality!” Maekar slammed a fist onto the table, making the wine goblets dance and you huffed a breath of exasperation, choosing to remain silent and turn your gaze away from Aerion. Your uncle cast a icy glance at you, squinting his eyes in disappointment. “Honor, niece? He laid hands on my son. If it were up to me, he’d have lost that hand hours ago.”

“But it is not up to you alone, brother,” Baelor reminded him softly. He turned his attention back to the center of the room, making a gesture with his head toward the guards. “Remove the shackles. Ser Duncan is a knight, after all. He will not flee.”

The guards hesitated, glancing at Maekar, who looked ready to breathe fire, but Baelor’s authority held sway. With a sharp metallic clink, the iron fell away.

Duncan rubbed his raw wrists, his blue eyes finally lifting to meet yours. There was so much he wanted to say—gratitude, warning—but he kept his lips pressed thin, bowing deeply to all of you.

Then his gaze swept over the other faces, lingering a moment longer on Aerion, before returning to Baelor, his eyes expressing determination, despite the fact that he appeared to be the most frightened man in the world under the powerful gazes of the royal family.

“Um, t–trial by combat,” he declared with a choked voice. “That is— that is my right.”

Everyone present was in favor, as that was the law. The right was his, whether they deemed him worthy of it or no.

You let out a breath you had not known you were holding, and across the space that divided you, you found Dunk’s eyes.

You gave him what courage you could muster—a small, trembling smile, fragile as first frost—and dipped your chin in a single, solemn nod.

Aerion did not so much as glance at him.

His dark gaze remained upon you, intent and searching, as though the truer verdict lay not in law nor steel, but in whatever he might read upon your face. Only after a moment did he stir, and even then it was with reluctance, dragging his lilac eyes away to settle, at last, upon the hedge knight.

He gave a small shake of his head.

“I refuse.”

The word fell lightly.

Too lightly.

“You cannot refuse.” Maekar snapped at once, his voice laced with confusion and mounting irritation. “It is the law, Aerion. If the man demands it—”

“A trial of seven,” he interrupted his own father, his voice light, almost melodic, as if he were discussing the vintage of the wine rather than a sentence of death. Between his fingers, he turned a piece of walnut and bit into it with careless ease.

“That is my right,” he finished mildly, after swallowing. “I believe.”

You felt the blood drain from your limbs, a coldness spreading from your chest to the tips of your fingers as the room went deathly silent. Beside you, Lord Ashford let out a strangled, wet sound—a half-gasp that died in his throat.

Trial of Seven.

You had been but a child the last time you heard those words, squirming upon a hard wooden bench in your father’s solar whilst he paced before the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. He had spoken at length, as he always did when the subject was law—of the Andals, of their Seven-Faced God, of their belief that divine judgment revealed itself through mortal steel.

A Trial of Seven meant fourteen knights. Seven against seven. If Duncan could not find six others to bleed and die by his side, he was judged guilty by default and put to death.

It was a relic of a bloodier age, a tradition of the Andals that had largely been buried beneath the dust of history. An ancient thing.

How did Aerion even know of it?

“What the fuck is a trial of seven?” Maekar grumbled, turning to look at Baelor, frustration etched deep upon his silver brow.

“It is another form of trial by combat.” Baelor explained, his countenance darkening with severity and insight into the twist the circumstances had now taken. “Ancient. Seldom invoked. It came across the Narrow Sea with the Andals and their seven gods. They believed that if seven knights fought on each side, the gods would be more likely to show their hand. Seven against seven.”

Maekar snapped his head back in Aerion's direction, leaning menacingly toward him, “Are you cowering behind some 6,000-year-old Andal foolery because you’re afraid to face this hedge knight alone?”

No, he was challenging you. He knew Duncan was a stranger here—a hedge knight with no friends, no coin, and no name. Where would a man like him find six knights willing to risk the wrath of the royal family?

He was breaking the silent pact you had made only minutes ago. You had offered him your mercy to keep Duncan safe, your hand. You hadn't said it out loud, but he had known it would be your answer, knew he had you.

And he was spitting on it, not because he wanted the trial, but because he wanted to see you break. He wanted to see you suffer while he toyed with the life of the man he knew you cared for so deeply.

“No,” the young prince casually shook his head. “Daeron has been wronged as well.” He clicked his tongue, turning his gaze upon you. “And the princess. Ser Duncan sneaked off with her but a day ago. He lured her to his camp, hidden away in the woods, far from the eyes of her protectors. He manipulated her, whispered poison in her ear to turn her against me.”

His eyes did not leave yours.

“He has dishonored her.”

“W–what? He did not!” you cried out fiercely, your voice cracking with indignation, but Aerion only smiled wider at your outburst, loving to see that flicker of fire light up in your eyes.

He delighted in it. In your rage.

“Ser Harrold told me everything,” he continued, his tone purring with a sickening sense of triumph. “He bore witness with his own eyes. This hedge knight preys on the innocence of royal maidens. Ser Duncan must pay for each one of his crimes against us. Or would we leave a matter of Targaryen honor in doubt? Worse still—shall we permit a common sellsword to steal the princess’s virtue without consequence?”

Maekar made a sound of pure disgust by his side. He dragged a hand across his face, rubbing hard at his temple, as though he might crush the madness beneath his palm.

“This is fucking madness!” he snarled. “What the fuck are you prattling on about, boy?!”

His gaze snapped to you then, hard, suspicious, and heavy with the burden of a father’s doubt. Beside him, Baelor remained unnervingly still, his jaw set in a grim line of realization as his eyes remained fixed on his nephew’s mocking face.

“It is a lie!” Your hands were pressed against the table as you leaned over it. “Father, Uncle—it is all a cruel fabrication. I went to Ser Duncan's camp, yes. I will not deny it. But there was no sneaking, no luring, and certainly no dishonor.”

Aerion merely tilted his head.

“Such passion,” he whispered, the words dripping with mockery. “A lady doth protest too much, it seems. Ser Harrold saw you in the shadows, cousin. He saw the way you leaned toward the hedge knight. The way you looked at him”

“I looked at a man who possessed kindness!” you snapped back, your voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “A trait you wouldn’t recognize even if it struck you as hard as he did—”

Maekar slammed his hand onto the table again, the sound like a catapult firing.

“Silence! Both of you!” he turned to Baelor, unable to endure another more minute of this brewing scandal and nonsense. “Brother. If Aerion demands a Trial of Seven, can we deny him?”

“Aerion is within his rights.” The Heir to the Iron Throne declared, his eyes gentling as he realized how stressed Ser Duncan now looked. “We have no choice. A trial of seven must be held at dawn.”

Duncan’s lost gaze was fixed on the floor, his face pale; he knew that even if he survived the trial, his name was now tied to a scandal that could ruin you.

He wanted to shout. He wanted to roar that Aerion was a vile liar, that your visit to his camp had been as innocent as a septon's prayer. He wanted to tell your father that you were the purest thing he had ever encountered in a life of mud and hunger and pain. But as he looked at your flushed, tear-stained face, the words died in his throat like ash.

To defend you was to stain you further. To say he loved you—even with the chaste, distant devotion of a knight for a shooting star—was to admit a crime.

He was a lunk, just as the old man just to said. A thick-as-a-castle-wall fool who had let a princess walk into a lion's den for his sake.

Baelor was looking at him with sympathetic eyes, “You must find six other knights to fight beside you, Ser Duncan.”

“But—but I have no one else!” Dunk exclaimed back, hopelessly.

And even if he did found knights brave enough to fight Aerion, who would stand with a man accused of stealing a princess’s virtue?

Aerion let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Perhaps the puppets will fight for you, Ser. Or the rats.”

You slowly turned to look at him, trembling with rage, and before you could get up to punch him yourself, Maekar sprang up and yanked him to his feet.

“Come here,” he snarled, dragging his son away and hurling insults at him as they left the hall. “Idiot!”

He looked utterly defeated, his spirit broken not by the threat of fourteen lances, but by the weight of the shame he felt he had brought to you. After everything you had done for him, always so kind and good.

Now, because of him, because he was a foolish dreamer, rumors would be spread all over town that he had dishonored you.

He just stood there in front of you, a giant of a man made of sorrow, waiting to be led back to the dark where he felt he belonged.

“Can I...” his words faltered, his voice breaking, “Can I go now?”

Baelor bowed his head, visibly frustrated and irritated by the outcome of the meeting. “Seek your champions, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk noticed as well the way your father looked at you as he stood up, with a mixture of pity and burgeoning doubt.

As the guards stepped forward to lead him outside, he resisted their pull and he stumbled closer to the table, head hung low, his voice low and broken, barely audible at that short distance.

“Your Grace,” he breathed out, his eyes finally meeting yours with an agonizing intensity. “I… I am so sorry. For the camp. For talking to you... f–for everything.”

Duncan swallowed hard, feeling a painful lump rising in his throat that pressed down on his neck in an invisible grip.

He wanted to scream that he had never touched you, that he would rather cut off his own hands than dishonor you, but he saw the way Lord Ashford leaned forward, hungrily catching every word. He realized then that every word of defense he offered would only be twisted into further proof of a clandestine intimacy.

“I should have known,” he continued either way, his voice cracking. “A man like me... I’ve—I’ve no right to even look at you, let alone let you walk with me. I’ve brought the mud to your feet, and for that… I’d give my life a hundred times over if it could just wash it away. I’m sorry.”

He didn't wait for you to respond. He couldn't. He turned away abruptly, his head bowed so low that his chin nearly touched his chest, and allowed the guards to lead him out.

You watched him go, your heart breaking in your chest.

He was apologizing for existing in your world.

“Dunk...” you called out, but your voice was small, lost in the vastness of the hall.

Baelor placed a firm, steadying hand on your shoulder, his gaze fixed on the doorway where the tall knight had vanished.

“He is a good man, daughter,” the Prince said softly. “But goodness is a poor shield against the pride of princes. He has until the sun touches the horizon tomorrow to find his six. If he cannot... then the gods will have their answer.”

The sun crept slowly into the sky the next morning, flooding your small room with orange light. You had been up all night, unable to sleep despite how badly your bones ached for it. Butterflies had settled low in your stomach after meeting the beautiful Ser Duncan, your mind racing with excitement over seeing him again.

Knocking firmly on Daeron's door, you called to him. "Cousin! Wake up! We must make haste to Ashford." No answer. "Daeron?" You pounded a small fist against worn wood. "Aegon!" Nothing. You leaned your ear against the thick door, hoping to hear proof they hadn't left you behind. Just as you'd leaned your weight fully against it, the door swung open, causing you to topple onto poor Egg. A scream came from both of you, and a grunt from Daeron, whose head was buried beneath the thin covers of his bed.

"What the fuck, Egg?!"

"How was I to know you were leaning on it?!" The little boy burst into laughter at his cousin's betrayed face.

"You didn't have to throw the door open as if your life depended on the speed at which you were able to do so, you knob."

Egg opened his mouth in mock protest when Daeron threw a pillow across the room at his brother. "Shut it. Both of you," he mumbled into the bedding.

You stood, pulling Egg from the floor. "Daeron, get up. We need to leave now if we are to make it to Ashford before nightfall."

"Don't care."

"I do care," you hissed. "Father will go mad with worry if I'm not there on time. It's your job to ensure my safe arrival."

"Not my problem."

He was obviously still drunk. The stench of yesterday's ale hung heavy in the air, and he lay next to a puddle of his own sick. He was seen as a disgrace to House Targaryen- haunted by the ghosts of his dreams. It was difficult not to feel sorry for him, but you weren’t sorry enough to ignore the rage bubbling beneath your skin at his dismissal. You’d been traveling for almost a week now, with Daeron taking every opportunity he had to get pissed. 

"Right," you motioned for your smallest cousin to follow. "We shall leave for Ashford without you, then."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

This was a terrible idea, you thought. Aegon sat pressed against your back; the scratchy burlap tunic he wore reeked of an indescribable stench that had you both scrunching your noses in disgust. Every step the horse took unearthed a new foul, fragrant note.

"What are you wearing?" You'd asked while mounting Glimmer. "Where is your doublet?"

Egg shrugged innocently. "I lost it."

There wasn’t time to consider how that was possible. Aegon often got himself into trouble, and last night at the inn was likely no exception.

The pair of you bickered in the hot sun for the better part of four hours before you spotted horses in the distance.

As Glimmer approached, you prayed to the gods that their owner was not nearby. You knew how vulnerable you’d made yourself on the open road, and you weren’t prepared for an altercation. 

"Shh!" Egg's mouth clamped shut at the command, and he peeked around your frame to see ahead. The three horses of a familiar hedge knight roamed lazily near a great elm tree. As you neared them, you craned your neck to see if anyone was around, eyes snagging on a pair of worn boots poking out from behind the tree.

Egg tugged at her sleeve, "That's the knight from the inn."

"How do you know the knight from the inn?” 

“How do you know the knight from the inn?” he pressed, an all too knowing look on his small face. 

“Oh shut it would you? The entire way here, you’ve been so annoying I can hardly stand to-”

“Princess?” Ser Duncan’s confused voice made you and Egg freeze, embarrassed to have been caught arguing. 

You sat up and turned to face him, cheeks blushing. “Ser Duncan! How fitting to see you on the road to Ashford.”

He was standing beneath the elm, his pants covered in loose grass. Dunk put his hands on his hips awkwardly as he looked you over. Squinting to see, he noticed Egg behind you. 

“Oi! Boy! Get down from there this instant!” His tone was scolding, but his eyes remained kind- despite his efforts to seem stern. Duncan strode over to Glimmer and easily lifted your cousin from her back, setting Egg down on the dirt road. “What are you doin’ botherin’ a Princess, boy?”

“I was only helping her, Ser. I swear it!” Egg seemed eager to have the knight’s attention. Almost as eager as you. 

“I’m sorry, Princess,” Dunk turned to you, bowing his head. “The stable boy should not have inserted himself in your travels.” 

“Stable boy?” You cocked your head to the side, considering his words. Beside the tall man, Aegon was motioning wildly with his hands, begging you to stay quiet. Dunk looked down at a particularly wild movement, but Egg feigned innocence, smiling up at him. 

“Yes, Princess,” Egg started slowly, “I was seeing to your horse when you asked me to accompany you to Ashford as you are without a chaperone, remember?” The very idea that you would ever ask a child to join you in place of a chaperone was absurd, and Egg knew it. Luckily for him, Ser Duncan did not seem to find it odd. 

You narrowed your eyes in suspicion, but you decided there was little harm in going along with the boy’s game for now. If he wanted to be a stable boy instead of a Prince of the Realm, so be it. You could sympathize with his want of a simpler life. Ser Duncan scratched his head. 

“Where is your chaperone, Princess?” 

“Drunk,” you shrugged. “I could not wake him this morning, so I decided to gather my horse and go alone.” Egg cleared his throat. “With the boy,” you corrected yourself. 

“The road is no place for a Lady such as yourself. It’s dangerous!” Your heart melted at the clear worry on his face. “A young boy is not a wise travel companion.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Are you saying I’m unwise, Ser Duncan?” 

His eyes widened, “No! No, Princess! I- I would never say that. It’s just that…you really should have a proper chaperone. For your safety.” 

You loosened Glimmer’s reins, moving to dismount her. “Well, Ser, it’s settled! You will be my chaperone the rest of the way to Ashford.” As you began to slide down from the saddle, large hands met your waist firmly, helping you to your feet.

"As you wish, Princess. I am glady at your service." When you faced Duncan, his pupils were blown as his hands dropped to his sides. It was then that he noticed that he was covered in grass clippings, and his top priority became removing them as quickly as possible. Egg watched in disbelief as you ogled the knight. He looked ridiculous, turning in circles, brushing off his rear end, trying to look presentable. He was like a dog chasing its tail. You should be laughing, Egg thought. 

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. Assessing his horses, you question, “Are you of the hedge, Ser?” 

Duncan stops turning and stands to his full height, puffing out his broad chest. “Aye. I am a hedge knight, Princess. But I have sworn an oath to protect the innocent, and I will see to it you’re kept safe as we journey to Ashford.” He strangely gestured with his hand as if he were going to fold into a deep bow. His brow furrowed as if he were confused by his action.

“Seven hells,” Egg murmured. Duncan whacked the back of his smooth head, ears hot with embarrassment. 

“Shall we go then? ‘Tis only a two-hour ride from here. We can make it by supper.”  

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

While the journey ahead was not a long one, an uncomfortable silence has settled between the three of you, making time pass slowly. Egg had tried and failed to start a conversation with his new favorite knight several times, but Ser Duncan seemed stiff as a board- his hands gripping the reins of his horse until his knuckles were white. Every now and then, he would look over his shoulder to make sure you were still trailing behind them unharmed.

You'd taken advantage of the silence, using the free time to watch Dunk's well-defined muscles ripple beneath his tunic every so often. His build was impressive. It was shocking that a man as large as he was unable to find employment within any of the great houses.

Bored, Aegon matched his horse's stride with yours, leaning over to not-so-quietly whisper.

"You can speak to him, you know."

"I think I'd rather speak to you." Egg seemed surprised. "Why does Ser Duncan think you are a stable boy?"

Guilt shrank his small body. "Don't tell him, please. I wish to be a squire. For a real knight. Not some boring Kingsguard father chooses."

You chuckle under your breath, careful not to be heard by Dunk. "And what about when we arrive at the tourney, hmm? Don't you think your father will have something to say about you trailing behind a hedge knight?"

"He won't know. I plan to stay with Ser Duncan as long as possible, cousin. He's a good man- I can tell. I will squire for him, and then by the time I am found out, it will be too late for Ser Duncan or father to deny my request."

You rolled your eyes. "That's your plan? It's terrible."

"All I need you to do is pretend you don't know me. Please." Unfortunately for you, Egg had mastered the art of puppy eyes.

"Fine."

"Oi!" Called Duncan. "Ashford's just up ahead."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Here's part 2! I think there will be 2-3 parts per episode. I'm open to making them longer (like 1 chapter per episode), but then it will likely be one chapter a week as opposed to one every day or so.

The lady of the feast sat enthroned at the high table, a vision of grace beside her Lord father. Around her, the air was thick with the scent of rushes and seared venison, ringing with the boisterous laughter of her kin and the hushed whispers of her handmaidens.

Your gaze then turned to your father, hoping to catch his attention to start a conversation, only to find him already engrossed in enthusiastic chatter with some high-born Lord.

Prince Maekar was not present. He had left Ashford that same afternoon, determined to find his missing sons.

The empty seat next to your father, where his younger brother should have been, only exacerbated the oppressive weight of the atmosphere. Without his father's strict presence to restrain him, Aerion seemed to have spread his presence throughout each nook and cranny of the massive table. At least, that's what you believed.

And just as you were thinking about him, like you were calling out to him telepathically, you felt the touch of his boot rubbing against yours under the tablecloth. A purposeful contact that made your back stiffen.

“It's unbearable, isn't it?” Aerion's voice reached your ear, carrying a tinge of boredom that bordered on aggression.

You turned toward him, trying to appear casual for the prying eyes. Prince Aerion was sprawled in his chair, holding his silver chalice with lazy elegance.

His violet eyes didn't look at the guests, but rather swept the room with the disdain of someone observing an insect colony.

However, when his gaze finally met yours, the ice in those eyes began to melt. The sharpness of his temperament softened and his expression morphed into an unusual and unsettling recognition. In that fugitive moment, a spark of genuine affection flared in the violet depths, a predatory warmth that was yours alone.

“What, Aerion?” you asked, struggling to keep your voice calm.

Your fingers traced the stem of your silver chalice, swirling the deep arbor red with a practiced, languid ease. You watched the dark vintage coat the metal before taking a long, thirsty pull—less a sip and more a desperate seeking of the wine’s numbing warmth. You needed the fine wine to soothe the edgy mood of the occasion and, even more crucially, to endure the Prince's company.

“All of this,” he answered with an obvious gesture toward Lord Ashford, who was roaring with laughter at that moment. “The awful music, the smell of rancid grease, the endless, droning prattle of these sheep. My father was fortunate to depart; even hunting for Daeron and Aegon must be a mercy compared to this wretched display”

You turned a cool, unimpressed gaze upon him. “Lord Ashford was gracious enough to open his gates to us, Aerion. We owe it to our name to repay his hospitality with—”

Aerion rolled his eyes at your little speech and leaned closer, interrupting you.

“Let us leave this place, cousin,” he proposed unexpectedly, and it was not merely a suggestion, you both knew, but an open invitation to indulge in immorality. To disobey your father’s warnings to not indulge in his whims. “Let's go out to the tents. The night air must be far more appealing than this one, tainted by the breath of the vassals.”

Aerion's fingers brushed the back of your hand over the table. It was a phantom of a touch, yet it sent a treacherous shiver racing beneath your skin, settling deep within your bones.

“We should not, Aerion,” you shook your head lightly, a flickering, weak protest as you allowed his fingers to curl around your hand, pulling it towards him gently.

“No, we shouldn't,” he lifted his eyebrows, flashing you a lopsided smile as he rose to his feet, bringing you with him.

At that heartbeat, the musicians struck a new, boisterous chord, and a fresh wave of lords and ladies swarmed the rushes, their silks swirling as they moved to dance.

Your father’s gaze flickered toward you, his brow furrowing into a map of suspicion and unspoken caution. But the warning died on his lips—Aerion had already entwined his fingers with yours, his pace relentless. He swept you through the press of perfumed bodies and the rhythmic stomp of boots, weaving through the chaos until the massive wooden doors creaked open and then closed behind you.

The town was quieter at night, lanterns casting warm pools of golden light over crooked streets and wooden stalls.

For once, Aerion did not bark orders or sneer at passersby. He kept close to you, his hand was a constant, grounding presence, occasionally brushing the small of your back or resting at the curve of your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against the velvet of your dress. It was a gesture of guidance, but there was an unmistakable spark of flirtation in the way his touch lingered a second too long.

“Careful,” he whispered a softly, melodic purr, when you nearly stumbled on an uneven stone, his arm swept around you instantly, pulling you flush against his side. “I've got you. I wouldn’t want those pretty knees getting scraped now, hm?”

He didn't pull away once you regained your footing. Instead, he leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from your ear, a playful, lopsided smirk dancing on his face.

“You’re far too precious tonight, ñuha dōna zaldrīzes,” he cooed, his warm breath caressing your skin, as his tongue expertly rolled out the High Valyrian words, making you blush. “Perhaps I should just carry you and hide you away? Give the guards something truly scandalous to whisper about?”

A group of royal guards followed a few paces behind, cloaked and silent. Their presence was heavy, but they kept their distance, their eyes trained on the shadows rather than the two of you. They were well-acquainted with this dance of dragons—the coquettish glances, the complicit walks, and the way Aerion seemed to treat you as the only person in the Seven Kingdoms truly worthy of his breath. They kept watching for threats that might never come in a place like Ashford Meadow.

Aerion chuckled softly at your silence, his fingers catching a stray lock of your silver hair and twining it around his knuckle. He looked down at you with an uncharacteristic softness, his violet eyes shimmering with a playful light that made it easy to forget everything else.

“Look at you,” he teased, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. “If I didn't know better, cousin, I’d say you were actually enjoying my company tonight.”

You gave him a playful shove, a daring move that would have cost anyone else their head. But it was you, and Aerion was gladly willing to be shoved and knocked around if you were the one doing it. “Don't get the wrong idea, Aerion. It’s the fresh air I’m enjoying. You’re merely a convenient escort—”

You blushed even more when he cut you off, pressing a tender kiss on your heated cheek.

You were about to try to push him away once more, but this time he didn't let you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to hold you close to him, bringing a gentle chuckle from you. And that sound made him smile.

You laughed again, the sound bright and genuine, and for a moment, the two of you were just young, beautiful, and untouchable.

Standing directly in your path was a small, hunched figure wrapped in a shawl of faded, dusky wool. She seemed to have appeared from the very shadows of the wooden stalls. Her face was a landscape of deep-set wrinkles, and her eyes—milky and clouded with age—seemed to see far more than they should.

“Two dragons walking in the mud,” the old woman croaked, her voice like dry leaves skittering on stone. She held out a gnarled, trembling hand. “One seeks a throne of ash, the other seeks a heart of gold. Would you like to know if you find them?”

Aerion’s playful mood shifted instantly into sharp skepticism. He stiffened, his hand moving toward the hilt of his dagger as he looked down at her with a sneer of aristocratic disdain. “Move aside, crone. I have no patience for hedge-wizards and their parlor tricks.”

But you felt a sudden, sharp prickle of curiosity. There was something in the woman's gaze—a knowing stillness that made your heart skip a beat. You looked up at Aerion, your eyes wide and bright with excitement. You gave him a small, encouraging nod, your hand squeezing his arm in a silent plea.

Aerion looked from the old woman to you, his expression softening into one of amused exasperation. He sighed, a dramatic sound of surrender.

“Oh, very well,” he mumbled and with a flick of his wrist, he produced a bright silver coin from his silken pouch. He didn't drop it into her hand; he held it just out of reach for a moment, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Make it a good story, old woman. The Princess likes to be entertained.”

The woman’s fingers snapped shut over the silver and she didn't look at the coin. Instead, she reached out and took your hand, her skin feeling as cold and dry as ancient stone.

“The dragon’s blood is thick and fire-hot, but your heart is a kingdom divided,” she rasped, her voice dropping into a rhythmic, haunting chant. “The heavens are shifting, child. You stand between gods and monsters now and the balance is brittle. You must choose which to worship and which to slay, but know this: should you reach for the stars and the sky itself shall fall to crush you down.”

You felt a chill run down your spine, your breath hitching, at the woman's words, feeling a strange tingling sensation in your gut. Aerion broke the tension with a sharp laugh, his eyes remained cold as he stepped forward to reclaim your arm.

“Fairy tales and riddles,” he scoffed, his fingers digging a little deeper into your elbow than intended as he pulled you away. “She’s likely been drinking too much cheap ale.”

“Be careful of that you drink, young prince,” came her reply as you two continued on your way down the main path through the rows of tents. “For even gods can choke on their own fire...”

As you stole a glance back over your shoulder, the old woman had vanished, swallowed by the shifting shadows of the stalls as if she had been nothing more than a trick of the mist and the moonlight.

“Prophecies,” Aerion spat as he looked down at you. “My father listens to Daeron’s drunken mumblings enough for all of us.”

You forced your gaze away from the shadows where the crone had vanished and toward the horizon of the camp. That was when you saw it.

At the far end of the street, tucked away from the more boisterous gambling dens and wine tents, was a small, humble pavilion with painted cloth walls. Lanterns were strung across the entrance, their light filtering through the fabric in bright, cheerful patches of red and blue.

Your heart lifted instantly.

“Oh,” you gasped, a soft smile blooming on your lips. “Aerion, look!”

His gaze followed yours when you pinched his forearm to attract his attention, and he scoffed lightly.

“Puppets,” he remarked, very unimpressed. And then, seeing your expression and the way your smile was slowly fading away, he corrected himself quickly. “You like them.”

“I do,” you admitted, a little shy. “They remind me of when I was little.”

Aerion studied your face for a long moment.

“I remember,” he recalled, smiling just a little in melancholy. “You used to beg the court fools to perform just for you. You'd sit on the floor and clap like a child.”

You laughed softly. “I was a child.”

“You still are,” Aerion teased you under his breath, earning a smile from you.

It was so strange to see him acting in such an uncharacteristically carefree and peaceful mood. You assumed that this was a side of him that only you had the privilege of seeing. And of course, for that reason, you enjoyed using it to your own advantage.

Inside the puppet tent, a handful of people and children stood waiting in front of the stage.

Upon your unexpected appearance, they began to glance at you and exchange whispers with one another, far more impressed by you two than by the performance unfolding on stage.

The show began with cheerful music, light and playful. A knight actor danced across the stage, boasting of his bravery. Children giggled.

And you found yourself smiling without realizing it.

Then the dragon appeared.

A magnificent puppet, its painted scales black like the night, its mouth opening and closing with snapping jaws. Smoke puffed from behind the stage to mimic fire, and the children gasped in delight and fear.

You leaned forward, completely enchanted. “Woah...”

Aerion watched you more than he watched the show, feeling the pressure of your arm intertwined with his, always holding close to him.

He would admire the way the candle flames formed shadows on your features, how the light was reflected in your big eyes, how you would marvel at the stupid spectacle. That was his personal spectacle, to be able to gaze at you with such intimacy.

That was, until the dragon 'attacked' the knight, its wings flapping dramatically and creating small gusts of wind that had you gasp in awe. The knight charged, with his tiny wooden sword raised high.

The knight and dragon clashed. But the knight was more astute, as he circled the immense beast and pierced its neck with his sword, causing small bits of paper to pop out like blood.

The dragon fell dead, and the knight stood victorious beside it, waiting for the audience to cheer.

But all added up to a heavy silence, and then suddenly, after the dragon puppet was slaughtered, all sets of eyes seemed to turn to you two, the dragons.

Your eyes were fixed on the puppet dragon, your face unconsciously sinking into a pensive, sorrowful expression.

“No,” Aerion muttered under his breath, low and dangerous, noticing the expression of disappointment and sadness on your pouting face. “The dragon doesn't lose,”

You turned to him, startled, blinking away the few tears that had gathered in your eyes. “Aerion, it's just—”

“The dragon never loses,” he repeated, louder now, his violet eyes burning. “They have it wrong.”

“It's a story,” you whispered in obviousness. “A puppet show for children.”

“She celebrated the death of a dragon,” he huffed. “They always do. They want to see us fall.”

The knight's actress froze on the small stage when she recognized you two among the audience, which had formed a big circle of space all around you, her hands still holding the wooden sword.

The poor girl blinked, confused, then nervous, noticing your unhappy faces.

“My princess, my prince, it is only a tale—” she began carefully.

Aerion stepped forward.

One step. Then another. Like a predator stalking its prey.

“A tale?” Aerion echoed, a dangerous smile tugging at his lips. “You dare teach children that dragons fall?”

You grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back and snap him out of his fit of rage.

“Aerion, stop. Please,” you tried to make him listen, almost begging him. “You're frightening them.”

He shook you off, not roughly, but deliberately, but your hand did not lose hold of his forearm, and you were dragged behind him by his force.

“You should have thought of that before,” he warned coldly, eyes never leaving the girl.

“I— I can change it,” she said quickly. “Next time the dragon can win. I s–swear it.”