it's never over

The tension in the car trailed you both inside, seeming to expand and strengthen with malicious glee as Jason nudged the door closed behind him. You felt it in its contradictions. A heaviness in your shoulders, a weightless shiver in your stomach. The breathless moment between the clumsy knocking of a glass off a high table and the chaotic shattering as it hits the floor, slowed enough to feel suffocating.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this. Being with Jason had never felt like this.

The air shifted as he again held out his phone, a little more force behind the gesture.

"I won't stay, but you still need to eat something. Order before I go."

"I'm not hungry."

Your throat felt tight, wishing for possibly the first time in your long friendship that he would leave you alone.

"Food always helps you when you get a migraine." He wasn't budging, brows raised expectantly in challenge, daring you to argue, to admit the real reason for your early departure.

"Let it go," you warned lowly.

"Let what go?"

"Jason."

He stepped closer, too close, phone tipped forward to rest against your collarbone, his own voice dropping to match your tone.

"Either tell me what's wrong or order the damn food."

Stress fractures spreading slowly, insidiously, through a pane of glass. The faintest tap would bring it crashing down.

“Why are you acting like this?”

"You know why."

"No, I really don't. Because what the hell do you even have to be mad about?"

"Are you fucking serious?" He choked out a humorless laugh, tossing his phone away onto the couch cushions and turning away from you for a moment, knuckles pressing into his closed eyes. "Were we not at the same party tonight?"

"He didn't do anything to you! The two of you barely even talked. Thanks for putting in that effort you promised me, by the way."

"You're angry at me?" Jason asked incredulously, turning quickly to face you again. "The fuck did I do?"

"Well you sure as hell didn't try!"

"I didn't - I wore all this shit," Jason said, gesturing at his formal wear before wrenching his tie free with an aggravated huff, letting it flutter to the ground. "I said hello. I shook his hand. What - "

"All the comments about the suit-"

"He didn't even hear that!"

"The thing with his name -"

"It's a stupid rich guy name."

"And the comment about not having heard about him -"

"That was true!"

"Jason, if you don't stop interrupting me, I swear to fucking God!"

You both seemed to freeze for a moment at the volume of your voice, snapping back into yourselves for a moment. Your breathing was ragged, heart racing in your chest. Jason had a hand shoved in his pocket, clenched tight enough to be uncomfortable.

"Say what you want to say then," he said into the quiet, dropping unceremoniously onto the arm of your couch.

"What?"

"Keep telling me what a shitty friend I am. I'll shut up."

"That's not - " You sighed, shaking your head. "I just don't understand. I know we haven't done anything like that before. The whole 'meet the boyfriend' thing, but… I just wanted William to meet my favorite person. You were still… you even in the hallway. Where did that Jason go in the two minutes it took for us to find him?"

"He doesn't deserve that version of me," Jason said with an unapologetic shrug. "You've earned it. He hasn't."

"Well he didn't deserve Bitchy Jason either," you argued bitterly. "You didn't even give him a chance."

"He deserved fucking… Homicidal Jason, is what he deserved," he muttered, crossing his arms.

"Okay, this is what I'm talking about," you said, voice starting to rise again. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem is you keep putting yourself in the position to get stomped on by shitty men, and it makes no fucking sense."

"Excuse me?"

"How is this still happening? It's not even getting better. There's -"

"What, you want me to apologize for the fact that I haven't given up on the whole fucking world like you have?"

"Wow." Jason gave a soft, dangerous laugh.

"At least I'm trying. Instead of blowing up the flaws of every single person I meet."

"Well, with the people you choose, you're not making it real hard for me, are you?"

Anger flared hot and sharp in your chest, knocking the breath out of you. You forced your eyes away from him, trying to breathe through it. A slap wouldn't fix anything, no matter how fucking good it might feel right now.

"And how did William manage to piss you off so quickly? Grace me with your great worldly wisdom, why don't you," you said, condescension dripping from your tongue in a way that soothed some of the ache.

"What a generous invitation," he bit back. "Happy to accept."

Except he was moving into your space again, forcing eye contact you really didn't want with the tilt of his head.

"You were the only reason he was on the list for that party. And he couldn't even be bothered to show up with you? He had time and preparation to change first and show up early, but not to come here and pick you up? He wasn't even invited. He was a plus one."

That tone was back, the one he rarely used with you before tonight. Low, artificial calm stretched razor thin over a deep anger.

"If you didn't want to come get me, you could've said no."

"That's not what I'm saying. I didn't even consider another option. That's the point."

"So his crime is not thinking exactly the same way as you?" you asked, raising a judgemental brow.

"He didn't meet you at the door. He left you within minutes of your arrival to chase political points. He wouldn't even dance with you."

You turned away from him again, eyes beginning to sting in a way that made your cheeks begin to warm.

"He either didn't notice you were miserable, or he didn't care. I don't know what's worse. I could tell from across the fucking room."

"You've known me for ten years, Jason," you argued, voice mortifyingly shaky. "It's not fair to expect him to -"

"Yes, it is," he interrupted firmly. "I expect him to at least care enough to be looking."

"Great, wonderful," you hastily blotted your eyes with the back of your hand. "You think my boyfriend doesn't give a fuck about me. Are you done now?"

"Just -"

You flinched away from him when you felt his hand on your arm, felt him back away just as quickly in response. He missed the apologetic glance that followed, frowning deeply at his own shoes, both hands shoved in his pocket.

"I didn't mean- I'm not scared -"

"Okay."

"Jason…"

He shook his head, waving off an apology and backing towards the front door.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"I know you weren't, but you also already are. I didn't -" You gestured helplessly at the tears that had begun to fall, the ones you had been trying to hide from him.

You'd cried in front of him countless times over the years, but this was different. These were inflicted tears, and he'd been the one to put them there.

Jason heaved out a sigh at the sight, muscles tensed in indecision given the way you'd just responded to his touch.

“Just… Why introduce him to me at all if you didn’t want my opinion? I've always… You never had a problem with me speaking my mind before."

“I just… wish you didn't have such a low opinion of me," you said quietly.

"I don't! What are you talking about?"

You shook your head.

"You must believe I'm really, really stupid if you think I'm giving so much time and attention to someone with no redeeming qualities at all."

Jason grimaced, but seemed unsure of how to respond.

"You really don't trust me or my judgement at all, do you?" you asked. "I think that might be the worst part."

You turned your back on him again, this time with enough finality that Jason took it for what it was. A dismissal.

And as much as he hated to leave it there, the tangle of anger, love, disappointment, and grief was enough to choke him. The only answer he seemed capable of a slamming door. The loud sound shook loose a breath you didn't know you were holding.

But your peace was short lived.

Less than a minute after the door closed, Jason was shoving his way back inside, scowl still in place. He crossed to where you stood frozen on the rug, nudging your shoulders to turn you away from him again.

“I’m still angry,” he said, hands much gentler than his voice as he unclasped and unzipped your dress in two smooth motions. “But I don’t want you stuck sleeping in that dress. You panic about the clasp when you're tired.”

“Thanks,” you said tightly, keeping your back turned to him, clutching the fabric against you. 

“Yeah.”

He made it most of the way back to the door before a sudden fear snagged in your heart.

“Jason…”

You weren’t sure what to say, had started your sentence without a plan or motive beyond delaying this abrupt goodbye. 

He paused, pivoting slightly, not conceding fully to give you his undivided attention, but you were clear enough in his peripherals. Your face was pinched, unhappy, more uncomfortable than angry. The two of you didn’t fight very often, and the experience had you off-balance. 

It didn’t feel right to Jason either, but irritation still prickled under his skin. He wasn’t ready to drop this. But he wouldn’t torture you unnecessarily either. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

The wheelhouse had been your father’s idea of comfort.

Cushioned seats, curtained windows. Your house’s sigil pressed into the wood of the door in pale pink and soft green.

You had spent the first two days of the journey with a book open on your lap, pretending to read while the wheels hit every stone and branch on the ground. By the third day, you had given up pretending and simply watched the curtains sway.

The Lord Aldric Sweetbriar sat across from you with his ledger, making small notes with his careful hand. He had barely looked up since you had finally crossed the Crownlands.

You did not interrupt him, you were good at that. It was one of the few things you were genuinely praised for, yet it was depressing.

Outside, the land had changed. You had noticed it gradually, the way you noticed most things; quietly and too late to say anything about it to anyone.

The usual green of the Reach; soft, fragrant, and familiar, had changed into something harder and less forgiving. The air that crept in through the tiny gaps of the curtain was different too. Heavier. It sat in your lungs differently than that of the cool, dewy mornings of Sweetfield; your home, where the mist made the village smell like wet earth and lavender.

Underneath your sleeve, you pressed your fingers to your wrist without thinking. Faintly damp. It has been since yesterday, and it is not entirely because of the heat.

The wheelhouse slowed.

You heard it before you felt it. The driver’s call, the change in the horses’ rhythm. The curtain swayed in the breeze, and you caught a glimpse through the gap.

People. More people than you had ever seen gathered in one place in your entire life. Moving in every direction with the chaos the city had always known in its entire existence.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, your fingers found your wrist again.

Wallflower, you heard your sister Rowan’s voice in the back of your head, insufferable yet full of warmth. You are absolutely going to hate it there.

“We are nearly at the gates,” Your father closed his ledger, then looked at you properly for the first time in hours. His eyes moved over your face, steadily assessing.

“How are you finding the journey?" It was not quite a question, it rarely was with him.

“Well enough,” you said softly. Though it was not much of a response, your father always accepted and understood. Understood that you were nervous in the way you were your whole life. The one where you learned from a very young age to keep away and not let it show on the outside.

Your Lord father nodded. “You will find your footing, daughter.”

You thought back to Briarkeep, in Sweetfield. The way the roses climbed the pale grey stone in the mornings. The way your youngest brother, Celyn always smelled faintly of whatever dirt he had been digging in. You said nothing.

The gates came. The noise swelled around the wheelhouse like water rising, and you sat still, letting yourself drown in it. You could hear horses and vendors, their voices layered together. It was nothing like you had ever known. Not even during the busiest mornings of the village square in Sweetfield, where you can still hear the brook.

The air was nothing like the Reach. It was thick and carried everything with it. Smoke, animals, too many people living too close in vicinity. It was not entirely unpleasant, but entirely overwhelming.

You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. The last of Lord Aldric’s daughters, the one that came after Rowan. Before her, was Edwyn and Elara. Growing up in the shadows of your older siblings, you spent your entire life finding your way in the space they had long already filled.

As Aldric’s heir, Edwyn had the house. Elara had her good match. Rowan had also found hers.

You had the garden. You had your books. You had Celyn’s tiny hand in yours on the mornings he climbed into your bed before Briarkeep woke.

Now, you had this. Trying to remember how to breathe in air that felt nothing like home.

“They call it the city of a thousand smells,” you said, mostly to yourself.

Your father glanced at you, the corner of his mouth slightly moving. “Who calls it that?”

“A book.”

“Which book?”

“I fear I do not remember.” You did remember. You remembered exactly which particular shelf of Briarkeep’s modest library it was in, how old you had been when you read it, the fact you had read everything on that shelf twice. Though, you thought of it as irrelevant, that nobody had ever thought to ask.

Aldric let out a sound of amusement, before looking out the curtain. “It is not wrong,” he responded.

As the wheelhouse continued to roll on, you thought about what your father wanted from this trip. The thought that sat in your chest the same way it did for weeks.

Lord Aldric had built his life with precision; good trade, good matches, good reputation. Every piece was placed deliberately and well.

Edwyn had married into another steady house from the Reach, his lady wife already with child. Same with Elara. With Rowan, nearly so.

Now, the last daughter, the quiet wallflower of Briarkeep, was being brought to King’s Landing like the final entry in his careful plan.

A connection beyond the Reach, he had told you over supper.

You had considered them. You laid awake in bed considering them. A Lannister would want gold and a name that rang across the Seven Kingdoms, you had neither. A Baratheon would want strength and storms, a lady who could stand tall in a great hall full of warriors, you were the girl that stood at the edge of them.

You had even thought, just once, in a weak moment you were not proud of, about what it would mean to carry a name like Targaryen. Full of dragonfire, to carry a babe with blood closer to the gods than that of humans.

You dismissed the thought immediately. You were only the youngest daughter of a house so minor that half the lords of the Reach would need a moment to think about it. Your house grew herbs, you pressed flowers and read books nobody asked you to read. When you did talk, it was mostly to a boy of six, with innocent eyes that matched her mother’s.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

The wheelhouse rolled to a stop.

Around them, the noise of the city had not quieted but changed. Sounds of boots on cobblestone, distant clangs of armor, and low murmurs.

Your father had descended first, offering you his hand. You took it and stepped down onto King’s Landing for the first time.

The heat was immediate. You felt it on your skin, through the fabric of your dress, resisting the urge to press your cool fingers to your cheeks.

You stood beside your father, and looked up at the Red Keep for the first time. It was enormous. You had read the histories, the accounts of different visitors across generations. None of it had prepared you for the sensation of standing at its feet, at its mercy as the youngest daughter of a lesser house from the quietest corner of the Reach.

Lord Aldric placed a brief hand at your back. It was steady and grounding. The faint smell of his own fragrance made from herbs and oils only found in Sweetfield. It only did so much to comfort you, a reminder of how far you are from home.

Beckoning you forward, you took your first step and followed your Lord father. Wallflower, you still heard Rowan’s voice. You hushed her in your thoughts.

The morning had already started before he was ready for it, which was becoming a habit he utterly resented.

Valarr stood at the window of his chambers while his squire worked at the laces of his doublet behind him, looking out at the courtyard below. Preparations had been underway long before dawn.

Tables being carried. The ebony and red banners being straightened. Servants moving about. There was an urgency that filled the air, that everything needed to be perfect. Perfect for a nameday celebration in the Red Keep.

His nameday.

To him, it did not feel like a celebration. It felt like a deadline.

“Too tight,” he said, without turning.

His squire murmured a soft apology and adjusted. The young prince said nothing.

Watching banners being rehung for a third time, his mind went back to the private conversation he had with his father two evenings ago. The one he had been dreading, but was inevitable.

You are not a boy anymore, Prince Baelor had said. A man of your age, your name, your station. The time has come to think seriously about what comes next.

What comes next? As though it were a simple thing. As though it was not the question that sat in the center of everything now.

The heir of the heir. Second in line to the Iron Throne.

He needed to look for a bride. A future queen of the Realm, to rule by his side when the time comes. He was definitely not ready.

His squire finished with the laces and moved to grab his cloak. Valarr finally turned away from the window, catching his own reflection in the polished mirror across the chamber. 

He thought he looked exactly like someone who was about to spend the entire week being presented to the daughters of every noble house with enough ambition to secure an invitation. He was not particularly happy about it.

Valarr was far from ungrateful. From a very young age, he fully understood the weight of his name and position, and what it required. However, understanding and being at peace with it was not always the same.

A future queen. Someone whose name would sit beside his in the history books, a face he did not yet know. Someone who was somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms right now, perhaps dressing for the festivities, or perhaps already within these walls.

He wondered, briefly, what was she thinking about at this moment.

“Your Grace,” His squire stepped back. “You are ready.”

Valarr looked at himself in the mirror once more. The black doublet he wore was accented by deep burgundy, the three-headed dragon forged in steel at the breast. His dark hair was done more neatly than usual, his silver streak proudly showing.

He thought about the day ahead. The incoming introductions and careful conversations. The noble ladies that would be presented. The Lord fathers who would be watching. All enshrouded by the grand performance of a nameday celebration.

The young dragon prince straightened.

You had read about the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

It was so grand and vast in a way that made you feel your own insignificance, that you were only one person. To be standing in a room that bore witness to power and greatness.

Aldric stood beside you, feeling the complete opposite. That was the thing about your father that you never quite managed to inherit. He could walk into any room, and find his footing within moments, even as a lesser lord that merely dealt with herb trades.

By no means was he arrogant. He was simply a man that held a particular steadiness within himself, a man who knew exactly who he was.

Your father took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and became Lord Aldric Sweetbriar, a man whose house you might not immediately recognize but whose bearing you would not miss.

You secretly envied him for it.

“Come, daughter,” he said, and beckoned you forward into the noise. You only followed because it was you had to.

The hall was already full and continued to get fuller.

You stayed close to your father’s side and tried to do what you always did on occasions like these: observe, rather than participate. It was a strategy that proved to be quite successful at small gatherings in the Reach.

There were lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, some clustered together like in a map. Lannisters in their signature red and lustrous gold. Baratheons standing broad shouldered and loud across the hall, already nursing goblets of wine. 

The familiar Tyrells gathered near the center of the hall, as they always did. Orbiting them were other lords from the Reach that you recognized by sigil. 

Despite being the quietest in the hall, the northern lords were easy to spot. They held their demeanor so differently than those of the south, standing watchfully. You noticed that they had not yet decided to take their thick furs and cloaks off yet, even in the humid air of King’s Landing.

You recognized that particular stillness. Those who were more accustomed to silence rather than southern spectacle. Embarrassingly, you felt an unexpected affinity towards them. Perhaps you could do well in the North.

You continued observing the room, and kept your hands still like Elara had taught you.

Your father was already in conversation with a lord from the Crownlands, warm and genuinely interested. He introduced you briefly, and you smiled. Then you stepped back and let him continue, slightly behind his shoulder like a shadow.

Then you became aware of the women perhaps about an hour in. A group of highborn ladies near the far end of the hall, the kind of women who had been raised in grand castles rather than being merely invited to them.

“Is that a Sweetbriar sigil?”

The voice was not quiet, it was not meant to be. It held the character of someone who had grown up in rooms where their voice was always worth hearing. Then, light laughter. Dismissive and entirely certain of itself.

“The Red Keep allows herb merchants now, apparently.”

You kept your eyes forward, and face entirely still, with practiced grace. Instinctively, you pressed your fingers against your wrist once again. Thinking back to the brook behind Sweetfield, and Celyn’s soft giggles, you pretended to not hear their discussions.

“My dear.”

The voice came from your left. It was warm and unhurried. You turned.

Lady Ellinor Tyrell was not a young girl but a striking woman, the kind of lady that was naturally placed at the center of any space she occupied. You remembered Edwyn’s silly infatuation about her when you were younger, filling your ears with detailed descriptions of her beauty and grace. 

“Lady Tyrell,” You greeted, bowing your head slightly before curtsying.

She looked at you with genuine warmth and slight amusement, like she had heard exactly what had been said earlier. Seeing your father deeper in conversation with the other lords, she gently took both your hands in hers.

“I had thought that was you,” her eyes moved over your face with fondness. “You have grown since I last saw you at Highgarden.”

“I was the age of four and ten, my lady,” your voice came out steadier than you felt. “My father had brought us for the harvest feast.”

“Aye, that is right,” the corners of her eyes creased warmly. “I remember that you spent the whole of the afternoon in the gardens, and nobody could find you for supper. The head gardener spoke of you afterward, and said that you knew more of the medicinal properties of half his plants than most of his staff combined.”

Something in your chest had loosened. “He was far too kind to say so, my lady.”

“He was truthful to say so.” Lady Tyrell then tucked your hand gently through her arm, turning you both away from your busy father.

“How does your Lord father fare? Your siblings? All is well?”

“Yes, my lady. Well enough. My youngest brother Celyn has only just turned seven.”

“The little one,” she said softly. “Seven already. The years do not slow for any of us.”

Gently drawing you forward, she says, “Come, there are some among our company who will be glad of your acquaintance.”

“Lord Fossoway has been asking for your father’s rosemary oil for the better part of the year, and has not had the good sense to simply send a raven to Briarkeep.”

A breath of a laugh escaped you, before you could stop it. Lady Ellinor’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“There,” she said quietly, only for you to hear. “That is better.”

She then led you gradually toward the gathered group of Tyrells and other houses from the Reach. She always kept you included in the discussions, without making it feel like a charity. The Reach lords and ladies received you with easy warmth and familiarity. You were one of theirs, after all, no matter how small your house is.

Your father caught your eye from across a group of Crownlands lords, giving you a small nod. Well done, hold steady. You heard his voice in your head, before straightening your own posture.

For a fleeting moment, you were not the wallflower of Briarkeep.

Only for a moment.

The hush came without warning.

One moment the great hall was full of noise; voices, laughter, and the clink of goblets across the gathered nobility. Then, it stopped. Not all once, but in a wave.

You felt it reach you before you understood what it meant.

Every head turned toward the doors. Yours did too.

“His Grace, King Daeron the Good of House Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The herald’s voice carried through the great hall, ringing through the stone walls.

“His Grace, Baelor of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”

The rustle of fabric, and soft footsteps rippled around you. Lady Ellinor inclined her head with graceful precision. You lowered yourself into a curtsy beside her, eyes fixed on the cold stone floor.

“His Grace, Valarr of House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, on the occasion of his nameday.”

You heard footsteps, slow and measured. Moving through the parted crowd. The whisper of fine fabric. The soft clink of ceremonial armor.

After Prince Matarys, the family of Prince Maekar followed, filling the hall with the full weight of Targaryen blood gathered in one space. You kept your eyes down and your curtsy steady, listening to each name.

Then the herald fell silent. A beat of silence.

Then King Daeron’s voice, older and gentler than you had expected, carried throughout the hall.

“Rise.”

You rose with everyone, before finally taking a look at the royal family for the first and probably only time.

Impossible to miss, you saw the king first. White haired and measured, wearing the crown of his father, Aegon the Unworthy. Beside him stood Prince Baelor. The grey at his temples did nothing to diminish him. If anything, it had only refined what was already there.

When the older prince shifted, your eyes found the one beside him without meaning to.

Prince Valarr Targaryen.

You had heard about him from others’ accounts. The descriptions had been accurate enough, dark brown hair with a silver streak that showed his Valyrian ancestry. Somehow, it still failed to prepare you for the reality of him standing in the same room as you.

He looked on to the hall of people celebrating his nameday, with an expression you could not quite name from a distance.

He did not look unhappy. Nor entirely at ease.

Perhaps a combination of the two.

He did not look your way once. Why would he? There were higher born lords and ladies filling every inch of the hall, daughters of great and wealthy houses positioned carefully within his line of sight.

Prince Valarr stood with his shoulders straight, his face composed, and his eyes moving steadily across the room without once landing on the unremarkable youngest daughter of a lesser Reach house, standing quietly at Lady Tyrell’s side.

You told yourself you were relieved. Mostly.

“He is more handsome than the accounts would suggest, is he not?” Lady Ellinor’s voice came softly at your shoulder, with quiet amusement. You became suddenly aware that you had been staring.

Heat crept up the back of your neck.

“I fear I would not know, my lady,” you said, gathering whatever composure you had left. “I have not read many accounts.”

“No,” Lady Ellinor said, with a sound that was not quite a laugh. “I do not suppose you have.”

You kept your eyes carefully forward, your stomach filling with a slight discomfort; like you had been caught doing something you were not supposed to.

The celebration resumed itself around the royal family’s presence, noise swelling back into the great hall with ease. Lords and ladies continued to move about. Goblets were refilled. Musicians finding their place once again.

It was a nameday celebration. You reminded yourself of that.

Across the hall, you watched as the young prince was received by the first group of lords. You could not hear the words being exchanged from this distance. You did not need to. The men’s postures. The practiced smiles. Their daughters positioned themselves deliberately at their Lord fathers’ sides, lovely and composed. Like they had prepared their entire life for this moment.

Prince Valarr received them graciously. He was patient. Yet, there was something behind his eyes, even at this distance. You recognized it the same way you did for the northern lords.

A person resuming their duties, while something continues to weigh heavy on their mind.

You understood that feeling rather well.

Having detached himself from the Crownlands lords, your father appeared at your side. Lady Ellinor had since separated from you, being pulled away by her own family.

“The royal family,” he observed, in the quiet tone he always used when he took note of something.

“Aye,” you said. “So it is, my lord.”

Aldric was quiet for a moment, surveying the hall with patient yet ambitious eyes. The eyes of a man who had come to King’s Landing with a purpose, and intended to see it through.

“I spoke with Lord Brightwater this evening. A Crownlands house, good standing.” He paused. “He has a son. Second-born. Near your age, from what I understand.”

You looked at your father.

He was not looking at you. He was watching the hall with the same steady expression.

“He seemed a reasonable man,” Lord Aldric continued. “His house is respectable. Not large, but steady.”

You understood what he was not saying. You had always been good at reading between the lines of what he said. 

Do not look toward the prince, my sweet daughter. We are not here for that, and you know it as well as I do.

He did not say any of it. He did not need to. Because he was kind-hearted enough to not speak of it plainly to you.

“I see,” you said softly.

“I thought it worth mentioning,” Your father said gently.

You looked back at the group of lords and ladies, with the young prince at the center of them all. The prince who had not looked your way once and would likely not think to.

You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.

“Yes,” you said. “Worth mentioning.”

The great hall had received him exactly as he expected it to. A prince of the great dragon house. The heir of the heir.

Valarr moved through the first hour with the careful patience his father had taught him his entire life. Lord after lord. Name after name. Exchanging conversations and pleasantries that always had hidden meanings and agendas underneath them.

Instead of enjoying the feast, he knew his real duty. Matarys drifted past him at some point, with the satisfied and relaxed expression of a youngest son enjoying himself without the weight of obligation on his shoulders.

“How fares my big brother?” His younger brother said, falling into place beside him for a moment with a goblet in hand.

“Well enough,” Valarr said.

The even younger prince looked at him sideways. “You have spoken to four lords in the past hour, and smiled at all of them in exactly the same way.”

“That is called courtesy, dear brother.”

“That is called exhaustion,” Matarys took a long sip. “The Lannister lord has had his eyes on you for the past quarter hour. He has his daughter with him. The one in gold.”

“I am aware.”

“Her beauty is quite astounding.”

“I am also aware of that.”

“But?”

Valarr said nothing. Matarys seemed to understand. He did not push. He simply downed the remaining wine in his goblet, and patted his older brother on the shoulder. He then drifted away into the crowd, like he still had all the freedom and time in his hands.

Valarr watched him go with a combination of envy and affection in his chest.

Making sure to keep his face composed, he let out a subtle sigh before turning back to receive the Lannister lord.

Baelor caught his eye from across the hall. A look that said nothing, yet everything. Valarr gave him the smallest nod in return.

He had lost count of how many conversations he has had. This time, it was a lord from the Stormlands. Broad and direct in the manner of his region. It felt refreshing to him, especially after the Lannister lord that seemed to only speak in glamorous riddles.

Until something in his periphery caught his attention without quite announcing itself.

Near the group of Tyrells and Reach lords. A girl at Lady Ellinor Tyrell’s side, standing with the quiet grace of someone who had been observing everything. There was nothing loud about her. Nothing deliberate. She was simply there. Her stillness was different from the other ladies he had observed this evening.

The highborn daughters were still in the same way an archer’s drawn bow was; calculated and waiting.

She was still in the way a person is when they were genuinely content to observe. She stood still, feeling like no one was watching her.

Valarr did not know why his eyes stayed on her for half a second longer than they should have. There was no obvious reason for it. She was not positioned to be noticed. Her sigil, at a distance, he could not place it. A small rose on green, it must be a lesser house he was not familiar with.

Then the Stormlands lord had said something that required his attention. The prince teared his eyes away from her.

She had not crossed his mind again. Not deliberately.

Though once, near the end of the evening, when the feast had concluded and the lords were beginning to retire to their chambers, Valarr’s eyes moved one more time toward the place the Reach group had been.

She was gone. With her father most likely. Off to retire to whatever chamber had been arranged for them.

There was no reason to notice the absence of someone whose presence he had barely registered.

He noticed it anyway. Briefly.

Then, Matarys appeared at his side to announce that the evening was finally over. Valarr let himself be steered toward the corridor, and put the evening behind him.

He tried to.

Valarr had not slept particularly well.

This was not unusual following the first night of a week-long celebration. There was always a particular kind of restlessness that came after hours of practiced performance.

He dressed unceremoniously, sending his squire away earlier than usual. He stood at the window, watching as the Red Keep woke up in the pale morning light. He stood still until a knock came.

It was not his squire. He knew his squire’s knock.

“Enter,” Valarr said.

Surprisingly, it was his father. He looked like a man who had been awake for several hours and had already put them to good use.

“Come,” Baelor said. “Walk with me.”

Entering his study, Baelor settled into a chair near the hearth. He gestured for Valarr to do the same.

He looked at his son with attention that made Valarr feel seen and measured his entire life, never unkindly. He let the silence sit, comfortable and undemanding.

Until he said at last, “Well.” The single word doing the work of a much longer question.

Valarr took a few moments to think.

“It was the first evening,” he said. “The Lannister lord presented his daughter. A Baratheon cousin. Several other ladies from the Reach.”

“And your thoughts?”

“Gracious. Well prepared. All of them exactly what they were meant to be. Or taught to be.” He paused. “The Lady Lannister especially. I could not find a fault with her if I tried.”

Baelor tilted his head forward slightly. This was his son.

“But?”

Valarr sighed softly, “But I kept looking for the person underneath the preparation and could not find her.” He said plainly, knowing his own father was the one person he could be plain with. “Perhaps she was there. Perhaps I did not look long or well enough.”

Baelor nodded slowly. He did not push. He never did.

After a moment, “There was a sigil I did not recognize. Near the Tyrells, perhaps from the Reach. A pale rose on green.” Valarr said it as casually as he could.

“A lesser house, I think. I could not place the name.”

His father looked at him with an expression that was entirely neutral, yet somehow still managing to be amused.

“Sweetbriar,” Baelor said, without hesitation. He remembered everything. “House Sweetbriar of Briarkeep. A minor house of the Reach. Loyal to the Tyrells for generations. Their trade is in herbs and botanical oils.” A brief pause. “Lord Aldric’s youngest daughter.”

Valarr absorbed all this information with a nod that he deliberately kept measured.

His father’s eyes did not leave his face. “Is she the one who has caught your eye?”

“No,” Valarr said, perhaps a bit too promptly. “I was only wondering, father.”

“Mm.” Baelor said nothing further on the subject. Valarr thought it was considerably worse than if he had said something.

“Only a few days remain,” he said at last. “The young lords and ladies your age are gathering in the gardens this morning. It would do you well to go among them. Not just as a prince looking for a bride.”

He held Valarr’s gaze steadily. “Simply as a person among people.”

Valarr exhaled slowly through his nose as he pulled the study’s door closed behind him.

The corridor was quiet. He stood for a moment with his hand still on the door, thinking about how he wished not to go to the gardens before accepting that he had to go regardless.

He turned away from the door.

“Your Grace.”

Valarr stopped.

The Lady Lannister was standing in the same corridor outside his father’s study, dressed in a gown of morning sunlight. She was as composed and lovely as she had been the previous evening. Donning the same practiced smile.

“My lady,” he said. “Good morrow.”

“And to you, Your Grace.” She gently stepped beside him, with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to handle something when given an opening. “I had heard the young lords and ladies are to gather in the gardens this morning. Might I have the honor of accompanying you, my prince?”

There was no graceful way to say no. There was no reason to say no.

“Of course, my lady,” he said.

The gardens of the Red Keep were at their best in the morning, before the heat of the day settled fully into the air. They were already gathered by the time Valarr arrived.

Groups of lords and ladies dispersed among the paths and flowerbeds, the casual mingling of people who were all here for the same unspoken reason, pretending to simply enjoy the morning air.

The Lady Lannister walked beside him and spoke beautifully of the gardens and the weather, how it reminded her of her home at Casterly Rock.

Valarr was certain that he was adequately present in the conversation; he thought of her as pleasant company.

With mild guilt in his chest, he just wished that he found her more interesting than he actually did.

He then steered her gently toward a certain group of highborn ladies. “The Lady Serrett is there,” he said. “I believe you are acquainted.”

She understood. He could see that she understood. She received it with perfect composure, dipping into a curtsy and a smile that flickered with subtle disappointment.

“Of course, Your Grace. I thank you for the company.”

“The pleasure was mine, my lady.”

After the group had received the Lady Lannister, he continued walking through the gardens, giving small nods and smiles of acknowledgement towards the other groups.

He looked along the paths. The rose arbor. The far end near the fountain where a group of younger lords had gathered.

He did not find what he was looking for.

He stopped.

What exactly was he looking for?

A pale rose on green.

Lord Aldric Sweetbriar’s youngest daughter whose name he still did not know. A girl he had no particular reason to be looking for in the gardens of the Red Keep.

Valarr was looking for her anyway.

He became aware of this with slight discomfort, a realization. He turned away from the gardens. He did not need to be there.

The young prince heads for the library.

The library of the Red Keep was not a place most guests sought out during a nameday celebration. It was tucked away in the quieter part of the castle. It smelled of old parchment and the settled dust of books that had been there for generations.

Valarr had been coming here since he was a young boy. It was the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expected him to be in.

He pushed the door open. Then stopped.

You turned a page. It was a simple gesture. Simple in the same way you breathed in air.

You had found the library by accident the previous evening, slipping away from the corridor while your father talked to yet another lord.

You have not even broken your fast yet, and you are still here. The morning light came in clean through the window beside you. You had your feet tucked underneath you on the chair, which Elara would have had something to say about, with a book open on your lap.

For the first time since leaving the Reach, you felt entirely comfortable.

Then, the door opened. You looked up.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you were on your feet with a speed that almost sent the book flying. You quickly closed it and held it tightly in your hands, before immediately dropping into a curtsy. Heat rose in the back of your neck and ears.

Seven hells. Of all the rooms in this enormous castle. Of all the people to walk through the door.

“Your Grace,” You managed, eyes fixed on the level of his boots. “Forgive me, I did not – I had not thought –” You stopped, trying to collect yourself. “I shall take my leave at once.”

“Please, do not.”

His voice was gentle. Not unkind. Not amused at your expense.

You cautiously looked up from his boots. He was looking at you with an expression you could not name. Not displeased. Curiosity?

“I did not come to drive you out, my lady,” he said. “Sit. Please.”

You sat, slowly pulling your book back to its earlier position. Trying not to look like a person who had not just been caught sitting with her feet tucked under her in the dragon prince’s library reading a book she had taken off his shelf without permission.

Prince Valarr settled into the chair across from you, a look of quiet curiosity on his face.

“May I ask what it is you are reading, my lady?” he asked.

You looked down at the cover. “A history of the Valyrian freehold, Your Grace.” You paused. “I do hope it was not – that is, I took it from the shelf without –”

“It is a library,” he said simply. “Books are meant to be read.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “What do you make of it so far?”

You blinked. The question was genuinely curious, it caught you off guard.

“It is –” You started, carefully thinking. The prince looked at you as though he actually wanted to know. “Considering the subject matter, whoever wrote it was far more interested in dates than in people. I keep finding myself wanting to argue with the written annotations.”

Something shifted in his expression. “I have written those annotations.”

You looked down at the book with sudden horror. Opening the book, you found a passage about the early dragonlords, a small annotation written neatly beside it.

This is not what the Maester Gyldayn wrote. See the Fires of the Freehold, Chapter Fourth.

You stared at it for a moment. Then helplessly, “You are correct that it is not, Your Grace. Maester Gyldayn contradicts this passage.”

Valarr looked at you more properly then. “You have read the works of Maester Gyldayn.”

“I have read most things, Your Grace,” you said, before catching yourself. It came out with more confidence than you had intended to present to a prince of the Seven Kingdoms in a library you had wandered into uninvited.

But, Prince Valarr did not seem to find it presumptuous. If anything, he found it the complete opposite.

“You are Lord Aldric’s daughter,” he said then. Not quite a question. “Of House Sweetbriar.”

You looked at him in shock. “You know of my house, Your Grace?”

“As a Prince of the Realm should,” he said simply. “It is my duty to know of the noble houses that swear their banners to the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Your house is from the Reach, loyal to the Tyrells since the beginning. Your trade is in herbs and oils.”

You stared at him. Not the careful practiced stare of a lady maintaining her composure in the presence of a prince. But a genuine, unguarded stare of someone that finally felt seen, and remembered.

“I–” You stopped. “Yes, that is correct, Your Grace.”

“You were not in the gardens this morning,” he said, before even thinking about it. His expression shifted slightly.

“No, Your Grace.” You kept your voice even. “I find I am better suited to libraries and books than gardens.” You paused, “which is perhaps strange, given that my house trade is botanical.”

“Not strange,” he said. “Honest.” The prince looked at you for a moment with the same quiet curiosity. “You were here yesterday evening as well.”

It was more of an observation than a question. You had not seen him outside the Great Hall the previous evening and yet he somehow knew.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you admitted. “I discovered it by accident. Forgive me, I hope that was not–”

“No need to apologize, my lady,” he said gently. “I have been coming here since I was a young boy. It is the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expects anything of me.” He said it so plainly. “I find that I am protective of it.”

“I understand, Your Grace.” You looked down, before shyly looking back up. “I have a corner of the garden at Briarkeep. Behind the lavender rows where they grow tallest. Nobody thinks to look for me there.”

The prince was quiet for a moment, looking at you with the same expression he had worn since he sat down. One you still could not name.

“You preferred this to the gardens this morning?” he said. “Even knowing the lords and ladies our age were gathering?”

“Your Grace,” you said carefully, “with all respect – I am merely the youngest daughter of a lesser noble house from the Reach. The lords and ladies in the gardens are not gathering for my benefit.”

Something shifted across his face. Not pity. Something more complicated and careful.

“And yet your Lord father has brought you here,” he said.

“My father,” you started, after a small pause, “he is an optimistic man. It is one of his finest qualities.” You looked down at the book briefly. “He has his eye on the second-born son of Lord Brightwater.”

“He is quite ambitious, yes. But he is realistic. That is why we are here, Your Grace.”

You said it steadily, because it was true and because you had made your peace with it, rather than thinking about the alternative. The thought you had long dismissed since before arriving at King’s Landing, that you had no business thinking about right now, sitting in the library with a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

Prince Valarr was quiet for a long moment.

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” you said then, thinking the silence felt too dangerous to leave uninterrupted. “Do you not want to be in the gardens yourself? I understood that the morning was intended for–”

“For the search,” he said, with a grimace not directed at you. “Aye, it is.”

Valarr leaned back in his chair and looked at the shelves in the room, the morning light moving slowly across the long rows of books.

“My nameday celebration,” he said, “is not entirely a nameday celebration.”

“I know,” you said gently, looking down at your hands.

He looked at you.

“Everyone knows, Your Grace,” you said, with kind honesty. “The daughters who have been brought by their Lord fathers.” You paused. “It is plain enough to anyone paying attention.”

“And you pay attention, my lady,” he responded.

“I do little else,” you said, before thinking about it.

The prince almost smiled. It was close enough that you noticed it and looked away, back at the book in your hands.

“Have you made a decision yet, Your Grace?” you asked, in a quieter tone. Rowan would be slack-jawed if she were here. You were not sure where the sudden courage to ask came from. Perhaps it stopped feeling like a conversation between a crown prince and a lesser lord’s daughter. You could not name this feeling yet.

He was quiet for long enough that you thought you had overstepped.

“No,” he finally said. “I have not.”

You looked up at him.

“Does that surprise you, my lady?” he said.

“A little,” you admitted. “O-Only because you are who you are, Your Grace. Every great house in the realm would consider it an honor beyond measure. I had assumed the matter would be easily decided.”

“Easily decided,” he repeated quietly, more to himself. “Aye. It ought to be.”

“Every lady I have spoken with has been everything she was meant to be.” He looked at the open window, the sunlight getting brighter as the morning began to pass.

“Gracious and accomplished. With names that would sit well beside mine in history books. I have no reasonable objection to any of them.”

You waited patiently.

“And yet,” he continued. “I kept looking for the person underneath all of that.”

“Every exchange and conversation felt like a prepared performance. Every smile and gesture placed exactly where it was meant to be. I stood inside of all of it yet I felt–”

He paused. “Absent. As though it was happening to someone who looked like me while I watched from a distance.”

“I do not think they are false,” he said. “I think they have simply been prepared so thoroughly for this that there is no longer any distance between the preparation and the person. I keep struggling to find where one ended and the other began.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then the silence swelled even more.

Until, “My eldest sister Elara,” you started slowly, “was presented to her husband at a feast in the Reach when she was seven and ten. She spent a year beforehand learning everything about his house, his preferences, his family, the way he took his wine.” You paused. “She is also genuinely fond of him. Genuinely happy. The preparation and the person – they were the same.”

“I am not saying that it is not real,” you continued carefully. “Only that perhaps the preparation does not mean there is nothing underneath it. Perhaps it only means you have not yet been given the proper circumstances to find out.”

Prince Valarr was quiet for a moment. “And what circumstances would those be?”

You thought about it honestly. “Ones that do not feel like an audition,” you said plainly. “A room where nothing is required. Where there is nothing to perform for.”

He looked at you. “A room like this one,” he said, with an unreadable expression.

You suddenly became aware, the heat rushing back to your neck. “I did not mean–” You began.

“I know,” he said quietly, with the sincere intent of not making you feel foolish. “I know you did not.”

He looked at the book in your hands, the small annotations he wrote resting underneath your fingers.

“I do not know your name, my lady,” he started. “I know your house, your father, your trade. I know you have read Maester Gyldayn’s work, and disagree with this author’s treatment of dates.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “I do not know your name.”

You looked at him. At the prince sitting across from you in a library, who had not stayed in the gardens, who had come here instead, who was looking at you with something in his mismatched eyes –

You stopped. His eyes.

You had not been close enough the previous evening. One brown. One blue. Warm earth and still water.

You forgot, for just a moment, what he had asked you.

You told him your name.

Valarr said it once, quietly, as though he was testing the weight of it on his lips. You would sacrifice anything to the Seven to hear him say it once more.

A knock at the library door. Valarr’s expression shifted. Something concealing the openness that had been there a moment ago.

“Enter,” he said.

It was his squire, slightly out of breath. He had been looking for the prince for longer than he wanted to admit.

“Your Grace,” he bowed. “Your presence has been requested. Prince Baelor awaits you in the–”

“Aye,” Valarr rose, without hurry and hesitation.

You rose too, instinctively. He looked at you. For a moment he simply looked, in the same way he had been looking since he sat across from you.

“My lady,” he said. He was the young dragon prince again, not the person who had been sitting across from you, discussing Gyldayn’s work in the quiet of the morning.

“Your Grace,” you replied, dipping into a curtsy.

He held your gaze for just a moment longer than what was strictly necessary.

Then he turned and followed his squire out of the library. The door closed.

You stood beside your chair for a moment, the book still in your hands. Everything in the room felt like the prince had not even stepped foot in here. You sat down slowly.

You opened back to the same page you had been on before the door opened. Reading the same sentence three times.

Then you turned to the small annotations, your fingers gently brushing against the dried ink. His handwriting, small and neat.

This is not what Maester Gyldayn wrote.

You closed the book carefully. You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.

I do not know your name.

He knew it now.

You were not entirely sure what to do with any of what happened during the last hour.

Sitting in the library for a while longer, with the book closed in your lap, you did not read. Instead, you thought.

You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. Your father had his eye on Lord Brightwater’s second-born son. In five days, the prince’s nameday celebrations would conclude and you would return to Briarkeep. To the lavender rows and Celyn’s muddy hands.

In five days, the prince would have already chosen a lovely bride worthy of carrying the Targaryen name. Worthy to stand by his side as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Worthy to read small notes of affection in his neat handwriting. Worthy to get lost in those mismatched brown and blue eyes of his–

You shut the thought down before it could finish itself.

Setting the book on a small nearby table, you stood. Smoothing your skirts the way Elara had taught you.

You were here because your father is an optimistic man with a good eye for opportunity, and a second-born son of a Crownlands’ lord who was by all accounts reasonable and steady.

You were not here for mismatched eyes and written annotations.

You picked up the book once again, before putting it back on the shelf you had found it in.

Then you left the library and went to find your Lord father.

You thought about almost nothing else. Almost.

The great hall was somehow louder on the second evening than the first, which you had not thought possible.

You sat with your father among the Reach lords, several tables removed from the royal family, which was exactly where a house like yours belonged. You kept your hands folded in your lap, and did what you usually did: observe.

Your father was already in conversation with the lord beside him. You let the noise drown you and tried not to think about the library.

You were not succeeding particularly well in that regard.

Until, it happened so suddenly. You were looking at nothing in particular. The lit torches, the three-headed dragon on one of the banners, the other guests between you, a pair of mismatched eyes already looking back.

Your breath caught.

You looked away immediately. Back to your hands, to the untouched goblet of wine in front of you, to your father’s profile as he continued to speak to the lord next to him.

Your neck felt warm.

You did not look back.

Across the hall, Prince Valarr looked away a moment after you did. Just a moment.

Matarys, beside him, said nothing. But he noticed.

The feast continued. The torches began to burn lower. You kept your eyes where you belonged.

You did not look back. Almost.

Lord Aldric Sweetbriar was always gentle about things. Especially to his youngest daughter. Somehow, it made it more difficult to argue with him than if he simply raised his voice.

He had knocked on your chamber door before breakfast, ledger already closed under his arm.

“You will go to the gardens this morning,” he said. “With the other ladies.”

“My Lord father–”

“You will go,” he said again. Same tone. Same eyes. “We are here for a purpose, daughter. Your purpose is not the library.”

You had gone to the gardens.

You found the quietest corner you could, which was unfortunately not very quiet. You sat on a bench, a slight distance from the gathered lords and ladies, a book tucked under your arm like a shield. 

The gardens were beautiful, with the flora being more well kept than those at Briarkeep, which was saying something.

The gathered group’s energy has shifted, as though someone significant had arrived. You looked up.

He had come alone, which surprised you. No squire at his shoulder, not even Matarys. Just the young prince, stepping into the gardens with ease.

He saw you before the group saw him.

For half a second. In that half second, his gaze found the quiet corner you sat in. His expression shifted the same way it did at the library.

Then the crowd turned, the lords and ladies straightening around his presence.

He moved toward you. Not enough to be obvious, just a slight shift in direction. A small step, the beginning of an intention.

Highborn ladies appeared on both sides, along with a young Westerlands lord that extended a hand to him in greeting. The group closed around him.

There was no gracious way to refuse. He went with them. Of course, he did.

Valarr glanced back once subtly. You had already looked back down at your book.

You read the same page four times.

After midday, your father had formally introduced you to Lord Brightwater’s son in the gardens, with the quiet satisfaction of a man ticking something off a carefully planned list.

His name was Lucian. He was tall, brown haired, and well-mannered. He smiled at you, and it felt genuine.

“My Lord father tells me you are a great reader,” he said, walking beside you on one of the garden paths.

“He flatters me,” you said. “I simply have few other hobbies, my lord.”

“I find the same is said of me.” He glanced at you sideways, “What do you like to read, my lady?”

You gave him a real answer, and he listened and responded thoughtfully. It was a pleasant conversation.

He was everything your father had said. Steady, kind, and genuine.

Yet, you waited for something underneath it.

You were still waiting when the walk concluded, your fathers gently separating you both. Lord Aldric looked quite satisfied.

Across the gardens, the young prince watched you walk with the young Brightwater lord.

He then returned his attention to the lord beside him, responding back to his question.

He did not look back across the garden path. He did look back just once.

Matarys, who was a few steps behind him, looked between his older brother and the distant figures of you and Lucian Brightwater.

He said nothing. Not yet.

On the fourth day, you had borrowed yet another book. This one was thinner than the last, a collection of botanical records from the early Andal settlements. It seemed it was forgotten, wedged in between two heavier books in one of the shelves at the library.

It seemed that there was no gathering today. Your chest fluttered, your steps lighter than usual as you approached the empty gardens. 

The sunlight came in low and golden through the hedges, and the air was cooler than usual. It was enough to faintly remind you of home.

You sat down on a bench near the far end of the path, opening your book. Given the circumstances, this was one of the rare times you felt entirely content.

Then, footsteps on the stone path, gradually getting closer.

You had recognized them before you looked. You somehow learned the particular rhythm of his walk, without even meaning to.

Valarr sat down at the other end of the bench without asking, which would have been presumptuous from anyone else. From him, it simply was not.

He looked at the gardens for a moment, thinking about what to say.

“Another one,” he said, nodding at the book.

“Botanical records from the early Andal settlements,” you said. “I found it wedged between two considerably large volumes. It looked forgotten and lonely.”

“And do you have opinions about it, my lady?”

“I have opinions about everything,” you spoke plainly. “I simply do not often say them aloud.”

He turned to look at you. “You say them to me.”

You did not know how to answer. Deciding to look down at the page, you both knew it was already an answer in itself.

The silence had settled between you and the prince. It was comfortable; neither of you felt the need to fill it.

Until, “You have siblings, my lady?”

“Four, Your Grace,” you said. “Edwyn is the eldest and the heir of Briarkeep. My father has taught him well, he will be a good lord.”

“Then Elara. She taught me everything I know about being a proper lady; keeping my hands still and not saying the first thing that comes into my head.”

You looked down at your fingers inching toward your wrist. “For which, I am quite successful.”

“And the third.”

Something warmer moved through your voice. “Rowan,” you looked at a hedge across the path. “Rowan is the kind of girl that fills a room without knowing it. She is bright, yet restless, incapable of keeping her thoughts to herself if there is anyone nearby to hear it.”

Your fingers brushed against the illustrations on the page. “She is the one who started calling me Wallflower.”

Valarr stayed quiet, yet attentive. He was listening completely.

“It was not meant unkindly,” you said. You knew it never had been and you had always known it even when it brought you unease. “Rowan thought it was funny at first. Then it was simply the truth. I had become the name whether I wanted it or not.”

The corner of your mouth moved. “She always meant it affectionately. But, she was also completely certain that she was right.”

“Was she right?” he asked. 

You considered it honestly. “Mostly,” you admitted. “I stand on the sidelines. I observe rather than participate. I am not fond of large rooms full of people I do not know.” You paused. “It still brings me unease when she says it. Which probably means it is true.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “You said four.”

You looked at him.

“Edwyn, Elara, Rowan,” he said. “That is three.”

You stared at him. Valarr had been paying the same quality of attention to you that you paid to everything else. The realization sat in your chest with a feeling you could not name.

“Celyn,” you responded. “He is the youngest. Seven years of age.”

You took a moment, trying to gather his character in mere words. “He has very strong opinions about the garden. Delivers them with the full authority of a Grand Maester.”

Your mouth curved ever so slightly. “He once spent an entire afternoon in tears because a bee had died near the lavender rows. He felt personally responsible.”

Something shifted in Valarr’s expression, quiet and recognizing.

“He sounds exhausting,” he said.

An amused breath escaped you before you could stop it. Valarr’s eyebrow slightly twitched upward at the soft sound.

“He is the best person I know,” you said simply without hesitation.

Valarr looked toward the hedges for a moment. “I have a Matarys,” he said.

You looked at him.

“He is not seven,” he continued. “He is considerably older and considerably more troublesome.” He says with both exasperation and affection.

“He delivers his thoughts with the confidence of someone who thinks they are never wrong.”

“That is Celyn,” you replied, smiling down at the book still open in your lap.

“Then I apologize, most earnestly, for what is about to come,” he said.

This time, a genuine giggle escaped you. The sound made something flutter inside Valarr’s chest. It was real and unguarded. It was beautiful.

“You can call me Valarr,” he said.

You looked up at him, his mismatched eyes brighter than ever.

“When it is only us,” he continued. It did not sound like a command nor a request, just something honest. He looked toward the path, “Every conversation I have had begins and ends with my titles. Sometimes I feel as though I am merely a title rather than a person.”

He looked back up at you, “you are one of the few people I have spoken with who makes me forget that. I would rather not be reminded of it when it is only us.”

You looked down, “That is a great deal of trust to extend to someone you have only known for four days.”

“Aye,” he said plainly. “It is.”

“Then you must do the same for me,” you said quietly.

He looked at you with a slight crinkle in his eyes. Then he said your name. This time, the way he said it felt like he had known you for the longest time.

You looked back down at your book before he could notice the slight change in your expression.

Afterwards, the conversation flowed easily between you and Valarr. Just two people surprising each other with opinions and knowledge, passing the book to each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You did not notice how much time had passed until more voices began to fill the garden. The morning had ceased to belong to only you and Valarr.

He stood up slowly, before saying your name once again. He bid you goodbye, before walking back up the path to where he came from.

You sat with the book closed in your lap, letting the morning light shine on your face. The same feeling in your chest returned, the one you still could not name.

You were beginning to suspect that it did not need one.

Could the Great Hall get any more lavish? You thought. There were more candles than the previous nights, and more flowers blooming along the tables.

As usual, you sat with your father and the Reach lords. Lucian Brightwater sat nearby, smiling at you when your eyes met. You smiled back. Your father noticed it with quiet satisfaction.

Across the hall, Matarys was having a considerably better evening than his brother. He drifted through like he always did, finding entertainment in whatever space he ended up in.

Tonight, he found himself in the presence of Lady Ellinor Tyrell, sitting at the end of the Reach table. He intended to only stay for one goblet of wine. It ended up being three.

“You remind me of someone,” he told her, at some point during the second drink.

“Do I now, my prince?” she replied amusingly, like she had been told this many times and she never got tired of hearing it.

“My father,” he said. “The way you listen. Like you already know what someone is going to say and are simply giving them the courtesy of saying it.”

Lady Ellinor smiled warmly, “your father is a good man, Your Grace.”

“The best I know,” Matarys said plainly.

They sat with that for a moment. Until, “Prince Baelor is not the only good man I have observed this week.”

Matarys looked at her sideways.

“I speak of your brother,” she said. “The young prince has conducted himself with more genuine care and patience than most men even try to manage in a lifetime at court.”

She paused, then started speaking more softly. “I have also observed that he is considerably more careful about where his eyes rest during the evening feasts than he realizes.”

Matarys said nothing. He was looking at Valarr from across the hall. His private suspicions had just been confirmed by an outside source.

Valarr was listening to a lord to his left with every appearance of complete attention. He was also looking across the hall, thinking that no one would notice the destination of his gaze.

Matarys did, and it landed on you. Sitting several tables away, hands folded as you watched Lucian Brightwater speak to your Lord father. You were not looking back at the royal table, and it was obvious that you did your best not to.

He looked back at Lady Ellinor, a small knowing smile already painted itself on her face. “The gardens tomorrow morning,” she said quietly. “I intend to invite the young Lady Sweetbriar for a private walk.”

Slowly, the same smile made its way to Matarys’ face. “How curious,” he said. “I had thought of suggesting the very same to my brother.”

Lady Ellinor said nothing further. Instead, she raised her goblet slightly to him. Matarys did the same in return.

Neither you nor Valarr has noticed.

Lady Ellinor’s note arrived before breakfast.

Brief and warm; a walk in the gardens this morning. There was no gathering today. Just the two of you.

Having barely touched the bread on your plate, you folded the note carefully and put it away. Your father had read the note from beside you.

He nodded at you in approval, allowing you to leave breakfast with silent permission.

You had arrived before Lady Ellinor and stood at the entrance of the main path. Hearing footsteps getting closer from behind, you smoothed out your skirt in preparation.

“Good morrow, my dear,” Lady Ellinor greeted you. You did the same.

Then, more footsteps coming from behind you. That familiar rhythm.

You turned.

Matarys had appeared at Valarr’s chamber long before his squire usually did. “The gardens,” he said. “Walk with me, big brother.”

Valarr looked at him for a few moments, trying to read his face, as an older brother who had been on the receiving end of Matarys’ schemes since childhood.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you have spent the better part of the week in great halls and dusty bookshelves,” Matarys replied.

“Also because your nameday festivities are concluding soon, and you look like a man who has forgotten what sunlight feels like.”

Valarr hesitated, but went anyway. It was better than staying in his chambers thinking about the end of the week.

You looked at each other across the garden path. Then, from somewhere behind you, the sound of Lady Ellinor’s handmaiden hurrying toward her lady with urgency.

You turned to see Lady Ellinor already a few steps away from you. “Forgive me, my dear,” she called back, “I shall find you again later.”

Before you could respond, she was gone.

Somewhere behind Valarr, the even younger prince’s voice spoke. “By the Seven, I had entirely forgotten. Father wanted to see me this morning.”

“Terrible timing. Sincere apologies.” Matarys’ footsteps were already retreating.

Valarr did not turn around to watch him go. He only looked at you with an expression that was beyond the usual composure of a crown prince; with unguarded honesty.

You looked at each other. “That,” you started carefully, “was not subtle.”

“No,” he agreed. “It was not.”

A small pause. “Prince Matarys,” you said.

“And Lady Tyrell,” he added.

Your lips pressed together against the laugh building in your chest. “I might have to have a few words with Lady Ellinor.”

“I have been having words with Matarys since I was old enough to speak,” he said. “I will save you the effort. It does nothing to help.”

The same laugh from the previous morning escaped, the one Valarr wished to hear again. Perhaps for the rest of his days.

You pressed your fingers briefly to your lips, but it was already too late. He was looking at you with a brighter gleam in his eyes.

He said nothing, only offering his arm to you with ease.

You looked at him briefly, then at the garden path ahead. You took his arm.

It was the easiest walk of the entire week. No lords watching from the corners. No highborn daughters being positioned. No performance.

It was just the two of you on a garden path in the morning, talking the way you had talked in the library and on the bench.

He asked about Briarkeep. You described it honestly; the pale grey stone, the brook, the wet earth. The way he listened intently still caught you off guard.

You asked about Dragonstone. You could tell by his tone that he had complicated feelings about the place.

At some point, the path had curved and you were both in the quieter part of the gardens. The walk slowed naturally.

“There are only two days left,” you said plainly.

“Aye,” he said quietly, “that is true.”

You did not say anything else about it. Neither did he.

You both continued to walk until the path ended at a railing that looked over Blackwater Bay. You both stopped to breathe in the faint salty air.

Valarr turned to face you, catching the way the seabreeze blew strands of your hair away from your face.

You looked up at him. The morning light was fully on his face, and his mismatched eyes were looking at you the way they always did. Except, there was nothing careful about it anymore. Nothing held back or prepared.

Valarr lifted his hand slowly, giving you the chance to step away if you wanted to. You did not. His fingers brushed against your hair ever so gently.

His hand then rested at the edge of your jaw. You did not step away. Though, you were not sure how you were still breathing.

“I have been trying,” he said quietly, “to find a reason not to do this.”

“Have you found one?” you said, voice steadier than you expected.

He looked at you for a moment longer. “No,” he said simply.

It was not a grand gesture. It was not reckless. It was quiet and honest. Like it had always been between you and Valarr.

His lips were soft and warm on yours. His gentle hand at your jaw was careful. It only lasted a brief moment, yet it was entirely certain of itself. More certain than anything else in both your lives combined.

Your hands slowly climbed onto his chest. Your fingers slightly brushed against the three-headed dragon at his breast, where you could feel his heartbeat underneath the fabric. His other hand then wrapped itself around your waist, holding you closer.

When you pulled away, you barely did. He did not move far, his hands staying where they were. Valarr’s face was close enough that you felt his eyelashes flutter against yours.

He only looked at you with the same, genuine attention he gave to everything else you say and do. Except now, absolutely nothing was holding him back. 

You had also noticed something else in his face, like great relief. 

You had also finally recognized the feeling in your chest for what it was. The same one you felt since the library. Probably even before that.

Both of you stayed like that for a while. There was no reason to move. The morning belonged only to the two of you.

You did not speak. You did not need to. The whole week had been full of words; careful and measured. Now, there was simply this.

His thumb moved gently, once against your jaw, as if he was making sure you were real. You pressed your fingers slightly more firmly against his chest for the same reason.

The waves of Blackwater Bay continued to roar below you. Somewhere far away, the Red Keep continued its business, like an entirely different universe from where you were both standing.

You thought back to the journey from the Reach to here. The thought you had quickly dismissed so firmly.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. Valarr was already looking at you with those mismatched eyes of his. Not with the gaze of a composed prince of the Realm. 

But simply a man. A man holding you tightly in the quiet corner of the gardens, like you were going to disappear if he ever were to let go.

Valarr had asked for the audience himself, which was unusual. Normally it was Baelor who called for Valarr to his study. This time, he knocked.

“Enter,” his father said.

Once his son entered, Baelor set down his quill. He gestured for him to sit by the hearth. The fire was lower than usual. Somewhere below, the Red Keep was beginning its preparations for the final evening feast.

Baelor waited patiently, as he always did, letting the silence settle for a bit.

Then, “I have made my decision.”

“I know what you will say,” Valarr continued. “I know what the considerations are. The weight of it, the court’s concern, the questions it will raise,” He paused. “I have thought about it all.”

“I know you have,” Baelor responded, without sounding dismissive.

“She is the youngest daughter of a minor house from the Reach,” Valarr said plainly. “Her family trades in herbs and botanical oils. She has no claim, no great alliance to offer.”

He looked at his father. “She has read Maester Gyldayn’s work. She found the error in the Valyrian freehold text. She talks about her youngest brother the way I talk about Matarys.” A pause. “She says exactly what she thinks, but only when she trusts one enough to say it.”

“And she trusted me with it.”

Baelor looked at him with something careful and attentive. It was deeply familiar.

“I went looking for the person underneath the preparation,” Valarr said. “With her, there was no preparation to look underneath. She was simply herself. Entirely and without apology.”

“I did not know what to do with it at first. Then I did not want to do without it.”

The study was quiet for a few moments. Until, “you have spent time with her,” Baelor said at last.

“Aye.”

“More than what was visible.”

“Aye,” Valarr did not elaborate. Baelor did not need him to.

His father looked at him. Truly. With the same eyes that had watched him grow up in this keep, ones that trusted him enough to make his own decisions.

“Lord Aldric Sweetbriar,” Baelor started, slowly. “He is an honest man. His house is small but his name is clean. Strong and steady. He has never given the crown any cause for complaint in generations.”

Something that almost resembled a smile made its way to the older prince’s face. “You said no,” he said. “When I asked if she had caught your eye, that second morning.”

“I fear I said it too quickly,” Valarr admitted.

“You did,” Baelor agreed. “I noticed.”

“She does not know,” Valarr said. “I have not spoken to her about it. I wanted to speak to you first.”

Baelor nodded slowly. “Then go speak to Lord Aldric,” he said. “Tonight, before the feast. Give the man the courtesy of warning before his world changes considerably.”

His father’s smile deepened, “And then, go find her.”

Valarr stood up, before his father called him once again.

“She sounds,” he said simply, “like someone worth finding.”

The Great Hall had truly outdone itself.

Lords and ladies moved through the hall in their finest dress, knowing that tomorrow they would need to depart King’s Landing, dispersing across the Seven Kingdoms again.

Valarr moved through it all easily, feeling the absence of the weight on his shoulders. Tonight, he actually smiled in ways that were genuine rather than practiced. He managed to actually taste the wine for once.

Matarys pointed it out first, “You look different.”

“I am the same as I have always been,” Valarr said simply.

The younger prince grinned, “You are not.” Then, he nudged his shoulder.

“How were the gardens this morning?”

“Enlightening,” Valarr replied.

Matarys’ grin grew wider.

Later in the evening, Valarr’s gaze naturally moved to the Reach tables.

Your father was there, seated among the other Reach lords, speaking to Lord Fossoway. But the seat beside Lord Aldric was empty.

He was already moving before he had even thought about it.

Excusing himself from whatever conversation he was in, he moved through the great hall. Then to the giant doors, and into the corridor, where the noise of the feast had become distant muffles.

He walked the same way he had walked since he was a young boy, to the quieter parts of the Red Keep, taking turns he had taken countless times.

Valarr already knew where to find you.

You looked up when the door opened. The faint glow of the candle illuminating the side of your face.

“The feast,” you said softly.

“Will continue without me,” he said.

Valarr crossed the room, and sat in the same chair he did that second morning. He said your name softly.

Closing the book on your lap, you said, “you came to find me.”

The candle flickered between you.

“I always seem to,” he said simply.

“I was not supposed to be here for this,” you said quietly, more to yourself than anything. It was not a protest. Just the simple truth.

“I know,” he replied.

“I was here for Lord Brightwater’s second son.”

The corner of his mouth moved, “He is, I am sure, a perfectly reasonable man.”

“He is,” you said. “He was very pleasant.”

“Then it is deeply unfortunate,” Valarr said, “that you spent the entire week in my library.”

A soft, genuine laugh escaped your lips. Then, you both looked at each other, the feeling in your chest settling into something permanent.

He rose from the chair, simply and quietly. He moved towards you. You uncurled your feet from beneath you, moving to stand, but he was already lowering himself on one knee before you.

You stared at him. Words dying in your throat.

Valarr Targaryen, heir of the heir, second in line to the Iron Throne, was kneeling on the floor of the Red Keep library in the soft candlelight, looking up at you with those mismatched eyes as though there was nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms he would rather be.

He took both of your hands in his. His thumbs resting against your knuckles.

The candle threw golden light across the side of his face. Across the silver streak in his dark hair.

You could not speak. You were not certain that you were breathing.

"I have spent this entire week," he said, quietly, only for you, "looking for the person underneath the preparation." His eyes did not leave yours. 

"Instead, I have found someone who had no preparation at all. Someone who argued with my annotations and told me plainly, in my own library, that she was here for Lord Brightwater's second son."

His lips pressed together briefly.

"Someone who described her little brother crying over a bee with more love in her voice than most people do in a lifetime of grand declarations." He paused. 

"Someone who kept ending up exactly where I was looking."

Your eyes were beginning to do something you refused to allow in the Red Keep library, so you pressed your lips together and held very still.

His hands tightened slightly around yours.

"I know what I am asking," he said lowly. "I know the weight of the name I am asking you to carry. I am not asking you to carry it lightly." 

A breath. "I am asking you to carry it with me. Every part of it." 

His mismatched eyes were very bright in the candlelight. "I would face all of it considerably better with someone beside me who tells me the truth, who reads the books nobody else thinks to read, who finds the quiet corners of every room she enters."

He looked at you, and there was nothing held back in it.

"Who reminds me," he said softly, "that I am only a man."

You looked down at him. The prince who had left his own nameday feast just to sit in the silence with you.

Your free hand moved before you decided to move it. Your fingers found the side of his jaw, gently. He leaned into your touch.

"Have you spoken to my father?" you asked softly.

"I have. He asked very precise questions.” Valarr paused, "I believe I was able to curry his favor."

"He is not an easy man to impress," you said.

"I am aware." His hands were still holding yours. "I made sure I prepared thoroughly."

Then, something broke loose in your chest. A small sound escaped you that was not quite a laugh. Something that happened when your heart was too full.

Valarr looked up at you.

"Well," he said. Very quietly. "What say you, my lady?"

You looked at him for a long moment, kneeling before you in the library where it had all begun. Holding your hands in both of his, the candlelight warm between you, and the final feast’s noise almost non-existent.

You thought of Briarkeep, of Sweetfield. The lavender rows. The brook. Edwyn’s strength. Elara’s grace. Rowan’s brightness. Celyn’s innocence. You loved every piece of it.

You had not expected to find something here that you could love just as completely and certainly.

"Yes," you said. "I accept, most ardently."

Something shifted across his face that you had never seen before and would spend the entirety of life learning the name of. 

Valarr rose slowly, your hands still in his. You rose after him.

He whispered your name. Then he raised your hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles.

“My love,” he whispered again. You answered him in the only way you felt that was right.

You closed the distance between you. His hands gently find their way to your cheeks, while your hands rested against his chest.

When you parted, he rested his forehead gently against yours. You stared into his mismatched eyes.

You knew you had a whole lifetime ahead of you, giving you more than enough time to do so, but you never want to miss a single second ever again.

You both stayed like that for a long moment in the quiet library.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

The answer was simple. The same thing you had always offered to the gardens and library shelves at Briarkeep. To your youngest brother, Celyn.

Yourself. Simply and entirely.

He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks pink from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

From parties almost every weekend in the month of October with his friends—models, hot girls, in lingeries and corsets—to throwing his own annual Halloween bash, October is for having fun. 

Especially since Clark, the Gosh-blessed, Midwestern good boy of his best pal, brought his cousin to his party last year, starting the currently year-long friends-with-benefits situation with the hottest girl he's ever met. 

You walked into the rooftop area of his apartment building in a pair of daisy dukes and a maroon cowboy hat, in front of Clark like you're the one who knows the host. 

“Jimmy, this is my cousin—” Clark introduced, and your name had been branded in his brain since then. 

There was this air—this aura, Cat would then say later in the night—about you that Jimmy just couldn't put a finger on. It radiated off of you, pulling him in like a puppet on a string. It's alluring, it's magnetic. 

Jimmy wonders where Clark has been hiding you all this time. 

You told him your name, giving Jimmy nothing but a mere acknowledging nod and a half smirk. Like you know something he didn't, like you and Clark had this mutual understanding of a joke that Jimmy wasn't in on. And he desperately wanted to know. 

Jimmy blinked, trying to summon that oh-so-natural charm he knows he possessed to string one coherent sentence. 

“Can I get you something to drink?”

You slid your eyes over to Clark, who, despite towering over you, didn't make you look small. 

You both were having a silent conversation, he realized, by the way Clark raised an eyebrow at you. A second passed before you finally turned to Jimmy again, smirk intact and everything. 

“You know what?” Your voice was like velvet, Jimmy thought. So smooth and deeper than any other he was used to. It sent a jolt through his body, particularly down south. “I'll help myself. Thanks, Jimmy.”

If the full body shudder he got was any indication, Jimmy was screwed unless he screwed her. 

He watched as you walked away towards the direction of a table with an array of alcohol, your ass looking particularly delicious in the jean shorts. He noted the way your body moved, the way your hair bounced with every step of your cowboy boots. 

“No,” Clark said, cutting off Jimmy's ogling session. “Immediately no.”

“Whaa—I don't know what you're talking about, buddy.”

“She's my cousin, Jimmy.”

“Who is a full grown adult who can make her own decisions!”

Clark's eyes narrowed, and Jimmy could tell he wanted to say more, argue more, but he held back and sighed. 

“She'll break your heart.”

Jimmy snotted. “It's just sex, Clark.”

“She's going to eat you alive.”

Jimmy's smirks grow slowly, taking its time to light up his face. “God, I hope so.”

That was last year. Three shots and a dance later, your hat was on his head as you rode the living fuck out of him. 

And after, it felt almost like a routine. 

Every couple of weeks or so, you'd drop by Metropolis and he'd meet you and you'd have the best sex you'd ever had. Then, you'd be gone. 

When you were gone, Jimmy couldn't reach you at all. When he asked Clark about you, the guy just shrugged and said, “She'll be here when she wants to be here.”

Fuck. Jimmy Olsen had never been hung up on a girl before but you, you left no trace. 

He tried to look you up in every database he could get his hands on—nothing. He asked Cat to stalk your social media pages but you had none. You didn't leave anything in his place—no strand of hair on his pillow, no lacy panties on the floor, nothing but the memory on his body. 

The way his hips and shoulder ached, the way his skin broke and healed from your nails, the way his neck and his chest were covered in a constellation of bruises. 

Sometimes, Jimmy could've sworn he didn't hear his door open and close when you leave. 

“It's like—scarcity mindset,” Lois told him once over drinks after work. “Because you can't have her infinitely, so you crave her more. Like diamonds.”

She had been drunk, not as eloquent as she usually was, but so was he. And Jimmy understood her perfectly. 

So perfect that the next time he saw you, he almost fucked it all up. 

One of Jimmy’s favorite things about you is your strength. He can feel it, sometimes, when you ride him and the headboard cracked under your grip. Or when you accidentally pushed him too hard into the wall that it knocked the wind out of him for a few seconds. Or when he lost himself in your pussy that he rutted into you so hard—his exes would have winced or complained but you don't, you matched him so perfectly. 

He can feel you holding back, too. 

You're on top of him—your favorite position, really since it gives you more control—and Jimmy's hands grope your bouncing tits. It's a great pace, making him groan and whine all kinds of obscene things into your ears. 

But you're holding back and he wants more. 

“Give me more,” Jimmy pleads.

You pause for a second. “Jimmy—”

“You don't have to hold back,” He whispers to your mouth before capturing your lips with his own. He can taste you and him and everything in between. “I can take it.”

“I don't think you can.”

His hand slips between your bodies then, finding where you connected together. One finger presses on your clit, once, then twice, again and again. 

You buckle on top of him, one hand sliding down the headboard into his shoulder, a whine leaves your lips. 

“Fuck, Jimmy—”

“Give it to me, come on,” He says. “I need it, please, angel.”

It takes you a split second to remove the pillows from underneath him, sending him to collide with the bed. Your hand pushes him down further, another hand pins both of his above his head. 

“Fuck,” Jimmy groans. “You're unreal. You're so hot—”

“You want it, baby?” Your grin is nothing short of wicked. “Take it.”

So he takes. He takes and he takes until he can't anymore. Then he gives. 

You never stay overnight. 

It's a rule he sets up. Or, more like, a mutual understanding between the both of you that this thing, whatever it is, stays in the dark. It starts at night and it should end before dawn breaks. 

That particular night, though, he notices the weight on your shoulders. It carries in your steps, your voice. Like you're exhausted from something more than your job. 

For a split second, he sees the unshed tears in your eyes before you close them shut. 

“You don't have to go, you know,” Jimmy says as he watches you put on your boots. “You can stay for a bit, if you want.”

You look up at him, from your place on the bed, an eyebrow raised. “Are you getting soft on me, Olsen?”

Well, yes, but he won’t tell you that. 

“I’m just saying,” he leans against his door. “There is the friend part of friends with benefits.”

A soft scoff from your throat, but your lips pull into that signature smirk. His eyes are on you as you make your way out of his bedroom, stopping in front of him. Your hands reach out to push his hair back, then down to his bare chest, his abs, stopping on the waistband of his sweatpants. 

“What we’re doing works, okay, Jimmy?” Your tone is sweet, laced with just enough condensation to keep him wanting more. His eyes flicker to your lips, just a few millimeters apart from his own. “I’ll see you around.”

It has been a month and a week and two days since Jimmy last saw you. 

Clark is no help, really, because when is he ever. So Jimmy spirals alone, going on dates with different women anyway to keep his mind off of you. But not sex, never sex because he tried once with someone other than you and he threw up afterwards. 

He’s in so much trouble but he can’t even tell his best friend about it. Because then he’d have to admit that Clark was right. You are eating him alive. 

Add to that, Halloween’s been a bust. Aliens can't ever give Metropolis a break. It's as if they know it's Halloween, deciding to make more trouble for the first responders—including Superman and the Justice Gang. 

And it would have been fine. It would have been your run-off-the-mill goop monster attack downtown if it's not for the fact that Superman is rescuing a capsized ship near Siberia. 

Jimmy watches from the rooftop of the Daily Planet, camera at the ready. 

A rare but not unwelcome sighting: Supergirl, as Superman calls her, keeping the Channel 6’s news chopper afloat with her super dog at her side. Jimmy can see parts of the goop monster on the window, thwarting the pilot's view as they are about to do an emergency landing on some building's helipad.

He's so glad he invested in his long range lens. 

Tomorrow, the picture will make the front page. Now, he takes the E train, then continues to walk three blocks to his apartment. 

The night air is doing wonders for him, really, and he can feed off of his neighbors and passerby’s Halloween cheer. Orange and purple and green lights adorn the streetlights, pumpkins with candy baskets are on every door. Sure, maybe, the street is not too lit and there are occasional gunshots after two a.m, but he’ll take it, for this. 

Jimmy takes out an earbud when he spots his building. 

Correction—when he spots you sitting on the steps of his building. You’re wearing your usual cream colored jacket, the ends halfway to your thighs. He sees the lit cigarette, too close to your mini skirt for his comfort. 

You look worse for wear. You look good, really, like always, but Jimmy has spent enough time with you to know that this is one of those nights where he has to take charge. There is a certain defeat to your shoulders—a hauntedness, if he doesn’t know better. And he doesn’t. 

You never give him more than the present and Jimmy never asks for more because he’s also given you as much. 

“You know, I’m starting to feel like this arrangement is a little one sided,” he says, giving you a teasing smile. 

Jimmy looks up at you from the bottom of the steps, enjoying the way your lips wrap around one end of the cigarette, inhaling, then exhaling slowly, like you have all the time in the world.

“Whatever do you mean, Olsen?” your head tilts, a half smirk adorning your pretty face. You lift one hand. “I brought pizza.”

It’s only then he notices the box in your hand. And he lets you in, because Jimmy Olsen doesn’t have any dignity when it comes to you.

Still, skepticism rolls off him in waves. You can tell, because when you take your seat next on his couch next to him, gladly accepting a bottle of beer he handed, you say, “The friend part of the friends with benefits, right?”

“Right.” Jimmy drawls. It startles him more than he expected. “Well, friends also let their friends know if they’re going to go MIA for weeks.”

“MIA implies nobody knows where I was,” you shrug. “Clark knows exactly where I was.”

“Does he?”

“After I told him, yeah.”

Jimmy shakes his head, unsure of what he can do with you. Can he demand an update? Can he have your number, at least, or just anyway he can contact you? He finds it funny, really, the way you are so nonchalant about everything that he can’t help but find humor in the absurdity. Clark would’ve gone insane. Clark would’ve called Lois, at least. 

But you are not Clark. Not even close.

“Like I said, this is a one-sided arrangement, apparently,” he scoffs, smiling nonetheless. He angles his body closer to you, elbow resting on the headrest of the sofa, behind your shoulder. “You come when you need me and leave when you’re done.”

You turn your head fully to look at him. You’re so close that he can map out your perfect face, the crack of your lips, the individual strands of your hair. You smell faintly of smoke and lavender, lips pulling into a wider smirk when you notice his proximity. 

It’s almost suffocating, the tension, the charge of electricity in the air, the pull on his chest. 

Jimmy’s hand reaches out for your thigh, fingers against your soft skin. He pulls your leg over to his lap, relishing in the way your body is so, so compliant when he lowers you onto the cushions. 

Your arm is around his shoulders when he finally settles on top of you, one thigh between your legs.

“Are you saying I’m a bad friend?” You tease, voice dropping an octave that goes straight to his hardening cock.

Your noses are touching, lips barely grazing against each other as he whispers, “Very.”

“Hm,” you hum, “What are you going to do about it?”

His thigh moves further up, letting your cunt feel the material of his pants. He takes in your gasp of surprise and pleasure into his own lips, finally feeling your lips against his after an eternity. 

It feels like coming home. It shouldn’t. 

But he can’t help the light bursting inside his chest when your fingers card through his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. He uses one hand to hold him up and the other to push your skirt up, feeling up your thigh, your ass, like a greedy man that he is.

Your hands move towards his back, down his hips where the hem of his polo is, tugging desperately.

“Offoffoff,” you chant, and he can’t do anything but oblige. 

His hand moves between your thighs, and he lets out a groan when he finds your drenched underwear. “Someone’s eager.”

“Like you said, it’s been weeks,” you whine, bucking your hips to search for friction. For more. 

It takes everything in him to not think about what that means. You didn’t fuck anyone when you’re away, whereever you are? Haven’t you had anyone else besides him? Did he ruin you for anyone else the way you did him?

But his curious mind can wait, especially with how warm and wet and soft you feel when he finally gets to between your puffy lips. 

“Grinding on my thigh gets you this wet, angel?” he grins. “God, you must taste so sweet.”

Before Jimmy can pull away to dive into your pussy, you stop him. “Later. I need you inside me.”

“But I miss this pussy so much!”

“Jimmy, come on, give me what I want and you can eat me out later.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” you snap, frustrated. It’s adorable the way you crave him. “Now take off your pants.”

You undo his belt in less than three seconds, and Jimmy would have cummed right there and there by how hot he finds it. He strips and kicks away his pants, his boxes, leaving his throbbing, leaking cock standing in all its glory. 

He swears he can see your mouth waters at the sight of him. 

“Fuck,” you swear, hands scrambling to pull your panties off as Jimmy strokes his member, getting it ready for you. 

He pushes your skirt up, revealing a pot of molten gold that he misses so much. And, as much as he wants to give you what you want, he likes the noises you’re making. Whining, for him. For a second he wonders if he can make you beg, but he’s not in the mood to die before fucking you. 

So he slides his cock between your leaking lips, bulbous head hitting your clit every time he pushes forward. Your warmth and wetness feels heavenly. For the first time in weeks, Jimmy feels satiated. Almost. 

“Jimmy, if you don’t fuck me right now I will—ohohohmyshit—”

He pushes in before you can finish your threat, sending you cursing and panting instead. He likes the way your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure, the way your t-shirt covered chest meets his bare one as you arch your back. Jesus.

It takes everything in him not to finish right then and there.

“You feel—divine,” he says right into your ear. You moan when his teeth graze the cartilage. “Fuck—so, so tight and dripping f’me. Nobody compares, do you hear me? Fuck—”

“Miss your cock so much,” your hips meet his for every thrust. Deep and hard and rough like he’s savoring it. “Jimmy, fuck, make me feel so—full.”

His mouth moves towards your jaw, your chin, before settling on the column of your neck. It’s tempting, really, to mark you up like you’re his. 

For as long as his dick is inside you, you are.

You are. God, you are. 

He can see it, then, as he rests his forehead against yours. His eyes are clear, clearer than they have ever been in his entire life as he gazes down at your lust-filled ones. As he fucks you on his couch, he catalogues every inch of your face—the way your eyebrows are furrowed, the crinkle of your nose, the parting of your lips as he hits that particular spot that drives you crazy. 

He knows you better than he knows anyone else. He knows what makes you tick and makes you moan. He knows how to get you to clench him like a vice. He knows when to let you take charge or when to take charge himself. 

He knows your tell, when you’re lying, when you’re sad—he knows exactly what you want to eat before and after sex. He knows that red Doc Marts is your favorite pair of shoes, and that jacket you wore earlier was stolen. 

And okay, he might not know much but what he knows, he loves. 

Jimmy snaps his eyes shut at the realization. Fuck. 

Did you see? Did you realize what he did?

You can’t. You couldn’t have. 

Jimmy presses a kiss for good measure, all teeth and tongue and spit and he allows himself to bask in the feeling like a greedy son of a bitch. 

If you notice, you don’t tell him. Not when he’s inside you for the second time that night, fucking his—and your—cum back in, not when he’s between your legs, and not when you let him sleep on your chest before you leave him, like always. 

She walks in dressed and ready and so put together, with a grace only she possesses, to the 24 hour diner across your building. 

“Are you drinking coffee?” She grimaces, nose scrunching up. “I thought coffee gives you palpitations.”

“They don’t exactly have ceremonial grade uji matcha from Kyoto in this establishment,” you grumble. “They do have great french toast, though.”

Cat pushes her cat-eye glasses further up her nose, watching you with that glint on her eyes. She flags down a waitress, orders a coffee with three sugars and cream, and their specialty quiche.

“So,” she says carefully. “How’s the date last night?”

You sigh on the piece of french toast on your fork. “It wasn’t a date. It was a booty call.”

“Sure. How’s the booty call?”

“Terrible,” you swallow your food. “I think I experienced ego death.”

“I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

“What else would you call this sickly feeling of being dumped by a situationship, who’s a manchild, by the way, after a week?”

“Ouch,” she grimaces. “What happened?”

“He said, and I quote, that he’s too ‘overwhelmed’ by the amount of girls in his roster,” you do a quote bunny on the word overwhelmed. “And since I won’t go down on him until he goes down on me, I don’t make the cut.”

You don’t stop her from barking a laugh. You don’t stop her when she doubles over, clutching her stomach as she does, either. You just sips on the mug, coffee, with a dash of chocolate and Irish cream. Sue you.

“Ego death may be appropriately dramatic,” she sighs, shoveling quiche in her mouth to stop her from laughing more. “So, what are you going to do now?”

You shrug, tipping your mug towards her. “Drink until I’m drunk enough to call someone for a rebound hook up.”

She nods, face settling in understanding. “That’s why you called.”

“I need you to take my work phone,” you slide it towards her on the table. “So I don’t call anyone that can fuck up my career.”

“Like Kyle Fielder.”

“Like Kyle Fielder,” you agree. Since it is your day off because you traded it to work on the game last Saturday, you have no qualms of drinking at nine in the morning. The choice between overtime pay or a different day off is easy for your supervisor to make. 

Cat tilts her head. “Or you can come with me.”

“Come with you?” You echo. “It’s my day off!”

“As my plus one!”

“To the Eve Teschmacher’s perfume line launch?” you laugh at the suggestion. “No thanks. The only reason I called Ryan is because of Jimmy. I’m not going to go to his ex-girlfriend's event. Half drunk, no less.”

Cat smirks, resting her elbows on the table, pretty manicured nails under her chin. “There will be free flowing champagne.”

“Cat.”

“And you won’t be working.”

“Cat,” you warn. “No.”

The launch party is very purple, for lack of a better word. It’s definitely a fancy, typical influencer event with sparkles and flowers for spring at one of Metropolis’ many country clubs. The theme is garden party, so you watch as attendees decked out in floral dresses laugh and smile for the camera. 

Jimmy is behind one of the cameras.

The photographer that Cat is supposed to bring got caught in the middle of yet another Superman fight. The L train is out of commission and she wouldn’t make it in time. So when you find Jimmy driving, Cat in the passenger seat in front of your apartment, you can only give her a look. 

Which she graciously takes by handing you an apology iced matcha. No alcohol this time, much to your disappointment. 

You stand next to Cat on the purple carpet now, as the organizers call it. Cat, armed with a list of fun, short questions for your socials, and you, dutifully recording. Cat isn’t planning on making you work today, fully prepared to delegate that task to Jimmy, but you begged her not to make you walk in alone. 

Maybe you should submit an overtime anyway. 

Because fucking Eve Teschmacher is one of the hottest woman alive and you have no idea why or how Jimmy fumbled her. She’s wearing a sheer dress, showing off her legs like a waterfall. 

“Thank you for inviting the Daily Planet,” Cat says. “It’s so exciting to work with you!”

Eve laughs easily. “I always have a soft spot for you guys, you guys saved my life!”

And you wish that’s an exaggeration. Not only did Jimmy and Lois save her, but when Luthor’s lawyers came for her, Lois and Cat protected her, too. 

Cat nudges you with her elbow, begging you to be normal and professional instead of a dumbass with trouble speaking. You cough. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you, you do too!” she beams. “I love what you did with the Meteors!”

She has a specific cadence, you realize, where everything she says ends in an upward, cheery note. It fascinates you, makes you want to be let in on herself, her life. Like you want to be her friend. 

“So, you’re collaborating with world renowned designer, Jessica Khiel, for this fragrance line,” Cat starts. “Do you have any particular inspiration for the two scents we are launching today?”

“I guess myself?” Eve answers. “Especially the feminine scent, Eden. I just love the fact that scent is the most powerful sense, you know? You walk into a room and the first thing you notice is how it smells. You hug someone and you smell them, and their scent lingers. Or when someone gives you a bouquet of flowers your first instinct is to smell them.”

“What about the counterpart scent, Forbidden Fruit?” Cat presses. “A little dark, a little intimidating?”

“Well, I’ve dated a lot of intimidating guys,” she giggles. “Sometimes you just need to put something in a bottle and put it out, you know? So I can just have this scent and not chase after the memories attached to it.”

Cat beams, getting her article quote in the first fifteen minutes of her working. She continues off to do a game, a this or that, of popular perfume notes as you keep recording. That’s how you learn Eve prefers a gourmand scent: vanilla, coffee, and butter popcorn. 

Eve steps aside, then, greeting more reporters down the purple carpet. 

“We have what we need, but I really want to get a minute with Shawn Delaney,” Cat says, furiously scrolling on her phone. 

You pause. “Did you say Shawn Delaney?”

“Yes.”

“The TikTok star, Shawn Delaney?”

“Yes,” she huffs impatiently. “It’s for this puff piece one of the interns is doing, about his new single. You’d think someone who's not that big would love a free press from us, but this guy is notoriously bad at replying to messages.”

You swallow. You can’t wait to get your hands on that free flowing champagne. “Do I have to be there when you do?”

Cat turns to you fully, then, eyes squinted in suspicion. She’s studying you. “Well, no. I just need a voice record. But with your shifty attitude, I have half a mind to keep you here if you don’t tell me what’s up?”

“He might or might not be my ex-boyfriend,” you mumble. “From university.”

A manicured hand finds its way to your arm, smacking it in surprise. Cat’s mouth falls open, “No way.”

“Yes, way,” you sigh. “We were, uh, seeing each other before he cheated on me with his ex.” You tilt your head in consideration. “But the sex was good.”

“No,” Cat scoffs. “Stop it, you are not hooking up with him!”

“Fine, but I am going inside now,” you tell her, handing her your work phone for the second time that day. “I’ll save you a seat!”

Going to that event is a bad idea. Going to that event blind is an even worse idea. Not only that you have to avoid Shawn, but Kyle Fielder is in attendance too and he’s been trying to spot you, according to Cat.

You take refuge at the bar, because of course, what country club doesn’t have a bar?

You saw Jimmy talking to Eve, a few minutes back, her hands on his arm, and he’s smiling at her. Cat is off somewhere, probably talking to more important people, and she made it her mission to keep you away from Shawn. She knows how much trouble you can be when you’re a little bit drunk.

The other side of the country club is still reserved for the members. A private restaurant full of people celebrating somethings, overlooking the pool. There’s a waiter who is holding a slice of tiramisu, bringing it to a couple sitting near the window. They have one of those candles that sparks instead of lit. One that you can’t blow off. 

Maybe love just isn’t on the cards for you, you muse, as you sip on your Moscow mule with a splash of pineapple juice, courtesy of the nice bartender who is willing to make complicated drink orders for you, twice.

Your gaze shifts again, now finding Jimmy in the middle of two models, hanging off his arms. A flash of camera accompanies them for a second, and he grins up at them when the photographer walks away. You scoff. Typical. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” a familiar voice says from behind you. You know who it is even before you turn around. “They let you drink on the job, at the Daily Planet?”

“I’m not working,” you defend. You maybe starting to approach tipsiness but you still have your wits on you. “Congrats on the new single.”

Shawn Delaney smiles a slow smile, curly blond hair sitting on his head, styled to perfection. He puts his pink linen jacket on the stool next to him. “It’s about you, you know.”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I didn’t listen to it. Let me guess, something along the lines of: I miss you, I think about you every minute, you’re the best I’ve ever had!”

Your tone is mocking, high pitched and giggly. He doesn’t take it that way, though. Just smiled again, “Something like that, yeah.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you scoff, then take a sip of your drink again. You pause, before blurting out the first thing in your mind. “How have you been, Shawn?”

You are tipsy now, and you know he can tell by the way he leans down to the bar, resting his head on his crossed arm. He looks up at you with those baby blues from under his stray curls, smiling. He thinks he has you. 

“I’ve been good, sugar,” he drawls, voice dropping an octave. His knee touches yours. “How have you been?”

Before you can answer, though, Cat’s voice rings in your ear. She calls your name, followed by the hurried clacks of her heels. French tips claws dig into your arm. 

“Hi Shawn, I need to borrow her for a minute!”

She doesn’t give you the chance to fight back, just drag your body like a ragdoll as she pleases. You hardly complain, as long as you have the crystal glass the bartender gave you. Tall and refreshing.

“Is she okay?” Jimmy asks when Cat brings you back to your assigned table. There’s a tower of snacks, from savory sandwiches to dainty pastries. He turns to you when Cat just huffs. “Are you okay?”

“‘M fine,” you say, mouth full with a strawberry tart. “We were just talking.”

“You were about ten seconds away from fucking him in the bathrooms,” Cat scowls. 

“Was not!” you were. You think the bathrooms here must be nice. They might have lotions that smell good and sample size perfumes. Oh wait, you already have sample sized perfume from the goody bag Eve hands out.

Jimmy frowns. “Who were you going to fuck?”

“Shawn Delaney,” Cat answers for you. “She’s just been dumped so she’s looking for bad decisions to make.”

“Air out my laundry, why don’t you,” you mumble, eyes avoiding Jimmy, but then address him anyway. “Don’t you have some models to entertain?”

Jimmy grins at you. “I would, but this is a work function.”

You scoff. “Like that ever stopped you before.” 

“I have decorum, unlike you.”

“Let’s see the pictures Getty got.”

“Now that’s not fair,” he says. “You know they love me.”

“As a contributor, Olsen, not a subject. You are a chronic photobomber.”

“It’s not photobombing when you are posing!”

“Okay!” Cat raises her hand and her voice, irritated. “I feel like I’m babysitting. Jimmy, if you have enough pictures for an Instagram carousel, we can just go home.”

The idea of going home doesn’t appeal to you right away. You still want to drink your delicious tequila concoction and dance. Maybe you’ll hit the club. But the more your tipsy brain thinks about it, going home would be perfect. You can scroll through your contact list and start calling.

You try to think if you still have tequila and limes and pineapple juice at home. Surely you do? 

“So soon?” A voice interrupts your thoughts. It’s Kyle. Cat’s efforts today are futile, after all. At least he doesn’t catch you on your own. 

“Kyle,” you breath, surprised, in your not-at-maximum capacity brain. “Hey. You remember Jimmy, and this is Cat Grant, our, um, entertainment columnist.”

“Hey,” he greets them both, before turning his attention back to you. Kyle Fielder runs a hand through his barely-existing hair, olive skin glistening in the evening light. He’s nervous.  “You never replied to my text about the flowers yesterday.”

You glance at Cat, who, for the first time, seems to be enjoying herself at the show. Jimmy just looks confused at the mention of the flowers. 

“My work phone, I left it—at work,” you explain. “It’s my day off today.”

“Right,” he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “Well, what do you think?”

“It’s pretty, thank you,” you answer, hating yourself for feeling awkward. Maybe you should lean into it, into Kyle’s attempt to woo you. You can’t hook up with Shawn, and you know Kyle is packing, at least according to his TikTok fan accounts. “The Meteors colors were a nice touch.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen, he beams. “Oh, the flowers in the break room from the team? We all loved it, especially Steve, our sports columnist. He'd just sit there and stare at it.”

And, scene. Jimmy just basically told Kyle three things: 1) you didn’t keep the flowers for you, but for the Daily Planet; 2) it’s not on your desk but in the break room, and; 3) you told everyone it’s from the team. All three together with the fact that you told him you have his number on your work phone, tell him that you don’t fuck with him like that. 

Well. Now you really can’t hook up with him.

Cat stifles a laugh, while you keep a smile at Kyle’s wide eyes. 

“Right,” Kyle says, sighing. “I’m glad. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Bye!” you call out as he walks away. 

“Great,” Cat says. “I’m going to call a car and go home. I’m not getting in your car again, Jimmy.”

You turn to her. “What happened?”

“I found two lip glosses and a dirty thong.”

“Gross,” you scrunch up your nose.

“It wasn’t dirty! It still has the tag on them!”

You shake your head at him. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Cat is gone in a flash, leaving you with Jimmy in a dwindling party. He leans back on his chair, gear packed away in his bag now. His eyes keep drifting to the table of models, giggling as they keep looking at him. 

That’s your cue.

“Okay, I’m gonna go before I decide to fuck the bartender,” you say, getting up. 

Jimmy’s hand on your wrist stops you from walking away. He looks up at you with furrowed eyebrows. “I’ll drive you home.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, eyes flickering to the models. He notices.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, standing up with you. He lets go of your wrist, only to take your hand. “I’m not letting you go home alone while you’re drunk.”

“‘M not drunk,” you say. But you might as well be having a heart attack with the way your heart squeezes at the contact.

Jimmy can only guess that stupid manchild of a barista dumped you. That’s the most recent guy he knows, anyway. You must’ve really liked the guy, Jimmy thinks, if you’re drowning your sorrows in alcohol in the middle of the week. 

He tries to watch the traffic as he watches you breathe with the windows down, head leaning against the door just so, careful not to poke your head outside. 

“Are you okay?” he asks for the second time that day, parked outside of your building, also for the second time that day.

You sigh, closing your eyes for a second. “It’s more of an ego thing, Jimmy. I’m fine.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means I’m going to drink more and probably drunk dial a booty call,” you say, hopping off of his car. He watches as you climb out for a second, eyes finding the hem of your short dress. 

Jimmy turns off the car, scrambling to follow you. It’s a good thing he does, too, as you stumble in your heels trying to climb up the red brick stairs. He catches you just in time, wrapping your arm around his neck and his arm around your waist.

“Okay, careful there,” he murmurs in your ear. 

“I’m not drunk anymore,” you mumble. “Okay, maybe a little, but not that much. I’m just really sleepy.”

Jimmy chuckles, “Sure, Simba.”

He holds you up all the way to your apartment on the second floor, watching you fumble for your keys before setting you on your sofa. You sigh as the plush throw pillows engulf you. Jimmy sets himself on your coffee table, taking your leg one at a time to his lap, taking off your heels. They are relatively short, shorter than he has seen Eve wear, but he knows it’s still uncomfortable.

Your legs are soft, he thinks. He wonders what they would look like wrapped around him. He notes the way your dress falls further up, exposing more skin.

Fuck.

He’s absolutely screwed if he doesn’t leave your place soon.

You watch him in silence. Your eyes heavy lidded, lips curled inside your mouth. The air is heavy with something then—something like simmering water that's left for too long before it boils over.

A heavy downpour interrupts your bubble. It’s weird enough that your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“It’s not supposed to rain today,” you say, diving your hand between the cushions to find your TV remote. Sure enough, the news says that the rain is a result of a metahuman fighting with the Justice Gang and Superman not far from your place. Your eyes are back to Jimmy, who hasn’t moved an inch. “You wanna go out there and take pictures?”

He should. He probably should, but he doesn’t want to leave you. Not just yet. 

A thunder claps nearby. It's storming now.

“Or not,” you sigh. “You can stay here if you want, until it dies down. Or until morning, whichever you prefer.”

“If I leave will you start drinking again?”

You chuckle. “Let me soothe my fragile heart, Olsen.”

“You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow in the bullpen.”

“Then that’s tomorrow me’s problem!”

He shakes his head, smiling in amusement. “I’m staying.”

“Okay.”

“I have spare clothes in my car,” because he’s always prepared after one too many late nights.

“Okay.”

You’re sitting on your counter, feet underneath you as a barrier to the cold marble, when he comes out of the shower. A mug in your hand, you carefully sip the beverage. You’re still in your dress, but your face is clean off of your make up.

Jimmy approaches, eyeing the mug suspiciously. Your immediate surrounding area is clean, safe from a steaming electric kettle. No liquor bottle anywhere.

“It’s just herbal tea,” you tell him, easing his mind. “Want some?”

“Sure,” he says. You take another mug, put another bag in, then pour the hot liquid. He watches everything, cataloging every small detail, every movement you make. “Thanks.”

He settles across from you, leaning on your breakfast island. Watching. 

He catalogues the blue and white tile of your kitchen wall, dried herbs hanging from underneath the cupboard. He counts the magnets, from different cities like Milan and Edinburgh and Petra. He sees the Snoopy mug you’re using, the Scooby-Doo mug you gave him.

Most importantly, he sees you, in a nearly sheer floral print dress, paired by a jacket earlier but it’s abandoned on the sofa now. It’s short, and if Jimmy really concentrates, he will be able to make out the color of your underwear. 

But it’s hard to concentrate when you’re looking at him like that. Like you’re considering. Like you want him. 

It’s everything he thinks of and more.

“You want anything for dinner?” you ask, voice barley above a whisper.

“I don't mind.” Jimmy hates how his voice breaks.

You nod, but you don't move, just cast your eyes to the side of your fridge, avoiding his gaze.

Jimmy puts his half-empty mug in the sink next to you and you just. Put your hand on his cheek and pull his face towards yours. 

He kisses you first, he’s pretty sure. 

Jimmy is fully aware that he’s kissing you, tasting you, and you’re so much sweeter than he ever could imagine. Soft lips meet his own, tongue shyly touches his. He groans, in both pleasure and relief, hands roaming around your body. 

Soft and plush and he can't get enough.

He tries to think about the way his chest flares when he spotted you and Shawn Delaney earlier, or when Kyle approached you, not unlike when Jimmy approaches you at work. But you’re all consuming, smelling like berries and vanilla and limes. It’s dizzying. He can’t think straight.

It never feels like this before.

Not with Eve, who clocked his crush on you the moment she met you. Not with that DJ he went on a date once. Not with anyone else.

Just you. Like his heart is on fire and his head is filled with smoke.

And it's addicting.

Your hands are everywhere, from his neck to his shoulders to his arms. They leave a trail of fire every time you touch someplace new.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. He can feel himself getting hard, hips meeting yours just barely. 

“Bedroom?” you ask, pulling away every so slightly. Jimmy doesn’t let you stay away for long. “Want to show me what makes the girls obsessive over Jimmy freaking Olsen?”

He laughs, grinning, even as he dives towards the exposed skin of your neck. “Lead the way.”

You don’t break the kiss as you lead him to your bedroom. His hands are still all over you, pawing, palming your waist, your hips, your ass. Your hands are in his hair, tugging, scrunching, and he’s not complaining. 

Your back hits the soft mattress, thigh on his hip and he pushes just enough to feel your heat. It earns him a soft moan from you, and he wants to hear it again and again.

You whisper, “Condom.”

Jimmy curses. Obviously. He has some in his car but the rain doesn't agree with his plan. “Where?”

“Bathroom, behind the mirror.”

Painfully, reluctantly, Jimmy pulls away from you. He races to your ensuite, opening up the mirror cabinet. Sure enough, a half empty box of XL condoms are waiting for him. It’s a size smaller than the ones he uses, but it’ll do. Jimmy tears off a foil packet, rushing back to the bedroom.

Only to find you fast asleep against the pillow. 

Fuck.