𖤐𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐛𝐢𝐚𝐧

Gathering your skirts, you climbed down your carriage, the snow softly crunching beneath your feet. Your soon-to-be husband did not help you —so much for courtesy. Standing tall and cloaked in black, he let his glare sweep the courtyard of Winterfell like a hawk. Your eyes followed his and noticed three figures standing a little further.

Sansa Stark was among them —you recognised her, though she had quite grown and matured since the last time you had had a chance to be in her presence. You saw her stare at you and guessed she did not remember who you were —perhaps she did not even remember your family. Then the person to her left caught her attention, and she looked away. You could not make out what they were talking about.

“Do you not recognise the family crest?” Brienne asked Sansa, seeing her confusion.

“I do. Vaguely,” Sansa mumbled, turning to Brienne. “Forgive me, I’m… rather confused. I—”

“Silver sparrow over a pine forest. It’s House Malloren, my Lady,” Podrick whispered gently. “They have come to pledge troops.”

“Oh, yes. Of course, I remember now. A minor house, but Mother always spoke so highly of them. They shall be welcome as honoured guests.”

“I don’t recognise the man at her side,” Poderick continued, “but he doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

“Rightly so, I might say.”

The small group turned to Ser Davos as he emerged behind them.

“This is Lord Osric Coldmere of Stonefall,” he said. “And the poor girl is betrothed to him. Her father needs his military aid and gold, which flows quite freely. His mercy, however, does not.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow at his choice of words.

“Should I be worried about him?”

Podrick cleared his throat, signalling that there was no time to answer as you were now approaching.

“Lady Stark,” you greeted politely.

“Lady Malloren. Welcome to Winterfell.”

You both held your smiles for a moment, but then Sansa’s slightly faltered.

“Is your father not with you?” she asked, searching above your shoulder.

“Father is gravely ill, I’m afraid. He could not make it to Winterfell and sent me in his stead.”

“Oh.”

You were unsure whether that “Oh” meant that Lady Stark felt sorry for your father, or if she doubted your ability to attend the councils in his place, but she continued with equal politeness all the same.

“Well then. May I introduce you to Lady Brienne of House Tarth? This is Podrick Payne, her squire. And I’m sure you are acquainted with Ser Davos Seaworth.”

Each one bowed their head at you, but you barely acknowledged their reverence as your eyes landed on Brienne and refused to tear away. You could have sworn she was a man from afar —tall, muscular, dressed in dark armour… You briefly wondered if she wanted to pretend to be of the dominant sex, but her eyes were too soft, and you knew deep inside that her heart was undoubtedly female. You found the contrast fascinating.

Your stare seemed to make Brienne feel uneasy, and you saw her gulp as her eyes shifted away. It made the corners of your mouth pull up.

“Yes, we did meet once, a very long time ago,” Ser Davos eventually said, attempting to stop the awkwardness from growing. “Although I remember Lady Malloren looking much more innocent.”

“And I remember your beard looking much darker, Ser Davos. Time is not kind to any of us.”

Your light banter made him chuckle, but you were already throwing long glances at Brienne again. There were many questions you wanted to ask her, but Brienne still refused to meet your eyes, so you decided to keep them for another time. You could sense your betrothed waiting for you anyway, and it was best not to make him wait too long.

“Forgive me, Lady Stark, but the journey has been quite… wearisome. Lord Coldmere and I would very much like to have the opportunity to rest.”

“Of course. I’ll have someone show you to your quarters. Come this way.”

The corridors of Winterfell were dim and cold, only lit by flickering torches along the wall. The echo of your steps resonated against the stone, and you were lost in thought. But rounding the corner near a stairwell, you found yourself facing Brienne of Tarth, who was coming the other way, and halted.

“My Lady,” you greeted with a brief incline of your head. “Or is it Ser?”

“I’m not a knight.”

“No. Of course not. But you dress like one.”

“I’m a skilled fighter.”

“I don’t doubt it. But if you are not a knight and refuse to behave like a lady, what am I to call you then?”

Brienne tensed slightly and shifted her weight onto her other leg.

“Just Brienne is fine.”

“Brienne…”

You looked her over for a long moment —her height, her strength, the sword hanging at her hip. She had taken her armour off for the evening, but did not look more feminine one bit.

“I envy you, you know,” you added, your voice softer. “To be able to walk alone like this. To wear steel instead of silk. To speak and not fear the echo.”

You paused, thoughtful.

“I’ve always dreamt of more practical clothes. But here I am, confined to pretty colours and brocade, and certainly nothing sharper than a hairpin.”

Brienne’s jaw clenched briefly, and her eyes filled with compassion. You looked away, fingers twisting the embroidery at the edge of your sleeve.

“Were you headed to dinner?” You eventually asked to break the silence.

“Yes.”

“As was I. I imagine Lord Coldmere will be growing quite impatient if I’m late.”

The slight bite in your voice was intentional, of course, though you quickly dismissed any harsh attitude by brushing invisible wrinkles on your gown.

“You seem scared,” Brienne said cautiously.

You froze briefly, then forced a small laugh, determined not to yield to self-pity.

“Of tripping in front of Sansa Stark during supper? Terrified.”

Brienne did not laugh.

“I meant, Lord Coldmere doesn’t strike me as a man inclined toward kindness.”

“No,” you replied after a sigh. “But kindness is not often the currency of power.” You forced a smile. “Nor of marriage, it seems.”

Brienne opened her mouth as if to say something more, but then a servant passed by, muttering an apology for the interruption. The moment hindered any further discussion on the matter.

The supper began pleasantly enough. Platters passed around, wine poured, murmurs exchanged. You tried to relax into the rhythm of Northern hospitality.

But the illusion shattered quickly.

“You call this wine?” Osric’s voice rang harshly across the table as he spat a mouthful back into his goblet. “Tastes like piss strained through mouldy fruit.”

The servant attending him —a girl obviously no older than sixteen— flinched and turned pale.

“But it is Dornish, my Lord,” she whispered. “It was requested.”

“Not by me,” Osric snapped before shoving the goblet toward the girl, splashing some of the wine onto your sleeve in the process. “Get this out of my sight and bring me something drinkable, or I’ll have your hands shaking in another way.”

The young servant retreated in a hurry, and the room fell quiet.

Dabbing the stain off your sleeve with a napkin, you took a quick look around the assembly. Sansa, ever so diplomatic, held her tongue. Ser Davos shifted uncomfortably in his seat, while Podrick, like many others, kept his head down.

Brienne’s eyes flickered from Osric to you, then back to him. She, too, was silent, but she did not need to open her mouth to express her opinion —the look on her face and the tension in her jaw spoke for her.

“You might want to consider lowering your voice, my Lord,” you eventually whispered to Osric. “You’re drawing stares.”

“Let them stare,” he retorted, forcefully planting his fork into his meat. “And do not question me again. A woman is to defend her husband. You’d do well to remember who your future depends on.”

You said nothing —what was there to say anyway?— and clutched your napkin.

Across the table, Brienne’s fingers stilled on her knife.

The next morning, the sunset had found you already awake, sitting stiffly before the fire burning in the hearth of your guest chambers. You had not slept well, of course, and felt apprehensive about the day to come and the responsibilities it entailed.

Thankfully, you had soon received word that Lady Sansa wished to invite you for a walk in the Godswood. You had accepted without hesitation, grateful for the distraction and fresh air. Brienne would accompany you both, of course.

Soft snow had fallen during the night, which now enveloped your boots and crunched beneath them as you walked. Sansa led the way, speaking of Northern customs, of faiths older than kings. You responded where politeness demanded it, but your mind wandered.

Meanwhile, Brienne walked behind you without a word. You turned around and caught her eye once, and she gave a small nod that felt almost friendly. You were beginning to find her presence oddly reassuring.

Mostly, you wondered how she and Sansa had come to meet and why Sansa seemed to trust her more than her own guards. Something in the way the winter sun reflected in Brienne’s eyes left you wanting to learn more about her.

And then, without warning, a whistling sound split the air.

You barely had time to register it before Brienne’s hand yanked your arm and shoved you aside, making you stumble into the snow bank beside the path. You let out a startled yelp as an arrow slammed into a nearby tree, aligned with where your head had just been. The wood splintered loudly, and you stared at it in paralysing shock, while a few crows rose above the canopy.

Sansa gasped loudly, eyes wide and then rushed to your side to help you up.

“No, stay down!” Brienne barked, her sword already unsheathed and her eyes sweeping the forest in search of any further sign of danger.

But no other arrow followed. Only silence.

Eventually, Brienne lowered her blade.

“I don’t think we should stay here.”

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “Perhaps this walk was not such a great idea after all.”

Back to the castle, Sansa led you inside while Brienne broke away, stomping towards a group of men standing by the armoury.

“Whose arrow is this?” she shouted before she even reached them, holding up the weapon in her hand.

Some exchanged awkward looks.

“Well?”

“Could be one of ours,” came a low voice before any of the men could reply.

They scattered, revealing Lord Coldmere sitting behind them, sharpening a long knife. Brienne strode closer, her face hard as stone.

“‘Could be’?”

Coldmere glanced at the arrow, then at Brienne, and gave a shrug that seemed more mockery than dismissal.

“Depends on what it was aimed at.”

“Your future wife.”

“Mmh. Then it’s probably not one of ours, is it?”

“I suggest you make up your mind, my Lord,” Brienne said with a somewhat threatening tone. “It would be a shame to accuse the wrong person.”

Osric kept his gaze fixed on Brienne for a moment, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Even if it were one of our arrows, we have no proof it was shot by one of my men. Either way, I doubt my beloved was its target. Maybe a bird or a hare, I heard some boys —mine and others— say they would go hunting.”

“Hunting?” Brienne huffed through gritted teeth. “In the Godswood? These woods are sacred, don’t take me for an idiot.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my Lady. But not everyone here shares the same faith, and, quite frankly, considering the current situation in the kingdoms… Well, don’t tell me you still believe in fairy tales.”

Brienne did not answer. Coldmere gave her no time to anyway. He stood up instead, closed the distance, and snatched the arrow from her hands.

“I’ll ask my men and reprimand them for careless aim, if need be. But mistakes happen. People wander where they shouldn’t. Arrows misfire. It’s a dangerous world, isn’t it? Best stay on your guard.”

And with that, he left.

“I do not need protection.”

“That was not a suggestion, my Lady.”

When Brienne found her way back to you and Sansa, she quickly understood what the argument was about. She closed the door quietly, while you kept stubbornly turning down Sansa’s offer.

“I can perfectly deal with a bit of danger and defend myself if need be.”

“With what?” Brienne intervened. “Pretty colours and nothing sharper than a hairpin?”

You gasped in disbelief at her words and looked away for a second before turning back to Sansa.

“I’m sure it was a stray arrow. It happens.”

“The arrow was directed at your head. Not near your head. At it.”

“Well, even if it wasn’t a missed shot, who says I was the target? It’s windy outside, and we were walking close, you and I. You could have been the target for all we know.”

“If that’s the case, I suppose we’ll know soon enough. But I have plenty of men around the castle to protect me. You don’t. And I would hate myself if I let any harm come to the last heir of your house.”

“I agree with Lady Sansa,” Brienne said in a calm but firm voice. “This didn’t look like an accident to me, and anybody coming to Winterfell for political matters could be a target to someone else these days. And the arrow is not the only thing worrying me.”

Brienne paused, clearly hesitant to continue, and you raised a brow at her.

“What?”

“Well…” Brienne shook her head and sighed. “Forgive my honesty, my Lady, but I don’t trust Lord Coldmere.”

You chuckled sourly.

“He can be harsh, yes. But try to kill me? No. Our families both need this alliance.”

“I know what it is like to be promised to a cruel man, but to know your family relies on the union,” Sansa confessed calmly.

You opened your mouth, but she cut off your attempt to speak.

“You needn’t say anything. Whether Lord Coldmere is behind the incident or not, whether this arrow was meant for you or not, you need protection. My decision is final. You shan’t remain alone, and I will find someone to stay by your side at all times until we can make sure you are safe. Perhaps… Brienne could do it.”

Your eyebrows shot up, and even Brienne looked momentarily taken aback, her head spinning toward Sansa.

“My Lady?”

“You said you agreed with me. She needs someone trustworthy to protect her, not someone like Lord Coldmere,” Sansa replied, her eyes kind upon Brienne. “There is no one I trust more than you.”

Brienne was visibly torn.

“But I swore an oath to your mother. To protect you.”

“She’s gone, Brienne,” Sansa said softly, her tone melancholic. “She’s gone, and you have more than fulfilled this vow. You are allowed to move on.”

“Death does not release me from an oath.”

“Yes, you’ve insisted on that many times.”

“I also swore an oath to you.”

“I am well aware.”

There was a pause, then Sansa continued.

“I’m not asking you to forget your loyalty to my family. But I don’t believe to be in immediate danger, and our guest needs help for a while. Besides, my mother would want her to be safe. Please, Brienne. Don’t make me order you.”

Brienne did not answer right away, keeping her head bowed down as she pondered what decision to make. Then she turned to you and slowly raised her head.

“If you’ll have me, my Lady,” she said ever so respectfully, “I’ll see that no harm comes to you.”

You were not sure how to feel about this guardianship of sorts yet, disliking the implication that you were helpless on your own. Still, the way Brienne’s eyes bore into yours without any judgment made you smile.

That evening, Brienne accompanied you to your quarters. You said nothing at first, until she settled by your door, stiff as a pike, and you realised she would not leave.

“Are you really going to stay here all night?”

"It’s my duty.” 

You rolled your eyes, still not taking the whole ordeal quite seriously, so Brienne felt the need to insist.

“I do believe what happened this morning was an attempt on your life, my Lady. So I will stay here and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Do you always take oaths so seriously?” you asked, unable to prevent a small chuckle from escaping your mouth.

“Yes.”

“Well then. I suppose I should feel flattered.”

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Brienne of Tarth stood tall in the centre of the arena, a vision of quiet strength, her armour catching the last of the light. Her grip on the sword was firm, but her stance relaxed, confident, composed. She was favoured to win. Of course she was.

You watched her from across the field, adjusting your helmet. The weight of it grounded you, familiar and steady. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, steady but hard. You hadn’t fought her before. Not like this. Not in front of so many eyes. Not with your identity buried beneath plate and leather.

No one knew what you were about to do—not even her.

Especially not her.

Your armour bore no sigil. No name. You were simply a late entry, a nameless challenger allowed into the ring thanks to coin, anonymity, and the chaos of an already packed roster. Your heart clenched, not with nerves—but with something hotter. Heavier. You had something to prove. Something to feel.

You wanted to face her. Not as her lover. Not as the woman she kissed behind tent flaps and starlight. But as her equal.

The horn sounded.

You advanced.

Brienne’s expression shifted at once. Curiosity narrowed her eyes as she raised her sword, taking you in with a practiced gaze. You knew that gaze. It had scanned battlefields and challengers, had lingered on your face in candlelight.

She didn’t recognize you.

Yet.

The first strike was yours. Fast, clean, testing. She met it with ease, parried with the grace of someone who’d fought all her life. But there was no condescension. She didn’t underestimate you.

Steel rang as she countered, a measured blow that caught your side and sent you staggering back a step.

You grinned beneath your helmet and lunged again.

The crowd roared at the speed of your retaliation, your blade clashing with hers in a flurry of sparks. She blocked high, then low, pivoting around you with growing focus. Her brows drew tighter, suspicion creeping in.

You fought harder. Pushed her. She was taller, stronger—but you were fast, fluid, unpredictable. You circled, ducked, feinted, then struck low to draw her balance. Her blade scraped your vambrace. Yours barely missed her thigh.

She grunted softly, more in surprise than pain.

“You’re quick,” she muttered, just loud enough for you to hear. “But reckless.”

You danced away, giving her nothing.

She came at you again, this time with real force behind the blade. You blocked, barely, the impact jarring through your wrists. Brienne pressed forward, step after step, until you were nearly at the edge of the ring.

Her sword pressed lightly to your shoulder.

“Yield,” she ordered sharply.

Still, you said nothing.

You dropped and rolled out of her reach instead, dust clouding up in your wake. The crowd erupted again, some cheering for you now, others laughing at the way you'd ducked a knight like her with no name, no house, no honor.

Brienne turned to face you, her lips parted, breath rising. Her eyes had narrowed in recognition—not of you, not yet—but of something familiar. The way you moved. The way you tested her limits.

She was starting to sense it.

“You fight like someone I know,” she said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

You just struck again.

The fight continued, longer than anyone expected. Sweat beaded beneath your armor, trickling down your spine. Brienne’s hair stuck to her forehead in golden strands. Your limbs were aching, breath coming harder now, but neither of you relented.

She locked your blade in a twist and leaned close, her voice low and urgent.

“Yield, damn it. You’ll get yourself hurt.”

Still, you didn’t break. Didn’t speak. You shoved back with a surge of strength, forcing her off-balance for just a second.

It earned you one final clash—one last, desperate flurry that ended in a brutal pivot and the flat of her sword knocking yours from your hands.

The crowd howled as your blade hit the ground with a thud.

Brienne stepped in fast, placing her sword to your chest, her shoulders heaving. “Yield.”

This time, you did.

You dropped to one knee, panting beneath your helm. “I yield.”

Relief rippled across her face. She lowered her sword an inch—but didn’t step back.

You reached up slowly and removed your helmet.

The shift in her face was instant.

Shock, horror, disbelief.

Her mouth parted, but no sound came. Her eyes swept over your face like she couldn’t trust it, like she wasn’t sure she was seeing you at all.

“Gods,” she whispered.

You gave her a slow, crooked smile.

“Told you I’d find a way to fight you.”

Her sword lowered all the way now, slipping to her side like she'd forgotten she was holding it.

“You can’t— What were you thinking?” Her voice trembled slightly, but not with fear. With anger. With disbelief. “If they knew—if anyone knew—”

“They don’t,” you said calmly, getting to your feet. “They won’t.”

“But you could’ve— I could’ve hurt you.”

“You were supposed to try.”

She stared at you like she didn’t know whether to kiss you or drag you out of the arena by your collar.

You stepped a little closer, letting your smile soften just enough to cut through the tension. “You beat me fair and square, Ser Brienne.”

The official was announcing her victory in the background. The crowd roared her name.

But she wasn’t looking at them.

She was only looking at you.

And there was something in her eyes—rage and heat and longing all tangled up beneath the armor.

You let the tension hang there between you as the moment passed.

Later, when the moon had risen and the wine had quieted the campfires, you’d find her again.

You didn’t return to your own tent after the match.

Not right away.

You wandered the edges of camp instead, letting the quiet settle back into your limbs, into your chest. The tournament had drawn to a close with laughter and mead and the clang of mugs against steel, but you kept to the shadows, avoiding the firelight and the curious questions.

No one had recognized you. No one had pieced it together.

Except her.

She hadn’t looked at you during the celebration. Not once. Hadn’t approached while the other knights clapped her on the back, praising her victory. Her smile had been hollow, her eyes always fixed somewhere just beyond the crowd.

You knew that look.

Brienne was angry. Not because you’d lost. Not because you’d surprised her. But because she couldn’t say what she wanted to say.

Not there. Not in front of them.

Which was why you weren’t surprised to find her in your tent.

You slipped inside quietly, lifting the flap with a practiced hand. The lantern was already lit. She sat on the edge of your narrow cot, legs apart, elbows on her knees, hands clasped like she was trying to hold herself together.

She’d removed her armor, though the padded tunic beneath still clung to her frame. Her hair was damp from a rushed wash, curling slightly at the edges.

She didn’t look at you when you entered.

“I could’ve hurt you,” she said, voice low and tight.

You closed the flap behind you. “You didn’t.”

“You could’ve broken something. Your wrist. Your ribs.”

“I didn’t.”

“You could’ve ruined us.” Her voice rose then, only slightly—but enough to twist the air taut between you.

You stood still. “But I didn’t.”

Brienne finally looked up.

Her eyes, storm-dark, caught yours like a snare.

“You’re reckless.”

“I wanted to know if I could hold my own against you.”

“That wasn’t the way.”

You stepped closer, slow and quiet, like you might spook her.

“It was the only way. If I asked, you would’ve said no.”

She looked away.

“That’s not true.”

“It is. You’d have said no to protect me.” You crouched before her then, knees aching a little from the day’s battle. “And I love you for it. But I needed to do this. I needed to see.”

Brienne’s eyes flicked back to yours. “You could’ve said something.”

“In front of all those people? Who still think I’m only the King’s niece with a fondness for swords? You know what they’d do if they found out about us. About you.”

Silence stretched.

Long and heavy.

And then—very slowly—Brienne lifted one hand, rough and callused, to your face. Her thumb brushed the curve of your cheek, soft as a breath.

“I knew it was you,” she murmured. “Not at first. But something about the way you moved. I kept thinking: she fights like someone I know. Someone I—”

She stopped herself, but you heard it in the space between the words.

Someone I love.

You leaned into her touch. Let her feel you, warm and real and unbroken beneath her fingers.

“I never meant to frighten you,” you whispered.

Brienne let out a soft exhale. “You didn’t. You just… undid me.”

You stood then, slow and deliberate, your eyes locked with hers. Her hand dropped to her lap as you stepped between her knees. Her breath caught when your fingers gently found her jaw.

You kissed her—softly at first. Testing. A question.

She answered in kind, her hands finding your hips, her mouth moving against yours with slow, desperate hunger. Like she’d been waiting all day to touch you. To taste you.

When you broke the kiss, your lips barely brushed hers as you whispered:

“Yield.”

Her breath shuddered against your mouth.

And then she did.

She slid from the cot, dropping to her knees before you with a grace that made your stomach twist. Her hands smoothed over the backs of your thighs, reverent. Her eyes stayed on yours, blue and burning.

No hesitation. No shame. Only need.

“I would,” she murmured. “Only for you.”

You threaded your fingers into her hair and smiled, the kind of smile meant for no one else but her.

The kind that said mine.

Her breath hitched softly when your fingers curled tighter in her hair. She looked up at you from her knees—flushed, devoted, undone. No armor. No titles. Just Brienne.

Your Brienne.

You stroked your thumb across her cheek, marveling at the heat in her skin, the way her pupils stayed fixed on you like you were a star and she, a knight who’d spent a lifetime following the wrong light.

“Take your time,” you murmured. “No one’s watching now.”

Her lips parted slightly. You saw the hesitation flicker in her expression—respect, restraint, reverence—but you didn’t want reverence tonight. You wanted to be known.

You stepped back, just enough to unlace the front of your trousers, fingers a little clumsy from the nerves still buzzing under your skin. Brienne didn’t help. She waited, watching, breathing unevenly through parted lips.

When you bared yourself to her, you saw the change in her eyes—how they went darker, heavier with want. Still, she didn’t move. Not until you whispered:

“Please.”

That single word undid her.

She leaned forward, kissing the inside of your thigh first, just above your knee, soft and reverent. Then higher. Another kiss. Then a third, closer now, her breath warming your skin until your legs trembled beneath her. Her hands slid up to hold your hips—firm, grounding you—just before her mouth finally found you.

You gasped.

Her tongue moved slow, deliberate, drawing a long stroke through your folds like she meant to memorize you. She groaned low in her throat at the taste, the vibration sparking deep in your belly. Her hands gripped your thighs tighter as she licked again, pressing firmer now, more sure.

“Gods, Brienne—” Your head fell back, knees threatening to buckle, but she didn’t let you fall. Her arms wrapped around your legs, keeping you steady, holding you right where she wanted you.

Her mouth worshipped you like she was praying—gentle, rhythmic, unrelenting. Every flick of her tongue pulled another sound from you, raw and breathless, until you were panting her name in broken syllables.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Everything she wanted to say was in the way her lips wrapped around your clit, the way her tongue flattened and lapped, the way she kept moaning softly between your thighs like this—you—was the only thing that had ever made her feel alive.

When your fingers tangled tighter in her hair and your hips began to rock against her mouth, she didn’t stop. She adjusted. Let you chase it. Let you grind against her tongue as if nothing in the world mattered but getting closer.

You came with a cry muffled against your own knuckles, stars bursting behind your eyes, thighs shaking around her shoulders. She held you through it. Steady, patient, reverent still—as you rode the wave down, gasping her name.

When you finally opened your eyes, she was still on her knees, lips wet, eyes burning.

You tugged her up to you by the front of her tunic, crashing your mouth into hers, tasting yourself on her tongue. She kissed you back, deep and hungry, like she needed to remind herself you were real.

You pulled away just enough to murmur against her lips, “Lie with me.”

Brienne didn’t answer. She simply scooped you into her arms and settled you both onto the narrow cot like you weighed nothing at all. Her hand found yours between your bodies, fingers lacing together.

And in the dark, tangled in sweat and breath and silence, you pressed your forehead to hers and whispered:

“You can always ask me to yield for you.”

She smiled then—small, shy, and entirely hers.

“I know.”

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