❝she was a fairy ❞

It's a lie and you both know it; he's bruised up and bloody in too many places for you to not be worried.

“Go, you need a shower.”

He obeys your command and does a quick playful bow, which makes you chuckle. As you're about to go back to your previous task of putting new sheets on the bed you feel yourself being lifted up and held to a firm chest. With a yelp you grab at the next best thing – in this case his shoulders.

“I think I deserve my girl in the shower, too.”

He grins and when he's in the bathroom he sets you down on the counter next to the sink, making it his task to carefully and slowly undress you, leaving you only in panties. When you're bare he momentarily stops in his tracks, eyes taking in your soft and unmarred skin.

“Never gonna let anything happen to you,” he suddenly promises, firmly gripping your thighs. Your pout from being manhandled turns into a soft expression and you hum knowingly, pecking his shoulder sweetly.

“I know.”

He stares thoughtfully for a moment longer, then takes his own pants off and gets into the shower to adjust the water temperature, holding out his hand to you when the water is warm.

You slide off the counter, take your panties off and grasp his hand, not fully able to wrap your fingers around his large palm and let him pull you under the stream of water.

His eyes are just as intense as always as he watches you get your hair soaked and body warmed up. Blindly reaching for your shampoo he makes a noise in the back of his throat before firm fingers begin to massage your shampoo into your scalp and hair carefully.

While the water washes away the suds you open your eyes again, adoring smile on your face. “Hi, handsome.”

He huffs in amusement and shortly taps under your chin.

The shower takes as long as it usually does when you share, him insisting to wash your hair and your body, then in turn huffing at being pampered himself. When you step out he has a steadying hand on your waist to prevent any accidents on the damp floor, already wrapping a soft towel around your body before you could even ask for one.

While he does your hair care for you, you focus on brushing your teeth and doing the little skincare you own — turning to grin at him with your face shiny with lotion and smelling of sugar and sweetness.

He pokes your side before brushing his own teeth, running his fingers through his curls and calling it a day.

“Sergei,” you pout, always quick to keep his skin from going dry as well as his hair. He sighs and bends down enough so you can reach, already accustomed to your little routine, as you lotion his face and put some hair oil into his curls.

“All done.” He hums and looks at you with all the adoration in the world mirrored in his blue eyes. He's still shirtless, only in his boxers – and of course wearing the necklace – while you're in your pajamas, fuzzy socks, slippers and a soft bathrobe.

He can't help but count himself the luckiest man alive; living a life as comfortable as this, no matter the side of brutality, with a girl like you waiting for him at home every day.

Acting on his desire he easily picks you up and carries you pressed to his firm chest into bed, careful as he lays you down.

“I'm being spoiled,” you giggle and he melts just a little further, letting your hands pull him down onto the mattress so you can cuddle into his side and use his chest as a pillow.

“Always need to spoil my girl,” he muses, fingers spread on your lower back.

Now you had an out. Each step you took down the aisle was one step closer to getting out. The wedding cloak Robb wrapped around your shoulders solidified your freedom from this hell, you barely noticed his disinterest. Almost. It became increasingly evident throughout the night, though. Alone at the wedding table, Robb looked at everything but you. His attention was everywhere but the woman beside him. No, it seemed to be on that woman sitting all alone in the back of the room. Talissa, you’d heard the maids whisper. Robb’s lover he’d given up to secure his men’s passage across your father’s lands. She was beautiful, with a kind smile and sad eyes. She must be in love with Robb, too. 

You sighed deeply beside your disinterested husband. You could never hope to be as beautiful as Talissa. You could never hope to captivate Robb the way she did. Reality slowly dawned on you. Had you traded one hell for another? The food in front of you suddenly smelled sour and your stomach twisted into a knot. No, it wouldn’t be hell, it would just be lonely. Robb was a good man and had no ill intent. He’d leave you alone and dedicate his time to his home, his people. You would be fine.

“You look like you’re at a funeral, not a wedding,” Robb said, his gaze remaining forward.

You should’ve smiled, should’ve done your duties as a lady to reassure a man – your husband. Your lips remained downturned. “She’s beautiful. You must be very sad to give her up.”

Beside you, Robb remained the picture of regalness. “I intend to keep my vows. I am a man of honor.”

“If you say so, I will believe you.” You pushed the peas on your plate with a fork. “Will I be lonely?”

The silence stretched on for too long. Off to the corner, a few of your brothers guffawed, mouths full of ale and half chewed food.  “I cannot lie to you,” Robb finally answered. “It is possible.”

You tried to keep the tears that stung your eyes at bay. Perhaps your new future wasn’t a comparable hell to the one you were leaving, but it certainly was a form of hell. You looked forward, looking at your brothers and sisters instead of Talissa. You needed to remind yourself why this arraignment was good, even if it would only last mere seconds. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw your father push away his plate and take a long swig from his cup. Everyone else in the room noticed the same movements and in response banged their fists against the tables. With a hand raised, the banging stopped and your father spoke.

He looked at your new husband with a sternness. “The septon has prayed his prayers, some words were said, and Your Grace has wrapped my daughter in a cloak.” Your father ran his gaze across the room, addressing the audience. “But they are not yet man and wife. A sword needs a sheath.”

Laughter erupted through the room, your father joining them. Robb stilled beside you, shoulders tense and eyes hardening. Your stomach roiled at your father’s next words, though you weren’t exactly sure why.

 “And a wedding needs a bedding. What does my sire say?”

The guests, most of them your kin, chanted two words in a way that made your mouth go dry. You weren’t sure what was happening, but the hungry looks from the men weren’t easing your nerves.

“To bed! To bed! To bed!” Cups banged against the table tops once more, the sour smell of ale and wine wafting towards you as they sloshed out of their hosts. The band struck a merry tune, and with the music stormed forward some of your brothers and male guests to the wedding table. A yelp escaped your lips as harsh, calloused hands hauled into the air and carried out of the room. Happy faces blurred past you on your way out and in the distance you swore you could hear Robb curse.

Your knees landed on the cold floor as the men tossed you into an empty bed chamber. Your heart beat wildly. What in the gods was happening?

The door burst open a few moments later. Women shoved Robb into the chamber in a fit of giggles and closed the door quickly. A tense silence hung in the room as you and Robb looked at each other. His breathing came quick, his eyes matching the panic you felt – and no doubt showed. 

Robb moved towards you, holding out a shaky hand in front of him. “Are you hurt?”

You looked down at your knees. “Bruised, but not bleeding.” You let Robb help you off the floor. His hand was so much larger than yours. You could feel the callouses on his hands, could feel the warmness seeping into your skin. This was the first time he touched you all night. Even during the ceremony, he was careful not to touch you. 

As soon as you’d gained your footing, Robb let you go. You tried to ignore the sudden chill on your hand, the sudden chill in your heart. 

“Do you…know why they’ve put us in here?” you asked timidly. 

Robb’s brows knit together. “You don’t know?”

His face morphed into one of horror at your confused face. “You don’t know…” he whispered, more to himself. The tips of his ears turned a deep shade of red. You followed his gaze to the bed. “It is our wedding night.”

You nodded your head slowly. “It is, Your Grace,” you said, matter of factly. 

“And,” Robb started, the redness growing to his cheeks, “on a wedding night, a marriage is consummated. Do you… Do you know how a marriage is consummated?”

You shook your head. 

Robb loosed a deep breath. “It is when a husband and wife make love –”

“--We are not in love.”

A strangled sound came from Robb’s throat. “Yes, but the act is called that.”

You shook your head again. “I do not understand. What is this act?”

“When – It’s – A man inserts his –” Robb took a deep breath. 

Seeing Robb, the King of the North, flustered and stuttering in front of you tugged at something in your chest. His whole face was red, the deep hue crawling down to his neck. You felt bad for him, but surely whatever he was trying to say wasn’t that embarrassing. 

“Why don’t you show me, Your Grace.”

Robb made a choking sound, a hand coming up to cover the bottom half of his face. “You would not be saying that if you knew.”

“It does not matter what I know, Your Grace. If this–act–needs to be done to consummate our marriage, I don’t think my knowledge will make a difference.”

“It does, your consent does,” Robb responded with exasperation. He pointed to the bed. “We are supposed to consummate our marriage there— I’m supposed to insert myself in you, spill my seed in you. That is the act.”

Your cheeks burned with realization. Your nurse had mentioned this act once, had gone into explicit detail of what happened, how it would feel—and warned you to be cautious. Why, she’d never told you. She only grumbled something about manipulative men and abandonment. Surely, though, an honorable man like Robb wouldn’t abandon you…right?

“Oh.” You wrung your fingers, fidgeting to distract yourself. “If--If that is what is required of me, then I consent.” 

Once more, a frustrated breath escaped Robb. The chair in the corner groaned loudly with Robb’s weight as he threw himself on it. His elbows propped on his knees, he buried his face in his hands. You stood there, watching him. What else were you supposed to do? The sturdy, fancy fabric strained against Robb’s broad shoulders as he breathed deeply. His brown curls rested almost haphazardly along the nape of his neck, and fell unceremoniously against his fingers. 

Robb was handsome, you couldn’t deny that. From the moment you saw him in your father’s throne room, you’d known that much. He’d barely given you a proper look, but his eyes were mesmerizing. The blues of his eyes were dark then, cloudy. Your heart squeezed a bit at the reality of the situation. True, Robb had only married you to get his men across the Fork, but you had been hopeful he’d appreciate your beauty, be excited about it. How could he, though, when his lover was far more beautiful? How could you ever compare? 

Timidly and unsure, you knelt in front of your new husband, gingerly pulling his hands away from his face. The blues of his eyes were clear now, nearly the color of the frozen north. 

“Your Grace,” you started. 

“Robb. You are my wife now.” He slid his eyes to the side, avoiding your gaze. 

Your heart fluttered at the statement, your body choosing to forget the sidelong glance. Your hands rest on his knees. “Robb,” you said slowly, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. “I know we are not in love — we have only just met. I do know that you are a kind, honorable man in both action and spirit. I trust that you’ll take care of me. I give you my body to fulfill our duties – to consummate our marriage and bear you an heir. Please, do not be afraid of our future. We both share an understanding of what this arrangement is, and I think we’ll be able to come to some sort of arrangement.”

You held his gaze as he, no doubt, searched your face for any doubt, any deception. The blue turned stormy, but the look of horror he wore slowly dissipated. You were thankful for that, thankful that his shoulders began to relax. He placed his hands over yours on his knees and held them loosely. 

“I don’t know what I did to gain your trust, but thank you. I cannot promise that we will ever be in love, but I can promise we can get to know one another.”

dean notices every single time. “you’re doing that thing,” he says from the bathroom doorway, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, hair damp from his shower.

you look up from the lore book open in your lap. “what thing?”

he points the toothbrush at your face. “that.”

“this is my face.”

“yeah, and it’s gonna wrinkle fast.”

you stare at him, face scrunching harder.

he disappears back into the bathroom to spit, then comes out wiping his mouth with a hand towel, barefoot, t-shirt clinging a little at his shoulders.

“case’s done,” he says. “sam’s in the next room. doors are locked. salt’s down. nobody’s dying tonight.”

“that’s optimistic.”

“that’s an order.”

you huff. “you don’t order me around.”

his mouth curves. “not usually.”

the words land warmer than they should. you look away first, because that’s safer, and dean sees that too. his expression shifts, teasing softened by something more careful. he crosses the room and takes the book out of your hands before you can protest.

“lie down,” he says.

you hesitate, shoulders tight, fingers twitching like they still want to hold the book. “dean—”

“c’mon. you trust me, right?” his green eyes catch yours, steady, a little too open. the kind of look that makes your chest ache because you’ve been best friends for years and somewhere along the way that line blurred so badly you don’t know how to step back across it. you do trust him. more than anyone.

you exhale and stretch out on your stomach, face turned into the cheap pillow. the mattress dips when he climbs on behind you, knees bracketing your thighs. his hands settle on your shoulders first—warm, calloused, hesitant for half a second like he’s waiting for permission.

“go ahead,” you grumble into the pillow.

he starts slow. thumbs pressing into the knot just under your neck, working in firm circles. you bite your lip at the first real pressure, a tiny sound slipping out. his hands still. “that hurt?”

“no, no,” you whisper. “it was good. keep going.”

he does. the rhythm builds—heels of his palms dragging down your spine, spreading heat through the tight muscles. every pass loosens something, but your brain keeps spinning. did we check the devil’s trap under the rug? is the salt line thick enough? what if—

“hey.” dean’s voice is right by your ear now, breath warm. “stop thinking. i got you.”

his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, pushing fabric up. cool air hits your skin, then his palms—hot, steady. he works the bruise on your shoulder blade with careful pressure, never too hard, like he memorized exactly where it hurts. you let out a soft, involuntary moan when he hits a perfect spot. it sounds louder than you meant.

through the thin wall you hear sam’s bed creak. dean chuckles low, the sound vibrating against your back. “easy, sweetheart. sam’s gonna think i’m doing fun things to you.”

heat floods your face. you bury it deeper in the pillow, but another moan escapes when his hands glide lower, thumbs bracketing your spine. “can’t help it,” you mumble. “feels too good.”

“yeah?” his voice drops, rougher. eager. that good-boy tone he gets when he knows he’s doing something right for you. “tell me where else.”

you don’t answer with words. instead you shift, arching just a little. his fingers find the clasp of your bra and pause—waiting. you nod. the hooks give way with a quiet click. the straps loosen and dean’s hands spread wide across your bare back, skin on skin. no barriers. just him.

he leans in, chest brushing your shoulder as he works down toward your waist. his touch turns slower, less clinical. thumbs sweeping along the dip of your lower back, fingers splaying over your sides, brushing the soft curve where waist meets hip. every stroke feels heavier now, warmer.

his breath fans across your neck. “you’re always carrying everything,” he murmurs, lips close enough that you feel the words more than hear them. “let me take some of it. just for tonight.”

you whimper softly when his hand slips further, palm flat against your skin just above the waistband of your jeans. the sound is breathy, needy. sam’s tv turns up a notch next door—probably on purpose. dean smiles against your shoulder, pressing a slow kiss there.

“good girl,” he whispers. “relax for me.”

his fingers trace idle patterns now, teasing lower, then back up, mapping every inch like he’s learning a new weapon. your body melts under him even as your mind flickers—this is dean, your dean, best friend, the one who makes you laugh after the worst hunts—but the ache in your chest mixes with the heat low in your belly. you want more. you want to turn everything off and just feel his hands, his weight, the way he’s so careful and so hungry at the same time.

he shifts, one knee nudging your thighs a fraction apart so he can settle deeper. the new angle lets his palms roam wider, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of your spine. another moan slips free, longer this time. your hips twitch without permission.

you hear dean’s breath catch. “fuck, baby. you keep making noises like that and i’m not gonna wanna stop.”

you turn your head, cheek against the pillow, catching his eye. the look he gives you is raw—affection and want and years of almosts all at once. “don’t stop, then,” you breathe.

his grin is slow, devastating. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “yes ma’am.”

his hands keep moving, reverent and filthy in the same breath, working tension out of your body while winding new tension somewhere deeper. you let yourself sink into it—the safety of his touch, the way he knows exactly how to hold you together and take you apart at the same time. for once, your brain goes quiet. just dean. just this.

Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.

Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time. 

Tonight changes that.

It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.

But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.

The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.

“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”

The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”

Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”

Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”

Brendon rolls his shoulders.

The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.

In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fist knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.

Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrowing into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.

But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much in there.

So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.

As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.

Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”

With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”

Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.

You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”

“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”

“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”

“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”

“It’s eighty degrees out.”

“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”

With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”

“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”

“That’s hot.”

Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.

“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”

He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”

“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”

With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”

“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”

Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”

“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”

Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”

Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”

With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.

The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.

Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”

“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re so pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”

The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”

Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”

With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”

“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”

Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your now-chipped manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”

Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”

“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”

Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”

“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”

“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”

“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”

“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”

You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”

He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”

Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”

Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”

“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”

You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”

Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”

“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a road trip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”

“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”

“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”

You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”

Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.

Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”

“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”

Brendon nearly growls.

Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”

You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”

As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”

“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”

Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”

“It’s America.”

“The bill’s over four grand.”

“Like I said, America. And?”

“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”

“I barely know her.”

“Whatever you say, Shark.”

You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.

Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md

You have to suppress a squeal.

Game, set, match.

It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.

With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”

“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”

“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”

“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver Sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”

“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”

You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him sick. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”

He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”

“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being a stupid boy about it.”

“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”

Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”

“My friend, huh?”

“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in that same forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”

With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”

Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”

Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”

“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”

You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”

“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer too-”

A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”

“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I wouldn't expect you to have four grand to spare lying around.”

With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”

“How?”

“I have my secrets.”

“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”

“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinky with yours. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”

“I’d do it for anyone.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.

It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”

Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”

He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”

You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.

On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.

As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the dam finally breaks.

Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-

“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”

He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”

“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”

“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”

“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”

You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”

He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”

“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”

He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”

But he can’t resist how damn concentrated and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.

When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. Really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”

You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”

He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”

God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”

Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”

“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”

As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”

Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”

He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.

“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”

He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”

You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”

“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says, “Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”

You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”

He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”

You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”

You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”

Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.

As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”

Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”

“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”

You’re about due for a cold shower.

you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇 you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences. brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests. you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on. brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual. you: yeah? brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me. you: never. brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are. you: thank you!! i will 💕💕 you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late brendon (hot gym guy): I never am. you: that’s hot.

Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve-racking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup by your standards – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.

Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.

Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple of pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor-length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.

you: which shoes do you like better? brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck. brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language. you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇  brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t. brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow. you: you really do like my girly stuff huh? brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast. you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake? brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄 brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that. you: omg did you just use an emoji you: im already making progress on you brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight. you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑 brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass? you: oh my god. yes grandpa you: you’re so lucky you have me brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually. brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.

Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.

Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.

Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.

“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in that strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in a sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.

By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.

Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.

Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”

Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”

“Perfect; go right ahead.”

“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pinot grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22.  Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”

The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”

The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”

After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.”

“What face?”

“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”

You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.

Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.

Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild, almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce, and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him, “You’re staring at me.”

Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”

“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”

“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your free hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”

He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”

You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”

Brendon glances over it, folds and tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”

“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”

Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”

Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”

That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”

You slice into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”

“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”

He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”

Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”

He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”

After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”

“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”

You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.

When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”

Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”

The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.

Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet to every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”

You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”

She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”

“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display. “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”

“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”

“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”

She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get a bouquet, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”

“On it, boss.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.

you: most people would’ve texted bren: Did you want ‘most people’? you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!! bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very romantic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess? you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!! bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them. you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕 bren: Me too, beautiful. bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside. you: that a promise? bren: Yes. you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!! bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day. you: yes sir bren: Careful. you: rarely 😘

Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky high-rise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.

“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”

“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”

Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”

“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”

“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”

Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and wood and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.

You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”

Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.

Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.

Deep breaths.

In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.

Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you unfold a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.

Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite, given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.

In the en suite bathroom, across from a massive walk-in closet (half-full, yearning to be filled with pink designer clothes, you think), there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.

Comfortable, indeed.

One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.

While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long, deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. Excited, you realize. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.

When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”

“Too late.”

Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.

And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”

Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.

You’re in the shark’s den now.

Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper. 

“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”

Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”

You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”

“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”

“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”

“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – a phrase you didn’t fully understand until now. Predatory but confident. Knowing he has the kill in sight. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”

And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”

Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.

When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

Again.

Bastard.

“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”

You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”

Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”

So he gets to work.

First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.

Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unfazed by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”

“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to think about your armpits.”

As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it naturally exists.”

Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”

After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”

And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”

Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”

He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tense.

Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”

And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”

Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.

Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act.

“You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”

Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between them, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.

Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”

You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”

“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of lying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”

“Just for you.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”

He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”

You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”

“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”

Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan at the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.

Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.

Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”

“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”

Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”

“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”

Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”

He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”

You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “I don’t think so.”

“And does it still feel good?”

You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.

“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”

You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”

Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his affirmations, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”

You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”

“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”

Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”

“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything, including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”

When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.

“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”

“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”

“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”

“I- I’ll try.”

“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”

He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”

That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just instinctively fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.

“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the brink of supernova, he commands like a sergeant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”

You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.

His voice.

The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.

“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”

You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. You're barely aware of the uncontrollable gush from your cunt. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.

When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gaping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.

Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.

Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”

With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”

Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”

“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can I have your cock now?”

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”

“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer finger, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”

“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”

“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”

Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”

Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.

He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”

“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and later you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”

His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”

You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”

Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”

You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”

“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”

Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.

His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.

He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”

Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.

But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breathe, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.

He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.

So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.

Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”

You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.

“If the very first words out of  your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”

You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.

Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”

Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.

In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.

Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysium. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.

Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”

You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.

“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple of large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”

You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”

You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”

“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”

“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”

Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”

That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”

A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”

You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”

Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”

He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”

“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”

You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”

After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.

“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”

“And I meant it.”

When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.

You smiled faintly. Oscar Wilde always sounded as though he were arguing with the world.

The front door opened. Even before the sound of heels echoed across the marble floor, you knew your mother had returned.

She never simply entered a room. She arrived.

Her perfume preceded her by several seconds—something floral and expensive that lingered like a carefully rehearsed first impression—and when she appeared in the doorway, she looked untouched by the outside world. Every strand of honey-blonde hair remained precisely where it belonged, her ivory blouse showed not a single crease beneath the tailored camel coat draped elegantly over her shoulders, her lipstick was subtle enough to appear effortless despite the twenty minutes it had undoubtedly taken to perfect, and her freshly manicured nails caught the afternoon light as she removed her gloves.

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.

She stood framed by the doorway, polished down to the smallest detail, while you remained curled beneath the window in an oversized sweater several winters too old to be fashionable. Your hair had long since surrendered, escaping the pencil that barely held it together, and the afternoon sunlight painted you not with elegance but with an almost careless softness.

You had inherited your mother's features. The same eyes, the same mouth, the same graceful lines that made strangers glance twice and yet, the resemblance ended there.

She treated beauty as something to be maintained. You treated it as something that happened, or didn't, with little consequence either way.

Looking at the two of you felt less like looking at a mother and daughter than at two women who had learned entirely different definitions of what it meant to exist in the world.

Her eyes found you. Then the oversized sweater. The loose cotton trousers. The socks that didn't match. The pencil holding your hair in a carelessly assembled knot. She sighed.

"You truly have a remarkable talent for looking like you've survived a shipwreck."

You glanced down at yourself. "I thought I looked comfortable?"

"Comfortable," she repeated, as though tasting the word and finding it disappointing. "Comfort has become terribly fashionable lately."

She crossed the room without waiting for an answer, adjusting a vase by less than an inch before straightening a picture frame that had never been crooked to begin with. You watched her in silence.

She could never enter a room without changing something. A cushion. A curtain. A vase. If everything already appeared perfect, she simply searched harder until she found an imperfection no one else had noticed. You, on the other hand, had always believed a room should look lived in. She believed it should look admired.

"Presentation matters," she continued absentmindedly. "People notice these things."

"I've noticed."

"No, darling." She smiled patiently. "You don't." Silence settled between you for only a moment before she opened her handbag and began searching through its contents with meticulous precision. "I met Baelor for lunch."

The name meant little for you. Baelor, you remembered, was the name of your mother's new romantic conquest—as you liked to call him. Another replacement for your dad's position, a position no one would ever truly fill.

You hummed politely.

"He's looking forward to meeting you."

That finally drew your attention away from the book. "Oh?"

"This Saturday."

She withdrew a hardcover volume from her bag and placed it gently onto your lap.

The title gleamed in gold lettering.

Modern Etiquette for Formal Society.

You blinked. "...Seriously?"

"Entirely."

You turned the book over. "It teaches table etiquette, conversational decorum, introductions, proper posture, the correct use of silverware" She counted each topic on perfectly manicured fingers. "Everything you'll need."

"I know how to eat."

"You know how to consume food." She smiled again. "There is a difference."

You laughed quietly. She did not.

"There will only be Baelor and his sons," she said, her tone softening just enough to disguise, though never quite conceal, the calculation beneath it. "I'd appreciate not being embarrassed."

You looked at her for a long moment. The words lingered in the room. Not I'd like you to make a good impression. Not I hope you like him. Only that.

Don't embarrass me.

Sometimes you wondered whether your mother had ever realized how often she spoke about appearances without mentioning feelings even once.

"Are you introducing me to your boyfriend—" You lifted the heavy book slightly. "or applying for admission into a royal court?"

"If you knew the difference," she replied smoothly, "I wouldn't have needed to buy the book."

You looked down at the book resting across your lap without opening it again.

Your mother was already moving through the sitting room once more, adjusting the folds of a curtain that didn't need straightening, aligning a decorative bowl by barely half an inch, polishing a fingerprint from the polished surface of a side table with the edge of her sleeve.

She couldn't walk past disorder without correcting it, even when the disorder was imaginary.

You watched her in silence.

It occurred to you that she never seemed tired of perfecting surfaces. Every gesture she made was directed outward, toward the version of life other people would eventually witness.

She never asked what book you had been reading. She never noticed the tea had gone cold. She never wondered why you preferred quiet afternoons to crowded dinners.

Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you had stopped feeling like something either of you intended to cross.

She adjusted one final picture frame, smiled with quiet satisfaction at a room that had looked exactly the same five minutes earlier, and reached for her handbag.

"Saturday," she reminded you without turning around. "Please don't make me regret introducing you."

The front door closed softly behind her.

The house returned to its familiar silence.

You remained on the sofa for several moments, listening to the fading sound of her heels until it disappeared completely, before lowering your gaze once more to the forgotten page in your lap.

—

Saturday belonged entirely to your mother.

You realized it the moment she swept open your bedroom curtains without asking, flooding the room with pale morning light before laying a garment bag across the foot of your bed.

"We're leaving in twenty minutes."

You blinked sleepily from beneath the blankets. "For what?"

She looked at you as though the answer should have been obvious. "Preparation." She pronounced the word with the solemnity another person might have reserved for surgery. "You aren't meeting Baelor looking like..." Her gaze traveled over your oversized sleep shirt, your tangled hair and the novel lying face-down beside your pillow. "...yourself."

You couldn't help smiling.

"I thought that was exactly who he was supposed to meet."

Your mother's expression barely shifted. "Not the first time."

—

The salon smelled of jasmine, hairspray and freshly brewed espresso, while women drifted gracefully between mirrors discussing charity galas, upcoming holidays and social engagements beneath the soft strains of classical music that floated almost unnoticed through the room.

Your mother belonged there effortlessly. She greeted the receptionists by name, kissed one of the stylists on the cheek and accepted a cappuccino before anyone had even asked whether she wanted one.

You, meanwhile, settled awkwardly into an oversized leather chair with your backpack resting between your feet, feeling as though someone had accidentally invited a university student into a room designed exclusively for women who never appeared to have an untidy day in their lives.

Within minutes, strangers surrounded you. Your hair was brushed until every knot disappeared before long sections were lifted, examined beneath bright lights and discussed over your head as though you weren't sitting there at all.

"It has beautiful texture."

"It only needs shape."

"A little movement."

"No," your mother corrected gently. "Elegance."

You watched your reflection while another stylist carefully curled the ends of your hair, realizing with quiet discomfort that you barely recognized the girl in the mirror already.

The manicure came next.

The technician smiled warmly as she took your hands into hers. "You don't usually have your nails done."

"No."

"They're lovely."

"They're practical," your mother corrected before you could answer. "There's a difference."

The woman laughed politely.

You lowered your gaze while the file moved rhythmically across your nails, surprised by how something so insignificant could make even your own hands begin to feel unfamiliar.

—

Boutiques proved even more exhausting.

Dress after dress disappeared beneath your mother's unwavering scrutiny.

"Too casual."

"Too youthful."

"Too loud."

"Too plain."

Sales assistants hurried between racks while you obediently stepped in and out of changing rooms until the fabrics, colors and silhouettes blurred together into a single expensive haze.

Eventually one of them returned carrying a midnight-blue dress whose elegance came not from embellishment but from restraint. There was no glitter, no embroidery, nothing that openly demanded attention. It possessed the quiet confidence of something that never needed to ask to be admired.

Your mother smiled the instant you stepped out wearing it. "There you are."

You turned toward the mirror. It fit perfectly. For reasons you couldn't explain, that only made you feel worse.

—

By the time the afternoon ended, shopping bags occupied nearly every available space inside the car. Shoes, jewelry, a silk scarf and a small evening clutch lay carefully arranged across the back seat while your mother drove home wearing the quiet satisfaction of an artist admiring a masterpiece nearing completion.

"You'll make an excellent impression."

You rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window. "I wasn't aware making an impression was my responsibility."

"It always is."

—

The house felt unnaturally quiet by the time evening settled over it.

The dress waited outside your wardrobe. The jewelry remained inside its velvet case. The shoes sat perfectly aligned beneath the bed, every detail prepared with the meticulous precision your mother considered indispensable.

One piece at a time, you dressed.

The fabric settled comfortably across your shoulders, the necklace rested lightly against your collarbone and the earrings caught the light with the smallest movement. Only when everything was finally in place did you step before the mirror.

You stopped.

The young woman reflected in the glass was undeniably beautiful. Her hair fell in soft waves instead of the untidy bun you wore almost every day, while makeup so subtle it was nearly invisible brightened her eyes, softened every feature and erased the quiet university student who spent afternoons reading novels beside forgotten cups of cold tea.

She looked graceful. Elegant. Refined. Exactly the sort of young woman your mother wanted the world to admire.

You continued staring. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Searching for something unmistakably yours.

The thoughtful expression that always appeared when you reached an interesting paragraph. The quiet awkwardness you had never felt the need to hide. The girl who forgot to match her socks because she had become distracted by a book.

She wasn't there.

For one impossible moment, it felt as though someone had borrowed your face and learned to wear it better than you ever had.

A gentle knock broke the silence. "Darling?" your mother's voice called through the door. "Baelor will be expecting us."

You didn't answer immediately. Your eyes remained fixed on the stranger standing inside the mirror.

When you finally spoke, your voice sounded oddly distant. "I'm coming."

The woman reflected in the glass moved exactly when you did, and you weren't entirely convinced she was you.

—

The drive unfolded beneath a sky slowly surrendering to dusk, where the last traces of sunlight dissolved into long ribbons of amber reflected across rain-darkened streets. Beyond the windows, the city continued with its ordinary rhythm. People hurrying home, cafés beginning to fill, traffic lights blinking patiently at crowded intersections, but inside the car there existed only your mother's voice.

She spoke almost without interruption, moving effortlessly from one subject to another as though rehearsing a speech she had delivered countless times before.

Baelor's career, his impeccable reputation, the elegance of his home, the charity foundation he chaired, the respect his family commanded; every detail seemed carefully selected, polished until it gleamed, another stone laid upon the immaculate image she had spent months constructing around her new life.

Listening to her, one could almost forget that only a year earlier she had been speaking about your father with the very same certainty, with a love that you still kept like an arcane relic inside you, but he had vanished from the face of her psyche like the wind does with the sand.

You answered when necessary, though most of the time a nod seemed sufficient. Silence had always come more naturally to you than conversation, and your mother had long ago mistaken that quietness for agreement.

Every few minutes she glanced sideways, not to ask whether you were nervous or excited, but to inspect the work that had occupied her entire afternoon. She straightened an invisible fold near your shoulder, smoothed the fabric gathered over your knees and frowned when she noticed the faintest imperfection in your lipstick.

"You've smudged it."

Instinctively you rubbed your thumb against the corner of your mouth.

"No, darling." She sighed with patient resignation before retrieving a neatly folded handkerchief from her handbag. Leaning across the console, she corrected it herself with delicate, practiced movements, then leaned back to admire the result. "There. Perfect."

For a brief moment you wondered whether she had ever looked at your face that carefully after you had cried the night she and dad separated.

—

Baelor's residence stood beyond imposing wrought-iron gates framed by ancient oaks whose branches intertwined above the driveway like the vaulted ceiling of an old cathedral. It was undeniably grand, yet possessed none of the ostentation displayed by people who felt compelled to advertise their fortune. This was quieter wealth, older wealth, the kind that had ceased needing to impress because everyone already knew it existed. Warm light spilled from tall windows onto perfectly maintained gardens where marble statues rested among trimmed hedges, and somewhere beyond them the gentle murmur of a fountain drifted through the evening air.

Your mother drew a slow, almost imperceptible breath before stepping from the car. Had anyone else been watching, they would never have noticed. You did.

The front door opened before either of you reached it.

Baelor himself descended the steps to greet you.

He was taller than you had imagined, broad-shouldered without appearing imposing, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit him with effortless precision. Everything about him projected understated refinement, from the silver watch resting beneath his cuff to the warmth with which he smiled the instant he saw your mother. There was nothing performative about his manners; they seemed so deeply woven into him that courtesy had become instinct rather than performance.

"There you are."

His voice possessed the calm confidence of someone accustomed to making other people feel welcome. He kissed your mother's cheek first, greeting her with easy familiarity before turning toward you. The expression on his face softened almost imperceptibly.

"So this is the famous daughter."

The words themselves were harmless. Perfectly polite. Something about them unsettled you before you could explain why. Perhaps it was the quiet amusement in his voice, perhaps it was the strange certainty with which he said them, as though he had heard enough stories to feel he already knew you.

Your mother rested a light hand against the middle of your back. "My daughter."

You extended your hand automatically. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Targaryen." You answered in the way your mother had instructed you.

Instead of taking it immediately, he smiled with gentle care. "Baelor." He made you repeat it, only then did he accept the handshake.

His grip was light, respectful and brief, exactly as etiquette demanded. Nothing about the gesture crossed any boundary, and when he released your hand, his eyes lingered on your face for the smallest fraction of a second too long. It wasn't staring. It wasn't inappropriate. It felt more like quiet observation, as though he were committing your features to memory with a concentration too subtle for anyone else to notice.

The sensation vanished almost immediately.

You told yourself you had imagined it.

The dining room reflected the same restrained elegance as the rest of the house. A long walnut table occupied its center beneath an antique crystal chandelier whose warm light settled softly over polished silver, delicate porcelain and crystal glasses that caught every flicker of candlelight. Fresh white lilies rested in low arrangements along the table, beautiful enough to enrich the room without obstructing conversation, while the scent of rosemary and roasted herbs drifted from the adjoining kitchen.

Two young men were already waiting when you entered.

"The eldest," Baelor said, resting an affectionate hand upon the taller one's shoulder, "is Valarr."

Valarr greeted you with a slight inclination of his head before offering his hand. He appeared only a few years older than you, impeccably dressed and impossibly composed, with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life succeeding at everything expected of him. Peculiar features, you noticed. Attractive heterochromatic eyes, and a silver streak impossible to miss. Every movement seemed deliberate without becoming rigid, every word measured before it was spoken.

"It's a pleasure." His voice was low and calm.

Beside him stood another young man whose expression immediately suggested a far less disciplined temperament.

"And this menace," Baelor continued with an affectionate sigh, "is Matarys."

"I object to that introduction."

"You object to everything."

"I simply have standards."

Baelor laughed softly. "I'll let you discover those standards for yourself."

Matarys grinned before shaking your hand with easy enthusiasm. "I promise I'm considerably more entertaining than my brother."

"That isn't a particularly high achievement," Valarr replied without looking at him.

"Oh, don't encourage him," Baelor said, though the fondness in his voice betrayed how accustomed he had become to these exchanges.

The room relaxed almost instantly.

Dinner unfolded with surprising ease, carried along by the comfortable rhythm of a family that had long ago perfected the art of talking over one another without anyone feeling unheard. Matarys possessed the peculiar gift of transforming even the most ordinary events into elaborate adventures, embellishing every story until it became impossible to distinguish memory from invention. Baelor corrected him with long-suffering amusement whenever the exaggerations grew too ambitious, while Valarr quietly dismantled each embellished detail with the patience of someone who had performed this exact ritual since childhood.

"That professor didn't throw you out."

"He intended to."

"He asked you to lower your voice."

"Which, under the circumstances, amounted to the same thing."

Valarr sighed into his wine. "I was there."

"Traitor."

Laughter circled the table, even your mother relaxed enough to forget, for a few precious minutes, the careful perfection she carried everywhere.

Baelor never attempted to dominate the conversation. Instead, he listened far more than he spoke, thanking the staff by name whenever they entered the room, asking thoughtful questions without prying and allowing everyone else the space to answer at their own pace. He seemed genuinely interested in whatever people chose to say, a quality so uncommon that it almost felt rehearsed.

Eventually his attention settled upon you.

"Your mother told me you were an avid reader. Tell me, what are you reading these days?"

"The Picture of Dorian Gray."

Something brightened behind his eyes. "Wilde."

You nodded. "I've nearly finished it."

"And what do you think?"

You considered the question before answering. "I think everyone mistakes admiration for love."

Silence settled gently across the table. Not uncomfortable. Reflective.

Valarr looked toward you with unmistakable interest. "I would've said vanity."

"So would most people."

"And you disagree?"

"I think vanity is only the excuse."

For several seconds nobody spoke. Baelor continued watching you with quiet fascination before smiling almost to himself.

"You notice things."

You hesitated. "I like books."

"I'm not talking about books." His voice remained as warm as before, yet something about the remark settled strangely beneath your skin. "I'm talking about people."

Before you could answer, Matarys interrupted with another wildly exaggerated account of an ill-advised fencing tournament that immediately pulled everyone else's attention away.

Yours never fully returned to the conversation.

Throughout the remainder of dinner, you became increasingly aware of Baelor's gaze. He never stared openly, never allowed his attention to linger long enough for anyone else to notice, and never behaved with anything less than perfect propriety. Yet every time discussion shifted elsewhere and you happened to glance in his direction, you found him already looking at you—not at your dress, nor your carefully arranged appearance as your mother had done all evening, but at your expressions, your pauses, the small unconscious movements that escaped your control. It wasn't desire. It wasn't impropriety. If anything, it resembled quiet fascination.

For reasons you couldn't name, that disturbed you far more.

By the time dessert arrived, your mother looked happier than she had in months. She laughed easily, Baelor listened whenever she spoke, Matarys continued filling the room with effortless humor and Valarr had drifted into an animated discussion about politics with the calm precision of someone who genuinely enjoyed intellectual disagreement. It should have been a pleasant evening. It should have felt reassuring to watch such decent people surrounding your mother.

Instead, an uncomfortable certainty settled silently inside your chest.

Baelor was, by every reasonable measure, a good man. Thoughtful. Patient. Courteous. The kind of man any daughter should have hoped her mother would meet after a painful divorce.

That was precisely the problem.

Every kindness he offered only reminded you that he wasn't your father. He occupied a chair that had once belonged to someone else. He poured wine into your mother's glass with familiar ease. He made her laugh using stories that should have belonged to another life. No amount of gentleness could make him feel like family.

When the evening finally came to an end, Baelor accompanied both of you to the front entrance himself.

"It was truly a pleasure meeting you."

You offered the polite smile expected of you. "You as well."

He held your gaze for just a heartbeat longer than courtesy required before returning your smile. "I hope this won't be the last dinner we share."

The words were perfectly innocent. His expression was perfectly kind. As your mother climbed into the waiting car visibly content with how the evening had unfolded, you found yourself turning back one last time.

Baelor remained standing beneath the warm light spilling from the doorway. Still watching, still smiling, and, for reasons you couldn't explain, you couldn't shake the quiet certainty that throughout the entire evening, he had paid far more attention to you than anyone else at that table had realized.

—

The following Saturday arrived wrapped in one of those quiet afternoons that seemed suspended outside of time. The city moved lazily beneath a pale autumn sky, parks slowly filling with families, cyclists drifting along tree-lined paths and children chasing one another through blankets of fallen leaves while cafés spilled soft conversation onto the sidewalks. It was the sort of day that had once belonged entirely to the two of you.

Your father had always insisted that weekends were sacred, no meetings, no work, no excuse, and because of that you had grown up believing Saturdays existed for museums where he somehow knew the history behind every painting, for bookstores where he never left without buying you one more novel than he'd intended, for long walks that inevitably became improvised history lessons as he pointed toward old buildings and transformed ordinary streets into stories about forgotten kings, architects and revolutions.

When you were little, he had possessed this remarkable sense to make the world seem endlessly interesting, answering every impossible question you asked with absolute seriousness, and when he didn't know the answer, he would simply smile and promise to learn it before the following weekend.

Back then, it had been impossible to imagine a version of your life in which spending time with you wasn't the highlight of his week.

After the divorce, that certainty dissolved so quietly you almost failed to notice it. At first, the distance disguised itself as exhaustion.

He answered your messages a little later than usual, cancelled a lunch because of work, forgot to return a phone call and apologized with genuine sincerity the following day. You believed him because you wanted to. Adults became busy. Divorce complicated things. Life had simply become heavier than either of you had expected. But weeks slowly stretched into months, and every conversation seemed to require more effort than the last.

Eventually, arranging a simple lunch with your own father began to feel less like speaking to family and more like requesting an appointment with someone whose schedule you were grateful had managed to accommodate you at all.

It took three unanswered messages, two calls that rang until voicemail and nearly two weeks of waiting before your phone finally vibrated one evening. The message contained only four words.

Dad 💗

Saturday. Two o'clock. One hour.

There was no I've missed you. No How have you been? No apology for the silence that had settled between you. Not even your name. You stared at the screen for several minutes before replying with a simple I'll be there, telling yourself it didn't matter how brief the invitation was because what truly mattered was that he had answered at all.

The café overlooked the river, its terrace scattered with wrought-iron tables where elderly couples lingered over coffee, students revised notes beneath striped umbrellas and children leaned over the railing to watch boats drift lazily across the water. You arrived nearly fifteen minutes early, partly because you had always inherited your father's punctuality and partly because some childish part of you still hoped he might already be there waiting. You chose the table closest to the river because it had always been his favorite place to sit whenever the weather allowed it. The waiter asked whether you wished to order something, but you only requested a glass of water, promising you were waiting for someone.

At exactly two o'clock, you saw him crossing the street.

Your heart recognized him long before your mind did. The familiar stride, the dark wool coat you had seen every winter for as long as you could remember, the same broad shoulders that had once carried you through airports whenever you had fallen asleep on family holidays. For one impossible second, instinct urged you to stand and throw your arms around him just as you had done countless times growing up.

Then he glanced at his watch before looking toward you, and that impulse disappeared. "I'm sorry," he said as soon as he reached the table, pulling out his chair before sitting down. "Traffic."

"It's okay," you answered immediately, smiling more brightly than you actually felt.

He returned the smile politely. It was warm enough to avoid seeming cold, yet strangely formal, the sort of expression exchanged between acquaintances who respected one another rather than between a father and the daughter who used to climb onto his lap every Sunday morning demanding pancakes shaped like dinosaurs.

"You look well."

"So do you."

Silence followed.

Not the comforting silence you remembered from childhood, when the two of you could spend entire afternoons reading different books in the same room without either of you feeling obliged to speak. This silence felt unfamiliar. Empty. It searched desperately for a conversation that refused to begin.

The waiter returned. Your father ordered black coffee without looking at the menu, and you asked for the same simply because, for years, copying his order had become such an unconscious habit that you did it before realizing it. When you were younger he would always laugh, teasing you for refusing to develop tastes of your own. This time he didn't even seem to notice.

You carried the conversation the way one carries something unexpectedly fragile, careful not to let it slip through your hands. You asked about work, and he told you it had become demanding. You asked whether he had finally finished renovating the study he'd always talked about, and he admitted he hadn't found the time. You asked after your grandparents, whether they were healthy, whether he'd visited recently, whether the roses your grandmother insisted on planting every spring had survived another season. Each answer arrived complete enough to close the subject before another could naturally grow from it, leaving you constantly searching for something else to ask.

Finally, you reached for memory.

"Do you remember when we got lost trying to find that little bookstore near the cathedral?" you asked with a laugh that felt almost genuine. "You were absolutely convinced you knew the way."

He frowned faintly, searching through recollections that once had belonged to both of you.

"Vaguely."

"You insisted we were only one street away."

"I guess…"

"You definitely weren't," you smiled. "We walked in circles for almost three hours before we discovered the bookstore had moved months earlier."

He smiled back. A small, courteous smile. "I suppose." Nothing else followed.

The story, which had once made him laugh until tears gathered in his eyes whenever either of you mentioned it, simply ended there. You lowered your gaze toward your untouched coffee, realizing with quiet disbelief that the man who had once been capable of turning every shared memory into an hour-long conversation now responded to them as though they belonged to someone else's life.

You had imagined this meeting so many times over the previous months. In every version, eventually something softened. Eventually he admitted the divorce had broken him too. Eventually he apologized for disappearing, asked whether you were sleeping alright, whether your mother's new relationship had been difficult, whether you were lonely. Instead, his phone illuminated against the tabletop. He picked it up almost immediately, typed a brief response without explanation and placed it face down once more.

"I'm sorry," he said almost absentmindedly. "Work."

"It's alright." The answer escaped you so naturally that you barely noticed yourself saying it. Lately, it's alright had become another way of saying please don't leave yet.

By the time the waiter returned with the bill, you realized with growing horror that nearly the entire hour had been spent trying to persuade your own father to remain inside a conversation he seemed eager to escape. As the two of you walked slowly toward the parking lot beneath rows of yellowing trees whose leaves drifted lazily across the pavement, you deliberately shortened your steps, stretching the distance for as long as possible because some stubborn, frightened part of you still believed that if the afternoon lasted another few minutes, perhaps your father would finally become your father again.

"So..." you began carefully, clasping your hands together. "I was wondering... maybe next weekend we could go to the museum again? They're opening a new exhibition."

Genuine hesitation crossed his face. "I'll have to see."

"Oh."

"My schedule's complicated lately."

You nodded too quickly. "Right."

"I'll let you know."

You smiled anyway, even though both of you already knew he probably wouldn't.

When you finally reached his car, neither of you moved immediately. You stared at the pavement for a moment before forcing yourself to ask the question that had been living inside your chest for months.

"I've been texting you."

"I know."

"I thought maybe—" Your voice faltered. "—maybe you weren't seeing them."

"I saw them." The answer was gentle, almost unbearably so.

"Oh."

Another silence settled between you.

"I didn't want to bother you—"

"You weren't."

"You seemed busy."

"So were you."

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "I just—" The words caught painfully in your throat. "I miss you."

He looked away toward the rows of parked cars, and for a fleeting instant something unreadable crossed his expression. Regret. Fatigue. Guilt. You couldn't tell.

"I've had a lot on my mind."

"I know," you whispered immediately. "I know."

Another pause.

"I just kept thinking—" You laughed quietly, ashamed of how desperately you suddenly sounded. "—that maybe if I called at a better time..."

He sighed. Not with irritation, simply with exhaustion. "You don't have to keep trying so hard." The sentence was spoken softly, kindly, which somehow made it infinitely crueler.

You stared at him, unable to reconcile the man before you with the father who had once answered every midnight phone call simply because you couldn't sleep. The man who had never missed a school recital, who used to arrive thirty minutes early to every performance just so he could wave from the front row before the curtains opened, who texted you photographs of pastries he'd discovered because they reminded him of the ones you loved as a child, who once apologized for an entire week after missing a single bedtime story because an unexpected meeting had run late.

Now you were apologizing for wanting him to answer your messages.

"I'm sorry," you murmured automatically. "I didn't realize—"

He smiled. "It's alright."

You felt something inside you collapse with astonishing quietness not because he was angry, not because he had shouted, but because the smile resting on his face no longer belonged to your father, it belonged to a courteous stranger trying not to hurt someone else's daughter.

He stepped forward, pressed a brief kiss against your forehead out of habit rather than affection, wished you goodbye and climbed into his car without looking back. You remained standing exactly where he had left you, watching until the vehicle disappeared into the flow of traffic, your phone still clutched tightly in your hand.

Only then did you understand that grief was not always born from death.

Sometimes it arrived much more slowly, hidden inside unanswered messages, postponed lunches and conversations that became smaller every month, until one ordinary Saturday afternoon you found yourself standing alone in a parking lot realizing that you had lost your father while he was still alive.

—

The weeks that followed settled into a pattern so painfully predictable that they eventually ceased to feel like individual days at all. You still texted your father every now and then, always with the quiet restraint of someone terrified of becoming an inconvenience. Sometimes you asked how he was doing. Other times you told him about something inconsequential—a novel you had just finished, an amusing lecture at university, or a café you'd stumbled across that reminded you of the one he used to take you to when you were little. You never wrote much. Somewhere along the way, you had learned to compress affection into as few words as possible, as though love itself could become too heavy to send. His replies arrived hours later, sometimes the following day, and sometimes they never arrived at all.

"Busy."

"Maybe another day."

"We'll see."

Two words. Three, if you were lucky.

You kept telling yourself it meant nothing—that the divorce had been difficult for him too, that he simply needed time to rebuild a life that had been broken just as thoroughly as yours. You repeated those explanations with the discipline of someone memorizing a lesson she already knew wasn't true, because the weeks became months, the months continued slipping by, and still he never called unless you reached out first. Eventually, your messages became shorter as well, not because you had less to say, but because hope had quietly begun to teach you the value of lowering your expectations.

Saturdays began to resemble one another so perfectly that they blurred together into a single memory. You would wake with the quiet, unreasonable hope that perhaps your phone would contain a message from him and, when the screen remained empty—as it almost always did—you found yourself sending one instead.

Would you like to have lunch?

I'm near your office today.

I could stop by if you're free.

You always added an escape at the end, carefully constructing an excuse for him before he had the chance to make one himself.

"f you're busy, that's completely fine.

Whenever you have time.

No pressure.

It was remarkable how love could find endless ways to excuse neglect.

One Saturday, nearly a month after the last time you had seen him, he agreed. Not enthusiastically. Not happily. Simply:

Thirty minutes.

Nothing else.

Thirty minutes.

As though spending time with his daughter could be scheduled no differently than a business meeting, but for you, who had lived in a desert waiting for his affection, that was an oasis.

You arrived ten minutes early. You always arrived early when it came to him. He was already seated beside the café window, paperwork spread neatly across the table while he spoke on the phone. He didn't even look up when you walked inside. Instead, he raised one hand absentmindedly, gesturing for you to sit while he continued discussing contracts, deadlines, and meetings that seemed infinitely more important than your presence. So you waited. Five minutes. Seven. Ten.

When he finally ended the call, he offered you a polite smile—the sort of smile he might have given a client.

"Sorry. Busy morning."

"It's okay."

You always said that.

Always.

He ordered another coffee and asked how university was going. He nodded while you answered, though every few seconds his eyes drifted back toward the phone vibrating endlessly beside his cup. Halfway through one of your stories he answered an email; moments later he declined another incoming call, not because he wanted to hear you speak, but because it interrupted the rest of his schedule. You continued talking anyway, not because you believed he was truly listening, but simply because, after so many months, you had begun accepting anything that vaguely resembled spending time together.

When he finished his coffee, he glanced at his watch.

"I have to go."

You had been there twenty-six minutes.

He hadn't even stayed for the thirty he had promised.

You hugged him before saying goodbye. He returned the embrace with a distracted pat against your back, so brief it almost felt accidental. As you watched him disappear into the crowd, you found yourself trying to remember the last time your father had hugged you first.

You couldn't.

Baelor noticed long before anyone said anything. It wasn't obvious. There were no arguments between you and your father, no raised voices, no visible hostility. It was, strangely enough, the complete absence of those things that made the distance between you so unmistakable. Whenever your father appeared, something inside you seemed to shrink—not physically, but in a quieter, subtler way, as though part of you immediately began searching for his approval. You spoke more carefully, measured every sentence before letting it leave your lips, and smiled with a cautiousness Baelor never saw when you spoke to anyone else. He noticed something else, too. You were always the one reaching across the distance. You called. You texted. You asked. You tried. Your father simply responded... when he responded at all. The imbalance became impossible to ignore once Baelor had seen it.

He never mentioned it. It wasn't his place, nor did he ever attempt to replace the man who already occupied that place in your heart. Baelor understood that there were loves no one could inherit, absences no amount of kindness could erase, and wounds that belonged exclusively to the people who carried them. Still, he began paying attention. He realized that every time you returned from seeing your father, there was a new book tucked beneath your arm—not because your father had given it to you, but because you bought one yourself, usually on the way home, as though you needed to leave those meetings carrying something because you always walked away feeling as though your hands had been emptied.

One rainy afternoon he found you sitting on the library floor, surrounded by uneven stacks of novels while an annotated edition of Jane Eyre rested open across your knees. You had been staring at the same page for so long that it was obvious you had stopped reading several minutes earlier. Baelor didn't disturb the silence. He simply walked to one of the bookshelves, let his fingertips wander thoughtfully across the rows of worn spines until they settled upon a dark green volume, then crossed the room and held it out to you.

"Have you ever read this one?"

You lowered your eyes.

The Remains of the Day.

You shook your head. "No."

"I think you'd like it."

He offered no explanation. He didn't tell you it was about opportunities left behind, emotions buried beneath duty, or the quiet devastation of realizing what should have been said only after it had become impossible to say it. He simply handed you the book.

You accepted it with a small smile. "Thank you."

"If you disagree with the ending..." A faint smile touched his lips. "—I'd like to hear why."

That was all. He didn't linger when he saw your attention return to the pages. Instead, he selected another novel for himself, settled into the armchair opposite yours, and began reading in comfortable silence. For the first time in months, someone sat beside you without asking anything of you—without demanding conversation, without expecting smiles, without trying to rescue you from your own quiet. He simply shared the silence with you, and somehow that gentle restraint said far more than any attempt at comfort ever could, that act contained more attention than your father would ever have given you.

—

Over the following weeks, the distance between you and Baelor dissolved so gradually that neither of you could have pointed to the precise moment when occasional conversation became routine. It began, as many unexpected things do, with books. He noticed that every time he found you somewhere in the house, there was another novel resting on your knees, another page folded over with absentminded care, another pencil tucked between the chapters. One afternoon, almost out of simple curiosity, he asked what you were reading, expecting the sort of polite answer that would end the exchange after a sentence or two.

Instead, you spoke for nearly half an hour.

You talked about history, about unreliable narrators, about the peculiar loneliness that seemed to haunt nineteenth-century literature, and about the strange comfort of characters who were never entirely understood. You listened before you disagreed, challenged ideas without hostility, and possessed the rare ability to make disagreement feel less like conflict than collaboration. It reminded Baelor of conversations he had once believed existed only within university halls, the kind that lingered in the mind long after they had ended.

From then on, speaking with you became remarkably effortless. It was never inappropriate, never unusually intimate, simply natural. Conversations that began with a recommendation soon wandered into philosophy, politics, poetry, architecture, or history, only to circle back to literature again. Sometimes they spoke for ten minutes. Sometimes an hour slipped away without either of you noticing. There was nothing unusual about it, at least not on the surface.

Your mother couldn't have been happier.

She had hoped the two of you would eventually find common ground, and watching the awkward courtesy of that first dinner slowly transform into genuine ease felt, to her, like confirmation that she had made the right decision. Whenever she found the two of you discussing history over breakfast or exchanging books after dinner, she smiled quietly to herself, pleased that the man she loved had taken such sincere interest in making you feel welcome within what he hoped would soon become a shared family.

She mistook familiarity for harmony.

She had no reason not to.

By the time the invitation to spend the weekend at the family's seaside villa arrived, your conversations had become an ordinary part of daily life. No one questioned them anymore. Baelor would ask what you were reading, you would ask whether he had ever finished the biography he had mentioned the week before, and the discussion would unfold naturally while everyone else carried on with their own routines. It looked exactly as one might expect from two people who simply happened to enjoy the same subjects.

The villa overlooked the sea, its wide terraces bathed in warm afternoon light while the constant rhythm of the waves softened every conversation into something almost dreamlike. Guests drifted naturally into smaller groups. Your mother remained beneath the pergola with a glass of wine in her hand, exchanging stories with friends, while Matarys disappeared toward the shoreline in search of shells, leaving you leaning comfortably against the stone balustrade with Valarr.

The conversation had begun, as so many of yours did, with a book.

Valarr insisted that a certain character's downfall had been inevitable from the very first chapter. You disagreed immediately, folding your arms with quiet certainty before explaining that it had never been ambition that doomed him, but vanity itself. He laughed, accusing you of always defending impossible arguments. You answered that he had a habit of confusing confidence with intelligence, prompting him to place an exaggerated hand over his chest and declare himself mortally offended. You smiled despite yourself, and a soft laugh escaped your lips, carried away almost instantly by the sea breeze.

Across the terrace, Baelor looked up.

At first, your mother assumed the sound of your laughter had merely drawn his attention. Then she realized he was no longer listening to the conversation unfolding around him. Someone sitting beside him continued speaking, another guest laughed, glasses clinked gently against the table, yet none of it seemed to reach him.

He was watching you.

Not with pride, not with amusement, not even with suspicion.

His attention had narrowed so completely that everything else appeared to dissolve beyond the edges of his awareness. He followed the conversation between you and Valarr with an almost unsettling concentration, as though every sentence you spoke deserved to be carefully examined before it disappeared, every smile unconsciously catalogued, every gesture committed to memory without him realizing he was doing it.

It was not affection, it was not desire. It was something your mother found far more difficult to understand.

It resembled the fixed concentration of a scholar confronted by a question he could not solve, or a collector standing before a painting he could not persuade himself to stop studying. There was something strangely absolute about it, something that excluded the rest of the world with quiet, almost frightening ease.

Then Valarr said something else.

You laughed again.

Only for a moment. Nothing more than a brief burst of genuine amusement.

Yet, in that same instant, something crossed Baelor's face so quickly that your mother almost convinced herself she had imagined it. His jaw tightened by the smallest degree. A faint crease appeared between his brows before vanishing just as quickly, like a ripple disturbing perfectly still water before the surface became smooth again.

The transformation lasted no longer than a heartbeat.

Someone beside him asked a question. He answered without hesitation. He smiled. He lifted his glass.

Within seconds he had resumed the effortless composure for which everyone admired him, carrying on the conversation as though his attention had never wandered elsewhere.

No one noticed, no one except your mother.

She could not have explained what disturbed her so profoundly. There had been no inappropriate gesture, no careless remark, nothing she could ever repeat aloud without sounding irrational. If anyone had asked what she had seen, she would have struggled to put it into words.

And yet, as she watched Baelor continue embodying the flawless gentleman everyone believed him to be, an unfamiliar unease settled quietly beneath her ribs.

She had not witnessed the expression of a man who had simply become distracted. She had witnessed someone whose attention had remained fixed on a single person for far longer than it ever should have.

For the first time since bringing the two of you together, she found herself asking a question she could neither answer nor dismiss.

Not what Baelor had been thinking, but why, for those few silent moments, he had seemed to forget that anyone else in the world existed.

She had never provoked that in him before.

—

The library had become their unspoken meeting place.

It was the quietest room in the house, sheltered beneath high ceilings and walls crowded with books collected over decades. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, settling over polished oak shelves and turning the floating dust into slow-moving flecks of gold. Somewhere beyond the glass, the garden shimmered beneath the summer heat, but inside, time seemed content to remain still.

You sat in one of the leather armchairs, a novel resting open across your knees.

Baelor entered carrying two cups of tea.

"I thought you might be here."

"I usually am."

"I've noticed."

There was nothing unusual in his tone. He placed one cup beside you before his eyes drifted toward the book in your lap.

"Lolita?"

You looked down at the familiar cover. "I've never actually read it."

"No?"

"I know what people say about it."

"They usually say the wrong thing." That caught your attention.

"You don't think it's a love story."

It wasn't a question. Baelor smiled faintly.

"No." He lowered himself into the chair opposite yours and folded one leg over the other.

"I think it's one of the greatest examples of an unreliable narrator ever written."

You tilted your head. "So the opening doesn't romanticize him?"

"It seduces the reader," he answered after a moment. "There's a difference."

He reached toward the coffee table, where an old annotated copy already lay waiting, and opened it with the familiarity of someone returning to a place he knew by heart. Without theatricality, he read the first lines aloud.

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul."

The room fell quiet.

He closed the book again. "It's beautiful prose."

"It is."

"And that's precisely the danger."

You frowned.

"The language is so extraordinary that, for a moment, you forget who's speaking."

You traced a finger along the edge of your own copy. "So the beauty becomes... camouflage."

A small smile appeared on Baelor's face. "Exactly."

He seemed genuinely pleased—not because you agreed with him, but because you had arrived at the conclusion yourself. "The novel asks something uncomfortable of the reader," he continued. "Whether elegance can make evil sound convincing."

You considered that for several seconds. "I don't think it can."

"No?"

"It can delay your judgment." You looked toward the rain beginning to gather against the windows. "It can make you hesitate." A pause settled between you. "But eventually," you said quietly, "you have to remember who's telling the story."

Baelor's gaze rested on you for a brief moment before he nodded. "Yes.” His voice had become strangely thoughtful. "That's the part people forget."

Neither of you spoke again for a while.

The silence wasn't awkward. It was the kind born from a conversation that had ended naturally, leaving both people with something to think about.

Outside, the first drops of rain began striking the windows. Inside, the two copies of Lolita remained open on the table between you—not as a romance, nor as an object of admiration, but as a reminder that the most dangerous stories are often told by voices eloquent enough to make us forget, if only briefly, that they cannot be trusted.

You'd learn that soon.

Baelor remained quiet for a while after closing the book, his fingertips resting lightly against its worn cover as though reluctant to break the silence that Nabokov's opening had left behind. Outside, the rain continued tracing slow paths across the windows, blurring the gardens into muted shades of green and gray.

"May I ask you something?"

You looked up from your own copy.

"Of course."

He considered his words carefully before speaking, his eyes focused on you, and in them, the same strangely appreciative look that he had given you at the first dinner. "Have you ever experienced that suffocating desire for someone?" He leaned closer to you. "That heavy feeling coursing through your bones, stealing your breath? Disturbing your sleep? Corrupting your very being?" His face was now just inches from yours.

Yes, you were going to answer, yes. I've felt it for my father's affection, I've begged for it. I've gone to bed thinking about the barriers that stand in the way of our nonexistent connection. That he doesn't love me, that he suffocates me and revives me every time I see him.

But you stopped. Overlapping you were two kinds of desires inherent in human beings: the thirst for affection that you projected onto your father, and, beside you, the unequivocal primal desire that Baelor's eyes transmitted in you, towards you, for you. Your reaction was late when you felt the contact of his lips against yours, his aging skin against the firmness of yours.

The third sensation was a revulsion that boiled within you, preventing you from pushing him away from you with a strong thrust. Anyone who witnessed the act would interpret this as consent, but this could not be further from the truth.

This was wrong. There was no fancy word to disguise it, no right thermal. Recovering from the vulnerability, you pulled away from the seat and from him. "What—what the hell did you just do?" Your voice was trembling.

"I..." Baelor was looking at you the same way as always, with that hint of something inscrutable that you hadn't yet deciphered. "My deepest apologies. I noticed that glimmer in your eyes—"

"You assumed that I wanted it."

"—and I decided to take it."

Take it. As one does with one's own belongings when they fall to the ground. Take it. As when one believes legitimate possession over something or someone.

"I didn't want to—I didn't—" You looked anywhere but at his face. "You're my mother's boyfriend. I'm the same age as your oldest son, why would I want to?"

Instead of answering immediately, his eyes drifted to your lips, to the sweet nectar he had just tasted. He rose from his seat, and taking a few steps closer, he was standing in front of you. "I see you" He began. "You wish it because I see you. I'm the only human who pays attention to you. I know your blessings and sorrows, the way you shrink when you send a message from your father. You need me, you're hungry, and I can feed you."

He saw you. He had done it; he had seen the need for love, the misfortunes that occurred in your mother's company. He noticed the balm that books were for you, how absence was your life, and, consequently, his best way of access you.

He was right.

"You—" You pressed your lips together, trying to calm your inner turmoil. "You have no right to judge me or my life. You don't know me, you are not important to me."

While you defended what you believed to be reality, he breached the remaining thin wall to reach you. With genuine affection, he wrapped his arms around yours. An embrace. Something so simple, yet so devastating.

"Shhh," his calloused fingers caressed your scalp. "Let it go." Heavy tears streamed down your cheeks, trailing down to his immaculate shirt. The dampness of the fabric clung to your skin, and it was unpleasant, just like the lively erection that stood against your thigh.

But it was attention, right? You wanted it. It didn't matter from whom, just please, notice me.

His large palms slid down to your waist. "You're just a pathetic little girl who needs to be noticed, Y/N." His face buried itself in your hair. "You want it. You've been chasing him ever since your parents separated and Dad, as a customer who's paid off his debt, washed his hands of the bank. He didn't love you the way I do."

"You're no longer his responsibility. That's why he abandoned you, little one." He slowly leaned you down at the table where they had both been sitting. "A burden, your father sees you as a burden."

You knew it. You felt it. You were it.

Your father showed it with every postponed outing, by only fulfilling his financial obligations, in how he spoke of your meetings as mere slots in his schedule. You weren't his daughter, just a task on his endless monthly to-do list, if you were lucky.

When Baelor placed his lips against yours again, you realized. You wanted him, didn't you? You wanted someone to want you. Not like this, but it was still want. His mouth was gentle, expert and patient, just like the rest of him.

He wanted you to believe that you deserved to be touched by him. That way, this violation wouldn't feel like a crime or mere lust, but like liberation, and he was succeeding.

"I'll give you everything" was what you exactly wanted to hear. "You're not a burden, sweetheart. You're a blessing. The personification of an angel sent from heaven," he proclaimed as his palms cupped your breasts over your clothes, squeezing. "Say it. Say you deserve it."

What exactly did you deserve? His dirty hands on your body? Your mother's demands? Your father's abandonment? Misunderstanding? Isolation? Insecurity?

What, what was it that you so richly deserved?

You didn't say anything. You were frozen, crying on the table. His hands moved down to your thighs, his touch now demanding as he groped you, making his way to your crotch.

"Say it," he demanded. "Tell me. Tell me what you deserve."

This was the Steppenwolf Hesse referred to in his prose. Wild, maladjusted, hidden. He tore at your underwear with such intensity that panic surged through you at the reality. The ruined fabric was real, as was his uninvited touch on your skin.

You kicked him, and he stopped you. "Stay still," he warned. "You want it. You haven't pushed me away once, and you do it just when things escalate?" He squeezed your thigh roughly, digging his fingers into your flesh, making you whimper. "Tell me. Say you want it."

"No—"

"I would be careful with the words that come out of my mouth" One last sentence. "Now. You'll open your legs like the good girl you are, I'll take you, and no soul will ever know about this. Or do you want to lose your only source of affection?" His face was close to yours. "Do you prefer your mother getting to know what a whore she has for a daughter?"

His language was foul. There was no ethical or respectful gentleness accompanying his words. It was raw, real. The wolf—or dragon—beneath disguised as a sheep.

You didn't answer. That was answer enough. "Good."

You didn't realize when he had removed his pants, but you did when you felt his phallus tear at your walls. A painful sob escaped your throat, one that was silenced by your unpleasant lips. It was impossible not to notice the temporal difference in their bodies, the youth and the age.

His attacks were cruel. His hands, restless. They were digging somewhere to grab, and they were never satisfied.

—

"Baelor asked how your classes were going."

Your mother's voice carried the same effortless composure with which she spoke about the weather, dinner reservations, or charity galas. There was nothing particularly significant in the sentence itself, yet something about the way she chose to mention his name made it sound almost rehearsed, as though she had been waiting for the right moment to introduce it into the conversation.

You continued stirring your tea without looking up.

"That was thoughtful of him." There was a certain unease in your voice, almost anxious.

"He seemed genuinely interested."

The spoon circled lazily against the porcelain before you set it aside.

"He likes talking to you. He mentions your conversations surprisingly often" The sound of her heels echoed as she approached you. "Especially the conversations in the library."

Library.

"He says you have an extraordinary way of looking at literature." Her fake smile widened almost imperceptibly. "Apparently the two of you spent nearly an hour discussing Lolita the other afternoon. He seemed quite pleased, if you ask me."

You knew what he meant, and you weren't going to answer.

"Pleased, Y/N. My boyfriend looked pleased."

"Mom—"

"You—you slept with him. With your own mother's boyfriend." She bit her perfectly painted lip. "I know. He smelled like your perfume. That's why he pays you so much attention, the reason he looks at you the way he does: like he's eyeing prey."

"He raped me!" you exclaimed, your voice breaking, dark circles under your eyes visible. "He took me, he—" Herhand slapped you across the face, hard.

She felt betrayed. Her own daughter sleeping with her partner, accusing him of rape after moaning his name surrounded by books and walking out of the library as if nothing had happened, making her look like a fool.

"You little brat." She pointed a finger at you. "Baelor would never—he would never do that unless you provoked him. You've been sleeping with your mother's boyfriend, Y/N. Aren't you ashamed?!"

You didn't know this version of Mom. The out-of-control, irrational one, the one who believed him.

"And you dare accuse a man of his caliber of raping you? You?" He looked you up and down, judging you. "You, who won't dress up unless I tell you to? Who would rape a girl who doesn't even take the time to care about her appearance? You damn whore."

Baelor was right.

Humbert had captivated thousands of readers with nothing more than language. His greatest weapon had never been desire, but narration. He chose which details deserved to be remembered and which would quietly disappear between paragraphs, softened cruelty beneath exquisite prose, and wrapped obsession in poetry until even intelligent readers found themselves hesitating before condemning him. History had always belonged to whoever told it best, and the voice that controlled the story inevitably controlled the judgment that followed.

Baelor understood that better than anyone. He controlled the narrative.

And in happier news, Bran had woken up last week. Though Maester Luwin said he could never walk again, you were thankful to the gods that he was alive, everything else could be sorted out.

Needless to say, Bran didn’t see it that way.

“Have you two seen Rickon?”

Both Jon and Theon stopped eating their breakfast and looked up at you at the same time.

“Wasn’t he with you and Robb?” Jon asked and you shook your head.

“Robb went to visit Bran in his room, I figured they would want to talk alone. The last time I talked to him, he wasn’t really…” you trailed off and shrugged. “Which is expected.”

“Aye, he wasn’t really interested in talking to me either.” 

“He just needs time,” Theon said. “That’s it—oh, there’s Rickon.”

You turned your head to find Rickon absolutely covered in mud, making you gasp. The little boy didn’t seem like he minded the mud on his clothes at all, judging by the toothless smile he gave you when he reached the table.

“Hello!”

“What’s happened?!” you asked, covering your mouth with your hands and he looked down at himself.

“I was playing with Shaggy.”

“In the mud?”

“Aye!”

You seemed to be the only one who was shocked at the state of him, because instead of reacting in any way, Jon just ruffled his little brother’s hair while Theon let out a laugh. Rickon grabbed a piece of cheese from Theon’s plate without even wiping his hands, then darted through the hall before you could stop him, almost crashing into Robb’s legs on his way out. Robb looked over his shoulder to check where his little brother was rushing off to, then approached you and pressed a kiss on your temple.

“Here you are,” he said and touched the small of your back before he sat down, so you took the seat next to Jon’s. “Where’s he going?”

“To the yard, I’d say,” Jon answered while you stared at the entrance, your mouth half agape.

“He’s covered in mud,” you managed to say, “and he ate food without cleaning his hands.”  

“He does that.”

Your eyes widened. “But that’s not healthy!”

“He has never fallen ill his entire life,” Jon said and Robb nodded.

“Besides, it’s Rickon,” he stated as if that was enough of an explanation, and reached out to steal a piece of bread from Jon’s plate, but Jon swatted his hand away.

“Go get your own plate!”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Then keep your hands off my food!”

“So you’re saying you won’t share your bread with me? Your brother? Your blood?”

“Aye, that’s what I’m saying—”

“Did someone at least tell Rickon that it’s not good manners to walk around covered in mud?”

“Multiple septas did.” Robb filled himself a drink and offered you, but you shook your head. “He doesn’t listen.”

“Besides, he’s northern,” Theon said. “He’s not gonna grow to be one of those flowery Reach knights with their southern manners and poems—”

“What is it with your animosity toward poetry, Greyjoy?” you asked with a frown. “Is it because you can’t read?”

“Your brother asked me the same thing—I can read!”

“Allegedly,” you pointed out, and Robb and Jon exchanged glances, both biting back identical grins. “I’ve heard Ironborn look down on literacy to the point of accusing people who can read as sorcerers.”

“Well, seeing the raids on the Reach, we’re still better fighters than—”

“None of that,” Robb interrupted him while you glared at Theon, and Jon heaved a sigh.

 “How’s Bran?”

“As expected,” Robb muttered. “I don’t think staying in that room is going to make him feel better. I’ll get him out to the yard the moment Maester Luwin says we can.”

“That should help.”

“I hope so.”

“Has father written back yet?”

“No ravens arrived,” Robb said while Jorelle made her way to you. “Should be any day now, though.”

“My lady, you wanted me to remind you about your meeting with Lady Sabitha,” she said. “She’s waiting for you.”  

Theon nodded at Jorelle with a smirk.

“Lady Jorelle,” he greeted her. “Hello.”

Robb and Jon both looked from Theon to Jorelle with the exact same expression of boyish wonder on their faces, and Jorelle raised her brows, eyed him up and down, then chortled.

“Absolutely not, Greyjoy.”

Robb stifled a laugh and kicked Jon under the table while Jon pressed his fist on his lips to hide his smile. Theon sat up straighter, clearly not discouraged as he puffed his chest.

“But I’m…”

“Greyjoy, I understand that you lack subtlety so I’m going to be as direct as my manners allow me,” you told him and stood up from your seat. “If you ever bother my ladies-in-waiting, I’ll make sure you can never speak a word to them or anyone else ever again. I’m sure the whole castle will thank me for it.”

There was a proud grin on Robb’s face as you pecked him on the cheek, then you threw an arm over Jorelle’s shoulder and you both walked away from the table, giggling.

After your small meeting with Lady Sabitha, the rest of your day was considerably idle. You visited Bran, you spent some time with Rickon, and now you and your ladies-in-waiting had nothing to do but remain in your room and gossip until dinner time. You laid in your bed, with Jorelle by your side and Wylla laid on her stomach at the foot of the bed, reading a book. Alys was braiding Lyra’s hair and Barbrey was embroidering something for her new gown on the sofa across the hearth, occasionally holding it up for Alys and Lyra’s opinion.

It reminded you of the Reach, back when you and Margaery and your friends would spend time together before the jousts.

“Jo?”

Jorelle turned her head to see you better. “Hm?”

“What kind of husband do you want?”

The question gathered everyone’s attention in the room. Alys stopped braiding Lyra’s hair, Lyra’s head snapped around and Barbrey looked up from her embroidery, her eyes widening. Wylla pursed her lips without pulling her gaze off the page, but you could tell her ears perked up with the way she stopped following the lines. Jorelle craned her head to see you better.  

“What brought this on?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” you said. “You know, when Greyjoy tried to talk to you earlier today—”

“Gods no!”

“No, obviously not him!” you said in a rush. “None of you will wed him, are you jesting? I hate him, he’s vile.”

“He’s your lord husband’s best friend,” Wylla pointed out and you shrugged.

“I still hate him, Robb knows it,” you said. “But it made me think, it’s clear you have admirers, all of you.” You motioned around the room. “Silas fixed my betrothal, and it took him such a long time to make a decision. And you’re my ladies-in-waiting, it’s my responsibility to find you good suitors. I’m determined to find you the best men in the realm, but I can only do that if I know what kind of husbands you want.”

Alys thought for a second. “Perhaps we should make a list.”

“Good idea!” You jumped from the bed and rushed to the desk to grab the inkpot and the quill, and parchments. You dipped the quill into the inkpot, then wrote all their names on different parchments and pointed at Lyra with your quill.

“Lyra, are you certain—”

“I won’t wed, I’m certain,” Lyra cut you off. “Men can be so annoying.”

“She’s not wrong on that one,” Jorelle muttered and Lyra gave her a grin.

“I can also fight Greyjoy if he bothers you.”

“Not needed at this point, but thank you Lyra.”

“Me next!” Barbrey said, sitting up straighter. “I want a southron husband.”

“Where in the south?” you asked and Barbrey frowned as if the thought hadn’t hit her before.

“Um, the Reach?”

“The men of the Reach are full of audacity, I’ve found,” Jorelle grumbled and you shot her a smirk.

“I think you mean the men of Dorne.”

Jorelle bit back a laugh and held up her hands. “All the same to me.”

“And I want him to be a knight,” Barbrey added, her nose stuck in the air. “Like…like that knight you danced with on your wedding.”

You blinked a couple of times. “Loras?”

“Yes, The Knight of Flowers!” Barbrey said. “Oh he was so handsome!”

“Barbrey.” You tried to control your expression. “You would not want Loras as a husband.”

“Why did you not?” Alys asked and shifted her weight. “I mean I know Lord Robb is the love of your life, but before that? The Knight of Flowers is your best friend’s brother, and you two looked like the perfect southron lady and the knight when you danced.”

Well, there were many reasons; the main one being that your brother was Loras’ type and not you, regardless of how you two looked while you were dancing.

“Loras is like a brother to me,” you said. “We could never see each other like that. How about you, Alys? What kind of husband do you want?”

“I don’t want a southron,” Alys said. “I don’t want to be so far away from my family. I want a brave northern fighter, but he must be handsome, and my age.”

 “Do you have someone in mind?”

Her cheeks got pink and she averted her glances.

“…No.”

You arched a brow. “Alys.”

“I don’t have anyone in mind, I just—”

“She admires the heir of House Ryswell,” Wylla sang without looking up from her book, making Alys gasp.

“I do not!”

“You danced with him at the wedding and you were flustered afterwards.”

“Wylla!”

“How else are you going to get the husband you want if you keep it a secret?”

“What kind of reading is that?” Jorelle asked her, gesturing at the book in front of Wylla. “You keep chiming in.”

“Yes well, while you are all listing your requirements for suitors…” Wylla wiggled her brows and turned the page before she held it up so that all could see the vulgar illustration. “I’m learning how to keep my future husband under my spell.”

The room exploded into chaos in a second. Alys jumped from her seat at the same time with Barbrey, who nearly face planted on Lyra in her haste to rush to Wylla. Jorelle sat up in bed and snatched the book from Wylla’s hands, holding it out of her reach while she all but wrestled her to get it back.

“Jo!”

“Where did you find, this?”

“Let me see! Let me see!”

“What does it say?”

“Oh it says everything.”

“Barbrey, stop pushing!”

“You won’t even wed, Lyra, no need for you to see!”

The title of the book was familiar to you; it was very famous all over the south. Of course all the septas and the maesters forbid it, saying that it was not appropriate for ladies, but that had never stopped you or any of your friends. All it required was a couple gold dragons given to the right maid, and a ball thrown in someone’s honor so that you and your friends could gather in one of your bedchambers while the rest of the household was busy with the guests.

Though, you were rather surprised to see it was famous enough to be found in the north as well.

“That’s disgusting!” Barbrey let out a squeal as she leaned in to grimace at the drawing. “So very disgusting!”

“Then stop looking?”

“I cannot!”

You pressed your fist on your mouth so that you could hide your smile, leaning back to the table while they all gathered around the bed and turned the page.

“But I don’t—but—” Alys stammered. “My lady mother said, on my wedding night, I’m to just lay there.”

“So did mine! My husband will know what to do, she said.”

Gods, the north really was different than the south, this was yet another proof of it. All your ladies-in-waiting were the same age as you, women grown, and yet they were clueless when it came to certain things because the north was incredibly strict on such matters.

Jorelle turned the page again and yelped in surprise, a scowl twisting her beautiful face. “Seven hells, I’m not doing that!”

“Let me see—”

“I’m a lady,” Barbrey insisted. “I care not what the book says, I’m not putting my mouth anywhere near…that thing.”

“Do all men know about this?”

“I’d say so.”

“Do you suppose there’s a book for them as well?”

“A book?” Wylla asked with a scoff. “They have no need to read about it. What do you think they do in brothels, hold hands?”

“Lady wives don’t do such things,” Alys insisted while Jorelle lifted her head as if she just remembered your presence in the room. “I’m sure of it.”

“I still don’t understand the—the physics of this?”

“You know what Lyra, you were right. If this is what will be expected of me, I’m not going to wed either.”

“My personal feelings aside, it does sound very uncomfortable, I’m not going to lie.”

“Is it?” Jorelle asked you, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Is it very uncomfortable?”

Stunned silence fell upon the room as all the girls turned their heads to stare at you while you bit back your grin.

“Hm?”

“Oh but she doesn’t do that!” Alys said in a haste. “She’s the most graceful lady of the south, Jo.”

“And she’s been quiet since the beginning of this conversation,” Lyra pointed out, narrowing her eyes at you. “Too quiet.”

Barbrey held up the book and pointed at the illustration on the page. “Did you do this?”

Wylla elbowed her. “Barbrey!”

“What? Lord Robb is mesmerized by her, everyone knows it!”

“Because she is beautiful, you idiot, not because she does such tricks!”

You dragged the tip of your tongue on your lip, then heaved a dramatic sigh.

“You see, I would tell you,” you said. “But since such conversations are unladylike, you’d have to swear—”

“I swear it! I swear on my honor!”

“Me too!”

“So do I, on my honor and house!”

“Aye, on my house too!”

“I will never breathe a word, I swear it.” 

“…That it doesn’t leave this room,” you finished your sentence with a laugh. “Very well then.”

They all plopped down on your huge bed, their attention fully on you as you jumped to sit on the desk.

“Lady Olenna, my best friend’s grandmother always said the marital bed is the way to keep one’s husband mesmerized,” you said. “It matters even more than how you look, how much wealth your family has, or what your house is; that right there is the key, she would say.”

“So you knew about all these things?”

“I did,” you said airily. “The south isn’t as strict as the north, and though I lacked practice, I didn’t lack knowledge.”

“Yes well,” Alys grumbled. “In the north we lack both for some reason.”

Barbrey raised the book again, pointing at the page without a word and you nodded, making all of them gasp.

“You did that?!”

Well, they didn’t need to know how you did exactly that in Robb’s solar the other day.

“I reacted similarly when I first heard about it,” you admitted, “It sounded intimidating, the idea of doing that with some faceless husband in the future that I couldn’t even imagine. And unlike what everyone keeps telling women, you shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to. I wouldn’t, if I didn’t want to. However, Robb is…” You tried to find the right words. “I desire him so much that sometimes I feel like I can’t even think or breathe. I don’t speak for all married women obviously, but for me it wasn’t uncomfortable.”

“I’d be so embarrassed to do that though,” Wylla muttered and you cleared your throat.

“At first I was too, but then—” You fixed your skirts just so that you could do something with your hands. “He’s never made me feel uncomfortable, no matter what we’re doing. That’s why I find the marital bed so much fun.”

  “Fun!?”

“Of course,” you said. “It can be very pleasurable you know? For women as well, not just men.”

“I heard it’s terrible for women.”

“It’s not terrible.” Your laugh echoed in the room. “Not even close. When you wed someone who loves you, they simply want you to be happy. Not only outside, but also in your bedchambers.”

Barbrey pointed at the next page, making you hiss in a breath.

“Um, no.” You grimaced and shook your head. “Not that, I would not.”

Jorelle leaned over to peek at what it was before Barbrey showed you another illustration.

“How about this?”

“Oh.” Your face grew hotter. “He does that. A lot.”

Jorelle’s jaw dropped. “You’re jesting, surely!”

“I thought at first his beard would be a problem, but as it turns out—”

“Your lord husband kisses you there?”

“Yes.”

“Why? That doesn’t lead to an heir.”

“Well.” You pressed your palms on your cheeks to soothe the fire. “Not everything is about siring heirs.”

“But how come no one said it’d be fun?” Wylla asked to the room. “All I kept hearing was the importance of heirs, why was I not told it could be fun?”

“I think unfortunately many women don’t know,” you said. “But thankfully I know, because I wed the love of my life, and so will all of you. I’ll make sure of it.” You winked at Lyra. “As long as you want to wed, of course. There’s always the option not to.”

“I’ll take that option,” Lyra stated. “I’m uninterested.”

“I’m interested,” Barbrey pointed out and shuffled the pages before she held up the book again. “Not the other thing, but I want to try this.”

You leaned in with the rest of the girls to see the illustration better. Jorelle narrowed her eyes while Wylla tilted her head, Lyra’s lips curled downwards and Alys put a hand on her hip, letting out a hum.

“Oh I haven’t tried that one yet either,” you said after a beat and held out your hand to motion at the book. “But as my best friend would say, every skill needs honing. May I?”

An hour before dinner, you had already changed your gown and had your maid do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting went to their own bedchambers to get ready. You had dismissed your maid to read some more in secret, so engrossed in the book that you had lost the track of time, hence why you didn’t even hear Robb’s approaching footsteps until the door opened. Your head whipped up and you jolted in bed as if someone pricked you with a needle, a gasp catching in your throat.

 “My love!” you squealed, closing the book and pushing it under the bed in haste. “You’re back!”

“I am.” He came closer to peck you on the lips before he flung himself on the bed, and tilted his head. “Why are you out of breath?”

Seven hells.

“I was reading poetry,” you said after a pause, waving a hand in the air. “It always evokes feelings in me, I get very emotional.”

Confusion pinched his brows and you took a deep breath to calm yourself, then pushed yourself from the bed to make your way to the big table, earning a groan of displeasure from him.

“Come back.”

You let out a giggle and held up a cup, but he shook his head, so you only filled one cup with wine before you returned to bed. After taking a sip, you put the cup on your bedside table and let him pull you back in the bed so that you could straddle him while he wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling to your bosom.

“Gods, you smell so good,” he murmured and you stifled a laugh.

“How was your day?” you asked, playing with the auburn curls at the nape of his neck, and he hummed.

“Busy. Yours?”

“Not as busy,” you said. “What’s happened?”

“There’s some unrest between two families up in the mountains,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. “Norreys and Burleys. Both too stubborn to speak to each other without drawing swords.”

“Oh my poor love,” you cooed, a smile curling your lips when his shoulders relaxed. “And you must be the peacemaker?”

He nodded. “In person, probably.”

The simple sentence was more than enough to wipe your smile off your face, your body tensing up. The memory of what had happened the last time he was away flashed before your eyes, your stomach doing a painful flip as you gulped. You knew that he had no idea, you had made sure that he would have no idea, but it didn’t mean you were ready for him to leave once again, this time for more than just one week—probably for a moon, with how far the mountains were from Winterfell.

But what were you supposed to say?

I don’t feel safe here when you’re away?

That was out of the question. Lady Olenna would’ve reprimanded you if she heard you even consider saying such a thing; a lady didn’t demand or plead, she made people think they wanted what she wanted all along.

In the subtlest manner, of course.

“Oh my,” you said. “Well, I’m quite excited to meet them then. Do you suppose their wives will come with as well? When you invite those lords here?”

He pulled back to give you a fond smile.

“You misunderstand me, sweeting—”

“I suppose they will, considering the distance,” you cut him off. “And I understand why, if you went off to the mountains to settle such dispute, it’d take what? Almost a moon for you to come back? Gods, it’d break my heart so terribly.” You curled your fingers over the back of his hand so that you could press his palm on the soft swell of your chest where he could feel your heartbeat. “To be away from you for that long. I’d miss you so, so much.”

Robb’s eyes darkened with desire as they lingered on your cleavage, then snapped up to your lips again. “Would you?”

You knew you were supposed to come up with a seductive remark as an answer, this was the perfect moment; and yet what you ended up saying was more of a heartfelt confession rather than some southern wordplay.

“I know the whole north says it’s just because we’re newlyweds, but…” You lowered your glances, your heart skipping a beat at the heat of his gaze alone. “Robb, I don’t believe anyone understands how much I crave you, all the time. It’s intimidating sometimes.”

He swallowed thickly, his other hand sliding up to cradle your cheek, tracing the line of your bottom lip with his thumb as he tilted your head up.

“And why is it intimidating, my beautiful wife?” he asked, the deep rumble of his voice sending a pleasant shiver through you before he pressed open-mouthed kisses on your chest while tugging at the front laces of your gown. “My heart is at your command forever, you know this.”

You had to try really, really hard to focus and pull yourself together through the haze of want, especially with the way you could feel the proof of his desire under you.

“I thought, for—” A curt laugh escaped you. “I feared for a moment just now, that you would go to them and not the other way around. But you would not, surely?”

He paused for a second, then he lifted his head to look at you; his eyes heavy-lidded like he was as intoxicated with your presence as you were with his.

“Of course not.”

You nodded, batting your lashes. “They’ll come here instead?”

“Aye,” he murmured. “They’ll come here instead.”

You couldn’t stop the proud smile lighting up your face before he grabbed your waist and flipped you under him, making you squeal.

“Robb! My love, we have guests for dinner—”

As you look down at your hands, him tucking the end of a bandage into place by your wrist, the words finally register. That pain in your palms pulses and you strain to recall how it came to be. How can the heat of a pan hurt more than the death of your own husband?

You stare at the neatly bound bandage. You bend your fingers and hiss then let them fall limp. “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”

He hovers his hand over yours then touches your forearm, squeezing lightly. “Not at all. Those burns were not nothing. You’ll need to be easy, lamb. Rest.”

You blink and let your hands slide inward and fold together gingerly. “Lamb… Stuart… called me that.”

Shelby sits back slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs. His jacket is off, he remains in his vest and shirt, his tie tucked in tidily. There’s a strand of black hair sticking up crookedly.

“I didn’t mean…”

“When he was annoyed with me. Or wanted something. S’pose I don’t need to worry for it no more. For him.” 

You straighten on the cushioned bench though your shoulders hang heavily. You lift a hand shakily and brush along your cheek. Not a tear for the man that took up more than a decade of your life. You peer around the room and your lips tug down.

“You said you’d take me home.” You utter quietly.

He clucks and grabs his jacket. He digs out his cigarette case. “Ma’am, you’re in no state. Your hands. Dare I say, your head, isn’t right for it.”

“I’m fine.” You insist. “You’ve done a good job.” You look at the bandages again.

“No. You will not chance infection. Or worse. Those burns… I saw men with lesser wound in the trenches. They made a great deal more fuss over it too.” He traces his lips with the end of his cigarette then rests it between them. He tucks away the silver case of tobacco and strikes a match.

“May I trouble you?” You watch the end of the match turn to smoke.

He lifts a brow. He looks down and pulls the cigarette from his lips. He examines it for a second before turning it and placing it before your mouth. You take it between your lips. He lets it go and once more removes the case from his jacket.

“Didn’t think you were of the sort.” He tamps the case on the heel of his hand before he opens it.

“Not. Hate the smell.” You bring your hand up and delicately take the cigarette between your fingers. “I only suddenly had the yearning.”

You let the smoke furl in your mouth and throat and let it free. It’s hot and acrid and bitter. He watches the plume as he repeats the gesture of running his own around his lips. You sit and puff on the smoke in silence as he lights his own.

“You been having dreams?” He asks abruptly.

You watch the embers at the end of the cigarette then reach to tap it over the tray. “Everyone dreams.”

“Yes, but only certain people have dreams that mean anything.” He dusts off his cigarette in turn.

You hum. “Magpies. A watch. Storms.” You shrug. “It’s all vague.”

He’s quiet again. Thoughtful. He slowly rotates the cigarette.

“What did you really see in those tea leaves?” He prompts.

You stare at him and can’t help but scoff. You push down the cigarette and put it out. You recoil as your hands radiate with heat.

“What’s happened. That’s all.”

He nods.

“That aunt of yours…”

“Witch.” You hiss softly. “So they said.”

“Hm. A name people give when they are scared. Or ignorant.” He muses then sucks on his cigarette. “Is that why you don’t care? Because you knew he was dead already?”

Your brow crinkles. “I didn’t know. And who are you to say I don’t care?”

“Who am I?” He repeats the question lowly. “Ma’am.”

“You aren’t wrong. But I don’t think you’re right either. I can’t feel it but it does matter. He’s gone…” You shake your head and sigh. You go to push on the bench but you stop yourself. You bend forward and stand. “I should go.”

“I told you, you’re staying.” He insists.

“I’m fine. Besides, there are things to sort out. I will need to inform his mother. Arrange the burial.” You look around. “Sir, where is my handbag?”

“I don’t usually give the same order more’n once.” He drawls as you hear him stand. “I’ve a telephone. You can call his mother or the closest postal service and get the news to her. I’ll see to the funeral.”

“It’s not your responsibility.” You argue as you face him. “You’ve taken on more than you should, as it were.”

“As it were, I watched him walk off that day. He’d just snitched on some very lowly types. I knew it wasn’t smart but I didn’t stop him.” He shrugs.

“Not your fault.”

“Even it if it were. He made a stupid decision. No. He’s not my responsibility. You are. You burnt your hands in my kitchen. You are my employee and I’ll need a full recovery.” He puts out the cigarette and dusts of his hands. “So you,” he approaches. “Will rest.” He grips your shoulders and guides you so your back is to the chaise. “Here.”

“Mr. Shelby–”

“You won’t disappoint Charlie, will you? He wanted another story.” Shelby says.

Your eyes meet and you deflate. You sit beneath the weight of his hands. They linger.

“It’ll do you both some good.” He drags his hands away.

🖤

You close your eyes but don’t sleep. Your mind isn’t racing, it’s just blank. You can’t muster a thought or a feeling. You’re keenly aware of everything wrong yet you just don’t care.

You clench your hands without meaning to. You wince and let them open. You exhale as you try to picture Stuart’s face; living or dead. You can’t.

A knock breaks through your desolation. You sit up and turn your legs over the edge of the chaise. You cough before you find your voice.

“Yes? Come… in.” You croak.

Margaret, the maid, opens the door from the other side and peeks in. “Miss, you’ve a visitor if you’re well enough.”

“Visitor?” You murmur.

“It’s me!” Charlie hollers. “Miss, it’s me!”

“Oh. Oh.” You feel your nerves soften. “Right, then, you can let young Mr. Shelby in. It is his house, after all.”

Margaret retreats and holds the door open for the boy. He toddles in, wearing a grey vest and shorts with long socks. His confidence is more than one ten times his age.

“Good morning, Charles.” You greet.

“Morning? It’s afta’noon!” He claps. “Time for tea and biscuits.”

“Oh, yes.” You smile. “I fear I lost time.”

“Ma’am,” he nears and tries to climb up next to you. You help him up. “I like your biscuits.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Not Margaret’s?”

“Margaret doesn’t cook!” He harrumphs. “She only tells me go to bed or stay in my room. Like Papa.”

You suppress a frown. You can only imagine how lonely the boy must be. His mother’s gone, and in her place, only maids who can’t be expected to fill her place. And a father who is too busy to truly give him more than a safe house and all his materials wants. You were once a child with neither.

“Biscuits sound delicious. And tea,” you reach and gently nudge his hand with your bandaged one.

“Oh! Missus!” He claps his cheeks dramatically. “Your hands hurt.”

“A little but… not so bad as before.”

Truthfully, they do. A lot. But you’ve dealt with pain before and the physical sort is easier to ignore.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his Rs more like Ws. “Papa didn’t say… he only says you are ill.”

“I’m well enough.” You assure him. “I can make biscuits. It is only, you might need to hold the whisk again. Can you do that, Charles?”

He giggles. “I like that you call me Charles. It makes me feel big!”

“You are a big boy and you won’t grow if you don’t get your biscuits, right?” You tease. “Well, then, let’s go. The longer we sit around, the longer we must wait for our tea.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He reaches for your hand but grabs your wrist instead. “Come on!”

You help him off the high chaise and he holds onto your skirt as you leave the room. You pause outside. “You’ll need to be my guide. This is a rather big house you have, Mr. Shelby.”

He laughs again and points ahead. He drags you by your hem to the grand staircase. You descend and he takes you to the kitchen.

Mildred is there. You say hello. She notices your hands and asks if you’re well. You assure her you are but ask that the could help Charlie with the biscuits. She agrees and you guide her to gather what you need; bowls, sifter, wooden spoon.

You get Charlie sifting flour into a bowl. He dusts some up his nice vest. Mildred cracks the eggs and separates the whites from the yolk. You feel useless with your bandages.

“Do you make cookies for your son?” Charlies asks as you have him add honey to the eggs and Mildred whisks.

“I don’t have a son.” You say.

“Oh… I don’t have a mama so… suppose we have each other.”

“That’s a very sweet way to think of it, Charles.” You feel that. Nothing else, but that. It’s not just regret or mourning for what could have been. It’s anger. For all the years and effort Stuart cost you and for what? Nothing to show for it. Not even love.

You continue through the steps. Mildred rolls out the dough and you suppress the pain as you help Charlie press the cutter down. The maid carefully sets them onto a floured tray for baking.

“Do not let her touch that.” Shelby’s rigid tone jolts you all. “She is not to be near anything hot. She should not even be here.”

“Mr. Shelby, apologies–”

“Put those in the oven and set the time for fifteen minutes, Mil,” you say gently. “Nothing you need be sorry for.” You step past her. “It was my idea. Not anyone else.”

“Hm, I’m sure,” he glances past you to his son.

“They did all the work,” you show your bandaged hands “Not as if I can.”

“Mm, suppose not.”

“There’s enough for you too, papa!” Charlie chirps. “We’re gonna have tea!”

“Ah, well, then, let’s do it proper. Mildred, the fine china.” He demands.

She twists the small metal time and places it down. “Yes, sir.”

You step closer to him and lower your voice. “I was bored. It isn’t the boy’s fault.”

“No, no. Thank you for looking after him.” He says. “And tea sounds rather nice.”

You stare at Shelby, gauging his temper. When people were around, Stuart would conceal his agitation well. Hell, even if it was even just the two of you, he never was outrightly cruel. He’d only do things he could excuse as unintentionally cruel.

Mr. Shelby goes to step around you and you wince. Just a twinge. You stop yourself and turn to Charlie as he claps his hands.

“Papa, can she be my friend?” He asks.

Shelby picks him up from the counter, “Isn’t she?”

“I hope so. Is she yours?” Charlie cheeps.

“Well, of course,” Shelby answers. “So, what kind of biscuits have we made?”

“Lemon shortbread.” You answer.

“Sounds wonderful. Is it another from your recipe book?”

“No, standard shortbread from my gran’s kitchen. Though, she never let me do more than watch.” You say, rubbing your fingertips along the back of the bandages.

“I’ve yet to taste anything less than delightful from you,” he says. “Oh, Charlie,” he swipes a dishcloth. “You cannot have tea with flour all over.”

🖤

You stand and reach for the empty tea pot. Shelby tuts. “No, you will not dare think of tidying up.”

You stop and sit back down. “Habit.”

“Mm, yes,” he intones. “Those bandages will need to be redone.”

You look down. They’ve come loose already. You chew your cheek.

“No matter.” Mr. Shelby takes his final gulp of tea and pockets a biscuit as he stands. “I’ll have Mildred clear this away and Ellie will take Charlie for playtime.”

“Ellie! She’s no fun. She won’t play with my train cars.” Charlie pouts. “Can’t miss come play?”

“How can she without hands, boy?” Shelby chides. “Come, she needs to get better.”

Charlie huffs. “What happened to her hands? Did you hurt them, papa?”

Shelby drags his sole slightly but quickly recovers. “Only an accident in the kitchen. Now, Charlie, I’m sure you might convince Ellie to let you be conductor…”

You remain at the table, restless. You would usually busy yourself with cleaning but it isn’t permitted. You will not press your constraints, not in another’s home.

You look down at your hands. You’ve already done too much. Certainly, you were only trying to be kind to the boy but you did disregard his father’s own kindness. You can tell Mr. Shelby is not one to offer it so easily.

Mildred comes to take the pot and cups, putting them all on the painted tray. You thank her and she nods with a smile. You insist she takes a biscuit for herself.

Alone, you look round at the wooden panels and beautiful chandelier. Mr. Shelby’s home is immaculate. You think of your own and the dingy wallpaper and yellowed bulbs. Yes, you are a pathetic creature.

“Right then,” Shelby enters with a roll of bandage and pot. “We’ll clean you up then.”

He comes around and sets down the handful. He pulls a chair to face you then grabs the arms of your chair. He turns you as the feet scrape on the carpet. He sits.

He reaches for your hands. You stiffen. He stops.

“I scare you?” He wonders.

You shake your head.

“You tense when I’m near. You did so earlier.” He counters.

You shove your hands toward him. “No, it only… conditioned.”

He stares then pulls his attention to your hands. He unravels the bandages gently. You stay still.

“I’m sorry for riling the boy, if I did.” You say. “I do not mean to overstep.”

“He likes you. He doesn’t like everyone.” He insists as he bunches up the soiled bandage.

“Then I’m honoured.” You say.

He takes a folded cloth from beneath the roll of bandage and uncaps the jar of salve. “He’s a good boy. Lively. A gentle soul.”

“You’ve raised him well.”

“He doesn’t get it from me,” he grits as he leans over your hands.

“No? You say this as you tend to my hands diligently,” you muse.

“No, no, not for me, my patient,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Please, I wish it was for me.”

“Why do you need a condom for a patient?” you asked, amused almost. “Is he hot?”

“What? No? My patient, he's HIV but apparently very, very active and he doesn't have condoms. He says he-he prefers it without and I've explained everything to him but there's no condoms in the draw where we keep them!” explained Samira.

“We have a condom draw?” asked Trinity, taking only that as the necessary information from Mohan's ramble.

You handed her the chart. “You sleep with women.”

“What? So I'm not allowed in the condom draw?”

“It's for sex ed teachings, people who are young and having sex,” you shrugged. “Stuff like that. Come on, I can help you out.”

The nurses desk was practically vacant. Around you everyone busied themselves with greeting the nigh shift and getting them out, taking away patients like the changing of the guard. It was almost too early to be dealing with tough patients who wouldn't protect themselves.

You led the way around the counter, Mohan and Santos (who took an invitation for herself) followed you over to the desk as you reached down for Robby's bag, propping it up.

It was no surprise to them that you were reaching for his bag, reaching for his stuff like it was yours. What was Robby's was yours. The real surprise had been when Mel found the two of you eight months ago making out in the storage room, shrieking and dropping a bag of blood that then splashed all over you.

And obviously at the scream everyone ran over and found the two of you rather compromised and covered in blood. You still weren't really done living that down.

You fished around in Robby's bag, the owner somewhere not there to see as you brought out an opened box of condoms. “Here,” you said handing her a thick strip as Santos laughed.

Samira took them wearily, a small dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Won't you... miss these?”

“No,” you said, rocking on your heels, suddenly feeling the familiar creeping heat of embarrassment. “We have... more.”

Santos smirked. “Keeping Robby in shape, huh?”

Samira shuddered. “I really don't want to think about my boss like that, but thank you!” you said, waving the strip like it was a flag and rushing off before her patient could walk off. She was a good doctor, dedicated you knew and you were just happy to help her reach her potential.

Distracted by watching her leave you failed to notice Trinity sneak over to Robby's bag, peeking inside like a nosy cat.

“Hey!” you lectured, pulling the zipper shut on her hand.

“What? Just wanted to know what else you got in there? Does he keep a pair of panties? Vibrator if it gets quiet,” she teased.

You blushed, shaking your head and looking down to the bag. “You have no shame, that's your boss you're talking about.”

She made a pfft noise. “You're the one screwing him.”

Yes, you were. Proudly and happily.

Javadi slid up next to you, practically shoving you a tablet and asking for your advice. You were somewhere deep in your residency, one of the first they were introduced to on their hell of a first day. Not as scary as Robby, easier to talk to than Langdon. It was typical for the Pittlings and Mohan to come to you when they needed advice. You liked it really, as much as Santos teased you and as much as Mohan and Javadi doubted themselves.

“Hey Crash,” said Trinity, all but giddy with the new knowledge she had about Doctor Robby's contents in his bag. “You wanna know what's in this bag of secrets.”

“No,” you chastised.

Javadi's eyes lightened up. “Is that Doctor Robby's bag?”

“It doesn't matter,” you said, pushing it back down to your feet.

“Hey,” Samira joined the group of you again, handing you back the strip of condoms. “He said he can't take these.” The rest of the doctors and nurses hustled around the Pitt, un-knowing of the personal dilemmas being aired out.

You lifted your shoulders. “You needed condoms, those are condoms.”

“Yes but they're not the right size,” said Mohan. “He says they wouldn't fit, they're too big.”

Oh.

Perhaps at some point you'd been shocked at the size of Robby. Before you'd only had your imagination and hints of him beneath his scrubs. The times when he'd brush past you in the teasing beginning of your relationship and you'd feel something prod at you. The first time he'd dragged you to his bedroom, lips seething in heat and teeth nipping in want to only lay you out on his bed and drag his pants and underwear down to show all of him- then you'd been shocked. Mouth watering so.

Over the months the shock transformed to desire, reaching hands and an eager mouth that you stopped thinking about the size.

You didn't think anything of it when you handed Mohan a strip of five extra-large condoms.

Standing at the nurses station it may as well have been a deserted island and you stared down at the condoms like it was your first offering of food.

“Uh-”

Javadi snatched the condoms from Samira first, staring down at them with mouth agape. “Oh my god.”

“Javadi-”

“Holy shit!”

You looked back and Santos had pulled out Robby's bag again, pulling out the box and staring at the size stamped on the front. “Santos!”

“No wonder you walk in limping.”

“I do not- I do not walk in limping!”

“Well, there was that one time-” said Mohan.

“No, there wasn't!” you argued. “I'd bruised my ankle.”

Mohan chuckled to herself. “Sure.”

Trinity smirked. “Bruised something.”

Javadi was still staring at the strip of condoms in wonder. “How do they even get this big?”

You snatched them away from her the way you might have if a child found them. Quickly you stuffed them in the box, threw them back in Robby's bag and kept it behind your back.

“Wait, why do you have a box of condoms for work?” asked Javadi.

“Oh please,” said Santos with a groan. “They're always at it in work. Better safe than sorry.”

“We are not always at it at work,” you defended.

“The storage closet?” asked Mohan, apparently abandoning the venture of finding fitting condoms for her patient.

You held up a finger. “That was one time.”

“The toilets,” added Santos, sadly remembering the time you and Robby had hid yourselves in the bathroom for a break. A break that was only supposed to be comforting touched turned hot and reaching quickly.

“That one time in the exam room where we thought we were examining a broken hip for a Mrs Driscoll-” began Javadi.

“Okay! Okay, I get it!” you interrupted.

“I think it's nice,” Trinity quipped her lip, arms crossing over her chest. “Get some dick when you can right.” She patted your shoulder like a proud sister as she left the group of you, laughing quietly to herself.

Victoria and Samira followed suit, leaving you with the ramifications of your own embarrassment. So what your boyfriend was largely endowed, wasn't it a compliment? Weren't you the luckiest girl in the world to have Robby with soft and tender touches turned to almost hateful thrusts with how hard he loved you.

You made sure Robby's bag was tightly closed before sliding it back under the desk.

The day brought the same usual storm the ED always brought. Enough to distract you from the mornings events and the package sitting inside of Robby's bag. You were left with only a creeping heat crawling up your neck, the last dregs of your doctors eyes on you and their giddy smiles.

You'd only managed to make it to the staff lounge for a coffee by mid day, taking the mug that was yours, marked with an inside joke and given one secret Santa round.

“Hey.” Robby slipped into the room, leaning his back against the sink and standing next to you.

“Hey yourself.”

For a moment there was a silence where you poured coffee for the both of you, handing him his mug.

Robby's fingers grazed yours, the simplest touch sending shivers through your skin. “Can I ask you something?”

You hummed, head tucked away. He wouldn't have heard about the mornings teasing's, would he?

“Santos has been... off today,” he said.

He would.

You gulped, a feign of concern falling to you. “She has?”

“Keeps looking at me and smirking. She's doing this thing with her hands where she-” he demonstrated, spreading his hands to different distances, some small, some bigger. His hands wavered around the imaginary object between his hands.

You were left groaning.

Robby's head tilted toward you. “Do you know anything?”

In attempts of hiding away the story your head ducked and shook side to side.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you said.

Robby's fingers were slightly calloused but no less humble as he pinched your chin, realigning his gaze with yours. His brows rose, gaze pouring into yours. He didn't even have to ask you again.

You sighed. “This morning Mohan had a patient with HIV and she wanted to give him condoms but there was none where they usually are so I gave her some of ours. But they weren't exactly... the right size.”

There was a small furrow of confusion in his face as he waited for you to elaborate.

You turned your body into his, lowering your voice. “Not everybody can fit into an extra large, Robby.”

The furrow gave and a small grin split his cheeks as he glanced down to your shoes, a pink blooming under his beard and to his cheeks. It was different from your own embarrassment. He was more pleased with himself.

Robby straightened, hands wavering. “So how does... this connect to-”

“Santos was there this morning when Samira asked.”

He chuckled, tongue poking out into his cheek as he shook his head in amusement.

“It's not funny,” you said, nudging him.

He rocked on his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Your coffee was turning lukewarm in hand, the bitter taste suddenly too sweet as you made to walk away from him and stew in your own humiliation.

Robby's fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged, using you to pull himself in closer. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he teased, voice dropping into the low drag in his condescending way. The sort of voice he used to coax you down into bed with his darkening eyes and lustful approach. “Is my dick too big? Do I fuck you too good?” His hands grabbed at your hips, bringing you into him, tongue darting out to your neck.

Your body wriggled in his hold, trying to escape as his arms grew strong around you. “Stop!” You laughed.

“Make me.” He nipped at your neck, licking over the sting he caused.

The door was pushed open and Langdon stumbled in the doorway, catching sight of the two of you tangled in arms and laughter.

“Are you two doing it in the lounge now?” he asked.

You guessed you just should've been thankful Langdon wasn't there that morning, otherwise there would have been competitions between him and Santos on who could make the best jokes out of your misery.

Slowly, Robby moved away from you, pulling himself up straight and pulling at his hoodie before leading the way out the room.

McKay was wheeling a patient away to x-ray, Samira was giving aftercare instructions to an elderly couple and Mel was somewhere lurking in a corner talking to Dana.

Santos, however, was still being the most productive, sitting across from Javadi and still trying to make sense of some invisible size between her hands.

You watched, un-able to stop as Robby walked behind Santos and spread her hands apart just a little, enough to leave more than enough inches between her hands.

Robby walked away, satisfied.

you notice his eyes getting heavier, his body slouching more, his grip on the steering wheel loosening. so, you do what you do best. why not have some harmless fun with your old boyfriend?

your hands subtly inch over to his thighs, fingers trailing the clothed skin just above his knee, and he flinches surprisingly, glancing at you for a moment with that tired face of his.

“what are y’doing? huh?” he asks, with a quirk in his eyebrow and his voice rasping more than usual from his fatigue; it only makes it all the more arousing for you.

you grin, your head turned to look up at him with a sly expression. “just waking you up a bit. you’re practically falling asleep here.”

your fingers move upwards now, slowly but surely, and right before you can reach the spot just below his bulge, he sighs out, gripping your hand to lightly push it off of him.

“not here. got another hour left til’ we’re at the hotel. then, we can rest up, baby.”

you pout, looking at him eagerly. “are you even gonna make it there, lo?” you tease, “your eyes are getting heavier, you’re tired.. why don’t you just let me drive?” you attempt, but you’re knocked down the second you try.

he huffs, shaking his head. “don’t you try that shit. you know what m’gonna say to that.”

you groan at that, rolling your eyes fussily as your head turns to look up at the roof of the car. “you’re insufferable,” you sigh out, jokingly, of course. but, you were with logan long enough to know just how stubborn he could be. that he could almost always be.

which means, you knew exactly how to get what you wanted, in more ways than one. 

let’s just say this way was more fun, anyway.

you let out an exasperated breath before turning back to face him, your eyes lighting up just slightly before you open up your mouth.

“guess i just gotta..” you trail off, hands now on your body with your fingertips grazing the skin on your chest; roaming around the loose shirt you had on. “..entertain myself for the next hour then..”

logan turns his head to you now, eyes fixing on your hand just long enough to catch you slip it underneath your bra, cupping one of your tits. you let out a low moan as you look into his eyes, fingers rolling the nipple there, and he scoffs.

it’s a sound that has your heart racing immediately.

“you’ve been a good girl so far, sweetheart. would hate for you to switch up when we’re almost fuckin’ there.” he warns you, turning his head back to the road, having seen enough. “don’t you start now. gonna make you regret it.”

a pang of arousal hits you just like that, pussy involuntarily clenching around nothing as he threatens you; a threat that you definitely need to see for yourself.

you merely pout at him again, but his words aren’t enough to stop you. not when you’re just getting started.

your hand leaves your breast, slowly inching down your stomach, then to the waistband of your shorts, all with your eyes still locked on him. you bite your lip as your hand breaches underneath the material, testing the waters before your fingers reach the hem of your panties.

fingertips aching to dip into the wet heat, you anticipate your own touch as your hands lower, but an immediate grasp at your wrist stops you completely, eliciting a gasp from your throat.

mouth falling open in shock, you turn to look at the man responsible with that gruff look on his face, and that snarl from him gives you more than enough of a warning.

you clear your throat, letting out a noise of frustration towards your boyfriend as he all but tosses your hand away carelessly.

“knock. it. off. don’t make me say it again.”

logan nearly growls at you, moving in closer to get right in your face; he isn’t playing around, and you know it.

but, god, does it only encourage you more.

it isn’t until logan’s focus is completely back on the road that you test the waters again; your fingers finally inserting themselves into your soft, warm folds, wet and waiting so impatiently.

it makes you moan, a hushed sound that you try your hardest to bite back from releasing, but you’re evidently unsuccessful.

so, before you know it, the truck is swerving, causing you to pull yourself back to hold onto the sides of the car, anywhere that you could grab onto. the wheels squeal loudly as the high pitch penetrates your ears, and logan makes a harsh u-turn without a second to waste.

“lo! what the fuck!” you exclaim loudly, wild eyes reaching for his own, but it’s no use. he’s dead set in front of him, shaking his head furiously as the white of his knuckles present itself from holding onto the wheel so tightly.

he’s had enough of your shit.

his eyes never leave the road in front of him once, never returning to you. no matter how much you talk or try to get him to respond, he doesn’t budge.

instead, for the next 5 minutes, silence fills the space between you as your eyes shut from your frustration. it’s all you really can do at this point.

but, it’s only when the high screech of the wheels halting and the gear being put into park has your eyes opening again, eyes latching onto the bright lights in front of you.

a gas station, and the convenience store’s white luminescent glass reflecting on logan’s face. he’s out the driver’s side as soon as you can look at him, and before you can process it, he’s dragging you out of the truck, slamming the door shut as he does so.

you scramble against him, fists almost pushing their hardest into his chest as you whine loudly, increasingly dazed and confused.

“logan, what the fuck are you doing?! let go of me!”

you fight against him harder, but there’s nothing stopping him. not now.

he lets out an exasperated breath, his heavy footsteps embedding themselves into the loud gravel beneath them as he drags you along.

“don’t play that shit with me. actin’ like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he practically yells at you in a hushed voice, “you know what the fuck you’re doing.”

“walk.” he orders you instantly, and you don’t hesitate to obey. not when his voice gets like that.

most of all, because it makes your heart pound—pounding in your chest because he’s right. you know what you’re doing.. but, you can’t say you regret it. no, not one bit.

and if he’s gonna make you regret it, you might as well go all out. right?

his grip on your arm is tight as you walk side by side with him, leading you into the gas station with the door open for you. you can’t even acknowledge the cashier from how quick logan swifts the two of you past them; straight towards the bathroom, and it makes you gulp. 

it’s too late for anyone to be around, too late for anyone to care, and you know that. but, the thought exhilarates you anyway.

he shoves the door open with a hushed whisper—one that’s almost incoherent as it escapes his lips. “you wanna act like a fucking brat?” he shuts the door hurriedly, shoving your body against the sink, “i’m gonna treat you like a fucking brat.”

you yelp at the sudden movement, his fingers digging themselves into your skin as you cry out at the feeling. it’s rough and brutal and it burns, but it’s so fucking good.

“lo.. lo, please,” you whine as your eyes shut tightly, the overwhelming sensation of his hands on you and his hot breath hitting your skin being too much to handle.

your body is flush against the sink as you attempt to squirm, to try to get him to do something, anything.

that cruel laugh of his fills your ears—quiet yet booming in your head as it sends chills throughout your entire body, eyes flashing open to look at him in the mirror in front of you. “please? please?” logan mocks you, “do y’even know what you’re asking for, baby? nah.. you don’t.”

“you just want..” logan trails off, his hands mindlessly reaching for your shorts, “to get fucked.. like the whore you are.”

without a single warning, he yanks them down along with your panties, and your whines are impossible to stop when the cool air hits your bare skin. when his filthy words are the only thing you can think about.

“can’t keep these pretty hands to yourself, you gotta rile me up to do it for you?” you hear the clank of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his jeans sliding down, “gotta piss me off every goddamn time you get so fucking needy? i mean,” he laughs harder now, “not that i really blame you..”

logan pauses, and his eyes that were once staring directly at you now shift to look straight ahead, latching onto your mirrored reflection instead. as if he was looking right into you now. “pretty girl like you.. would be a shame to let this cunt go to waste. so, i’ll do you a favor..”

your jaw falls open in complete shock as your face contorts, as the tip of his cock breaches your tight hole, making your eyes roll back instantaneously with a sob from your lips.

“i’ll use her real good. for what she’s made for, yeah?”

your hands grip the sink in front of you as tightly as possible, body trembling as logan groans into your ear, his hands on your body never loosening.

instead, his grip only tightens as his hips become flush against your ass, his entire cock piercing you to the hilt with a satisfied moan.

“that was easier this time, wasn’t it? gettin’ used to me now. just needed to..” logan takes a moment to pull himself out of you, the tip resting against your entrance as he groans. he slams himself back inside of you so hard that your body fails you, your hands landing on the mirror to hold yourself up, bent over.

“break her in real fucking good.”

your body shakes against him as you cry out at his intrusion, stammering out a string of noises as your walls involuntarily clench around him over and over again. it’s almost as if you’re rapidly adapting to him; the way he stretches you out so much that it hurts in the best way possible. you’re pulsing around him, increasingly growing wetter by the second as your eyes water from the intense sensation.

your words slur with a few whines of what seem to be logan’s name as your hands move back to the sink, attempting to push yourself back up against him, but he stops you. grabbing one of your hands, he places it right against the mirror again, holding it still as he grinds himself into you. it makes you breathe out rapidly, body bent over the sink completely now.

“keep em’ right there. right fucking there. you don’t get to do that. y’don’t get to make any choices here.” he grunts in your ear, his thick beard grazing along your jaw as his eyes flicker from your face back to the mirror. he notices the way you’re trembling, eyes filled with those pretty tears of yours, and it makes him smile—a chuckle leaving him shamelessly.

he takes a moment to admire you, whispering out, “what i’m gonna do to you, baby..” and it makes your eyes flutter shut, warmth filling your core.

his other hand trails up the front of your body now, and it practically covers you completely because of how big it is—your stomach, your breasts, your chest, then finally, your neck. your gasp is loud; heavy, as his fingers wrap around your throat, holding you still for him.

all of you in the palm of his hand—all in his control.

you moan eagerly as he looks into your eyes through the mirror, grinning almost maliciously, “isn’t this what you wanted?” he laughs, his hips stirring a bit as he agonizingly pulls out of you, making you wince, “you wanted my attention so bad, wanted my cock so fucking bad..” he growls in your ear, his hand sliding from your throat to the back of your neck, pushing you down hard, and it makes you grip onto the side of the sink even more. 

“well, now you fucking got it.”

the sound of his rasping grunt hits you first; before you’re sobbing out on his cock, pelvis hammering inside of you with a tight hold on your neck, keeping you there with no chance of stopping, no squirming, no escaping.. no running away from this.

all you can do is take it as he pounds into you, the agonizing ache of his cock sliding in and out of you rapidly increasing the coil in your core, your loud cries and moans enough to make him go harder.

“there you go, there she is..” logan grits out, hands now grasping at your hips, smacking your ass, eliciting a grunt from you, “better fuckin’ hope no one walks in here, or else all they’re gonna see is some whore gettin’ used.”

you cry out as you feel the tip of his cock reach the deepest parts inside of you, nudging your g-spot suddenly as a tear slides down your cheek, your knuckles white from how tight you were grasping at your surroundings. your cheeks grow hot from the idea of that happening, stomach tightening as heat pools your core.

“what’d they think, huh? you think they’d wanna join in on the fun? bet they’d wanna fuck you too after i’m done with you. tightest fuckin’ hole i’ve ever had.”

you whine out now, shaking your head desperately in retaliation as you deny it. you couldn’t ever have another man like this, not now, not ever—only him.

logan sighs out, “no, no, no, i’d never let em’ baby, don’t you worry,” he reassures you, pressing his lips against the top of your head, “this,” he murmurs, his hand reaching to cup the front of your cunt, the rough skin on his palm grazing your clit just enough to make you squeal, “s’all fuckin’ mine. you hear me? not a single soul gets to use her like i can.”

“not like she’d want it anyway. only wants my cock in her. s’the only way she can really be filled up.. fucked stupid and cryin’ for me. ain’t that right? never got fucked by a man like me before y’met me, and i’m sure as hell no one will ever get her trembling like i do.”

you shake your head again, tears continuously spilling out of your eyes as your stomach tightens repeatedly, “n-no, lo, only you—” you stammer out as logan buries himself inside of you to the hilt, plunging into the warm heat of your walls, and he slows, relying on pure power than pace now. the harsh drive of his hips has your head fogging up, so close to reaching your peak with your cunt shuddering.

“ohh, there we go, she’s doing it now. shaking all over this fucking cock, squeezin’ me so tight,” he hisses, “that all you up in this pretty little head, or can you even control it? can’t even control it, can you, baby?”

a string of noises leaves your lips, breathless and mixed with whines and a few tears in your eyes as your core spasms out, his cock hitting deep inside of you repeatedly.

“what was that? can’t really.. understand you, baby, y’gotta speak up..” he teases, a mean laugh escaping his throat, “c’monnn, use your words, really think em’ out, say em’ clearly.”

“c’mon, show me that you’re still my good girl. my good little girl. speak up for your old man, honey.”

you yelp out at his filthy words, “m’.. i c-can’t.. control it, ah!” your moans involuntarily stringing out, eyes fluttering shut and rolling to the back of your head, your pussy convulsing around him intensely. “g-gonna–c-cum, lo, oh—” you spit out, your chest grasping for as much air as possible.

he hums in your ear now, fingers reaching for your clit and fastening tight, harsh circles at it, making you shudder, your cunt throbbing around his cock—pulsating over and over again as you start to see white. “gonna fill you up, sweetheart, gonna make you take it, fuck.”

you can’t even register him anymore as he talks you through it, the “come for me, baby,” muffled in your ears as you listen to him, cunt constricting around him tightly as you soak him, and the sound is filthy as logan chases his release, squelching loudly from your climax.

you let out a muffled sob as logan finally reaches his peak, slamming himself deep inside of you as he holds you there, the spurts of white hot spilling & coating your walls. all you can hear is the ringing in your ears, along with the mixture of your heavy breaths and logan’s rasps surrounding you.

logan’s strong arms pull you up against him as you catch your breath, heart rate slowing as your back leans against his chest tiredly. he mutters sweet nothings to you, praising you with kisses along your neck, cheek, then to your lips.

“my good fucking girl, my sweet girl—oh, baby,” he hums in your ear, eyes shut as he takes you in. you sigh out, breathing him in as your hand reaches behind, landing on the back of his head to pull him in closer, “god, i love you.”

you laugh, pressing a mindless kiss on his skin, “i love you more, lo, i–i’m sorry for acting out, for being such a—” you begin to apologize, but he just shuts you up with another peck to your lips. “shh, you hush now. i appreciate it.. you riling me up all the damn time. s’ the only way i can still feel so young.”

you giggle, eyes opening up to turn your head to him, taking in his disheveled look—tired, old, grumpy. the man you loved, as handsome as ever.

“always young in my eyes, lo..” you smile, “besides.. it’s the only way i can get you to fuck me that good.” you tease.

he huffs, rolling his eyes. “i fuck you that good every goddamn time, n’ don’t you deny it.”

you laugh, nodding. you can’t deny that fact. but, your eyebrows furrow slightly, suddenly thinking back to the previous events.

“did you really fuck me in a gas station bathroom, babe? what if someone walked in?!” you groan, pushing your forehead into his chest, embarrassed.

he chuckles, “locked it the minute we got in here, baby. wouldn’t let anyone see you like that,” he reassures you, gently gripping the side of your head to make you look up at him, “you got that?”

his face is stern now as he looks into your eyes, and those butterflies in your stomach erupt as if it were the first time you ever got them from him. you nod though, gleaming up at him.

“got it.”

he grins, “good. now, let’s get you cleaned up n’ back on the road. back’s killing me even more now n’ that bed’s calling my name.”

you laugh at him, teasing him further. “old man.”

you wouldn’t want it any other way.

This punk, this moron, this lovesick blockhead, has been glued to your side ever since you saved him during the last mission.

It was supposed to be a standard run-of-the-mill rescue operation, but when things went south, and he was cornered, you swooped in like the hero you are and got him out unscathed. Now, the kid’s been following you around like a lost puppy, trying to win your attention, your approval—your everything. And it’s infuriating.

Logan can feel his hands clench into fists as he watches Johnny offer you the worst attempt at a bouquet he's ever seen, and sees the youngster's face turning a deeper shade of red as he mumbles something the older man can’t quite hear. Probably some dumb compliment, he thinks bitterly. The kid’s got no game.

You smile at Johnny. It's that soft, kind smile that always makes Logan’s heart skip a beat. But this time, all it does is fuel the fire raging within. He knows that smile isn’t just for him, but damn it, he wishes it were.

He wishes you’d tell the kid to scram, that you’re already spoken for, that you have a lovely boyfriend who could put together a way better bunch of flowers, but instead, you take the flowers with a gentle laugh, thanking the goblin like he’s just handed you a priceless treasure.

And somehow, the torment is never ending, it seems. Because later in the day he find’s himself lurking at the doorway of the mansion library, watching as you and Johnny sit together, heads bent over some book he know knows the little gremlin is just pretending to be interested in. That brat is soaking up every second of your attention, hanging on your every word, and it’s driving Logan up the wall.

“He’s just a kid,” you keep saying whenever he grumbles about it, but you don’t see it. You don’t see the way the bastard’s eyes light up whenever you smile at him, or how he leans in just a little too close when you’re explaining something to him. You don’t notice the small touches—the way his hand lingers on your arm when he’s pulling you somewhere, the way he looks at you like you’re the centre of his universe.

Logan sees it all, because he’s been there before. He knows exactly what Johnny’s feeling because he felt the same way when he first met you. Still does. It's that intense, all-consuming crush that makes you do stupid things just to be near the person you can’t stop thinking about.

“Logan, you’re staring,” Jean’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and he turns to see her smirking at him from across the hallway.

“I’m not starin’. Just keepin’ an eye on things,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You’re jealous.”

He scowls at her. “I ain’t jealous of some kid.”

“Sure you’re not,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Why don’t you just talk to her about it?”

Clenching his jaw, he knows she’s right but not wanting to admit it. “She doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s cute.”

“Maybe if you told her how you’re feeling, she’d understand,” Jean suggests gently, though there’s a knowing look in her eyes.

Huffing and turning away from the library, Logan has decided that he’s had enough of standing on the sidelines. He needs to do something before he loses his mind entirely. But it seems he can’t escape this torture, because he can’t even get five minutes alone with you.

He tried to get your attention after you finished up teaching your class, but before he could, the little devil ran in front of him and got it first. His eye twitches as he watches Johnny offer you another “gift,” this time a poorly folded paper crane. You take it with a smile, thanking him kindly, and Logan grits his teeth so hard he swears his molars might shatter.

“Hey, kid,” He grumbles, stepping forward with a growl in his throat that would send most people running. “Don’t you got somewhere else to be?”

Johnny looks up, momentarily startled by the sharp tone, but then just gives a nervous chuckle and scratches the back of his head. “Uh, no, sir. I was just, um, hanging out with her.”

“Yeah, well, she’s got things to do. Don’t you, darlin’?” Logan’s eyes flicker to you, hoping you’ll catch the hint and send the kid on his way.

But you don’t. You just laugh. A musical sound that makes him want to clamp his hand over your mouth because why should that devil's spawn get to hear your beautiful voice? He’s truly about to lose it. 

“It’s fine, babe. Johnny’s just being sweet.”

Sweet. Logan wants to snort. Sweet is one word for it. Obnoxious, irritating, and clingy are a few others that come to mind.

“You got a crush or somethin’, boy?” His tone is laced with a dangerous edge as he crosses his arms over his chest, towering over the knucklehead. He’s trying not to outright scare him, but damn, he’s close to it.

Johnny turns beet red, stammering, “N-no, I just… she saved me, and I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all!”

Narrowing his eyes, a low snarl rumbles from his chest, and Logan takes a deliberate step forward, but before he can do more, you place a hand on his arm, pulling him back.

“Logan, that’s enough,” you say firmly, giving him a pointed look. 

Well, there goes another piece of his sanity.

You’re too kind, too understanding. You just don't get it. To you, it’s just an innocent crush, something harmless, something that makes you smile. You think it’s nothing, and that only makes his blood boil more.

“Fine,” he finally mutters, stepping back, though his eyes never leave the teenager’s. Johnny seems to take that as some kind of begrudging acceptance and gives you another shy smile before scurrying off, likely to find the next token of his gratitude to bring to you.

Once he’s gone, Logan lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is drivin’ me nuts, you know that?”

You just chuckle again, stepping closer to him and slipping your arms around his waist. “It’s just a phase, I’m sure. He’ll get over it.”

Wrapping his arms around you tightly and pulling you in close, he feels a little bit better in your embrace, but his eyes still track where Johnny disappeared into the mansion. “He better. ’Cause if he doesn’t, I might lose my damn mind.”

You tilt your head up, kissing his jaw softly. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

He huffs, not wanting to admit it, but the truth is written all over his face. “Maybe a little.”

Smiling, you lean up to kiss him properly. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Logan kisses you back, a little more possessively than usual, as if to remind himself that you’re his. And even as you melt into him, he can’t help but keep one eye open, scanning the garden for any sign of that kid returning. He might be crazy, but he’ll be damned if he lets some lovestruck teenager get between him and the woman he loves.

—

The next morning, the mansion is buzzing with its usual activity. You and Logan head to the dining hall for breakfast, with him looking a little more relaxed after a night of holding you close. But the moment you step into the room, he spots a certain demon sitting at a table, eyes locked on you as if he’s been waiting for this very moment.

Groaning under his breath, Logan mutters, “Not again,” before guiding you to a table near the windows, hoping Johnny won’t follow.

You take your seat, smiling up at your boyfriend as he pulls out his chair, and for a brief second, he dares to believe that he might actually get to enjoy a quiet breakfast with you. But just as he’s about to sit down beside you, Johnny swoops in out of nowhere, plopping down in Logan’s seat with a grin like he’s just won the lottery.

“Morning!” He chirps, completely oblivious to the thunderous look on the other man’s face.

Freezing in his place, Logan glares at the kid who’s now sitting where he was supposed to be. He mentally cycles through a list of unflattering nicknames—Useless Idiot, Captain Obnoxious, Motherfu—but none of them seem quite strong enough to capture his current feelings. “You’re in my seat, kid.”

Johnny blinks up at him, feigning innocence. “Oh, uh, sorry. I didn’t see your name on it.”

You can practically see the self-control it takes for Logan not to pick the kid up and toss him across the room. His fingers twitch at his sides, his claws itching to come out, but he holds back. For your sake, and only your sake.

“Johnny,” you start, trying to keep your voice gentle but firm, “you do know he is my boyfriend, right? And even if he wasn’t, I’m a bit too, uh, old for you?”

The young mutant's eyes widen, and for a split second, you think you might have gotten through to him. But then he glances over at Logan, his face scrunching up like he’s just eaten something sour.

“Yeah, but he’s, like, hella old,” The idiot blurts out, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if the mutant standing right there can’t hear every word.

Logan’s expression darkens, a storm brewing in his eyes as his jaw tightens to the point where you can almost hear his teeth grinding. Hella old? Is this guy serious?

He's dealt with all kinds of enemies—mutants, monsters, government assassins—but nothing, nothing has tested his patience like this hellspawn has been. “What did you just say?” he growls menacingly.

Johnny, either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, doesn’t back down. “I mean, no offense, but you’ve got a lot of… uh, experience, you know? And you’re like centuries old. Maybe she needs someone closer to her age.”

That’s the last straw. Logan’s eyes flash with anger and something else—something more vulnerable that you rarely see. A part of him knows the gremlin’s just talking out of his ass, but the words hit a little too close to home, stirring up old insecurities he usually keeps buried deep.

Without another word, he slams his hand down onto the table, the sound echoing through the dining hall like a gunshot. The room falls into stunned silence as he then storms out, his footsteps heavy and his anger radiating off of him in waves. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge the whispers that follow in his wake. He just needs to get away before he does something he’ll regret.

“Logan, wait—” you call after him, but he’s already halfway out the door.

You turn back to Johnny, who’s now looking a little less confident and a lot more like he might have made a mistake. Sighing, you lean forward with a serious expression. “You can’t just say things like that. He’s not just my boyfriend. He’s the person I love.”

Looking down at the table, his face falls, and he begins fiddling with the napkin in his lap. “I didn’t mean to make him mad. I just thought—You saved me and I felt something…I thought maybe you’d feel something for me too.”

You soften, reaching out to pat his hand. “Johnny, you’re a sweet kid, but you’ve got to understand that Logan’s the one I’m with, and no one can replace him.”

He nods slowly, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. “I get it,” he mumbles. “I just…”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “You’ll find someone your own age who’s perfect for you. But for now, you need to give us some space, okay?”

Johnny nods again, this time more resolutely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Just… try not to instigate anything else. I’ll go talk to him.” You give him one last reassuring smile before heading toward the exit.

When you step out into the hallway, you barely have a second to process your thoughts and decide where to look before you’re suddenly pressed up against the wall. A gasp escapes your lips, but it’s quickly swallowed by Logan’s mouth on yours. The surprise melts away as the intensity of his kiss overtakes your senses, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

His kiss is possessive and fierce. You can feel the frustration, the jealousy, the need to claim what’s his, pouring out of him with every movement of his lips against yours. For a moment, you lose yourself in the heat of it, letting the world around you fade as you focus solely on him.

Then, through the haze of the kiss, the practical part of your brain kicks in. You pull back just enough to murmur against his lips, “Logan… we’re gonna get caught.”

He growls softly, his lips trailing down to your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Let them see,” he mutters between kisses. “Maybe then that damn dunce will get the hint.”

You laugh, though the sound is cut off as he captures your lips again, his hands gripping your waist as if he’s afraid to let go. “Babe, really,” you whisper, trying to sound serious but failing as your body responds eagerly to his touch. “People are gonna see…”

“I don’t care,” he grumbles, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear, making you involuntarily shiver against him. “Shoulda thrown that little shit out on his ass… let him know who you belong to.”

“You’re jealous of a teenager,” you tease, though the words come out breathless and almost lost in the intensity of the moment.

Logan pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark. “Don’t like him sniffin’ around you, thinkin’ he’s got a shot.”

You smile up at him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him back down for another kiss. “You don't need to feel threatened by him. You’re the only one I want.”

He huffs softly, his lips brushing against yours as he mutters, “Damn right I am.”

“C’mon,” you murmur, gently pushing against his chest. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private, huh?”

He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering back toward the dining hall, as if half-expecting Johnny to come barreling out any second. But then he nods, taking your hand and leading you down the hallway, away from prying eyes. His grip on your hand is tight, territorial, and you can’t help but smile as you follow him.

As you walk together, you give his hand a squeeze. “Logan?”

“Yeah?” He glances over at you, his expression softening slightly.

“I love you, you know that?” You say it with that pretty grin of yours, and the way his eyes warm in response makes your heart flutter.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I love you too.”

The remaining tension melts away, leaving just the two of you walking hand in hand, ready to steal a few more precious moments together.

----

It seemed that he was mistaken to assume she would’ve taken to her own bed like she had the last time he left the castle. Grey Wind curled up at the door when Robb reached his room and opened the door, the sweet flowery scent swirling around him like some sort of invisible magic, warmth caressing his face. His lady, who was perched on the window seat and watching the stormy sky turned her head like she snapped out of a haze, a gasp leaving her.

“You’re back!”

He didn’t even notice the smile pulling at his lips.

“And you’re awake.” He closed the door behind him as she darted across the room and flung herself into his arms, coaxing a chuckle out of him. He lifted her, earning a surprised yelp before he carried her to bed, both of them falling on the mattress with him on top of her.

Her giggle echoed in the room, sweeter than any melody he had ever heard. He couldn’t help but dip his head to kiss her, a sigh leaving her lips when he pulled back to feast his eyes on the sight of her beautiful face.

“Good evening, my lady wife.”

“Good evening, my lord husband,” she played along, tracing the direwolf clasp of his cloak. “I thought you’d be back earlier.”

“So did I,” Robb admitted. “Why are you awake at this hour?”

She pouted. “Sleep evades me.”

“Nightmares?”

“I had a nightmare, but it’s gone now,” she said after a beat while he absentmindedly played with her hair. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m glad to be back,” he murmured, stealing a kiss from her before his lips trailed down her neck, her sweet scent luring him but she held her breath.

“Robb, we—um, we cannot, I got my moon blood.”

He grinned against the soft skin of her neck.

“A man who’s afraid of getting his sword bloody is no man at all—” he was cut off when she smacked his shoulder with a gasp, laughter rumbling deep in his chest.

“Don’t say that!”

“It’s an old northern proverb.”

“It is not an old northern proverb!” she whined, pushing at his shoulder again when he lifted his head to smirk down at her.

“Aye, it is.”

“It’s not.” She scrunched up at her nose in the most adorable manner. “Proverbs are supposed to be wise.”

“It is very wise,” he argued. “It’s applicable to every moon. What is that if not wise?”

She looked like she was trying her hardest to fight back her laughter, yet a giggle escaped her before she took a deep breath.

“It’s rather uncomfortable,” she admitted, her voice quiet as her smile faded. “The cramps.”

That was enough to make Robb snap out of it.

“You’re in pain?” he asked, his gaze darting over her face. “Did you take any remedy? I can wake Maester Luwin—”

“No,” she cut him off, her hand cradling his cheek as he turned his head to kiss her palm. “No need for that, my love.”

“But are you certain?”

“I am.”

“Is that normal?”

“Very much so, I’m afraid,” she said and swallowed thickly. “Will you just…will you just hold me?”

Robb could swear his heart melted inside his chest. He stared at her for a brief moment, warmth filling his veins before he gave her a chaste kiss on the lips.

“I’ll hold you until the end of time if you wish it so,” he told her as he got off of her to take off his cloak. “Just let me change first.”

It didn’t take him long to change into loose breeches, deciding to forego his nightshirt as usual due to the heat of the room. It was rather hot if he had to admit, yet his lady was not used to the cold of the north, and she liked it that way. Raindrops started pattering on the window, wind outside getting stronger as he slipped into bed, pulling his lady close to him so that she could curl into his side to rest her head on his chest. He nuzzled into her hair, her scent the only remedy that could soothe the ache of being apart from her for days.

“I missed you,” she whispered into the silent room and Robb pressed his lips on top of her head.

“I missed you too,” he muttered. “How was it? Here?”

“Um—” She cleared her throat. “Nothing of importance took place.”

“Bran is still…?”

“Asleep,” she finished his sentence for him. “But Maester Luwin says he will wake up, we just don’t know when.”

He heaved a sigh, exhaustion creeping up on him slowly. “And Rickon?”

“He loves taking care of Frost, you should see him. Every morning we bring her breakfast, he finds it hilarious.”

He huffed out a laugh.

“Better than nightmares, I suppose,” he said. “What was yours about, by the way?”

“Oh, I…” she trailed off. “I don’t remember exactly, but it was painful.”

He let out a hum, his arm tightening around her waist as he kissed her forehead.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “I would never let anything bad happen to you, I swear it.”

Her whole body tensed up, and she went quiet before she pulled away from his grip so that she could sit up in the bed. The room was rather dark; his lady must’ve blown out the candles before, and since the flames in the hearth were the only source of light, he could only see the glimmer in her eyes, rather than her whole expression.

Her voice was calm when she spoke: “Robb?”

“Hm?”

“Would you kill someone for me if I asked you to?”

The lightning flashed outside, illuminating her beautiful face for a brief moment before the darkness claimed the room again, followed by a loud boom. Despite the exhaustion, Robb felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, how did she not know?

The whole north knew at this point.

“Of course.” He frowned when the thought hit him. “Has someone offended you in my absence?”

“No,” she was quick to assure him. “Not at all. I was just thinking about the nightmare, if someone hurt me—”

“That’d be the last thing they ever did before I sent them to the gods, old or new.”

“No matter who?”

“No matter who,” he swore as he reached out to drag his knuckles over her arm before he grinned. “Except your moon blood; that I cannot kill. I can put it to sleep for nine moons though.”

It took him a mere second to understand she was in no mood for a jest, even before she let out a shaky breath like she was on the verge of tears. Robb cussed at himself under his breath and sat up while she sniffled so that he could pull her into his arms. She buried her face to the crook of his neck as he cradled her head with one hand, the other rubbing her back.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered to her temple. “I’m sorry, my love. Was the nightmare that bad?”

She nodded and sniffled again.

“Someone—” She gulped. “Someone hurt me. And I bled out. Alone.”

“That will never happen,” he cooed at her. “I’d never let that happen, lamb. Just a nightmare, it’s not real.”

A curt laugh escaped her and she took a deep breath.

“No,” she murmured after a beat. “No, it’s not real. Just a nightmare, nothing more.”

Though it had taken his lady a while to go to sleep, the next day she woke up in better spirits. The storm continued outside, and Robb’s morning wasn’t so busy for once, so he was able to convince her to stay in bed and have breakfast there. It was rather cozy; the sound of the wind and rain locked away outside while the hearth warmed up the room, Grey Wind taking a nap at the foot of the bed. His lady was wrapped up all snug in his robe while Robb rested his head in her lap, holding one of the ledgers that she had asked him to check above his face, but he could barely focus with the way she was absentmindedly playing with his hair.

It felt so peaceful that Robb wanted to stay like this forever.

“So what do you think?” she urged him and he tried to focus on the numbers on the page.

“I think it looks great.”

She gave him a bright smile, and—much to his displeasure—stopped playing with his hair so that she could grab the pair of earrings that he had forgotten to give her last night off her nightstand.

“They’re so pretty,” she chirped. “I cannot wait to wear them tonight to dinner!”

He blindly reached up to put her hand back in his hair, coaxing a laugh out of her before she buried her hand into his curls and ran her nails over his scalp, making him close his eyes with a sigh.

“Lord Mollen doesn’t like my idea,” she told him, causing him to open his eyes again to look up at her. “Lady Lynara told me as much. Neither of them think it wise.”

“What they think isn’t of importance.” Robb turned the page. “It’s for a good cause, and you want it done, so it will be.”

She shifted her weight as if she was too excited to sit still.

“Thank you!” she said. “I’ll imply it in a polite way tonight if she asks again, let’s see how she will react.”

He stole a glance at her. “Are you sure you can attend dinner tonight? We can eat here if you’re still in pain.”

“No, it’s better now,” she said. “It’s bearable.”

Robb frowned. “Is it ever unbearable?”

“Sometimes, but this is not an appropriate topic for a lord and lady to speak of, you do realize that?”

“We’re man and wife now, we can talk about such things,” he said. “For example, is it as painful as—”

“I’m going to stop you right there because I think you’re going to compare it to something men go through during sparring,” she said. “Yes. It’s more painful than that. Any of that.”

“Any of that, really?”

She puffed up her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling like she was straining her mind for the right words.

“Imagine somebody sets a sword on fire.” She held up a fist, mimicking holding a sword before she slammed the imaginary sword into the mattress. “Then drives it down your spine!”

Robb blinked up at her.

“…I don’t want to imagine that.”

“And while you’re trying to breathe, someone else shoots an arrow through your stomach.”

“That’s—”

“And then they twist both the sword and the arrow, and then yank them both out.”

“Why do I feel like you’re enjoying this very vivid description?”

“And there’s blood everywhere but it matters not, because you’re still expected to attend feasts and jousts and such,” she mused. “And dance and make small talk and smile and entertain people.”

He made a face. “How do women not walk around screaming?”

“Not from a lack of desire to do so, I’ll tell you that much,” she said airily as if they were talking of the weather. “My septa used to say—”

“M’lady?” Her maid knocked on the door. “A raven from Dorne has arrived.”

“Come in Kyra!” she called out and the maid opened the door, then came over to the bed to hand her the scroll, then scurried out of the room while Robb turned his attention to the ledger. His lady broke the unfamiliar seal—it probably belonged to her mother’s house in Dorne—then skimmed the lines.

“Silas?” he asked and she shook her head.

“Perce,” she muttered. “Silas wrote to me the moment he set foot in Dorne.”

“How was their trip?”

“Well, Cliff is an excellent sailor so it—oh he has to be jesting!”

That was enough to pull Robb’s attention away from the ledger.

“What’s happened?”

She threw her head back in exasperation, then frowned down at the scroll.

“Perce wants me to ask Silas about his new lady on my next letter.”

“Hold on.” Robb sat up with a smirk. “Silas has a lady?”

“Mm hm.”

“Already?” he asked. “They’ve been there for what, two weeks?”

“Three.” She pursed her lips. “A young widow, whose husband died under…questionable circumstances.”

“Did they check for a dagger in his chest or was that too questionable?”

“Perce says Silas goes to her castle each night.”

He let out a laugh. “So she’s his mistress?”

“It sounds to me that Silas is her mistress, to be completely honest,” she muttered, her eyes darting over the lines. “Unbelievable.”

“Is it though?” he wondered aloud, earning a slight shove at his arm. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised, Silas is very fond of ladies.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but there was another knock on the door. Robb pushed himself off the bed to make his way there, assuming that it was either Jon or Theon, but instead, it was his youngest brother. Rickon’s eyes widened when he saw him.

“Robb, you’re back!”

“I am,” he said with a small chuckle as Rickon clutched at his leg in an attempt to hug him. “Missed me?”

“A little, but it was only for a week.”

“It was.” Robb ruffled his wild curls. “Are you hiding from Maester Luwin?”

“No.”

“Rickon, if you stuffed a dead crow in your septa’s pillow again just because she hit your knuckles—”

“I did not!”

“Then did you need me for something?”

“Um, not you.” The little boy walked past him to step inside, making Robb look over his shoulder. “Good morrow!”

Robb tilted his head in confusion.

“Good morrow to you too my sweet!” His lady crossed the room, then crouched down to Rickon’s eye level. “How did you sleep?”

“I had a dream with—with me and Shaggy, and we were on a mountain, and then Shaggy was going after another wolf, but then it wasn’t a wolf, because it turned into a bird!”

His lady gasped. “That sounds like a very interesting dream! What sort of bird?”

“A blue one—can we give Frost breakfast, please and thank you?” 

“I was away for a week and he says please and thank you now?” Robb asked, getting a reprimanding glare from his lady while Rickon nodded.

“We say please and thank you to ladies,” he pointed out in a very proud manner, and Robb stifled a laugh.

“Do you know what those words mean?”

“I do!”

“Of course he does,” his lady said. “And we can give Frost breakfast after I get ready, thank you for asking so nicely.”

“Wait,” Robb said, the smile wiping off his face in a second. “Now?”

“It’s her breakfast time,” Rickon told him and Robb shook his head.

“You’re nearly a man grown, you can feed her by yourself.”

“But we do it together!” Rickon argued. “We go to the kitchens and get carrots and apples and go to the barn to feed Frost first, and then Silk.”

“Rickon my sweet, can Robb join us today?”

Rickon looked up at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh while Robb frowned at him.

“What, you have to think?”

“He can,” Rickon muttered. “I guess.”

“I appreciate the sacrifice, Rickon.”

“But you cannot leave the castle in this attire,” his lady told his little brother, motioning at his clothes. “You need a cloak, there’s a storm outside. How about Robb takes you to your room so that you can get your cloak, and then we’ll go to the kitchens?”

“Okay!” Rickon rushed to his side. “Let’s go.”

“He knows where—” Robb started, but gave Rickon a little shove when he sunk his teeth into Robb’s hand, tugging at his sleeve. His lady gasped.

“Robb, don’t push him like that!” she chastised him and Rickon gave him a big grin.

“Aye, don’t push me like that!”

“You’re fine,” Robb deadpanned. “You’re more wolf than child.”

His lady shook her head and pointed at the door. “Out.”

“You heard her, Rickon.”

“I’m talking to you!” she insisted. “Go make sure he has a cloak on, and I’ll meet you in the kitchens.”

“Fine, fine…” Robb muttered and grabbed his own cloak to put it on. “You can stay, Grey Wind.”

The direwolf only plopped on his back when his lady approached as if he was asking for belly rubs, and Robb closed the door with a sigh.

“Come on.” He gently pushed Rickon, who wasted no time to jump and grab his arm to hang from it, his cackle echoing in the hallway.

“Onward!”

 “See what I meant?” Robb grumbled as he made his way down the hallway, swinging his arm while Rickon cheered. “More wolf than child.”

Much to his displeasure, he barely had any time to see his lady after their little visit to the barn. He went to Bran’s room, but he was soon pulled away from there when Maester Luwin reminded him that there were many scrolls that he had to reply to; a lot of ravens had arrived in Winterfell in his absence from different parts of the north. At least the storm had passed, so once he managed to find some free time, he joined Jon and Theon in the yard to spar with them while his lady attended to her own duties.

But there was something off.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something off. 

Perhaps it was because of people’s criticism of her new plan while he was away, or the nightmares keeping her up last night, but judging by how curt her smile was while she was talking to others when he caught a sight of her on his way to the rookery, Robb could swear she wasn’t her happy self in the crowd of ladies surrounding her.

After an hour of sparring, he decided to catch his breath and grab some water while Theon stretched, and Jon sat down beside him on the bench to sharpen his sword.

“I’m so glad to be back,” Theon said. “I don’t like Castle Hornwood.”

“Why not?”

“Everyone is so quiet there.”

“It was a nice change,” Jon said with a grin and Robb scoffed.

“Nah, I missed home too.”

“You missed your lady,” Theon corrected. “More than you missed home. You kept sulking.”

“Aye, you did.”

“I was right to do so, because apparently she—” Robb paused when he saw Lady Jorelle crossing the yard. “Give me a moment. Lady Jorelle?”

She spun around on her heels as he made his way to her.

“Hello.”

“Hello, my lord,” she said. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I uh…this is going to sound rather strange, but is my lady wife alright?”

She blinked a couple of times, then raised her brows. “Hm?”

“Has something happened while I was away?”

She frowned and looked up as if she was trying to remember, then shook her head.

“Nothing happened,” she said, her voice calm. “Why?”

“She seems rather distressed,” he said. “And she mentioned some people disagreeing with her about her plans for mothers and children for the winter. Has someone disrespected her in my absence? Because she refuses to tell me, but I’d like to put an end to it if such a thing took place.”

“And admirable thought,” she said. “But nothing took place, I assure you. If anything, it was a rather dull week.”  

Robb bit inside his cheek, then gave her a curt smile and nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better leave you to it then. I appreciate your help.”

“Of course,” Jorelle said and curtsied, then went into the keep while Robb returned to the corner Jon and Theon were watching him from.

“What was that about?” Theon asked and Robb ran a hand through his hair.

“My lady is distressed, and I do not know why.”

“Well, her family is away,” Jon pointed out. “And then you went away. Can’t be easy, being alone in a new place.”

That could explain the nightmare, now that he thought about it.

“But Silas will visit often, he said so himself,” Theon said. “A couple moons after the honeymoon, he said.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robb said with a shrug. “Silas is rather busy in Dorne with a lady.”

Jon’s head shot up from his sword. “Silas has a lady?”

“Aye, a mistress.” Robb grinned. “A young widow who killed her husband, apparently.”

Theon let out a laugh, and Jon stared at Robb in silence for a couple of seconds, then took a deep breath.

“He—how do you know this?”

“Perceon sent a raven to my lady.” Robb gulped down his water, then put the flask to the side. “Are you ready?”

Jon swallowed thickly, then feigned a cough.

“You go ahead, I’ll uh…” He motioned in the direction of the Godswood. “I’ll find Ghost.”

“Now?” Robb asked but Jon ignored him, making his way through the yard to go into the Godswood. Robb turned to Theon to see whether he knew what was happening, but Theon held up his palms with a shake of his head.

“You two know direwolves better than I.”

Robb looked over his shoulder, then heaved a sigh and grabbed his sword.

“Very well then,” he said. “Come on. I haven’t sparred in days, I must catch up.”  

Eventually, he had to go back to his solar to hold audience with some of his vassals, but once Lord Poole left and someone knocked on the door, it wasn’t yet another vassal but his lady wife who peeked her head in.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“Never,” Robb said, a smile pulling at his lips as he stood up. “Come in!”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

“I know you’ve been busy, but I sent the ledgers with Kyra, and I wanted to ask—”

“They’re over here,” Robb pointed at the top of the pile. “I’ll be done with them by the dinner time, is that alright?”

“More than alright!” She beamed while he rounded the desk to lean back to it, then grabbed her hand to pull her closer. A giggle climbed her throat and she stepped into his embrace, heaving a sigh when he cradled her cheek in his palm and brushed his lips against hers.

“Do you have much to do?” she asked, playing with the laces of his shirt and he nodded.

“A little,” he admitted. “But stay.”

“Gladly,” she said. “I miss you during the day.”

“I miss you too,” he said, caressing her cheekbone. “And are you feeling better? Last night…”

“Oh.” She paused, looking down at the floor before she raised her gaze to his again. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t,” he said in a haste. “Don’t apologize for it. I just want to make sure you’re alright, that’s all.”

“I’m alright,” she assured him. “It was just a nightmare, nothing more.”

“And is…” Robb trailed off. “Is someone driving a burning sword down your spine and shooting arrows into your stomach?”

 That coaxed a laugh out of her, the pleasant sound echoing in the room.

“No.”

“No urge to walk around screaming at people?”

“Aside from very specific people, no,” she said. “But ask me again after dinner. I have a feeling the urge will be back then.”

“We can take our dinner in our bedchambers.”

“You just came back,” she reminded him. “We cannot do that I’m afraid. Your vassals want to see you.”

“And I want to see my wife.”

“I’m right here.”

“Aye, but you’re dressed.”

Her jaw dropped and she pushed at his arm. “Robb!”

“What?” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Would you rather if I were dishonest?”

“I would rather if you weren’t so—” she started, but was cut off when someone knocked on the door.

“Lord Mollen, m’lord,” the footman at the door announced and his lady rolled her eyes at the name.

Ah.

The infamous Lord Mollen who did not approve or like her plans.

When the footman opened the door to let him in, his lady made an attempt to step away no doubt to leave the room, but Robb was quick to grab her wrist to tug her back to his side, making her head shoot up.

“You’ll stay,” he muttered and turned to the man. “Lord Mollen. Good afternoon.”

Lord Mollen lingered in his spot, his eyes darting between him and his lady before he bowed his head.

“My lord,” he said. “If you’re busy, I can come at another time.”

“We’re not busy.”

“But the lady—”

“My lady wife will remain here.”

She looked like she was fighting off a smug smile but managed to school her expression into composure.

“Hello Lord Mollen,” she said. “How wonderful to see you. I’ve had the chance to talk to Lady Lynara the other day.”

“She mentioned it, my lady,” Lord Mollen said. “That was actually what I wanted to talk to you about, my lord. This…carpenter business.”

Robb gave a short nod. “I’m listening.”

Lord Mollen cleared his throat.

“It’s clear that your lady wife has a soft heart for children,” he started, “And may the gods grant you both many.”

A shadow crossed his lady’s face, but it was gone as quick as it came.

“However,” the man continued. “Expecting the carpenters to teach the craft to absolute strangers on top of their usual work has caused some unrest between them, at least in my castle. Most of them teach their own children their craft.”

“Orphans don’t have fathers who can teach them anything, Lord Mollen,” she said. “And those carpenters will be compensated for their work. Surely adding one more apprentice cannot hurt. Or do they fear competition?”

Lord Mollen turned his glances to Robb as if he expected him to step in, but Robb stayed quiet for a deliberate couple of seconds before he pushed himself off the desk.

“The question was directed to you, my lord.” He went back to take his seat behind the desk, so that Lord Mollen would have to address his lady while Robb was still present and could glare at him without her noticing. “Not to me.”

“No,” Lord Mollen answered in a rush. “Not competition, but they find it rather trivial. All that work for toys for children, who will mostly come from mountain clans. We have our own people to worry about for the winter, and while I’m sure it’s normal to give such instructions back in the south, in the north—”

“Lord Mollen, there must’ve been a misunderstanding in my absence,” Robb cut him off. “Which is expected, seeing that this is rather new for everyone. But from now on, you can safely assume that whatever instructions my lady wife gives, as polite as she makes them sound, come from me.” He crossed his arms over the desk and leaned forward, his jaw clenched. “And I do not give trivial commands.”

Since his lady was still leaning back to the desk, he couldn’t see her face, but Lord Mollen’s discontent was clear as day. Silence fell upon the room, and Robb let the veiled threat linger in the air without another word while Lord Mollen gulped, then took a deep breath.

“A misunderstanding indeed,” he said, and bowed his head. “I’ll make sure they follow your command, my lord. My lady.”

“Have a nice day, Lord Mollen!” his lady chirped while she walked him to the door, then closed it behind him once he left. Robb threw his head back.

“That prick…” he grumbled while his lady stood there for a moment, her hand still on the handle.

“Do you have some free time?” she asked after a beat, leaning back to the door. Robb ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m supposed to hold meetings with four more people until dinner.”

She let out a hum like she was lost in her own thoughts before she shrugged and bolted the door.

“They’ll wait.”

“What’re you—?” Robb was cut off when she flung herself into his arms for a kiss, letting him pull her into his lap with a squeal. He grabbed the side of her neck to tilt her head, the feeling of her melting under his touch intoxicating as ever when he deepened the kiss, the fire of desire coming to life with a stir.

Gods, it had been so long…

His lips trailed down the column of her throat down to her bosom, her lovely scent filling his lungs, her skin softer than the silk of her pretty gown. Her fingers buried into his curls with a gasp to tug at the roots, drawing a moan out of him as she shifted in his lap, the mere friction against his hardness enough to drive him mad. He blindly reached down to push her skirt up, but she grabbed his hands to entwine their fingers, trying to catch her breath, her lips swollen with his kiss.

“Robb, we cannot do that—”

The sound that left him sounded awfully like a whine. “But…”

“Not that.”

“Does my wife mean to torment me, then?”

A giggle climbed up her throat and she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, looked over her shoulder at the door, then turned to him again.

“No,” she said, “my husband misunderstands me.”

He could’ve come up with a retort if all the blood in his body hadn’t gone south, but any hope of even half a thought disappeared from his mind when she easily slid off his lap to kneel before him, the realization knocking the breath out of his lungs.