-Mir’osik-

・Vermax gives you pure devotion

・There isn't a moment when you think you're unworthy for Vermax.

・He truly loves you

・And although he follows the commands, does what he's told and what's expected, he loves when the two of you can sit down together in the sun and lay there for hours.

・He does great with Valyrian commands. You have a clear and concise voice that makes it easy to hear.

・Although he does get jealous when you talk to other dragons...

・Vermax is a cradle egg, he was formed being close to you. I.,e his egg was in your cradle while he, himself, was ... being created

・He's much like his rider; bold and fiery. he can be stubborn too. Unless there is true panic, then Vermax becomes formiddable.

・He's on the path to becoming an overwhelming power. A Targaryen beast who could change the outcome of the House and it's reign.

・There is a connection between you two that not every rider has with their dragon.

・You love running your hands over his scales, the colour always fascinates you. Especially in the sunlight.

・His favourite thing to do with you is fly amongst the clouds, then higher until you're above it all.

・There has been expectations placed upon you both, and you like to fly away from it all.

・Vermax isn't a fan of water though. And unlike some dragons, he does not like going swimming...

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Childhood Friends to Adult Best Friends

Brave Warrior (Vermax) x Self-Assured Fighter (You)

The Sarcastic Duo That Can Finish Each Other's Instincts

𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

The Dragon and His Heart

More Alike Than Different

Looks Like A Cinnamon Roll, Could Kill You (You) x Looks Like They Could Kill You, Is A Cinnamon Roll (Vermax)

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 ༄⋆˚

⤷ His MBTI: ENTJ

⤷ His ZODIAC: Aries Sun, Capricorn Moon, Scorpio Rising  

・To best bond with Balerion, a person would have to be a leader. Or someone who is used to responsibility.

・Someone passionate, yet open-minded (Aries, Aquarius), who stands up for what they believe in and doesn't take anyone's crap.

・An intimidating person (Scorpio), a planner (Virgo), and/or someone who reacts first to situations i.e., the phone ringing, someone at the door etc.

・Aegon the Conquorer is an obvious example, but Daenys and Aerea would fit into the responsibility and open-minded aspect.

・And in my opinion, Viserys wasn't bonded with Balerion. The dragon was too old and must have thought Viserys was Aegon hence letting him ride/command Balerion.

𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐗𝐄𝐒 ༄⋆˚

⤷ Her MBTI: ISFP

⤷ Her ZODIAC: Gemini Sun, Pisces Moon, Sagittarius Rising  

・Those that would bond with Meraxes are individuals who have an adventurous spirit, who want to explore (Sagittarius).

・Her one rider, Rhaenys the Conquorer, was a woman who loved the arts, who was playful and impulsive (Gemini).

・She took Meraxes out flying longer than both her siblings combined i.e., Meraxes needs to explore.

・Meraxes would bond best with someone who likes to be on the move, who wants to show their worth, who is naturally inquisitive.

𝐕𝐇𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐑 ༄⋆˚

⤷ Her MBTI: ESTJ

⤷ Her ZODIAC: Taurus Sun, Leo Moon, Virgo Rising  

・Those that would bond with Vhagar, are people who have great courage and fervor (Leo).

・Each of her riders have that in common; Visenya, Baelon, Laena and Aemond, all have bravery and passion. As well as their love for flying.

・Being Vhagar's rider means being known. She is the Queen of Dragons, large and overwhelming.

・Those who bond with her must not mind the recognition.

・It should also be noted that Vhagar is a war dragon, and she is used to being in dangerous situations (Scorpio).

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑 ༄⋆˚

⤷ Her MBTI: ISFJ

⤷ Her ZODIAC: Aries Sun, Cancer Moon, Sagittarius Rising

・The bond between person and dragon would need the rider to be bold, emotional, and adventurous.

・The person would need to have a free-spirit, yet know responsibility and not run from it.

・Quicksilver's two riders were father and son; Aenys the son of Aegon the Conquorer and his son, Aegon.

・Both of them had a lot to prove, and Quicksilver aided them in doing so.

・Had Quicksilver be given the time that other dragons had, she would have been a formiddable foe as well as a fertile feat.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐁𝐀𝐋 ༄⋆˚

⤷ His MBTI: ISTP

⤷ His ZODIAC: Scorpio Sun, Scorpio Moon, Capricorn Rising

・Now, people who would bond with the Cannibal are those that ... are fine with violence, who relish in power and seek glory for themselves.

・The Cannibal never had a rider, and those that tried to mount him were killed on the spot.

𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔

𝑆𝘩𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑟

𝑉𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑥

𝑀𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑟

𝐺𝑟𝑒𝑦 𝐺𝘩𝑜𝑠𝑡

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb Stark.

Named after your father’s namesake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steel striking wood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.

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

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

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

No one knew which way the coin would fall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was harsh—but it was honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was when his hand moved.

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

But Robb was faster.

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

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

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

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

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

Yet now there was no denying it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I didn’t mean to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wanted you to stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And behind her, you stood.

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

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

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

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

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

The silence that followed seemed to stretch.

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

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

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

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

He imagined a life without you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hall went still.

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

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

All eyes turned to Robb.

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

It found you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A strange, unexpected calm.

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

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

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

For the first time, it felt like choice.

You don’t hear the crowd.

Not really.

But that's not a bad thing.

It’s there — loud, swelling, building — but it’s distant. Like you’re underwater and everything above the surface is distorted.

All you hear is your own breathing.

Sharp in.

Sharp out.

Your skates bite clean into the ice as you explode through the neutral zone. The puck stays glued to your stick, tapping rhythmically against the blade. One defender misjudges the angle. You slip past him on instinct, shoulder dropping, hips turning.

Breakaway.

Open ice.

It opens so suddenly it feels like a gift.

You’re through.

It’s you and the goalie.

You don’t even look back.

Somewhere behind you, someone shouts, “One! One!”

If you were really listening it would've landed and you would know there's probably someone behind you, or at least chasing with enough speed to be a variable.

But it barely registers. Just noise. Just static. You’re too deep in it — vision tunneled, body operating on muscle memory and adrenaline.

The goalie squares up early.

You’re already planning it.

Forehand pull. Freeze him. Pull across the body. Backhand high.

You’ve done it a hundred times in practice.

You lean into your edges, cutting slightly left to open the angle.

The goalie bites.

You shift your weight forward.

And then—

Impact.

Not from the front.

Not from the side.

From behind and slightly above the small of your back — hard, full-body force driving through your center of gravity before you can even process it.

It’s not a glancing bump.

It’s a freight train.

Your skates come out from under you.

Your upper body snaps backward.

There’s no time to brace.

No time to tuck your chin.

The puck slides harmlessly wide, toward the corner as your body lifts — weightless for half a second — before gravity takes over.

The back of your head hits the ice first.

The sound is sickeningly loud in your own skull.

A hollow crack.

Your vision explodes into white.

Not stars.

Just white.

Then nothing.

No pain.

No thought.

Just instant blackout.

Sid sees the breakaway before it even forms.

He’s trailing the play, cutting through the neutral zone behind you, reading the gap opening before you do. He sees the turnover. Sees you accelerate.

“Go,” he mutters under his breath.

You’re flying.

He hears the bench erupt.

He hears Rusty yell, “One! One!” from the bench.

He sees it.

A defender.

Closing fast on your blind side.

Sid opens his mouth to shout — but you’re already at the hashmarks.

It happens in less than a second.

The defender doesn’t play the puck.

He plays you.

Sid sees the contact — shoulder driving through your back just as you shift your weight to deke.

He knows immediately you’re off balance.

He expects you to stumble forward.

Maybe crash into the goalie.

Maybe slide into the boards.

Instead, your body whips backward.

The back of your helmetless head hits the ice with a sharp, echoing crack that cuts through the arena noise.

Sid flinches.

For a split second, he keeps skating.

Because that’s what you do.

You stay in the play. You get up.

You always get up.

So, he looks away and tracks the puck bouncing loose.

But the whistle blows.

Long.

Urgent.

He glances back automatically — already expecting to see you rolling to your side. Maybe pushing up on an elbow. Maybe dazed, maybe slow.

But you should be moving by now.

You’re not.

You’re flat on your back.

Arms slightly out.

One leg bent at an awkward angle like you were mid-stride and just froze.

Your head is tilted slightly to the side.

Completely still.

Sid stops skating.

Just stops.

The play dissolves around him.

Players coast. Watching.

The crowd noise shifts — confusion first, then a rising wave of something heavier.

He waits.

One second.

Two.

You don’t reach for your head.

You don’t even twitch.

The position you’re in — it’s uncomfortable. Exposed. There’s no way you’d choose to stay like that.

“Get up,” he says under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

Nothing.

The nearest defender backs away slowly, looking down at you.

That’s when dread hits.

Not sharp.

Not explosive.

Cold.

Sid skates toward you.

Slow at first.

Then faster.

The trainer is already climbing over the boards.

Another whistle blows.

The arena falls into a low, unsettled hum.

Sid drops to one knee beside you.

“Hey.”

No response.

Your eyes are open.

But unfocused.

Not tracking.

“Hey,” he says again, louder.

Still nothing.

Your chest is moving — shallow, but moving.

Relief flashes — quick and fragile. He touches your cheek gently, like you might flinch or swat his hand away, but you don't react.

The trainer reaches you.

“Sid, give us space.”

He doesn’t move immediately.

He’s watching your face.

Waiting for recognition.

Waiting for anything.

“Hey, can you hear me?” the trainer asks you, tapping lightly near your shoulder.

No reaction.

Your eyes don’t shift.

Your mouth doesn’t move.

Sid feels something in his chest tighten painfully.

A second trainer arrives.

They kneel on either side of you.

“Don’t move him yet,” one says.

Sid finally stands, but he doesn’t go far.

He lets himself drift backwards and hovers a few feet away, helmet still on, gloves clenched around his stick.

The crowd is quiet now.

Uneasy.

Phones are out.

The opposing team stands at their bench, silent, and then even their trainer heads over.

The hit replays on the big screen once before someone quickly cuts it away.

Sid doesn’t look at it.

He doesn’t need to.

He saw it.

“Okay,” one of the trainers says, voice calm but controlled. “Let’s stabilize c-spine.”

They begin talking to you in steady tones.

No reaction.

They check your pupils.

They shine a light.

They call your name again.

Sid swallows hard.

He’s seen injuries. He’s seen guys bleed. He's seen broken bones. But unconscious is different.

Unconscious is quiet.

Too quiet.

And you look so young.

They roll you carefully, supporting your head and neck.

You don’t assist.

Your body moves only because they move it.

The stretcher comes out.

The sound of its wheels on ice echoes strangely in the silence.

Your arm hangs slightly before one of them tucks it in securely.

Your head is strapped into place.

Still no movement.

Sid feels frozen himself.

He’s aware of the cameras.

The noise.

The weight of thousands of eyes.

But it all feels distant.

He watches your face as they wheel you past him.

Waiting.

Just one twitch.

One blink.

One sign.

Nothing.

As they disappear down the tunnel, the arena gives a soft, collective applause. Both teams are all on the ice, tapping sticks as you're taken off.

It's not celebratory.

It's encouraging.

It's worried.

Sid finally exhales.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

The referee skates over, speaking about penalties, about ejections.

Sid barely hears him.

His eyes are still on the tunnel.

“Sid.”

He looks up.

“Ten and a game,” the ref says.

He nods once.

Mechanical.

The game has to continue.

It always does.

He skates back to the bench.

Sits.

Stares straight ahead.

But his mind is in the hallway under the arena.

In the locker room after the period, it’s quieter than usual.

No music.

No chatter.

Just the low murmur of updates being relayed.

“He made it to the hospital,” someone says.

“Anyone know if he's conscious yet?” Ben Kindel asks

It's quiet for a moment, Letang scrolls through his phone for a moment before answering, “Not yet.”

Sid sits in front of his stall, elbows on his knees.

Helmet off.

Hair damp with sweat that’s gone cold.

He replays it in his head.

The breakaway.

The shout of “One!”

The split second where he could’ve yelled louder.

Skated faster.

Done something.

He knows it doesn’t work like that.

Hockey happens in fragments of seconds.

But that doesn’t stop the thought.

When the coach speaks about regrouping, about finishing the game for you, Sid nods.

But his chest still feels tight.

When they go back out for the next period, the crowd cheers louder for him than usual.

He doesn’t acknowledge it.

He lines up at center ice for a face-off.

Looks down at the spot where you were lying minutes ago.

The ice is smooth like nothing happened.

But he knows better.

The game ends but Sid barely remembers the third period.

He remembers skating.

He remembers scoring once and not celebrating.

He remembers glancing at the clock too often.

He remembers the quiet bus ride back to the arena parking garage.

Mostly, he remembers the sound.

That crack of your head against the ice.

It won’t leave his head.

He showers fast. Doesn’t talk much. Changes into sweats and a hoodie. Someone tells him which hospital. He nods before they finish the sentence, already texting a trainer asking what he should expect.

The drive feels longer than it is.

The city is dark now. Calmer than the arena had been. His fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel at red lights. He tells himself you’re awake. Then the trainer texts: He's stable. He's up and talking.

Stable doesn’t erase the image of you not moving.

When he gets to the hospital, he doesn’t wear team merch. Just a black ball cap pulled low. He gives your name at the desk and waits.

In the room, you're sitting up in the bed, in a hospital gown, one arm resting carefully over the blanket. The lights are dimmed. The TV is off.

You look pale.

But you’re awake.

Your eyes shift toward the door slowly, like the motion costs you something.

It takes half a second longer than usual to focus on him.

Then you manage a faint, lopsided smirk.

“Hey.”

Sid exhales. It leaves him in a rush he doesn’t try to hide.

He steps further into the room.

“Hey.”

His voice is steadier than he feels.

He takes in the details quickly — IV line, heart monitor beeping steadily, no neck brace, no oxygen.

Good signs.

He stops beside the bed.

“How are you?”

You consider it.

Blink slowly.

Your face tightens just slightly at the movement.

“I’ve been better.”

Your voice is rough. Careful.

He smiles at that.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Zero out of ten.”

The attempt at humor is thin, but it’s you.

That matters.

He studies you more closely now.

Your pupils track him as he sits in the chair near your bed.

You’re present, sure, but there’s something slowed about you. Like every movement has to be chosen.

“You remember what happened?” he asks gently.

You frown.

Not in confusion at the question.

In genuine effort.

“I remember… getting the puck.”

He nods once. Encouraging.

“The turnover?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I thought I was through.”

Your brows knit together.

“I don’t even remember the breakaway.”

Sid’s jaw tightens faintly.

“You had one.”

You squint slightly, thinking hard.

“I think I remember seeing the goalie. And then…”

You trail off.

There’s nothing there.

You blink.

“And then I’m here.”

You look around the room slowly, like it still doesn’t fully make sense.

“It’s like I blinked,” you say. “And suddenly I’m in a hospital bed.”

Sid leans back slightly in the chair he pulled close to the bed.

“You don’t remember the hit?”

You shake your head carefully.

Even that small motion makes you wince.

“No.”

A pause.

“Did I score?”

Despite himself, Sid lets out a short breath that might almost be a laugh.

“No.”

You sigh.

“Figures.” You huff as you shift. The movement makes you swallow hard.

Your face shifts.

“You okay?” he asks immediately.

“Yeah.” You close your eyes briefly. “Just… everything hurts.”

“Head?”

“Yeah.”

You press your fingers lightly to your temple, then pull them away like the contact makes it worse.

“It’s like… pressure,” you say. “And if I move too fast it feels like the room tilts.”

“Nauseous?”

You nod faintly.

“Little bit.”

There’s a plastic bin on the tray table beside you. He notices it now, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Have you watch the replay?” you ask after a moment.

He studies you. “No.”

“Me neither.” You admit.

You glance toward the dark TV, “Screens hurt my eyes right now.”

The overhead lights are already dimmed, but you reach toward the control panel and lower them one more notch.

The room softens further.

Sid nods.

“That's probably for the best. You don’t need to see it.”

You look at him for a long moment, “Was it bad?”

He considers the question carefully. There are a hundred ways to answer that. He settles on the truth without detail.

“You got hit from behind,” he says evenly. “Went down hard.”

You absorb it.

Still no memory forming behind your eyes.

“That explains the hospital,” you murmur.

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.

“You were out.”

You go still.

“For how long?”

“I'm not really sure” he says. “However long it took to get you here.”

Your expression shifts subtly. Processing.

“Did I do anything stupid?”

The question is so you — worried about how you looked more than how it felt — that Sid feels something in his chest ease.

“No,” he says firmly. “You didn’t do anything.”

You nod slowly then regret it instantly.

“Okay. No nodding,” you mutter to yourself.

He smiles again.

The door opens quietly and a nurse steps in, checks the monitor, asks you a few simple orientation questions.

Name.

Date.

Where you are.

You answer each one correctly, though you hesitate a beat before the date.

Sid notices.

The nurse nods approvingly and leaves.

Silence settles again.

You lean your head carefully back into the pillow.

“Everything feels loud,” you admit. “Even though I know it’s quiet.”

“That’s normal,” he says.

“You a doctor now?”

He shrugs lightly.

“Been around long enough. I've gotten my bell rung a few times.”

You breathe out slowly.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“Scaring everyone.”

The apology catches him off guard.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says quietly.

You look at him. Like really look at him.

“I don’t remember it,” you say again, softer now. “That’s weird.”

“That's probably for the best.”

You study his face like you’re trying to read something there.

“Was it dirty?”

He pauses.

“Yes.”

You nod once — then wince again.

“Okay. Definitely no nodding.”

He shifts in the chair.

“You don’t need to worry about that right now.”

“You mad?”

“Not at you.”

That earns a faint, tired half-smile.

“Good.”

Your eyes drift closed for a moment.

Not unconscious.

Just overwhelmed. Allowing yourself a moment to reset.

Sid watches your breathing even out slightly.

After a few seconds, your eyes open again.

“So you watched it” you say suddenly.

He blinks.

“What?”

“The hit. On the ice. Did you think I was getting up?”

The question lands heavier than you intended.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“Yeah,” he says finally. Honest. “At first.”

You absorb that. “And then?”

He looks at the edge of the hospital bed instead of you.

“And then you didn’t.”

A quiet settles between you.

You don’t remember any of it.

But he does.

You study him carefully.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

It’s subtle, but it matters.

He nods once.

“Yes.”

You squint slightly at him.

“You’re lying.”

He exhales softly.

“You scared me.”

You don’t make a joke this time.

You nod — this time carefully — just once.

“Sorry.”

He shakes his head.

“Stop apologizing.”

A faint smile pulls at your mouth.

“Okay.”

Another wave of discomfort hits you — he can see it in the way your fingers shift slightly into the blanket.

“Head’s worse?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Want me to get the nurse?”

You hesitate.

“…maybe.”

He stands immediately and steps into the hallway.

When he comes back, the nurse follows with medication.

They dim the lights even further.

You blink slowly, eyelids heavy now.

“Don’t watch the clip,” you mumble as the medication starts to settle in.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

Your eyes drift closed again.

This time they stay closed longer.

Still breathing steady.

Still here.

Sid sits back down.

He doesn’t touch you.

Doesn’t crowd you.

He just sits there.

----

“Officer Y/l/n, you’re assigned to Sergeant Bradford.” Sergeant Grey was standing at the front of roll call, having just asked you to introduce yourself to your new coworkers. It was your first day as a rookie at Mid-Wilshire, and your stomach was alive with nerves.

“Yes, sir.” You responded, sitting back in your chair.

“Alright everyone, you’re dismissed,” Grey continued, “Stay safe out there.”

Immediately, Sergeant Bradford was out of his seat and walking towards you, his face stony. You’d been warned about him by a… Officer Chen? You couldn’t really remember her name. Still, she’d warned you about his ‘Tim Tests’ and gruff demeanour. It wasn’t helping your nerves.

“Boot! Let’s go.” Bradford snapped, gesturing you over with a flick of two fingers. You smoothed your uniform and walked over. You forced a smile onto your face, wanting to make a good impression.

“Sir, I’m-,” you started.

“Save it, boot.” Sergeant Bradford cut you off. “You will address me as only Bradford, Sergeant Bradford or Sir. Is that understood?”

You nodded, the nerves settling comfortably in your stomach. Bradford was clearly not planning to calm your worries. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go grab the warbags and meet me at the shop.” Bradford nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the supply room, and you hurried off to prepare the war bags. The last thing you needed was to make a bad impression on someone who was already making you nervous.

---

Tim watched you hurriedly walk to the war room to set up. As he watched you go, Angela Lopez approached.

“So, what do you think of the new blood?” Lopez asked, gesturing (albeit unnecessarily) behind you.

“Too soon to say.” Tim replied, crossing his arms as he turned to Angela.

“Come on, Bradford, you always know right away.” Angela pushed, nudging Tim’s side.

Tim couldn’t deny that. He had a knack for knowing whether someone would be a good fit for policework – it was why he was an excellent TO.

Still, he paused, considering. “She’s… eager.” He hedged. It was true, to a degree. You did seem eager. But he could tell there was something more bubbling under the surface.

“Uh huh.” Lopez grinned, “Don’t be a total dick today, yeah?”

Tim glanced over his shoulder just as you walked out of the storeroom carrying the war bags. “No promises.”

---

Office Chen had been right. Sergeant Bradford was extremely intimidating. You’d graduated third at the Academy, and you knew you were good (well, competent at least), but some part of you was still constantly second guessing. Maybe it was Bradford’s height and build, or his permanently pissed off energy but an hour into your shift and you were scared. Not of him (not really), but of what’d happen when you inevitably screwed up. You’d tried to chat initially, but it hadn’t gone down well.

“So. Why do you want to be a cop?” Bradford asked as he pulled off West Olympic.

After an hour of near-silence, since Bradford had firmly proclaimed that the shop was a personal-life-free zone, the question surprised you. “Is that a trick question?”

“No. If I’m going to train you, I need to know why you’re in this car.” Bradford didn’t even look at you as he drove, instead scanning the streets around you.

You looked out your window for a moment. It wasn’t exactly an easy question to answer. Not without revealing way more about yourself then you wanted to on your first shift. Then you wanted too ever, really.  “Um.” You swallowed. “I know it’s… basic, but I want to help people.” You hedged. “People who don’t have anyone else to-.”

The shop screeched to a halt, and you were suddenly cut off by Bradford yelling: “I’VE BEEN SHOT! WHERE ARE YOU, BOOT?”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck- you didn’t know. “Um…” You looked around, trying desperately to find a street sign, or some clue as to where you were. After a few more seconds, you heard Bradford scoff.

“Now I’m dead. It’s your fault.” He didn’t even look mad. Just completed blank. That was almost more nerve racking.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” You started, hating the way your voice shook.

“Not good enough, Boot!” Tim’s voice was loud and sharp, cutting through the silence of the shop. “Apologies don’t save lives, rookie. Get out.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“I said get out and walk, boot. You can get back in when you know where you are.”

In that moment, you knew you’d ruined it. This had been your chance to be a cop, and less than two hours in, you’d already fucked it up. You got out of the shop, walking along side it. Hoping Bradford didn’t notice how your legs had shaken as you left. You wouldn’t let yourself be upset by this. Bradford was just doing his job, you were perfectly safe. From him, anyway.

Still, when you finally got back in the shop, you didn’t talk again. All your focus went towards scanning your surroundings.

---

Your legs had shaken when you got out of the car. It was subtle, but Tim had noticed it. Unbidden, a touch of guilt settled in his stomach. He honestly hadn’t meant to frighten you. It was just a Tim Test – he didn’t need (nor want) you to be scared. It was hardly conducive to training a good rookie.

What bothered him most, though, is your complete silence the rest of the day. You’d been annoying chatty the first twenty odd minutes of your shift (until Tim had, in traditional Bradford fashion, banned any sort of personal talk), but since getting back in the car, you’d stuck strictly to ‘yes, sir’s and ‘no, sir’s. It had been… unnerving.

Tim didn’t like changing his training style. After all, after half a dozen rookies, he liked to think that he’d perfected his TO methods. Everyone knew that he was an exceptional training officer. The only people he ever made exceptions for were veterans like him. But the thought of scaring you every time he yelled made his stomach drop in an unpleasant way. You’d been so eager when you’d first gotten in the shop – nervous, sure, but eager. And you were so, so young. You reminded him of himself in a way.

In the way you’d immediately changed he’d yelled, which even Tim could admit would’ve been… slightly scary. And that change had implications, ones Tim didn’t like. He especially didn’t like the implication of what that made him to you. A threat. So he’d never mention it, but he did quietly resolve to adjust – adjust, not change – the way he made sure you learnt what you needed too.

---

A few weeks into your training and Sergeant Bradford had significantly lowered on your rating of ‘scary people I know.’ While he was still harsh, and quick to criticise, he’d never shown you that cold, disappointment-infused yelling that he had on your first shift. It’d made it a lot easier for you to get comfortable around him, and you’d almost immediately started breaking the ‘no personal talk in the shop’ rule.

“Anyway, then she said that I was the one who needed to check my attitude. I mean can you believe that? Me? Having an attitude?” You said, watching your surroundings (you hadn’t forgotten your first Tim Test) as you rambled about some woman you’d run into grocery shopping.

At your comment, Bradford simply side-eyed you. He did that a lot, you were realising.

“Rude. That’s rude.” You said in response to the side eye. “It gets worse, though. She had the audacity-.”

Bradford held up a hand, cutting you off. “Boot.”

You turned, “Yes, sir?”

“Stop. Talking.”

You shut your mouth, but that was mostly to hold back a slight laugh. Bradfords hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, but they weren’t white like they were when you really needed to shut up. (You’d always been observant.)

“But this is the best part of the story.” You pressed.

“Boot, I swear to god-.” Before Bradford could issue whatever threat, he planned too, someone’s voice crackled over the radio.

“7-Adam-100, we have a domestic call at 4195 Clover Drive. Neighbours reported shouting.”

Tim’s face hardened. He glanced briefly at you, and you knew, even without a mirror, that your face had paled a shade. You’d been lucky so far to not have to deal with any DV calls. Guess that luck was over.

“7-Adam-100, show us responding, Code 6.”

Tim floored the breaks a little harder than he objectively needed too.

You could hear the yelling as soon as you pulled into Clover Drive. It was distinctly male, the words harsh and clear, and coming from a house halfway down the street.

It was an effort to clear your head.

“What’s the procedure for a domestic call, boot?” Asked Bradford as you switched off your sirens and approached the house.

You swallowed, “Um.  Get inside the house to assess any damage. Separate the assumed predominant aggressor from the presumed victim or any children if possible. If there doesn’t appear to be violence, there isn’t much we can do, though.”

Bradford nodded tightly. “Good. I’ll take lead on this one.”

“Yes, sir.”

 You knocked on the front door as Bradford called out, alerting the occupants to the polices presence. The yelling stopped immediately.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Asked a man, probably in his forties. You and Bradford pushed your way into the house as you spoke with him. There was water spilt across the countertop, and a girl in her early teens standing in the kitchen. Her face was tear-streaked, but she appeared unharmed.

“We got reports of yelling from this area, sir.” Came Bradford’s voice from behind you. Your head was starting to spin as memories flooded back to you: late nights, angry words, the occasional smashed plate. Or worse.

You didn’t hear what the man (you assumed he was the girl father) said in response. The teen was watching you and Tim with wide eyes, shaking her head. She rubbed her wrist absentmindedly, and if you weren’t so stuck in your own head, you would’ve thought to ask to see if she was injured. You turned to her father and vaguely registered that he was wearing a wife beater under his button up. Ironic.

“Let’s go, boot.” Bradford snapped, beckoning you over. His jaw was set, and he obviously didn’t believe whatever the man had said. Your head felt like it was underwater as you walked out of the house, and your stomach turned. Memories flooded your head.

Bradford was grumbling under his breath, something about hating the laws around DV in California, when he noticed you stumble towards the bushes outlining the road.

“You good, boot?” He asked, frowning something.

You nodded frantically, “Mmhm… fine, si-.” The ‘sir’ was cut off by the sound of you throwing up in the bushes. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so nothing really came out, but still you dry heaved, clutching your stomach.

“Shit, Y/l/n, are you okay?” Instantly, Tim was at your side, one hand on your back. You nodded vaguely, gesturing for a drink of water. He almost ran to get it. When you could finally breathe, and had swallowed nearly half a litre of water, he asked,

“Jesus, boot, what the hell was that?”

“I’m fine.” You insisted, not wanting to get into some conversation about your past: Bradford wasn’t the understanding type. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Like hell it’s not.” Bradford snapped, guiding you back to the shop. His words were harsh, but his touch gentle. A strange combination, but one that left you feeling comforted. “Listen, boot, if you’ve got something that’s going to make you react to scenes like that, I need to know. Now.”

You shook your head frantically, refusing to open up. As much as you were starting to trust Bradford, you weren’t ready to give him that information. Not when he was the age he was, the build he was, holding so much authority over you

“It’s fine, sir. I swear. It won’t happen again.” You repeated, and you meant it. It wouldn’t happen again.

Tim surveyed you for a moment, watching the guarded expression in your eyes. It was one he recognised, having seen it in his reflection countless times after teachers asked about a suspicious bruise. It was for that reason he relented, though he fully intended to bring it up again. “Fine. But if have something you need to tell me… you can, kid.”

“Yes, sir.”

---

More time passed, and even though you still refused to open about your childhood to Tim (how do you even have that conversation?), you were starting to rely on him.

It was inevitable, you supposed. Unrequited, but inevitable. After all, he was in his mid-forties, an authority figure, admittedly a bit of a dick, but you were gradually (ever so gradually) starting to see a slightly gentler side of him. So of course you looked up to him. You had daddy issues, okay?

It wasn’t a crush. You knew that for sure. You’d half expected it to be, but it wasn’t. Instead, it was a healthy dose of admiration, paired with a slightly-less-healthy dose of please god be proud of me. But that was fine. It was entirely reasonable given he was your TO. You hoped.

---

“You’re under arrest for attempted grand theft auto and possession of illicit substances,” you said, hooking handcuffs around some criminal’s wrists. He’d been a pain in the ass to catch, and you could already feel a bruise blooming across your jaw from his escape attempts. Bradford had, predictably, been unhelpful in the arrest, instead opting to analyse your fighting technique as you’d taken the crook down. He’d even cracked a rare ‘good job’ smile as you’d put the cuffs on.

You pushed the perp against your shop, already halfway through the Miranda Rights: “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”

The thief mumbled slightly, and you nodded to Tim to take him off your hands. The second your hands were off him, however, he started complaining. Loudly.

“Aw, come on man. If you’re gonna arrest me, at least let the lady cop throw me ‘round.” He said, looking over his shoulder to grin at you. You scrunched your nose. It wasn’t the first time a suspect had hit on you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Nothin’? Dude, you gotta… I ain’t going to jail without gettin’ to feel some sweet lady cop ti-! Ow! The hell was that for?”

Tim scowled, hitting the suspect over the back of the head a second time for good measure (or something). “Get your eyes off Officer Y/l/n. You’re not fit to look at her.” He shoved the perp into your shop, rougher than was strictly necessary, and you couldn’t help the slight smile that crept onto your face.

“Really?” You asked, slipping into the shop’s passenger seat.

“What? You got a problem, boot?” Tim said, his voice flat. You just chuckled and shook your head.

“No problem, sir.”  

---

The silence in the shop was unbearable. It was almost lunch, and you’d scarcely said a word all day. You were preoccupied replaying your conversation with your parents from the night before over and over in your head, trying to figure out how them coming over for dinner had dissolved into fighting so quickly.

“You good, boot?” Tim asked after a particularly long stretch of quiet. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up, but you’ve barely said a word today.”

You nodded quickly, forcing yourself to focus. “I’m fine, sir. Sorry. Just tired. Besides, not personal talk in the shop, right?”

“When have you ever followed that rule? You sure you’re good, boot? Because if something’s going on that’ll affect your performance, I need to know.”

“Nothing’s going on. Sir.” You knew the words sounded thin, but what were you going to do? Complain about your parents?

Tim glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Uh-huh. In that case, what colour was the Lexus we just passed?”

Shit. You hadn’t been paying attention to your surroundings, too lost in your own thoughts. “Uh… silver?”

Another side eye, this one harsher than the last. “There was no Lexus. It was a Camry. And for the record, boot, it was blue.”

“I…” You didn’t really have a defence.

“Seriously, kid. What is going on?”

“Nothing.” You said, and you had to admit, you sounded like a kid. “I just. Had my parents over last night, and it didn’t… go great.”

Instantly, Tim was on edge. He wasn’t proud of the reaction, of the way his stomach instinctively dropped. He knew, he knew, that his version of ‘it didn’t go great’ with family wasn’t the same as most people’s. But this was you. You who’d thrown up at your first DV call, even without any violence. You who’d completely shut down after being yelled at.

Which is why he couldn’t help the immediate questions if: “Are you hurt?”

You tensed. Why would he ask that? “No,” you replied, “I’m not hurt.” It was true, technically. You hadn’t been hit since you were fifteen. And even then, it’d been rare.

Tim’s eyes flicked over you, trying to find a lie. “What happened?” He asked, and his voice had a weird gentleness that made you feel... strange.

You swallowed. Shrugged. “My parents came over for dinner. I did something, I don’t really know what, ‘n pissed my father off.” Your explanation was purposeful vague, but you could help but add: “He broke my favourite mug, which really pissed me off. It’s my apartment, you know? He’s not supposed to be able to break my shit anymore.” A long pause, your father’s furious insults running through your head. “He didn’t like it when I told him that.”

Tim nodded slightly, knowing exactly what you were suggesting. “He insult you?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” Despite your cool delivery, the words stung. You looked away, out the window, feeling tears prick at your eyes. You didn’t like talking about this, especially not with Tim. Just because you viewed him as... something, didn’t mean he thought of you ask anything more than a rookie he had to train. A burden.

“I’m sorry, kid.” Tim said, assessing you carefully. “I know what that feels like.”

“You do?” You looked at Tim, curious, and instantly regretted it. The tears welling in your eyes were all too obvious now.

“Yeah. My dad was like that too. I got slapped around my fair share.” Tim’s words were clipped. He clearly also wasn’t fond of talking about his childhood.

“Oh.” What else could you say?

“Listen, boot. I know it’s rough. And you don’t deserve it. But you’re not whatever he says you are, okay?”

You sniffled, hastily wiping your eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

Tim nodded tersely. “Good.” There was a small moment, where Tim placed a hand on your shoulder, and you felt like things might actually be okay. Like you might actually have someone. Then, “Come on, boot. We’ve got six hours of shift left. You gonna focus now?”

---

Tim kept an eye on you the rest of the day. He’d known there was a bit of him in you, but the parallels between your childhoods made his heart crack.

He could see the countless untold stories behind your eyes, ones he’d undoubtedly heard before. And the way you’d tensed when he asked if you were hurt... you hadn’t been hit last night, but you had been before.

He really had tried to not get attached.

And look. He knew you looked up to him. He’d seen the way you preened at praise, the shaky look over to him after making a decision, waiting for his nod of approval, regardless of how confident you were in the decision. He’d tried not to encourage it – limiting praise, refusing to approve your decisions unless you did first. It wasn’t good for a rookie to get that attached to their TO, not when they were only partners for a year. It was especially not good for them to view them as some sort of parental figure. More importantly, Tim Bradford didn’t get attached to his boots.

But goddammit it. The look in your eyes when he’d told you about his dad? It made him abandon all the principles he thought he held so strongly. He’d always wanted a kid, after all.

---

“Does anyone know what day it is today?” Sergeant Grey asked from the front of the roll call room.

You groaned internally. Of course he had to announce it to the whole it room.

A few rows behind you, Officer Chen perked up, grinning, you were sure, at Bradford.

“The day Officer Y/l/n takes her six month exam.” She said.

Cheers and whistles filled the room and you almost buried your head in your hands.

“Boot!” Tim called out. You turned to look at him. “I’ll take it as a personal insult if you don’t get more than a 93 on this exam.”

Great. Like you weren’t stressed enough about the exam already. “Yes, sir.”

As Grey tried to calm the room down, you swallowed, focusing on calming your breathing. You knew what you were doing. You just had to not disappoint Tim. Not forget everything. Not be a total fucking failure.

No pressure, right?

---

Three days later, and you were back in roll call. Grey had written three numbers on the white board. An 84. A 91. And a 95. Your stomach dropped at the sight of the 91 and the 84. Of course you’d failed. Of course. Why hadn’t you worked harder? You’d been a straight A student in high school, and university, why was this different?

“Can anyone guess which of these belongs to Officer Y/l/n?” Grey asked the room. Various answers were shouted out, most leaning towards the 95, until Grey cut them off and said: “The 91. Good work, Officer.”

You could only nod, your head already pounding. You’d failed. Not really, not truly, but enough. And Tim. What would he do?

You didn’t notice everyone leave the room. Didn’t notice Tim approach you, not until he was practically having to shout in your face.

“Boot? Boot! Y/l/n!” The sound of your name, paired with Tim waving a hand in your face, snapped you back to reality.

“Yes, sir?” Your voice had an almost unnoticeable tension to it. A shake. Please, please don’t be mad.

“Let’s go, boot. Why aren’t you getting the war bags?” Tim asked, completely ignoring your test results.

Completely ignoring your test results? What? Why wasn’t he yelling, reaming you out for disappointing him? He’d been very clear with his expectations and he’d never been one to let you down gently if you did something wrong.

“Sir?” You asked, confused.

“What is it, boot?” Tim asked, exasperated. You should’ve been on the road by now. Wait, where you okay...? Your eyes were wide. Almost afraid.

“Why aren’t you mad?”

“What? Why would I be mad-..? Oh.” Tim looked down at you, his face softening as he recalled what he’d said before your test. What you’d told him about your past. “About your test? No, kid, I’m not mad. I was screwing with you when I said you needed to get a 93. A 91 is an excellent result, boot “

“Oh.” You said quietly, looking away sheepishly. Of course he wasn’t mad. This was Tim.

Tim looked at you like you were an idiot, but somehow, you didn’t feel stupid or insulted. “Yeah, oh. You’re not a disappointment, kid. Not to me. Now hurry up and get the war bags sorted.” Tim clapped you on the shoulder as he sent you on your way, and you couldn’t help but think that this was what a father was supposed to be like.

---

“Red or black?” You asked Tim during one shift a month or so later. It was a random question, but you wanted his opinion.

Tim glanced at you. “As concepts, or…?”

“As dress colours.” You elaborated, before hesitantly adding, “I have a date.”

The shop skidded to a stop. “Woah, woah. You have a date? When? With who?” Tim was turning instantly, all his attention on you.

You bit back a laugh. “Tonight. With a boy. Jacob. And I don’t know what to wear.”

Tim frowned. “Where did you meet this ‘Jacob?’” He couldn’t help the protective instinct. The last time one of his rookies went on a date, she got kidnapped. And you weren’t Lucy (he wasn’t in love with you) but he did… care.

“At a bookshop. Calm your farm, Bradford. It’s one date. You really pulling the protective dad card right now?” You smirked, watching the slight red colour Tim’s face.

“I- no. I’m not pulling a card, boot. I’m just… curious.” Tim spluttered, not wanting to admit that he was definitely acting like a protective dad.

“Uh huh. He’s a good guy, Sarge. He’s funny, and sweet, and I actually like him.” You said, as if the concept of actually liking a guy was foreign. It had admittedly been a while since you went on a date. “So, red or black?” You repeated, crossing your arms. Your cheeks were the tiniest bit pink.

Tim glared from the corner of his eye. “Black.”

“Thank you.”

In signature Bradford fashion, Tim huffed and simply said, “For the record, I still don’t like this whole ‘date’ thing, boot.”

---

The date was a success. So much of a success, in fact, that three dates later, Jacob came to pick you up after work the next day. It was adorable, and he showed up with fresh flowers and a planned date, and it would’ve been perfect, if you hadn’t been leaving the station with Officer Bradford.

The same Bradford who’d been demanding more information about “this Jacob person” ever since you’d first mentioned a date.

So, while you were excited about the date, you weren’t thrilled at seeing Jacob stand in front of you, levelled by one of Tim’s many practiced glares.

“Who are you?” Tim asked, crossing his arms. He knew exactly who he was.

“I’m Jacob…?” Your boyfriend said hesitantly, trying to figure out why the man in front of him was staring at him so intimidatingly.

You winced and jumped in quickly. “Jake, this is Tim. My TO?”

Recognition clicked quickly in Jacob’s eyes.  He instantly stuck out a hand to Tim, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Uh huh.” Tim raked his eyes over Jacobs outstretched hand, but didn’t shake it. “You got a last name, Jacob?”

“Anderson.” Jacob supplied immediately, lips twitching faintly in amusement.

“What do you do, Anderson? If you say screenwriter, you’re going in a cell.”

Jacob chuckled. “I’m a teacher, sir.” Tim didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t look totally disgusted either. Which, to you, was a win.

“Is this the part where you tell me not to hurt Y/n?” Jacob asked with a barely contained grin.

Tim glowered. “Yes. In fact, consider this your one and only warning. Hurt her, and I’ll find a way to make you spend the rest of your life in a cell.” Tim crossed his arms over his chest, and God you were glad he’d never given you that look before.

Pitying your partner, you jumped in and placed yourself between the two most important men in your life. “Oookay, Bradford, chill. We’re going to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay, sir?”

“Uh-huh. See you tomorrow, Boot.” Tim’s words came out tense, and he didn’t take his eyes off you until you were well out of the carpark.

---

The day had arrived. You’d officially been a police officer for an entire year. You weren’t a rookie anymore.

It was everything you’d dreamed of it being.

“Finally, congratulations to Officer Y/l/n for completing the FTO program and surviving her rookie year. Welcome, officially, to the team, Y/l/n.” Grey walked over to you, shaking your hand proudly. “Good work, kid.”

“Thank you, sir.” You beamed, returning the handshake. Grey dismissed the rest of roll call, and you walked out of the room. You could barely make it a few steps without someone grabbing you, hugging you or congratulating you in some way. You’d never been happier.

You reached the edge of the room and were met with Sergeant Bradford, a rare smile on his face.

“Congratulations, Y/l/n.” He said, reaching out a hand.

“Don’t even try.” You said, knocking his hand out of the way and pulling him into a hug. It was unprofessional, you knew, but you couldn’t help it. Aside from your boyfriend, Tim had managed to become one of the most important people in your life over the past year.

Tim froze for a moment, but gently returned the hug, patting your back a couple times. You thought you heard Harper snicker from across the room. You definitely heard Lucy say the word ‘Dadford.’ She wasn’t… entirely wrong. You had found a father in Tim. Maybe one day he’d even admit it – in actual words, not just actions. You still laughed every time you thought about his interrogation of Jacob when they’d first met.

You pulled back and only then did you shake Tim’s hand. “Thank you, sir. For everything.”

Tim nodded, the smile lines by his eyes crinkling. “You’re welcome… Y/n. I’m proud of you, kid.”

You smiled softly and forced yourself to only say, “Have a good shift… Tim,” before hurrying away. But as you got into your shop (your shop, for the first time), you didn’t stop a few happy tears from falling.

---

You were nervous. It was your second time riding with Tim since graduating the FTO program and you were nervous. It had nothing to do with riding with Tim, however, and everything to do with what you were going to ask him.

“Tim?” You asked, hesitant.

“Yeah, Y/l/n?”

“I have to tell you something.” You fiddled with your left hand nervously, already missing the weight on your finger.

Instantly, Tim was softening and frowning, “Are you okay, kid?”

“Yes! Yeah, I’m okay.” This time you actually meant it. “I have news, though.”

“Oh?” Tim turned to you for a second, before looking back at the road. “What is it?”

You swallowed, and then, “Jacob asked me to marry him. I said yes.”  

Tim had finally come around to Jacob a few months ago. Little did you know, but Jacob had actually asked Tim’s permission before proposing. You’d told him once about how you wished you had a father that you still spoke to, just for that reason. Jacob had known Tim was the next best thing.

Tim smiled widely, “Congratulations, Y/n. I’ll be expecting an invite to the wedding.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about that.” This was where the nervousness was coming in. You were pretty sure the butterflies in your stomach had reached your lungs too.

“What is it?” Tim tilted his head slightly.

“Will you walk me down the aisle?” Tim froze, shocked. You quickly rambled on, as you so often did when nervous, “You don’t have to, I just-.. I don’t talk to my bio dad, and you’re the closest thing I have to a father, and it would mean a lot to me, and-.”

“Relax, Y/l/n,” Tim cut you off with a smile. “I would be honoured to walk you down the aisle.”

The smile on your face then was the third biggest you’d ever smiled. The first had been when you’d graduated the FTO program, and the second when Jacob had proposed. But this… this was an entirely different feeling. This was the feeling of your whole life, finally working out. You had a career, a fiancé, and now, a father. A real one, who never insulted you or made you feel worthless.

What more could you ask for?

fin

It was a domestic call gone bad. The kind that started with a 911 hang-up and ended with shattered glass, blood on the floor, and a kid too young to understand what had happened but old enough to know it wasn’t right. You did everything by the book. Secured the scene. Called for medics. Reassured the child the best you could, even when their small hands clung to your uniform like a lifeline. You did your job. And then you left.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But one thing couldn’t get out of your head — Your uniform was awfully stained.

The blood wasn’t yours, but it didn’t matter. It had splattered across your sleeves when you helped the woman up from the floor, smudged onto your hands when you picked up the crying kid. You hadn’t noticed it at first—too busy, too locked into protocol. But now, sitting in the shop under the dim glow of the streetlights, it was all you could see.

You rubbed your palms together, as if you could scrub the feeling away, but the red didn’t disappear. It had already dried, darkened into something rust coloured and permanent. Your breathing slowed, the noise of the city fading into a dull hum as a strange weight settled in your chest.

You didn’t even realize you were staring at your hands until Tim spoke.

“Hey.”

The sharpness in his voice cut through the haze. You blinked, finally looking up, and he was already watching you—brows drawn, head tilted just slightly. You hadn’t even noticed that the shop had pulled over to the side of the road.

“You’re here,” Tim said evenly, like he was reminding you of something obvious. “Stay here.”

You exhaled, shaking your head as if that could clear the static in your brain. With stiff movements, you reached for a napkin in the center console, scrubbing at your hands even though it wouldn’t do much good. Tim let you, didn’t say a word until your hands stopped shaking.

Then, after a long beat, he reached behind his seat and tossed you a fresh department hoodie.

“Put that on,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the road.

You hesitated, then pulled it over your uniform without question. The fabric was warm, heavy, grounding.

You weren’t sure if it actually helped, but somehow, you didn’t feel so lost anymore.

You pulled the hoodie over your uniform, the scent of worn fabric and faint cologne settling around you. It was grounding in a way you didn’t expect. But then, Tim reached over and—

His thumb swiped against your cheek.

You stiffened slightly, not because of the touch, but because of what he was wiping away.

Blood.

You hadn’t even realized it was on your face too.

Tim’s movements were calm, methodical. He pulled another napkin from the glove compartment, wetting it with his water bottle before dabbing at the smudges across your jawline. His touch was firm but not rough, like he knew you needed something tangible to focus on.

“You’re doing fine, kid,” he said, voice low, steady. “Stay with me.”

You nodded slowly, still silent, but compliant. Your breathing was shallow, but you matched the rhythm of his movements—each slow pass of the napkin against your skin, each flick of his eyes scanning for anything he missed.

When he was done, he studied you for a moment. His usual sharp, assessing gaze softened just slightly, like he was trying to gauge if you were still floating somewhere outside yourself.

“Talk to me,” he finally said.

Your lips parted, but no words came out at first. You swallowed, forcing out something—anything.

“I didn’t even feel it,” you admitted. “Didn’t notice the blood was there.”

Tim nodded, like that answer made sense. “That’s because you were running on instinct.” He tossed the used napkin into a small trash bag near the console. “It’s not a bad thing. It means you did your job.”

You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight in your chest shift—still heavy, but not suffocating.

Tim didn’t push for more. Instead, he rested his arm against the center console, glancing at you like he was about to say something but changed his mind. Then, after a beat—

“Let’s get some coffee.”

The abruptness of it almost made you laugh. Almost. But the offer was exactly what you needed—something normal, something routine, something that wasn’t blood and sirens and silence pressing in too hard.

You nodded, finally meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

Tim hummed in approval and put the shop in drive.

The coffee shop stayed quiet between you and Tim for a while, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Just… steady. Like the weight of the last call wasn’t pressing as hard anymore. Like you could actually breathe again.

Your coffee was still too hot to drink properly, but you held onto it anyway, fingers gripping the cup like it was some kind of lifeline. Tim didn’t comment on it. He just sat across from you, sipping his own, gaze flicking out the window every now and then, like he was still half on duty even while sitting down.

You let the silence sit a little longer before finally speaking. “So… you’ve done this before.”

Tim glanced back at you. “What?”

“This whole ‘walking someone out of a breakdown’ thing,” you said, raising a brow. “You’re kinda suspiciously good at it.”

Tim scoffed. “It’s not a breakdown.”

You gave him a look. “It was getting there.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I’ve done it before.”

You nodded, waiting.

For a second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything else. But then, his fingers tapped lightly against the side of his coffee cup, and he spoke again.

“I had a T.O who did the same thing for me,” he said, voice lower now. “When I was a rookie, fresh out of the military. Thought I could handle anything.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

You blinked. Tim didn’t talk about himself much, and when he did, it was usually wrapped in sarcasm or some kind of tough-love lesson. But this—this was different.

“What happened?” you asked carefully.

Tim exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Bad call. Domestic. Ended ugly.” His fingers flexed once against the cup before stilling. “My T.O. knew I was barely keeping it together after. Took me out for coffee, let me sit with it. Didn’t push, didn’t lecture—just reminded me that it wasn’t my job to carry it forever.”

You swallowed, watching him.

Tim glanced at you then, eyes sharp and knowing. “That’s what I’m doing for you.”

You shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling like he could see straight through you. “I’m fine,” you muttered, though even you weren’t convinced.

Tim’s brow lifted. “Sure. That’s why you haven’t taken a sip of that coffee yet.”

You scowled at him but finally lifted the cup and took a hesitant sip, more out of stubbornness than anything else. It was still too hot, and you made a face, setting it back down.

Tim smirked. “There. Progress.”

You rolled your eyes but felt the tightness in your chest ease just a little.

After a moment, Tim leaned back, stretching his shoulders. “You don’t get used to it, you know,” he said, voice softer. “The blood. The way people look at you when they realize you can’t fix everything. You just learn how to live with it.”

You nodded slowly. “And coffee helps?”

Tim shrugged, smirking slightly. “Doesn’t hurt.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, finally taking another sip of your drink. This time, you didn’t grimace.

The weight of the last call still lingered, but it wasn’t crushing you anymore. You weren’t fully back yet, but you were getting there.

You’re number twelve for the Knights. You move differently. While the other boys on the ice are all sharp angles and explosive, often clumsy, force, you are fluid. You don’t skate, you flow. Your edges are silent, your turns are seamless curves, and your stick seems less like a tool and more like an extension of your own arms.

The play is in your defensive zone. A hulking Badger defenseman winds up for a slapshot from the point. It’s a cannonball, a prayer hurled toward the net. Your goalie flinches. But you’re already moving. You slide, not with desperation, but with a preternatural understanding of geometry, your stick perfectly angled. The puck deflects off the blade, not into the corner with a violent crash, but softly, landing flat on the ice right in front of you as if you’d called it by name.

You’re up in an instant. Two quick strides and you’re at top speed. The other players seem to be moving through molasses.

Mario leans forward, the coffee forgotten. He squints, trying to get a better look. Your helmet, a standard Bauer model, obscures your face. But there’s something about your frame, the way your jersey hangs.

“Who’s twelve?” He asks the tournament organizer sitting beside him, a portly man named Dale whose tie is just a little too tight.

Dale consults his program, his finger tracing a line of names. “twelve … let’s see. Y/L/N. Best on the team. Best in the league, probably.”

On the ice, you weave through the neutral zone. A Badger forward tries to line you up for a check along the boards. It’s a foolish, telegraphed move. You see it coming a mile away. At the last possible second, you dip your shoulder, pulling the puck back with the toe of your blade. The boy crashes into the plexiglass with a hollow thud, his momentum utterly wasted. You don’t even look back.

You cross the blue line. Two defensemen converge on you. It’s a pincer movement, a classic trap. For anyone else, it would be the end of the play. You look to your right, a subtle head fake that sells the pass. Both defensemen bite, their weight shifting for a fraction of a second.

It’s all the time you need.

You pull the puck between your own legs, a smooth, slick motion that happens so fast it’s almost an illusion. You emerge on the other side of them, alone with the goalie.

A murmur goes through the small crowd. Mario feels a genuine smile touch his lips for the first time all day.

The goalie comes out to challenge you, making himself big. You skate straight at him, stickhandling lazily, almost disrespectfully. You’re baiting him. He takes it, dropping into his butterfly, anticipating the shot. But you don’t shoot. You glide, out-waiting him, your patience a weapon. At the last moment, you deke to your backhand, slide the puck around his outstretched pad, and tap it into the empty net.

The goal horn blares, a sad, tinny sound in the mostly empty arena. Your teammates mob you, a flurry of gloves tapping your helmet. You accept their praise with a simple nod, your posture unchanged. You skate back to the bench, your face a mask of pure, unadulterated focus.

And as you turn, the light from the rafters catches the two long, thick braids of hair spilling out from the back of your helmet.

Mario’s breath catches in his throat.

“twelve,” he says, his voice low. “That’s a girl.”

Dale the organizer nods, a weary look on his face. “That’s her. Y/N Y/L/N. Told you she was the best in the league.”

“The best in the league?” Mario repeats, his eyes never leaving you. “Dale, that kid might be one of the smartest players I’ve seen at this age. Period. Boy or girl.”

The rest of the game is more of the same. You don’t score again, but you control everything. You break up plays before they can start. Your passes are crisp, perfect, always leading your teammates into open ice. You are the quarterback, the conductor, the heart, and the brain of the team. The Knights win 3-1. Your goal was the game-winner.

As the teams shake hands, you’re just one of the players. But as they skate off, a clear line is drawn. The boys in white jerseys peel off to the left, toward their locker room, a wave of whoops and hollers echoing down the concrete hall.

You turn right, alone.

You skate to a small, unmarked door at the far end of the rink, push it open with the butt of your stick, and disappear inside.

Mario stands up. “Where’s their coach?”

“Probably in the locker room,” Dale says, gathering his papers.

“Show me.”

***

The coach’s office is less of an office and more of a glorified closet. It smells of sweat, old leather, and that specific dampness that never seems to leave hockey rinks. A single bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. A man in his late forties with tired eyes and a kind face looks up as Mario ducks through the doorway.

“Coach Walker,” Dale says, gesturing. “This is Mario Lemieux. He wanted a word.”

Coach Walker’s eyes widen slightly. He wipes a hand on his jeans before shaking Mario’s. “Mr. Lemieux. An honor. Really.”

“Mario, please,” he says, his large frame making the small room feel even smaller. “I just watched your team. You’ve got a hell of a player in number twelve.”

A look of immense pride, mixed with a familiar exhaustion, settles over the coach’s face. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Once in a lifetime talent. I’ll never have another player like her.”

“Why isn’t she playing at a higher level?” Mario asks, cutting straight to the point. “With her hockey IQ? She should be in a Triple-A program, at the very least.”

Coach Walker lets out a short, bitter laugh. He gestures to a corkboard on the wall, buried under game schedules and practice plans. Pinned to the corner are three letters, their edges curled and worn.

“Those are from the three top youth programs in the state,” Walker says, his voice losing its cheerful edge. “All rejection letters. We sent them tapes. They saw what you saw.”

“Then I don’t understand,” Mario says, genuinely confused.

“Oh, they were interested,” the coach continues, his tone hardening. “Very interested. Phone calls, emails, ‘we’d love to have him for a tryout.’ Right up until the moment they realize Y/N stands for Y/N. That the phenom on the tape is a girl.”

“What?”

“Suddenly, the rosters are full. Or they have concerns about ‘her safety.’ Or my personal favorite,” he says, pointing a finger at one of the letters, “they cite a lack of ‘appropriate changing facilities.’” He spits the words out like they’re poison. “They’ll take a boy who can barely skate backwards over a girl who could quarterback their power play from the blue line tomorrow.”

Mario feels a slow burn of anger in his chest. He’s seen politics in hockey. He’s lived it. But this is different. This is blatant, infuriating prejudice.

“So where does she get changed?” He asks quietly.

“The women’s restroom. The one for the public,” Walker says, shaking his head. “Drags her whole damn hockey bag in there before and after every game and practice. Never complains. Not once. She just wants to play.”

The door to the office is ajar, and from down the hall, they can hear the muffled sounds of the Knights celebrating their victory — shouts, laughter, the sound of sticks banging on the floor. A world you’re not a part of.

“She’s fourteen?” Mario asks.

“Turned fourteen last month.”

“And she’s playing with boys her age? Some of those kids are huge.”

“She’s smarter than they are,” the coach says simply. “Faster, too. She knows how to avoid the big hits. She has to. She knows they’re gunning for her, the parents on the other teams whispering, telling their sons to ‘finish the check on the girl.’ She hears it. She just … uses it.”

There’s a moment of silence in the tiny office, the sounds of celebration down the hall feeling a world away.

“This is ridiculous,” Mario says, his voice a low rumble. “The bureaucracy … the old boys’ club. It’s always been there, but to shut down a talent like that? Before she even gets a chance?”

“Tell me about it,” Coach Walker sighs. He slumps into his worn-out office chair. “I’ve done everything I can. I’ve made the calls. I’ve yelled at league commissioners. Nobody wants to be the first. Nobody wants to rock the boat.” He looks up at Mario, a glint of desperation in his tired eyes. “They’re going to waste her, Mr. Lemieux. They’re going to let the best player this state has seen in a decade fall through the cracks because she was born a girl.”

Mario looks back at the corkboard, at the official letterheads and the polite, dismissive words. He thinks of you on the ice, the effortless grace, the fierce intelligence. He thinks of you skating alone to a public bathroom while your teammates celebrate together.

“Maybe,” Mario says, a new resolve hardening his voice, “they just need a bigger boat.”

***

The hallway is cold and smells of wet concrete. The celebratory noise from the Knights’ locker room is a dull roar behind a closed door. You push open the heavy door of the women’s restroom, the oversized hockey bag slung over your shoulder, its weight familiar and comforting.

Your hair is damp, combed back from your face. You’re wearing jeans and a simple grey hoodie. Without the helmet and pads, you look your age. Young. The ferocity you display on the ice is replaced by a quiet, observant calm.

You take a deep breath, the adrenaline from the game slowly beginning to fade, leaving a pleasant exhaustion in its wake. It was a good game. You close your eyes for a second, replaying the goal in your head. The fake, the deke, the slide of the puck over the line. A small, satisfied smile touches your lips.

“Y/L/N.”

Your eyes snap open.

Leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his chest, is a man so tall he has to duck his head slightly to avoid the low-hanging pipes. He’s dressed in a simple black coat, but he carries an aura of importance that seems to fill the empty hallway.

You know who he is. Every kid who has ever held a hockey stick in Pennsylvania knows who he is. Mario Lemieux.

Your mind races. Is he here for a fundraiser? Did his kid play in the tournament? You give a small, polite nod, unsure of what to say.

“That was some game,” he says, his voice a deep, calm baritone. He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward you. He doesn’t offer a hand, just stands there, observing you with an intensity that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice coming out a little quieter than you intended. You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“The move in the second period,” he continues, “the head fake to sell the pass to the wing before you pulled it between your skates. Did you practice that?”

You’re taken aback. He wasn’t just watching, he was analyzing.

“Sometimes,” you say with a shrug. “It just seemed like the right thing to do. The D-men were flat-footed.”

“They were flat-footed because you made them flat-footed,” he corrects you gently. “You controlled their skates for them. That’s not something you can teach.”

A faint blush rises on your cheeks. This isn’t like when parents say, ‘Good game!’ This is praise from a god of the sport, and it’s specific. It’s real.

“I just try to see the ice,” you murmur, looking down at your sneakers.

“I was just talking to your coach,” he says, his tone shifting slightly. It becomes more serious. “He was telling me about some of the … noise you’ve been dealing with. Off the ice.”

Your stomach tightens. You immediately know what he’s talking about. The letters. The phone calls that go unanswered. The whispers in the stands. A familiar wall of defensiveness goes up inside you. You’ve learned to protect yourself from the disappointment.

“It’s whatever,” you say, the casualness of your tone a well-practiced defense. “I don’t really care.”

“I think you do,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “And I think you should. It’s not right.”

You look up at him, really look at him. There’s no pity in his eyes. There’s something else. Anger. Recognition.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” You ask, and for the first time, a sliver of the frustration you keep so carefully buried leaks into your voice. “It’s always been like this. ‘There are no facilities.’ ‘We’re worried about your safety.’ It’s just excuses.”

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding slowly. “They are. They’re excuses from people who are afraid of what they don’t understand. People who are comfortable with the way things have always been.”

He takes another step closer. The sheer size of him is intimidating, but his demeanor is anything but.

“I’ve dealt with my share of hockey bureaucracy, Y/N. I’ve sat in boardrooms with men who think they know what’s best for the sport, men who would rather protect their own little kingdoms than let the game grow.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours. “Talent is talent. It doesn’t matter if it’s in a boy or a girl. And what I saw on that ice today … that was talent.”

The word hangs in the air between you. You’ve been called good. You’ve been called a great player ‘for a girl.’ But the way he says ‘talent,’ it feels different. It feels like a fact. Unqualified. Absolute.

A knot forms in your throat. You swallow hard.

“Your coach says he’s hit a wall,” Mario says.

You just nod, unable to speak.

“I’d like to make a few phone calls,” he says simply. “Talk to some people. See if we can’t knock that wall down.”

Your head snaps up. You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the words. Mario Lemieux wants to make phone calls. For you.

“Why?” The question slips out before you can stop it. It’s small, vulnerable.

He offers a slight, wry smile. “Because I hate seeing good hockey go to waste. And because, selfishly, I want to see what a player like you can do when the doors are actually open.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a sleek, simple business card. He flips it over, takes a pen from his other pocket, and scribbles something on the back.

“This is my direct number,” he says, holding the card out to you. “Not my agent, not my assistant. Mine. I want you to call me tomorrow. We can talk more then. No pressure. Just a conversation.”

You stare at the card in his hand. Your own hands are trembling slightly. You shift the weight of your hockey bag and take it from him. The card is heavy, the lettering embossed. On the back, in neat, block handwriting, is a phone number.

It feels like the most valuable object in the world.

“Okay,” you whisper. The word is barely audible over the thump of your own heart.

“Okay,” he repeats with a nod. He gives you one last, appraising look. “Get some rest. You played a great game.”

And with that, he turns and walks down the long, empty hallway, his footsteps echoing until he disappears around the corner.

You stand there for a long time, alone in the quiet corridor. The sounds of your team celebrating down the hall have faded, the door likely closed now. It’s just you, your oversized bag, and the small, rectangular piece of paper in your hand.

You look from the number to the closed locker room door and back again. For the first time, the distance between your world and theirs doesn’t feel like a chasm. It feels like a problem that might just have a solution. And that solution is a phone number, resting in the palm of your hand.

***

That phone call is the most terrifying ten seconds of your life.

You sit on your bed, the business card slick with sweat in your hand, staring at the number he wrote on the back. Your thumb hovers over the call button on your beat-up flip phone.

“Just do it,” your dad says, leaning against your bedroom doorframe. “The worst thing he can say is that he changed his mind.”

“That’s a pretty bad worst thing,” you mumble, but you press the button anyway.

It rings twice.

“Hello?” The voice is unmistakable. Deep, calm.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Lemieux,” you stammer, your heart trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “This is … this is Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y/N,” he says, and his voice warms instantly. “I was hoping you’d call. You have a minute to talk?”

That minute turns into four years.

Four years is a lifetime. It’s a blur of phone calls, rink-side meetings, and doors that were once welded shut suddenly creaking open. Mario’s name is a master key, and he uses it without hesitation. First, it’s a spot on a national-level U16 boys’ team. The whispers are there, louder now. The scrutiny is intense. Every mistake is magnified, every success is qualified with “… for a girl.”

You respond the only way you know how: on the ice. You lead the league in assists. You are the smartest player on any sheet of ice you touch.

At sixteen, Mario makes the big push. The Ontario Hockey League and the Western Hockey League hem and haw, citing the same old tired excuses. But the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League — the ‘Q’ — is different. Perhaps it’s their history of high-flying, creative players. Perhaps it’s the persuasive power of a legend making a personal appeal to their commissioner. A team, the Shawinigan Cataractes, agrees to let you try out.

Before the training camp, Mario flies you out to meet someone. You walk into a glass-walled office in Los Angeles and shake hands with Pat Brisson. The Pat Brisson. He represents Sidney Crosby, Nathan MacKinnon, a roster of gods.

He looks at you, then at Mario, then back at you.

“So this is the one,” Pat says, a shrewd, calculating look in his eyes.

“This is the one,” Mario confirms.

“They’re going to be brutal,” Pat says, his focus entirely on you now. “The media, the other players, the fans in the cheap seats. They’ll chirp you. They’ll test you. They’ll do everything they can to get under your skin.”

“I can handle it,” you say, your voice steady.

“I know you can,” Pat says with a sharp nod. “But we’re not going to hide from it. We’re going to lean into it. Our entire strategy is going to be simple. We’re going to let everyone know you’re a girl. And then you’re going to go out there and prove you’re better than every single boy they put in front of you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” you say.

It becomes your mantra. The headlines are relentless. You step on the ice in Shawinigan and the chirps are merciless, a mix of crude English and even cruder French.

“Go back to the kitchen!” One player screams from the bench during your first exhibition game.

The next shift, you strip the puck from him at your own blue line, turn him inside out with a move so filthy the crowd gasps, and score on a breakaway. As you skate past his bench, you don’t say a word. You just meet his eyes. It’s more than enough.

You don’t just make the team. You become its star.

By seventeen, you’re an alternate captain. By eighteen, you’re the first female captain in the history of the Canadian Hockey League. You lead the Cataractes to a Memorial Cup championship, and you are named tournament MVP. You finish your final season with 121 points. You are not just the best player on your team; you are the best player in the entire league. The debate about whether a girl can play at this level is over. You ended it.

And now, a new debate begins.

***

The first draft is in Ottawa. The Professional Women’s Hockey League. The stage at the Hard Rock is bathed in purple and black light. It’s a historic moment and there’s a palpable energy of excitement and progress in the air.

You’re proud of it. Truly. You see the young girls in the audience holding signs, their faces painted, and you understand the importance of this. But as you sit in the front row between your mom and dad, a knot of anxiety is tangled in your gut.

There’s no suspense. The commissioner walks to the podium.

“With the first overall selection in the inaugural PWHL Draft,” she announces, her voice ringing with significance, “the New York Sirens are proud to select, from the Shawinigan Cataractes … Y/N Y/L/N!”

The room erupts. You stand, smooth down your dress, and hug your parents. You walk to the stage, shake the commissioner’s hand, and hold up the teal and orange jersey. You smile for the cameras, the flashbulbs popping like fireworks. You say all the right things in the interviews.

“It’s an incredible honor.”

“What this league is doing for women’s hockey is monumental.”

“I’m just so grateful for this opportunity.”

Later that night, in the hotel bar, you’re sitting in a quiet corner with Mario. He swirls the ice in his glass of water, watching you.

“You did good up there,” he says. “You handled that with class.”

“Thanks,” you say, picking at the label on your bottle of soda.

“You’re happy about it,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement that’s fishing for a contradiction.

“I am,” you insist, meeting his gaze. “It’s amazing. It is. But …”

“But it’s not the dream,” he finishes for you.

You look down at your hands. “Is that awful? To feel that way? All those people … they’re building something incredible. And I feel like I’m looking past it.”

“It’s not awful,” he says, his voice firm. “It’s honest. You can be proud of what they’re building and still want to follow your own path. The dream was never to be the best female hockey player in the world. The dream was to be the best hockey player in the world. Period.”

He leans forward slightly. “And that path goes through one place. Las Vegas. In three days.”

***

Three days later, you’re sitting at a table inside the Sphere.

The place is an assault on the senses. The world’s largest LED screen wraps around and above you, displaying a dizzying array of team logos, player highlights, and shimmering graphics. The air conditioning is arctic. The anxiety is thick enough to choke on.

You’re wearing a simple, elegant dark green dress. Your hair is down, styled in loose waves. Beside you, your dad is fidgeting with his tie for the hundredth time. Your mom is clutching your hand, her knuckles white. And next to her, a rock of calm in a sea of tension, is Mario.

On the massive screen, the broadcast begins. The commentators’ faces, fifty feet tall, loom over the arena.

“Welcome to the 2025 NHL Entry Draft,” the host, Kevin Weekes, says. “An incredible venue for an incredible class of prospects. But of course, the story everyone is talking about is Y/N Y/L/N.”

Your highlights from the QMJHL flash across the screen — goals, assists, the Memorial Cup celebration.

“No one questions the skill,” another analyst, Cheryl Pounder, chimes in. “The hockey IQ is off the charts. She’s arguably the best playmaker in this draft. The question, and it’s the one every GM is asking, is how does her game translate to the size and speed of the National Hockey League?”

“It’s the physicality, Cheryl,” a third commentator adds. “Can she survive an 84-game season against men who are bigger, stronger, and faster than anyone she’s ever faced? It’s an unprecedented situation. No one knows where she’s going to go. Some scouts have her in the top ten, others have her falling to the second round. It is the great unknown of this draft.”

A cold dread begins to pool in your stomach. You knew this was coming, but hearing it broadcast to millions of people makes it sickeningly real.

Gary Bettman walks to the podium. The draft officially begins.

“With the first overall pick, the New York Islanders are proud to select …”

Matthew Schaefer, no surprise there.

Pick two. A center from the OHL.

Pick three. A Swedish phenom.

With every pick that isn’t you, your mom squeezes your hand a little tighter. You keep a placid, neutral expression on your face, a mask you perfected years ago. Inside, your nerves are shredding.

Pick four. Pick five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The top ten is gone. Pat had told you there was a good chance you’d go somewhere between eight and twelve. The first pang of real doubt hits you.

“And now, on the clock, with the eleventh overall selection, the Pittsburgh Penguins,” Bettman announces.

This is it. Mario’s team. The team you grew up watching. The team whose practice facility you’ve skated at a dozen times. Kyle Dubas appears on the giant screen from their draft room in Pittsburgh. The story is perfect. It’s written in the stars.

“The Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select …” he begins.

You hold your breath.

“… from the Calgary Hitmen, Benjamin Kindel.”

The air goes out of you in a silent rush. It’s a physical blow. You manage a polite clap as the young Canadian stands up from his table. You glance at Mario. His jaw is set like granite.

He leans over to you, his voice a low, angry whisper only you and your parents can hear. “I’m going to have a long talk with Kyle tomorrow. Maybe fire him.”

It’s meant to be a joke, to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work. The seed of fear has been planted. What if they’re all passing on you? What if the commentators were right? What if this was all for nothing?

Pick twelve. The Philadelphia Flyers. Not you.

Pick thirteen. The Detroit Red Wings. Not you.

Pick twelve. The Columbus Blue Jackets. Not you.

The first round is halfway over. The cameras keep panning to your table, catching your forced smiles, your stoic facade. You feel like an animal in a zoo. The girl who might get picked. The novelty act.

The familiar humiliation starts to creep in, the same feeling you got standing outside the boys’ locker room all those years ago. You are separate. You are other. You are a risk nobody is willing to take.

You look at your parents. Your dad is trying for a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t reach his worried eyes. Your mom looks like she’s about to cry. You feel a wave of guilt. You brought them here. You put them through this.

Maybe the PWHL is where you belong after all. Maybe that’s your ceiling. The thought is a bitter pill.

On the podium, Gary Bettman is speaking again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a trade to announce.”

A hush falls over the Sphere. The graphics on the screen swirl and change.

“We have a trade between the Vancouver Canucks and the New Jersey Devils.”

You barely register it. A mid-round pick swap, probably. Teams jockeying for position later on.

“The Vancouver Canucks trade the fifteenth overall selection to the New Jersey Devils,” Bettman continues, and now your head snaps up, “in exchange for the fiftieth overall selection in this year’s draft, a second-round selection in the 2026 draft, and the rights to prospect Seamus Casey.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd. That’s a haul. A third, a second, and a top prospect … to move up for one pick? Whoever the Devils want, they want them badly.

On the main screen, the feed switches to the New Jersey Devils’ war room. General Manager Tom Fitzgerald walks to their podium, flanked by his staff. He looks calm, confident. He looks like a man who just got exactly what he wanted.

The camera in the Sphere pans, sweeping over the remaining top prospects. It lingers on a big defenseman from Finland. It shows a speedy Canadian winger.

And then it finds your table.

Your face is now fifty feet high, broadcast for the whole world to see. You can feel thousands of pairs of eyes on you. Your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. This is it. This is the moment. It’s either the culmination of a dream or the beginning of a nightmare.

Tom Fitzgerald leans into the microphone. He doesn’t drag it out. He doesn’t build the suspense.

“The New Jersey Devils are proud to select …”

He pauses, and in that one second of silence, you live an entire lifetime of hope and fear.

“… from the Shawinigan Cataractes, Y/N Y/L/N.”

The word hangs in the air for a split second before the Sphere erupts.

The sound is a physical force, a wave that washes over you. It’s a roar of cheers, applause, and surprised shouts. For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to connect the sound of your name to the reality of the moment.

Then your mom is crying, grabbing you in a fierce hug. Your dad is yelling something incoherent, his face split by a grin of pure joy. You turn to Mario. He’s not smiling. He has a look of solemn satisfaction on his face. He simply puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes, a gesture that says everything. I knew it. I told you.

You stand up on shaky legs. The world feels like it’s tilting. You make your way to the stage, moving through a dream. Someone hands you a jersey. It’s red and black. You hold it up, and the flashbulbs are blinding.

You put it on. The fabric is heavy, the crest on the front stiff and new. It feels … right. It feels like coming home to a place you’ve never been.

You walk off the stage, dazed, and find your way back to your family. Pat is there now, a wide smile on his face as he talks on his phone.

Mario pulls you into a hug, a real one this time. He’s so tall he envelops you completely.

“They didn’t just draft you,” he says, his voice rumbling in your ear. “They traded up. They paid a price because they were afraid someone else was going to take you right before them. They didn’t take a chance on you, Y/N. They targeted you.”

He pulls back, holding you by the shoulders, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You’re not the girl who got drafted,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the fifteenth overall pick in the NHL Entry Draft. Now go show them why they should have taken you first.”

***

The moment you step off the stage, you’re swallowed by a vortex of managed chaos. A smiling woman from the league’s PR department with a headset and a clipboard gently steers you down a hallway. The roar of the draft floor fades behind you, replaced by the sterile hum of backstage corridors.

“Right this way, Y/N,” the woman says brightly. “We’re just going to do a few quick interviews, some photos, and then we’ll get you to the Devils’ media team.”

It’s not quick.

First, it’s a sit-down with ESPN. The lights are hot, the questions are a predictable mix of “How does it feel?” and “What do you say to the skeptics?” You give the polite, media-trained answers Pat drilled into you, your voice steady even as your hands tremble in your lap.

Then it’s Sportsnet. Then the NHL Network. You feel like you’re saying the same five sentences on a loop.

“It’s a dream come true.”

“I’m just excited to get to work.”

“I’ve always believed in my ability.”

“The Devils are a great organization.”

“I can’t wait to meet my teammates.”

You’re mid-sentence with a blogger from a popular hockey site when a different PR person, this one wearing a Devils polo shirt, rushes over.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “We need her. Phone call.” He hands you your phone, which has been in their safekeeping. The screen is a blinding, strobing mess of notifications. But there’s a call coming through from an unknown number.

“Who is it?” You ask, your brain feeling fuzzy from the lights and repetitive questions.

“It’s your captain,” he says, a grin spreading across his face.

Your breath hitches. You swipe to answer, your thumb barely connecting with the screen. You press the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Y/N?” The voice on the other end is calm, with a slight, charming Swiss-German accent. Nico Hischier.

“Yes,” you manage to say. “Hi.”

“Hey, Nico Hischier here. I just … wow. Welcome to New Jersey,” he says, and you can hear the genuine smile in his voice. “A bunch of us are together watching. When we saw Fitz traded up, we were all trying to guess who it was for. Nobody guessed this. In a good way! We’re all so excited.”

The background noise behind him is a low murmur of voices and then a distinct shout of “NICO! TELL HER DAWSON SAYS SHE BETTER BE A GOOD PASSER!”

Nico laughs, a warm, easy sound. “You’ll have to excuse Dawson. He’s already thinking about the power play. But seriously, on behalf of all the guys, we’re thrilled. What you did in the Q was incredible to watch.”

He’s not talking to you like a history project or a media spectacle. He’s talking to you like a hockey player. A teammate. It’s the first time all night that the reality of the situation truly sinks in, cutting through the surreal haze. You’re not just a draft pick. You’re a New Jersey Devil.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. You turn away from the PR reps, seeking a sliver of privacy. “Thanks, captain. That … that really means a lot.”

“Of course,” he says. “I know tonight is going to be crazy for you. Probably the next few months will be. Just … try to enjoy it. And know that when you get to camp, we’ve got your back. You’re one of us now. The media, the noise, we’ll handle it as a team. You just worry about playing hockey.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink them away furiously. “I will. Thank you, Nico.”

“Alright. I’ll let you go. Get some rest when you can. And hey, welcome to the Devils.”

The line clicks off. You stand there for a moment, the phone pressed to your ear, the sincerity of his words a soothing balm on your frayed nerves. He didn't have to call. He certainly didn't have to say any of that. But he did.

“Ready for social?” The Devils PR guy asks, breaking the spell.

***

The next hour is a blur of manufactured fun. You are introduced to a perky twenty-something named Maddie who runs the Devils’ TikTok account.

“Okay, Y/N, this is going to be amazing for engagement!” She says, her energy both infectious and exhausting. “First, we’re going to do the one where you point at different text bubbles that pop up on screen. So the first one will say ‘First Woman Drafted,’ and you just point up and smile. Got it? Great!”

You do it. You point. You smile.

“Perfect! Now, we’re going to do a transition Reel. We have your Shawinigan jersey here. You’re going to hold it up in front of the camera, then pull it away, and you’ll be wearing the Devils jersey! We’ll edit it, it’ll look sick.”

You change jerseys. The camera rolls. You feel ridiculous.

“Now one for the league’s account,” another social media manager says, stepping forward. “We want to do a ‘get to know you’ thing. I’ll fire some questions, you just give quick answers. Favorite pre-game meal?”

“Pasta with chicken.”

“Favorite artist right now?”

“Sabrina Carpenter.”

“Celebrity crush?”

You freeze. Pat’s voice rings in your ears from one of your media training sessions. Never answer that. Keep your private life private.

“Don’t really have one,” you lie smoothly.

“Okay, okay, last one!” Maddie chirps, holding her phone up again. “We’re doing a video where you look into the camera and say, ‘Hey, Devils fans. I’m here. Let’s go.’ But like, with intensity.”

You stare into the tiny lens of her iPhone, summon the last dregs of your adrenaline, and deliver the line.

“Hey, Devils fans. I’m here. Let’s go.”

“Amazing!” She squeals. “The comments are going to go crazy!”

You’re finally released, your head swimming, your cheeks aching from smiling. You feel less like a hockey player and more like a content creation machine. As you’re led toward the green room where your family is waiting, you pass a TV screen. It’s showing a replay of the draft commentary.

“… and there it is,” you hear Cheryl Pounder saying, “The New Jersey Devils make history. But Tom Fitzgerald wouldn’t have made that trade if he didn’t believe Y/N Y/L/N can be an impact player in the National Hockey League.”

Your step falters. An impact player. The words cut through the noise of the TikToks and the flashbulbs. That’s what matters. That’s the goal.

***

You push open the door to the private room and the world comes rushing back in.

“There she is!” Your dad shouts, his eyes red but his smile a mile wide.

Your mom engulfs you in a hug, still crying softly into your shoulder. “Oh, sweetie, we are just so, so proud of you.”

Over her shoulder, you see Mario. He’s holding a bouquet of flowers so enormous it’s comical. It’s a breathtaking explosion of white roses, lilies, and hydrangeas. He looks immensely pleased with himself.

“Had to make sure they were bigger than any bouquet the number fourteen pick got,” he says with a deep chuckle as you finally detach from your mom. “Just a little reminder from me to Pittsburgh about what they missed out on.”

You laugh, a real, genuine laugh for the first time in what feels like hours. “Still thinking about firing Dubas?”

“The thought has crossed my mind every thirty seconds since then,” Mario says with a completely straight face, which only makes you laugh harder.

In the corner, Pat is a whirlwind of activity. He has his cell phone pressed to one ear and a second one in his hand that he keeps glancing at.

“No, a full-page ad is fine, but we need creative control,” he says into the phone. He sees you looking and gives you a huge, triumphant wink. He covers the receiver. “Nike is on hold. They want to talk about a signature line. Not just a skate. A whole line. Bauer is scrambling. Gatorade wants to make you a pillar of their next global campaign. And a reporter from Vogue wants to know who you’re wearing.”

He gestures to your green dress. “Who are you wearing, by the way?”

“It’s from a mall,” you say, feeling completely overwhelmed. “I don’t even know.”

“We’ll say it’s custom,” he mutters before turning his attention back to his call. “Listen, I have to call you back.”

Mario steps forward, gently taking the massive bouquet from his own hands and placing it in yours. The scent is intoxicating.

“Alright,” he says, his voice cutting through the celebratory chaos. He puts a hand on your shoulder and one on your dad’s. “That’s enough business for tonight. Pat can make you rich tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate. I have a car waiting and a reservation at a restaurant where no one will bother us. My treat.”

The relief is so profound it almost brings you to your knees. A quiet dinner. Your family. Your mentor. It’s all you want in the world.

***

Meanwhile, at a lake house in Michigan …

The setting sun paints the surface of the lake in fiery shades of orange and pink. Inside a sprawling, modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows, the only light comes from the massive television screen displaying the NHL draft. Empty chip bags and beer bottles litter the coffee table.

Quinn is lounging on an armchair, scrolling through his phone. Luke is stretched out on the floor, idly tossing a foam puck into the air. Jack is perched on the edge of the sofa, his focus laser-sharp on the screen, his posture radiating a nervous energy even from a thousand miles away.

“This draft is boring,” Luke says, catching the foam puck. “Wake me up when something interesting happens.”

“The kid from Saginaw is going to be good,” Quinn says, not looking up from his phone. “San Jose got a stud.”

“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s a stud,” Jack mutters, his eyes narrowed on the TV. “Let’s see what Fitzy does. He’s been quiet.”

They watch as the picks tick by. Pittsburgh is on the clock.

“Here we go,” Jack says, leaning forward. “He’s gotta take a center.”

The Penguins select Benjamin Kindel.

“Good pick,” Jack says with a decisive nod. “Smart.”

A few more picks go by. Luke is starting to doze off. Then, the announcement.

“We have a trade to announce.”

Jack sits bolt upright. “Okay, here we go. Fitz is cooking.”

Luke props himself up on his elbows. “Who’s trading?”

“Vancouver and New Jersey,” the commissioner says.

Quinn’s head shoots up from his phone. “What? No one told me we were trading our pick.”

“The fifteenth pick … to the Devils,” the announcer clarifies.

“Whoa,” Luke says, now fully awake. “Fitz gave up a lot. A second, a third, and Casey? Who the hell is he trading up for?”

“It’s gotta be one of the Russian kids,” Jack theorizes, rattling off names. “Or maybe that big D-man from Finland. Someone must have been trying to jump us.”

The broadcast cuts to the Devils’ war room. Tom Fitzgerald is at the podium.

“Alright, Fitz, who’d you get for us?” Jack says to the screen.

“The New Jersey Devils are proud to select … from the Shawinigan Cataractes … Y/N Y/L/N.”

A stunned silence fills the room, broken only by the sound of the television.

Luke is the first to speak. His voice is a disbelieving whisper.

“No. Way.”

Quinn is just staring at the screen, his mouth slightly agape, looking back and forth between your smiling face holding up a Devils jersey and his brothers.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a long time. His face is a blank mask of concentration. He’s not shocked. He’s processing. He’s running simulations in his mind, calculating angles, reconfiguring power-play units. He’s a hockey supercomputer booting up a new, unprecedented variable.

Finally, he speaks. “Holy shit.” He says it quietly, with a sort of reverence. “Fitz actually did it.”

“What does this even mean?” Luke asks, sitting up completely. He looks genuinely bewildered. “Like … for the team? For the locker room? What are we supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to treat her like a teammate,” Quinn says, his voice taking on the authoritative tone of a captain. He’s looking at Jack and Luke, his expression serious. “You guys need to get ahead of this. Every team in the league is going to circle your games now. Every scrum, every post-whistle … they’re going to test her. And they’re going to test you to see if you have her back.”

“Of course we’ll have her back,” Jack scoffs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He pulls out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. “She’s a Devil.” He finds your highlights from the Memorial Cup. The clip of you turning a defenseman inside out plays on the small screen. “Look at that. The poise. The vision.”

He looks up at Luke. “She’s a playmaker. That’s a puck-moving player who can feed our transition game. That’s what matters.” He pauses. “The media is going to be an absolute circus, though. We’re gonna have to shut that down from day one. Set the tone.” He’s already in leadership mode, protecting the sanctity of the room.

“So … I have a question,” Luke says slowly, a classic Luke expression of earnest confusion on his face. “And I’m not trying to be a jerk, I’m serious. Where does she, like … get changed?”

Jack and Quinn both look at him.

Quinn sighs. “They’ll add a curtain around her stall or something, Luke. The Prudential Center has the budget.”

“Oh. Right. Cool,” Luke says, nodding as if this is a perfectly normal piece of team logistics. He thinks for another second. “Man, I wonder if she’s any good at Catan. We need a fourth for game nights on the road.”

Jack isn’t listening. He’s still watching your highlights, a slow grin spreading across his face. He sees the head fake. He sees the no-look backhand pass to the slot. He sees a player who thinks the game on his level.

“Dude,” he says to Luke, finally looking up from his phone, a spark of genuine excitement in his eyes. “I think our power play just got a lot better.”

***

The celebratory dinner is a pocket of impossible calm after the storm of the draft. At a secluded corner table in a dimly lit, absurdly expensive steakhouse off the Las Vegas strip, the four of you finally have a moment to breathe. The conversation is easy, filled with stories from your childhood hockey days, your parents recounting tales of 6 a.m. practices and tournaments in frozen northern towns. For a few hours, you’re not a historic draft pick or a brand-in-the-making. You’re just their daughter.

The feeling, however, is fleeting. Real life, and the reality of what just happened, comes at you fast. The weeks after the draft are a whirlwind. Pat’s office secures a condo for you in a high-rise in Jersey City with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. Boxes are packed and unpacked. Endorsement deals are signed. You do a photoshoot for a magazine, the feeling of the designer clothes foreign and strange against your skin, a stark contrast to the familiar weight of hockey pads.

But amidst all the noise, there is one singular focus, a beacon guiding you through the haze of your new life: Development Camp.

***

One Week Before Development Camp …

Dougie Hamilton is on his couch in Toronto, watching a movie, when his phone buzzes. He glances at it. A WhatsApp notification.

Unknown Number has added you to “A Friendly Reminder”

He frowns. A new group chat. He sees the names of his teammates appearing in the chat list. Nico Hischier. Jack Hughes. Timo Meier. Ondrej Palat. Every single player on the Devils’ roster, right down to the guys on two-way contracts in Utica.

Dougie Hamilton: Who is this?

Before anyone else can type, a video appears in the chat. No caption. Just a play button. Dougie taps it, intrigued.

The video is portrait-style, clearly filmed on a phone. It’s a close-up of a man’s face, a face every single person in this chat knows. The lighting is low, but the eyes are intense, missing nothing. It’s Mario Lemieux. He doesn’t blink.

“This message is for the New Jersey Devils,” he begins, his voice a low, even rumble. It’s the calmest, most terrifying sound Dougie has ever heard. “In a few weeks, a rookie is coming to your camp. My player. Y/N Y/L/N. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.”

He pauses, letting the silence hang heavy.

“Let me be perfectly clear. She is not a media spectacle. She is not a locker room distraction. She is a hockey player. A damn good one. And she is your teammate. You will treat her as such. You will make her feel welcome. You will give her a fair chance to earn her spot, just like any other prospect. And when the time comes, you will protect her on the ice as you would any other member of your team.”

His gaze seems to pierce through the screen.

“I have a long memory and a lot of friends in this league. If I hear — from anyone — that she has been treated with anything less than the full respect a teammate deserves, you will find that your careers, your reputations, and your future contract negotiations will become … complicated.”

He leans a fraction of an inch closer to the camera.

“Enjoy the rest of your summer. I’ll be watching.”

The video ends. A moment later, a new message appears in the chat.

This video will self-destruct in two minutes.

The chat immediately explodes.

Timo Meier: Was that who I think it was?

Ondrej Palat: How the hell did he get all our numbers?

Jonas Siegenthaler: I feel like I just got threatened by the Godfather.

Jack Hughes: LMAO FITZ IS GONNA HAVE A HEART ATTACK

Nico Hischier: Everyone relax. He’s just being protective. The message is simple: be good teammates. We were going to do that anyway. This doesn’t change anything.

Jack Hughes: It kinda changes things. Now I’m terrified of Lemieux. Which is fair.

Two minutes later, precisely as promised, the video vanishes from the chat history. A moment after that, the group itself is deleted, the unknown number disappearing into the digital ether. The players are left with nothing but the chilling memory of Mario Lemieux’s promise.

***

You know nothing about this.

When you walk into the RWJBarnabas Health Hockey House for the first day of development camp, all you feel is a tidal wave of nervous excitement. The building smells of fresh ice and new equipment. You’re handed a bag full of gear, everything crisp and new, emblazoned with the Devils logo. Your practice jersey is white, the number 21 stitched on the back in red. Twelve, your number in the Q, is taken by a veteran. Twenty-one feels new. A clean slate.

You find your assigned stall in the prospects’ locker room, a temporary space for the week. Your name is printed on a placard above the stall. Y/L/N. It feels real.

The other prospects file in, a mix of recent draft picks like you and players who have been in the system for a year or two. Some guys come over and introduce themselves, offering handshakes and welcoming smiles. Others watch you from a distance, their expressions a mix of curiosity and skepticism. They’re your competition.

You’re taping the knob of a new stick when you hear it. The comment isn’t meant for you to hear, but the acoustics of a locker room carry whispers. It’s a seventh-round pick, a big, lumbering defenseman named Gauthier, talking to another prospect a few stalls down.

“You see the media circus out front?” Gauthier says, his voice low. “It’s all for her. It’s a publicity stunt, man. Fitz is trying to sell jerseys. There’s no way she cracks the main roster. The women’s league is waiting for her.”

The words are a punch to the gut, a cold splash of the same doubt you’ve been swimming against your entire life. Your hands still for a moment. You don’t turn around. You don’t acknowledge that you heard. You just take a slow, deep breath, and a familiar, icy resolve settles over you.

You finish taping your stick, your movements precise and controlled. Fine. Let them think that. You’ve been proving people wrong your whole life. This is just a bigger stage with brighter lights.

On the ice, you let your play do the talking. The first few drills are simple skating and puck-handling exercises. You’re fluid, your edges sharp, your hands soft. You don’t just execute the drills, you master them.

The coaches put you in a 3-on-2 rush drill. You carry the puck over the blue line, two teammates on your wings. The two defensemen are the hulking Gauthier and another prospect. Gauthier fixes his eyes on you, clearly intending to make a statement, to prove you can’t handle the physicality.

You see him coming. You see the angle he’s taking. It’s a classic, aggressive play to force you to the outside. Instead of fighting it, you invite it. You skate hard toward the boards, drawing him with you. At the last possible second, just before he can plaster you into the glass, you drop the puck behind you into the empty space you just created — a perfect drop pass — and pivot hard.

Gauthier, his momentum carrying him forward, is completely taken out of the play. Your teammate scoops up the puck and walks in on a 2-on-1 against the remaining defenseman. He scores easily.

As you skate back up the ice, you don’t even glance at Gauthier. You just get back in line for the next rep, your face an unreadable mask of focus. But across the ice, a few of the Devils’ coaches are murmuring to each other, nodding in approval. You made the right play. Not the flashy play, not the selfish play. The smart play.

The ‘publicity stunt’ just created a scoring chance.

***

When the veterans arrive for the main training camp a week later, the entire atmosphere of the building shifts. The pace is faster, the passes are harder, the intensity is tenfold what it was at development camp. These are no longer boys trying to make a team, these are men trying to win a Stanley Cup.

You feel the difference immediately. The windows to make a play are smaller, the physical battles in the corners are fiercer. But you adjust. You have to.

The veterans are, to your surprise, incredibly welcoming. Nico makes a point of skating with you during warmups, asking you how you’re settling in. Dougie gives you a tap on the shin pads and a “nice pass” after a crisp breakout drill. They’re professional, respectful, and inclusive. You’re so focused on earning your spot that you don’t even notice they’re being pointedly nice, their interactions colored by the ghost of a self-destructing video.

It’s during a small-area possession drill that you’re paired with Luke. The drill is simple: two teams of three fight for the puck in a confined space. The goal is to maintain possession for thirty seconds. Your team is you, Luke, and another prospect. The other team is Jack Hughes, Timo Meier, and Jonas Siegenthaler. It’s a ridiculously unfair matchup.

The puck is dropped. Timo Meier, a human wrecking ball, immediately out-muscles the prospect for the puck. He cycles it down low to Jack, who is already spinning, looking for an opening. Luke moves to pressure him.

You read the play. You see Jack’s eyes dart to Siegenthaler creeping down from the point. It’s the obvious pass. So you don’t cover the passing lane. You go to the net, right into the space Jack wants to go. You take away his second option before he even knows it’s his second option.

Jack, seeing the obvious pass to the point is covered by Luke’s long reach, instinctively tries to cut to the net for a wraparound. But you’re there, your stick perfectly positioned, deflecting the puck off his blade and into the corner.

Luke, surprised but recovering quickly, pivots to get the loose puck. He looks up, ready to move it to the prospect.

“Hughes! Boards!” You call out.

He doesn’t hesitate. He rims the puck hard around the boards behind the net. You’re already there to pick it up, having anticipated the entire sequence. You shield the puck from a charging Timo, spin away from the pressure, and slide a perfect backhand pass into the now-open space where Luke has circled. Possession maintained.

The coach’s whistle blows. Thirty seconds are up. Your team won the rep.

Luke skates over to you, breathing hard, a look of genuine astonishment on his face.

“How did you know Jack was going to the net?” He asks.

You shrug. “He’s a left shot. He had the puck on his forehand behind the goal line. His only two options were a backhand pass to the point or a forehand wraparound. You had the pass, so I took the net.” You say it like it’s as simple as tying your skates.

Luke just stares at you. He sees the flush on your cheeks from the exertion, the stray strands of hair that have escaped your helmet, the intense, analytical focus in your eyes. He’s seen pretty girls before. He’s a professional athlete. But he’s never seen that particular look on a girl before. That hyper-competent, I-just-outsmarted-your-superstar-brother look.

And it does something to his brain. It’s like a circuit shorts out and reconnects in a new, confusing way. A strange, warm feeling spreads through his chest.

“Right,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Smart.”

He skates away to get a drink of water, feeling oddly flustered. He keeps glancing back at you as you talk with a coach. He’s seen you in interviews. He thought you were pretty then, sure. But this is different. This isn't about looks. This is about watching you execute a complex defensive read under pressure against two of the best players on the team and then explaining it like it was simple arithmetic.

He’s so distracted that in the next drill, a simple passing sequence, the puck hits his skate and skitters away. He never misses that pass.

Across the ice, Jack sees it all. He saw the play you made to strip him of the puck. He saw Luke’s dumbfounded expression. And he definitely saw Luke flub the next easy pass while staring at you.

Later, in the locker room, as Luke is untying his skates, Jack ambles over to his stall, a sly grin playing on his lips.

“Little rusty today, Lukey?” Jack asks, leaning against the adjacent stall. “That pass in the star drill … woof. Looked like you were back in mites.”

“Shut up,” Luke mumbles, pulling off a skate. “Lost an edge.”

“You didn’t lose an edge,” Jack says, his grin widening. “You lost your brain. You were a little distracted, weren’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Luke says, pointedly not looking at his brother.

“Oh, I think you do,” Jack pushes, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You were watching number twenty-one. Pretty impressive what she did to me on that last shift, huh? Little embarrassing for me, but impressive.”

“She’s a good player,” Luke says, trying to sound casual. “She sees the ice well.”

“‘She’s a good player,’” Jack mimics in a high-pitched, mocking voice. “Is that what we’re calling it? You were staring at her like she was the last bottle of water in the desert. You’ve been watching her all practice.”

“I’m just … observing the new prospect,” Luke says defensively. “Trying to see how she fits in.”

Jack lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Observing. Right. Dude, it’s written all over your face. You’ve got a thing for her.”

Luke’s head snaps up, his cheeks flushing a bright red. “I do not!”

“You do,” Jack says, his eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s that look you get. It’s a mix of ‘wow, she’s good at hockey’ and ‘oh no, she’s pretty.’ It’s your kryptonite, little brother.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re totally smitten with the rookie,” Jack fires back. He pats Luke’s shoulder, his grin now impossibly wide. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. For now.”

He walks away, chuckling to himself, leaving Luke staring at his skates, his mind racing, his face burning. He replays the drill in his head. Your voice calling his name. Your perfect pass. Your explanation.

Oh no, he thinks, the realization dawning on him with horrifying clarity. Jack’s right.

***

The preseason is a gauntlet. It’s a blur of charter flights to anonymous cities, half-empty arenas, and a rotating cast of teammates as the coaching staff makes its cuts. You play in three of the six exhibition games. In the first, you look tentative, your timing a fraction of a second off as you adjust to the sheer speed of NHL veterans. In the second, you find your rhythm, picking up an assist and playing sound defensive hockey. In the third, against the Rangers at Madison Square Garden, you score, a quick snapshot from the slot on the power play that beats the goalie clean.

You do everything right. You’re the first one on the ice and the last one off. You study film until your eyes burn. You ask questions. You listen. You block shots. You finish your checks. You make the smart, simple play every single time. You do everything you can to prove that you’re not a publicity stunt, but a hockey player who can help this team win.

And still, on the final cut-down day, your stomach is a tangled knot of dread.

You’re summoned to the coaches’ office after the morning skate. The walk down the hallway feels a mile long. This is the room where dreams die. You’ve seen dejected prospects, kids you played with just yesterday, leaving this office with their equipment bags already packed.

You knock.

“Come in.”

Sheldon Keefe is sitting behind his desk, his expression unreadable. Tom Fitzgerald is in a chair beside the desk, a folder in his lap. They don’t smile. The room is silent for a beat, the tension thick enough to suffocate.

You stand before them, your hands clasped behind your back, your posture ramrod straight. You brace yourself for the inevitable. “You had a great camp, but we feel it’s best if you go back to juniors …”

Fitzgerald is the one who speaks first. “Close the door, please.”

You do, the click of the latch echoing like a gunshot. This is it.

“Well, you didn’t make it easy on us,” Fitz says, his tone level.

Your heart plummets.

“You made it impossible,” he continues, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Impossible to cut you. You earned your spot, Y/N. You’re on the opening night roster.”

The air rushes out of your lungs. You feel lightheaded, your knees weak. You grip your hands tighter behind your back to keep them from shaking. You try to formulate a response, to say thank you, but no words come out. Just a choked, emotional sound.

“Don’t thank us,” Keefe says, his gravelly voice softening for the first time. “You earned it. You’re a smart player, you’re responsible in your own end, and you create offense. You make our team better. That’s the end of the discussion.” He leans forward, his gaze direct and serious. “The work starts now. This league is hard. It’s a grind. Are you ready for it?”

You find your voice, and it’s stronger than you expected. “Yes, Coach. I am.”

“Good,” Fitz says, standing up. He extends a hand. “Welcome to the New Jersey Devils. Officially.”

You shake his hand, then Keefe’s. As you turn to leave, Fitz adds one more thing.

“Your stall has been moved to the main room. Find your spot.”

That, more than anything, makes it real.

You walk out of the office, your mind in a daze. You push open the doors to the main locker room. It’s quiet, most of the players having already left. But your new stall is there, nestled between Dawson Mercer and Simon Nemec. A permanent, engraved nameplate is affixed above it: 21 - Y/L/N.

Your equipment, which the trainers have already moved, is neatly arranged. This is your home now. You run a hand over the smooth, cool metal of the nameplate, the letters grounding you. You made it. You’re here.

A slow clap breaks the silence. You turn. Jack is leaning against his stall across the room, a towel around his neck, a wide, knowing grin on his face.

“Knew it was coming,” he says. “Fitz would’ve had a riot on his hands if he cut you. Me. I would have rioted.” He pushes off the stall and walks over, clapping you on the shoulder. “Congrats. Now you get to feed me one-timers on the power-play unit for real.”

Luke appears from the trainer’s room, his hair damp from the shower. His face breaks into a genuine, beaming smile when he sees you.

“You made it! Awesome!” He says, his enthusiasm boyish and infectious. “I mean, we all knew you were going to. But still. It’s official. That’s so cool.”

Nico emerges from the gym, his expression calm and steady as always. He gives you a firm, approving nod. “Welcome to the team. For real this time. You earned this. Now, let’s go win some hockey games.”

The support is overwhelming, a wave of acceptance that washes away the last of your anxieties. The whispers of the skeptics, the ghost of Gauthier’s comment, they all fade into the background. These are your teammates. This is your room.

You finally allow yourself a real, true smile. “Let’s go.”

***

The season opener in Raleigh is a full-blown media event. The morning skate is packed with reporters, their cameras and microphones all pointed at you. Your parents and Mario fly in that afternoon, their presence a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos. You meet them in the lobby of the team hotel.

“Try not to throw up from the nerves,” your dad says, pulling you into a tight hug. It’s the advice he’s given you before every major game of your life.

“We are so, so proud of you, no matter what happens tonight,” your mom says, her eyes already welling with tears as she kisses your cheek.

Mario waits until they’ve stepped back. He puts his hands on your shoulders, his expression serious.

“You’ve done the work,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You’ve proven you belong here. There’s nothing left to prove. Don’t go out there tonight and try to be a hero. Don’t try to be the first woman in the NHL. Just be number twenty-one for the New Jersey Devils. Play your game. The rest will take care of itself.”

His words are a release valve for the pressure that has been building inside you. He’s right. Just play hockey. It’s the one thing you know how to do.

Walking into PNC Arena that evening is a sensory overload. The roar of a hostile crowd, the flashing lights, the sheer scale of it all. This isn’t the QMJHL anymore. This is the show.

The puck drops, and the game moves at a speed you’ve never experienced. It’s not just the skating, it’s the thinking. Decisions are made in microseconds. Passes are zipped through impossibly small windows. And the physicality … it’s a promise of violence in every puck battle.

Early in the first period, you’re chasing a puck into the corner. You get there first, but you hear a freight train coming. It’s Andrei Svechnikov. You have just enough time to brace yourself before he finishes his check. The impact is jarring, a full-body shock that rattles your teeth. You stay on your feet, absorbing the blow, and manage to chip the puck up the boards to your defenseman before he can pin you.

It’s a small play, but an important one. You took a heavy, clean hit from a power forward and you didn’t just survive it; you made the right play. On the bench, you hear your linemate, Ondrej Palat, tap his stick on the boards. A sign of respect. Atta girl. Way to eat that one.

You settle in. Midway through the period, you make your mark. Jack carries the puck into the zone on a 3-on-2. You’re driving the far lane, pulling a defenseman with you. Jack cuts to the middle, drawing your man as well. He sees it, and at the last second, he drops the puck into the space they’ve all vacated. It lands right on the tape of the trailer, Timo Meier. Timo winds up and unleashes a cannon of a slapshot that nearly tears a hole in the net.

Goal, New Jersey.

You skate to the celebration, mobbing Timo with the rest of the line. It’s your first official NHL point. An assist. On the way back to the bench, Jack skates by and gives you a glove tap. “That’s what I’m talking about. Create that space.”

The first goal comes early in the second period. It’s a broken play in the Carolina zone. A shot from Dougie Hamilton at the point is blocked and the puck caroms right to your stick in the high slot. There’s no time to think. You just react. You snap the puck on net, a hard, low shot aimed for the far pad, hoping for a rebound. But the goalie is still scrambling back into position from the first shot. The puck slips right through his five-hole.

The red light flashes. The horn blares, a sound you’ll never forget.

You’re momentarily frozen, unsure if it actually went in. Then Dawson Mercer is tackling you in a hug, lifting you off the ice. The rest of the team piles on. Your first NHL goal. You can’t stop smiling. As you skate past the bench, you see Luke, stick in the air, a massive, genuine grin on his face. You give him a nod, your heart hammering in your chest.

The game is a back-and-forth affair. Carolina ties it late in the second. It’s 2-2 heading into the third, the tension in the building ratcheting up with every shift.

With six minutes left to play, you find yourself on the ice for a critical shift. The play is in your own end. You intercept a pass along the half-wall, look up, and see Jesper Bratt taking off through the neutral zone. You thread a perfect stretch pass, hitting him in stride at the far blue line. He’s in on a breakaway.

He dekes, shoots … and hits the post. The puck ricochets hard off the iron and comes flying back out, right into the high slot. You’ve been trailing the play, busting your gut to get up the ice. The puck lands right in front of you. The goalie is down and out, still sprawled from the first attempt. You have a wide-open net.

You don’t rush it. You settle the puck, take a deep breath, and wire it into the top corner.

Goal. 3-2, New Jersey.

The arena falls silent, stunned. Your teammates erupt. But this time, your celebration is different. It’s not the wide-eyed shock of the first goal. This is pure swagger.

You drop to one knee in a classic power slide, gliding toward the corner glass. As you come to a stop, you push yourself up. You turn to face the silent, hostile crowd. You slowly, deliberately, take the end of your long braid, which has fallen over your shoulder, and you theatrically flip it back. Then, with a smirk, you blow a kiss to the stands.

It’s a statement. I’m here. I’m a girl. And I’m better than you tonight.

On the bench, the camera finds Luke.

And his brain simply ceases to function.

He’s on his feet, ready to cheer, his mouth open to yell. But then he sees the celly. He sees the hair flip. He sees the kiss. And everything short-circuits. His mouth hangs slightly agape. His eyes are wide, locked on you, a look of dumbfounded mesmerization on his face. He looks like a computer that has just been handed a problem it cannot compute. He is completely and totally buffered.

Jack, standing right next to him, sees it all. He sees your celebration on the ice, and then he turns and sees the expression on his brother’s face. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his own. This is comedy gold. He nudges Luke hard in the ribs.

“Dude, close your mouth,” Jack snickers. “You’ll catch flies.”

Luke blinks, snapping out of it. He shakes his head, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “What? I was just … great goal. Great celly.”

“‘Great celly,’” Jack mocks. “You looked like you saw a unicorn score a goal and then solve a Rubik’s cube. It was pathetic. And adorable.”

Luke just shakes his head and tries to pretend he wasn’t just mentally rebooting for ten straight seconds. But it’s too late. A dozen cameras caught it. By the time you get back to the bench, a GIF of Luke’s slack-jawed expression is already making the rounds on Hockey Twitter with the caption: Find someone who looks at you the way Luke Hughes looks at Y/N Y/L/N.

The Devils hang on to win the game, 3-2. Your second goal is the game-winner. In the locker room, it’s pandemonium. You’re mobbed, your helmet getting knocked off in the joyous scrum. Nico hands you the team’s player-of-the-game award, a vintage leather Devils jacket.

“Two goals, one assist, and the game-winner in your first NHL game,” Nico announces to the room, his voice full of pride. “Not a bad start. Jacket’s yours.”

The room erupts in cheers and stick taps. You’re beaming, overwhelmed, and happier than you’ve ever been in your life.

***

After the media interviews and the post-game cool-down, you finally head for the exit, the borrowed player-of-the-game jacket feeling warm and heavy on your shoulders. Your parents and Mario are waiting for you in the family area, a quiet hallway outside the locker room.

Your mom is crying, obviously. Your dad just pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. “Two goals!” He keeps saying, over and over again. “Two!”

Mario is standing back, a look of profound, quiet pride on his face. He doesn’t say a word, just gives you a nod that speaks volumes. It says, I told you so. I knew you could do this.

Just then, Jack and Luke emerge from the locker room, their gear bags slung over their shoulders.

“Hey, there she is!” Jack says, grinning. “Rookie of the year campaign is off to a hot start. Don’t forget about us little people when you’re famous.”

You laugh. “Wouldn’t have happened without your pass on the first one.”

Luke steps forward, his eyes finding yours. He looks a little flustered. “Yeah, seriously, great game. That was … that was amazing to watch.” He’s trying to be a normal, supportive teammate, but his gaze is a little too intense, his smile a little too wide.

And then he makes the mistake of glancing past you. His eyes meet Mario’s.

Mario hasn’t moved. He’s just standing there, arms crossed, his expression neutral. But his eyes … his eyes are fixed on Luke. There is no warmth in them. It’s a laser-like stare, an unnervingly perceptive gaze that seems to peel back every layer of Luke’s brain and analyze the raw data underneath. Mario doesn’t look angry. He looks like he’s calculating the precise trajectory of a satellite from a million miles away. He looks like he knows. He knows about the buffering. He knows about the competency kink. He knows every thought that has crossed Luke’s mind in the last three hours.

Luke’s blood runs cold.

His friendly smile freezes on his face. He feels like a bug under a microscope. He can almost hear Mario’s voice in his head, a low, threatening rumble from that self-destructing video.

He immediately averts his eyes, his gaze darting around the hallway as if looking for an escape route. His brain goes into full-blown panic mode.

Don’t think about her. Don’t think about the celly. Don’t think about how cool she is. He can hear you thinking. He’s Mario freaking Lemieux. Think about something else. Anything else. The Pythagorean theorem. The Devils’ defensive zone coverage. The lyrics to the national anthem. Anything.

Jack sees the silent, one-sided psychic battle taking place. He sees the color drain from Luke’s face. He sees the beads of sweat forming on his brother’s brow. And he finds it absolutely, unequivocally hilarious. He decides to pour a little gasoline on the fire.

“Yeah, Lukey here was really impressed with that second goal,” Jack says, clapping his brother on the back a little too hard. “Weren’t you, buddy? Said it was the best celly he’s ever seen.”

Luke shoots Jack a look that could kill, a silent plea of shut up shut up shut up.

Mario’s gaze doesn’t waver. A muscle in his jaw twitches. It’s the only sign of … something. Disapproval? A warning? It’s impossible to tell, which only makes it more terrifying.

You, meanwhile, are completely oblivious to the high-stakes telepathic drama unfolding. You just hear the compliment.

“Oh, thanks, Luke!” You say, beaming at him. “I don’t know, the first one felt pretty good too.”

Your genuine, clueless smile is the final blow. Luke just manages a tight, strangled nod, unable to form words. He grabs his bag, mutters a hasty, “Gotta go, bus is leaving,” and practically flees down the hallway, Jack trailing behind him, shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

You watch them go, a little confused by their abrupt departure.

“Well,” you say, turning back to your family. “They were nice.”

Mario finally breaks his stare, his focus returning to you. The intimidating aura vanishes, replaced by a warm, paternal smile. “Forget them,” he says, draping an arm around your shoulder. “Let’s go get some food. I think a two-goal performance deserves a very expensive dessert.”

As he guides you and your still-crying parents down the hall, you have no idea that you didn’t just win a hockey game. You won a permanent, rent-free space in Luke Hughes’s head and landed him squarely on Mario Lemieux’s very intimidating radar. The season is just beginning.

***

The first month of the season is a revelation. The NHL is a different beast — faster, stronger, smarter. Every night is a battle against the best players in the world. You learn to survive, then you learn to thrive. You’re not just a historical footnote, you’re a contributing member of the team. You’re a fixture on the third line, you kill penalties, and you quarterback the second power-play unit. The points come in respectable, rookie-season numbers, but more importantly, the coaches trust you in your own end. You are reliable. In the unforgiving meritocracy of professional hockey, that’s the highest compliment you can earn.

You find a routine. Morning skate, post-practice workout, video sessions, home-cooked meals in your quiet Jersey City apartment, sleep, repeat. Your life is hockey. It’s simple, it’s focused, and you like it that way.

Which is why, when Maddie from social media calls a “fun content meeting,” you immediately have a bad feeling about it.

“Okay, team!” She chirps, standing at the front of a conference room. A handful of players are present — you, Nico, Jack, a very reluctant-looking Luke, and a few others. “So, we want to launch a new video series to boost engagement on YouTube and TikTok. Something authentic, something that shows the fans your personalities.”

She clicks a button on her laptop, and a slide appears on the screen behind her. It reads: THE DEVILS’ LIE DETECTOR CHALLENGE!

A collective groan goes through the room.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!” Maddie insists. “It’s super popular online. We’ll hook you up to a real polygraph machine, have a professional operator ask some questions, and see what happens!”

“What kind of questions?” Nico asks, his captain’s voice laced with skepticism. He is the sworn enemy of anything that could be classified as a “distraction.”

“Easy stuff!” Maddie says reassuringly. “Like, ‘Is pineapple an acceptable pizza topping?’ or ‘Have you ever cried during a movie?’ We can even let you guys suggest some questions for each other. It’ll be light, I promise.”

Jack, who had been slouched in his chair looking bored, suddenly sits up straight. A dangerous, mischievous glint appears in his eyes. He has just been handed a stick of dynamite and a book of matches.

“You know what, Maddie?” Jack says, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I think that’s a fantastic idea. A real chance to build team chemistry through honesty.” He turns to his brother. “Luke would be perfect for this. He’s the most honest guy I know. Can’t tell a lie to save his life.”

Luke, who had been trying to blend into the wall, stiffens. “I, uh, I don’t know,” he stammers, looking desperately for an escape route. “I think I have a … a thing. With the trainer. My shoulder feels weird.”

“Your shoulder is fine,” Jack says, waving a dismissive hand. “You have to do it. For the fans. You love the fans, right?”

It’s a perfectly laid trap. Luke is cornered. He glances around the room, but no one offers him a lifeline. You’re just watching the exchange, a little amused by the brotherly dynamic, completely unaware of the speeding train that is about to hit him.

“Yeah,” Luke says, his voice barely a whisper. “For the fans.”

“Great!” Maddie claps her hands. “We’ll start filming next week!”

***

The set is a small, black-curtained room in the depths of the Prudential Center. Two cameras are pointed at a single chair. A stern-looking man in a cheap suit, the polygraph operator, is setting up his machine. It looks intimidatingly official.

Jack, of course, goes first. He lies with the effortless charm of a seasoned con artist and gets caught every time, laughing it off.

“Did you, Jack Hughes, eat the last of Dougie Hamilton’s specially imported protein cookies?” Maddie asks from off-camera.

“Absolutely not,” Jack says, looking deeply offended. “I respect a man’s personal cookie stash.”

The operator, a man of few words named Stan, grunts. “Lie.”

Jack just shrugs and grins at the camera. “Worth a shot.”

Then, it’s Luke’s turn.

He sits down in the chair, looking like a man on his way to the gallows. Stan the operator begins attaching sensors to his fingers and a band around his chest.

“Just relax and answer truthfully,” Stan says in a monotone voice.

“Okay, let’s start with some baselines,” Maddie says. “Is your name Luke Hughes?”

“Yes,” Luke says, his voice tight.

“Truth,” Stan confirms.

“Are you a defenseman for the New Jersey Devils?”

“Yes.”

“Truth.”

“Okay, fun ones now,” Maddie says, and you can practically hear her smile. You know for a fact that Jack was whispering in her ear for five straight minutes before Luke’s turn. “Luke, have you ever stolen your brothers’ equipment?”

Luke hesitates. “No.”

“Lie,” Stan says instantly.

Luke’s face flushes. “Okay, maybe once or twice. In high school when I ran out of sticks.”

The small crew laughs. Maddie continues. “Do you secretly think you would have been a better first-overall pick than your brother Jack?”

“No,” Luke says firmly.

“Truth,” Stan says.

A wave of relief washes over Luke’s face. He’s getting the hang of this. Maybe he’ll survive.

“Okay, last one, Luke,” Maddie says, her voice taking on a playful, deliberate tone. “Simple yes or no. Are you currently, and be honest, harboring a secret crush on one of your teammates?”

The question hangs in the air.

Luke’s entire body goes rigid. The needle on Stan’s machine jumps erratically. A bead of sweat traces a path down his temple. This is it. This is the nightmare scenario. He can feel Jack’s smug energy radiating from across the room.

He tries to laugh it off, but the sound that comes out is more like a strangled cough. “A crush? On a teammate?” He says, forcing a smile. “What, like … like Marky or something? No. That’s insane. No.”

He says the final “no” with as much conviction as he can muster. He looks Stan dead in the eye, pleading with his entire being for the operator to just let this one slide.

Stan watches the needles on his machine. He looks at Luke’s rapidly beating heart rate on the monitor. He looks at the sweat on his brow. He purses his lips. The silence stretches for an eternity.

Finally, Stan looks up, his expression completely deadpan.

“… That’s a lie.”

The room explodes. Jack lets out a full-throated howl of laughter so loud it echoes down the hall. Maddie is covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking with giggles. The cameramen are trying, and failing, to hold back their own amusement.

Luke goes from red to ghost white. “No! It’s not! This thing is broken!” He says, frantically trying to pull the sensors off his fingers. “You didn’t calibrate it for … for my specific athletic heart rate! It’s a known variable! Look it up!”

Stan just raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “The machine is functioning within normal parameters. The subject is exhibiting signs of deception.”

“I want a lawyer!” Luke yells, only half-joking, as he finally frees himself from the chair and flees the room, the sound of his brother’s triumphant laughter chasing him down the corridor.

***

You are blissfully unaware of any of this.

You’re in your apartment on an off day, going through your normal routine. You’ve just finished a workout and are making a protein smoothie when your phone, which has been resting on the counter, starts to vibrate. Then it vibrates again. And again. And again. It buzzes with a frantic, insistent rhythm that’s far beyond the usual trickle of notifications.

You wipe your hands and pick it up. The lock screen is a chaotic mess of Instagram tags, Twitter mentions, and text messages. You frown, confused, and unlock it. The first thing you see is the Devils’ latest Instagram post. The thumbnail is a picture of Luke, looking horrified, with the words “THE TRUTH COMES OUT!” in bold letters.

The caption reads: We hooked the guys up to a LIE DETECTOR and things got … interesting. 🤫 FULL VIDEO LINK IN BIO!

You roll your eyes, but you’re intrigued. You tap the link and the YouTube video starts to play. You chuckle as Jack gets caught lying about the cookies. You smile at some of the other guys’ answers. Then, Luke’s segment begins.

You watch him squirm. You see the final question about having a crush on a teammate. You hear his panicked denial.

“No.”

And Stan’s deadpan response.

“That’s a lie.”

You let out a short laugh. Poor Luke, you think. That’s brutal. You feel a pang of secondhand embarrassment for him. It’s a funny, harmless prank. You close the app, thinking nothing more of it, and go back to your smoothie. It’s just team content. It has nothing to do with you.

But your phone won’t stop buzzing.

You ignore it for a while, but the sheer volume of notifications is impossible to ignore. Curiosity piqued, you open Instagram again and look at the comments under the Devils’ post.

The first few are standard fan reactions.

LMAO LUKE’S FACE

The admin is an evil genius for this 😂

But then you start seeing your own username. Over and over again.

@Y/N_Y/L/N come get your man!

So we all agree the teammate is @Y/N_Y/L/N right? 👀

Someone needs to edit this with the clip of him watching her celly in the Carolina game.

A cold, confusing feeling starts to creep into your stomach. You keep scrolling. Someone has already made the edit. It’s a side-by-side video. On the left is Luke in the lie detector chair, sweating as he says “No.” On the right is the clip from opening night — you scoring, the hair flip, the kiss to the crowd, and the camera cutting to Luke on the bench, his jaw slack, his brain clearly buffering.

The pieces are there, but they don’t quite fit. It’s just fan speculation, right?

Then you see a message notification from a name you haven’t seen in a while. It’s Olivier, your old captain from the Shawinigan Cataractes.

Olivier Gagnon: Hey Y/N, congrats on the hot start. Knew you’d kill it. Also, saw that lie detector video your team put out. That Hughes kid looks absolutely sick over you lol. Reminds me of half the guys on our bus who were too scared to talk to you. Some things never change eh? Good luck against the Flyers this week.

Your blood runs cold. This isn’t just anonymous fans anymore. This is someone who knows you, a fellow hockey player. Looks absolutely sick over you.

Your perception of the video shifts entirely. It’s not a funny, abstract prank anymore. It’s personal.

You go back and watch the clip of Luke one more time. But this time, you’re not just watching. You’re analyzing. You see the way his eyes widen in genuine panic when Maddie asks the question. You see the way he swallows hard before he answers. You see the frantic, desperate denial. It’s not the playful squirming of someone caught in a harmless fib. It’s the raw terror of someone whose deepest secret has just been exposed to the entire world.

And you think back. You think about the way he always seems to be near you in the gym. The way he sometimes stammers when he tries to talk to you about a play. The way you always seem to catch his eye from across the room, an intense, observant gaze that you had always just interpreted as professional curiosity. The way his face lit up, a little too brightly, when you made the team.

The puzzle pieces don’t just click into place. They slam together with the force of a slapshot.

Oh.

Oh, no.

A wave of heat washes over you. You’re not angry. You’re not even necessarily flattered. You’re just … flustered. Completely flustered. This is your teammate. This is your workplace. This is a pristine, professional environment you have fought tooth and nail to be a part of. And it has just been complicated by a viral video and a very obvious, very public crush.

What are you supposed to do now? How are you supposed to act tomorrow at the rink? The simplicity of your routine — skate, work, eat, sleep — has just been shattered.

***

The next morning, you walk into the locker room with a sense of deep trepidation. The atmosphere is … charged. A few of the guys give you knowing smirks. You pointedly ignore them.

Luke is nowhere to be seen.

You get dressed and head out to the rink for the morning skate. You find him there, already on the ice, going through drills by himself. He’s wearing a hoodie under his helmet, the hood pulled up, as if it could somehow make him invisible.

He doesn’t see you until you’re right beside him.

“Hey, Luke,” you say, your voice softer than you intended.

He jumps as if you’d tasered him. The puck he was stickhandling goes flying. “Oh! Hey. Y/N. What’s up?” He won’t meet your eyes, his gaze fixed on a spot on the boards somewhere over your shoulder.

“Just wanted to see if you were okay,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “You know … after the video.”

His face goes pale under his helmet. “The video? Oh, that. Yeah, no, I’m fine. It was hilarious, right?” He lets out a high-pitched, unnatural laugh. “That machine was such a piece of junk. Total carnival game. They probably paid the operator to say that stuff. For the clicks, you know? It’s all fake.” He’s talking a mile a minute, rambling, his words tripping over each other in their haste to escape his mouth.

“Luke,” you say, cutting him off gently. “It’s okay.”

“No, really, you should have seen the wires, they were all frayed,” he continues, not hearing you. “And the guy, Stan, I think his name was, I saw him eating a tuna sandwich right before, the mercury from the fish can interfere with the electrical signals, it’s basic science-”

“What’s basic science?”

A new voice cuts in. Jack glides over, a Cheshire Cat grin plastered on his face. He drapes an arm over Luke’s shoulders, who flinches as if he’s been branded.

“Are we talking about the 100% accurate, scientifically validated polygraph test that got two million views in twelve hours?” Jack asks cheerfully. “I was just watching it again this morning. My favorite part is the little vein that pops out on your forehead when you lie, Lukey. It’s very telling.”

Luke looks like he wants the ice to open up and swallow him whole. He shoots a helpless, pleading look at you.

You stand there, caught between a brother who is enjoying this far too much and a brother who looks like he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack. And for the first time, you have absolutely no idea what to say.

A piercing whistle slices through the air, signaling the start of a drill. The moment is shattered. Luke, saved by the bell, practically teleports to the other side of the ice. Jack gives you a theatrical shrug and a wink before skating off, leaving you standing there with the ghost of a conversation hanging in the cold rink air.

The next few weeks are a masterclass in professional awkwardness.

On the surface, everything is normal. You’re teammates. You practice together, you play together, you win and lose together. But underneath, a new, unspoken current runs between you and Luke. He avoids being the last one in the dressing room with you. He makes sure there’s always another player between you during team meetings. If you’re at the same table for a team meal on the road, he directs all his conversation to Dawson Mercer or Simon Nemec.

It’s not hostile. It’s … careful. He’s a fawn that’s been spooked, and you’re the sudden noise in the woods he’s trying to avoid.

You, for your part, try to act as if nothing has changed. You pass him the puck in practice with the same precision as always. You talk about defensive zone coverage in the film room. You’re determined to not let a silly, viral video — and the very real feelings it exposed — complicate the dream you’ve worked so hard to achieve.

Jack, of course, does nothing to help the situation. He takes every opportunity to make quiet, cutting remarks in Luke’s presence.

“Hey Y/N,” he’ll say as you’re all stretching, “Luke was just saying he thinks you should take more shots on the power play. He thinks your shot is really pretty. I mean, effective. Pretty effective.”

Luke will just turn a shade of crimson and suddenly become intensely focused on stretching his hamstrings.

It’s a strange, silent dance that the whole team pretends not to notice. And it might have gone on forever if not for a frozen piece of vulcanized rubber traveling at one hundred miles per hour.

***

It’s a Saturday night, a home game against the Rangers. The rivalry adds a bitter, electric edge to the air in the Prudential Center. The game is fast, chippy, and brutally physical. Late in the second period, with the Devils on a penalty kill, you and Luke are on the ice.

The Rangers are cycling the puck, setting up Mika Zibanejad for a one-timer from his office in the left faceoff circle. You read the play, your stick extended, cutting off the passing lane to the slot. Luke sees Zibanejad winding up and knows there’s no time to get a stick on the puck. He does the only thing a defenseman can do. He makes himself big.

Zibanejad unleashes a rocket.

The sound is sickening, a sharp, wet thwack that isn’t the sound of puck hitting shin pads. It’s the sound of puck hitting bone. Luke goes down in a heap, dropping his stick and clutching his right ankle, his face contorted in a mask of pure agony.

The whistle blows. The trainer is over the boards in an instant. Jack is already there, his face tight with concern. You skate over, your stomach churning at the sight of Luke on the ice. He’s trying to be tough, but you can see the tears welling in his eyes from the sheer, blinding pain.

He can’t put any weight on it. Two trainers have to help him limp off the ice, his arms slung over their shoulders, his head bowed. A grim silence falls over the arena.

He doesn’t return for the third period. The official word comes down from the press box: lower-body injury, will not return. After the game, a 4-2 win you barely feel like celebrating, Sheldon Keefe tells the media that Luke has gone to the hospital for X-rays.

***

A few hours later, he’s back in his own apartment, his leg propped up on a mountain of pillows. The diagnosis is, thankfully, not a break. It’s a deep, severe bone bruise and a high ankle sprain. He’ll be out for a few weeks, but his season isn’t over.

The prescription, however, is for some very serious, hospital-grade painkillers.

Which is why, when you, Jack, Nico, and Dawson let yourselves in with the spare key Jack has, you find Luke floating somewhere in the stratosphere.

He’s lying on his couch, a goofy, blissed-out grin on his face. His pupils are the size of dinner plates.

“Hey guys!” He says, his words slow and syrupy. “You came to my party. I didn’t know I was having a party.”

“How you feeling, buddy?” Nico asks, trying to sound serious but clearly fighting a smile.

“I feel … floaty,” Luke announces. “My ankle is a cloud. A fluffy, angry cloud. But it’s okay. The nice doctor gave me the good stuff.” He giggles.

Then his eyes find you, standing near the doorway. His goofy grin softens into a look of profound, wondrous awe.

“Y/N,” he breathes, his voice full of reverence. “You’re here. You came to my cloud party.”

You offer a small, sympathetic smile. “Hey, Luke. You really took one for the team. That was a brave block.”

“She’s so pretty, Jack,” Luke says, his gaze never leaving you. He’s talking to his brother, but it feels like a public service announcement for the entire room. “Isn’t she pretty? Her eyes are like … like two perfectly polished hockey pucks. But, like, sparkly.”

You feel a blush creep up your neck. Dawson is trying very hard to study a spot on the ceiling. Nico looks like a captain desperately trying to keep control of a mutiny.

Jack, on the other hand, is slowly pulling his phone out of his pocket, his face alight with the gleeful, predatory focus of a wildlife documentarian who has just stumbled upon a rare, exotic bird.

“And she’s so good at hockey,” Luke continues, his voice rising with drugged enthusiasm. “Like, so good. Did you see her on that PK? Before I died? Her stick positioning was perfect. She baited the pass and then took away the lane. It was so smart. That’s so hot.” He sighs, a deep, contented sound. “A girl who’s pretty and understands defensive zone systems? That’s everything, man. That’s the whole package.”

Jack has the phone up now, the red recording light glowing brightly.

“Oh yeah, Lukey,” Jack says, goading him on. “Keep going. This is fantastic stuff. Tell us more about the whole package.”

Luke finally seems to notice the phone. His eyes widen. The goofy grin melts away, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror as the fog in his brain momentarily parts.

And his face just crumples. He begins to cry. Not quiet, dignified tears. These are huge, gasping, hysterical sobs.

“No!” He wails, pointing a trembling finger at the phone. “Jack, stop! You can’t! Mario is gonna see it! He’s gonna kill me! He has spies everywhere, Nico! He threatened us!”

Nico shoots Jack a death glare. “Jack, put the phone away. Now.”

“He’s gonna kill me and I’m gonna be dead!” Luke sobs, his voice cracking. “And I’ve never even won the Stanley Cup! I just wanna touch the Cup before I die! Is that too much to ask?”

It’s the most tragic, pathetic, and hilarious meltdown anyone in the room has ever witnessed. Dawson is choking back laughter. Nico is rubbing his temples, probably questioning all of his life choices that led him to being captain of this chaotic team. Jack is still filming, tears of mirth streaming down his own face.

You’ve had enough.

You walk forward, gently taking the phone from Jack’s hand. He’s laughing so hard he offers no resistance. You end the recording and slide the phone into your pocket. You walk over to the couch and sit on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of a still-sobbing Luke.

“Luke,” you say, your voice calm and steady. “Hey. Look at me.”

He sniffles, his teary, drugged-out eyes finding yours.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “No one is going to kill you. You’re going to be fine. And you’re going to win a Stanley Cup someday.” You reach out and gently pat his good leg. “You need to get some rest.”

He hiccups, his sobs subsiding into confused whimpers.

You stand up, your gaze sweeping over the other three men in the room. “He needs to sleep. We should go.”

You turn to leave, but then you pause in the doorway. You look back at Luke, who is watching you with the wide, trusting eyes of a golden retriever. A small, almost imperceptible smile plays on your lips.

“And hey,” you say, your voice clear and direct. “Tomorrow, when you’re not high as a kite … you can tell me all that again.”

The room falls silent. Jack’s jaw, which had been open in a silent laugh, snaps shut. Dawson’s eyes widen. Nico just stares.

You don’t wait for a response. You turn and walk out of the apartment, leaving a wake of stunned silence and the echo of a challenge hanging in the air.

***

The next afternoon, you’ve just gotten home from practice when there’s a soft knock on your apartment door. You know who it is before you even open it.

Luke is standing in the hallway, leaning heavily on a crutch. He’s not wearing a goofy grin anymore. He looks exhausted, pale, and more nervous than you’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing a plain grey hoodie and sweatpants. He looks young, vulnerable, and completely sober.

“Hey,” he says, his voice raspy.

“Hey,” you reply, leaning against the doorframe. “Shouldn’t you be at home with your fluffy, angry cloud?”

A faint blush colors his pale cheeks. “I couldn’t,” he says, his gaze fixed on the floor. “Not after last night. And not after what you said.” He finally forces himself to look up and meet your eyes. “You told me … you told me to tell you again.”

You don’t say anything. You just cross your arms, your expression unreadable, and wait. You’re not going to make this easy for him.

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Look,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. “What I said last night … it was embarrassing, and I was on another planet, but it was true. All of it. I’m sorry if I’ve made things weird for you since that stupid lie detector video. I’ve been trying to be normal, but I’m really bad at it.”

He shifts his weight on his good leg. “The truth is, I think you’re incredible. And not just because you’re a hockey player. But that’s a big part of it. You’re one of the smartest, most skilled people I’ve ever shared the ice with. Watching you play, watching you think the game … it’s amazing. And I respect that more than I can even say.”

He pauses, swallowing hard. “And yes. I also think you’re beautiful. And funny. And the fact that you’re all of those things at once just … it’s a lot. For my brain. It kind of short-circuits everything.” He gestures vaguely with his hand, a look of pure, agonizing sincerity on his face. “I’ve been a complete idiot about this whole thing, and I get it if you just want me to back off and be a normal teammate. I can do that. I will. I just … you told me to tell you, so I’m telling you.”

He finishes, his chest heaving slightly, having laid all his cards on the table. He waits for your verdict, bracing himself for the rejection.

You let the silence hang in the air for a long moment, just watching him. You see the fear in his eyes, but also the courage it took for him to stand here and say all that.

A slow, genuine smile finally spreads across your face.

“You are,” you say softly, “a complete idiot.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. “Yeah, I know.”

“But,” you continue, your smile widening, “for what it’s worth … your stick positioning on the penalty kill is pretty good, too.”

His head snaps up, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

You uncross your arms and push the door to your apartment open wider, creating an unmistakable invitation.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask. “We can watch some film. Or you could just tell me all of it again. Without the hysterical crying this time.”

For the first time all day, a real, true smile breaks through his nervousness. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated relief.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice full of warmth. “I’d like that.”

Hatred boiled in his gut as the urge to swipe your ankles out from under you raced through his mind. He knew you were too good a fighter, your reflexes too quick, to actually be caught unawares like that, but the image of you falling to your ass - no matter how unlikely - was so appealing that he couldn’t help himself. He lashed out with his right hand, hoping that a combination of speed and strength might just catch you off your guard. 

As he predicted, you were too fast. You lifted one of your feet and slammed it down on his wrist like a cat catching its prey, pinning his wrist against the ground. He grit his teeth against the pain. You’d used just enough force to hurt him without actually injuring him, although he knew that wasn’t for his benefit. 

“Saints, you two are going to get us all killed!” Jesper and Kaz strode over from the still smoldering remains of the building you’d blown up. Kaz’s face looked like a thundercloud as he approached you, coming up so close to your face Matthias swore the Bastard of the Barrel was going to spit on you. 

“Let him go, Fire Witch.” Kaz’s voice was a low growl, threat laced through every word. Your eyes narrowed in challenge, and Matthias felt your foot grind down a little harder on his wrist before releasing him. You were flicking the shard of flint you used as a fire starter between the fingers of your right hand as you held Kaz’s gaze. 

“He shouldn’t be here,” you snarled back. “I don’t work with Grisha killers. He’s lucky I haven’t burned the skin from his bones.” Your eyes were dark and hateful as you watched Matthias rise from the ground. He ignored the threat: however strong your hatred of him, it was returned in kind. 

“It’s not your call. Fall in line, or get out of my sight.” Matthias hadn’t known Kaz long, but if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that Kaz Brekker was the leader of every mission. Matthias, for his part, appreciated a strong leader. Kaz’s shrewd if at times shockingly cruel tactics never troubled Matthias, although he’d seen you struggle with taking orders since you’d fallen in with the crew almost a year ago.

So Matthias wasn’t surprised when he saw your hands flit like hummingbirds at your side. He realized now why Kaz was standing so close: it blocked you from being able to use the Small Science. And Kaz knew you well enough to know that you’d never back down from him - literally or figuratively. Matthias made a mental note in his head, although he sincerely doubted if he’d ever tolerate being that close to you. Your and Kaz’s nose were barely a hair’s width from brushing.

“I don’t take orders, either.” Your voice matched Kaz’s in its tone, eagerly rising to the challenge.

Kaz didn’t balk or blink in the slightest. In fact, he smirked smugly at you, like a spider who knows its caught a fly. Jesper stood close to Kaz’s side, his eyes trained on you warily.

“You’ll take orders from me, Witch, or you’ll suffer the consequences. More aptly, you’ll watch someone else suffer the consequences.”

For the first time since Matthias had the misfortune of meeting you, he saw something like real fear in your eyes. Your nostrils flared at Kaz. As the standoff stretched on through a few tense breaths, Matthias realized he never knew how or why you’d come to end up working with Kaz Brekker. He’d never cared enough to wonder. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what Kaz meant by “watching someone else suffer the consequences”, although it clearly struck a chord for you. Whatever Kaz had on you, it was something you didn’t seem willing or able to walk away from.

“You know I won’t do that.” Your chin dropped a half inch, your eyes widening slightly as if to convey to Kaz a sincerity Matthias didn’t know you had. 

Sensing victory, Kaz nodded. “I know that. So you’ll fall in line. Stop trying to get the Fjerdan killed.” 

You shot Matthias a look of contempt over Kaz’s shoulder. Irritated and emboldened, Kaz thrust the carved crow handle of his cane up under your chin, jerking your head back towards him. 

“Fall in line or pay the price.” 

Matthias watched as the rest of your headstrong resolve crumbled under whatever Kaz was threatening you with. The tension in the air was so thick Matthias realized he was holding his breath. He shot a quick look over at Jesper, stock still at Kaz’s shoulder with his shooting hand flexed subtly by his holster, as if he thought you might lash out at his boss. Something about Jesper’s defensive posture and Kaz’s overtly bullying behavior was grating on him. For reasons he couldn’t understand, he actually felt like defending you. 

“She won’t kill me, Boss.” Three pairs of eyes snapped over to Matthias as he spoke. “She couldn’t if she tried. Fjerdan or not, I’ve gotten under her skin. She likes me, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

Matthias didn’t believe a word he said, but he added just enough smug swagger to his voice that Kaz and Jesper seemed to buy it. The moment broken, Kaz stepped back from you and Jesper’s shooting hand dropped from his holster. Kaz shot you one more warning look before he strode past you, shoving you with his shoulder and leaving you and Matthias alone. 

Matthias watched your eyes bore holes in the back of Kaz’s head as he limped over the ridge and out of sight. Finally, you turned back to face him. Usually your eyes were nothing but loathsome pits when you looked at him. Matthias couldn’t be sure if he imagined it, but he swore he saw a flicker of something like gratitude in your face. You opened your mouth and inhaled, ready to speak, but no words came out. Your mouth snapped close, and you looked up at Matthias with a strange flurry of emotion. Then, with a small nod of your head, you turned on your heel and followed Kaz. 

It was the first time Matthias could remember that you’d wasted an opportunity to goad him. And the first time you could remember when Matthias had been something other than a thorn in your side.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

“What did Brekker mean by ‘someone else will suffer the consequences’?” 

You barely looked up from the rabbit you were skinning from across the fire.

“What are you talking about, Druska?” Your new nickname for Matthias. He supposed it was a bit better than druskelle, although you still sounded like you were hexing him every time you spoke. 

“A few months ago. After the glass factory job.”

Recognition dawned on your face, but you didn’t respond. 

“Kaz told you to step in line or someone else w-”

“I remember,” you interrupted him, an edge of irritation in your voice. “After I threatened to burn the skin off your bones.”

Matthias chuckled. “The very same.”

You still kept silent, studiously avoiding his gaze, although he didn’t miss the violent way you stabbed the skinned rabbit carcass with the spit.

Matthias opened his mouth to press the matter further, but something about the cold glitter in your eyes stopped him. The two of you hadn’t spoken about that day since, although there had been a noticeable change between the two of you. Matthias wouldn’t go so far as to say you were friends. More like non-combative work associates. He figured it was an improvement over borderline murderous adversaries, and he realized he wasn’t willing to risk going back to the way things were. 

Befuddled by his own reaction, Matthias shrugged, resolved to drop it. 

You spoke so quietly he thought he’d imagined it at first. 

“He’s talking about my sister.” Your eyes wide and glassy, the fire dancing in your pupils. 

Matthias froze, too shocked to know what to say back. Thankfully, you seemed content to fill the silence. 

“Kaz lets her work at the Crow Club in exchange for my services. She’s… she can’t get a lot of jobs. Any jobs, really. On account of the… scars.” You swallowed thickly, tamping down a lump in your throat and swiping away the tears that pooled on your lash line. 

Feeling compelled to speak, Matthias blurted out the first thing that came to mind. 

“What scars?” 

For half a moment, he wondered if you would launch yourself at his throat from across the fire. Normally, the two of you didn’t make small talk, even when you were alone on missions - which had been happening a lot, recently. His question stepped over small talk into the realm of personal. 

For the second time in as many minutes, he was shocked at your vulnerable response. 

“The burns,” you choked out. “We were little… my parents had just figured out I was Grisha. We were playing… she pulled on my hair, yanked some of it out. I just… lost control. I just meant to scare her. Not to hurt her. Just to get her to leave me alone… but… I burned her.”

Matthias could barely breathe, his heart thundering in his chest. He watched as tears slipped loose from your eyes, trailing down your cheeks and dripping off your jaw onto the dirt.

You ignored them, the words falling out of your mouth like water bursting through a dam. 

“The burns are… extensive. All over her face, neck. Her arms. There’s nothing wrong with her, she can still do everything you and I can. Her eyesight’s a little worse, but for the most part. She’s OK. It’s just… people look at her and they don’t know what to do. They think she’s a monster. We were banished from our village. Our neighbors said she was marked by demons. Some of them figured out it was me. That I burned her. So they called me a demon. My parents… they did their best, but they didn’t know anything about Grisha. They’d never left Fjerda before.”

Matthias sucked in a breath, his chest tight like a winch. 

“You’re Fjerdan?” 

You looked up at him like you were coming out of a daze. As if he were seeing you for the first time, he noticed the proud way you held your chin. Your fearlessness. The streak of loyalty you had, the duty to protect those around you, even the ones you hated. How he had not seen it before?

“Yes. I am.” 

Your words hung in the air like smoke. Matthias felt his feelings for you turn upside down, a strange and unwelcome feeling of affection blossoming in his chest. Eager to bat it away, he scrambled for something to say, anything. 

“I never knew that.”

You chuckled darkly, rolling your eyes.

“I know, Druska. I wanted it that way. Fjerda was… not kind to me.” 

Matthias nodded, unable to find a suitable response. He’d been raised to hate Grisha, to hunt them like the dogs he’d been told they were. He’d never stopped to consider the person behind the Small Science. 

“So… your sister and you, are you close?” 

You shook your head, that coldness flaring to life in your eyes again. 

“No. She hates me. Disowned me as soon as she was old enough to live on her own. My parents weren’t too far behind her. They never forgave me for what I did to her.” 

You trailed off, only the crackling fire filling the silence for a few breaths. Matthias waited, watching you thoughtfully as you turned the roasting rabbit on its spit.

“I look after her. From a distance. I traded my service as an Inferni with Brekker for her employment. So she wouldn’t have to resort to… other professions, to make a living for herself. It’s the least I can do.”

Matthias felt a second surge of affinity towards you. The pieces began to fit together for him: the reason you resented him so vehemently; the reason Kaz was able to blackmail you so easily; the way you fought with the kind of recklessness that only comes from not truly minding if you live or die. 

“Sounds like she is lucky to have you,” he offered.

You quirked one corner of your lips at him in a sarcastic smirk. “Lucky? Luck has nothing to do with it. One of the first things you learn as a Grisha.”

Matthias snorted, shaking his head. You narrowed your eyes at him in question. “That’s not a Grisha lesson, Firedrake,” he told you, using the nickname he’d given you in exchange for ‘Druska’. “That’s a Fjerdan lesson. Only the strong survive. And the strongest save us all. Your sister, she sounds strong. She survived. But you? You have saved her. That makes you the strongest.” 

You looked at him across the fire, deep in thought as he watched you take in his words. He could tell you wanted to argue, but for some reason you didn’t. After a few moments, you tipped your head back and laughed. It broke the tension, and Matthias found himself laughing alongside you. For the first time since he’d met you, Matthias wondered if the two of you might actually grow to be friends. 

“Druska, did I miss the part where you suddenly turned so likeable?”

He felt a warm flush spread across his cheeks. Grateful for the dim light, he ducked his head down, both of you still chortling. 

“Funny what happens when you stop threatening to burn the skin from my bones, isn’t it?” 

You smiled, showing your teeth for once. Matthias returned the grin, his heart doing an unfamiliar twirl in his chest. That’s new, he thought to himself. 

“I guess it is, Druska. I guess it is…”