n

He fumbles with his phone, then holds it up a little too close to her face, the movement awkward and rushed, like he’s trying to anchor himself back to the purpose he walked in with.

But his eyes don’t leave her as she leads him even further into the store. He’s too busy following her voice when he almost bumps into her when she stops. 

“I am…um, so sorry,” he mumbles quickly, his voice lower now, almost embarrassed.

“Please, don’t be,” she says with an easy laugh, turning back to him. “I’d be starstruck in a Chanel store too.”

The joke is light, meant to ease him, and it works, at least enough to let him breathe again. She gestures toward the display in front of them, effortlessly slipping back into her role. 

“So, this, flap bag in patent lambskin with gold-tone metal, dark brown.”

Her fingers hover just above the bag as she speaks, careful, precise. The lighting catches the glossy finish, making it gleam under the soft store lights. He scratches his hair, wondering why she’d pick this.

“My mother doesn’t like a finish like that” Taehyung shares, his fingers rubbing against the glossy finish. “She prefers something with a more soft finish, like a suede or soft leather” Taehyung is more focused on finding the correct bag now, his mother only turns 50 once.

“Okay…where on her hand does she carry her bag?” ___ asks, turning to fully face him. Taehyung pauses, caught off guard by the question. He searches his memory, replaying familiar images, his mother stepping out, adjusting her bag without thinking. Absent-mindedly, he mimics the motion himself, sliding his own bag lower along his arm, letting it rest near his elbow.

“Like this… I think.”

She watches him closely, something like fascination flickering in her eyes, not just at the answer, but at the way he unconsciously mirrors someone he clearly cares about. And then, almost instantly, something clicks.

Her expression brightens, subtle but certain. “I think I have just the thing,” she says, turning and reaching for another display.

She lifts a bag with careful hands, presenting it with quiet confidence. “This one’s suede,” she explains, her fingers grazing the soft texture. “It’s more structured, so it holds its shape… which makes it sit beautifully on the arm.”

The material absorbs the light instead of reflecting it, rich and understated, elegant without trying too hard. And for the first time since he walked in, Taehyung actually smiles, his raised cheekbones indicating so.

“Sir, is this for a special occasion? We could include a card” ___ offers as he stays seated while the bag gets packed. He’s gone back to observing her, she is the same ___ he trained with some 14 years ago.

“Uh…Can it be empty, I want to make my brother and sister write on it” he asks and she smiles widely, this is the best kind of customer on a Tuesday morning. 

“Sure sir.” She disappears again, his eyes on her till she’s gone and again when she appears. It’s the same steady walk. 

“We’ve included multiple cards,” she says, glancing back at him as she leads the way to the billing counter. “In case each of you wants to write her an individual note.” There’s a softness in the way she says it, thoughtful, deliberate.

Taehyung follows quietly, hands slipping into his pockets for a moment before he pulls out his card. The sleek black surface catches the light as he taps it idly against the counter, once… twice… a quiet rhythm while the bill is being processed.

“Is it her birthday?” she asks, making easy conversation as someone behind her prepares the receipt. “Yes,” he replies, a hint of warmth slipping into his voice. “Her fiftieth.” 

His eyes give him away again, bright, almost boyish in a way that doesn’t match the composed figure he’s trying to maintain. She notices.

“Fifty is special,” she says with a small smile, glancing at him briefly before looking back at the bill. “She’s going to remember this one.”

And somehow, the way she says it makes it feel less like a purchase, and more like something that matters.

“Jimin-ah, wait up” Taehyung catches up to a very fast leaving Jimin. “Wait…god why are you running out of here” “I have dinner plans” Jimin offers lightly as they continue to walk towards the elevators.

“Do you remember ___?” Taehyung asks as the elevator doors close behind them, Jimin look at him for a second, trying to place that name to a face till it clicks. “The one that we trained with?” Jimin asks, adjusting his bag.

“Yes, I saw her at the Chanel store a few weeks ago” Taehyung adds and Jimin waits, but Taehyung doesn't elaborate, just stares at the elevator doors like they owe him something. "...And?" Jimin presses.

"She works there. And she didn't recognize me." Jimin is quiet for a beat, then lets out a short breath of a laugh. "Of course she didn't, you had that mask on, you look suspicious when you go out like that." He shifts his bag to his other shoulder, unbothered. "Good for her though, Chanel's not bad."

"That's not-" Taehyung starts, then stops.

Jimin glances at him sideways, something flickering behind his eyes. A slow smile creeps onto his face. "You know," he says lightly, "every single one of us had a thing for her back then." He lets that sit in the air between them for exactly a second too long. "Every. Single. One."

The elevator opens. Jimin walks out first, hands in his pockets, still smiling. “You should have introduced yourself then, she used to be your dance partner after all” he continues as Taehyung trails a step behind him.

“Say what, hey, this is the guy that you turned down when you were 17, nice to see you again?” Taehyung says. This finally makes Jimin stop. He turns slowly, the smile spreading into something more deliberate. "No, no, no," he says, holding up a finger. "You go, remember the guy you turned down at 17? Now I'm a mega successful celebrity." He gestures grandly, like he's presenting a prize.

Taehyung stares at him flatly. "That's embarrassing."

"You getting rejected at 17 is embarrassing," Jimin corrects, already walking again. "Walking into a Chanel store, recognizing her, buying a bag, and then just… leaving without saying a word?" He tilts his head. "That's tragic"

Taehyung says nothing, which is answer enough. Jimin slows just slightly, letting him catch up. "She turned you down and you still remember it fourteen years later," he says, quieter now, the teasing softened just enough. "Maybe go back and buy something else."

"I don't need anything from Chanel." "No," Jimin agrees simply. "But maybe you want to, do you still have a thing for her?” Jimin asks, his curiosity peaking. “No, it was just nice to see her again”

“Oppa why are we not going to the place closer to your office?” his sister asks as he drives around the same mall parking lot. “I get better service here,” Taehyung adds simply.

“You are V of BTS, you get the best service everywhere” Haerin mentions flatly, waiting for her brother to park the car before they can head out. It was very close to closing time when he called, hopefully they can get the bag before he changes his mind.

The mall hums its familiar quiet around them as they walk in, and Taehyung's pace, just barely, quickens. “I’m still not sure so as to why you need a designed bag?” Taehyung asks once again as they walk into the store, his eyes immediately darting for her. 

“For surviving college,” "Four years, oppa. Four years of early mornings and group projects with people who don't pull their weight and professors who act like their class is the only one you're taking." She pauses in front of a display, touching nothing, just looking. "I survived. I deserve a bag."

Taehyung opens his mouth. "A nice one," she adds, before he can. He closes it again.

The store is quieter now, the soft lighting warmer against the near-closing hour. A staff member acknowledges them from a distance with a small nod, the brand's usual choreography of unhurried attention. And then he sees her, moving between displays with that same steady walk, adjusting something on a shelf with careful hands.

Something in his chest settles and tightens at the same time. His sister, who notices everything, notices this too. She follows his eyeline, then looks back at her brother. "So," she says quietly, the word carrying far more than it should. "The service here really is better."

"Hi, you came back." ___ doesn't clock him right away, but something about the dress shoes — same style, same careful polish — pulls at her memory. "How can I help you today?"

"He's buying me a graduation gift," Haerin announces, stepping forward with the easy confidence of someone who has never once in her life been shy. "Something beautiful. Something that says she suffered and she deserves this."

___ laughs, warm and genuine, the kind that can't be practiced. "I think we can work with that." She turns slightly. "Is this your-"

"Sister," Haerin and Taehyung say at the same time. He says it quietly. She says it loudly, with feeling, like she's correcting a public record. "His sister," Haerin repeats, just to be thorough, already drifting toward the nearest display with wide eyes. "Not girlfriend. Never girlfriend. He has terrible taste in-"

"Haerin-ah." "I'm just looking."

___ smiles and follows her, the two of them falling into easy conversation as Haerin lifts bags, holds them at arm's length, tilts her head and declares each one almost before moving to the next. She is bright and loud and fills the quiet store with a warmth it doesn't usually hold at closing time.

Taehyung hangs back, watching. At some point, without quite deciding to, he reaches up and pulls his mask down. ___ is mid-sentence when she turns back toward him to ask something, and then she stops. Just for a fraction of a second, a small, almost imperceptible pause, like a skip in a record. Her eyes move over his face once, carefully. It’s Taehyung.

He looks back at her with complete, practiced calm. Neutral. Polite. The expression of a man who has absolutely no idea what she might be thinking.

"Sorry," she says, recovering smoothly. "I was going to ask if she prefers a longer strap or shorter."

"Longer," Haerin calls from across the store, holding a bag above her head to check the chain. ___ nods and turns back. But in the brief moment before she does, Taehyung catches it,the slight press of her lips together, the quiet recalibration happening behind her eyes.

She knows. And he pretends, very convincingly, that he doesn't know that she knows. The next few minutes have a particular texture to them. ___ moves through her role with the same quiet professionalism as before, pulling options, explaining finishes, asking Haerin the right questions. But there is something different now, a slight carefulness in the way she doesn't look at him directly for too long. 

Haerin, to absolutely no one's surprise, is not. She bounces between displays, draping chain straps over her shoulder, asking ___ with complete sincerity which colour makes her look most like someone who has her life together.

"This one," ___ says, holding up a classic flap in soft ivory without missing a beat. "It's understated enough to be serious, but it's still beautiful. Like you've arrived, but quietly."

Haerin stares at her. "I want you at every important moment of my life." ___ laughs again, and Taehyung watches the sound leave her like it always did, easy, unguarded, the one thing about her that the years haven't changed at all.

He looks away before she can catch him. 

She finally gathers the courage to talk more directly with him at the billing counter, the staff waiting for them to be done so that they can finally close. Haerin is still looking around, just collecting information for the future as Taehyung taps on the counter in the same way.

“I don’t know if you remember, but we used to be trainees together” she shares with a polite smile. Then he tilts his head slightly, like he's searching. Playing it out just a little longer. "Trainees," he repeats, as if turning the word over. And then, with the most natural timing, he lets it land. "Yeah… yes, I remember you, ___ right?"

Not I recognized you the moment you opened your mouth. Not I've thought about this exact conversation for three weeks. Just, I remember you, measured, easy. The careful reveal of a man who has been holding his cards the whole evening and is only now choosing to show one.

___ exhales, and the polite smile softens into something more genuine, the relief of not having imagined it. "I wasn't sure if you would," she admits. "It was a long time ago."

"It was," he agrees. A beat passes between them, quiet and full. "You were good," he says then, simply. "Back then. I remember that."

She looks at him for a moment, something flickering behind her eyes that she doesn't quite name. "So were you," she says. "Clearly." The corner of his mouth moves. Just barely.

“I knew you guys would always make it big” she comments softly, pushing the shopping bag towards him.

 The staff behind her have already noticed.The store sees celebrities often enough, actors, athletes, the occasional idol, but Taehyung has never walked through these doors before tonight. At least not as himself.

He takes the bag, his fingers closing around the handle. "Did you?" he asks, and there's something genuinely curious beneath it, unhurried.

"You guys were always the most committed people in the room," she says, straightening the counter slightly, hands needing something to do. "Some people work hard because they're afraid. You guys worked hard because you actually loved it."

She says it the way someone says something they've never said out loud before but have somehow always known. Taehyung looks at her for a long moment. The bag is in his hand. The store is minutes from closing. There is absolutely no logistical reason for him to still be standing at this counter.

"What about you?" he asks quietly. "I'm afraid I was the first," she says. "Working hard because I was afraid I wasn't good enough." A small pause. "Which, as it turns out, I wasn't." She says it candidly, without self-pity. The way you can only say something like that after you've sat with it long enough.

Taehyung doesn't rush to fill the silence with a contradiction, which is the kindest thing he could do. He doesn't say that's not true the way people reflexively do, turning someone else's honest moment into their own discomfort. He just listens, and lets it be what it is.

"I think," he says finally, carefully, "that not making it and not being good enough are different things."

She looks up at him. "Some things aren't just meant to happen, no matter how much we want them," he continues, his voice dropping a few octaves lower now. "And in the longer picture, maybe it's always for the best."

The softness in his voice is the same one she remembers, she realizes. Underneath everything, the years, the fame, the careful public composure, that part of him hasn't changed at all. She holds it for just a second longer than she means to.

"Well," she says then, straightening, the professional warmth sliding back into place like a coat she knows how to wear. "That's comforting." A genuine smile, smaller and quieter than the ones she's given all evening. "It was really great seeing you again."

"You too," he says. And he means it in a way that is difficult to explain and impossible to miss.

He picks up the bag. He turns to call for Haerin, who materializes immediately from behind a display, which means she has been standing there listening for some time now.

"Go back around, ask her out or something? God you're so bad at this," Haerin says the second they exit the store.

"I am not bad at this," Taehyung states clearly, pulling his mask back into place. "You are." She turns to face him, walking backwards with complete confidence. "If she's an old friend or something, just ask to take her to dinner. It's not complicated. Go."

"Haerin-ah-" She puts both hands flat on his chest and pushes.

He stumbles back two steps, directly into someone, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady and then ___ is there, her own bag caught against her side, her keys in her hand, clearly on her way out. The staff pull the door shut behind her with a soft, definitive click. The lock turns.

They are standing very close. "Hi," she says, slightly breathless from the near collision.

"Hi," he says.She looks at him. He looks at her. Somewhere behind him, Haerin makes absolutely no sound, which is the loudest thing she has ever done.

"I-" he starts. "I was going to ask-" she says at the same time. They both stop.

"Let me buy you dinner," he says, before he can think better of it. "If you're not busy."

She looks at him for a moment that lasts considerably longer than a moment. "I'm not busy," she says.

Haerin, to her credit, excuses herself with remarkable efficiency. "I have dinner plans," she announces, already backing away, her new bag swinging at her side. "You didn't mention any dinner plans," Taehyung says flatly.

"I'm mentioning them now." She gives ___ a smile that carries an entire paragraph of meaning inside it. "It was so nice to meet you." And then she is gone, disappearing into the mall with the satisfied energy of someone who considers this their greatest achievement.

The car is quiet in the way that cars get quiet when two people are still deciding what version of themselves to be with each other. Taehyung drives without music, which feels like a choice. The city moves past the windows in amber and white, the late hour thinning the traffic to something almost gentle.

___ sits with her bag in her lap, hands folded over it. "She's lovely," she says. "She's a menace," he replies, and the fondness in it is so obvious it doesn't need pointing out.

A comfortable silence follows.The kind that is still figuring itself out. "You never said anything," she says eventually, eyes on the window. "The first time you came in."

He keeps his eyes on the road. "No."

"Why?" He considers this honestly, the way he does with questions that deserve it. "I wasn't sure you'd remember me."

She turns to look at him then, and something in her expression is very quiet and very certain. "I remembered you," she says. "You’re not someone that can be easily forgotten"

Taehyung has his mask off completely now, and without it, without the cap, without the careful incognito of the mall, he is simply himself across a table from her.

It takes approximately one drink for his shoulders to drop and when they do, she follows.

The conversation finds its rhythm the way good conversations do, not all at once, but gradually, one thread pulling another until neither of them is quite sure how they got from one topic to the next, only that they don't want to stop.

He tells her about the military service, recently finished, the particular strangeness of returning to a life that had continued without him. "You come back and everything is exactly the same and completely different," he says, turning his glass slowly. "You have to relearn how to be yourself again."

He tells her about LA, the upcoming album, months of work condensed into a timeline that would exhaust most people. His eyes change when he talks about the music, that same quality she described in the store, the person who stays after everyone else has left, who works from love rather than fear. It's still there, just larger now. Grown into itself.

"All seven of you?" she asks. "All seven," he confirms, and the smile that comes with it is uncomplicated and warm, the smile of someone who means it when he says he's grateful.

She rests her chin in her hand, watching him. "You really did love it," she says softly. "Even then." "Didn't you?" he asks, and it's gentle, not a wound, just honest curiosity.

She's quiet for a moment. "I loved parts of it," she says carefully. "The dancing I loved. The rest of it-" she tilts her head slightly. "I think I loved the idea of it more than the reality."

"And now?"

She smiles, the smile of someone who has made peace with a particular version of their life. "There are realities, the bills keep coming no matter how passionate you are. I just decided that if it didn’t happen till I turned 19, it probably never would”

She reaches for her glass. "It wasn't dramatic," she continues, and he can tell this is something she has explained before, to people who expected more grief in it. "No breakdown, no big moment. I just woke up one day and thought, this is taking more than it's giving. And that was that."

"And Chanel?" he asks, genuinely curious. She laughs softly. "An accident, honestly. A friend worked there, they needed someone, I needed something stable." She pauses, considering. "And then I found out I was good at it. Really good at it." 

There's a quiet pride in the way she says it, "Reading people, knowing what they actually want versus what they think they want." She tilts her head slightly. "Not so different from performing, when you think about it. You're still in a room, still reading an audience."

Taehyung is quiet for a moment, something turning over behind his eyes. "You're good at it," The candle flickers between them as she quietly takes the compliment. Names surface like old photographs, faces they haven't thought about in years, some of them familiar enough to find online if they tried. The girl from Busan who could sing but couldn't take direction. The choreographer who smelled strongly of instant noodles at every single morning session without exception. The particular shared misery of a certain vocal coach whose feedback was always technically correct and delivered as though she personally found their existence disappointing.

"She told me my facial expressions were too much," ___ says.

"She told me mine were not enough," Taehyung replies.

"She wasn't wrong about either of us," she concedes.

"No," he agrees. "She was not."

The laughter between them is easy now, the kind that builds on itself, one memory pulling another until the restaurant is nearly empty and neither of them has noticed. The candle has burned considerably lower. 

“We’ll this is me” ___ shares as the driver stops right as instructed. Her steps are a bit unsteady, the flowing drinks are to blame but she gracefully exits the car. The door closes behind him and he's simply there, on her pavement, hands in his pockets, in the quiet of a street that doesn't yet know what to do with Kim Taehyung standing on it at this hour.

"You didn't have to-" she starts. "I know," he says simply. She looks at him for a moment, the streetlight catching the angles of his face, and decides not to argue with that.

They walk the short distance to her building entrance slowly, unhurried, neither of them particularly eager to leave. The night air is cool and she pulls her coat a little tighter without thinking about it.

At the door she stops and turns to face him. "I had a really good time," she says, and means it without complication.

"So did I," he says, and means it. "We should stay in touch," he says then, casual, easy. "If that's alright."

She looks at him for just a moment, reading it the way she reads most things, carefully, practically. People say that. At the end of a good evening, when the wine has been generous and the conversation has been better than expected. It's the polite thing. A graceful way to close a door that was only ever opened by coincidence.

"Of course," she says, and takes his phone when he offers it, typing her number in with steady enough hands. He saves it without looking at what she's typed, slips the phone back into his pocket.

"Goodnight, Taehyung-ah," she says, and there it is again, that name, informal and easy, like something remembered rather than chosen. "Goodnight," he says.

She turns and goes inside, and he waits until the door has closed completely before he walks back to the car.

He looks down at his phone once he's seated. She's saved herself simply, just her name. No punctuation, no emoji, nothing added. He sits with it for a moment in the dark of the backseat. His focus from his phone is stolen by the rain outside, suddenly a loud outpour. Taehyung bites his lip, his best attempt to contain his boxy smile.

He lets the wine take the lead as he types a simple message,

Taehyung: It rained the last time I saw you as well

___ is still reeling from the night, her coat half off her shoulders, shoes barely abandoned by the door, when her phone pings. The speed at which she dives across her bed to retrieve it would embarrass her enormously if anyone witnessed it. No one does. She doesn't care even slightly.

She reads it once. Then again. She sits with that for a moment, her coat still hanging off one shoulder, the city still loud with rain outside her window. He remembered, not just her, he remembered the specific weather of a specific day fourteen years ago.

She could say did it? She could say I don't remember that. She could give him nothing, the way she gave herself nothing on the walk to her door when she decided it was just the polite thing to say, staying in touch, people do that, it doesn't mean anything.

But the rain is loud against her window. And it's past midnight. And she remembers.

___: I remember

She sends it and immediately places the phone face down on the mattress, which lasts approximately four seconds before she flips it back over. 

She lies back against her pillow, phone resting on her stomach, rain filling the silence of her apartment. "Don't," she tells herself quietly, to no one. But she's smiling at her ceiling, and the ceiling, at least, keeps her secrets.

The texts don't stop when he leaves. That's the first thing she notices. She'd expected them to taper naturally, the way things do when real life gets busy. A few days of back and forth, gradually longer gaps, and then the comfortable silence of two people who had a nice evening once and left it there. Clean and uncomplicated.

Instead, her phone lights up at 7am on a Tuesday with a photo. No caption. Just the LA sunrise from what appears to be a very high window, all burnt orange and hazy pink bleeding into each other over a skyline she recognises from films.

She's standing at her coffee machine when she sees it.

___: It's 3am there

Taehyung: I'm aware

___: Why are you awake?

A pause. Long enough that she's poured her coffee and is halfway to her couch before it comes.

Taehyung: Studio ran late. Just got back. Couldn't sleep.

She looks at the sunrise photo again. The light in it is extraordinary, the kind of sky that feels almost unreasonable, too much colour for one morning.

Taehyung: How's your morning?

She looks around her apartment. Small and familiar, grey Seoul morning pressing against the windows, her coffee steaming in her hand, the quiet familiar to early weekdays.

___: Ordinary

Taehyung: Tell me anyway

She tucks her feet beneath her on the couch, coffee warming her palms, and finds herself typing. The coffee shop downstairs that gets her order wrong with such consistency she has started to suspect it's intentional. The woman on the third floor whose small dog has recently developed strong opinions about Tuesdays. The particular quality of Seoul light in the early morning, which is nothing like his photo and somehow still beautiful.

She doesn't realise how much she's written until she's already sent it. His response comes just as she's pulling on her coat for work.

Taehyung: I can picture all of it

This keeps happening. That's the second thing she notices. He texts from the studio at hours that make no sense, time difference rendered irrelevant by what appears to be a complete disregard for sleep. She texts him during her lunch break, sitting in the small staff room, and he responds immediately despite it being somewhere around 4am in LA, which she stops questioning after the first month.

He sends her things without explanation. A song he's listening to on repeat. A restaurant he walked past that reminded him of somewhere he couldn't quite place. A single photo of Jimin asleep on a studio couch with the caption “he did this to himself" makes her laugh loudly enough that a colleague comes to check on her.

She sends him things too, carefully at first, then less so. A photo of the rain against her window one evening with no caption, and she doesn't need one, and he doesn't ask for one.

Taehyung: Two more weeks here

She reads it on her lunch break, weeks after he left.

___: How's the album coming?

Taehyung: Slowly. Then all at once. You know how it goes.

She doesn't, not really, but she thinks she understands the feeling.

The sound of his luggage being wheeled in fills his apartment, the space feeling too big just for himself. He feels like that maybe because he spent the last few months living with his members again, the particular comfort of perpetual noise and company making his own silence feel larger than he left it.

He lets the 4am wash over him as he shuffles around the apartment, checking his fridge for all the food his mother left him. Tupperware stacked with quiet, careful love. He stands in the cold fridge light for a moment, grateful in a way he doesn't have words for.

He flops on the sofa, knowing full well he needs to get some sleep before the busy week hits him all at once. Press, recordings, schedules stacked on schedules. But the apartment is too quiet and his body hasn't caught up with the time zone yet and his mind is doing that thing it does when it's too tired to be sensible.

He picks up his phone.

Taehyung: You wanna listen to a few songs from the album?

He shuts his eyes, letting the tiredness pull at him, when his phone buzzes.

___: of course!

Taehyung: Are you waking up or didn't go to sleep?

___: I'm still out

A picture comes through before he can type. A mirror selfie, bathroom lighting, her in a low cut top, hair loose and a little wild like it's been a long and good night. She's not quite looking at the camera, mid-send, unbothered.

He stares considerably longer than he means to.

___: Went out after work 

Taehyung: Clubbing? I haven’t been clubbing in ages

___: It’s fun, I took like right shots

___: eight, nine now

Taehyung: Which club?

___: why, you coming?

He stares at that for a second.

Taehyung: Maybe

The three dots appear immediately.

___: I got excited for a second, you aren’t in the country :(

___: I gotta go and flirt for a cigarette

He reads it once and sets his phone down on his chest, staring up at the ceiling of his too-quiet apartment. Outside, Seoul is doing what Seoul does at 4am, living quietly and all at once.

He picks the phone back up.

Taehyung: Text me when you reach home

He locks the screen. Closes his eyes. Sleep, when it finally comes, takes its time.

"Can you guys not be so weird, just act normal," Taehyung instructs, pacing the length of the studio for what is probably the seventh time. Jimin and Jungkook occupy the couch with the relaxed energy of two people who have absolutely no intention of acting normal.

"We aren't the weird ones here," Jungkook comments simply, not looking up from his phone. "You're pacing," Jimin adds helpfully.

"I'm thinking." "You're pacing and thinking, which is worse." Taehyung stops, points at Jimin and says nothing. He just starts pacing again.

"I still follow her from my private instagram," Jungkook mentions, with the casualness of someone dropping a very small grenade into a very quiet room. "She posts nice stuff-"

"What, where?" Taehyung's hand is already extended, and Jungkook's phone is already gone before he's finished the sentence.

"Yah—" But Taehyung has already found it, scrolling with a focused expression that he would deny in a court of law. Jimin leans over, trying to see. Taehyung angles the phone away from him specifically.

"She's pretty," Jimin observes anyway, from memory, smiling at the ceiling. "She's always been pretty," Jungkook agrees. Taehyung puts the phone down. Face down on the table with finality.

"Normal," he repeats, pointing at both of them. "When she comes in. Normal human behavior. From both-" His manager appears first, then a beat behind her, ___. She's in something comfortable, clearly came from work or somewhere close to it, her bag on one shoulder, taking in the room with the same quiet, reading-people expression he remembers from the store. 

Her eyes find Jimin first, then Jungkook, and then Taehyung, and she smiles, warm and genuine and slightly disbelieving at the situation she's found herself in. "Hi," she says to the room.

"Hi," Jimin says, standing immediately, the perfect picture of normal human behavior. Jungkook waves from the couch, also normal.

Taehyung, who has been pacing for twenty minutes and confiscated a phone and threatened physical removal not thirty seconds ago, leans against the desk with his arms crossed and says, with complete composure, "You found it okay?"

"I did," she says. "Good," he says. Jimin, behind him, presses his lips together very firmly.

"You don't have to be careful about my reaction," she says, looking between the three of them. "I'm not a critic, just a huge fan"

"He's nervous," Jimin says, gesturing at Taehyung. "I'm not nervous." ___ looks at Taehyung as she tries very hard to not smile. He looks briefly at the ceiling and nods at Jungkook to play.

They go through the tracks one by one, sometimes twice when she asks, which she does more than once. She doesn't perform her reactions, doesn't rush to fill the silence at the end of each song with praise. She just sits with it, and says something when she has something to say, and the members find themselves leaning toward her responses without realizing it.

Somewhere around the fourth track Jungkook's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then stands, stretching with the exaggerated ease of someone making a departure look casual. "I have to—" he gestures vaguely toward the door.

"Mm," Taehyung says. Jungkook pauses at the door long enough to catch Jimin's eye. A look passes between them, the entire conversation happening in under a second. Then he's gone.

Jimin lasts another two tracks. To his credit he makes it through a full song before his own phone becomes suddenly and urgently important. "I told Hobi-hyung I'd-" he's already standing, already moving. He stops at the door. Turns back. Points at the speaker. "The third one," he says to ___. "That's the one. Remember that one."

"I will," she says warmly. Jimin leaves, the door clicks softly behind him. And then it's just the two of them, and the music, and the low studio lighting that Jungkook had dimmed at some point and nobody had thought to change back.

Taehyung plays the remaining tracks without commentary, sitting on his end of the sofa, one leg folded beneath him. She's on the other end, her own legs tucked up, head resting against the back cushion, turned slightly toward the speaker.

By the second to last track her eyes are heavier than she means them to be. The couch is comfortable. The music is warm. It's been a long day and the studio has the particular hush of a room that exists outside of regular hours. Her eyes close. Open. Close again.

Taehyung notices. He doesn't say anything. He just reaches over quietly and turns the volume down by two, barely enough to register, just enough to be gentle. He lets her drift, her head bobbing from one side to another, the movement causes him to move closer, close enough for her head to rest against his shoulder. 

Taehyung’s eyes are focused, too focused as he looks at her with this kind of closeness, he could count her number of eyelashes if he tried. He notices the way she's grown into her features, the softness of her trainee years having given way to something more defined. The chubbiness in her cheeks is gone, replaced by high cheekbones that catch the low studio light cleanly. 

Her features are a little pointed but smooth, the kind of face that sharpens with time rather than hardens. Like a swan, he thinks, and then feels slightly embarrassed by the thought, which doesn't stop him from thinking it.

The last track ends and the room settles into a quiet that's only the ambient hum of equipment.

She stirs, her eyes flutter once, twice, and then open properly, and for a moment she simply exists in that soft in-between place before full consciousness reasserts itself. Then it does, and she sits up slightly, and the embarrassment arrives right behind it.

"I'm so sorry," she says immediately, pressing a hand briefly to her face. "That is…genuinely not a reflection of the music, the album is wonderful, I just-" she pauses, exhales. "It's been a long day."

"I know," he says simply. His eyes drifting between the wall and her, he can’t look at her for a second too long.

She looks at him, and she wants to be honest, "I was at the hospital this morning," she says, quieter now.

"Are you sick?" The question comes immediately, and so does his hand, reaching over without thinking, pressing lightly against her forehead to check her temperature. The impromptu touch freezes her for a second, the warmth of his palm against her skin, casual and careful at the same time.

He seems to realise what he's done approximately one beat after doing it. His hand drops.

"No," she says, once she remembers what they were talking about. "Not me. My mother." The air in the room shifts slightly.

"She was recently diagnosed with MS," she continues, her voice finding its steadiness again. "They caught it at a stage where there are still options, which is… good, they keep telling us it's good." A small breath. "They're trying her on a new trial treatment. So there's a lot of hospital visits, a lot of waiting, a lot of information coming at once that we're all trying to absorb and then go home and act normal afterward."

"Which is why I fell asleep on your couch. In your studio. To your unreleased album. Just because I’m tired not because it isn’t good, because it is"

The corner of his mouth moves. "There are worse ways to hear it for the first time."

She laughs softly, and it's tiring than her other laughs but more real somehow, the kind that comes out when the guard is fully down. "I really am sorry." "Stop apologising," he says, and it's gentle but certain.

She looks at him for a moment. Then nods, once, accepting it.

Taehyung looks at her for a moment in the low studio light, this person he had known who lives a completely different life now, and feels something settle in him that he doesn't examine too closely.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. She blinks. "What?"

"You've been at the hospital, then here. Have you eaten?" She opens her mouth. Closes it, thinks about it genuinely. "Not really."

He stands. "Come on." "You don't have to-"

"I know," he says simply, already moving toward the door. He glances back at her with an expression that is patient and completely immovable. "Come on."

She looks at him for one more second. Then she unfolds herself from the couch, finds her shoes, and follows.

“I’m still in the middle of packing to move,” Taehyung shares as he pushes open the door to his apartment, the long doorway leading them to a massive, beautifully decorated living room. Taehyung suggested having a takeaway dinner at his apartment rather than a restaurant, she clearly doesn’t have the energy to go out.

“Come on, this is more clean and organized than my apartment after I spend a day cleaning it” ___ comments as she places the bag of take out on the dining table, “Well I have a cleaning lady so it’s not fair to you” Taehyung notes as he disappears for a minute too long. 

She stands by the dining table, the takeout bags in her hand, not quite sure what to do with her hands. She doesn't want to sit without being told to, doesn't want to wander without being invited, the particular awkwardness of being in someone's private space for the first time, even someone you know, especially someone you're still in the process of knowing again.

She looks at the art on the walls instead. It's good. The kind of good that means something to the person who chose it.

"What would you like? Wine or beer?" Taehyung calls from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

She follows his voice, which leads her through the living room and into the kitchen, and she stops in the doorway. It's a good kitchen. He's standing in front of an open wine fridge with the focused expression of someone taking the question seriously, which she appreciates.

"Beer," she says. Then immediately, "No, wait." She looks at the takeout bags she's still carrying. "What pairs better with sushi?"

He looks at her over his shoulder. Then at the bags, then back at the wine fridge. "White wine," he says, with the quiet certainty of someone who has thought about food pairings more than the average person.

"Then white wine," she agrees, setting the bags on the kitchen counter and beginning to take the containers out, which feels like a natural thing to do, and then she's doing it before she's decided to.

He pulls out a bottle, checks the label briefly, sets it on the counter beside her. Reaches past her for the opener in a drawer he knows without looking, close enough that she catches the scent of whatever he's wearing, something warm and understated.

"You can sit," he says, nodding toward the kitchen island. "You don't have to unpack all of that." "I'm already doing it," she says. He looks at the neat row of containers she's already organized and says nothing, just reaches into a cabinet for glasses.

"Do you always do that?" he asks. "Do what?"

"Make yourself useful when you're uncomfortable." She pauses with a container in her hand, looks at him. He's pouring the wine with his back half turned, not pressing it, just asking.

"Yes," she says after a moment. "Probably." 

"No, the latest season wasn't any good, it's like they know people are waiting so they'll put out any kind of crap," ___ comments, gesturing with her chopsticks for emphasis.

"The third season was perfect," Taehyung agrees, with the conviction of someone who has opinions about this and isn't embarrassed by that. "They should have stopped there."

She laughs, and they move on the way their conversations do, one thread pulling naturally into the next, nothing and everything, the wine making the edges of the evening soft and unhurried.

He tells her about the tour. Next year, multiple countries, the kind of scale that sounds abstract until he starts describing the specifics. the production, the setlist debates that have been ongoing for months, the particular chaos of moving that many people across that many time zones with that many moving parts.

"But sleeping in a different hotel room every week is exhausting," he says, turning his glass slowly. "You stop knowing what city you're in before you open the curtains. Sometimes after." A pause. "The rooms all smell the same."

"That sounds incredibly lonely," she says, honestly.

He looks at her. "It can be," he says, just as honestly. "But then you get on stage, and" he stops, and something shifts in his expression, the particular animation of a person arriving at the thing they actually want to talk about. There's a glint in his eyes that she recognises, the same one from the store when he talked about his mother, but bigger. Brighter. "We get to perform," he says. "Which is always worth it."

She watches him say it, the way it moves through him when he does, uncomplicated and total, and she thinks about what she said to him that first night at dinner. You worked hard because you actually loved it. She was right then. 

"What does it feel like?" she asks. "On stage. In front of that many people."

He considers it genuinely, the way he does with questions that deserve it. "Like the only place where everything makes complete sense," he says finally. "Like the volume of the world goes up and down at the same time." He pauses. "Like being entirely seen and entirely free, simultaneously."

The kitchen is quiet for a moment.

They move to the living room once dinner is done, the takeout containers cleared away with the easy shared efficiency of people who have stopped thinking about whose kitchen it is. The wine glasses migrate to the coffee table. 

"What are we watching?" she asks, her voice already carrying that particular softness of someone fighting a losing battle with sleep.

"I'm not sure yet," Taehyung admits, still scrolling. "What do you want?" "Something I've already seen," she says.

She knows it's late. She is aware, in the rational part of her that's still functioning, that it is well past midnight and that staying any longer tips the evening from something that can be explained simply into something that requires more thought. She doesn't move.

Taehyung settles on the other end of the sofa, not close, not far, and the opening credits of something roll quietly across the screen. She doesn't catch the title. It doesn't matter.

The blanket is warm. That's the first problem. The movie's score is gentle, something understated in a minor key, and the low lighting from the single lamp in the corner does the rest. Her eyes go heavy. She is aware of this. She makes a reasonable internal note to sit up straighter.

Taehyung notices the exact moment it happens. The slight change in her breathing, the way her hand loosens around the stem of her wine glass. He reaches over carefully, takes the glass from her fingers before it can tip, and sets it on the coffee table without a sound.

He looks at her for a moment. He reaches for the blanket that has slipped slightly off her shoulder and pulls it back up. Gently, without waking her. Then he turns back to the movie, volume barely audible now, and stays.

It's the early grey light that wakes her. She sits up slowly, the unfamiliar ceiling registering before anything else, and then everything registers at once. She sits up carefully.

Taehyung is asleep at the other end of the sofa, head dropped back against the cushion, one arm along the back, legs stretched out in a way that cannot be good for his spine. The television has gone to a quiet screensaver. 

She looks at him for a moment in the grey light. Then at the time. 6:08am. She should go, quietly, before it becomes a conversation. But she looks at the angle of his neck against the cushion and winces slightly on his behalf.

"Taehyung-ah," she says quietly. Nothing. "Taehyung-ah." A little firmer. He inhales slowly, head shifting, not quite awake.

She reaches over and touches his shoulder once, brief and light. "Hey." His eyes open. Unfocused at first, then finding her, and for just a moment, in the unguarded space between sleep and waking, he smiles. Small and unthinking, the smile of someone whose first conscious sight is something they don't mind at all.

Then awareness catches up and he straightens, clearing his throat. "What time is it?" "Just past six," she says, already pulling the blanket off her lap, reaching for her shoes. "Your neck is going to hate you. Go sleep in your bed."

He rubs a hand over his face. "You don't have to leave."

"I have work," she says, finding her bag on the chair. The lie arrives smoothly, practiced in the two minutes she spent deciding it before waking him. She doesn't have work. He lets it be what it is. "I'll drop you."

"You don't have to, the subway will get me home just fine." "___-ah"

"It's six in the morning, I'm not having you drive across the city." She pulls her coat on, finds her keys in her bag. The performance of someone with somewhere to be. "Go to bed, properly"

He looks at her from the sofa, sleep-rumpled and unhurried, making no move to argue further,  "Text me when you're home," he says.

"I will," she says. And because she will, it's not a lie.

She lets herself out quietly, and the door clicks softly behind her, and she stands in the hallway for just a second before she moves toward the elevator.

In the apartment, Taehyung stays exactly where he is for a moment. Then he reaches over and pulls the blanket she was using toward him, not thinking about it, and closes his eyes.

"Hyung you have to come, how often do I throw a party?" Taehyung grumbles over the phone, pacing the length of his half-packed living room. Boxes line the walls, art has been taken down leaving clean squares on the paint where they hung, the apartment already halfway between what it was and what it's becoming.

He hears a long sigh from the other side. "Ahhh why Thursday though," Hyunsik complains, the sound of him already opening something in the background. A calendar app, probably. "I'll have schedule in the morning."

"So do I," Taehyung says. "Then why-" "Because that's the only day she's free." He says it like it's the most reasonable thing in the world. "And it was her idea, sort of, and it sounds nice. A house cooling party. A proper way to say goodbye to the place before I move, a celebration-"

"Taehyung-ah." Hyunsik's voice is warm and full of teasing. "You're doing a lot to impress a girl."

Taehyung stops pacing. "I'm not… it's not about impressing anyone, it's a house cooling party, people have those"

"People who are trying to impress someone have those." "Hyung" "Who else is coming?" A pause. "A few people. Mutual friends." "Which members?" A longer pause. "We have stuff scheduled next morning"

"Taehyung-ah." The warmth in Hyunsik's voice edges into something that is dangerously close to fond. "You're throwing a party on a Thursday, with schedule the next morning, that none of your members can attend, because she's only free on Thursday and it was sort of her idea." A beat. "And you're telling me this isn't about impressing her."

Taehyung looks at the half-packed boxes. The clean squares on the wall where the art used to be. The apartment that is already halfway gone. "Are you coming or not," he says flatly.

Hyunsik laughs, long and genuine. "I'll be there at eight. Should I bring anything?" "Food, possibly the kind that works well for a party"

"And maybe a camera, to document whatever this evening becomes." "Goodnight Hyungggg"

He hangs up and stands in his quiet half-packed living room for a moment. Then he picks his phone back up.

Taehyung: Thursday still works for you?

Her response comes quickly.

___: Yes! Should I bring anything?

He looks around the apartment. At the boxes. At the walls. He probably shouldn’t have had all the art work removed before the party.

Taehyung: Just yourself

He sends it and puts the phone in his pocket before he can watch himself wait for her response.

“I can’t believe that you’re making me prepare for a party that I can’t even attend” Haerin complains as Taehyung explains, it’s strange that everyone’s first response to the party is to complain. 

“Because you tell embarrassing stories about me, I don’t need that. What I do need you is to pick up everything that I might need, what stuff do people need for a party? Liquor, food?”

“You’ll need disposable glasses, no real food, more snacks, stuff people can eat just with their hands, tissues, lots of them, lemons and other mixers for drinks, and some dessert, cupcakes or brownies, and flowers for the house” Haerin raps off and Taehyung wouldn’t admit but he’s a little impressed.

“Flowers for the house” “Oppa it’s a house cooling party, have you not been to any of those?” Haerin asks, “I heard about them for the first time a week ago” Taehyung confesses as he parks his car. “How do you know all of this?" Taehyung continues as he places his phone between his shoulder and ear.

"I have friends, oppa. Normal friends who do normal things like have house cooling parties." A pause. "Unlike you, who apparently lives in a cave and only recently discovered the concept” Haerin is getting ready to leave as well, it’s going to take multiple trips to get all the supplies.

“Since, I’m the one buying and paying for everything, I am coming to the party” she adds and Taehyung groans, wondering if it’s too late to cancel the party. “I pay your credit card bill, I’m the one paying for this-” “I’ll see you tomorrow oppa!”

By nine thirty the apartment is already louder than he planned.

He's not sure exactly how this happened. Hyunsik arrived at eight as promised, then brought two people Taehyung didn't invite but knows well enough. Then someone called someone, and that someone apparently told someone else, and now it is ten o'clock and his half-packed apartment is full in a way he did not entirely anticipate.

He's not complaining. The energy is good, the kind that builds on its own without needing to be managed, conversation layering over music layering over laughter, the apartment feeling generous with it all despite the boxes along the walls.

He tops up a few drinks without being asked. He laughs at something someone says across the room and crosses to join that conversation without it feeling like an interruption. He takes a photo with two people who ask, easy and unbothered, and then pivots back into the evening without missing a beat.m.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks it without breaking the conversation.

___: I'm so sorry, I'm outside, the elevator isn't working, which floor was it again?

He's off the counter before he's finished reading it. "Excuse me," he says to no one in particular, already moving through the living room toward the front door with the unhurried ease of someone who simply has somewhere to be.

Taehyung fixes his hair one last time before the elevator opens, he should have played it cool and just waited inside but he’s a few drinks in and doesn’t care about being nonchalant at all. The ting of the elevator sobers him a bit, the doors open slower than usual, or at least he thinks so.

“Oh…Hi!” ___ looks up at a well dressed Taehyung, his shirt barely buttoned and his hair styled for the evening. “Hi, didn’t want you to get lost, you got flowers?” he asks, neither of them has moved, which causes the elevator to close before she can answer.

“Come on, before this closes again” Taehyung chuckles as the door opens again, this time she does move quickly, her dress swaying as she does. “For the house and wine, in case you were running low on liquor” she adds as he walks beside her, she almost takes a wrong turn, that’s when he redirects her with his hand.

“I don’t think I’m going to run low on alcohol for the rest of my life” Taehyung notes as he leads her down the corridor, his hand firmly placed on the small of her back. 

"Just a heads up," he says, reluctantly moving his hand as he steps forward to open the door. "There are a bit more people than I anticipated."

"Fun," she says, moving closer to be heard over the noise bleeding through the door, her voice low and warm near his ear. "It sounds really loud." Her breath brushes against him lightly as she says it, close enough that he goes very still for just a fraction of a second.

He holds her gaze for one more second. Then he pushes the door open, and the warmth and noise of the party rushes out to meet them both, and he steps aside to let her in first, his hand finding the small of her back again without any negotiation whatsoever.

"Come one, give a toast Taehyung, say a proper goodbye to the house!” Hyushik yells across the room, grabbing everyone’s attention. Taehyung vehemently nods a no as he downs the rest of his drink.

"Toast! Toast! Toast!"

It starts with Hyunsik but it doesn't stay with Hyunsik. The room picks it up, not everyone, but enough, the playful rhythm of it filling the apartment, and Taehyung looks around at the faces. His eyes find ___ across the room without meaning to.

“Alright, alright, I will, there’s no mics around, so listen carefully” Taehyung speaks to the group as me moves more towards the center, trying to make sure everyone can hear him, making sure ___ can hear him.

“I moved into this place, god, three years ago? It’s seen me through a shitty break up and military enlistment. On some days, coming back home was all I could think about” He pauses. The room gives him a pause.

"It's strange, packing it up," he continues, quieter now, the toast becoming something slightly less like a toast and slightly more like the truth. "You don't realize how much a place holds until you start putting it in boxes." His eyes move across the room, seeing faces he knows well and some he barely knows and landing, briefly, on her. "People change in spaces. I changed in this one. I think for the better, mostly." The corner of his mouth moves. "Ask me again in a year."

"So, to the apartment I bought to live with my ex girlfriend-" The room reacts immediately. Someone cackles. Someone else chokes on their drink. A collective noise of delighted disbelief laughter through the gathering, the kind of reaction that has its own momentum.

Taehyung laughs too, because what else is there to do, shaking his head slightly at himself. "-who I broke up with before I could ask her to move in," he finishes, which makes it worse, which makes everyone louder.

"Cheers!" someone calls from the back, drinks are immediately clicked and downed again. Taehyung moves swiftly, making his way back to ___ who had been entertaining a few people even he didn’t remember at this point. 

He arrives at her shoulder. "Come on," he says, close enough that it's just for her, his hand finding the familiar space at the small of her back. "I want you to meet someone."

She turns to the group with a warm smile. "Excuse me," she says, easy and unhurried, and lets him guide her away. "Who?" she asks, as they move through the apartment.

"Old friends," he says. "You'll like him."

“Oh my god, I am a big fan” ___ fangirls out loud as she barely shakes Hyushik’s hand, who in turn is very pleased by the turn of events. “So am I, suggesting a house cooling party, exactly the kind of thing Taehyung needed” Hyushik teases a Taehyung who stands behind her as he rolls his eyes. 

“___-si, you are the reason I get to attend a legendary Kim Taehyung party, I am a bigger fan I think” Hyushik continues, they’re still weirdly shaking their hands, Hyushik now holding her hand with both his hand to express his amount of gratitude. 

“I suggested? I thought I reminded you?” ___ asks, turning slightly to talk to the host. "Suggest, remind," Taehyung says, with the easy confidence of someone building an argument on a very weak foundation. "It's all the same."

"It's really not," she says. "Semantics." "That's not what semantics means."

Hyunsik is watching this exchange with undisguised joy, still holding her hand, which at this point everyone has simply accepted as the situation. “Did you eat something ___-si?” “You can just call me ___” she responds almost immediately, Hyushik finally releases her hand as he removes his phone.

“___ how about you give me your number so that we can plan the house warming party for the new-” "Hyung." Taehyung's voice is pleasant. Perfectly pleasant. "Didn't you say you had to leave by eleven?"

Hyunsik looks up from his phone. "Did I?" "You did. Very specifically. Eleven o'clock." Taehyung glances at his watch. "Look at that."

Hyunsik looks at his own watch with the slow deliberation of a man who is enjoying every second of this. "So it is," he says. He pockets his phone without any apparent urgency whatsoever. "___, it has been an absolute-"

"You said early schedule," Taehyung continues,"Very early. Didn't want to be tired." "I did say that," Hyunsik agrees, nodding thoughtfully. "Very responsible of me." He turns to ___ with the full warmth of his considerable screen presence. "It was so lovely to meet you."

"You too," she says genuinely, and then, because she has clearly picked up on exactly what just happened and finds it extremely funny.

“Yes, of course, we should plan dinner” Taehyung’s voice booms in the entryway, the party cleared out by 1 am, it’s a working day tomorrow for most people and people that are lying about it. “Byeeee” Taehyung waves gladly, he is kinda glad that he threw this party, he needs to celebrate more often in life.

He sighs with a bit of exhaustion as he runs a hand through his hair, he walks right in the living room, hoping to find her there. When she isn’t, he walks to the kitchen to hope to find here there. But when she isn’t even in the kitchen he finally calls out her name, “___?”

“I’m in here!” she yells from the service kitchen, where she seems to be packing up all the leftover mixers. Taehyung finds her arranging all the empty bottles, capping all the bottles and putting away all the lemons, so so many lemons. “Why are there so many lemons?” she asks as she turns around. 

What she wasn’t expecting was a quiet Taehyung who’s leaning against the doorframe as he looks at her, with intensity that makes her want to look away. “Haerin thought it would be funny” Taehyung’s voice is low, his eyes a bit dazed and hooded but still on her.

“Come on,” Taehyung says as he brings forward his hands, “You don’t need to do all this and we need to go somewhere” she looks at him with scepticism but takes his hands away, watching him walk her out awkwardly till she stops for her jacket and purse.

“We’ll come back, just trust me” he says, his hand finding hers again with the easy certainty of someone who has stopped negotiating with his instincts. "Just trust me."

She looks at their hands. Then at him. "Okay," she says quietly and she follows him out into the night.

Taehyung is a few steps behind her, watching him from a distance as she takes it all in. A short taxi ride later and they’re staring at the Han river from his new apartment, new even bigger and more gorgeous apartment. 

Floor to ceiling windows. All of them. The Han River filling the entire view like it was placed there specifically, the water dark and wide and catching the city lights in long broken lines, Seoul spread out on either side of it in every direction.

She doesn't say anything for a moment. Then she straightens, clears her throat, and turns around to face the empty living room with the expression of someone making a very important assessment.

"So," she says, clasping her hands in front of her. "This is the main living area." Taehyung blinks. "What."

"Generous square footage," she continues, taking slow, deliberate steps across the empty floor, looking up at the ceiling, nodding thoughtfully. "Good ceiling height. Natural light should be excellent in the mornings." She turns. "A duplex?” 

“Yes it’s a duplex ma’am, the apartment is broken down into a north and south wing” Taehyung answers as he plays along. “I like that, I can start my morning in the north wing and end the day in the south one, which wing is the primary bedroom in?” ___ asks with all seriousness and Taehyung can’t help but chuckle.

“The south wing” Taehyung answers as his eyes follow her walking towards the wrong side, “This way ma’am” he redirects her and she chuckles like she knew what she was doing. 

He steps ahead of her, pushing open the door to the primary bedroom, then steps back in the manner of someone who has done this many times and knows to let the room speak for itself. "This," he says, "is where the magic happens."

She walks past him into the room. He is not prepared for how much of her back is visible in this dress. He has spent the entire evening with her in this dress and somehow this particular angle, in this particular doorway, in this particular light is too much. He looks at the ceiling briefly. Then back.

"Where the magic happens," she repeats slowly, tilting her head. "As in-" she turns, her expression completely straight- "where you find out that your husband is committing financial fraud and cheating on you with multiple women."

Taehyung stares at her. "In the primary bedroom," she continues, gesturing around the empty space with great seriousness. "Classic setting for that kind of revelation. The proportions are right. Good acoustics for the confrontation." She nods. "I've seen it many times in this price range" 

“Husband? I thought it was just you ma’am” he continues the joke as he reaches over by the door to turn on a few lights, maybe the lights will sober him up a bit. “Of course, only a husband committing financial fraud can buy this kind of place, or if you’re a super successful pop star. Those are the only two categories can can afford this ridiculous view”

"Ridiculous," he repeats. "Obscene," she confirms.

"Oh thank god because I was almost a bit worried about financial fraud" he says, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, looking at her with the particular attention of someone who has had enough drinks to stop pretending they're not paying attention.

She looks at him for a moment, the lights catching her face, and tilts her head slightly. "Well," she says, "I haven't checked your finances." "Clean," he says. "That's exactly what someone committing financial fraud would say."

He laughs, and she smiles at the sound of it, the real estate bit dissolving at the edges into something warmer.

"So," she says, looking around the lit room now, seeing it properly for the first time. The ceiling height. The window. The way the river sits just beyond the glass, dark and wide and patient. "This is really going to be your bedroom."

"In a few weeks, yes." She's quiet for a moment, something settling in her expression. "It's a good room," she says simply. No performance in it. Just the honest observation of someone who reads spaces the way she reads people.

She nods slowly. And then, quietly,"I think you're going to be very happy here, Taehyung-ah."

He looks at her rather than the window when she says it. "I think so too," he says.

"What is the new guy's deal?" Arin asks, leaning toward the mirror with a mascara wand, her eyes not leaving her own reflection but her attention entirely elsewhere. "Are you guys dating? Is he your boyfriend? Or is it just sex?"

___ turns around, a bit flustered, her fingers working at the ties of her halter neck. "None of the above," she says. "We're just friends." Arin says nothing, she goes back to applying her mascara with great concentration.

"We are," ___ adds. "I didn't say anything," Arin says.

"You made a face." "I'm doing my mascara."

"Arin-ah." Arin caps the mascara and turns to look at her fully, with the particular expression of a person who has known someone long enough to have earned the right to be direct. "You came home at four in the morning," she says pleasantly. "From a party that ended at one."

"We went to see his new apartment." "At two in the morning." "It has a Han River view." "I'm sure it does." Arin turns back to the mirror, reaching for her lip liner. "And how long did you look at this Han River view?"

___ opens her mouth. "Together," Arin adds. "At two in the morning. Just the two of you. Just friends."

The halter neck ties are taking considerably longer than usual. "It wasn't like that," ___ says. "It was just-" she pauses, trying to find the word. "Easy. It was easy to be there with him."

Arin looks at her in the mirror. "Mm." "That's not… that doesn't mean anything, things can just be easy-"

"When was the last time something was easy with someone?" The question lands and sits there. ___ looks at her own reflection for a moment, her hands stilling on the ties.

She doesn't answer, which is an answer. "Just friends," Arin says sarcastically, turning back to her own reflection. "Okay."

"Okay," ___ agrees, with slightly less conviction than she started with. They finish getting ready in the comfortable quiet of two people who have said what needed to be said and are now moving on gracefully, and ___ does not think about the river or the empty room or the way he said I think so too while looking at her instead of the window. Not very much, anyway.

“Well, it’s Paris fashion week, there’s not much I can do” “You were seated next to Anna Wintour that’s not nothing” ___ squeals over the phone as she steps out for a smoke. She works at the club as a server some weekends, just to make some extra cash, not that people need to know about this job.

Taehyung is quiet for a second, taking in all the sounds from her side, the sound of her taking a drag, the people around her, the loud music that thumps quieter and quieter. “Have you been keeping tabs on me” he teases as he rumples the bed even further.

“It isn’t very hard,” she says, smoke letting out of her mouth as she leans back against the cool brick wall. “You’re all over my reels.” He huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, but there’s a flicker of something else in it, something quieter, harder to name.

“Don’t get too excited,” she says lightly. “There’s still a lot of cat videos too”

“Cute” “Mm,” she hums, a bit distracted from how tired she is. “Keeps you humble.”

There’s a small silence that follows, but it isn’t empty. It settles between them easily, like something familiar finding its place without needing to be asked. He turns his head slightly on the pillow, staring at nothing in particular, and then asks,

“What are you doing right now?” he asks. He’s tempted to ask where are you? Who are you out with? Why is it so loud but he goes forward with the simpler option, an option that a friend can ask.

“Just out,” she says, after a second. “Sort of.”

He catches it immediately, the slight deflection, the way her answers sometimes come angled instead of straight. “Sort of?” he repeats.

She glances back at the club door, the bass vibrating faintly through it, the life she hasn’t explained waiting just on the other side. “Just… helping out a friend,” she says, easy enough to pass. “Weekend thing.”

Another drag. Another pause. “And you?” she adds, shifting the attention back to him like she always does when things get a little too close. “Lying in bed after being important next to Anna Wintour?”

He smiles this time, properly. “Something like that.” His voice dips, quieter, more honest than the answer itself. “I think I liked hearing you be more impressed than the actual event.”

She blinks, caught off guard by that. The cigarette burns a little lower between her fingers.

“I got you something, well it’s more for the house” are the first words out of ___’s mouth the second the elevator opens directly in the apartment. She excitedly kicks off her shoes as he jumps over to him. 

“I tried to make something, failed and tried again, failed, but the third time around, they suggested that I just buy the mugs” she continues the explanation as she falls into the sofa beside him, he’s not said a thing yet, mostly because he’s too busy taking in her excitement. 

There’s something about her like this that catches him off guard every time. The way she fills a space without trying. The way her presence shifts the air, makes the apartment feel less like something staged and more like something lived in.

He leans back slightly, one arm draped along the back of the sofa behind her, his gaze still fixed, quieter than hers but just as present. “You made something,” he repeats finally, slow, like he’s piecing it together rather than questioning it. “Or… attempted to.”

She turns her head toward him, narrowing her eyes just slightly. “That’s the part you focused on?” “It’s impressive,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You trying three times.”

Taehyung quietly unwraps the gift, two mugs placed inside, the kind of earthy tone mugs that people drink their artisanal coffee out of. “These don’t look hand made” he comments as he picks them out of the box, his long fingers running over them as he flips it over, to find his house number engraved to them.

“Because these are the bought ones,” she says quickly, watching his face a little too closely. “The messed up ones will be used by me to drink water out of, well, one of them.” A small shrug. “The other one is leaking.”

He lets out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh, still looking at the engraving like he didn’t expect it to matter as much as it does. “You kept them,” he says.

“Obviously,” she replies, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I suffered for those. I’m not throwing them away.” He hums softly at that, placing the mug down with a little more care than necessary, like it’s already found a place here.

There’s a brief pause before she shifts, tucking one leg beneath her as she looks around the apartment again, this space that’s still more ideal than lived-in reality. “Is this your first night here?” she asks.

He leans back into the sofa, one arm stretching along the backrest, his gaze flicking from the mugs to her. “Yeah,” he says simply. First night, empty house, boxes still somewhere in the corners. No real imprint of a life yet.

And then without much thinking, he asks “Stay for dinner” It comes out easy, natural, like it didn’t take any thought at all. But there’s something in the way he looks at her after, steady, waiting that gives it away.

She hesitates just for a second. “I can’t,” she says, softer now, the refusal gentle but firm. “I have dinner plans.” His expression doesn’t fall, not obviously “With?” he asks, casual enough to pass.

“My younger brother,” she says, reaching for her bag again, fingers brushing over the strap. “He just got free from college. First time in months.” A small smile tugs at her lips, different from the ones she gives him, familiar, fond, rooted somewhere older. “I promised him.”

Taehyung nods once. “Right,” he says. And he means it. There’s no pushback, no attempt to convince her otherwise. Just an easy acceptance that makes it harder to leave than if he had argued.

She glances at the mugs again, then back at him. “What are your plans for the weekend?” she asks, the couch feels like a cloud right now, she could just fall asleep on it again.

“I have a shoot on Sunday” “No plans for halloween?” ___ asks and he turns to fully look at her, he’s noticed one thing, she likes to live life by celebrating it, house cooling parties, halloween, half birthdays. 

“So,” she adds, shifting slightly to face him more, her hair falling forward over one shoulder, “you’re telling me Kim Taehyung has no Halloween plans?”

“I didn’t realize that was a requirement,” he replies, one brow lifting slightly. “It is,” she says immediately. “You have a reputation to maintain.” He huffs out a quiet laugh. “And what reputation is that?”

She tilts her head, pretending to consider it seriously. “Mysterious. Artistic. Handsome man that knows how to party”  He studies her for a moment, really studies her, the way she says things so lightly but means them just enough to matter.

“And what would you suggest I do,” he asks, voice quieter now, “to maintain my reputation?” She smiles, slow this time, and a little dangerous. “Come to my halloween party”

“Do you think I’ll have to be in costume for a halloween party?” Taehyung asks the stylist who’s very patient with his hair. Before she can answer, Jimin speaks from the chair beside him, “Yes, 100%, probably should have discussed with her if you want to match with ___” 

“She’s being super secretive about who she’s going as so we can’t match” Taehyung adds as he continues to look at his phone, trying to find an outfit in approximately six hours. 

“So, you go as someone sexy, like V of BTS, you tell exactly as you do and you tell people that you aren’t V of BTS, just pretending to” Jimin adds and he finds the image of Taehyung lying to a room full of people funny.

The stylist lets out a small, surprised laugh before she can stop herself, “I can have someone from wardrobe pick out something, maybe go as batman or a cowboy?” she suggests

“Yes, thank you for the sane advice, something that possibly covers my face-” “___ just invited us to a party” Jungkook's voice arrives before he does, filling the dressing room with the particular energy of someone delivering news he finds excellent. He appears in the doorway a beat later, phone in hand, still smiling at whatever she sent him.

Taehyung goes very still, not obviously, just enough. "Us?"

"Me and Jimin hyung." Jungkook drops into the empty chair like he lives there, scrolling back through the message with the unbothered ease of someone who has no idea what he's walked into. "She said you're already coming and that we should too, if we have the time." He looks up, grinning. "She's hosting it in an art studio. How cool is that?"

The mirror gives Taehyung away before he can help it. Something moves across his face, quick and controlled, but Jimin catches it. Jimin always catches it. He presses his lips together and says nothing, which is somehow worse than if he'd said something.

"She just," Taehyung starts, then stops. Picks up his phone, sets it back down immediately. "She texted you directly?"

"Yeah," Jungkook says simply, already typing back. "She said the more the merrier." He pauses, reads something, laughs quietly to himself at whatever she's replied to. "She's funny."

Taehyung watches him laugh at his phone for a second too long. "She is," Jimin agrees, from his chair, with the serene expression of a man enjoying himself enormously.

Taehyung looks back at his own reflection. The stylist resumes her work with the quiet professionalism of someone who has learned, in this industry, that the correct response to dressing room tension is to simply continue doing the hair.

"Fine," Taehyung says. "The more the merrier." He says it the way someone says something they do not entirely mean.

___: Hey, I know I said 10 but you still aren’t here :( 

___: got caught up with something?

She pockets her phone and makes her rounds. The studio is loud and warm and full in the best way.

"Three pieces sold," Hyunwoo appears at her shoulder, drink in hand, looking at the wall across the room with the expression of someone who still can't quite believe it. "Three."

"I told you," she says simply. "You told me it was a good idea. You didn't tell me people would actually-" he gestures at the wall, at the small red stickers that have appeared on three of the tags. "I need to call the artists tonight."

"Call them tomorrow," she says. "Tonight, just enjoy it." He looks around the space, his grandfather's space, loud and full and lit with candles his girlfriend insisted on. "Yeah," he says, quieter. "Okay."

Hyunwoo had inherited the space from his grandfather three years ago and done absolutely nothing with it since, which was the tragedy, because the bones of it are extraordinary. High ceilings, original brick, light fixtures that look like they were installed sometime in the 1940s and never needed replacing. 

Taehyung: Sorry, Jimin’s outfit took too long

Taehyung: Are we supposed to just walk in? we’ll be there in about 5 minutes

___: I’ll be waiting for you in the front

The door opens before she reaches it. Jungkook comes in first, helmet under his arm, looking around with open curiosity. Jimin follows, hat slightly tilted, immediately clocking the art on the walls. And then Taehyung, last, hands in his pockets, suit jacket open, the Superman logo catching the warm studio light as he steps inside and finds her immediately.

Taehyung goes very still. She watches it happen, the fraction of a second where his expression does something unguarded before he collects it. "Hi," she says.

"Hi," he says. His eyes move over her once, quickly, the way people look at things they're trying not to look at.

"Woah," Jungkook says, with complete sincerity, which makes her laugh and breaks whatever was just happening. "You look-" Jimin starts. "Amazing," Jungkook finishes, still looking. "The feathers are real?"

"Some of them," she says, turning slightly so he can see the back, the feathers worked into the fabric along her shoulders. Jungkook reaches out and touches one with one finger like it might dissolve.

Jimin tips his hat. "Ma'am." She laughs again and curtsies, which is exactly the right response to a cowboy hat tip. "Welcome," she says, stepping back to let them properly in. "Come on, I'll show you around."

She turns, and Taehyung falls into step beside her, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes hers. "Clark Kent," she says quietly, just for him, nodding at the logo.

"It was low effort," he says. "You look very handsome," she says, her eyes still ahead, navigating them through the crowd with the ease of someone who knows every corner of this room. "Very much the kind of guy I'd want to save me."

He looks at her immediately. She doesn't look back. "Do you need any saving?" he says, a beat later. "Black Swan?"

She turns to look at him then, fully, and the studio lights catch the dark sweep of her eye makeup and she smiles, slow and deliberate. "I’d get into trouble on purpose just to be saved by you"

The noise of the party continues around them completely indifferently. Taehyung can’t shake off the weird feeling he has in his chest, the kind that wants to close the distance between them every time she says or does something like this. 

“No, come on we can’t just talk to each other-” “Well we also don’t want to hijack ___’s party by being the awkward famous people” Jimin interrupts as they continue to wait by the bar for his drink. Taehyung isn't listening to either of them. His eyes have found her again across the room, she's talking to a man he doesn't recognize, a tall, easy smile, leaning slightly toward her in the way people do when they want to be heard over the music. She says something and he laughs, loud enough that Taehyung can see it from here.

He picks up his drink. "Who's that?" he asks, keeping his voice completely level.

Jimin follows his eyeline. "Don't know," he says pleasantly. "Probably a friend," Jungkook offers, helpful as always.

"Mm." Taehyung takes a sip. Watches the man lean in slightly closer to say something in her ear. She tilts her head to hear him better, a small smile forming at whatever it was. Taehyung sets his drink down. Picks it back up and downs it entirely. 

Jungkook had another party to attend afterwards,  a gentle goodbye, a brief hug for ___ when she surfaces long enough to find them, and then it's just Jimin and Taehyung left. She finds them every now and then, appearing at their shoulders between rounds, slightly breathless from moving through the room, her feathers intact against all odds. Each time she arrives she brings someone with her.

___ walks away with a very handsome Sculptor, the one who offered him his arm as they walked away. Jimin appears at his side with a fresh drink and the serene expression of a man watching something unfold exactly as he expected. "She pays attention to you too, you know," he says.

Taehyung takes the drink. "Don't." "I'm just saying."

"Jimin-ah." "I'm not saying anything," Jimin says pleasantly. "I'm just standing here." A pause. "Looking in this general direction."

Across the room the sculptor leans in to say something close to her ear, his hand finding her elbow briefly as he does. She listens, nods, glances up at him with that small private smile.

The thing in Taehyung's chest does something it has no business doing. "I need another drink," he says.

"You have a drink," Jimin points out. Taehyung looks down at his very full glass. "I need a different drink, much stronger"

"I am king of pool!" Taehyung announces loudly to the room as he wins yet another match, both arms raised, cue still in hand, with the complete conviction of a man who has never been more certain of anything in his life.

"You've won twice," Hyunwoo says. "Twice as king," Taehyung confirms, setting the cue down with great ceremony.

Jimin, perched on a stool nearby with a glass of water he is nursing with intense focus, looks up at the ceiling briefly. He is drunk. He is aware that he is drunk. He is trying very hard to be the responsible one, which is significantly more difficult when the room keeps tilting slightly.

"Okay," Jimin says, sliding off the stool with more dignity than the situation warrants. "Okay, I think-"

"Another round," Taehyung says, already reaching for the cue. "Taehyung-ah-"

"Jimin-ah, I am king, kings don't stop-" "Taehyung."

They both turn. She's standing in the doorway of the small back room where someone had the excellent idea of setting up a pool table, her arms crossed, taking in the scene with the expression of a woman who has assessed worse situations and handled them efficiently. The feathers at her shoulders are slightly ruffled now, the night having caught up with the costume. She looks devastating anyway.

Taehyung's face does something immediate and helpless at the sight of her. "You're here," he says, with the uncomplicated delight of the very drunk.

"I'm here," she confirms, stepping into the room. Her eyes move to Jimin, who gives her a look that communicates volumes in under a second. She nods once. "How many?"

"Many," Jimin says. "I'm not," Taehyung starts, then reconsiders. "I'm a little." He holds up two fingers very close together. "Just a little."

"He is not a little," Jimin says. "I won pool," Taehyung says to her, as evidence. "Twice."

"I heard," she says. "Very impressive." She moves to his side, and he turns toward her with the easy gravity of someone drawn without thinking. Up close she can smell his cologne underneath the warmth of the evening, and his eyes are soft and dark and fixed on her with an attention that has no filter left on it.

"Okay, we need to go," Jimin says, straightening, which would be more convincing if he didn't immediately reach for the wall. "I'm. I'll get a car, I just need a." He gestures vaguely. "A minute."

"Come on," she says instead, her hand finding Jimin’s arm. "Let's get you home." 

“Jimin sit straight, and enough with the water” ___ speaks from the middle seat as she snatches the water away from him, the car hits a speedbreaker at the same time, only making Taehyung hold on to her arm even tighter.

“Did you guys just have a car waiting the whole time?” “Yes ___ we’re BTS and for the times that we go out for a party, twice a year, the company has a car waiting for us” Jimin brags, which doesn’t land as intended.  

“Only twice a year?” “Well we don’t go out very often, actually rarely, we get invited but don’t end up going till a pretty girl is involved” Jimin rambles as the car takes a smooth turn.  The car slows at Jimin's building first. She helps him out with the focused attention of someone completing a task, making sure he has his phone, his keys, his water bottle which he immediately tries to leave behind and she puts back in his hand.

"Text when you're inside," she says. "Yes mother," Jimin says warmly, then turns, and even in this state, he finds Taehyung's eyes over her shoulder for just a second. Something passes between them, brief and complete, the entire conversation happening in under a moment.

"I am so sorry to leave like that," she says. "I just had to take care of something."

"Something or someone?" Hyunwoo teases from the other end, warm and unbothered, the party noise still humming behind his voice. She exhales, and turns, almost instinctively, to look at that certain someone sitting beside her.

Taehyung is already looking at her. He doesn't look away when she catches him, which is its own kind of answer. He just holds her gaze with the unhurried calm of a man who has run out of reasons to pretend he wasn't looking. 

"I'll call you tomorrow," she says into the phone. "Sure you will," Hyunwoo says pleasantly, and hangs up first. She lowers her phone slowly. 

"You're cold," Taehyung says. Quietly, simply, like he's been sitting on the observation for some time and has only now decided to do something about it. His eyes drop briefly to her arm, bare in the costume, and then back up.

"I'm fine," she says.

"Your arm is cold." He says it the way he says most things he's decided, not a question, not quite a statement, just a fact he's already acted on by the time it's out of his mouth. He shifts, closing the distance between them on the seat, his shoulder solid and warm against hers.

“Come on, stand still” Taehyung instructs her as he stills his phone against a plant. It’s like she realized that she had gotten him home safely and the drinks were starting to hit her. “I am still” she complains as she pops her hip off as they try to pose. 

He laughs, quiet and genuine, and steps in beside her, close enough that his arm presses against her shoulder. She tilts into him slightly, not quite meaning to, and neither of them adjusts.

"Okay," he says, reaching forward to tap the timer on his phone. "Don't move." "I'm not moving." "You're swaying." Taehyung states as his hand comes around her waist, an attempt to still her. He moves forward, with her in his arms to take another picture, he’s not sure if the drinks will let him remember this, but he is going to capture this moment.

He reaches forward one more time, taps the timer, and pulls her just slightly closer as it counts down, his chin dropping near her temple, her feathers brushing his jaw. She lets him.  

The phone clicks. She turns her head slightly to say something and finds his face very close to hers, closer than the photo requires, and whatever she was going to say doesn't quite make it out. She looks at him. He looks back. The timer goes off again behind them, capturing something neither of them has named yet, the particular quality of two people standing at the edge of something and not quite stepping forward and not quite stepping back.

She faces forward again. Clears her throat softly. "I should go," she says. "You are fine now right?"

He looks at her with the patient expression of a man who has never been less fine. "No ___," he says simply. "I am still extremely drunk. I took six shots of vodka." A pause, during which he appears to be doing some internal accounting. "Maybe seven."

“And I don’t want you going home drunk like this and dressed like this either. It’s too sexy for the streets of Seoul” he says as he pulls her by the arm, taking her through the apartment.

“Come on, let's get you into bed before you start saying more stupid stuff” ___ deflects as she takes the lead, walking through his dark apartment. “I am not saying stupid stuff ___, this is the truth” Taehyung’s voice is low as it booms, she turns around briefly as she waits for him with an open door. 

“Which way is the closet?” ___ deflects again as she pushes him towards the bed, he falls with a gentle thud, “And do you have makeup remover? The makeup is starting to irritate me” ___ adds as she looks around while he simply looks at her.

"Come here," he says quietly. He reaches over to the bedside table, unhurried, and picks something up.

She walks over, and before she's quite decided how she's standing or where this is going, his hands find her waist and pull, gently but with complete certainty, and she is sitting in his lap. He shifts beneath her, adjusting so she's settled properly, and then opens the makeup remover pad he pulled from the nightstand and holds her chin lightly with two fingers, tilting her face toward the window light.

She lets him. He is very careful. That's the thing that undoes her slightly, the carefulness of it, the way he starts at the corner of her eye and moves slowly, gently, the way you handle something you don't want to damage. His touch is light and certain and he's watching what he's doing with complete focus, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration.

She watches his face instead. Up close like this, in the quiet of the bedroom, she can see the tiredness around his eyes, the way the evening has softened him, worn down the careful composure he carries in public until what's left is just this, just him.

"You're going to have to do the other side," she says softly, because she needs to say something.

"I know," he says, without looking up. He reaches for another pad, opens it with one hand, tilts her chin the other way. "Hold still." "I am still."

"You're breathing too loud." "That's not a thing." "It's distracting," he says, and the corner of his mouth moves, just barely. She exhales deliberately, loudly, directly at him. He closes his eyes for a second with the patience of a saint and then continues, his thumb brushing her cheekbone as he works, careful and slow.

Taehyung pulls back slightly to look at his work, still holding her face, his thumb resting at her jaw, and something in his expression goes very quiet and very focused in a way that has nothing to do with the makeup anymore.

She looks back at him. "Better?" she asks, her voice coming out softer than she intended.

He looks at her for a long moment. Her face bare now, the swan stripped back to just her, just this, just the two of them in the dark of his bedroom. “Can you help me with the dress too? It’s suffocating me” she mutters what she’s wanted to do for a long time. 

"Turn around," he says quietly. She shifts in his lap, turning so her back is to him, her spine straightening automatically, the dancer in her.  His hands find the back of the dress. She can feel him locate the zip, his fingers careful, unhurried, moving her hair over one shoulder first so it's out of the way. The small deliberate gesture of it.

Then the zip, slow, the sound of it very loud in the quiet room. 

The corset loosens and she exhales, long and involuntary, the relief of it immediate. "Better?" he asks, his voice low near her shoulder.

"Yes," she breathes. "God, yes." he slightly shifts behind her. His hands rest at her waist for a moment, light and still, not moving, just there.

"Find me something to sleep in," she continues and he simply takes off his shirt for her.

Taehyung has always been an interesting sleeper, he settles for holding a pillow, he’s lucky if it’s a person, especially a girl who smells lightly like vanilla and cigarettes. His arm tightens slightly, not dramatically. Just the small unconscious adjustment of someone who has found exactly what they were looking for without knowing they were looking.

She stirs, just barely, somewhere between asleep and not. She registers the arm. The weight of it, warm and certain across her. She registers the slow steady breathing behind her, close enough to feel. She should move, that's the practical thought, the sensible one.  She doesn't move.

Instead she settles, just slightly, and closes her eyes again, and the city glows softly beyond the curtains and the clock ticks and Taehyung sleeps with his face near her hair and his arm around her waist like she is something he found and intends to keep, and she lies there in the warm dark of his bedroom and stares at the ceiling for approximately forty five seconds before sleep takes her too.

Taehyung has the big three on his night stand, his phone, keys and wallet, those are the first things he looks for when he jerks awake. What registers finally is the missing woman from his arms, at least the one he was dreaming of. 

“Shit” his voice is coarse as he runs a hand through his hair, the hangover already making him sick. He gets startled when he breathes out, immediately walking over to brush his teeth. She was definitely here, as evidenced by the makeup wipes on the floor. 

“She just left and she’s not responding to my messages, I fucked up, bad” Taehyung groans into his phone as he gets startled by the sound of a toaster. “What would I have possibly done, told her I liked her and she freaked out?” he continues as he struggles with the fridge door. 

“Dude,” Jimin groans finally, voice thick with sleep, somewhere under a pile of blankets. “Can you stop spiraling so loudly? I am too hungover for your girl problems.” Taehyung ignores that completely.

“She wouldn’t just ghost me,” he says, quieter now, more to himself than to Jimin. “She’s not like that.” Jimin shifts again, finally rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling like he’s been unwillingly recruited into a crisis.

“Or,” Jimin says slowly, “she woke up, realized she was cuddled to sleep by Kim Taehyung, and needed a minute to process her life choices like a normal person” Jimin exhales as he tries to gather all the strength in him to stand up. “What did you two do, kiss? Sex? Please tell me that we got this drunk for you to finally tell her how you feel?”

“I don’t know how I feel-” “You don’t know?” he repeats, incredulous. “Taehyung, you obviously like her. No one throws a party and then attends another one just for a friend-” “I’d do that for you,” Taehyung cuts in immediately.

“I know you like me,” Jimin shoots back without missing a beat, already pushing himself to stand and immediately regretting it. He steadies himself against the wall, eyes closing briefly. “Focus. On your feelings for ___.”

Taehyung opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out this time. “Just call her,” Jimin says in all seriousness as he hangs up the phone. He goes back to eating his dry toast as he looks at the messages he sent her. 

Taehyung: Where are you?

Taehyung: Sorry if I said or did anything that crossed a boundary last night

Taehyung: Please call me

He types the last one too fast, thumb slipping slightly against the screen. Still nothing.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, he doesn’t wait this time, he hits call. The ringing feels longer than it actually is. Each second stretching just enough to make his chest tighten. He leans forward, elbow on his knee, pressing his thumb harder against the edge of the phone like that might speed it up.

One ring, two, three. He’s just about to hang up-

“Hello?” He freezes, her voice is rough. Coarse. Like she just woke up or hasn’t slept at all.

“___?” he says immediately, sitting up straighter. “Where are you? I’ve been- I thought-”

“I’m at the hospital,” she cuts in, voice still low, a little uneven. Everything in him stills.

“What?” His grip on the phone tightens. “Why? Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” she says quickly, like she’s already been asked that question too many times this morning. “It’s my mom. There was an emergency early in the morning.”

The words land all at once. The panic in his chest doesn’t disappear, it just shifts. “What happened?” he asks, softer now, all the urgency still there but redirected.

“They think it’s a reaction to the treatment,” she says, and there’s a quiet steadiness to her voice that wasn’t there a second ago. The kind that sounds practiced. Held together. “She’s stable now. They’re just… monitoring.”

Taehyung exhales slowly, leaning back, one hand coming up to press against his forehead. “She’s okay,” he repeats, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.

“Yeah,” she says. A small pause. “She’s okay.” Another silence settles between them, but it feels different now. Not avoidance. Just… exhaustion.

He swallows. “I thought I did something,” he admits quietly. “You just-left. And then you weren’t answering.” There’s a shift on the other end. Fabric moving, like she’s sitting down.

“I didn’t even think,” she says after a moment. “Dad called and I just… left. I was going to text you, I just-” she exhales softly. “I’m tired…“I’m sorry,” she adds anyway, quieter now. 

“Don’t be,” he says, firmer this time. “You don’t have to apologize for that.” He takes a sharp breath before he talks again, “You should have woken me up,”

Taehyung: When can I see you again?

___ pockets her phone as she re-reads his message. It’s been a busy couple of weeks, with her mother and working and with Christmas approaching, a lot more people want to buy handbags. She hasn’t been ignoring him per say, they’ve been talking, a few messages here and there, but not much.

She moves through it automatically, like she’s done a hundred times before. Smile when needed. Nod at the right moments. Wrap, bill, repeat.

“Step away, Joowon, I am not interested,” she says, already attempting to move around him, her patience thinner than usual.

“Come on,” he insists, falling into step beside her as she pushes the door open, “one date. Let me show you a good time.” The cool air outside does little to ease the irritation building in her chest. She exhales sharply, turning to face him properly now, hoping clarity will do what subtlety hasn’t.

“I’m stepping out for five minutes, not agreeing to anything with you,” she says, her tone firm but controlled. “You’re wasting your time.” He doesn’t seem discouraged, only amused in a way that makes her jaw tighten slightly.

“You say that now,” he replies, shrugging, “but you haven’t given me a real reason to stop trying.” She almost responds, almost shuts it down properly this time, but the moment shifts before she can.

“___?” The familiarity of Taehyung’s voice cuts through the conversation instantly. She turns, and there he is. Taehyung stands a short distance away with a few of his friends, though they’ve already faded into the background the second his attention settles on her. There’s no immediate reaction written across his face, no obvious assumption, just a brief glance toward Joowon before his gaze returns to her. 

“Can you go back in, they still need someone to make the drinks” ___ physically pushes Joowon back in as Taehyung’s friends still keep walking, wanting to make it to the restaurant in time for their reservation. 

“This is why you’ve been rejecting me? You could have just said-” “I don’t think I need to give you an explanation so as to why I’m rejecting you and go back inside”

There’s no room left for negotiation in the way she says it. After a moment, he exhales in mild frustration but gives in, stepping back into the bar, the door swinging shut behind him with a loud thud.

The noise from inside fades again, leaving the street quieter than it was a minute ago. She turns back and he’s still there frozen. “I pick up a few shifts sometimes, waitress, bottle girl, whatever the club needs”

She exhales lightly, then adds, “I pick up shifts sometimes. Just when they’re short-staffed.” There’s a small pause, not uncomfortable, just filled with the quiet awareness that this is the first real conversation they’ve had in weeks that isn’t filtered through a screen.

“I don’t have a college education or any real skills, per se,” she continues, filling the space before it can turn into something else. “So I just take whatever work I can get.” The words come out more matter-of-fact than defensive, but there’s still something in them that feels like explanation, like she’s offering context before he can form an opinion.

Taehyung doesn’t respond immediately. He starts walking instead, closing the distance between them at an unhurried pace, his attention still fixed on her in that same steady, unreadable way. He stops a few steps in front of her, close enough now that the space between them feels intentional rather than incidental.

“Okay,” he says. It’s simple. Too simple, maybe. She searches his face briefly, like she’s trying to figure out what he’s doing with everything she just told him, whether he’s dismissing it, accepting it, or quietly judging it in a way he won’t say out loud.

“Okay,” he repeats, a little more deliberate this time. “I have dinner plans and you have to go back I’m assuming?” “Yes I do” “Okay then, hopefully I’ll see you soon?” Taehyung asks, not placing a lot of expectations in his words.

“Come on, go back, we can go to the club” Wooshik stands up the moment Taehyung’s done explaining it all. “Sit down, she didn’t tell me about this all this time because she didn’t want to, I’m not going to show up at a club she works at” Taehyung adds calmly as he goes back to reading the menu, that’s when his phone vibrates and the rest of the table looks at him curiously while he checks the message.

___: I get done around 1, you think you’ll be around by then?

___: or whenever works for you

___: I have wanted to see you again since halloween

“Come on, text her back” Hyushik pleads as Taehyung just locks his phone, not ready to respond yet. 

They don’t see each other that night, or any day after. He texts, something about being busy, a week full of shoots and with the new year and album release coming closer, that has been a lot to do. There has also been a lot to think about.

“So, management has decided. They’ll be shutting down one store as it doesn’t make sense to have three stores in the same area. Since ours is the smallest location, this will be the one that gets shut down” the store manager announces before the store closes. 

The words settle heavily, not dramatic, just final. No one reacts immediately, it’s the kind of information that takes a second to register properly.

“A few of the sales associates will be moved to other locations,” the manager adds, already moving into logistics, into something easier to process than the decision itself. “The rest will be receiving severance.”

Someone exhales under their breath. Someone else asks a quiet question that doesn’t really get answered. The space feels smaller suddenly, like the walls have shifted closer without warning.

___ doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, arms loosely crossed, her expression unreadable in a way that almost looks like calm if you don’t look too closely. Because this isn’t new, not really. Uncertainty, temporary work, things ending without much notice. Still, her mind moves quickly, already calculating, already adjusting.

She thinks about texting him on her way back home, she doesn’t work on that instinct, she’s too tired to act on it. She does what she does on all bad days, pick up an extra spicy order or tteokbokki and go home, put on something she’s watched a couple times and just fall asleep.

Her final straw is the broken down front door, like someone broke into her place. She freezes for a second, not knowing what to do till she calls the police, someone could still be in there. Her gaze never leaves the door as the line rings, her body tense, caught between the urge to run and the need to stay, just in case. 

“We think it was a random break-in,” the officer explains later, his voice steady, practiced in a way that makes it clear he’s said this before. “Someone drunk, or desperate enough to try their luck without much of a plan.”

She stands a few feet away, arms folded loosely, watching as another officer moves in and out of her apartment, gloves on, careful, methodical. The door now hangs open in a way it shouldn’t, the inside of her space suddenly unfamiliar just because it’s been seen by someone else first.

Yellow tape cuts across the entrance, enough to make it feel like she doesn’t belong there right now.

“We’ll collect CCTV footage from the surrounding area,” he continues. “See if we can identify anyone.” She nods once. “You shouldn’t stay here tonight,” he adds after a moment, his tone softening just slightly. “Find somewhere else. Parents, friends?”

The question lingers. Her parents would have been the first call she made, but she is in no mood for another lecture about why she chose to live away from home and her lack of a stable job. Her brother lives at the dorms, that’s a no go. Most friends still live with parents and this would be a lot of explaining. She pulls out her phone and calls the one person she knows who’s not going to have any follow-up questions.

“Hey.” Taehyung's voice comes through slightly breathless, like he picked up in the middle of something. On the other end, Taehyung steps away from the set, one hand still loosely holding his phone as the director calls for a reset behind him. He’d almost missed it, the screen lighting up in his pocket just as they were lining up for the final shot of the day.

“Hey,” she murmurs back, her voice quieter than usual, stripped of its usual steadiness in a way that’s subtle, but there. He notices immediately.

“You okay?” he asks, already moving further away from the noise, his tone shifting without hesitation.

There’s a small pause. She doesn’t answer right away.not because she doesn’t want to, but because saying it out loud makes it real in a way she hasn’t fully processed yet.

“My place…” she starts, then stops, pressing her lips together briefly before trying again. “Someone broke in.” The words settle between them, Taehyung stops moving for a full minute before he responds

“What?” The confusion is immediate, followed quickly by something sharper. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she says. “I didn’t go in. I called the police.They're here.” He exhales, tension shifting but not disappearing. “Are you safe?” “Yes.”

“They said I shouldn’t stay here tonight,” she adds, more quietly this time.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Come to mine.” It’s immediate, certain, like this was the only option to ever exist. 

“You don’t have to-” she starts, out of habit more than anything. “No ___ I have to, someone broke into your place, it’s clearly not safe” he cuts in, not harsh, just firm enough to stop her. “Please just take my help instead of pushing me away”

She exhales softly, her grip on the phone loosening just a fraction. “Okay.” On the other end, he nods to himself, already moving, already thinking two steps ahead. 

“I might be a little late,” he says, glancing back toward the set where people are still resetting for another shot. “We’re wrapping up, but it’s running over.” He continues. “My manager will be there, he has a key. He’ll let you in.”

She hesitates for half a second at that, the idea of walking into his space without him there settling a little strangely, but she doesn’t question it.

Taehyung is practically running off set once they’re done, he knew he’d be a bit late, not 2 am late. But he still manages to make his way back home, the door making a noise behind him as he walks in. The entire place is dark, like she wasn’t here, even if his manager informed him that she was very much inside the house.

He flickers a few lights on and finds her not where he was expecting, asleep on the sofa. He exhales quietly, something in his chest easing at the sight of her, and walks over, slower now, the urgency replaced by something more careful.

He crouches slightly beside the sofa, his voice low when he says her name. “___… hey.”

She stirs, but doesn’t wake fully. He watches her for a second longer, taking in the tension still lingering in her expression even in sleep, before trying again, softer this time. She blinks slowly, her gaze unfocused at first, then settling on him, and the moment recognition clicks into place, something in her expression shifts so quickly it almost startles him.

“You’re here,” she says, her voice rough, barely above a whisper, like she’s still not entirely convinced he’s actually in front of her.

“Yeah,” he replies immediately, softer now, his tone grounding in a way that’s meant more for her than the words themselves. “I’m here.”

That’s all it takes. Her face tightens before she can stop it, her breath catching in a way that has nothing to do with sleep anymore, and she sits up too quickly, like she needs to close the distance between them just to make sure he’s real.

“I didn’t know what to do,” she says, the words coming out uneven, not held back, not measured the way she usually is. “I just stood there and I couldn’t even go inside, I just-” she pulls him closer, wanting to feel another heartbeat just to make sure this is all real and not a bad dream. She grips him tightly as she lets the tears loose, she can’t breathe anymore, holding all this in.

She cuts herself off as she pulls him closer, the movement instinctive, almost urgent, like she needs something solid to hold onto just to ground herself. Her grip tightens around him, fingers clutching at his shirt as the tears come all at once, unrestrained now, her breathing uneven in a way that makes it hard to catch up.

“And then I got fired, and this has to be that guy from the bar, it has to be, and I should’ve told the police earlier, I should’ve said something when he kept showing up, I just-” “___,” Taehyung interrupts, his voice firm but low, close enough that she has to hear him through the spiral she’s slipping into.

She doesn’t stop immediately, her words overlapping with themselves, her thoughts running faster than she can keep up with. “I didn’t think it was serious, I shouldn’t have been so rude with him”

“___,” he says again, more deliberate this time, one hand coming up to steady her, not forceful, just enough to anchor her where she is. “Look at me.”

It takes a second, but she does, her breathing still uneven, her grip on him not loosening. Taehyung shifts as he moves her along with him, placing himself on the floor and her in his lap. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, softer now, his voice close enough that she feels it more than hears it.

One of his hands comes up to the back of her head, not forcing, just resting there, fingers threading lightly through her hair as he pulls her in just a little closer, tightening his hold around her like he’s making sure there’s no space left for her to feel like she’s alone in this.

And then, without overthinking it, he presses a quiet kiss to her temple. Just gentle, grounding, something steady in the middle of everything that isn’t. “Breathe,” he adds under his breath, his lips still close to her skin, his hold not loosening even slightly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Her breathing is still uneven, still catching in places, but the rhythm of it begins to shift, slowly syncing with something calmer, something steadier than the panic she was caught in just moments ago.

He stays like that, holding her as close as he can without overwhelming her, one hand moving slowly along her back in a quiet, repetitive motion, the other still resting at her head. He doesn’t rush her to stop crying, doesn’t pull away, just holds her there, as tightly as she needs, like he’s not going anywhere.

The morning settles in quietly, the kind of soft, early light that filters through the curtains without asking for attention, turning the room a muted gold. At some point during the night, the TV has gone silent, the screen dark, leaving only the steady rhythm of her breathing and the faint hum of the apartment around them.

It’s that same rhythm that pulls Taehyung awake. Not abruptly,just gradually, his awareness returning in pieces, the first thing he registers being the weight of her against him, still tucked into his arms exactly where she had been hours ago.

He doesn’t move immediately. For a moment, he just stays there, letting himself wake up fully, his hand still resting lightly against her back, rising and falling with each breath she takes. Carefully, he tilts his head slightly to look at her properly.

Her face is relaxed now, the tension from the night before gone, or at least softened enough that it doesn’t sit so visibly in her expression anymore. 

As gently as he can manage, he shifts, testing the movement first to make sure it doesn’t wake her. When she doesn’t stir, he slides one arm more securely beneath her, the other supporting her back, lifting her carefully from where she’s been resting against him.

She barely reacts. Just a small shift, her head turning slightly toward him, like she’s settling more comfortably rather than waking up.

He pushes his bedroom door open with his foot, lowering her onto the bed with the same care, adjusting the pillows slightly so she doesn’t wake from the movement. For a second, he considers stepping back immediately.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls the blanket over her, pausing just long enough to make sure she’s settled, his hand hovering for a moment before resting briefly against her arm, like a final check that she’s still there, still okay.

When he walks back into the living room, he’s met with the quiet clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Mrs. Lee looks up as soon as she notices him, a small, knowing smile already forming before she says anything.

“You’re up early,” she comments, though her tone suggests she’s already noticed more than just that.

Taehyung runs a hand through his hair, still waking up, still not entirely adjusted back to the normal rhythm of things. “Couldn’t really sleep in,” he replies, his voice kept low out of habit now. He’s used to Mrs Lee letting herself in and getting started with work on most days.

Her gaze flicks briefly toward the hallway, then back to him. “So,” she says, a hint of curiosity slipping through despite her otherwise composed demeanor, “your girlfriend is still asleep?”

The word lingers, he should correct her. But the explanation feels… unnecessary. Complicated in a way that doesn’t fit the quiet simplicity of the morning.

So instead, he just nods. “Yes,” he says easily, like it’s the most natural answer in the world.

Mrs. Lee smiles, satisfied with that, already turning back to what she was doing. “She must have been very tired.” “She was,” he replies, glancing briefly toward the hallway again without meaning to.

“Can you make something simple for lunch? Some kind of soup with some rice?” Taehyung suggests as he moves around the kitchen, getting some water for him and ___. “If she’s going to be here more often, you’re going to need real groceries, not just diet food”  Mrs Lee suggests as she gets started on the rice.

“We’ll go grocery shopping then, I want her to be happy and comfortable here” Taehyung talks candidly, the words come out easily, like he hasn’t stopped to consider how they sound out loud.

Mrs. Lee pauses just briefly, glancing at him with a quiet sort of approval, though she doesn’t make a big point of it. “How about I make some quick breakfast, a little breakfast in bed for her?” she suggests and Taehyung stops mid-step at that, turns slightly back toward her, considering it for a second longer than expected.

“That might be a bit too much,” he says finally, not dismissively, just careful. “I think it might overwhelm her.” Mrs. Lee studies him for a moment, like she’s measuring how much thought he’s putting into this, how deliberately he’s choosing what not to do. 

“I need to go back, at least pick up some stuff,” ___ reasons over lunch, Taehyung needs to leave soon, but he also wants to make sure that she won’t leave in the meantime.

Taehyung had been watching her, making sure she was actually eating, and the moment she says it, something in his expression shifts, not sharp, not tense, just more focused. “I can have it picked up for you,” he offers, the response immediate, like the idea of her going back there herself doesn’t sit right with him.

She shakes her head lightly, already expecting that. “You’ve already done too much,” she says, softer this time, almost like she doesn’t want it to sound like rejection. “I’ll just stay with Arin for a bit. She said I can come over until I figure something out.”

“___,” he says, quieter now, and when she finally looks up, he’s already leaning a little closer, his hand coming up without hesitation, resting gently against her cheek. Warm, steady, his thumb brushing lightly along her skin in a way that makes it difficult to look away from him.

“You can stay here,” he says, and this time it’s softer, but more certain. “As long as you want. As long as you need.” Her breath catches just slightly at that, just enough to show that it landed somewhere deeper than she expected.

“I suppose Arin doesn’t have a guest bedroom?” he adds, his tone lighter, but his hand doesn’t move away, still there. “She doesn’t,” she admits, her voice quieter now. “But she has a floor. And an extra mattress.” He huffs a faint breath at that, something almost like disbelief, but softened by the way he’s still looking at her.

“And that sounds better to you?” he asks, not pushing, just trying to understand. “It’s easier,” she says. His thumb stills for a second against her cheek before moving again, slower this time.

“For who?” he asks gently. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze dropping for a moment before returning to him, like she doesn’t have a clean answer to give. “For me,” she says eventually, though it sounds uncertain even to her own ears.

He studies her for a second, something in his expression softening further, like he’s seeing past what she’s saying into what she’s trying to protect. “You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

His hand shifts slightly, cupping her cheek a little more fully now, his voice lowering just enough that it feels more like something meant only for her. “Let me take care of you.”

The words don’t come with expectation, they don’t feel heavy. If anything, they feel really simple, like he’s not asking for anything in return, just offering.

“Okay” It comes out softer than she expects, but there’s no hesitation behind it this time. “Okay,” he repeats, something easing in his expression almost immediately, like that was all he needed to hear.

He lets his hand fall from her cheek without lingering, and just as quickly, he shifts gears, finishing the rest of his lunch with a quiet kind of efficiency that feels almost deliberate, he can’t be late after leaving early yesterday.

“Okay,” he says again, more to himself this time, as he pulls out his wallet and steps back toward her. “This is the one you’ll need for the building and the elevator.” He places it in front of her, not quite handing it over, just setting it down.

“I’ve texted you the pin for the apartment,” he continues, glancing briefly at his phone. “So you can come and go whenever you want.” She nods slowly, still watching him, trying to keep up with the way he’s moving through all of this so naturally.

“And this-” he adds, pulling out another card, pausing just slightly this time before holding it out to her, “credit card”, Her brows knit immediately. “Taehyung-”

“Just for groceries,” he says quickly, though there’s a faint hint of something lighter in his tone now, like he can already see the protest forming. “Or whatever you need.”

“That’s too much,” she says, quieter now. He watches her for a second, then exhales softly, something shifting in his expression before he tilts his head just slightly, a glint of something playful breaking through the seriousness.

“Come on,” he says, nudging the card a little closer to her. “Let oppa take care of you.” The delivery is so sudden, so completely at odds with everything he’s said so far, that it catches her off guard. For a second, she just stares at him. Then she lets out a small laugh, genuine, unguarded, the kind that hasn’t shown up once since the night before.

“Did you really just say that?” she asks, shaking her head, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little.

He shrugs, like he has absolutely no shame about it, though there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now.

“If that’s what it takes,” he replies easily. Because the sound of her laughing, even just a little, feels worth making a fool of himself for. 

“You’re not staying here tonight.” Hyunwoo says it while pulling open a drawer that’s already half-empty, like the decision has been made somewhere between showing up and stepping inside the apartment.

“I’m not planning to,” ___ replies, folding a sweater with more focus than necessary before placing it into the open bag on the bed. The place still doesn’t feel like hers right now, even with the police tape gone, even with everything technically “cleared.”

Arin moves around more carefully, picking things up, setting them down, like she’s aware of the shift in the space without saying it out loud. “Still creepy,” she mutters under her breath, glancing briefly toward the front door before turning back.

“It’s fine,” ___ says automatically. “It’s not,” Hyunwoo counters just as quickly, not even looking at her as he checks another drawer. “Someone broke in. That’s not something you just call ‘fine’ and move on from.”

She doesn’t argue. Instead, she zips one section of the bag closed and reaches for something else, keeping her hands busy so she doesn’t have to think too much about the fact that they’re right.

“So,” Arin says after a moment, her tone shifting just slightly, lighter but not careless, “this guy you’re staying with…” ___ exhales quietly. “Arin-”

“I’m just asking,” she insists, though there’s a small smile tugging at her lips. “We’re packing your life into a bag, I feel like I deserve a little context.”

Hyunwoo snorts faintly at that. “Yeah, at least tell us if we need to be worried.” “There’s nothing to worry about,” ___ replies, a little more firmly this time, though she still doesn’t look at either of them.

“That’s not an answer,” Hyunwoo says, finally turning to face her, leaning back against the dresser. “That’s you avoiding the question.” She pauses for a second, a shirt still in her hands, before folding it a little more slowly than necessary.

“I’m staying somewhere safe,” she says finally. Arin tilts her head slightly. “With someone.” Hyunwoo watches her for a second, something more protective than teasing settling into his expression. “Do you trust him?” he asks.

She nods simply with no hesitation. Arin notices immediately, exchanging a quick glance with Hyunwoo before looking back at her. “And you’re… comfortable there?” she asks, softer now.

___ hesitates for half a second, not because the answer is no, but because she hasn’t fully said it out loud yet. “I’m staying in the guest room,” she says instead. “He just… didn’t make it complicated,” she says finally.

Hyunwoo frowns slightly at that. “Meaning?” “Meaning he didn’t ask questions I didn’t want to answer,” she explains, quieter now. “He just made sure I had somewhere to stay.”

Arin’s expression softens at that, understanding settling in a little more clearly now. “I’m liking this guy already and he gave you his credit card, should we buy something ridiculous, like lingerie?” she teases as she reaches over for the card, ___ swats her hand away.

“It’s for groceries” Arin gasps softly, pulling her hand back like she’s been personally offended. “That’s such a waste of potential.”

“He just-” she starts, then pauses, the memory catching up with her a little more clearly now, and before she can stop herself, a small laugh slips out.

“He said…” she starts, already smiling a little, “he said, ‘let oppa take care of you.’” Arin freezes, completely, her mouth actually falls open as she stares at ___ like she’s just been handed life-changing information. “He did not.”

“He did,” ___ says, covering her face briefly with one hand, “And he was so serious about it too, like-” She drops her hand and, without even realizing it, mimics his tone just slightly, softer, lower, “-‘just take it.’”

Arin lets out a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, grabbing onto the edge of the bed for support. “Oh my god, I love him.”

“You don’t even know him,” Hyunwoo cuts in, though there’s a hint of disbelief in his voice now. “I don’t need to,” Arin shoots back immediately. “That’s confidence. That’s commitment. That’s-” 

“That’s embarrassing,” Hyunwoo interrupts, shaking his head as he stands up straight. “Who actually says that in real life?”

___ is still laughing quietly, the tension from earlier softened now, her shoulders more relaxed than they’ve been since they walked in. “He said it like he meant it,” she admits, a little more softly this time.

“Is ___ okay?” Jimin asks the second Taehyung pushes the door open to the practice room, not even giving him the chance to step in properly before the question is out.

Taehyung pauses just inside, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, already looking like he’s had this conversation more times than he can count.

“Yes, she’s fine,” he says, a little too quickly, like he’s reciting something at this point. “It’s been a week, she’s told me she’s fine at least a hundred times, and she got irritated when I was about to ask her again over breakfast-so,” he adds, pointing briefly at Jimin like he’s setting a rule, “do not ask her if she’s fine.”

Jimin blinks. “…Okay,” he says slowly, holding his hands up slightly in surrender. “Noted.” From the corner, Jungkook lets out a quiet laugh, glancing up from where he’s been stretching. “You sound like you got scolded.”

“I did,” Taehyung replies without hesitation, dropping his bag and crouching down to re-tie his shoes like he needs something to do while saying it. “Apparently, asking someone if they’re fine every two hours does the opposite of helping.”

Jimin snorts. “Yeah, no way.” Namjoon shifts slightly, watching him with more curiosity now. “So what are you allowed to ask?” Taehyung tightens the knot on his laces, then straightens, thinking about it for a second longer than expected.

“…If she’s eaten,” he says finally. “That one’s still acceptable.” Jimin lets out a laugh at that. “Wow. You’ve been given a script.”

“Pretty much,” Taehyung replies, grabbing his water bottle. There’s a small pause before Jimin’s expression shifts again, something more playful creeping in. “So… she’s moved in?” he asks, clearly unable to help himself.

Jimin glances at Jungkook, then back at Taehyung, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You know, most people go on a first date before moving in together.”

“She’s not moved in,” Taehyung replies instantly, turning back just enough to correct it. “She’s staying. Temporarily.” “In your house.” “In the guest room,” he adds, like that detail matters.

“It does not help as much as you think it does,” Namjoon mutters. Taehyung runs a hand through his hair. “Nothing’s happening, okay? She just needed somewhere safe.”

Jimin watches him for a second, then nods slowly, the teasing easing just a little. “She just ran into oppa’s arms, how romantic” “I’m never telling you anything ever again” Jimin lets out a laugh at that, completely unbothered. 

Taehyung lets out a quiet huff at that, he wants the teasing to stop, but he also wants to confide in them. “I just-” he starts, then stops, like he doesn’t know how to phrase it without it sounding worse than it already does. “We haven’t even gone on a proper first date.”

Jungkook chokes on his water, “You’re kidding.” “And she’s staying at my place,” Taehyung adds, like that somehow makes it easy to explain.

Namjoon presses his lips together, clearly trying not to react too strongly. “That is… an unconventional order of events.” “That’s what I’m saying,” Taehyung mutters, running a hand through his hair again.

Jimin stares at him for another second, then breaks into a grin. “This is great,” he says, clearly entertained now. “You skipped all the easy parts and went straight to domestic life.”

“It’s not domestic,” Taehyung snaps back immediately. “She’s in the guest room.” “Ah, yes,” Jimin nods seriously. “Very professional. Roommates with emotional tension.”

“I hate you,” Taehyung mutters. Jimin grins wider. “No you don’t.”

“Hyung,” Jungkook cuts in from where he’s stretching, more focused than the others, his tone steady. “Just tell her how you feel. How do you feel?”

“At first, I thought it was just…” he pauses, searching, “seeing her again. You know? Like…someone you knew, someone you were close to, and you’re just glad they’re back.” Jungkook nods slightly, following.

He exhales, leaning back slightly, like he’s giving in to the fact that he has to say it properly. “I like her,” he says. Then, more honestly, “I like her a lot.” Taehyung huffs out a small breath, something almost like disbelief in it. “Now she’s in my house,” he says. “Sleeping in the guest room like we’re strangers trying to be polite, and I’m acting like this is normal.”

Jimin lets out a quiet laugh, softer this time. “That’s because you’re trying not to mess it up.”  “And that’s exactly why I’m not just saying something without thinking it through,” Taehyung adds, glancing between them. “Because it’s a delicate time for her, she needs me more as a friend”

Namjoon watches him for a second, then nods slowly. “Okay. Then be that.”

Jimin tilts his head, considering it, then shrugs lightly. “Yeah… just don’t get stuck there.” Taehyung frowns slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Jimin says, a little more serious now, “don’t wait so long trying to do the right thing that you end up not doing anything at all.”

Taehyung smiles the second he steps inside, the familiar sight settling something in him almost instantly, her curled up against the sofa, the TV casting a soft glow across the room, the quiet no longer feeling empty the way it used to after long days.

He doesn’t just disappear into his room anymore.

“Hey.” She turns at the sound of his voice, shifting slightly as she looks over at him, “Hi.”

He steps further in, dropping a few things on the table, his eyes lingering on her for a second longer before he speaks again. “Why are you still up?”

She blinks at him, like the question doesn’t make any sense. “Because it’s eleven,” she says, a hint of amusement slipping into her tone as she sits up a little straighter. “I don’t work in the morning, and I’ve barely seen you all week.”

“Have you eaten yet?” she asks casually as she stands up, her dress falling by her ankles. “I haven’t, have you?” “I made something,” she adds, like it’s not a big deal, like it didn’t take any effort at all. “Just… something simple.”

He watches her for a second, a little caught off guard as she moves into the kitchen, already reaching for plates. This, when she’s getting dinner set up while he washes his hands, it’s these domestic fleeting moments, there have been too many of these over the last two weeks.

“I called my mom for the recipe,” she says, a little faster now, like she’s filling the space without thinking about it. “And I’m not a good cook, but I’m good at following instructions, so I figured that should count for something. And if it’s bad, we can just order food, it’s really not a big deal-”

Taehyung lets out a soft chuckle, cutting through her rambling just enough. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, glancing over at her as he dries his hands.

She looks at him like she doesn’t entirely believe that, but she doesn’t argue, just sets everything down and gestures toward the table. “Sit.”

“So, you have a couple days off, wanna do something fun?” ___ suggests as he serves the food for both of them, the tofu jjigae is exactly what he needed on a cold November night. 

“We could go for a run and grab breakfast-” “Hey, us normal people enjoy our day offs by sleeping in till afternoon, the words run and breakfast don’t exist for us” ___ interrupts as she serves the rice for them, filling his bowl a little too much. 

“What do you, normal people do then?” he teases her as she scoffs, quietly waiting for him to take a bite, he sighs with delight as he takes the first bite, that’s all the approval she needed.

“We watch movies,” she continues instead, like she’s getting back on track. “Or… there’s this winter wonderland thing happening nearby. Lights, food, all that festive stuff.” She pauses mid-bite, something clicking a second too late. “Wait,” she says, looking up at him properly now, “can you be out with me in public like that?”

The question hangs there, quieter than everything else. Taehyung doesn’t answer immediately, finishing his bite before setting his spoon down, like he’s actually thinking it through rather than brushing it off.

“I can,” he says finally, calm, steady. “We’ll just have to be a bit careful.” She studies him for a second, like she’s trying to figure out what careful actually means for him.

“For you,” she says slowly, “or for me?” He meets her gaze without hesitation. “For both of us,” he replies.

“Other stuff us normal people do is apply for jobs, you don’t even know what Linkedin is do you?” ___ accuses him with a serving spoon as he laughs packing away the leftovers. “I do, it’s like a professional instagram?”

She stares at him, how amazing must life be with no pressure of losing a job “…That might be the worst description of LinkedIn I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not wrong,” he defends, sliding the lid onto a container. “You post achievements, people like it, you pretend everything’s going great, same concept.” “That is deeply concerning,” she mutters, shaking her head as she sets the spoon down. 

“Thank god you won’t ever have to apply for a job”, she narrows her eyes at him slightly. “That must be nice.” “It has its perks,” he admits, a little too casually.

She huffs at that, but there’s no real irritation behind it, just the faintest edge of disbelief. “Meanwhile, I’m out here tailoring resumes and writing cover letters like my life depends on it.”

He glances at her again, this time a little more attentive, the humor softening just slightly. “Do you want help?” he asks.

She pauses at that, like she wasn’t expecting it. “With what?” she asks, a little more cautiously. “Anything,” he shrugs. “Resumes, applications… or just complaining about it.” That earns a small laugh out of her.

“You helping me with a resume sounds like a disaster waiting to happen,” she says. “Wow,” he exhales, feigning offense. “No faith in me at all.”

“You just called LinkedIn a professional Instagram,” she shoots back as she moves closer to him.,“You set yourself up for that.” He smiles at that, shaking his head as he finishes putting things away. Closing the fridge to find her standing against the counter. 

“What do you think, a tattoo, bangs or getting my hair colored, which substance should I abuse?” ___ asks as they make their way to the theater. They’ve seen too many movies at home, so it was time to watch one in a theater. 

“Substance to abuse?” she gestures vaguely, a wide sweep of her hand that somehow manages to encompass the job, the apartment, the break-in, possibly the last three months of her life, "I need to do something. Anything. Something that feels like a decision I actually made."

She drops into her seat, the theater is quiet at this hour, midweek, nearly empty. Taehyung had booked the seats on either side of them without mentioning it, a detail she doesn't know and he has no intention of explaining.

"Or a piercing," she adds, like she just remembered it was an option. He settles into his seat beside her, stretching his legs out, already reaching for the popcorn she'd insisted on buying even though he'd tried to pay. "Where?"

She turns to look at him, a little surprised he asked instead of redirecting. "I don't know," she admits. "Somewhere that would make my mother cry a little. Nothing serious. Just enough."

The corner of his mouth moves. "Nose," he says. "You could pull it off." She blinks. "Yeah?" "Yeah." He says it simply, like it's obvious, already looking back toward the screen as the lights begin to dim. "You have the face for it."

She faces forward too, but something about the way she does it, the slight pause before she settles, suggests she's filing that away somewhere. "Bangs would be cute too," he adds quietly, in the dark.

“But all I remember is the last time you got bangs and how much you cried” he notes and ___ hits his arm a little, “I was 15, I didn’t know what kind of bangs would be right for my face, no one told me."

"I feel like the mirror told you." She hits his arm again. He's smiling now, she can see it in her periphery, the kind he tries to keep small and mostly fails at.

"They were very short," he says, like a man with no survival instinct whatsoever. "They were a mistake," she agrees, flatly. "One mistake. That I was very young for. And you're still bringing it up fourteen years later, which says a lot more about you than it does about me."

He finally looks at her then, and the smile has stopped pretending to be small. "You cried in the practice bathroom for forty minutes," he says. "Jihoon had to go get you."

"Jihoon didn't have to do anything, I was fine." "You made her stand outside the door."

"For moral support-" "For forty minutes."

She faces forward again, pulling her coat tighter across her lap with great finality. "I'm getting bangs," she announces. "Tomorrow. First thing."

"Okay," he says, reaching for the popcorn.

"And a tattoo." "Sure."

"And a piercing." "Nose," he confirms, like they've already agreed on this. Because they have. She doesn't say anything after that, but the corner of her mouth has done something she's hoping the dark is hiding. It isn't.

"One of the best feelings in the world is walking out of a movie theater," Taehyung shares as they push through the double doors, the cold air meeting them all at once. "You feel like a different person."

She considers this, their shoulders bumping lightly as they fall into step together, the corridor still emptying around them. He doesn't shift away. Neither does she. "What are some other good feelings for you?" she asks.

He doesn't answer immediately, which she's learned means he's actually thinking about it rather than reaching for the obvious. 

"The first hour back in Seoul after a long trip," he says finally. "When the car comes out of the tunnel and you can see the city properly. Every time, without fail." She hums, tucking her hands into her coat pockets.

"The specific silence right before a concert starts," he continues, more slowly now, like he's finding the words as he goes. "Sixty, seventy thousand people and somehow it's the quietest moment of the whole night." He pauses. "A really good first date”

She laughs at that, quiet and genuine. "That's a very specific list." "You asked." "I did," she agrees. Their shoulders bump again, the pavement narrowing slightly around a corner. "What else?"

He glances at her briefly, then back ahead. "Waking up and realizing you don't have anywhere to be," he adds finally.

The receipt comes through to his phone at 5 pm.

He's in the middle of a vocal warm-up when he sees it. One americano. From the exact coffee brand whose advertisements he had spent three days filming in October, his face currently on every cup sleeve in the country.

He stares at it for a second. Then he smiles, slowly, the way you smile at something you weren't expecting to find charming. There’s already a picture from her before he’s done typing. She has the cup sleeve close to her face.

___: Letting oppa take care of me

___: why is the coffee kinda bad

___: brand ambassador do something

He laughs, quietly, to himself, in the middle of the practice room. Hoseok glances over from across the room and decides not to ask.

Taehyung: I don’t even drink coffee

___: You’re a fraud, thank you for the coffee none the less

Taehyung: You’re welcome, how did the interview go?

He sends it and goes back to the warm-up, but he's already watching the screen from the corner of his eye. The three dots appear, disappear, appear again, which means she's rewriting it, which means there's more to the answer than she's deciding how much to give.

___: They gave me a part time role so something is better than nothing

___: what time do you get home? I might go out with friends for beer and chicken

Taehyung: Around 9ish, I might have friends coming over today

___: okay… should I just stay at Arin’s tonight?

Taehyung: Hyushik hyung was kinda looking forward to seeing you again

Taehyung: But you can come home or stay out, whatever you feel like doing

He reads it back. It's casual enough. Gives her the option without making it into something. Doesn't say come home the way he wants to, doesn't make it obvious that Hyunsik hadn't actually mentioned her today and that he'd brought him into this entirely unprompted as cover.

The three dots appear.

___: lol he barely knows me 

Taehyung: He held your hand for six minutes at my party 

Taehyung: He knows you well enough

___: okay, I will get home by 11

___: should I ask Mrs Lee to cook some dinner for you guys?

He stops mid warm-up. It's such a small thing, a completely reasonable, practical, thoughtful question that anyone might ask. And yet something about it, the casualness of it, the way she's already thinking about his evening while planning her own, the fact that she knows Mrs Lee's name and has her number and has somehow in the space of a few weeks become someone who asks questions like this, lands somewhere in his chest and just sits there.

Taehyung: I think we’ll be ordering, half of us don’t even eat dinner

___: That isn’t the healthiest, but okay, I’ll see you soon

___: Text me if you need me to pick up anything on my way

Taehyung: I will, see you

“See this is how you know a girl is living with you” Wooshik comments as he picks up the blanket from the sofa, “See” he points to the flowers in the vase by the dining table.

“I bought those” Taehyung comments as he walks to the kitchen to get them plates. “And these?” Seojoon talks in the background as he picks a plate of food from the dining table, "Hyung, don't touch that," Taehyung calls, already hearing movement near the dining table.

Too late. Seojoon has found the covered plate, lifting the cling wrap with the careful, investigative energy of someone who has stumbled onto something interesting. A sticky note is fixed to the top, neat handwriting, her handwriting, which Taehyung has gotten used to finding on things around the apartment.

Seojoon reads it aloud.

"Brownies. Real butter, real sugar, real consequences. Eat in case of emotional distress or late night cravings. You're welcome."

The room is quiet for exactly one second. Then Hyunsik, from the couch, lets out a long breath. "I like her."

"We all like her," Wooshik says, already reaching for a brownie with zero hesitation, press tour entirely unconsidered. He takes a bite. His expression shifts immediately into something bordering on reverent. "Taehyung-ah."

"I know," Taehyung says, setting plates down. "No," Wooshik says, holding the brownie up. "I mean she can actually bake" Taehyung quietly pockets the sticky note while setting the plates down. 

The dinner chaos has settled into the comfortable wreckage of a good evening. Pizza boxes stacked unevenly on the coffee table, sushi containers pushed to one side, someone's ramen half finished and abandoned. Hyunsik has claimed the armchair entirely, legs draped over the side, a brownie in one hand and his phone in the other.

"Okay so flights," Hyunsik says, squinting at his screen. "If we leave Thursday we get two full days before the weekend hits and everything gets crowded."

"Thursday is tight," Wooshik says. "I have something in the morning." "How long is something?" "Two, three hours."

"So Thursday afternoon," Seojoon says, with the calm finality of someone who has been solving logistical arguments between the same people for years. "Thursday afternoon," Hyunsik agrees, already typing. "Taehyung-ah, you're good from Thursday?"

"I'm good from Thursday," Taehyung confirms, leaning back against the sofa, more relaxed than he's been all week.

They've been going around like this for twenty minutes, the comfortable, unhurried momentum of a plan that's mostly already made but enjoyable to keep discussing anyway, when Taehyung hears it. The soft beep of the elevator. The quiet click of the front door.

“I’m just… I’ll be back” Taehyung mutters when he can sense her taking too long with her boots. He’s amused by what he finds, ___ struggling with her boots as she’s bent over. “Need some help?” he asks as he’s already bending over. 

"Oppa," she says, against his shoulder. He pauses, she's never called him that before, not seriously, not outside of the joke he'd made about the credit card. Something about it, quiet and unguarded and slightly slurred, lands somewhere he doesn't immediately examine.

"I am drunk drunk," she continues, with great solemnity. "Like, genuinely. I don't think my legs are working properly." A pause. "Should I just sleep here?"

"On the floor," he says. "It looks comfortable."

"It's not." "You don't know that."

"I do know that." He gets the second boot free and straightens, finding her head still against his shoulder, apparently unconcerned by the change in angle. He looks down at her, the top of her head, the loosened hair, the coat that's half fallen off one shoulder. She is, as she has accurately reported, drunk drunk.

He smiles, widely, in a way he's glad she can't currently see. "Come on," he says.

"I'm serious, the floor-" "You're not sleeping on the floor."

"Just for a few minutes-" "___-ah." He straightens up properly, and she makes a small noise of protest as her head loses its resting place. He takes her coat the rest of the way off her shoulders, hanging it by the door, then turns back and offers his hands with the patient expression of a man with nowhere else to be. "Come on."

She holds his arm instead, both hands wrapping around it, her grip slightly tighter than strictly necessary. "You're very tall," she observes, as they start moving.

"I'm the same height I've always been." "It's more noticeable right now," she says. "Everything is more noticeable right now."

He says nothing to that, just keeps them moving at a pace she can manage, which is slow, but steady. From the living room, he can hear the conversation continuing, someone laughing at something, the comfortable noise of an evening still going without him. 

There are rules to this living situation that she’s made for herself. Unspoken, but still very much there. Number one being don’t go into his bedroom. Everything between them has stayed carefully within shared spaces, the kitchen, the living room, places that don’t blur lines too much. They haven’t even stepped into his office, let alone this.

She knocks, expecting him to not answer when the door pushes on itself, not having been closed properly. Taehyung looks up from his phone, seeing her frozen by the door.

Taehyung looks up from his phone, the movement catching his attention instantly, only to find her standing there, still, like she’s unsure whether she should step in or back out. For a second, neither of them says anything.

“I didn’t mean to just disappear earlier,” she says finally, breaking the silence, her voice softer here than it usually is, like the room itself demands it. “I thought I’d come say hi but you guys were already gone.”

“It’s fine,” he replies easily, sitting up a little straighter. “They left a while ago.” She nods, though she doesn’t move further in immediately, her fingers tugging absentmindedly at the sleeve of her sweater before she finally steps inside, the door pushing a little more open behind her.

“I just didn’t want to seem rude,” she adds. “You weren’t,” he says, watching her a little more closely now as she walks closer. She exhales, something in her easing just slightly, and then, almost casually, she stretches, arms lifting above her head, back arching just enough, the sweater shifting with the movement. 

Just enough to reveal it. Subtle, intentional, but his eyes are fixed on her face as she walks even closer, stopping just an arms distance from him while he sits against the headboard. 

Taehyung’s still looking at her, but not there, not catching it the way she expected him to. Her lips press together, a flicker of frustration crossing her face before she tries again, shifting slightly, adjusting the sweater just enough,

Still nothing. “…Are you serious?” she mutters under her breath.

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused. She stares at him for a second, then gestures vaguely toward herself. “You’re not noticing anything?”

His brows knit together slightly as he looks at her again, more deliberately this time, like he’s trying to figure out what he missed. “…No?”

She lets out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head before finally just giving in, tugging the hem of her sweater up slightly. “I got a piercing” His gaze follows her face, he’s still confused when she lifts her sweater even further, the two dainty diamonds now more clear than ever. 

His expression changes almost immediately, confusion giving way to something quieter, more focused, his gaze dropping and staying there this time, like now that he sees it, he can’t quite look anywhere else.

“…Oh,” he says, slower now, like he’s catching up all at once. She lowers the sweater just slightly, not all the way, watching him this time instead of the other way around, her earlier frustration easing into something more curious, more aware of the shift she just caused.

“Took you long enough,” she mutters, though there’s no real bite to it. “I didn’t expect you to just-” he starts, then stops, exhaling softly as he shakes his head, his attention still not fully leaving.

“You didn’t expect me to what?” she presses, a faint challenge in her tone. “Walk in and casually show me that,” he finishes, his voice lower now, more measured in a way that wasn’t there a second ago.

“I didn’t casually show you,” she argues, though she knows exactly what she did. “You just weren’t paying attention.” “I am now,” he replies, almost without thinking.

His gaze flickers up to her face briefly, then back down again, like it’s taking effort to pull it away at all, like the room has narrowed in a way neither of them is acknowledging out loud.

“Does it-” he starts, then hesitates, like he’s choosing his words more carefully than usual, but his hands aren’t as causal as they circle her waist, holding up the sweater for her “does it hurt?”

“Not really,” she says, her voice softer now, the earlier teasing changed to something more shy. “It did for a second, but it’s fine.”

He nods, almost absently, like he’s listening but not fully processing the answer, his attention still caught somewhere between what she’s showing him and the fact that she’s standing this close in his room of all places.

She swallows lightly, her fingers tightening just slightly at the edge of her sweater, like she’s aware of how close this is now, how different it feels standing here compared to every other space they’ve carefully stayed within. How warm his hands feel, how his fingers move every now and then sending electric shocks through her.

“I thought it was going to be a nose piercing?” Taehyung finally speaks up as he looks straight at her, “I barely have a job, I don’t want to become harder to hire-” she’s startled when he softly pulls her even closer, his hands moving from the sides of her waist to the small of her back.

“Well,” he says, quieter than before, like the words are coming out without much thought, his gaze still fixed on her waist, “it… looks really good.” 

Her fingers hover for a second before settling lightly against his arm, like she needs something to ground herself in the moment, like she’s not entirely sure what to do with the way this feels now.

“Yeah?” she asks, softer than before, something more uncertain threading through it. He nods once, slower this time, his hands still where they are, steady, like he hasn’t realized he hasn’t let go. “Yeah.”

“When do you leave for Hawaii?” ___ asks, taking in a sharp breath as she moves away, his hands dropping immediately as he realises what they’ve done, the boundary he’s crossed. 

“Um…next thursday, I should be back in a week” Taehyung answers as he straightens himself, he watches as she takes another step away, regretting the invasive touch now. “You okay to stay all by yourself?” he asks when she just nods, her eyes briefly flickering to the bed, right where she was the last time she was in this room.

“I’ll be fine, I’ll probably visit my parents and explain the whole thing, I just need to be ready for the lecture” “I should-” she starts again, gesturing vaguely toward the door.

“Yeah,” he nods, sitting back in his bed comfortably. She lingers for half a second longer, like she might say something else. But she doesn’t. “Goodnight,” she says instead. “Goodnight.”

___ moves through the morning routine without thinking about it. 

The kettle. The lemon, halved on the chopping board. The honey jar that she'd moved to the left side of the counter two weeks ago because it was easier to reach from that side, and that Taehyung had never moved back, had just quietly started reaching left for it too.

She's already squeezing the second lemon before she registers what she's doing.

Two mugs. Both of them. Side by side on the counter, the same way she'd set them every morning. She stands there with the lemon in her hand and looks at the second mug for a moment. He's somewhere over the Pacific right now. Or past it. She isn't sure of the exact time he reaches Hawaii.

She puts the lemon down, and doesn't move the mug. Just pours her own and leaves his sitting there, empty, which is somehow worse than if she'd just put it away.

She's on the sofa, both hands around her cup, when she hears Mrs Lee's key in the door. "You're up early," Mrs Lee observes, stepping in and taking in the scene with the quiet efficiency of someone who notices everything and comments selectively.

"Couldn't sleep in," ___ says, which is true enough. Mrs Lee moves into the kitchen, and ___ hears the familiar sounds of her beginning to work, the soft clink of things being organized, the tap running briefly. Then a pause, just long enough to be meaningful.

"He asked me to make sure you eat properly while he's away," she says, in the same tone she might use to report that the groceries had been restocked or that the dry cleaning was back. Completely matter of fact. Like it's simply information.

___ looks up at her. "Left a note," Mrs Lee continues, moving back into the kitchen. "With a list. Your preferences." A small pause, the sound of the refrigerator opening. "He was very specific."

She sits with that for a moment.  "He didn't mention it," ___ says, not quite to Mrs Lee, not quite to herself.

"No," Mrs Lee agrees, from the kitchen, the sound of something being set on the counter. "I don't think he meant to make a fuss of it." A brief pause, as Mrs Lee thinks about what she’s about to say, "He's been different, you know. Since you moved in."

___ doesn't say anything, just turns her mug slightly in her hands.

"I've worked for him for two years," Mrs Lee continues, her voice carrying through from the kitchen, the tone of someone sharing an observation rather than making a point. "He kept strange hours. Very late nights, very late mornings, sometimes I'd come in and he hadn't slept at all." She pauses. "You can tell when someone isn't sleeping properly. It stays on their face."

The refrigerator closes. "He’s been waking up before I arrive, most days. Eating breakfast." A small beat. "Real breakfast." ___ looks at the empty mug on the counter.

"I didn't do anything," she says quietly. "I just make the lemon water in the mornings." "Mm," Mrs Lee says, in the particular tone of someone who finds that response both accurate and entirely beside the point.

She appears in the doorway again, wiping her hands on a cloth, looking at ___ with the warm, level expression of a woman who has seen a great many things in a great many households and knows exactly what she's looking at.

"He has someone to come home to," she says simply. "That's not a small thing." ___ doesn't answer. She looks out at the picturesque view,, her hands still around her mug. The second mug sits empty on the counter behind her.

But you had time. That was the whole point of tonight.

The above-named waiter had smiled like he was in on something private when he lit the match and said, “Celebrating?” And you’d smiled back, a little flustered, and said, Yeah. I guess I am.

You don’t feel like celebrating now.

You swirl the warm wine in your hands that you don't even like anyway, but you make a face that looks like you’re on the verge of tasting something rich, something worth all this waiting, when in truth it’s a defense mechanism of some sort. Something to do with your hands that should have been held and kissed. Too dry. You judge ruefully. You only picked it because he likes it.

Even when it's supposed to be about you. Tonight is about you. A rare, like rare-rare personal triumph that came in the form of an offer letter with your name printed in ink that precieved graver than it should. It will the inception of a title bump. A salary hike that would finally fill the remaining fifteen percent of a jar you had named: trip to greece. A right set of circumstances you had earned after weeks of late nights, caffeine abuse, and grinding until your bones felt hollow. You’d spent the whole morning grinning into your toothbrush, rehearsing the announcement. The breed of joy you can’t help but choreograph when it was about a milestone as big as that after you’d finally closed that deal. Got your name attached to something worth bragging about. He said you’d celebrate. Said he’d be there to toast to your achievement with the same kind of urgency he reserved for phone calls from idols. Even picked the place — God, he picked the place.

But now you’re sitting in it alone, dodging glances and wondering if you should’ve worn something less “I’m someone’s girlfriend” and more “I’m the whole fucking meal.”

Because while you may feel like a whole meal most of the times. It's a very casual number of times you feel like a girlfriend. What isn't a casual number is when you check your phone and it flashes right back at you. 8:37 PM.

He was forty minutes late.

And you could swear you had checked your phone fifty times in that length, even had memorized what you saw in the fifty times, you did: one new email with zero new messages. No calls. Your phone’s screen is a galaxy of just unanswered calls. Four, five, six if you count the one that went straight to voicemail.

You don’t, but you remember the sound. The robotic please try again later feels more honest than he’s been in days.

You try again because someone has to do the trying after all.

Calling: Hajoonie 🩷🩷

Ring. Ring. It drones again and again and again.. You tap on the angry red button with force more than needed because if you'd have to hear to that sound any more, you'd spare yourself of the theatrics and just smash it on the ground of this expensive restaurant.

You focus on what's in front of you, rather than what's not. Check the menu even though you’ve already ordered, the way people do when they’re trying not to look lonely. You fiddle with the edge of your napkin, press the clean one over your phone screen, a random thing, really, but that's what dolorous people do when they are trying not to look dolorous.

Theres a twinkle of panic when you start to run out of them, after counting the petals of the rose flower, situated in a vase, as expensive as the nails you got done. Should you do a re-over? Maybe you will get a different number than thirty two this time. Maybe you didn’t got it right the first time? You're just about to, when your phone buzzes, once.

Finally. You were two minutes away from someone tearing up over how pathetic you look.

You hold it in your hands, gentler this time, with more care, and when you read the caller id, your heart jolts, thought it's not in the way when he first said said the l word to you, or when he got you the purse you've been eyeing with hopeless eyes from his first paycheck. Not in the least, actually, it's

not any kind of relief- recognition, mayhap. Comes after a stable three year love affair. More like the way you feel when your foot misses a step but your brain already knew it would.

You snap it up. “Where the hell are you, Joon?”

"Y/N, I— God, I’m so sorry," he exhaled, the background noise already too loud, a obtuse, chaotic bustle you knew too well. "Something came up with the boys— with Taehyung. I swear I tried to get out of it, but it's really important, I—"

Your perfectly manicured red nails dig into the soft fabric of the napkin. “What?”

"He—uh, it’s kind of urgent. I have to be there.”

Your eyes shut slowly, lashes trembling. “Are you serious right now?” you whispered, voice razor-sharp despite the volume. “You promised. You looked me in the eye this morning and promised you’d be here.”

“I know, I did, and I meant it,” he babbled. “But I—I’m so fucking sorry, babe, they really need me. It’s not a normal night. there’s a situation with the sound tech, and he’s panicking, and— It's a whole thing."

A whole thing.

You want to laugh. You almost do. But it comes out as a sharp exhale instead, as you open your eyes and look around the restaurant. You view as a paranoia mode of a camera would: The couples toasting. The waiter avoiding your table. The candle welling wax made up of your ended endurance, putting up the act of as if it’s weeping for you.

You lean back in the chair, press your fingers to your temple. “Of course. Of fucking course it is.”

“Babe, please don’t be like that. I wanted to be there. You know I did.”

You’re about to bite back, when exactly did you stop being a priority and start being a placeholder,  even if you know the answer, the exact date, heavens, when you hear what is the most aggravating sound.

"Joon-sshi."

That voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice.

Deep as if a hollow well would be when you say something ridiculous for it to echo back. Leveled enough that it could iron a wrinkled shirt, hot and fast. Fucking smug because it has ever right to (or so he thinks). His voice, slicing through the call like a machete that is unapologetic about whatever comes in it's way. The vocal equivalent of an expensive whiskey poured over a fire nobody asked to be set.

It pearls casual bidding, cushioned but sharp, sharp enough that it doesn’t ask for diligence. It assumes it like a ceo expecting standing ovation just because he entered the room. You hear it in variety shows, in fan compilations, in your hallway on rushed mornings when you’re trying to get a goodbye kiss and he’s halfway down the stairs already while you were busy tying your shoes and praying for a civil goodbye.

You knew it so well that you didn’t even need to see his face to imagine the annoyance etched into it. The burnished voice that was built to be beautiful and custom made just to madden you in the same breath belonged to one man and one man only, Kim Stupid Taehyung. A name that boiled your blood. A man that spiked your nerves as if you had swallowed down a live wire.

“Seriously? I told you I need that list now. We’re behind.”

And just like that, your boyfriend’s voice is smaller. Scrambled, submissive in that way he only ever got around him. “Shit—he’s calling. I’ll text you later, okay? I’m so sorry—please don’t be mad.”

Something bitter amplified in your mouth. And it's not the wine anymore. It has never been the wine.

You don’t get the chance to say anything. You couldn’t if you wanted to. If you would have opened your mouth, you would have screamed. Something like "You and your Kim Taehyung can go choke on his tech list!"

Heat crawled up your throat, all the way to your temples. People around you blurred as your thoughts tunneled into a familiar black hole.

Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

It was always Kim Taehyung.

You hate Kim Taehyung.

There’s no real logic to it, not when you’re being honest with yourself. But there it is, this raw little wound that carried a little infection with and turned it into something worse.You don’t hate him because he’s famous.You don’t hate him because he’s talented, or loud or has enough money to make it up for it and more.

You don’t know him enough for that, not really, never seen him person or had his gnawing charisma touch you through a distance even, you only know his voice; that empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice. Prechance his schedule too for godsake. How he needed too many people to straighten his tie, hold his venti iced caramel macchiato, but made with oat milk instead of regular milk, added an extra shot of espresso for that kick and drizzle some extra caramel on top. And not to forget, a pump of vanilla syrup blended in with ice held down to keep it from getting too watered down. He probably needed your boyfriend for that too. He needed him for many things, always at his beck and call because that’s what this job is about, isn't it? Passionate art requires finding the vibe and running after it, at even four in the morning apparently. The endless excuses gone round and round his name like satellites. Passionate art, your ass. You hate him with the kind of bitterness that has layers: resentment stacked on frustration stacked on exhaustion. You hate the way he takes up space in your life without ever having to be in the room.

He had this way of swallowing Hajoon’s time like it belonged to him. Ever since your boyfriend became Kim Taehyung’s manager, you'd been in a three-person relationship, except the third wheel was a global superstar with a schedule more sacred than God’s while you're just another fleeting name in the schedule that gets crossed out in red ink.

This wasn’t the first time that had happened. Not even the tenth (you're keeping count). It was just the latest and every single number that adds up, also adds to your loathing.

You could still remember last spring, standing outside a theatre in the rain, makeup running and heels killing you, only to get a last-minute text: “Taehyung’s rehearsal ran late. So sorry. Tomorrow?”

Or the time he’d invited your boyfriend on a “quick trip” to Jeju for a shoot that turned into a five-day disappearance — radio silent that included no texts, no calls of even informing you whether he's dead or alive. And when they’d finally returned, he said that Taehyung had said that time flies when you're working. You’ve listened to him make excuses in every register of apology, from bashful to exhausted to just plain numb.

And now, here you are. Sitting alone in a restaurant with his favorite wine and cold fries.

You close your eyes. You breathe once, twice. Your phone is still in your hand, thumb ghosting over the last call.You don’t even consider reasoning or finishing the fries, only lift a hand to signal for the check.

Because you’re done.

You’re done letting this job, this man, this life play second fiddle to someone else’s. Especially his. Not tonight. Fuck that.

As the waiter walks off, polite and wordless, you pull your phone back up and open the group chat: Witches Who Wine, a name born in blood pact and bottomless mimosas. You’d earlier declined. The one that’s been buzzing with drunken selfies and glitter emojis since seven.

Earlier, you sent a regretful “Raincheck, girls. Girlfriend duties.”

It had felt responsible at the time. Sweet, even. Embracing that you were choosing stability over chaos, embracing you were the kind of woman who got celebrated over dinner and candlelight by a man who couldn’t stop looking at her.

Now, you typed:

“Hajoon bailed. Plans back on. Where are we drinking, ladies??"

The replies came fast like an avalanche.

[LARA]: WHAT?! HE BAILED?

[JIA]: noooooo. again???

[SAFIYA]: girl drop his ass we have shots lined up and glitter everywhere

[LARA]: WHERE IS HE I JUST WANNA TALK. with my fists.

[JIA]: You told him it was your celebration night, right?? You reminded him??

You blink at that last one, because, yes. Of course you did. You reminded him last night, this morning, this afternoon when he sent you a thumbs-up emoji and a “Can’t wait, babe.”

He could at least have the decency to cancel for himself. But no.

He let the one that wears silk shirts and smirks like he knows he has a leash around your boyfriend while he watches him obey do the honors.

[JIA]: just come over. we’re already tipsy. safiya just tried to kiss the bartender.

[SAFIYA]: he flinched.

[LARA]: so did we.

Your friends, for all their dramatics, mean well. But they’ve got the wrong villain.

Your boyfriend isn’t the real problem. Well he is technically. But he’s also predictable. Spineless. Hiding his light under a bushel and sugar-mouthed and easily tugged in whatever direction the golden boy points.

[LARA]: Don’t think, just get here. We already ordered that ugly sangria you love.

[JIA]: You owe us shots too. Plural. We saved you a booth and a sparkly crown.

[LARA]: Also your tits look amazing in that brown top you were gonna wear tonight. You're wearing it, right?

[JIA]: Wait i thought it was green

[SAFIYA]: No it’s brown she wore it to my birthday and made my cousin stutter

[LARA]: EXACTLY.

You tip the last of the wine into your mouth, it still tastes like disappointment, but the buzz that follows is warm and insistent. Insistent that you go and have the time of your life.

You type:

"Yes. Yes I got the brown top on which made safiya's cousin sutter. Lipstick’s still perfect too. Be there in ten 💋"

You have friends. You have heels. You have a face that looks fantastic under bar lights. You’ll go out. You’ll drink. You’ll laugh too loudly. You’ll just dance until your muscles ache and your chest is lighter.

You are not an afterthought.

The club smells like citrus and hidrosis and possibility.

A little dictatorial perhaps, granted you smell it the moment you step in. Temperature bandaging around your knees, bass thudding in your ribs like someone knocking to be let in. Altaria is packed, bodies glittering under pulsing lights, and your friends are already halfway drunk, half-sticky with sangria and stubborn lip gloss, wedged into a booth that should only seat four.

They scream when they see you.

A harmony of “Girl!” and “Oh my god!” and “Look at you!” rings out across the booth like gospel.

Lara practically climbs over Safiya to hug you, arms flung tight around your shoulders, perfume and tequila catching in your nose. “Oh the audacity of that man-” she gasps, pulling back to stare at you like you've just announced a felony. “You look like that and he bailed?”

“Please let me key his car,” Jia adds, sliding a pink drink across the table toward you. “I’m serious. I’ll even Google how to spell something dramatic.”

Safiya wiggles a tiny plastic crown between her fingers, slipping it onto your head. “To your promotion. Raise your glass.”

You do. You have to. They clink theirs against yours, and the moment presses in, frames you in and the joint giggling, the element, the tiny sting behind your eyes that you refuse to let spill out. You don’t wanna come off as pitiful on the night where you should be anything but, when you're surrounded by glitter and noise and people who love you so loudly.It burns like validation.

And for a while, it works.

It fades and fades and fades until it works.

Pulls you into their chaos, that's just compulsory for sisterhood. And you should be unable to picture the word without mentioning the thousand attempts at blurry phone selfies just to get one aesthetic one, the dancing to decade-old pop hits, the game where you all list your worst kiss and Jia wins when she describes a guy who meowed mid-makeout. You laugh at lara’s drunken flirting with the server (he is flustered and trembling and clearly gay, not catching on the hint that she's for the girls too, which makes it even funnier).

You drink too much too fast. You’re halfway between giddy and feral, clutching a fourth drink and a fifth reason to forget.

Lara’s on your left, knee pressed against yours. She smells like oranges and expensive perfume and she’s too beautiful to be comforting but she tries anyway. Her glitter eyeliner is slightly smudged and it suits her. Jia is across from you, chewing the straw in her sangria like it personally offended her. Safiya is already halfway gone, resuming her story about how she almost hooked up with a bartender but forgot she was still wearing her Invisalign.

You tip your head back and knock back another shot. The ice clinks against your teeth like a tiny applause.

"God," you mutter, licking lime from the side of your hand, "I should’ve just come out with you from the start."

“Should’ve dumped that man two months ago,” lara says, her voice equal parts affectionate and judgmental. “Seriously. He’s like rice cakes, bland and barely functional.”

“You know,” Jia starts, leaning in like she’s revealing state secrets, “you really could just… break up with him.”

The table becomes deathly still. The music doesn't. It's some pounding club remix of a song you once loved but now just feels like a headache with a bassline.

You blink. And then something clicks loose in your jaw. It's not like it has never been suggested or your boyfriend’s name hasn't been paired with a loads of "You should leave him" but it has been a while since you had so much to drink.

“Oh my god,” you say, and it sounds like a laugh, except it’s not. “You guys don’t get it. It’s not just Joon.”

Lara raises a brow. “Please don’t say ‘it’s me.’ We know that's far from the truth and we’re not letting you do this drama tonight or ever."

You slam your shot glass down a little too hard. “It’s him." The way you say him is a snarl adorned in lipstick. "Kim stupid Taehyung."

“Ohhh,” Safiya says like she’s watching a fuse light.

Lara points up a finger like a child asking permission to speak. "I take back what I said about your boyfriend." Your brows shoot up. "That he's boring. I think him working under south Korea's pride and honor is really interesting."

Jia leans back. "Really interesting. His boss is really interesting."

Safiya stirs the ice in her glass with the straw. "Shame Hajoon never lets us meet him. Or the hotter one with dimples."

You throw your napkin at her. "His boss is cockblocking our relationship. Ending it, if anything, actually. He’s in everything. I swear he’s got some kind of sixth sense. Any time I have plans with Joon? Suddenly it’s, ‘Tae needs this, Tae’s freaking out, Tae forgot his fucking sunglasses and now we’re all gonna die.’ And Hajoon just goes like some errand boy."

“You know what it’s like?” you say, gesturing with your hands, already a little wild. “Its embarrasing. So embarrassing. It’s like dating a guy who’s secretly married to someone else. But the other person is tall, hot, famous. And so, so self important. I swear to god, he thinks the sun rises and sets on his profile.”

Jia whistles. “I mean… it is Taehyung.”

You whirl on her. “Don’t.”

She lifts her hands, placating. “Sorry. Go off.”

And oh, you do. Glass clutched like a lifeline, tiara threatening to fall off your head. Grandeur already on the floor so there's nothing left to loose.

“Everyone loves him, right? He’s so talented, he’s so artistic, he has depth, blah blah blah. Well guess what? He also has no fucking respect for boundaries. He doesn't give a shit that he has my boyfriend enslaved or maybe hypnotized. I don't know."

“He is kind of hypnotic,” lara mutters into her drink.

You turn to her sharply. You don't care that he's carved from marble and dipped in Versace. He has ruined everything. “Lara. You're supposed to be on my side."

“I am,” she grins, clinking your glass. “I just also have eyes.”

You groan, slouching down in your seat. “God. I hate him. I hate that he’s in every conversation. I hate that I know his voice better than my boyfriend’s now. I hate his stupid face and how it's everywhere and his stupid, stupid…”

You trail off, realizing your mouth is still open, mid-sentence. The girls are watching you. Smiling like they know something you don’t. Which is insulting, really. You are the wronged party here. You are the woman left alone in a restaurant with a melting candle and cold fries. You are the girlfriend with lipstick wasted on an empty seat. You are-

“…I hate him,” you finish weakly.

“Sure you do,” lara says softly, dragging a finger through the salt on the rim of her margarita. “So much that you’re obsessed.”

Your head snaps toward her. “No—what? No. No, no, no.”

Jia’s already snorting into her glass, Safiya is ducking like she’s dodging a flying object.

You glare at all of them. “It’s not that. I’m not obsessed.”

“Okay,” lara says, suspiciously agreeable, sipping slowly.

Jia leans forward on her elbows. “You said his name like twenty-three times in the last five minutes, though. I counted.”

You sputter. “It’s not—it’s not like that. I don’t want him. I want my boyfriend back. Like he was before he started working for he who I shall not name. We were good. Normal. He remembered birthdays. He texted back. We had sex that didn’t get rescheduled for a backup dancer rehearsal!”

"Your boyfriend who's only interesting because of who he works for. That’s cute,” lara says, deadpan. “But also… lies. There's no way you both are not thinking about Mr cheekbones in the bedroom. Hajoon is not enough to spice it up."

You gape. “Excuse me?"

“Just hypothetically,” Safiya chirps.

"You guys are disgusting."

“And you’re in denial,” lara says, raising her glass.

You huff, cheeks burning. It’s the alcohol, probably. Or the lights. Or the fact that there are times when you think about him. You don't count how many. It doesn't matter if you've hated him the whole time, right?

"Fine. It's more of a murder fantasy." You mutter.

"Where he has you pinned down?" Jia asks innocently. "Beause same."

You gasp, mortified. “NO. Stop it.”

They erupt in laughter, the whole booth shaking with it, and you cover your face with your hands.

This is a mistake. Coming out. Drinking. Talking about him. Because it brings your dignity to an end and to a conclusion that you don't wanna give the benefit of doubt. That Maybe they’re right. Maybe there’s a line between hate and something else, and maybe you’ve been tap dancing across it for months.

But you don’t want to think about that.

So you think about smothering him with one of his own stupid silk scarves.

And since you'd let these sadistic thoughts in, in the first place. You let them go a little wild too. Imaginably, in public too.

Smashing a pie in his face.

Yes. A cream pie. Banana, maybe. A flavor he’d probably have strong opinions about. Somewhat humiliating. A lot whole sticky. Maybe he’s in the middle of giving a Very Serious Interview, saying something about creative control or the burden of artistry or whatever poetic bullshit he spills like he invented suffering, and then BAM! Pie ik his full face.

He would blink slow with his mouth open. Meringue on his perfect lashes.

You’d stand there, triumphant, arms crossed. Maybe you’d say something cool like “This is for every fucking dinner you’ve stolen from me, you time-sucking peacock.” then walk away while never breaking eye contact because you'd want him to see and acknowledge.

Or — okay — maybe it’s more violent sometimes.

Like pushing him into a koi pond.

You don’t even know where the koi pond came from, but it’s there. Lush garden surrounds and the tranquil museum courtyard envelops. And he’s wearing something expensive — linen, probably. Designer as you and everyone else would except yet it would be something that makes everyone turn and stare, and just as he says something snide and smug, you grab him by that overpriced lapel and shove.

Right in.

He flails with a loud splash for special effects.

You feel so good in this vision. Calm. Peaceful. Like a war general watching her final enemy fall.

You desire.

It’s laundry day.

Which is to say, it’s a day off. Your day offs come in a diversity. Last Sunday...fuck you can't remember. This sunday, howbeit, smells of detergent and damp cotton and a little bit like lemon because you spilled your candle while reaching for a sock behind the couch. It's a type of array where the floor is scattered with warm, wrinkled heaps of your own productivity and you’ve convinced yourself that folding things is a spiritual exercise.

Your playlist is somewhere between defiant and nostalgic. Beyoncé yelling about self-respect, then Norah Jones gently reminding you that you are, in fact, lonely. It’s a whiplash thing.

You’re cross-legged on the floor,in your baggy home shorts, knees to chest, tugging a fitted sheet into some approximation of a square. It’s a long weekend. Or a short one. You’re not sure anymore. They all blur together.

So well that you don't even notice when the door creaks open. Or you just pretend you don’t. That you don't see him.

Hajoon. The absentee boyfriend. Today’s featured guest star in: Please Forgive Me, Baby.

He has come to embody the role, he has come prepared with flowers. Of course he has flowers. They’re not even the cheap kind this time. Tulips, you think. Or maybe he googled “I fucked up” and picked the first bouquet suggestion.

You don't get up, neither do you look up. You keep folding. Badly.

“Hey,” he says.

You hum in reply. Not a mean hum. But not a friendly one either. Something between I acknowledge your existence and say another word and I’ll cut the sleeves of your shirts in a criss-cross way.

He hovers. Shifts his weight like a nervous intern. “I’m really, really sorry,” he starts. “I know I messed up. I was an idiot. I should’ve been there.”

“But you weren’t.”

“No.”

You fold a towel like it owes you money.He comes over, kneels across from you, places a careful hand on your ankle. And you think that only if he had thought of this carefulness before, he'd here with flowers just because. But your thoughts and you, sometimes don't align, so you don’t move either.

“I should’ve picked you over—” he catches himself, clears his throat. “Over work. I just… I got caught up again. I didn’t mean to bail. Especially not that night. I know how much it meant.”

"Did you?"

He winces like it physically hurt. “Okay. You're furious. I deserved that.”

You look back at the dryer. The silence stretches like gum. He sighs.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me right now,” Hajoon says. “Just let me make it up to you.”

"And how are you gonna do that? What if it comes between your errands?"

He flinches. That’s new. Usually, he deflects. Laughs a little. This time, he just takes it.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. Please just listen to me."

You raise an eyebrow but don’t reply.

“There’s… there’s an event this weekend.” He shifts, awkward, like he’s not sure if this is the right time to mention it. “It’s a listening party. For the new album. Jungkook’s, you know him? The youngest one? He's hosting it at the studio loft, but it’s like..fully catered, private, some press, but mostly just close circle people. And I was invited.”

You blink at him. “Okay?”

He swallows. “With a plus one.”

You look at him, one brow raised yet again. “And you want me to be your arm candy?”

“I want you to come with me,” he says. “To celebrate something with me for once. I want to show you off. Properly.” He traces circles on your calf. "Will you let me do that, babe? Let me make up?"

Your first instinct is to say no. Out of spite. Out of principle. Because this entire idol-shaped job has eaten half your relationship and still wants dessert.

But…

You’ve never been to one of their parties before. Hell not even to his workplace. So this whole showing off thing feels flat to you. You turn this over in your head like a coin. Glint. Weight. Intent. But the rumors you've heard are tempting. Oh, they are Glamorous. Lavish. Free champagne. Rooftop views. Gold-plated hors d’oeuvres that you pretend to understand. You’re not a fan of the world — but you do like a little spectacle. You do like heels and dresses and glittering places where people look at you like you matter.

And because you’ve spent so long hearing about this world from the sidelines that part of you wants to see if it’s really as ridiculous as it sounds. Maybe sip something from a crystal glass and pretend you don’t know what it cost.

Still, you have to play it cool.

“Can my friends come?”

He blinks. “What?”

“My friends,” you repeat, looking him dead in the eye. “Lara, Jia, Safiya. I’m not going in without my pack. And they like the group. It’d be a big deal for them.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure he has that power to pull that, but then nods. “Uh—yeah. I mean, yeah. If they’re okay with signing NDAs.”

You bite back a grin. He said yes. Of course he said yes. Guilty people, and your boyfriend was one hell of a guilty man, would scrape dirty off a three thousand square feet lawn with a spoon if the desire to purify themselves of that is strong enough.

You'd like to belive that for him, it is too when you finally look up at him, arching a brow.

“I’ll think about it.”

He sags like you just handed him oxygen.

“Still mad,” you say. But your voice is softer now. Less ice, more mossy.

“I know.”

You glance back at him, tilt your head.

“But you’re making up for it.”

His whole face brightens, like a kid who just found out the punishment’s being lifted. He doesn’t move to touch you.

“Don’t fuck it up,” you say, and toss him a clean shirt from the basket.

He catches it with a grin. You let him lean in and kiss your temple. You let it feel a little like forgiveness.

You have habitually, always been on to prefer night time over mornings. Early mornings are nice too because they closely similar to the segregation of the dark sky, where sun and moon blink at each other. Doesn’t beats the former though.

It's a flurry of neon flash, on Saturdays. Colorful star-like-lights taking over the whole of the city, on the rest of weekdays.

Tonight, it's too much. You knew it would be. You just didn’t know how much.

The elevator doors part like a curtain and you step into a room that looks less like an event and more like a fever dream manifested by someone with too much money and too little sense of restraint.

The ceiling’s strung with Edison bulbs shaped like teardrops. They flicker warm, flattering light across every sleek surface and high cheekbone. The floor’s a herringbone wood polished to a shine that threatens to reflect your thoughts if you look down too long. Exposed brick walls, brutalist furniture, and vinyl booths arranged like museum exhibits. You espy that it's a look of modern minimalism that only the rich can afford to make look careless.

It smells like vanilla, white musk, and champagne mist. If the words: luxury and aloofness and contracts had a smell, it would be this. And something underneath it all. Cologne, sweat, the heat of nerves just under the skin.

There’s no red carpet, but there may as well be.

Everyone’s dressed like they knew they’d be photographed, magical silhouettes and glittering details, statement pieces skimmed over delectable nonchalance. Too many people are wearing sunglasses indoors. There’s ambient bass threading through the room, sultry and self-assured, just like the man whose music it celebrates.

You don’t know Jungkook, but you get him from this space. From the custom scent diffusers, the soft glow of film cameras on tripods, the tray-passed hors d’oeuvres so tiny they feel like a joke.

You’re in a black slip dress that hugs just enough and what it doesn’t is draped in the denim jacket you grabbed at the last second. Your friends flank you like bodyguards, looking like different kind of unaware.

Lara’s in a blood-red two-piece with her hair slicked back, a look she went for when she was trying to get laid. Safiya’s practically see-through in a mesh blouse and sequined pants, halfway to an afterparty already. Jia’s in glitter boots and capturing every moment like she’s the official documentarian of your reckoning.

And Hajoon, dressed in a tailored jacket and that rare sheepish smile, keeps glancing at you like he’s waiting to see if this counts as absoulation or just probation.

You haven’t decided yet.

He’s been clinging to your side all night. Part guilt. Part presumption. Like he wants the whole room to see you and know you're with him. And you let him because a small, treacherous part of you likes being a prize sometimes. Especially in rooms where the stakes are stupid high and nothing is real except the flash of a camera and the clink of ice in a glass.

“Come on,” he says, fingers brushing your lower back. “Let me introduce you.”

You nod once, you'd like to meet the people who are a group of what'd you just made up in your head; sold their souls to stand in the shadow of multiple stars, (no harm meant) you can pretend. You can be charming. Just long enough.

He leads you through a maze of press assistants and studio people. A woman in chunky boots talks to a man with purple eyebrows about lighting design. Someone else passes with a tray of glasses shaped like perfume bottles.

You pass a silky curtain you’re pretty sure is hiding a private recording booth, a whole lighting rig hanging above it like a halo.

The first people you meet are benign.

“This is Chul,” he says, gesturing toward a guy in a sweater vest with half a headset tucked under his jaw. “Props coordinator. Always bailing me out when I forget which box the custom mic sleeves are in.”

Chul offers a friendly wave, eyes darting between you and the champagne like he’s calculating the weight of the room.

“And that’s Seojin,” Hajoon continues. “She handles most of the press logistics.”

Seojin is tall, thin, glossy. Her smile is tight but not unfriendly. She appraises your outfit once and seems satisfied. She doesn’t comment on your presence — merely nods at Hajoon’s introduction only becausw it's a formality. As if she already expected someone like you would appear eventually.

She turns away before you can thank her.

Next is a short man with a clipboard and hair dyed a pale green. Hajoon barely gets to say his name, Sangwoo, you think , before he’s muttering something about timing and the rental van arriving without the riser extensions.

It’s strange. The people here don’t talk the way your coworkers talk. There’s no chatter about lunch or traffic or the weekend. Everyone looks at everyone like they owe each other something, everyone talks with everyone; coded. Shorthand for a world you’re not quite part of.

Your boyfriend, though levitates like a local and you'd expect nothing else. He's a man here who knows which hands to shake and which not to, whose shoulder to touch and who to call sunbae. It’s like watching him speak another language. One he never teaches you.

There’s Minae, who runs digital content, and who immediately compliments your dress before asking if you’re single in front of your boyfriend. She’s clearly three drinks in already, her lashes tipping dangerously close to her cheeks every time she blinks. When she says that you're too pretty for this one, lara with her all too overwhelming charm slides in with an: "am I pretty too?" The rest of you resist the urge to facepalm. Minae on the other and very contrary hand, chuckles a breathless chuckle. All her focus on the brunette with stars in her eyes.

Though all of this, you too focus. On how somehow, somewhat, this isn't all too bad.

It’s flashy. Frenetic. A little unhinged in a way you kind of like. There’s too much perfume and everyone talks like they’re mid-episode on a show you haven’t watched, but you’re starting to get the monotony of it.

A little like clockwork, a sound of tick-tick you didn’t have a liking to but tolerated for the sake of peppiness of it all, spoke to you on the first date, alone. Might you add, that you had left a little bit of impression too. He couldn't speak a full coherent sentence when you saw the first time, had him stopped in his tracks and all.

So it's a suprise when hajoon does that thing again. Literally halts. Dead in his tracks.

In front of a woman whos tall- statuesque, really. That low-key brand of Gorgeous, you don't mind admitting to yourself. Sharp collarbones, sharper eyeliner, a pantsuit tailored within an inch of its life, it could've been stitched to her bones. Her lanyard reads “logistics,” but it may as well say “don’t fuck with me.” in big bold letters. Maybe it's your habit of trying to put people in a drawer that squares them in limited or weirdly specific characters (you know it's a bad one) but she has the air of a girl who once stole your charger in college and never gave it back, but made you feel like the asshole for asking. Jesus. You've got stop.

“Y/N, this is Bora." Hajoon says, voice going smooth at the edges, that press-conference tone he saves for moments when he’s trying to impress. "She runs most of our on-site coordination. Couldn’t function without her.”

Bora turns.

She smiles. With full teeth. All of them perfect. Friendly enough to pass inspection, but you’ve seen that smile before. It’s the version that lives on corporate brochures and social media bios. The smile worn by girls who never lose their temper, because they’re too busy winning and taking what they want, when they want. Her eyes catch on yours and hold.

She steps forward. Extends her hand. Her nails are immaculate — almond-shaped and the color of blush wine. You shake it out of reflex.

"Bora, this is Y/N. My girlfriend."

“Oh,” she says with a laugh, low and sugar-sweet. “So this is the girl who finally gets him to show up on time.”

Hajoon chuckles. “That’s her.” Her tone is warm and she doesn't bother laughing at her own joke. Was that a joke? Okay. Okay.

You nod, lips parting into a smile that feels functional. You don’t trust her. You don’t know why, but you don’t.

Her? You? You think it over and over again but heart flicks only once. And it tells you that it’s nothing. Hearts are trusting.

She lingers a second too long. Her eyes slide over you, not , but curiously. Like she’s trying to find the catch. The why. The how.

You know girls like her. They remember everything. And she’s definitely remembering you. Her eyes flick over your shoulder, over your friends, back to Hajoon. The corner of her mouth lifts, just scantily. You can't pinpoint if she’s thinking something you wouldn’t like or break into tears over.

She gives you the time and benefit of dount when she lingers too long. She laughs when she doesn’t need to. She doesn’t touch Hajoon, but she doesn’t need to. It’s in the way she angles her body, the way he doesn’t quite meet your eyes when she jokes again, calling him “sir” sarcastically. The way he chuckles and mutters, “You’re the one who runs the place, not me.”

She waves him off like it’s an old joke. Something only they get.

And then, because maybe she knows you’re watching too closely, she looks at you. Her smile softens. Reveals pity. Some people just arrive with a sense of prelude.

You hate that most of all.

Before you can pin down the nauseating twist in your gut, Hajoon’s already guiding you away. His fingers skim the small of your back again like punctuation.

“She’s just intense,” he whispers. “Work mode. Don’t worry.”

Which is the worst thing to say if you want someone not to worry.

And something about the curve of her mouth does bothers you. You don't know why. Just that you clock it. Quietly. Internally. The way you clock exits and weak wine.

The girls show up just in time to interrupt.

Lara practically materializes at your elbow. “This is what you’ve been hiding?” she whispers. “Christ. It’s like Versailles had a baby with Spotify.”

Jia appears next. “I think I just saw a marble ice sculpture of Jungkook’s face.”

“It’s real,” Safiya confirms. “I licked it.”

You bury a laugh in your glass.

A commotion near the back of the room makes a sound.

Having said that, a commotion is not the right word to describe when it debuts, they don’t enter like a movie cast all at once, no spotlight and chorus as you would have expected.

You spot the man of the hour halfway across the room, posted near a soundboard station with one hand around a glass and the other curled into a pocket. Black shirt, unbuttoned just enough, loose on the shoulders, as if he got dressed by thinking about air. The tattoos swirl out from under his sleeves like ink in water. He’s listening to someone speak but his gaze is darting.

Hoseok's mid-laugh when you see him, sunglasses on top of his head, leaning sideways into someone else’s story. He moves like he’s music itself, like tempo runs under his skin.

Jimin’s close behind, ghosting between clusters of people. He’s silver and silk, all fluidity and elegance, nodding to guests with a smile just shy of wicked. He’s so beautiful that makes your brain short-circuit for a second, he's what you’ve just seen something your nervous system wasn’t designed for.

Namjoon takes the longest to notice. Or maybe he’s just the most subtle. He’s in conversation with someone in a crisp gray blazer, gesturing with one hand, thoughtful and deliberate. He laughs at something, rubs the back of his neck, and then turns. You catch his face fully for the first time.

They’re not together in a pack like you'd have expected. They extent to a limitless, shimmering sky.

And then Hajoon is pulling you forward

“The boys are over here,” he says before you can even turn. “I can bring you guys over.”

Your friends, already half-buzzed and vibrating with filtered excitement, light up because for them, they’ve just been offered a VIP pass to heaven.

“No way,” Jia hisses.

“You’re joking,” lara breathes.

Safiya grabs your wrist like it’s a lifeline while mouthing oh my god oh my god as if prayer might help, and Jia is trying to fix her hair mid-step.

They hover behind you as Hajoon brings you over. The boys are — unfortunately —stupidly attractive in real life. Now when you get a clear look of Namjoon, he looks like he walked out of a cologne ad that rivals the oldest's version. Hoseok’s already grinning like he knows a secret. Yoongi barely nods but it feels like a bow.

They greet you like you’re someone, which is probably part of the charm. Idol magic.

“This is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Hajoon says. “And these are her friends- lara, Jia.." He pauses, glances at you awkwardly for a brief second like he's asking for help or bracing for the impact of some kind of punishment from you because there's no way he forgot your friend's name. Best friend's name. Idiot.

"Safiya." You jump in before her face can fall. "He's terrible with names."

The girls mumble variations of hi and holy shit and we’re fine, thank you, so fine.

Namjoon asks how you’re enjoying the night. Hoseok compliments Mina’s outfit. Jungkook flushes a hint of pink when a collective congratulations for his album is spoken out loud and safiya looks like she might actually combust.

And you smile, gracious and composed. Atleast you try. You can see the faint shimmer of Jungkook’s under-eye highlight. You can smell Jimin’s cologne.

It’s a lot. But you manage.

"Hajoon-sshi, never shuts up about you.”

You smile again, because what else do you do when one of the most famous men in the country is shaking your hand with dimples that could murder with, double- barreled friendliness that makes you want to tell him your secrets. “I’m sure he exaggerates.”

Jimin tilts his head. “Definitely not. You're the one who made him cry when he forgot your anniversary, right?"

“Jimin-sshi.” Hajoon groans, face red.

You blink. “He told you that?”

Hoseok laughs. “We heard it. He was inconsolable.”

You catch Hajoon’s eye. He smiles, sheepish.

And just like that, something inside you thaws. Invaraibly by a degree.

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” you say, because it’s the right thing to say, and you are currently functioning entirely on instinct and adrenaline.

"Really nice." One of the girls add.

Seokjin beams. “You too. Hajoon’s one of our favorites, by the way. He’s a total lifesaver."

“He also has terrible snack taste,” Yoongi says. “But we’ve forgiven him.”

Laughter rises up, light and easy. For a moment, you almost forget your nerves. Because they’re funny. And not the over the board funny, It comes off easy to them, kindness comes off easy.

Jia is flushed. “Congratulations, by the way,” she blurts to Jungkook. “On the album. It’s insane."

He blushes. Blushes. “Thank you. Please enjoy yourself."

Safiya looks ready to melt through the floor.

Eventually, the moment fades. Doesn’t last long. Nothing golden does.The boys wander off in pairs, pulled away by studioheads and stylists and producers. The girls flock back to your side, still breathless.

“Did you see Seokjin's outfit?” Jia hisses. "I saw nothing else but that."

“I didn’t even blink,” Safiya says. “I’m too stunned.”

Lara sips her drink. “Yoongi is shorter than I thought, but it’s working for him. It’s all working for him.”

You’re still processing.

The wine’s working too, and the lights are low, and there’s a strange feeling in your ribs like you’ve walked into someone else’s movie. Feels as if you’re not just in the room, you’re part of the pixels that make up the ambience.

It's overwhelming. You're not sure how one can make a living out of this, of being tbis marshallsd, of being this seen, this on all the time. . How one can breathe, even. You can barely maintain eye contact with the barista when your name’s misspelled on a cup; how do they manage this?

You couldn't have been here for a more than a hour and you already feel floaty. Flaccid, that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but definitely not normal either. As if your limbs are operating on a delay, still trying to recalibrate from being in the blast radius of status, beauty, and whatever volatile charge comes from standing too close to a reality that was never meant to include you. Your brain fumbles, rewinding the scene with all the clumsy finesse of a dropped tape recorder, replaying glances, tones, shifts in posture that must’ve meant more than they let on.

You let out a breath but even that feels too loud so lean your weight against the cocktail table. It's draped in something black and ravishingly silk.

You sip your drink. Smile to yourself when you catch lara around the corner hanging off around the content manager you met just minutes ago. She’s high on proximity, her pupils blown wide with it. Safiya’s comparing the shade of Jungkook’s lip tint to a fruit that doesn’t grow in your hemisphere. Jia looks like she just lost her religion and found it again.

This is good. You're having a pleasant time. Your friends are having a pleasant time.

Until something twitches at the edge of your memory. Was it memory? was it an observation?

That creeping thought finally pierces through the buzz. Wait.

Six.

There were six.

You count again, lips moving. An uncanny whisper of movement. You don’t know how you missed it.

Except... maybe you do.

Maybe you didn’t miss it at all. Maybe you muted it. Maybe you folded it into the background noise the second it reached your ears. Much like static. Very much like self-preservation. Developed selecting hearing for a moment there because there was a name too.

There was a name.

Something one of them said. Something just under the music, a passing remark folded into a compliment meant for Hajoon. You try to scrape it back. Rewind the moment. Seokjin had been speaking, something about Hajoon being essential. Someone else chimed in. You think it was Namjoon, or maybe Jungkook, saying:

“Good pick on Taehyung's part. He's got a good eye.”

That’s it.

And it registers now, belated and prickly. You’d tuned it out. Of course you did. It’s laughable, really. The way your body chose to keep the peace when the moment someone says his name, your brain switches off. You name it muscle memory. But it could also be survival instinct. And the primal knowledge that a name can curdle a whole night if you let it. While your mind filed away the omission.

The face you’ve been dreading. The one you’ve cursed in your sleep. The reason you almost didn’t show up tonight at all.

And he wasn’t here. And all the stars were alligned. And all was right in the universe.

You look around for confirmation.

He wasn’t in the group you met. He wasn’t hovering nearby. You were secure in your belief that a collection gasps of he just walked in would have followed too. You would’ve felt it; that particular flavor of atmospheric change he brings with him, whetted and exact. You’d have known, the shift in barometric pressure, the interference that clings to your neurons and doesn’t let go. The voice you know too well, molten steel with knive sharpened. The name that tastes of vinegar every time you say it, and you say it often. So you'd know.

He really wasn’t here. Which tracks. Of course, he’d skip his own friend’s party. Or maybe he’s late. Maybe he’s allergic to punctuality like he is to personal boundaries. For people like him time bends differently since they clearly don't have respect of it. Or maybe he’s already come and gone, and the universe just spared you the fallout.

You exhale, long. Unpacking a suitcase full of tension you didn’t know you were carrying. Somewhere deep in your chest, a locked muscle unclenches and thanks you for the mercy.

Hajoon slides in beside you again, glass of champagne hovering near his mouth, eyes all sparkle and hope, gets him one inch closer back into your good graces through this whole ordeal that is a grand, glittery olive branch.

You lean into his side, casual. "Didn’t see...your tae yet?" You ask, because you can’t not. It comes out breezy. Offhand.

He glances down, surprised by the question before he looks around, like he half-expected to find him behind a ficus.

“Taehyung?” he echoes.

You nod. Yes, he who shall not be named.

“Off-duty tonight, apparently. Said he wasn’t sure if he’d make it. Probably laying low.” He says. "You know how he is."

You hum. You don’t. Not really. But you’ve spent enough time seething in his shadow to make up your own conclusions.

Off duty. Right. Still, your eyes scan the room one more time, just in case. A surprisingly wise decision on his part. He only spared himself from the embarrasment in his own bandmates party. So you plan to keep your peace and your boyfriend tonight too.

Alas, you can only have it all before someone — some twenty-something in black denim and a lanyard swinging like a pendulum — approaches with a slightly panicked look and Hajoon’s name half-formed on his lips.

“Hyung,” the kid pants, half-doubled over with his hands on his thighs, hair damp and sticking to his temples. “Sorry—sound crew’s losing their shit over the back-lounge mic feed. Something about the press audio not syncing right. They said they tried to ping you—five times, I think."

The words fall out in a rush, tripping over each other, frantic and full of a bad conscience. He says five, but you can tell by the way he won’t meet Hajoon’s eyes that it’s probably more. Potentially ten. Potentially enough to take your boyfriend away.

Hajoon exhales through his nose. The sound is barely audible, but it echoes anyway, through the bones of the moment, through the space you occupy beside him. You don’t need to look up to know he’s already halfway annoyed. Guilty? His irritation blooms in the shift of his weight, in the flex of his knuckles behind your back, as though weighing whether to pull away entirely or hold ground. Feasibly both.

“Right now?” he asks, like there might be another option. Asks it like the rhetorical density of someone already calculating the cost of interruption.

The runner hesitates, eyes darting toward the corridor behind him where shadows of movement flicker and vanish. “They’re melting down.”

Hajoon hesitates. It almost seems like it's for dramatic effect. You can feel it on him, the feigned reluctance. Feel him preparing the apology, not the words themselves, but the posture of them. It hovers at the corners of his mouth, teeth pressing into thought, mouth pulled thin. There’s no remorse in it, nonethless, the apology is curling at the corners of his mouth before it’s fully formed.

“I can come right back,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

You almost roll your eyes. Not because you think he's lying but because fifteen minutes turns into forty. Forty turns into never mind, just go home without me.

And maybe a few days ago, you would’ve folded your arms and dared him to choose. Another moment to keep score. You don’t do that tonight. You don’t call him out. You give him a soft shrug. A little smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s fine. Go.”

He leans in, brushes a kiss against your temple, a flutter thing, gone before you can even decide how you feel about it. “I owe you.”

You hum. “Mhm. Keep the tab open.”

And then he’s gone, flesh peeled from the frame of the moment. Grooved into the mass of bodies, ingested whole by noise and colored light. One blink too slow and his back is already someone else's, indistinct and moving. The crowd does not opposes him, shoulders belonging to glittering bodies and bad decisions open for him without hesitation. His absence walks away before you get the chance to apperceive it properly. Before it earns its configuration.

He moves through crowds with that easy-breath peridiocity that suggests he belongs more to movement than to restfulness. More to them than to you.

And just like that, you’re solo again.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unattached.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unsupervised.

Everything around you surges forward, and you remain perfectly still, there’s nothing in your throat but salt and silence.You edge toward the periphery, toes brushing the spill line of the room. Where the light flickers but doesn’t touch. Where the music swells and bruises the walls but doesn’t crawl into your skin. You imagine what you must look like from above, drifting toward the rim, toward the places where no one dares to notice anything too tenous. While your group of girls (havoc I sequins) are scattered like confetti.

Jia is dancing now — on the actual dance floor, in a sea of glitter and swaying silhouettes. Her boots flash under the lights. She throws her head back laughing, some guy in a turtleneck and too much confidence attempting to keep up with her steps.

Safiya is talking to someone near the catering section — maybe flirting, maybe arguing. It’s hard to tell with her. One hand’s on her hip and the other is spearing a cherry tomato off a toothpick like it insulted her mother.

Lara, as always, is missing. You scan the crowd for a glimpse of red but instead catch her exiting a side hallway, shoulder-to-shoulder with Minae, the digital content manager from earlier. They’re laughing, low and conspiratorial, and Mina’s got that subtle half-smirk she wears when she’s decided to keep something to herself. You let her be.

There’s something freeing about the anonymity here. The lights are low, and the music is louder now, bass thudding like a second heartbeat in your chest. You drift along the perimeter, your heels clicking a slow rhythm over polished tile. You accept another drink from a server. It bumps up fizzy. It turns up pink. Something you don’t have to name. You don’t ask what’s in it. That’s part of the fun. Not knowing. Not caring. (Some of the time, it is. And you say that with all precautions took care of.)

Eventually, your path leads you to the lounge side of the floor. Past the floral arch near the DJ. Past the velvet ropes draped over low-lit staircases. Past a corner where someone famous is pretending not to be famous while arguing about streaming rights. It’s less crowded here. The velvet couches are sunken and soft, little groups curled into them like petals around a flame.

The crowd thins out here. The sound mellows.

It’s cooler, too. A reduced amount of throat-choking cologne, fewer elbows in your side. The air smells feebly of melting ice and broken promises, probably vodka, possibly floor cleaner. You cradle your glass against your lips and take a sip. Sweet, cold, suspicious. The taste clings to the roof of your mouth in that way syrups do when they’ve got pharmaceutical derangement of power lust. You swallow anyway. At this point, hydration is hydration.

You have no plans to dance, you're not feeling it. There’s a part of you that still hasn’t forgiven your shoes for existing, and the beat impressions an accusation rather than an invitation. You're satisfied with it nestling somewhere inside your thorax, warming you the way wine does, gradually, dishonestly.

You stare ahead, trying to look occupied but vaguely important. It's a difficult balance, one most people fumble by the first hour. Your eyebrows lift occasionally, your mouth hovers near a smile. You even nod once at no one. Masterclass. Topper, you could've been, if someone didn't turn up in your sideways and made you want to run in circles until the loss of face wore off.

“You’re not with the label, are you?”

You turn, eyes adjusting to the source. He stands there, taller than expected, with that soft-focus face they breed in casting rooms. Brushed-back hair, that only exists in idol genetics or drama leads undone tie, an earring catching the light like it’s been waiting all night to be noticed. A smile so polite it might actually be genuine. Friendly within reason that isn’t threatening, yet somehow still feels practiced. For all you know, he came with the furniture. For all you know, he’s been here the whole time, waiting for a line.

You're a woman with theories waiting to spill out but you're also a woman with many talents so you oversee them all at once while also managing to utter out. “Sorry?”

He chuckles, mouth tugging upwards. “Sorry. That came out weird. I just meant—I haven’t seen you before.”

“It did,” you agree, but your tone is light. You’re not mad. You’re just surprised. No one’s talked to you tonight that wasn’t paid to or pretending not to know your boyfriend. A bold choice. A choice you're thinking you admire.

“I just meant,” he says, still smiling, “I haven’t seen you before.”

You angle your head, enough to let your earrings swing forward. Small weights on delicate hinges. “Do you make it a habit to keep track of everyone?”

He laughs again. This time, less apologetic. “No. Just the interesting ones.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a line?”

He shrugs with a grin so flashy, it could classify as something you would note aside and overanalyze till you've reached to one reoccurring culmination that you need better hobies than overthinking. A heathly one, most preferably. “Only if it’s working.”

You sip your drink. It’s not. But it’s a valiant effort, and in this economy, effort counts for something.

He pretends to look wounded. One hand on his heart, the other cradling his glass like it’s the only constant in his life. Winces. “Harsh.”

You allow the moment to hang, loose and golden, like fairy lights that haven’t short-circuited yet. “Y/N.”

He sticks out his hand. “Sangmin.”

You shake it, out of politeness, out of boredom, out of habit. His grip is good. Palm is warm and fingers are steady. No limpness, no clamminess. The bar’s low, and he clears it.

He smiles. “Nice to meet you, Y/N-who’s-not-with-the-label.”

You glance sideways, scanning for cameras or people pretending not to eavesdrop. “And you are?”

“Former trainee. Now an occasional singer. Sometimes dancer. Full-time mascot, depending on who you ask.” he says as if narrating a bed-time story.

That draws a laugh out of you before you can stop it. “That’s oddly honest.”

He leans against the railing beside you, drink in hand. “Honesty’s underrated.”

You nod. "True, that."

The conversation drifts into easy banter. He asks how you’re liking the party. You say it’s beautiful. He agrees. You say it’s loud. He says it’s always loud. He tells you a story about tripping on a camera wire during a rehearsal and breaking someone’s ankle. You raise your brows. “Their ankle?” He winces. “Yeah. Not my finest hour.”

And the truth of it is; it’s nice. He’s nice. Funny, even. Bothersomely so. The ease of it, of his voice that has a soft-spoken allure that slips out between sips of whatever he’s drinking, the way his sentences land on the floor between you like coins: unsubstanial, eye-catching and never heavy enought to bruise. A clever theif would take great advantage of that because his smile doesn’t ask anything of you. His eyes don’t crawl. And that should be comforting, but in some twisted, tired corner of your chest, it feels worse. Because this could be something. He could be something and that sounds inviting, when you give regard to the attention he gives you, where you don’t have to earn by vanishing parts of yourself.

It would take almost nothing to tilt this into flirtation. You would work a little on your smile and reshape your unit of speech just right, take a sip longer than imperative. Could sink into the clearance he’s offering without ramification, owing to the fact that men like him never ask, they come with tidy intentions and open palms. They don't come with an entourage or an aftertaste.

But your blood doesn’t reach for him, so you don’t. Because you’re not here for that.

Because your boyfriend, who hasn't looked at you properly in days, is still somewhere inside this building, elbows in cables, lungs full of static, cursing at machinery with the conviction of a prophet. The air around him probably smells like copper and stubbornness. You can picture his shoulders already, hunched and wired, chasing perfection with shaking hands and a deadline no one asked him to meet. He’s the reason you’ve spent the last hour smiling politely at people who might never know your name properly and won’t say it. And even if he deserves to be punished for it, for dozens of things, for all of it, you won’t be the knife. You won’t be the thing that you are inherently not.

So you smile. But you dull it with your eyes. You sip your drink, but only because your hands need something to do. You let Sangmin speak — witty, harmless, charming Sangmin — and you nod at the appropriate beats, but your solidity stays pressed into your heels.

You stay where you are.

You say. “My boyfriend,” without flinching. “He works with the group.” When he leans a little closer, elbows resting on the edge of the lounge railing. “So if you’re not with the label, and you’re not a reporter, and you’re not secretly here to pitch a demo... who are you here with?”

You’re not the type to go looking for trouble.

Even if it’s standing beside you in a perfect shirt, making you laugh like nothing matters.

You crave for a distraction from that and it comes in the fashion of a text message.

Your phone buzzes with a little tremor in your hand, screen lighting up like a jolt against the warm, dim haze of the lounge.

You glance down with the mildest sigh, thumb swiping across the screen with practiced detachment, only to freeze at the message lighting it up. Shit. That wasn't the distraction you meant.

[safiya:] emergency. jia’s throwing up in the bathroom. she drank something w dairy i think. help?

The screen lights up in your hand, and at first, the words don’t register. They stall for a second, indefinite at the corners, stubborn in the glow of your phone screen, smearing into background noise. Blame it on the cocktail fogging your bloodstream, or the hundred moving pieces around you: tinsels catching in fake candlelight, voices climbing on top of each other, the sound of a laugh that isn’t yours clamorously too close to your ear. Ends when, reality seizes, Glitter loses its glint. Music overlays inward. The dalliance hanging between you and Sangmin deflates mid-air. Safiya’s words, your friend’s, aren’t long, but they’re enough to lance through whatever artificial calm the evening had built around your shoulders.

You barely finish reading when you mutter, “Shit.” It escapes before you can pack it down.

Sangmin straightens slightly beside you. “Everything okay?” He’s attentive now. Alert even when there's no need him to be. His voice has edged out of flirty and into rigorous.

You force a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere. “Friend emergency.Like a real one.”

“You want help finding them?” His expression shifts, subtle but immediate. He offers help without posturing.

“No,” you say quickly, already stepping back. “Thanks, though. You’ve been… really sweet.”

“Anytime,” he says. A tilt of his glass like a farewell salute. Jeez. You’d laugh if your pulse wasn’t in your throat.

You murmur something like a goodbye, barely audible over the bass, before ducking through the crowd with narrowed eyes and a racing heart. Body tense and forward-leaning, pace picking up without warning. Your heels slap the floor, too fast for elegance, too slow for panic, caught somewhere in that in-between speed people only use when they’re chasing clarity. You’re dodging limbs and cocktail glasses, highlighter-streaked shoulders and half-spilled secrets, all of it flexuring away from you in waves. It’s a cartoon version of what it was ten minutes ago, voices rubbery, lights too sharp, music melting at the confines.

The hallway feels longer now. Louder. The clicks come faster. The party’s music muffles and distorts as you turn a corner and push through a crowd, moving like someone with a mission,which you are. You pass a stylist laughing too loud, a guy adjusting his bowtie in a mirror, someone accidentally spilling champagne that smells too floral. All of it, noise.

All of you, instinct. Blisters when your phone buzzes again. This is messier. This is what did she say? and how bad is it? and god, how far did she get before she texted?

[safiya:] we’re in the second-floor bathroom. back hallway. jia’s on the floor.

Of course it had to be dairy. Jia’s lactose intolerance is the stuff of group lore. And of course she’d think the mousse was vegan just because it was “foamier.”

You find the stairwell, a close-mouthed back corridor lit by cooler lights. As soon as the party noise dulls behind the wall, your adrenaline kicks in sharper.

The second-floor bathroom isn’t hard to find. The door is cracked, music muffled behind layers of expensive soundproofing. You knock once and slip inside.

“Hey,” you call, already tugging your jacket off.

Safiya’s crouched by the sink, holding Jia’s hair back. Jia herself is hunched over the toilet, looking pale and miserable, makeup streaked and dignity somewhere down the drain.

“Oh, babe,” you say softly, dropping beside them. “You okay?”

Jia mumbles something that might’ve been, “Never eating dessert again.”

“She’s burning up,” Safiya says, brows furrowed. “And I can’t get lara to pick up. Her phone’s on DND.”

“She left with that content manager woman,” you mutter, digging into your bag for a napkin or some tissues. “Minae? The one with the bob and the designer clipboard?”

“God, I knew it,” Safiya huffs. "It's like she gets off being reckless."

You dab gently at Jia’s forehead. She’s sweating now, shaky and miserable but not in danger. Not thus far. Her breath’s steady. Her eyes flutter.

“Think she just needs to get it all out,” Safiya murmurs. “But I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“I’ll kill whoever made that mousse,” you mutter, brushing a hand down Jia’s back. “Or at least file a passive-aggressive complaint.”

You glance around, noting the neatly folded hand towels, the stack of fancy soaps, the porcelain sink that looks like it cost more than your rent. The absurdity of handling real shit in such an unreal place; it grates and comforts at the same time.

“Okay,” you murmur, trying to steady your own voice. “Stay with her a sec. I’ll go get water or ginger ale if they have any.”

"O-okay." She nods, shoulders relaxing.

You slip out of the bathroom like you’re walking through water.

The passage feels dissolvent now, air dense with all the words you didn’t say. You push a palm over your forehead, feel the warmth building under your skin, and wonder if it’s sympathy sickness or just frustration curling low in your gut. The worst part is you can’t blame Jia. Not really. She’s the soft one and you say that with documented proof of that one time when cried at a commercial and she still believes in horoscopes.

Your heels echo through the corridor as you walk towards the hallway spits you into another corner of the venue, this one unfamiliar, all wood-paneled doors and golden sconce lighting, like the architectural equivalent of whispering. Everything feels a little inarticulate here. Like you’ve slipped behind the curtain of the night and crashed in its quiet, unsupervised heart.

The party tucks beneath you now, flattened into a low, quaking throb that doesn’t so much speak as it vibrates, deep in the hollow between bone and breath. The music no longer reaches your ears in any clean, decipherable way. It’s washed-out, guttural, absorbed by walls and fabric and distance, reduced to a genesis that hitches itself to your chest and rides every exhale, as if a secret.

You don’t know where the catering crew disappeared to. Whether they’ve set up shop in a closet-sized prep station behind some satin curtain or if there’s a staff kitchen buried somewhere in the maze of corridors, guarded by stress and stainless steel. You don’t know if there’s a vending machine kinetic in it's opertion, in a forgotten corner, stocked with warm soda and crackers designed to outlive civilization. You don’t know, and at this point, you don’t really care. steady hands, firm jaw, no time for collapse. The crisis manager, the de facto medic, the girl who always knows what to grab when someone’s bleeding metaphorically or otherwise, is here now, and she’s got the wheel in a death grip.The part of you that runs crisis control has surfaced in and refuses to log out.

You spot someone near the elevator, clipboard in hand, wearing the haunted eyes of someone paid too little to care too much, and you slide into their eyeline before they can disappear into usefulness. “Sorry,” you say, swallowing the rest of your breath before it breaks apart. “Do you know where I can find bottled water? Or soda? It’s for someone upstairs.”

They blink at you, startled, as if you’ve spoken a spell in a language reserved for emergencies. They were expecting a headset, maybe. Most definitely from an official. Instead they got a girl in heels and unfinished mascara, looking halfway between guest and ghost. “Uh—check the prep station near the west corner? Just past the photo booth. There’s always extra stuff stored back there.”

You thank them before they can ask who you are. Your heels resume their mindless candace. Though defining it mindless would be a contradiction on it's own.

Because the longer you’re away from the bathroom, the more you start thinking. You don’t want to- this is supposed to be simple but your thoughts mutate away from the simple task of fetching a drink. Keep a friend alive, make sure she’s breathing through whatever hell clawed its way up her throat. Return. The distance from the bathroom grows, and with it, the space for your mind to spiral. Your brain won’t shut up, now. Won’t let you have that peace cause its so inconveniently wired for emotional noise, keeps dragging you somewhere else.

Hajoon still hasn’t followed up. You’d texted him, told him where you were. You told him emergency triage, and if that wasn’t enough to get his feet moving, what is?

You turn the next corner, pass a cluster of interns half-hunched over a light panel, then veer off toward a hallway marked “STAFF ONLY.” The rope is halfway slipped already, forgotten or ignored. You lift it with one hand and step through, no hesitation. There’s a kind of freedom in crossing boundaries that no one’s watching.

The floor changes under your shoes, softer now, something ductile or carpeted, dulled at the edges.

The hallway branches once. Then again. Everything here smells faintly of cleaning supplies and flowers that died too expensive. You keep left. You pass a storage room door half-cracked open.

There’s a linen cart parked haphazardly against the wall, as though someone meant to wheel it somewhere and then simply forgot how to follow through. Its wheels are crooked, one half-swallowed by the seam in the tile. Cloth napkins spill from the top shelf, un creased in places, crumpled in others, some folded with care, others balled up like someone gave up mid-shift. The cart smells unclearly of starch and lemon polish, though the scent is old now, faded. It shouldn’t register as anything important. It’s background, set dressing. But your steps hesitate all the same. Something in your gut makes you pause- it's not dread that mimics one of the many classic horror, not instinct either. It's marginally a pause. What it is, is one of those micro-moments when your brain forgets what the next step is supposed to feel like, and in that blank space, everything else happens.

You wouldn't have noticed, except you hear it. It's suprising that you hear it at all. Not at first obviously. Even-handedly a sound that feels like it shouldn’t be there, the sound being the slightest rustle of movement. You're still taken aback from the fact that you heard it before you even sum up what's in front.

There’s a door ahead of you, it’s half-open. Few and far between to be an invitation, but enough to make you wonder whether it was meant to be closed at all. Light spills through the narrow gap and pools on the floor in a long diagonal, slicing the hallway in half. It has that fluorescent, salubrious tint that makes everything beneath it look more exhausted than it already is. It paints a harsh stripe across the tile, across the napkins that have spilled out and frozen mid-collapse.

It should be nothing.

Keyword: Should be.

But your stomach twists because it not nothing. You hear it before your eyes have caught up to the chassis of it, voice seeping through the thin air, delicate in tone but heavy in intention, that unnervingly lacquered pitch women use when they want to sound wounded while making do with the peaked ends. Too close to a whine to be professional and too retiring to be a whisper held between teeth.You know that voice. From an hour ago and a handshake held too long.

“—don’t know why you brought her.”

You stiffen calcifies, muscles wrapped in an invisible brace of knowing before thought has the chance to intervene. Notwithstanding as it dawns upon you. There is no alarm in your blood, only a slow, curling recoil, a heatless burn under the structure of your bones, only happens when your body recognizes a truth faster than your brain allows. And in that second, divulgence feasts on it, on this limited space which inhabits, too much light and too many truths.

Inside, there’s a shuffle of feet. You assume Hajoon’s feet because his voice is right behind. Tired it sounds.You know the articulation of Hajoon’s steps by heart. You’ve counted them. On staircases. Sidewalks. Your apartment floor. It’s him. It’s absolutely him. And this is definitely a moment you were never meant to witness, unlike those ones.

“Bora, come on.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

The thought spirals like a siren in your head, acute and shrill, but your limbs won’t respond. Your name—well, her edited version of it—still floats between the syllables like a ghost. It hovers in the stale air, waiting to be dissected. Examined. Embalmed. It follows that, Hajoon is right there, sufficiently beyond the narrow slit of the door, sufficiently close enough to see if you lean another inch. The thought loops inside you, blinking red, warning you off like a flashing exit sign in a building that’s about to go under.

You shouldn’t stand on the edge of a threshold holding your breath like a child in a horror film. But your feet carry you the last few steps anyway. You stop at the edge of the door. Your body does what it always does: disobeys in the ways that matter. You drift those last few steps forward, against reason, against self-respect, against your own better judgment, which has never won a single fight with your curiosity. You stop before the door, which is, predictably, ajar. Drawn by a magnetism you hate yourself for responding to, step into the slice of light spilling out, allowing you permission. You lean, carefully, slowly, not with intent to spy, but because gravity is a cruel thing when verity is involved.

But you can’t not hear. Some truths calcify on impact.

“You knew I had to,” Hajoon’s voice replies.There’s strain there, but no outrage. “You knew she was coming.”

“No, I knew you invited her. That’s different.”

Something inside you hollows, it's not a feeling of being stabbed but more like a scoop. It happens when someone’s hand just reaches in and takes a part of your stomach out. The distinct sensation of absence, of a piece of yourself being removed so gently you might’ve missed.

And then she replies, and her tone slips even further into something sugary and rehearsed, a voice performing vulnerability without ever being touched by it. “Is she really worth this whole scene? You don’t even look at me anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as Bora’s shadow moves. Her heels click lazily against the tile; catlike, the gait of someone who knows they won’t be interrupted. She enters the sliver of your view, the sleek line of her calf, the shimmering hem of her dress, the glint of earrings swinging arrogantly near her throat. You hear the brush of her hand against fabric and you know exactly what part of him she’s touching. You imagine the press of her palm over his chest, the lean of her body into his. It all happens in your boyfriend’s silence. And in that silence, a occurence too hefty to explain.

Your heartbeat rises in your ears. Hajoon doesn’t say anything. That’s what terrifies you. Guts you. The relevation that this isn’t new. This isn’t some messy misunderstanding begotten in champagne and ambient lighting. This isn’t just some bad timing and worse boundaries.

She knows how close she can stand. He knows not to push her away. Her encroachment and his compliance is perfection.

You don’t realize when your hand finds the doorframe, only that it’s there now, clutching the edge with a grip so tight your knuckles pale, fingers curled in as though the wood might be the only thing keeping you upright the floor. Your weight has shifted forward, barely perceptible, but enough to feel how precarious your body has become. There’s a dizziness curling at the corners of your vision, the faint, reeling you until, the floor doesn’t just spin outright but diagonals the whole hallway, sluggish and silent, until every step forward feels steeped of jeopardy.

Her voice floats closer, closer than it should be, caramel-coated and too aware of itself, dripping with old secrets cladded up as affection. “You never used to hesitate,”Bora says, purring the words confidently. Comes from years of being let terribly close, terribly often. “Remember that night in Jeju?”

Your stomach turns with such violence that your throat tightens to contain it, not quite because of the place but because of the specificity. You hate how specific it is. How casually it falls from her mouth like it was theirs, like it still is. And you’re the stranger here, the interloper. Your mind flinches against the image, desperate to resist its outline, but it sculpts itself out anyway. Sand underfoot, spending nights which rewrote everything you had spent years wasting your ink on.

“I remember, baby.” Hajoon murmurs. Three words form bruises under your skin, one by one, swelling inward, He never called you baby in years of your relationship. In that soft voice, to be exact, immensly soft to belong to anything except regret or concede, and yet there’s no regret in the accentuation.

You want to laugh. Hardly because it’s funny, nothing about this is funny, but because the absurdity of the pain has reached a point of detachment, the way your mind sometimes offers humor when the body is close to collapse. You want to cry, too.And part of you wants to throw the door wide open, break the performance into pieces, shove the truth into the light and force him to look you in the face while it burns. But your body refuses to do any of it. You remain exactly where you are, stuck in a moment too excruciating to interrupt, a bystander in your own devastation. You’re the frame that flickers on screen before the plot pivots.

You press your knuckles against your mouth, the skin there soft from earlier, now dented under pressure. The contact is painful on purpose, in the best interest of you because you need the grounding. You need the reminder that you’re real. That this moment, for all its cruelty, is happening, and you are standing inside it.

Inside, Bora sighs, and the sound is so pleased with itself you almost swerve. “You shouldn’t have brought her if you didn’t want me to do this.”

There’s no reply. And the silence, this time, is deafening. Deeply, fatally familiar.

You hear a shuffle, drag of fabric, potentially a foot dragging closer to another, following the sound of movement you don’t want to identify, a insufflation exhaled that sounds mightly satisfied, getting intimate, too sure of its position and of this delicious game. You don’t want to imagine what’s happening in that pause. You don’t want to wonder how the bated breath you hold hostage anyways, speaks like your brain, atrocious in its survival instincts, paints the picture anyway, and your body responds with a sickened tightness that has nowhere to go.

Your breath catches so sharply in your throat you think it might scratch you from the inside. You feel stupid. You feel stupid.

You told yourself this was just you overthinking, that Hajoon was tired all of the time and started to perpare for the older times when you will be older too and he'll get worse but you'll be there. Distracted, mayhaps. Pulled a hundred directions by this event. You gave him excuses. You always did — so eager, so stupidly loyal — gave him that room.

And the part that stings the most, makes you want to claw his betraying heart out, is that he let you, let you build that little myth Took advanted of the room of uncertainty you gave him. Gods, gave him so much room to disappoint you. Over and over. Until all he had to do to keep you was nothing.

Padded every missed text with understanding. Gulped down every late night, every unexplained absence with that stupid stupid smile. You rationalized his silences, handed them over with thought too. Made up for them in your head. Built a cushion out of benefit-of-the-doubt and laid down in it, eyes closed, telling yourself it wasn’t what it looked like, because you loved him. Because you chose him. Because love, as you were told, is supposed to be work.

From both fucking sides. It didn't function so when you alone did the work and never asked if he was doing it too.

And now you’re here. In this hallway. Listening to the soft undoing of your entire relationship through a half-open door and the giggle of a woman who never saw you as a threat.

The humiliation feels cinematic,doesn’t come all at once, but ponderous; seeping, viscous, with the heft of something that’s been waiting a long time to be acknowledged. It rivulets into you with the same progression as dread, thick and sticky as honey spilled across cold tile, where every inch it spreads becomes harder to scrub clean. Fills your ribs, then slips deeper, into the squishy discomfort of your sternum, and you know without needing to be told that this is a hurt that's gonna stay, will make a home.

Your body already knows what your mouth isn’t brave enough to say. You were so oblivious.

You think back to every red flag you plucked from the air and re-dyed white, into a color you could live with. The nights he came home later than he said he would, the smell on his collar (not yours, never yours) smelling faintly of something exceedingly floral to be your detergent. The half-sentence that rarely ended with an i love you, even when you had made it very clear on the early on stages of your relationship that you liked being told that you were loved, that too often. You think about all the things you chalked up to stress, to work. Every thing everyone around told you to reconsider, tried to warn you in gentle silences and wary glances, their voices cautious with pity, never saying the thing outright but circling it like buzzards. Because they knew probably. They knew.

You were the only one who refused to sit with the pattern of it. You just didn’t want to listen. Because to listen, to truly listen, would’ve meant accepting what you’ve always suspected in the nooks and crooks of your gut. Because if you listened, you’d have to admit it.That maybe it wasn’t just his job or a global popstar keeping Hajoon from you. Maybe Hajoon wanted to be kept.

You feel sick.

And suddenly your body revolts against the thought, stomach tightening as odium coils innermore and flourishes beneath your abdomen. Your mouth goes dry, the taste in it metallic and sour, and you swallow down the spasm, in hopes that it might buy you a few more seconds of composure. Your molars ache, clenched so tightly together that your jaw begins to pulse. You suddenly remember the first night he told you he loved you, how his voice cracked as if the words startled him too, you didn't even dare think about, or how that maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Was that a lie too?

Or did he mean it then?

Does it even matter now?

But those questions come with their own claws. So you don’t answer them. You don’t try, press the heel of your hand to your eye before the tears can fall, as if you could shove the tears back into their ducts through sheer will alone, refusing to let them fall here. You will not cry in this hallway. You will not give this place that power. So you don’t cry. You don’t let your anger catch fire and drive you through the door with fists full of questions.

But you think about it.

Lords, do you think about it.

You think about how it would feel to crack the illusion open, to make them both look at you, really look. You picture it in flashes- your fingers curled in Bora’s silken collar, dragging her back two steps just to see if her voice stays as sweet when it trembles. You imagine staring Hajoon dead in the eye and asking him if this is worth it, if she’s worth it, if it was all just a game to see how far he could bend your bones before they snapped.

You want to interrupt. You want to step inside that room and let the breath you’ve been holding slice through the air like glass.

You want it to be loud. Messy. Unforgettable. But your body won’t let you, again.

You’re still standing in the same spot, though you aren’t entirely sure how. Breath shallow, limbs made of rust, you feel distant from your own being,every joint stiff and unreliable, as though they were never made for movement. Your fingers are locked around the thin strap of your clutch, knuckles aching from the strain, but still, you can’t let go. Your knees buzz with a numbness that teeters too close to collapse, and you know, without testing it, that if you tried to walk away too quickly, you’d falter, legs would fold in on themselves, dragging your self-esteem down with you.

As if it hasn't already fallen so far, in the narrowest depths, probably making it's way to the seventh circle of hell, every time your mind plays it on a loop. The select few parts run on and on, and the implications that came with when Hajoon didn’t refute her. While you were left in the hallway, on the other side of the door, invisible.

And it’s in that invisibility that you forget yourself entirely. Forget why you’re here, what you’re holding, what you promised. The scene overtakes you, pushes you out of your own context. You are not the friend on a mission to fetch water for her shaking best friend anymore. You are not the responsible one, the stable one, the friend who had her life sorted out, the moment she was out of college with a fixtures on her side, all the time and not one who's witnessing the slow infidelity of your relationship in a quiet, candlelit corridor. Except the reminder comes. Sounds like ting. And reads like urgency and concern all at once.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, a single jolt. But it ricochets through you like thunder, breaks away the trance.

You blink hard, pull yourself out of the daze like yanking the string of a broken marionette. Your fingers fumble against the screen.You don’t know how long you’ve been gone, only that it’s been long enough for concern to find you.

[safiya: everything okay? what's taking so long??]

The words feel like someone cracking a window open in a burning house.

And in that small, merciful moment, you remember the things that matter, try not to waste away at people who shouldn't have in the first place. If you would have, it wouldn't have taken you so long to remember who you are.

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat feels alive, not figurative, a snarling beast with claws scraping against your insides, trying to claw its way out through the thinnest part of your chest. The taste of it is sharp, astringent, nauseating and it's as overwhelming as a broken heart.

You shift and move.

It’s a small step- barely a shuffle- but the sound paraphrases in the tight space.

Inside, everything falls placid.

Like prey sensing danger.

You hear the soft scrape of a heel. A breath catching follows up that results in the slow, cautious creak of movement. They heard you. It's the only answer that makes sense in a moment that has your mind in pieces. They heard you, and for the first time, you’re no longer invisible.

Panic rises like heat in your throat, replacing the cluster. Your body kicks into survival mode, muscle memory taking the wheel with foot on the pedal, before they can come out. Before they can see your face. The car kicks into ignition and it turns. So do you. Fast.

You move like a current, wind-slipped and sharp. Your heels barely touch the tile. One foot, then the next, then the next. You duck around the corner just as the storage door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look back.

You can’t afford to.

Because if you see them now- if you see him- you’re not sure what will survive the encounter.Your pride, your restraint, the tight seal you’ve managed to hold around your devastation, all of it would shatter. And you are not ready to fall vulnerable in front of them.

Your pulse races like it’s sprinting ahead of you, trying to outrun the shame.Your heart races, anything but in beats, but in gallops, hurrying and zooming, trying to put as much distance as it can between you and what you heard, what you saw, what you now have to carry.

You press one hand flat to the wall, desperate for contact with something unmoving, presumably cool, the tiles are cool. You lean into them with the full weight of your trembling shoulders and try to slow the shaking in your chest. You don’t know how long you stay like that, listening, waiting, cursing the damn universe, back to the corner, ears straining for footsteps that never come.

But no footsteps follow. No voices chase you.

Maybe they think it was nothing.

Or worse, maybe they know exactly what it was.

You straighten, finally. Shake out your shoulders like you’re resetting them on your frame. Willing the bones to don’t feel foreign inside your skin. You glance down at your phone again. Safiya’s message blinks back at you like a lighthouse in fog.

You type back:

[omw.]

It’s all you can manage.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the first tear hits the corner of your lip, warm and sharp like betrayal distilled.

You scrub the tear away with the back of your hand, rough and rushed, by its nature friction alone could erase what you saw, as though maybe if you wiped hard enough, the memory would peel with it, lift off the surface of your mind and dissolve somewhere into the air behind you. The sting lingers, anyway, heartbreak nests where it should. And somewhere down the corridor, from a place your feet no longer remember how to reach, laughter drifts upwards. It wafts through cause it has every right to, unaffected and unbothered, the fluky soundtrack of people who haven’t had their insides rearranged by the sound of someone else's name spoken too tenderly. The absurdity of it settles in your chest like lead, that the world is still turning.

You push open a random door at the end of the lobby and exhale like you’ve been holding it for a year. A folding table sits near the back wall, crowded with plastic water bottles and packets of mints, and behind it, a server looks up, startled but not alarmed, the way people do when they’ve seen enough parties to know when to mind their business.

You blink. “Water, please?” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

He hands one over without question. You nod in return, a stiff, graceless gesture meant to approximate gratitude, and clutch the bottle so tightly that the plastic creaks in your grip.

You feel the crispy cold of the bottle in your hand. It sweats against your palm, a sharp contrast to the flush still radiating from your face. You feel the chill of it in your bones, grateful for the shock. Pain, at least, is something you know how to hold.The world around you feels loud again, even though you’re moving through a quieter section of the venue. The dull thud of bass somewhere beneath your feet. The muffled laughter of strangers who proude the sound of the clink of glassware. Every sound scratches.

Your feet start moving before your brain catches up.

First one foot, then the other, and then your body begins to catch on, muscles remembering the purpose even if your mind hasn’t fully returned to it. Left. Then right. Then forward again.

Back to the place where your friends are waiting. Where your absence must be starting to bloom into concern. Back to the bathroom, where Jia is still hunched over porcelain and Safiya is probably pacing, biting her lip, thinking you’ve gotten lost in this maze of flashing lights and secrets.

The steps are small. Practiced. But your body is still off-kilter, like the force field has shifted slightly out of sync. The party’s glow pulses in the walls around you, muffled and amber hues, but you feel none of it. Each step feels disconnected from the last, like your legs are acting on instruction rather than instinct.You are aware, in the strangest way, that you are walking. That you are moving through space. That you are passing through light and shadow. You feel everything and nothing. You could be gliding. You could be drowning. You’re not sure which would be more forbearing.

Nonethles, you try to hold onto the task. Just give them the water. That’s all you have to do. Just get to the bathroom. Just—

But the walk is long. And your mind won’t cooperate. It's franternizing in a way that plays everything that happened back there again and again. That sing-song tone that was viscous, tunes in and out, how it still manages to cut through the unbearable, monstrous silence.

You were good.

You’d always prided yourself on being composed. Reasonable. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t the skeptical possessive girlfriend. You’d never demanded keys or passwords or explanations. Love, in your definition, if was true, it needed no surveillance. Needed not to feel like a rope wrapped around a neck, except it did now.

And the person who held the end of it was the one you told yourself to trust. Told yourself it was the job. That the industry was brutal, demanding, parasitic. That he was a victim of it too, just trying to survive in its current. You gave him space, understanding, flexibility. You let him treat you like an supplementary information because you believed it would pay off. That this, tonight, was the beginning of him showing you off.

And he was infact. Just not to the right audience. God knows not to the right audience. The abashment of sits high in your throat, making it feel lodged yet again. The discomfort of it (or so you'd like to belive) manifests itself in a new wave of tears. They’re not falling gracefully now, they sting, angry and sudden, pooling along your lashes before you can wipe them. Still you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand again.

When you do, you become aware of how your eyes are rimmed with betrayal and your hands are shaking and your entire face feels cracked like porcelain that’s been dropped once, twice, too many times.

You round the corner to the hallway where the second-floor restroom is. You can hear feeble voices inside that start to come off as not so softened. Makes you pause just outside the frame. Look at yourself in the polished reflection of the fire extinguisher box in case your own hand failed you but that has been one of the many things that has not. Eyes glassy. Nose red. Lipstick worn off at the corners. You look like someone who’s unraveling. Methodically, even.

You can’t walk in like this.

Jia is in the feels, Safiya is perceptive. One look and they’ll know something’s wrong. And once that happens, the dam will break and you’ll start crying in front of them. And you'll cry ugly.

And right now, you can’t. You just- can’t.

Just as you're about to turn away, a woman in a slate-blue dress steps up beside you. Mid-thirties, elegant. One of the guests, you assumed. She gives you a polite smile, one hand reaching for the door.

You step in front of her before you’ve even decided to speak.

“Sorry—excuse me.”

She stops, brows raised in mild surprise.

You hold the water out, trying to steady your voice. “Could you… would you mind giving this to the two girls in there?One’s in a pink dress. One’s holding her hair back. They’re my friends—I just need to step outside for some air.”

The woman blinks once, then nods, smile softening into understanding.

“Of course.”

You hand her the bottle and add, “Please tell them I’ll be right back. I just—yeah. I’ll be back.”

She gives you a look. The kin of one where women give each other a type of laconic solidarity when they recognize something. Two words starting with the same letter. The thin line in between. Then she disappears inside, and you’re left alone again in the corridor. Alone again, the hallway exhales with you. Shallow, breathy, reluctant to hold what it’s just seen. The silence afterward is dense, thick with ghosts of hands and things not taken back. And you-still holding yourself like glass, too fine for touch-let it all soak in.

Your body wants quiet. Soundlessness is subjective, seclusion is primary. Somewhere you can let your face drop out of its composure, somewhere you can drop the mask of the girl who’s just fine.

You think about going home. But the apartment that basically gives off the odour of a once lasted relationship with a shoe rack that holds heels and loafers despite how it was shaped just for boots, a kitchen that never for once stopped smelling like raspberry jelly will make you all the more disordered. Speaking of ill, you also just can't leave your friends with no explanation at all. Disappearing for an hour or so is one thing, leaving entirely is another.

So you extract the idea from your mind whole. And since intuition has been the reason behind some very important unveiling, you chose to follow it once again. This time you distinguish it as a palace of carved panels and red rope that seems increasingly untethered from the celebration it’s supposed to contain. You follow the curl of tawny sconces as they dim behind you. You don’t have a direction, not by any means. Merely this straight urge to be elsewhere. Away from mirrors and pity and the way your voice will shatter if anyone dares to ask what happened.

The air changes again- the assuage of walkway giving way to the softer allay of space. You blink, slow, and find yourself facing tall double doors cracked just enough to tease a sliver of moonlight. You follow it like a moth and press a hand to the cool wood and ease it open when you've reached.

The balcony is mostly empty (or so you think). It's mostly meant for people who duck into here when their dates say too much, or when the music says too little. You don’t belong here for those reasons. But for a second, you let yourself pretend you do. Pretend is all that you can do, after all. Pretend is all one can do when no place reaches out like it's own.

You step out into the night.

The breeze is soft, carrying the perfume of late-blooming things that represent the late of march and early on days of may. There’s a railing with ornate curls, and a small potted tree beside it. You lean against the edge like a ghost at a masquerade, hidden in plain sight. Far from a invisible ghost, righteously misplaced.

The skyline shimmers in the distance. City lights doing their best impression of stars. Because the sky is unkind tonight. Clear and full of stars. One of those nights that dares you to feel small.

You close your eyes.

It should hurt less than it does. You should be angry, you think. Fury has a vibration, a tempo, that is not entirely senseless, that you could move to. But all you have is this ache. This underdone, expanding bruise of disbelief. That Hajoon, your Hajoon, the one who texted you goodnight from studio floors and once cried during the middle of your anniversary dinner because you surprised him with a scrapbook - that Hajoon had someone else’s lipgloss on his cheek.

And he let you walk into that party wearing your best, heart in hand, eyes wide and bright like you weren’t already being laughed at. The fact alone that he could ever be this savage measures up higher than the mere word spurning. Your fingers tighten around the railing.

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

He cheated on you.

You say it in your head, then again. Try it out. Grant it to parrot.

He. Cheated. On you.

How long? you think. It can’t have started tonight. The intimacy you saw take place takes time. That comfort is and that silence intertwines complexly.The way he let her talk over you like you weren’t even there. It takes a history. You sniff, furious.You want to rip out whatever pages it's sanctioned in. You want to punch someon-

— and the scuff of a footfall to your left startles you mid-thought, cracking clean through the violence of it. You breathe in too sharply and choke on the tail end of it, a hiccup caught mid-throat. The sound escapes before you can swallow it back, a soft, broken thing that snags in the night air.

You flinch, just barely, but it’s enough to pull you upright, palms peeling away from the ornate railing. The sound was soft; softer than it should be for how it lands in your chest. Impalpable, but undeniable. The categorical gospel is not the wind, nor is the sway of branches or the groan of old fixtures. It's plainly in a presence. A presence that exples in a dramatic, public way.

You turn your head.

In the first instance, it’s just a silhouette. Broad shoulders caught in a slant of moonlight, leaned casually against the far railing where the wall curves into the night. You hadn’t seen him when you first stepped out- he’s tucked into the darkness like he belongs there. You blame the sleek sweep of a jacket that gleams ink-black where the light touches and vanishes where it doesn’t. Depthless black, that's the kind of shade it is. He’s fidgetless against the opposite end of the balcony, arms folded, head tilted just enough that you know he’s looking out — not at you, seasonably. The night swallows him in patches, makes him blur into the dark, view as a conundrum, lets him melt into the obscurity. Only the gleam of a metal clasp or maybe the faint shimmer of a watch betrays the shape of him at all.

Your breath halts for a different reason now. This time in mortification. How long has he been there? How much did he hear of your inner voice that would sometimes refuse to stay just inside?

You should have known. Of course someone else would be here. This party is a haven for the overexposed, the adored and overworked — balconies are harbours, and privacy is a drug. You suppose you’re not the only one tonight with a reason to step away from too much attention.

You clear your throat, subtly, and swipe at your cheeks once more with the back of your hand, hoping whatever disaster your makeup has become is at least concealable under the night’s forgiving ink. You press yourself a little more into the corner, make yourself smaller.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, voice cracked and low-pitched but unmistakably sheepish. “I didn’t mean to… disturb you. I didn’t know someone was here.” you gesture vaguely toward the door as if it explains your presence, your unraveling, your trespass.

You’re already turning, embarrassment washing over you, warm and prickly, when you hear that voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly-

Oh come on!

Dwindling deep. Familiar in that unmistakable way, because it's the voice that’s been replayed in the background of your vehemence for months. Velour worn sharp.

“It's alright.”

There’s a haitus his mouth decides upon, and so does the surroundings with him like even the night is startled into inaction.

Your breath catches, shallow. Your backbone straightens, sharp.

He turns as if on cue.

It does not take place pointedly. An appropriate response that would be startled. No, not even that. But slow, like the metanoia of a thought that’s been brewing for too long. His face is in shadow, but the movement reveals the slope of his jaw, the lazy fall of dark hair over his brow. You can’t see the details, not in this light. But something about his presence is sharp in your periphery, like recognition trying to claw its way forward but tripping on the haze.

You retreat a step. Not far away, but enough.

"Stay." He adds, a beat slower that turns the night warm around him than it was a second ago.

He says it like it’s not a big deal, offering courtesy. But the sound of his voice reaches somewhere in you that you didn’t know was flammable. It scrapes gruffly, like a match. He hasn’t moved from his spot. Still standing there, half-shrouded. Watching, maybe. Or not. You can’t tell. But the certainty in his tone, unbothered, solid, undoes you in a different way.

You know that voice.

You don’t want to know that voice. But you do.

He who shall not be named. Of all people. Of all fucking anyone.

You don’t turn yet. You stare ahead, blinking hard, gathering yourself. That name has been the thread you tugged every time you felt distance growing between you and Hajoon before the awakening dropped upon you that he was actually not.

And now he’s here. On the balcony. With you.

Your throat bobs awkwardly, unsure what to say. Maybe you misheard. Maybe you’re imagining things because he was not supposed to be here. Your brain is playing cruel little games because tonight’s already stitched together from surreal fabric.

If it was any other time, hell had it been any minute before the past half hour, you'd have applauded the timing. Would have marched over to Kim Taehyung and said everything you wanted to.

Would have looked him square in the eye and asked if it felt good, demanding Hajoon’s time, his energy, his apologies, until there was none left for you. Would have told him, with teeth bared behind a smile, that he was the reason you ate cold fries alone on your own celebratory dinner.

You would have let it out. All of it. The slow rot of resentment you watered like a houseplant. The tantrum you tucked neatly beneath your tongue every time Hajoon said “Taehyung needs me.” You would have unspooled every sentence you rehearsed in the dark, every imagined confrontation sharpened over sleepless nights.

But this isn’t then.

This is now. And now you know the truth.

He didn’t bend Hajoon’s lynchpin until he broke. He didn’t whisper temptation or rearrange the tiles of loyalty under Hajoon’s feet. He didn’t need to because Hajoon walked willingly.

And you were too busy blaming the him to see it.

Now, stripped of that blame, that convenient villainy, you’re left with nothing but the naked awkwardness of this moment. The rage you’d once felt toward him feels foolish now. Juvenile. Like screaming at the moon for letting the tide pull you under. It doesn’t quite hold the shape it used to. You don’t know what to do with it. And so you stand there, stiff in the corner of the balcony, unable to move toward him, but unable to leave.

He hasn’t said another word. Hasn’t even looked at you again. He just exhales again. Smoke blooming from between his lips like it’s part of the night.

That’s when you notice the cigarette. You hadn’t clocked it before, but now you see the faint cherry glow at his side, the way it illuminates the curl of his fingers, the slow draw of breath. It looks romantic on him, of course it does. Doubles some tragic French film character leaning against the edge of ruin, too well-dressed to decipher publicly.

And as much you loved to make joke of comments under candid clips of this man that raved about some aura of his, you found yourself then just barely, just quick enough to pass as you scoot under the luminescence, catch a better glimpse of him.

His jaw is too sharp for comfort. His hair, mussed just enough to seem accidental, shimmers like ink under the silvered light. His lips (you don’t even know why you notice) are plush and parted. And his eyes, when they finally flick toward you, are darker than the night behind him. Flippant. Sleepy. Unfathomable.

He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t look away either.

You want to look away. You do. But it’s magnetic, the stupid made up ambience around him. Easy in a way that demands nothing and everything. He’s not performing. He’s not even curious. Seems diserepctful but at the same time it makes you understand how someone like Hajoon could crumble under it. Why people orbit men like this and call it the law of nature. You’d scoffed at it before. Scoffed every time Hajoon said he just gets so intense sometimes, you know? like Taehyung was weather instead of a man.

Yet, you're not sure how understanding the possibility of it makes any difference to you. Makes any sense.

But how the hell do you share space with someone who’s been mythologized in your mind for so long?

Because now you’re sure. You know it’s him. You could draw the line of his nose from memory. The corner of his lip. You’ve seen this face on billboards, in moving gifs, in phone screens where your ex-boyfriend kept scrolling even during dinner.

Except now he’s real. Not flattened into pixels. Breathing the same air as you. You blink hard. Try to focus. To reroute your brain back into safer waters. But all it gives you is a memory.

Because this isn’t the first time you’ve spoken to him, is it?

It comes uninvited. Like most things do.

Back when Hajoon had just started as his manager. Everything was new then. Boundaries blurry. You still thought the industry was glamorous, not exhausting. You remember being home, hair wrapped in a towel, half a sheet mask on your face when your phone that was running a tutorial video paused on a frame. You'd have turned it back on if it wasn't for the name popping up on your screen at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. You had picked up without hesitation.

Except it wasn’t Hajoon.

"Good evening. This is Taehyung. Can you send a picture of the contract folder on Hajoon-sshi's desk? He forgot it."

You blinked at the screen, furrowed your brow.

"Sure, Taehyung. 😂 Joon your impersonation game is trash and that's tough considering you're trying to speak like the man you work for. At least commit to the bit."

The message pinged back too quick for someone pretending to be a important, busy man.

"It's actually me. Taehyung. Hajoon-sshi's busy with some stuff."

You laughed. Alone in your bathroom. Holding a spoonful of some face oil and scrolling up and down the chat.

"And I'm the CEO of Mars. Let me know if you need a crater named after you."

You had awaited hajoon finally breaking out whatever character's in.

"You're funny. Send the photo."

This wasn’t the tone a boyfriend of sixteen months should be talking in, you had thought. Unaware as ever. If only you had learned how that unawareness will end for you.

"If it’s really you, Kim Taehyung, send a selfie holding a spoon."

You hadn’t expected a reply.

But a few minutes later there it was. There it came.

A dimly lit photo that was non debatable who it captured. Grainy in a way that none of his chronicled, edited ones were. Sleepy-eyed. Hair in disarray. Wearing a black hoodie and holding a spoon between his fingers with the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen.

You stared at the image longer than you’d admit. Tried not to cringe too much at the cataloged annoyance. And then you sent the damn contract.

"Told you. I commit."

You didn’t respond. You told yourself he was probably just weird. Probably forgot all about you two minutes later. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. But sometimes, the memory flickered. A weird little moment stitched into your timeline, half-unreal.

And maybe he doesn’t remember you. Maybe that moment was just a Tuesday to him. You'd love to take advantage of that before it gets any more lumbering here. You tuck your arms around yourself and inhale the smoke-laced air stretched thin across the span of a few meters and commodity that has you topid. Hovering at a cautious distance, two steps too far to be friendly and one step too close to be indifferent.

You didn't realize acting indifferent was something that Kim Taehyung had a copyright on until he moves again. Abundantly. A loosening of limbs, the slow unfurling of someone at ease in their own myth.

“I don’t bite,” he says, voice low, drowsy. Just on the edge of humor, like he’s saying it more for himself than for you. His head tips toward you, not quite looking. Still, he flicks the ash from his cigarette with a lazy hand, like he’s bored of his own invitation.

You swear it’s the wind at first. The words fold into the air too smoothly.

You know you should just offer a polite smile. A nod. Some kind of noncommittal noise that maintains distance. But your mouth, as always, has other plans.“Mm,” you murmur, under your breath, not even meaning for him to hear, “I doubt that.”

You don’t think he’s listening. But he is.

You catch it - just fairly - in the slight turn of his head, the way one corner of his mouth curves, slow and serpentine. twitch of lip, more ghost than grin. The kind of smile you don’t see so much as sense. Felt more in your knees than your chest.

Great. Now you’re giving him lines.

Then - like it’s a casual thing, like it costs him nothing - he speaks again. Doesn’t even glance at you this time. Tilts his head, exhales another cloud of smoke, and lets it wander up into the sky.

“Come closer.”

Um hello? What did he just say to you? Did he actually demand of you?

Though the words are simple; not barked; not begged, they still alter an insolence capillary of yours. You hesitate, the word itself making a heat rise under your collarbones. A place it had no buisness eliciting a reaction in.

Your body moves before your brain signs off. Not by a great deal, but enough to close the distance between polite and probing. The necessary for the chill in the night to fade from your arms. Proportionality to fall under the scent of his cigarette, sharp and spicy and soaked in something faintly herbal, like bergamot and smoke and warm resin.

But you catch yourself before you go further. Straighten your spine. Scupper your voice.

“I’m not doing what you tell me,” you say, and the words are sharp, snapped like a twig underfoot. “Just so we’re clear.”

That almost-smile on his mouth doesn’t move, but it changes. And to your horror, it even deepens. Grows snobbish in a way that’s unapparent but impossible to miss. It’s pompous. Infuriatingly so. That elusive tilt of his lips that makes you want to shove him and ask what’s so funny and maybe push him off the damn balcony just to see if the smirk stays midair.

He leans a little more into the curve of shadow, gaze flicking sideways. Meticulously near enough to make your pulse skitter. “I didn’t think you would,” he says, and the amusement in his voice is unmistakable now. “You don’t strike me as particularly obedient.”

You stare. You hate that your throat goes dry. Because that's a totally normal thing to say to a stranger when you've got a face like that, isn't it? "Excuse me?"

He takes another drag from the cigarette, watching the embers burn down like a timer. The tip glows in his fingers — elegant fingers, of course they are, long and unhurried in how they cradle the smoke. The ash hovers before fluttering down like snow against the stone.

“What do I strike you as, then?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

It’s too much of a question. It slips past your lips like a dare that has been sent rolling on a slippery path you didn’t mean to voice. But it’s out there now, and you can’t take it back. Idiot.

Taehyung doesn't answer right away. He just exhales smoke and thought at the same time, head tilted still back toward the sky as if the answer might be hidden between the tapestry of the stars. You find he’s giving the question the time it doesn’t deserve. It’s flamboyant. It’s aggravating. And, worse, it’s effective.

Your arms remain crossed, body drawn in like a bow pulled taut. You don't regret handing your denim to Jia but you wish the night was colder so the goosebumps could be blamed on temperature, not tension. But the breeze is tepid now. Brushed in his voice, his perfume, his stupid legendary presence that has no right smelling as expensive and ancient and fucking grounded as it does.

Finally, his gaze shifts.

And this time, he does look at you. Fully. Directly.

A slow turn of his head, the sweep of his eyes over your face with the exasperation of how he would read the fine print of something he’s already decided on. “What do you strike me as?” he repeats, softly. Then clicks his tongue once, like he’s disappointed with you for even asking. "Are you sure you wanna know?"

The words are quiet. But his voice darkens at the question. Your stomach twists, and you don’t know if it’s indignation or intrigue. You’re fairly certain it’s both. And before it permeates into a shabbier feeling that'll have you clutching your torso, you put out your blundering silence as a response that he takes willingly, haughtily so.

His mouth twitches again. Not quite a smile this time. Closer to mischief. He shrugs one shoulder, loose and languid, eyes still trailing somewhere over the skyline, this conversation’s just a side project evidently.

Whatever. If the unnerving diagonal beside you can go back to doing what he painfully seems most interested in, so can you.

The railing is back beneath your palms, familiar now, some dumb metaphor made real — edges cold, aloof chill biting. The edge of your heel nudges against a loose leaf caught in the wind. It flutters once, twice, then gives up and sinks to the floor. You almost envy it. The city is still sprawled in the distance, impersonal to your cognizing. Behind you, the door stays shut. Back there, you envisage, is too bright, too loud, too full of people who might ask what’s wrong and not wait for the right silence before answering for you. Out here, you only share oxygen with a man who has ruined half your calendar and all your curated patience.

Unbothered, broad-shouldered, draped in the kind of serenity that only belongs to cats and men who’ve never been told no. Taehyung’s jacket gleams where it catches the low light- some brand you’ll never afford and he probably didn’t pay for. His posture is too facile.

The rubescent of his cigarette hisses as he draws in again — as if every drag is advised, intented, abrasive. That mouth was made for sin or sermons. Hard to tell which one he’d preach first.

You glance over once. Quickly. Then regret it instantly.

He’s watching you. In a way he did after you threw your sharpest tone at him, just stood there — barefaced and unflinchinb —like he’d seen this particular performance from you before. Maybe in another life. Maybe in a dream.

The silence between you drones with electricity. It's not awkward, exactly. It’s too thick to be awkward. Too charged. Like the aftermath of lightning —  you don’t know if the flash already hit or if it’s coming, if this is clement or consequence.

Then, casually, the cigarette hand lifts again. He turns it between his fingers once, then holds it out across the space between you, his gaze flat and unreadable, offered to you with the same ease most people use to pass napkins.

"You smoke?"

The question cuts through the quiet like it’s been waiting there the whole time.

You scoff. "I don't smoke." Neither do you pick up addictions from strange men who talk like their only motive is to distress the already distressed women they corner in alone balconies.

“That’s a shame,” he says, still not retracting the offer. "You look like you need it."

You arch a brow. "I look like I need a way to a slow, tragic death?"

He exhales through his nose — amused. "No. You look like you need a distraction." Takes a pause before adding. "Do you not?"

You glance at the cigarette. Then at his mouth.

Unfortunate, really. That his lips have the audacity to look generous. He holds your gaze too easily for someone who’s done nothing but irritate you with a single smirk and a face blessed by nepotism from the gods. Your jaw ticks and to the degree that you'd like to believe it's from that or the persistence offer, you're sorely knowing of that's its a reaction that is spawned from how tempting it is, the silence that falls after his question. Not the offer itself — smoke never tasted good, no matter how poetic the film girls made it look — but the inaction. His inaction, in particular, that abrades against the raw wall of your morale. You hate that you’re thinking about it. Thinking about it too hard, the same way you think about late-night texts that go unanswered, or how many people have probably touched the door handle before you in a public restroom.

You turn your gaze back to the city. Your hand curls around the railing again. It digs in, sharper this time. Enough that the metal edge presses a whisper of hurt into your palm. Nothing lasts long against the pressure of being watched the way he watches — quietly, without ego, as if he’s already understood what you’re going to do.

Do you need a distraction?

Yes. Obviously.

But admitting is a type of yielding. Humans are never actually normal with such a thing, let alone letting yourself yeild in front of him — this man hewed out of tailored arrogance is a threat to your vanity. You’ve already had one of those tonight, and it ended with you biting down tears in a hallway, handing water bottles to strangers so your friends wouldn’t see your hands shake.

This, withal, would be an indulgence. A petty little rebellion. The kind of thing someone else would do in a story you’d never admit reading. Smoking with Kim Taehyung on a balcony where your relationship ended a quiet death only an hour ago. You want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. You want to laugh so hard your ribs bruise from the inside.

But coversely, you stand there. Wound up. Too mindful.

And the longer you don’t move, the more you feel him waiting.

You steal a glance again. His arm hasn’t wavered, cigarette still extended, ember glowing low. There’s no impatience in him, and you only ever see that kind in people who already know the outcome. Kim Taehyung is a man who waits, who already lives in your answer and is just killing time in the silence before you catch up. Curious. Present. Patient in a way that suggests he’s memorizing the shape of your hesitation just to store it somewhere for later.

You sigh. A long, tight sound dragged up from the soles of your feet.

You take two steps toward him. The space closes, distance evaporating between you like heat on pavement. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t gloat — decently watches, that same unreadable interest rolling low behind his lashes.

You stop just shy of arm’s reach. With a single curl of your fingers, you take the cigarette from his hand.

His fingers brush yours for half a breath. Warm, dry, real and your dorsum locks up at the contact, pitter patter quick behind your teeth. You pretend it didn’t happen. You pretend very hard. The cigarette tastes bitter at the filter when you lift it to your lips. Not that you care. You’re not here for the flavor. You’re here because the world is ending and strikes as being only your world ending.

You inhale. Lightly.

It’s awful. Burnt and earthy. Makes your throat feel like someone wrung it out like a sponge. You cough once, quietly, turn your head away in ignominy, try to act like it was atmospheric and not your body rebelling against poor choices.

You make out the smile before you see it. It bobs up on the side of your face like a shadow. Bastard.

You exhale through your nose, eyes narrowed. "You're so charming. Does it always lets get you away from this habit of yours?"

"Mhm. What habit?"

He’s watching you, still. Closer now. Still tall, still shrouded in that stupid expensive shiny material. But something’s mutated. He looks less carved from figment and more human in the face — detail where there was once only silhouette. The curve of his mouth. The sleep in his eyes. The line of his jaw you could draw with a knife.

"Of having things your way. Is that not a habit? Do you not always get what you want?" You take another drag.

And maybe you’re imagining it — probably you are — but for once there's not a single trace of beguilement on his face or in his poorly lit stare that simmers. Drops to your mouth where your lips are wrapped around the cancer stick. He sees.

"Not always."

The filter burns a little hotter than it should between your fingers, but you don’t drop it. That would make a sound. You keep it pressed neatly against the edge of your breath and lean into the railing again. This time you don’t grip it. You let your arms rest there, loose, voluntary. It’s easier this way, to gather yourself in the flicker of things you cannot control.

“Not always?” you echo, casually, but it punches from your chest more bitter than intended. “Color me shocked.”

His hum lands soft against the back of your neck, something dulled and sun-warmed, but it still finds a grit. Tilts his chin toward the night like he’s listening to something in the silence that you can’t hear. Not a man in thought; no, that would be too benevolent. A man in leisure.

There’s no wasted effort, no shuffle or twitch. You’ve known performers, fidgeters, people who need to fill silences with breath or comment just to feel present. Taehyung is none of those. You swallow once. Your voice is back in your mouth, restless. He doesn’t match the versions of him that live in tabloids, in the pruned PR clips, in the way Hajoon used to talk about him with the slight awe of someone who’d just walked past a lion that winked. There’s nothing lofty about him. Not even in his smile, the rimple of the skin strecting around his eyes when they drift toward the line where the sky dominates over the buildings, The city’s to offer stars, and you can tell he’s still searching for them. He tilts his face up to the night, slow and unhurried, jaw catching a flicker of sallow from the railing light. There’s no revelation in his expression about what exactly he is looking for.

“It’s a lovely night,” he says finally, in that impromptu manner men do when they’re either lying or about to advance into nonsense. "Clear enough to see the Pleiades, if you know where to look.” his voice summoned.

The what?

You can't deny that there's a keeness he awakes in you, when he says that, speaking a language of his own. But you also can't deny that you have no interest enabling that, some things (Some men) require the right headspace and yours is certainly far from right. You're not some child, and you can do just fine without knowing about astronomical facts, so you don’t even nod along, as though you know what he's talking about and you've already found a pattern in the sky.

At the lack of your reaction, he does what wouldn't have predicted, because what even is your attention worth to a star (that he looks up) like him. He could sent a message to a group chat of people living and dying to keep him happy: hey who's up for some solar system facts? And atleast, four people would turn and listen with their head on their folded hands, whilst looking at him at like he had made the excellent geometries of the sky. You really wouldn't have seen him pressing from a long mile.

"Humor me and ask me what is that."

You are left with two options, one being add up another reason of fuming internally over this highfaluating wanna-be, assuming that you actually don't know what this is, while he does. Okay, he's not wrong on that but where's the graciousness when's it's needed? To save yourself for being any more miserable, you go with the second, suction smoke into your lungs and ask. "What is that?"

He lifts up a finger and starts to move it around randomly, until you notice he's not, he's actually following a cluster of stars with the tip of his index finger. “The Seven Sisters. Stars, technically. They don't always show, so we're lucky we are under the brightest star." You look up too and indeed, it shines bright. You're not sure about the lucky part. "Old story says they only appear on nights where something coffined comes to surface.”

You glance at him sidelong, cigarette perched neatly between your lips. You doubt if thats one of his fanclub astrology facts or he read that off a matchbox.

“It’s just superstition,” he says as if had the ability to read your thoughts. All the holy things above and beyond, you hope not. "When you need a direction on those nights. You can always look up."

The delivery is suspiciously straight-faced. You can’t tell if it’s sincerity dressed up as a joke or the other way around, but it sits in the air between you like something well-planned.

You exhale, slow through your nose. The filter tastes a little more bitter than before, or maybe your mouth does. “Are you fucking with me?”

His eyes don’t move from the sky, but the border of his expression ameliorates with amusement. The skin that was wrinkled, now crinkles up, and that's all. You’re puzzled, left in mystery if his motive was to annoy you. Confused over the decision of whether you should elbow in response too, twist the moment until it gives. But you don’t. Because the truth is, whatever it was, whether it was a myth or a dig or a gentle offering, you understood it. Quite possibly, needed it too. Either way, you don’t ask him to explain.

You resort to the secret third option of saying something you don’t mean to say. Your mouth opens before your sense of judgment can lace its shoes and declare your words thinly veiled as cavalier.

“I know an old superstition too,” you start, flicking ash off the edge of your cigarette, “that if two people share a smoke, they have to share a secret too.”

You don’t know where it comes from. Probably not a saying at all.Maybe something you read on a forum in college or saw scrawled on a dirty napkin in a bar bathroom. Probably from a place full of bullshit. God you are full of bullshit. But it slips out with the careless elegance of someone who isn’t bracing for repercussion.

Taehyung turns his body this time. Slow, one shoulder first, the leather of his jacket catching the light in a blink. His brows lift, just barely. He’s interested, but not performatively so. The barest cock of his head that's sharpened with intrigue makes you doubt. Wonder. You’re not sure why your heart climbs two rungs higher in your throat.

“A secret,” he repeats, as if trying the word on his tongue. “Do people actually do that? Are you fucking with me?" The wind presses his jacket against the lines of his ribs. His fingers tap once, twice, against the railing, deliberate. He smells like silk and smoke and the kind of cologne that’s expensive enough not to brag about itself.

You upraise your head, eyes fixed on a point in the city that doesn’t matter. "Apparently."

You puff out your cheeks and let the smoke linger there a second too long before exhaling through your nose. "And I'm not fucking with you." You say the terminal with an discomposing defensiveness.

The architecture of interest wraps around silence. You wait, not because you're impatient, but because you want to see what silence does to him.

He exhales, long and easy. “Alright,” he says, flicking the slag from his nail like he’s dusting off a layer of thought. “Go ahead.”

You glance over. “What?”

“Share yours.”

Your throat tightens around nothing. “That’s not how it works.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” you say, a little firmer. “The person who offers the cigarette doesn’t get to demand first blood.”

He grins. Oh this real bastard. “Mm. You should’ve thought of that before you lied about the saying.”

“I didn’t lie. I… embellished it up a little.”

His tongue presses briefly into his cheek. “Same thing, my darling."

The term lands heavier than it should. Unrehearsed. Wrong accent for condescension. You don’t bother correcting him. If anything, you portray as if you didn’t even hear him.

He tilts his head again, finally turning to look at you in full now. His expression is maddeningly unreadable. Eyebrows slightly lifted, but not mocking. Just open. He waits in a way that says: I have all night. Go on. Impress me. Surprise me. Burn me, if you want.

You scowl, faintly. The smoke makes your next breath hitch as it burns at the edges.A secret, he said. You shouldn’t have offered the opening. You thought you’d like the power in it, holding something sharp and choosing not to use it. But it only leaves your mouth dry and your head stupidly full.

Your mind claws through options.

Your secret would be too easy, yet too big at the same time. It sits on your tongue, hot and twitching. It thrashes to be named; this ugly thing. You could spit it out between your teeth and watch the whole balcony tilt with it. Splinter the mood and makes everyone start looking for an exit, even if their feet don’t move. It’s a secret with teeth and a jawline. It smells like cheap floral perfume and sounds like a whimper through a half-open storage door.

You could say it. You could torch the air between you both with it. My boyfriend cheated on me tonight. In the storage room. With someone I shook hands with. Maybe even while you were living in a delusion, or shaking hands with people who thought they mattered. And you don’t even know if he'll even care. If none of this would matter to him and it’s just your heart doing its pathetic little dance in a one-woman tragedy.

You could lie. God knows you’ve gotten good at that lately. You could say you hate cucumbers or that you still sleep with the bathroom light on.

But standing next to him, lying feels too pedestrian. You glance over at him, hoping his sufferance will start to look smug enough to punch. But no. He’s too relaxed for that. One wrist draped over the edge of the railing, the other hanging low beside his thigh, fingers marked with the last memory of the cigarette you just burned through together. He’s not even close enough to touch, but you swear if you breathed wrong, he’d hear it shift in your ribs.

Unfair. Unrelenting. Utterly exhausting.

You rake your teeth over your bottom lip and break the silence with something that tastes harmless. It isn’t, really, but it plays that way.

“I’m not your fan.”

His eyes flinch. Like a tick behind his lashes he forgot to tame.

You glance sidelong, watching his profile for the reaction, any reaction. The way someone checks the rearview after running a red light. “That’s my secret. Or one of them. I guess.” It’s barely louder than a whisper, but it lands with the weight of a bottle uncorked too fast. Immediate relief followed by a slow fizz of regret.

The pause that follows is the longest one yet.

You regret it. You don’t. You regret it again.

“I know.”

Huh.

The words are smooth. Soft, but pointed. As if you’ve confirmed something he’s always known but was waiting to see if you’d admit. You don’t know if you were excepting a bite to them, a sleek reveal of a bruised ego but what you were not was that slow, coiled calm that has no business feeling sexy in someone’s mouth.

Was it that obvious? Were you that obvious? You wait for elaboration on that but nothing comes.You watch his profile, the ridiculous slope of his nose, the glint of metal at his ear, you bracket for the assured curve of his lips but then again: nothing. He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t call you out, doesn’t accuse.

You can’t tell if he’s messing with you or if he means it — if he remembered your voice from a year-old phone call, if he recognized your silence tonight, if he sighted your stare in the reflection of the goddamn glass doors.

That sounds unreasonable so you don’t entertain the idea any more. "I'm not saying I hate you or anything." You add after a respite, withstanding, out of sheer principle. "In case you start thinking I'm some undercover journalist who's out to get you by making you slip up some horrible secret and ruin your career." You falter and your pupils dilate in some sort of enlightenment.

"Wait.. that does sound legitimate.." You breathe and he chuckles, chasmic. Straight from the core of his chest. Pretty.

You flush, hand tightening around the cigarette. "What I mean to say is that I mean no offense."

"None taken." That's all he gives you.

Another non-answer that sounds just close enough to a hum to pass for approval. It makes your eye twitch. The bluster in it is staggering. Like he’s heard every variation of insult and adoration and now catalogues them by scent.

“So you’re not bothered?” you ask.

“No.” For a second, the look in his eyes could melt paint from a canvas. “Should I be?”

You hesitate. You don’t know why you hesitate.

"No." You nearly choke on how dishonest it isn’t. You don’t want him to be bothered. You don’t want him to care.

And yet — there’s a morbid thrill in seeing if he will.

You angle yourself slightly toward him, careful not to break whatever tension is braided in the space between your bodies. The heat of him remains, even with a whole arm’s length untouched. You need the tilt of something else. So you pivot, words tumbling faster than thought.

“So,” you say, voice stripped bare. “Your turn.”

His brows lift, slow and unsurprised.

“For the secret,” you add, not giving him the chance to weasel out.

He considers. You can see it — the slight furrow at the edge of his brow, the twitch of his jaw, the progression of thought moving unhurried behind his eyes. The line of his mouth doesn’t change, but the solidity of it shifts.

“I need time,” he says at last, tapping the back of his fingers against the railing like it’s a piano.

“No time,” you counter, before he can wax poetic or poeticize wax or whatever the hell he’s about to do. “Actually, I’ll help. I’ll guess.”

“You’ll guess my secret.”

“Exactly. To speed things up.”

He sighs. Appealed, again, in that maddeningly low-key way that reads more indulgence than exasperation.

You straighten slightly, clear your throat. “You’ve got six toes on one foot.”

Taehyung shifts, and you hear the soft rustle of his jacket as he moves. One hand disappears into his pocket.You wonder if anything he does is ever clumsy. You want to see it. But to all appearances, no.

"You talk to plants. You whisper to them, atleast for the sake of dignity. Apologize when you forget to water them. You have at least one fiddle leaf fig in your apartment that’s seen you cry in a silk robe.”

He says nothing, which is infuriating in its own right. So, to punish him, you keep talking.

You tap your chin. “You cry when you're watching a Pixar movie."

As if to egg you on, he remains mum.

"You secretly hate the fame."

Oof.

“Okay..you’re secretly married to an heiress in Monaco but only out of obligation because her father saved your family from a blood feud—wait, is this why you smoke? To cope?”

You chance a glance at him then.

He’s still quiet, one brow slightly lifted, his mouth doing that thing again — where it thinks about smiling but chooses restraint instead. He hasn’t said a word. Just stands there, gaze unwavering, letting you dig your own grave with a shovel he probably forged.

"That's a hell lot of gusses. Are you sure you're not a fan?" He finally says. Dragged through just enough baritone to sound stuffy without needing help.

Not even close. But you lapse anyway, roll your eyes and resist the urge to melt into the railing beside you. You’ve been standing here too long, you think. Under this particular constellation of stars and scrutiny. Talking too much. Giving too much. Your mouth, again, has outpaced your sense.

"I'll pace myself." You mutter under your breath. His laugh is soft and bothersomely warm that sits like a pat on the head you didn’t ask for.

"Well?” you prompt, arms crossed now. Your cigarette’s been flicked away into the night, but the heat of it lingers at your fingertips. “Are you going to give me a real on--"

He cuts you off and offers. “I’ve been learning French.”

You blink.

That’s it? That’s the secret? You nearly threw your soul onto the balcony floor, and he came back with learning a forigen langauge?

You don’t hide your disbelief. You don’t even try. “That’s your big, mysterious secret?”

He shrugs. One-shoulder, elegant, unconcerned. “You wanted one.”

“French?” you repeat, deadpan. “Oh fuck off. That’s what you went with? That’s what you’re hiding from the world?”

His lip twitches and he whispers in a exaggerated manner. "You're the only one who knows."

Your face torsions into a grimace.

"See? That's why I didn't told anyone." The hand from his pocket slips out and he runs it over his jaw. There’s a ardency in his voice now, stretched and prearranged. “Because of that face you’re making.”

“What face?”

“The one that says I’m pretentious.”

“That’s because you are pretentious,” you say, eyes narrowed. “Learning French for fun?”

“Not for fun,” he corrects. "It's work. For Paris. I’ve got a event there next month.”

You groan in the quiet that returns,balmy and teeming.The metropolis hums below, ignorant of your little corner modeled out of smoke and shared breath.

You glance at him, brows pinched. “Say something in French, then.”

His head tilts, just slightly. “Huh?”

You square your stance, chin lifting, voice dipped in faux detachment. “Prove it, I mean.”

He blinks, slow. “Prove what.”

“That you’re not full of shit, Jesus."

His gaze slides across the space between you. Perhaps he was offened that you asked him to believe his nonsense. And you don’t believe that was anything but. A made up lie about how he has a hairless cat named Nietzsche and that would have charmed you more ‘I’ve been Duolingo-ing French in the dark.’

Then again, he had no reason to say something that would have entertained you. Why would he? You're no one. Not even his dedicated enthusiast that he feels bound to in some way. So, you beyond a shadow a doubt, don't expect him to even attempt.

“Je pense à toi plus souvent que je ne le devrais.”

Let alone say that many of words. They sky in ample, partly because of the tone, the tempo. Partly for the way it leaves his mouth already inflamed with meaning. The vowels roll soft in the back of his throat, mutilated just a little and for a brief, stupid moment, you forget you’ve just spent the last two hours being publicly, privately humiliated.

You blink, slow. “Wow. Okay. You're not lying but..?"

“But what?”

“What did that mean?”

The current tightens. Scarcely from the wind, in no manner from cold, but with pause. A single moment suspended by silence, thick and humming. You expect him to laugh, to shrug it off, to hand you back your question with a lopsided grin and a conveniently vague answer. You excepted a big headed translation of what he said, probably praised how beautiful his sternum is in the language of the romancers.

But the expectation that arrives is staining the moment. It thickens between you like honey slow-dripped over the edge of a knife. Definitely not the kind you can breathe through. You count five seconds. Then seven. Then forget to keep counting because definitely not when he eventunally moves. One slow step forward, a flux that cuts the space between your bodies down to a corruption.

Simply folds himself into your periphery. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to. The heat of him arrives before the shadow does. You can feel the slope of his body, the broadness of it, the made to measure frame of someone who was never taught to shrink. It sure does makes you do so.

You stand there with your neck craned, still leaning against the railing, still biting the inside of your cheek, still trying to remember what the fuck he just said. You told him to prove it. You hadn’t told him to make a meal out of it. But here you are, jaw locked and throat dry.

You lock eyes with him, by a nose. He’s taller up close — of course he is.He leans in a touch, eyes cutting toward the stub of a cigarette still between your fingers. Or what’s left of it. The lipstick ring, half-smudged, stares back up at you in a little flash of chagrin.

Before you can toss it — he reaches.

Two fingers, unhurried, brushing yours again as he plucks it from your hand. His skin grazes yours and you swear your breath stutters like a faulty wire. It’s warm. Calloused in the way expensive hands aren’t supposed to be.

He lifts the cigarette and turns it slowly, inspecting the end. The smear of your lipstick, the last traces of you still on it.He twirls it once between thumb and forefinger, then glances at you. “You said I have a habit,” he says. His voice is calm, low, threaded with that warm rust he never bothers polishing.

You say nothing. Your throat has turned treacherous.

He tucks it between his lips. Listlessly. Takes his time. Drags in smoke, hollow and full. Then he exhales through his nose.

“I’m starting to think you have one too.”

You narrow your eyes, jaw tight. “What.”

His next words come darker. A commodity less said than laid down in front of you.

“A habit of asking questions you don’t want answers to.”

Your breath hits you crooked. You press your lips together, try to will sensation back into your legs. The silence stretches between you again, full of heat and that despicable prescience that he hasn’t broken it, because he doesn’t need to.Your mouth stays shut. It's not used to being without an opinion. He’s taken that from you too, somehow. The only sound you make is a shaky exhale, quiet enough to be mistaken for wind.

Your gaze follows his to his wrist, where his watch glints faintly beneath the low light, that watch you’d mocked internally for being too shiny, too sumptuous-looking, too aware of its own importance. You don’t know what he reads in the time, but he makes a soft sound, a breath, maybe a sigh, latterly he shrugs. The shoulders of his jacket shift, roll, and then, before your body can react, he’s pulling his arms free.

That black, unbothered thing of a jacket, the one that smelled like amber and ash and subtle conceit. He holds it for a second in his hands, then swings it gently, stupidly, over your shoulders.

Your first instinct is to shove it off, slap his hand away, say something defensive that hides how everything in you is currently rioting.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice splintered at the ends.

You don’t know what’s more disorienting. The unexpected gesture or the sheer weight of it. The jacket is heavy, still warm from his body, lined with something smooth that smells criminally luxurious, smoke and vetiver and a note you can’t name but feel in your knees. It swallows you instantly, hangs too wide over your frame, sleeves grazing knuckles you didn’t realize were clenched.

You stiffen, hands raised as if the fabric might detonate.

“No—no, I’m fine,” you protest, reaching to return it, but his hand catches your wrist, gently. Not holding you there, just… halting the motion. His fingers barely curve around your skin.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman." he says, eyes soft but voice gravel-edged. "I am a gentleman, actually."

You almost snort, but your throat tightens too fast for it to come out fully. Good thing, you decide. Otherwise, you would’nt have trusted yourself not to speak up on the think pieces, The fan-written fever dreams about how Taehyung held a door open once and that made him the reincarnation of chivalry itself.

Kim Taehyung, the article said, is a gentleman — he's out to get your poor heart because Kim Taehyung is the refined man of our modern times who asks before he touches, and never forgets a name.

You’d rolled your eyes so hard they clicked. You’d said aloud, to no one in particular, yeah, I bet. And yet here you are. Swaddled in the evidence.

Before you can launch into your next indignation, he speaks again — this time with a glint, a grin that blooms crooked at the edges and threatens to bring down whatever composure you’ve reassembled prior to disappearing away back to the glow.

“It was nice finally meeting you, ceo of Mars."

"It was wonderful. Very productive." You beam at him. "On behalf of House Hightower, I pledged five thousand gold dragons to be sent monthly to aid the poor. The Septons were so pleased!"

Gwayne’s mouth hangs open, rendered speechless.

"And I met some of the orphans that directly benefit from our donations. Such little angels!" You set your prayer book down on your desk, and prompt him, “You did say I was allowed to pledge five thousand, husband?" You raise your eyebrows expectantly waiting his answer.

He sputters. "I said five hundred."

An airy laugh escapes you. "Oh, I must have misheard you. But it’s no consequence to House Hightower, being one of the wealthiest in the realm." You shrug innocently. "Right?"

Your husband’s eyes bulge in shock. How is he going to explain to his Master of Coin the tenfold influx of charitable giving leaving the Hightower coffers? That his wife cares too much for orphans and he could never tell her no? That's the truth of it, as pathetic as it sounds, but the Master of Coin would understand if he saw her.

You sit on the chair next to the fire, and begin to unlace your boots. This pulls Gwayne from his self pitying stupor. His wife must be assisted, doted on, even now. He eases onto one knee in front of you, batting your hands away from your muddy boots. "Here, let me." Reverently, he pulls your skirt up over your knees, taking care to linger his palms over your calves. Then, he works the laces, gently loosening them so your boot can slide off your foot. He switches to the left boot, repeating the actions dutifully.

"You don't seem angry at me." You comment. Like earlier, you rake your fingers through his auburn hair to fix it, moving it away from his face, pulling ever so slightly at the scruff of his neck.

His head hangs, lulled by your ministrations. He presses a soft kiss to your bare knee. "I can't imagine ever being angry with you." His large hands knead into your calf muscles, easing the strain you felt from walking around the Oldtown today.

"Never?" you challenge, smile tugging at your lips.

"Could I ever be angry at those huge doe eyes looking at me?" He muses, hands moving higher slightly to massage into your knee, savoring each second you allow him to kneel before you "No, I don't believe it is possible."

You hum in approval. "Gwayne?"

His gaze flies up to meet yours, and you can see him holding his breath, hanging on to your every word. Blue eyes widened expectantly at the sound of his name from your lips.

"Would you help me with something?"

"Anything" he breathes.

"Will you help me undress? I walked through the mud earlier, so I need to change."

Gwayne nods his head harder than he ever has in his life. Lost for words, he leans back on his heels, to give you space to stand and step away from the chair. You turn your back to him, so he can access the ties down the length of your spine. Like the boots, he works the knots patiently, savoring every contact that his fingers make with your back. He feels like he is opening a gift that he has been waiting his whole life for, and doesn't intend to rush the precious packaging.

Once the laces are loosened down your back, you turn, lifting slightly on tip toe to peck the side of his mouth. "Thank you, husband. That would have taken me twice as long to wrestle with by myself! Now I need change and prepare for dinner with my ladies."

Gwayne feels as if he has been wounded, slapped, or perhaps stabbed. Pain shoots through his chest, but all he can do is whimper, "No." His head hangs against your shoulder. "No, you cannot leave again. You just can't." The blood has rushed to his cock, leaving nothing for his reeling brain. Gwayne is at the end of his rope, tormented by your smell of sweet rose soap and wide eyes. Every time he believes he has you, you manage to dart out of his grasp at the last possible second. It’s not eloquent, or particularly convincing, but he must do something to slow you down. He kisses your neck, pressing fast, open mouth kisses. Grabbing blindly at your backside, he paws at your body without the restraint usually possessed by a knight of the realm. "Dove, I will die if I have to wait any longer."

You can't help but laugh at his dramatic claim. And the jerky way that his hands, callused from the sword, clumsily pull at your dress and every handle of your body tickles. Coordination, and his sense, have been tossed out the window. The poor man looks ready to be put out of his misery, you decide. Also, the pulsing in your center is getting hard to ignore, likely spurred by the way his pretty eyes twist in agony. So your slender fingers begin to work the buttons of his shirt. "Husband, there's no need for tears." You tease. "If you wanted me, why didn't you just say so"

He laughs, but it sounds more like a choked sob. Were you a deer in the forest, luring him blindly on a hunt he was never meant to complete? Or maybe he had been the prey all along? It was starting to feel that way. But if this position he finds himself in leaves no cause for complaints, as you tenderly open the fastenings of his shirt. You lift on tip toe to kiss him, to soothe the torture of your honorable husband. He groans in approaval, stepping forward so your backside bumps against your desk. He tastes like salty tears, and cloves, which you've noticed he ocassionally chews to sweeten his breath. Gwayne kisses you hungrily, nothing like your lips meeting for the first time in the Starry Sept, tongue scraping against your teeth, claiming your mouth as his own. When you finish the last button of his shirt, you run your fingers up and down his bare chest. Your touch sends shudders down his spine, causing him to involuntarily buck his hips towards yours. Desperately, he undresses you next. His hands work the chemise up your torso, and only breaks away the kiss to lift it over your head, before meeting your lips once more.

His hands hold your lower back, pulling your form into him as close as possible. One callused palm holds your arse, allowing him to roll his hips against your cunt. It's impossible not to feel his erection straining against his pants, brushing against your center again and again. The fabric grows damp, the combination of both your arousals mixing, filling the space. Gwayne shudders a shaky breath into your neck, mouthing at the underside of your jaw, mummering "Oh my sweet girl, thank you." You chase his motions, locking your ankles to hold him flush against you. Something strange, a new feeling, hooks behind your belly, as he snakes a hand in between the tight space between you. "Let me, please dove." His fingers fumble, then find his target to circle your clit. The feeling sends a jolt through you, a small suprised hiccup leaves you.

The sound encourages him to pet into your bundle of nerves, his callused fingers dutifully slipping over your slick folds. The pressure to your sensitive cunt, and the friction of his cock against your center swirls into an intoxicating combination. His fingers are coasted with slick, and his pants are beyond soiled now, the dampness spreading with each passing drip from his leaking cock.

"Inside." you choke, voice coming out hoarse, wrecked, and totally surprising to your usual composure.

"Inside? Have you ever-?" he asks.

"No" you confess. "But it doesn't matter. I want you." Your fingers fumble at his pants, tented by his cock.

Never had three words ever brought him so much relief. Gwayne nods dumbly, convinced by nothing other than your hands loosening the ties of his pants- a sight he feared might only exist in his own imagination "Inside, yeah.” He confirms, and hastily shucks them down, only enough to let his cock spring free. He sighs as it finally hits the cool air, soothing the angry heat that builds at the head. He pulls your arse closer, angling your hips better for him to meet them.

His cock slaps against his bare stomach, smearing the skin with precome, and you press against it. The feeling of your sensitive folds brushing the hardness pulls the string even tighter in your belly.

"I won't let it hurt, I promise" He mumbles against your neck, guiding you to grind up against the velvet skin of his erection. His cock slides easily against your folds, pressing against your entrance. When Gwyane finally presses in, a choked groan rumbles through his core. He chases the feeling, swallowing your mewls, and letting your wet heat envelop him inch by inch. Slowly rocking his hips, not pulling out too much, just letting your bodies stay connected.

"Is that good, dove?" He kisses your ear tenderly.

"Yeah" you squeak, fullness leaving you lost for words. You hook your chin onto his shoulder, threading your fingers into his long hair, pulling your husband even closer into you.

As your fist tightens in his hair, he cannot help his eyes rolling back in his head. "Gods, you're so perfect." As Gawyne's rutting quickens, he once again presses his fingers to your clit, drawing quick figure eights. His pelvis knocks against yours clumsily, chasing the quickly approaching orgasm threatening to spill. He is so deep inside you, the head of his cock knocking repeatedly into your tender walls, sending shivers down to your toes. "Come for me, sweet girl. Please come.” He begs, and a final press against your clit brings your peak crashing over you. Your legs tremble around him, as heat floods your veins. The thought crosses your hazy mind to question why you were so insistent to run from him, to torment him? The answer was so obvious before, but now it escapes you.

Your stomach muscles clench and spasm, tightening the vice-like clutch your body holds over his cock. "Huh-uh- thank you-fuck" his dampened forehead leans against your neck as Gwayne spills. You feel his cock jerking deep inside you, flooding warm heat nearly up into your ribs. His fingers hold you, almost tight enough to bruise, to stay sheathed on him as his cock sputters, threatening to fill you past the point of overflow. He pants, as his breath slowly comes back to a normal pace. Tenderly, he kisses your jaw and corner of your mouth, nudging your face up to look at him, instead of at his cock leaving you, and come leaking onto the desk. "My perfect wife."

You roll your eyes at his fawning compliment, but still wrap your arms around his shoulders. Gwayne's cock gives another twitch at the sight of you blinking your huge eyes up at him. Your eyes are glassy, blissed out from your peak and exertion, and framed by doe-like lashes.

"Must you leave for dinner now?" He pleads, blue eyes widening in hope that you stay.

Whatever plans arranged with your ladies could be easily rescheduled, but you wrinkle your nose as if deep in deliberation.

Gwayne's mind is already hastily planning his next move, for when you reply that you must leave. He will offer to help you clean up, bathe, as any doting husband would. He will touch you, eat your cunt, draw peak after peak out of you. Keep you in this pliant, placated state so you lose track of time and forget about every obligation you committed to and-

"I can reschedule" You chirp, swinging your legs from where you perch on the desk.

King Viserys' and Queen Aemma's second daughter, as fierce and beautiful as Rhaenyra, with your father’s kindness and your mother’s temperament. And perhaps your sister’s mischief. 

And the first Targaryen Princess to be married.

You were both only children then, fresh faced and blushing in the eyes of the court. And yet, you and Gwayne found one another naturally, not from arrangement or calculation, but from pure attraction. He sought after you from the very moment he was introduced at his father's side from Oldtown, green eyes casting across yours with a unique politemess. The Hand of the King’s son.. The first time he had taken your arm was mere weeks after his arrival, a feast celebration held in the Great Hall for your mother's upcoming birth.

The music had softened into something slower, gentler, the kind that filled the spaces between conversation instead of drowning them. Laughter drifted through the hall beneath the glow of a hundred candles, their flames dancing against polished stone and silver goblets.

There was peace there.

For once, no whispers of succession. No sharpened glances, no blood yet staining the future that none of you could see. Baelon still lived inside your mother’s belly, the realm still believed that tomorrow would resemble that day, and everyone drank as though happiness were permanent.

You hid a smile behind the rim of your goblet as your sister traded another clever remark with a lord twice her age. The wine was sweet enough to dull the noise without stealing your senses, and only the music filled your ears until you heard him.

"Princess..."

A single voice came from your side, poignant and certain.

Your head turned almost as quickly as your feet did, skirts whispering across the floor as you faced the speaker.

Ser Gwayne Hightower.

And you knew the face long before you knew the man. Across tourney grounds and council feasts, across the crowded courts where neither of you had ever found reason, or courage, to cross the distance. He had always seemed carved from Oldtown itself with his proud posture and emerald stitched into every thread of his doublet, auburn hair catching every stray beam of light.

So appeasingly handsome.

That night however, he looked less like a knight before a princess, and more like a man wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.

"I mean not to impose," he said, offering a respectful incline of his head, "though I wondered if I might have this dance." For a heartbeat, the world continued around you while your own stood perfectly still. You let your gaze linger on him, amused by the faint uncertainty hidden beneath practiced confidence, tempting to look around to study if your father’s were perhaps watching.

But no one was, far too taken with their own celebrations, even the snaking advance of Otto Hightower had been shadowed by his son’s chivalry.

"So," you said at last, lowering your goblet into the waiting hands of a servant, "you've finally decided to stop staring from across the court."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before a reluctant smile answered it.

"I had hoped," Gwayne admitted, extending a hand toward you, "that when I did, I might say something considerably more impressive."

Your lips curved despite yourself, taking his hand as you set the goblet down onto an empty table. They slotted into his with a shiver up your spine, the warmth of his swarming your hand gently.

And as a well trained Knight and son of the Hand, word swept faster than either of you knew.

Sweetness across feasting tables soon became hushed kisses in the library and whispered promises, where he asked you to first be his. And you had accepted, spending the weeks and months that passed dreaming of a future that would not come so simply.

You wore your house colours on that day, stark crimson and white, as he did his own, graced in a black cloak that bore the royal sigil, as you wore his. Your mother and father present has smiled on proudly, your sister at their side at last ready to take your arm to share the joy. And Gwayne, he looked upon you with such a blinding adoration you had not known where to look, but when he had kissed you at the altar, all else seemed to fall away.

It was where you belonged.

Such happiness that shouldn't have ended like this, where only darkness loomed in the present. Where Queens passed to another and your younger brother with her, leaving only choices of heirs and legitimacy remained.

The Dance of Dragons divided everyone in its path, renouncing Princess Rhaenyra as heir, and the state of the realm overtaken by your husband’s house. Trust and loyalty faltered where you were at a loss, cradled behind court and torn from your marriage and family entirely.

And that’s where it began.

—

King Viserys’ death had succumbed the realm to a deep sadness, perhaps not the strongest or fiercest, but their good King was gone. But that was not all for you, he was your father, your leader, and though the family had grown through the years, you and your sister had dealt with it only together.

Snakes snuck fast around the court, ever more lurching their way closer to you both, because as your father’s last breath was breathed as the years had passed, it was said that your older sister’s name was not on his lips, but your younger half brother Aegon.

He was but a boy, callous and cruel and unnamed by your father, other than by the word of Alicent Hightower.

Gwayne held you that night, the whole time you had wept for him, for your sister and the news that swept faster than any false rumour. He did not speak, but his arms stayed around you, feeling your betrayal as much as rage thundered in his chest. Because there was nothing to be done.

Neither of you were in the position to change it or revoke their decision, only stand idly by as the Red Keep made way for their new ruler. And when the news had reached Rhaenyra by your Raven, before any other, the war had truly begun.

They had usurped her throne.

Though only more death was to come. Where Lucerys' death fueled the fire, Jacaerys’ stoked it into an abcess, shifting the realm into finally. And with your sister to take King’s Landing, to journey back home and sit upon the throne of swords that was at last to be hers, you were to be at her side.

Standing proud, no matter how fractured.

But you couldn’t leave him, not yet. Even as he stood far away distantly on battlefield in a sea of green, wiping away your very dynasty, you were not enemies, nor traitors to your alliance, you were simple torn. 

Letters were passed for as long as they could be, after leaving court for good, you had decided to reside with your sister and nephews, Gwayne alas being called upon to raise the Hightower banners. And he did, reluctantly and wrongfully, he hung his head low the last time he had kissed you, watching you take to the skies across the narrow sea.

That was beyond a year ago, the last word you had received before they had began getting lost, by death or payment to burn them, was that he was settled at Rook’s Rest.

It was no secret that the pair of you were a danger, the union that once delighted the realm, now a tear in the very structure they had wanted to built. Even as you stood at her war table, speaking strategy and warding soldiers their way, you thought of him, and even your Rhaenyra looked upon you with despair.

Because she knew, and more than most.

You held each other for those nights that surrounded you in darkness and fear more than anything else. Through every loss, every upset and worry, you bore those burdens together in the privacy of her solar, hidden away from the rest of the world just as you would when you were girls.

And just so, she did not speak a word, not even as you had finally had enough, succumbed to the worry, the need to find him. Grief had overwhelmed her enough, and Rhaenyra did not stop you, but not because she had been weak, because she knew you’d be back, and she knew where you were going.

More so, who you were going to.

—

Long slender silver wings spread through the sky, gliding through the misted clouds as blue casts a shadow beneath the stars.

Grey Ghost.

And he lives true to his name, flying low in silence, keeping beneath the valley and into the cover of trees. Moonlight strikes the sharp membrane of his body, curving with the wind from head to tail, but you remain out of sight. Wind catches your hair, tangling the strands that fall, the shine reflecting onto your face as you duck into the saddle, fingers tight around the rope.

He keeps quiet as he is known to, reserved and patient but somehow now a tense silent. There is no rumble, or loud screech of excitement that passes through the air around you. The flight was less than a mere hour, driven swiftly by your held and held from the memory that he had last given you direction to.

Rook’s Rest.

In the heart of the Crownlands and seated on the northern shore of Blackwater Bay, the encampment lo and behold lit up through a sparse in the trees, surrounded by sconces and hundreds of tents camouflaged by tree cover.

“Māzīs, Grey Ghost.” Approach, Grey Ghost.

You called out to him, flying in a turn far above them into a small break in the woodland, diving out of sight and settling with a thud to the ground as his feet planted into the earth. You slid from him carefully, steadying yourself as you patted his side, rubbing along the silver scales gently, clasping your hand around the dagger at your side with the other.

Restless nights come frequent in battle, leaving men tossing and turning in their cots from aches and sore backs. But that did not keep Gwayne awake. Nor was it the watch he was put on in the early hours that did so, it was the sound. The soft whooshing that echoed through the treeline and around the camp, swaying the bushes with it. Many would call it the wind, or a storm rolling in and nothing more, but he had been around enough dragons and their riders to know the difference.

The way you had taught him years ago.

“No their wings are here..” Your hand placed over Gwayne’s own, pressing gently to the beast’s belly, “his underside is hardly noticeable. It keeps us from harm, shielded and invisible to attackers.”

“But the sound is unmistakable, even in ambush. It is low, guttural, far more effective than your canons or torches.” You continued, feeling the heated brush against your fingertips as the dragon bristled.

He studied them ever since. At a distance and far from the depths of the dragonpit, he watched on. Every ride you’d take with Grey Ghost, every conflict that required them to fly out in their hoards. They were a power unlike any other in the world, a force of be reckoned with, and one that still shook his bones whenever he had been faced with one, but there was something familiar.

His fingers drop from the quill and ink, sliding the parchment aside on the small desk, lit only by two candles, casting shadows as he goes to stand.

His eyes dart every direction as he exits the tent, to and from and back again heeding the snores and dying rumbles of drunkards in the nearby pavilions. But he pays no mind, that isn’t what he follows. At first it was a guess, only a thought but he picks up the pace when he sees it.

The great silhouette that hides expertly behind the tree wells, long and slender, and far too big for a horse. His hand clasps around the pommel of his sword, keeping it tight to his waist as he stalks nearer. From this angle it’s hard to tell. The size was large enough to stand out but not as large as Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not one of their own.

Its colour is blank in this light, no shine, and no scale and his eyes go to squint sharply to make it out, but he barely makes it another step before.

Crack.

A twig crunches from behind, spinning on the spot onto his heel to catch a shadow moving beyond the creature. His grip tightens around the steel as he stalks around, a heavy exhale spilling from the beast’s nostrils, almost annoyed.

But the shadow was heading so swiftly through the trees Gwayne had no choice but to chase it. If it were the enemy, they could burn the whole encampment with a single command. And the thoughts run through his head before he can stop himself, “Who goes there?”

He calls through the night. Not loud enough to wake the others, but enough it was direct, but no answer came, so he follows, brushing branches out of his way as he catches up. And then his arms fall in front of him, feet quickening as the silhouette grew more human.

“Hey—“

His arms clamp as hard as he can, twisting the unknown figure in his grip as he seethes. The breath burns in your throat as you plant your fist in front of you, colliding with the pad of tunic, kick fighting toward the man’s shins. It collides with a crack, heavy and thick through boot.

Gwayne barely staggers before his reflexes catch hold, his free hand seizing your wrist while the other circles your waist, dragging his supposed attacker’s momentum into his own. You stumble backward together, boots tearing through damp earth until your back meets the rough trunk of an oak.

His sword is half-drawn, ready to raise just as moonlight slips delicately through the branches. A low screech responds, short and quiet, bristling through the hedgerow hair behind. And that’s when he sees it. Eyes wide with the same shock reflected in his own.

“…Gods.”

His grip loosens at once, standing before you just close enough that his knees don’t buckle.

“You?”

“Gwayne?” You whisper breathlessly, his name leaving your lips in disbelief, a cold shiver wracking your body as you catch your breath.

He shoves his sword back into its scabbard with more force than necessary without so much as a look, the hand at your waist loosing its hardened grip, but holding you closer by instinct.

“What,” he demands, voice caught somewhere between fury and relief, “in the Seven Hells are you doing here?”

You only frown, easing your wrist from his hand to slide the dagger back between your belt.

“I might ask you the same.”

“I am stationed here.”

“And I am merely visiting.”

“Visiting?” he repeated incredulously. “You flew into an active war camp in the middle of the bloody night.”

“I landed well beyond it.” You counter, gesturing to Grey Ghost lowering himself to tuck into the dirt.

“Beside it.”

“There is a difference.”

“There is not.”

Before either of you could speak again, the trees behind you shift, a great pale head emerging from the darkness with uncanny silence, its silver-grey hide almost disappearing beneath the moonlight. Grey Ghost regards Gwayne with calm, intelligent eyes before lowering his great snout beside you, as if to confirm you were unharmed.

The knight scarcely looks at the dragon now, bowing his head back without blinking, eyes still wild and shocked as they turn back onto you. His attention settles entirely on you, the hand at your waist drawing into you by the slightest .

“What possessed you?”

The sharpness had left his voice, and he rethinks his words where only fear remains now, stepping closer, searching every inch of your face as though to look for hidden wounds and blood.

But there is none.

“When the sentries reported news of a dragon encroaching..” His voice drops rougher. “I thought it was an advance scout. I thought Rhaenyra or Daemon had come to us.”

You hold his gaze, breathing steadily where it threatens to hitch.

“I heard there was a Hightower encampment from your letter.” You answer him, pausing before you continue.

“I only wanted to see if you truly were here.” Your voice threatens to break, shaking as you begin to feel the warmth of his palms around you.

“You could have sent word.” Gwayne argues, and it’s a blunt instrument, one of no use of fire in it, one he only attempts not to take you into his arms right away.

“And if it had been intercepted?”

“I would rather receive intercepted letters than news that my wife had been killed wandering through enemy woods.”

Silence passes between you then, wind whispering through the pines, carrying the distant sounds of the sleeping camp far below. You lookedown for only a moment before meeting his eyes again.

“I had to see you.”

Four simple words you give him and they strike him harder than any blade. His jaw tightens at that, his other hand raising slowly, carefully to your face, only hovering.

“But if someone sees us…” he says quietly, glancing back towards the camp. “If anyone finds you here-“

The look you give him then isn’t defiance or stubbornness, it’s with longing.

The sort that comes from too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered prayers, and too many days waking alone. The ones you had both spent far too long inside of, a nightmare. There’s a desperation in it, an ache that neither dragons nor crowns can soothe. Gwayne simply stares at that and you see the conflict unfold in him, everything that has been expected and ordered of you both.

Duty and reason and fear, but something more.. love.

Each emotion wrestles the next until the rigid lines of his features fracture beneath their weight and his mouth parts as though to argue again, to tell her you that should leave, like he should do, that all of this is madness.

But no words come and he can’t bring himself to speak them. Instead, something inside him gives way, his hands rising almost hesitantly, rough palms cradling either side of your face, afraid that you might disappear if he held holds you too tightly.

He exhales a breath, surrendering as he thumbs at your cheeks, drawing you to him. He bends without another word, his forehead brushing your own for the briefest instant before his lips finds yours in a kiss that carries the weight of the separation. It’s gentle despite the urgency behind it, the sort of kiss that speaks every word he couldn’t say before, if he’d ever have you again.

His eyes never leave yours, not even as he pulls away.

“…How I’ve missed you, my love.”

And it’s real, the closest thing to the reality you’d lost years ago that you’d longed to hear. Your eyes flutter close at his whisper, holding onto the words as he stands breathing, alive in front of you.

“You underestimate me, husband.”

A groan bites low in the back of throat. Husband.. That word, that title that has been shoved too far behind all else. The knight, the man, the commander.

But here he was, your husband. The one you could joke with, the one would only underestimate himself before he ever would you, because he knows better. And yet it’s the only thing that you can manage, a jest.

“Perhaps for a moment.” He admits through a teary smile.

“Then you are the idiot.”

Your noses nudge together as a smile finds your lips from his own, your arms reaching around his middle.

“Indeed I was.”

His grip grounds you back into the tree bark, your turn to groan as you mouth at his lip, teeth tempting to bite into the plush flesh. Something growing beneath the shock and the longing, something hungrier.

“Not here.”

And as he takes your hand again, leading you through the dark, you feel the thumping in your chest, the once regret of your decision falling to nothingness.

—

"How I've missed you my love.."

His words ring in your ears, loud and clear as you pass through the trees, ducking and stalling behind bushes until you find the tent. His own. In the distance wings flap quietly, carrying on the wind just further out of reach, to safety knowing that you are once again.

Fingers clutch at the sides of your arms, bracing through the thick fabric and taking you under the draping entrance of the tent. Smoke and burnt incense fills the space, filling your nostrils with a burn, all adorned in shades of emerald green, but that isn’t what catches your attention. It’s the warmth, the dirt beneath your feet on the measly carpeted floor where he urges you backwards.

“I have not wanted to wait..” You moan into his mouth, a gasp escaping your lips as your back braces into the wooden beam at the pavilion’s center.

One hand roams higher, cupping your cheek with a delicate fondness, tearing away from your lips hesitantly with a tremble. Like doing so pained him.

"Then I shall not make you.” He breathed against them, warm air tickling your jaw and sending a shiver through your body. He was so close, so real, and near, for the first time in a long time. It felt like it had.. “For tonight.. you have me."

"I always do." You corrected with a hum, bracing your back further into the bite of the worn wood, fingers resting along the stitchings of his doublet.

"You torture me.." He whispers into your lips without protest, not against, into, across, a brand into your skin, burning hot and searing before he captures them again.

Hotter and more desperate, anchoring you with his body as his hand clutched at the layers of fabric around your waist, his tongue sweeps across your lip to allow him to pass. And you do, kissing him back with the same eager ferocity you have held back for longer than you can remember. Your fingers tighten around the nape of his neck just to drag him into you, his knee pressing between the damp heat of your legs.

You remember this. The push and pull, where the nights drew long and heated, and where the only terror was the thought of someone seeing. The blush crept up his neck often at the thought, abandoning all honour just to have you. Where alcoves in corridors would become your greatest sin and he would whisper promise and vows into your ears, running hot beneath layers of steel and armour.

His true desire, his fatal flaw. The one he’d abide all laws just to feel you against him once more. And now he has you, there’s no holding back. Gwayne’s eyes flutter shut as he takes every moment to linger over your skin, lips worshiping along the hollow of your throat, slowing to feel the thrumming rush of blood, kissing at your jaw as his teeth bare at your collarbone. His fingers follow, unclasping the ties of your armour just as patiently he undoes you.

A gasp leaves you as the material falls away, cool air pebbling your nipples and dimpling the rest of your skin, your hands bracing against the broadness of his shoulders to steady yourself.

He opens his eyes when his knees finally met the floor, glancing up at you with materials strewn in piles across the floor, his own shirt hanging open and unkempt in the low light, green tunic long discarded. From here you can see him, not the soldier or the enemy, but truly, the knight, the man you’ve known for far longer than any of this. The one that bent the knee to you without question, the one that had kissed your hand at every meeting, the one that had held you through every dark night.

That look hasn’t changed, only hardened with the lines on his face and the faint dirt that clings to his brow. But green eyes are blown, tender and starving, his mouth hanging open as his hands trace the flesh of your calf up to the plush of your thighs.

He hooks his fingers around the riding leather of your trousers, tugging slowly to shuffle them to the floor, inhaling with a sarcastic grimace, uncaring of the ash that falls away from them despite himself.

“Never will I become accustom to that.” A smile cracks across your face, nodding your head back against the wooden beam with a creak. Dragon back has always had its scent, like fire and smoke and the faintest tinge of blood. But he didn’t care for that now, not even while it dusted his fingers and filled the air, the knot of fingers tangling into his hair only drawing him closer. Hungrier.

“Unlike this..”

He places your leg over his shoulder with a careful bend, shuffling closer, bracing his palm onto the wood behind you. He purses his lips at the skin of your knee tenderly, mouthing sharply while locking eyes with you. Heat pools in at your core, a sudden rush of blood with his breath ghosting over your legs.

“My beautiful..” He placed a kiss, right over the bend of your leg, his eyes fluttering closed once more, “sweet..” Another right at the apex of your thighs, and again for every scar and blemish that he passes, stopping short just to glide his hand up the rest of your body, steadying at your stomach to hold you in place, “wife..”

Shades of green blink up at you, lidded and glazed over, nosing at the flesh of your thigh. Gwayne looks almost angelic in this light, as if gazing up at you, shivering and wanting above him, could wash away every wrongdoing and crime duty had made him commit.

“My undoing..”

He whispers low in a rasp, grazing over your mound with his teeth as he breaths cool air onto your cunt, lips parting breathlessly as he kneads the backs of your legs, beckoning you closer. You don’t speak, not yet, but your face flushes a deep crimson, the back of your neck burning as you buck your hips absentmindedly. He hears you, listens without needed a word. And he wastes no time, because that’s all he needs, the broken, pitched whine hitching from the back of your throat.

You have me.

Gwayne plants one last kiss at your navel, resting up on his knees as his tongue licks a heavy, flat lick through your folds. He traces every curve, gathered the arousal as it drips down onto his mouth, parting your heat with the drag of wet muscle and his want. A groan rumbles out deep from his chest, fingers grasping tighter to anchor you to him, the taste of your sweetness makes him lose all control of sense.

Your teeth bite hard into your lip, piercing near enough to draw blood just to stop yourself from making sound. Your hips buck into him again, this time caught by grip of his hands, circling attentively at your waist as he sucks swirling teases around your swollen pearl, dragging it between his lips only to hum into you as your hand clamps over your mouth.

“Give it to me, my love..,” He centres himself not even a breath away, dragging two fingers from your middle to tease along your slit, scissoring them around his tongue as he dips in again, “let me taste you.”

But he doesn’t pull then, not once, not for air, nor for any sound that passes by the tent. He’s fixated, wholeheartedly, and utterly on you. His feet plant deeper into the dirt, tugging you further to him to nuzzle himself into your heat, his nose dragging across your clit as his tongue plunges at your entrance, dipping into your hole with one sharp flick. The length of his fingers curl tight into the spot inside you that makes you reel, your head rocking back as his mouth slips between, collecting the wetness that pools from your drooling cunt.

“My love..” You whisper through a whine, eyes darting around the space blindly before landing back onto him, sucking in a breath as to feel your thighs begin to shake. That familiar slow pull of your body falling and losing control, the muffle of moans into your palm heightening your need.

And he was nothing if not dutiful, and now he was determined. He palms your thighs apart, leaving space only for him, fucking you onto his tongue as he hooks an arm at your legs, undeniably and shamelessly worshiping you at your feet, like a septon would at the altar, praying with every dragging promise of his tongue.

You arch your back, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, fighting silently to keep your voice muffled, but the sensation is too overwhelming. Every deep, swirling lap of his tongue feels like a spark igniting a fire in your gut, sending you closer and closer to the edge. But he only uses it, propelling his face deeper into your heat, tongue lavishing with one final swirl around your bud that sends your release crashing over you.

Your eyes clamp shut, sudden and burning as white blots behind your eyes, your vision blurring while his gaze only stirs on you. Auburn hair sits mussed and unkempt, a blush across his cheeks as you drip deliciously from his lips.

"That's it, sweetling... let it go for me," He coaxes it from you, a soothing command, without stopping. The tremors break shivering through your legs, hips rocking back into the beam and into his firm hold as slowly stands, keeping his lips pressed into you, tasting your release, tongue swirling over your swollen clit for every drop of pleasure he can drink in. His breath stays hot and heavy, guiding you through your peak, your body beginning to feel boneless.

Your breath hitches as you feel it. The devoted ascent, the worship with lingering, wet kisses he had claimed before. Once to the inside of your thigh, then another to your hip, stubble grown over months in battle grazing deliciously over your skin as he works his way back up.

His tongue traces the line of your navel, leaving a trail of heat in its wake, pausing as he tempts to stand, latching his mouth around your breasts, swirling with his tongue across your nipples until they grow hard and sensitive under his touch. Gwayne traces the trail from your chest to your neck with murmurs, rasped words spilled only for you. Missed you, missed this.. They continue until he captures your mouth once more, resting his forehead against your own, in a deep, hungry kiss, tasting himself and you on his tongue.

“My sweet girl.” He rasps, hands swarming your body all over with warmth as he rests himself into you, unlacing the collar from his shirt to fall away. It leaves only his breeches, now tented so painfully hard you could see it, brushing your thigh as your eyes flick between you.

He would have no protest if that were all he had from you, to give and pleasure you all the ways he saw fit. But he had to have you, this was different, this was craving and months worth longing. And so he gives you everything he takes.

You taste yourself from him, glistening sweet on his lips and chin, pressing back into yours with a growing desire. And without breaking it, his arm slides beneath your knees, the other firmly at your back. It’s effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, damp heat pressing against the rough fabric of his breeches as you rock yourself back down onto him. The furs curl at your back, sticky and hot as he lays you onto the bed.

"Gwayne please, I need you," You plead, breaking the kiss to reach down and place your hand over his clothed cock, rubbing over the thin fabric to feel him. He shrugs it away with a groan, nuzzling into you as he frees himself, your fingers grasping as you take his cock in your hand. You swipe your thumb delicately over the sensitive head, smearing the precum around the aching slit. He kisses your cheek and temple to kiss your cheek, mumbling into your hair as he stutters in your grip.

"Please.." You beg again, tugging your hand around his length to draw him toward your entrance as he settles over you.

"I know, I know..." The bed dips as Gwayne places one last kiss to your lips before sitting back onto his legs, peering down at the sight of you, so undone and beautiful before his hands are on your thighs. He strokes the soft skin, curling over you as he takes his cock into his own hand, resting the tip of him hovering over your weeping cunt, “My poor wife.. I've kept you waiting for too long, hm? So wrong of me...”

You whimper quietly as his hands find the backs of your thighs, splaying out fully as he holds them open, angling them back toward your head, the breath knocking from your lungs as you moan.

“It has been too long for both of us..” He confesses in a groan, sliding himself closer that his cock nestles itself through your folds, throbbing against you as you grip the sheets.

A hand draws to your face, catching your head before it lulls backward, gently making you look at him, his gaze bearing into you as he lines himself up with your entrance. His hips flick, one careful thrust that settles himself all the way inside of you, the head of his cock nudging towards your cervix. The angle sucks him so deep you feel him there, your mouth falling open as his length nestles deep into your womb.

His mouth drops open in a thick, broken groan of your name, for the first time not a whisper, but a breath as he used to, without hiding and with pure affection, “Seven hells.. "

He settles further over you then, the hard lines of his chest bracing just above your breasts, skin catching along skin as he captures you in his arms, caging you with a hand curling at your nape. Only then does he move, the rhythm slow and torturous as he slides inside of you, body curving with the drag of his hips.

“Gwayne..”

“That’s it.. say my name again.”

And you do, over and over in pathetic, mumbled whimpers that pitch from the back of your throat. The pale muscle of his legs inch you back into him, slapping with every drive he gives you, his palm smoothing over your thigh to hook it to his side. It’s an anchor, your other leg locking around him as you take him.

“Yours.. take me, sweetling. Take all of me..”

“Thought I already had it.”

“You do..” An arm circles underneath your waist, pulling you up and into him, rising onto his haunches as he settles you into his lap, your legs sliding around his back. The angle hits deeper there, his length sinking inside of you tight to the plug of your cervix, keeping you into him as he fucks up into you, “Gods you do.”

He rocks himself then, head lulling into your forehead as you whine, the air punches from your lungs with every thrust he gives you. It’s fast and messy, rolling his hips with every pass just to grind and feel more of you, to nestle himself right where he belongs. His groans press into your ear, breath hot across the mussed hair at the corner of your head.

Your hands claw along the strain of his back, long streaked lines that make him hiss, driving deeper into you as he takes heavier grasps at your hips, locking your legs around his middle. The sheets ruffle beneath you, tangling with the weight and force of what you can only feel.

All of him.

The pressure burns bright in your belly, walls clenching around his thickness with every thrust that mercilessly drives harder into you.

A sheen coats your bodies, along the crook of your back and between you, dripping with arousal at your core around him and a swear between your breasts. His tongue catches it, tasting the salty sweetness between you in a train to your neck.

“Divine you are.. every part of you.”

Your moans muffle into the clutch of his hand, and his face shifts, a broken look in his eyes and across his features. How he wants to hear you properly, to let the it fill the space the way it used to, the way it should. But the risk is too much, and so he settles for the feeling, the vibration of you into his skin and the convulse of your body drawing closer to your edge beneath him, the tears pooling at your eyes simply from pleasure that makes you both lose it.

“Not leaving you, not now.. or ever.” He proclaims it like an oath, more than just want it declaration, it buzzes against his skin as he stutters over you. Tears pool in your eyes, his breath hot at your ear while his eyes close tightly, breathing you in, making what he can last.

His movements grow frantic, pulsing with a desperate need inside of you while his hips slam faster and needier, your walls convulsing around him in one heavy snap. The orgasm rips through you, harder than last time, squeezing him like a vice as you bite into the flesh of his hand, moaning his name and curses that follow.

He coaxes you through your release in tandem with his own, hushing against your lips gently, cooing as you whine through the sparks igniting inside of you. his hips stutter all at once, faltering as the flex of his arms threaten collapse, but he catches himself, dragging the length of his cock deeper and deeper, guttural sounds mingling with your breath as he spills.

But neither of you stop, even while spent. You only still, resting into the rise and fall of each other’s chest heaving into one another.

“I love you..” You manage out through the tingling and twitching in your body, coming down from a high that only seems to reignite with his touch. He stays nestled inside of you, rocking gently as he fills you, spend leaking around his length onto the bed.

“And I love you, more than anything.”

He settles you onto the throw of plush pillows before he enters you fully again, this time sliding behind you as his chest slides up your back. And he didn’t leave you, not once, taking you over and over until the candles had burned low and the sheets lay damp and worn between you.

—

Both of you knew that you could not stay.

Tomorrow, you would be on either side of the war.

You would be needed at your sister’s side, flying in on Grey Ghost’s back to command an army and take the city of King’s Landing. And he would remain. Vigilant and honourably, with his sword drawn and waiting. The pair of you both uncertain what was to happen, uncertain when, if, you would ever see one another again, or how it would ever happen.

But for now, alliances and sworn oaths did not matter, the only one that did was your own, the vows you laid before the septon years ago.

The rise and fall of his chest lulls you, your fingers tangling and combing tenderly into the damp strands hair falling into his face. His hand traces the dip in your back, hushing you as a familar rumble echoes from the distance, slowly calling you back. But you don’t rise, not yet..

Histories would write of victories, of gory deaths and betrayal, however in between it all there were lines of dotted ink written of something else. Of the two people that stood vigilant between the Greens and the Blacks.

Neither of you have any knowledge of how long you’ve been there, nor how many times you’ve peaked. The evidence of your orgasm now making a sticky mess between your legs and spraying his thighs, creating a wet sound that’s nearly lewd each time you lower yourself all the way down onto his cock and bottom out, sitting all pretty on his lap.

A goddess hovering above him, mighty and glorious. And there he remains, but a servant at her mercy.

Gwayne is lost in the haze of your body and your cunt and the way you're making him feel—so lightheaded that he can hardly even comprehend your words. Though he does, for he was made to listen to you, to answer to you, to obey you, to receive whatever you choose to bestow upon him. 

“N-no,” he babbles his reply, his lovely lips—all wet with sweat and his own spit—tracing a trail of sloppy kisses down your throat. His lean arms lock your body tight against him in an unavoidable cage, his hands molding to the outline of your hips and guiding you up and down on top of him, to ride him like a savage. “Never let me go, my love. I could not bear to be away from you any longer—hmm!—”

The dirt clinging to him, the fine dust of the trail ground into his skin, the smudges of earth dried against his jawline, temple and cheekbones from days of relentless travel, doesn’t diminish him. It fucking heightens him. Every sweat-streaked trace of soil on his flushed face and along the tense line of his neck only serves as a raw, tangible marker of how far he had pushed himself in the last days, how tirelessly he journeyed... just to reach you.

Seeing him like this; weary, filthy, and thoroughly pathetic, ignites something fierce and primal deep within you. It makes your blood run hotter, turning every harsh, heavy bounce of your hips into a claim over every inch of him.

“And what did you do all this time we’ve been apart?” you question him in a remarkably steady voice, considering just how utterly overwhelmed he's making you feel, tugging sharply at his reddish hair to force him off your neck so you can look him straight in the eye. “How many whores were you with while I was gone, husband?”

The sight of him—your sweet, perfect knight—now reduced to a ruined mess begging for your mercy, makes your insides clench even tighter. Your cunt pulses around the length of his hard cock, impossibly tight, sucking him deep inside, so deep that his swollen tip bumps up against that one special little spot inside you that lights up stars everywhere you look.

It’s a remarkable circumstance, that you two have withstood all these months away from each other. The only thing that could ever separate you would be death or war, and war has fallen in between you, unfortunately locking you into opposing sides. Your birth name and your dragon are what, months ago, dragged you away from the peace of Oldtown and back to Dragonstone, where you were summoned to take on an important role alongside your mother Rhaenyra, the true heir to the Iron Throne.

And Gwayne, by his family name, had to follow his sister's orders and swear allegiance to the Usurper.

Your husband shakes his head in despair, whimpers slipping from his half–open lips, and big tears welling up in the corners of his beautiful eyes, blue and sparkly like a sky full of stars. “N–none, my Princess. I could never be with anyone else.”

You know it’s true, and that someone like Gwayne—your Gwayne—could never even consider being with anyone other than you; he could never possibly betray you. His own values as the most righteous and honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms forbid it, and most importantly, he is simply much too in love with you to view anyone else with the kind of gaze that is only reserved for you.

His body belongs to you; his soul, heart, and mind are yours.

“No?” nevertheless, you question through a low whisper, taking full advantage of the fact that you’re performing a slow circular motion down his lap so you can lean toward him and kiss his lips. He moans into your mouth, making you breathe him in, his thrill, his pleasure, his appreciation.

The very moment your dear husband spotted the ominous silhouette of your dragon swooping down from the cloudy sky and onto him and Criston’s futile little army, he knew it was all over. He had endured so much over the past few moons, forced to follow that foolish man around. It was absurd—what other choice did they have? Nothing but to beg for the dragon’s mercy.

Fortunately for him, it was you who descended from the clouds, for if it had been anyone else, he would be as dead as Cole.

He keeps whimpering as your hips rise again, your velvety walls wrapping all around his cock, making him twitch inside you, as your tongue runs passionately along his cheekbone, wiping away the tears that have dampened his freckled, flushed skin.

“No one takes me the way you do, my beloved,” he claims, kissing your lips to seal it like a promise. He kisses you again and again before continuing to whisper sweet things to you. “No one feels like you—so tight and perfect. I—fuck—I am yours.”

He pulls you down hard against him, his hips snapping upward to meet your descent with an ungodly, wet slap that knocks the breath clean from your lungs. The tip of his cock buries itself ruthlessly against that exquisite, agonizing spot inside you, making the world behind your eyelids fracture into brilliant bursts of gold and white, of him, his soul.

“Yours,” he repeats, a broken, desperate prayer against the seam of your lips. His slender fingers dig brutally into the soft flesh of your hips, leaving bruises that will surely bloom tomorrow. “Always yours. Slice open my chest, my love... look inside, feel it... there is no room for a King or a crown or a throne. Only you. Only my wife, my sweet wife.”

Gwayne locks his arms around your waist and shifts his weight, rolling you both over in one fluid, breathless movement. In an instant, the tent spins, and he settles above you, his heavy, warm body pressing you back into the wrinkled bed and thrusting his hips into you.

He looks down at you through a veil of disheveled, reddish hair, his sky–blue eyes dark with emotion and body utterly undone by yours.

“G–gwayne...” you moan out his name, your hands moving up to the broad curve of his shoulder blades, your fingers digging into his freckled skin as he frames your face with trembling hands. “My dearest”

“Yours,” he pledges, the words rolling off his tongue and onto your lips like a prayer and he kisses you again, and again. “Let me give you everything. Take it all—all of me.”

He sets a relentless, desperate pace, driving both of you straight past the edge. Your back arches into him, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as the tension builds to an agonizing, exquisite peak.

When the wave finally breaks, it crashes over both of you at once—a blinding, overwhelming release that leaves you clinging to one another, gasping for air and crying each other’s names as your heartbeats clash against each other’s chests in tandem.

Gushes of his seed warm your insides, coating your walls in his color and laying claim to your womb.

The feeling is so familiar, the way he fills you right to the brim, so much that trickles overflow out the edges of your throbbing, abused cunt.

“Gods above...” Your lover sighs weakly against your collarbone, leaving a wet trail of saliva on your skin. “Thank you, thank you, thank you...”

You stroke the soft, auburn hair at the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent of rain, leather, and him.

Your fingers trace appreciatively the familiar curve of his back as your chest heaves in time with his, the wet warmth between your thighs a quiet, lingering mark of the love he just poured into you.

“Gwayne,” you call out to him softly into the dark, your voice cutting through the heavy silence of the tent.

He shifts slightly, pressing a tender kiss onto the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. “I'm here, my love. I'm right here.”

You cup his beautiful face in your hands, forcing him to lift his head so you can look straight into those clear, desperate blue eyes. The tears have dried on his cheeks, but the vulnerability in his gaze is raw and absolute.

“Then come with me,” you say, the command laced with a quiet, pleading ache that makes his breath catch in his throat. “Leave all of this behind tonight. Fly with me to King’s Landing and bend the knee to my mother; she will grant you mercy and forgiveness.”

Gwayne freezes, his chest resting heavily against yours as the weight of your words sinks in.

“My love...” he begins, his voice thick with an ache so profound, for love and for you. He presses his forehead against yours, his warm, uneven breath fanning over your lips. “Would that truly make you happy? Is this what you need from me?”

“It is what I desire above all else in this world,” you answer without hesitation, your voice trembling with the full weight of your devotion. You kiss him tenderly, tasting the salt on his skin. “I want you by my side, Gwayne. I want you, alive, safe, and mine. I need you with me.”

A shaky, shuddering breath escapes his chest, and a brilliant, tearful smile bleeds across his flushed face.

"really," he nods and pays you no mind, he tries to take the goblet from your hand but your grip is tightened around it, the bone of your knuckles threatening to break through your skin. "give it here, stupid girl." he moans and you swing the rest of it down, thrusting the empty cup in his direction with an insane grin plastered on your face.

"what is so special about that boy anyways?" he huffs, eyes darting across the room to where your vision has frozen in place. "he's most likely still hung up when i unseated him from that horse of his long ago."

"it could also be our damn brother marrying his sister," you sigh, "that itself is," you pause, sickness filling your stomach, "loaded." there's silence between the two of you as you stand in the shadows, the beat of music looming over you and the party continues. daemon replaces your cup with one filled with water but you make no move to consume it; how could you when every cell in your body has stretched and expanded beyond normal to fit in thoughts of gwayne hightower.

"daemon," you whisper, "he's just so pretty." your slurred confession is almost pathetic and your brother breaks the intense staring competition to place a hand on your shoulder in awkward reassurance. "like a deer," and your eyes shine an alarming amount, streaks of moonlight glittering across your iris. god, you are a goner.

"not that pretty," he scoffs, "you are prettier."

"you say that because we share the same mother," you roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder. the compliment from him is born from his distaste of the hightowers and maybe a twinge of fondness for you as he ruffles your hair in return.

"true, but you do have such foul taste in men. of all possible sorts, a hightower?" his brows raise incredulously, "really, is there no other man in this realm?"

"no, not for me," you shake your head in a daze, everythings starting to appear fuzzier, softer but you can still make out the small smile painted across his pink lips so clearly. you wonder what itd be like to touch them up close, to feel them against your own, on your bare skin, on your sheets, just anywhere for you.

"oh no," he groans in desperation, "i beg you to find some sanity, even just a shred of it. no, in fact, find some dignity and if you truly must then bed him and be done with it," its mortifying in a sense for him to say this to you, his younger sister but you are in dire need of saving yourself before ypu melt entirely defenseless to this one-sided love.

"you cannot just bed a man like gwayne hightower!" you hiss quietly in annoyance, "look at him," your eyes dart to his direction once more, "no, it will not do. i must marry him," you declare and daemon snorts out, the cackle leaving his lips in a proud twist and he turns to you.

"you have gone mad, dear sister, truly mad," maybe not mad, but definitely drunk, he gathers. but you can't focus on him. not when you've caught the eye of the pretty red-head and you have never been so grateful to have such an annoying brother. you wave, fingers dancing in a slight tease and you watch as his brows knit together in a small scrunch. he then turns his attention back to the kingsguard as if it had never happened. as if he hadn't just knocked on your heart, entered and laid to rest before slicing you inside out.

oh.

"he definitely hates me," your lip wobbles with each word, eyes glassy with dejection and pure heartbreak. daemon looks at you horrified, unsure of what to do with you in this emotional and heightened state.

"come sister," he tries to usher you away from the table and in the direction of the hallway, "we can always let caraxes have her fun, hmm?"

"you'd hurt him?" your eyes widen comically and daemon can make out the heavy breaths heaving from your chest with great concern. oh god, he's just making things worse for himself.

"send me to the seven hells, no! no, of course not," he drawls, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and trying to keep you moving, "maybe just a little," he murmurs but you catch it and push off of him instantly.

"but i love him," you gasp, and daemon sighs. its like having a child, truly.

"love who?" comes the voice of alicent hightower and the two of you turn. daemon shakes his head at the sight of her brother making his way over and landing inches away from the two of you.

"you," you whisper to him and its a moment too soon before daemon can smother your lips with the heavy weight of his palm.

"me?" gwayne speaks with great confusion, he has no recollection of whats been said before thankfully but his sister sends you a knowing look, a mischievious glint in her eyes as she smiles. you've always thought of alicent as oddly sisterly. she's been kind to you when others have not, she's given you chances when others have paired you with your chaotic brother and some part of her wishes that the two of you couldve been greater friends despite the fate that had been forced upon her.

gwayne looks to his sister, hoping for some explanation and almost misses how you bite down on daemon's palm. the elder pulling back with a curse and a wince as you shoot him your most dazzling smile. its earth bending, soul shattering downright gorgeous the way you look in your black beaded gown; a princess of the night and defender of the realm that gwayne allows himself the mercy of letting his gaze linger longer than it needs to.

"hello, you," the excitement is gathered in your voice and gwayne's eyes narrow in. theres a softness in your shoulders, the relaxed state of your posture, the wind in your hair and the wildness in your features.

"are you drunk?" alicent beats him to the question and he inhales slowly, exhaling slower trying to gather restraint and patience. sober you he has been able to handle. he approaches you with nothing more than polite kindness. he knows the way your soul seeks him out in every room he walks, he knows you ask after him, how you wait at the gates anytime he is planned to return to kingslanding and hes very fond of you.

he also knows the family you come from. the cruelty, the power, the damn dragons that give you the ego boost to demand what you have and take what you must no matter the expense. he despises your brothers particularly and though he tries to be fair to you, he knows its easier to create the distance. to be noble gwayne and play his part in this deathly game.

but drunk you? the adrenaline rushing through your body and mind, no gwayne doesn't know how to handle drunk you when he just about keeps hold of his facade of barely tolerating sober you.

"unwell," daemon corrects her without a second glance, "she is unwell and i was just escorting the princess to her chambers, she is rather tired," daemon stresses, keenly aware of how you're minutes away from embarassing yourself and him by extension silly.

you hold up four fingers cheekily and scrunch your nose in delight, "four cups!" you cheer and alicent lets out a laugh.

"is that all?" she grins, taking in your amusement.

"is that all?" daemon scoffs, "anymore and you will find her at the bottom of the barrell," that instantly has you shaking your head in defiance.

"you will find me on the dance floor!" your eyes widen with pure joy and childish excitement, buzzing through each of your veins and you break free from daemon's hold in the direction of the main party again.

you probably make it two steps ahead before a certain knight blocks your path, "princess," his hand is held up, palm outwards, a silent request for yours to join him and you do. he brings your hand to his lips and the second he presses a soft fleeting kiss you are airborn. its only a greeting but you float, rising and lifting and lord can nothing bring you down. its a manifestation of your earlier thoughts and you are purely giddy.

"ser gwayne," you swoon and its the first of a teasing smile you're met with. youre sure hes reserved this just for you.

"oh fuck me," you brother moans, palms smacking against his face in pure embarrassment but gwayne ignores him entirely, his gaze fixed on solely you.

"are you well?" he murmurs just for your eyes, pure honesty and earnest and you somehow melt even more.

the air softens around you and you're not sure your knees are working, everything feels so light and like heaven. "i dunno," you are stunned, your response incomprehensible as you focus on the invisible print of where his lips have scorched your skin. he lets go of your hand and yours drops to your side. no force or willpower to hold it open, no you are molten.

"might i escort you back to your chambers? perhaps for some rest?" he's hopeful. he catches daemon's deathly stare from behind your back, boring holes straight into him and for a second he's nervous. however, he can sense the hesitation of daemon and the need to get you to safety in this state. youre unguarded and though gwayne would never let anything happen to you now or never, it seems wiser to let you sleep this state off. roaming drunk is not ladylike and he doubts you care too much of what the other noblefolk think, he for sure knows that you are out of control with your actions as you usually like to be and that? that unnerves him incredibly.

"i am perfectly able to do so," daemon cuts in but you pat your brother's chest, cutting off his sentence halfway with a mischievous grin.

"no, ser gwayne will," you order, you clap your hands in delight and press a lazy kiss to your brothers cheek and then one to alicent. "goodnight brother, goodnight alicent, i shall see you both in the morrow," you throw out your arm for gwayne to take and he chuckles at how overly confident you appear before him now. how miliseconds have hardly passed and you stand with great eagerness before him. its a downright straight ego boost and soar to his chest.

sober you is usually more refined, more subtle and reserved for only the right people. gwayne's not spent much time in kingslanding to meet your close aquaintance but theres some things he can gather from afar. like the way you hold yourself with a rare gentleness from a targaryen he's sure its because of you that halaena has grown to be so fond. you take pride in the way you dress and carry yourself, you are friendly with the animals. you tend to the gardens and so often he finds you in the company of the cooks. yet you are still strategic when helping stage coups and plan attacks, you listen attentively to the working folk and despite what you come from, gwayne is intrigued by who you've become.

you hold yourself looser now, slightly leaning into his side as he carries most of your weight. its evident in the slower steps he takes, the silence he finds himself in in an attempt to catch the slow rise and fall of your breaths. he wishes the two of you were so much more than your last names because all he can see is how perfect you fit at his side. he must do a terrible job at conveying it because you stop so abruptly that his body moves in great whiplash, attending to you immediately.

"is something the matter, your grace?" unlike you, he hasn't drank the slightest drop and is so acutely aware of his environment his senses have heightened. your stance surprises him as he takes you, your fists have balled at your sides with an impatience and theres hurt scrunched across all over your face. a sudden flush of dread works it way into his throat.

"yes, i think you detest me, ser gwayne hightower," and his stomach does somersaults with the way his name slips from your lips. he stutters, trying to catch his breath and mind from moving at a million miles per hour.

"detest? my, oh my, that is a strong accusation," he tries to land it in light-heartedness, the chances are you'll most likely not even remember this tomorrow but the betrayal lingering in the lines of your face has him inhaling slowly, choosing his next words carefully. he opts for a simple truth, "i do not hate you," he speaks plainly, brows jumping with each word.

"no?" you question, the bottom of your lip rests into a little pout and gwayne's eyes move like a laser, narrowing in on it.

"no," he confirms with a steadfast heart, "come," and he holds out his arm again, "let us continue."

"no," you refuse and gwayne wonders which of his sins must be in need of divine punishment right now for this to be happening. his hand drags across his face and tries to think of his next course of plans.

"okay," he shrugs, "what would you like to do?" and he watches how you light up with pure ecstasy. your arms raise in the air and he watches how you hurl your body in a poor attempt at a twirl. the drunken spin has your left foot landing wrong, catching onto the seams of your gown and you feel the world falling back.

the scream dies in your throat when youre surrounded by such intense heat. gwayne hightower is warm all over, his arms have caught you just in time, your head neatly tucked against his chest as his arms span the length of your back and waist. its almost intimate the way you can hear his heartbeat, it bounces and jumps and you'll play it as a soundtrack to your life if you could. you bring your own hands to rest onto his chest, the crisp velvet sliding against your skin as you look up.

it must be the biggest mistake of your life to look up because as soon as you do you're sucked straight in. its like the ocean has swallowed you whole, and in the midst of its vastness you can hear the quiet, you can feel the serenity and calmness hit you so gently.

"princess," his voice tries to pull you from its trance, and the throated rasp cuts you free.

"gwayne?" you whisper, and the rest of his features appear back into focus. the small freckles dancing along his skin almost disappear the way the moonlight streaks before him. the bridge of his nose, the way it slopes so perfectly, gwayne hightower must have been made and born of pure precision and patience.

you're not thinking and he's momentarily distracted by the way you've dropped his title, saving the way you've said his name into pure permanent memory. so you reach out, your cold index finger touch his nose and he freezes beneath your touch. your finger then drags, following the path of his nose and down to his lips, they pause on his bottom lip momentarily before continuing its course down to his chin and then the length of his neck. you can feel his adam's apple tense as he swallows under such intensity and then they rest teasingly on the junction where his two clavicles could meet. the small amount of skin escaped from his tunic and burned into memory.

"princess," he murmurs, trying to gather his footing and he's still holding you so tightly he's realised. "this is not proper," he manages to get out and a slow smile reaches your lips. you've done it, you've broken gwayne hightower and it has only took four cups of wine to do so.

"i wonder what five would get me," you want to touch his hair next, feel the copper strands beneath your fingers and tug on them, feel how they would be burrowed against your skin or what noises he would make if you pulled them right. you don't reach out though however, your hands travel lower to his abdomen, pushing yourself more upright and steady on your feet but gwayne tenses at the contact.

"sweetheart?" he breathes in confusion, he has no idea what you're on about or whats even happening but youre set alight. this is new. you love the way this one sounds, you want to brand it to your forehead and let the term of endearment be the only thing he's ever allowed to call you by. you stand on your own, centimetres from him and try to dust the nonexistenr fluff off your gown and even just moving has you slightly dizzy. you try to reach for a railing but gwayne's hands move quicker and he's steadying your weight once more.

"i don't think you should move so suddenly," he warns, "you need to rest, sleep this haze off."

"i'd like to dance," he watches as your face morphs into something so fierecly determined and for a second, he's almost scared. it doesn't last very long however because a boyish laugh quietly escapes his lips at the sight of you.

youve taken a step back and your eyes are closed, your swaying so slowly and way off beat for this to be considered a dance. you imagine your partner to be there, leaving the gap empty for a body as your hands play with the air, mumbling along to the faint tune you can hear but its all so unrhythmic that gwayne almost feels sorry for you. you're going to make yourself dizzy and sick, you'll probably fall into a bush soon and gwayne decides to put his title as protector into action.

"you are," he breathes, and he steps into the gaps, his hand at your waist and the other taking charge of your outstretched one. your palms are interlocked as he moves you to a more practised rhythm. gwayne may be a knight and soldier but hes a man of nobility, a member of the court and he'd be damned if he didn't how to dance.

"mad?" you offer, opening your eyes to steal a peek at him. its so natural how your bodies align together, fit and move as one. its fluid and light, you can hardly feel your feet on the ground.

but gwayne certainly can, you've stepped on his toes twice, lopsided and lazy footing that he finds endearing, "wonderful," he corrects you with a unguarded softness, "you are wonderful," and you swoon once more.

"keep your eyes open," he whispers and you obey, and when he spins you he does it at such an incredibly slow pace in fear of you falling and your nausea rising. you're having so much fun with him right now that you don't realise you've been dancing with the knight for the length of minutes; so long that he has walked or rather cleverly danced the two of you back to your chamber.

truth be told he doesn't actually know which is yours. he ends the dance with a final spin, before holding onto the two of your hands and kneeling into a bow. he presses a kiss to each of them, so gentle that when you shoot him another smile it goes straight to his head. hes unsure of how hes still alive right now, he swells with pride at having earned so many of them tonight they ought to declare him a champion.

"thank you ser gwayne," you mumble, your hand ready at the knob of your door.

"just gwayne," he smiles and the world tilts its axis. "and if you ever find yourself in need of a dance partner then i am at your service," he drawls and a giggle escapes your lips as you open the door then lean your head against the frame tiredly. you are exhausted and want nothing more to go to bed, you also just want to stare at gwayne all night long.

"even if your partner is barely tolerable," your voice is slurred not from the wine but the fatigue now and gwayne steps forward by an inch. but an inch is all you need to feel the sheer heat radiating from his body and heart again.

"i told you," he uses a finger to trace your cheek now so tenderly it shatters all the walls youve ever built in your heart and laid entry for gwayne and gwayne only, "you are wonderful."

"wonderful," you whisper and there's moons in your eyes again.

"goodnight, sweetheart," he pulls back, clearing his throat. he sees the gears in your head turning and a faint furrow in your brow but before he can even ask what is the matter, youve stepped forward in an ambush, wrapped your arms around him in a bone crushing hug.

and to finally finish him off and send him to heaven, you aim to kiss his cheek. its lazy, off target and lands in the corner of his mouth. before he can register whats happened youre off him in an instant and the door closes.

"w-what?" he whispers to the dead of the night, his fingers come find the place where your lips met his if you can even call it that and its slightly wet. he has half a mind to knock the door down, break it with his bare hands and steal a proper one. however, you are drunk. beyond so and you need to rest.

he could bring this up tomorrow to you but theres a strong possibility that youd either not remember or would be mortified at the memory and avoid him entirely. the latter would devastate him for centeries.

hes still standing at your door, burning holes inside of it that he doesn't know how much time passes. a young jaecarys passes by and stops.

"ser gwayne?" he calls out and the elder is undeterred, his gaze still stuck on where you had once been before him that he doesnt register the onyx curls before theyre completely blocking his view.

"yes?" the trance is broken.

"what are you doing here?" jace speaks, suspicion laced in his tone.

"dancing," he mumbles, "i was dancing," he nods to himself and then lets out one last longing exhale before making a move to the opposite direction. the distance between the two of you burns as it grows but gwayne forces himself to keep moving. and despite the man not having a single drop of alcohol tonight, gwayne feels the buzz in his blood.

"drunk," jace mutters and continues his footsteps.

yeah, he is.

Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.

It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.

Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.

The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.

Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.

No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.

He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.

His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.

"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."

It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.

No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.

By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.

Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?

-

By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.

It was hardly the first time.

The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.

Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.

You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.

Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.

Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.

So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.

That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.

You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.

Just a little farther...

"You appear to be losing your battle."

The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.

You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.

A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.

You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.

You were in far too much of a hurry.

"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."

His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.

"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."

You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.

"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."

"You are trying to do something."

"I am not."

"You are."

A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.

"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."

"I am simply a guest in the Keep."

The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."

There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"

You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."

"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."

His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."

You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."

"Are you?"

"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."

A beat passed.

"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."

You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."

"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"

A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."

You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."

The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."

You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.

Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.

"...It's you."

The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.

He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.

When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."

The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"

You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."

Silence settled between them.

Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.

You did not look mad.

Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.

More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.

Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.

His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"

He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.

You said nothing.

For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.

His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"

You instinctively stepped back.

"I only jest," he said quietly.

Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."

Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.

Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.

I've dreamt of you.

Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.

the first sign something was so obviously wrong was when his cousin ormund knocked at his door early morning. too early in the morning for you to be awake but yet there you were. gwayne had groaned at the sudden pound at his door and rolled over, trying to reach out to you on instinct. to bury his nose into the nook of your neck and ignore what the world would have in store for him today. yet he was met with rumpled sheets and the faint heat of where your body had lain.

the knocking continued, louder and quicker and gwayne with a grimace curled into his thin pink lips opened the door with pure annoyance, "what?" his snarl comes and the sight of his cousin smirking irritates him further. "what could you possibly want from me at this time, ormund?" he gets out. his arm leans against the door frame opened a fraction, elbow taking the brunt of the solid wood at a right angle as the cool draft from the hallway bites at his bare chest.

"from you, cousin?" ormund grins, "absolutely nothing," and he's all bright teeth and sunshine at this ungodly hour. gwayne's gaze narrows in on him dangerously.

"ormund," he grits out, the free hand not gripping the door to death, runs through his already tousled orange strands, "i'm going to slam this door in hopes it'll take off your nose and i'll never have to see your face whole again," he swears sincerely and ormund knows full well his cousin is capable of it. gwayne has led battles and armies, a little teasing between cousins might as well have ormund at death's door.

"i'm here for the princess," ormund smiles, the ghost of a giggle gracing his lips in a taunt, "we have important matters to discuss."

"what matters?" gwayne straightens.

"none which concern you," ormund instantly deflects, crossing his arms across his broad chest. gwayne wants to reach out and grab him by his lapel but restrains himself with a tired rage.

"i know the concept of a loyal loving marriage may be unfamiliar to you ormind but, she is my wife," gwayne's voice drops to a dangerous level, "any matters concerning her concern me," and at the vibrating timbre of your husband's growl you emerge from the bathroom. freshly bathed, the scent of floral and lemon dancing around your skin as you are dressed in a green gown.

your hands come and creep up on gwayne's back, fingers running across the cool skin with a gracious warmth gently till they tug at the back of his hair. the ends of your hair at still damp, soft waves falling against his skin when he nestles and buries himself into your touch.

"wife," he murmurs, completely disregarding the unwanted visitor at his door and turns in your embrace. arms wrapping around your torso in a bone crushing hug, he sways you as you melt, "i didn't know you graced your company with the likes of idiots," and as ormund scoffs, he presses a kiss to your ear. you roll your eyes and gwayne brings a hand to your neck, cupping your jaw. "come," he mumbles against your mouth, "come back to bed." its a soft order that burns you alive to deny.

"i cannot gwayne," you whisper, running your hands through his hair, "i have some matter of business to sort."

"yes," he murmurs, "it seems i also have some matter of business to conduct as well," and he tries to walk you backwards into your chambers again, his bare feet scuffling as he tries to navigate you whilst half blinded in your lazy kisses.

your hands plant themselves firmly on his chest and pause. "husband, we have a visitor," you press. and gwayne rolls his eyes.

"it is only ormund, you say it as if i'm supposed to have a care if it was the king himself at the door. he is visiting. and now as visitors must do, he must leave," he stresses and ormund chuckles.

"princess," he calls out, "we either leave now or cannot make this happen today," its a warning from ormund, as much as he likes to wind his cousin up, its really time to get moving. ormund hightower is a busy body and you're relieved he had even gotten aboard with your plans, it took much pleading and convincing and in the end, you used your power of the crown to hold him tight in a promise.

you hold gwayne at arms length, hands braced at his mid arms and gaze into his deep sea eyes. theres a brutal mix of annoyance and longing swirling deep and you press a kiss to his cheek softly. your lips linger and hover as he closes his eyes sleepily, savouring your touch. he's distracted for a moment and that's when you press a hasty almost sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth and step aside before his tired brain can register what's happening.

"have a good day, my love!" you call out, ormund already offering you his arm politely.

"but breakfast?" gwayne almost whines.

"i'll make sure she eats," ormund promises, "in a while, cousin," and the door slams shut. gwayne's brain speeds up and registers whats happening, he's marching over to the door and swings it open but by then you and ormund are long gone.

"what on earth," he mumbles, brows knitted tightly. your stationed guard clears his throat at the sight of near naked gwayne in the biting cold. gwayne has the slightest shame and dips his head awkwardly before shutting the door and making his way back to the covers. its useless, he won't get any sleep without you by his side and in his sight, he sits there waiting for morning to fully make its appearance before he gets ready for the day.

his thoughts occupy him senselessly, if he hadn't opened the door to ormund would you have just left without saying anything? just what could you be hiding from him?

gwayne has a plan, he has to corner and catch you because avoiding him is one thing? sneaking off with ormund before daylight? his cousin ormund who you've frequently voiced your dislike for?

gwayne's plan has a fault of its own. how can he corner you when he has no idea where you are?

he tries to subtlely question daeron during a friendly game of chess. the younger has such a soft spot for you that he halts like a deer in headlights at the mention of your name.

"daeron?" gwayne's brows lift in curiosity, the reaction pausing his thoughts, yes. this is good he thinks, "whatever is the matter?"

"nothing," he mumbles out, boyish grin plastered on his face in a smooth recovery, "i have no idea what you're talking about," he shrugs.

"i see," gwayne slowly stretches out in the silence, trying a different tactic of being upfront with it "say, do you notice anything different about the princess?" daeron doesn't even try to think, he shakes his head abruptly and stands before his uncle, their game of chess drawn to a sudden end.

"no uncle, if you excuse me i have to go somewhere."

gwayne stands immediately, "where?"

"somewhere," he whispers, heat rushing up his neck. daeron has never been a great liar and you've never raised him to be one, its almost soul crushing how in love and in awe gwayne is of you and your presence.

"daeron if you know something," he drawls out, "it'd best to be honest, thats a kingly virtue you know to be true." and its almost like a gentle threat the way he nudges towards his nephew.

"i'm sorry ser, but i know nothing," daeron whispers, his face pooling with an obscene amount of guilt. disappointing gwayne is a thing he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, but the thought of disappointing you? thats an idea that daeron cannot even stomach and with a slight bow he all but races out the room, once again leaving gwayne hightower in the dust.

"what is wrong with everyone in this house?" he shouts into the silence, rubbing the frown lines gathering between his brows. he stretches his hand across his whole face, wiping away the lingering doubt and sighs heavily. this game must stop, and it must stop tonight.

he tries to catch you during the rest of the day to entice you but you were engaged with other ladies of the court, whispering and giggling. it all silenced when your group had spotted gwayne walking past, a wave at your fingertips and a knowing smirk resting on theirs. it was unsettling, but gwayne didnt let his demeanour drop. no, he was noble and knightly and dipped into a gentle bow of recognition before continuing his walk. a walk you were supposed to join him on but cancelled last minute.

something ugly grows inside of him when he decides after a few minutes of failing to clear his head in nature that he's had enough. he turns and makes his way to stalk in your direction, he'll take you to the side and the two of you will talk this nonsense out. he just can't make any sense of it.

in the time it takes gwayne to reach your chair in the gardens your ladies in waiting have all but disappeared and have been replaced by a certain dark brunette that has gwayne seething through his nostrils. but its not just the hand of the king that has gwayne irrational, its the fond look in your eyes as you beam up at him in delight. he halts, breath heavy and shoulders bouncing because that smile? that light bending, life altering, heart stopping smile is reserved for him. it has gwayne's name all over it and he hates it.

"ser cole," he doesn't bother to acknowledge the other, his gaze firmly planted on you. criston has half the decency to look ashamed but that only heightens gwayne's inner turmoil. "i see you make it a habit of preening with my family, and here i thought one was enough," gwayne's remark slides right over cole and there's heaviness landed in the air. cole narrows his eyes into icy slits but gwayne refuses to budge.

"gwayne," you gasp, mouth falling as you make way to stand before your husband, "that was not nice," you pause attempting to break the tension with a hand to his shoulder. it hurts more when gwayne refuses to budge, almost as if your touch is weightless despite it being days of being starved of it. he's not being fair, he knows it but how could he be given slivers of your attention when you've been serving it on the platter for the likes of ormund hightower and criston cole? its beyond him, no, thats even more unfair.

cole lets out a dark chuckle and shakes his head at gwayne then throws you a knowing look, "i'll see to it tomorrow," he promises you and bows respectfully. he makes it a point that when he passes gwayne he lets his shoulder knock into his slender frame and despite cole's slightly wider frame and taut muscle, gwayne holds his ground.

"you won't be seeing to anything tomorrow," he turns, pushing you behind him, almost protectively, like an animal protecting its own. you scoff at his silliness and try to reach around him but he shuffles at your every move, matching it with a blockade.

"gwayne," you huff into his back, "must you be so difficult?" you complain. and the second the words land, they slice straight into his chest, ripping open the chambers he's allocated just for loving you and he bleeds.

"what?" he faults, the stutter on his lips. you stop, hand flying to your mouth agape.

"that's not what i meant," you start, but gwayne has taken a step back. the two of you have never really argued much in your marriage, you've always moved in harmony. a perfect tandem. he's never been difficult because your love has always come easy, its natural, its the air he breathes and the life he lives. he's always tried to be the dutiful son, the dependable one, difficult? it stings, it burns and it swallows him whole.

"that was unkind of me and if you'll allow me to explain," you try and reach out to him but a force washes over him of steel. he's trying to be patient gwayne, compassionate gwayne, gentle gwayne, noble gwayne but he's just hurt at your words and deflection of your absence. god you have no idea what you're doing to him.

"not here," he quietly retreats and you're left to follow his footsteps back to your shared chambers. he's offered you his arm but your footsteps are a beat slower likened to your nervous heart and gwayne in his fury does not slow down till hes met with silence and reclusivity of your space. the door is a reminder of your secrets with ormund and now he imagines cole's taunting face and he grimaces, blood heating in his veins and he tries to steady his breathing.

he still holds the door open for you, waits for you to be safely inside before kicking it shut and facing you.

"what is going on?" he tries a steady approach, keeps his voice calm and level but the innocence in your eyes and the fact hes met with silence has him groaning and throwing his weight against the door in impatience.

"wife," he stalks over to you till youre barely atoms apart from each other and at this position hes a full head taller peering down at you. "this ends now, whatever stupid game where you have replaced me with the likes of ormund and cole? it is cruel and i want an explanation," he's seething and he can see the gears in your head turning, cogs sliding and locking to find some sort of reason.

"gwayne, i," you start and then you stop. revealing this now will only spoil what tomorrow brings and you've worked so hard on this you're willing to let him sulk. "it's nothing, i needed help with something and ormund and criston offered their services."

"their services?" he laughs, and your eyes widen at the insinuation, maybe it was the wrong choice of words but no. you'd never. he knows that right? "deny me and take them," he scoffs, "i understand."

"no gwayne wait, i think you're misunderstanding," you try and cup his jaw, bring his attention back to you hoping you'll see the earnest in your eyes and but he shrugs you off and puts the distance back between you.

"misunderstanding?" its outrageous the way his voice does not even raise once at you. "you havent sought me out in four days, i wake to a cold lonely bed, i do not hear from you all day but i find you with ormund then with cole- both whom of you you detest? tell me wife, were your feelings then just a misunderstanding? are they clarified now?"

it hurts the way hes questioning you, questioning your faithfulness and your bottom lip wobbles. "gwayne, i am your wife," you release in exasperation. "i am loyal to you- i would never-"

"you are my wife," he nods his head, "and yet you do not offer me honesty. what has happened? what has changed? do you not wish to love me anymore?" his voice breaks and it almost shoots straight to your knees, unsteadying you in a heartbeat.

"gwayne, my heart. that's absurd and you know it. i love you, i am yours, i am here?" you get out.

"but you are not here," he whispers and the air stands still. "you are not here in the way you have always been and i just, i don't understand why and you will not offer me the mercy of understanding why," he breathes, his eyes boring into yours. "i think," he pauses, "we ought to have some space between us, some room to think and reflect and remember why our marriage works so well."

you shake your head in defiance immediately, "no, i don't want to," you try to cross the distance but are met with his palm in the air. the slender fingers like a barrier.

"i think we need to," and its final in the way he says it. you lower your head, the tears creeping in the corners of your eyes. this is spiralling and you have the power to stop it but you also just wish your husband would trust you enough to leave it alone.

he sighs quietly, footsteps light as they make their way over to you and he tilts your chin to look up at him, wiping away the free tear that has fallen. you feel a sense of hope fill you, tired optimism that he's surrendering this silliness, a petty arguement harbouring into something messier. but then his words land a heavy blow and it feels oh so real "after dinner i'll move my things," and you step out of his hold.

"if thats what you wish," you whisper, the words betraying you and bitter on your tongue. "if you mean to question my loyalty then very well, ser gwayne," you bring his nobility and rank, ridding yourself of the familiarity. "when you are ready to be my husband again then you may join me," and with that, you walk away from the chamber and away from gwayne.

this time when he's left alone for the fourth time today he feels nothing but loneliness and regret swirling in his throat till he feels he can no longer breathe.

oh how something dreadful has truly happened.

dinner comes with a heavy blanket of quiet. its tense and for good reason. the hightowers look to each other in quiet concern. gwayne sits at the centre of the table, solemn and silent- he's hardly uttered a word all night. and you? you are not in your designated seat next to him. you are three seats away at the end of the table with daeron tucked at your side.

its rare for the two of you to be separated, meal times arw usually spent with the two of you sharing knowing looks, whispering sweet nothings and eventually, you'll lean your head tiredly against his shoulder and he'd find an excuse for the two of you to escape. its oh so homely and you are set in motion, moving as one.

however, tonight the distance is noticed and felt. ormund's eyes dart between the two of you but gwayne braves a steely look ahead.

"we are quiet tonight?" ormund questions, carefully scratching his fork against the plate, filling the silence.

"i wish you were also," gwayne nods, "say, what did you get up to this morning?" ormund pauses, glances in your direction and you just shrug, the fight leaving your body before its even began.

"am i intruding on anything?" ormund furrows his brows and gwayne looks at him with tired indifference.

"i am both sure and unsure," he nods solemnly, "but enlighten me, what did you get up to?" and theres no malice in his tone, nothing but careful curiosity.

"i headed to some merchants, picked up a few things, nothing too interesting," ormund replies and gwayne just nods throughout, not caring to pay further attention to any story that ormund dives into. instead he focuses sharply onto you. "that is nice, very nice."

he hears your sweet mumbles to daeron. how its so different to the words you shared earlier and how the world sets a little softer around you. he loves how you are with daeron, you're good to him, good for him. good for everyone but most importantly, youre perfect for gwayne. he hates fighting with you, its so passive, so reductive, so annoyingly easy it is for the silent treatment to get under his skin.

he watches as you carefully cut remenants of meat that you dislike and then you pause, you look over at him in his direction and you immediately look down to your lap.

gwayne's heart lurches in his throat, he knows you usually like to make swaps, its gwaynes favourite thing to do where he'll take on anything that brings you the slightest distaste and he'll make it right for you. except now, he can't find it in him to move an inch. daeron spots your hesitation and gingerly reaches out, eager to be the peace maker, "aunt, would you mind me having that piece?" and you look to him, a shadow of upset crossing your features and you try so hard to let it slip and front a smile but its too late. gwayne has seen the edges of that frown and lets out a noise likened to a strangled animal.

all attention diverts to him and he mumbles under his breath, "daeron it is impolite to watch over other people's plate," he then looks down at his own and without even thinking, he makes a move to stand with his plate in his own hand and walks in your direction.

"but uncle gwayne?" daeron questions confused.

"but nothing, daeron. keep eating, you'll need your strength to grow strong," he pats his head softly and waits patiently. you gingerly move the meat onto his plate and he shovels a portion of potatoes you love onto yours. its a temporary truce, you've never been great at disagreements so you're grateful for the moment of relief. gwayne then retreats back to his seat and the table continues eating.

"gwayne is right, daeron," ormund lifts a glass to him, "you'll be the strongest amongst us," and he watches as you pat daeron's shoulder affectionately in encouragment. dinner continues with clutter and clatter of dishes, of faint laughter and longing looks and gwayne wishes more than anything it was you by his side.

when everyone gears up to make a move and call it quits for the night, gwayne finds himself in the pensive mood to right a few wrongs, "ser cole," he calls out. you're long gone in the direction of the chambers, escorted by daeron and criston turns to gwayne.

"ah," he clicks his tongue, "have you come to hurl more insults ser gwayne?" and gwayne shakes his head slowly.

"to apologise, more like. i am sorry for earlier, it was unnecessary and unkind," he speaks with earnest and upmost genuineness. cole nods, a knowing look in his eyes and gwayne has the tiniest thought gnawing at his temples to immediately take it back and walk away.

"you know," cole punches his shoulder lightly, "i think there's someone more important and deserving of an apology," he raises his brow and gwayne lets out a heavy exhale.

"i know," he looks in your departed direction, the ghost of your figure haunting him, "what is truly going on? what madness am i being subjected to?" and cole can see the nerves in his brain stretching to make room.

"i can't say it is my place ser," he breathes, "but whatever you're thinking? it is the furthest thing you've known and actually? it's quite simple really, its a little humourous watching you work in circles over something so simple," and with a laugh he bids and leaves a confused gwayne to the night.

sleep does not come gracefully to gwayne.

its a lonesome stranger, the cold bites at his sides, the mattress has lumps that gwayne's sure is just in his head and no matter what he does, how tight his eyes squeeze shut all he can picture is the sorrowful look on your face and he hates himself.

he thinks he should go to you. its your first night apart since being married and nothing about it feels right at all. so he gets up throws on the shirt hes already worn the life out of today and with steel determination he sets foot outside the door and makes his way across the hall to the opposite direction where your shared rooms are located.

he almost flies through, the way he paces with eager urgency that he doesn't register how he must look like an absolute madman. his breath halts unevenly when a force is barricaded into his chest and his hands reach out to steady you instantly.

"love?" he whispers incredously, and your head whips up in a rapid reaction. he moves his hands from your waist and up to your shoulders as he checks you thoroughly for any injury. the force at which you two tumbled was enough to almost knock him clean off his feet, "are you alright?" and you nod tightly.

he takes in your appearance, your nightgown slipping down your right shoulder and your hair free from its usual weave of braids, just how he likes, likely tousled from endless turning in a bid to gain some sense of slumber. you shiver in the dead of the night, the moon casting a subtle glow over your features and he brings you closer to him, hoping some of his body heat will extend to yours and youre grateful for it immensely. he focuses on you completely and his heart soars at the realisarion. you had also come looking for him the way he longed to reach for you.

"gwayne i need to talk to you," you pull back an inch, "you were right, i haven't been truthful and i'm sorry. the sneaking around was excessive but it was the only way i could get it done," you breathe out, the words rushing before you can stop yourself. this might ruin everything but nothing could be worse than a minute more of silence and restraint from your lover.

"get what done, darling?" and you decide its better to show him then just tell him. you take his hand and walk him to the main hall thats been cordoned off the last few days- not that hes noticed, hes been too busy chasing after you to pay any attention to the changes of the house. its silent when you walk, the gentle pitter patter of your heart guiding the rhythm for your footsteps as you move at the same pace. gwayne doesnt offer any more questions, he doesnt say anything, hes patient this time and he's more than willing to wait for you to explain.

the hall opens with a soft thud as your palm pushes it open and gwayne pauses, tentative at the sight and he wants the ground to swallow him whole. all he can feel is shame as he stares ahead.

"you can come in," you say, letting go of his hand and he immediately steps forward to regain the heat of it, winding the interlocking fingers across to his chest where his heart rests.

"this is ... for me? truly?" and your heart swells, with pride or sympathy you are ensure of but tininess of his voice has you in shambles, completely undone. you've never heard the great gwayne hightower so unsure of himself and you decide that you never really want to again.

"of course," you draw out, gauging in his reaction. how his eyes turn and marvel at the side of banners, streamers, a portrait of him hanging in the centre, a banquet table yet to be set up and a pile of gifts right at the corner. he makes his way over to them, carefully as if even taking the wrong step might wake him up from this dream. "i know you don't usually like to make such a fuss but i wanted to do something special," you murmur and he turns completely to you. he marches across the inches with great fierceness and joins his lips to yours.

you let out a little oomf as his hand splays across your back steadying you and morphing your body into his. he kisses you so deeply, so intimately that youre sure his soul has conjoined with yours and all you can think, hear, see and feel is just all gwayne. he melts into you and youre floating and for the first time all week you feel at peace. there's no running around, no planning, no sneaking around your husband theres nothing.

you draw back just a milimeter and its not enough, he chases after your lips in an instance, absorbing every molecule of you with a burning intensity he's not sure he can control. he tries to slow himself down, to steady and ground himself but he's swarmed with all your love and attention its blinding.

"so this is what you've been up to?" he presses a kiss to your forehead, its soft and featherlike before he brings his own to yours, your noses touching in a teasing dance. a giggle bursts from your lips and you nod, stealing a look into his eyes and relax entirely.

"ormund helped massively, he headed with me to the merchant stalls this morning to retrieve your nameday gifts, and one of the cooks has a soft spot for you it didnt take much to entice them with the idea of preparing your favourites and cole? he helped set this place up, he's organised for your sister to safely join us and he's prepared a tourney in your favour. daeron was supposed to keep you preoccupied in the morrow till we had everything sorted and you husband," you sigh, "you were supposed to be surprised," and you swat his chest in disappointment. "it was supposed to be perfect."

"it is perfect, you are perfect" he returns to you and finds it harder to hide his growing smile by the minute, "and i am surprised, greatly, you really did all this for me?" he asks again and you hold his innocent gaze.

"of course?" you repeat, "gwayne you are the love of my life, in every life," you stress, "everything is for you, don't you see?" your palm finds its way to the side of his face.

"i'm sorry, my heart," he apologises, and he turns his head to the inwards of your palm, placing a soft fleeting kiss there. he had been so caught up in the confusion and his jealousy that he had completely forgotten tomorrow was technically his name-day celebration and he feels so damn stupid. "the accusations i held against you earlier were uncalled for. i was angry, i was mad and i was wrong," he tells you sincerely, "and i shall make up for it for the rest of my life."

you meet his swear with a tired eye and deep understanding, "i hate fighting with you gwayne, nor do i think we are good at it," he lets out a deep chuckle, the rumble landing between your bones.

"no," another laugh comes and its yours this time that joins him, "i don't think we are." he looks across the room once more and his blood warms to a liquid jelly. in all his years alive hes never paid much attention to having a name day, the two of you usually spent it together and alone but to see all this effort, all this attention and recognition for him? he truly is in awe.

"you love me," he whispers into the stillness of the hall.

"now you're being ridiculous, husband," you roll your eyes, "of course i do."

"and i love you," he reaffirms, "it was unkind and uncalled for to doubt your loyalty."

"you know, i could have you beheaded for treason," and there's a mischievious glint in your eyes.

"but then who would kiss you," his own sea eyes glisten back, "who would make you laugh? who would lay you down and love you all over," he teases, his fingers running along the bare skin peeking out from your gown. he presses just above your collarbone, then finds your pulse and lays a soft kiss to rest there.

"gwayne," you breathe and he hums a faint yes against your skin. you hardly hear it over the roar in your bloodstream but you lean in closer than ever. "come," you whisper to him, an echo of the morning, "come back to bed," and he smiles, his teeth against your jaw.

"always, my sweetheart," and he hooks his arm under your back and one under your knees, hoisting you up as he carries you back to your chambers. your laughter rings in the hallway and as much as hed like to bottle the sound of it and store it for an eternity he knows the rest of the house to be sleeping and tries to silence you with a few more hasty kisses.

when tomorrow comes he feigns surprise, the hall is alight, filled with food and music and all the people he loves. as he talks with alicent, laughs with ormund and teases daeron he keeps you by his side all afternoon and evening long, extending praise and gratitude to you at all times.

"this has got to be the best celebration you've ever had," ormund claps him on the back, "your exclamations of gratitude are ready for me now, please do not hold back," he grins but gwayne shakes his head and as you lean into his side.

He corresponded with you via raven weeks before your wedding day. In your letters, he found you were friendly, a little erratic in your sentence structure, but prompt in your replies. He wrote to assure you that he intended to give you a good life as Lady Hightower. You would be well cared for in Oldtown; the Reach would offer a climate that you would find very enjoyable. He promised that he would not rush you into marriage consummation, or sharing a marital bed, since you were only meeting for the first time on your wedding day. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable in your new life, as he could hardly imagine being in your shoes. He hoped you were pretty, or at least kind, but did not let himself hope for much. Marriage was duty, nothing more.

Standing at the alter in the Starry Sept, Gwayne mentally cursed and kicked himself a thousand times over. When he lifted your veil, he was met with the most dazzling girl he'd ever seen. Your bright eyes shone under the candlelight, the air around you seemed to sparkle, aided by the twinkling jewels pinned in your hair. Your mouth quipped into a half, nervous smile, that made is knees turn to jelly. He could tell you were accessing him back, brow furrowed in concentration. The crinkle that formed between your eyebrows was downright adorable. And with your wide eyes blinking up at him, you reminded him of a deer wandering a forest. When the Septon asked Gwayne to repeat the sacred words And I take you for my lady and wife, his mouth felt impossibly dry and disconnected from his body. He tore his eyes away from you, to look at the Septon instead, so he could concentrate. "And I t-take you for my lady and w-wife" Maybe he had been wrong about marriage before.

Honor? Duty? Where did it get him? Now, it seemed like those things, once upheld in his family's name, had doomed him. Gwayne had already put you at an arm's length by telling you that he did not expect you to share his bed. So all he could do was be a kind, doting husband, hoping that eventually you would feel comfortable enough to desire him the way he already did.

Gwayne observed you and helped you as you settled into life at the Oldtown. You were acclimating well, greeting everyone you met with a warm smile. You made an effort to learn each servant's name, offering genuine compliments on their work. Gwayne decided that he adored your smile, and you were as beautiful as the Mother, herself. Before he met you, he had faintly hoped that you were beautiful. But now, he wasn't sure if your beauty was a blessing to his eyes, or a curse that he had suffer to look upon you at a respectful distance. You were practically skipping through the corridors. Gwyane noticed you always moved so quickly, never simply walking, always seeming to be in a hurry to get to the next place. Suddenly, the ribbon tying your hair back slipped free and onto the floor. You bent down to pick up the ribbon, the fabric of your dress straining against the swell of your breasts. He’d always thought that a woman’s thighs were the asset he favored the most. But when he noticed the curve of your breasts, he wanted nothing more than to squeeze them, knead them, commit the softness to memory. Your nimble fingers twirled the ribbon, hands so petite and pretty. Perhaps one day they would intertwine with his? He could hold your hand and guide it along his cock, showing you how to stroke it and-

Then you were gone. Scurrying away and out of sight. Only the aroma of your rose scented soap was left for him to bask in, and replay over and over the time he had written that you were not expected to share his bed, and hate himself for it.

The day you came into his solar to show him your new dress, a part of him died inside. He was scribbling a letter to his father when you entered. When he looked up at the disturbance and saw it was you, he stood up so fast he almost sent his chair falling backwards. "My dear wife. What do I owe this pleasure?"

"So formal" you tease, your twinkling laugh lighting up the dim room "I just came to show you this!" You hold out your arms to display your attire, causing Gwayne's breath to hitch in his throat. You were wearing a rich green gown, with gold beading and embroidery all down the length. The design curled around your hips and torso, clinging to all your curves. The candlelight reflected off the gold shimmer, making you look like an angel dripping in Hightower colors.

"Do you like it?" You step closer to Gwayne, always on tip toe, and quickly, like a graceful doe. “Do I look comely?”

Your husband chokes on the words, watching you move closer to him- closer to his grasp. You are so near, he can count each if your eyelashes. “Come-? Comely?” Gwayne’s ears burn red at his misunderstanding. A feeble cough, then he manages to speak. “Yes. Very.”

"The seamstresses fastened the dress itself, but I did most of the embroidery work. See?"

Tentatively, he reaches out to graze his fingers over your hard work. He brushes the gold embroidery at your hip. You're babbling about the time that it look, and the technique you practiced, but Gwayne is zoning out. Only focusing on the warmth of your skin he can feel under the velvet. Your backside, that he had admittedly gawked at whenever you walked in front of him, was under his hand, splayed over your hip.

Your voice fades into the background as his hand, on it's own accord, moves up to your elbow, your shoulder, then brushes against the ends of your hair ever so slightly. It was so much softer than he thought possible. And when he brushes the tips of your hair, the smell of your rose soap wafts up to his nostrils. He watches in anticipation as his hand, seemingly pulled by an invisible force, moves to rest on the small of your back. You do not falter or pull away. In fact, you don't react at all. You just continue smiling, talking about your dress. Then you hold up the fabric of your skirt.

"Here, feel." You instruct, and Gwayne tentatively runs his hand over the gold beads. "I stayed up half the night to finish it. But I think it's worth the trouble." You laugh softly. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful." He swallows, and meets your eye. "Like you."

Playfully, you roll your huge, doe eyes and there it is again - that laugh that makes his heart flip inside his chest cavity. Your lips brush his cheek so quickly, he thought he might have imagined it. But it was real. You kissed him. The dampness of your lips leave the irrefutable proof on his skin. Just as soon as you entered, you are moving away, towards the door, and out of his reach. "I think I will lay down to rest now. I am weary after staying up so late."

Gwayne must be unwell. He must see a maester. He feels unsteady on his feet and his heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. Because after you leave his solar, his legs jerkily pull his body towards the door. You're fast. Much more agile than a young lady should be. Because you're leagues ahead of him, already out of sight down the castle corridors. He walks in a trance, following the trail of rose, stumbling after you. His cock jerks in his pants, half hard simply from touching you and the green fabric of your damned dress. Feverishly, his skin burns hot under his clothes. You're ill, you're reverting back to being a green boy, he tells himself. He wills himself to gain some sense, and stop following you like a lunatic, but his legs still carry him the way to your bed chambers.

When he arrives at your chambers, he enters without ceremony. He falls against the door and stumbles inside. It looks like you are getting ready to leave, having changed into a simple grey dress, and clutching your prayer book with a startled look on your face.

“Gwayne? Are you alright?” You ask, concerned for your husband’s current state- looking dazed in the middle of your bedchambers.

He does not answer your question. “I thought you were going to lie down and rest.” He blurts.

You were supposed to be getting ready to rest, he thinks, wearing your soft nightgown that I know you own because I've seen the servants filling your closet with clothes before you moved here. And you're supposed to be rubbing your eyes, sleepy and soft. I know you get like that when you're tired because once we dined together early in the morning. And I adored how you looked, one foot still in slumber, the other in wakefulness.

You smile, helpful, but so infuriatingly oblivious to his torment. “I was, yes, but then I remembered I am meeting the Septons this afternoon. We are discussing aid for the poor.” A pause. “Are you alright?” you ask again.

A broken sound emanates from your husband. A mixture of a groan and whine. He falls to his knees in front of you, hands clambering, pulling at your skirt. Gwayne knows he is a knight of the realm, but in this moment he does not care. He is a beggar at your feet. “Sweet girl. My sweet wife, please. Please do not leave.” His fingers fist tighter on your skirt.

Oof. You grunt, tugged off balance by your imploring husband. “I must go. I am new to my duties as Lady Hightower. And I can’t be seen shirking them so soon.” You rake your fingers through his auburn hair, as he presses his face firmly into the junction of your thighs. Gwayne’s hands have lost all restraint, pawing at your arse, tugging your cunt even closer into his face. With every trace of your fingers through his hair, his cock grows stiffer, straining uncomfortably into his pants. This surprises him, the reaction to your touch in his hair. All these new discoveries, particularly the unlimited bounds of his yearning, has his mind reeling.

You sigh. "By the seven, I really am late." You thread your fingers at the top of his head, and pull his gaze up to meet yours. "Oh Gwayne, what am I going to do with you?"

He strains, gazing up at you with watery eyes, "Oh dove, I-"

While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.

Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”

His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.

“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”

There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.

Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.

“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”

With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.

“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.

The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.

Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—

And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.

The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—

The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.

A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.

And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.

“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.

Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.

Oh, this is really happening, is it not?

“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”

“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.

You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.

After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.

As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:

“Could you be gentle... at least?”

“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.

Precious thing, she truly is.

With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.

He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.

“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.

His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.

A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.

“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”

Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.

Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.

“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.

He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.

“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”

“But—”

His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.

“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”

Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:

“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”

His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.

“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”

Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.

Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?

“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”

He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.

When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.

You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.

For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.

Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.

Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.

His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.

Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.

But you weren’t alone.

A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.

“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”

Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.

“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”

“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.

His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.

“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”

His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.

“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”

A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”

“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”

Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.

Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.

“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”

“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”

“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”

He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.

“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”

The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.

With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.

Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.

Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.

These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.

And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.

To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.

“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”

“Oh—!”

A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.

His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.

“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.

However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”

Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.

“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.

His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—

His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.

Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.

How?

Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?

His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:

“Were you with Ormund?”

. . .

You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.

You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.

“Why were you with him?”

That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.

But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.

He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.

“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”

“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.

You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—

“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.

But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.

Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.

The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.

“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”

“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”

Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.

Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.

It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.

“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”

You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.

“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”

You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.

His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.

The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—

“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”

Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.

“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.

Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.

With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.

Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?

A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.

Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.

Fuck patience.

He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.

Fuck virtues.

Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.

“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.

“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”

He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.

“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.

So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.

When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.

As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.

You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.

There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.

“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”

The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.

Fuck.

The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.

You awoke before him.

With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.

Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.

Sweet man, and he’s all mine.

A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.

At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.

“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.

Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.

You blinked. “What for?”

“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”

“Oh?”

“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”

He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.

“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”

You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.

“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”

Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.

“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”

His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.

“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”

“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”

Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?

Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.

“This is how you kiss, darling.”

And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.

When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.

What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.

But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.

“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”

Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.

“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.

“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”

If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.

To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.

And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.

Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—

—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.

“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”

And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.

A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.

“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”

Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.

“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.

The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.

“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”

“Y-Yes, sire—”

Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?

“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”

As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.

He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.

Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.

He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.

. . .

“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”

That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.

“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.

However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.

Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.

There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?

You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.

“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”

Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.

“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”

You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”

“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.

“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.

Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.

Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—

“Damn...”

He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.

But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.

“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”

You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.

“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”

Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”

“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”

“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.

“The babe demands it.”

A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”

Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.

Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.

Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.

By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.

Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?

Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.

The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.

“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”

“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”

But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.

“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”

His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.

. . .

In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.

But your quiet peace was short-lived.

As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.

The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.

The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.

“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”

“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.

A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.

“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.

Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”

That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.

But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.

“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”

Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.

“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.

“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.

In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.

“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”

But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.

“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”

Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.

“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”

. . .

“Where were you?”

You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.

Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.

“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”

“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.

“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”

This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—

“Can you just... not?!”

You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.

“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”

It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—

Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.

The worry in his eyes shattered into utter heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.

“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”

You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”

“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.

His expression was somber, his eyes repeatedly straying from your face as if looking at you pained him, while he struggled to voice the words.

“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort. But in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”

How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?

He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.

“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”

Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.

“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”

Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.

True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.

You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.

Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.

“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”

As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.

You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.

“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”

Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.

The King. Your father.

You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.

If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—

—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.

Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—

But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—

“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.

It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.

You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.

Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.

A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.

Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.

Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.

He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.

He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.

You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—

If he is here, then I am safe.

“How did this happen...?”

Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.

Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.

“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”

When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.

You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.

Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.

He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.

Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.

Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.

At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.

“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.

He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.

“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”

“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”

“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.

Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.

“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I have gone through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”

Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.

Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”

“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.

You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.

You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.

“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, weighed down by your own guilt.

But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you even at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.

“Have I not spoken these very words to you time and again? How come you always forget them?”

His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.

“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”

Your time had come barely five weeks later.

It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.

Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.

Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.

He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.

He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.

Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.

“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.

“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”

Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.

And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.

It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.

. . .

You thought you would die from the pain alone.

Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.

And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.

“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”

When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

This miracle has just come out of you.

As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.

Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.

Instead, catching the warm candlelight… were soft tufts of red.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.

She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.

“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”

You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.

True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.

Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.

Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to almost make him drop to his knees right then and there.

He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.

“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”

Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.

With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—

And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.

“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.

Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:

“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”

His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.

“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”