thetumblrballerina

you couldn't stay in your apartment, you were going to lose your mind if you did.

you needed to talk to the one person who truly understood. someone who understood him.

you grabbed your coat, slipped out into the wet metropolis streets, and hailed a cab and gave the driver lois lane’s address.

you and lois had become incredibly close over the past year. you had joined the planet as a features writer a couple of years after clark and lois had officially ended their relationship.

because they were long broken up, there was no awkwardness... lois had taken you under her wing, becoming your mentor, your loudest cheerleader in the bullpen, and your closest friend.

by the time the cab pulled up to lois’s apartment building, you were blinking back furious, hurt tears. you took the elevator up, practically throwing yourself at her front door and knocking aggressively.

you heard footsteps inside, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

lois stood there, dressed in a comfortable oversized sweater, a half empty glass of red wine in her hand. "y/n? what are you doing here? it's pouring-"

"i can't do it anymore, lois," you burst out, the words tumbling out of you in a sobbing rush before she could even invite you inside. you stepped past her into the entryway, too consumed by your own heartbreak to notice her sudden, tense posture.

"he canceled again," you cried, hugging your wet jacket tighter on you, shivering. "it’s always the same excuse. 'something came up at the office,' 'a late breaking lead.' i know he cares about his work, but i feel like a ghost in my own relationship! i'm sick of being the one who always gets left behind. i'm sick of competing with a job, and honestly... sometimes i feel like i'm competing with you."

you finally paused to catch your breath, wiping a tear from your cheek. "i just really needed a friend tonight. can i please just crash on your couch?"

usually by now lois would've said something, she would've made a joke or immediately handed you tissues or started calling clark an idiot, but there was nothing... no response.

"lois..?" your eyebrows pulled in.

"what?" she asked, her voice a little too high.

"why are you looking at me like that?"

"...like what?" lois muttered, she gripped the stem of her wine glass so tightly you thought the glass might shatter right in her hand.

"like..." you frowned harder. "like something's wrong."

"no, nothing's wrong."

but her eyes weren't on you, they were staring straight past your shoulder at the hall behind you.

"lois?" you whispered, stepping further into the hall. "is someone here? did i interrupt a date? i'm so sorry, i should have called-"

"no! no, wait.. " Lois reached out, her hand catching your wet sleeve, but she was a second too late.

you walked through the short hall and into the living room, the words of apology dying on your tongue.

a figure stepped into the dim light of the living room, drying his hair with a towel. he was wearing a gray t-shirt and sweatpants.. home clothes. comfort clothes.

he didn't have his glasses on. and as he looked up, his bright blue eyes met yours, freezing him entirely in his tracks.

it was Clark.

the towel slipped from his hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud.

“something came up at the planet, sweetie. a breaking story. i'm so, so sorry.”

the words of his text message flashed in your mind, your eyes darted from clark’s damp hair, to his relaxed clothes, to the second glass of wine sitting on lois's coffee table, and finally back to lois, who was now looking down at the floor, unable to meet your gaze.

"baby," clark breathed, his voice entirely stripped of its usual warmth. he took a panicked step forward, his hands reaching out instinctively. "baby, wait. It’s... it’s not what you think."

the sheer cliché of the phrase made a hysterical, breathless laugh bubble up in your throat. "not what i think? clark, you texted me an hour ago saying you were stuck at your desk. you’ve canceled our last three dates because of 'deadlines.' and you’re here? in your sweats?"

"you canceled on me," you said, your voice barely a whisper, "for three weeks, you’ve been too busy. you were too busy tonight. to have dinner with me. in our apartment."

"we were talking," lois interjected quickly, her voice trembling. she stepped between you and clark, trying desperately to play defense, to be the fixer. "just talking. he was stressed, he came over to vent about a case, and he got caught in the storm. i told him to dry off. that's it. I swear to you, that's all this is."

"and you couldn't tell me that?" you looked at lois, the tears you had been fighting finally falling. " i came here crying because i felt invisible in my own relationship, and you let me walk through that door knowing he was in your bedroom?"

"sweetheart, no," Clark choked out, stepping closer. "please. i love you. i would never- "

"don't call me that," you snapped, anger finally bursting through the sadness. a single, hot tear spilled over your cheek. you looked at lois, the woman you had trusted with your insecurities, the mentor you practically worshiped.

"i thought you were my friend. i thought you were the one person who understood how hard it was to love him."

a terrible, suffocating realization washed over you. lois did understand. she understood perfectly. because she hadn't actually let him go. and he hadn't let go of her. you were just a temporary detour in their romance.

"please, let me explain," clark pleaded, taking another step forward, his hands raised in defense. "lois is right. it’s not a date. i didn't plan this. it’s just… things have been so heavy lately, and i didn't want to bring that stress home to you."

the words left his mouth, and a suffocating silence fell over the room.

you stared at him, your breath hitching as you inhaled. "you didn't want to bring it home to me?" you muttered. "so you brought it to your ex girlfriend instead?"

"no, that's not what I meant...."

"you lied to me," you said. "you told me you were working. you told there was a breaking story, but the truth is you just didn't want to be around me. you left me sitting alone at a table with dinner i spent hours cooking, because you'd rather vent to lois?"

"listen to me," clark rushed out, his voice cracking as he scrambled to fix the damage, only to dig the hole deeper. "you don't understand the pressure I'm under. lois just... she already knows everything about my life.... she knows how i think. with her, i don't have to explain myself or ease into things. it’s just easier."

it’s just easier.

you let out a laugh. "easier," you repeated, backing away from him until your spine hit the wall of the hallway. "right. because i'm work. i'm the person you have to try for, and she's the one you actually want to unwind with."

"no! sweetie, please, no," clark choked out, looking completely undone. he reached for your arm, his touch gentle, but you yanked yourself away.

"don't touch me," you snapped again.

you gripped the fabric of your wet coat, looking at clark one last time. "have a nice night at the office, clark." you scoffed, turning around.

"sweetheart, please," clark begged, his voice breaking, "let's go home. let's just go back to the apartment and talk about this. please." he said as he made a move to follow you.

"if you come near me, clark, i swear to god i will never speak to you again," you spat, your voice harsh, that actually made him freeze in his tracks.

The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.

Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.

Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.

At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.

You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror. 

But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.

You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.

As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.

He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.

You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.

The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.

You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.

It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.

You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.

“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.

Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.

Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side. 

One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.

Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.

But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.

Robb Stark.

Named after your father’s namesake.

He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.

He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.

His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.

And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.

Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. 

You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different. 

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.

It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him. 

For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.

You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.

The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.

You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.

Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.

You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.

It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.

“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”

Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.

You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.

Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.

Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.

“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.

You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.

Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.

The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.

Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”

Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.

Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.

When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.

Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold. 

You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants.  And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.

As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.

Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.

No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.

The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.

Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.

Steel striking wood.

You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.

There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.

The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.

“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”

He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.

“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”

Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”

Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”

Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten. 

“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.

He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.

“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”

You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”

That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.

“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”

“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”

Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”

You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”

Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.

You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”

When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”

You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”

Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.

“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness. 

You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”

Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”

Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.

“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.

At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”

Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.

“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”

Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."

You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”

Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.

“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.

You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”

“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”

Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him. 

When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”

Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.

Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”

You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”

The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”

Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.

“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.

Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”

That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”

Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”

When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”

He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”

You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”

Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.

“Jon.”

Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”

You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”

Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”

He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”

With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.

Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.

He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.

Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”

Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”

Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”

Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”

Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.

Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”

Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”

Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”

Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.

“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”

Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”

Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”

Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.

Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”

That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”

“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”

Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes. 

By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.

Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.

Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?

Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?

No one knew which way the coin would fall.

As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.

“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”

“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”

You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.

You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.

At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.

It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.

Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.

You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.

“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”

His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.

“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”

He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”

Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”

Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”

Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.

Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”

Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”

A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.

Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”

Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.

You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.

At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.

Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.

Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.

You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.

You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.

It was harsh—but it was honest.

And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.

When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.

“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.

“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.

You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”

“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”

You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”

The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.

A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.

“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”

“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”

You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”

The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.

“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”

“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.

Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”

You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”

“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.

Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him.  “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.

He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.

“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”

You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.

“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”

You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”

Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”

You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.

Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”

“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”

He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.

You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”

He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”

You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”

Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”

The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.

Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”

Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”

You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”

“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”

Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”

A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”

You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”

Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”

You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest. 

You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.

“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”

Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”

You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”

You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”

It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.

Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.

You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.

He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.

There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.

The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming. 

Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.

Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.

The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.

And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.

The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.

He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.

He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.

You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.

Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.

“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”

You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.

Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.

He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.

You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.

You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.

He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.

“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”

“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”

You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”

Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”

You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.

“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.

He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”

You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.

You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”

“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”

Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”

You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”

The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”

You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”

He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”

That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.

“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”

Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”

You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.

Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”

“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.

Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”

He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”

You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”

Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”

“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”

Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”

You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”

Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”

You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.

Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”

You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.

Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.

“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”

Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.

The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.

“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”

You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.

“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”

For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.

“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”

Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”

You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.

“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”

You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”

He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.

You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”

Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”

For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”

Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”

You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”

You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.

You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.

And then—

Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.

You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.

Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”

“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”

You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.

“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”

Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.

“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”

From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.

Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”

Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”

You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”

Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”

Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“

But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.

You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.

Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.

“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”

Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”

You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”

Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”

“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”

You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”

But he did.

The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.

“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”

That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”

Robb’s grin widened. “I’d expect nothing less, princess.”

In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.

Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.

You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.

For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.

Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.

At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.

Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.

“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”

The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.

She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”

Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”

Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”

But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”

Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”

“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.

“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”

Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”

You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”

His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”

You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”

He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”

“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”

Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”

And that was when his hand moved.

He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.

But Robb was faster.

He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.

“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”

Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”

Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”

The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.

Yet now there was no denying it.

Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.

The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.

“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.

You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”

Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.

He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.

He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.

The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.

Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.

The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.

“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.

You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”

The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.

“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”

You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”

Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”

Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.

“I… I didn’t mean to.”

You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.

“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”

You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”

Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”

You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.

The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.

A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”

Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”

You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”

Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.

As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.

He wanted you to stay.

Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.

And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.

The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.

Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.

Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.

Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.

And behind her, you stood.

Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark. 

Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”

Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”

Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”

Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch.

Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.

His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.” 

Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.

But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.

He imagined a life without you.

You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.

The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.

You were duty, yes. But you were also more.

And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.

He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.

Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”

But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.

He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you. 

Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.

His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”

Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.

Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.

But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”

The hall went still.

Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”

Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”

All eyes turned to Robb.

The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.

It found you.

Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted. 

And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”

The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.

A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.

Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.

Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”

Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.

“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”

Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”

Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.

And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.

You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”

The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.

Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.

For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.

Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”

Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”

The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.

Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.

“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”

Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.

And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.

A strange, unexpected calm.

Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.

You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.

And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.

For the first time, it felt like choice.

When you woke up on Eddie's uncomfortable couch, much later than you'd anticipated, you sat up in a rush. The clock on the wall read 8:47 AM.

Your head ached from the night you'd spent crying (Eddie had eventually retreated into his bedroom, throwing the old tattered blanket you'd always loved over you), and you felt overwhelmingly out of place in the trailer that you used to call your second home. Your clothes, clearly washed and dried, sat folded in front of you. And in the kitchen, Wayne silently made a cup of coffee. He hadn't realized you were awake yet.

Eddie was nowhere to be seen.

The stale, quiet air of the trailer pressed in on you, thick with the ghosts of last night’s screaming match and the scent of Wayne’s cheap coffee. You pushed the familiar blanket -- the one with the frayed edge you used to worry between your fingers during scary movies -- off your legs. It felt like a betrayal, its comfort now tainted.

Moving stiffly, you gathered the neatly folded stack of your clothes. They smelled faintly of generic laundry soap, not of Eddie. The consideration of it, washing and drying them, felt like another kind of arrow to the chest. It was a practical kindness that spoke of a closure you hadn't agreed to.

You slipped into the bathroom to change. In the clean, cold daylight, the small room felt like a museum of a past life. You avoided looking in the mirror.

When you emerged, dressed in your own skin again, Wayne was standing by the small formica table, sipping his coffee. He looked over, his face its usual landscape of weary lines, but his eyes were soft.

“Mornin’,” he grunted.

“Morning, Wayne.” Your voice was raspy from disuse and spent tears. “I, uh… thanks for the…” You gestured vaguely at your clothes.

He nodded once, a sharp dip of his chin. He set his mug down and walked to the hook by the door, snagging a set of keys. He tossed them to you underhand. They landed with a soft jingle in your hands.

You stared at them. Your car keys.

“Fixed ‘er,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. “Was just the alternator cable. Corroded clean through. Re-spliced it. Should get you home.”

Tears, stupid and hot, pricked at your eyes again. This man, who had every reason to resent you, had been out in the freezing dawn fixing the car you’d used to flee his nephew. The kindness was almost worse than Eddie’s anger.

“Wayne, I… you didn’t have to…”

“Car wasn’t gonna fix itself,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. He studied you for a long moment, his gaze knowing and sad. “He’s gone. Needed to lick his wounds, I reckon.”

He didn’t offer excuses for Eddie. He didn’t ask for yours. He just stated a fact.

Then, to your utter shock, Wayne Munson closed the distance between you. He didn't say a word. He just opened his arms in a gruff, unmistakable invitation.

A sob fell through your lips before you could stop it. You stepped into the hug, burying your face in the flannel of his shirt. He smelled of motor oil, coffee, and a steadfast, unshakeable decency. His arms came around you, strong and solid, patting your back twice in that awkward, perfect Wayne way. It was the first real comfort you’d felt since your world had collapsed months ago, and it undid you completely. You held onto him for a long moment, letting the silent understanding seep into your battered soul.

When you pulled back, wiping your eyes, he just gave you another nod.

“Drive safe,” he said, the same two words he’d always sent you off with.

“I will. Thank you, Wayne. For… everything.”

You didn't look toward the hallway leading to Eddie’s room. You didn't let yourself glance at the photo over the sink. You just turned, opened the door to the bright, cold, snow-blanketed morning, and walked out.

The drive home in a now-functioning Daphne was a silent, blurry tunnel. The storm had passed, leaving Hawkins hushed and glittering under a pale sun. But inside the car, the quiet felt heavy, full of Wayne’s hug, the memory of Eddie’s devastated eyes, and the crushing weight of a prison sentence you’d imposed on yourself -- one that, after last night, felt like it had no release date.

It seemed pointless to act like you were over him. But you'd at least been able to pretend.. before the stupid fucking storm and your stupid fucking car threw you right back into the war path. You'd been doing okay. The first month, you'd hidden all of the pictures in an old shoe box and shoved it under your bed. You sent him all of his clothes in the mail and paid him back for almost everything he'd ever paid for. The second, third, and fourth, you settled for avoiding him like the plague. You got a new job in a different town and threw yourself into it, not allowing much time to gruel over everything that had gone wrong.

It was helping. Was it, though?

You knew the truth. You were putting a bandaid over a crack in a glass. It wasn't the right type of repair, and it wouldn't heal anything. But you weren't sure what else could be done.

When you got home, you showered again, trying to scrub the past night's events off from you. You used your expensive, new shampoo, your rich body wash, you shaved every inch. But you felt no cleaner. You quickly dried yourself off, throwing your dripping hair into a towel, before changing into some fresh clothes.

Some clothes Eddie had never seen or touched.

You were supposed to be at work at 12:00. You got there at 11:30.

Sitting behind your computer, you sighed. The normalcy was a kind of relief you'd been begging for since you'd first set foot in the Munson home. You worked diligently in your cubicle for a while, forcing yourself into tunnel vision.

The familiar, mind-numbing rhythm of data entry was a balm. Click, type, tab, enter. The sterile office air, the hum of fluorescent lights, the distant chatter of coworkers about weekend plans -- it was a world away from the emotional carnage of the trailer and the humid, charged silence of Wayne’s hug. For two solid hours, you disappeared into the spreadsheet, letting the numbers erase the memory of Eddie’s voice cracking.

Then, you jolted. A hand gently touched your shoulder, bringing you out of your data-based trance.

Thomas. The new intern. He'd been brought into the office the same time you had. He was conventionally attractive, nice enough, and did his job without any problems.

"Sorry," he winced, lifting his hand. "I didn't mean to scare you."

You laughed breathlessly, turning around in your chair. "It's okay. I'm just jumpy," you admitted. "I had a long day yesterday."

He frowned, leaning against your desk. There was genuine concern on his face.

"Something going on? I'm a good listener."

He was charming. That much was hard to ignore. He was exactly the kind of distraction you were supposed to want. Safe. Stable. Uncomplicated. A guy whose biggest rebellion was probably using the office printer for personal stuff.

"Just... car trouble," you said, forcing a smile. "In the storm last night. All sorted now."

"Ah, the great blizzard of '86," he joked, his eyes warm. "My roommate's Datsun still won't start. You're lucky you got yours going." He paused, seeming to gather a bit of courage. "Listen, I know it's last minute, but a bunch of us from the accounting floor are grabbing drinks after work at The Hideout. Drown our spreadsheet sorrows. You should come."

The Hideout. The name was a punch to the gut. It was their bar. The place where Eddie had played his first gig with Corroded Coffin, where you’d cheered so loud you lost your voice, where he’d kissed you for the first time -- slow and sweet and tasting of cheap beer -- in the sticky, dark hallway by the bathrooms.

Thomas noticed your hesitation. "Or, you know, if that's not your scene, we could just... get a coffee? Just us?"

The offer was clear. A date. A step forward. A chance to prove to yourself that you could be interested in someone who didn't come with a built-in tornado warning.

You were about to say no. Your mouth was forming the polite refusal. But then you saw it -- in your mind’s eye -- Eddie’s wounded, furious face as he spat “You just… walk away from.” You heard Wayne’s quiet keys jingling. You felt the ghost of that hug.

A reckless, furious energy surged through you. Yes. You would go. You would have a nice, normal time with a nice, normal guy. You would prove you could move on. You were moving on.

"Actually," you said, your voice sounding strangely bright to your own ears. "A drink sounds great."

Thomas's face lit up. "Yeah! Yeah, awesome. Can I pick you up?"

The question hung in the air. It was the natural, gentlemanly next step. It also felt like crossing a line you weren't entirely sure you wanted to cross. A pick-up implied a real date, a definite end to the night together. It felt… binding.

Your hesitation must have shown on your face, because Thomas’s bright smile faltered just a fraction. "Or," he added quickly, "we can just meet there. Whichever is easier."

The out was handed to you, polite and easy. And a small, cowardly part of you wanted to take it. To keep this experiment at arm’s length, to have your own escape route parked right outside.

But that was the old you. The one who planned exits before she even entered the room. The one who left notes instead of having fights.

"No," you said, firming your voice. "Picking me up is fine. It’s… nice." You forced a smile, scribbling your address on a sticky note from your desk. "Seven?"

"Seven," he confirmed, taking the note, his smile returning full force. He looked genuinely pleased, and a pang of guilt twisted in your stomach. He wasn't a pawn in your game with Eddie. He was a person. A nice one.

The rest of the workday was a blur of restless energy. At 5:30, you were the first one out the door, the ghost of your own decisiveness propelling you home. You showered again, as if you could wash away the lingering scent of the trailer and the memory of Eddie's furious eyes. You stood in your closet for a full ten minutes, rejecting every item of clothing. Too somber. Too yours. Too his.

It was a dive bar. The place you went when you wanted to wear something skimpy or cover your skin in glitter. You'd dress for the setting.

You decided on a black skirt, a simple one that hit mid-thigh, and a silky, emerald green top that you knew brought out your eyes. You added your favorite pair of boots -- the ones with just enough of a heel to make you feel powerful -- and a swipe of dark lip gloss. You stared at your reflection. This wasn't the girl Eddie remembered. This was someone sharper, a little more polished, someone who went on dates with accountants in nice sweaters. The pang of guilt returned, sharper this time. You were constructing an entire facade, and Thomas was just the audience.

The knock came at 7:02. Not 7:00 on the dot, but fashionably late enough to feel casual. You took a deep breath, grabbed your coat, and opened the door.

Thomas’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Wow. You look… incredible.”

“Thank you,” you said, the words feeling automatic. You let him help you into your coat, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck. You didn't flinch, but you didn't feel a spark either. Just the polite, expected contact.

The drive was pleasant. The conversation was easy. He was charming, telling a self-deprecating story about a client meeting gone wrong. You laughed in all the right places. But your mind was elsewhere, tracing the familiar route to The Hideout, anticipating the turn into the gravel lot with a mix of dread and a sick, undeniable pull.

When you pulled in, the dread won. The Hideout’s neon sign buzzed like an angry insect against the darkening sky. It looked smaller, dingier than in your memory, or maybe you’d just grown accustomed to cleaner, brighter places in your attempt to move on.

“Cool,” Thomas said, his tone carefully neutral as he held the heavy door open for you.

The wall of sound and smell hit you like a returning heartbeat. It wasn’t quaint. It was alive. And it still felt like yours.

You spotted his coworkers in a booth near the back. You recognized a few faces from the accounting floor -- polite smiles, curious glances at you and Thomas. You slid in, the vinyl seat sticking slightly to your tights.

“So this is the infamous new girl from marketing,” one of the women, Lisa, said with a friendly grin. “Thomas hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

Thomas flushed, chuckling. “Lisa, come on.”

You smiled, taking the beer Thomas handed you. “All good things, I hope.”

The group laughed, and the next twenty minutes were a blur of introductions, office gossip, and a shared basket of soggy fries. You were playing your part perfectly. Engaged. Charming. A great catch for a guy like Thomas.

Then, the door opened.

You didn't see him. You felt him. A shift in the room's energy, a sudden, magnetic pull that tightened your chest. Your eyes, of their own volition, cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and chatter towards the entrance.

There he was. Eddie.

Fuck. Why had you been so stupid? Why had you come here?

He wasn't just coming in; he was making an entrance, shrugging off his jacket to reveal a faded Black Sabbath tee, his laugh ringing out over the jukebox music as he clapped Gareth on the back. He was a burst of vibrant, chaotic color in the dim bar. He looked… good. Better than good. He looked like home, and the realization was a physical ache.

His gaze, sharp and scanning for his friends, swept across the room. It passed over your booth, did a double-take, and locked onto you.

The smile vanished from his face. The lively light in his eyes guttered out, replaced by an icy, flat stillness. He stared, his expression unreadable from this distance, but you could feel the shock, the hurt, and then, simmering beneath it, a dark, gathering storm.

Jeff, following his gaze, paled and grabbed Eddie’s arm, saying something urgent. Eddie shook him off, his eyes never leaving yours.

He started walking.

“Oh, god,” you whispered, the words lost in the chatter of your table.

Thomas, mid-sentence about a new tax software, followed your line of sight. “Everything okay?”

You nodded hurriedly, moving to get up, but before you even had the chance to slide out of the booth in your panic, two ringed hands slapped themselves down onto the table. The impact was sharp, final. Eddie leaned down, his body blocking out the rest of the bar, his face inches from yours. Up close, you could see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the faint, tired shadows beneath them, the tight set of his jaw.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice a low, intimate thrum that vibrated in your bones. “Look what the cat dragged in. And she brought a friend.” His gaze flicked to Thomas, a dismissive, scathing once-over that took in the sweater, the careful haircut, the whole safe, tidy package. "Who's this, sweetheart?" Eddie's voice was sugar-coated venom, his eyes never leaving Thomas's face as he spoke to you. "Introduce me to your... accountant."

Thomas stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Thomas," he said, his voice holding a note of forced calm. "And you are?"

Eddie finally dragged his gaze away from you, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he fully turned his attention to your date. "Eddie," he said, his tone conversational, almost pleasant. "The man she was with for almost four years." He jerked his thumb towards you without looking. "You're sitting in my seat, by the way."

The air in the booth vanished. Lisa’s mouth had formed a perfect, silent ‘O’. The other coworkers stared into their drinks as if they could divine an escape route in the foam.

Thomas’s forced calm cracked. A flush crept up from his collar, and his knuckles went white where they gripped the edge of the table. “I wasn’t aware we were keeping seats warm for past residents,” he said, the words clipped.

"That's funny," Eddie snorted, drumming his fingers on the glass of the booth's table, "considering the fact that this lovely woman spent the night at my house.. last night, was it?"

The gasp from Lisa was audible this time. The rest of the booth went preternaturally still. Thomas’s face, previously flushed with anger, drained of all color. He looked from Eddie’s triumphant, cruel smirk to your horrified expression, and the pieces clicked into place with a nearly audible sound.

Your car trouble. Your jumpiness. Your long day.

It wasn’t just a past relationship. It was current. It was last night.

“You…” Thomas’s voice was a dry rasp. He looked at you, his eyes wide with a hurt that was rapidly solidifying into something colder. “Is that true?”

“Because my car broke down,” you blurted out, the explanation feeble and pathetic against the weight of Eddie’s loaded statement. “In the storm. Right by his trailer. I had to wait it out. That’s all.”

“Oh, is that all?” Eddie purred, his eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction. He leaned his hip against the table, fully committing to the performance now, playing to his captive audience. “Just a little sleepover for old times’ sake. Very platonic. Very… chaste.” He let the word hang, dripping with implication. “You should’ve seen her, Thomas. Cozy as anything in my clothes. Looked right at home.”

This was beyond humiliation. This was annihilation. He was systematically dismantling not just your date, but your character, your integrity, in front of your new colleagues. He was painting you as a liar, a tease, someone who hopped between beds during snowstorms.

Tears of pure, impotent rage burned behind your eyes. You stood up, shaking. “You are vile,” you said, your voice shaking with a intensity that made even Eddie’s smirk falter for a second.

“I’m honest,” he shot back, but the bravado seemed thinner now, stretched over a core of something desperate and ugly. “Which is more than you’re being with him right now.”

You turned to Thomas, pulling enough money to cover your drinks out of your wallet and tossing it in front of him. "I am so sorry. I'll explain another time."

Then, you turned back around, centimeters from Eddie's chest. He towered over you, intense brown eyes burning through your skin. You leered up at him, hot, angry tears flowing down your face.

"Fuck. You." You gritted out.

He burst into laughter, his gaze heating up even more with the vulgar words leaving your lips. Tilting his head, hummed.

"You have. Many times. Or did you forget?"

The sentence burned your stomach. Of course you hadn't forgotten.

The sleepless nights because you couldn't get enough of each other, the nails in his back, the sting of his teeth on the delicate skin of your neck. You remembered every moment of it. He knew that, too. But drawing your attention to it in a room full of people? In front of your date?

Before you could even think about it, a crack sounded through the air. Eddie's head whipped to the side. You were on autopilot, the anger, yearning, and arousal warring inside of your brain.

You'd slapped him. The right side of his face was red. It was like the bar was paralyzed behind him -- all you could see was Eddie. He slowly turned his head back to face you, a dangerous glint in his eye. Predatory. Intense. Slightly pissed.

A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, the one that didn't reach his eyes. He touched his fingertips to his reddening cheek, testing the sting. The sound in the bar danced around you, but your mind was silent.

"Well," he said, his voice an intimate rasp that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. "There she is. You let her out."

Your hand throbbed. Your entire body was trembling -- with rage, with shock, with the electrifying realization of what you’d just done. He stared at you with his unrelenting eyes, his ringed fingers still touching his cheek. You couldn't bare it anymore.

You shoved past him, leaving the bar.

You frantically waved a taxi down, the only taxi in Hawkins which a creepy old man drove. The type you wouldn't trust driving a taxi. He attempted small talk. You barely responded, having used up any ability to talk for the rest of the night. When you finally got to your house, you paid the man, climbed out, and tore your dumb, fancy clothes off.

You put a pair of old, tattered pajamas on. Cried a little. Ate a grilled cheese sandwich, which you cried into. You collapsed onto your sofa, watching reruns of a stupid rom-com. You cried so much that you soaked the decorative pillow beside your head.

You weren't even sure what had happened. You weren't sure how everything had been ruined so quickly. Your new job was tainted now (you wouldn't be able to look four of your coworkers in the eye ever again), your car had proven it couldn't be trusted (which you already knew, but now she was choosing the roads to break down on), and your ex-boyfriend was intent on ruining any chance of getting over him. The four months you'd disciplined yourself into being done with him were now wasted. Crumbled and discarded.

What was it all for, anyways? Why had you done this to begin with?

It was for your mother. For your friends. They hadn't even bothered to get to know Eddie, forming an opinion based on what the town whispered about him: that he was a lost cause. Unreliable. A boy that was too lazy to graduate high school until he made the choice to do it. A freak from a bad family. Mean, scary, with bad intentions. Your friend had said that "your life will go nowhere if you marry a bad egg." The worst part? You started to believe them. The pressure cracked you.

They were wrong. All of them. They didn't know Eddie.

Eddie Munson was a diamond under layers of rock -- the best person you'd ever met. He could be mean. He was scary, sometimes. But he deserved to be. The world had dealt him shitty cards since he was born. It was cruel to him. Despite how cruel the world was, he never chose to be. He didn't let it sour him up. He was a cornered dog that never bit anyone, a tortured soul that persevered to stay soft.

He wasn't a lost cause. He worked hard. Every day. As soon as he graduated, he got a job at the record store. A job he loved, which you couldn't blame him for, and a job that he never relented from. He worked every single day, from open to close. He poured his heart into the things that he loved, like you once, his band, the group of kids that he'd left when he graduated Hawkins High School. They looked up to him. They looked up to his strength in adversity, because in reality, adversity was all he seemed to face until you'd come into his life.

The miserable irony was that if anyone who spoke ill of him actually tried to get to know him, they would love him immediately. But they were terrified of the rumors. Terrified of Eddie's exterior. The wild, black hair. The intense brown eyes. The chains and skull-shaped rings, the black boots and towering height. The loudness. The rebellious aura.

The thought was a barbed hook in your chest, reeling you back through time. To the first time you’d really seen him.

It wasn’t in a class, or at the grocery store. It was in the woods behind the school, a place you weren’t supposed to be. You were smoking a secret cigarette, relieving the stress of the day. You’d heard shouting, a cacophony of cruel, laughing voices. You’d crept closer, heart in your throat, expecting to see the monster the town warned about.

Instead, you saw Eddie Munson, standing between three older, bigger guys from the basketball team and a scrawny freshman -- Jeff, you’d learn later -- who was clutching a torn-up D&D manual. Eddie’s back was to you, his hands up in a placating gesture, but his voice was a low, steady rumble that carried.

“C’mon, guys. The kid’s just trying to get home. You’ve had your fun. His handbook’s toast. Call it a win.”

One of them shoved him. “What’re you gonna do about it, freak?”

Eddie didn’t shove back. He just… absorbed it. Steadied himself. A strange, sharp smile cut across his face, all teeth and no warmth. “Me? Nothing. But I’m recording this little display of masculine insecurity for posterity.” He tapped the side of his head. “Got a real good memory. And I’m real chatty with Chief Hopper. Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea about the varsity squad’s after-school activities, would we?”

It was a bluff. A brilliant, stupid bluff. But it worked. The bullies muttered, threw one last insult, and slunk away. As soon as they were gone, the sharp smile vanished from Eddie’s face. He turned to the trembling kid, his posture softening instantly. He knelt, picking up the scattered, muddy pages of the manual.

“Hey, no harm, no foul. They’re just pages. We can tape ‘em. Hell, we can redraw the diagrams. Might even improve on ‘em.” His voice was different now -- softer, encouraging. “Let's go. Let’s get you cleaned up. You did good. You didn’t cry. That’s the first rule.”

That was Eddie. The cornered dog who put himself between the teeth and someone weaker. The boy the town called lazy, spending his Friday night painstakingly taping a kid’s rulebook back together. The "freak" whose first instinct was to protect.

A fresh wave of sobs wracked you, not just of loss, but of shame. You’d abandoned him. You’d chosen the easy path, the one paved with your mother’s approval and your friends’ relieved smiles. You’d broken his heart to soothe your own social anxiety, and in doing so, you’d proven every one of his deepest fears correct: that he was unworthy, that he would always be left behind.

You ran away from him. You believed the monster stories, the stories of him being a waste. And now, it was too late.

You curled into the side of the couch and cried yourself to sleep.

The light stung your eyes when you woke up. Your head pounded. You ran to the toilet and threw up your dinner from the night before, and all the alcohol you'd had at the bar. When you trudged back out into the living room, you frowned.

This house was suffocating. You needed air.

You quickly dressed yourself in a jacket and jeans, yanking boots on. You brushed your teeth and tossed your messy hair into a bun. You grabbed a bottle of water and your keys. Then, you went outside into the chilly breeze and walked down to the Quarry. It was a comfort spot for you. Silent, gentle. You could escape whatever had happened. Every single time something broke your heart, that was where you ran to pick up the pieces.

You trudged through the mud until you reached the water. It was half frozen, but it still lapped at the edges. The horizon was grey, but still peaceful. You sat down on a log, staring up into the sky. Crows flew from the trees, stark black marks on a white sky. Minutes passed. Sometimes, more hot tears came down your face. The water bottle calmed your dry throat and aching stomach. But everything still felt wrong.

Then, you heard familiar boots trudging on the ground behind you. You shuddered, the idea of seeing his face right now almost lethal. But.. of course he'd come. He knew this is where you went when shit hit the fan. He was the only one that knew your spot.

You didn't turn around. You kept your eyes fixed on the half-frozen water, on the crows carving their dark paths across the clouds. The crunch of gravel and frozen earth under his boots was a familiar cadence, a heartbeat you'd tried to silence for months.

He didn't sit beside you on the log. He stopped a few feet away, a respectful distance that somehow felt more intimate than if he'd crowded you. The silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of the wind through the bare trees and the faint, rhythmic lap of water.

"You look like hell," he said. Always so charming. His voice was soft, but flat. Tired. Contrasting the cruelty it held the night before.

You laughed humorlessly at his words, sniffling.

"Thank you."

“Anytime,” he replied, the ghost of his old smirk touching his lips before fading. He shifted his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking. “Place hasn’t changed.”

“No,” you whispered. “It doesn’t.”

More silence. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet you used to share, where words were unnecessary. This was a chasm, and every second stretched it wider.

He filled it again.

"Did you call Thomas back? Reschedule for a night I can't fuck up?"

He spat the name like it burned his tongue. The question was a direct hit, laced with the self-deprecating poison he knew so well how to brew. It hung in the cold air between you, a challenge wrapped in a shield of assumed rejection. You finally turned to look at him fully. The morning light was cruel, highlighting the exhaustion in his face, the tension in his shoulders. He looked like a man braced for a verdict.

"No," you said, your voice quiet but firm in the still air. "I didn't call him. And you didn't fuck it up."

He scoffed, a dry, brittle sound. "Right. Because public humiliation is a great second-date foundation."

"You know that's not what I mean," you said, a flicker of the previous night's frustration reigniting. "You didn't ruin a good thing, Eddie. You ended a bad one."

He shrugged, as if it couldn't have been more obvious to him that your choice was a stupid one.

"He dressed business casual to go to a dive bar. You don't even like sweaters. Or blondes."

A laugh burst out of you -- sharp, surprised, and utterly genuine. It echoed oddly across the frozen quarry, shattering the heavy tension. Eddie’s eyes widened slightly, the perpetual defensive scrum on his face cracking to reveal a glimpse of the boy you fell for.

“You’re an idiot,” you said, the affection thick in your voice.

“Yeah, well, I’m all yours,” he shot back automatically, the old refrain slipping out before he could stop it. He froze, the words hanging between you, a relic from a time before the fracture. His cheeks flushed, and he looked away, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the frozen mud.

The simple phrase did more to dismantle your walls than any grand apology could have. It was a piece of your shared language, a secret handshake from a club you’d both resigned from.

“Are you?” you asked softly, the laughter gone, replaced by a vulnerable ache. “Still mine?”

He didn’t look at you. His shoulders were up around his ears, a tense line against the grey sky. “Don’t ask me that,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Not fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” He whirled to face you, his eyes blazing with a frustrated, helpless pain. “Because the answer’s always gonna be yes. So you asking… it’s just you checking if the toy you threw away is still on the shelf, waiting. It fucking is. And it pisses me off.”

The raw honesty was a sucker punch. It left you breathless. He was laid bare, no sarcasm, no armor, just the humiliating, unwavering truth of his constancy.

“I didn’t throw you away,” you whispered, tears welling again. “I got scared and I ran. There’s a difference.”

“Feels the same from this side of the shelf.” He kicked a chunk of ice, sending it skittering into the water.

Another tear dropped.

"Then you show up to our place with some corporate dumbfuck. You force me to be an ass. To make you cry. And you know I hate doing that," he ranted, his voice raw. "You left but you won't stay away. And now here I am, chasing you, like an idiot."

He got closer. You smelled him. Weed, patchouli, sharp cologne.

"I am an idiot. But you cried and I had to make sure you stopped. I hate when you cry. So stop it." He whispered, a cold finger reaching forward to wipe the warm tears coming down your face.

His touch, the rough pad of his finger brushing away your tears, was the final crack in the dam. Not for more tears, but for the truth you’d been clinging to like a life raft.

“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I can’t stop it.”

"Why not?" He asked, his voice low and heavy.

"Because I messed up so bad. I can't fix it. You hate me and you're still here trying to take care of me."

The raw admission hung between you, more vulnerable than any slap. His hand stilled against your cheek. For a moment, the only sounds were the wind and the ragged pull of your own breath. He didn't move away. His thumb brushed once more over the path of a tear, then his hand slid down to cradle your jaw, his touch firm, anchoring.

"Yeah," he said, the word a low rumble in his chest. "You messed up. Spectacularly. You broke my fucking heart. Stomped on it, actually."

You flinched, the directness a fresh wound.

"But," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, forcing you to lean in to hear. "Do I look like I'm here to collect a debt? To punish you?" He shook his head slowly, his intense eyes holding yours prisoner. "You think this," he gestured between the two of you, at the frozen quarry, at the whole miserable, beautiful situation, "is about hate?"

You couldn't speak. You just stared, lost in the storm of his gaze.

"It's the opposite," he whispered, his breath a warm cloud in the cold air. "I'm here because I can't not be. You cry, it's like a fucking alarm in my head I can't shut off. You're in pain, and even if I'm the cause, even if you're the cause, my first instinct is still to make it stop. That's not hate. That's the problem."

You fought the urge to cry some more. He was so good. So gentle. So loving. And you'd hurt him beyond measure.

"'M sorry," your voice cracked, your eyes blurring. "You can go. You shouldn't be here."

Your words were a flimsy wall, and he saw right through it. He didn't let go of your jaw. If anything, his grip gentled, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse at the side of your throat.

"See, that's the thing," he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost stolen by the wind. "You don't get to decide where I should be. Not anymore. You gave up that right when you walked away."

It was the truth, and it burned. You tried to look down, but he held your gaze, unwavering.

"But," he continued, leaning in so close his lips almost brushed yours with each word, "you asking me to go? That just proves you still don't get it. You think you're doing me a favor. Setting me free from the mess you made. But you're not." His eyes were dark pools of conviction. "This is me free. Choosing to be here. Choosing you, even after everything. Even though it's stupid. Especially because it's stupid."

A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down your chilled cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

"I'm not going anywhere," he stated, the words final, absolute. "Unless you tell me, right now, looking me in the eye, that you don't love me. That you don't want this. And you have to mean it."

He fell silent, giving you the space he thought you wanted. The space to send him away for good. The air grew colder, the silence heavier, pressing in on you. The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire. His gaze held you, unflinching, a challenge and a plea all at once. The wind seemed to still, the world narrowing to this frozen patch of ground, the feel of his hand on your face, and the terrifying, beautiful ultimatum hanging between you.

He was offering you the clean break you’d pretended to want. The easy out you’d tried to create with Thomas. All you had to do was lie. To say the words that would sever the tether for good, that would let him walk away and finally, truly hate you. It would be the kindest cruelty you could offer him.

Your lips parted. The words -- I don’t love you -- felt like shards of glass in your throat, impossible to force out. Because you loved him with a desperation that terrified you. You loved the stubborn set of his jaw, the unexpected gentleness of his hands, the fierce loyalty he wore like armor. You loved the mess and the noise and the glorious, difficult truth of him.

You loved him so much it had scared you into leaving.

And he saw it. He saw the war in your eyes, the way your breath hitched not in preparation for a lie, but because the truth was a living, painful thing clawing its way up. The hard line of his mouth softened, just a fraction.

“You can’t,” he said, his voice a low, certain vibration. It wasn’t a question. “You can’t say it. Because it’s not true.”

A sob broke free, the last of your defenses crumbling. You shook your head, a frantic, tiny motion. “No,” you choked out. “It’s not true.”

The admission seemed to unlock something in him. The last vestige of his defensive stance melted away. His shoulders dropped, and he let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a second as if in prayer.

“Thank Christ,” he whispered, the words rough with emotion. When his eyes opened, they were bright, vulnerable. “For a minute there, I thought you were actually gonna make me leave.”

He pulled you into him then, not with the desperate force from before, but with a deep, enveloping relief. You buried your face in the cold leather of his jacket, your hands fisting in the back of it, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world. He held you just as tightly, his face pressed into your hair.

“I love you,” you mumbled into his chest, the words muffled but fervent. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” he soothed, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. “I know. I know, baby. Me too. All of it.”

You stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other, the frozen world around you forgotten. The only warmth was the shared heat of your bodies, the only sound the steady, synced beating of your hearts. Finally, he stirred, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Alright,” he said, his voice still thick but laced with a new, gentle determination. “We’re done with the quarry. We’re done with the past. Starting right now.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face again. His thumbs brushed away the remnants of your tears. “Clean slate. But this time, together. No more solo missions. Deal?”

You nodded, your vision blurry but your heart clearer than it had been in months. “Together.”

A real, slow smile spread across his face, the one that reached his eyes and lit them from within. It was the smile you’d fallen in love with, the one he saved for rare, unguarded moments. It felt like coming home.

“Good.” He took your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours. “Now, let’s get in the fucking van. I’m freezing, you’re shivering, and I have a sudden, intense craving for the world’s greasiest diner food. My treat. We can start our new, improved, communication-heavy relationship by arguing about whether hash browns should be crispy or soggy.”

A wet laugh escaped you. It felt like the first real breath you’d taken in weeks. “They should be crispy.”

You could barely see. Your sight was never impeccable to begin with, but the mixture of snow and rain flying at your windshield in the 40 mile-per-hour winds definitely didn't help.

You tried not to push your car (which you'd named Daphne) too hard, just easing her through the slush at a gentle speed, trying to ignore what road you were on. You weren't on it for the reasons you used to be. You were just on it now because it was a short-cut from work to home, and you needed the fastest route possible to avoid the storm.

Obviously, that hadn't worked.

"Fucking shit." You muttered to yourself as you hit a particularly wet patch of slush, your tail end swerving just slightly. You corrected yourself with shaky, panicked hands, somehow managing to keep yourself on the road.

Daphne was an old girl, a fixer-upper. But you knew how to handle her wheel.

The headlights of your old sedan cut twin, wavering tunnels through the horizontal sleet. The wipers groaned on their highest setting, fighting a losing battle. You were gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ached, every muscle in your body tensed against the skid and sway of the tires.

You knew this road, sadly. Every pothole, every leaning fence post, every mailbox with a dent from a long-ago baseball. You’d memorized it in sunshine, in twilight, in the deep, comfortable dark of summer nights. You’d ridden down it with your heart full and your hand in his, music blaring from his shitty speakers.

Now, you drove it with your heart in your throat and your eyes straining to see five feet ahead. You just had to get past it. Past him.

The familiar, ramshackle outline of the Munson trailer came into view, a darker smudge against the storm-grey sky. A single, yellow porch light was on, a lonely beacon in the maelstrom. Your foot instinctively eased off the gas, as if slowing down could make you less visible. You held your breath, a stupid, superstitious gesture, as you passed the driveway.

You’d made it maybe two hundred yards past when Daphne gave a violent, shuddering cough. The engine spluttered -- a wet, guttural sound of pure protest. The lights on the dashboard flickered crazily. Then, with a final, dying wheeze, the engine cut out completely. The headlights died, plunging you into near-total darkness, save for the sickly green glow of the radio display.

Silence, except for the hammering of ice and rain on the roof.

“No. No, no, no, come on,” you pleaded, turning the key in the ignition. The starter gave a weak, clicking whirr. Nothing. You tried again. Click-click-click. Despair, cold and sharp, joined the chill already seeping into the car.

You were stranded. In a storm. On this road. Approximately a one-minute walk from the one place in Hawkins you’d said you’d never set foot in again.

You laid your forehead against the freezing steering wheel. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but it died in your throat. You were well and truly screwed.

Outside, the wind howled like it was laughing at you.

You would not be approaching his door. You knew Daphne was old and at times unreliable, so you kept emergency gear in the backseat. A blanket, a heavy winter jacket, a few bottles of water. A blunt and a lighter for stress. Huffing, you pushed your seat back just enough so that you could climb into the back.

You'd wait the storm out until the morning. Then, you'd walk down the road to the gas station, which opened at 5AM, and call your brother. Or your dad. Or a fucking tow truck. Whoever you thought of first.

The backseat was cramped and smelled of old vinyl and the faint, lingering scent of the pine tree air freshener you’d bought last winter. You wrestled the blanket around your shoulders, then pulled the puffy jacket on over it, creating a sad, bulky nest. The cold was insidious, creeping up through the floorboards, seeping in through the window seals. You could see your breath, little ghostly puffs in the greenish dark.

This was fine. This was manageable. You’d been through worse. A little cold, a little storm. You were tough.

You fumbled for the pre-rolled joint and the lighter in the side pocket of the door. Your fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. It took three tries to get the flame to catch in the howling draft whistling through the window frame. Finally, the end glowed orange. You took a deep drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, willing it to burn away the panic, the humiliation, the sheer, cosmic unfairness of it all.

The familiar, earthy warmth spread through your chest, taking the sharpest edges off your anxiety. You slumped against the door, watching the sleet paint icy patterns on the window. You were a statue in a glass coffin, waiting for the storm to pass.

You lost track of time. The joint became a stub you carefully extinguished and tucked away. The cold deepened, becoming a tangible, aching presence. You pulled your knees to your chest, tucking your hands under your armpits. The blanket was thin. The jacket helped, but your legs were freezing in your jeans. You started to shiver, a fine, constant tremor you couldn’t control.

This is stupid. This is prideful and stupid. You’re going to get hypothermia over a boy.

But it wasn't just any boy. It was Eddie. And the wound of your ending was still too fresh, too raw, to face the possibility of his pity, or worse, his indifference.

You'd be fine. You weren't freezing to death, you were maintaining body heat. Just a few more hours and you would--

A sharp knock on the window made you yelp.

No. No, no no. It's not who I think it is.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a trapped bird. Through the ice-fogged glass, distorted by the rivulets of sleet, a dark shape loomed. A familiar silhouette, backlit by the distant, buzzing porch light.

It is. It’s exactly who you think it is.

You stayed perfectly still, a rabbit hoping the predator will lose interest. Maybe if you didn’t move, he’d think you were asleep. Or dead. God, maybe dead is better.

The knock came again, sharper this time. Insistent. Accompanied by a voice, muffled but unmistakably his, cutting through the wind’s howl.

“Open the door, Y/N. I can see you shivering from here.”

The command, the use of your full name -- it brooked no argument. It was the same tone he’d used when you’d tried to walk home from a party in the rain two summers ago, when he’d scooped you up with an exasperated, “Don’t be an idiot,” and driven you home despite your protests.

Defeated, you unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The storm rushed in, but so did he. Eddie filled the cramped space of the open door, dressed in a thick flannel over his t-shirt, a beanie pulled low over his curls. He was holding a massive, industrial-looking flashlight. His eyes swept over your pathetic nest -- the blanket, the jacket, the discarded joint stub on the floor mat -- and a smirk bloomed onto his face.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, but it wasn't a question. It was an amused accusation.

“Waiting out the storm,” you said, your own voice thin and reedy from cold and disuse. “My car died.”

“I know she died. I heard Daphne cough her last breath. I’ve been watching your sorry ass freeze for the last twenty minutes from my window.” He shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and humor flashing in his eyes. “Get out of the car.”

The smirk. The absolute, insufferable smirk. It ignited a fire in your chest that had nothing to do with warmth. All the cold, all the fear, condensed into a single, white-hot point of pure indignation.

“I’m fine here,” you snapped, your voice gaining strength from the fury.

He leaned further into the car, the flashlight beam highlighting the amusement dancing in his eyes. “Oh, you’re more than fine. You’re a picture of survivalist elegance. The blanket really ties the ‘soon-to-be-icicle’ look together. But see, here’s the thing -- Wayne’s on night shift, and I have a strict policy against letting girls freeze to death within spitting distance of my home. Bad for my rep. So, for the last time: out.”

“My well-being is no longer your concern, Munson,” you shot back, wrapping the pathetic blanket tighter around your shoulders as if it were armor.

“It becomes my concern when you’re littering my view with your old ass car,” he countered, his tone light but his eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. “Now, I can do this the easy way, where you walk your proud, stubborn self into the warm trailer like a rational human being. Or I can do it the hard way, which involves me, this flashlight -- which is heavier than it looks -- and a very undignified extraction. Your choice, sweetheart.”

The old pet name, used now as a weapon, stole the breath from your lungs. You stared at him, this infuriating, beautiful, impossible man, standing in a storm offering you shelter you didn't want to need from him.

Another bone-deep shiver rattled through you, betraying your bravado. You saw his smirk soften, just for a second, into something that looked suspiciously like concern before the mask of amused detachment slid back into place.

With a sound of pure, exasperated defeat, you kicked the blanket off your legs. “Fine.”

You climbed out of the car, the wind immediately whipping your hair across your face. You didn't look at him as you slammed the door shut harder than necessary and started stomping through the slush toward the trailer. He fell into step beside you, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your furious march.

“You know,” he said conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, “most people, when their car breaks down in a storm, go to the nearest house. They don’t stage a one-woman Arctic expedition in their backseat.”

“Most people don’t have to worry about the emotional fallout of seeing their ex,” you muttered, staring straight ahead at the glowing porch light.

He snorted, as if it didn't mean much. As if you hadn't been the center of his life for three and a half years.

"I don't bite. Unless you ask me to. You've known me long enough to know that, haven't you?"

The casual, suggestive barb hit its mark, a different kind of chill skittering down your spine. You stopped on the bottom step, looking up to face him. The porch light cast harsh shadows on his face, but his eyes were bright, challenging.

“I know you,” you said, your voice low and steady despite the tremor in your limbs. “That’s the problem. I know exactly what your ‘not biting’ looks like. It looks like… this.” You gestured vaguely between you, at the storm, the trailer, the unbearable tension. “It’s never simple with you, Eddie. It’s a whole production.”

He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entrance, his arms crossed over his chest. The flannel sleeves were pushed up, revealing the familiar tattoos on his forearms. “And sitting in your car until you got frostbite was the simpler option? Come on. Even you’re not that stupid.”

“It was the safer option!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “In there, the only thing I had to fight was the cold. Out here? With you?” You shook your head, a helpless gesture. “It’s much worse.”

The smirk finally vanished. His expression shifted into something unreadable, intense. He studied you -- your wet hair plastered to your forehead, your jacket soaked through, the defiant, fearful light in your eyes. The wind howled around you both, but on this small, lit porch, the world had narrowed to this standoff.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice dropping, losing its edge.

“I’m cold.”

“Yeah.” He pushed off the doorframe and reached to open the door. Warm air, carrying the scent of him and home, rushed out to meet you. “Get inside. Before you really do turn into an icicle. We can argue about the meteorological properties of my personality when you’re not at risk of hypothermia.”

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command, but it was also a retreat. A concession. He was giving you the out, focusing on the practical, immediate danger instead of the emotional minefield.

You hesitated for one more second, then stepped across the threshold into the past. He followed, closing the door firmly on the roaring night, leaving the two of you in the sudden, overwhelming quiet of the trailer, with only the drumming of sleet on the roof and the heavy weight of everything left unsaid between you.

The smell of him was everywhere -- clean laundry, weed, curl product, and the delicious cologne you'd never figured out how he could afford. The memories you'd fought to avoid for about four months now closed in around you. You blinked in surprise at the photo of you two, from when Eddie finally graduated high school, still hung above the kitchen sink. He hadn't taken down the photos. The sight was a physical blow. It was a candid shot -- you were laughing, your head thrown back, and Eddie had his arm slung around your shoulders, grinning at the camera like he’d just won the lottery. It was perched right where it had always been, in the spot of honor where Wayne could see it while he washed dishes. The fact that it was still there felt more intimate, more revealing, than if he’d torn it down in a fit of rage.

You opted to pretend you didn't notice. Anything to avoid a tense conversation. You quickly averted your eyes, focusing on peeling off your soaked jacket. Your fingers were numb and clumsy. The zipper stuck.

“Here,” Eddie’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected. Before you could protest, his hands were there, brushing yours aside. His touch was efficient, impersonal, as he worked the frozen zipper free. The back of his knuckles grazed the wet fabric of your sweater, and you stiffened.

The jacket came off. You were left standing there in your damp sweater and jeans, feeling more exposed than ever. The trailer’s heat was beginning to penetrate your clothes, a painful thaw that made your skin prickle.

“Bathroom’s the same,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s towels in the cupboard. You can wear something of mine for the night. It won't hurt you." He asserted, looking at you with an expression that left no room for argument. "You're not wearing the wet shit."

The command in his voice, the sharp practicality of it, was a lifeline in the sea of awkwardness. It gave you a directive, something to do instead of just standing there marinating in regret and residual attraction.

“Fine,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes. You snatched up your purse and made a beeline for the bathroom, needing the space.

The small room was exactly as you remembered. The same slightly-mildewy shower curtain, the same chipped tile, the same half-empty bottle of your shampoo on the edge of the tub. He hadn’t thrown it out. The observation sent a fresh, complicated pang through you. You ignored it, focusing on the task at hand.

Stripping off the wet, icy clothes was a relief. The hot water in the quick shower you took made you feel like you were falling off the bone. You towelled off quickly, the rough fabric bringing you back to reality. Wrapped in the towel, you hesitated. The idea of putting on his clothes… it felt like a surrender. An intimacy you’d forfeited.

A knock at the door made you jump. “It’s on the hook,” Eddie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. “Don’t overthink it. They’re just clothes.” The teasing air to his tone infuriated you.

You unlocked the door and cracked it open. Hanging on the outside hook was a faded, soft-looking gray hoodie and a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants. They were clean. They smelled like his laundry detergent, not like him. It was a small, considerate distinction that somehow made it worse.

You pulled them on. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves swallowing your hands. The pants were too long, pooling around your ankles. You rolled the waistband and cuffed the legs. Looking in the foggy mirror, you saw a ghost -- a version of yourself from years ago, when you’d steal his clothes just because you could, because you loved being surrounded by him.

When you emerged from the bathroom, scrubbed clean and drowning in his clothes, you found him in the kitchenette. He’d put the kettle on and was leaning against the counter, a smirk already playing on his lips as he took you in.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep from your rolled cuffs to the hood swallowing half your face. “The lost princess of Hawkins, slumming it in peasant garb. It’s a good look. A little… derelicte, but it works.”

You scowled, tugging at the too-long sleeve. “Shut up. You’re built like a scarecrow.”

“A scarecrow with impeccable taste in loungewear, thank you very much.” He gestured to the kettle with his chin. “Tea? Or I think Wayne might have some of that horrific instant cocoa you used to love. The kind that’s mostly sugar and artificial flavor.”

The mention of your old preference, the specific memory of you curling on this same couch with a mug of too-sweet cocoa, was a tiny landmine. You ignored it. “Tea’s fine.”

He busied himself with mugs, his back to you. “So,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “What’s the verdict? Is the storm outside still worse than the storm of my terrible personality in here?”

“It’s a tie,” you shot back, settling onto the far end of the couch, tucking your feet under you. “The sleet is less predictable, but you’re louder.”

He barked a laugh, a genuine sound that felt like a shockwave in the small space. “Fair. I’ll take it.” He brought over two mugs, handing you one. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you flinched. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a respectable, cavernous gap between you. He took a sip, watching you over the rim. “You know, for a minute there, I thought you were really gonna try to wait it out. I had a whole running commentary planned. ‘Hour one: the princess develops a slight shiver. Hour two: regret sets in. Hour three: a single, frozen tear…’”

“You were watching me?” You tried to sound annoyed, but it came out strangely breathless.

“Entertainment’s slim during an ice apocalypse,” he shrugged, but his eyes were sharp on yours. “Besides, it was like a nature documentary. The Tragic Pride of the North American Ex-Girlfriend.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And yet you’ve come right back to me.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems like we’re both dealing with unfortunate realities tonight. Daphne threw you to the dogs.”

You rolled your eyes, glaring at him.

"Don't talk shit about Daphne."

He snorted back, tilting his head back to glance out the window at said object.

"I knew as soon as I met Daphne that she'd screw you over one day. Wayne said he'd get you something new," he shrugged. "But nooo. You loved the death-trap too much."

The barb landed differently this time. It wasn't just about the car; it was about your stubbornness, your sentimentality, your refusal to let go of things -- people -- even when they were bad for you. It was a mirror held up to your own choices, and the reflection stung.

“I don’t just throw things away because they’re old or unreliable,” you shot back, your voice tight. “Some things are worth fixing.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you realized your mistake. The air in the trailer seemed to freeze solid, thicker than the ice on the windows.

Eddie’s grin vanished. His eyes, which had been sparkling with mischievous challenge, went flat and dark. He leaned forward slowly, placing his mug on the coffee table with exaggerated care. The click of ceramic on wood was deafening in the silence.

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. All traces of teasing were gone, replaced by a cold, simmering anger. “Things worth fixing, huh? That’s a fascinating philosophy.” He tilted his head, his gaze boring into you. “Tell me, then. Where’s the line? At what point does something become so fucking broken it’s not worth the effort anymore? When it leaves you stranded in the cold? Or is it before that? Maybe when it makes you feel so shitty you have to lie to get away from it?”

Each question was a lash. He wasn't talking about Daphne anymore. He was talking about you. About him. About you and him.

You flinched, pulling the oversized hoodie tighter around yourself as if it could shield you. “Eddie, that’s not what I meant--”

“Isn’t it?” he interrupted, standing up in one fluid, angry motion. He began to pace the small length of the living room, his movements restless, charged. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like what you meant. You’ll nurse along a shitbox car because it’s familiar. You’ll fight for it. But a relationship? A person? Nah. That you just… walk away from. No repairs. No fixing. Just a clean break and a bullshit excuse about ‘different paths.’ Or 'going nowhere.'” He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his chest heaving. “So forgive me if I’m a little fucking confused about your automotive morals.”

The raw pain in his voice, the accusation that cut straight to the heart of your own guilt, was too much. The tears you’d been fighting since you arrived sprang to your eyes, hot and immediate.

“You think it was easy?” you choked out, surging to your feet to face him. The blanket pooled at your feet. “You think I just woke up one day and decided to ‘throw you away’? I was terrified! I loved you so much it felt like I was drowning, and everyone was telling me you were a lost cause! I didn’t know how to fix us because I didn’t even know what was broken!”

“You could have talked to me!” he roared, the sound raw and startling in the small space. He took a step toward you, his hands clenched at his sides. “You could have fought with me! Instead, you just… left. You handed me a note written in fucking platitudes and disappeared. That’s not fixing something, Y/N. That’s scrapping it for parts.”

You were both shouting now, four months of suppressed hurt and anger erupting in the warm, claustrophobic space. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest in the room.

“I was trying to save myself!” you cried, the confession ripped from you.

“FROM WHAT?” he yelled back, throwing his hands up. “FROM ME?”

The question echoed, brutal and final. You stared at each other, breathing heavily, the truth of his words hanging between you like a guillotine.

From me.

In your darkest moments, yes. From the chaos, from the uncertainty, from the sheer, overwhelming force of loving Eddie Munson. You’d been trying to save yourself from the very thing you’d missed every single day since.

The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come, leaving you hollow and shaking. You looked at him -- really looked at him -- seeing not the infuriating, teasing boy from the porch, but the man whose heart you’d shattered with your fear. The man who still had your picture on his wall.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the admission a surrender. A single tear traced a path down your cheek. “From you.”

He recoiled as if you’d struck him physically. All the anger bled from his face, replaced by a wounded, devastating comprehension. He took a step back, then another, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.

You stood frozen, the weight of what you’d just said crushing you. A moment passed.

You glanced at him, hearing movement. He was looking the other direction, his profile painful to see. The flickering light of the lamp caught the silver in his rings, the curve of his lower lip. He was still so beautiful it hurt.

The silence fell upon you. Tense. Pregnant with too many emotions to name. You looked away, but you could feel him turn to you, his gaze heating up your skin. His sight was always so perceptive, so thoughtful and warm. You were afraid of him watching you, afraid of his intelligent brown eyes deducing things that you didn't want deduced.

You fought the urge to get up and hide from his eyes. In the bathroom. The spare bedroom, hiding under the covers.

"You cut your hair."

The statement was simple, but heavy. You could hear the suppressed anger in his tone. The hurt. The ache. The holding back of tears, the holding back of a rage fit. His voice was a broken rasp, a quiet devastation that was worse than any shout. It wasn't just an observation. It was an accusation of a change he hadn't been part of, a loss he'd had to witness from a distance. You cut your hair. You changed. You moved on without me.

Your hand flew self-consciously to the ends, now resting just above your shoulders. "Yeah," you whispered, your own voice trembling. "A while ago."

He didn't look at you. He kept his gaze fixed on some distant point on the wall, his jaw working. "I liked it long."

Three words. They held a universe of grief. I liked it. I liked you. I liked us.

A sob caught in your throat. This was agony. This quiet, raw aftermath was worse than the screaming. It was the autopsy of your relationship, performed in the cold, clear light of shared pain.

"I did it after," you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought... I thought if I looked different, I'd feel different. But I just felt... bald. And sad."

He hummed.

"Had to erase anything I touched, huh? I was that bad?"

You shuddered, looking up at the ceiling.

"Stop it, Eddie. Fucking stop it."

He laughed humorlessly, his eyes finally locking back onto yours. The predatory fire was back, the ruthless analyzing.

"Stop what? What part of this is what you didn't want? You chose it," he said, his voice raw.

"Stop, Eddie!" You cried out.

He was never a good listener. Especially not when he was hurt. Especially not when the armor of sarcasm had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of his own perceived worthlessness.

He surged to his feet, a sudden, violent motion that made you flinch back against the couch cushions. He loomed over you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't move closer. The threat wasn't physical; it was emotional, and it was crushing.

"You want me to stop?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous snarl. "You want me to pretend like you didn't look at our life together and decide it was a fucking prison sentence? Fine. Let's play pretend. Let's pretend you're just a girl whose car broke down. Let's pretend I'm just a guy being hospitable. Let's pretend the last three years never happened. Is that easier for you? Is that safer?"

He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every word was a jab, designed to hurt because he was hurting, and he wanted you to feel it, to own it. You couldn't take it anymore.

You stood, grabbing your wet jacket and clothes.

"What are you doing?" He snapped.

"Leaving," you said, your voice surprisingly steady as you shoved your arms into the damp, cold sleeves of your jacket. The fabric felt like a slab of ice against your skin, a shocking contrast to the warmth of the trailer. "You win, Eddie. Always."

He crossed the distance in three steps, grabbing ahold of the jacket. Quickly and efficiently, he yanked it off from you, tossing it to the floor.

"You're not."

His voice was final. It wasn't a plea this time; it was a decree, forged in the fire of his own panic. The sight of you actually leaving, of you choosing the literal storm over his emotional one, had short-circuited his anger, replacing it with something more primal: possession.

You stood frozen, the sudden absence of the jacket leaving you exposed in the thin, borrowed hoodie. You could see the wild, frantic beat of his pulse in his throat. His hands, which had just stripped the jacket from you, hovered in the air between you, as if he wanted to grab onto something else -- your arms, your shoulders, you -- but was holding himself back by a thread.

"You're not leaving," he repeated, quieter now, his eyes locked on yours. "You walk out that door, you'll freeze. And I… I can't…" He swallowed hard, the sentence dying in his throat.

The raw, unspoken terror in his eyes undid you. The proud, furious exit was forgotten. You were both trapped -- by the weather, by history, by this devastating, inescapable connection that neither rage nor distance could sever.

A shuddering breath escaped you. "Then what do you want from me, Eddie?" Your voice was a broken whisper. "You want me to stand here and let you flay me alive? Because I can't do that either."

The fight seemed to leave him in a rush. His shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running both hands over his face. When he looked at you again, he just looked exhausted. Defeated.

"I don't know," he admitted, the confession hollow. "I don't know what I want. I just know I can't watch you walk into that."

The silence stretched, thick and painful. The wind howled a reminder of the impossible choice: stay in the emotional warzone, or flee into the physical one.

Finally, he gestured vaguely toward the couch. "Just… sit down. Please. I'll… I'll shut up. We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just… exist. Until morning."

It was the barest minimum. A ceasefire with no terms, no resolution. Just a mutual agreement not to destroy each other -- or yourselves -- for the next few hours.

Slowly, feeling numb, you walked back to the couch and sat on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. He didn't sit next to you. He sank into the armchair opposite, putting the width of the coffee table between you. He picked up his cold mug of tea, stared into it, and said nothing.