If you don't terrify people, what's the point.

Six days after someone tried to put a blade between your ribs, the High Council gathered beneath the emerald banners of House Avelor to decide whether your greatest danger was the assassin, the dragon, or the fact that you remained unmarried.

The council chamber had been built to impress visiting kings.

It succeeded.

Sunlight poured through the tall arched windows in clean, silver sheets, catching on the polished stone floor and the banners hung between pillars carved with dragon wings. Beyond the glass, Crownreach Palace dropped in pale terraces toward the Silvermere, where the lake flashed bright enough to make grief look holy.

You did not look at the reeds.

You kept your hands folded on the council table instead, one thumb resting lightly over the other. The movement pulled at the healing cut beneath your ribs, a thin line of pain sharp enough to remind you that the assassin’s blade had missed your lung by less than two fingers. The gown chosen for you was Avelor emerald, the neckline stitched with silver thread fine enough to look like frost. Crown colors. Heir colors. A reminder and an argument.

Beside your place at the table, your brother’s chair sat empty. No one had removed it. No one knew how.

Across the chamber, High Chancellor Oren Veyre inclined his silver-gray head with all the grace of a man placing a knife exactly where he wanted it.

“No one questions Her Highness’s claim,” Oren said.

That was the trouble with Oren Veyre. He never lied when a careful truth would do more damage. King Aldren sat at the head of the table, one hand resting against the carved arm of his chair. He looked thinner in the morning light than you liked. Grief had not weakened your father so much as narrowed him, carving quiet hollows beneath his eyes.

Oren continued, “We question only the wisdom of leaving her unsupported.”

There it was. Unsupported. You let the word pass over your face without touching it. Unsupported meant unmarried. Unmarried meant uncertain. Uncertain meant vulnerable. Vulnerable meant manageable. And manageable, in the mouths of men like Oren Veyre, meant Cassius.

Vaela’s attention stirred beneath your ribs. Not words. Never words. A heat instead. A pressure. A deep, ancient irritation blooming through the fresh bond as if the dragon had turned one gold eye toward the council chamber from the eastern terraces and found every man inside it wanting.

You breathed in slowly.

Calm, you pressed back, though you were still learning the shape of sending anything through the bond without feeling foolish for trying. Somewhere beyond the high windows, stone scraped under talons. Several councilmen went still. Oren did not so much as blink.

“Six months is not long enough to settle a realm shaken by old magic,” Lord Alaric of the western holdings said, his gaze flicking toward the windows before returning to the king. “The Crownfire’s appearance has inspired awe, yes, but awe is not the same as confidence.”

You wondered how many times a man could call you a blessing before he admitted he meant a problem.

“My daughter is not old magic’s inconvenience,” Aldren said.

The room quieted at once. He had not raised his voice. He never needed to. Even grief-thinned, even tired, Aldren Avelor was still king. He looked down the length of the table, silvering hair catching the light. “The princess is my heir by royal decree. Every man in this chamber witnessed the oath.”

Oren bowed his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. Law is not in dispute.”

You almost smiled. Beside you, Queen Isolde did not move. Your mother sat with the kind of stillness people mistook for peace if they had never known a woman who survived by mastering every inch of herself. Isolde wore dark green silk, nearly black where the shadows touched it, her hair twisted into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes gave nothing away.

Oren lifted his gaze again. “Confidence is.”

Aldren’s jaw tightened.

At Oren’s right, Cassius Veyre shifted as if the conversation had only now become worthy of him. He was beautiful in the way court liked men to be beautiful: tall, lean, and polished into something almost decorative. His light brown hair had been combed back from a face too symmetrical to be trusted, and his hazel eyes held the soft gleam of a man who had never entered a room without knowing how it should receive him. Wine-red velvet framed his shoulders. Gold thread glinted at his cuffs. The Veyre signet sat heavy on one elegant hand.

A portrait of reassurance. A cage dressed for a wedding.

“Her Highness has carried an impossible burden with admirable grace,” Cassius said.

His voice was warm enough to sound kind if one did not listen closely. You listened closely. Cassius looked at you then, and the corner of his mouth softened by a practiced degree. “But the realm does not need only a crowned heir. It needs the reassurance of unity.”

“Unity,” you repeated.

Cassius dipped his chin. “Between crown and council. Between old blood and present need. Between houses strong enough to hold Eldara steady.”

Beside him, Oren let the silence breathe. Then Lord Alaric said what everyone had been herded toward saying.

“A marriage alliance between House Avelor and House Veyre would quite much of the uncertainty.”

There it was at last, placed gently on the table like a gift. You looked at Cassius. He did not look triumphant. That would have been too honest. He looked patient. That was worse. You unfolded your hands. Across the chamber, a councilman inhaled as if even the movement of your fingers required interpretation.

“And after the wedding, Lord Veyre,” you asked, “which of my duties would you expect me to keep?”

The room went very still. Aldren’s eyes flicked to you, and something in them warmed with the briefest spark of pride. Isolde’s face did not change. Cassius smiled. Not widely. Not enough for anyone to call it condescension. Just enough for you to hate him.

“All of them, Your Highness,” he said. “I would only hope to make them easier to bear.”

Your mouth curved, though nothing in you softened. “How generous.”

Cassius’s smile held. “I would call it loyal.”

You let your gaze drop briefly to the Veyre signet on his hand. “I’m sure you would.”

A faint shift moved through the council. A few men glanced down at their papers. One cleared his throat and thought better of speaking. Cassius’s smile held. Then he leaned forward, just slightly. “You need not stand alone in this.”

And then he said your name. Not your title. Your name. In the High Council chamber, with your father’s crown at the head of the table and your brother’s empty chair still close enough to haunt the room. The sound of it landed like a hand set at the small of your back without permission. Aldren’s fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. Isolde’s gaze sharpened.

You did not look away from Cassius. “In this room, Lord Veyre,” you said, “I am Your Highness.”

For one breath, the polish cracked. Only a little. Enough. Cassius inclined his head. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Vaela’s satisfaction moved through you like a low curl of smoke. You nearly laughed. You did not. 

Oren spoke before the silence could favor you. “No one here means disrespect. But a realm is not steadied by pride alone.”

“No,” you said. “It is steadied by roads that remain open, grain that reaches the villages before frost, and lords who do not dress their own interests as public concern.”

Another silence. This one had teeth.

Lord Alaric’s expression tightened. “Your Highness, those matters are being handled.”

You arched a brow, “Are they?”

Oren watched you carefully. You turned to Alaric. “The lower road through Wrenford has been washed out since spring. The temporary crossing cannot hold more than one grain cart at a time, and the river has already risen twice this month. If northern stores are sent that way, half the wagons will be waiting at the ford when the first snow hits.”

Alaric’s mouth opened. You did not give him space to use it. “The eastern toll road would be faster,” you continued. “But Graymere Post sits close enough to Veyre-held routes that any delay there becomes less a problem of weather and more a problem of permission.”

Cassius’s expression did not change. Oren’s did not either. That was how you knew you had touched the right nerve. You looked from one Veyre to the other. “If grain is delayed at Graymere, the lower settlements will not care which lord’s ledger slowed it. They will only know their children are hungry while the capital debates whether I require a husband to read a map.”

Aldren’s gaze stayed fixed on you. Queen Isolde’s hands rested motionless in her lap, but one finger pressed into the other hard.

Lord Alaric cleared his throat. “No one suggests Her Highness is incapable of understanding the realm’s needs.”

“How strange,” you said. “When I know too little, I am unprepared. When I know too much, I am overburdened.”

Cassius exhaled softly, almost like regret. Almost. “No one doubts your mind, Your Highness,” he said. “We only question how long one person can bear so much without breaking.”

Vaela’s heat flashed beneath your ribs. Sharp. Immediate. Threat. Outside, talons dragged hard against stone. Every man in the room heard it. This time, even Cassius’s eyes flicked toward the windows. 

You breathed through Vaela’s anger. Calm, you pressed. The dragon did not understand tables. Or councils. Or the delicate art of letting men talk long enough to reveal where they were weakest. Vaela understood threats. She did not understand letting them finish speaking.

Oren turned fear into opportunity before it had finished crossing the room. “This is precisely the concern, Your Majesty,” he said. “The Crownfire is magnificent. No loyal servant of Eldara would claim otherwise. But magnificence unsettles men who must sleep beneath its shadow.”

Aldren’s voice cooled. “Careful, Chancellor.”

Oren bowed his head. “Always.”

No, you thought. Never.

“There are practical measures to consider,” Lord Alaric said, with the eager caution of a man stepping onto a bridge someone else had built. “Temporary measures. Until the realm steadies.”

You looked at him. “Temporary.”

“Your Highness’s movements,” Alaric said. “Her public appearances. Her flights.”

The chamber seemed to narrow around that last word. Vaela went still inside you. Not calm. Still. There was a difference.

Cassius folded his hands on the table. “No one would dream of severing Her Highness from the Crownfire.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself. Coldly. “No,” you said. “I imagine you would prefer a prettier word than severing.” 

Cassius’s mouth tightened. Oren’s eyes sharpened. Lord Alaric pressed forward. “No one is suggesting harm to the bond. Only that Vaela’s flights be limited to ceremonial appearances and crown-approved routes until the investigation into the attempt on your life is complete.”

Your healing wound pulled as you sat straighter. “Vaela is not a carriage to be scheduled.”

“No,” Oren said smoothly. “She is a dragon powerful enough to unsettle an entire kingdom.”

“She is bonded to me.” You said. 

“And that,” Oren said, “is exactly why your safety is not merely personal.”

The room settled around the sentence. There it was. The shape of it. Your body was not your body. Your grief was not your grief. Your dragon was not your dragon. Your life was not your life. You were the last heir of House Avelor. Therefore, everyone in the room believed they had a claim to the space around your ribs. You laid one hand flat against the council table. “There is no version of my bond that belongs to this council.”

Vaela’s presence opened beneath the words. Heat. Gold. Ancient, pleased fury. Outside, stone cracked. A line of pale dust sifted from the edge of the nearest window arch. No one moved.

Queen Isolde spoke into the stillness. “A measured response is not surrender.”

You turned to your mother. The words had been offered calmly. Carefully. With no direct support of Veyre, no plain betrayal to name. That almost made it worse.

“And how measured must I become,” you asked, “before I disappear entirely?”

Something moved behind Isolde’s eyes. Fear, perhaps. Or grief. Then it was gone, folded back beneath the queen’s perfect composure.

 Aldren rose. Every chair in the room shifted back at once. “The matter of my daughter’s hand will not be decided by fear, rumor, or trade pressure.” His gaze moved from Oren to Cassius and then over every councilman seated before him. “Nor will her bond be made subject to men who speak of dragons as if they are troublesome horses.”

No one spoke. Not even Oren. Aldren placed one hand flat on the table. “As for her safety, I have not left the protection of my only living child to this council’s appetite for caution.”

Your eyes went to him. Aldren did not look away from you, and that was how you knew. Whatever he had done, he had already done it. Something tight and cold moved beneath your breastbone. Not Vaela.

You.

“Captain Marek will retain command of Crown Patrol and the outer rider rotations,” Aldren said. “He will continue to answer to the crown.”

At the far side of the room, Marek’s jaw shifted once. He stood near the eastern wall, crown leathers dark against the pale stone, his hands clasped behind his back. He had said little all morning, which was one of the things you trusted about him. Marek did not waste words where action would do. Now, however, even he looked as though he had only recently been told the next sentence.

Aldren continued, “But the princess’s personal guard has been reassigned.”

Your fingers curled once against the table before you stilled them. Isolde’s eyes lowered. She had known.

Oren Veyre’s brows lifted with careful interest. “Your Majesty?”

“The attempt on my daughter’s life proved there are weaknesses in this palace that cannot be mended by adding more men to the same doors.” Aldren looked toward the chamber entrance. “So I have recalled a man who knows the difference between a locked room and a defended one.”

The council chamber doors opened. The man who entered wore no court velvet. Dark riding leathers. Weathered steel. A sword at his hip. Broad shoulders dusted faintly with ash, as if he had come from the dragon terraces instead of the palace corridors. Silver threaded the hair at his temples, catching briefly in the morning light before he stepped beyond it. He moved like someone who had long ago stopped asking rooms for permission to occupy them. Not hurried. Not arrogant.

Certain.

The chamber shifted around him. Marek straightened against the wall. Tovan had once told you that old war dragons did not need to bare their teeth to make lesser creatures remember their own throats. You understood him better now.

The man stopped before the king and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

His voice was low, roughened by smoke and command. Then, after one measured breath, he turned. He bowed to you. Not as deeply as he had bowed to the king.

Deeper.

“Your Highness,” he said.

Vaela went very still beneath your ribs. You hated, immediately, that you noticed.

“Sir Jack Abbot,” Oren Veyre said.

He spoke the name as if it had entered the room armed. Perhaps it had. Jack did not look at the chancellor. Not at first. His gaze remained on you for one measured breath after he bowed, steady and dark and unreadable. Close enough now, you could see the faint scar cutting through one eyebrow, the smoke-darkened edge of his riding coat, the silver at his temples catching in the chamber light like steel beneath water. Then Jack straightened and turned to the king.

“Your Majesty,” Jack said.

Aldren inclined his head. “Sir Jack.”

The room adjusted itself around him. You saw it in the councilmen first. Small things. Spines lengthening. Hands settling. Eyes measuring the distance between Jack and the nearest door, Jack and the windows, Jack and the table where the king sat with his only living child beside him. Marek remained near the eastern wall, but something in his posture had changed. Not deference, exactly. Recognition.

You knew of Jack Abbot. Everyone did. Former commander of the Ashwing Riders. Siege-breaker of Valen’s Pass. The man who had flown through black stormfire over the northern border and came back with half his unit, a dead enemy prince, and a dragon so scarred that stablehands still spoke of Bramor in lowered voices.

Then, three years ago, Jack Abbot had stepped away from command. Not retired. Men like him did not retire. They simply stopped offering kingdoms convenient access to their violence. He had been training riders at the western aerie ever since, until now.

Vaela’s attention moved through you with a cool, sharp focus. Not approval. Not threat. Observation.

Oren folded his hands before him. “Your Majesty has chosen a formidable answer to a delicate concern.”

Jack looked at him then. Nothing in his expression changed, and still the air seemed to tighten. “An assassin coming within arm’s reach of the heir is not a delicate concern,” Jack said.

The room went still. You felt the words land beneath your own skin. Assassin. Not an incident. Not an attempt. Not unrest. Not a concern. Assassin. You had heard the softer versions for six days. The careful versions. The court versions that rounded the blade until people could pretend it had not been meant for your body.

Jack Abbot did not round it.

Oren’s smile remained smooth. “No one intends to diminish the severity of what occurred.”

Jack held his gaze. “Good. Then we may stop speaking as if severity is the same as surprise.”

Lord Alaric’s brows drew together. “Sir Jack?”

Jack’s gaze moved once around the council chamber. Windows. Doors. Servant entrance. Guard placements. Balcony access. Then, finally, Jack looked back at the table. “Her Highness was not attacked because she lacked guards,” Jack said. “She was attacked because too many people knew where the guards would be.”

Marek’s mouth tightened. Not with offense, you thought. With agreement. Aldren’s face had gone very still.

Oren’s fingers rested lightly against the table. “That is a grave accusation.”

Jack did not blink. “It is an assessment.”

Oren tilted his head. “Of the palace guard?”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “Of the palace.”

Another silence followed. This one was colder. Jack did not seem to mind. “The royal wing has four servant corridors, two old guard passages, balcony access from the eastern terraces, and inherited rotations that have not changed meaningfully in eight years,” Jack said. “Her Highness’s appearances are announced before breakfast. Her chapel hours are known by every maid who carries linen through the west hall. Her route to council has been the same since she was sixteen.”

Your fingers stilled against the table. Since she was sixteen. Not since you became heir. Not since the assassin. Not since Vaela chose you. Since you were sixteen. Jack had been in the palace for less than an hour, and he had already learned how long you had been predictable. The thought should have irritated you. It did. It also unsettled you.

Alaric cleared his throat. “Then you agree Her Highness’s movements must be limited.”

Jack turned his head toward him. “Changed.”

Alaric paused. “Changed?”

Jack’s eyes did not leave him. “Not limited.”

Your gaze lifted to Jack. He did not look at you. Oren did. The chancellor’s voice softened. “And Vaela?”

Jack’s gaze moved toward the windows. Beyond the glass and the carved stone arches, somewhere on the eastern terrace, your dragon waited. You felt the shape of her attention turn toward the room like sunlight catching on a blade.

Jack was quiet for half a breath. Then he said, “Grounding Vaela would be a mistake.”

The chamber seemed to inhale. You did not. You were afraid that if you did, someone would hear how much those words had shifted inside you.

Alaric leaned forward. “Sir Jack, surely until the threat is known—”

Jack cut him off. “The threat is known.”

Oren’s eyes sharpened. “Is it?”

Jack looked back at the chancellor. “Yes. Someone wants the princess dead and has had enough access to nearly manage it. That is the threat. The name can come later.”

Cassius, who had been silent since Jack entered, leaned back slightly in his chair. “A practical man.” Jack’s gaze moved to him. Cassius smiled. “I mean that as a compliment.”

Jack’s expression did not change. “I did not ask.”

The corner of Aldren’s mouth moved. Only slightly. You looked down at your hands before anyone could see your own reaction. Vaela’s satisfaction curled through the bond, warm and dark. Jack continued before Cassius could decide whether offense would serve him. “If the assassin has access to the palace, then stone is not safety. Familiar corridors are not safety. Locked doors are not safety. The air may be the only route Her Highness has that has not already been mapped by whoever wants her dead.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. Jack was not watching your father. Not Oren. Not Cassius. He was watching the room, as if every man in it was both a person and a possible opening for a knife. You had spent six days hearing people discuss whether you should be kept from Vaela for your own protection. Jack Abbot had been in the chamber less than ten minutes and had understood that taking Vaela from you would not make you safer. It would make it easier to trap you. Vaela’s attention pressed beneath your breastbone. A cool, ancient flicker moved through the bond. Not trust. Not approval. But the first sharp edge of interest.  Jack’s eyes moved to you at once. You stilled. His gaze dropped, only briefly, to your mouth. Then away. So fast you might have imagined it. You did not think you had.

Jack turned back to the council. “Captain Marek will retain command of Crown Patrol and the outer rider rotations. He will answer to the crown as he has always done. On matters concerning Her Highness’s personal protection, he will answer to me.”

Marek gave one short nod from the wall. No hesitation. No surprise. So he had known. Jack continued, “Kael Ardent and Liora Venn will be reassigned to the inner watch. No other rider approaches Her Highness’s chambers, Vaela’s saddle, her feed, or her flight routes without my approval.”

Alaric’s brows rose. “Her feed?”

Jack looked at him. “Tack can be cut. Buckles can be weakened. Feed can be poisoned. Fire glands can be irritated. A dragon does not need to be killed to make her rider vulnerable.”

The words struck harder than you expected. Not because you had not known them. Because you had. Because some part of you had been trying not to.

Jack looked toward the eastern wall. “Tovan remains in charge of Vaela’s terrace stores and saddle checks.”

Marek nodded once. “He has already been informed.”

You turned slightly. “Has he?”

Marek met your eyes with the grim steadiness of a man who knew there would be consequences and had chosen them anyway. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You looked back at your father. Aldren held your gaze. No apology. Not yet. That stung more than if he had looked away.

Jack’s voice drew you back. “Your private chambers will be re-secured by sundown. The old guard passage between the captain’s room and the princess’s suite will be reopened.”

Your attention snapped to him. “The captain’s room,” you said.

Jack faced you fully. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You kept your voice even. “And who, exactly, will be occupying it?”

Jack answered without hesitation. “I will.”

The chamber went quiet in a different way. Not political. Personal. Your mother’s stillness sharpened. Cassius’s eyes flicked between you and Jack, something almost amused touching his mouth. You hated him for seeing anything at all. You kept your gaze on Jack. “You intend to sleep beside my rooms?”

Jack’s voice remained steady. “Near them.”

Your brows lifted. “That is not much better.”

Jack held your gaze. “It is faster.”

The answer was so blunt that, for one dangerous second, you had no reply. Jack did not look pleased with himself. He did not look embarrassed either. He looked like a man who had given you the relevant fact and did not understand why the room had tried to make something else of it. Or perhaps he understood perfectly and refused to help them. You had not decided which possibility was more irritating.

Jack looked back at the council. “At night, watch will rotate between Marek, Kael, and Liora. No one else.”

Alaric shifted in his chair. “Surely the existing palace guard—”

Jack turned to him. “No.”

The single word cut cleanly through the chamber. Jack kept his gaze on Alaric. “Until I know where the breach came from, I trust the existing palace guard to remain exactly where I can see them.”

A muscle feathered in Alaric’s jaw.

Oren leaned back slightly. “And during the day?”

Jack’s answer came without pause. “I remain with Her Highness from the moment she leaves her chambers until she retires.”

Your pulse moved once, hard. All day. Every day. You thought of council chambers and corridors. Of Vaela’s terrace. Of the library steps where you read reports, no one knew you had requested. Of the chapel alcove where Elias’s memorial candle burned low in blue glass. Of the bathing chamber door, the private sitting room, the balcony where you stood when the palace became too small to breathe inside. You thought of this man in every doorway. This voice behind you. Those eyes watching.

You forced your hands to remain still. “And was I meant to be consulted before my life was rearranged, Sir Jack?”

The title came out cool. Sharper than courtesy. Jack accepted it without flinching. “I was summoned to keep you alive, Your Highness. Not comfortable.”

Aldren’s eyes cut to him. Marek went very still. Your eyebrows lifted. Jack held your gaze. The room waited for you to take offense. You did.

Then Jack added, quieter, “When I can give you both, I will.”

Something in your chest shifted. Not softened. Shifted. You looked at him for a long moment.

“How generous,” you said.

Jack’s expression did not change. “No. Necessary.”

Infuriating man.

Oren’s voice slid in before the silence could become anything with a shape. “As Your Highness can see, Sir Jack understands the difficulties involved in protecting such a valuable life.”

Jack turned his head. “No.”

Oren paused. “No?”

Jack’s gaze did not move from him. “Her Highness will be briefed on every change to her guard. She will know the names of the men and women outside her doors. She will know every route I close and why I close it.”

Your anger, which had been moving cleanly through you a moment before, faltered.

Jack continued, “A protected ruler who does not understand her own cage has not been protected. She has been contained.”

The word moved through the chamber like a struck bell. Cage. You felt your mother look at you. You did not look back. Vaela’s presence opened under your ribs, slow and watchful. Not pleased. Not yet. But listening.

Oren’s mouth had gone flat. “An interesting philosophy for a guard.”

Jack’s eyes hardened. “I am not a guard.”

The room chilled. Jack stepped forward once. “I was commander of the Ashwing Riders for twelve years,” Jack said. “I have taken orders from kings, fools, dying boys with better instincts than their generals, and dragons who knew a storm was coming before any man looked up.”

His voice stayed even.

“I know the difference between protection and possession,” Jack said.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack did not look at you. Somehow, that made it worse. Aldren rose from his chair. Every man in the chamber straightened.

“Then make the oath,” Aldren said.

Jack turned back to the king and bowed his head once. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

He removed his right glove. The motion should not have mattered. It did. His hands were broad and scarred, the knuckles marked pale in places where old wounds had healed badly. Not court hands. Not soft hands. Hands that had held reins in war winds, blades in blood, a dragon’s saddle straps through smoke and stormfire. You noticed.

Gods help you, you noticed.

Jack stepped toward you. For the first time that morning, the council table felt like too little space between your body and anything else. He stopped three paces away. Then he lowered himself to one knee. Not before Aldren.

Before you.

The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath. Jack laid his bare hand over the hilt of his sword. His head bowed, but not enough to hide his face from you. Not enough to turn the oath into performance.

When he spoke, his voice was low. “I swear my blade, my wings, and my life to your protection,” Jack said.

The words settled over the room.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “I will guard your body, honor your command, and abide your will until death releases me from service.”

Vaela went utterly still. You did too. Jack looked up at you. Dark. Steady. Unsoftened by ceremony.

Then he said, “If you will have me, Your Highness.”

No one moved. Not your father. Not your mother. Not Oren, whose silence had gone sharp enough to draw blood. The choice was not real. You knew that. Jack knew that. Every person in the room knew the king had already summoned him, already arranged the passage beside your chambers, already spoken to Marek and Tovan and whatever trusted riders Jack had brought back with him from the edges of war.

And yet Jack waited.

On one knee. In front of the entire High Council. As if your answer mattered.

Your throat tightened once. You hated that too. “You may rise, Sir Jack,” you said.

Something unreadable moved through his eyes. Jack stood. The motion was smooth, controlled, and too close to graceful for a man built like a fortress wall. 

You tipped your chin up, refusing to step back. “And do not mistake my acceptance for obedience.”

For the first time, his mouth almost changed. Almost. Not a smile. Not quite.

“I would not dare,” Jack said.

Vaela’s attention sharpened inside you. Heat bloomed beneath your ribs before you could catch it. Jack’s eyes flicked, just once, to the windows as if he felt the dragon stir. As if he knew. Then his gaze returned to yours, and whatever had almost been in his expression vanished behind discipline.

Aldren’s hand settled against the arm of his chair. “The council is dismissed.”

Chairs scraped at once. Papers were gathered. Men stood too quickly or too slowly, depending on what they wished to prove. Alaric bowed first to the king, then to your mother, then to you. Oren Veyre moved with more care, his expression returned to its usual polished calm. Cassius lingered. He approached with the softness of a man who knew how to make intrusion look like concern.

“Your Highness,” Cassius said. Perfectly correct. Perfectly performed.

You held his gaze. “Lord Veyre.”

Cassius’s eyes moved briefly to Jack, who had stepped back to your right, not close enough to crowd you, not far enough to be ignored. Cassius looked back at you. “How fortunate that the crown has found a man so eager to stand at your side.”

Jack said nothing. You did not look at him. You smiled at Cassius with every lesson your mother had ever taught you sharpened behind your teeth. “Yes. Fortunate men are so rare.”

Cassius’s smile held. Barely. He bowed. Beautifully. Like a man who believed time itself had been raised to favor him. Then Cassius turned and followed Oren from the chamber. 

Outside, Vaela’s claws dragged once against stone. Slow. Deliberate. Every man leaving the room pretended not to hear it. When the doors closed behind the last of them, the chamber felt larger and more dangerous for being nearly empty. Your mother remained seated. Your father stood at the head of the table. Marek waited by the wall. Jack stood beside you, silent as a drawn blade.

You looked at Aldren first. “You should have told me.”

The words were quiet. They landed anyway. Your father’s expression did not soften. That would have been easier to resent.

“Yes,” Aldren said. “I should have.”

The honesty hurt more than an excuse.

Isolde rose then, dark skirts whispering against stone. “Your father did what was necessary.”

You looked at her. “Everyone is very fond of that word today.”

Her mouth tightened. Jack did not speak. You noticed that too.

Aldren’s gaze moved between you and the man he had placed in your shadow. “Sir Jack will inspect your chambers and the eastern approaches before the next bell.”

You turned toward your father. “Now?”

Jack answered before Aldren could. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You turned to him. His face gave nothing away. Of course, it did not.

“You have only just arrived,” you said.

Jack met your eyes. “Yes.”

You narrowed yours. “And you intend to begin by entering my rooms.”

Jack’s jaw shifted once. Marek looked down. Aldren closed his eyes briefly, as if asking patience from every god who had ever ignored him.

Jack said, very evenly, “I intend to begin by inspecting your exits.”

Something about the correction should not have warmed your face. It did. You hated him for that, too.

“How reassuring,” you said.

Jack inclined his head. “It is meant to be.”

You studied him. The broad set of his shoulders. The ash still clinging to one sleeve. The scar through his brow. The silver in his hair. The bare hand still ungloved at his side, fingers relaxed now, but ready. Always ready, you thought.

Vaela shifted somewhere outside. You felt the faintest pulse of interest through the bond. Not warmth. Not welcome. Assessment. As if the ancient thing bound to your soul had finally found one man in the chamber worth watching.

You drew a slow breath. “Very well,” you said. “Inspect my exits, Sir Jack.”

Jack bowed his head. “Your Highness.”

You turned toward the council chamber doors. For most of your life, guards had followed you through Crownreach Palace. Their boots had sounded behind you in corridors, outside chapels, across terraces, beside gardens where you had not been alone since childhood. You knew the weight of being watched. You knew the shape of being protected. But when Jack Abbot fell into step behind you, not too close, not too far, something in the air changed. Not because he crowded you. 

Because somehow, he knew exactly how far away to stay.

The corridor outside the High Council chamber was colder than it had any right to be. Crownreach Palace had always held its chill well. Stone kept memory better than warmth, and this wing of the palace had been built from pale northern marble veined with silver. Sunlight spilled through the arched windows, bright across the floor, but it did little to soften the air. You walked through it anyway, spine straight, hands loose at your sides, every inch of you arranged into the shape of a princess who had not just had her life rearranged in front of half the realm’s most dangerous men. Behind you, Jack Abbot followed. Not too close. Never too far.

That irritated you more than it should have.

You had expected him to crowd you. To loom. To make his new authority known with the weight of his boots and the angle of his shoulders. Instead, he moved like a shadow that understood doors. At your chambers, the guards outside straightened.

Jack looked at the first one. “Name.”

The guard swallowed. “Brennan, sir.”

Jack’s gaze moved over him once. “Rotation?”

Brennan clasped his hands behind his back. “Second bell to fourth, sir.”

Jack glanced toward the second guard. “Who relieves him?”

The woman lifted her chin. “Darron and me, sir. Elise.”

Jack nodded once. “You and Brennan remain until Marek sends replacements. No one enters without Her Highness’s leave or mine.”

Elise bowed. “Yes, sir.”

You glanced at Jack. “Mine or yours?”

Jack opened the door and stepped aside. “Yours first.”

That should not have pleased you. You entered your sitting room before your face could betray you. Inside, Minka stood near the hearth with a tray of untouched tea. Her eyes widened the moment she saw Jack behind you. Then her cheeks went pink. Nessa, who usually managed your bath linens and riding leathers, paused beside the inner door with a stack of fresh cloth folded over one arm. Her gaze moved from Jack to Minka, and her mouth curved before she politely pressed it flat again. Elowen, older than your other attendants and far better at hiding what she noticed, stood near the writing desk with a folded shawl in her hands.

You looked at them, and the tightness in your chest eased by a fraction. “Elowen. Minka. Nessa.”

Elowen’s gaze moved once to Jack before returning to you. “Your Highness.”

Minka dipped into a quick curtsy. “Your Highness.” Her voice came out softer than usual.

Nessa lowered her head. “Your Highness.”

Jack’s attention sharpened at the names. You felt it. 

You looked at him. “Is knowing the names of the women who dress me also a security concern?”

Jack’s eyes remained on the room. “It is useful.”

Elowen’s brows lifted slightly. Minka looked at the floor as if it had become deeply interesting. Nessa looked at Minka as if the floor had not been interesting at all until Jack entered the room.

You folded your arms. “Useful.”

Jack looked at Elowen first. “How long have you served Her Highness?”

Elowen’s spine straightened. “Since she was eleven, sir.”

Jack nodded once, then looked toward Minka. “And you?”

Minka lifted her eyes too quickly. Jack’s expression softened by the smallest degree. Not a smile, exactly. Close enough to make Minka’s blush deepen.

Minka swallowed. “Two years, sir.”

Jack inclined his head. “Thank you, Minka.”

Minka nearly forgot the tea tray in her hands. Nessa’s mouth twitched. You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you with perfect innocence. Infuriating man.

Jack turned to Nessa. “And you?”

Nessa adjusted the linens in her arms. “Four years, sir. I attend Her Highness’s baths and riding changes.”

Jack’s gaze did not flicker at the word baths. “No one outside these rooms is to enter with garments, linens, water, food, or correspondence until I have reviewed the access list.”

Elowen’s mouth tightened. “Sir Jack, Her Highness’s household has its own order.”

Jack looked back at her. “Good. Write it down for me.”

You blinked. Elowen did too.

Jack continued, “Names. Duties. Hours. Who enters which rooms and why. I will not replace women Her Highness trusts unless I am given cause.”

Something in Elowen’s expression shifted. Not approval. But consideration. You hated that Jack had earned even that much.

You turned away from him. “You may go for now. All of you.”

Elowen looked to you, not Jack. “Your Highness?”

You softened your voice. “I am all right.”

Minka’s gaze flicked toward the bandage hidden beneath your gown. “Should I bring fresh tea later, Your Highness?”

You nodded. “Please. And eat something before you do. You look pale.”

Nessa murmured, “She has been pale since Sir Jack entered, Your Highness.”

Minka’s eyes went wide. “Nessa.”

Elowen gave Nessa a look. “Enough.”

Nessa lowered her eyes with entirely false innocence. “Yes, Elowen.”

Jack turned his face toward the balcony doors. It was the closest thing to mercy he had offered anyone since entering your chambers. You stared at Nessa until her mouth stopped twitching.

Then you looked back at Minka. “Eat something.”

Minka’s cheeks remained bright. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Nessa looked toward the bathing chamber, then back to you. “Should I prepare the afternoon bath?”

You glanced at Jack before you could stop yourself. Jack continued studying the balcony doors as if they had become the only thing in the room worth knowing.

You faced Nessa again. “Not yet.”

Nessa curtsied. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Elowen guided the younger women toward the door with a small motion of her hand. Before she left, she looked at Jack. Elowen’s voice stayed perfectly even. “Sir Jack.”

Jack inclined his head. “Elowen.”

Minka curtsied again, far too quickly. “Sir Jack.”

Jack’s voice was gentle. “Minka.”

Minka fled. Nessa followed her with a look of profound entertainment. Elowen paused at the door and gave you the smallest look. These young women, it seemed to say. Then her gaze flicked once toward Jack. You narrowed your eyes at her. Elowen’s expression did not change.

The door closed behind them.

Your private chambers seemed to grow quieter at once. Jack did not move for a moment. Then his gaze went to the balcony doors, the servant entrance, the inner bedchamber, the bathing chamber, and finally the folded maps half-hidden beneath a book of trade law on your desk. He saw all of it.

You folded your arms. “Do you intend to interrogate my curtains?”

Jack checked the balcony latch. “If they begin letting assassins through, yes.”

You hated the laugh that tried to rise in your throat. You swallowed it.

Jack tested the frame. “This lock is decorative.”

You watched his hands on the latch. “It locks.”

Jack looked at the metal. “It suggests locking.”

You narrowed your eyes at his back. “You have a gift for comfort.”

Jack kept his attention on the balcony. “No. I have a gift for noticing how people die.”

The air changed. You looked away first.

Jack moved to the servant's entrance. “Who uses this?”

You kept your voice even. “Elowen, Minka, Nessa, and occasionally Tovan when Vaela’s saddle needs adjusting from the terrace side.”

Jack turned his head. “Tovan enters your private chambers?”

You gave him a look. “Only as far as the terrace doors, and only because Vaela dislikes waiting.”

Jack absorbed that. “Vaela seems to dislike many things.”

You felt the faintest pulse beneath your ribs. Warm. Dry. Anciently offended.

You almost smiled. “Yes. She does.”

Jack looked back toward the bathing chamber door. Your skin warmed before he said a word. Jack’s expression did not change. “Who has access when you bathe?”

You lifted your chin. “Nessa and Elowen. Minka, if I need something fetched. Two water carriers bring the filled pails to the outer door and leave them there.”

Jack kept his gaze on the latch. “Always the same carriers?”

You stared at him. “You intend to inspect my bathwater now?”

Jack did not look at you. “I intend to know who can reach you when you have no blade within arm’s length.”

The answer landed too cleanly to argue with. That irritated you, too. Vaela stirred beneath your ribs. Not angry now. Attentive.

Jack moved toward the tapestry along the far wall. “This covers the old guard passage?”

You looked at the embroidered scene: the first Avelor king kneeling beside the Silvermere, one hand lifted toward a dragon made of gold thread. “It has not been used in years.”

Jack pulled the tapestry aside. “That is rarely the same as unusable.”

Behind the fabric, a narrow door sat half-hidden in the stone. Jack tested the handle. It opened with a groan of old iron and colder air. You stepped closer despite yourself. Beyond the door, a dim passage stretched between the walls, narrow enough that Jack’s shoulders nearly brushed both sides when he leaned in.

He looked back at you. “This leads to the captain’s room.”

You held his gaze. “You truly mean to sleep there.”

Jack answered quietly. “Yes.”

You folded your hands together before they could betray you. “Lightly, I assume.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved. “Very.”

You exhaled once. “That was not the reassurance you think it was.”

Jack released the door. “It was not meant to reassure you. It was meant to tell you the truth.”

You studied him in the pale light. “That is your habit, then?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “When I can afford it.”

Your voice lowered. “And when you cannot?”

Jack did not look away. “I try to make the lie useful.”

That should have sounded worse than it did. You stepped away from the passage. “I have been watched my entire life, Sir Jack. I also know the difference between protection and possession.”

Jack let the tapestry fall back into place. “Good.”

Your brows lifted. “Good?”

Jack faced you. “Then you’ll know if I cross the line.”

You held his stare. “And if you do?”

Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “Tell me.”

You laughed softly, without humor. “And you’ll listen?”

Jack’s gaze did not move from yours. “I swore to abide you.”

You tipped your chin up. “Men swear many things in public.”

Something in his expression stilled.

Then Jack said, low and even, “Then test me in private.”

The room went quiet. Not empty, quiet. Not safe, quiet. The kind of quiet that had a pulse. Vaela’s attention sharpened beneath your ribs, a sudden gold-edged pressure that made your next breath feel too warm. Jack seemed to realize the shape his words had taken a moment after they left his mouth. His jaw tightened. Yours did too. You looked away first, furious that you had to. Jack turned toward your desk as if the maps had personally saved him.

His gaze caught on the folded reports. “Graymere.”

You followed his eyes. “Yes.”

Jack stepped closer to the desk but did not touch the papers. “Wrenford crossing. Western stores. Veyre toll routes.”

You looked at the reports. “You read quickly.”

Jack kept his attention on the map. “I recognize roads.”

You glanced at him. “Most men in that council recognize borders. They still manage to forget the people living inside them.”

Jack looked at you then. For once, he had no immediate answer. You lifted one shoulder, and the healing cut beneath your ribs pulled hard enough to make your breath catch. Jack noticed. His eyes dropped to your side.

You straightened before he could speak. “Do not.”

Jack’s gaze returned to your face. “I wasn’t going to.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You were.”

Jack held your stare. “I was going to ask how deep the wound was.”

You gave him a flat look. “That is not better.”

Jack’s voice stayed calm. “No. But it is relevant.”

You held his stare. He did not soften. He did not look away either.

Finally, Jack turned back to the maps. “These should be copied and kept somewhere secure.”

You blinked. “You are not going to tell me I should not have them?”

Jack looked at the notes again. “No.”

You waited. “Why?”

Jack’s fingers rested near the edge of the desk, close to your ink-stained notes but not touching them. “Because ignorance is not safer.”

Something in your chest shifted again. You were beginning to dislike that feeling.

Jack looked from the maps to you. “Lock the drawer.”

You stared at him. That was all. Not a warning. Not a lecture. Not a demand that you hand over your reports and let wiser men decide what you were allowed to know. Lock the drawer.

“I want to see Vaela,” you said.

Jack’s gaze moved from the closed door to you. “Then we go to Vaela.”

You hated the steadiness of that answer. You hated more that some part of you had expected resistance.

You crossed the room toward the terrace doors. “You are not going to tell me I should rest?”

Jack followed at a careful distance. “Should you?”

You set your hand on the latch and looked back at him. “That is not an answer.”

Jack’s mouth did not move, but something in his eyes almost did. “It is if you already know yours.”

You opened the doors before he could say anything else. The afternoon air met you at once, cool from Silvermere and sharp with the mineral scent of sun-warmed stone. It carried ash, leather, lake wind, and the faint copper-sweet trace of dragonfire. The tightness beneath your ribs eased before you meant to let it.

Jack noticed. He said nothing.

That, somehow, made it worse. The eastern terrace stretched wide beyond your chambers, built into the palace’s outer face with enough space for a Crownfire dragon to land, turn, and launch without scraping the carved balustrades. Beyond it, Crownreach fell away in green terraces and silver roofs until the city met the lake.

Vaela waited near the far edge. She was not pacing. She never paced. Your dragon stood as if the terrace had been built for the sole purpose of holding her, dark emerald scales catching the afternoon light in shifting flashes of green and black. Her horns swept back from her head like a crown grown from shadowed bone, and her gold eyes fixed on you the moment you stepped outside.

The bond opened. Heat moved under your breastbone. Recognition. Possession. Relief, though Vaela would have turned the palace to glass before admitting anything so vulnerable. You crossed the terrace before you remembered Jack was behind you. Vaela lowered her head, not in submission. She lowered it because she allowed you near. You pressed your palm to the smooth plane between her eye and jaw, and the breath you had been holding since the council chamber finally left you.

“There you are,” you murmured.

Vaela exhaled through her nose, warm enough to stir your hair back from your face. The bond pressed close around you. Gold heat. Old anger. The remembered flash of council voices, Cassius’s polished smile, Oren Veyre’s careful hands folded on the table.

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

Vaela’s talons shifted against the stone.

You opened your eyes again. “No burning anyone today.”

Behind you, Jack went very still.

You looked over your shoulder. “That was not for you.”

Jack’s gaze remained on Vaela. “Comforting.”

You almost smiled. Almost. Vaela’s attention moved past you and settled on him. The change in the bond was immediate. Cooler. Sharper. Assessing.

Jack stopped several paces away without being asked. He did not reach for his sword. He did not bow too deeply. He did not do what most men did with Vaela, which was either step back in fear or step forward with the arrogant hope that old magic could be impressed by posture.

He simply stood still and let her look at him.

Vaela lowered her head another fraction, bringing one molten-gold eye level with his face. Jack held her gaze. The air tightened. You felt Vaela’s judgment move through you with the slow patience of a blade deciding whether it needed to be drawn. Not welcome. Not threat.

Evaluation.

You watched Jack’s hands. They remained open at his sides. Vaela breathed once. Smoke curled thin and dark from her nostrils, drifting across the stones between them. Jack did not move. Something in the bond shifted. Not approval. Not yet. But you felt, with sudden and inconvenient certainty, that Vaela had expected to dislike him more.

Jack glanced at you. “Something amusing, Your Highness?”

You faced Vaela again before your mouth could betray you. “No.”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “No?”

You stroked your thumb along one emerald scale. “She is only deciding whether you are tolerable.”

Jack looked back at Vaela. “And?”

Vaela’s eye narrowed. You pressed your lips together. “Unclear.”

A sound came from near the covered archway leading to the lower aerie steps. It might have been a cough. It was not a cough. Tovan stood beside a low stone table with a basket hooked over one arm and amusement tucked very poorly behind his eyes.

“Tovan,” you said, grateful for the interruption.

Tovan bowed his head. “Your Highness.”

Jack inclined his head once. “Tovan.”

Tovan looked from Jack to Vaela, then back again. “Sir Jack.”

You looked between them. “You know each other.”

Tovan set the basket on the stone table. “Most men who command dragons learn who keeps them fed, saddled, and less inclined to eat the wrong person.”

Jack’s gaze moved briefly to the basket. “A lesson too few men retain.”

Tovan’s mouth twitched. “He remembers me fondly.”

Jack looked at him. “Bramor remembers your left sleeve.”

Tovan lifted his left arm, where the cuff sat shorter than fashion required. “A misunderstanding.”

You turned toward Jack. “Your dragon ate his sleeve?”

Jack’s face remained unreadable. “He disliked the stitching.”

Tovan nodded solemnly. “A known critic of embroidery.”

Vaela’s attention flicked toward Tovan with clear impatience.

Tovan lifted both hands. “Yes, yes. I brought them.”

He reached into the basket and drew out a strip of ironroot, dark red and fibrous, cut into neat lengths the way Vaela preferred. Your chest softened.

“You remembered,” you said.

Tovan gave you a look as if the idea of forgetting offended him. “You give her one after council sessions.”

Jack’s attention moved to you. You felt it like a touch. You ignored him and held out the ironroot. Vaela accepted it from your palm with imperial delicacy, crushing it once between her teeth before swallowing. 

Tovan watched her with satisfaction. “Her stores were checked this morning. No rot in the western sacks, no damp in the inner bins.”

Jack looked at Tovan. “Who has access?”

“Myself,” Tovan said. “Two senior handlers, four lower aerie hands, the feed clerk, and whoever I assign to water and ash sweep under watch. Kael and Liora check saddle security when Her Highness flies, but they are riders, not stable hands.” 

Jack’s expression sharpened. “Names.”

Tovan reached into his tunic and produced a folded scrap of parchment. “Already written.”

Jack looked at him.

Tovan’s expression did not change. “You were always going to ask.”

Jack took the parchment. “Good.”

Tovan glanced at you. “He says that when he means thank you.”

Jack did not look up. “I say thank you when I mean thank you.”

Tovan’s brows lifted. “There. Growth.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Jack folded the parchment and tucked it away. “Where is Bramor?”

Tovan nodded toward the far end of the terrace. You followed the motion. At first, you thought the shadow beneath the eastern arch belonged to the palace itself.

Then the shadow breathed.

A black-bronze dragon lay stretched along the sun-warmed stones, massive enough that the terrace seemed suddenly smaller for having to hold him. Scars broke the dark plates of his hide in pale, jagged seams. One horn bore an old crack near its base. His wings were folded tight, but even folded, they looked like things made to blot out fields.

Bramor.

War dragon. Siege-breaker. The kind of creature soldiers lowered their voices to discuss because speaking too boldly of death felt like inviting it to turn its head. He turned his head now. One ember-dark eye opened and fixed on you. Vaela did not move. That was what you noticed first. Your dragon did not bristle. She did not step between you and him. She watched Bramor with cool familiarity, as though the ancient war beast was an unfortunate but tolerated fixture of the stonework. Jack, however, shifted half a step closer to you. Not enough to block you. Enough to reach you. You noticed. So did Vaela. So did Bramor.

You looked at Jack. “May I greet him?”

Jack did not answer at once. His gaze moved to Bramor, and something wordless passed between rider and dragon, too old and private for anyone else to read. Bramor watched you. Still, Alert. 

Jack’s shoulders eased by a fraction. “You may.”

You stepped forward slowly. Jack moved with you, close enough to intervene and far enough not to insult either dragon. You stopped several paces from Bramor and lowered your hand at your side, palm visible but not offered.

“I will not touch him unless he permits it,” you said.

Jack’s gaze flicked to you. Something in his expression changed. Not softness. Not surprise, exactly. Recognition, perhaps. Bramor’s enormous head lowered. The motion was slow enough to make the terrace feel silent around it. You held still. Warm breath rolled over your hand, dry and faintly smoky.

“Hello, Bramor,” you said.

The dragon’s eye narrowed. Not in threat. In focus. Jack felt the bond shift. You saw it in the sudden stillness of his face, though you did not know what Bramor had given him. Bramor lowered his head another inch. You lifted your hand only when his snout came close enough to invite it, and you rested your fingertips against the hard ridge above his nostril. His scales were warmer than Vaela’s. Rougher. Scarred in places where old wounds had healed thick and uneven. You touched him carefully. Not like a weapon. Not like a monster. Like something alive.

Bramor exhaled.

The sound rolled low through the terrace stones. Tovan went very quiet. Jack stared at his dragon.

You glanced back at him. “Is this all right?”

Jack’s eyes remained on Bramor. “Apparently.”

You looked at Bramor again. “Apparently?”

Jack’s mouth flattened. “He has opinions.”

Tovan murmured, “Usually louder ones.”

Bramor’s eye shifted toward Tovan.

Tovan immediately looked into the basket. “Ironroot, Your Highness?”

You withdrew your hand from Bramor slowly and returned to Vaela’s side. Bramor’s attention followed the basket. The movement was slight. You noticed it anyway. Jack noticed you noticing.

You lifted your brows. “May I give him one?”

Jack hesitated. It was the first true hesitation you had seen from him. Not uncertainty in the face of council politics. Not discomfort in your chambers. This was practical. Immediate. Born from knowing exactly what Bramor was.

Jack looked from the ironroot to your hand. “People have lost fingers offering Bramor less.”

Tovan’s head tilted. “Only once.”

Jack did not look at him. “Twice.”

Tovan considered that. “The second man was warned.”

You kept the ironroot in your palm. “Is that a no?”

Jack’s gaze returned to Bramor. Bramor stared at the ironroot with an intensity that did very little for his dignity.

Jack said, “That is a warning.”

You looked at the black-bronze dragon, then back at Jack. “Then warn me properly.”

Jack stepped closer. Not close enough to touch you. Close enough that his voice dropped between you like something meant only for your ears.

“Flat palm,” Jack said. “Fingers together. Do not curl them. Do not pull back when he lowers his head.”

You followed each instruction exactly. Jack’s attention moved over your hand, checking. Then his eyes lifted to your face. You hated that your pulse noticed.

You held your palm steady. “Like this?”

Jack’s voice lowered. “Yes.”

Bramor moved. Jack’s hand flexed once at his side. Steel would have done nothing if Bramor truly meant harm, but the instinct was there anyway. Protect. Intervene. Put himself between teeth and skin. Bramor lowered his scarred head to your palm. His mouth opened. His teeth closed around the strip of ironroot. Delicately. Absurdly delicately. He did not so much as brush your skin. The ironroot vanished between his teeth with a sharp crack. Jack went still.

You looked up at him. “Was that acceptable?”

Bramor chewed once. Then his massive head lowered again, and he nudged your palm with the blunt ridge of his snout. Not hard. Not demanding. Almost careful.

Your surprise softened into delight before you could stop it. “Oh.”

Jack stared at his dragon. Bramor nudged your hand again. Through the bond came something Jack did not expect. Not hunger. Not warning. Not the iron-hard focus Bramor carried into battle. Warmth struck behind Jack’s ribs with enough force to steal half a breath. Satisfaction. The memory of your hand, steady and gentle. The shape of your voice around Bramor’s name.

A deep, ancient certainty that had nothing to do with ironroot at all.

Jack’s fingers flexed again. Bramor did not know court law. He did not care for vows spoken under painted ceilings, bloodlines recorded by trembling scribes, or the fine architecture of restraint. Bramor knew fire. Fear. Loyalty. The difference between a hand that took and a hand that offered. And apparently, with the full force of his inconvenient soul, Bramor knew you. Jack looked at his dragon as if Bramor had just betrayed twelve years of military discipline for a strip of ironroot and a kind voice.

“Bramor,” Jack said, low.

Bramor ignored him. That was also new.

You glanced at Jack. “Is he asking for more?”

Jack looked at the ancient war dragon who had once torn the roof from a siege tower and was now presenting his scarred jaw to you like a cat in the sun.

“No,” Jack said.

Bramor rumbled.

Jack’s jaw tightened. “He is asking for that.”

You followed Jack’s gaze to the place beneath Bramor’s jaw, where scarred scales overlapped in rough bronze-black ridges.

You smiled. “May I?”

Jack should have said no. He knew that. He had no reason to know it, but he knew it anyway.

Instead, he said, “Carefully.”

You lifted your hand beneath Bramor’s jaw and scratched along the rough edge of a scarred scale. Bramor’s eyes slid half-closed. The rumble that moved through him shook dust from the terrace stones. Tovan made another sound that was absolutely not a cough. Vaela’s attention brushed through you, cool and gold-edged. Judgment. Satisfaction. Perhaps, if a dragon could be smug, that too.

You looked toward Vaela. “Do not be rude.”

Jack’s eyes moved to you. “Was that to me?”

You kept scratching beneath Bramor’s jaw. “No.”

Bramor leaned into your hand. Jack stared.

“He does not do this,” Jack said.

You looked down at the enormous head resting close enough to your hand to ask without words. “He seems to.”

Tovan folded his arms. “I have never seen him do this.”

Jack’s gaze cut to him. “Helpful.”

Tovan’s expression remained bland. “I thought so.”

Bramor nudged your hand again. You laughed softly and gave him another careful scratch. The sound of it moved across the terrace, small and unguarded. Jack looked at you before he could stop himself. The sun had caught in your hair. Your wound still troubled the line of your breathing, and your face was too pale from council rooms and blood loss and stubbornness, but your hand was gentle beneath a war dragon’s jaw. Gentle, not foolish. Kind, not weak.

Bramor felt it too.

The bond surged again. Warm. Certain. Fierce enough now that Jack almost stepped back from it. Not command. Not request. Recognition. A claim older than language and more dangerous than either of you understood.

Jack swallowed once.

 Vaela watched him over your shoulder. Her golden eyes were steady. Assessing. The cool pressure of her attention seemed to say she had seen exactly where his gaze had gone and had not yet decided what to do about it. Jack looked away from you and back to Bramor. The traitorous beast looked blissful.

“Enough,” Jack said.

Bramor’s eyes did not open.

You looked at Jack. “Is that for him or for you?”

Tovan turned away sharply. Jack’s gaze returned to you. For one breath, the terrace seemed to narrow around the space between you.

Jack answered, “Him.”

Your mouth curved as if you did not believe him. Vaela exhaled smoke. Bramor rumbled again, lower this time, pleased past all dignity. Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, he found Bramor still leaning into your hand. Still sending warmth through the bond. Still certain.

Jack had known Bramor’s loyalty in battle. He had known his rage, his discipline, his grief, his stubborn refusal to fall from the sky even when stormfire burned black across his wings. He had never known this. He had never stood on a royal terrace and watched his war dragon choose softness. You scratched once more beneath Bramor’s jaw, then slowly lowered your hand.

Bramor followed it.

Jack stared at him. “You are not helping.”

You glanced up. “Was that to me?”

Jack held Bramor’s gaze. “No.”

Your smile widened.

Tovan reached into the basket and held out another strip of ironroot toward you. “For Vaela, Your Highness.”

You took it from him. “Thank you, Tovan.”

Tovan’s eyes flicked toward Bramor. “I will bring something else next time.”

Jack turned his head slowly. “Next time?”

Tovan looked perfectly innocent. “Ironroot is Vaela’s preference. Bramor has his own.”

Bramor’s eyes opened. Jack felt the interest flare through the bond. Immediate. Shameless.

You looked at Bramor, then at Tovan. “He does?”

Tovan nodded. “He does.”

Jack said, “Tovan.”

Tovan ignored him with the ease of long practice. “I will see that it is prepared.”

You gave Vaela her ironroot, but your eyes flicked once more to Bramor. “Then I will thank him properly when I know what he likes best.”

Bramor’s rumble deepened. Jack looked at his dragon. Bramor looked back with no remorse at all. 

Vaela’s attention warmed behind your ribs. Not laughter. Not quite. But something old and satisfied, watching two armed men, one ancient war dragon, and one princess all pretend something important had not just happened.

Jack’s voice came dry and low. “This has become a very poorly disciplined terrace.”

Tovan nodded. “Dragons are known for respecting rules.”

Jack looked at Bramor, who was still angled toward your hand as if waiting for the universe to correct itself and return your touch to him. Vaela’s tail curved along the stone behind you, elegant and possessive. Bramor lowered his massive head near your feet, not touching, only near. Jack watched him. Then he watched you. For the first time since he had entered the council chamber, Sir Jack Abbot looked as if he did not know what came next.

Jack walked you back through the terrace doors in silence. Not the same silence as before. Before, he had been unreadable because he meant to be. Controlled. Measuring exits, locks, servants’ doors, and weak points as if every room had already confessed its failures to him. Now, he was quiet because Bramor had unsettled him. You should not have enjoyed that. You did anyway.

Behind you, Vaela settled along the terrace stones with a slow scrape of talons and scale, her satisfaction moving through the bond like a curl of gold smoke. You did not look back at her. You did not need to. She was pleased with herself. That was rarely good for anyone.

Bramor rumbled once more before the doors closed, low and deep enough that the glass trembled faintly in its frame. Jack’s jaw tightened.

You glanced at him. “He is very expressive.”

Jack shut the terrace doors with more care than necessary. “He is usually more disciplined.”

You moved farther into the sitting room, fighting the urge to smile. “Perhaps he was bribed.”

Jack turned the latch and tested it once. “With ironroot?”

You looked back at him. “And manners, apparently.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For one breath, his expression shifted. Not a smile. Not quite. But something close enough to make your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the wound beneath your ribs. Then he looked away first. You hated that you noticed. You hated that you liked noticing.

Jack crossed to the balcony-side window and checked the latch again. “Tovan will need to revise the feed access list.”

You folded your arms. “Because your dragon has developed a preference for being hand-fed by princesses?”

Jack glanced at you. “Because Bramor’s attention has changed.”

Your amusement faded by a fraction. “Changed how?”

Jack did not answer immediately. He looked toward the terrace as if the door were not thick enough to keep the dragon’s certainty from reaching him.

“Clearly,” Jack said at last.

You studied the side of his face. “That is not an answer.”

Jack’s mouth flattened. “No.”

You waited. Jack turned from the window. “Bramor does not offer softness to strangers.”

The words landed more carefully than you expected. You looked down at your hand, the same hand that had rested beneath Bramor’s scarred jaw. You could still feel the rough warmth of his scales against your palm.

“He did not feel like a stranger,” you said.

Jack went still. You regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. Not because they were untrue. Because they were.

Jack’s gaze stayed on you, steady and intent. “No?”

You closed your fingers against your palm. “No.”

The sitting room felt too quiet. Too small after the open terrace. Too full of things neither of you had permission to say.

Jack looked away again, this time toward the inner door. “Then he knew something before I did.”

You searched his face. “What does that mean?”

Jack’s attention returned to you. For a moment, you thought he might answer plainly. Then his shoulders settled back into discipline.

“It means,” Jack said, “that I will account for it.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Of course you will.”

Jack’s brows drew faintly. “That displeases you?”

You looked toward the writing desk, where Elowen’s shawl still lay neatly folded. “Everything becomes a security concern with you.”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “Not everything.”

You looked back at him. “No?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Some things are only important.”

Something warm and dangerous moved beneath your ribs. Vaela stirred through the bond, sharp and interested. You ignored her. You did not do so successfully. Jack’s gaze flicked toward the terrace doors, as if he could somehow feel the dragon’s attention through the stone and glass. Perhaps he could.

You cleared your throat. “Were you frightened of her?”

Jack looked at you. “Vaela?”

You nodded once. “Most men are.”

Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “No.”

You studied him. He did not sound proud of it. He did not sound like a man making himself larger for the sake of being believed. He sounded as if he had simply been asked whether the sky was blue and saw no use in dressing the truth.

You asked, “Why not?”

Jack looked toward the terrace again. “She did not threaten me.”

You almost laughed. “She considered it.”

Jack’s mouth moved by a fraction. “I noticed.”

You stepped closer without meaning to. “And that did not frighten you?”

Jack’s gaze returned to yours. “It made me respectful.”

The answer was so simple that it stripped something raw inside you. Respectful. Not afraid. Not enthralled. Not suspicious. Respectful.

You looked toward the terrace doors, where Vaela’s dark green shape moved faintly beyond the glass. “Most men call that fear.”

Jack’s voice softened by the smallest degree. “Most men need better words.”

You did not know what to do with him when he said things like that. It would have been easier if he had been arrogant. It would have been easier if he had treated Vaela as a threat to manage or a weapon to wield or a crown symbol to display under prettier lighting. It would have been easier if he had looked at your dragon and seen only danger. Instead, he stood still and let her judge him. Instead, he had waited. Instead, he had not reached for his sword. You hated the gratitude that tried to rise in you. You hated more that it felt deserved.

“You understand bonds,” you said.

Jack’s expression changed again. A shuttered thing. Old, perhaps. Or wounded. “I understand mine,” Jack said.

You tilted your head. “Only yours?”

Jack’s eyes moved briefly to the bandage hidden beneath your gown, then back to your face. “Enough to know yours is not ornamental.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. The words struck too close to council chambers. To polished men and careful arguments. To all the ways they had spoken of Vaela as if she were a problem of optics, succession, and public confidence. You turned away first. Jack did not follow. That was what undid you a little. He did not step closer when you needed space. He did not fill the silence because it made him uncomfortable. He simply let you stand inside your own chambers and decide whether to speak.

You touched the back of the nearest chair. “The council thinks she unsettles people.”

Jack said, “She does.”

You looked back sharply.

Jack held your gaze. “That does not make them right.”

Your fingers tightened on the chair.

Jack continued, “Power unsettles people most when they cannot control it.”

The words moved through you with a strange, aching precision. You wondered if he knew how cleanly he had cut. You wondered if he had meant to. You suspected he had.

You turned back toward the room. “And you?”

Jack’s eyes did not leave you. “Me?”

You kept your voice steady. “Do I unsettle you, Sir Jack?”

Silence followed. Not empty. Not safe. Jack looked at you as if every answer available to him was dangerous. Then he said, “Yes.”

Your pulse jumped. Jack’s jaw tightened, as if he had not meant to give you the word so plainly. You should have left it there. You did not.

You lifted your chin. “Because of Vaela?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “No,” he said.

The room changed. Or perhaps you did. For a moment, there was no council. No assassination attempt. No old guard passage behind the wall. No Crownfire dragon beyond the terrace doors, watching through gold patience. There was only Jack Abbot standing in your sitting room, sworn to your protection, far too close and nowhere near close enough. Vaela pressed through the bond. Cool. Interested. Judgemental.

You swallowed once. “That sounds like the sort of thing a man says before remembering himself.”

Jack’s expression closed by degrees. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Yes,” Jack said.

The honesty should have made it easier. It did not.

You looked away. “Then perhaps you should.”

Jack inclined his head. “Your Highness.”

There it was again. Distance restored with two words and a title. You should have been relieved. You were not.

Jack turned toward the writing desk, where he had left the list Elowen would complete by morning. “I will have Marek place the first watch outside the outer corridor before sunset.”

You let him change the subject for now. “And the old guard passage?” you asked.

Jack looked toward the hidden panel. “I will inspect it myself before nightfall.”

You folded your arms. “Alone?”

Jack’s gaze returned to you. “With Tovan, if the lower hinge route is still open.”

You frowned. “Tovan knows the old passage?”

Jack said, “Tovan knows most things that are inconvenient for other people to forget.”

You could not argue with that. Jack moved toward the inner door, then stopped before opening it.

He looked back at you. “I will send Elowen back first.”

You lifted your brows. “You are announcing my own attendants to me now?”

Jack’s face remained composed. “I am asking whether you want them.”

That quieted you. He was not ordering. He was not assuming. He was asking. You looked at the empty room, at the tea tray Minka had nearly forgotten, at the bath linens Nessa had abandoned, at Elowen’s folded shawl on the desk. You were suddenly tired. Not weak. Not fragile.

Tired.

Your wound ached beneath your ribs. Your head felt full of council voices and dragonfire and the low, impossible rumble Bramor had made beneath your hand.

“Yes,” you said. “Elowen first.”

Jack nodded once. “Then Elowen first.”

You watched him reach for the door. A thought caught in your chest before he could open it.

“Sir Jack.”

He stopped immediately. “Your Highness?”

You drew yourself straighter. “If I object to one of your changes, what happens?”

Jack turned fully back to you. “You tell me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And then?”

Jack said, “Then we discuss it.”

You stared at him. The answer was too clean. Too simple. Too unlike the men downstairs who wrapped cages in velvet and called them policy.

“You make that sound easy,” you said.

Jack’s eyes did not soften, but his voice did. “It rarely is.”

You studied him. The dark riding leathers. The silver at his temples. The scarred hands held still at his sides. The sword he had not touched when Vaela judged him. The man who had knelt before you in a council chamber and sworn to abide you until death released him from service.

“And if discussion does not change your mind?” you asked.

Jack answered, “Then I'll tell you why.”

You lifted your chin. “And if it does change your mind?”

Jack held your gaze. “Then I change it.”

You did not speak. Jack did not look away.

Your voice came quieter when you found it. “Because you swore to abide me?”

Jack’s answer was immediate. “Because I meant it.”

The words settled between you. No flourish. No performance. No velvet. You could distrust a speech. You knew how. You had been raised inside speeches. You did not know what to do with a man who made his vow sound like a fact.

Jack opened the door. Elowen stood beyond it, one hand lifted as if she had been about to knock. Minka hovered several steps behind her with fresh tea and cheeks that pinked the moment she saw Jack. Nessa leaned against the corridor wall with her arms full of folded linen and an expression that said she had already guessed more than anyone had told her.

Jack stepped aside at once. “Elowen.”

Elowen’s gaze moved from Jack to you. “Your Highness?”

You nodded. “Come in.”

Elowen entered first. Minka followed, clutching the tea tray with both hands. Jack’s eyes flicked to the tray, then to Minka’s pale face.

His voice gentled. “Careful with the step.”

Minka looked down at the perfectly flat threshold as if it had personally betrayed her. “Yes, sir.”

Nessa made a small sound behind her. Elowen gave Nessa one look. Nessa immediately became very interested in the linens. You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you with that same infuriating innocence he had worn earlier. You should not have found it charming. You absolutely did.

Jack inclined his head. “Rest, Your Highness.”

It was almost an order. Almost. But then he stepped back, leaving the choice in your hands. That was the trouble with Sir Jack Abbot, you were beginning to realize. He looked like every man sent to stand between you and your own life.

And yet, so far, he kept leaving doors open.

Jack had been behaving beautifully for almost forty minutes, which should have been your first warning.

He was warm beside you in the booth, flushed from whiskey and the close, noisy heat of the bar, one arm stretched behind your shoulders like he had been personally assigned to make sure you did not drift away from him. His hair had lost whatever fight it usually won before leaving the house, one dark piece falling slightly forward every time he leaned toward you.

You loved him like this.

That was unfortunate, because this version of Jack was also a public safety concern.

Not dangerous. 

Just loose enough to be earnest. Drunk enough to be dramatic. Handsome enough that every bad decision looked briefly defensible before the consequences arrived.

Across the table, Robby was halfway through telling a story he had already told twice, with the bright-eyed confidence of a man convinced repetition was a form of emphasis. Shen sat beside him, nursing his beer with the loose, philosophical posture that only appeared when he was two drinks deep and beginning to consider himself a witness to history.

Crus had not touched his second drink. That, too, should have concerned you. Crus only stayed that sober when he suspected the evening required supervision.

“You know what I think the problem is?” Robby asked, leaning forward with both forearms on the sticky table.

“No,” Crus said.

Robby ignored him and pointed toward the little raised karaoke stage in the corner. “Nobody respects performance anymore.”

Shen tilted his head. “A broad cultural claim.”

“A correct one,” Robby said.

Crus glanced toward the stage, then toward Robby, then toward Jack. “No,” Crus said.

Robby blinked at him. “I did not say anything.”

“You thought it,” Crus replied.

Jack turned his head slowly from where he had been studying the side of your face with the soft, unfocused attention of a man discovering something important for the first time.

“What did he think?” Jack asked.

His voice had gone warm at the edges. You knew that voice. You loved that voice. That voice had once stood beneath your bedroom window and accused a shrub of sabotage.

You reached for your glass. “Nothing.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That was wife voice.”

You paused with your drink halfway to your mouth. “What?”

He pointed gently at you. “Wife voice.”

Robby sat up instantly. “Oh, we’re already there?”

Crus closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Shen nodded with interest. “The courtship dialect has returned.”

You set your glass down and turned to your husband. “Jack.”

He looked at you with bright, immediate attention. “Yes, my lady?”

Robby made a wounded sound. You inhaled through your nose. There it was. “My lady,” you repeated.

Jack’s face softened into something pleased and completely unhelpful. “Yes.”

Crus leaned back in the booth. “We should go.”

“We just got here,” Robby protested.

“We got here an hour ago,” Crus said. “And he has said my lady.”

Jack frowned at Crus like the man had failed a simple exam. “She is my lady.”

“I am aware,” Crus said.

Jack looked back at you, suddenly hopeful. “My wife?”

You tried very hard not to smile. You failed. “Yes,” you said. “Your wife.”

His whole face lit as if you had just handed him the sun. “Fuck yeah,” Jack said softly.

Robby slapped both hands on the table. “There it is.”

You pointed at Robby. “Do not encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging,” Robby said, already pulling out his phone. “I’m documenting.”

Crus reached across the table and pushed Robby’s phone down with two fingers. “No.”

Robby looked offended. “For history?”

“For evidence,” Crus corrected.

Jack ignored all of them. His hand had slipped from the back of the booth to your shoulder, his thumb moving once over the fabric of your sleeve like he needed the confirmation of you under his hand. He leaned closer, warm and whiskey-sweet, and looked at you with the kind of reverence that made your stomach flip even when he was seconds away from humiliating you in public.

“You look pretty,” he said.

Your expression softened before you could stop it. “Thank you, baby.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. Then he shook his head. “No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“No,” he said again, more firmly.

Shen leaned forward a fraction. “Interesting.”

“Do not make this academic,” Crus warned.

Jack sat up straighter, his hand still resting possessively and clumsily sweet against your shoulder. “Pretty is too small.”

Your face warmed immediately. “Jack.”

He looked deeply bothered by the inadequacy of language. “Beautiful.”

Robby pressed one hand to his own chest. “Oh, no.”

“Stunning,” Jack continued.

“Jack,” you said, quieter.

“Gorgeous.” He nodded once, as if the evidence was building. “An angel.”

Crus rubbed both hands over his face. Jack looked at you for another long second, then turned slightly toward the table, solemn as a man delivering rounds.

“A goddess,” he announced.

Robby made a sound like he had been spiritually attacked.

You covered your face with one hand. “Oh, my god.”

“Yes,” Jack said, immediately. “Exactly.”

Shen lifted his beer. “The language has escalated.”

“It had nowhere else to go,” Jack replied.

Crus looked at you. “Are you going to stop him?”

You peeked through your fingers. “Do you think I can?”

Crus considered Jack, who was now gazing at you with the pleased awe of a man who had successfully diagnosed his wife as divine. “No,” Crus admitted.

Jack’s attention drifted, catching the waitress as she passed the booth with a tray of drinks. His expression brightened with fresh purpose.

“Oh, no,” you whispered.

Jack straightened. “This is my wife,” he told the bartender.

The bartender stopped, glanced at you, then smiled politely. “Hi.”

You gave a tiny wave that felt like an apology. “Hi.”

Jack pointed at you with the hand not currently anchored to your shoulder. “She’s beautiful.”

“Okay,” the bartender said, like she had not been trained for this but was willing to improvise.

“Stunning,” Jack added.

The bartender’s smile widened. “I can see that.”

Jack nodded, pleased. “Good.”

Robby made a strangled noise into his fist.

Jack looked back at you, still glowing. “She sees it.”

“She is working,” you said.

“She can multitask,” Jack replied.

The bartender laughed and kept moving. Jack watched her go for half a second, then looked back at you as if struck by another wonderful fact.

“You married me,” he said.

You felt your mouth curve despite yourself. “I did.”

Crus pointed at Jack. “You have been married for years.”

Jack did not look away from you. “To her?”

You nodded. “To me.”

His grin broke open. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby slapped the table again. “Two.”

Jack turned slowly toward him. “Two what?”

Robby froze. Crus looked at Robby with deep warning. “Nothing,” Robby said.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Were you counting my joy?”

Shen sat back, pleased. “An excellent phrase.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “No.”

Jack pointed at him. “Do not quantify my joy.”

You dropped your head against Jack’s shoulder, laughing before you could stop yourself. Jack went still. Then, very carefully, he turned his face toward your hair.

“She likes this,” he said.

“I do not,” you lied into his shirt.

Jack’s arm curled more securely around you. “She does.”

Crus sighed. “She does.”

You lifted your head and glared across the table. “Traitor.”

Crus lifted his glass. “I’m tired.”

Jack looked deeply concerned. “My wife is tired?”

“No,” you said quickly.

He glanced down at your drink. “Water?”

You looked at him, “You need water.” 

His brows pulled together. “Less urgent.”

Robby dissolved.

Shen nodded solemnly. “A husband’s triage.”

“Terrible triage,” Crus said.

Jack ignored him again and shifted closer to you, lowering his voice like the bar was full of spies. “Would my lady like fries?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to court me with fries?”

Jack brightened. “Yes.”

Robby dragged a hand down his face. “God, marriage is disgusting.”

You pressed your lips together.

Jack looked at you immediately, as if your almost-laugh had been a summons. “Did I woo you?”

You blinked. “With the fries?”

He nodded. 

Your brow furrowed, “The fries have not arrived yet.”

Jack considered that. “Pre-wooing.”

Shen lifted one finger. “An anticipatory courtship gesture.”

Crus set his glass down. “Nobody says courtship again.”

Jack’s entire face changed. You felt it before he said anything. The word had reached him. Courtship.

He turned toward you slowly, eyes bright and terrible. “My lady,” Jack said.

“No,” you said.

“I must court you.” Jack continued. 

You sighed, “Jack.”

He touched a hand to his chest. “Properly.”

“You tried to court me with driveway gravel last time.” You pointed out. 

Jack’s face fell instantly. “My greatest shame.”

“It hit my sweatshirt.” You replied. 

Jack frowned, “I wounded my lady.”

“You booped my sweatshirt with a pebble.” You corrected. 

His expression sharpened with moral injury. “A courtship rock.”

Robby leaned toward Shen. “They should have brought the rock.”

You pointed across the table. “Do not invoke the rock.”

Shen looked genuinely thoughtful. “It has symbolic weight.”

“It was gravel,” Crus said.

Jack looked at Crus, offended. “It was evidence.”

“Of what?” Crus asked.

Jack turned back to you. His expression softened at once. “That she let me in.”

Your laughter caught behind your ribs. For one second, the bar noise faded under the warmth of him. Under the stupid, impossible sweetness of your husband sitting beside you, drunk and flushed and still proud of the night he had stood in the yard mangling Shakespeare because he wanted to reach you.

Then Robby ruined it.

“Also, evidence that he tried to climb the house,” Robby said.

Jack pointed at him. “For love.”

“For whiskey,” you corrected.

Jack nodded seriously. “And tequila.”

“And tequila,” Shen agreed.

Crus looked toward the ceiling. “I need new friends.”

The fries arrived. Jack immediately sat up like the waitress had delivered a ceremonial offering.

“Thank you,” he said with deep feeling.

The waitress glanced at you. “Good luck.”

You smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

Jack took the basket, turned it toward you, and selected a fry with unnecessary care. He dipped it in ketchup, inspected it, then held it out to you. 

“For my lady,” he said.

You stared at the fry.

Robby whispered, “Eat the courtship fry.”

Crus muttered, “I hate that sentence.”

You leaned forward and took the fry from Jack’s fingers with your mouth because you were apparently not immune to public nonsense when your husband looked that pleased. Jack’s eyes widened. Then his face went delighted and faintly scandalized.

“She accepted,” he said.

Robby clutched his chest. “The courtship advances.”

Crus pointed at him. “I said stop saying courtship.”

Jack turned to you. “It advanced?”

You chewed slowly, already regretting every choice that had led to this table.

“Yes,” you said. “Fine. The fry advanced the courtship.”

Jack’s face lit. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby slammed his hand over his own mouth.

Jack whipped toward him. “Do not.”

Robby’s shoulders shook.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Do not count it.”

Robby spoke through his fingers. “I’m not.”

Shen leaned closer to you. “He is absolutely counting it.”

You looked at Jack. “Baby, drink water.”

Jack obeyed immediately. It was one of the deeply unfair things about him, how ridiculous he could be and still so sweetly, instantly responsive to your voice. You handed him the glass. He took it. You raised your eyebrows. He drank half of it, made a face like water had insulted his bloodline, then drank more when your eyebrows stayed up.

“Good,” you said.

Jack lowered the glass and looked at you with soft pride. “Wife voice.”

“Yes,” you said. “Wife voice.”

His face brightened. “My wife?”

You smiled. “Your wife.”

Jack shut his eyes briefly, overcome. “Fuck yeah,” he murmured.

Robby made a tiny, strangled squeak.

Jack opened his eyes. “Robby.”

Robby shook his head quickly. “Didn’t count it.”

Jack glared at him, “You counted it emotionally.” 

Robby pointed at him. “That is not a real thing.”

“It is in courtship,” Jack said.

Crus groaned. Before anyone could answer, the karaoke host’s voice crackled through the speakers. “All right, next up, we’ve got Marissa T.! Marissa T., come on up.”

A woman near the bar whooped and made her way toward the stage. Robby watched her go with the sudden, terrible stillness of a man receiving divine inspiration. 

Your stomach dropped. “Robby,” you said.

He looked at you too quickly. “What?”

“No.” You said. 

Robby frowned, “I didn’t do anything.”

“You looked inspired.” You replied. 

“I have eyes,” Robby said. “Sometimes they do that.”

Crus followed your gaze to Robby, then to the karaoke slips near the DJ booth. His expression went flat. “Robby,” Crus said.

Robby held up both hands. “Why is everyone saying my name like I’ve committed a crime?”

Jack leaned close to you, his breath warm against your ear. “What crime?”

You put your hand over his on the table. “Nothing.”

He turned his hand immediately under yours, lacing your fingers together. “My lady protects me from crime,” Jack said.

“You are usually the crime,” Crus replied.

Jack frowned. “Unkind.”

Robby slid out of the booth. You caught his sleeve. “Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom,” Robby said.

You glared at him, “The bathroom is the other way.”

Robby looked over his shoulder, then back at you. “I got turned around.”

Crus pointed at him. “Sit down.”

Robby sat down for exactly seven seconds. Then Santos appeared near the end of the booth with Dana beside her, both carrying drinks, both wearing the expressions of women who had been watching from across the room and had chosen, for reasons of entertainment, not to intervene.

Santos looked at Jack. “Is this the same drunk as the rocks?”

Jack sat up straighter. “Courtship rocks.”

Dana’s grin spread. “Oh, good.”

“No,” you said. “Not good.”

Santos slid into the booth beside Crus. “Did he say my lady yet?”

Robby nodded. “Multiple times.”

Dana leaned in, delighted. “Has he rediscovered the marriage?”

Jack looked at her, confused. “What marriage?”

The entire table went still. You turned slowly toward him. Jack blinked at you. Then his eyes dropped to your ring. His mouth parted.

“We’re married?” he asked.

You were helpless against the smile that took you. “Yes, Jack.”

His face transformed. “Fuck yeah.”

The whole table erupted. Robby put his head down and shook with silent laughter. Santos clapped once. Dana made a sound as if she were trying not to squeal. Shen smiled into his beer. Even Crus cracked, just barely, the corner of his mouth betraying him before he covered it with his glass.

Jack looked around the table, pleased by the response. “They’re happy for us,” he said.

“They were at the wedding,” you reminded him.

Jack looked back at you, stunned. “There was a wedding?”

Robby lifted his head. “Oh, buddy.”

“Beautiful,” Dana said. “Very beautiful.”

Jack’s eyes snapped toward her. “She was beautiful?”

“You both were,” Dana said gently.

Jack looked wounded by the insufficiency. “No. She was beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous.”

“An angel,” Robby supplied.

“A goddess,” Jack corrected.

Santos lifted her drink toward you. “A goddess.”

Jack pointed at her approvingly. “She understands.”

You rubbed your forehead. “I need all of you to stop helping.”

The karaoke host’s voice came back over the speakers. “All right! Give it up for Marissa T., everybody!”

The bar clapped as Marissa returned to her friends. Robby’s eyes slid toward the DJ booth again. This time, Santos saw it.

“Oh my god,” she said, delighted. “Are we putting Jack in?”

“No,” you said immediately.

Jack turned to you. “Putting me in what?”

“Nothing.” You replied immediately. 

“Karaoke,” Dana said.

You shot her a betrayed look. Jack’s eyes widened. The word entered his body like a calling. “Karaoke,” he repeated.

Crus pointed at Dana. “Why would you say that?”

Dana lifted both hands. “I panicked.”

Jack looked toward the stage. Then toward you. His expression went soft, bright, and dangerous. “My lady deserves music.”

“No, she does not,” you said.

Jack frowned. “Everyone deserves music.”

“I deserve peace.” You corrected him. 

“Also music,” Jack said.

Robby was already halfway out of the booth. You grabbed for him and missed. “Robby!”

Robby moved backward toward the DJ booth with both hands raised. “I’m just asking a question.”

You groaned, “No, you are not.” 

“I might ask where the bathroom is.” Robby continued. 

You exhaled loudly, “You know where the bathroom is.”

Robby shrugged, “Maybe I forgot.”

Crus started to stand. Santos caught his arm. “Wait.”

Crus stared at her. “Why?”

Santos’s mouth twitched. “I want to see what song.”

You looked at her in horror. “Not you too.”

Santos shrugged. “He called you a goddess. I’m invested.”

Jack watched Robby reach the DJ booth, then turned back to you with pure wonder. “Am I to perform?”

You answered immediately, “No.”

“Maybe,” Shen said. You glared at Shen. Shen took a slow drink. “The court must remain open to possibility.”

Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Not hard. Just warm, clumsy, excited.

“If I perform,” he said carefully, “I will court you.”

“You have been courting me all night.” You replied. 

Jack nodded. “Practice.”

You sighed, “Jack.”

“I am a gentleman.” Jack continued. 

You quirked a brow, “You announced to a bartender that I was a goddess.”

Jack looked confused. “Gentlemen can recognize divinity.”

Dana choked on her drink. Crus sat back down slowly, like his body had accepted defeat before his spirit could catch up. Robby returned to the booth with the expression of a man carrying fire into a dry field.

You pointed at him. “What did you do?”

Robby slid into his seat. “Nothing.”

The karaoke host lifted the mic. “All right,” the host said, checking the next slip. “We’ve got Jack A. coming up next.”

The table exploded. You closed your eyes.

Crus said, “Robby.”

Dana gasped. Santos slapped a hand over her mouth.

Shen leaned toward you. “Something has been set in motion.”

Jack went very still beside you. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His eyes found yours, flushed and bright and entirely too pleased.

“My lady,” he said.

You opened your eyes and pointed at him. “Do not.”

Jack pushed himself carefully to his feet with tremendous dignity and only a small amount of sway.

“I have been summoned,” he said.

You groaned, “You have been sabotaged.” 

Jack leaned down, pressed a warm kiss to your temple, and murmured, “I will return.”

“You are going twelve feet away.” You replied. 

His face softened with drunken tragedy. “And yet,” he said, “it is unbearable.”

Robby made a strangled sound. Crus stood halfway, ready to catch him if necessary. Jack straightened, adjusted his shirt like he was about to address Parliament, and looked back at you one more time. You should have stopped him.

You absolutely should have.

Instead, you sat there in the booth, face burning, heart doing something stupid and soft behind your ribs, as your husband turned toward the stage.

The bar lights caught on his wedding band. Jack lifted his hand slightly, noticed it, and looked back at you with renewed awe.

“We’re married,” he said.

You sighed, helpless and smiling. “Yes, Jack.”

His grin broke open. “Fuck yeah.”

From three tables away, a stranger lifted their beer and echoed, “Fuck yeah!”

Robby’s mouth dropped open.

Santos whispered, “Oh, the bar’s learning.”

Crus stared into the middle distance. “We have lost control of the room.”

Jack turned toward the stranger, visibly moved. Then he looked back at you, glowing. “They understand,” he said.

And then Jack Abbot, attending physician, homeowner, husband, former thrower of courtship rocks, and current danger to public dignity, walked toward the karaoke stage like a man going to war for love.

Jack made it to the stage without falling. That felt important.

Crus apparently agreed, because he remained half-standing beside the booth, one hand braced on the edge of the table, body angled like he was deciding whether tackling Jack in front of thirty strangers would count as prevention or assault.

Santos leaned around him, eyes bright. “He’s steady.”

“He is not steady,” Crus said. “He’s determined. There’s a difference.”

Jack reached the single step leading up to the stage and paused. You tensed. He looked down at it. The entire table went silent. Then Jack lifted one finger toward the step, as if addressing an enemy. “No sabotage,” he said.

Robby folded over the table.

“Oh my god,” Dana whispered.

Shen nodded slowly. “He remembers the shrub.”

“I hate that there is lore,” Crus muttered.

Jack took the step with the grave care of a man crossing international waters. When both feet landed successfully on the stage, someone near the bar clapped. Jack turned toward the sound, surprised and pleased.

“Thank you,” he said.

The man lifted his beer. “You got it, Jack.”

Jack looked back at you, glowing. “They’re supportive.”

“They do not know what they are supporting,” you called.

Jack frowned slightly, as if that was their personal problem.

The karaoke host, a man in a black T-shirt with a silver chain and the relaxed expression of someone who had seen every possible form of public embarrassment, held the microphone out. “All yours, man.”

Jack accepted it with both hands. You went cold. 

“Oh no,” Santos said, delighted. “Two hands.”

Crus closed his eyes. “I knew it.”

Jack tapped the microphone. The speaker popped. Half the bar winced. Jack blinked at the mic. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” the host said, backing away with a grin that told you immediately he had chosen entertainment over mercy.

Jack lifted the microphone again. “Good evening,” he said.

Robby made a strangled sound into his fist. Jack surveyed the bar. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a little wild, his shirt slightly untucked on one side. His wedding band caught the stage lights when he adjusted his grip on the microphone. He looked devastating. He looked ridiculous. He looked at you.

Everything in his face softened as he pointed to you. “This is my wife,” Jack announced.

The bar cheered. You shut your eyes.

Robby slapped the table. “Oh, they’re in.”

“This is my wife,” Jack repeated, pointing toward you like the crowd might need help identifying the woman currently trying to become furniture. “She’s pretty.”

The bar made a warm, approving noise. Jack paused. His brow furrowed. 

“No,” he said.

The bar quieted, waiting. Your stomach dropped because you knew that frown. That was the same frown he got over bad lab values, broken printers, and insufficient descriptions of you.

Jack shook his head. “Pretty is too small.”

Robby whispered, “Here we go.”

“Jack,” you warned.

He did not hear you. Or he did hear you, and worse, decided your voice belonged in the proceedings. “My lady,” he said, looking directly at you, “I’m correcting the record.”

A woman at the bar gasped. “Aw.”

You pointed at her. “Do not encourage him.”

Jack immediately swung his attention toward the woman. “Thank you for your support.”

She lifted her drink. “Anytime.”

Crus muttered, “The public is turning.”

Jack faced the room again. “My wife is beautiful.”

A few people clapped.

“Stunning,” Jack added. More claps. Jack continued, “Gorgeous.”

Someone whistled.

Jack looked pleased, but then he frowned again, still unsatisfied. “An angel.”

Robby dropped his head into his arms. Dana pressed both hands to her cheeks.

Jack leaned closer to the microphone, solemn and reverent. “A goddess.”

The bar erupted. You covered your whole face. Santos leaned into Dana’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. Crus stared at the stage like a man watching hospital administration announce a new charting system. Shen lifted his glass toward Jack in respectful acknowledgment.

Jack nodded once, as if the room had finally caught up. “And she married me,” he said.

The crowd cheered again. Jack’s face shifted. His eyes found yours through the lights and noise and awful, growing public investment.

“You married me?” he asked.

You could have lied. You should have lied, probably. For the good of the room.

Instead, you dropped your hand from your face and smiled at him like an idiot. “I did.”

His grin broke open. “Fuck yeah.”

Three tables over, the same man from before raised his beer. “Fuck yeah!”

Another voice echoed, “Fuck yeah!”

Robby lifted both hands. “The call is spreading.”

Jack turned toward the strangers, visibly moved. “Thank you.”

A woman near the pool table cupped her hands around her mouth. “We love your wife, Jack!”

Jack’s head snapped toward her. You froze. For one dangerous second, you thought his drunken courtly possessiveness might flare. Instead, Jack’s expression brightened with profound relief. 

“You see it,” he said.

The woman laughed. “We see it!”

Jack turned back to you, eyes shining. “They see it.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the stupid ache in your chest. “They see it, baby.”

His face softened. Then he remembered he had an audience. “And before me,” Jack said, turning back to the bar, “there were suitors.”

Every molecule in your body stopped. Robby slowly lifted his head. 

Santos whispered, “Oh my god.”

Crus said, “No.”

You stood halfway out of the booth. “Jack Abbot.”

Jack looked at you, gentle and serious. “My lady.”

You shook your head, “No.”

“The people deserve context.” Jack nodded solemnly. 

You shook your head faster, “The people do not deserve anything.”

“The people paid a cover,” someone shouted.

Jack pointed toward the voice. “The people have spoken.”

Shen leaned back in the booth. “Democracy is dangerous.”

Crus turned on him. “Do not call this democracy.”

Jack lifted one hand, as if asking the crowd for quiet. The crowd, horrifyingly, gave it to him.

“Before me,” he continued, “there were many suitors.”

“Many is generous,” you called.

Jack’s eyes cut to you. He looked wounded. “Do not diminish my victory.”

The bar laughed. You stared at him. “Your victory?”

Jack lifted his left hand. The ring gleamed. “Scoreboard,” he said.

The bar screamed. Robby made a sound like he had been punched with joy.

Santos slapped the table. “Oh, that was good.”

You turned on her. “Whose side are you on?”

Santos took a sip of her drink. “Love.”

“Chaos,” Crus corrected.

“Same table tonight,” Dana said.

Jack looked pleased by the reaction, which was the last thing anyone needed. He raised one finger. “First,” he said gravely. “Boat Shoes.”

You sat down so fast your hip hit the edge of the booth. Robby’s mouth fell open.

“Boat Shoes?” the karaoke host repeated into his own mic, because apparently he had decided to join the prosecution.

Jack nodded solemnly. “Boat Shoes wore boat shoes to a restaurant that did not have a dock.”

The bar booed. Actually booed. A man near the dartboard shouted, “Poor judgment!”

Jack pointed at him. “Exactly.”

“Oh my god,” you said into your hands.

“He did not have situational awareness,” Jack added.

Shen nodded. “Contextually damning.”

“Do not help him,” you said.

Jack lifted a second finger. “Grammar Crimes.”

The booing started before he even explained.

 Jack waited for it to settle like a seasoned public speaker. “He texted your when he meant you’re, with an apostrophe.”

The bar booed louder. Someone shouted, “Unforgivable!”

Jack nodded with grim approval. “My wife is intelligent. She deserves punctuation.”

A woman near the bar yelled, “She does!”

Jack pressed a hand to his chest. “Thank you.”

You turned to Dana, horrified. “Why are they backing him?”

Dana looked delighted. “Because he’s right.”

“He is announcing my dating history to a bar.” You replied miserably. 

Jack raised a third finger. “Five-Eight-Who-Said-Six-Foot.”

The room lost it. You did not look up. You could not. If you saw Jack’s face, you were going to laugh, and if you laughed, he would only become more powerful.

“He committed fraud,” Jack said.

“LOCK HIM UP,” someone yelled.

Jack lifted one hand quickly. “Metaphorically.”

Crus exhaled. “Thank God.”

Jack nodded, very serious. “We are not animals.”

Robby slid halfway down the booth, laughing so hard he appeared to be in pain.

Jack lifted a fourth finger. “Midnight texter.”

A chorus of groans rolled through the bar.

Jack’s disgust was immediate and theatrical. “He only texted after midnight.”

“LOW EFFORT,” a woman shouted.

Jack snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Exactly.”

The crowd applauded her.

Jack nodded, encouraged. “Courtship should occur during reasonable hours.”

Santos lifted one finger. “Unless she works night shift.”

Jack turned toward her. “Then respect the schedule.”

The bar cheered again. You stared across the table. “I hate this room.”

Robby wiped under his eyes. “This is bigger than us now.”

Jack lifted his final finger. You knew. Of course, you knew. Your head snapped up.

“Do not,” you said.

Jack looked at you, drunk and soft and solemn.

“My lady,” he said gently, “I must honor your standards.”

Your face went hot. “You must absolutely not.”

Jack turned back to the microphone. “Bra Hook.”

The eruption was instant. Nobody even knew the story, and somehow everyone knew enough. The karaoke host backed away from Jack, laughing into his hand. Robby made a noise like he had been shot. Santos slammed both palms on the table. Dana fully folded into herself.

Crus whispered, “I cannot believe this is my night off.”

Jack waited. Then, with the respectful gravity of a man delivering a eulogy, he said, “He could not unhook her bra.”

You covered your face.

“So she left,” Jack finished.

The bar exploded.

“AS SHE SHOULD!”

“QUEEN!”

“STANDARDS!”

Jack’s face went bright with pride. “She has standards,” he said.

The bar, because the bar had apparently become a single drunk organism, chanted back, “SHE HAS STANDARDS.”

“No,” you said, laughing now despite yourself. “No, we are not chanting.”

“SHE HAS STANDARDS.”

Jack looked at you like he might cry. “They understand you,” he said.

You covered your face with both hands. “They are chanting about my bra.”

“With respect,” Jack said immediately.

Robby slid out of the booth and braced a hand against the table, gasping for air. “I can’t breathe.”

Crus shoved a glass of water toward him. “Good.”

The chant continued for three more beats before Jack lifted one hand. The bar quieted. That, more than anything, terrified you. Jack had control of the room. Your husband, who had once thrown driveway gravel at your window and tried to scale the side of your house in the name of romance, now had command of a karaoke bar. Jack leaned into the microphone.

“I honor her standards,” he said.

The bar applauded.

Your chest gave a traitorous little squeeze. Damn him. Damn him for being impossible and embarrassing and still, somehow, so sincere that your heart kept climbing into your throat.

You stood, pushing out of the booth. Jack saw you immediately.

His whole face lit. “My lady approaches.”

The bar cheered.

You pointed at him as you walked toward the stage. “No.”

Jack nodded gravely, accepting the instruction like a knight receiving terms of surrender. “No more fallen men.”

You pointed at him from the edge of the stage. “Correct.”

His brow furrowed with immediate, drunken seriousness. “Boundaries.”

You pressed your lips together. “That is not exactly what this is.”

A woman near the bar called, “It kind of is!”

Jack turned toward her and lifted one finger. “Thank you for your support.”

You snapped your fingers lightly to bring his attention back. “Jack.”

His eyes came right back to you. “No public list of defeated suitors.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

Jack placed one hand over his heart, the microphone bumping softly against his chest. “I respect my lady.”

A beat.

Then he looked hopeful. “My wife?”

The crowd went quiet, invested all over again. You stopped below the stage and looked up at him. He was swaying slightly, flushed, bright-eyed, and completely pleased with himself. The microphone was still in one hand. His ring still caught the light. His grin was starting before you even answered, like some part of him already knew and was preparing for joy.

You sighed. “Yes, Jack. Your wife.”

His face lit. “Fuck yeah.”

The bar roared it back. “FUCK YEAH.”

Robby stumbled to his feet at the booth, one hand raised like he was at a revival. “The people know the customs!”

Crus grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him down. “Sit.”

Jack looked out at the crowd, deeply touched. Then he looked back at you. “They understand marriage,” he said.

“They understand mob mentality,” you replied.

Jack tilted his head, considering that. “Could be both.”

The karaoke host stepped closer, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “You ready for your song, man?”

Crus dropped his head onto the table.

Dana whispered, “Oh, this is art.”

You stared at Jack.

Jack smiled down at you with all the bright, drunk, terrible promise in the world.

“I still have to woo you,” he said.

You shook your head, “You have done plenty of wooing.”

Jack’s brow furrowed.

“No,” he said, like the answer was obvious. “You need more.”

Robby let out a broken laugh. You closed your eyes. The opening notes started. One second passed. Then two. 

Your eyes flew open. “No.”

Robby shot upright. “YES.”

Jack’s grin widened. The bar recognized the song almost instantly, laughter and cheers breaking across the room as the first bright notes of “Never Gonna Give You Up” filled the speakers.

Jack raised the microphone. He looked directly at you.

“We’re no strangers to love—”

The bar went wild.

You stood at the edge of the stage, face burning, heart betraying you completely.

Jack pointed at you with the solemnity of a man making a vow.

“You know the rules,” he sang, then paused, frowning thoughtfully. “Because we’re married.”

The crowd laughed.

You covered your mouth.

Jack nodded, satisfied by his own lyrical amendment, and kept going.

“And so do I—” Then he leaned closer to the microphone. “Mostly,” he added.

The bar lost it.

You stared at your husband. He winked at you. It should not have worked.

It worked.

The song carried him toward the chorus, and Jack’s grip on the microphone tightened. The goofy triumph in his expression softened into something more focused when he found your eyes again.

“Never gonna give you up—” He pointed at you. “Correct,” he added.

Robby bent over the booth. “He’s fact-checking Rick Astley.”

“Never gonna let you down—” Jack nodded firmly. “Wouldn’t.”

The bar cheered. Your laughter caught somewhere behind your ribs. 

“Never gonna run around and desert you—” Jack stopped singing for half a beat. The backing track kept going without him. 

He leaned toward the microphone. “I would never desert my wife,” he said.

The bar erupted. “NEVER,” someone shouted.

Jack pointed in their direction. “Never.”

You went very still. Because it was ridiculous. It was so ridiculous. He was standing on a sticky karaoke stage in a crowded bar, drunk enough to have publicly indicted your romantic history under fake medieval law, singing Rick Astley with the conviction of a man signing a treaty.

And still, somehow, he meant it.

He meant every stupid word.

The chorus rolled on.

“Never gonna make you cry—” Jack frowned. “No.”

You blinked.

Robby lifted his head so fast he nearly hit the table. “No?”

Jack leaned closer to the mic, deeply concerned. “Sometimes happy tears.”

The bar laughed.

Jack shook his head. “Only happy tears.”

A woman near the front lifted her glass. “Happy tears are acceptable!”

Jack looked relieved. “Thank you.”

Then he looked back at you. “Like when we got married,” he said.

Your mouth softened before you could stop it. Jack’s expression changed, too. Less performance. Less spectacle.

Just Jack.

“She cried,” he told the bar, quieter now. “Happy.”

You pressed your lips together.

“Beautifully,” Jack added. “Very hydrated.”

The laugh broke out of you. The crowd laughed with you. Jack smiled, pleased that he had fixed whatever softness had fallen over the room, and jumped back into the song half a beat late.

“Never gonna say goodbye—” He lifted one hand. “Except for work.”

Cruz’s head snapped up. “He is adding exceptions.”

“Temporary goodbyes,” Jack clarified. “With returns.”

Then he looked at you again. The room seemed to tilt around the two of you.

“Always returns,” he said.

And there it was.

The stupid, sweet thing under all the chaos.

The reason you had let him get away with the gravel. The reason you were standing beside a karaoke stage while strangers chanted about your standards. The reason your face hurt from smiling, even though you were absolutely going to murder Robby later.

Jack loved you like this when the guardrails came down. Loudly. Badly. With terrible lyrics and worse judgment. But underneath it all, with his whole heart in both hands.

The music kept playing. The bar kept cheering.

Jack kept singing to you as if the song had been written specifically for your marriage, not, in fact, for every wedding reception and internet prank in modern history.

By the time the final chorus hit, the bar had joined him.

Robby was standing in the booth despite Crus trying to pull him down. Santos and Dana were singing into imaginary microphones. Shen had lifted his beer like a candle at a vigil. The karaoke host was laughing so hard he nearly missed the cue to lower the volume.

Jack stood center stage, flushed and bright and triumphant, singing directly to you. “Never gonna give you up—”

The bar shouted with him. “Never gonna let you down—”

Jack pointed at you again. Then, because he apparently had one more amendment to make, he added into the mic, “My wife deserves consistency.”

The bar screamed. You covered your face, laughing helplessly now.

The song ended in a crash of cheers, applause, and someone near the back yelling, “JACK FOR PRESIDENT.”

Jack blinked toward the voice. “No,” he said immediately. “Husband.”

The bar cheered louder.

You laughed so hard you had to grip the edge of the stage.

Jack stepped down carefully, one hand reaching for you before both feet were even on the floor.

You took it automatically.

His fingers closed around yours, warm and clumsy and pleased. 

“Well?” he asked.

You looked up at him.

His hair was a disaster. His cheeks were flushed. His shirt was still half-untucked. He smelled like whiskey and bar heat and your husband’s cologne. Behind him, an entire crowd of strangers was still applauding like they had just witnessed the restoration of true romance.

“Well, what?” you asked.

Jack’s brows pulled together. “Did I woo you?”

You stared at him. “You announced the crimes of my exes to a bar.”

He nodded. “Context.”

“You called me a goddess into a microphone.” You added. 

Jack nodded, “Accuracy.”

“You made strangers chant about my standards.” You continued. 

Jack looked proud. “They were respectful.”

You raised your brows, “You sang Rick Astley at me.”

His thumb moved over your knuckles. “With intent.”

You should have made him suffer longer. You really should have. But he was looking at you with so much drunk, hopeful sincerity that your chest gave up before your pride did.

“Yes,” you said. “You wooed me.”

Jack’s whole face lit. “Fuck yeah.”

The bar shouted it back. “FUCK YEAH.”

Jack turned toward them, delighted and deeply moved. Then he looked back at you, eyes bright. “The courtship advances,” he said.

You sighed, smiling despite yourself. “Apparently.”

Jack made it back to the booth like a man returning from battle.

A very drunk, very pleased, very publicly adored man returning from battle.

You kept one hand wrapped around his, partly because he reached for you before he even stepped off the stage, and partly because Crus was still half-standing from the booth with the alert, exhausted posture of someone prepared to catch a falling attending physician on his night off.

Jack’s fingers tightened around yours as soon as he reached the table. You stared at your husband. His hair was a mess. His cheeks were flushed. His shirt was still a little untucked from whatever dramatic stage movement he had considered necessary during the final chorus. His wedding band caught the bar lights when his thumb moved over your knuckles.

Behind him, strangers were still cheering. Someone near the dartboard yelled, “Never desert your wife!”

Jack turned immediately and lifted his free hand. “Never.”

The bar cheered again.

You closed your eyes. “This cannot be my life.”

Jack looked back at you, suddenly concerned. “But it is with me?”

Your annoyance took a direct hit. You opened your eyes. Jack was looking down at you with that soft, hopeful, drunken sincerity that made it impossible to stay mad at him for any meaningful length of time.

“Yes,” you said. “It is with you.”

His face opened. “Fuck yeah,” Jack said.

Half the bar echoed it back. “FUCK YEAH.”

Jack ignored them and slid into the booth beside you, immediately pressing close. His thigh touched yours. His shoulder touched yours. His hand stayed wrapped around yours on the table, like letting go would be a personal failure.

“You said I wooed you,” Jack said.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Across the table, Robby pointed at you with a shaky hand. “You did look wooed.”

You turned toward him. “You are on very thin ice.”

Robby sat back and pressed both hands to his chest. “I respect your standards.”

Jack turned toward him instantly. “She has standards.”

“I know,” Robby said.

Jack nodded once, pleased. “Good.”

You looked at Jack. “You made an entire bar chant that.”

Jack’s mouth softened with pride. “They understood.”

You frowned, “They were chanting about my bra.”

“With respect,” Jack said immediately.

Santos lost it. Dana bent forward, laughing into her hands.

You pointed around the table. “Nobody gets to say Bra Hook again.”

Jack nodded gravely. “No more fallen men.”

You turned back to him and lifted a finger. “Correct.”

His expression tightened with solemn understanding. “Boundaries.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a laugh. “Exactly,” you said.

He placed one hand over his heart. “I respect my lady.”

Robby made a tiny squeaking sound. You did not look away from Jack. “Robby.”

Robby slapped both hands over his mouth and shook his head.

Jack’s eyes dipped to your mouth. You saw the thought arrive. It was not subtle.

“Jack,” you said.

He straightened slightly, caught, but not sorry. “Yes, my lady?”

“You’re drunk.” You replied. 

He blinked. Then he nodded once, serious as a vow. “Right. Boundaries.”

You nodded once, “Good.”

Jack considered this for a second. Then he looked hopeful again. “Can I kiss your cheek?”

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient. You looked at his flushed face. His warm eyes. The ridiculous, reverent set of his mouth. The man had just announced your dating history to an entire karaoke bar and somehow still looked like he was waiting for permission to touch something holy.

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack leaned over, bent his head, and pressed his mouth to your cheek.

The table went quiet for half a second.

Then Robby whispered, “Oh, he’s still got it.”

You shot him a look.

Robby immediately looked at the ceiling.

Jack lifted his head, pleased but still reverent. “A gentleman.”

“You told strangers about Bra Hook.” You replied. 

Jack’s expression turned solemn. “A gentleman honors standards.”

You rolled your eyes, “You are impossible.”

His thumb brushed over the place he had kissed. “But effective?”

You should have made him work harder for it. You really should have.

Instead, you leaned in and kissed him. 

It was meant to be quick. A soft little press of your mouth to his, enough to reward him and shut him up and maybe remind yourself that he was yours even when half the bar had temporarily adopted him.

Jack went completely still. Then you pulled back. His eyes opened slowly. For one perfect second, he only stared at you.

Then his face lit with pure, drunken triumph. “COURTSHIP ADVANCED!”

The booth exploded.

Robby folded forward with a shout of laughter. Santos slapped both hands over her mouth. Dana dropped her forehead onto the table. Shen lifted his glass like a witness at a royal ceremony. Crus closed his eyes and whispered, “I cannot keep living like this.”

A few people nearby heard him. Someone near the dartboard yelled, “COURTSHIP ADVANCED!”

The room cheered.

You turned very slowly toward the crowd. “No. No, we are not making that a thing.”

Jack looked at the cheering strangers, visibly moved. “They’re happy for us.”

“They are drunk.” You pointed out. 

Jack shrugged, “Still kind.”

Robby lifted his head, wiping at his eyes. “This is the best wedding reception I’ve ever been to.”

“We got married years ago,” you said.

Jack’s head snapped back toward you. “We did?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. “Oh, baby.”

Jack looked down at your hand, found your ring, then lifted his own left hand to inspect his wedding band under the bar lights.

His face opened all over again. “We’re married,” he said.

You smiled, helpless. “Yes.”

Jack’s grin broke wide. “Fuck yeah.”

Half the bar echoed it back. “FUCK YEAH.”

Crus dropped his head into his hands.

Santos leaned toward Dana, wheezing. “The call and response is getting stronger.”

Jack turned back to you, delighted. “They remember.”

“You don’t,” you said.

Jack considered that. Then he squeezed your hand, pleased and unbothered. “But you tell me.”

Your chest warmed. You looked down at your joined hands, at the slow sweep of his thumb over your ring.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I tell you.”

Jack smiled at you like that was the sweetest thing anyone had ever offered him. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth again.

You touched a finger under his chin before he could lean in. “You’re drunk.”

Jack blinked. Then he straightened immediately. “Right. Boundaries.”

Robby sighed theatrically. “Boo.”

Jack turned on him instantly. “Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”

Robby lifted both hands, still laughing. “I forgot.”

“You should remember,” Jack said.

Robby nodded, “I do now.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Say you respect my wife’s boundaries.”

Robby sat up straighter, pressing one hand to his chest. “I respect your wife’s boundaries.”

Jack nodded, satisfied. “Good.”

He turned back to you, his seriousness softening into something warmer. His hand slid to your waist, careful and heavy and familiar.

“You know,” Jack murmured.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

His thumb moved once against your side. “I could continue to woo you.”

Your stomach flipped despite yourself. “Could you?”

Jack nodded, solemn and flushed. “At home.”

You raised one eyebrow.

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. “Naked.”

Across the table, Robby made a sound like he had swallowed a firework.

You pointed at him without looking away from Jack. “Do not.”

Robby slapped both hands over his mouth.

You looked back at your husband. “No.”

Jack blinked, wounded. “But wooing.”

“You’re drunk.”

His expression shifted at once, the flirtation giving way to immediate, grave understanding. “Right.”

You softened. “Right.”

“Boundaries,” Jack said.

“Exactly.” You agreed. 

He nodded once, as if accepting a ruling from a very respected court. “The downfalls of alcohol.”

Shen lifted his glass. “A tragic limitation.”

Crus pointed at him. “Do not toast that.”

Jack looked back at you, hopeful again. “Can I still want to woo you naked?”

Your mouth betrayed you, curving at the edges. “Privately.”

Jack nodded hard. “Private naked wooing.”

Santos choked on her drink.

Jack turned toward her, scandalized. “Do not perceive my private naked wooing.”

Dana dropped her forehead onto the table.

You laughed and pressed your face briefly into Jack’s shoulder. “Oh, my god.”

Jack tucked his chin near your hair, pleased and warm. “My wife likes me.”

You lifted your head. “I love you.”

His face softened. Then, before the tenderness could fully settle, Jack turned toward the table with grave importance. “And she likes my naked wooing.”

You froze.

Robby made a sound like his soul had briefly left his body.

Jack lifted one finger. “But only when I’m not drunk.”

Crus closed his eyes. “Why did you need to clarify that?”

“Accuracy,” Jack said.

“Jack,” you warned.

He looked back at you immediately, earnest and a little wounded. “I respected the boundary.”

“You did,” you said quickly.

His expression brightened. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby bent over the table, wheezing.

Jack glanced toward him. “Do not laugh at consent.”

Robby lifted both hands, still shaking. “I would never.”

Shen nodded solemnly. “The clarification was ethically sound.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

You looked at Shen. “Do not encourage naked wooing as a concept.”

Jack turned back to you, softer now, his hand finding yours again under the table. “Private concept.”

You opened your mouth to answer. Jack’s face shifted. A new thought arrived. That was never good.

“One time,” Jack said, turning back toward the table, “I naked wooed her in the—”

“Jack!” You slapped your hand over his mouth.

The entire booth erupted. Robby folded sideways into Santos. Dana shrieked into both hands. Shen’s eyebrows lifted with academic interest. Crus looked at the ceiling like he was personally appealing to God.

Jack went perfectly still beneath your palm. His eyes found yours. Warm. Bright.

Unrepentant.

Then, very gently, he kissed the center of your hand.

Your entire body betrayed you at once.

You kept your hand over Jack’s mouth because if you moved it, he would absolutely continue the sentence. Jack smiled against your palm.

You narrowed your eyes. “No more testimony.”

He nodded solemnly beneath your hand. You lifted your palm a fraction.

Jack immediately murmured, “But it was relevant.”

Your hand went right back over his mouth.

The booth dissolved again.

Jack kissed your palm a second time.

You closed your eyes. “Stop being charming while I’m trying to censor you.”

His eyes crinkled.

Robby slapped the table. “Censorship kiss.”

You turned your head slowly. “Robby.”

He held up both hands. “Sorry. Emotionally, I got swept away.”

Jack gently wrapped his fingers around your wrist and lowered your hand just enough to speak.

“My lady has silenced me,” he announced.

“Correct,” you said.

“With her hand.” Jack continued, raising a brow. 

You glared at him, “Do not make it sound sexy.”

Jack blinked at you. Then, slowly, his mouth curved.

You pointed at him. “Do not.”

He placed one hand over his heart. “A gentleman would never.”

Crus muttered, “Historically untrue based on the last thirty seconds.”

Jack ignored him and leaned closer to you, voice softer. “Can I kiss your hand?”

You stared at him.

He looked so pleased with himself. So warm and flushed and stupidly handsome under the bar lights. So clearly aware that he had found a loophole, you were enjoying despite every ounce of your dignity screaming for help.

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack lifted your hand properly this time and kissed your knuckles with theatrical reverence.

Then he glanced toward the table. “Courtship,” he said gravely, “advanced.”

Robby lost it all over again.

That was when you knew. Not suspected. Knew. The night had reached the point of no return.

Jack was pleased with himself. Robby was incapable of breathing normally. Shen had started using words like “ethically” and “jurisdiction” with alarming confidence. Santos and Dana were openly committed to the bit. Crus looked like he was moments away from writing an incident report on a napkin. 

And you loved your husband too much to let him keep gathering evidence against himself. You squeezed Jack’s hand.

He looked at you immediately. “Yes, my lady?”

You softened despite yourself. “It’s time to go home.”

Jack went very still. His eyes widened. “With you?”

Your heart gave the stupidest little ache. “Yes, Jack. With me.”

His whole face lit up. “Fuck yeah.”

The bar echoed it one more time, softer now, scattered and delighted.

Jack looked around, visibly touched. Then he turned back to you and pressed your hand against his chest like the whole room had given him something precious, and he needed you to hold it with him.

“My wife is taking me home,” he announced.

Crus stood so fast his chair scraped backward. “Finally.”

Robby wiped at his eyes. “End of an era.”

Santos lifted her glass toward you. “Protect your standards.”

Dana pointed at Jack. “Hydrate him.”

Shen nodded solemnly. “And preserve the evidence.”

You looked at Robby’s phone on the table. Robby pulled it protectively against his chest.

You smiled. “Send me everything.”

Robby’s grin went enormous. “Director’s cut?”

Jack perked up. “There’s a director’s cut?”

“No,” you said immediately.

Robby nodded at the same time. “Absolutely.”

Crus grabbed his jacket. “I am begging all of you to walk toward the door.”

You slid out of the booth, still holding Jack’s hand. Jack stood carefully beside you, swaying only a little, his eyes never leaving your face.

“You wooed me,” you said quietly.

His expression softened. “I did?”

“You did.” You confirmed. 

Jack’s smile spread, slow and beautiful and drunk and yours. “Fuck yeah,” he whispered.

This time, only you heard him.

You squeezed his hand and started leading him toward the door.

By the time you got Jack through the front door, he had told the Uber driver you were his wife three times.

The first time had been informational. The second had been celebratory. The third had happened after the driver said, “Have a good night,” and Jack, already halfway out of the car, leaned back in with grave importance and said, “She married me.”

The driver had smiled. “Good for you, man.”

Jack had turned to you on the sidewalk, glowing. “Fuck yeah,” he had whispered.

Now, inside the house, the quiet felt almost startling.

No karaoke track. No strangers cheering. No Robby screaming into his hands. No Santos and Dana wheezing in the booth. No Crus looking like he was reconsidering every friendship he had ever made.

Just the soft click of the front door shutting behind you.

Jack stood in the entryway, blinking slowly like he had crossed into a sacred place.

You set your keys in the little ceramic dish by the door. The courtship rock still sat there.

Jack noticed it immediately. His whole face changed. “My rock,” he said.

You followed his gaze to the pebble.

He stared at the pebble for another second, then looked back at you with fresh wonder. “I wooed you twice.”

“You did,” you said, slipping your hand around his wrist.

His smile went soft and crooked. “Fuck yeah.”

You tugged him gently toward the stairs. “Come on, Romeo. Upstairs.”

Jack followed you immediately. He made it up the stairs with one hand on the railing and the other in yours, taking each step with solemn focus. Halfway up, he paused and looked down at your joined hands.

“My wife is taking me to bed,” Jack said.

You glanced back at him. “To sleep.”

Jack nodded at once. “Boundaries.”

“Exactly,” you said.

He frowned thoughtfully. “The downfalls of alcohol.”

“You’ll survive,” you said.

“I will be brave,” Jack said.

You pressed your lips together and kept leading him up the stairs. “Very brave.”

By the time you got him into the bedroom, he was swaying slightly, eyes heavy, all the adrenaline of the bar finally draining out of him. The dramatic, stage-lit version of him softened into something warmer and clumsier around the edges.

You guided him toward the bed. “Sit,” you said.

Jack sat immediately. Then he looked up at you, dazed and pleased. “Wife voice.”

“Yes,” you said, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. “Wife voice.”

His eyes tracked your hands. “My lady,” Jack said quietly.

“I am helping you get ready for bed,” you said.

Jack nodded with grave dignity. “For sleep.”

“For sleep,” you confirmed.

“And marriage,” Jack added.

You huffed a laugh. “Sure. And marriage.”

He watched as you worked the first few buttons open. His chest rose under your fingers, warm beneath the fabric, his skin smelling faintly like whiskey and bar air and the cologne you had watched him put on before you left the house.

Jack’s gaze dipped to your face. “You’re pretty,” he said.

You paused. “We’re back to pretty?”

His brow furrowed immediately. “No.”

You smiled.

“Beautiful,” Jack corrected. “Stunning. Gorgeous. An angel.”

“Jack,” you said.

“A goddess,” he finished, satisfied.

You shook your head and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. “Arms.”

He obeyed, lifting both arms enough for you to pull the shirt free. Then he looked down at himself, bare-chested and serious.

“I am naked wooing adjacent,” Jack observed.

You closed your eyes. “Jack.”

“Not wooing,” he clarified quickly. “Adjacent.”

You dropped his shirt into the hamper. “You are going to sleep.”

He nodded, solemn. “Right. Boundaries.”

“Exactly,” you said.

Jack looked down at his belt, then back up at you. “This is not naked wooing?”

“No,” you said, reaching for the buckle.

“Bed preparation,” Jack decided.

“Yes.” You replied. 

Jack grinned, “Domestic.”

“Very domestic,” you said.

His expression softened at that. “I like domestic.”

Your hands slowed on his belt. You looked up at him. His eyes were tired now, the flush fading from his cheeks. He looked younger like this, somehow. Not actually young, not fragile, but stripped of the sharp competence he carried all day. The attending, the husband, the man who could command a trauma bay and apparently a karaoke bar, sitting on the edge of your bed and letting you take care of him without resisting. You slipped the belt free and set it on the dresser. “I like domestic too,” you said.

Jack smiled. Then his face shifted. You recognized it instantly. A thought. A dangerous one.

“One time,” Jack began, very seriously, “I naked wooed you in the—”

“Jack,” you said sharply.

Your hand covered his mouth before he could finish. He went still beneath your palm. For one beat, he just looked up at you, eyes warm and bright and unbearably pleased with himself.

Then he kissed the center of your hand. 

You stared down at him. “Stop being charming while I’m trying to censor you.”

Jack smiled against your palm. You lifted your hand just slightly.

“No more testimony,” you said.

He nodded solemnly beneath your palm. When you finally moved your hand away, he caught your wrist gently and kissed your knuckles, slower this time, sweet and sleepy and still a little theatrical.

“A gentleman,” Jack reminded you.

“You are barely dressed and discussing naked wooing,” you said.

His mouth curved. “A tired gentleman.”

You laughed despite yourself and reached for his sleep shirt from the drawer. “Arms again.”

Jack let you pull the shirt over his head. For a second, he got mildly trapped in the fabric, his voice muffled through the cotton.

“My lady?” Jack asked.

You tugged the shirt down. “I’m right here.”

His head popped free. He blinked at you, then smiled like your face was the first good thing he had seen all night.

“There she is,” Jack said.

Your chest warmed.

“Pants,” you said, because if you let yourself soften too long, you were going to crawl into his lap and reward every terrible choice he had made in that bar.

Jack looked down at his jeans, then back up. “For comfort.”

“For comfort,” you said.

“And not wooing,” Jack added. 

You smiled, “Correct.”

He nodded once. “The rules are clear.”

“They are so clear,” you said.

They were not clear. Nothing about this man had ever been clear. But he trusted you completely as you helped him change into sweatpants, steadying one hand on your shoulder when his balance wobbled. He mumbled another apology to the moon at one point. You ignored it. He asked if the bar had “honored your standards adequately.” You told him yes, and he looked relieved enough that you nearly kissed him again. Then his gaze dropped to his prosthetic. His expression shifted, the drunken playfulness softening into something quieter.

“Leg?” you asked.

Jack nodded at once. “Leg.”

There was no joke in it. No performance. Just trust. That was the thing that always got you. Not the speeches. Not the courtship rocks. Not even the way he kept rediscovering your marriage like it was the best news anyone had ever given him.

It was this.

The way he let you close without bracing for it. The way he let your hands move through a routine that had become as ordinary and intimate as turning down the sheets. You knelt in front of him and carefully helped him ease the fabric out of the way. Your fingers found the release with practiced gentleness, and Jack stayed still, one hand resting lightly against your shoulder while you helped him out of the prosthetic. You set it where he could reach it in the morning.

“There,” you said softly.

Jack looked from the prosthetic to you. “You take good care,” he said.

Your throat warmed. “So do you.”

Jack considered that, then frowned. “I announced Bra Hook.”

“You also respected boundaries,” you said.

His face brightened. “Fuck yeah.”

You smiled and stood, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Into bed.”

Jack obeyed, carefully shifting back against the pillows and letting you pull the blankets over him. You placed water and painkillers on the nightstand. Jack eyed the glass with distrust.

You raised your eyebrows. He sighed, reached for it, and drank obediently.

“Good,” you said.

Jack lowered the glass. “Wife voice.”

You nodded once, “Yes.”

“My wife?” he asked.

You smiled. “Your wife.”

His face lit, softer now but still immediate. “Fuck yeah.”

You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Stay here while I get ready for bed.”

Jack looked wounded. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you said.

He glanced toward the open bathroom door, then back at you. “Far.”

Your brow furrowed, “It is twelve feet away.”

“Exactly,” Jack said, deeply serious. “Agonizing.” 

You pointed at him. “Stay.”

Jack nodded, settling back into the pillows. “I will wait forever.”

You smiled as you shook your head and walked toward the bathroom. When you came back out a few minutes later, your face washed, your hair pulled back, Jack was exactly where you had left him.

Mostly.

He had shifted onto his side, his head propped clumsily on one hand, watching the bathroom door like it had personally promised to return you to him.

“There she is,” he said softly.

You paused in the doorway. “You stayed.”

“I am obedient,” Jack said. You gave him a look. “Sometimes,” he amended.

You went to the dresser and pulled out your pajamas. Jack watched you with heavy-lidded attention as you changed. Warm, openly adoring, and tragically aware of his own circumstances.

When you pulled your sleep shirt over your head, he sighed. 

You glanced at him. “What?”

Jack stared at the ceiling with theatrical grief. “Curse alcohol.”

You turned toward him, pajama shorts in hand. “Excuse me?”

He looked back at you, solemn and devastated. “For prohibiting me from naked wooing my wife.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile. “Some other time, Romeo.”

Jack’s eyes brightened. “Promise?”

You stepped into your shorts and pulled them up. “When you’re sober.”

He nodded gravely. “A fair condition.”

You walked to the bed and climbed in beside him. “A necessary condition.”

Jack turned toward you at once, careful and warm under the covers. “The downfalls of alcohol.”

You smiled. “You’ve mentioned.”

He looked at you for a long, sleepy second. Then his expression softened into something smaller. “Will you kiss me goodnight?”

Your heart folded in on itself. “Yes, baby,” you said.

Jack went still as you leaned in. The kiss was soft. Gentle. Closed-mouthed. Nothing like the heat he had been hinting at all night. Just a quiet press of your mouth to his, one hand resting against his cheek, his breath warm against you when he exhaled. When you pulled back, Jack’s eyes stayed closed.

“There,” he murmured.

You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “There?”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Wooed.”

You laughed under your breath and settled beside him. Jack tucked himself closer, one arm sliding around your waist. His face found the curve of your shoulder with the satisfied sound of a man finally exactly where he wanted to be.

“No naked wooing,” he mumbled.

“No naked wooing,” you agreed.

“Just holding,” Jack said.

You smiled softly, “Just holding.”

He nodded against you. “A gentleman.”

You exhaled a laugh, “You are a menace.”

“Your menace,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. You covered his hand with yours, where it rested against your stomach. His wedding band was cool under your fingertips.

“My menace,” you agreed.

Jack was quiet for so long that you thought he had fallen asleep. Then, soft and nearly gone, he murmured, “Did I really woo you?”

You stared into the dark. The bar came back to you in flashes.

Jack under the stage lights. Jack calling you a goddess. Jack declaring he would never desert his wife. Jack amending a ridiculous song so it could hold the weight of what he meant. Jack kissing your hand because it was the only loophole left. You turned your face slightly and kissed his hair.

“Yeah, baby,” you whispered. “You really wooed me.”

His smile pressed against your shoulder. “Fuck yeah,” Jack breathed.

This time, no one echoed him. 

This time, it belonged only to you.