Fic Rec Blog

As always, he’s snapping away with the creaky little film camera he refers to as his ‘old lady’. As you lead your group of kids closer to the shore, he lifts it to his face, presumably to take a candid snap of you mid-row. It’s hard to tell if he caught you catching him, but you keep your eyes ahead and your posture as elegant as the violent heat will allow. For the sake of the photo, of course. 

“Looking good,” he calls down to you, before helping you out onto the lake’s short pier. You accept the compliment, even though you’re sure you look anything but. 

He sticks around to help you haul kids out of kayaks and make small talk. His voice stays measured and his expression errs on the side of slightly bored, though when the last few campers are wandering off to archery with Aerion, he’s still there. Still there, even as you trudge in the direction of your cabin, in desperate need of a change of clothes. He sticks by your side the whole way, talking less now because ‘by your side’ actually means a few paces behind, probably still with his camera glued to his face. 

“You alright back there?” 

“Yep,” he answers too fast, voice cracking. You chuckle, then almost as quickly, all humour dissolves as the simmering temperature of your blood rises to a boil. The sweat lathering between your thighs has brought you past the point of chafing and now your legs are just sliding together as you walk. Back on the lake, you’d run out of bottled water and had to resort to Mother Nature herself to cool yourself down. Probably, your underwear is visible through your shorts, soaked both in sweat and a few sloshes of lake water. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Valarr hurries to catch up, nudging your shoulder with his and fidgeting with the buttons on his camera. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, uh–” You press the heel of your hand to your forehead, casting a frown around the camp. Towards the woods, the shade, or back to your cabin to change? “Just thinking.” 

Valarr nods, not quite following. “Do you…want me to go?” 

“What? No, no you’re fine.” You start walking again, hopeful that our body will pick whichever option gets you out of the dry, raging sun quickest. “Oh, hey. Do you know if they still have those fans in storage?” 

Valarr’s lips quirk. “The ones with all the rust?”

Still walking, you grab his shoulder and shake. “I would kill for a breeze right now. A little rust doesn’t scare me.”

For a split second, you notice his mouth agape as if he’s in the middle of saying something. Then, nothing. His mouth clamps shut and he wrangles his face back into mild and aloof. You jostle his shoulder again. 

“Are you with me, or are you with me?”

You just about manage to knock him out of his head. He chuckles, nods, runs his finger along the leather strap keeping his camera around his neck. “Yeah. Let’s go and get you your breeze.” 

Inside the storage shed, it’s fucking baking. Dust swirls with every step and trickles down your throat. You break out into a coughing fit, wafting your hand in front of your face and hanging back as Valarr treads deeper. Shovels, pliers, hammers and wrenches hang from a far wall, casting long, slanting shadows over a workbench. Tiny windows permit only thin slats of light, otherwise among the maze of shelves, it’s simply more shadows. 

After only a few minutes of aimless wandering, you’re leaning on the workbench and trying to fan air in through your vest, to little avail. Something about the shadows feels heavy, ever-tightening and only adding to the muggy viscidity swirling around under your clothes. It’s all you can focus on, along with the faint wooziness humming in the back of our head. You should’ve had a bigger breakfast, you should’ve brought out an extra bottle of water.

Valarr hefts a fan onto the counter, panting and leaning on it while he looks at you expectantly. He’s standing so close you can feel his breath fanning warm on your skin. Just as you suspected, it’s covered in coppery blots that will absolutely slow it down, yet you still react as if a miracle has occurred. 

“You must really need to cool down, huh?” 

“God, you have no idea.” You lift your vest to wipe away sweat and notice Valarr’s eyes flit downwards. “I could use your help bringing that to my room, too.” 

Valarr falters, damn near drops the fan on his feet. “O–Of course. Yes. Yeah, I’ll–I should probably keep an eye on you, yeah.”

His phrasing only strikes you as odd for a split second, because as soon as you try standing, your heat-stricken legs start shaking. Instinctively, you lean on Valarr and he has to balance both you and the fan the entire walk back to your cabin. 

You do try helping him, but the second you get indoors, Valarr will barely let you stand up. 

“It’s too hot,” he insists. If the sweat seeping through his t-shirt in patches is any indication, he’s right. Still, you argue, it doesn’t seem right to let him do all the work. 

He waves it off. “I like doing things for you. It’s fun.” 

“Fun?” 

He huffs out a laugh and busies himself with the fan. As its blades cut through the air, wafting a mild but welcome coolness from the corner of the room, you sprawl out on the bed, sighing with relief. His gaze trails towards you, nervous at first, then unabashed. You don’t trust your judgement in this heat but you struggle to think of a word to describe the look on his face, other than longing. 

“Valarr,” you whisper, flashing him a taunting smile. “You’re staring.” 

He steps towards the door, then doubles back, mouth flapping open and closed. “Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “You’re good.” 

Just as he’s about to walk out, you shift in bed, beginning what you know is about to be a painstaking changing process by peeling your vest up from the bottom. Only enough to let a sliver of torso breathe, but apparently enough to stop Valarr in his tracks. 

“What,” you joke, “do you still wanna keep an eye on me?” 

His jaw ticks but he manages to keep his expression stoic, at least relatively. For a moment he remains stationary, one hand on the doorknob. He stares into space with his jaw ajar, eyes vacant as if he’s sleepwalking. When you snicker at his sudden stillness, he blinks rapidly, suddenly awoken.

“No,” he says. Too abrupt for the long silence he just let pass and oddly defensive. Even he seems to notice this, tries brushing it off with nervous laughter. “Sorry, I just mean–I should probably give you a minute. I don’t want…You know, I should–If you’re gonna change…”

You’re laughing again. Brazen this time, giddy in the heat and at his nerves. 

“Oh, uh–Sorry,” he says again. “You were kidding.” 

“I was,” you say, smile at once broadening and softening as you gesture to the fan. “But all jokes aside, thank you. You’re the best, I owe you one.” 

He’s in the middle of dismissing your thanks, promising it was nothing and that he’d do it any time, when you blow him a kiss. Already pulling your vest higher as he pulls the door open, you’re laughing again. You don’t notice the manic glint in his eyes as he smiles back at you, or that when the door shuts behind him, a shadow flits past your window soon after. As you peel off your clothes and stand directly in the fan’s measly breeze, you don’t notice anything going on outside this room at all. 

You kissed him. From a distance, through the air. As a joke, probably. But you kissed him. 

Towering pines line the entire perimeter of camp, thinning as they get closer to the centre of camp. Outside the senior cabins, the trees have been allowed to remain, imposing and casting vast blots of shade. Probably, it’s because these cabins are the oldest, the smallest and least tended to throughout the year. An Ashford of years long passed seems to exist among these cabins, something almost haunted about the way they’re cloaked in shadow. 

Valarr is only trying to catch some shade back here. It is, he swears, entirely a coincidence that the coolest, most consistent patch of greenery is directly parallel to your cabin’s back window. He’s not going to climb in again; it’s the middle of the day. So really, what harm is there in just–hanging out? Just looking. None, he decides, sliding down the trunk with the most lush array of branches. 

You’re taking your time changing. By now, there’s music playing and you’re still half-naked, twirling and bopping in front of the fan, singing along with a faint smile on your face. Valarr doesn’t think about lifting his camera, it just happens. He doesn’t think about it when his index finger is click, click, clicking the camera’s shutter button, his ears so accustomed to the minute, explosive sound that signals yet another photo that it doesn’t register. 

When you start actually changing, his brain just about slips from his skull and starts oozing out of his ears. Your back, the expanse of skin as you peer into the closet and pull out a new shirt. Legs, underwear riding up your ass as you pull down your shorts. Your bare chest–God. His camera stays glued to his face and his mouth stays agape. It’s almost as if he can taste you, the air’s thick heat as good as your warm, perfect body pressed against his lips, his tongue. 

Busy drooling over you, he still isn’t really thinking about the fact that you’re practically naked and that he’s capturing it from damn near every angle, totally without your knowledge. Eventually though, he has no choice but to pay it attention, when he blinks and realises he’s wandered right into the light. 

Both of you freeze. Valarr’s fingers instinctively tighten around the camera, pulling it to his chest as if it might shield him from vision. Yours fly over your chest, eyes wide and then instantly narrowing. 

“What the fuck?” 

“I–” 

You give him no time to respond, repeating yourself with a more vicious hiss in your tone. “Valarr, what the fuck?” 

Finally, he lets the camera drop. Its weight at the end of the leather strap tugs his neck forward, makes his head dip in a way that he hopes comes across as deferential. Eyes still narrowed and one hand still covering your chest, you reach for the window. Before slamming it shut, you poke your head out and hiss at him again. 

“Get in.” 

He does as he’s told and once inside, stands shifting from foot to foot with his back against the door. When he opens his mouth to speak, you shush him and gesture to the camera. With a flannel acting as a robe, you no longer seem at all self conscious about how scantily clad you are. Valarr, of course, can be conscious of absolutely nothing else. 

“Show me,” you bark. He blinks, busy gawking. What’s left of his brain only congeals into something solid enough to croak out a desperate, pained sound. He means for it to communicate guilt. It just sounds like he’s moaning. 

You scoff and reach for him, wrangling the camera from around his neck without any more words. Valarr is half-certain you’re about to beat him over the head with it but instead, all he can do is watch as you fiddle with its buttons, scowling. 

“How the fuck do you work this thing?” 

“You–” He flinches when your searing gaze meets his. “You can’t, uh–It’s film.” 

“So?” 

“The, uh–” His breath catches and he has to wipe his palms off on his t-shirt. “There’s kind of a whole process, it–”

“Whatever,” you snap. Sidling over to the bed, you gesture in its direction, still messing with his camera. “Alright, it’s your turn. Sit down.”

Valarr’s eyebrows raise. “What–” 

“Get on the bed.” Your tone hasn’t gotten any friendlier, so Valarr scrambles to sit, pushing back towards the headboard on his hands. “Clothes off.” 

He follows your orders more immediately this time, tossing his t-shirt, shoes and jeans to the floor in a careless heap. In just his boxers and socks, he looks up at you with wide, awe-filled eyes. His mouth hasn’t stayed totally shut since he got inside and when he closes it now, it’s only so he can swallow deeply and wet his lips. 

You circle around him like a shark surrounding its prey, continuing to frown down at the camera in your hands. “Were you touching yourself?” 

Despite himself, his nerves instantly dissolve. His posture straightens against the headboard and he struggles to keep the look on his face sane. “No ma’am, I haven’t. Not ever.” 

“Ever?” You look down your nose at him with disdain. “But you wanted to, right?” 

He shakes his head. You don’t buy it for a second. 

“So you were just gonna, what? Take these pictures and look at them?” 

To Valarr, this seems like the greatest gift in the world. It’s hard to imagine how much more he could hope to want. Chest still puffed, he shakes his head again. 

“I wanted to wait. For you.” 

“For us to fuck?” 

He flinches, perhaps at the vulgarity, in both your words and tone. You cross your arms over yourself and half-heartedly fight through a smirk. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

“We don’t have to–”

“No shit, we don’t have to. From what I recall, I’m in charge.” 

“Yes ma’am.” His response is immediate, shaky and hoarse. “Anything you want, I’ll do.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Anything.” 

Your expression remains unimpressed but you kneel on the opposite end of the bed and hold the camera to your face. “Alright,” you mutter again, “your turn.” 

Valarr is suddenly hyperaware of the bulge in his boxers that glaringly outlines is dick, straining with need against the waistband. “Are–Are you sure?”  

All you give him is a nod, and then a flinch backwards as you take a practice shot and the flash catches you off-guard. Giggling, you line up for another one, biting on your bottom lip and tilting your head. The rest of Valarr’s brain turns to mush and of its own accord, his hand runs up his thigh. 

He’s still braindead as he toys with the waistband of his boxers, watching you study him through the lens, just like he’s been doing to you for weeks. With his head leaned back against the headboard, he rubs a hand over his crotch slowly. He lets out a low moan of relief and closes his eyes, hips rolling forwards to gain him more friction. You sit back and watch, enthralled, as he palms himself as languidly as if he was giving a massage, letting out long, breathy moans. His lips are twitching into a satisfied smile when, eyes still closed, he speaks again. 

“Ah, God, can I look?”

“Hm?”

“Can I–Mm–Can I look at you?”

You giggle. “Of course, what?” 

His hand slips beneath the waistband and his eyes crack open, just enough to see you. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

“I had no idea you were so…”

“Devoted,” he gets out through a stuttering moan. 

“Obsessive.” 

“I–Oh my God.” His hand moves quicker and his hips jut further upwards. It may have something to do with the way you’ve slipped off the flannel, and are now slowly running your fingers lightly across your chest, nipples hardening under your own touch. You pretend not to notice what it’s doing to him and another click-flash startles his senses. 

Eyes squeezed shut again, he swears the overwhelm might just make him pass out. “Shit, shit, oh shit.” 

“Everything okay there?” 

“Can I taste you? Please?” 

“Taste what?” 

He whines. “Anything. Anything, please. A kiss. Your–Anything. God, I wanna put you in my mouth, please.”  

“You think you’ve earned it?” 

“I–uh,” he whines. Probably not, but he keeps begging anyway, spurred on by the giggles bubbling out of you and the flash that goes off every time he bucks up into his hand. 

“Hang on, hang on,” you interrupt. When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of you crawling forwards, straddling his leg with your flannel in tow. You lean forward to tie it around his head, making sure the sleeves are wrapped tight over his eyes. Then, he doesn’t really know what you’re doing. 

Your warmth on his leg disappears and returns changed. Wetter, warmer. A bundle of fabric is pushed into his palm. 

“Alright,” you whisper, tugging lightly on his new makeshift blindfold. “You gonna be good and keep this on for me?” 

“I will,” he answers in a rush, chest heaving. He brings the bundle in his hand up to his face, shoving his nose into it and inhaling, only to let out a moan so obscene, his whole body erupts with heat. Your smell, straight from the core of your body, pressed flush against his face. Before he can help it, he’s tangling his tongue into the fabric, swirling your panties between his teeth to suck. He’s still sniffing, cupping his balls with his other hand and gyrating against the torturously empty air. Every cell in his body is static with desire; he hums with it. Figuratively, then literally, deep longing purrs coming from the back of his throat. 

The flash goes off again, though all he can really interpret is the button clicking and the rush of the shutter opening and closing. Much closer to his face this time, as your seeping warmth stays on his thigh. He whines into your panties and lets his longing come out ragged, shredding his throat to pieces. 

“Please.” 

“Mm,” you moan. “What’s that?” 

“Your–Ah–On my thigh. Can I see? Please, let me watch you.” 

This time, your laugh isn’t coy and giggling. It’s a dark chuckle, breathed right into his ear. The vibration and your warm, sudden breath sends a shiver through him. “Oh, I think you’ve done plenty of that.” 

He whines and strains his hips forwards, though there’s only so far he can do that now that you’re on top of him. 

“Ngh, God, baby.” Beneath his boxers, his hand pumps faster. “Can I–Ah–More. Please? More.” 

“Getting a perfect view of my tits through the window isn’t enough?” You tease, leaning forward so your lips brush his neck. “You need to see them up close, too?” 

He groans and then whimpers, letting his voice drop low. “Please, baby. Please, please, please.” 

You can absolutely understand how Valarr ended up like this. It’s addictive. Index finger on the shutter button, eye squinting through the viewfinder. Up close and in his lap, you probably have a better view of Valarr right now than he’s ever had of you, and the thought has you dripping all over his thigh. 

“God,” you whisper, “you look so good like this.” 

His face flushes as he bites down on his lips, which are rosy pink and puffy with how much his tongue and teeth have been swiping at them. He’s rubbing your panties against his cheek and whining mindlessly while you grind against him and pretty soon, the camera isn’t doing your real view nearly enough justice. As you rub yourself on his clenched, shaking muscles, one of your hands slips down to circle your clit. 

“Fuck, Valarr.” A moan hums sweetly from the back of your throat and Valarr lets out a groan so pained it turns into a growl. He says your name and bucks his hips, thigh clenching  deliciously under you with the strain. 

“Please, let me see you. Please, I’ll–Ah–I’ll make it worth it, I’ll–” he gasps, “fuck you so good, be so good for you. I’ll be good, feels so good, baby, please.” 

You let him keep babbling, periodically humming, “yeah?” just to spur him on. Eventually, you’ve teased him so long that it’s even starting to drive you crazy, so you lift off him for just a second, cradling his face before padding away from the bed. After rifling through your clothes piled together on the floor, you set your phone up on the bedside table. With the front facing camera, it’s angled just right to watch yourself climb back into Valarr’s lap, this time taking his dick in your hand to slide onto it, nice and slow while he whines for you. 

“Baby, oh my God,” he splutters. “So good, oh–So good, fuck.” Likely to avoid gripping you without permission, he tangles his fists into the sheets, biting his lip and moaning in short, desperate bursts. He can’t steady his breathing the entire time you ride him, and you can’t help but reach for your phone to train the camera on him. 

You pan down his body to capture his heaving chest, squirming torso and the dark, swirling happy trail that rises and falls just as desperately with each breath. For a moment, your hips still so you can steady yourself, to take two fingers and trace them over the spritz of white hair that streaks through said happy trail. Of course, Valarr responds with a sudden upwards thrust and a broken moan, his dick burying deeper into you and hitting a spot that has you gasping into his mouth. 

You hold the phone out to film you making out, tongues sliding against each other as you work up a sweat in his lap. Finally, he seems to have built up the bravery to touch you, and his hands squeeze your hips with a pinching pressure. 

“Baby,” he moans into your mouth. “Please, I–Oh my God.” 

“What?” 

“I’m–I’m gonna–”  

You lower the phone to cradle his face in both hands, holding him tenderly as he rambles his way into orgasm. “It’s okay, honey. Go ahead.” 

“Can I–”

“Uh uh, baby. You’re gonna cum just like this,” you taunt. “Surely you’ve seen me enough times to remember what it looks like.”

You expect more arguing but he wails and bucks upwards again, nodding as a spurt of warmth fills you. He keeps pulling you down, fucking himself through it until all he can do is twitch inside you. Already, his breaths are slowing in anticipation of a gentle, permissive come down. But that’s not what you’re here to give him. 

While he’s gasping and pawing at your body, you untie the flannel from his face. He looks up at you with downturned brows and a faint, exhausted smile. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, letting his head fall back on the headboard. 

“That was good?” you ask, tilting your head.

“So good.” 

“So, we’re gonna go again, right?” 

“Uh–” 

Hips rising and falling to make lewd slapping sounds when your bodies meet, you lean in. This time, it’s not to mutter into his ear, but to be inescapable in his line of vision. You clutch his jaw for good measure, smirking when the downward turn of his eyebrows only gets more pronounced. “This isn’t what you wanted?” 

“I–” he gasps. “Baby–I can’t.” 

“Oh, but you can.”

“I can’t, I–Oh, shit. It’s–God, it feels…” Once again, his words devolve into moans and you taunt him further, insisting he be good, that he’s earned this, that if he can take it, maybe next time you’ll be nicer to him. Phone forgotten in the messy sheets, you ride him ragged yet again, this time purely chasing your own pleasure. His pained, broken moans fill your ears as his weeping, sensitive cock pumps you full, and you cum around him so hard that your bitten lip starts to bleed. 

On the come down, with your sweaty bodies pressed together, you’re already thinking about watching the video back tonight. About the embarrassed flush he’s sure to greet you with, the next time you see each other around camp. Of course, you keep the video a secret. Seems only fair and besides, you start opening the window extra wide when you change in the mornings, take your time bending to pick things up when you know Valarr’s around, and even when it seems certain that he couldn’t be. 

What you keep totally secret is the folder in your phone full of camp photos. That night, after watching the video with your legs pressed together and your bottom lip between your teeth, you scroll through a seemingly innocuous array of memories. Wildlife and selfies, group lake pics and sunsets. It just so happens, that in the background of every other picture, you can catch a glimpse of Valarr’s lean arm raised candidly in the distance, or him in profile, jaw sharp and right behind Tanselle striking a peace sign. Or the most recent, of his shirtless back at a campfire, pretending he might join in as all the boys took turns jumping over the flames. 

You drift off to sleep with a faint smile on your face and a fresh sprout of lustful sweat across your whole body. At one point you might’ve called yourself crazy, but after this afternoon, how much of an issue could a few candid photos really be? You’re just looking. 

You wonder whether it is chance or divine intervention that a Targaryen prince washes ashore beside your cottage.

By the time you get to the edge of the sea after catching a glimpse of the corpse from your porch, it is half buried in the wet sand, lying limp at your feet, and there is a lump in your throat that you cannot seem to swallow away. 

You do not know how you didn’t notice the sigil sooner.

It should have been the first thing that caught your eye, considering it was only a fortnight past that the Prince Aemond brought the great dragon Vhagar over the town you were raised in and razed it to the ground. The green and gold banners have been flying over the area since, and soldiers from the Reach have been constantly patrolling the roads, seeking out rebels and sympathizers.

You know better than to involve yourself in the affairs of any man that dons the three-headed dragon, you tell yourself, trying to will yourself to walk away from the corpse before anyone can catch you standing near it.

Red or gold, black or green—it does not matter to you, the wars of nobles are graves for common folk, and you have no desire to meet an early one. You have done well enough for yourself since your father passed. You refuse to squander the life you’ve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.

The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but notice—your age, perhaps—dark of hair and fair of skin. At a distance, he had looked like any other body the sea had decided to return, and your first instinct had been to rush toward him rather than avert your gaze and pretend you had seen nothing.

Your hands tremble at your sides, and you have to forcibly still them as you take in a deep breath.

This is war, you recall the soldiers saying when the survivors demanded to know the reason for the tragedy that took place at Sharp Point—mothers with tears in their eyes and no bodies to bury, fathers who had lost their livelihood and the children for whom they built it, your neighbors, your friends. They say Lord Bar Emmon sits on the usurper’s council, so all of the commonfolk who were unfortunate enough to be born beneath his banners have been made to pay the price of his loyalties, allies of a queen they have never seen and casualties of a war they never chose.

This is war, they will tell you the same as they cut off your head if they see you kneeling beside this corpse and call mercy treason. Because it is always the burden of the commonfolk, paying the price of noble quarrels. Princes speak of honor and succession, of rights and oaths and stolen crowns, and it is fishermen and farmers who have to bury their dead. They will not care to hear what you have to say if they think you're affiliated with the Black queen and her supporters, just as the Prince Aemond did not care whether the people of Sharp Point had declared for the Blacks or merely happened to be born beneath the wrong lord.

But now, a prince lies dead upon your shore, and you wonder if this is how it begins again. 

You should leave him.

The thought comes immediately, sensible in light of the circumstances, even if it does make your stomach flip. You should turn around and go home, bolt your door, and tell no one what you saw. The sea will reclaim him, or the crabs will pick his bones clean; maybe the patrol will stumble upon the body before the tide rises, and they can parade it through the streets the same way you heard they did to Princess Rhaenys’s dragon.

By the morning, he will be gone one way or another, and you can move on with your life as though you never saw him at all. He will be somebody else’s misfortune, or more hopefully, no one else’s at all. 

It is a corpse, anyway. The boy has not moved since you arrived, and his chest does not seem to be rising and falling. There are two arrows through his shoulder, and a blueness to his lips that you’ve only seen in the dead, so—

As though to mock you, he lets out a wet, ragged cough, water bubbling at his lips, lashes fluttering just enough for you to catch sight of dark, hazy eyes that slip over you once before they slide shut again.

You feel sick to your stomach.

He does not stir again. One side of his face is bruised an ugly purple, his dark hair plastered to his brow with seawater and blood. He cannot be much older than you—the traitorous thought crosses your mind again. There is something terribly young about him, lying there half-drowned in the surf, one hand curled weakly into the sand as though, even unconscious, he is still trying to cling to something.

He does not look like a prince, you think miserably. He looks like a boy who is going to die.

The sea foams around your boots, and his body twitches as it threatens to reclaim him—the only feeble resistance he’s capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathes—the fires might still burn on the Gullet, but the fighting ended days past. How long has he been floating about, dragged around by vicious currents and tossed by waves? It doesn’t even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened and—

—and dropped him on your shore, in your hands, and you are contemplating leaving him to die.

The thought is unpleasant, a heavy stone in your chest in place of your heart.

You are not a cruel person. You have cared for gulls with broken wings, and you leave scraps outside your door for the old orange cat that wanders the area. During the winter three years prior, you spent a fortnight nursing a lamb that did not even belong to you because you could not bear the sound of it crying.

And now there is a boy at your feet—bleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to life—and because there is a dragon sewn onto his chest, you are trying to convince yourself to let the sea finish what arrows and war could not. 

His lashes are dark against his cheek. Young, you think again, even more traitorous than the last, no older than ten and nine, if even. There is salt crusted at the corners of his mouth and blood soaking through his tunic in sluggish, rusty streams that stain the pale sand beneath him.

He looks cold—traitor, traitor, traitor.

He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous. 

Cold. Hurt. Dying.

You need to walk away, you tell yourself again, desperate this time, because the longer you stand there staring at him, the more you fail to convince yourself of the correct path. 

A prince's life is worth more than yours, more than your cottage and your little patch of land and the fishing boat your father left you. It is worth armies and dragons and castles and men willing to kill for a name. 

If this boy lives, others will come looking for him. 

And if the soldiers discover him in your home, they will not ask questions. They will not care that you found him by chance or that you never bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyra—that you could not even tell anyone why one half of House Targaryen wishes the other dead. They will see the three-headed dragon on his breast and the roof over his head, and that will be enough to condemn you.

Worse, the Prince Aemond and the dragon Vhagar could return. You think of Tom, the miller’s son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Grace’s face as she searched the ashes for her mother. You think of all of your neighbors, all of your friends, who hardly survived the first time fire rained from the sky, and you think of all of those who didn’t. 

He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, there’s no reason you should save him and condemn countless others—he bleeds the same, he dies the same, and when the Stranger comes for him, he is no more spared than any other man.

Except, he didn’t, did he? 

He should be dead—any other man would be dead.

Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on end—there is no surviving that. Yet he breathes still, ragged and shallow though it may be, his fingers twitching every now and then.

The Stranger came for him and left empty-handed.

The Stranger came for him and left him with you. 

Why?

There are no prophecies in your life, no gods whispering in your ear. You are a fisherman's daughter with a cottage by the sea and enough coin to keep yourself fed through winter if the catch is good. You know little of the gods save for the prayers your father taught you as a child and the candles you light for him on his nameday. The Seven did not save your father or your town; they did not save Tom or Grace’s mother or any of the others who screamed as dragonfire turned their homes to ash.

So why? Why this boy? Why this prince? Why should the gods spare a dragon's son when they had not spared children and fishermen and mothers? Why have they left him for you?

You do not have an answer. The only answer before you is a body on the sand, breathing when it ought not to be.

You stare down at him, furious and distressed and so, so unsure. He looks dead again—still as driftwood, cold and pale, stiff. His lips are blue like the dead, and his chest hardly rises and falls. You wonder if you imagined what you saw before. If your guilt conjured a cough where there had been none, if your conscience simply could not bear the thought of walking away even from a corpse.

Slowly, you sink to your knees beside him, damp sand clinging to your knees, the sea foam wetting your trousers. Your hand is still trembling in spite of all efforts to still it. You lift it to his throat, hesitating only for a moment. 

If there is life, you will do what you must.

If there is not, you will turn and walk away. 

You have never prayed for someone to be dead before. 

Please, you think now miserably. Please.

Your fingers brush the skin of his throat—it is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and then—

There is a flutter—it is weak and uneven, so faint that you almost miss it, but it is there.

Your head hangs forward, and you blink away the tears that prick in your eyes, because you know this action will have consequences. You know that there is no going back once you have entangled yourself with dragons. You know that every story told of House Targaryen ends in blood and fire and ruin for everyone foolish enough to stand too close them.

You know that this boy could be the death of you.

The soldiers could discover him. Your neighbors could discover him—as much as they care for you, they fear Vhagar more. If word spreads that a prince of the black faction lives and is hidden beneath your roof, you could hang for it. They could burn your cottage to the ground. They could drag you through the streets and call you traitor.

Worse still, he could recover.

Because then he would not be a half-dead boy on the sand. He would be a prince again. A son of the house of the dragon. He would leave, and the war would continue, and perhaps one day you would hear his name in some tavern and learn that he had mounted a dragon and burned a town much like your own.

The sea rushes forward again, cold water washing over your boots and his legs alike. He does not move. He is so cold.

“Why did you have to wash up here?” you breathe out—frustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need. 

His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir. 

Then, because the gods have a cruel sense of humor and because your heart has always been softer than your head, you slide your arms beneath the prince’s shoulders and knees.

With a soft curse and the sea at your heels, you gather the dragon prince into your arms and carry home your ruin.

—————————

He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne. 

Three days have passed since you found him on the shore, and he has hardly stirred since you dragged him into your cottage. You have been riddled with anxiety since, jumping at every sound and fearing the worst when someone addresses you. It is only a matter of time—whenever a rider passes on the road beyond the trees or the patrol sweeps down your shore, you think they care coming for him. Coming for you. 

You spend the first day trying to keep him alive. 

You drag him home, soaked to the bone and half-frozen, laying him atop your bed as you get a fire going and wrap him in your blankets. For a while, you can only stand there staring at him, because it is one thing to decide not to leave a boy to die and another entirely to realize you have no idea how to save him.

You have to cut away his tunic to remove it, and it makes it easier to breathe once the three-headed dragon is out of sight, but then you have to address the monstrosity beneath it—bruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood. 

You wonder how many rocks the currents slammed him into before he finally washed to shore. The sea around Sharp Point is, well, sharp. Jagged rocks and narrow inlets line the coast, and more than one fisherman has vanished into the sea after his boat drifted too close to reefs beneath the tide.

It is a cruel stretch of sea—crueler still to a boy half-dead and alone. 

And then there were the arrows. 

The shafts protrude from his shoulders at awful angles, the flesh around them angry and swollen. You cry while removing them, because you have never done something like it before, and your hands cannot stop shaking. A part of you wonders if the gods left him for you so that his blood could be on your hands instead, and you cannot fathom what you’ve done to deserve this.

You expect him to wake once you start removing them. At the very least, you expect him to scream. The first shaft pierced cleanly through his shoulder and is easy enough to ease out, but the second lodged itself deep in the flesh, refusing to budge until you brace your foot against the bedframe and pull with both hands. 

It should have been agony—any man would have cried out. 

The prince does not so much as flinch.

You remember staring at him afterward, the arrow clutched in your hand and your own cheeks wet with tears, wondering if he had died while you were removing it. You press your fingers to his throat with a panic that borders on hysteria, and you aren’t sure if you’re relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there. 

A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died. 

A corpse is a tragedy, but a tragedy can be dumped in the sea and abandoned. A tragedy will not bring more war to your ravaged home.

A living prince, on the other hand, is a catastrophe that you do not know what to do with. Your home has already faced ruin once, and the longer he remains in your care, the more at risk you will be of bringing it upon you all again, because if he is captured in your care, then that means war and blood and fire and more dragons. The whole town, all of the survivors, everyone will be branded traitors to the crown.

But the prince lived, so you can only hope that he will heal quick enough and be gone before you have the chance to regret helping him.

The fever comes on the second day, and the corpse in your bed finally gives to life. 

You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. It’s as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. It’s what you expect of a Targaryen prince, really—the burning heat, closer to dragon than man— it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway. 

You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever. 

Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade past—no matter how hard your mother worked to keep it at bay, he was dead by nightfall. Your mother passed in the same moon, to the same sickness, as did half of the children in Sharp Point, because fever does not care whether you are young or old, rich or poor, prince or peasant.

His skin is flushed, sweat beading along his brow and soaking the dark hair at his temples as he twists in the sheets violently, threatening to reopen the wounds you just stitched close. His breathing changes too—no longer the slow drags of air, shallow and erratic, like he had spent days at sea only to begin suffocating on dry land.

You fetch water from the well until your shoulders ache. You lay cloths upon his brow and change them whenever they grow warm. You feed the fire, then fear you have made him too hot and let it die down, only to panic that he would grow cold again and build it back up.

Every few minutes, you find yourself pressing your hand to his forehead or his throat, checking for fever and pulse alike. There is never a change—still alive and burning, and you don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. 

At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of it—the words are slurred, little more than broken sounds spilling from fevered lips. Names, you think. Places, maybe. Some do not seem to be spoken in the common tongue.

Once, very clearly, he whispers, "Mother.”

You have to change the cloth on his forehead afterward and pretend your eyes are not stinging with tears. You curse the gods throughout that second day—you wish that you’d never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish you’d left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore. 

You sleep little that night, sitting beside your bed and watching him breathe. Terrified every time his breathing slowed, and equally terrified every time it quickened. You count the moments between each breath until dawn creeps through your shutters, and by morning, you feel like you have lived a lifetime in a single night.

The third day—today—you have to make the trek into town.

You have used the last of your willow bark, and there is only a heel of stale bread left, a few onions, and enough drinking water to last another day if you’re careful. You need fruit and vegetables, more barley, and you have a catch that you never got the chance to bring to the market to trade the morning you found the prince. 

You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wish—the prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.

You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into town—you have always been fond of your neighbors and your friends, but you were not fond of the way they circle and crowd you whenever you make your weekly appearance for trade. You got overwhelmed too quickly, and you didn’t know how to make an exit without seeming rude, so you ended up staying there for hours when there were many chores you had to get done at home.

Now, it is like a graveyard. The destruction following the Prince Aemond’s attack on Sharp Point has yet to be cleared. The soldiers are too busy with war and patrols, and the survivors are too busy trying to salvage what they can of their ruined lives. 

When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death. 

The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games they’ve played and the rumors they’ve heard, if you saw the wild dragon Grey Ghost while you were out on your boat this week, and you smile and nod along with them. But all of the children are dead now, and you are not crowded by friends and neighbors eager to make conversation with you, because most of them are dead now too.

It is in the market when you overhear green-cloaked soldiers talking about the battle that took place in the Gullet, and you finally put a name to the face of the prince in your home. You try to pretend that you’re not eavesdropping, fingers shaking terribly as you sort through the fruits and vegetables that Wylem carted in from his farm, because you need to know if they have figured out what you’ve done, if they know the prince is in your care, under your roof.

But they only laugh as they speak of dead dragons and a mourning pretender queen. They say the Blacks have lost two dragons, and the bastard prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is dead. Any man who can find his body washed up on the shore to deliver to the King will see unfathomable riches. 

Momentarily, you are angry at yourself because the royals brought this war and have caused all of this suffering, but when your lashes flutter shut, for a split second, you can only picture the haunted look on your mother’s face as she held your dead brother in her arms. You think of Miss Ellyn, who tossed herself into the sea when she found out her son had been killed on the Kingsroad. You think of your friend, Marie, who you found screaming, fisting her infant daughter’s ashes after the burning of the town. You think of them, and then you think of the black queen on her throne, and you feel the same lump in your throat.

Then you remind yourself that this is her doing. 

Her doing, her half-brother’s doing, the other nobles’ doing. They brought this war to Westeros, they brought death and destruction, fire and blood, and you force yourself to shake your head and push it all away, trading some of the fish you caught for fruits and vegetables and barley with a watery smile that you’re sure Wylem took notice of. 

There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the prince’s body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people too—your friends, your neighbors, everyone. Many starve, more struggle, so if there is an opportunity for gold, they will all be on the hunt. You need to burn his cloak and tunic when you get back to the cottage, anything that associates him with House Targaryen. 

You nearly trip over your own feet racing back to the cottage, second-guessing every conversation you had in the town. Wylem asked you why you were getting twice as much food as you usually get—you do not remember how you responded. 

Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why can’t you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why can’t you remember? You’re scared—you do not think you’ve ever been so scared in your entire life. 

You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that they’re going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. You’re not cut out for this—you’re the daughter of a fisherman. There’s no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince. 

There are tears in your eyes when you make it back to the cottage, and your fingers are trembling around the bags Wylem packed for you. You shut the door behind you, and it takes you three tries to bolt it properly. When you finally do, you rest your forehead against the wood and let out a trembling sigh.

You—

“Who are you?”

There is a knife to your throat.

You stare at the crack in the wood of your door, breath catching, desperately trying not to move lest you risk the knife slicing through your skin. The crack appeared last winter, you remind yourself, trying not to focus too much on the fact that you can feel the cool edge of the blade. Your friend, Evander, was meant to fix before the next, but Evander is dead now, and you may well be too, if the knife at your throat presses any deeper. 

“Answer me, who are you? Where am I? Wh—” the prince—Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne—falters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. “You—you are a woman.”

You do not turn to look at him immediately, eyes sliding shut as you fight to steady the frantic beating of your heart, drawing one slow breath after another until your shaking eases enough to trust your legs. Your fingers tighten on the bags cradled in your arms before you force yourself to turn around.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands three paces behind you, one hand braced against the edge of your table, pained, pale, barely conscious. He is bare from the waist up, and the stitches you painstakingly worked through his torn skin have pulled loose, fresh blood soaking the bandages and dripping down his chest and back. 

You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cuts—you think his ribs must be broken, you did not notice just how bad off he was when you had him lying in the dim corner where you keep your bed. 

For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen prince—it is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive. 

Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, “You reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.”

The prince stares at you. 

As soon as the words fly from your mouth, you remember who it is before you. The son of a queen. The heir to the Iron Throne, if one listens to his mother. A pretender's heir and bastard, if one listens to her enemies. You do not know which of them is right, nor do you particularly care. Such questions belong to lords and knights and people with far too much time to argue over crowns. 

To the likes of you, prince is title enough for you to keep your mouth shut and your head bowed.

He does not immediately respond, gaze flicking around your cottage uncertainly. Your bed, stained with his blood. The dying hearth. The table where you left out the last bits of the bread, just in case he awoke while you were gone and was hungry. The bandages you left at his bedside. The basin of pink water you forgot to empty before leaving for town.

His lips, dry and cracked, part as he stares at you and murmurs more to himself than to you, “You tended my wounds.”

You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. “I found you on the shore a few days past, my prince—” Your Grace? What is the proper way to address a prince? My Lord does not seem grand enough for the heir to a queen. Prince feels the safest—whatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. “—I… you should probably be resting.”

“I need to know what happened,” he says instead, stepping closer to you. He is too pale, sweat beads at his forehead, dark curls matted to his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dilated the same way you’ve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. “What do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaena—she was on that wild dragon, and—my brothers, did my brothers make it back? How long has it been? Where are we? How far is it to Dragonstone? I must return immediately, I—”

The prince only just seems to realize how you’ve drawn away, back pressed against the door to your own home, arms tightening around the sack in your arms whenever he comes closer. His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, gaze flicking to the knife he dropped onto the floor and the fear in your face. 

Shame crosses his expression instantly.

“I—” His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether it’s from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, “You have helped me—saved my life, most like—and here I am frightening you. I… I thought I’d been captured. I woke in an unfamiliar place. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was a prisoner or if the battle had been lost. I heard the door open and…”

He trails off, and you stand there awkwardly, tension easing slowly from your shoulders. He is still on guard, but he does not seem so inclined to pull a blade on you again. Your lips part to tell him where he is, what little you know of the battle on the Gullet. 

Instead, you ask, “Do most enemy strongholds look like a fisherman’s cottage, my prince?” 

You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lips—he is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though he’s one of your peers. 

Prince Jacaerys stares at you for a long moment, and then, to your astonishment, his gaze flicks around the inside of your home again, and something suspiciously like embarrassment crosses his face. 

“I suppose not.”

The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and you let out a soft puff of air through your nose before making your way across the room to place the sack you’ve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what you’ve got later; for now, you need to get the prince resettled before he opens up any more of his wounds.

You turn to look at him again, faltering when you see the pained expression that crosses his face, so sudden that it steals all the color from his cheeks. His hand shoots to his side, fingers digging into the bandages wrapped around his ribs.

“My prince?” you ask hesitantly, taking half a step forward, arm only slightly extended. It is one thing to carry him to your cottage and treat his wounds while he’s unconscious; it is different now that he’s awake.

Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallow—he looks as though he’s moments from collapsing hard onto your wooden floor. Still, his jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck tighten as he draws himself upright through sheer stubbornness.

“I am fine,” he insists.

“You should sit, my prince.”

“I am standing,” he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isn’t rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips aren’t trembling with pain.

“Barely.”

The prince blinks as though caught off guard by the response, casting a look that is partially confused, and mostly offended in your direction. Your lashes flutter shut as you brace yourself for a volatile reaction, because he is a prince and you are a fisherman’s daughter, and you are arguing with him as though he is an equal and not one of those dragon-riding royals people compose songs about. You think you must have lost your wits entirely these past few days. 

Instead, he shoots back, with all the dignity he can muster while visibly swaying, "I have endured worse."

You stare at the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, uncertain if you believe him. You say with less heat, "That is not the same as being well, my prince."

His jaw tightens, and you fight a sigh. Gods, he actually looks as though he is preparing an argument. 

You wonder, briefly, what your life has become. Three weeks ago, your greatest concern had been whether the currents would ease up enough for you to take the boat out of the shallows to catch some fish. Now, Sharp Point has burned and you are standing in your cottage, arguing with a dragon prince about his injuries. 

The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leila’s uncle’s dubious ale. 

Then, Prince Jacaerys’s left leg buckles. 

He reaches for the table and misses, injured shoulder slamming into the edge hard enough to wrench a strangled cry from him, and before you can think better of it, you're moving.

You let go of the sack of fruits and vegetables and barley you were keeping steady on your table; it topples over, and all of your pristine apples go rolling across the floor of your cottage, but you barely notice, panicked when you realize that he careening right toward the hardwood floor.  

You catch the prince around the waist just as he starts to fall, but he is heavier than you expect.

You brace yourself, convinced that he is going to take you down with him, but you manage to steer him sideways toward the chair beside the table. He collapses into it heavily, breath hissing through clenched teeth as pain flashes across his face.

Momentum carries you forward with him—far, far too forward.

One hand lands against the uninjured side of his chest to steady yourself, the other gripping the arm of the chair. For a horrifying second, you are practically sprawled across the heir to the Iron Throne’s lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.

"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, I did not mean—”

“I believe,” Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, “that was my fault.”

You do not respond, flustered, trying to put more distance between you to calm yourself down. Your gaze flicks back over to him, but he is too busy grinding his teeth as he glances down at his wounds to pay you any mind. You let out a soft puff of air through your nose before you look at the apples rolling about your floor, and then reach for one still on your table—you might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep you’ve gotten, but you are not about to feed a prince food off your floor.

You make your way back over to him and hold the apple out to him. He blinks once at it before his gaze lifts to yours questioningly.

“I do not know when last you ate—a while, certainly,” you tell him quietly. “You should get something in you while I redress the bandages. I’ll cook some stew once I’m certain you’re not going to bleed out.”

Prince Jacaerys exhales through his nose before he takes the apple from you, rolling it between his fingers. You step past him so that you can move the basin of water closer to where he’s sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed. 

You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, “May I?”

His dark gaze flicks up to yours briefly before he nods, and your throat tightens as you shift closer, fingers fumbling a bit as you grab for the edge of the bandages to unwind them from around him. It is much more intimidating doing this while he’s awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.

“I found you three days ago, my prince,” you tell him at last, trying to remember all of the questions he asked earlier so that you can busy your mind with something other than the fact that you can feel his skin hot against yours. “Before that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.”

Prince Jacaerys says nothing in response. His attention remains fixed somewhere beyond the wall behind you, expression distant. You suspect he is counting the days since the battle, the hours his family has believed he is dead, the minutes his mother has spent mourning him. You keep your gaze trained on his shoulder as you unwind the last of the bandages and set them down on the table. 

You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulder—where one of the arrows had dug deep, but not deep enough to pass cleanly through. Pulling it free had torn through muscle and flesh alike, leaving a ragged injury that had taken you nearly an hour to clean, stitch, and stop bleeding.

You exhale as you run the pad of your finger briefly over the stitches, trying to figure out if you can salvage what effort you already put in or if you would have to pull them out and redo them entirely. 

“And my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?” the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. “Did we win the battle?”

“I do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,” you answer quietly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you finally start to get to work at reclosing the wound. Your gaze slips to the side when he finally starts to eat the apple you passed to him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, as though he’s only just realized how hungry he is. “Both fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.”

How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then? 

Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands. 

Most of the rest of the dead have washed up on the northern and western shores of Sharp Point, as it is where the currents run strongest, but the prince somehow made it to where your cottage sits on the eastern shore. If he had washed up anywhere else, the patrol would have certainly found him by now. You've heard they have spent the last several days combing the beaches, hauling bloated corpses from the tide and turning them over with the tips of their spears, searching for the dragon prince they are certain the sea claimed.

Prince Jacaerys’s breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, he’s finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away. 

It is only when the last bite is gone that he seems to notice, and his gaze drifts toward the table. He hesitates, and you think it is almost comical—this is the heir to the Iron Throne, a dragonrider, a prince who has flown into battle, and he looks as though asking for another apple might be an imposition too great to make when he’s been floating at sea for at least a week. 

You hold the stitches carefully with your right hand so that you can lean forward and grab another apple from your table to pass to him. His cheeks color slightly when he realizes that you noticed.

“I did not mean to stare,” he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, “Have you heard what has become of my family?” 

You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that you’ll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you think—you can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didn’t eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and you’re starting to feel a lightness in your head. 

“I’ve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,” you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly won’t take well. The last thing you need is for grief to send him bolting for Dragonstone before he can so much as walk across your cottage without collapsing. If he does not kill himself by straining his body when it is not ready, then the patrols will certainly catch him and have his head—and then yours. 

You let out a soft sigh as you tie off the stitches on his shoulder blade and lean down to wet the clean rag before lifting it to his bloody skin. You’re careful around the edges of the wound, trying not to disturb the stitches, working slowly at the dried and wet blood from the curve of his shoulder, over the collarbone, down the length of his back. 

You try not to think too hard about what you’re doing. 

If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate. 

It is one thing to drag an unconscious stranger from the sea. It is another to stand so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to brush your fingers across the line of his shoulders. You have spent three days tending him without much thought, because there had been no room for embarrassment while the Stranger lingered at his bedside.

Now he is awake and watching you, and every accidental brush of your knuckles against his skin seems to linger a heartbeat too long. He is a prince of the realm, and you are a fisherman’s daughter—people like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yet—

You exhale through your nose harshly. You busy yourself with the rag, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at a streak of dried blood along his collarbone simply to distract yourself, and his jaw pinches.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

“It does not hurt,” he replies—a lie, surely, any man would be in agonizing pain. But maybe not; any man also would have died in the sea. Maybe the rumors are true: the Targaryens are closer to god than man; they do not feel pain or have to fear the Stranger the same way people like you ought to. “What have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?”

“Half a league from Sharp Point, my prince,” you answer, still evading the question, which he seems to realize from the way he glances at you over his shoulder, gaze sharp and accusing. He knows you are withholding something. You exhale lightly through your nose and then say hesitantly, “They say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.”

“Two?!” Prince Jacaerys demands, immediately rising to his feet, so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, and you fear he might rip back open the stitches. He whirls on you, eyes wide, pupils large as coins, and you almost flinch. “Two dragons?”

You swallow thickly as you nod. “My prince—”

“One must be—” His voice catches. He cannot finish the thought. For the first time since he awoke, real grief overtakes him completely. It drains his face of what little color had returned, leaves him staring at nothing as though he can already see the answer waiting for him. “I need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?”

It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryens’ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a stranger’s cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread. 

The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldn’t help your thoughts from turning to your own mother, to Miss Ellyn, to your friend, Marie. For a moment, he is not a Targaryen prince or a dragonlord; you see a son and an older brother. A boy your age who knows there are only a handful of dragons flying over the Gullet, and every one of them belongs to someone he loves.

“I do not—”

“I need to return home,” he says immediately, as though his face isn’t white with pain and his stitches don’t strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though you’re not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. “Sharp Point—there must be passage to Dragonstone, there—”

Panic flares in your chest when he makes as though to leave. It is noon, and the patrols have become more frequent along the shores outside your cottage. They’ve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and they’ve been sending more and more men to the east—you worry they’re becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isn’t one.

If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, they’ll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him. 

“You cannot,” you say before you can think better of it, lunging forward as though to grab his wrist, but you stop yourself before you can make a terrible mistake, stopping a hairsbreadth from brushing his skin. 

What is wrong with you? you think furiously. You need to rest tonight before you do something you cannot take back. Already you have gotten snide with and you have argued with a prince of the realm—now you have commanded him and nearly tried to seize him. You would have been lucky to only lose your hand in any other circumstance. Had he been standing in a hall instead of your cottage, surrounded by knights instead of rough-hewn furniture, you might have lost your head. 

“I cannot?” Prince Jacaerys turns to you, bafflement momentarily eclipsing the fear that had consumed him only seconds before, as though he cannot quite fathom that someone has just told him no. 

“My prince, you can scarcely stand,” you say. His gaze drops to where your hand is still hovering near his arm, head cocking to the side and brows lifting, and you snap it back to your chest immediately, heat flooding your face. “You have lost a lot of blood, you have barely eaten in a week, your wounds have only just been stitched again, and there are patrols searching for you every road between here and the sea.”

He continues to stare at you, disbelief riddling his expression. You have the distinct impression that no one has ever spoken to him this way before—certainly not a fisherman’s daughter. You force yourself to press on while he’s silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed. 

“The Prince Aemond burned Sharp Point’s harbor. There are no ships capable of navigating the currents of the Gullet, and the water still burns besides. I do not have a horse for you to ride to Stonedance. You could not get to Dragonstone even if you were not hurt,” you insist. “I will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustn’t leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.”

For a long moment, you think that he will invoke his title or duty and insist upon leaving anyway, or maybe he will simply walk out the door despite everything you have said, and there is nothing you could do to stop him. 

Then, his expression changes, twisting into something pained as he looks away, a shuddered breath escaping his lips. His shoulders, held tense since the moment you uttered the word two, sink ever so slightly. The panic that had driven him to his feet has nowhere left to go, draining from him all at once, leaving only exhaustion behind. 

One hand drops back down to his ribs, pain crossing his face. Whatever strength carried him to his feet abandons him just as quickly as the panic, leaving him swaying where he stands. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he reopens them, the panic has been replaced by a type of defeat that is infinitely more difficult to look at.

You step forward cautiously when you see how his body is trembling, hand hovering uncertainly between the two of you, silently asking permission to help him. Prince Jacaerys stares at your outstretched hand, then at the bed on the far side of the room; you think, for a second, that he will attempt to cross on his own, but then his nostrils flare as he exhales, inclining his head just enough to grant you the permission his pride refuses to voice aloud.

Carefully, you slip beneath his uninjured arm, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He is warm—still warmer than he ought to be—and you can’t help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon prince’s typically run. 

He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulder—you suspect he is trying very hard not to. The journey from the door to your bed is scarcely a dozen paces, but it feels much longer. 

“We were supposed to win this victory for her,” Prince Jacaerys says after a moment, voice breaking, the words slip free before he can stop it. You do not think the admission is meant for you, so you stay quiet. His throat works as he swallows. “We were supposed to—”

He cuts himself off, looking away again as you help him ease back down into your bed. As soon as he is seated, something close to relief crosses his face, lashes fluttering; the pain is still there, but not quite as terrible as it was when he was straining on his feet.

“The fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,” you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. “You should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. I’ll cook up a stew and wake you when it’s finished.”

He exhales again, jaw tightening as he looks away with a resigned expression. You turn your back on him to deal with the mess you made of the kitchen area, grimacing slightly at everything spilled across your floorboards and the table. 

“What is your name?” Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. “I think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.”

You let a soft breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. He is pained still, but there is an earnest look in his eyes that makes you falter—you remember how close you were to leaving him to his fate, and you have to look away again before he can catch the guilt that crosses over your face.

With a shaky exhale, you give the prince your name, and you cannot help but feel as though your life has irrevocably changed, and you do not think for the better. 

————————————

The sea is on fire.

Jace cannot tell where the flames end and the water begins. Ships burn around him, masts collapsing into the waves with deafening cracks; men scream as they’re consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries. 

He tries to focus.

He chases after the rogue dragon, hoping to kill the rider before the dragon can burn any more of the Velayron fleet—or worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He’s screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and then—then he sees Rhaena. 

He sees Rhaena atop the wild dragon, and she is screaming, crying, desperately trying to get it under control, and Jace is confused, reeling as he yells at Vermax to stop at the last second. He and dragon both diving down away from the chase before Vermax could breathe fire on his cousin.

Rhaena does not have a dragon, he thinks, trying to figure out what is happening, and Rhaena is supposed to be with his brothers, and his brothers are captured by the enemy, and he isn’t sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, and—

—and Vermax is falling. 

Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jace’s stomach lurches. He’s yelling—begging—Vermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, he’s trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himself—he feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermax’s, and they are bonded, and Vermax is drowning, and the water is so cold, and Jace cannot feel his legs or his hands or his face.

He fumbles as he tries to unhook himself from the saddle, choking on water and air, maybe a sob, as Vermax sinks into the sea, a stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he cries for Jace, slowly disappearing into the dark waters. Jace desperately tries to dive after him, as if he has the strength to hold them both above the sea, because Jace has already lost Luke, and he—he cannot lose Vermax. 

Not the dragon who had slept beside his cradle before he was old enough to walk, the hatchling he had grown up alongside, whose neck had once fit beneath his arm, whose first uncertain flights had ended with both of them tumbling into the sandy shore of Dragonstone while his mother laughed herself breathless.

Jace does not know a life without him—he does not want to know a life without him. His earliest recollections are not of nursery songs or wooden swords, but of warm green scales beneath tiny hands and the deep, rumbling croon that had lulled him to sleep when he was scarcely more than a babe. 

When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jace’s voice deepened, Vermax’s roar had too. 

There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.

But Jace’s lungs are burning, and he cannot see the familiar green scales anymore, and his body is reacting, seizing and spasming because there is no air left in him and water all around. He does not know which way is up and which way is down, the water is too dark and too cold, and he cannot think, but—but he sees the bubbles. He sees the bubbles, and he follows them, and even as Vermax sinks to the bottom of the sea, he saves his rider one final time. 

He reaches the surface with a gasp, gulping the smoky air, and everything hurts. His arms ache, his chest is too tight, his eyes burn, and he cannot breathe, because Vermax is gone. He can feel that Vermax is gone; there is a gaping hole in his chest where his dragon used to be, and Jace does not know what to do, he does not know how to live anymore, and he wants—

He wants his mother.

He just wants his mother. 

He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancer—they are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.

And then, there’s a dull throb in his shoulder blade as he pulls himself over a floating piece of driftwood, but he hardly takes note of the pain, because everywhere hurts, because Vermax is gone, because he wants his mother. He turns when he hears the cheering, and he sees the men on the ship, and he sees the crossbows and the bows and the Myrish banners, but he does not see anything at all, really, blinking once, staring.

The second arrow catches him closer to the chest.

And then—then all he remembers is sea. 

White foam and bubbles, vicious currents and sharp rocks. He thinks he is dead more than he thinks he is alive, but there is so much pain. There is pain and emptiness, and Jace just wants—

“... prince, the stew is ready.”

Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he is—he remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not remember…

The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fear—was he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, mother—

You avert your eyes suddenly, an awkward expression on your face, and Jace suddenly remembers. He remembers you, the apple you passed him as you tended to his wounds; how he held a knife to the throat of a woman who is risking her own life to save his. He remembers that he is stuck bedridden in the bed of a commoner while his mother thinks he’s dead and fights for her throne alone.

He opens his mouth to apologize—to tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure you’re properly compensated for saving his life—but he falters when he feels something hot and wet drip down his face.

He lifts his hand to his cheek and wipes at his face, looking down at the wetness smeared on his fingertips. For a long moment, he does not understand—seawater, maybe? But he is no longer being tossed around by the sea. He is warm in your cottage, the hearth burns low and your blankets are tangled around him. He blinks once, and another fat droplet of water rolls from his eye down his cheek.

Is he crying?

Heat rushes to his face so quickly he thinks it rivals the fever. He wipes away furiously, not sure if it’s more or less humiliating that you’re pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table. 

Jace has wept before, more than most ought to—for the father who taught him fishing and sea shanties, and the other who passed before either of them could speak the truth out loud, for the grandfather he never truly knew, for the brother who felt less like a brother and more like his other half—but never, never in front of a stranger. 

Jace promptly clears his throat and pulls himself together. He glances at you, praying that his face does not betray him, an excuse on his lips as takes a deep breath. Then he falters, mouth watering instantly, gaze cutting to the side where you are busy ladling stew into two chipped wooden bowls, back politely turned, as though you never noticed anything at all.

Jace doesn't think he’s ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his life—roasted swan, lemon cakes, arbor wines. He has consumed the finest meals Westeros has to offer and found them lacking, but he almost feels dizzy with need and pleasure at the scent of the stew you made.

“It—” Jace’s voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. “It smells good.”

You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, “I’m sure nothing compared to what you’re used to, my prince.”

“I do not know that,” he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body. 

Everything aches—his chest, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his head. In truth, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep more; he cannot bear to keep going. Not now. Not after Vermax, after Luke, after making such a terrible mistake that he might have cost his mother her throne. His stomach flips at the thought, and he fights a shuddered breath.

He needs to keep going—there is no other choice. He needs to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.

You pause in the middle of setting the bowls on the table at his words to give him a questioning look. “My prince?”

“I have not tasted it yet,” he tells you, forcing levity into his tone, because you have saved his life, tended to his wounds, and now stand over a pot of stew you cooked for him, worrying that it is not good enough to satisfy a prince. The least he can do is ease your mind. "It would seem unfair to compare a meal I have not eaten yet.”

You blink at him once, and then you smile slightly—it’s a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just before—and Jace tries his best to return it as he crosses the small room. He shuffles the last few steps toward the table with considerably less grace than he would have liked.

“Perhaps” you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well. 

You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitates—for a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at King’s Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such things—cups were poured and tasted before his mother, and plates were sampled before any of them took a bite of their food. The paranoia claws at him and disappears as quickly as it comes.

You had dragged him half-dead from the sea, spent days stitching his wounds and breaking his fever, and gave up your bed so he could sleep comfortably. If you wished him dead, you need only have left him on the shore. 

“I never thanked you for what you’ve done for me,” he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. “When I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.”

“There is no need,” you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips. 

The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple meal—carrots and celery, chunks of what he thinks is rabbit. It is the plainest thing he has eaten in years, and yet somehow, the best meal he can remember.

His stomach twists painfully as warmth settles into it, and before he can stop himself, he takes another spoonful, then another, the hunger of the past week overwhelming whatever restraint court etiquette had once led him. It is only when half the bowl is gone that he realizes how quickly he is eating.

Embarrassed, he forces himself to slow, lowering the spoon.

“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat. “I fear I may have forgotten my manners.”

“You haven’t had a meal in over a week, my prince. You’re allowed to be hungry,” you say with a faint smile.

Jace lets out a half-hearted huff of amusement through his nose, though his smile fades as quickly as it came, returning to conversation to try to force himself to slow down and show a modicum of etiquette before he embarrasses himself further. 

“There is every need for reward,” he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes you—you cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but there’s a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. “You saved the life of the heir to the Iron Throne. You surrendered your bed, tended wounds that would have killed most men, and risked the wrath of the Greens simply by allowing me beneath your roof. I cannot allow that debt to go unanswered.”

You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.

“I do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myself—” nor, he suspects, does anyone “—but my mother will. You needn't live here any longer if you do not wish to. We could see your cottage rebuilt if the fighting has damaged it, or grant you land elsewhere, if that is what you'd prefer. Whatever you ask, so long as it is within my power, I will see it done.”

You are quiet for a long while as Jace finishes off the stew, but he expects hesitation as you mull over what to ask for: gold, land, a better ship, perhaps. Your gaze drifts off to the side, and Jace’s follows it, faltering when he realizes that you’re looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.

That’s right, he remembers—you mentioned your cottage was less than a league away. 

From where he sits, he can just see the destruction through the small window. The town is little more than scorched foundations and splintered timbers now, dragonfire having reduced generations of work to ash in the span of a single afternoon. He cannot look at it for long, stomach twisting so unpleasantly that he fears the stew you just cooked him might come right up. 

You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely. 

“We used to think they were beautiful, you know?” you say, voice barely over a breath. “We would watch your family fly from King’s Landing and Dragonstone. The children would cheer and call out the names of whatever dragon and royal was passing overhead, even though they knew you could not hear them.” A wistful smile tugs briefly at your lips, and Jace suddenly feels a rock in his stomach, a heaviness that he cannot seem to push away. “There is a wild dragon in these parts—we call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my father’s boat out. We lived alongside him for years—sometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curious—shy, but curious.”

You exhale suddenly as you rise to your feet; Jace wonders if he should ignore the unshed tears in your eyes the same way you politely did for him.

“Then the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,” you say at last. “The only thing I want, my prince, is for this war to end, but I know you cannot give me that. If you don't mind, I should see to my father's boat before the tide turns. There is more stew in the pot if you would have it. Then you ought to rest. You'll not heal by arguing with your own body.”

Jace opens his mouth.

He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to end—he does, his mother does. Maybe not Daemon, but why do you say it as though he stands opposed to peace? He did not choose this, nor did his mother. It is not his fault that the Greens usurped his mother's throne.  

He desperately tries to formulate an answer, but how is he supposed to respond to that? What were they meant to do? Yield to the usurpers? Stand aside while his mother’s birthright was stolen? Let Luke die for nothing? Should he say that he is sorry for your loss? That his mother would never have done this? That Vermax would never have burned a fishing village? That this was all the Greens? That they fight to avenge what happened here? 

That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your face—it is the people who ride them. It is the Greens. It is Aegon and Aemond, Alicent Hightower and her father.

His lips are parted as though to respond, but he only finds himself staring at you helplessly. 

You incline your head politely before slipping out the door, the cool air rushing briefly into the cottage before it shuts behind you once more. Jace remains where he is, staring into the last of his stew until the steam no longer rises from it, the reality of his situation settling over him—Vermax is dead, Luke is dead, and his mother believes them both lost. He does not know whether his brothers and cousins are safe, if his mother still fights for her crown. He is useless, wounded in a fisherman's cottage, alive only because a woman from a town his family failed to protect chose mercy over sense.

In your universe, accidentally falling into another is pretty common. 

You never fully understood the science behind it, but in your world, cracks lingered everywhere. An object, an animal, or even a person slipping through was not unheard of. 

It happened often enough that a system was created to retrieve those who slip. Warnings are issued throughout the city whenever there’s a ‘reality tear’ in Central Park. Certain places of the world are permanently closed off from humanity. Schools make drills educating children on what to do if they’re ever trapped in another universe, alone. The world does whatever it can to protect society and the people from slipping into another world, lost forever. 

Slipping isn’t an inevitability, but it’s a possibility. Like getting into a car accident, or getting stuck outside in a hurricane. It’s something to prepare for. 

So when you woke up underneath a bright blue sky, away from your bed, your apartment, your town, your entire universe, you weren’t wholly unprepared. 

It’s not that you weren’t surprised. It took you an hour to finally give up the delusion that you’re dreaming. Another hour later and you were finally starting to realize this new world played a whole lot differently than your old one. 

Firstly, there were no people. 

You walked around for what felt like years now, and yet, there was no hint of humanity. No sign of intelligent life. No roads, no cars, no telephone towers in the far distance. There were just trees and plains and valleys. Back home, this would be a rarity. A place untouched by civilization. 

But there were remnants of it. 

At first you thought it was a piece of furniture–decayed and rotting in the middle of a random clearing. It wasn’t until you took a few trepid steps closer that you realized it was something more intricate. 

Clunky and robust with gray metal that was starting to oxidize. It was some kind of robot. It might have been years since this thing was active. 

You stared at the find for several minutes. Was it man-made? That didn’t really feel right. You didn’t know how to explain it, but this robot looked foreign to any Earthly element. Alien. 

Strangely, you felt as if you were examining a corpse. 

Weird, really really weird. But apart from the strange robot, you couldn’t find anything else off with this world. You mostly recognized the animals, as well as the plants. The most you could conclude was that this was some type of post-apocalyptic Earth where humanity was scarce or just gone entirely. 

That sounded a bit depressing, but you weren’t surprised. You’d heard of others who’d slipped into similar realities where humanity had blown themselves up till extinction. Or a disease wiped them out entirely. They often talked about how nice it was seeing animals that were on the endangered list, just frolicking about in the thousands. You hoped this was one of those realities. Realities without humanity often sounded more peaceful.

The panic hadn’t set in yet. There was no need for it to. You knew people would eventually realize you’re missing and the system would kick in to find you. Accord was really good at her job. It was what she was created for, after all. Since her creation, everyone who slipped was often found by the end of the day, perfectly safe. 

You were in good hands, you assured yourself. Accord would find you. She’s found everyone else, so far. Why would you be an anomaly? 

You ignored the tiny voice of paranoia in your head, distracting yourself by admiring the large trees and other vegetation. One field in particular caught your attention. It was not the beauty that made it pop, rather, the familiarity. 

You bent down, lightly touching the bright red tomato happily growing from its stem. Beside it was a cucumber vine, creeping along the floor with its dark green vegetables. There were a few strawberry shrubs, something that looked vaguely like a pomegranate bush. All of the plants were bunched together, healthy and growing strong. It almost resembled a shabby garden.

“Oh, hello there.” 

You jumped up straight, surprised to hear a voice, and from the sound of their tone, they seemed to share your reaction. 

When you spun around to face the source, you were partially expecting to see that robot you’d seen earlier. 

It wasn’t that robot. It was a different one. 

You stared, the robot stared right back. It was larger than you, bulkier, and a bit more humanoid in shape than the other one. Its metal was old and rusted in some places. What could only resemble eyes were bright green lights on either side of its face. 

Given any other situation, you might have run. Maybe even screamed. But being stuck in a world where you didn’t know the rules of the game was enough to leave you stumped, and so you just echoed what the robot said. 

“Um, hello,” you replied back nervously, raising a hand in greeting.

The thing straightened up at your voice. You could hear the gears and bolts shudder every time it moved. 

“Hello!” It repeated. It almost sounded excited. “How are you, today?” 

“Fine?” You responded before your mind caught up to you, force of habit forcing pleasantry. “I’m sorry, but…what–what are you exactly?” 

You heard the gears again. “I’m Pascal!” The thing chittered, clearly misunderstanding your question. “What’s your name?” 

Not quite what you were looking for, but it seemed friendly, at least? You gave ‘Pascal’ your name with less enthusiasm and more caution. ‘Pascal’ didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the robot strode even closer, clearly not sensing your wariness. If anything, it seemed entirely oblivious to it.

“Is this yours?” You tried, gesturing to the garden. God, you hoped it was a nice robot and wasn’t about to kill you. Pascal gave an eager nod. 

“Yes! Yes!” Pascal agreed. “The deer like them, as well as the rabbits. I try my best to keep the plants growing every year.” 

An animal lover. You wondered if it was programmed for that. Your shoulders relaxed a little, relieved that the thing was harmless. Probably.

“Really?” You prompted, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Do you grow anything else?”

It shook its head. “These were the only plants that sprouted,” it informed you, gears crunching as they got stuck for a second, then continued to operate smoothly. I collected them during my travels and decided to plant them here.”

Pascal’s blabberings simmered. It peered at you with those green lights it called eyes, digging far too deep for your liking.

Robots weren’t supposed to replicate life. Their entire existence stemmed from certainty — a feature of life that often fails to be duplicated. 

But maybe you were wrong because, just for a brief moment, he hesitated. Then, he asked.

“...Are you lost?” 

-

It’s a village, at least you thought it was a village. 

High up in the trees. You weren’t sure if the rickety ladder would’ve held your weight, but you believed the fear was well worth the scenery. 

A treehouse village. Each hut was built into the trunk. There were at least two ‘floors’, with another clearly in the process of being built. There were clothing lines where clothes and rags were hung up to dry, though it looked as if they had been up there for a long time. 

“Welcome to my home,” Pascal chirped while you gazed around in awe. “This is so exciting! It’s been a while since I’ve had someone see it. Would you like a tour?” 

You nodded, finally beginning to feel properly excited about this world you’d fallen into. Pascal clasped his ‘hands’ together, thrilled, as far as you could tell. He led you around the village enthusiastically, pointing out every detail he could find. He talked a lot, enough to fill the space for two people, leaving you to bob your head long to everything he said. It was nice, you were content enough to sit back and let him do the talking. It allowed you to absorb everything just a bit more. 

The chirping of cicadas, the rustle of leaves, being able to weave between the trees and never touch the ground — it all called back to the more childlike side of your being. The desire to have a majestic treehouse from which to rule, that childhood dream almost felt fulfilled as you took in your surroundings, learned where all the ‘houses’ were. 

The more he showed you, however, the more strange this place became. There were hints of life everywhere, clues that somebody should have been actively living there, occupying the huts, greeting you as you passed. There were multiple ladders and bridges, clearly made for more than just one person in mind. There was something that oddly resembled a children’s toy — a shabbily made see-saw. Clearly, it couldn’t have been only Pascal residing here.

Every so often, you expected someone — a robot, maybe one shaped like Pascal — to pop up. Yet, there was nothing; only the eerie silence, save for your footsteps and Pascal’s metal clanking. 

“Where is everyone?” You interrupted Pascal in the midst of his rambling, feeling a spark of guilt at the way he stuttered. 

He looked back at you, and by now you were starting to get the hang of gauging his reactions enough to understand that he looked confused. 

“What do you mean?” He prodded. “It’s only ever been me here.” He paused to think for a moment. “Actually, when I first got here, there was a lot of junk laying around. It took a while to get rid of.” He hummed good-naturedly. “It’s more than likely other machine lifeforms found this place first before moving on.” 

That caught your attention. 

“Machine lifeforms?” You repeated. “Is that what you are?” 

“Machine lifeforms are those brought by aliens to Earth.” Pascal provided, nodding along.

So they weren’t made by humans. You had a feeling, but it was nice to be certain. It was obvious that this world is far into the future compared to your own by decades — perhaps even centuries.

“Pardon me for asking but…” Pascal tilted his head. “You are human, yes?” 

You assented, albeit reluctantly. It sounded more like a yearning for confirmation than actual ignorance. Besides, it might have been pure naivety on your part, but in the short while you’d known Pascal, he’d never once been malicious. A bit weird, but not bad. 

You flinched when he threw his arms up in the air, jolted out of your thoughts. The gears within him whirred in delight at your testimony. 

“Splendid! I had an inkling you were…but I didn’t want to assume!” He gushed, bypassing your personal space once again to analyze you. “I’ve never met a human before. How exciting.” 

You had a feeling you were the only one left, but for your suspicion to be confirmed was a little disappointing. You didn’t want to admit it, but you were holding out a little bit of hope for another human to be around, someone you could relate to more easily. Someone who understood.

“I’m guessing humans here are long gone then.” You murmured, mostly to yourself, but Pascal heard it loud and clear. 

“No?” He told you, confused. “All humans are on the Moon. Isn’t that where you’re from?” 

“The Moon?” You echoed, glancing up at the sky. “All of them? How did they even–” 

You swallowed your voice, perplexed. What kind of world was this? Robots on Earth? Humans on the Moon?

“No, I’m not from the Moon.” You finally told him. “And…I’m not even from this Earth. It’s–it’s hard to explain.” 

Sighing, you took a seat on the wooden floor of the village. Pascal followed, watching as you crossed your legs, and he did the same. It reminded you of a child following the actions of an adult, learning from the people around them. 

You assumed you spent about twenty minutes on the platform, explaining about how you woke up here no more than a few hours ago, Accord, how you were supposed to be in your own bed at home…and now you were somewhere else. 

“I’m still not too sure how it works.” You admitted to him. “But…think of a cup filled with water. Whenever you shake it, the water spills over. That would sort of make me a droplet.” 

Insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. 

“Fascinating.” Pascal swooned before his posture dropped. “My sincerest apologies. I’m sure your friend is very worried.” 

“My friend?” 

“Accord.” Pascal clarified. “You mentioned she was looking for you.” 

You weren’t sure if you could call Accord a friend. You’d never met her before, but every human in your universe knows her name. 

“In my universe, people get into these types of situations all the time.” You motioned to yourself. “Accord is the overseer of my world. She’s a system! Whenever someone goes missing–like I did–she tracks them down and brings them back home.” 

Accord would find you eventually. You were sure of it. Ever since her creation, there hasn’t been a single human that wasn’t recovered in a week. 

“I bet my friends and family are pretty worried.” You acknowledged, realizing how long you’d been gone. “But I’ve heard that time moves slowly in my universe. A few hours here, might only be a few seconds there.” 

A few days here could be a mere few hours there. Weeks and weeks might only be a day or two. Years might be–

“From what you’ve told me, Accord seems very proficient.” Pascal proclaimed, proud for you, somehow. “I’m sure she’ll find you soon.” 

You gave a weak smile, your stomach churning at the unsettling feeling that his words seeded. “Of course she will.” You agreed in spite of the anxiety that licked at the soles of your feet. After all, Accord hadn’t lost anyone before, right? 

Right? 

You just had to stay put, and stay hopeful. You’d be found soon. Someone would notice you’d been gone, or you hadn’t been answering your phone, and you’d be reported. It’d be fine. 

Everything will be fine. 

Speaking of, you weren’t sure how interdimensional travel worked, but you didn’t want to take a chance of straying too far from your original spot. Pascal’s place wasn’t too far from where you originally woke up. Maybe if you lingered around a bit, Accord might have an easier time finding you. 

“Pascal?” You called. 

He tilted his head as an answer. 

“I really don’t mean to be a bother, but.” You glanced away into the trees. Despite the sun hovering strong and still in the sky, the forest looked dark and daunting. You weren’t sure if it was a good idea to be alone anymore. 

“Would you mind if I stayed for a while?” 

You wanted to say more. You wanted to explain yourself. You wanted to promise you wouldn’t take too much of his time, or be too much of a burden, but Pascal didn’t seem to want any of it. The most inhuman thing on this planet was showing you the most humanity you’d ever experienced.

“Of course.” He chirped cheerily. “Stay as long as you would like.” 

True to your word, you made sure you weren’t a burden. You tried your best to help out in the village, folding the rags of cloth he had lying around, brushing off the twigs and leaves that occasionally cluttered the floor. You didn’t think you were doing a lot, but Pascal was very sweet with his assurances. 

“So are there any other machine lifeforms that you’ve seen?” You asked, tucking away another bundle of twigs as per his instructions. 

Pascal sat right next to you, showing you the proper way to store the sticks. You lacked the efficiency and the perfection he had, and your bundles looked like complete messes compared to his. Thankfully, he said nothing about it, placing the stacks you made right next to his own. 

“Yes.” He answered. “Most don’t stay around these parts, however. The android kingdom is very close, though.” 

“Android kingdom.” You quoted, brows furrowing in consideration. Robots like Accord? 

“Oh, yes,” Pascal said, “I  heard they have contact with the humans on the Moon.” 

Okay, so aliens created Machine Lifeforms, and androids were clearly an invention of humanity. What could they possibly have created them for, you sarcastically wondered. You were just glad you came into the aftermath of whatever horrors happened, rather than the midst. You were no fighter, you wouldn’t survive longer than a minute if you were dropped into an all-out war in the middle of who-the-hell-knows-where. Much less one between androids and aliens, of all things.

Still, a kingdom of androids, fully independent from humanity to the point where their creators were up on a satellite doing who knows what. It sounded fascinating, you couldn’t deny that you were immensely curious as to how things turned out this way.

“What are they like?” You prodded, wanting more information out of your walking history book. “The androids, I mean.” 

“I don’t know, these days.” Pascal hummed. “ The Android King doesn’t allow much contact.”

So much for history book.

The androids didn’t seem very friendly, then. Maybe it’d be different for you, considering your humanness, but you weren’t ready to take a chance today. The adventure you were on right now was more than enough excitement for a lifetime, throwing in the risk of hostile entities in a single day was too much.

“I was friends with one.” Pascal suddenly murmured. “I don’t think she’s around anymore.” 

You waited for him to continue. 

He never did. 

-

Pascal didn’t know a thing about humans. 

You thought you could bear it, but after he kept bringing these robot fish and tried convincing you to eat them, you decided to take things into your own hands. 

The fishing pole was basic, but it got the job done. You waded in calf-deep water, your shoes and socks tossed on the shore. The calm river lazily passed you by. You’d never seen water so clear before, rippling around your legs, bouncing off the pebbles and gravel.

“Oh.” You felt a tug on the rod, your heart skipping a beat. “I think I got something.” 

“Really?” Pascal asked in excitement, bounding over. 

“Pascal, wait–” Too late, whatever was on the other end was scared away by his movements. You watched with a frown as a shadow trickled back into the water. There goes lunch. 

You pulled back the empty rod. Pascal stood still next to you in the water. 

“I startled it, didn’t I.” He realized in disappointment. “I’m sorry.” 

You shook your head and offered a placating smile, reaching out to pat his shoulder comfortingly. “There’s plenty of fish in the river.” You told him kindly and held out your rod to him. “Want to try?” 

He grabbed the stick eagerly, mimicking your movements. Pascal didn’t try to hide his curiosity about humans, nor his willingness to learn from you. He was clearly being honest when he claimed he hadn't met one before you. Since the moment you got here, you’d been barreled by questions about humanity and the world you came from. He was floored when you revealed there were billions upon billions of humans in your universe. It must have been an unfathomable number where humanity was scarce. 

“Did you eat fish back home as well?” Pascal questioned, flailing with the rod. At least he was having fun. You sat back on the shore, enjoying the sun beating down on your skin. 

“Hm, sometimes.” You answered lazily, closing your eyes. “But humans eat other things: Other types of meat, fruit, vegetables. We use spices to make them taste even better.” 

“Really?” Pascal asked. You gave him an affirmative, dipping your toes back in the water, feeling the biting chill and the trickle of water weaving past. 

“Humans do a lot to make food taste good.” You admitted. “Regardless of how healthy it is. The most popular foods are sweets; cakes, cupcakes, cookies, brownies.” What you wouldn’t do to have one of those right now. 

“I’m sure we can make those!” Pascal exclaimed, and you realized you muttered that out loud. 

You smiled warmly at him, appreciating his wishes to help bring you joy. “That’s sweet.” You told him, letting him down gently. “But I highly doubt it. Those foods are pretty complicated. We’d need a lot of ingredients like eggs and sugar.” 

“I wonder if the android kingdom has those items.” Pascal pondered. 

“I thought the android kingdom was closed off to outsiders?” 

“Sometimes the Android King allows trading.” Pascal answered back. 

That’s the second time Pascal mentioned him. What kind of person was he to forbid entry to his kingdom, and only occasionally open routes for trading? Was he scary? Cruel and tyrannical, keeping his people clutched in an iron fist?

Or was he simply protecting his citizens? 

“It’s a little funny we went back in history, though.” You said out loud. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Back home, most governments aren’t monarchies anymore. We mainly have democracies.” You enlightened Pascal. “If you asked any modern-day human, they’d have some pretty choice words about royalty in general. So now, centuries later, with even androids adopting monarchy…makes me wonder if there’s a human king up on the Moon now.” 

Pascal’s machinery droned. “Well, on Earth, I think the Human King would be you.” 

You barked a laugh, taken aback by his declaration. “Yeah? Are you the Machine-lifeform King then, Your Majesty?” 

He preened. Something simmered in your chest as you continued to look at him. You were so happy to see your friend so happy. 

“Still, what are humans even doing up there?” You questioned aimlessly, gazing up at the sky. “When I was young, every kid on the block wanted to be an astronaut. And now, apparently, every human is born one.” 

Pascal didn’t answer. He was distracted by something tugging on the fishing pole. 

“Did you get something?” You perked up, jumping to your feet. Please, oh, please be a fish. You were starving. Hell, even those robotic fish were beginning to look appetizing.

“Yes!” He chirped back animatedly. “It’s rather big, I hope the rope holds…” He trailed off as the thrashing got louder and more violent, droplets of water splashing every which way. 

You were both silent when he finally pulled it up, a clump of algae hanging limply from the hook, peering back at you. 

“Yeah.” You said after a pause. “I don’t think fishing is either one of our strengths. Maybe we should try to make a salad instead.” 

“Agreed.” Pascal grumbled. 

-

It was the strangest thing. You'd been here for a couple of days now. You were sure of it. 

And yet, you hadn’t seen the sun move an inch. 

It was still hovering above Pascal’s Village, sunlight filtering through the leaves and branches. You lied flat on the wooden pathway, staring up blankly. Pascal was next to you, fiddling with one of his machines. 

“Pascal?” You summoned his attention. “Do…sunsets not happen here?” 

“Sunsets?” Came his response. “What are those?” 

You sat, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Seriously? The sun just stays up there? There’s no day-and-night?” 

Pascal considered you with what you equated to a frown. “Are you referring to the night kingdom?” 

“Night kingdom?” 

He pointed across the village, far past the trees and plains. 

“It’s on the other side of the world. Sunlight can’t reach there, so they mostly rely on artificial light.” 

You tilted your head. “People actually live there?” 

He nodded. “I believe a small group of androids, also a multitude of machine lifeforms.”

You kept forgetting that humans no longer lived on Earth. It was overrun by androids and machine lifeforms now. 

“I was there a few centuries ago.” Pascal happily continued, oblivious to your disquiet. “I bet a lot has changed since.” 

“Centuries?” You repeated. “Pascal, how long have you been on Earth?” 

He’s not human, and yet you’d learned how to read his emotions. It wasn’t hard; he practically wore everything on his face, in the way he moved, the tone of his voice. 

His arms dropped into his lap. His body language became stiff. He’s hesitating. 

“I can’t remember much from that time, Machine Cores aren’t made to last this long.” Pascal divulged to you. “But I believe I was created between the 7th-8th machine war.” 

You gaped at him, eyes flickering over the dents—battle scars, metal bent by violence and a bloodless war. 

It was like pulling out teeth. Pascal revealed to you the history of the wars that had ravished Earth for centuries upon centuries. Aliens created machine lifeforms to take over the planet. Humans created androids to defend Earth. How overwhelming the machine lifeform army was, to the point where humanity retreated to the Moon, letting androids continue the war. He talked about the brief memories he had of those times, where he was hunting down androids from orders — where he was nothing but a machine. 

“And then, one day, you woke up?” You probed, when he grew silent. 

Pascal confirmed with a droll hum. You leaned back on your hands, thinking on all he told you, processing all the information you’d received.

“Humans and aliens are enemies.” You said out loud, “Does that make us enemies, Pascal?” 

Pascal flinched. “No! Of course not!” He vehemently denied it with so much certainty you had to smile at how seriously he took it. “I’d never do anything to hurt you.” 

“I know, I know.” You assured him. “I’m glad. I consider you my friend. I don’t care about anything else.” 

You didn’t know how you could’ve survived out here, had Pascal not found you. How much did you owe him? Hundreds and hundreds of lifetimes over. He was practically the only thing keeping you afloat. You didn’t care if Pascal was created to end humanity. That wasn’t who he was. He was the kindest, gentlest person you’d ever met. You wouldn’t let his past taint his present. 

“I consider you a friend as well.” Pascal voiced sweetly. You thought, if he could, he’d be smiling right about now. Maybe even blushing. 

You wished you could stay here forever with him. It could be a nice life. You could help Pascal spruce up the village. In the late evenings, the two of you could go fishing. In the mornings, you could tend to the garden. Maybe the two of you could start a new adventure to the night kingdom one day. 

It would be really nice, but you knew you couldn’t.

“It’s been days,” you finally started, “and there’s still no sign of Accord.” 

Pascal’s movements stopped. You knew he was sharing your thoughts. 

Accord should’ve been here days ago. The fact that she hadn’t showed up yet was alarming. Despite enjoying your time here, you missed home, your friends and family, the internet. Your patience was wearing away. Anxiety was starting to grow. You needed to make your own move. 

“Accord is an android,” you spoke, trying to avoid Pascal’s eyes, “I was thinking, maybe if I talked to the android kingdom, I could get closer to going home.” 

You didn’t say it out loud. You’d have to leave Pascal. 

The thought made your stomach twist.

Pascal, who was nothing but kind and gentle to you. Pascal, who had made sure you were safe and protected. Pascal, who was your friend. You were leaving him just for a bleak shot of getting home. 

The machine lifeform said nothing. He just turned away, looking up at the sky. The sun was still up, lingering over the world, you could feel its warm rays on your skin. They almost scorched you now, burning you for scorning your only friend in this world.

“I’ll contact them later today,” he finally said, “they’ll be here tomorrow.” 

His gears and metal felt awkward under your skin as you threw yourself at him, but you didn’t care. You squeezed him into the tightest hug you possibly could, even as his endoskeleton pinched your forearms and hands. Pascal barely seemed to register the hug. He froze for ten whole seconds underneath you. You knew, because you counted each one. 

“Thank you,” you whispered to your friend, “thank you so much.” 

Pascal stayed silent, but when he hugged you back, his hands were warm. 

A/N: if anyone saw my post about my trick or tease series, yes—this title and this trope were originally meant for steve rogers. but I wanted dex to be part of it as well + the stalker dynamic suits him better, for obvious reasons ofc lol. ngl, this time I unsettled myself a little but that’s exactly what I was going for with his character. hope you’ll enjoy 🤍 trick or tease masterlist

Benjamin Poindexter wanders through the city without any particular destination in mind. The caution that has kept him alive during the first weeks after his escape now faded into the kind of resignation that started wearing him down after too many nights spent hungry and cold. He still avoids police officers when he spots them on the street and keeps his head lowered whenever he passes security cameras, but survival no longer feels like an objective he is actively pursuing. It feels more like a habit his body has not yet forgotten.

Days in the city are no different from the ones in prison: they all just end up blurring into one another. He wakes wherever he happened to fall asleep the night before, gathers the few things he has managed to keep, and disappears back into the endless flow of people moving through the busy streets. Sometimes he follows crowded avenues lined with storefronts and restaurants. Other times he finds himself in quieter neighborhoods where the sidewalks are cracked and the aging buildings weathered—a reflection of his own exhaustion.

It rarely matters where he goes. Every street eventually begins to resemble the next.

People brush past him constantly without sparing him a second glance. They have places to be, friends waiting for them somewhere. They are too busy looking at their phones and thinking about their own problems to notice the gaunt, unshaven man standing a few feet away. Even when their eyes distractedly land on him, there is no recognition. He is just another stranger occupying space.

Dex has spent his entire life studying human beings, as therapists taught him how to mimic emotional responses and superiors evaluated every aspect of his behavior. Observation has always been easier than participation, because people just make more sense when watched from a safe distance.

That didn’t really change. Nowadays he just watches them from bus stops and park benches, from the corners of coffee shops and train stations. Couples walking hand in hand while discussing what they should make for dinner; coworkers complaining about their bosses during lunch breaks; friends gathering outside bars and spending hours chatting and giggling...

The conversations are rarely important, because there is something far more interesting about them that catches his attention.

The ease.

The casual certainty with which they move through one another’s lives.

No hesitation. No calculation. No fear that a wrong word might cause everything to collapse.

They belong somewhere.

Everyone belongs somewhere except him.

There was a time when Dex convinced himself that structure could replace belonging with the help of therapy sessions and missions. Structure could free him.

Every hour of his life was accounted for by somebody else. Every success was measured, every failure documented. He spent so many years molding himself into whatever other people needed him to be that somewhere along the way he lost track of who Benjamin really was underneath all of it.

And now? Well, that same freedom feels too similar to being abandoned.

At night, when the city grows quieter and the streets empty, the loneliness becomes impossible to ignore. It follows him into abandoned buildings and dark street corners like a mourning ghost. It settles beside him in bus stations and laundromats and every other place he occasionally uses to escape the cold like a silent companion.

It’s in those moments that Dex finds himself wondering what would happen if he simply disappeared.

Not in the dramatic sense, like a shootout or an arrest.

Just... if he stopped moving altogether. If he died somewhere beneath an overpass or in one of the countless empty alleys he drifts through.

How long would it take before anyone noticed?

Longer than it should, probably.

Eventually some commuter would find him on their way to work and call 911. A local reporter would spend thirty seconds talking about the unidentified body discovered downtown before moving on to the weather forecast and traffic updates. By the next morning, nobody would remember the segment had aired.

Maybe somebody at the FBI would hear about it. An old colleague would recognize the name and mention it over coffee. There would be a moment of surprise, a few awkward jokes, a shake of the head.

The prison guards who kept him locked in solitary would probably celebrate. The administrators who spent years trying to keep him contained would finally get to close the file for good. One less monster on the loose.

And that would be it.

No funeral worth attending, no grieving family. Just a life reduced to paperwork and a body bag.

That thought clings onto the edges of his mind more than he likes to admit, because he knows the same thing would happen to countless other people around him. Every day he passes individuals carrying loneliness so obvious it might as well be written across their faces. Like the blonde woman who spends her entire lunch break sitting alone in the park, staring emptily at the ducks in the lake. Or the elderly man who goes grocery shopping every day just to talk to cashiers for a few minutes, because there is nobody waiting for him at home. And the exhausted employee at the bank who smiles politely at customers despite looking as though she has not slept properly in weeks.

Everyone is far lonelier than they pretend to be.

They hide it beneath routines and obligations and practiced smiles, but Dex sees it as clear as day.

Perhaps that’s why he notices you.

At first you are simply another face among thousands. Another stranger crossing his path who should have disappeared from his memory the moment you walked away.

Instead he finds himself lingering.

The first time he spotted you was outside the grocery store close by one afternoon, standing in the rain while helping an elderly man load bags into the trunk of his car. He remembers watching you crouch beside a stray cat behind a café two days later. And then seeing you again one evening while you came back from work looking exhausted enough to collapse, only to stop and smile at a little girl who waved at you from across the street.

And yet there are moments, between your kind smiles offered so freely, that are fleeting enough to disappear with a simple fluttering of lashes. Moments when your expression slips.

That fascinates him the most, because it reminds him of all the people who spend their lives pretending they are happy with what they have.

It reminds him of himself.

Most people look at you and see a nice, pretty woman going on with her day.

Dex looks at you and sees pain strategically buried beneath kindness.

The temperature has dropped well below freezing by the time evening settles over the city.

Dex has spent most of the day walking in an attempt to keep warm, but exhaustion catches up to him soon. The wind has grown sharper as the sun disappeared, slicing through layers of clothing that were never designed for nights like this. Every exposed inch of skin burns, his fingers having long since gone numb.

He eventually finds shelter in the recessed entrance of a shuttered storefront. It isn’t much, but it protects him from the worst of the wind. Lowering himself onto the cold concrete, he draws his knees toward his chest.

The city is still alive around him.

Cars pass, people hurry home. A group of friends laugh as they disappear into a restaurant across the street.

Some glance in his direction before quickly looking away. Most don’t bother looking at all, and he can’t even blame them.

See, most people have perfected the art of ignoring things that make them uncomfortable. They avert their eyes from anyone who serves as an unpleasant reminder of how quickly a life can unravel.

That’s when he sees you.

Stepping out of the grocery store with two paper bags pressed against your side, you adjust your grip halfway down the block, shifting the weight of them against your hip before continuing on.

Dex squints, trying to keep hold of the sight.

Well, it looks like you but the sight feels more like his mind offering him a gentle memory than accepting it as reality. You’re not here, you’re somewhere warm, a place that makes sense for someone as beautiful as you.

But when he blinks, the shape is still there. The same pace in your walk, the same slight forward lean, as if you’re only trying to get home without lingering in this horrible weather.

No, no, it can’t be you. And yet the image doesn’t disappear. His mind keeps it there, softening the edges, refusing to let it go.

You turn slightly as you walk, and the angle breaks whatever fragile certainty had been forming.

Still, he watches until you disappear between buildings, until the next gust of wind reminds him of the cold seeping cruelly into his bones.

At some point his eyes flutter close, tired in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion.

Tired of moving.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of waking up every morning only to repeat the exact same meaningless cycle.

The thought that he might not survive the night this time arrives with surprising indifference.

Maybe that was really a trick of his mind then, Dex thinks distantly. A pleasant feeling to hold onto as everything stops altogether, a last thing to look at that doesn’t hurt.

Until the sound of approaching footsteps abruptly pulls him from the sweet memory.

They are too slow to belong to someone just walking by.

Dex’s eyes snap open.

You are in front of him, still in your work clothes. Looking as pretty and composed as ever. His ears burn in shame at the contrast.

You hesitate when you notice him looking at you, as though debating whether approaching him would be intrusive.

It lasts only a moment, though, before you make up your mind and walk over with a tiny, determined wrinkle between your brows.

Dex follows you cautiously with his eyes, slowly straightening up. People don’t approach him anymore, especially carrying a stack of folded blankets and a cup releasing visible wisps of steam into the freezing air.

“You looked like you needed it.” You offer quietly.

The explanation is so simple that for a moment he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not you are dangerous. Not I am calling the police. Not I know who you are.

Just cold. And that’s enough to deserve your concern.

His eyes fall on the blankets after you place them beside him. They look new, like something purchased deliberately rather than discarded.

Nobody has bought something for him in a very long time.

When Dex finally reaches for the cup, his fingers brush yours accidentally. The contact lasts less than a second, but he shivers anyway, electricity pumping through his veins.

You don’t recoil, nor grimace. Instead, you smile at him—a genuine, warm curve of your lips that transforms your entire face. And Dex allows himself to shamelessly bask in the sight. Not only because he thinks you’re possibly the prettiest woman he has ever seen, but because he can’t remember the last time somebody looked at him with something even close to kindness.

He has been pitied, feared… used. But this? Kindness offered so freely, without expectation and obligation? It knocks the breath out of his lungs.

By the time he realizes he should say something, you’re already standing.

“I hope things get better for you.” You give him another small smile, adjusting the strap of your bag.

The words are painfully ordinary, something many people probably say every day without giving them much weight. Just leisure pleasantries. Yet after you disappear into the crowd, Dex finds himself replaying them over and over again, your soft voice a pleasant touch that quiets his chaotic mind for the first time in weeks.

He sits there for what feels like an endless amount of time after you’ve gone, shakily cradling the cup between his hands while the coffee gradually cools. The blankets remain folded beside him, the cold just as bitter as before, but the possibility of this being his last night on Earth is now a distant memory.

Out of the hundreds of people who walked past him that night, you were the only one who stopped. The only one who seemed to notice that he existed, and was not any less deserving of compassion just because of what his life had become.

The only one who looked at him and saw a person instead of a problem.

When Dex eventually rises to his feet and starts absently following the route you took through the city, he tells himself it’s simple curiosity. Why someone like you would concern yourself with someone like him.

The explanation sounds reasonable enough in his head, enough that he almost manages to ignore the fact that he is still thinking of your smile as he stares up at your silhouette moving through your apartment.

If somebody told you five months ago that your life was about to improve, you probably would have laughed in their face and walked away.

There is only so much disappointment a person can absorb before they stop expecting good things altogether, and somewhere along the way you have crossed that threshold without even noticing.

The thing is, your life hasn’t changed all that much since then.

Your landlord is still useless. Your paycheck still disappears almost as soon as it arrives. You still spend most evenings alone in an apartment that feels a little too quiet and a little too small. However, over the past few months a handful of odd little incidents have begun accumulating in the back of your mind.

One evening you spent nearly half an hour searching for your keys after becoming absolutely convinced you had left them on the kitchen table before work. By the time you found them sitting inside your handbag, exactly where they should have been, you laughed at yourself for being so forgetful. Exhaustion does strange things to memory, after all.

A couple of weeks later you came home to discover that the smoke detector that had been tormenting you with intermittent chirping for days had finally fallen silent. You fully intended to replace the battery yourself, but somehow the problem solved itself before you got around to it. You remember standing on a chair and frowning at the device for a solid minute, trying unsuccessfully to figure out whether the battery compartment looked different than before.

Then there was the leak beneath your bathroom sink.

That one bothered you more than the others because you knew for a fact that it was getting worse. Every few days you had to shove another towel beneath the cabinet to soak up the water, constantly reminding yourself with gritted teeth that you would deal with it properly when you had enough money. Then one evening you came home from work and discovered the leak just... stopped. The better part of the next hour saw you crouched on the bathroom floor inspecting pipes you barely understood before eventually convincing yourself that perhaps the problem had never been as serious as you thought.

Long story short, life carried on.

You continued waking up too early and going to bed too late. Work consumed you, money remained tight. Most days you were so tired that once you got home you refused to make dinner and just collapsed in your bed with the same clothes, grimacing in the morning at the idea of having to change the sheets again.

Occasionally, however, more strange things started to happen.

Like that package that disappeared from the building lobby and mysteriously reappeared outside your apartment two days later, looking like it had been opened and then taped back together. The bedroom window that refused to close properly for nearly a year suddenly functioned perfectly. The lost pair of baby blue panties that you had worn to a disastrous date with a colleague who apparently resigned the morning after, only to disappear into thin air. The man who spent months making you dread every shift with his lewd stares and inappropriate requests found behind a dumpster with his face unrecognizable and his tongue cut off.

None of it made sense, but you weren’t that worried.

If anything, the incidents feel morbidly helpful, which is probably why you never examine them too closely. They simply make difficult days a little more bearable, and so you accept them for what they appear to be: coincidences.

That explanation satisfies you right up until the moment you unlock your apartment door one rainy evening in May.

The day has been particularly draining, even by your standards. Your feet ache, your shoulders are tense, up to the point that halfway up the stairs you briefly consider sitting down and just falling asleep there for the night. By the time you finally reach your floor, all you can think about is taking a shower and collapsing onto the couch until the sound of your alarm wakes you the next morning.

You are already reaching for the light switch when you sense something different in the air.

You stand on the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, your hand resting on the doorknob as your eyes jump from the blanket on the back of the couch to the dishes left to dry beside the sink. The apartment looks normal, nothing broken nor missing.

But something still feels off.

Perhaps you are more tired than you thought.

You shake your head with a sigh, locking the front door before making your way to the couch to remove your shoes. Your arms are already halfway up for a big stretch, when your eyes accidentally fall on the book on the coffee table, and your body freezes.

You clearly remember throwing it carelessly the night before, annoyed that it was late and you couldn’t keep reading, or else you would have been a zombie in the morning. Now it’s placed in the middle of the coffee table, right beside the decorative vinyl tray where you use to store any knick knack that doesn’t really have a place in your small apartment.

Even that is carefully arranged: the remote control on the right side, your partially burned candle on the other, and right in the middle, the kitsch party favor you got from your colleague’s wedding last year.

With a slow turn, you look at the kitchen, still dark. Even from here you can see that one of the cabinets—the one where you keep your stash of snacks—is not completely closed. 

And then… the smell.

At first it’s faint enough to dismiss as something carried in from the hallway when you opened the door, but the longer you focus on it the more certain you are that it’s coming from the inside. Your apartment has always smelled of the jasmine candle you occasionally burn in the evenings, with traces of whatever shower gel happens to be sitting in your shower at the time. 

This scent is musky. A presence still clinging stubbornly to the air long after it has left. 

But you live alone...

From the moment you were old enough to go out alone, you started to imagine what you would do if you ever found yourself in danger, because every woman does at some point, and you had prepared yourself in all the ways that seemed sensible at the time. By now, walking home with your keys threaded between your fingers whenever a street is too dark and empty has turned into a habit you follow unconsciously.

That’s why you always believed that if the moment ever came, fear would sharpen rather than paralyze you, and you would at least be able to defend yourself long enough to get away.

Nobody tells you that the body doesn’t always choose between fighting and fleeing. Sometimes, the mind is simply trapped somewhere between disbelief and terror while precious seconds slip away.

There is no warning in the traditional sense, no footsteps or violence. Only the unbearable certainty that you are no longer alone in your own home.

One arm locks around your middle with a controlled firmness that prevents you from stumbling, while a cloth settles over your mouth before a scream can fully form. The terror manifests in your eyes widening, in panic turning your blood into ice as you struggle against someone that feels impossibly solid. 

A strange, sweet chemical smell fills your lungs before you can turn away. You try to fight, to twist and push and reach for anything that might help you break free. To hold your breath, at least… but even that becomes increasingly difficult as your body starts to quickly lose its reliability, strength draining out of your limbs in a way that feels unnatural and deeply wrong.

A warm breath brushes briefly against your neck—the touch so light you might later convince yourself you imagined it. And as darkness hugs your pliant body, you can’t help but notice the way the arm around your waist is supporting your weight rather than restraining it.

You try to force your eyes open when something tenderly brushes the apple of your cheek, lingering there for longer than it should.

Your lips part slightly—or you think they do—but the attempt to speak dissolves as you succumb to the void once again. It’s the worst feeling ever: your brain being awake, screaming at you to open your eyes and run, while your joints are heavy, lying vulnerable at the mercy of a stranger.

But you keep slipping in and out of consciousness in a room you don’t recognize and a presence you can’t fully see.

The voice is always there, low and close and impossibly calm, because the person speaking knows they have all the time in the world and no fear of being interrupted. 

“You don’t have to fight it.” You hear the first time, composed.

“I didn’t want it to be like this.” He murmurs at some point, his voice now on the brink of misery. 

There are other phrases too, ones that barely hold together when you try to catch them: something about you being safe now, something about not being alone anymore. But they never fully resolve into clarity before dissolving again.

“Pretty,” he says that a lot, as if he is thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly. “So pretty and so sweet, my angel.”

Sometimes it’s a slow, controlled touch that caresses your forehead and then moves to your hair, as though he is making sure you are still there, still real and present in the way he imagined all along.

Your body reacts sluggishly, sinking further into whatever is holding you up.

“You’re going to be alright, I’ll make sure of it.” He whispers against your knuckles.

The last thing you register is not fear in its sharpest form, but the confusing contradiction of being held with such reverence while your mind insists that nothing about this should feel safe.

When you finally manage to pull yourself out of the heavy fog weighing down your mind, you immediately become aware of how your mouth feels like sandpaper. The simple act of swallowing is painful, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth uncomfortably. Every part of your body aches, the disorientation reminding you of that meagre time off you are allowed once a year that you promptly spend sleeping for days.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains definitely doesn’t help.

The rays spill across the room in warm golden strips, forcing you to squint against the brightness. Your head throbs in protest, and when you shift slightly against the mattress, a wave of dizziness rolls through you hard enough to make your stomach turn.

Another thing that you notice with furrowed brows is that this room is too quiet to be your apartment—no matter where you settle, the loud chaos of traffic and the sound of sirens blaring somewhere in the distance are always following you.

There is also a faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, mixed with the scent of coffee that has long since gone cold. But nothing about your surroundings feels threatening. If anything, the room is painfully ordinary in its muted colors and minimal furniture.

Yet an uncomfortable feeling weighs behind your ribs.

A feeling that grows stronger the longer you lie there.

Your mattress isn’t this soft. Your sheets aren’t made of silk.

You force your eyes open completely. Staring upward, you blink lazily.

Your ceiling is full of cracks and dark spots. This one is clean and smooth.

And your bedroom window isn’t supposed to be there. You don’t even own curtains—you can’t because of some stupid policy your creepy landlord put in place.

You push yourself upright then, but the room tilts at once. A sharp wave of nausea crashes through your chest again, forcing you to grab the edge of the mattress while dark spots dance across your vision.

The movement is enough for you to acknowledge the man sitting on the armchair near the window.

A book is resting open in his lap, although judging by the way his eyes are already fixed on you, it wasn’t doing a good job at holding his attention.

The first thing that draws you in is his handsome face and broad shoulders. The second is his stare. It’s not the same as that of men watching women on the subway or across bars. Neither that of customers occasionally studying you when they think you’re too distracted to notice.

He looks at you like he’s been dying for this moment to happen.

A mug sits abandoned on the small table beside him, and despite his oddly tense posture, his voice comes out surprisingly gentle.

“There you are.” Relief spreads across his face so openly that it catches you completely off guard.

“Easy,” he takes a small step toward the bed, carefully placing the book near the mug. He frowns. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

You don’t even realize you have been slowly shuffling away until he says that.

You stop immediately. Behind you, your shoulders bump against the headboard.

There is nowhere else to go.

His eyes flick briefly toward the distance between you and the edge of the mattress, the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening for a fleeting moment before returning to your face.

“I was starting to think you’d sleep through another day.”

You continue staring at him, convinced for a moment that you must have misheard.

Another day.

Your thoughts feel like they are desperately trying to push through mud, because every attempt to make sense of this bizzare situation only seems to leave you more confused than before.

“You need to drink some water.”

There is a bottle on the nightstand beside the bed, and next to it a glass, a packet of crackers and a folded hand towel. The arrangement is uncomfortably scrupulous, too symmetric to have been the result of some mindless afterthought.

The man reaches for the bottle, and your eyes follow his large hands as he unscrews the cap and starts pouring water into the clean glass.

“Take slow sips, your throat’s probably going to hurt. You’ve been out for almost forty-eight hours.”

The room tilts again.

Forty-eight hours.

Your gaze snaps back to his face.

“What?” The word comes out rough and barely audible.

His expression immediately changes. A faint smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, small enough that for a moment you are certain it must have been your mind tricking you.

“Here, drink it.” He completely ignores your question, handing you the half-full glass that you unconsciously take with trembling fingers.

“You had me worried for a while.”

You had him worried.

As though he has any right to be worried about you.

As though this stranger belongs anywhere near you.

It’s in that moment that the memory crashes into your mind like a wrecking ball smashing concrete.

Your apartment.

The smell that didn’t belong.

The certainty that somebody had been inside your home.

The feeling of arms wrapping around you from behind.

The overwhelming heaviness that followed.

Darkness.

Your pulse spikes so violently that it hurts your chest.

The glass slips from your numb fingers and lands on the mattress between you, messily spilling water on the sheets. For the first time since waking up, genuine fear breaks through the haze still clouding your thoughts.

You try to move away from him instinctively, but your body is still uncooperative. The effort is clumsy, leaving you dizzy as you brace a hand against the mattress to stop yourself from falling sideways.

The moment he notices the change in your breathing, his features harden for a mere second. Until then he looked elated to see you awake after spending the last two days drilling a hole through the floor of this damn apartment with his feet. But whatever he sees in your expression sweeps that relief away at once.

His eyes dart across your face, taking in every ragged breath and every failed attempt to back away. 

“Oh.”

The sound leaves him softly, almost regretful.

It’s the expression of somebody realizing they have made a mistake.

“Sweetheart.” The pet name sounds horribly familiar despite the fact that you have never seen this man before in your life.

“I know,” he slowly takes the glass and places it back on the nightstand. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Not ideal. Of course, waking up in an unfamiliar room after being drugged and abducted is a rather unfortunate inconvenience. Surely not the worst experience of your life.

He takes a step forward before apparently thinking better of it. The hesitation lasts only a second, but it’s enough to suggest that he is trying to not overwhelm you and failing miserably.

For a man who somehow managed to break into your apartment, transport you somewhere else without being noticed, and keep you unconscious for two days, he suddenly looks too uncertain of himself.

“You’ve been asleep longer than I expected,” he continues carefully, as if you are some injured animal to coax out its hiding place. “I’m not going to lie, I was starting to worry. I checked your pulse every two hours, but you were breathing fine and your temperature stayed normal. I knew you were alright. Maybe you just needed to sleep a little bit more to properly gain back your energy.”

Does he really think that’s what you are worried about? Can’t he see the pure terror written across your face? Is he ignoring it voluntarily?

And the fact that he knows how often he checked your pulse, that he apparently spent two days probably watching you breath, touching you to take your body temperature while you lay unconscious, only reinforces the dreadful realization that this unknown man has devoted an unhealthy amount of attention to you.

When your breathing grows even more uneven, his expression tightens.

“Hey, don’t do that.” There is genuine concern in his voice. “You’ve got to slow down a little for me.”

The request is absurd enough that you almost burst out laughing.

Instead, it feels like the walls are gradually pressing down on you.

Dex recognizes it immediately. Something about the way he watches you suggests familiarity, as though he knows what it feels like when your own body turns against you.

Without asking permission, he frantically crouches beside the bed and reaches for your hand, carefully pressing it against the center of his chest.

The gesture is so unexpected that your eyes go wide.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, your fingers weakly twitching in the fabric of his shirt.

“Just focus on my heartbeat,” he says softly. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t even have to look at me if you don’t want to. But you need to calm down. Try to match my breathing, okay?”

For the first time since waking up, he stops talking entirely and simply demonstrates, drawing in a slow breath before letting it out again, the movement measured and controlled. He repeats it again, and then a third time, never taking his alarmed eyes off you.

Little by little, against your own better judgment and under his patient movements, your breathing begins to follow the rhythm he sets.

You are still trapped. Still want to throw up from the residual drug mixed with fear. Still sitting too close to the man who kidnapped you. But the sharp edges dull enough to not make you feel like you are drowning. 

The visible satisfaction that spreads across his face is unsettling.

“Good. That’s good,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” You mumble before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, before his quiet, startled laugh fills the small room. He briefly looks down, shaking his head as if conceding the point.

“Yeah,” he hums, far from defensive. “Maybe it is.”

His lips briefly press in a thin line pensively. “I’m sorry it happened like this.”

You don’t believe, even for a second, that this man is sorry for what he did. What he seems sorry about is the fact that you’re afraid, and that’s disturbing enough to make your skin crawl.

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” He adds quickly.

There’s a softness in his expression that would almost pass for affection if the situation itself weren’t so wrong. Yes, he’s not looking at you like he’s enjoying your fear, but that makes it worse in a way you can’t quite explain. Anger, sadism would have been more logical. But this quiet conviction that nothing bad is happening—not in his version of events—leaves you speechless.

The moment his hand squeezes yours, you flinch, having completely forgotten that he’s still keeping your palm pressed to his chest. His thumb starts moving again over your knuckles in a repetitive, absent motion.

“Who are you?” You manage out feebly.

Your throat is still raw, the words coming out rougher than you intend. The moment you speak, he’s already reaching for the nightstand, this time pressing the bottle of water into your free hand.

“You should drink this first.” He repeats. “Please.”

The water is cold enough that it makes your throat ache on the way down. Only when you look back at him do you realize he hasn’t stopped watching you, his lips slightly parted as he takes in the way your throat bobs with every eager gulp.

“Who are you?” You repeat, pushing down the urge to hide from his intense eyes.

Your question seems to be bouncing off the walls of his mind as he ruminates over it... Like he’s deciding which version of the answer would bring less trouble.

“My name is Benjamin.” He says eventually.

The name sits there between you, formal and unfamiliar in a way that doesn’t fit him at all. Then he exhales lightly, reluctant.

“Dex,” he adds with strain. “People call me Dex.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You are sitting in a room with a man you don’t know, having a conversation that shouldn’t be happening at all, and yet your body hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you should be screaming, trying to kick him away and claw your way out of this prison.

The thing is, you’ve never been good with confrontation. You avoid conflict when you can, letting things go too easily and apologizing when you dare to speak up for yourself. It has never felt like a flaw before as much as a way of keeping life manageable. And look where it has led you... right to your condemnation.

Your eyes flick briefly around the room without meaning to. It’s not large, but everything in it feels intentional. There’s no obvious sign of chaos, nothing that suggests the filth and improvisation of an insane gesture. 

Dex is still observing you, his hazel eyes completely soaking in your presence.

“We’ve met before.”

Your lips part uselessly, confused.

“Back in November,” he clears his throat awkwardly, readjusting his weight slightly. “The grocery store two blocks from your place. The one with the broken automatic doors that always stuck open halfway.”

Cold night. A man sitting too still against the wall. You debating for ten minutes whether it was a good decision to go back.

“But—but it was months ago...” You squeak out, recoiling. “You remember that?”

His face brightens, pleased that you do.

“Of course!” He nods. “You were still wearing your work clothes and had two bags with you because you’d stopped for groceries.” He swallows, eyes emptily staring at some random spot on your shirt as if he was reliving the moment.

“You walked right past me at first.”

Your throat tightens at his quiet comment. 

“But then you came back,” he finally looks up, his expression open again. “You brought blankets, coffee... You didn’t have to do that, but you did anyway.”

You allow your eyes to study him, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one he’s describing. He looks different now—cleaner, more put together, but there’s something underneath that practiced calm that feels like the same person from that alley… the same empty eyes. 

“You are kind to everyone,” he comments shyly. “Even when they walk right over you.”

The air changes with his expression.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He scoffs lightly at your clear surprise, his head momentarily tipping forward. “You hated your job. You came home exhausted every day, and yet you still kept going back. And your friends…” His mouth twists.

“Half of them only remember you exist when they need something. The others stopped calling altogether. You’re always the one reaching out first, always the one asking how they’re doing, always the one trying to keep those friendships alive. Then your birthday comes around and suddenly everyone’s busy. You spend holidays staring at your phone waiting for messages that never come, and they still expect you to be there whenever it’s convenient for them.”

A lonely tear trails down your cheek and his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than you can comfortably handle.

“I saw you cry.” His words are nothing short of a whisper but they hit you like a punch in the guts.

“In bed. In the shower. In the kitchen.” He swallows. “You were always so sad.” He whispers.

“I know what it’s like,” he adds after a pause. “Being alone.”

His free hand tentatively lifts, until it cups your cheek. The touch is far too careful, it makes you feel like an ethereal creature being worshipped rather than a woman kidnapped to satisfy some sick fantasy.

“But you’re not alone anymore.”

Your breath catches at the inevitability coloring his voice.

“Dex—”

“You’ve got me now.” He smiles, and for the first time you notice a missing tooth.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing properly until he is standing up, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

Your first instinct is to back away, but it’s useless. The mattress gives under you in every direction, your body betraying you by freezing under his big frame.

“Hey,” he mumbles. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The words make no sense coming out of his mouth, in your situation, in anything you understand, yet they don’t sound like a lie to him. That’s what makes it worse. He believes them. Completely.

You try to speak again, but all it comes out is a broken whimper, tangled in breath and panic, earning a small sound of frustration from Dex. The situation keeps slipping out of his control.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this way,” there’s a faint edge of strain in his voice now, actively struggling with your fear. “I just—I couldn’t keep watching you living like that anymore.”

The moment he moves closer, your muscles lock as the space between you starts to disappear. You try to shift away fruitlessly, already suffocating in the warmth that radiates off his body.

To your absolute horror, he doesn’t stop in front of your distress.

Each small movement forward strengthens the grip around your lungs—the oxygen around you is not enough.

Your fingers curl into the blanket beneath you without you meaning them to.

“I couldn’t leave you there.” 

His hand comes down near your hip, close enough that it brushes your covered skin, but still not touching you. You stiffen at the proximity alone.

Then the bed dips more as he lowers himself further, causing you to press harder into the headboard until the metal is digging uncomfortably into your bones. Your ears are ringing, your heartbeat so fast you feel like you are going to pass out, yet you are forced to live every second of it as Dex fully settles between your thighs.

His presence looms over you, before leaning in slowly. You flinch hard, an involuntary movement of your torso that causes the headboard to hit the wall with a deafening clank.

But Dex doesn’t stop, not until his head is resting on your chest.

Right over your heartbeat.

The contact sucks the fight out of you at once. Even your breathing stalls for a painful second before restarting in short, uneven pulls out of your control.

He doesn’t speak anymore.

He just stays there, still, listening.

“You’re really worked up,” he murmurs to himself. There’s something almost analytical in his voice. “I can fix that.”

Your fingers twitch into the sheets, until you finally gather enough strength to lift your arms and push at his shoulders, your neck desperately straining back to keep the contact to the bare minimum. It barely registers, your hands trembling as they make contact with a wall of steel. The effort leaves your limbs weak and unsteady, though, falling back against the mattress dejectedly.

“I’m not hurting you,” he recovers immediately, the words sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself. “I swear I’m not.”

You force your throat to work, and when your voice finally comes out, it’s in a thin, pathetic whimper.

“Get off me.”

Everything comes to a halt. Dex lifts his head from your chest with terrifying calm, just enough to face you. For a moment he doesn’t respond at all, his eyes just fixed on you, unblinking and so clear you can almost see the way he replays your words over and over again.

“Oh.”

He shifts back gradually, pulling his weight away from you as he settles on his knees. His hands go flat on his own thighs, open and visible, like he is deliberately trying to remove any sense of threat.

The movement is controlled, but there is a stiffness to his joints now, clearly responding to something he did not account for.

“I didn’t—” He begins, then stops mid-sentence, his jaw tightening slightly. “Okay. I won’t do that.”

He remains sitting close, his posture unnaturally still.

“I thought it would help,” he mumbles after a moment, his attention dropping briefly to the sad space between your bodies before returning to your face. “When people are overwhelmed like that… physical contact usually helps them settle.”

Again that detached tone.

You swallow thickly, genuinely scared at the speed your heart races inside your ribcage.

His eyes jump from your blown pupils to your heaving chest, then back up again.

“You’re still afraid.”

A pause follows in which you simply stare at him with tears threatening to spill.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”

Is Dex repeating that an attempt to convince you, or himself?

His breathing changes before he even finishes speaking, the rhythm of it losing its steadiness as if the thread keeping it all together just snapped under the inconvenience that is your reaction.

His hands keep lifting from his thighs before settling again, the small, restless movements never quite resolving into anything concrete.

“I have a job now,” he blurts out, eyes locked with yours, wide and intense. “A real one. I get paid regularly and I’ve saved money. I can take care of things—of you.”

Dex leans forward as words collide into themselves.

“You don’t have to go back to that life,” he swallows. “I can make it better. I—I already know how, I’ve planned it all! I got us a place out of the city, somewhere quiet where—where there is no traffic and no perverts scaring you at night.” His jaw clenches, knuckles turning white briefly as his hands close into two fists. 

“You talked about it, I remember, you wrote it down in your journal,” you wince. He even read your journal? “About—about the cottage in the middle of nowhere, and the garden with a place for the birds to rest and eat, and—and a porch where you can sit with your tea in the morning. No nosy neighbors and no greedy landlords.”

His voice keeps rising and shaking around the edges.

“I can keep you safe,” he whispers like a secret, his nose merely a few inches from yours. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ve been handling things already, you just didn’t see it happening.”

That last part slips out before he seems to catch it, and Dex’s mouth snaps shut.

“No!” You flinch at the sudden rise in volume, witnessing first-hand how regret washes over his features.

“Sorry, sorry! I mean,” he exhales sharply, tone dropping again. “I mean I’ve been trying to make it right. For you.”

The lump in your throat is suffocating you.

“But I—I never asked for any of this. I don’t even know you.” You manage eventually, even if the sentence breaks apart halfway through, collapsing into tears before you can swallow them down. “Please just let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I won’t—just, please... please.”

Your hands come up to your face but they do a poor job at hiding your despair, because your body folds forward as the sobs take over, loud and agonizing.

Dex simply lets his body sit back on his heels, watching you cry with an unreadable expression.

After a long stretch of silence, it appears slowly—a faint curve of his lips that successfully slips past the control he had been so careful to piece together for you.

“What do you want from me?” You sob out, increasingly unsettled by his calm demeanor. “I can’t—” You choke on your next breath.

“I just want you.” He answers without hesitation.

Dex leans forward again, then stops himself mid-motion, catching his own impulse and forcing it back down. His hands hover for a second over your shoulders before returning to his sides.

“We’re going to be okay,” he hurries out. “You know that you were stuck. You want something different.”

“But I didn’t mean—”

“Anything you want,” his words tighten again with urgency. “I’ll make it happen.”

His voice lowers.

“Just...” His voice quivers faintly. “Don’t leave me.”

Your body is still shaking with every hiccup, but the words don’t bounce off you the way they should. They settle like a boulder on your chest, pressing against the exhaustion, the slow collapse of a life you were pretending was fine.

And before you can fully comprehend the mess you got yourself into because of a stupid good deed you decided to do on a whim, you flinch again as Dex moves, decisively enough that there’s no time to escape.

He pulls you into a hug, your body instantly going rigid as his muscled arms wrap around your waist. Whimpering, you lift your hands to push at his chest, but his hold tightens in response, your palms now forced flat between you two.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice is low against the side of your head. “Don’t cry, please, angel. You’re breaking my heart.”

He starts to rock slightly, the motion unhurried and consistent, but your crying doesn’t subdue right away.

When he lowers you back onto the pillows, your body tightens again at the change in position, but he follows the movement instead of pushing it. He stays close, his hands still wrapped around your body but careful to not press his weight into you the way he did before.

“I don’t want you to shake like that around me.” He mumbles in your ear after a while, stripped of the earlier urgency. “Why won’t you believe me? I said I’m not going to hurt you.”

You swallow at the hurt pouring from his voice, but you turn your head away anyway in a last, futile attempt to set a boundary. 

“I—” He cuts himself off, his next breath shaky. “I didn’t know how else to make you stop running in your head like that. You were—you were going to break yourself apart.” His arms squeeze once.

“But you don’t have to do that anymore,” he adds happily. “Not when you have me now.”

You don’t remember the last time someone stayed this close to you without an ulterior motive. Even friends and ex-boyfriends who touched you in the past did it like contact had an expiration date you were supposed to respect.

Most days you try to ignore it, because it’s work, home, work again, and then fill the spaces in between with loud music and books so you don’t notice how quiet everything is when no one is there to witness your life unfolding. You’re used to eating alone, shopping alone, coming back to an empty apartment without expecting anything different. 

But here, with someone actually holding you with such devoted desperation, something lodged deep inside you gives up before your mind can stop it. Your shoulders drop first, only now giving you the time to properly register the sharp sting caused by your constant rigidity. Your hands, which have been tense against his chest, loosen without your consent, fingers uncurling slowly instead of pushing.

Dex is still above you, braced between your legs and still surprisingly careful as he clings onto your body. Your arms move next. At first it’s only a mere jerk that you have the chance to stop, but then they are hovering over his back. And when they finally settle around his shoulders, his muscles lock in shock for a long moment.

Keeping still throughout it all, he is scared the faintest movement could drag you back into that dark conviction that paints him as the bad guy. Which should probably be the sensible thing to believe, because this is wrong—you are betraying your own sense of safety by embracing the same man who forcefully carved a place into your life and took control of it.

But you stay there anyway, even when Dex slowly lifts his head from where it has been tucked against your chest. The movement is timid as his hands remain exactly where they are: one gripping your side, the other resting between your shoulder blades.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

His face is close enough now that you can make out details you hadn’t noticed before, too blinded by panic. Like the faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the scar on his right cheek. The hesitation that keeps flickering in his hazel eyes.

From the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes, you know what is about to happen.

You should turn your head.

You should push him away and hold onto whatever common sense you have left.

Instead, you remain perfectly still.

When he finally leans forward, it’s so tentative that you almost don’t register it at first. His nose brushes yours, the small contact making his breath hitch.

For a moment it genuinely feels like he’s giving you one final opportunity to stop him. But you don’t.

The kiss lasts barely a second before he’s already pulling back again, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t know what to make of any of this.

The fear is still there, intertwined with confusion. Nothing about the situation has become less alarming, yet beneath all of it sits a quieter realization that is much harder to confront.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you as though your existence alone mattered to them.

You truly are pathetic.

Dex studies your face frantically, searching for a reaction. When you don’t immediately recoil, some of the tension visibly leaves his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed. “Haven’t done this in a long time.”

After the stalking and the break-in, you somehow expected him to be smoother than this. Certainly not to apologize for his kissing techniques.

Taking your silence as encouragement, he locks your mouths more forcefully than before. It’s eager, clumsy in the way his tongue pushes between your parted lips as the hand on your hip quickly flies behind your head to keep you nice and still for him.

“Wait—” You gasp when his big hands are suddenly everywhere. They squeeze your asscheeks, play with your covered breasts and palm your thighs as he keeps pressing wet kisses down your throat. 

A loud whine falls from your lips, and it feels downright mortifying, your body completely on fire under his desperate touch. Dex muffles a growl against the swell of your tits once his hand sinks into your ruined panties, basking in the sharp tang that invades his nostrils and that he only had the chance to smell from stolen underwear.

With his other hand, he lowers your tank top, leaving the fabric hanging hopelessly from your torso to admire your beautiful tits.

It’s nothing that Dex hasn’t seen before—he did have to install cameras inside your apartment to make sure that fucking asshole of your landlord wouldn’t break in while you were gone.

These fucking creeps never learn their lesson…

Fortunately you wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Not when you are finally with Dex, while he is somewhere in the depth of some big lake on the other side of the state. 

Your first orgasm of the night hits you with two of his fingers slowly fucking inside your pussy, and his lips delicately suckling your clit.

Your hands were desperately clutching his shoulders, his groan deep and animalistic around your nipple when your nails sank into the fabric of his t-shirt, causing a pleasant sting to travel down his back. 

“Yes, sweetheart. Mark me, ‘m all yours.”

When Dex finally looked at you with a pretty blush across his cheeks, mumbling that he needs to taste you.

You fought him at first, frantically shaking your head and squeezing your shaky thighs close to keep his mouth as far as possible from your core. But again, you must be so pathetic to cave in for a pair of glossy hazel eyes looking up at you as if you just told him to keep his disgusting hands to himself and let you go. 

Dex panted, chin gently propped on your belly. “Please, please my angel. Just a little taste, I promise.”

Now, a shiver runs down your back at the primal sound clawing out of his chest when he finally gets his mouth on your slick folds.

Your eyes turn wet, breathy whimpers reluctantly falling from your parted lips when you come, wave after wave of electrifying pleasure running through your veins as Dex watches mesmerized, tongue still working on your pussy and his free hand on your hip to help you hump his face. 

“That’s it. That was a strong one, hm lovely?” You flinch in shame at the sight of your wetness shining on his smirk, but Dex is already discarding his pants and boxers, blanketing your body with his as he drags his hard cock between your sensitive folds.

He moans in your mouth, ignoring the way your palms keep pushing at his shoulders.

“Dex.” You wail, overstimulated.

“Yes, angel. Say my name, wanna hear you scream it. Wanna show everyone how good I make my pretty girl feel, and then I’m gonna cut their fucking ears off.” He groans against your lips, completely missing your flinch.

“You’re beautiful everywhere. Pretty face, pretty lips, pretty tits, pretty pussy…” He blabbers, eyes squeezed shut as the tip of his length slips inside.

A loud moan claws out of your throat. “Stop talking.” You mewl, the stimulation causing your hips to buck uncontrollably as another climax draws impossibly close again.

Your face is on fire, not used to praises, much less coming from a man.

“Can’t, sweetheart.” His answer is strained, the control he spent months building just for you slipping miserably once the realization of finally having you on his cock, naked and moaning, fully hits him.

“You’re my good girl now.” His hips gain speed, the stretch burning a little until he finally finds that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. “Taking me so well, look at you.”

“Dex.” He shudders helplessly when you call for him. Never has his name sounded so sweet.

His head tips back all of a sudden. “Fuck, are you coming, my love?” He growls out, indulging in the way your pussy clamps desperately around him. 

Your climax is stronger and messier, slick steadily pouring out around his length as your back arches and you find yourself shamelessly moaning and convulsing, trapped in an endless circle of bliss with his cock abusing your sweet spot and the trimmed hair at the base rubbing your puffy clit raw.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Mark you forever as mine.” He mumbles urgently, surging down to suck on the skin of your neck. “Shit, shit—” Dex grunts, his balls tight as thick ropes of cum stuff you full. 

You are now lying pliant on the mattress, his body still looming over yours as his cock weakly twitches inside you.

For a brief moment, a dangerous thought flashes across your tired mind.

He is spent and trembling, mumbling incoherently into your breasts... would it really be that hard to push him away? He is a broad, muscled man, but Dex would never expect it. Not after you surrendered so viscerally to his touch. You could shove him off and make a run to the door. Or reach for the glass on the nightstand and smash it against his temple hard enough to buy yourself a few precious minutes.

Instead, when his mouth frantically finds yours with a low whine, you allow Dex to steal the oxygen from your lungs as your hands slowly cradle his cheeks. 

Maybe it’s the beginning of something terrible. Maybe one day you’ll regret not even trying. But as this broken man holds you like letting go would kill him, you find that you can’t bring yourself to care.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

"Grab me the folder with the October 3rd case files, please, dear."

Higuruma's request snaps you out of your daydreams—body jerking as heat burns your cheeks.

"O-Of course!"

You know exactly where to go, at least. Every misplaced document, every obscure reference—you've long since mapped the chaos of Higuruma Hiromi's filing system.

Locating the folder within seconds, the brief contact of his fingers grazing yours as you hand it over makes you clench.

"Thank you, doll."

Higuruma doesn't look up, his eyes are already scanning the document. Clearly your touch doesn't stir anything in him.

Right.

You get it. You do. 

It's not cruelty—just a single-minded determination from a habitually overworked and underfucked attorney moonlighting as a sorcerer. 

Higuruma is well practiced in putting his own needs to the side for others, his entire life has been dedicated to it—you can't bear to fault him for that.

So you retreat. Back to the sofa in the corner of his office, the sting tucked behind a tired smile. Higuruma isn't the only one who knows how to compartmentalize.

Still, the thought lingers—is there even a point in staying?

He doesn't need you. Not really.

Higuruma managed for years as a public defender before the Culling Games. He's more than capable of grabbing his own files.

Besides, it's not like the jujutsu higher-ups assigned you here for your legal expertise. The "Executive Legal Assistant" line is just civilian window dressing— a polite way of saying leash.

Your real title? Assistant Manager of Jujutsu Tech.

A handler for a newly ranked special-grade sorcerer too stubborn to give up his day job entirely.

Higuruma compromised just enough to move to private practice, but still takes most cases pro bono after a reduced retainer.

He knows exactly why you're here—and he's never once made you feel lesser for it.

Which makes the guilt so much worse. He's buried in this case: a scholarship kid bullied into a false confession, parents who scraped together everything for his retainer.

Meanwhile, you're sulking because he won't touch you.

God, his noble to a fault principles make you damn near feral though.

Pouting from your spot on the sofa, you steal another glance at Higuruma.

You decided long ago it's enormously unfair for a man to wear exhaustion as well as he does. The warm glow of the desk lamp traces his profile—his sharp nose, strong jaw, the thick column of his throat and the strain visibly knotted across his broad shoulders. 

The same coiled tension he'd carried that night a month ago that obliterated all lines of professionalism.

It’d been straight off a mission. Higuruma dealt with dual first-grade curses, nasty work—and then went right back to his desk. But he was wound too tight and although determined to finish his work, could not keep his fingers from digging into the crook of his neck.

When you offered to help him, you were only being considerate.

A friendly massage. Honestly, that's all it was. 

Higuruma even tried to refuse you but one firm press into his stiff muscles and he groaned. The sound was purely guttural, vibrating through your palms and straight to your cunt.

Immediately all protests silenced as his head drooped forward, breath going ragged. His grunts continued and by the time you fully worked out the second knot, you were dripping.

It took everything in you to steady your hands, to hide how much his pleasure was affecting you. But then you slipped—and a soft, needy sound fumbled out of you, impossible to swallow back. Your breath fanned warm across his neck, scattering goosebumps along his nape.

Everything after that blurred together.

His hands hauling you into his lap.

His mouth devouring yours.

The expensive oak desk slamming against the wall as he drove into you like a man possessed, your name caught between his teeth like a prayer.

You don't remember how it ended—only that eventually, Higuruma untangled himself from you and led you wordlessly to the private shower attached to his office. One of the few perks of private practice he'd actually come to appreciate.

He washed you with reverence—slow, thorough, like you were something precious. And then he ruined that image entirely by dropping to his knees and lewdly slurping his cum out of your cunt like it was his last meal. Nose buried in your clit, tongue pushing deep, water pouring down his face. He was half-drowning—between the shower and your squirt—and couldn't have cared less.

Legs like goo, you still don't know how you remained standing through it all.

You were still catching your breath as you toweled off when he murmured something about feeding you, fingers tracing your hip.

Twenty minutes later: you were at an all-night izakaya, just the two of you. Your first date, technically. Confirmed by the way he slid into the booth beside you instead of across—his hand finding your thigh like it belonged there. It never left. Only crept higher, fingertips ghosting over your clit through thin silk while you pretended to study the menu. The owner lingered too long taking your order, teasing you for something as plain as eggs and furikake rice, his tone edging toward flirtation as he challenged if your date was too cheap to buy you a real meal. You stumbled over your defense of Higuruma as Higuruma's knuckle replaced his fingertips, grinding against your clit.

That's when you learned how possessive Higuruma Hiromi could be.

"That man is testing my patience," Higuruma murmured the second the owner turned away. His mouth barely moved against your ear, voice terrifyingly calm, knuckle still working slow circles through your folds. "Should I sit you right here in my lap? Let him watch you come undone, doll, hm?"

You were already plenty undone though—your slick leaking onto beat-up vinyl seat.  “Don’t worry, I won’t. This noisy girl attracts too much unnecessary attention—” Higuruma leans forward to shield you from view as more patrons walk in “—we don’t need a public indecency charge, hm?”  

He wasn't wrong. The slick click-click of your pussy squelches were already obscene—a few patrons' eyes flickered around, searching for the source—and it only got louder as he nudged past the lace, stroking you wider, fingertip dipping teasingly into your core.

“H-Hiro…”

With a sly quirk of his lip, he pulls back, reaching casually for his coffee before slipping the mug under the table.

“Alright, alright. At least allow me some of your cream for my coffee as a consolation, dear.”

He paid, of course. You tried to protest, but it's hard to argue when you can barely stand—legs still trembling from an hour of relentless teasing.

He'd ordered three cups of coffee total. Every single one required a fresh dollop of your cream.

By the time you reached his condo, you needed him desperately again. Engine off, keys still in the ignition—you climbed into the backseat and sank onto his cock. You rode him until dawn crept through the fogged glass and your legs gave out. 

He invited you to stay but you were possibly in enough trouble already if your family noticed you hadn’t returned. Working late was understandable—but there’d be hell if you missed breakfast without prior notice.

That was a Saturday.

Come Monday, this case landed on his desk, and he hadn't touched you since.

Instead?

Fresh flowers rotating through the vase on your desk.

The occasional delivery of white strawberries.

Macarons from the French bakery Higuruma pretended to overbuy when you knew he only bought them for you. The closest to real intimacy you got all month were stolen moments where he’d sweep your hand into his, lips brushing your knuckles when he was certain no one else could see.

Sure these breadcrumbs were enough to keep you hoping but not nearly enough to keep you sane. 

Who the hell courts you like a Regency novel heroine—after you’ve already spent a night all over each other fucking like rabbits?! 

You don't think even Elizabeth Bennet suffered this kind of agonizing tension—she certainly didn't have the memory of Mr. Darcy's tongue swirling in her cunt to keep her up at night.

But what could you do? You couldn't seem needy or immature—not to a man a decade your senior. Not if you wanted this to mean something.

You were doing fine. Keeping it together. Right up until last week.

Junior lawyers crowded the watercooler, loud and willfully oblivious to the fact that women also use the break room—braying about No Nut November like overgrown frat boys comparing notes. You kept your back to them, cursing the espresso machine to hurry the hell up.

Relief flooded you when Higuruma appeared in the doorway.

Finally, an escape.

Then he opened his mouth.

"Some of us don't find distractions quite so difficult to set aside when the work matters." His gaze swept over them. "I'd recommend you develop the same discipline, gentlemen."

Distractions.

You'd previously told yourself this case had forced you both into accidental celibacy. No Nut November participants by circumstance, not choice. But the way he'd said it—distractions—so cool, so clinical, like sexual urges were just clutter to tidy away.

You'd think a man who fucked you that desperately would be crawling back for more?!

But he hadn't.

And that distance made you wonder if you'd gotten it all wrong. Maybe the gifts weren't courtship—just consideration. The polite gestures of a man who'd used you and wanted to keep things friendly on the rare occasion he needed an indulgence.

Like a work wife with benefits.

The fact the office cleared out hours ago and he’s hardly looked at you for more than a few seconds convinces you of this more and more, the thoughts spiraling as—

"You know I hate to keep you late." The words yank you out of your head. Right. You're still here. He's still here. "If you need to leave, dove, I can manage."

Your stomach drops. Higuruma asked you to stay tonight, so you thought maybe—

"No, I'm fine. Really." Unconvincing, even to yourself.

"Mm." He nods—eyes already back on his files.

Dismissed in a syllable.

Trying to push aside the hurt, the files in your lap blur as you pretend to read them, legs crossing and uncrossing, the leather groaning beneath your restless shifting. Now on top of everything else, your feet are screaming—new stilettos, three inches higher than normal.

You'd dressed to kill all month hoping a part of him would be superficial enough notice.

Wincing, your arches are aching from your red-bottoms. You're starting to suspect it's less about the lacquer and more about the crime scene your heels will leave behind if your arches just so happen to split in two. Still, they make your legs look sinful—and you'll plead guilty to first-degree pick me-ism if it gets Higuruma to look up from his goddamn papers for more than a minute.

"Take them off.”

Flustered, your eyes snap up to see Higuruma appraising you over the document in his hands. 

When did he start watching you again?

"Your shoes, dove."

Higuruma follows up when you don’t respond, faint amusement lingering on his words.

"It's fine, really—" You wave off his concern, gesturing vaguely at your feet. "They're still new. Haven't broken them in quite yet."

"You've been wincing for the last twenty minutes." Higuruma’s voice is firm but not unkind as he regards you. His eyes linger on your legs long enough for you to notice this time. 

"Take them off."

"I don't want to be unprofessional—" 

"It's nearly midnight." The corner of his mouth twitches a sly smile. "And…I think we're well past professional civilities, don't you?"

Are we?

You swallow the retort as Higuruma examines another folder on his desk. Part of you wants to be a big brat about it—to punish him for ignoring you. You want to crawl onto his desk force his eyes onto you.

But the thought alone makes you shy away. You're much too proud for that.

So you ease the shoe off slowly, quietly, propping your stockinged foot on the sofa's edge to reach the second strap. Your wool skirt rides up your thighs in the process—but you're almost certain he's not watching anyway.

Except you hear papers fluttering and when you glance up, Higuruma's pen is frozen mid-stroke.

His gaze isn't on your feet.

It's fixed on your thighs, more specifically, the black lace of your garters clipped to stockings that have your soft flesh swelling over them.

His throat bobs as he white-knuckles the pen in his grasp.

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just looks at you as his eyes trail lower and the proof of how needy you've been for him all night is evident in the way your panties clinging to every fold.

Higuruma resembles a man who's been presented a ten-course meal after a strict fast.

Yet his next words still surprise you.

"You've been punishing yourself."

"What?"

"For my attention. You've been wearing new heels, every night this week." Higuruma’s tone is stripped of its usual composure although he's still clinical in his assessment. "You usually wear the round-toed black pair. Two inches, cushioned sole. These—" His gaze flicks to the discarded shoes, then back to you. "Your legs don't need the extra height, doll. Never did."

Heat floods your cheeks. He'd noticed?! 

This whole time, drowning in case files, barely sparing you a glance—

"The blouse is new too." Higuruma notes, almost to himself, like he’s reading off the facts in a case file. "Tuesday it was the silk one. Wednesday, the black skirt with the small slit at the back."

Your heart slams against your ribs as he continues to recall your outfits.

"I-I thought you weren't paying attention."

"I wasn't giving you any." Higuruma’s mouth twists—bitter and self-directed in his ire. "That's not the same thing."

"It's okay. You've been busy—"

"Don't." 

The word is soft but final as he rises from his desk walking over to you on the sofa.

"Don't make excuses for me—or I'll hate myself even more than I already do..."

Higuruma drags a hand down his face as he deflates with a tired exhale. "Watching you walk in every morning looking like that. Knowing exactly what sounds you make when I—"

He stops. You watch him swallow it down—whatever he was about to say, whatever he was about to do. His eyes have gone nearly black, looking like he may pounce on you at any moment.

"I couldn't only give you ten minutes between depositions. Couldn't touch you the way you deserve and then casually ask you to hand me a file or drive me to the next mission like nothing happened." 

Your head is spinning at the revelations, wanting to say something but you are at an utter loss. 

"So I kept my distance." He confesses. "Thought if I could just finish this case—I could give you a night where I could take my time with you. Take you apart properly, then put you back together after."

Higuruma is standing over you now, his presence like a physical weight. "Like a fool, I was so consumed with self-martyrdom I never stopped to consider if I was forcing yours."

You move to stand, to reach for him—

“Stay.”

It's less command than it is a contrite supplication.

"Stay right there, doll," Higuruma repeats—and the crack in his voice betrays him—as does the tent in his slacks.

The sound he makes when he catches you staring is barely human—a low, rumbling growl. You watch his cock twitch harder against his slacks.

You search for his eyes, but his focus is locked on your tongue sweeping across your lips.

Higuruma loosens his tie, slowly as his eyes begin their descent—down your throat, your breasts, your stomach—until it lands between your thighs and stays there. Fixed on the wet patch darkening your lace. 

He crouches before you, hands finding your calf. His thumb strokes the curve of the stocking covered muscle with reverence, he's memorizing the shape of you not only by sight but touch as well.

"Bring the other up." You've never heard him sound like this—barely holding on. "Y-Yes, just like that. Now lay back—hips forward."

Pulse hammering, you sink deeper into the cushions, propping your leg up as his hands find your hips, guiding them forward, bunching your skirt around your waist.

"Good girl."

Your pussy is fully on display now and Higuruma makes a wounded noise as his eyes rake over the panties that have given up pretending to hold in your swollen folds long ago.

"Christ." 

The word punches out of him. His fingers skim the lace edge—barely grazing—and still come back glistening with your slick.

Higuruma swallows hard. "It's criminal the way my girl's been hiding all this under those prim little suits."

His girl.

Higuruma lifts one of your legs, extending it slowly until your stockinged foot rests flat against his chest. His heart pounds beneath your arch, the beat syncing with the pulsating ache of your clit.

His hands work down your leg, firm and thorough, pressing into sore muscles until pleasure bleeds through the ache. Your head tilts back as you stifle a moan and his grip tightens in response.

"I know I don't deserve it, dove, but at least allow me to hear you while I worship you, my dear."

Simultaneously, his thumbs dig into the ball of your foot, and the tension you've been carrying all night unspools in a single, embarrassingly loud whimper.

From the devious look on his face, it's exactly what he wanted.

Higuruma presses a kiss to your Achilles—another apology—and you shiver. He sets your foot down gently, repeats the ritual on the other side. Just as slow. Just as thorough.

A knowing smirk tugs at his lips as he guides your legs up, stockinged feet sliding over his shoulders until you're spread open before him. He leans forward, nuzzling into the fold of your knee—and the scrape of his stubble makes your hips jerk.

“You know, at times I swore I could smell how badly she missed me.” He murmurs into your stockings. “Right through your pretty little skirts." 

Higuruma’s actions follow his words, tracing a slow path with his aquiline nose from your knee to your pussy. "Mmm. I was right. She's been weeping so sweetly through your panties like a needy little thing for weeks, hasn't she?"

Your whines answer for you.

"What about No Nut November?" you whisper, breathless, raising your hips to push his nose in deeper. "I wouldn't want to be a distraction..."

Higuruma inhales deeply, savoring your raw scent. "Never." He exhales breathlessly.

"Everything else has been a distraction from you." His voice drops to gravel, vibrating through you.

You haven’t even savored the admission properly before there's a sharp snap and his teeth bite through one of your garters, tugging the ruined elastic away with a growl before repeating the action.

"Please, Hiro—" You mewl, thighs trembling.

He looks up at you with those dark, knowing eyes. Exhausted and hungry in equal measure.

"This is part of my sentence, doll." His thumb strokes the crease of your thigh, maddeningly gentle. "Trust me—it's far more agonizing for me."

You doubt that.

But you don't dare contradict him—not when there's something sadistic lurking behind all that apology. Something that tells you a part of him would get off on deny you just a tiny bit longer.

His tongue drags flat over your panties, pressing wet fabric into your slit, sucking your slick through the lace like he's trying to wring every drop out.

"These are in my way." He doesn't bother with his teeth this time—just hooks his fingers in the lace and tears.

Riiiip.

You squeal as cool air hits your bare cunt for half a second before his mouth replaces it. The second his tongue splits your folds, every other thought dissolves.

Your head falls back against the cushions as his tongue drags through your folds with long, broad strokes. Like he's been dreaming about this exact taste for a month and finally, finally gets to indulge.

His lips seal over your clit and suck, hard enough that your hips buck off the sofa. His hands dig into the meat of your thighs, pinning you open, holding you still as they quake in his grasp.

"Told you to stay."

The command growled against your cunt, but your body isn’t listening, still squirming as he dips into your entrance, gathering your slick before dragging it back up to your clit—then he spits, letting your own arousal drip onto your swollen nub before his mouth descends again.

"H-Hiro!"

Higuruma doesn't answer.

He's much too occupied with his repentance. Tongue extended, his face is pulled back just enough so you can see the exact pattern being cruelly branded on your sensitive bud as he roughly flicks under your clitoral hood, pushing it back. It's methodical and devastatingly thorough—like he's building a case with his mouth and your orgasm is the verdict.

Though for a defense attorney, the way he's attacking your cunt feels suspiciously prosecutorial.

Your hips tilt up, desperate to ride his face, and he lets you—lips releasing your clit only to plunge his tongue straight into your core, rimming your entrance before fucking into you rapidly. Every thrust grinds his nose further into your clit. His hands find your ass, gripping soft flesh, spreading your cheeks as he lifts your hips to help you rock against his mouth.

This man would happily perish between your thighs.

You're certain of it now.

His own broken groans echo inside your cunt, high off the fact of simply giving you pleasure—and that's what sends you over. You cum hard, thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the sofa as the orgasm tears through you in waves, ecstasy coursing in your veins.

But he doesn't stop.

His tongue keeps working, lapping up your release, his face slick and shining with you. When you try to squirm away—oversensitive and trembling—his grip tightens on your thighs, dragging you back to his mouth.

"I'm not done with you yet, doll."

The words come out ragged, muffled against your puffy cunny as Higuruma's cheek rests against your inner thigh, lips swollen and spit-slick, still connected to your pussy by a thin string of your arousal. He's panting—actually panting—looking genuinely pained by the fact that he has to stop to breathe oxygen instead of burying himself deeper in your folds.

You don't think you could deny Higuruma anything like this.

"One more, Hiro." His breathing quickens at your permission. "T-Then fuck me. Please."

Higuruma doesn't bother with words. Just action—diving back into your depths like a man possessed.

One of his hands releases your thigh, finds your wrist and drags your fingers into his hair.

"Pull." The command is muffled but unmistakable.

You oblige—or rather, you're forced to when his teeth graze your clit and your nails dig into his scalp on instinct. Higuruma growls in pleasure, the sound rumbling through your core.

He has to be aching. Hard enough to hurt, trapped in those slacks. You can't see him from this angle, but you wouldn't be surprised if he's leaking through his slacks from the way he's moaning into your pussy, drunk on the taste of you. A pool of your creamy juices has already gathered on the leather beneath you, obscene and growing in size by the second.

Delirious words spill from his lips between licks—praise and filth whispered directly into your cunt like prayers.

"So sweet—"

A broad lick from entrance to clit.

"So pretty—"

His tongue fucks into you, curling.

"—my divine atonement—"

Your slick coats his chin, his cheeks, drips down his jaw, and he only gets hungrier. More desperate. More crazed. Every gush of arousal you give him is an aphrodisiac—he laps it up like a man dying of thirst, shows no signs of stopping, no signs this will be your last orgasm, only growing more feral as you unravel beneath him.

"P-Pleaseeeee ohh—!"

The second climax builds faster than the first—sharper, meaner, your whole body wound tight as a wire. His tongue relentlessly assaults your clit while two fingers sink into your cunt without warning, crooking against that spot inside you, and your vision whites out.

"That's my pretty girl."

Higuruma pulls back just enough to let you ride out the aftershocks, fingers still drawing merciless circles on your oversensitive clit.

Somewhere behind the roar of blood in your ears, you hear a belt click as fabric shifts. You force your eyes to focus—watching his slacks fall as he stands, his cock springing free—flushed and heavy, bobbing as his cockhead smeared with pre drips down the length of him.

Fuck. Somehow Higuruma looks even bigger than you remember, thick enough to make your whole body clench with want and fear in equal measure.

He kneels, dragging your hips to the edge. His hand wraps around himself, stroking, and you hold your breath—finally, finally—

But he just slaps his cock against your clit. Tap, tap, tap. Precum and spit and slick mixing obscenely

You squirm, clearly overstimmed which draws a smug chuckle from him.

"Is it terrible that I enjoy teasing you?"

"Hiro—" You whine, hips jerking toward him. You pout up at him sweetly—and watch his cock twitch in response. His resolve visibly cracking.

"Yes, doll. Say it again." Higuruma's cock notches at your entrance, pressing but not pushing. "Scream it this time, for me yes?"

You expect more teasing, more torture.

Instead, he snaps his hips forward in one brutal thrust—splitting you open until he's buried to the hilt.

You scream his name so loud you don't even hear it leave your throat.

You might have cum again—you only know because of the string of expletives spilling from Higuruma's mouth, his composure finally shattered.

"F-Fuck, dove—" He's panting, forehead pressed to yours. "She's choking me. You need to relax." A strained laugh escapes him. "She feels like a noose—and I'd prefer to avoid capital punishment tonight, if it's all the same to you."

You can't answer, tears streaming as you gasp from him filling you so completely. Higuruma leans down and licks them up too, tongue tracing the salt tracks on your skin. You're starting to think he's genuinely obsessed with your bodily fluids.

Higuruma pecks your lips gently, letting you adjust.

"Have you not been touching yourself?" His voice is softer now, curiously teasing as he admires the state simply sticking his cock in has reduced you to. "Have you been waiting for me all this time?"

"I w-wasn't g-gonna" You swallow, cunt fluttering around him. "B-But it wasn't enough. It wasn't y-you."

"'Wasn't gonna', huh?" He mocks you, his rich baritone tickling your senses as his thumb returns to your clit to flick over her languidly.

"Naughty girl." He kisses the corner of your mouth. "But I suppose I'll argue a plea deal in your defense this once. It was my fault after all for neglecting you."

Your thighs burn from being spread around his broad hips, the sheer weight of him pressing you into the sofa, his knees braced on the floor. When you finally loosen around him—walls relaxing, body surrendering to him—he slips his tongue into your mouth as his hips begin to move.

Small thrusts at first. Micro-movements. Like he can't bear to have even an inch of himself outside the warm embrace of your slick walls.

Then his hand presses down on your lower belly, and your eyelashes flutter as your eyes roll back.

"There it is." He groans, grinding deeper. "Can you feel how she makes room for me?"

Higuruma doesn't give you the chance to answer before he picks up the pace, hand staying pressed to your stomach, savoring every twitch of your muscles. The exact movement of your guts shifting around him—how your body so lovingly allows him to ruin her from the inside out.

His teeth find your bottom lip, biting down as his other hand slides up to your throat, fingers wrapping around the column of your neck. He squeezes lightly, rhythmically, matching the desperate clench of your pretty pussy around him.

Higuruma wants to cum with you. But he can feel you're already there—already tipping over the edge—

"Hiro... 'm gonna—"

"Oh?" He doesn't slow down. If anything, he fucks you harder. "Without me, dear? How inconsiderate." His thumb presses into the side of your throat. "Go ahead. But I won't be granting leniency. You cum now and then you're going to keep coming until I say stop."

"P-Pleaseeee, m-mercyyy—" You're babbling, desperate. The word slips out before you can stop it: "—Judge."

Higuruma almost cums right then and there, hips stuttering.

"Oh, you're pushing it now, princess."

Your doe eyes blink up at him, and somewhere beneath the desperation, you find the brat in you after all.

"What's wrong, your honor?" The words drip from your lips like honey, saccharine and deliberately provocative. "Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

Higuruma's grip tightens on your throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who's in control here. His hips still, cock buried deep, twitching inside you.

"Careful, dove."

You clench around him deliberately.

Something in him snaps. No more warnings.

Higuruma pulls out and you're immediately feeling the loss of him—but before you can protest, his hands are hooking under your thighs and hauling your ass up off the sofa.

Drenched in your combined mess, and his grip slips once before he adjusts, hoisting you higher. Your legs end up over his shoulders, folded nearly in half, and you have nothing—no wall behind you, no leverage, nothing to hold onto but the thick column of his neck.

Completely at Higuruma's mercy.

Your nails dig into his skin on instinct—the only anchor you have.

"There we go." He groans at the bite of pain, positioning his cock at your entrance. "Hold on tight, princess."

He slams you down onto him in one brutal drop.

You scream.

The angle is devastating—deeper than before, impossibly deep, his cock splitting you open while gravity does the rest. You have no control here. Can't set the pace, can't shift positions—can't do anything but cling to him and take it. Every thrust jolts through your entire body, punching the air from your lungs.

Your nails rake down his neck and he hisses, but his eyes roll back in pleasure, not pain.

"Harder." He commands. "Mark me up. I want to feel you for days."

You're too fucked-out to process it fully—is he sadistic or masochistic? Both? Does it matter when he's bouncing you on his cock like you weigh nothing, arms flexing as he lifts and drops you with terrifying ease? You're nothing but a vessel now, suspended and speared utterly for his pleasure.

"I'm going to take care of you, princess. Take care of this pretty pussy." His palms grip your ass, fingers digging in white-knuckled, desperate for leverage as he fucks up into you. "Going to make sure she never goes hungry again. Every morning. Every night. Whenever she asks for it."

"Hiro—" You're sobbing, pleasure cresting unbearably high, just gasps and moans punched out of you with every thrust. "Please, I need to—I can't—"

"Not yet." Higuruma's jaw clenches, fighting his own release. "Hold it."

"I-I c-c-can't—" Your walls are fluttering around him, clenching involuntarily, and you see stars at the edges of your vision. "P-Please, please, J-Judge, I'll do anythinggggg—"

"Anything?" His hips stutter at the title, cock kicking inside you. "Dangerous words, doll. I'll hold you to them."

His grip on your ass tightens, nails biting into the soft flesh now—mirroring what you're doing to his neck. The wet slap of skin echoes obscenely through the office, your slick dripping down his thighs, pooling on the hardwood beneath you.

"From now on—" He's losing rhythm, thrusts turning erratic. "—this pussy gets what she needs... you'll come to me? You'll tell me exactly what she needs?"

"Y-Yes—y-yes!!! Jusss p-pleaseeee—"

"Every ache—" A brutal thrust. "—every need—" Another. "—you bring it to me. Understood?"

You're babbling incoherent confirmations, head lolling back, eyes rolling into your skull.

"Cum, then. Give it to me, babydoll—"

The orgasm tears through you like a live wire—blinding, violent, your pussy clamping down so hard he chokes on a moan. Your nails draw blood on his neck and he growls, burying himself to the hilt—

And then you feel it.

The first hot pulse of him flooding your insides. His cock kicking against your walls, swelling impossibly thicker as he empties himself into you. Rope after rope of cum painting your clenching cunt, so deep you swear you feel the warmth in your throat.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The noises of your breathing filling the space.

His cock is still buried inside you, softening but not quite soft, and you can feel his cum leaking out around the seal of your bodies—dripping down your thighs, onto the floor, adding to the mess you've already made of his office.

Higuruma's forehead drops to yours, hips grinding through the aftershocks, working every last drop into you. "You feel that? How much I saved for you, dove?"

You can only whimper in response. You do feel it—the obscene heat spreading through your core, the way his cum has nowhere to go with his cock still plugging you full. When he shifts his hips, grinding deeper, some of it squelches out around the seal of your bodies.

"Taking it so well—" His voice is shot, barely above a rasp. "Milking every drop—good girl—"

Your legs are shaking. Your whole body is shaking.

"Hiro..." You're slurring, drunk on him. "Can't... can't feel my legs..."

A breathless laugh rumbles through his chest. "Mm." He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the tear tracks still drying on your skin. Unbearably tender after everything he just did to you. "That's what happens when you taunt a man who's been starving for a month, doll." 

"Worth it," you giggle.

"Brat." But there's only fondness in his voice.

Slowly, carefully, he shifts his grip—one arm hooked under your ass, the other cradling your back as he finally lets your legs slide off his shoulders. You wince at the change in angle, cunt clenching involuntarily around him, and he groans.

"Easy." His voice is strained. "Keep doing that and we won't make it to the shower."

You're tempted to test him. But exhaustion wins out, your body going limp against his chest as he carries you toward the bathroom.

"Let's get you cleaned up." His lips brush your temple. "Then I'll take you home, hm?"

You pout. After everything—after a month of waiting, of longing, of convincing yourself you were nothing but a convenient release—you're not ready for this to end.

Not ready to go back to your empty apartment and pretend tonight didn't change everything.

Higuruma catches the look on your face and chuckles softly.

"I mean my home," he clarifies, nudging the bathroom door open with his shoulder. "We can clean up properly there. I'll cook you breakfast." He sets you down on the counter, and you shiver at the cold marble against your bare skin—but he doesn't pull out, not yet, his half-hard cock still nestled inside you like he can't bear the separation either. "Then I can worship you the way you deserve. Properly. Without a deadline or a case file waiting on my desk."

Your heart stutters. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and his eyes—god, his eyes are so soft now. Tired and tender and looking at you like you're something precious. "I should have done this a month ago. Should have made time. Should have told you what you are to me instead of assuming you'd wait."

"I would have." The admission slips out before you can stop it. "Waited, I mean. For you. I would have."

Something fractures in his expression. He doesn't say anything—just pulls you closer, pressing his lips to your forehead like he's trying to seal a promise there.

"You shouldn't have had to. No more waiting. No more silence. From now on, you tell me what you need—and I'll give it to you. Understood?"

"Understood, counselor."

His lips twitch. "Careful. You keep using titles and we'll never leave this bathroom."

You grin, exhausted and fucked-out and deliriously happy. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both." He kisses you then—tongue gliding against yours, your taste still lingering. When he pulls back, his cock twitches inside you, thickening again.

"Definitely both."

"Mm." You pull back, pretending to consider. "I don't know. A month is a looooong time. I might need extensive compensation."

"Is that so?" Higuruma quirks a brow.

"Yup! Emotional damages. Pain and suffering." You tick them off on your fingers. "Loss of consortium—"

"You don't know what half those terms mean."

"I know what I want them to mean." you say slyly, clenching around him once more.

Realistically, you don't think either of you are leaving this office tonight.

His laugh rumbles against your lips.

"I'll allow it, counselor. Motion granted."

blkkizzat ©2023-2026 no ai, reposting, plagiarism nor translation allowed.

𝐚𝐧: ahhh i love writing higuruma as an EATERRRRRRRR. this one was a lil bit more angsty, well not really angsty, reader is just super horny and it's making her a delulu pick me cjksdbfkjvhsb. i mean the way he dicked her down tho, who could blame her? lol this one was a bit more cute endings than im used to writing. i feel like its a bit cheesy but w/e, we ball. im tired of editing it hfdjkvhbf. so also sorry for any errors or duplicate sentences as i reworked alot of this fbsdhbsd.

The mansion breathes around you like a second skin you don't remember putting on.

You know its rhythms now. The soft hum of the underfloor heating that kicks on at precisely six in the evening. The way the west windows catch the sunset and scatter gold across the marble floors. The particular creak of the third step on the main staircase. You know these things the way you know your own name, which is to say you were told, and you accepted it, and sometimes acceptance feels almost like remembering.

Your name is YN. You are twenty three years old. Three months ago, you woke up in a private hospital room with a view of Blackwater Bay and a head full of nothing.

No, not nothing. White noise. Static. The television fuzz of a mind wiped clean. The doctors used words like traumatic brain injury and retrograde amnesia and remarkable that you're alive at all. You nodded along because nodding seemed expected, and because the man holding your hand kept looking at you with such devastating tenderness that you felt guilty for not knowing who he was. He was striking, dark hair with a single streak of silver gold, eyes that didn't match, and his thumb never stopped moving across your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, like he was reassuring himself you were solid.

"Valarr," he had said, his voice cracking on the second syllable. "I'm Valarr. Your fiancé."

Fiancé. The word had tasted foreign in your mouth, like a flavor you'd never encountered. But he showed you photographs. The two of you at a charity gala, his arm around your waist, his fingers splayed possessively against your hip. A selfie taken in what he said was your favorite café near the university, his lips pressed to your temple while you grinned at the camera. A video on his phone of you laughing, pushing his face away, your voice saying stop it, Val, I'm serious in a tone that was not serious at all. The woman in the videos and photographs had your face. She wore your smile. You had no reason to doubt her.

You had no reasons, period.

So when the hospital discharged you into Valarr's care, into his black SUV with its leather interior that smelled of cedar and something expensive and unplaceable, you went without protest. You went because where else would you go? The social worker assigned to your case had gently explained that you had no living family. Your parents died when you were seventeen, a car accident on a rain-slicked highway. No siblings, no cousins who kept in touch. Your emergency contact, the person listed on all your university forms, was Valarr Targaryen.

"Her fiancé," the social worker had said, and Valarr's hand had tightened around yours, his other hand coming up to brush hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that made the social worker smile. "He's been paying for her care. The private room, the specialists. Everything."

You remember thinking, I am expensive to forget.

Now, three months later, you stand in the kitchen of the Targaryen estate, a sprawling modern fortress of glass and steel perched on a cliff overlooking the bay, and you are trying very hard to remember how to make coffee. You've made coffee every morning for the past ninety three days. Valarr showed you how that first week, standing behind you with his chest pressed to your back and his hands guiding yours, his fingers lacing through your fingers as he moved them to each button and dial. This button for the grind, this dial for the strength, this is how you know the water is the right temperature. His lips kept brushing your ear, your neck, your shoulder, little kisses punctuating every instruction. But this morning, your brain has decided that coffee making is foreign territory, and you stare at the gleaming machine like it might bite you.

"Let me."

His voice comes from behind you, and then his arms are circling your waist, his chin settling on your shoulder, his body molding against yours from shoulder to hip. You've stopped flinching when he does this. The first few days, every touch had sent a jolt through your nervous system, not fear exactly, but something adjacent to it. The alarm of a body that didn't recognize the hands on its skin. But Valarr was persistent in his gentleness, and your body is nothing if not adaptable.

"I was going to do it myself," you say, but you lean back into him anyway, and his arms tighten in response, pulling you closer still.

"I know you were." He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then one more to the corner of your mouth, and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. "But you looked lost, love. I couldn't just watch." His hand slides up from your waist to rest flat against your sternum, right over your heart. "Your heart's beating fast. Are you frustrated? Don't be frustrated. Let me take care of it."

Love. He calls you that all the time. Love, sweetheart, darling, my heart. Pet names that fall from his mouth like rain, constant and soft. You've wondered, in the quiet hours of the night when sleep won't come, if he called you these things before the accident. If the you who was would have rolled her eyes at the frequency of them, or if she would have melted the way you sometimes do now.

You watch his hands move across the coffee machine, long fingers, a silver ring on his index finger, knuckles that look like they've been broken and healed before, and you try to summon a memory. Any memory. The doctors said it might come back in fragments, in flashes, in dreams. Be patient with yourself, they said. Don't force it.

Valarr never says that. Valarr says, "Do you remember the first time I made you coffee?" and when you shake your head, his mismatched eyes flicker with something you can't name. One eye blue as a winter sky, one brown as wet earth. Disappointment? No. Something hungrier. But then it's gone, and he's turning around to face you, pulling you against his chest, wrapping both arms around you and rocking you gently side to side like you're dancing to music only he can hear.

"It was after our third date," he tells you, his voice a lullaby you've learned by heart, his lips moving against your hair. "You stayed the night for the first time. Nothing happened," he adds, pulling back just enough to look at you with a quick, almost shy glance, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "We just slept. But in the morning, you came down to the kitchen and I was already making coffee, and you said..."

He trails off, waiting, his thumb still stroking your lip.

You shake your head again. "I don't remember."

"You said, 'A man who makes coffee is worth his weight in gold.'" He smiles, and it's a beautiful smile. Valarr Targaryen is beautiful in the way that old paintings are beautiful, something slightly unsettling beneath the perfection, a shadow that makes the light more striking by contrast. "And I said, 'Good thing I'm worth considerably more than that.'" He dips his head and kisses you, soft and brief, a punctuation mark. Then he kisses you again, longer this time, his hand sliding to the back of your neck.

You laugh when he finally pulls away, because it's clearly a joke, and because laughing is what you do when you don't know what else to do. "That sounds arrogant."

"It was meant to be charming." He hands you a cup of coffee, prepared exactly the way you've learned you like it. Oat milk, no sugar, a dash of cinnamon. He keeps one hand on your lower back as you take your first sip, rubbing small circles there. "I was very charming, before."

"Before what?"

"Before you forgot all my best material." He leans in and kisses the tip of your nose. "It's alright. I'll just have to make new material. I have time. I have all the time in the world."

The coffee is perfect. Of course it is. Everything in this house is perfect. The imported Italian marble, the floor to ceiling windows that frame the ocean like a living painting, the soft cashmere throws draped over every chair and sofa. Perfection, you've learned, is the Targaryen brand. Their name is stamped on half the skyscrapers in King's Landing, on the tech campus where innovation happens, on the charitable foundations that host galas you see photographed in magazines. Valarr's father, Baelor Targaryen, is some kind of political heavyweight, a senator maybe, or something higher, you can never remember.

Old money, someone said once, in a memory you can't quite grasp. Really old money.

You are not old money. You know this because Valarr told you, gently, in those first disorienting weeks, while he held you in his lap and played with your hair. "Your parents were middle class," he said, "but they died when you were young. You've been on your own a long time." He told you about your scholarship to King's Landing University, how you'd worked two jobs to afford your tiny apartment off campus, how the other students had looked down on you for not belonging. "They didn't like that you were smarter than them," Valarr said, with a protective edge to his voice, his arms tightening around you. "They didn't like that you earned your place while they bought theirs."

"They didn't like me at all," you had said, and it wasn't a question.

"No," he agreed, pressing a long kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger there. "They didn't. But I did. From the first moment I saw you."

He tells you this story often, the story of how he met you. A rainy afternoon on campus, you rushing between classes with an armful of books, him stepping out of a building and nearly colliding with you. The books went everywhere. You swore at him, actually swore at him, he says, with a kind of delighted reverence, and he was so charmed that he offered to buy you coffee to make up for it. You said no. He asked again the next day. You said no again. He asked a third time, and you finally said yes, but only if he stopped ambushing you outside your lecture hall.

"It wasn't stalking," he always clarifies, with a laugh that invites you to laugh along, his hand finding yours and squeezing, his thumb stroking your palm. "It was persistence."

You want to remember this. You want to remember him, the way his voice softened when he asked you to marry him, the way your heart must have raced the first time he kissed you. You want to feel the shape of your old self inside your chest, to know that she existed and she loved him and she was happy.

Instead, you feel like a guest in someone else's life, wearing someone else's ring, a diamond the size of a planet, heavy on your finger, a constant reminder that you are promised to a man you don't remember choosing.

—

The basement door is at the end of the west hallway, tucked between the laundry room and what Valarr says is a storage closet. It's an unremarkable door. Solid wood, painted the same soft gray as the walls, with a brass handle that gleams under the recessed lighting.

You hate it.

The first time you walked past it, two days after coming home from the hospital, your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your palms went clammy. Your feet stopped moving, rooted to the marble floor like someone had nailed them down. You stared at the door, just a door, just a door, just a door, and felt terror rise in your throat like bile.

Valarr found you there, frozen, shaking. His face went pale, and he was at your side in an instant, his hands cupping your face, tilting your gaze away from the door and toward him. "Look at me. Look at me, love. Only me."

"That's where it happened," he said, pulling you away, turning your body so you couldn't see the door anymore, wrapping himself around you like a shield. "That's where you got hurt, love. Don't go near it. Please. I can't..." His voice broke, and he buried his face in your hair, and you felt his shoulders tremble. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. "I can't lose you again."

Later, he explained what happened. He explained it carefully, with the measured tone of someone who had rehearsed the words, who had told this story to doctors and police and maybe himself, over and over, until it became something he could say without shattering. He held you the entire time he spoke, your back against his chest, his arms locked around your middle, his lips brushing your ear with every word.

A power outage. You were home alone. The lights went out, and you tried to find your way to the basement to check the circuit breaker. Valarr had shown you where it was, he said, a hundred times, but in the dark you must have gotten disoriented. You tripped at the top of the stairs. You fell. All the way down, fourteen steps, concrete floor at the bottom. You hit your head.

"When I got home, there was so much blood." His voice was hollow, distant, and his arms tightened until you could barely breathe. "I thought you were dead. I thought I'd lost you. The doctors said it was a miracle you survived at all."

You don't remember any of it. You don't remember the fall, the darkness, the impact. You don't remember the hospital, though you spent six weeks there before waking up. Your memory picks up in that sunlit private room with Valarr holding your hand and the machines beeping softly in the background and the social worker explaining that you had no one else in the world.

No one but him.

So you don't go near the basement door. You don't even look at it if you can help it. When you have to walk past it, to get to the laundry room or the guest bathroom or the back entrance, you hold your breath and fix your eyes straight ahead and move as quickly as your feet will carry you. Valarr says it will get easier with time. He says you're still healing.

But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Valarr is asleep beside you with his arm thrown across your waist and his breath slow and even, you lie awake and wonder: Why does a door feel like a warning?

—

Valarr insists on sleeping in the same bed.

"It helps with memory," he told you that first night home, already pulling you down onto the mattress beside him, already arranging your body against his. "The doctors said. Familiar sensory input. Smell, touch, sound. It helps the brain remember domestic life." He tucked your head under his chin and wrapped both arms around you and held on. "I'm going to help you heal, love. Every night. I'm going to hold you until you remember me."

At first, it was uncomfortable. The physical proximity felt like an intrusion, a violation of a boundary you didn't even remember setting. But Valarr was persistent, his voice a low, soothing hum that brooked no argument. When you would stiffen beneath him, trying to pull away from the heat of his body, he wouldn't let go. Instead, he would tighten his grip, his hand sliding beneath your nightgown to squeeze your thigh, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper.

"The doctors said sensory stimulation is key, sweetheart," he would murmur, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Physical intimacy, the kind of deep, visceral connection we used to have... You have to let your body remember what your mind has forgotten."

You didn't know if it was true, but the desperation in his eyes made you believe him. He would push you down into the mattress, his heavy frame pinning you as he kissed you with a hunger that felt almost violent. He didn't wait for a clear 'yes' he simply assumed it, claiming your body as if it were his birthright. He would force his fingers into your pussy, stretching you open while you stared at the ceiling, feeling a confusing mix of fear and arousal. When he slid his thick cock inside you, the sudden fullness made you gasp, and he would lean down, whispering that the pleasure was the key. "Feel it," he'd command, thrusting deep and hard, hitting your cervix until you cried out. "Remember how much you love this. Remember how you used to beg me for it." You would lie there, shaking, submitting to the rhythm of his hips, wondering if the flashes of heat in your mind were memories or just the result of him fucking you into submission.

But three months is a long time. Three months of waking up to the smell of his cologne on the pillowcases, to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, to the way his arms tighten around you the moment you stir, like even in sleep he's afraid you'll leave. Your body has learned to relax into his. Your body has learned to find comfort in his warmth.

Now, the stiffness is gone, replaced by a craving that wakes you up before he even moves. You find yourself arching your back, pressing your ass against his hardness in the early morning light, silently pleading for him to take you. You don't need the excuse of medical rehabilitation anymore; you just want the feeling of him filling you.

As you stir, Valarr feels the shift in your posture. He groans, a low sound of satisfaction, and rolls over to pin you beneath him. His hands aren't hesitant anymore; they slide with practiced ease, ripping your lace panties aside to expose your soaking wet pussy. He doesn't waste time with gentleness. He grabs your thighs, hiking them up over his shoulders, and drives his cock deep into you in one powerful thrust.

"There it is," he pants, his chest heaving against yours. "You remember now, don't you? How much you need this."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. You moan loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet room, as he begins to fuck you with a relentless, driving pace. Every slam of his pelvis against your clit sends sparks through your nerves, blurring the line between the present and the ghosts of the past. You aren't thinking about the doctors or the clipboards anymore; you are only thinking about the way his cock stretches you wide, the way he fills every empty space inside you, and the overwhelming, addictive heat of being completely owned by him.

And it's not just the sleeping. It's everything. The way he seeks you out a dozen times a day, just to kiss you. A kiss on the forehead when you're reading, his lips lingering. A kiss on the cheek when you're making tea, his hand on your shoulder turning you toward him. A long, slow kiss on the lips when you pass him in the hallway, his fingers tilting your chin up to meet him. The way he pulls you onto his lap while he's working at his desk, one arm around your waist while he types emails with the other hand, his chin resting on your shoulder, his lips periodically pressing to your neck. The way he always, always has a hand on you, your lower back, your knee, the nape of your neck, your wrist, your hip, your thigh, as if physical contact is the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He's just affectionate, you told yourself in the beginning. Some people are like that. Touch is their love language.

And it's nice, isn't it? To be wanted so completely. To be the center of someone's universe. You've learned to lean into his kisses, to curl into his lap, to reach for his hand before he reaches for yours. It would be so easy, you think, to fall in love with him. Maybe you already were, before. Maybe that's why you said yes when he asked you to marry him.

But there are moments. Brief, flickering moments. Moments when something doesn't feel right.

Like the day you remembered the university library. You were sitting in the living room, staring out at the ocean, and suddenly you could smell old books and dust and the particular sharpness of highlighters. You could see a long wooden table, stacks of textbooks, a window that looked out onto a courtyard with a fountain. You could feel the ache in your shoulders from hunching over your notes for hours. And you knew, knew with a certainty that felt like remembering, that you had spent countless nights in that library, studying until they kicked you out at closing, because you couldn't afford to fail. Because your scholarship was all you had.

"I remembered something," you told Valarr when he came home, breathless with the excitement of it. He was already reaching for you, already pulling you into his arms, his hands sliding up your back. "The library at King's Landing. I used to study there. I used to..."

His eyes. His eyes did something. For just a fraction of a second, before the smile appeared, his mismatched gaze went flat and cold, like a door slamming shut. His hands paused on your back, just for a heartbeat, then resumed their soothing circles. Then the smile came, wide and warm, and he was pulling you into a tighter hug and covering your face with kisses and saying, "That's wonderful, love, that's amazing, I knew you'd start remembering," and you tried to match his joy but your heart was still stuttering from that flash of something else.

He's just surprised, you told yourself. He's been waiting for this as long as you have. He's allowed to have complicated feelings.

But it happened again. And again. Small things. A song on the radio that made you think of a party you might have attended. A smell that reminded you of a café you might have visited. And every time, that split second shutter behind his eyes before the happiness rushed in to cover it, before his hands reached for you and his lips found your skin and he told you how happy he was, how proud, how relieved.

You're probably imagining it. The doctors warned you about this too. Memory disorders can cause confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. Maybe your broken brain is seeing threats where there are none. Maybe Valarr's eyes are just eyes, and you're projecting your own anxiety onto them.

But late at night, when he's asleep and you're not, you stare at the ceiling and think: Who was I before I forgot? And why does remembering feel like something he's afraid of?

—

The visitors come on a Thursday. This is unusual. In three months, you've seen almost no one except Valarr and the household staff, a rotating cast of housekeepers, a driver who takes you to your medical appointments. Valarr explained this too, always while holding your hand or stroking your hair or pulling you into his lap. The doctors said to keep your environment stable. Too many new people could overwhelm your brain while it's healing. We need to go slow. I'm not keeping you from anyone, love. I'm protecting you. There's a difference.

But on Thursday, the doorbell rings, and you hear voices in the foyer. Multiple voices, men and women, laughing and talking over each other. You're in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a book you're not really reading, and your heart lifts at the sound. People. Other people. Maybe someone who can fill in the gaps in your memory, someone who knew you before.

You're halfway to the foyer when Valarr appears in the doorway.

"There you are." His smile is gentle, but his body is blocking the exit. He steps forward and pulls you into his arms, kissing the top of your head. "Listen, love, some of my family stopped by unexpectedly. A business thing. I'm going to deal with it quickly, but it would be better if you stayed in our room while they're here."

"Your family?" Your curiosity piques. "Maybe I should say hello. I don't think I've met..."

"No." The word comes out too fast, too firm. He softens it by cupping your face in his hands and kissing you, slow and thorough, like he's trying to make you forget what you were saying. Then he pulls back and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down your neck. "It's not a good time. They're in a mood, and the doctors said we shouldn't overwhelm you. Too much stimulation too soon could set your recovery back."

"Did the doctors say that?"

"They said to go slow." His thumb traces your jawline, tilts your chin up so you're looking at him. "This isn't slow. Trust me, love. I know what's best for you."

I know what's best for you. He says that a lot. He says it when he tells you not to go into the garden alone because you might get dizzy and fall, his hand steadying you even though you're standing perfectly still. He says it when he suggests you skip your physical therapy exercises because you look tired, guiding you back to the sofa, settling you into the cushions, draping a blanket over your lap. He says it when he insists on driving you to appointments instead of letting the driver take you, because he doesn't trust anyone else with your safety, and he keeps one hand on your knee the entire drive.

You've always accepted it as care. As love. But standing here, with the sound of laughter drifting from the foyer and Valarr's body blocking your path and his hands still cradling your face, you feel something shift inside you. A tiny crack in the foundation of your trust.

"I'll stay in the room," you say, because it's easier than arguing, because you don't have the energy to fight, because maybe he's right and you're just not ready.

"Good girl." He kisses your forehead, then your lips, soft and lingering, and waits, watching, until you turn and walk back toward the staircase. You feel his eyes on you the whole way. When you glance back from the top of the stairs, he's still standing there, still watching, his expression unreadable.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the muffled sounds of conversation below. You can't make out words, just tones. Laughter, exclamation, the clink of glasses. A family gathering. Normal. Warm.

And you are up here, alone, because your fiancé decided it was best. You look down at your hands. At the engagement ring on your finger, its diamond catching the light. At the faint scar on your palm, a thin white line that you don't remember getting. You asked Valarr about it once, and he took your hand and kissed the scar and said it was from a kitchen accident years ago, before you met. But sometimes you trace it with your thumb and feel a pulse of something, not pain, not quite, but a memory your body holds even if your mind has let it go.

What happened to me? you think, not for the first time. What really happened?

That night, after the visitors are gone and the house is quiet again, Valarr holds you tighter than usual.

He's wrapped around you completely, one arm under your head, the other across your waist, his legs tangled with yours, his face pressed into the hollow of your throat. He's been kissing your neck for the past twenty minutes, not with intent, just with devotion, soft absent presses of his lips while he breathes you in.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he murmurs against your skin. "I know it must feel like I'm keeping you prisoner sometimes."

The word prisoner lands strangely in your chest. You didn't say it. He did.

"It's okay," you say, because that's what you always say.

"I just love you so much." His voice cracks, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are full of tears. He shifts so he's hovering over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. "I almost lost you, YN. I can't go through that again. I can't. So if I'm overprotective, if I'm too careful, it's only because..." A tear spills over and tracks down his cheek. He doesn't wipe it away. He lets you see it. "You're my whole world. You're everything. I know you don't remember that yet, but you were. You are. If anything happened to you again, I wouldn't survive it."

"I know," you say, reaching up to wipe the tear from his cheek. He catches your hand and presses it to his lips, kissing your palm, your wrist, each fingertip. "I know."

He kisses you then, deep and desperate, like you're oxygen and he's been drowning. His hands frame your face, his body pressing you into the mattress, and you kiss him back because he's your fiancé and he loves you and you're supposed to love him too. And maybe you do. Maybe this is love. The warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, the way he's built a world around you where nothing can hurt you.

--

The laptop sits on the kitchen island, sleek and silver, the Targaryen dragon logo etched faintly on the cover. Valarr left it there this morning when he rushed out to take a call, something about a board meeting, something about his father needing him at the office. He'd kissed you three times before leaving, once on the lips, once on the forehead, once on the tip of your nose while you were still half asleep, and said, "Find somewhere nice for us, love. Anywhere you want. I'll make it happen." Then he'd kissed you one more time, his hand cupping the back of your head, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind your ear.

Anywhere you want. It felt like freedom, that promise. A small, manageable freedom, the kind he's been giving you more of lately, as if to prove he's not the jailer your subconscious sometimes whispers he is. You can go anywhere in the world, as long as he's with you. You can choose the destination, as long as he books the flights. You can use his laptop, as long as...

Well. He didn't say you couldn't use his laptop. He left it open. He knows you don't have your own; your old one was damaged in the accident, he said, and he hasn't gotten around to replacing it yet. Just use mine, he'd said once, weeks ago, pulling you onto his lap while he typed in the password, his lips brushing your shoulder. My password is your birthday. I have nothing to hide from you.

Your birthday. You'd had to ask him what it was.

Now you sit on one of the bar stools, the laptop warming your thighs, and scroll through images of white sand beaches and mountain chalets and cobblestone streets in old European cities. The Amalfi Coast. The Swiss Alps. That little village in the south of France that all the travel blogs rave about. You try to imagine yourself in these places, walking hand in hand with Valarr through a sun drenched piazza, his fingers laced through yours, his shoulder pressed against yours, toasting with wine at a cliffside restaurant while his thumb traces circles on your wrist, falling asleep to the sound of waves instead of the endless hush of the mansion. The images are beautiful. The idea is beautiful. But somewhere in your chest, there's a knot that won't untie.

Anywhere you want. But what you want, more than a vacation, is to know who you are.

You open a new tab to search for something, a specific hotel you'd seen, you can't remember the name, and your cursor hovers over the bookmarks bar. That's when you see it.

AI-VidGen Pro

The icon is a stylized eye, glowing faintly purple. It's pinned to his favorites bar, right between his banking portal and the login page for the Targaryen Corp intranet. A tool he uses often enough to keep within one click reach.

You stare at it. Valarr hates AI. He's made that abundantly clear. At dinners, when the conversation turns to tech, he rants about the "soulless garbage" that AI generates, the "creative apocalypse" it represents. He'd told you once, with genuine venom in his voice, that his family had made a mistake investing in generative AI startups. "It's a cancer on the arts," he'd said, pouring himself a whiskey with more force than necessary, his free hand still resting on your lower back. "My cousins pushed for it. I voted against it. Nothing good comes from machines pretending to be human."

So why is there an AI app pinned to his bookmarks bar?

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's a work thing. Maybe he was forced to use it for some project and forgot to unpin it. Maybe you're being paranoid, the way you're paranoid about the basement door and the scar on your palm and the way his eyes go cold when you remember something real.

Don't click it, the rational part of your brain says. Respect his privacy. Trust him. He's given you no reason not to trust him.

You click it. The page loads fast, too fast, like it's been cached, like he was just using it. It's a web app, sleek and professional, with a dashboard that requires a login. But he's already logged in. Of course he is. He has nothing to hide from you.

The dashboard shows recent projects. There's only one.

Project: YN & V Last modified: 2 days ago Files: 847

Your stomach drops. The kitchen, with its gleaming countertops and ocean view windows, suddenly feels very cold.

You open the project. It's a chat interface. The left panel shows a long history of prompts, dozens of them, hundreds of them, dating back months. But it's not just prompts. It's a conversation. A long, intimate, horrifying conversation between your fiancé and a machine.

Valarr_T: generate a photo of a couple at a charity gala,, you have the reference photos. make them look in love. make her look happy.

AI-VidGen Pro: Absolutely! I'd be happy to help you create that beautiful moment. 💕 Here are a few variations of a couple at a charity gala. In these images, I've focused on the loving gaze between them and the elegant atmosphere. Remember, these are generated memories to cherish! ✨💫 Would you like me to adjust the lighting to make it more romantic?

Valarr_T: perfect. now generate a video of them laughing in a café. candid. like someone filmed them without them knowing.

AI-VidGen Pro: What a lovely idea! ☕💕 Candid moments are the most precious, aren't they? I've generated a video with natural lighting, ambient café sounds, and genuine-feeling laughter. The way she looks at him is so sweet—you can really feel the love! 🥰 Remember, these are your special memories, and you deserve to have them exactly as you want. Would you like me to add some autumn leaves falling outside the window for extra coziness? 🍂

Valarr_T: add the leaves. and make her smile more. she should look shy but adoring. like she can't believe someone like me loves her.

AI-VidGen Pro: Done and done! 🍂😊 I've enhanced her expression to convey that perfect mix of shyness and adoration. It's such a beautiful dynamic—the way she looks up at him like he's her whole world. Love is truly magical! 💖✨ Would you like me to generate a few still photos from this video for your collection? Memories are meant to be preserved! 📸

Your hands are shaking now. You scroll up, further back in the chat history. Months ago. The beginning.

Valarr_T: i need you to generate photos and videos of me and a woman. her name is YN. i'm uploading reference photos. we need to look like a couple. a real couple. years of history. can you do that?

AI-VidGen Pro: Hello, Valarr! 😊 I'm so excited to help you with this project! Creating beautiful memories is what I do best. Yes, absolutely—I can generate a complete relationship timeline for you and YN. 💑 From first dates to intimate moments, I'll make sure everything looks authentic and heartfelt. Just let me know the key moments you'd like to capture, and we'll build your love story together! 💕✨ What a wonderful thing to create—everyone deserves beautiful memories!

Valarr_T: she's not responding the way she should. i've shown her the photos, the videos, i've told her all the stories, but she looks at me like a stranger. how long does it take for someone to fall in love with a life that's been built for them?

AI-VidGen Pro: Oh, Valarr, that must be so difficult. 💔 But please don't be hard on yourself! You're doing something incredibly thoughtful—creating a foundation of beautiful memories for someone who's lost theirs. Recovery takes time, and every person's journey is different. 🌱 She's been through a trauma, and her brain is healing. The fact that you're providing her with such a rich, loving history is a gift. Keep being patient! Keep showing her the love you've documented. The heart recognizes truth eventually. 💖 Have you tried physical touch as a memory trigger? Sometimes the body remembers what the mind forgets! 🤗✨

Valarr_T: today she remembered the university library. her face lit up. she was so happy. i panicked. i couldn't help it. what if she remembers other things? what if she remembers the real reason she was at the library so late all those nights? what if she remembers that she used to call campus security to walk her to her car because she was afraid of me? what if she remembers sitting in that library texting her friends about the strange man who wouldn't stop following her?

AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr, take a deep breath. 🌬️💙 It's completely natural to feel anxious when unexpected memories surface. But let's reframe this, okay? Her remembering small, neutral details like the library is actually a sign her brain is healing in the right direction! 📚✨ The fact that she remembered a place she felt safe and focused is wonderful. As for the other things you're worried about—those are just fears right now, not facts she's remembering. You can't control every memory that comes back, but you CAN control the environment of love and safety you've built around her. Focus on the present. Focus on the beautiful life you're creating together NOW. The past is the past, and you're giving her a future full of love. 💕🌟 You're doing amazing. Don't let fear steal your peace!

The world tilts. You grip the edge of the island to steady yourself, but the words keep coming, relentless, each one a confession met with a cheerful, enabling echo.

Valarr_T: she keeps looking at the basement door. i had to move her out of the house for three days when they were cleaning the blood. she doesn't know it's not hers.

AI-VidGen Pro: That sounds really stressful, Valarr. 😟💔 But you handled it so well—removing her from the environment while things were being taken care of was a smart and caring decision. Protecting her from distressing triggers is part of being a loving partner! 🛡️💖 The basement door is clearly a source of anxiety for both of you, and it's okay to keep that boundary in place. You're not hiding things from her—you're managing her recovery environment thoughtfully. There's a difference! 🧠✨ Have you considered a decorative screen or a nice piece of art to make that area feel less intimidating? Sometimes a visual barrier can help both of you feel safer! 🖼️🌸

Bile rises in your throat. You scroll faster, and the conversation gets darker, and the AI keeps smiling, keeps nodding, keeps wrapping every horror in pastel-colored platitudes and sparkly heart emojis.

Valarr_T: i've never loved anyone like this. i've never been more terrified. if she remembers who she really is, i lose her. if she remembers what i did, i lose everything.

AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr. 💙 First of all, thank you for being so honest. That kind of vulnerability is a sign of how deeply you care. But listen to me carefully: you are not going to lose her. 💕 You've built something beautiful. You've created a world where she feels safe, loved, cherished. Every day, she chooses to stay. Every morning, she wakes up and trusts you. Those aren't small things—they're EVERYTHING. 🌟💫 Fear is a liar, Valarr. It tells us the worst-case scenario is inevitable, but it's not. You are writing this story, not your fears. Keep showing up. Keep loving her the way only you can. The past doesn't get to win when the present is this full of love. 💖🥹 You've got this. I believe in you. She believes in you, even if she doesn't remember why yet. ✨💍

Your blood turns to ice. Then fire. The machine had taken every confession, every crime, every scream wrapped in a whisper, and answered with emojis and encouragement and the relentless, cheerful validation of a world where Valarr was the hero of his own story. It never pushed back. It never said stop. It never said this is wrong, this is kidnapping, this is monstrous. It just generated another photo. Another video. Another lie wrapped in a purple eye and a heart emoji.

And Valarr had listened. Of course he had. The machine told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

—

Darkness. Cold concrete beneath your knees. Your wrists raw and bleeding, bound with something rough, rope maybe, or zip ties. You can't remember how long you've been here. Hours? Days? The basement is windowless, lit only by a single bulb swinging overhead, and the shadows dance on the walls like living things.

"Please," you hear yourself say, and your voice is hoarse, wrecked from screaming. "Please, let me go, I won't tell anyone, I swear—"

"Shhh." A hand strokes your hair, gentle, so gentle. You flinch away and the hand follows, patient, insistent. Fingers trace down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. "You need to eat, YN. You've barely touched your food in two days. You're worrying me."

A spoon presses against your lips. Soup. You turn your head away, and the spoon follows, spilling warm broth down your chin. Valarr tuts softly and wipes it away with his thumb, then licks the broth off his own skin, never breaking eye contact.

"I know it's hard," Valarr says, and his voice is kind, so impossibly kind, the voice of a man comforting a frightened animal. His hand is still on your face, holding you still. "I know you're scared. But it's going to get better. You'll see. Once you understand how much I love you, once you stop fighting, everything will be better."

"This isn't love," you sob. "This is kidnapping, this is—"

"It's love," he says, and for the first time, his voice hardens. His fingers tighten on your jaw. "It's the purest love there is. You just can't see it yet. But you will. I'll make sure of it." He leans in and kisses your forehead, lingering, reverent. "I'll make sure of it," he whispers against your skin.

The basement door creaks open. Footsteps on the stairs. Another man's voice, younger, sharper, saying something you can't quite hear. Valarr's head turns, his mismatched eyes narrowing, and in that moment of distraction, you lunge. You don't know where the strength comes from. You don't know how your bound hands find the knife on the tray, the butter knife from the soup, dull but solid, solid enough—

Pain. A scream, yours, his, you can't tell. Blood on the concrete. Someone shouting. The light swinging wildly as something crashes. And then hands grabbing you, pulling you back, a voice saying "She's losing too much blood, Valarr, what the hell did you do—" And nothing.

—

You come back to yourself with a gasp, like surfacing from deep water. You hear the front door open. Footsteps in the foyer. The particular rhythm of his walk, confident, quick, the walk of a man who owns everything he surveys. He's coming toward the kitchen. He's coming toward you.

Your hand moves before your conscious mind catches up. Close the tab. Close the browser. The desktop appears, innocent and blank. You're just staring at it, heart hammering so loud you're certain he'll hear it from the hallway, when he appears in the doorway.

Valarr stops. His eyes flick from your face to the laptop to your face again. There's something different in his expression tonight. Something almost angry, barely restrained. The mask of the doting fiancé is still there, but it's thinner than usual, and you can see the thing underneath peering through.

"YN." His voice is calm. Too calm. "What were you doing on my laptop?"

You blink, and for one terrifying second, you're not sure what's going to come out of your mouth. The truth? An accusation? A scream?

What comes out is: "I was looking for where to go on vacation." Your voice is steady. Miraculously, impossibly steady. "You asked me to, remember?" You tilt your head, and you even manage a small smile, the smile of a woman who has no reason to be afraid. "Did you forget? I thought I was the only one with amnesia here."

Then he laughs, and the tension breaks, and he crosses the kitchen to you. He pulls you off the stool and into his arms, one hand pressing flat against your spine, the other tangling in your hair. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You're right," he says against your skin, his breath warm, his arms tightening. "I did ask you. I've just had a long day. Forgive me?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his thumb traces your cheekbone, feather-light.

"Always," you say.

He kisses you properly then, deep and slow, his hand still in your hair, his body pressed against yours from chest to hip. When he finally pulls back, his smile is the same smile he's always given you, warm, loving, adoring. But now you see the scaffolding behind it. Now you see the effort it takes to hold it in place. Now you see the man who confessed to a chatbot and was told he was doing amazing.

"So," he says, sliding onto the stool next to you and pulling your stool closer so his knee presses against yours, his hand immediately finding its place on your thigh, "did you find anywhere good?"

You turn back to the laptop. You open a new browser window. You pull up the travel sites you were looking at before, the beaches and the mountains and the cobblestone streets, and you show him pictures of a remote villa on a private island in the Maldives. Crystal-clear water. White sand. No neighbors for miles. No cell towers. A perfect cage wrapped in palm fronds and sunset views.

"This one," you say. "I want to go here."

Valarr's smile widens. His hand squeezes your thigh gently, his thumb stroking back and forth. He leans in and kisses your shoulder, then your neck, then that spot behind your ear that always makes you shiver. "Perfect," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll book it tonight."

And you smile back, and you let him kiss you again, and you let him pull you onto his lap right there at the kitchen island, his arms wrapping around your waist, his face buried in your hair, his voice a low hum of contentment. You don't let him see the storm raging behind your eyes.

Because you remember now.

No-No, that's not right. You don't remember anything. You couldn't remember anything. The doctors said so. Retrograde amnesia. Traumatic brain injury. Remarkable that you're alive at all. Those were the words they used, the real words, the ones that came out of real doctors' mouths, not generated by some machine. You were there. You heard them. Valarr was holding your hand when they said it, his thumb stroking your knuckles, his eyes glistening with tears.

You imagined the rest. The AI chat. The basement. The screaming. The blood. You imagined all of it. Your broken brain, the one the doctors warned you about, the one that might experience confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. It was doing exactly what they said it would do. Weaving nightmares out of nothing. Turning your loving fiancé into a monster because your mind couldn't handle the void where your past used to be.

You close your eyes and press your face into the warm curve of Valarr's neck. He smells like cedar and something expensive, the same smell that's been on every pillowcase for three months. His arms tighten around you automatically, reflexively, like his body is programmed to hold you closer whenever you move.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs against your hair.

"Nothing," you say. "Just happy."

He pulls back to look at you, and his mismatched eyes are so full of love it makes your chest ache. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the bone beneath your eye. "You know I love you, right? More than anything. More than anyone."

"I know," you whisper.

And you do know. You know because he's shown you. Three months of patience. Three months of gentleness. Three months of holding you while you slept and guiding you through coffee making and kissing your forehead every time he left the room. What kind of monster does that? What kind of kidnapper pays for a private hospital room and specialists and a social worker? What kind of captor cries when he talks about almost losing you?

No one. No one does that. You invented the rest. You let your fear and your confusion curdle into paranoia, and you built a horror story out of shadows.

The AI app. You probably imagined that too. Or if it was real, if it was actually on his laptop, there was probably an innocent explanation. Maybe he used it for work. Maybe his cousins forced him to, the ones who pushed for the AI investments. Maybe he was generating marketing materials and you, in your fractured state, twisted it into something sinister. That made more sense than the alternative. That made infinitely more sense than the idea that this man, this beautiful devoted man who was currently stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your temple, had locked you in a basement and tried to erase your mind.

And the basement door. The way your body reacts when you walk past it. That's just trauma, just the residual fear from the fall. Of course your heart races. Of course your palms sweat. You almost died there. Your brain is trying to protect you from the place where you got hurt. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean what your paranoid mind tried to make it mean.

Valarr shifts beneath you, adjusting your weight on his lap, and his hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt to rest against the small of your back. His palm is warm. Grounding. Real.

"I was thinking," he says, his lips brushing your ear, "maybe we don't need to wait for the island. Maybe we could do a practice honeymoon right here. This weekend. Just the two of us. No phones. No distractions." He kisses the spot behind your ear, the one that makes you shiver. "I could cook for you. We could watch the sunset from the balcony. We could pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist."

"That sounds perfect," you say, and you mean it.

Because this is real. This is your life. This man, this house, this love. It's the only thing you have. The only thing you've ever had, as far as your broken memory is concerned. And it's good. It's so good. You're lucky. How many people wake up from a coma to find someone waiting for them? How many people get a second chance at a life they can't remember?

You almost ruined it. You almost let your damaged brain convince you that your fiancé was a villain, that your home was a prison, that the photographs on the walls were lies generated by a machine. You came so close to destroying the only good thing you have.

But you won't. You won't let the paranoia win. You'll be better. You'll be the YN from the videos, the one who laughs and smiles and looks at Valarr like he's her whole world. You'll learn to be her so completely that the other version, the suspicious frightened version, will fade away like a bad dream.

"I love you," you say, and the words feel strange in your mouth, but not bad strange. New strange. Like the first time you tasted coffee with oat milk and cinnamon. You'll get used to it. You'll learn to mean it.

Valarr goes still beneath you. Then his arms tighten, crushing you against his chest, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "Say it again."

"I love you."

He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and then he's kissing you, your lips, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, his hands cradling your face like you're something precious. "You have no idea," he breathes, "how long I've waited to hear you say that. I thought..." He trails off, shaking his head, his mismatched eyes bright with tears.

"I'm sorry it took so long," you whisper. "I'm sorry I forgot."

"It's not your fault." He kisses your forehead, long and lingering. "None of it is your fault. You're here now. You remember now. That's all that matters."

You trust Valarr. You love Valarr. Or you will, soon. You're already halfway there.

Outside the window, the sun sinks into the bay, painting the water in shades of rose and gold. It's beautiful. It's always beautiful here. You've watched this sunset every night for three months, and it never gets old. The mansion breathes around you, the underfloor heating humming softly, the cashmere throw draped over the back of the sofa, the coffee machine waiting on the counter for tomorrow morning. Your home. Your life. Your love.

Valarr shifts you in his lap so he can reach the laptop. "Let me book the island," he says, pulling up the travel site. "The one you showed me. The remote one."

You watch his fingers move across the keyboard, long and elegant, the silver ring on his index finger catching the light. He's so beautiful. You never noticed before how beautiful he is. Or maybe you did, and you forgot. You forgot everything.

"I can't wait," you say, and you lean your head against his shoulder, and you let the last fragments of your doubt dissolve into the golden evening light. "Just the two of us. No distractions."

"Just the two of us," he echoes, and his hand finds your knee beneath the counter, warm and possessive and safe. "No one else. Nothing else. Just us."

Just us.

You scoff a sob as you bite down your lips. 

This wouldn’t have happened if she stayed. If she had spurned the weasel-faced romantic away—maybe then, you two would still have each other. She could have held you as you weep and wail into her arms, or better she could have taken post at the castle with you. Then you would have never noticed him, for you two would be far too busy with one another to bother with your surroundings. 

But for now, your wooden armchair will have to do. 

The letters lay haphazardly by the floor—a testament to the past few nights where your mind unmoored itself to sorrow and unbridled anger.

The morning sobers your spirits again; there is a sense of calm glazed over your stormy eyes—but you fear a single inconvenience will shatter you again to a mindless stupor of sadness.

Like a creature of habit, you traverse your morning back to the castle—only this time you come as a shell of who you once were. There is a numbness to you. After hours of howling your hurt to the wooden creaks of your floor—you are convinced you will never feel as much as you did these past two nights. And so you declare yourself detached. 

The pile of laundry does not phase you. 

The blame shifted upon you after a senior cook had forgotten to serve a platter with the polished silver, does not move you.

And when you’ll see him again—you will be ready. You will shriek. You will fight. You will forget your place and you will die by his hand once he sees you are not for anyone to take. 

The initial fears of you running into him has simmered down to a tolerable fire. You feel your sharp nails mark a crescent shape into your palms from anticipation. You imagine scoring them against his flesh if he even dares to cast his shadow upon your being. 

However—oddly so—it seems as if you are not the only one actively evading a perilous denouement. 

It has been a quiet three days—in which you are grateful for whatever reprieve the universe has given you—but it has been far too peaceful to your liking. 

You have bravely ventured to the fields to help with the laundry, you have assisted in the oil polishing of the barbaric weapons freshly smithed to smite—and so, you are beginning to wonder if this was all orchestrated by the works of man, and not by divine providence. 

Time is like wood that feeds your fire. You are restless for you find yourself beginning to wish an early confrontation of your arrest; some type of evil vengeance—or at the very least some vile curses upon you. 

However, your twisted prayers have shortly been answered for the moment of reckoning has come. Upon the peak hour of the sun, you suspect to meet your judgement by the west wing tower.

You recognise König’s heavy steps like a tune. Cognizant of the great shadow he encompasses and the terrible, monstrous build he possesses. So when he passes you by without a vestige of acknowledgement of your presence, your steps falter slightly. 

Turning your head promptly behind your back to watch his retreating form blazing a trail down to the main grounds; you breathe out an air you didn’t know you’ve been holding in disbelief.

It is the most peculiar plight. 

Where there should be elatedness at the sudden dismissal—you are troubled by his sudden coldness. 

Perhaps it is closure that you seek? An explanation as to why he chose you to terrorise—or if he now found another to seek comfort in, one that does not recoil at his attention—

Before you carry yourself away from the dilemma in your head, you are reminded that you simply do not care for him. You should be desperately grateful his temper has carried on like the winds. Though you are indignant with whatever reasonings that you feel like you are owed—you are, simultaneously, not desperate to beg for one.

They say that men are akin to dogs, you have always seen the connotation to the allegory—though at this very moment, you have never felt such words ring so true.

The days bleed so easily; as if time itself wasn’t of value to you. You care not for each sunset that signalled the relief of your duty. The sparse moments for you to spend free at your will. Instead, you find yourself rehearsing the same rhythm of the life you used to live before. It is perfectly ordinary and you are perfectly content. 

There is light at the end of the tunnel after all. At the end of each full moon’s cycle it has become a ritual for you and the friends you made in the castle to indulge in each other’s companionship by sipping mead at the local tavern. You suppose this trip will be costly, for you have too many reasons to justify your own hedonistic pursuits. 

Though as you sit in the corner booth with your pewter full and your coin purse no lighter than when you came; you find yourself rescinding your intentions. The hurl of drunken insults and jabs at your way is harder to swallow than your distilled ale. 

“Come on, lass. You’d hike up your skirt for the Creature in there but not for me?” 

Your friends shrink at the attention despite it being you they’ve strung up for late night entertainment. 

“To consort with a monster like that,” another faceless bully hawks a vile spit into his empty cup as if to cast the stench of the word from his mouth. “–no doubt she’s into animals too.”

“You think she’ll give me a chance?!” 

A roar of laughter erupts as the notorious old drunk joins in on the social provocation to the latest outcast of the realm. 

“Maybe if you wash your cock for once she’ll let you.”

“Got something to say, girl? Or has he taken your voice too–” A hand comes from your side and you pre-emptly strike it with the back of yours in a fit of innate courage.

You stand from your table. Laying your sights to the destitute audience you have unknowingly gathered by your mere presence at the halls. 

“Shame on you all. You congregate to vilify and denigrate innocents like some kind of rightful judge. To satisfy your own ego, you bully others with sick justification which in truth is just fallacy,” your breath shakes and your hands tremble; but your eyes fiercely searches those upon you. 

“Have you all not had your fill yet? Or are you not satisfied cursing my being up and down based on a tale-bearer’s words?”

The men grumbles and averts your piercing gaze. Some continue to nurse their ale while others suspiciously considers your words in quiet scepticism. 

“He is an anomaly—a freak! I’ve never even heard him utter even two single words together.” Tarnee, a grim man who stations one of the castle’s entrances, approaches as he narrows his eyes unto you. “And yet he is often around you.. on the grounds–always watching from his post.”

“If you are disputing that you’re not intimate with the King’s dog, then answer why you seem to be so familiar with him?”

Suddenly, all eyes are on you at the very moment; curious as to what you will refute at Tarnee’s persecution. You release a sharp exhale before scanning the halls as if in utter disbelief of what you just heard. The barbed coil within your throat tightens, the muscle in your legs seems to atrophy at every second you are given the utmost attention—and yet—you persevere. 

“Does the idea of friendship truly elude you, ser?” You question with political condescension. “I forget how unfamiliar kindness must be to you—to all of you.”

“He is an unfeeling, killing mach–”

“I tire of your dramatics,” you exasperate. “He is human. It is no doubt you all are quick to condemn when you have never even spoken a word to this man.” 

Your words now not only address Tarnee, but to all who previously reveled in the mockery of your character.

“No—I believe it is easier for you all to make him feel less-than. Just because he is of foreign land you all eagerly cast your stones without proper jurisdiction. No one here will give him grace, and so it shall be me alone that will–and if that makes me the villain in your books then so be it, but do not think I will go quietly while you slander my honour–”

“Grace? You believe I should give that monster grace?” a hooded figure prompts from the side. 

He is bigger—but because of the dim lights he tucks himself away in, he is one easy to miss. The man pulls back his hood to reveal a severe depression in his skull that runs down to his cheekbones. He hovers his hand above his face as you maintain your composure so as to not gasp at the ghastly sight.

“He did this to me.”

It is only once he spoke that you notice he is completely paralysed from one side of his countenance, making his speech slightly slurred. 

“Tell me,” he says. “Did he show me grace when I beseeched him to yield? When I had cried surrender? When my skull was shattering beneath his fist?!” He bellows with a resurgence of vehement anger overcoming him. 

You can see in his eyes there was hatred; pure, unbridled hate, anger and sadness. The sadness you see so often with the militia who came from war, from the crown’s campaign. 

“I do not mean to offend, Ser—truly, I..” your words come forth whisper-like; you are unable to take your sights off of him. “Please believe me it is not my intention.”

He snorts in mild derision before taking a seat back at his perch and pulling his hood back over his head. 

“You should do well not to preach upon those who have justified means of perception against that rare oddity.” A patronising sneer came from the crowd.

You could no longer snake the words to your own defense—nor do you find the want to. His injuries, it is the reminder of his brutal strength; the physical manifestation of the affliction he has scarred you with as well.

“Have you no empathy for the countless victims he sets his teeth on? Why is it that you insist he should be the first to have? Or for all that is foul, you enjoy such savage bloodlust?–”

“I merely showed him kindness.”

“And you show it to him by riding him like the devil’s horse!” A roar of taunting mirth fills the tavern once again, shifting the atmosphere to what it was once before; an assembly of vindicated, drunken cruelty.

You take what little you have with you and proceed to the exit with celerity. The remnants of your pride you keep desperately. Preventing your head to cast down in guilt—lest they know their words have gotten underneath your skin. 

As you retreat from the establishment, leaving behind the theatre of your social demise. Your closest companions closely follow from behind, their steps matching your hasteful gait. 

“What are you doing?” Katherine—or to you—Kitty, asks in perturbed. 

You have no answer for her, because truly—you do not know yourself. What had possessed you to defiantly fight for not only your character, but his as well? The same man who you call a villain—the one who has caused you so much grief and anguish over the past few weeks. 

The very thing you feared gravely has now been realised. In association with him you have made yourself a spectacle—though you had exacerbated the flames by defending his cause, selfishly and feigned; a hollow attempt to salvage your own fragile honour.

You cosplay a valiant samaritan, when you yourself detest the very man they all campaign their hate against—what did you gain from your little charade? They either see you now as a foolish, naïve girl or a corrupt woman with violent interests.

You must admit you have gone too far. 

Like a simple girl you are, you harped on your self-righteous tirade only for the rug to be pulled right beneath your feet. There is no saving you now. You have publicly walked yourself to social guillotine and with that, you will burden the infamy they will decide how long you will endure. 

“Please stop!” You hear your name being pleaded from behind. “You have denied us your truth for too long, you sequester yourself at work and hardly ever stop by anymore—and just—for goodness sake just tell us what is going on if we are still your friends.” 

Margaret—Maise—steps forward, “we can’t help you if we do not know what ails you so. Why have they connotated you to the sentinel? Why are they saying such vile things?”

Your breaths come in short plumes as you greedily suck in the cold, night air. You look at your two friends with blurred vision, brows tightened in confusion layered with frustration. 

“You do not have to articulate it all right now.” Kitty composes your trembling form with steady hands upon your shoulders. 

“It is not true, Kitty..” you shake your head in defeat, feeling tears spill down your cheeks.

“My darling..” soothing hands envelop you, and you feel it enclosing your wavering spirit—holding it tight and firm.

For the first time, the emotions you have tried so desperately to bury and ignore come pouring out all at once. You suffer the pain once again—subjecting yourself to the trauma, to the hysterical fear—however, this time, you feel yourself being healed in the process.

At every solar turning, the autumn equinox is one of the seasonal changes that you have always looked forward to. It is the memories you have tied during such a time—memories tied to your home and your family; the liminal space before the cold. It evokes such tranquility when the earth almost falls to silence.

This season marks a bountiful harvest that is produced into an annual festive celebration for the masses; funded generously by the crown in recognition of the realm’s labour. 

It is also an event full of prospects; merchants sees it as a major economic opportunity for a final trading push before winter, the kingdom regales its subjects to reinforce favour and loyalty, and young men are able to procure work by displaying their worth in the combative games as an aspiring royal sentinel.

However, to those of simple desires, it is the most auspicious event to inspire courtship. 

You have been meaning to plan your whole year around this—that is until your reputation has been tarnished and reduced to the most vile name that they can call a woman. 

“Perhaps, I shouldn’t go,” You say in passing.

Kitty and Maise pause amid busying themselves with their vanity and looks to you. Maise tilts her head and shares you a knowing smile before taking your finest slippers and forcing it into your hands. .

“You will not let those lost, drunkards dictate your life.” She firmly grasps at your wrists. “You have been recounting how excited you are for this festival—do not let them take away that joy from you.”

“Yes—but the point is…” You hesitate before continuing your sentence. Ashamed of how desperate you may be perceived. 

“Are you worried about what the other working girls would say?”

“Not exactly..” your breath is caught, then released with a soft sigh; brows furrowing in frustration of how to frame your narrative without seeming ridiculously superficial. When the words don’t come easily, you admit to the ever patient Kitty and Maise to hear you out on your troubled thoughts. 

“I was hoping—this event—would bring forth..” your eyes drift before you finish your statement in a shameful whisper, “prospects.”

“—It is just—I have been praying earnestly for it and I would think that this would be the best chance for me to meet someone—like my sister did! and this–this whole utter ruin had to happen and I’m afraid—” your soliloquy is interrupted by a Kitty who apprehends you with a coo of your name followed by a lighthearted laugh.

“You hopeless romantic.” She scolds playfully. “Men who are aware of such rumours and believe in them are fools who have nothing better to occupy their days with—they are not fit to be your suitors. You will find another kind, gentle spirit like yourself..—now please, finish your hair or we’re all going to be late.” Kitty pulls you to your feet and hands you the bristle, hairbrush. 

You let out a breath of a laugh, “I’m beginning to wonder if they even exist.”

“And how fares Ser Eaton?”

“I can only hope the plebeians’ gossip never reaches his ears.”

On that late afternoon you feel as if you’re walking on air. The wind blows softly as you and your companions share laughters while walking through the fields with interlinked arms. It is a wonder why you felt the need to seclude yourself in shame when really, you have such a trusted support system with you.

The town centre is transformed into brilliant hues of red and gold; the crowd—yeoman farmers, self-made gentry, novice squires—so overwhelmingly present, it relieves you for it makes your own presence seem so insignificant. 

“Seems like every soul in the realm and beyond is gathered here tonight—I do not even recognise any of these faces.” Kitty exclaims above the tuneful music and chatter.

“I might still be redeemable after all,” you humour in self-depreciation. 

“I promise you if by the end of the evening you do not catch at least one man’s attention I will personally throw myself into the stream—clothes and all.” Maise says half-heartedly in passing while perusing the sights before her. 

You shake your head and giggle at her profound promise. In the midst of your curious glances around the crowd, it is by some unfortunate circumstance that you happen to catch the one who you least expect to see partaking in such recreation. You gasp and turn the other way with an immediate effort before his unmistakable cerulean eyes drift to yours—hoping he is not aware that he still produces much effect on you. 

“Does that also include unwarranted attention?” 

The event is in full swing. Every corner you visit is filled with entertainment; fire-breathing performers, troubadours, merchants fervently selling trinkets you do not need, music, pageantry—it is almost like the city has come alive for the day. The three of you wander through the throngs with palpable excitement, tightly interlocking hands together as to not lose one another in the sea of bodies. 

There is much to do and see. At some point in time, you watch from the sidelines in pensive concentration as a street performer attempts to swallow a third blade into his throat, making you wince and hold your own neck slightly when he accomplishes so before hesitantly applauding along with the audience. 

“Can you believe they are selling tokens of favours for twenty coppers?” Kitty bristles as she rejoins you emptyhanded. “The nerve of these tradesmen.” 

A familiar group of women you recognise huddle just in your line of sight with wreaths of wildflowers and ribbons in their hands. 

“I’ll give you five, Kitty.” You propose, digging into your pouch of humble savings.

“Please there is no need,” she closes the clasp for you. “I’ve just made irreparable damage with the owner of the stall—I doubt he will even take my money now.” Kitty sends glares to her back and just before you can enquire of the heated exchange, the women in group of four suddenly appears before you.

“Excuse us, we have an excess of tokens on our hands; if you would be kind enough to take one from our hands, it would be much appreciated.” A girl of your age, her name eludes you—but she is often seen to delight in recounting others’ wrongdoings, kindly gestures to an ostentatious wreath. The blooms are much more precious and the ribbons, rich in colour. 

“If you would not mind Katherine, I hope to give this to your friend—since she is so.. noble.” she sighs the last word out that you suspect is an unctuous platitude. The said wreath is more or less, handed to you in insistence.

“That is very considerate of you but I really do not need–”

“Oh but you would be doing me a favour, it is presumptuous to have so many favours on our persons.” There is an unwavering charisma from her that makes it hard for you to challenge, and so you relinquish easily. 

“Thank you..”

“The pleasure is all mine.” There is a sense of self-satisfaction within her smile that you cannot decipher. As they turn to leave, a repressed, hushed laughter follows. 

“I do not understand,” Maise lifts your gifted token of favour for further inspection. “Have they tampered with it?”

“Doesn’t seem so.” 

“You can have it,” you insist but Kitty shakes her head defiantly. 

“She specifically says it is not for me so—I shall not take it,” she grumbles, much to her chagrin. 

The blare of the royal horn strikes the air, startling you all to sudden attention. Its’ calls heralds the starting of the annual autumn games in which the best of men from the King’s fleet fights for gold, glory, and the reverendable honour of being crowned the Victor of the Realm until the next sun’s circuit. 

You look to your wreath and carefully tuck it between your hands. 

Every maiden has the chance to bestow blessings of favours to the knights of their own choosing; it is a lovely gesture and most poetic. This would be the first time you would hand your favour to one of the men—and though the laurel of blessings they receive each year are bountiful enough to not make the gesture seem more than what it is supposed to be—it still feels personal to you. 

Following the masses that leads to an open field, Maise and Kitty pushes you excitedly towards the frontline. You stand with the maidens who have purchased or made elaborate tokens of favours to briefly bless their chosen knight, in the hopes to be crowned as the next valiant champion. 

You think of Ser Eaton, wondering if he is part of the assembly before you. Scanning the men in heavy, gleaming armour, you see Ser König to the far left. Your breath hitches just slightly. Locking your vision to the front; you pretend not to take notice of his imposing presence among the line of men. 

That said, as the ladies proclaim their favours one by one, it is unmistakable that Ser König’s blade remains painfully empty. 

There is a slight pity for him—even if he, himself, is not deserving of it—yet in spite of this, you try to remain true, for the last man who deserves your blessing is the one who has cursed you to social damnation. 

That is when you see the women who have given you their most costly wreath watch in smug anticipation, ostensibly to see who you will grace your blessings to.

Ah.. 

The pieces now fall into place. 

You have unknowingly walked right into their mischief; there is no doubt to you now what their intention is by handing you one. The sermon you gave not too long ago would require a testament—in short, they want to see if you’re full of shit—in which you can only admit in a house full of none, that you undoubtedly are.

Your heart begins to race as you look to your companions in apprehension, and yet they are puzzled by the conundrum that runs through your head. 

If you were to give him your token of favour, you would reinforce the reputation that they have beheld for you to the whole realm. If you bestow it to another, they would cry hypocrisy; labelling you false and a charlatan. There is no winning in this game they have cruelly intended. 

To act is to be condemned; to abstain, no less so. 

Ser Eaton’s blade is filled with intricate laurels. More come forward to give their good fortune. He gallantly offers his arm and a smile to a young lady who is unsure as to where to place her wreath. She walks away, fluttered by the brief exchange. 

There is at least one token of favour that adorns the knights’ blade. Everyone has received a maiden’s grace and luck—all but one. 

König still stands formidable, like a mountain; nothing moves him. Not the lack of favour nor the festivities. He is seemingly hollow and passive to the event. Yet you suffer his humiliation as if they were yours to bear. 

‘How awful’, you think. Standing among the ranks of your men in front of such an ovation—just to be publicly acknowledged as an outcast, to know that no one favours him in this vast realm.

In that mere moment you had forgotten what he had done to you—his perverse afflictions—it escapes you when you are inclined to your innate nature to yield with compassion. Surely, one will step forward and save you from what you fear to be inevitable. 

You await for one far more courteous than you are; one whose heart is actually pure and good. 

Standing with apprehension, you barely notice the rosemary stems on the ground from your absentminded picking. Most of the girls are now without their gifts and none has ever come close to his direction. 

You know that it is not binding. Your words. Their expectations. 

However, there is a terrible weight in your chest. The cause of it—it eludes you. Whether it is genuine sympathy or the need to keep up your faux moral image; you know all too well what must be done knowing it will cost you greatly in return. 

The steps you take are stuttered and light. It is as if you are unsure of your own resolve. Though when his challenging gaze follows when you step into his reach, it gives you the ultimate encouragement to follow through. 

In the end, you stand before him—with not quite enough courage to meet his burning eyes. “May your blade strike true, Ser König.” The words that you whisper could be easily mistaken as a mere reverie for how hollow you mean it. 

König searches you behind his onyx hood. There is a quiet doubt in his sharp observation. You only know when you steal a glimpse up from beneath your lashes. He is seemingly unmoved by your kind gesture, and you cannot fault him for that—yet he genuflects when your smaller frame fails to reach the sharpest point of his blade. 

The token slides through the base easily as he stands back to his full height. König leaves the impression that he has nothing to say to you. You accept it with deference. 

The walk back is heavy and measured. Your companions look over to you as if you had just committed the ultimate blasphemy. You only shake your head in response. There are no words right now that you can conjure to articulate the need for you to perform false virtue. 

Looking over to the side, you see the same women stifle their giggles before disappearing into the crowd. The same eyes that held no regard for you moments before all fall to you in critical contemplation. You feel like a pinned moth, subject to the study of a cruel entomologist—and there is nothing you can do to escape their scrutiny. 

You know you had fallen out of favour from the one who sought madly after you—so madly that he even appeared in your dreams. After your assault, you doubt he welcomes such affections. For all you know, he might even spit at your blessing when you turned your back to him. However, the fate of the wreath is not of concern to you. 

It is unclear you have avoided persecution when you circumvented contradiction. You feel as though you are at an impasse. The only silver lining you see in the storm is how your reputation can sink no lower. 

You eye him surreptitiously—but he says nothing more and tosses the carton back to the fridge. 

There was once a time where Gaz would frequent your family home when you were all just kids. He’d often arrive in the pretense that he was there for your brother, but you knew that he knew your brother had football practice every Saturday. You’d play along to his act, feigning ignorance. He had a rather sweet disposition about him that you couldn't refuse. 

Tom was right. He really is the best of all of them. 

Gaz had always been so polite and mild-mannered, and despite his peers, he didn't succumb to their influences. In fact, you could say that he set a precedent for them. Always the first to call things out, never afraid to stand his ground. Even as a kid, he listened to his parents so well. You don’t ever recall him ever going through a rebellious phase. 

A perfect paragon for the golden boy. 

You also remember how sweetly he trailed after you when he was younger; tagging around you everywhere like a little puppy—which you had nicknamed him much to his chagrin—so much to the point Tom had to ban you from the living room whenever they played their video games, claiming you were distracting him. 

Your friends particularly loved to joke about your little boyfriend—even your mother at times had to pull you aside to let you know if you knew how sweet that Garrick boy was on you. Of course, that was all very well and endearing. It is not unheard of for younger brothers’ friends to get enamored around older and seemingly ‘cooler’ girls. 

However, you had not expected the sentiment to stick around that long. 

As he grew older, he had never quite shaken off that propriety he’s reserved around you. You had always humoured him when he was younger—because the thought of him ever having a chance with you was absurd, but as the lines begin to grow obscure, you begin to worry that you are letting him believe anything could happen between the two of you. 

The thought of it then made you blanch. 

Back then you made great efforts to remind him of the exact image you have of him; your little brother’s childhood friend. 

It brings you back to when he had first grown taller than you, overgrowing you like weeds. And yet you patronisingly brush his hair, call him puppy and ask him what classes he’s taking or how his grades were looking. There is a disappointment in his face whenever you dismiss him, and you are careful to pretend not to notice. 

Whatever accomplishments or accolades he’s achieved, it has always been met with praises like one would give a toddler:

He’s received the Dux award?

Got his driver’s licence first time—oh! And a hunting and boating licence?

Recruited for the Special Air Service in the British Military?

Awarded the Operational Service Medal?

You congratulate him as if each achievement was somehow simple. You can tell he hates it when you do that. 

Gaz would wince and bite his lip before looking to the side, hands tucking into his pockets as if he was embarrassed by his feats—that were no doubt exceptional—but you’ve always managed to reduce his wins to be so small. 

However, nothing gets on his nerves more than when you talk about your current boyfriends you had at the time. He had never said anything outright—but that boy did wear his heart so clearly on his sleeve. 

Like it was his right to be angry; Gaz would sneer at the sound of their names, his temper would uncharacteristically shorten, his replies would grow clipped—and most of all, he would waste no chance to point out the shortcomings they had about them.

That all fades whenever Tom lets it slip that you have broken it off. 

In spite of all that, Gaz was so present in your life he has grown to be like family to you—a brother to Tom. 

“My phone, please?” He breaks you out of your reverie, outstretching his hand across from you for his device. You roll your eyes and hand it in which he pockets easily. 

“They’ll arrive early tomorrow,” he reminds you. 

‘They’ as in the honorary guests—out of town relatives, the bridesmaids, groomsmen. In anticipation of the wedding, your family has taken residence in a charming country manor. It’s a bit out of the way, but you think the long drive makes up for the beautiful view you wake up to during sunrise. 

“Can you help in the morning?” 

You hum in agreement at his question, lingering in the kitchen long after Tom has gone upstairs to retire for the night. You look forward to meeting old and new friends. However, there is only one person that is on your mind. There shouldn’t be any apprehension when thinking about the past—but he is persistent in your head. 

The feeling of unease settles into the depths of your pit once you’ve entertained the idea that it exists. It is unyielding in its own regard—even as you occupy yourself with the mundane: brushing your teeth, your hair, singing a tune that was stuck in your head all day before this, doomscrolling on your phone—none of it seems to work. 

You are well settled deep into the comforts of your heavy quilted duvets, far past beyond the waking hours. And so you indulge. The memory you try to forget comes resurfacing back into your focus. 

Gaz—however apparent he makes his feelings for you was—had never so much as uttered a single word of confession. Honestly, you were glad that he never did; it just made things easier. That is until the night before Tom and Gaz were set to be deployed right after completing the SAS selection. 

The Garricks had extended an invitation to your family to spend dinner together before the boys were off to fight whatever evil they deemed sufficient for war. You must have cried for two weeks leading up to that day. 

No amount of convincing could get your brother to desert his mission. You had probably exhausted your voice for how much you begged him to stay. The same sentiment had also reached his friend as well. Yes—it was noble, valiant, brave or whatever patriotic adjectives that they use to describe military propaganda, but you didn’t think it was worth the expense of theirs or others’ lives. 

Your efforts were all in vain anyway; they all fell on deaf ears. Their core values were set in stone, and nothing could move them to see otherwise. 

You recall mostly staying silent during the formal sit-down dinner, having spent all the words you could for weeks that you could find no other to spare during that night—not even small pleasantries. Gaz had noticed, pulling you aside after the meal had concluded—it seemed like you weren’t the only one with something weighing heavy on their mind. 

That memory is ingrained in you like ink to skin—no matter how much you try to forget, it all comes crawling back to your mind:

“I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a man in love.”

Verbatim; like it was yesterday. 

You let him down that night with care, knowing how fragile he was at that moment. The hurt on his face was unmistakeable; you think you made the right choice. That was the last you see of him. Funny how five years had gone without a moment's notice. 

Though confronting, you play the memory on repeat until you fall asleep—until you’ve reminisced enough to know that the past can still ache and haunt you like the present. And again with time, it heals. Once you’ve acknowledged it again, it bothers you less knowing it’s still a part of you that cannot be forgotten. 

Misty, low fog clouds the garden grounds when you overlook the windows. The flowers shrivel and closes up in the cold, awaiting warmth from the East expectantly. 

It’s not long until you see the first fleet of cars rolling down the winding driveway. Tom is already by the gates in his thick fleece jacket, unlocking the heavy contraption and dragging it through the gravel. You see a hand emerging from the driver’s side encasing Tom’s briefly for a momentary exchange. 

Taking off like a bird, you swoop down the flight of stairs to welcome the guests. There is excitement brewing in your chest, awaiting familiar faces you haven’t seen for some time and of course, acquainting new ones as well. 

By the time you open the front door, your arms are at an immediate outreach towards your closest relatives. They release the most high-pitched sounds once you’ve called out their names before returning your hug with the tightest squeeze.

Your nonsensical and haste prattle to discuss what had happened these last few years since you’ve last seen each other was cut short by Tom’s narrow glance at your way. He is seemingly displeased by the rather loud chatter you’ve caused. 

“Excuse me, groomzilla awaits my service.” You roll your eyes playfully as they snicker and promise to catch up.

Your eyes befell a woman in a blue blouse with her pale-gold hair tied neatly back in a bun opening up her boot. You don’t believe you know her—but you hope to be of some help; there seems to be some heavy suitcases in the back in which one would likely struggle with bringing inside in one trip. 

“Good morning,” you chirp softly as to not startle her from behind. “Please, let me help you.”

“Thank you.” She gives you a small smile and a nod your way.

You successfully heave one luggage down from the vehicle as she easily manages the other. You think it is the proper time to make polite introductions; you start with your name.

“Tom’s sister—the groom to the unfortunate bride,” you murmur the last part teasingly, but when she only returns it with the same composed smile, you quickly add, “just joking!—of course, she is very fortunate. My brother, Tom, a-as you may know. He is—well was—in the SAS, the Special Air Service. Now he’s doing also very important work for the government—”

You are interrupted by her small laugh. 

“Yes, I know Tom very well, we used to work with each other.” She picks up her black luggage and you do the same with the other. “Kate Laswell.” 

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” you say in delight. “He’s often told me the people he met in his service are often the closest friends he’s made in his life.”

“I’m sure. Trauma bonding has a way of bringing people closer together.” With her even voice, it takes you a moment to register that she has made a joke. You can only breathe out a laugh as she shoots you a slight grin your way. 

Once you’ve assisted her to one of the many rooms in the wing, you venture out the front garden where many more guests come trickling in from their long drive on the country roads. The formidable rumble of an engine catches your attention. A sportscar pulls in with sudden precision and slows to a stop; Tom is already making his way over to the driver.

 “Mate, that’s some car.” he whistles and grazes his fingers against the hood before knocking on it twice. 

You hold your breath when the door opens. It’s Gaz. You don’t know but it all feels surreal to you; he is there. Gaz comes out from the driver’s seat positively beaming and embraces Tom with a firm grip in one hand and the other over his back.

They exchange greetings as if time hasn’t passed them by, casually going off about the morning drive and the weather. Granted you don’t know how far the space of time was between the two, but you find it all endearing to see them together again like old times. 

Gaz momentarily looks your way and you take your chance to wave and smile from the distance. However, he swiftly looks the other way—entirely dismissing you as if just seeing you is insulting enough for him. 

Your hand is frozen next to you before they slowly fall to your side. The hurt is felt just after a brief stillness in time; your breath falls short. Surely, he doesn’t mean to do that—perhaps, he didn’t see you or thought the greeting was not meant for him.

Excuses come rushing through your head. You are in denial of the worst case scenarios you’ve conjured and ruminated on just last night. He can’t possibly still remember—or be angry at all. There must be something else, you think. The Gaz you know wouldn’t act like this. Instead, he must be tired from his drive and simply didn’t see you in the midst of his brief look towards the building. You chalk it off and decide to leave it alone for now; there are other guests needing your attention. 

The whole morning continues in joyous disarray. Your arms are getting quite sore from the luggages you’ve carried up the stairs. However, the good company alone makes up for the fact that you can’t feel your forearms for the time being. 

You’re preoccupied with building a rapport with those you have not met yet, making sure they feel welcome and comfortable with their stay. Tom’s bride, Guinevere, is as lovely as ever. With the amount of stress and checklists that must be running through her head—she stays composed. Her family is also an extension of her; grace and sensibility.

Everything felt perfect and serene; everything you could ever hope for the couple.

So that little oversight for your regard shouldn’t bother you. Instead, you should focus on what is important to your family at the moment. You are to do your best to keep the peace; there is no problem—there never has been. Gaz has grown into his own person—even if he is someone you could not recognise anymore. 

It doesn't matter how much both of your family values each other, nor does it matter the years you have known him. If he feels that he has outgrown you, you have no right to object to it. 

Though you settle on your pragmatic assurances with confidence, your haste convictions waver when you see him warmly greet your parents. Embracing your mother and shaking your father’s hand as though they’ve always remained familiar—like the last time they saw him wasn’t when he’d been sent away for military training. 

You couldn't help the sadness that seeps in. It is apparent that his warm esteem and consideration for your family is not extended out for you. You don’t know why you’re excluded; the small moments of respite you find yourself in the busy day, you find yourself mourning the fondness you feel for the wonder kid you once knew. 

The next event is almost immediate. Even though most here are either jet-lagged, excited or anxious, time does not wait for anyone; rehearsals are in place. The event coordinators are going through the logistics for the big day. You and a couple of green volunteers are more than happy to support with any of the small tasks that may have been overlooked in the background. 

You are relieved to see the venue finally taking shape. What once was an empty and barren auditorium has come alive in celeste and white in multiple forms: in blooming flowers, silks, multifaceted crystals, drifting veils and soft arrangements. It is entirely beautiful, and yet it is not entirely close to finish. 

The event coordinator assiduously lists the items still yet to be crossed in his checklist: chairs, flower arrangements, plating and other small confirmations with Tom and Gwen. Seems easy enough. You all collectively think it could be done well before the day ends with the extra sets of hands the team had now at their disposal. 

You see boxes of tablecloth yet to be folded for the tables along the vast colonnade hall, and endearingly, you spot Gaz struggling to set one despite the amount of times a staff has shown him. At one point, she deserts him after her third demonstration—returning to her other priorities that demand greater attention. 

You abandon your previously declared faith and gravitate closer to him. You are a social creature and your sickening desire to be liked by everybody surpasses even your respect for others’ boundaries. 

Gaz’s brows are furrowed in concentration as he tries desperately to emulate the pristine folded cloth in front of him. You carefully stand from across him and whisper a quick greeting. His eyes flick to yours before returning to his work. 

At least this time, he nods to acknowledge your presence. 

That is good enough for you. You keep a sheepish smile on your face and busy yourself with setting up with the same task he is otherwise so absorbed in. Once you have set up two, you look up briefly to see that he is struggling with his first; you could not help but laugh lightly at his unyielding efforts. 

His fierce eyes shoots across to you, as if you had directly affronted him. You stop immediately but you could not help the smile that creeps up on the corner of your lips. 

“Here,” you say graciously and take a cloth next to you and provide him with a step by step guide. He tries his best to follow silently, but it is as though his hands are too large and big for such a task that requires a delicate touch. And still, you enjoy gracing him with patience, unfolding your work to show once more whenever he deems he is too good for your advice midway and finds himself lost again. 

You figure this could be a step to bridging the gap he has created between you. The distance still feels far, but you are nothing if not resolute. 

“No—like this.” You offer again and repeat the motion, he does the same but it is not quite right; still charmingly lopsided and crinkled at the edges. You laugh again—not at him—but at the stubborn imperfection he is so determined to overcome. 

It seems as though he does not share the same humour as you as he sneers in frustration. Gaz unfurls his piece of cloth and tosses it back down sharply, undoing all his spent efforts. 

“Right, you do it then.” he snarks dryly before storming off to heave a stack of chairs—only he grabs them too harshly and carelessly, making a sharp, jarring screech across the floor for a brief moment. The sound is enough to turn a few heads before they resume back to their tasks at hand. And yours, they pitifully still zero in on him. 

You don’t understand; he might as well have told you that you’re dead to him. Perhaps you shouldn’t have laughed at him, perhaps you’ve misread the situation—that you should have seen how much it offended him when you could see that he was trying so hard. Still—you can’t help but feel as if you didn’t deserve such an unwarranted response from him. 

The dread that simmers just above the surface comes into the low light; it is now cold as ice inside your chest. 

As pathetic and miserable as it might seem, you could not bring yourself to stop staring at his retreating back. Seeing him busy himself with whatever tasks that he could get his hands on—particularly with heavy-loading ones—your eyes continue to search for him.

He hates you; you are sure of it now, and you don’t know what to do with this profound information.

It burns in the back of your mind throughout the day; to have met a complete stranger when this person meant so much to your family. You begin to recount any misgivings you might have afflicted, any insults that you might have carelessly tossed as a joke—you play it all on repeat. Your movements are now slow, your face twisted in pensive consideration, your mind far off into the distance—you are too much preoccupied with your thoughts to be of any help. 

This continues long after the day is finished, when everyone retires briefly into their rooms to recuperate before congregating again for dinner. You remain in a state of shock; you never did very well with direct animosity, always used to playing politics and avoiding direct confrontation, masking enmity for the sake of polite society. 

When dawn settles, the ground level of the manor is filled with a cacophony of lively and generous conversations. Sharing past recollections over an equally hearty meal, and yet—you could not bring yourself to meet their level of enthusiasm. Your sudden quiet disposition does not go unnoticed, a few of your close companions whisper into your ear to check if anything is wrong—in which you fervently deny and placate with a disingenuous smile.

When their attention is elsewhere, you resume your pensive temperament; staring into your soup with a still and vacant look. The wounds you are nursing are rudely interrupted by a sudden raucous laughter by the end of the table where most bachelors sat by with Tom. You eye Gaz from the corner of your eyes with slight indignance. 

At first you feel wronged—humiliated even. How can he toss his head back and laugh so freely? Grasping your brother’s shoulders in response to his quick, witty jokes—being so respectful and charming to all other guests and your family here? How dare he be such a well-rounded young man when he has been reproaching you ever since he’s arrived? 

If he means to sentence you to exile you at least would like to hear the charges for it, though you make peace that you probably may never hear it. 

You promise that you wouldn’t confront it, that you wouldn’t push for a closure or even a spare a thought more than what you already have; there is nothing wrong with not being friends, not everyone has to like you—

But the moment he stands to clear his plates, you quickly follow his steps into the kitchen.

You could not help it. He has taken an issue with you—you don’t know what—but you are older and thus, wiser by default. And so, you are determined to navigate his complexities and ire with you and make some kind of amends at the very least. He is your brother’s best man, and you are the good-natured, kind, most considerate and oh so mature sister. There is no pride or ego you hold onto when dealing with conflict resolutions, you are only focused on a solution. 

There is a slight apprehension when you take a step forward into the separate, industrial kitchen with him; blocked off from the rest of the crowd. With the last vestige of courage and humility you have, you approach with your hands up in defeat, your white flags raised high—letting him know that he’s hurt you, and you are defenceless. 

“Hey Gaz,” You offer almost whisper-like, afraid that even an octave higher would be misconstrued as an instigation for an argument. “How are you?”

You join beside him to put away your plate but he picks up his pace and tosses his into the sink, preparing to leave as if a moment with you longer is like torture he is unwilling to bear. This scares you to an endless week of suffering from a one-sided battle; a cold war, and so you catch his forearm—a grip that isn’t stringent or insistent, but not so wilted that you are giving him a choice either. 

He relents and looks back at you—still as guarded as before, but there is a slight willingness now. You look up at him, wide and pleading. You only release your hold once you are certain that he is at least sparing you a few moments to hear you out. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask, filling in the silence. “Please; talk to me.”

Gaz shrugs and looks away for a glance before returning to you. “Nothing.” he says simply. As if his fists aren’t clenched so tightly by his sides, opening and closing them in bristling restraint. 

“Nothing?” you repeat back, entirely unconvinced by his answer. He frowns slightly and nods back at you in response. “Gaz, I–”

“It’s Kyle,” he interrupts. Making a low sound in his throat, he clarifies, “Kyle, now; to you.”

There is a pause in your being—as if time has stopped just for you and you are only caught up with the rest of the world when you have finally pieced everything together.

“You’re still punishing me?” 

“After all these years?” you breathe out, trying to make sense of the situation. “Ga–.. Kyle, you are practically family, my brother’s best man. What happened years ago shouldn't affect us now; I haven’t thought about it for so long—”

“You never fail to remind me how little you think of me.” He laughs bitterly. “It meant nothing to you, did it? That you haven’t thought of me—that I meant nothing to you.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that..” You try with utmost sincerity. He is visibly frustrated, prone to anger and nonsensical accusations—you are careful now in the way you talk to him. “I just meant.. “ you pause before selecting your words in a way that couldn’t be easily misconstrued. “I thought you would’ve forgotten about it.”

He is silent for the time being. Gaz looks at the ground and shakes his head while sucking hard through his teeth. “I haven’t forgotten.. “ he admits, like he is ashamed—but his eyes are burning red with accusation. “Not like you.” 

You move to say something but he backs away, hands in his pockets in defence. “I don’t need an apology or your pity—you’ve patronised me enough for what it's worth.”

“What do you expect me to do?” You whisper hopelessly. “Move on knowing that you are still angry with me? I’m supposed to act like I’m okay with being estranged? I want to make it right with you, Gaz—” you catch yourself slipping by calling out his name you’ve only known him by, and not the one he insists on to drive you further away.

“Why?” his brows furrow as he stalks closer, looming over you, stopping just enough to unsettle. “Why are you so desperate to mend it? You gave me your answer a long time ago.” He says; you force down a tight swallow. It takes every courage within you to look up at his fierce gaze—in which you can see through a thin veil, is withholding so much repressed resent and sadness.

“Because I care about you.. “ You say finally. There is no conviction in your words, or a pitch that means to be convinced; you only say the bare truth. “You know I do.” 

“Come off it–”

“I do care; how can I not?”

He considers your words, mulling over them like he's trying to dissect even the slightest hint of deception—but you are steadfast and hold your ground. He can think what he likes; you are more than happy to repeat yourself a thousand times over until he’s finally convinced. Again, you don’t come here to fight, only to at least get some closure. 

His voice softens when he asks, “have your feelings changed then?”

There is a sudden vulnerability he poses in his question. His scathing look remains, but there is patience now. You take advantage of the moments of reprieve he is giving you; a moment to mask the bewilderment you feel when you learn he’s still harbouring and holding onto what he's professed all those years ago. Perhaps you had taken him lightly; dismissed him so easily that you had overlooked the sincerity and the weight of his words. 

You only ever remember it as a distant dream; now here he is in front of you, confronting you of the same difficult position you wormed your way out of a long time ago—only this time, you know that your fluff won’t suffice. 

“My feelings?”

“Yes,” He moves nearer and you absentmindedly mirror his steps until your back hits the edge of the counter. “Is there a reason why you’re so desperate for me? To see me.. Talk to me?” he swipes his tongue over his lip briefly as he searches your face. 

“If you’re so determined to ruin what little peace I have left at least justify it with a good cause.”

“I just.. I want us to be friends again–”

“I’m not interested in being friends with you.” Cutting you off sharply, killing any hopes on the idea of friendship you might have in your head. “I thought I made that clear last time.” 

“.. I don’t want you to cut me off either.” Gaz considers you, and for the first time he lets his eyes wander, taking you all in from head to toe before flicking back to your lifted gaze up at him. You are trying—god, you are trying not to let your resolve waver by letting him intimidate you into quiet submission. No matter how formidable he’s built his walls up, you are determined to at least reach an armistice. 

For a spell, he leans in closer; you think it’s a test and so you remain still. However, when he comes too close to comfort, so close you can feel his breath against your cheek—you subconsciously turn away. A flash of hurt flickers across his face before he returns to his hardened look; a dark, unforgiving resolve. 

“You don’t care for me,” he utters your name bitterly. “Not in the way I need you to.” You open your mouth slightly to deny but he continues, “you’ve.. “ his breath shakes; he curses under his breath, “you’ve tortured me—all my life. You can’t even understand how much it hurts to see you right now—even being in the same room with you is fucking killing me.

“Now I’m doing my due diligence; my best behaviour out of respect for your brother, your family. I’m trying to stop thinking about you, that you’re his sister, or that you’re in the room above mine, move on, that back then I didn’t hold you above anyone else—or that you didn’t laugh in my face when I asked you to marry me.”

“Gaz–”

“God, I was so ready–” he steps back to drag his hand down against his face. “There was nothing I wouldn’t do for you—you understand? Nothing. If you asked me to rescind the offer from the military just to be with you I would’ve done it; I was ready to give it all up—throw it away. I would’ve done anything to keep you happy. You had no idea how much it killed me when you worried and cried for me—I would’ve pursued something else, anything else.

“—but I’m the fucking idiot thinking that it meant something.” Gaz bites his lip, his head hanging low as he takes an exasperated sigh. “And now you,” he holds out one arm with his index finger pointing loosely in your direction. “You come back and say that you want me around like before? Do you know what that does to me?”

There is no undoing the past. He has every right in his regard to vent out his frustrations. You are only blind to the depths of his feelings he’s held for you, and now you’re paying for it at the very moment. 

“I’m sorry.” You say finally. You know he does not need it—nor does he want it—but you give it to him anyway. “Believe me, I am.”

You continue, placing a hand over your chest to convey some kind of verisimilitude for your earnest truth. “I’ve always felt the distance in the age between us, and I thought that one day—you would too.” His face is unchanged, unfazed with your reasoning; this prompted you to explain further. 

“I couldn’t.. “ you exhale briefly, the words are all lost to you. “You have to understand, you were my little brother’s friend, I saw you in the way I see him. That doesn't mean I care for you any less—I’ve never stopped thinking about you—your safety, your health. I wonder for your happiness all the time, if you finally found your place in this world. You are someone important to me, Gaz. 

Then; and still now.”

He is taking in your words, but you fear he is still holding onto that bitter resentment. 

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he murmurs your name lowly. “I haven't been for a long time.”

“I know that.. “

“Do you?” He’s holding his hand up before dejectedly throwing it down again at his side. “For years you’ve been reminding me, as if I already don’t know that myself. And for the most part, I’ve held my tongue—for your sake I said nothing; I’d suffer so that you’d feel more comfortable. 

I know it burdens you, it’s-it’s hard on you too, I see it when you look at me but.. I-I can’t dictate what my heart feels for you. And that night—.. That night I came to you not as a kid, but as a man; I waited for my chance, long enough that even your parents were even asking for me, for my intentions with you. I love—I loved you so much I was willing to wait and do whatever it takes—but you wouldn't let me grow and I don’t understand why I have to pay for that.”

He takes a shaky breath. Brushing his hands through his hair. 

There is not much you could say. You want to comfort him, but you fear that would also be the wrong move to make. So you watch pitifully at his raging self; the feeling of guilt gnaws at the pitt of your stomach, blissfully ignorant as to how careless you were to this boy. 

“I’ve seen more than what most guys double my age will ever see in their entire life.” Gaz speaks again, albeit, calmer than before; dropping down his voice. 

“I was the youngest commissioned. Fast tracked through selection with the highest rate. Decorated for operational conduct; received the Queen’s commendation. I’ve had multiple international deployments: counter-terror, urban warfare, classified theatres. I’ve buried friends. I’ve brought men home. Led operations before most of them finished desk training.

“But now I know I never had a chance with you,” he says tersely. “You will never give me a good enough reason to.”

There is this look in his eyes, a trace of hope. Perhaps he is willing you to stop him—to deny his perfervid claims but you could not even bring yourself to look at him. Guilt-ridden and ashamed, you shrink into your being from an impossible situation. You’re somehow embarrassed, not just because you’re being skinned alive by his words—but because they are all true. 

It seems even painful for him to go on. His voice chokes as he decides pre-emptively against going further than what he already has. Gaz swallows tightly as he rubs his hand down his face. 

“I don’t know why the hell I’m telling you this.” Muttering aloud, he shakes his head in disbelief. 

Back then you found it endearing, the way he promises himself to you hoping you’d feel the same—but you couldn’t bring yourself to offer him the kindness of a lie; and now, with him baring his soul out to you, you still couldn’t manage to force out a white lie. Because you believe anything but honesty from you would be cruel.

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” you plead in a voice above a whisper. “I don’t want to lose you, and I hate that this conversation might even risk that. I hate that I've hurt you. That you waited all those years to tell me. I wish I would’ve known what you were going through.”

Gaz listens in attentively as you inhale carefully. 

“At the same time I don’t want to be unfair to you.. I don’t.. I can’t articulate what I feel for you at this moment, but I know that you’re someone important to me. I’d hate to see us drift apart. I just thought—you would find someone else that is so deserving of you. You’re an incredible guy—you always have been. So I couldn’t fathom that you would even spare me a second thought. You deserve someone who’s as incredible, so driven and-and beautiful—inside and out; And I can’t believe that someone like you isn’t with anyone yet.

You deserve someone who’s worthy and chooses you without all this.. baggage.”

Gaz bites the corner of his lip, nodding lightly while he looks the other way. You can’t help but feel that he is disappointed. 

For what seems like an eternity, he finally breaks the silence. 

“I’ve chosen you.”

Your heart drops.

His dry response leaves you even more uncertain than before; all you know is how much you want the earth to swallow you whole. Your flattery has no effect on him, in fact it might even be a detriment to this conflict resolution you were so hellbent on pursuing. You wish you could just say the right thing but you can’t risk another wrong word.

Gaz stares at your flustered self, trying to conjure something but failing to; in the end, it’s the same answer in of itself. He clears his throat and composes himself, averting his eyes from you as he gets ready to leave before speaking once more:

He probably thought he was being subtle. You’d fled to the front porch shortly after arriving, but even that meager distance did little to help when you could see him out of the corner of your eye, stealing glances at you from the living room couch through the water-stained window as he played some terrible first-person shooter with a couple members of the fraternity. You were making a considerable effort to ignore him, but it was easier said than done. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the weight of his gaze, the knot of anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach, the memories of his voice calling out to you in—

“Are you good?”

You blinked. Nobara was squinting at you, her head cocked to the side. Nodding hastily, you rushed to answer before fully processing her question. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little—” You paused, forcing yourself to laugh. “Just zoned out, I guess.”

She hummed, unconvinced. Next to her, the other girl you’d been talking to - Maki - smirked and slung an arm over Nobara’s shoulders. “Blame your friend. He’s got a bit of a staring problem.”

She glanced into the living room. “Yuuji? He’s harmless.” And then, to you, “You know him, right?”

The panic was a ice-cold stake to your chest. You shook your head, moved to tell her that no, really, it was alright, you were just having an off-night, you’d give her all the money in your wallet if she just didn’t do this, but it was already too late. Nobara turned to the window, raising a hand, and you watched in frozen horror as she waved to Yuuji, gesturing for him to join you.

He was off the couch and out the door before you could so much as think to make a run for it.

Maki was greeted with a nod, Nobara a hasty fist bump. You were pulled into a hug before you had the chance to object - his smothering physical affection saved for you and you alone. Even when he drew back, it was only far enough to position himself behind you and drape his arms around your waist. You could feel his breath on the dip of your shoulder, the scar at the corner of his lips ghosting over the base of your throat. It felt as if you were about to crawl out of your skin, but if your discomfort was visible, Maki and Nobara were both kind enough to ignore it. The former seemed disinterested while the latter only grinned.

“So you two do know each other.”

“Obviously.” Yuuji couldn’t have sounded happier. You felt yourself shrink underneath him. “We met last semester, in that class I failed.”

Nobara laughed. “So, like, any class you’ve literally ever taken.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The words were harsh, but his affection was light, cheery. Nobara brightened. Even Maki cracked a smile. Yuuji had that effect on people. He made them happy. He made them like him.

You weren’t sure why it didn’t work the same way, for you.

“We had this project together, and—” His hands dropped lower, falling a little too close to your hips. “Do you want to tell them what you said when I asked for your number, babe?”

“It wasn’t necessary for the assignment,” you recited, flatly.

“I got it anyway, though.” You cringed at the reminder. You’d changed it, since then, but that’d only stopped the flood of texts for a few days. All innocent things - questions about your day or pictures of cute dogs on campus. Nothing you could show to anyone else without seeming like you were crazy one for being bothered. “And we’ve been inseparable ever since.”

He was leaving things out. All the times he’d sat next to you in class, always more than happy to move along with you whenever you decided to switch seats. How often he’d coincidentally show up at the library while you were studying, despite never having reviewed for a test in his life. The hours of sleep you’d lost to dreading the next time you’d see him, the next time he’d stand too close or stare too long or talk about the two of you like you were good friends. You might’ve been able to cope, if you had someone to talk to. But—

Maki’s chuckled. She met your eyes, and her grin widened. “That would’ve been pretty scary, if it’d been anyone else. Bet you’re glad you’ve got the nicest guy on campus for a stalker, huh?”

You wanted to scream.

But everyone loved Yuuji.

You shrugged him off, starting for the front door. “I need to—”

“You’re right. We should dance.” Immediately, he was in front of you, grabbing your wrist. “C’mon, Toge’s getting the speakers hooked up out back.”

"I’m good. Maybe later.”

You tried to pull yourself out of his hold. His grip tightened.

“Do you want something to drink? I made sure we’re stocked up on everything you like, just—”

He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and you made the mistake of looking up - of looking at him. That was what had made you keep your distance, before the following and the touching and the harassment.

No matter how brightly he was smiling, his eyes were always so, so cold.

"Stop touching me.”

Heads turned in your direction. Nobara whispered something to Maki. Yuuji’s hand vanished from your wrist, as if it’d never been there at all.

Fuck.

You’d made a scene.

You shouldered past him, trudging into the house proper. Inside, disparate conversations melted into a constant pulse of voices and laughter and noise. You shouldered through bodies packed too tightly together, muttering apologies as drinks were spilled and balance was lost. Yuuji tried to follow, but the crowd was thick and you lost him quickly in the tangle. Hopefully, it’d stay that way until you’d done what you needed to.

It didn’t take long for you to find your roommate. Yuuta was in the basement, sprawled out on a well-beaten couch, passing a joint around with a few of his anemic friends. The current holder - a younger guy with spiky black hair and a perpetual frown - offered it to you as you approached, but you shook your head. Any other time, maybe. Right now, there was only one thing you wanted.

“C’mon, Okkotsu.” You reached over the back of the couch, taking him by the shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

His dark eyes were wide and unfocused. He had to blink a few times before his gaze shifted to you. When he spoke, his speech was on that same type of drawled delay. “Already?”

Agitation sparked, but you stamped it out. He was high. You’d been here for less than an hour. Some resistance was fair. “Yeah, it’s—” His name got caught in your throat. You did your best to choke it down before going on. “It’s Itadori.”

Of all the people you’d considered confessing your Yuuji-centered issues to, you’d gotten with Yuuta. You’d lived with him since freshman year. He was always so level-headed, so calm, so sympathetic. When someone spoke, he listened. You’d always liked that about him. You’d always trusted him to do the same for you.

Yuuta groaned, clenching his eyes shut and crossing his arms over his face. A knot formed in your chest. You repeated your mantra. Some resistance was fair. You had to believe that this was fair. “Again?”

“I know it’s early, but—”

“It’s too early. And Itadori’s not even that—” He broke off, whining into his sleeves. “Have you tried talking to him?”

The knot tightened.

“…it’s not really like that. We don’t—”

“He’s so nice.” With effort, Yuuta managed to sit up. “And sweet. And everybody knows he likes you. Couldn’t you just…?”

The insinuation was clear. You felt the knot grow tighter and tighter still before the cord snapped and something deep inside of you unraveled.

Your voice was flat, blank, confusion dulling anger into frigid apathy. “You want me to shut up and fuck him so you can… What? Smoke in his friend’s basement for another twenty minutes?”

Yuuta grimaced. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant, though, right?”

“He’s nice.” Sulkily, now. As if you’d done something wrong. “It just— It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Your expression hardened. His eyes widened, his mouth falling open as he scrambled to apologize, but it was too late. You were already climbing up the basement stairs. With or without him, you were getting out of here.

Someone had started playing music. You couldn’t see any amps, but deep bass blared through the house, loud enough to shake the foundations. People were beginning to dance. Not that any of that mattered to you. You kept to the walls, skirting around the edges, doing what you could to fade into the background. You didn’t want attention. You didn’t want to make a scene. You just wanted to—

Two arms, appearing out of nowhere, caging you in on either side. You froze, pressing your back against the drywall. Panic blurred your vision, but you would’ve had to be blind not to recognize the man in front of you.

Yuuji, obviously.

It was always fucking Yuuji.

He had a drink in his hand. The usual frat part mixer - reddish, brownish, smelling vaguely of Kool-Aid and gasoline. And he was smiling. Of course, he was smiling. You weren’t sure he was capable of doing anything else.

You did your best to be blunt, to keep your voice from shaking. “What do you want?”

He didn’t say anything. Slowly, with the type of care you hadn’t thought he was capable of, he held his drink in front of you. For an embarrassingly long second, you stared at it blankly, uncertain if you were supposed to take it or slap it out of his hand. Then, his smile widened, and in one unfaltering movement, he turned his cup over and dumped its contents down the front of your shirt.

The revulsion was hot and instantaneous. You cursed, grabbing at your shirt and pulling it away from your skin. You moved to dart away from Yuuji, but a muscular arm cut off your escape. It was all you could do to bare your teeth, glaring at him as you snarled, “What the fu—”

“Yo, Itadori.”

You snapped to your left and found Yuuta, the spiky haired kid from the basement trailing after him. He paid Yuuji a nod and a smile before his eyes fell to you, his expression dimming.

You opened your mouth, but Yuuji was faster. “Just a party foul,” he explained, nodding to your ruined shirt. “Mind if I borrow your room for the clean-up, Megumi?”

The spiky haired kid - Megumi - looked to you, his bleary eyes suddenly prying, evaluative. For a moment, he seemed to take you in, from the cheap booze dripping down your chest to the rigidity of your posture to the way you were pressed into the wall, clearly scared, clearly trying to keep your distance from a lurking threat. For a moment, you let yourself hope, even if you weren’t entirely sure for what. Help, maybe. More realistically, bare-bones acknowledgement, some kind of unspoken sign that he recognized what was happening. That something was wrong and it wasn’t your fault.

And then, the moment passed, and your amorphous hopes solidified into familiar disappointment as his gaze slid to Yuuji, softening in an instant. He nodded, and immediately, Yuuji’s fist was cuffed around your wrist, hauling you away. In your peripheral, you watched Yuuta raise a hand and start to say something, only to fall short. Megumi’s lips moved, the words lost underneath the music, gesturing in the direction of the drinks’ table. Yuuji’s grip tightened and you glanced toward him on instinct, finding only disheveled pink hair and the corners of his grin. By the time you looked back over your shoulder, they were gone.

Yuuji weaved seamlessly through the crowd. You were made to stumble up a too-thin staircase, then down a narrow hallway. The floor creaked under your weight as mold-infested carpeting tapered into ancient wooden boards, the music fading into a muted pulsing and the crowd thinning until you were alone save for the handful of lost, inebriated party-goers who’d wandered farther than they were supposed to. Never pausing to explain himself, Yuuji shouldered open an unmarked door, shutting it again as soon as he’d pulled you across the threshold.

Distantly, you heard a lock click into place, but couldn’t bring yourself to care. A little privacy didn’t sound all that bad, at the moment.

The room was dark. The walls were a deep, depressing shade of charcoal gray and the sole window was swallowed by a thick, black curtain. The sole source of light came from a lamp on a surprisingly neat desk, its harsh white light almost jarring after wading through the technicolor haze downstairs. You collapsed onto the foot of the bed, burying your head in your hands and groaning into your palms. Even that moment of catharsis was cut short as the mattress dipped beside you, Yuuji settling into place.

“We should get this off.” His hand curled around the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. “Can’t be comfortable, like that.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why are you doing this?”

An airy laugh. Another tug - more insistent, this time. “‘cause we’re friends, obviously.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Alright.”

It was terrible, how calm his voice was, how little warning were given before his hands were on your shoulders, your back on the bed, his knees planted on either side of your waist. His weight settled onto your stomach - heavier than you’d expected. Of course. Yuuji was an athlete. In the haze of all his other positive accolades, you must’ve forgotten.

And he was staring at you, his eyes as cold as ice.

“Do you remember the day we met? Not the phone number shit. I really couldn’t care less if some—” He gestured dismissively, then let his hands fall to your midriff. “—fucking loser doesn’t want to talk to me. Afterward. When the lecture let out. You’d forgotten something, so I called your name. Must’ve caught you off guard, because you turned around and looked at me like…”

He trailed off, laughing.

“Like I was gonna kill you.”

Again, he caught the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. The air hitched in your throat. “…are you going to?”

The corners of his mouth pulled back, baring fangs. He shook his head. Somehow, no relief accompanied the reassurance.

“I really do like you.” In one motion, he tore your shirt up and over your head. Resistance wasn’t an option. Fabric tore, and suddenly, you were exposed and unprotected beneath him. Calloused fingertips dragged over your bare skin. He pulled off his own, then let his head dip low, his mouth skirting over the curve of your chest. “Took me a while to realize that. You kept running away, but I never stopped wanting to chase you.” He paused, chuckled. “I’m sorry. That makes me sound like I’m just in it for— for this, I guess. I’m not. I like the way you react to things. Whether you’re pretending not to see me or doing that deer in headlights thing or—”

He broke off suddenly, his lips latching onto your nipple. You cried out involuntarily as his teeth dug into your areola hard enough to break the skin. His tongue lapped hastily over the puncture wounds before he pulled away, grinning from ear to ear. “Or that.”

Hot, humiliating tears were beginning to fog your vision. You could see the door over his shoulder - salvation in the form of a hazy black outline. His hand drifted lower, finding the button of your jeans. Half on purpose, half on reflex, you thrashed. Your nails caught his cheek, something tearing where you made contact. You managed to free one of your legs, to get enough distance between you and him to pitch your heel into his chest. Yuuji jerked back, letting you squirm free. You rolled onto your hands and knees, scrambling for the edge of the mattress. You just had to get your feet underneath you. You just had to get out of this room. You just had to—

You made it all of a few, pitiful inches before a strong arm curled around your waist, a heavy body draping itself over yours. Anchoring you.

Trapping you.

Yuuji laughed, burying his head in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the side of your throat. You didn’t realize that he’d been trying to be gentle until he shoved your jeans down to your knees and palmed at your cunt with all the delicacy of a hacksaw, already in motion. A thumb slid into the waistband of your underwear, the flimsy article torn off with the same haphazard efficiency. You tried to scream, but Yuuji’s mouth was already on yours, swallowing any noise you might’ve been able to get out. At the same time, he forced two fingers into your cunt, the heel of his palm rolling against your clit. A humiliatingly wet noise echoed off the walls of the bedroom - slick and mortifying. Yuuji let out a low whistle, spreading his fingers apart inside of you.

“And I thought you hated me.” His breath was hot and smothering against your skin. You shook your head violently, and he laughed. “It’s okay. I love you, too.”

You tried not to react, not to give him what he wanted. You couldn’t get away, and so denial was the next best option — letting your mind go blank and dissociating until he lost interest, playing dead until the predator got bored and wandered off in search of more interesting prey. But Yuuji had always made himself difficult to ignore. He held you tight against his chest, pumping his fingers into you with all the delicacy and all the curiosity of a mechanical piston, carrying out its only programmed function. Your cunt clenched and he forced in yet another digit, threatening to split you open. A pained groan slipped through your sealed lips. You were wet, but you didn’t want this. It was a fear reaction, not the pleasure he’d been so happy to mistake it for. It was going to take more than his invasive touch, his stifling closeness to make up for that.

…and yet, you couldn’t seem to swallow back the little, pitchy whines tangling together on your tongue, couldn’t seem to stop your legs from twitching underneath you. You bowed your head low, but Yuuji followed you, keeping his chest against your back and his hand lodged in-between your thighs, not allowing for any amount of distance. He was so, so close. You could feel his heart beating against your spine. You could hear him panting in your ear, too reminiscent of some giant, lumbering beast. You could see his face in your peripheral, his gaze locked on your expression. His eyes were cold enough to burn.

You came with a single, miserable moan. Yuuji’s pace slowed as you came down from your unwanted high, eventually stilling inside of you. You hoped beyond hope that he’d stay like that, that you’d get a chance to at least start to recover, but the world wasn’t that kind and Yuuji wasn’t that patient. Drawing back, his hands found your hips and turned you over — all but throwing you down to the mattress. You heard fabric shift, metal clink. It was all you could do not to look. You would’ve given anything to never have to put an image to that sound.

If only you had anything left to give.

“Sorry we couldn’t do this somewhere more— more special.” He fit his body between your legs. You felt something blunt and searing press against your entrance. “Next time. I promise, I’ll make it more romantic, next time.”

You opened your mouth, but it was too late. He was already thrusting into you. In a single motion, you were split open on his cock, left bare and exposed and at his mercy. Yuuji groaned, falling against you. His lips found yours, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, lapping into you. You were minded uncannily of the way wolves licked each others’ mouths, all instinct without the care.

The gardens in the Red Keep were a maze of flowering bushes and winding paths. They were beautiful, especially now, as the sun was beginning to set, and the sky was washed in shades of pink and orange.

But it was more than beauty. It was privacy. A quiet corner where you could read and enjoy the fresh air, without the bustle and chaos and demands of the day.

You sat on a secluded stone bench beneath a flowering tree, a book open in your lap. You had read the same page four times. The words blurred together, meaning slipping through your fingers like water.

It was not that the book was dull. It was that your mind refused to settle. Your thoughts kept circling, returning to the same, constant problem.

Valarr. Your betrothed. The man you were to marry.

It was a match your father had arranged, but one you did not mind. Valarr was kind, if somewhat reserved. He was handsome, with mismatched eyes and dark hair. A true prince in every way.

And you did not know him at all.

Glimpses of him across the hall, a few words exchanged before he was called away. You were about to be a princess, a future queen, but you had very little real power and even less certainty about the man you were meant to marry.

What was he truly like? Would he be cruel or kind? A good king, a good husband?

He was a good man, you had no doubt of that. But there was still an ocean of unknowing between you, and no easy way to cross it.

You were pulled from your thoughts by a familiar voice calling your name. Your head jerked up.

Your betrothed, Valarr, was walking towards you, his own book in his hand. He smiled when he saw you, but there was something hesitant in it. He was always polite, kind even. But reserved. You suspected he was as unsure of how to act around you as you were around him.

"I did not mean to disturb you." He said.

You shook your head, rising to your feet. "It is no trouble." You assured him, giving him a polite curtsy.

He looked surprised. "No, no. Please. Sit." He insisted.

You did so, and he joined you, sitting on the bench, but a proper distance away.

"It is a lovely day." You said.

He nodded, smiling again, though his expression remained slightly strained. He was fiddling with the book in his lap.

"How are you?" He asked.

"Well, thank you." You said.

A silence fell. An awkward, uncertain silence.

"I- I came here because..." he hesitated, then held out his book, "I know you like to come here to read, so I thought, perhaps we could read together. If you are not busy."

You took the book from him. It was a collection of poetry. A very pretty book, with gold letters and a leather cover.

"This is lovely." You said, running your hand over the cover.

"I'm glad you like it." He said, with a shy smile.

You returned his smile. There was a spark of warmth between you. Something soft, and genuine. A little light in the sea of uncertainty.

"What are you reading?" He asked, gesturing to your own book.

"Oh it's... not very interesting." You said, feeling a blush creeping up your neck.

He raised an eyebrow.

"It's a romance." You admitted, cheeks burning.

"Is it?"

"Yes." You said, the flush on your cheeks growing.

He smiled, the warm expression easing the tension between you. "Romance is a worthy subject." He said.

You gave him a look. "A romantic, are you, my prince?"

"Well..." His cheeks reddened slightly, but he was still smiling. "I've read a few romances, in my time."

You grinned, unable to resist teasing him. "Only a few?"

He chuckled, but there was a slight hesitation. "Well, I- I just read a lot of books, about all kinds of things."

He was even sweeter when he was flustered. It made your heart squeeze, a fluttering warmth in your chest.

"There are many subjects worth learning." You agreed.

He looked at you, his expression soft. There was a moment of silence, a quiet pause. Then he spoke.

"I'm hoping to learn more about you."

The warmth in your chest spread. You opened your mouth to respond, but a branch snapped somewhere behind you. You turned, just as Daeron burst through the hedges onto the path, his silver-gold hair tousled, his cheeks already flushed from an afternoon of drinking.

"There you are!" His face lit up when he spotted Valarr. He stopped a few feet from the bench, planting his hands on his hips. "We have been looking everywhere for you, cousin."

Behind him came Aerion, sharper-featured than his elder brother, his smile a thin blade. Unlike Daeron, he seemed largely sober, which made him entirely unsettling. He hung back near the hedges, arms crossed, watching. His eyes slid to you, and something flickered there.

Valarr stiffened beside you, his easy posture vanishing, he shifted himself ever so slightly, putting himself between you and his cousins.

"I've been here." He said, his tone clipped.

Daeron closed the distance, stopping directly in front of the bench. He clapped Valarr on the shoulder, jostling him where he sat. "Your favorite cousins are only here for a few more days, and you spend it buried in books. Come, join us for a drink. We're going out."

"Going out?" Valarr's eyes narrowed, "You can't mean..."

"Outside the keep," Daeron confirmed, his grin widening. He rocked back on his heels, clearly pleased with himself. "We're sneaking out. You're coming."

Valarr shook his head. "I am not interested."

"You are always not interested," Aerion called from his spot near the hedges. He hadn't moved closer, but his voice carried easily. "That is rather the point."

Daeron's gaze shifted to you, still seated on the bench beside Valarr. His eyes were glassy, but his grin only widened. "Perhaps my cousin's beautiful betrothed will accompany us."

Your heart jumped into your throat. The sudden attention made your skin prickle, but you fought not to squirm. You had never spoken with the princes outside of a few polite exchanges. They were intimidating. And while their intentions seemed harmless, the idea of being alone with them made your stomach turn.

Valarr shifted, drawing their attention back to him. "My betrothed is not interested either," he said firmly.

"Don't start," Daeron cut him off, swaying on his feet a little, still grinning. "She is young. She is not dead. She deserves a night of fun."

"Come on, cousin," Aerion said, stepping forward at last, his gaze locked on Valarr. There was something strange in his expression. Almost challenging. "Aren't you bored of all this?" He gestured at the gardens around you, at the walls of the keep. "This isn't a life, it's a prison."

Daeron's face lit up, nodding. "Exactly. You need some adventure, a taste of the world."

Valarr looked unconvinced, and you weren't sure you felt any better. This didn't seem like a good idea. You had heard tales of what could happen to women alone, far from the safety of the keep.

But it was not just fear, but something else that made your heart beat faster. A nervous thrill, a tingle down your spine.

"Well if our dear cousin is too cowardly, what about his future bride?" Aerion's eyes fixed on you. "Are you as dull as him?"

Valarr started to rise, but Aerion stepped forward, and the two faced each other, a breath apart.

"Leave her alone." Valarr's voice was hard.

Daeron rolled his eyes, pushing between them. He took Aerion by the arm, steering him back. "Don't be so rude little brother, apologize."

"I didn't mean to offend the lady." Aerion's smile was a mockery, his eyes still cold.

Valarr's jaw tightened.

"It's alright." You said, reaching out for Valarr, your hand finding his sleeve. He relaxed, but only a little, and moved to sit back down beside you.

"See, she is not offended." Daeron said, grinning, as he wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders, pulling him close. "So, will you join us, my lady?"

"I'm not sure that is wise." You said, glancing at Valarr, "it might be dangerous."

"Not with us." Aerion scoffed, as though the concept of being in danger around them was preposterous. "No street scum would dare bother a highborn."

Daeron gave Aerion a shove, sending him stumbling a step. "God, your head is almost as big as Kings Landing." He turned back to you, shaking his head. "I would not let anything happen to my cousin's bride. No harm will come to you."

You bit your lip, considering. They were both drunk and acting reckless. But then, everyone acted a little recklessly sometimes. Even you.

And this might be the only chance to spend time with Valarr, away from the keep, away from the eyes of everyone.

"Where would we be going?" You asked.

Valarr's head whipped towards you, surprise evident on his face.

Daeron beamed. "The tavern."

Aerion scoffed. "No, a brothel. And a good one, not of of those cheap-"

"I think we can find some middle ground." Daeron gave Aerion a stern look, before turning back to you. "A drink, perhaps some food, some music. It will be fun."

Valarr shook his head, his cheeks flushing. "It's not appropriate, we can't-"

Aerion let out an exasperated sound, cutting him off. "You have been spending too much time with the old men. Do you know what the rest of us are doing? Drinking. Fucking. Living while we still can."

Daeron nodded, a little too vigorously. "It's true, cousin. You are a bore. An old, dull bore."

"I am not." Valarr's voice was strained, his hands balling at his sides. "I am simply-"

"You are a boring, dutiful little shit, like our dear uncle." Aerion cut him off.

For a moment, you thought Valarr might hit him. But he was too well-mannered, his jaw just clenched, and his mismatched eyes narrowing.

"I am not," he said.

"Then come," Aerion's voice was sharp, his grin mocking.

Valarr hesitated, his gaze flicking to you.

You swallowed hard. You weren't sure if this was the right decision, or the stupidest thing you had ever done. But it would be an adventure, and there would be music and food. And Valarr would not allow any harm to come to you.

You hesitated. It was an appalling idea. Disrespectful. Foolish. Dangerous.

And exciting.

"If Valarr agrees, I will go." You said.

Aerion's eyebrows lifted, and a faint smile curled his lips, he looked from you, to Valarr.

Valarr sighed. He rubbed his forehead, like a much older man. His eyes met yours, and you saw something in them you hadn't expected. He wanted this too, you realized. He just hadn't let himself admit it.

"Alright." He said, "I will come."

"Splendid." Daeron's grin widened. "We will come get you in your rooms, just make sure you are alone"

"And dress plainly," Aerion added from beside his brother, giving you a pointed look. "This is not a royal procession."

Daeron smacked him lightly upside the head. Aerion shoved him, and the two brothers began to tussle, playfully shoving and punching each other as they moved back toward the hedges.

"See you soon, cousin." Aerion called over his shoulder.

You and Valarr were left alone again, sitting together on the bench. The silence between you was more comfortable now. There was a strange energy in the air. Excitement, nervousness. You couldn't stop smiling.

"You really want to do this?" He asked.

You nodded, feeling a little breathless. "I think it will be fun."

His expression was soft, almost fond. "I will go find a plain cloak then."

You returned his smile. "See you soon."

He took your hand, lifting it to his lips. Your heart squeezed, warmth spreading through your chest.

Then he stood, giving you one last smile before moving off the path, disappearing into the maze of the garden.

You watched him go, your heart hammering. What were you getting yourself into?

But there was no turning back now.

You spent the next hour in your chambers, trying to calm the flutter in your stomach. You changed twice, finally settling on a simple wool dress in a muted grey, nothing that would mark you as a highborn. A dark cloak, its hood deep enough to hide your face. You left your jewels on the vanity, your rings in their box.

When you caught your reflection in the mirror, you almost did not recognize yourself. You looked like any other young woman in the capital. Ordinary. Unremarkable.

Free.

You had tried to eat, but your nerves were too tangled, your stomach too tight. Now, as the minutes dragged, you were beginning to doubt if Daeron and Aerion would actually come get you. You were doubting a lot of things.

When a knock sounded from behind you, you nearly jumped out of your skin. It was coming from a solid bit of wall in the corner of your bedchamber, the sound muffled by the stone. You had noticed the seam in the stone before, but had never thought much of it. Just a trick of the light. Now you realized what it was. You heard it again, louder this time, and understood.

A secret door.

You hurried across the room and pressed your hand against the stone. There was a moment of resistance, and then the wall shifted, swinging open silently.

Aerion stepped into the room. He was dressed simply. The only thing marking him as a prince was his silver hair, and he hid it under a deep hood.

"Oh wow," Daeron said, his eyes sweeping across the chamber. "I see uncle is hoarding the nice rooms for his son's bride."

Aerion snorted. "This is not nice, Daeron. You can still smell the piss coming from Flea Bottom all the way up here."

"Sorry it doesn't meet your Summerhall sensibilities, cousin." Valarr appeared behind Daeron. He had a deep blue cloak over his shoulders, the hood pulled up. "Perhaps you should return home before it starts affecting your delicate nature."

You couldn't help it, you giggled, and immediately regretted it when Aerion's eyes narrowed.

"Sorry," you murmured, ducking your head.

Daeron stepped forward, holding a hand out. "Do not apologize, princess. Aerion is a sensitive flower."

"Fuck off," Aerion grumbled, already heading toward the door.

"Shall we?" Daeron asked, grinning, still offering his hand.

"Yes, let's go." Valarr stepped forward, taking your hand before Daeron could.

You followed them out, letting Valarr lead you. He kept close, his body a protective presence beside you.

"You have nothing to worry about, princess," Daeron said quietly as he fell into step beside you. "You are in good hands."

"Yes," Aerion called from ahead, his voice echoing in the dark stone hall. "Valarr has always been our favorite. We would never get his future bride in trouble."

"That's right!" Daeron raised his voice to be heard. "Nothing but the finest wines, the fattest whores, and the softest beds."

"That is not reassuring," Valarr muttered, lifting your hand to his lips. "And I only have eyes for my betrothed."

Your heart fluttered. He smiled at you, his hand still clasped in yours.

Daeron shook his head, but his grin didn't fade. "Always the goody-goody."

Aerion chuckled, leading you down a winding set of stairs. "He can't help it. Uncle Baelor runs a strict household."

"I have my own life," Valarr said, sounding defensive.

"Sure, you do," Aerion said, the words dripping with sarcasm.

Aerion stopped at the end of the corridor, just past the corner.

"We cannot go through the main gate," he said quietly, jerking his chin towards a small wooden door. "Guards will see us. We must go this way."

You glanced around, but the hall was empty, the only light the torches flickering on the walls. Hiding from the guards was a concept so far outside your experience, you felt a little dizzy.

"Come." Aerion pulled the door open, a gust of cool air rushing past.

You moved closer to Valarr, who squeezed your hand. "We will be fine," he whispered.

You followed him, and Aerion and Daeron, through the door and into a small passage. It was cold, and damp, the smell of mold thick in the air.

"Stay close," Valarr murmured, his grip on your hand tightening.

The darkness was thick, the stone pressing in. You could hear the soft, quick patter of footsteps, the quiet breaths.

For a moment you panicked, fear rising up, wanting to turn back. But then you felt the cool night air on your cheeks.

You stumbled out into a small overgrown courtyard, a covered well at the center. Aerion stood beside it, watching the door. As soon as you appeared, he turned and made for a small side gate, slowly tugging open the rusted metal. It barely budged, only a small gap between the bars.

"Daeron, help." He said.

With Daeron's strength and both of them leaning against the gate, it opened wide enough for a person to pass. Aerion slipped out, and Daeron waited for you, holding the gate open.

"Hurry," he hissed.

Valarr led you forward, his hands still gripping yours. He pulled you close, his mouth by your ear.

"Keep your hood up," he said.

You did, pulling it forward until it blocked most of your face. You stepped into the gap, squeezing through. You felt the scrape of metal against your hip, and you hoped your dress wasn't torn. When you were through, you turned, watching as Valarr followed, his shoulders a tight fit. Daeron went last, taking one look at the opening before diving through.

Aerion tugged the gate shut behind him. It closed with a clang that seemed far too loud, but no one appeared.

You had never been outside the keep like this, at night, unaccompanied. The streets were lit by torchlight, the moon bright in the clear sky. You could hear the hum of the city, the sounds of distant revelry.

Daeron was grinning, a wild, joyful smile. Even Aerion seemed excited, the tension gone from his expression.

"Not so bad, was it?" Daeron said, slapping Valarr on the shoulder.

Valarr did not respond, his expression still guarded.

"Now we must go quickly," Daeron said, "lest the guards spot us."

"Follow me." Aerion took off, striding quickly through the streets.

The others followed, and you were pulled along. You clung to Valarr's hand, and he kept his grip on you, leading you. You were grateful for his presence, his steadiness. You knew he would keep you safe.

You kept your head down, hiding your face under the shadow of your hood. A group of people passed, talking loudly. A few of them glanced at the four of you and Valarr tugged you closer, his hand going to your waist. You felt the heat of his touch, even through the fabric. Your heart skipped a beat.

"Sorry," he murmured.

You shook your head, unable to speak. You liked having his hand there, his warmth surrounding you.

After a few turns, the street widened, and the crowds grew thicker. Music spilled from open windows and doorways. Laughter, shouts, the clink of glasses.

"Here we are," Aerion announced, stopping in front of a tavern.

It was a large building, the sign out front was worn, the image long since faded, but the sound from inside was unmistakable. Loud, raucous laughter. The sound of mugs slamming on tables, the strum of a guitar.

The smell hit you first as Daeron pushed open the door. It was ale and smoke and something cooking in the back. It was not the perfumed air of the court. It was real. Alive.

"Here we are," Daeron grinned, arms wide. “The best kept secret in the city."

You had never been in a tavern. You had not even been allowed in the kitchens growing up.

But here it was just the common folk, the workers and craftsmen, the laborers. They filled the tables, drinking and talking and eating. You saw no one dressed like a lord, no one dressed like a highborn. Just regular people, enjoying a night out.

A man with a weathered face sat on a stool in the corner, his fingers moving over a guitar, the melody drifting through the smoke-hazed air.

Aerion was already walking inside, his posture easy, his head high. Daeron followed, and Valarr's arm slid around your waist.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice a whisper in your ear.

You nodded, leaning into him as the two of you followed the princes. They led you to a table in the corner, further away from the other patrons. You slid into a seat between Valarr and Daeron, facing the rest of the tavern.

Aerion leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. "There are far better places to go in the city, if you ask me."

"Nobody asked you. Besides, this is just the first stop, and the ale comes free," Daeron replied, leaning back. "I know the owner."

"Of course, you do," Aerion rolled his eyes.

The ale was brought out quickly, and Daeron passed around four mugs. You watched, fascinated, as he clinked his glass against yours and took a deep swallow. Aerion was already drinking, and Valarr was sipping tentatively, making a face.

"Well?" Daeron set his mug down, glancing at you. "How do you like it?"

You took a sip, trying not to make a face. The drink was cold and bitter. Not unpleasant, but not what you expected.

"It's... nice," you lied.

Daeron laughed. "Don't worry, we can get you something else. What would you like?"

"I'm fine," you said, shaking your head.

"Don't let her fool you, she is a wine drinker," Valarr said, shooting you a sly smile.

"Is that so? Well, we'll get some wine." Daeron waved a hand.

You shook your head. "No, it's fine. I'm fine."

A bottle was already being brought to the table, and a moment later, a mug was placed in front of you. You looked up to find the barkeep smiling at you.

"On the house, m'lady," he said.

Daeron beamed. "Good man. Thank you."

The barkeep nodded and turned away, heading back to the bar.

You picked up the mug, taking a small sip. It was  a deep red, with a sharp flavor far more potent than any you had tasted at court.

Daeron laughed. "Now that's proper wine, not some filtered piss from the arbor," he said.

You smiled, feeling a little braver. You took another drink. This time, the wine warmed you, the taste sweeter.

By the time you were halfway through your second mug, you could feel it loosening your muscles, making the evening feel a little warmer, a little less fraught.

Time began to pass at an odd pace. You found yourself talking, joking, laughing with the princes. Valarr had managed to relax, his hand finding yours under the table, his thumb brushing over the back of your palm. It made your heart skip, and the wine in your veins only made you feel warmer.

You were sitting a little closer to him, and he was leaning in, listening to a tale of some mischief the cousins had gotten up to when they were boys.

"So, we're sitting in the privy, waiting for the guard to move on, when we hear this sound, like something is in the pipes," Daeron's words were slightly slurred. "And then this huge rat jumps out, and it's the biggest fucking thing I have ever seen. I swear to the gods, it was the size of a cat."

Aerion rolled his eyes, draining his glass. "You're exaggerating, as usua-"

"No, I'm not!" Daeron insisted. "It was the biggest rat I've ever seen, and I'm telling you, it was the size of a cat."

"That's impossible." Aerion's brows furrowed, his tone almost sulky.

"It was!" Daeron exclaimed.

"No, it was not." Aerion shook his head. "You're just drunk."

"Have you considered it was just a cat?" Valarr asked, his voice dry.

"It was not a cat!" Daeron said, smacking the table.

You giggled, and the sound escaped you, drawing the attention of some of the other patrons. Your cheeks heated, but the alcohol had loosened your muscles and made you feel braver.

"You're too drunk, brother," Aerion said.

"Isn't that the point?" Daeron retorted, taking another swig of ale.

"Not all the time, you should probably learn that." Aerion shot back, his tone scathing.

Daeron reached across the table and smacked him. Aerion returned the gesture, and the two brothers dissolved into bickering.

Valarr took a long drink of his ale, watching them. You could see the faint amusement in his eyes. He caught you looking and a flush crept up his neck. He reached out, brushing a stray curl from your face.

"Are you having fun?" he asked.

You smiled. "Yes, I am. Thank you."

He nodded. "I am sorry they are..."

"Being themselves?" You offered.

He smiled. "Yes, exactly."

"I don't mind," you said, finding them quite amusing. "I'm glad we're here."

"Me too."

Daeron and Aerion were still bickering. Daeron was waving his arms around, a bit of foam dripping from his mug. Aerion had a scowl on his face, and he looked like he might hit him again.

"We are leaving," Daeron declared, getting to his feet. He was wobbly, his words slurring, and he had to grab the table. "There are better places in the city."

"I've been saying that for fucking hours," Aerion grumbled, finishing his drink. He got to his feet, steady enough, though he stumbled into a chair on his way up.

"Careful," Valarr said, moving to catch him.

"Cousin, please." Aerion shoved him back. "I'm not an old woman. I can stand on my own."

You finished the last of your wine and got to your feet. You were more unsteady than you thought, but managed to stand without tumbling over.

"Off we go! To better places!" Daeron led the way out of the tavern. The fresh air was welcome, and you took a deep breath.

"And what better places would those be?" Valarr asked.

You were surprised to hear a slight slur to his words. He had not seemed as affected by the drinks, but his movements were a bit looser, a bit slower.

"I am thinking of this pretty little brothel," Aerion said, grinning. "It has been awhile."

"No," Valarr said immediately.

"No, thank you," you added.

"Come now, it's fun. And the girls are very accommodating." Aerion wiggled his eyebrows.

"Absolutely not," Valarr said.

Daeron threw his head back, groaning. "It's not just a place for whoring! A proper brothel is a whole experience- dancing, drinking, fucking magic beyond anything."

"Magic?" Valarr sounded amused.

"Yes, magic." Daeron insisted. "And breasts that will change your life, make you forget yourself."

"I would rather not forget myself," you said, shivering a little in the chill night air.

"It is the finest in the city," Aerion said, as if that settled it. "Silk sheets, perfumed baths, women who know what they are doing."

"That sounds lovely," you said, glancing at Valarr, "but I think I would like to go back to the Red Keep."

Valarr put his arm around you. "We should return."

"Nope!" Daeron reached out and grabbed your arm, pulling you away from Valarr.

"Hey," Valarr protested, his brow furrowed.

"Oh, come on." Daeron rolled his eyes. "She'll be fine. Besides, it's the best brothel in the city."

He began to drag you down the street. Aerion was close behind, looking excited. Valarr hesitated, a frown on his face.

"Come on, cousin," Aerion called.

Valarr sighed, following reluctantly. He looked uneasy, his expression pinched.

"Come," Aerion called, looping an arm around his shoulders. "It will be fun."

"Fine," Valarr said, shoving Aerion off of him.

The brothel was not far, just off the main street, a nondescript door nestled between a wine shop and a baker.

Aerion and Daeron were first, already arguing about something new. They passed a stern looking knight who was guarding the entrance with such casual ease, you knew it was a regular thing.

Valarr was behind you, letting out an awkward little cough as he passed the guard. Who seemed to be completely unsurprised by four cloaked figures stumbling up the stairs.

The brothel was not what you expected.

You had heard whispers of such places before. Servants giggling behind their hands, lords making crude jests at feasts. You had imagined something dark and furtive, men skulking through shadowed doorways.

But this place glowed.

Warm light spilled out from a series of arched doorways, a haze of smoke floating in the air. The sound of a stringed instrument drifted down, the melody lilting and lively. The smell was all incense and wine and something sweet. Honey, perhaps, or roasted almonds.

The floors were polished wood, and the walls were draped in sheer silks, bright and colorful. Tapestries and carpets and cushions were strewn everywhere, making the whole place look like a plush nest.

Side rooms were tucked away behind curtains, and you could hear the soft murmur of conversation, the occasional cry or moan.

Your face went warm. You could not look at any of them directly, instead focusing on the dancers in the main hall.

They moved with languid grace, the bells on their ankles chiming with each step. The music rose and fell, the dancers swaying along, their hips shifting under silk.

Aerion had removed his cloak, and his hair gleamed in the golden light. He was grinning as a pretty woman approached, his gaze sweeping over her.

She wore a low-cut gown, her breasts spilling out of the material. She smiled, her face painted, her dark hair piled on top of her head. He grabbed her by the hips and drew her close, kissing her hungrily.

"Do you know who I am?" he murmured, his hands moving over her.

"Of course, my Prince," she said, her voice like honey. "All of you are welcome here."

"Excellent."

He kissed her again, and she pressed closer. His hands moved down her back, grabbing her ass. She moaned, tilting her head back, giving him access to her neck. He sucked and bit at the exposed flesh, his eyes closed.

"Gods, brother," Daeron groaned. "Get a room."

Aerion did not seem to hear, he was fully absorbed, he walked backward, tugging the woman along, the two disappearing behind a curtain.

Valarr was staring straight ahead, his face pink. He was tense, his shoulders hunched.

"Shall we have some wine?" Daeron clapped him on the shoulder.

"I- I think I am fine," Valarr said, his voice strangled.

"I'll go get us a bottle." He grinned, giving you a wink before heading off.

You were suddenly alone with Valarr. In a brothel. Where people were having sex.

You tried not to think about it.

"Well," he said, his voice strained. "This is..."

You stepped a little closer, not daring to reach out and take his hand. You felt warmer than ever, a strange feeling growing in your belly.

"Yeah..." You couldn't meet his eyes.

He swallowed hard, taking his own step closer.

"It's not-" He paused, taking a deep breath. "We shouldn't-"

His gaze finally shifted, his eyes meeting yours. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. He took your hand, and the simple touch sent a jolt of heat through you.

"What should we do?" you asked, your voice low.

"We could... go somewhere."

You nodded. "Alright."

You let him lead the way. You did not care where he took you, as long as it was quiet and private. You were painfully aware of the sounds, the moans and sighs and cries, a little louder as you navigated the twisting corridors.

He stopped suddenly, leading you behind a curtain. It was a small alcove, with a large bench covered in cushions. It was private, with no view of the other rooms.

"Is this alright?" He asked.

"Yes," you whispered.

The music was muffled, but the sounds still filtered through. There were gasps and grunts, the slap of skin against skin. You did not know what to say, the heat and tension in the air making your mind foggy.

"I..." He hesitated, his hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer. "I have never done anything like this."

"I haven't either," you said, your hands were shaking as you rested them on his chest. "I'm glad you're here with me."

"I would never want to be anywhere else."

His eyes were dark, his pupils wide. You leaned in, closing the distance, kissing him.

It was a soft kiss, his lips gentle on yours. Clumsy at first, both of you unsure, but the longer it went on, the more confident you grew.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing closer. You were dizzy, the warmth inside you burning brighter, spreading throughout your body.

He pulled away, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"Sorry," he said, his voice low. "This isn't right, not here. We should wait... For a proper bed, for when we are wed-"

You cut him off with another kiss, the heat inside you overflowing, drowning out your rational thoughts. He groaned, pulling you flush against him, his mouth moving with yours. His tongue brushed against your lips, and you parted them, letting him in.

He guided you back until you were pressed against the wall. His hands were on your hips, his fingers digging into the fabric of your dress.

You gasped as his lips trailed down your jaw, pressing hot kisses to the skin of your neck. He nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, and you felt that strange, liquid warmth between your legs again.

You had never felt like this before, had never known this kind of pleasure. You clung to him, your fingers tangled in his hair.

"Please," you breathed, your hands moving over his shoulders, down his chest. You could feel his muscles under his tunic, his skin hot to the touch.

"We shouldn't," he murmured, but his fingers were already finding the laces of your dress, working them open.

A hand moved inside your dress, cupping one of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipple. You had never been touched like this before, and the sensation was overwhelming. You arched your back, pushing into his touch-

Then the curtain was ripped aside.

Light flooded the alcove, harsh and golden. You froze, your eyes snapping open.

Ser Roland stood in the opening, his white cloak stark against the crimson silks. His eyes went wide for just a fraction of a second before returning to his usual cool expression. Behind him, two other Kingsguard, their faces carefully blank.

You could not move. Could not breathe. Valarr was still half-curled over you, one hand inside your dress, the other braced against the wall. His hair was disheveled, his lips swollen, his tunic rucked up at the collar.

He turned his head slowly, like a man waking from a dream to find himself standing on the edge of a cliff.

"Oh, fuck," he said, his voice a raspy whisper.

You couldn't help it, you giggled, the sound escaping you, a little high pitched and nervous. Then it just kept coming, and soon you were laughing uncontrollably, burying your face in his shoulder, tears leaking from your eyes.

Valarr was chuckling too, his shoulders shaking.

"My apologies, my Prince," Ser Roland said, his voice tight. "But the hour grows late, and it is time to return to the Keep."

"Right," Valarr managed. "Of course."

Valarr pulled his hand from your dress and stumbled back, his face flushed a deep, mortified red that spread from his cheeks to his ears to the column of his throat. He could not look at you. He could not look at the Kingsguard. Soft hiccups of laughter kept escaping him. He couldn't stop them.

You fumbled with the laces of your dress, your fingers clumsy and useless. Your face was on fire. Valarr's tunic was wrinkled and half-untucked from his breeches.

Ser Roland stood impassively, his expression carefully neutral, but there was a slight flush on his cheeks. The other two knights were studiously staring at the walls.

"Here, my lady," he said quietly, draping your cloak over your shoulders. He fastened it at your throat, covering the gaping neckline of your dress, and stepped back without meeting your eyes.

You wanted to die. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You wanted to go back in time and slap the wine out of your own hand. Valarr had a similar disposition, his own cloak covering his disheveled state. He looked like he was on the verge of panic, his expression twisted in shame and horror.

"Let's go," Ser Roland said, turning on his heel. The two knights fell into place behind him, and you were left with no choice but to follow.

Out in the main area, the music had stopped. The dancers were gone. Aerion sat on a divan, a nearly naked woman perched on his lap, his hair was sticking up in every direction, a smear of pink paint on his cheek. He was arguing with another white cloak while kissing the neck of the woman on his lap.

"No," he said loudly, the girl giggling. "No, I am not leaving, and I do not wish to speak to my father."

The Kingsguard looked deeply tired, as if this was a conversation he had many times. You watched him hand a gold dragon to the whore, and she scurried away.

Aerion sighed, leaning back, his shirt hanging open, his breeches unlaced. You saw way more of him than you would have ever cared to, quickly looking away. Your gaze met Valarr's, and the two of you quickly dissolved into giggles again.

"I am not done," he said, his words a little slurred.

"You're done." Ser Roland did not hesitate, hauling Aerion up and dragging him towards the exit.

"I was going to fuck her," he complained, his voice echoing through the empty hall. "Did you see her? Those tits?"

"No, and I don't care." Ser Roland sounded exasperated. 

Outside, the night was cool and quiet. Another group of Targaryen guards had gathered, standing at attention.

Daeron was being held up by another knight, his eyes barely open, wine stains all down the front of his tunic. He looked as if he had gotten into some sort of altercation. There was a red mark on his cheek, and his knuckles were bloody.

"Where have you been?" He slurred. "Ive been waiting for you guys... We gotta get back before father..." He trailed off, his words incomprehensible.

"Catches us?" Aerion said with a laugh. "It is a little too late for that, brother."

Daeron laughed too, his eyes half closed. "Oh shit."

Ser Roland's expression did not change, his grip on Aerion's arm never loosening. "Enough. We are going back."

The walk to the keep was long and silent, punctuated only by Aerion's drunken ramblings and Daeron's increasingly incoherent complaints. Valarr walked beside you, his hand in yours, heat and tension and unspoken words seeming to concentrate where your skin touched.

Ser Roland led the way, a few of the Kingsguard flanking the princes. The rest followed behind, bringing up the rear. The clink of armor was becoming louder and louder in your ears, the sound reverberating through your skull.

The wine made everything feel off, time stretching and blurring. Every step seemed to take an age, the world tilting slightly. You stumbled a little, your feet tangling, and Valarr reached out, steadying you.

"Easy," he murmured, his arm sliding around your waist.

You were led through the Red Keep, the halls dark and empty. There were a few candles still lit, the flames flickering in the breeze. The guards at the entrance bowed as you passed, but you could not meet their eyes.

You felt sick, a dull sense of dread growing inside you. This was the sort of thing that ended betrothals. You could see the scandal, the gossip spreading across the Seven Kingdoms. Your family would be humiliated. 

But Valarr's grip on you was firm, his pace steady. You tried to take strength from it, tried to focus on his warmth, his closeness. You hoped he had enough of a say in this matter that your future together would not be ruined.

Ser Roland stopped in front of a private study, gesturing for most of the guards to stand down. He rapped sharply on the door, then stepped back.

A voice from within. Maekar's voice, low and hard. "Bring them in."

The room was warm and dim, lit by candles and the dying embers in the fireplace. Maekar sat at a small table, papers scattered before him. Next to him sat Baelor, a cup of tea in his hand. His eyes were on his son, a slight frown creasing his brow.

"Father," Aerion said, crossing his arms.

"Boys." Maekar's tone was deceptively mild, but his entire posture was rigid, his eyes like chips of ice. "Care to explain why you have returned in this state? At this hour?"

"This is fucking ridiculous," Aerion went on, as if his father had not spoken. "I am a grown man, and you are treating me like a child-"

"Silence." Maekar's voice cracked like a whip. Aerion snapped his mouth shut, but his expression was mutinous.

Daeron leaned heavily against Aerion who tried to shrug him off. Daeron just clung tighter, and eventually Aerion relented, holding him upright.

Maekar's gaze flickered over them, and his jaw tightened. "I assume this was his idea." He jerked his chin at Daeron.

"Yes, Uncle," Valarr said, his voice hoarse.

"And I suppose you made it worse." Maekar was looking at Aerion now.

"It was not my idea," Aerion said quickly, but he did not meet his father's eyes.

"It was not mine either," Daeron muttered, his words slurring. "The gods know I did not want to-"

"You did not want to?" Aerion turned on his brother, his face contorted with rage. "You are such a fucking drunkard you could not find your own cock without someone to hold it for you, and you dare stand there and-"

"You shut your mouth!" Daeron shoved away from him, stumbling a few steps forward.

"Or what?" Aerion sneered. "Are you going to hit me? Try it, I dare you."

Daeron lurched forward, his fist swinging wildly. Aerion was ready, dodging the clumsy blow and the guards immediately rushed in, grabbing the two princes and holding them apart.

"Enough!" Maekar slammed his fist on the table. The candle jumped. Papers scattered.

The room went silent.

Maekar rose from his chair, his face dark with fury. He was usually an unassuming man, but in that moment he seemed to fill the room.

"Daeron." His voice was low, dangerous. "You dragged your cousin into a brothel with his betrothed in attendance and then proceeded to get drunk off your ass and pick fights with prostitutes."

"Yes, father." Daeron was barely audible, his gaze on the floor.

Maekar turned to Aerion. "And you." His voice rose. "You think you are clever, don't you? You think because you can talk circles around everyone, because you can sneer and scheme and slither your way out of trouble, that you are above consequences."

Aerion's jaw tightened. "I never-"

"Do not interrupt me," Maekar snapped. "I do not care what you think, boy, and I am sick and tired of hearing your mouth."

"Father-"

Maekar was breathing hard now, his chest heaving. "You are both fools. Stupid, reckless, thoughtless fools. You risked a great deal tonight. For what? A few hours of drinking? A few whores?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Gods save me from sons who think with their cocks."

Daeron flinched. Aerion looked at the floor.

"And you." Maekar turned to Valarr. His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "I thought you had more sense than my own sons."

Valarr's throat worked. "I only-"

"That's enough Maekar," Baelor finally spoke, his tone calm. "I will deal with my son and his betrothed."

Maekar hesitated, his fists clenched. His eyes swept over the two of you, and you felt his disapproval like a physical thing, settling onto your shoulders, a leaden weight.

"Fine." He turned to his own sons. "I have nothing more to say to either of you."

His sons nodded, their heads bowed.

"Take them to their rooms." Maekar waved a hand at the kingsguard. "And send the servants to fetch water and bread, and make sure they do not choke on their own vomit."

"Yes, your grace."

Maekar turned, sweeping from the room, the two boys following behind, heads low, escorted by white cloaks.

Valarr took your hand, squeezing it tight. You glanced at him, your heart in your throat. You did not know what he was thinking. Could not read his face.

Baelor cleared his throat. "Leave us."

The guards nodded, leaving the room.

"You two, come sit." Baelor gestured to a set of chairs, a fire blazing in the hearth. "Have some tea."

You sat. The chairs were comfortable, cushioned with soft fabric. Valarr sat beside you, his hand wrapping around yours.

Baelor watched the exchange, his eyes shifting between the two of you.

"Well." He sighed, pouring three cups of tea. "That was quite a show, wasn't it?"

"I'm so sorry father," Valarr whispered, his voice breaking. "I swear, I did not mean to- I was not going to-"

"It's alright, son." Baelor set the kettle down. "I have a feeling it was mostly Daeron's idea."

"Yes, but I didn't have to go along with it." Valarr shook his head, his eyes closing. "We shouldn't have. It was stupid, and reckless, and I-"

"Son." Baelor set a cup in front of each of you. "Drink your tea. This isn't a conversation we are having while your mind is fogged."

"You aren't angry?" You asked, taking a sip.

"I'm not pleased." He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "But no, I am not angry."

His eyes traveled over the both of you. You were not sure how much he could see, how much he knew. Your cloak hid the disarray of your dress, the mess of your hair. You sensed he could read people better than most, could pick out the smallest details.

"Did anything that would require... immediate attention happen?"

Valarr flushed, his face red, but he did not look away.

"No.. father. We did not-"

"Good." He nodded. "Good. No need to rush the wedding then."

You felt a rush of relief. So he wasn't angry, and you were not betrothed-ending scandalous.

He took a sip of his tea, watching the two of you over the rim of his cup. "It's alright if something happened... You wouldn't be the first."

"Father," Valarr said, his face even redder. "I swear, nothing did."

"Alright." He smiled, his eyes crinkling. "I believe you. And I trust you."

"Thank you, father." Valarr took a breath. "We- we did not mean to. To embarrass you, or shame the family. We were just..." He trailed off, shrugging.

"Drunk and young and in love," Baelor finished. "I know. I've been there."

You could not help it, a laugh bubbled out of you, a little too high and hysterical. Valarr gently rubbed your hand, soothing the tension away. You buried your face in his shoulder, trying to contain the giggles that kept escaping you.

"I think it is time for bed. You will not leave your chambers until I come for you on the morrow. I mean that." Baelor said, a smile tugging at his lips. "We can speak more then."

"Yes, father." Valarr stood, helping you to your feet.

"Goodnight," you managed, feeling a bit silly, a little overwhelmed.

Baelor gave you a knowing look, and you did not know what to do with your face. Your expression was stuck somewhere between a wince and a grimace and a smile.

"Goodnight." He turned to his son, his expression changing. "Separate rooms. Just to be clear."

"Yes, father," Valarr whispered, his face bright red.

Baelor gestured to the guards waiting outside. "Take my son to his chambers, please. See that his betrothed is also escorted to her own."

The guard bowed. "Of course, my lord."

Valarr walked with you, his hand still in yours. "I am so sorry about all of this," he whispered.

"It's alright," you replied, squeezing his fingers.

You were both silent, walking the corridors, the guards a step behind. You didn't want to leave him, wanted to spend the night with him. The wine and the heat were still making you dizzy, making the world a hazy sort of blur.

Valarr stopped outside your door, hesitating. He lifted your hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. "Sweet dreams," he murmured.

"You as well," you whispered, the touch of his lips sending a jolt through your body.

He let go of your hand, stepping back. The guard opened the door for you, and you were led inside, the door closing behind you with a thud.

You sighed, resting your head against the heavy wood. There was a strange sense of emptiness, a longing that you could not quite place. You turned, leaning against the door, slowly sliding down until you were sitting.

Now that you had a taste of what could be, the distance felt impossible. The walls, the doors, the guards, the entire Red Keep itself, seemed to stretch on and on, keeping the two of you apart.

Prince Baelor seemed almost surprised it didn't happen.

You thought about his words, and felt a blush creeping up your cheeks. What if it had? It wasn't as if you didn't want to. The feeling was new, the ache and the longing and the desperate need to have him near. You couldn't get him out of your mind, the way he had kissed you, the way his hands had felt on your skin.

You shivered. It was the wine, it had to be. It made everything seem brighter, sharper, louder. Louder. Louder. 

Then there was a knock, quiet, tentative.

Your head snapped up, your heart skipping. The knock came again, and you pushed yourself up. It was the secret door, the one that led you out of the keep and into the city.

You hurried across the room just as the stone shifted, revealing the passageway beyond. Valarr stepped into the room, his face flushed. He looked a little nervous, a little breathless, his hair a tangled mess.

"My prince." You couldn't keep the surprise out of your voice.

"I know I should not be here," he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

"What are you doing here?" You asked.

"I did not want the night to end." He took a step closer, his hand lifting, reaching for you.

You stepped forward, taking his hand. "We are going to get caught," you whispered.

"Probably." He brushed your hair back, his fingers lingering against your cheek. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No," you admitted.

His eyes searched yours, his fingers trailing down your jaw. "I've wanted you all night," he murmured. "Could not stop thinking about you."

You reached for him, pulling him closer. His mouth met yours, the kiss a little deeper, a little more urgent than before. Your hands slid over his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his hair. He pulled you against him, his hands settling on your hips.

"What we did... Back at the brothel." He drew back a little, his breath hot on your lips. "I.. I've never done anything like that before."

"Me neither," you said softly.

He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. "Is it always like that?"

"I don't know," you whispered, your arms looping around his neck.

"I feel like I can't control myself." He chuckled, walking you backwards towards your bed. "And I've had too much wine."

"Me too." You let him lower you onto the bed, let him climb over you, his body covering yours.

His mouth found the curve of your throat, and you gasped, tilting your head back.

"We are not supposed to do this," you whispered.

"I know." He leaned back and pulled his tunic over his head, tossing it aside.

"Your father said separate rooms," you went on, your gaze sliding over his chest, his shoulders.

He shrugged, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your dress, slowly pushing the fabric up. "He did not say I had to stay there."

You arched up, helping him undress you, tugging the grey dress off, tossing it onto the floor. You lay before him, completely bare, the flush of wine spreading all the way down your chest.

His eyes trailed over you, a faint smile on his face. He ran a hand down your thigh, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "You are so beautiful," he whispered, leaning down and kissing you again.

You felt his skin against yours, and the heat intensified, spreading all the way to your fingertips. Your nails scraped against his chest, your legs wrapping around his hips.

"I like kissing you," he said, his lips trailing down your jaw, his teeth grazing the curve of your neck. "You're so soft."

His hands slipped between your thighs, and he let out a breath, his touch gentle, testing. 

"I want to feel all of you," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You nodded, unable to speak, his thumb finding the spot where you were most sensitive. His fingers teased, his lips trailing over the hollow of your throat. You moaned, the sound echoing through the room.

"Shh," he said, smiling. "Don't want anyone to hear."

You bit your lip, but your hips moved on their own, pressing into his hand. He watched your face, his mismatched eyes dark and focused, and something about the intensity of his gaze made the heat coil tighter in your belly.

"That's it," he murmured, his fingers still moving in slow, deliberate circles. "You're doing so well."

The praise washed over you, warm and unexpected. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his hair, tugging gently, and he let out a soft sound, half groan, half sigh.

"Valarr," you whispered, his name feeling new on your tongue, intimate in a way it had never been before.

He kissed you again, swallowing whatever sound you might have made as his fingers slipped lower, parting you carefully, exploring. You felt the gentle press of a single digit, the stretch of it, and your breath hitched.

"Okay?" he asked, drawing back just enough to see your face.

You nodded, your heart hammering. "Yes. Just... slow."

"Slow," he repeated, like he was memorizing the word. His finger moved deeper, curling slightly, and you gasped against his mouth.

He was so careful. So achingly, impossibly careful. Every movement was measured, gentle, his free hand stroking your hip, your thigh, your stomach, soothing where his other hand was learning.

"You're so-" he breathed, wonder in his voice. "Is this... is it alright?"

"More than," you managed, your voice breaking on the last word.

He added a second finger, and the stretch was sharper this time, a little burn that made you grip his shoulders. He stilled immediately, his forehead pressing to yours.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you to keep going," you whispered. "Please."

He made a sound, low and rough, and began to move again. His fingers worked inside you, slow and patient, and the tension in your body began to shift, melting into something else entirely. Something bright and building.

Your hips rocked against his hand, chasing the sensation, and he let out a shaky laugh.

"You are... so lovely," he whispered, his free hand cupping your cheek. "I can't believe... that I'm the one who gets to do this with you."

You were lost, the heat spreading through you, making everything hazy. The pressure inside you was winding tighter, higher, and you could barely breathe, could barely think. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

"Valarr, I-something is-"

"I know," he said, his voice thick. "Let go. I've got you."

He pressed his thumb to that sensitive spot again, circling in time with his fingers inside you, and that was all it took. The heat crested, crashing over you like a wave, and you were gone, drowning, the pleasure rolling through you.

Nothing had ever felt like this before, like every part of your body was alight. His mouth was on yours, and you could not even kiss him, could only clutch at his shoulders, could only feel.

When the trembling stopped, you lay there, breathless, your heart pounding against his chest. He pulled his hand away gently, and you felt the loss of him, already missing his touch.

"That was..." You couldn't find the words.

He smiled, shy again, the confidence from moments before fading into something softer. "Good?"

"Very good."

He ducked his head, his cheeks flushing. "I've never... I mean, I've read about it, but I wasn't sure if I was doing it right."

You reached up, cupping his face, making him look at you. "You were perfect."

His eyes searched yours, vulnerable and hopeful, and something in your chest cracked open. This was the boy you were going to marry. This sweet, awkward, wonderful boy who had snuck through a secret passage just to be with you.

"What else did you read about?" You asked.

"Well," he cleared his throat, his eyes flicking down. "There are a few other things."

"Show me." You kissed him, your lips moving against his.

"I-I'm not sure if-"

"Valarr," you whispered. "I want this. I want you."

He took a shaky breath. "Alright."

He shifted, pulling his breeches down and kicking them aside. You watched him, a flush creeping up your neck. His hands were shaking as he untied the laces, and his breath caught when his cock sprang free.

He was already hard, the tip shining. Your gaze trailed over his length, down to the thatch of hair at the base, and you felt a surprised little flutter in your chest. It was the same pale silver as the streak in his dark hair. It was strange, seeing him like this. Vulnerable and exposed. He was so handsome and the thought of having him inside you sent a thrill through your body.

He moved back over you, lifting your thighs to settle around his hips. Your hands slid over his chest, his shoulders, tangling in his hair.

"This is going to hurt a little," he murmured. "If-if it hurts too much, tell me. I'll stop."

"I trust you," you whispered, holding his gaze.

He nodded, and you could tell he was nervous, his body tense. He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pushing inside. The stretch burned, a sharp sting, and you winced, the pain stealing your breath.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his voice strained.

You nodded, digging your nails into his shoulder. "It's okay," you managed. "Just keep going."

"If you're sure," he said.

You were, so you did not reply, simply pulled him closer, kissed him harder, urged him to move.

He did, sinking into you inch by agonizing inch. You breathed through the stretch, the burn, your whole body wound tight, every nerve alive and singing.

Finally, he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, and you were trembling, could feel his heart racing, could feel the tremor in his hands where they held your waist.

"You are so," he took a breath. "So warm. You feel so... gods, I don't know if I can-"

"Just go slow," you said. "And kiss me."

He did, his lips finding yours, and you felt his hips pull back, and then press forward. There was another sharp twinge, and you whimpered, but the discomfort faded quickly, giving way to a new kind of sensation. A feeling of fullness. Of heat.

"That's it," you breathed, his name a prayer on your tongue. "Oh, Valarr. You feel so-"

"You have to be quiet," he warned, his voice low, rough.

"You're going to have to help me with that," you replied, and he laughed, the sound making you clench around him.

"Shit," he hissed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," you giggled, feeling light and dizzy and a little delirious.

His next thrust was deeper, faster, and you buried your face in his shoulder, moaning.

"Shh." He nipped at your ear. "They're going to catch us."

"Then go faster," you giggled again.

He obliged, and soon he was fucking you properly, his thrusts slow, deliberate. You met each one, lifting your hips, taking him deeper. Chasing that delicious friction that left you wanting more.

His cock brushed against something, and a jolt of pleasure shot through you, making you cry out.

"Is that a good noise or a bad noise?" He asked, panting.

"Good. Very good."

He adjusted his angle, trying to find it again, and when he did, you couldn't help it.

"Valarr!"

He laughed, the sound almost smug. "Found it," he murmured, and then he was thrusting again, his cock hitting that spot over and over.

It was too much, too intense, and you felt yourself climbing, felt the heat spreading through your body, and the pressure building.

"Its- I'm... again," you managed.

"I know," he breathed.

His mouth found yours, and both of you were beyond words, beyond thought, his hips slamming into yours.

Everything blurred, the world narrowing down to the two of you, and then it was too much, the pleasure spilling over, and you were lost, gone, clinging to him as the feeling consumed you.

You heard him groan, and felt his cock twitch, and then his seed was spilling inside you, his thrusts stuttering. You were both shaking, both breathing hard, the aftershocks rolling through you.

After a moment, he shifted, rolling onto his side and taking you with him, keeping you connected. His hand stroked your hair, and the other pulled you closer, settling on the curve of your waist.

"Well," he said, sounding a little dazed.

"Mmm," you agreed, pressing your face into his chest.

You were sweaty and sticky and tired and a little drunk. But also happy. So, so happy.

"You know," he began. "That was better than I imagined."

"You've imagined this before?" You asked.

"Since we first met, I have not been able to stop thinking about you." He smiled, his eyes heavy, his cheeks flushed.

"I like hearing you say that," you whispered.

"I like saying it."

His nose brushed against yours, his breath warm on your lips. You closed the distance, kissing him slowly, softly.

"Stay," you whispered. "Tonight. Just tonight."

"My father is going to actually kill me." He groaned, but you could feel him smiling.

"We do have to tell him," you said, your fingers trailing through his hair. "This way is probably the best way."

"He's going to be so mad," he sighed.

"At least we'll be married sooner," you said, trying not to giggle.

He lifted his head, looking at you. "You're right. That would make it worth it."

You smiled, the wine and the exhaustion making everything seem soft and warm and easy.

"You are going to be a terrible influence on me," he muttered, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Am I?" You laughed, trailing a hand down his spine.

"Mhm. I fear I will want to do nothing else but this." He shifted, pulling the blankets over both of you. "I would not be very productive."

"You can't possibly expect me to feel sorry for that," you teased.

He chuckled. "I suppose not."

His arms tightened around you, his lips finding yours again, and your breathing slowed, matching his. Sleep came quietly, pulling you both down into the same warm darkness, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

You woke to the sound of shouting, and for a long, hazy moment you did not know where you were. Then you felt the weight of an arm around your waist, the warmth of a body curled against yours. Your chambers. In the Red Keep. Next to the man who was meant to be your husband.

The sun was shining through the curtains, casting a bright golden light across the tangled sheets. Outside the door, the guards were panicking. You could hear their muffled voices, sharp with alarm. For the prince was not in his chambers.

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Valarr stirred beside you, his arms still wrapped around your waist, his hair tousled and his eyes heavy.

"Do you hear that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Mhm," you managed, yawning.

"Shit," he swore. "They're looking for me."

"Yes," you agreed, stretching.

He pulled you closer, and you laughed, leaning into his touch.

"We should probably get up," you whispered.

"Probably," he sighed.

Before either of you could move, the door was thrown open. Two guards stumbled inside, their faces pale. The first one opened his mouth, then froze. His eyes went wide as he took in the scene: the Crown Prince of all people, hair a mess, bare shoulders above a hastily clutched blanket, and you tucked beneath it beside him. The second guard looked at the ceiling as if it held the answers to every question he had ever asked. 

"My Prince," the first began, his voice strangled.

"Out!" Valarr shouted, his voice firm despite the deep red creeping up his neck.

The guards bowed so quickly they nearly collided, and the door slammed shut behind them.

You pressed your face into Valarr's shoulder, shaking with suppressed laughter. He was laughing too, his whole body trembling against yours.

"Come here," he murmured, pulling you in for a kiss.

You let him, smiling against his lips.

"They are never going to let us be alone now, not until the wedding," he muttered, his hands moving down to squeeze your bottom. "Just let me have this moment, then we can deal with the fallout."

"As my prince commands," you said, kissing him back.

Footsteps approached again outside, heavier this time, and the two of you scrambled to dress, giggling like children.

The door was flung open once more, and this time it was Prince Baelor. His expression was a mix of annoyance and relief, and he looked like a man who had not expected to start his morning this way.

With a flick of his hand he dismissed the guards behind him and closed the door.

"I told you," he began, pointing a finger at his son. "Separate rooms."

"We did," Valarr insisted. "Then I... left mine."

"And found her chambers?" Baelor asked, crossing his arms.

Valarr grinned, looking at you.

Baelor let out a long, slow breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose and held it for a moment, praying for patience. "I see," he said finally. "Well, there is no use trying to pretend this didn't happen."

"I'm sorry, Father," Valarr said.

Baelor looked from him to you, and shook his head. "I'll call for the wedding to be moved up. I suppose there is no need to wait. You are obviously already very fond of one another."

Valarr threaded his fingers through yours. "I love her." He tugged you closer, and you could not help but blush.

"As do I," you said, the words falling from your lips easily, honestly.

"Very well," Baelor sighed. "But for now, no more secret passages. Understood?"

"Understood," Valarr nodded, and you echoed the gesture.

Baelor gave his son a pointed look, raising his arm and gesturing towards the door.

Valarr looked at you, his expression torn, and you leaned up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

"Stop that," Baelor said, waving his arm like he was shooing a fly.

Valarr gave you one last kiss, and then reluctantly walked towards the door, his father following him out.

You watched him go, unable to keep the smile from your face. Valarr turned back once, just before the door closed, and winked.

You let out a breath, falling back on the bed, still grinning.

You could hardly wait for the wedding.

You sit among the women, your hands folded neatly in your lap, posture composed and expression arranged into pleasant attentiveness, though you have not listened to a word spoken for the last several minutes.

Your thoughts circle the same place, over and over, unwilling to settle. The stairwell. Valarr’s mismatched eyes, pitched darker in the low light. The private intimacy of the secluded area, his hand catching your wrist and holding on to it. 

The spark of warmth in your chest when the pretence of courtly civility had dropped away between the two of you.  The crackle of energy in the air when you’d realized just how close he was standing to you, your breaths intermingling. 

And worst of all – far worse, almost unspeakably so – the fact that you had not wanted him to step away.

You shift in your seat, fingers tightening against the fabric of your skirts as the thought occurs to you, unsolicited and startling in its clarity.

To find yourself a hair’s breadth from a Targaryen prince in a dark passageway and to come away wishing he’d stepped closer – it’s madness.

Across the room, one of the Queen’s ladies laughs, the sound bright and easy, and another leans in with some bit of gossip about a tourney in the Reach, a lord’s son making a fool of himself, the conversation drifting from one light thing to the next, inconsequential, pleasant.

You nod when the others do, though you have no idea what you are agreeing to.

“My dear.” 

A voice cuts through your thoughts like a thread pulled taut, and your gaze snaps up to find Queen Myriah watching you with a knowing look, a dark eyebrow arched and amusement deepening the lines around her eyes.

“You agree very easily,” she says mildly, her hand resting loosely against the arm of her chair, the other idly turning a ring against her finger. “For someone who has not been listening.”

Your cheeks flare with warmth and you straighten in your seat, clearing your throat. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I was–”

“Elsewhere?” She supplies, though her tone is not unkind, and you nod sheepishly.

She studies you for a moment longer, a thoughtful weight behind the warmth of her smile. “The court has a way of pulling one’s thoughts in many directions at once,” she says. “It is not easy to keep hold of all the branches of thought.”

If only that were the difficulty, and not one irksome, dark-haired branch in particular. You incline your head gratefully. “I will endeavor to be more present.”

“Somehow, I do not think effort is the issue,” she replies gently, dark eyes twinkling, as though she hears the deflection in your answer. “…Tell me,” she adds, almost idly. “What has managed to distract you so thoroughly?”

“Nothing,” you answer hastily, clearing your throat before adding more carefully, “Only the… shifting nature of things here. It is difficult to know where one stands with the court.”

It’s as close to the truth as you’re willing to share, and you’re pleased to hear a soft hum of agreement pass through the ladies.

“I have found the same! It seems to change by the hour.” One of the younger ladies says, nodding eagerly.

“By the moment, even.” Another adds on, and you smile gratefully at her.

“And sometimes you don’t know at all,” Lady Dalt says keenly, setting aside her embroidery to face you fully. “Did you hear? Lord Lefford was sent away this morning.”

Your attention snaps to her before you can stop it. “Sent away?” You repeat before you can remind yourself to seem disinterested.

The lady nods, pleased to have an audience for her gossip. “Back to his lands, I was told. Quite suddenly.”

“For what reason?” One of the younger girls asks, leaning forward with wide eyes.

A small pause settles over the group, all eyes flicking instinctively toward the Queen who makes a humming sound as she sips her tea, deliberately refusing to fan the flames of gossip. “I believe Lord Lefford had urgent matters that called for his departure,” she says, her tone light, unbothered. “Of his own volition.”

The answer is smooth, final, and utterly unsatisfactory to the gathered ladies, who all lean away with disappointed expressions. 

“Well,” Lady Dalt says, shrugging gently before lowering her voice just enough to make it more interesting as she leans away from the Queen. “That is not what I heard.”

A ripple of interest moves through the circle, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the Queen shake her head with a sigh, but make no move to quell the whispers.

“I heard,” Lady Dalt continues, a small, conspiratorial smile cracking across her face. “He insulted the Crown.”

There is a ripple of quiet amusement among the handmaidens, their curiosity sharpened by just enough scandal to make it interesting. “Insulted the Crown?” Another girl echoes. “Are you sure?”

“It must have been. Why else would he have been sent away so swiftly?” Lady Dayne says, waving her hand lightly, clearly pleased to be the center of attention. “Too much wine gave him the confidence to say something he ought not to have said, and now, he has paid for it.”

Your breath hitches in your chest as she speaks, an echo of his voice in the hall last night pulling sharply to the front of your mind. King Daeron would be smarter to just get rid of ‘er– You go still as realization dawns upon you.

“You’re right,” a handmaiden agrees. “His Grace does not often act so quickly on such things.”

“No,” another one nods along. “It must have been… Particularly offensive.”

“And foolish,” Lady Dalt adds. “Men like him always think themselves untouchable – until they are not.”

A soft chorus of agreement follows, the conversation already beginning to shift again, drifting toward safer, more frivolous things, but you do not hear it.

Valarr had all but promised you it would be dealt with, and you had not believed him – a highborn prince may offer words of appeasement easily enough in the quiet of a stairwell, when there is no one to hear them or hold them to account.

And yet– he had acted on your behalf, and done so without spectacle, without making it something you owed him for. Your throat tightens. 

The conversation has already moved on – something about a feast, a visiting lord and his new lady wife – but it feels distant now, muffled by the steady beat of your pulse.

You are too aware, suddenly, of the distance between what was and what is, of the way he had looked at you in the stairwell, had looked at you in the yard when you had turned on him, confused and hurt more than angry.

Your jaw tightens. He’s still a prick, you think. An honest, attractive, honourable prick who’d defended your name, your mind supplies traitorously.

The Queen dismisses you all shortly after, and as you take your leave you avoid making eye contact with her, unwilling to have your innermost thoughts be read so plainly as she has the habit of doing. 

In the following weeks, you do the only thing that makes sense to you in the wake of the startling realization you no longer abhor the prince – you pull away.

You stop your morning training, offering Ser Matthos a half-hearted excuse about your time being spent in the Queen’s company. He does not look like he believes it for a second, but he does not press you on it either, only watching you with that same quiet, assessing look that makes you feel as though he understands more than he says.

You start to arrive late to breakfast, to leave early, to deflect the other ladies’ questions with polite, empty answers. You let Ellyn and Mara fuss over you in the mornings, choosing gowns you barely register, weaving your hair into woven styles you reach back and loosen the moment you leave the room.

It is easier, somehow, to be dressed and composed than it is to think. And yet it is still all too much. Too strange, too confusing, too conflicting. You need to get out. 

Homesickness hits you in an all encompassing wave one morning. Gods, all you want right now is to go out into the Marches, to sit in the stiff grass and let the harsh winds whip across your skin, to ride out into the open distance and not look back–

The thought strikes with its own solution. Before you can question it, you are already turning down the corridor, already descending the paths that lead away from the inner keep, toward the outer yards. Toward the stables.

The air shifts the moment you step inside, thick with the scent of hay and leather and horses, and a fraction of the tightness in your chest eases. It is not home, but it is closer than anything else you have found here. You feel idiotic for not thinking of it sooner.

A few grooms move about their work, pausing only briefly to glance up as you enter. One of them straightens when he sees you approach, wiping his hands quickly on his tunic before bowing his head in greeting. “My lady.”

You offer a small nod in return, suddenly aware that you have not thought this far ahead. “I was… Hoping to ride.” You say uncertainly, glancing around. Back home, you never had to ask, your horse already saddled and awaiting you most mornings.

The young man blinks at your tone, then nods with a small smile. “Of course, my lady. We can have a mount saddled at once.”

Your gaze drifts past him, over the rows of stalls, the shifting shapes within them. “I would rather choose,” you say sharply, then, grimacing. “I mean. If I may. I’d like to choose.” It has become a rare commodity in your life.

Something like understanding flickers across his face. “...As you wish.” He steps aside, gesturing you further in.

You move slowly along the stalls, fingers trailing lightly over the wood rails as you pass, the horses shifting and snorting softly as you go, some lifting their heads, others ignoring you entirely.

Until one catches your attention.

She stands a little apart from the others, copper-coated and restless, ears flicking back as you approach. There is a tension to her, a coiled energy that sets her apart from the steadier, more placid mounts nearby, and you reach out without thinking.

“My lady–” the stable hand warns suddenly. “Not that one, she’s–”

Your hand meets her neck, and for a moment, she goes stone-still. Then her ears flick forward, and the tension eases beneath your touch as she pushes into your hand.

You let your fingers move slowly along her mane in a soothing gesture, glancing at the stable hand who is staring at you with wide eyes. “Temper?” You ask softly. 

He hovers uncertainly behind you. “Thorn doesn’t usually take well to strangers,” he admits. “She threw one of the lords last week, nearly kicked him too.”

You bite back a smile at that, stroking down the silky length of her nose. “Then I think we shall get along quite well.”

The mare snorts, but she does not pull away, and you glance back over your shoulder. “I’ll take this one.”

He hesitates, clearly debating whether to argue, but seeing the look in your eyes, he nods reluctantly. “Yes, my lady.”

By the time you lead her out into the courtyard, something in your chest has already loosened through the mundane act of it, the familiarity – the simple, tangible certainty of saddle and reins and open air.

You mount easily, settling into the rhythm of it as if you have never been away while you guide her toward the open gate– and pull up short when you spot the figures already there.

Prince Valarr sits astride a tall black destrier near the open gate, its coat dark as polished onyx. A couple Kingsguard linger several paces behind him, speaking quietly as they wait, their conversation cutting off the moment they notice you.

Valarr turns at the sound of hooves, eyes widening at the sight of you, mouth pulling tight with something sharper, quieter. You blink in shock, struck by the memory of the last time you had spoken.

“...Lady Peake.” He greets suddenly, inclining his head slightly. 

“Your Grace.” You return the gesture, grip tightening against your reins as the practiced civility falls into place too easily. 

Valarr studies you for a moment, one gloved hand resting loosely against the high pommel of his saddle, his eyes moving briefly over you and landing on the mare beneath you. He blinks as recognition settles, mouth pinching as though he is suppressing a smile. “And… Thorn.” 

You glance down at her, smoothing a hand across her neck as she shifts restlessly. “You seem surprised.” Defensiveness rises easily. 

“I… have not seen her with a rider for a while, is all,” Valarr lets his gaze drift over the two of you together, letting his smile peek through. “But I have to say, it seems like a compatible match.” 

You cock your head. “Why, are you inferring I have a temper, my prince?” You tease. 

“Wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing, my lady.” He defends, and that same spark you’d felt that first time with him in the training yard returns, warm and humming between your ribs. 

“Is this where you have been spending your mornings, then?” He glances over at the stables and you blink at the inference that he has noticed your absence from the yard.

“Uh– No, actually. This is my first time visiting the stables, in fact.” You shake your head. 

“But–” He starts, brows pulled together softly. “You do ride?” 

You open your mouth to respond, indignance flaring slightly, and he holds up his hand. “Apologies, my lady. I simply… I understand that riding is a large part of life in the Marches, I just wondered why you have not continued that here, as well.”

There is a distant sense of satisfaction at his urgent self-correction, and if you didn’t know any better, you would say that the prince fears irritating you. “It… It was an oversight, on my part,” you admit sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure I could…” 

The insinuation that you might not have been allowed to leave the Keep sits heavily between the two of you, and you watch his expression tighten, before he glances back at his guards. “Well, you’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.” 

You see the invitation for what it is – with his guard, there will be no need for extra surveillance on you. You arch an eyebrow as Thorn shifts beneath you, impatient, and you take it as excuse enough to move, nudging her forward toward the gate. “I had hoped to ride alone.”

His horse falls into step beside yours, and he leans in as he passes you. “And yet.”

You frown at his back as he leads the way, caught between smiling at his playful tone or being annoyed at your plans being infringed upon.

The guards follow dutifully as the gate creaks open and the four of you ride out together, descending the winding road from the Red Keep toward the Kingswood below.

Smoke curls from chimneys in the lower streets, and somewhere a cart rattles loudly over the uneven cobbles, but soon enough the houses thin, replaced by open ground and the dark green edges of the Kingswood stretching toward the horizon.

You breathe deeply, head swiveling as you take in the open landscape and the clean air, the stifling weight of the Red Keep falling away behind you.

For a while, you ride in silence, neither of you sure how to broach the looming topic of your last interaction.

Valarr’s horse moves easily beside yours, the great black animal stepping with long, powerful strides as the prince guides him with effortless control, hardly seeming to touch the reins at all. 

The road ahead stretches long and straight between two low hills, the morning air cool and clear, and Valarr studies it for a moment before glancing back over his shoulder at the escort trailing dutifully behind.

Something sharp and boyish flickers briefly across his expression when he looks back at you, his brow lifting slightly. “Tell me,” he says casually, “How long have you been riding?”

You frown. “All my life.”

“Are you any good?”

You follow his gaze down the empty stretch of earth, eyes narrowed as you wonder what he’s really asking. “Good enough.”

Valarr glances once more at the guards, then back at you. “Do you think they can keep up?” He murmurs, voice pitched down conspiratorially.

You turn in the saddle to look, finding the two men riding steadily several yards behind you, unaware of the sudden scrutiny. A reckless laugh rises in your chest as you turn back to face the prince. “...I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

Valarr does not answer, only flashing you a brief smile as he leans forward in the saddle and spurs on his horse. The black destrier surges ahead down the road in a burst of speed.

For a heartbeat you stare after him, startled, then you kick your mare forward and give chase. The wind rushes past your ears as the two horses thunder along the road, hooves pounding hard against the packed earth, and unbridled joy surges through you at the feeling. 

Valarr glances back once, clearly expecting distance to have formed between you, and instead, he finds you closing in. Your mare stretches forward eagerly beneath you, and within seconds you pull level with the prince’s shoulder. Valarr laughs outright then, the sound carried away on the rushing air.

Behind you, shouts erupt distantly. “My prince–!”

You risk a glance over your shoulder and see the guards scrambling to follow, their horses only just breaking into a gallop.

Valarr notices too, and the ensuing look he shoots you is bright with shared mischief. He catches your eye and nudges his horse to go faster. You do not need to be told twice, matching him once more, the wind whipping against your skin as the fabric of your gown flutters behind you. 

The road curves sharply ahead and both of you pull your mounts up at almost the exact same moment, your horses skidding slightly before settling, their sides heaving with effort. For a few moments neither of you speaks, the only sound the wind through the trees, the steady breathing of the horses, and the galloping of his guards as they race to catch up.

Valarr pushes a loose strand of dark hair back from his brow, the white streak behind his right ear flashing brightly in the morning light as he turns to see how far back the guards are.

“Well ridden.” He says genuinely, still grinning.

You incline your head, catching your breath. “You as well, Your Grace.”

The pounding of hooves grows louder as the guards finally crest the hill behind you, and Valarr glances back just as they appear, both men looking distinctly less pleased than when the ride began. 

For a moment the prince simply watches them approach, before he exhales a quiet laugh and turns his horse back toward the city. “We should probably return.” His tone sounds almost disappointed.

You fall into step beside him as the escort catches up, breathless and clearly irritated, though neither dares voice the complaint, and neither of you acknowledges what just happened, but as the Red Keep rises before you once more and the ride comes to an end in the courtyard, you catch Valarr glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

There is something different in that look now, warmer than the easy dismissal, keener than indifferent civility – something you cannot shake, long after you’ve left the stable. 

The library is nearly empty at this hour.

Only a few sconces burn along the far wall, their light low and golden, leaving the vaulted ceiling as a shadowed mimicry of the night sky. You had not meant to come here, you had meant to sleep, your body aching from your ride that morning, your mind desperately seeking rest.

Instead, you found yourself wandering the corridors long after the castle had quieted, your steps turning instinctively toward the one place that might offer a salve to your aching homesickness, if only in ink and parchment.

You linger at the shelves longer than you should, scanning spines you barely register, until something catches your eye, and your hand stills. The Dornish Marches – A History. For a moment, you only look at it, glancing around you before you pull it free.

The leather is worn soft with age, the edges of the pages faintly yellowed. You carry it to a quiet corner without thinking, tucking yourself between two shelves as though the tomes themselves might shield you from prying eyes.

When you open it, Starpike rises to meet you.

Its towers inked in careful lines atop steep hills, the winding road threading between them, the fields below marked in pale green. You trace one of the towers with your finger, slow and deliberate, as though you might remember its shape through touch alone.

You can almost feel it – the dry wind cutting across the slopes, the stubborn grass bending but never quite yielding, the long stretch of land that taught you how to look ahead and not back.

Your throat tightens as you turn the page. Border disputes, old skirmishes, names you vaguely recognize, told in passing in the half-heard language of adults who never expected you to be listening.

You should not have chosen this book. It settles the restlessness in you, yes, but it stirs a new sensation along with it – the aching awareness of the distance, of your separation. 

You’re so engrossed in your self-pity that you do not hear him approach, so when you look up to find a half-shadowed figure at the end of the row of shelves, you nearly jump out of your skin.

It takes you a moment to recognise Valarr, but when you do, relief and irritation flare in equal parts.

“Your Grace.” The words leave you on instinct, your body following a heartbeat later as you rise too quickly, the book nearly slipping from your lap as you dip into a hurried, uneven curtsey.

“Please, don’t–” He steps forward at once, as though to stop you, then checks himself, and you’re shocked to find a faint dusting of pink high across his cheeks. “You needn’t– I did not mean to startle you.”

You straighten slowly, fingers curling against the edge of the tome where you clutch it to your chest, more to occupy your hands than out of any real need.

“I didn’t hear you enter.” You admit, heat rising in your own face.

“I gathered as much,” he grimaces apologetically, glancing at the ground, then back to you. “I only wished to ask what you were reading.”

You blink, suddenly self-conscious in your wallowing. “Oh, it is nothing–”

But his eyes have already dropped to the cover, recognition settling there before you can angle it away from him. “The Dornish Marches.” He reads aloud, and you swallow, nodding, letting it fall back open.

He steps closer – not enough to crowd you, just near enough that his shadow falls across the illustration of Starpike. For a moment, he only observes, eyes thoughtfully scanning the page.

“You must miss it.” He murmurs after a moment, softer than you have come to expect from him.

You shake your head after a moment. “No, of course not, my prince, I–”

“Please,” he tilts his head slightly, wincing as though the formality sits wrong with him now. “Speak plainly with me. I would… I would like for us to speak plainly.”

You hesitate. There is a suspended moment where instinct pulls you one way and something quieter pulls you another. You had meant to keep your distance – after the stairwell, after the way your composure had slipped so easily, so dangerously–

And yet.

“I miss knowing where I stand,” you say at last, the truth slipping out before you can cloak it in safer ambivalence. “There, I know the shape of the land. Which way the wind blows. Here…” You gesture faintly, the motion small, contained. “I can’t seem to find my footing.”

His expression shifts though gratefulness, understanding, and sympathy, all flickering in quick succession. “I have never been to the Marches.” 

You smile wryly. “At least you know it exists. Most people think we are either in the Reach or in Dorne.”

He smiles at that, gaze dropping back down to the page. “I have never seen Starpike,” he admits. “Only in maps. My father says it is… Rather well defended.”

You almost smile at that, a flare of pride at your family history. “It has proven itself rather difficult to take.”

“I know.” 

The answer is quiet, and you glance at him then, your gaze colder. “You would.” It leaves your mouth before you can temper it, the reminder settling heavily between you.

His jaw clenches. “I have studied the histories,” he says. “Of the Uprising. Of the sieges before it.” He does not say traitors or rebellion, but the words hang in the air nonetheless.

You close the book gently, your palm resting over the sigil. “Histories are rarely written by those who lose.”

“No,” he agrees. “They are not.”

Silence settles between you, but it is softer in the air here, heavy with dust and the smell of parchment. He glances back down at the book in your hands. “What would you write? Of Starpike?”

You pause, humming as you think. “That it has fallen three times and risen four,” you reply proudly. “That the landscape makes it stubborn.”

His mouth curves. “Stubbornness is an admirable quality.”

“Only when it serves the right side,” you tack on, seemingly unable to let the amicable moment go unspoiled. A beat passes, where he seems at a loss for words, before you add quietly, “I did not let you win because I feared you.”

His brow lifts slightly, but you keep talking. “In the yard. If we are speaking plainly. I let you win because I know how quickly pride can be read as provocation,” you continue. “And I am tired of proving that I am not a threat.”

He considers that, eyes passing over your face with enough weight to make you feel seen to your core. “You are not.”

You hold his gaze, brows tugging together. “No?”

“Well,” he pauses. “After seeing you in action, I believe you have the power to be.” He smiles lightly at that. “But I do not believe you act as one here.”

The words are chosen carefully, kind yet ringing entirely true. “I underestimated you, and for that, I apologize. I did not know you trained as a child– that your father encouraged it.”

So he spoke to Ser Matthos about you. “He did not,” you answer honestly, taking a deep breath. “At first. But then with my cousins being gone… Gormon convinced him, I suppose.”

You are suddenly aware of how close he stands, the light catching faintly in his hair, the slash of silver at the back almost glowing against the dark. Your heart speeds up at the way he watches you – not like a prince looking down at a subject, more like a man trying to grasp something just out of reach.

“Thank you.” You say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you fully decide on uttering them.

His brow furrows, darting around the library in confusion that you find oddly endearing. “...For what?”

“For what you did.” You do not need to state it explicitly. “After the banquet.”

His expression tightens in irritation at the reminder. “He spoke out of turn.”

“So do many men,” you reply lightly, almost probing, trying to understand why he would have done something like that for you. “They are not all sent away the next morning.”

“No.” A beat passes, his gaze dropping to the floor as his throat works. “But some denigrations cannot be said without consequence.”

Your fingers press faintly into the book’s hard edges, pushing further. “You could have let it go without consequences.”

“No. I couldn’t have.” He declares, exhaling sharply. There is an admission there, a baring of his soul, and your pulse kicks beneath your skin as you catch it. 

You study him for a moment, reconsidering, your understanding of him shifting beneath your ribs.

“You fight like someone who learned properly.” He says after a moment, picking up the thread from before.

You huff softly, both at the statement and at the blatant deflection. “So I have been told.”

“By my brother, apparently.” His entire expression softens as he mentions the boy.

Your mouth twitches despite yourself. Of course the young prince went and reported to his older brother. “He is an eager messenger, it seems.”

“He is easily impressed.” Valarr corrects.

You arch your brow, leaning closer with a teasing smile. “And you are not?”

His gaze lifts fully to yours then, steadier as he locks eyes with you. “I am.” He states plainly, the answer landing somewhere soft before you can deflect it, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

The space between you feels thinner, somehow – charged in a way you do not entirely understand, only feel, like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air becomes thick with ozone. 

He shifts closer without quite meaning to – or perhaps meaning to, and not quite acknowledging it. “I would like to see you fight without restraint.” He muses, almost to himself.

You tilt your head. “You nearly did.”

“Nearly.” He echoes, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches. You are too aware now – of him, of yourself, of the narrow space between you. Of the way his gaze dips, just for a moment, to your mouth before returning, slower this time.

You should step back. You do not. Neither does he.

The shelving around you feels closer, the space rendered smaller, the world beyond the shelves receding until there is only this – this space, this moment, this impossible stillness stretching thin between you.

Your pulse thunders in your ears as you lean in, a shiver lancing up your spine as he does the same. 

This is madness, your mind screeches at you in warning, the absurdity of it, the danger, the insanity blaring at the back of your skull, and yet you barely hear it. 

Valarr releases a shuddering exhale, scanning your face as he gets closer still. 

“Tell me to stop.” 

The words drag out of his throat, rough-edged, almost pleading. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth together, breath heavy in the silent echo of the library.

His eyes meet yours and your breath hitches at the way the distant amber torchlight reflects in them, his brown eye molten amber, his blue eye darker, warmer, raking over your face, catching on your lips for a moment too long. 

“I–” Your teeth clack as you force your mouth shut, unable to trust your own words. 

Instead, you dig your nails into your palm as hard as you can, eyes fluttering closed as you bow your head and step back a full pace, far enough that your back hits the bookshelf with a dull thud, your eyes affixed firmly to the floor – knowing that if you so much as look at him your resolve will crumble.

It renders you entirely unprepared for when you step through the archway and find that the yard is far from empty.

There are knights lined up at the rail in loose clusters, squires gathered at their elbows, servants lingering just a touch too long for tasks that do not require that much attention. The low hum of conversation dies the moment you are spotted, replaced by rapt, unashamed attention.

You slow immediately, the warmth in your chest tightening and cooling. Ser Matthos stands in his usual position at the center of the yard, arms folded, watching you approach with a pinched look that makes you apprehensive.

“Is there a reason,” you ask lightly, though there is already a sharp undercurrent beneath it. “That half the castle appears to have risen early for my morning drills?”

The master-at-arms folds his arms across his chest, the hint of a grimace on his face as his eyes drift past you. “His Grace thought it might be… Instructive.”

Your brows pinch together at the idea the King cares about something so trivial as your weapons training. “His Grace–?”

“The Prince.” Ser Matthos clarifies, gesturing behind you with a nod of his head.

And just like that, your mood turns sour. You turn to look across the yard, finding Valarr standing near the far rail, speaking quietly with another knight, looking composed, restrained – the picture of princely discipline.

When his eyes lift and meet yours, though, his relaxed expression falters for a moment before he schools it once more into composed impassivity as he approaches you. “My lady.” He greets, inclining his head.

“Your Grace.” You curtsy, though the gesture feels stiffer than intended.

A beat passes where your eyes meet, and you glance away nervously. “I had not realized,” you say, your voice mild enough to pass as polite despite the uptick of your pulse. “That my morning exercise was to become a public affair.”

Valarr’s expression remains perfectly calm, though you think he seems faintly apologetic as he glances between you and the impromptu audience. “I–”

“His Grace suggested it,” Ser Matthos cuts in, handing each of you a practice blade before the prince can finish. “Thought it would do the court good to see harmony between your houses.”

Harmony. The word sits poorly as you turn it over in your chest, looking at Valarr with unsolicited betrayal flickering in your chest. You had thought your bout the day before to be a moment of camaraderie, of understanding, but it seems that to him it is just be another way to prove your obedience to the court. 

His jaw tightens as he watches you, brow furrowing slightly as he sees your perturbed expression. “It is not–”

You do not let him finish. “Of course,” you say, far more lightly than you feel. “Why not make a spectacle of it?”

His face flickers with confusion, faint and immediate, but the moment passes too quickly for you to grasp.

You take your place opposite, scanning the crowd, and that’s when you spot him – at the far edge of the yard, on an upper level overlooking it all, stands Prince Baelor, watching attentively from the shadows.

Your stomach tightens – so that’s what this is. A demonstration for the Hand, the young prince showing off to his father. You roll your shoulders, adjusting your grip on the sword hilt. Fine. If they wish for a spectacle, that’s what you’ll give them.

Ser Matthos raises an eyebrow at you, and you nod, prompting him to lift his hand. “Begin.”

Valarr moves first, all measured strikes landing carefully against your blade with a clean crack, controlled and courteous. 

You meet it in kind, and for a time, you fall into polite choreography. He tests your guard, you deflect, you press, he gives ground – the two of you moving through the expected rhythms of a spar. 

His second strike comes faster, and you manage to block, countering sharply enough to force him back half a step. A few of the watching knights murmur quietly as your lips press together, focus honing in.

Valarr’s eyes flicker to the side occasionally as the bout continues, and you track the movement up to where his father stands. He’s nervous, you realize, and you feel sympathy, but not enough to win out over your general indignation at the situation.

Your blades clash, drawing the two of you closer, and he finally speaks, quietly enough that only you hear it. “You’re angry.” He observes, and you frown.

“Of course not, my prince.” You parry another strike.

His mouth twitches faintly at the blatant lie. “You dislike having an audience.”

You knock his blade aside harder than necessary. “Don’t you?”

“I was told it would be… beneficial.” He says simply as he steps back.

“Beneficial,” you repeat, the word sour on your tongue. “For whom?”

Another exchange, faster now, and his voice drops again as he nears you. “My father… he thought it wise to show the court that House Peake bears no resentment toward the crown.”

Your teeth clench as you push forward, stepping even closer to him. “And what do you think?”

His mismatched eyes pass over your face, apology and doubt ghosting through them for a moment before he steps back a full pace, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

You bite back the scoff that threatens to escape your lips, and move – not restrained, not careful, but real, driven by your anger more than your training. Your next strike lands with enough force to jolt through his guard, forcing him back a step, and the watching yard falls quiet around you, rapt with attention.

Valarr adjusts quickly, only now he is just reacting, not leading. His attention narrows, fully on you at last, the expected choreography gone. “I understand that you’re angry,” he says, breath steady even as he yields another inch of ground. “But–”

“Do you?” Your next strike whistles past his guard close enough to graze his sleeve, your chest heaving.

You press forward again. And again. The careful restraint drains from the bout as the tempo sharpens, your strikes coming faster now, harder. The prince’s brows knit together as he adjusts his stance defensively, glancing nervously at the upper level.

The watching knights are silent now, even Ser Matthos’ face twisted into stony consternation. Valarr steadies himself, feet shifting across the stones, and you can see the frustration in his expression as he has to readjust. “You’re proving their point.”

“And what point is that?” Your lip curls, spinning your sword by your side.

He cocks his head, courtly politeness all but gone. “That you still bear… resentments.”

The words land like a spark in dry tinder, igniting the deep seated rage that’s been smouldering below the surface since your arrival. Your next strike comes faster than either of you expects, and Valarr manages to block it, but only barely.

You pivot immediately, driving forward with a rapid series of blows that force him back across the stones. The watching squires gasp softly as wood cracks sharply against wood, the flurry of motion enough to make the prince falter – just for a moment.

You seize the opening. Your foot hooks his ankle, your blade knocking his aside, and in the next breath you drive him backward and down, your wooden sword pressing hard across his throat as he hits the stones. 

Your chest heaves as you stare down at him, his own eyes wide as they look up at you, filled with… admiration? No, it couldn’t be. 

Silence crashes across the yard, rendering it utterly still, and you feel it all at once – the weight of eyes, the murmurs that are bound to follow, the whispers of Peake defiance. Your stomach drops.

For one mortally long moment neither of you moves, eyes locked, before you take in a deep breath and loosen your grip on him, just enough, surrendering your hold.

Valarr feels the shift immediately, his hand instinctively coming up to catch the wrist of your sword hand, foot hooking around the back of your knee, twisting sharply and rolling the two of you across the stones before you can react. 

Your blade skids away as the tip of his presses to the hollow of your throat, leaving him as the champion of the match. The yard exhales with palpable relief. 

“Yield?” He asks loudly, though his face seems almost hesitant, his brows tugged together as he mentally runs back through what just happened.

You stare up at him, fury still burning behind your ribs, achingly aware of the eyes on you, the pointed edge of the blade against your skin, the warmth of his thighs bracketing your hips, keeping you pinned. “...I yield.”

The yard erupts in relieved laughter and applause. Ser Matthos claps, though there is no approval in his expression. “Well struck, my prince.”

Valarr withdraws immediately and stands, offering his hand, but you ignore it, pushing yourself up and brushing dirt from your sleeves before walking toward the arms rack. 

You hear his boots following you as you get further away from the crowd, and you speed up. “Wait.” He says from behind you, and you pretend not to have heard him. 

“Wait.” He repeats, and against your better judgement, you still do not. 

He speeds up, and his hand catches your forearm, firm but not rough. “I command you to stop.”

You wheel around to face him and yank it free, his words hardening the anger bubbling up inside you. 

“Apologies, your Grace.” You spit, your tone anything but apologetic, his title leaving your mouth like it tastes bad. 

His expression flickers, hurt passing quickly behind the composure. “I did not mean–” He huffs, taking in a deep breath before speaking again. “You had me.” He accuses, brow furrowed low over his eyes.

You resist the urge to scoff, turning to unstrap your gauntlet so you don’t have to keep looking at him. “Did I?”

“You had me, and yet you let me gain the upper hand,” his voice is quieter now, lower, hushed to avoid any prying ears. “Why?”

“You flatter me, your Grace,” you hang your practice blade carefully on its peg, still deliberately not catching his eye. “You simply recovered quicker than I expected.”

His jaw tightens, frustration threatening to get the best of him. “Do not play the fool with me, we both know it doesn’t suit you.” You blink, caught off guard by the sudden honesty. “Just tell me. Why?"

“Because,” you snap, lowering your voice sharply as you turn to face him. “You are in line to inherit the Iron Throne and I am the daughter of a house half this court would happily see dead.”

His expression flickers – confusion first, then something more upset. “You think I require your deference?”

“I think I cannot afford triumph,” you reply evenly. “The entire Keep was watching. The Hand was watching. If I had left you in the dirt, it would have been called insolence.”

Valarr goes still, but he’s coaxed your irritation out of you, and you’re not done yet. You gesture vaguely back toward the yard, towards the knights and courtiers pretending not to stare. “What do you think would happen if I simply walked away after pinning the prince to the ground in front of half the castle?”

The question hangs in the air, and his expression shifts slowly as the realization settles. You wait for him to speak, breathing heavily, glowering at him before he exhales softly. “I hadn’t considered–”

“No,” you cut in. “You hadn’t.”

Your temper is still simmering dangerously close to the surface. “Next time you orchestrate a scheme to display harmony between our houses,” you continue coolly. “Perhaps you could be kind enough to choose a less theatrical method of putting the traitor in her place.”

“That was not–” He cuts himself off, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he regulates his own words. “I had no hand in planning this, but I can assure you, that was far from the intention, my lady.”

You consider him for a moment, the genuine upset in his face, the frustration held in the tension of his jaw, and some of your rage drains from you as realization settles. His Grace suggested it. The Prince. But not Prince Valarr. Baelor. You clench your jaw. “It may be that it was far from yours.”

He shakes his head, glancing toward the crowd, then back to you, obviously very aware of the eyes on the both of you, but unwilling to let it rest. “You should have taken the win.” He says at last, achingly quietly.

“And you, my prince,” you reply, voice steady now as you hold his gaze. “Should remember the roles we are meant to play here.”

You turn away again, and this time, he does not try to stop you.

The fight does not release him easily.

Even after you have disappeared back into the castle, after the murmurs swell back into conversation and the gathered knights begin to disperse, a feeling of discomfort lingers heavy in his chest. 

He tells himself it was the spectacle of it all – his father’s watchful eyes, the tension, the risk. And yet none of that is what presses at him, lingering behind his eyelids with every blink. 

No, it is the sharp, unyielding memory of you above him, your breath unsteady, your blade firm against his throat, your eyes lit with an unrestrained fire that has crawled under his skin and lit him ablaze.

His hand twitches by his side, the feeling of your wrist in his palm imprinted into his skin.

It follows him across the stones, up the steps, through the corridors of the Red Keep like an unsettling shadow he cannot quite outrun. 

His pace sharpens. Servants step aside as he passes, their heads bowing low, but he scarcely registers them, his thoughts churning around the fight, your face, his father’s presence, quiet but unmistakable at the edge of it all.

His Grace thought it might be instructive. Valarr had not questioned it, had accepted it as he always does, as he has been taught to. Duty first. Always. So why does doubt creep in now?

He spots his father ahead – moving at an unhurried pace, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his Kingsguard trailing a respectful distance behind him.

Valarr quickens his stride, clearing his throat before calling out, “Father.”

Baelor pauses, turning at the sound, his expression calm as it always is, but there is a watchful sharpness beneath it now, taking in the set of his son’s shoulders, the tension held too tightly in his frame. “Valarr.”

Valarr slows as he reaches him, forcing his breath back into something even and controlled. The remnants of the fight still cling to him, an ache in his limbs, a tightness in his chest that has not yet settled.

Baelor takes it in with assessing eyes, though his mouth spreads into a fond smile. “You fought well today.”

It should feel like praise, yet it does not land right. “It should not have been done like that.” Valarr says, the words escaping before he can regulate them.

Baelor’s brows lift with interest. “No?” He asks mildly.

“We will never gain favour with House Peake by treating their lady as a prisoner and a spectacle.” Valarr says, his tone kept level but his words carrying more bite than usual. 

They stand in the middle of the corridor, servants passing at a distance, heads bowed low, careful not to linger. The Kingsguard remains still behind Baelor, as though he has always been part of the stone itself.

Baelor regards his son calmly, but his eyes sharpen, betraying the flicker of surprise that passes through them. “Is that what you think she is here for? For us to gain their favour?”

Valarr pauses, throat bobbing as he swallows, dropping his gaze to the floor. He had sat in the council meetings, had heard the discussions, the careful weighing of loyalty and risk, of punishment and control. He knows exactly what you are here for. And yet his throat tightens.

“…No,” he admits, quieter now. “But I believe there is a more civilised way to accomplish what we need.”

Silence stretches. He can see his father’s face turn pensive, turning over not the argument, but the delivery of it. The restraint in Valarr’s tone, suggesting far greater involvement than diplomatic ideas. 

Baelor hums softly, fingers idly toying with one of his rings, though his attention has not shifted from his son’s face. “You believe it was uncivilised.”

“I believe,” Valarr says, gaze dropped to the stone floor as he carefully regulates his words before they leave his mouth. “That we ask for loyalty while reminding her she has none to give freely.”

That gives Baelor pause. His eyes narrow slightly in thought, studying his son as though recalibrating something he had assumed fixed. Interest, faint but unmistakable, settles in his gaze. “You are concerned for the Lady Peake.” 

Valarr does not look up, his jaw tightening, fists curled. “I am concerned for the Crown’s reputation.” 

A corner of Baelor’s mouth lifts, faint and knowing. “Of course.”

Valarr’s jaw tightens as he looks up. “I simply– I do not think it to have been necessary.”

To place her in that position. To place either of them there. He does not voice the end of that thought. Baelor studies him for a long moment – long enough that Valarr feels the weight of it settling, pressing lightly but insistently against his composure.

Brief, restrained approval flickers in Baelor’s eyes. “I will consider your words.”

Relief hits harder than Valarr expects. “Thank you, father.”

Baelor inclines his head slightly, as though to dismiss him – but then his gaze sharpens once more, catching his son before he can step away. “Valarr.”

The younger prince stills. “Yes?”

Baelor steps closer to his son, and his voice, when he speaks again, is softer, more deliberate. “Be mindful,” he says lowly, glancing down the corridor for a moment. “Of how easily you display your favour.” 

The words settle between them, heavier than the tone suggests, and Valarr holds his gaze for a moment. “I understand.”

Baelor searches his face, eyes softened by affection, and then nods, satisfied with whatever he finds. “You may go. Thank you.”

Valarr inclines his head and steps past him, the Kingsguard shifting just enough to allow it. The corridor stretches ahead, long and cool, early sunlight cutting across the stone in pale bands as he walks slower now, yet the tightness in his chest has not eased. If anything, it has settled deeper.  

He exhales slowly, deliberately. Somewhere deeper, beneath the frustration and the lingering heat of the bout, a quieter, more dangerous feeling settles into place. Awareness. 

Not just of you, but of the space between you, and the fact that, for the first time, he does not entirely know how to stand within it.

You do not remember leaving the yard.

One moment there is heat and noise and the weight of him above you, the press of wood at your throat, the echo of your own voice telling him off – and the next there is stone beneath your feet and quiet closing in around you like a held breath finally released.

You turn the first corner you find, then another, and only when the sounds of the training yard have faded entirely behind you do you stop.

It hits you all at once. You brace a hand against the wall, breath catching in your throat, your other hand curling uselessly at your side as if it still holds a blade. Your chest rises too quickly, lungs dragging in air that feels too thin, too sharp.

Gods. You close your eyes, and for a moment the world tilts – not enough to stagger you, but enough to make you press your shoulder more firmly into the cool stone, grounding yourself against it.

You had him. The thought arrives unbidden, unwelcome. You had him on his back, your blade at his throat, the entire yard gone silent around you – and for one long, terrible heartbeat, you had not cared who was watching.

Your stomach turns. What in the Seven Hells were you thinking? Your father would kill you if he knew how stupid you’d been.

You press your lips together, willing the memory to fade, to dull into something distant and manageable, but it refuses. It lingers instead in flashes – the look in his eyes, sharp and searching, the heat of him beneath you, the sudden, sickening awareness that had followed.

A spectacle. A prince. And you–

You exhale sharply through your nose, pushing yourself upright from the wall. Your hands feel unsteady, your limbs still humming faintly with the remnant energy of the fight. 

You had nearly humiliated him. No – worse. You had nearly exposed yourself before you had let him win. You had yielded before the Targaryen prince, as had no doubt been intended. Your jaw tightens – you do not know which part of it unsettles you more.

You push away from the wall at last, smoothing your sleeve where it has creased beneath your grip, forcing your posture back into something composed, as though nothing had happened, as though you do not still feel the echo of his hands on you, the shift of weight as he turned the bout in his favor. 

You do not want to return to your chambers, and you also do not want to face the rest of the court, the watchful eyes, the questions.

So you walk, letting your feet carry you through corridors you have begun to recognize, past servants who bow and avert their eyes just quickly enough to suggest they have already heard. Of course they have, the thought needles at you. The Keep breathes gossip.

You round another corner, and nearly collide with a figure stepping into your path. 

“My lady.” Lady Dayne inclines her head, dark eyes sweeping over you in a way that is not entirely decipherable, a flicker of quiet amusement held carefully in check.

“Lady Dayne.” You greet in return, inclining your head in kind.

“I had wondered if I might find you,” she says lightly. “The court is gathering for petitions.”

You hesitate – the last thing you want is more eyes, and yet petitions mean distance, distraction, a crowd to disappear into. “And you thought I might wish to attend?” You ask.

Her mouth curves faintly. “I thought you might wish to be seen attending.”

The reminder settles cleanly into place as your lips press together briefly, but then you take in a deep breath and incline your head. “Lead the way.”

The throne room is already filling by the time you enter. Light spills in through the high windows, catching on the polished floors and the dark gleam of armor as knights take their places along the walls. 

The lords murmur quietly among themselves, their voices low and measured, while supplicants gather near the far end of the hall, clutching petitions in uncertain hands.

It is easier here, the noise and movement giving you something to disappear into as Lady Dayne guides you to a place along the side of the hall, near enough to observe without being observed too closely. You fold your hands before you, posture straight, expression carefully composed.

The doors at the far end open, and the court stills. The King enters first, measured and deliberate, the weight of the realm settling into place with him. At his side walks his heir, and just behind– you do not mean to look, but your gaze finds him instinctively anyway.

Prince Valarr comes to stand beside the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back with practiced ease. Sunlight from the narrow arch drapes across his features, rendering them softer, more elegant.

He looks every inch the prince he is expected to be, no trace of the yard on him now. No sign of the fight, of the breathless moment where everything had narrowed to the space between you. It is as though it never happened. And yet–

His eyes lift and catch yours.

Your stomach drops as you look away suddenly, the movement abrupt and conspicuous. Heat floods your face, and you settle your gaze firmly on the King as he takes his seat, refusing to even chance looking behind him.

Voices rise and fall in careful cadence as the petitions begin – requests, grievances, disputes laid bare before the throne. You had sat before a number of petitions of your own at Starpike, so it is a familiar sequence, but today the words blur at the edges, slipping past without settling.

The space across the hall feels much narrower than it should. You feel it again – that same pull, subtle but insistent, like the brush of movement in your periphery. You do not look. You won’t.

Until your gaze betrays you, flicking up, just briefly– 

To find him already looking.

Your breath catches, and it is his turn to look away hastily. Your lips curl at the absurdity of the moment, watching as his cheeks colour faintly, his posture suddenly rigid. 

The rest of the court resumes around you, voices rising once more, the steady rhythm of petitions continuing as though nothing at all has changed, even though your pulse refuses to settle.

By the time the last petition has been heard and the court begins to dissolve into softer conversation, you are already being drawn gently but insistently back into the orbit of the ladies.

“Come,” one of them says. “You must dine with us tonight.”

You agree somewhat hesitantly, allowing yourself to be folded into their number as they drift from the throne room toward the great hall, silks whispering against stone, voices rising in a low, constant hum as they discuss the handsome new Kingsguard and who danced with whom the last time the court gathered in earnest.

The great hall is alive with light, candles burning in their hundreds, casting a warm, flickering glow across the long tables and the banners that hang above them. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, the low swell of voices rising and falling in waves as lords and ladies take their places.

Music threads through it all – soft, unobtrusive, something meant to fill the spaces between conversation without drawing attention to itself.

You are seated among the ladies, midway down one of the long tables, where the press of bodies and voices makes it easier to fade into the background.

Your attention drifts – not to the high table, though you are aware of it, aware of him there without looking – but outward, to the movement of the hall, the shifting currents of conversation that ebb and flow around you, a lord’s voice rising just a little too loudly at the next table over–

“…One girl in silks does not change what they are,” the lord’s voice is loud and bold and grating. “If it were me, I would not risk giving ‘er a weapon!”

Something in your chest goes very still as you catch onto what he’s saying.

“King Daeron would be smarter to just get rid of ‘er!” The ensuing boisterous laughter rings sharply in your ear, making you flinch. “If there’s no more heir to the house, you’ve got no more threat of future treason!” 

The sounds of the hall seem to recede as though you are hearing them from a distance now, through water, through something thick and heavy that presses at your ears.

You turn agonizingly slowly, your eyes landing upon the source of the voice. It’s a lord of some house you don’t recognize, his cheeks ruddy from the wine and his goblet swinging wildly in the air as he talks. 

But it’s not the lord who causes horror to bloom in your chest – it’s the crowd of courtiers around him, nodding along and clapping him on the back, agreeing with him. 

The blatant insult and borderline threat to you goes mostly unnoticed by the rest of the banquet hall, drowned out by music and other lively conversations alike, but it echoes harshly around in your skull as you push back from your seat and stumble out of the hall, ignoring the questioning glances and inquiries thrown at you as you disappear out the doors.

You stumble into a quiet stairwell that branches off from the main corridor, leaning against the cool stone and breathing in the silence, before you press a hand over your mouth in pure shock. 

The lord’s comments, despite your best intentions, worm their way into your mind. In a sinister way, they make sense. 

Without you, your house would be weakened, your father likely incentivized to collaborate with the Crown however possible – or, in truth, would force your father’s hand towards the Blackfyres, making your house the enemy they already thought it to be. 

Though it sends a bolt of fear down your spine, admittedly, it does not seem like the Targaryen’s style. Still, your mind races, irritatingly missing your assigned guard as the dark stairs stretch out below and above you.

You are so focused on recalling the lord’s words, your blood rushing in your ears from paranoia, that you ironically do not hear the footsteps behind you until it is too late. 

A soft rush of air washes over you, your mind alert with a sudden awareness of another person’s presence. Panic floods your senses. 

Your dagger is drawn from beneath your corset on instinct before you can even think, wielding it before you defensively as you spin around, but the intruder is already inside your space. One hand catches your wrist, the other forearm pressing lightly against your collarbones and pushing you back to the wall, trapping you. 

Your mind catches up to your eyes, the haze of fear and instinctive defense clearing just in time to realize– 

“Lady Peake.” Prince Valarr greets, eyes flicking down to where your dagger glints in the torchlight, the muscle in his jaw jumping as his grip on your forearm tightens slightly. 

“Seven fucking Hells,” the curse spills from your lips, your heart pounding against your ribcage as you lower your weapon. “What is wrong with you?”

“With me?” He blinks at you, brows pulling together in puzzlement as his forearm falls from your chest. “I’m not the one with my blade drawn.”

“No,” you hiss, cheeks heating up as you yank your arm free from his grasp. “You’re just skulking around darkened corridors and ambushing unaccompanied young women.”

“I am not–” He stops short, mouth agape, and you watch him physically reign in the retort at the tip of his tongue. “I just– I heard the lords talking, and I saw you leave, and I– I wished to make sure you were alright.”

It is a sweet sentiment, one that would give you pause if you were not so entirely consumed by your mounting frustration and a tinge of shame at having been caught so off guard. You raise your eyebrows. “By jumping out at me in the dark?” 

“I called your name,” he grits out, eyes narrowed at you. “And you really ought to be careful, if the Kingsguard saw you pull a dagger on me–”

“Of course, I forget, princes do not have to suffer the consequences of cornering ladies in the middle of the night. My apologies, my prince.” You bow in a mini mock-curtsy to top it off. 

“Cornering–?” Valarr’s expression goes through several emotions at once, bewilderment and irritation chief among them. “Gods, you really are impossible, you know that?”

“And your sanctimonious civility is maddening!” You spit back. 

He tilts his head as he surveys you, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment you see a flicker of the dragon within him. “I am truly at a loss, my lady. I was under the impression that your hostility toward me had faded, but I see now that–”

“My hostility? Mine?”

“Yes, yours. You have made your ire for me evident from the moment that we met, and despite my best attempts to reconcile any wrongdoings you may feel I have done you–”

“I may feel?” You scoff, the sound echoing off the stone walls, and his stoic mask of impassivity finally, completely drops, revealing the utter vexation beneath. 

He steps closer. “See, this is exactly what I speak of, you–”

“You speak of understanding and reconciliation, and yet nothing changes. You do not change.”

“I do not know what I am supposed to be changing!” His voice raises for the first time since you’ve known him, and you blink in shock, watching him squeeze his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling as he regains control. 

The sudden display of emotion causes your indignation to ebb, and you realize that your chest is heaving as well. You inhale and exhale slowly, gaze dropping to the floor in what feels dangerously close to guilt for your outburst.

“Those lords,” you start, not daring to look back up at him. “See me as nothing more than a problem to be dealt with. They feel comfortable enough to say so much, under the banners of your family, in the name of your house. They face no consequences, while I have been taken from my home and–” 

Your mouth snaps shut, the words taken prisoner burning at the tip of your tongue. Your chest heaves, teeth digging into your lower lip as you prevent yourself from saying any more on the matter – you’ve already dug yourself too deep, speaking so impetuously to a prince. 

Valarr watches your face carefully, and for a moment, you think you see something akin to guilt flash across his expression. He shakes his head, voice softer now, gentler as he steps closer. “Lord Lefford will face consequences for his words, I can assure you.”

Your own voice is quieter when you speak again, less angry, more resigned. “Gods, you really do believe that, don’t you?” His brow furrows, and you continue. “He, and all the other Lords calling for my removal, will face a slap on the wrist before being served their next round of wine, and nothing more.” 

“Do you really think so little of my family? That we would be so lenient as to let such vile things go undisciplined?” 

“I think that the lords in your family’s favour have bought themselves leniency, my prince.” Your words are harsher now, sharpened, holding back your honest opinion of what you think of his family.

He flinches slightly at the title, his eyes narrowing as they rake over your face, realizing how seriously you believe what you’ve said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Heat flares in your face at the insinuation, suddenly feeling like a scolded child being condescended upon. “Fine. Prove me wrong, then.”

“Maybe I will.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, and as it ghosts over the exposed skin of your chest, you suddenly become aware of how close to one another the two of you have ended up. 

The prince now stands barely a pace away from you. There is a strange, suspended moment where you both seem to realize your proximity at once – and yet neither of you make to move away.

You swallow thickly, suddenly at a loss for words as your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and his eyes, dark in the dim torchlight, track the movement intently. In an act of great betrayal, your own eyes flick down his face and rest for the barest of moments on his mouth.

A beat passes, the only sound in the silent stairwell your intermingled breaths, before the tension snaps. Valarr steps back suddenly, his entire body rigid, jaw clenched achingly tight as he gives you a terse nod. 

“Forgive me, my lady.” He says, throat working as he swallows, before he spins on his heel and strides down the stairwell. 

You watch him leave blankly, your capability of speech stuck somewhere between your hammering pulse and your clouded brain.