You were placing the last waffle neatly on top of the stack when Steve’s strong arms suddenly wrapped around your waist. His lips brushed softly along your neck, slow and unhurried, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the morning chill. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned back into him, letting yourself sink into the feeling. You wanted to feel and remember everything, so you savored every second. 

“Waffles?” Steve’s voice was still rough with sleep, laced with quiet amusement, his head on your shoulder. “Special occasion?”

You placed the plate down gently before turning in his arms. “None,” you said softly. “I just… wanted to make it up to you.”

He frowned slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “Make it up to me?”

“For how I’ve been acting lately,” you explained, forcing a small smile. “I know it hadn’t been easy with —”

Steve’s expression softened instantly and he shook his head, his hands coming up to cradle your face with a tenderness that nearly broke you. “There’s nothing you need to apologize for,” he said gently. “It’s just been just a rough time. That’s all. Okay?”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. 

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before pulling you back against his chest again, his arms wrapping around you with an ease that felt almost unfamiliar after weeks of distance.

Breakfast unfolded slowly, quietly, in that comfortable way it used to. You talked about small things—school, Nancy’s latest article, something Jonathan had said about a movie he wanted to make. The conversation drifted from one topic to another without effort, light and unguarded. Neither of you mentioned children, a silent agreement had settled between you. He didn’t want to upset you again and you didn’t want to break everything sooner than necessary. For the first time in weeks, you laughed, really laughed, and Steve’s shoulders gradually relaxed, relief softening his features as he watched you. To him, it probably looked like you were finally feeling better. Like the tension that had weighed on you had finally lifted. And you let him believe it. 

After you finished eating, he leaned back in his chair with a grin, looking at you. “I think I’m still hungry,” he said casually.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the waffles still laying on the plate in front of you. “There are stil some left, you can have them.”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze darkening in that familiar way as he stood and walked around the table toward you. “I wasn’t talking about waffles.”

He leaned in, closing the space between you until your breath hitched. His hands settled on either side of your chair, caging you in gently, his gaze fixed on yours. “Actually, I had something else in mind,” he said smirking.  

You had barely time to react before he kissed you. He lifted you effortlessly, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carried you upstairs.

When he laid you down on the bed, the world seemed to quiet around you, everything else fading into the background. There was no pressure or urgency this time. No silent goal hanging over you or counting days, no racing against time. You moved slowly with him, allowing yourself to feel every second of it —  the warmth of his skin agains yours, the way his breath mingled with yours between kisses, the way your bodies moved together. You let yourself linger, exploring what had once been so natural between you, something you hadn’t realized you’d been missing until that moment. 

It was just you and him. Again. 

There was something deeper in it now, something softer, almost fragile. A quiet kind of closeness that settled beneath every touch, every glance, something that felt dangerously close to a goodbye, even if he didn’t know it yet. 

Afterward, you stayed in bed for hours, tangled together beneath the sheets, the world outside forgotten, your voices low as your fingers traced absent patterns against his skin. 

You didn’t think about Monday.

In the afternoon, you walked through the streets of Hawkins hand in hand, just like you used to in the early days when you had started dating. You went to the cinema, sitting close in the dark, sharing popcorn and glancing at each other. Sometimes you whispered comments into each other’s ear, drawing disapproving glances from people around you. You looked more like a couple at the beginning of their love story instead of the middle of a storm.

After the movie, you went to Enzo’s, the same restaurant where he had taken you for the very first time and where you had gone so many times after. It was a place full of memories and you were happy to relive them once again. For one last time, you thought again. During dinner you caught yourself staring at him more than usual, especially when he was distracted — reading the menu, talking to the waiter, looking around him. You were quietly memorizing everything, making sure you don’t forget anything. 

Later, when you returned home, you made love again. Slowly. Tenderly. Like you were trying to freeze time. Except that it was actually running out. 

Sunday morning, Steve surprised you. “Get dressed,” he said with a grin. “I’m stealing you for the day.”

You didn’t ask questions for once, happier than ever to obey and follow. 

One hour later, he drove you out of Hawkins, past familiar roads and into something quieter, greener, until the town disappeared behind you completely. The car stopped in front of a lake, hidden between trees, the water still and reflective under the light. You got out of the car and walked closer to the shore to get a better view. You walked along narrow trails, your hands brushing, then intertwining. At some point, you took your shoes off and dipped your feet in the water, the cold making you gasp and laugh as he joined you. Later, you shared a picnic he had prepared and lay side by side on the grass, staring up at the sky. 

No future.

No plans.

No heavy conversations.

Just the present.

Just him and you. 

Every now and then, the thought slipped through.

This is the last time.

The last time you would feel his arms around you. Laugh like this. And each time, you pushed it away. Because if you let it settle, you wouldn’t survive the day. So you stayed in the moment, memorizing everything. The sound of his voice. The warmth of his callous hand in yours. The way he smiled when he thought you weren’t looking.

You tried to enjoy every moment while a part of you hoped that time would slow down, that you would be granted more of it. 

ButMonday morning still came too fast. 

When you both stepped out of the house for work, Steve leaned in to kiss you. 

One last time, you thought, impossible to chase away. 

Your lips lingered on his longer than usual, and when you finally pulled away, it took everything in you to hold back the tears. “I love you, Steve Harrington.” 

“Love you more.” You forced a small smile as you saw him walking toward his car.

“See you later,” he said, completely unaware, waving lightly before getting inside. 

-

You had planned everything. That afternoon, after school, Steve had baseball practice, and that morning, as always, you had taken separate cars to avoid being tied to the same schedule. Normally it was a small convenience. Today, it had been a necessity. The house was quiet and empty.   You closed the door behind you and didn’t allow yourself to think. If you did, you knew you would never go through with it. So you went straight upstairs, your steps quick, almost frantic, and pulled two suitcases from under the bed. Your hands trembled slightly as you began filling them with clothes and essential things. You tried not to look around the room, avoiding that your eyes linger on anything that held memory. But when you reached his side of the closet, your hand hovered and before you could stop yourself, you took one of his sweatshirts. You pressed the fabric briefly against  your chest, inhaling the familiar scent. Then you folded it and placed it inside your suitcase like a fragile relic.

Just one thing, you said yourself. Just one thing to take with you. 

Once you were done, you dragged the suitcases downstairs, your heart pounding louder with every step toward the front door when it suddenly opened.

You froze halfway up the stairs.

Steve stepped inside, lifting his head. The moment his eyes landed on you, his face lit up. A soft, relieved smile spread across his lips. “Hey —”

His gaze dropped to the suitcases. His smile faltered, confusion replacing it instantly, heavy and visible as his gaze moved from the bags… back to you.

You felt panic flood your entire body, cold and suffocating.

No, no, no, your mind kept repeating. Why was he there? Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.

He took a slow step inside, closing the door behind him with his foot, eyes never leaving you. “Are we going somewhere?” he asked, glancing between the suitcases and you, his tone still light, still trying to find a reasonable explanation. “Did I forget a trip or something?”

Your grip tightened on the railing while your throat closed, unable to speak. You forced air into your lungs.

“I’m…” The word came out thin, strained, barely audible. Your gaze dropped to the last steps of the staircase. “I’m leaving,” you said.

The words were quiet, but they landed heavily in the space between you.

Silence followed.

“…Leaving,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the meaning of the word. “Leaving where?”

When you stayed silent, he took another step closer. “For how long?” he asked, softer now. “A few days? A week? Is this a work thing?”

Your grip on the railing tightened even more, your knuckles turning white.

“I’m not coming back.” Your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it.

The shift in his expression was immediate and unmistakable. Confusion deepened. He stared at you like you had spoken in a language he didn’t fully understand.

“I don’t —” He stopped, exhaling slowly, shaking his head once. “I don’t understand. What you mean?”

You forced yourself to descend one step. And then another. Each one felt heavier than the last, unsafe, expecting the staircase to collapse at any moment, swallowing you up. 

“I… I can’t do this anymore,” you said, your breath uneven. “It’s too much. I’m sorry.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “What is?” he asked. His tone wasn’t defensive or angry, just lost. “What’s too much?”

You gestured weakly around you, though your hand shook.

“This,” you whispered. “This house. This life. Us.”

He stared at you in disbelief, genuinely trying to follow but he couldn’t. His frown deepened, genuine confusion etched across his face. “Us? I don’t understand,” he said. “We were fine.” A small, incredulous breath left him. “We literally just had the best weekend we’ve had in months. What happened?”

The memory hit you like a knife. You shook your head, eyes fixed anywhere but him.

“I’ve changed,” you murmured. “I — We want different things.”

“Wh… Which things? What are you saying?” he asked, softer now, searching your face like the answer might be written there.

You closed your eyes and took a long breath before opening them again. “I don’t want children anymore.”

A long pause followed.

At first, Steve didn’t react. There was just pure, blank confusion on his face. And then, slowly, something in his posture stilled.

“You don’t want kids anymore?” he repeated, his eyes searching your face, desperate for contradiction.

You lowered your gaze. “I thought I did, but… I don’t.” 

“Since when?” he asked after a beat, voice low.

Your heart clenched.

“For a while,” you lied.

He let out a short, disbelieving breath and ran a hand through his hair.

“No,” he said immediately. “No, that’s not true. It can’t be.”

You didn’t respond.

“We were trying,” he continued, his voice rising slightly, confusion bleeding into disbelief. “You were the one tracking everything, we talked about names, about decorations for the room —” He stopped himself abruptly, staring at you. “You wanted this. We wanted this.”

Your eyes burned.

“I thought I did,” you said, each word forced out through a tightening throat. “But I don’t. Not anymore. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head slowly, like he was trying to wake himself up from a bad dream.

“You keep saying that but it doesn’t explain anything,” he said, more firmly now. “You don't just wake up and decide you don't want kids. A family. Not after months of trying.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you took a small step toward the door.

“The weekend. What was it then?” he asked. His voice softened, but it trembled. “The breakfast. The movie. Dinner.” He trailed off, swallowing. “What was all that? Were you just pretending?”

You shook your head quickly. “I wasn’t. Never,” you said, and that part came out steady. “I was happy.”

He blinked, hurt flashing across his features. “Then why are you leaving? Why are you leaving me?”

You sighed. “I wanted us to have one last good memory,” you admitted quietly. “I wanted you to remind us like that. Happy. In love.”

His face crumpled slightly.

“So it was a goodbye.”

Your silence answered for you. 

“Please, Steve, don’t make this harder,” you said weakly, taking another step toward the door.

His head snapped up.

“Harder?” he repeated, stunned. “You’re packing your things, telling me you’re leaving without even giving me a chance to understand it properly and I’m the one who is making things difficult?”

“There is nothing to talk about it. It’s all pretty clear,” you said, panic creeping into your voice. “You want children and I don’t. So there is no solution.”

You tried to move past him but he moved faster.

His hand closed gently but firmly around your wrist.

You froze.

“Is that really the problem?” he asked, stepping in front of you, blocking your path without thinking. His other hand came up, holding your other wrist, not hurting, just anchoring you there. “Kids?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Because if that’s it,” he continued quickly, desperation creeping into every word, “then we won’t have them. That’s it. We’re done trying.”

Your breath caught.

There it was exactly what you had feared. The reason why you couldn’t tell him the truth. 

You could see it in the way he looked at you — terrified, pleading — that he really meant those words. That he was ready to give something up just to keep you. 

For one dangerous second, you imagined staying. Dropping the suitcases. Telling him everything. And letting him choose. But the future rose in your mind uninvited. Years from now, you could see Steve watching other fathers playing with their kids. The quiet, hollow look in his eyes. And the slow, inevitable weight of a dream he had buried for you. What if one day he stopped loving you and regretted his decision?  

You shook you head as if to chase away the thoughts. “You were always meant to be a father. It’s who you are, Steve,” you said softly, your voice trembling but painfully sincere. “And I knew that from the first day I met you. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”

His grip loosened slightly, confusion mixing with hurt.

“And I would have loved to be the mother of your children,” you continued, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. “I wanted to be that woman. More than anything.” Your voice broke. “But I can’t. And you shouldn’t give up your dream for me,” you whispered, the truth hidden inside the lie.

His brows furrowed deeply.

“Don’t,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

You tried to pull your hands away but he tightened his hold again. 

“Talk to me, please,” he pleaded, his voice cracking now. “What is actually happening? Because this —” He gestured toward the suitcases, toward you, toward the space between you. “This can’t be just about kids. There’s something else you’re not telling me.” 

Panic surged violently in your chest. You needed to go and leave that house. Leave him. If you stayed a minute longer, you would tell him everything. And he would stay and sacrifice his dream for you. You couldn’t let that happen. He deserved to be happy. Even if it meant being without you. 

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, struggling against his hold. “I can’t do this. I can’t be what you want.”

“I want you,” he said immediately, the words raw, desperate, as if they could make you change your mind. “I want you. Let’s talk about this. Please. We can figure it out. Together. Like we always do.”

Your resolve cracked. For a split second, you almost collapsed into him. Instead, you twisted your wrists with sudden urgency and slipped free from his grasp. “We… I can’t. I can’t stay.” 

You grabbed the suitcases with shaking hands and moved past him before your courage could fail completely.

“Please, don’t walk out like this,” he said behind you, his voice hoarse, disbelieving. “Tell me the truth.” 

Your shoulders trembled, but you didn’t turn.

“I am telling you the truth, Steve. You need to accept it,” you lied.

You reached the door, your hands fumbling with the handle.

It took two tries before it opened, the tears blurred your vision. 

Cold air hit your face, sharp and sobering.

You dragged the suitcases toward the car, movements rushed, clumsy, blinded by the tears you refused to let fall fully.

Footsteps followed quickly behind you.

“Just look at me,” he said, closer now. “Please.”

You didn’t.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, his voice breaking more openly now. “Because if I did, you have to tell me. I can fix it. I swear I can fix it.”

Your hands shook so badly you almost dropped the keys. You looked up at him. “You didn’t do anything, Steve. It’s just… me. I’m the problem."

You shoved the suitcases into the trunk, barely aware of how uneven your breathing had become and opened the driver’s door.

You turned around, forcing yourself to look at Steve. He was standing a few feet away, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes wide with confusion, hurt, and a dawning realization he was still refusing to fully accept.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words barely audible even to yourself.

You got into the car and slammed the door shut, blocking it. 

The engine started with a rough, final sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet street.

Steve took a step forward instinctively, as if he might reach the door, might stop you physically this time.

But he just stood there, frozen, watching as you backed out of the driveway. As the house — your house, the life you had built together, every quiet morning and loud evening and shared dream — slowly disappeared behind you.

You kept your eyes on the road, avoiding to look in the rearview mirror.

The first sob tore out of your chest only when the street turned and the house was no longer visible. And you finally allowed yourself to cry. Desperately. Incessantly. 

-

A few days had passed since you left, and the more Steve tried to make sense of it, the less anything actually did.

It felt unreal. Like something that hadn’t actually happened. Like a bad dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. 

Sometimes, in the first few seconds after opening his eyes in the morning, he almost believed it. That everything was still the same. That if he just got up and walked downstairs, he would find you there like always, moving around the kitchen. Maybe at the stove, maybe setting the table. He could almost smell sometimes the faint scent of coffee or hear the sound of eggs frying in the pan. 

But Steve wasn’t dreaming and you weren’t there. In your house. The one you had paint and decorated together. The same that every evening, when he came back from work, was empty and silent. 

You were at Nancy’s. 

He had gone there every single day since you had left. At first, he had convinced himself it was just a matter of time, that you only needed a moment to think, to calm down, and then you would come back or at least talk to him. But the days passed and you didn't come back. Every time he knocked on Nancy’s door, it was her who opened the door, never you. She always gave him the same look —  understanding, apologetic but firm enough to keep him exactly where he was: outside. 

“She just needs time,” she would say. “I’ll try to talk to her again, okay?”

Was it that that you really needed? Time? And for what? 

Because when you had left him, it seemed like you had already made your decision. For both of them. 

Steve had thought he would at least see you at school where you couldn’t avoid him, not with everyone around. But when he had arrived the day after the fight, one of your colleagues had stopped him in the hallway. 

“Hey… how is she?” she had asked, a note of concern in her voice.

Steve had frowned slightly. “Sorry?”

“Your wife. She called in sick,” the woman had explained. “I just hope it’s nothing serious.”

For a moment, Steve had just stared at her. Then it had clicked. You weren’t sick. You just had taken a few days off, making sure there was no place left where he could reach you.

A tight feeling had settled in his chest as he had forced a small, easy smile. “Oh—yeah. Nothing serious,” he had said lightly. “Just a bit of a fever and a stupid cold.”

The colleague had nodded, relieved. “Good. I’m glad.”

As she walked away, the smile had slipped from his face.

You were slowly disappearing, running from him and shutting him out from your life. He didn’t know how to get you back.

Nancy, Robin, Jonathan, Eddie — none of them knew more than he did. They tried to be there for him, to distract him, to offer something that resembled comfort, but none of it stuck. None of it filled the space you had left behind.

Work was the only thing keeping him functional, sane. It gave his mind something to hold onto, something that wasn’t you. But the moment he walked back through the front door at the end of the day, everything came rushing back. You were everywhere. In the silence. In the spaces you used to fill so effortlessly. 

Like now.

He lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loosely on his stomach. His mind kept replaying that moment on the stairs, your face, your voice, the way everything had fallen apart in the span of a few minutes.

Sometimes he turned his head to the left — your side of the bed. And every time, just for a split second, he expected to see you there. Still, your pillow was there, your scent lingering faintly in the fabric, enough to make his chest tighten in a way that was getting harder to ignore. Some of your things were still on the nightstand too, the small, ordinary objects you hadn’t taken with you, standing there as if they were expecting for you. Sometimes, when he looked at them, Steve was convinced that you had left them because sooner or later you would come back. That was the fragile hope he clung to. 

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then suddenly pushed himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed. He dragged both hands through his hair, gripping it at the roots before letting them fall. A restless tension buzzed under his skin, sharp and uncomfortable.

He needed something to take the edge off and to quiet his mind. Otherwise, he would explode.

His gaze drifted toward the drawer. He stood up and crossed the room, pulling the drawer open and grabbing what he needed along with a lighter. As he started rolling the joint, his hands moved automatically, muscle memory taking over, but his mind wasn’t really there.

For a second, a memory slipped in.

The last time he had done this, you had been there with him. It had been late, after one of those long, exhausting weeks where everything seemed to pile up at once. You had both been too tired to go out, too drained to even talk much. So you had stayed in, sitting on the floor of the living room, the lights low, music playing softly in the background.

You had laughed at him when he messed up rolling it the first time.

“Give me that,” you had said, taking it from his hands with a small, amused smile. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m not,” he had protested, leaning back on his hands. “I’m just out of practice.”

“Sure,” you had teased, fixing it in seconds.

He could still see it clearly — the way you had looked at him, relaxed, happy, completely at ease.

God. He would have given anything to have you there with him at that moment too. To tell him how terrible he was. 

His chest tightened.

Steve blinked, forcing himself back into the present. He brought the joint to his lips and flicked the lighter but it slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor and sliding under the bed.

“Shit.”

Steve sighed in frustration and crouched down, reaching underneath to grab it. His fingers brushed against the floorboards, searching blindly until something else caught his attention. He frowned slightly, shifting his position to get a better look, then reached further in and pulled out a small stack of books. He sat back on his heels, turning them over in his hands, his confusion growing with each of them. 

Pregnancy books. 

Fertility books. 

He let out a quiet breath, something between disbelief and confusion, and opened one of them. Several pages were highlighted, covered in notes scribbled along the margins. He recognized your handwriting immediately. A little messy in some places. Small arrows pointing to passages you clearly didn’t want to forget.

He flipped through another. And another.

Same thing.

“What…?” he muttered, almost to himself, shaking his head slightly.

This didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit with anything you had told him. Because a person who didn’t want children didn’t do this. Didn’t read several books about it. Didn’t take notes like it was something that mattered. Didn’t try this hard. The person who had read these books wasn’t someone who had simply “changed their mind”. No, you had put all your effort, time and hope in these books. 

Steve ran a hand over his face, his thoughts racing now, faster, sharper while trying to put the pieces together.

Your voice echoed in his mind again, clearer this time.

I don’t want kids. I’m the problem. I would have loved to be the mother of your children.

His gaze dropped back to the pages in his hands.

You said one thing while those books were telling him a different story. 

Where was the truth?, he thought. 

Steve leaned back slightly, sitting on the floor now, one arm resting loosely on his knee as he stared at the books scattered around him.

If you didn’t want children… Then why all this?

His heart pounded harder in his chest.

There was something wrong. Like a piece of a puzzle that doesn't fit with another. 

He had never believed you. Not even a word you had said. Not after everything you had shared, everything you had dreamed about together. He knew you and how much you wanted kids too, to build a family. He had seen the way you looked at them, how easily you connected with them. So either all of that had been a lie or this — the one you had told him — was. It was the only things that made more sense. 

He knew that the last few weeks had been hard. Harder on you than on him. He had seen it, even when you had tried to hide from him. The negative tests. The way your mood suddenly shifted. The way frustration seemed to settle into you little by little. 

Could that have been it? Had it been to much for you, breaking you enough to make you give up? To make you walk away? Or maybe he had missed something. Something you weren’t telling him. But what?

Steve exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face.

Yeah, he wanted kids and hearing you say you didn’t anymore had hurt like hell. But he didn’t care about it if you weren’t with him. Because more than anything he wanted you. Without you, none of the rest mattered. It didn’t mean anything. The idea of a future without you in it felt hollow, incomplete. 

He dropped the joint and the lighter onto the nightstand, completely forgotten. Then he sat back on the bed, one of the books still in his hands. He opened it again, slower this time, more carefully. His eyes moved over your notes, your handwriting guiding him through the pages. Line after line, the same realization kept settling deeper inside him.

These weren’t the thoughts of someone who didn’t want a child. 

Steve’s grip tightened slightly on the page as he stared at it, his mind racing, pieces slowly beginning to fall into place — just not in a way he could fully understand yet. These were the thoughts of someone who wanted a child more than anything. Someone who had been trying. Really trying. Someone who hadn’t been ready to give up. Not even close.

Steve swallowed hard. 

Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t add up.

And he needed to understand why. 

But more than anything he was tired of waiting. 

Of being lied to. 

-

Nancy’s apartment felt too quiet without her.

It didn’t help you either. 

You sat curled up on the couch, a glass of red wine resting loosely in your hand, your gaze fixed on the television in front of you. An old movie played in the background— voices, laughter, colors shifting across the screen—but you weren’t really watching. The sound blurred into meaningless noise, something to fill the silence more than anything else.

Your mind was elsewhere. Nancy had gone out with Jonathan earlier that evening, and you didn’t even know if she would come back later. Probably not. And, for a brief moment, the thought made you feel jealous. You were happy for them. They were both your friends, and after everything they had been through, after all those years apart, they had somehow found their way back to each other. It was a good thing, what they deserved. And yet… a small, shameful part of you couldn’t help but feel something twisting quietly in your chest when you thought about it. Something bitter. Because they reminded you of what you and Steve used to be — happy, in love.

But now you weren’t anymore.

In love, yes. God, you still loved him more than anything. That hadn’t changed. And it never would.

But happy? No. You were miserable.

You swallowed slowly. Then you inhaled and exhaled deeply, your eyes closed. Your throat tightened as the familiar thoughts crept in, unwelcome but impossible to silence. The only thing that kept you going, the only fragile thread you clung to, was the hope that one day Steve would find someone else. Someone who would give him the life he had always dreamed of and that you couldn’t give him, even though you hated the idea of him being with another woman, loving her, building a life with her and having children with someone who wasn’t you. It made you sick, your stomach twist, your chest ache in a way that felt almost unbearable. And yet… it was also what you wanted for him. Otherwise, your sacrifice would have been in vain.

You squeezed your eyes shut again and shook your head, as if you could physically push the thoughts away. You were so tired of thinking about him. But no matter how hard you tried to distract yourself, everything was useless. Because every quiet moment, every pause, every breath… brought you back to him. You wondered what he was doing. If he was eating. Or sleeping enough. 

You knew he wasn’t. 

Nancy had told you. You had even heard him. His voice. When he showed up at Nancy’s flat, asking about you and trying again and again to see you. Every time, Nancy had gently turned him away while you stood hidden just out of sight, pressed against the wall, your hand over your mouth to keep from making a sound.

“Just—can I see her? Just for a second, Nancy, please. I just need to know she’s okay.”

And every time, you had forced yourself to stay where you were. Because if you had seen him, you knew you would have broken and run to him, praying him to take you back, between his arms and through your sobs.  

And you couldn’t.

So you let him leave every time.

You had convinced yourself you were doing the right thing. That this was what was best for him, for both of you. But now… it just felt like you were destroying him. Both of you. 

Was it really worth it? Was that love?

The sharp ring of the doorbell cut through your thoughts. You flinched slightly, your heart jumping.

Dinner, finally, you thought. Even though you weren't that hungry. 

“Coming!” you called out, your voice louder than necessary, hoping the delivery guy would hear you.

You grabbed your bag and quickly pulled out the cash, counting it once, then again as you walked toward the door. You opened it without really looking up, your attention still on the bills in your hands. Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpsed two arms holding a cardboard box.

“Sorry for the wait, I was just getting the —”

When you finally looked up, your words died in your throat as your eyes locked with Steve’s. The coins slipped from your fingers, scattering across the floor with a metallic clatter that echoed far too loudly in the silence.

For a moment, neither of you moved, you just stared at each other, wordless. 

He looked exhausted. His eyes were red, shadowed by dark circles like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair was a mess, as if he had been dragging his hands through it over and over again. Even his shirt was buttoned wrong.

You knew he was hurting but seeing it, seeing what you had done to him hit different. Harder. Especially considering it was your fault. The realization hit you all over again, sharp and merciless. 

You had always believed that love wasn’t supposed to hurt like this. That you weren’t supposed to lie to the person you loved. And yet here you were. Not only you had lied to the man you loved — your husband — but you had broken him and all the promises you had made to each other.

Maybe telling him the truth would have hurt less, you thought for a quick moment. 

But by now you were a coward and all you knew was to lie and run away. 

The shock ended, bringing you back to reality, your instinct finally taking over. 

You let the money on the floor and before he could move or say anything, you stepped forward and pushed the door, trying to close it on him, to shut him out. But Steve was faster. His hand came up immediately, pressing firmly against the door with the help of his body and stopping it in place before it could move more than a few inches.

You tried to push again, but it was useless. He was stronger, steady, his grip unyielding.

He wasn’t leaving. Not this time.

Your hand faltered against the door, your strength giving way as your heart began to race. You slowly stepped back. 

Steve pushed the door open and stepped inside, his eyes never leaving you, his gaze resolute. He hadn't come here to have the door slammed in his face or to hear more lies. He couldn't take them anymore, especially seeing that you looked just as broken as he felt. Your eyes were red and dull, your face pale, your body thinner than he remembered. Something inside him twisted painfully at the sight of you like that but at the same time it gave him hope. You were suffering too. It had to mean something, he thought. 

His gaze flickered over you as you stood there, in front of him. He hated seeing you like that. Hated not understanding what was happening. Hated to see you shutting him out. On the other side, he was tired of coming home and not finding you. Of sleeping in an empty bed. Without you, that place wasn't home anymore. He loved you and had tried to give you time and space, but now he wanted the truth. And he wouldn’t leave without knowing it. Without you. He was determined to return home only with you, otherwise, he would rather not go back. It didn't make sense.

His eyes dropped then to your left hand. And there it was — the gold band still wrapped around your finger, catching him off guard. You still hadn’t taken off your wedding ring. A small, fragile spark pushed through him.

Maybe it wasn’t over between you yet.

Then your voice broke the silence. 

“Steve, go away,” you whispered. “Please.”

“Only if you come with me,” he shot back immediately, his tone firm but soft. “Come home with me, babe. Please.”

Your chest tightened. “I… I can’t, Steve. I told you.”

“Yes, you can,” he insisted, taking another step toward you. “ Of course, you can. It’s our home.”

“Not anymore,” you said, shaking your head, your voice breaking. “I can’t.”

“Why?” he asked, frustration starting to creep in. “You keep saying that, but I don’t understand. None of this makes any sense.”

“I already explained it,” you replied weakly. “Please, don’t make me say it again. We’ll just hurt each other more.”

“No,” Steve said, his jaw tightening. “You didn’t explain anything. You just decided for both of us and lied to my face.”

You shook your head, staring at the floor. “Just because you don’t want to believe me doesn’t mean I lied, Steve. You need to accept the truth, please.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I would accept it if it actually was the fucking truth. But it isn’t and we both know that.” He snapped, the frustration finally breaking through.

You felt something in you snap in response. All the exhaustion, the frustration, the pain you had been holding back for days rose to the surface at once, spilling over before you could stop it. “What do you want me to say?” you shot back, your voice louder than you intended. “Would it be easier if I told you there’s someone else? Or that I don’t love you anymore? Is that what you want?”

The words hung in the air like a gunshot, echoing back at you. Steve went completely still while regret crashed over you just as quickly, heavy and suffocating.

He swallowed, his voice quieter now, rough. “Is that it?”

You looked up at him, your heart pounding loud.

“Is there… someone else?” he asked, forcing the words out. His voice was hoarse, his eyes were shining. He looked even more tired than when he had arrived, a little older too. 

You sighed, your vision blurred with tears. You hated the idea that he could even consider the possibility that you had cheated on him or that you no longer loved him. But you couldn’t even blame him. You were the only one to blame for it. 

“Of course not,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I would never… I could never do that to you. Your voice trembled as you tried to wipe your face with the back of your hand. “I know you probably hate me right now, and I don’t blame you. I hate myself too. But don’t ever think I don’t love you. Or that I betrayed you. Please… anything but that.”

A sob escaped your lips.

Steve crossed the distance between you in a second, his hands coming up to cup your face without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The moment his calloused hands touched your skin, something inside you gave in and everything else faded. You leaned into it despite yourself, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. You inhaled deeply, feeling suddenly relieved. Like breathing after being underwater for too long. Like a drug after you had been in withdrawal for days. You needed your fix. Him. His touch. So you let yourself have it. Just for a few seconds. Even if you knew it wouldn’t last. That the crash afterward would be worse. 

“Hey… hey,” he murmured softly, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “I don’t hate you. I could never. I love you. I just… I don’t understand. And I’m worried about you.”

You shook your head quickly. Your hands came up to his wrists, your fingers wrapping around them as you gently but firmly pulled them away from your face. You stepped back, pulling distance between again, even if it hurt to do it. You turned away from him, your arms wrapping around yourself like you needed something to hold you together. “I’m fine,” you said, but your voice wavered you, your tears slipped down your cheeks betraying you even more.

Steve didn’t believe you for a second.

He exhaled slowly, watching you, then said quietly, “I found the books.”

You froze. 

“The ones under the bed,” he continued but you already knew what he was talking about. “And your notes. I saw the parts you highlighted.”

You turned back to him, your expression giving you away instantly. Memories flashed through your mind — late nights, sleepless, sitting in bed with a dim light while he slept beside you, reading page after page, searching desperately for answers, for anything that could help you give him what he wanted. What you wanted.

“I don’t get it,” Steve went on, his voice tightening. “How does someone who says they don’t want kids anymore read all those books? Take all those notes? I tried, okay? I tried to make sense of it, but I can’t. So just tell me. Why?”

You hesitated, your mind racing, searching for something, anything that would sound believable.

“We were trying, Steve,” you said finally. “I just wanted to understand more. That was before I changed my mind.”

It wasn’t completely a lie. An half-truth. 

“When?” he asked immediately, his eyes locked on yours. “When did you change your mind? Because, as you just finished saying, we were still trying until a few weeks ago. Or was it all fake? Were you just pretending to make me happy? To deceive myself?”

“Oh my God, Steve,” you snapped, the anger slipping straight into your voice. “So now I’m a liar?”

Yes, you are, a quiet voice whispered in the back of your mind.

You are a hypocrite and a liar, the voice said. 

You swallowed it down, even if the voice was right, you had lied to him but not about what he was saying.

“I should be a damn Oscar-winning actress to fake all of that,” you continued, your voice shaking. “All those efforts, everything I put myself through. They were true, I wasn’t lying about that. I changed my mind after.”

Silence fell between you. 

Steve’s shoulders sank slightly as he dragged a hand over his face, then through his hair, pacing slightly like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Why?” he asked again, more quietly this time.

You felt your strength slipping, your energy draining.

“Why what?” you whispered.

“Why don’t you want kids anymore?” he said. “Look, I’m just trying to understand, ok?” He continued after a beat. “Let’s say that I believe you and that you don’t want them anymore. It can happen. But why? You never told me.”

You looked down, your chest tightening painfully as you mentally cursed yourself. You had nothing to say about it. Not because you hadn’t thought about it but because there wasn’t a single answer you could give him that he would actually believe. Not when he could see right through you. Every lie would only confirm what he already suspected — that you weren’t telling him the truth.

You tried, for a second, to come up with something—anything—but every possible explanation collapsed before it could even take shape.

You couldn’t say that suddenly you didn’t like children anymore. Steve knew you had been a babysitter all through high school and since he had met you, you always talked about wanting to teaching art to kids. He had seen it himself, over and over again — how natural, gentle and patient you were with them. You could have told him you didn’t feel ready to be a mother. That you were scared. That you didn’t think you were good enough. But Steve would have torn that apart in less than two minutes, reminding you of every single moment that proved the opposite. Every look, every word, every instinct that made it obvious you were meant for it.

You sighed. 

There was nothing you could say that would hold. Nothing he wouldn’t question.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly as the weight of it all pressed down on you, suffocating, leaving you with nothing but the truth you had tried so hard to avoid.

You let out a shaky breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “I… I can’t, Steve.”

He shook his head, frustrated. “You keep saying that! But I don’t understand. What do you mean you can’t—”

“I can’t —”

“Why?” He repeated, louder. 

“I can’t have children, Steve!” you shouted, the words tearing out of you before you could stop them.

Steve stared at you, confusion flickering across his face at first, as if he hadn’t understood yet. Then something shifted, your words surfaced again. This time more clearly, different. 

I can’t. I’m the problem.

And suddenly… it clicked. His expression changed, realization crashing into place.

“What?” he breathed.

You swallowed hard, your voice quieter now. “I went to a doctor. Several, actually.” You paused, forcing yourself to continue. “And apparently… it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to get pregnant.”

The words settled in the room, heavy, undeniable. 

For a moment, neither of you moved but something in you shifted. It was the first time that you had said the truth out loud to someone else. You weren’t carrying the truth alone anymore. And as much as it hurt, you felt something else beneath it. 

Relief.

It was like a weight you had been carrying for weeks had finally slipped, just slightly, from your shoulders. 

“Since… since when do you know?” Steve asked, his voice quiet, as if he were afraid of the answer.

You dropped your gaze, unable to look at him a minute longer. “Two months.”

Steve closed his eyes, letting the words settle, echo and expand into everything they implied.

Two months.

Suddenly, everything began to fall into place. Your mood swings. The frustration that had been building in the last weeks. The arguments. The books he had found. His chest tightened painfully at the thought. For weeks, you had been living with the weight of that truth, suffering in silence, and he hadn’t seen it. He had asked, more than once, tried to get you to talk, but you had always brushed it off, reassured him, smiled in that way that made him believe you, so he had let it go. He hadn’t done enough to understand what was happening. 

“I should’ve known…” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, running a hand over his face. “I knew something was wrong. I should’ve… I should’ve done more.”

There were still a thousand questions burning at the back of his mind, pressing forward, demanding answers. But he forced them down, at least for now. In that moment, none of them mattered as much as you did. He stepped closer and, without hesitation, pulled you into his arms, pressing you tight to his chest. 

His chin rested against the top of your head as one of his hands moved slowly up and down your back, grounding, steady, familiar. “I’m sorry, babe,” he murmured softly. “I should’ve realized what was happening. I should’ve been there. I failed you. I’m sorry.”

A sob tore through your chest, raw and uncontrollable, your body shaking as the tears finally spilled over. For weeks, you had lied to him. Pushed him away. Broken his heart. And he was the one apologizing.

You pulled away from him, shaking your head while trying to wipe your tears away, your body still trembling. “Steve, you couldn’t have known,” you said sobbing. “It’s… it’s my fault. Mine and my body that doesn’t work the way it should. I’m— I’m the problem, Steve. I’m sorry, I—”

“Hey, no,” he cut in immediately, firm, almost sharp, as if he couldn’t even let you finish that sentence. “Don’t ever say that.” His hands tightened slightly on your arms, his gaze locking onto yours. “You are not a problem. And there is nothing — nothing — wrong with you. I don’t care what any doctor said. Do you understand me?”

Before you could respond, he pulled you back into him, holding you tighter this time, pressing a soft kiss to your hair as if he could keep you from slipping away again. You stayed like that for a while. Long enough for your breathing to slowly even out, for the sobs to fade into quiet, shaky inhales. Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still resting on your arms.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, gently now. “Why lie to me? Why say you didn’t want them anymore?”

You let out a slow breath, your eyes drifting away from his. “Because I knew you would stay, Steve,” you admitted quietly. “I knew that you wouldn’t leave me.”

He frowned, confusion flashing across his face. “Of course I wouldn’t. Why would I? I love you. You’re my wife.”

“I know,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “And that’s exactly the problem. You love me too much to leave… and I love you too much to let you give up your dream for me.”

His expression shifted, something pained and disbelieving. “You are my dream.”

You shook your head immediately, tears gathering again. “I’m not. You dream is having six little nuggets. And I can’t give you what you want, Steve,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “You’ll never have them if you stay with me.”

“And so you thought that the solution was to leave me?” he shot back, his tone rising despite himself. “To lie to me? Do you have any idea what these past few days have been like for me? I thought I had done something. I thought that… that maybe I had pushed you too hard. That it was my fault.”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. There was no real defense you could offer. Only an explanation. “I know it doesn’t make sense now,” you said, your voice trembling but determined. “But this — this is my problem. It shouldn’t be yours too. It shouldn’t tie you down. I’m the one who can’t have children. But you still can, Steve. You can still become a father and have the life you’ve always wanted.” You hesitated, your chest tightening. “Just… not with me.”

Steve stared at you, disbelief written all over his face. “You… you can’t seriously believe that,” he said. When you didn’t answer, something in him cracked further. “You really think I could even consider being with someone else?” he went on, his voice rough. 

The idea alone made him sick, his stomach turn. Since the moment he had met you, there had never been anyone else. He had stopped seeing other girls, flirting with them. And once you had finally said yes to a date with him, once you had let him in, he had known that there was no version of his future that didn’t have you in it. 

“You are my dream,” he said again, more firmly now, his eyes locked on yours. “You always have been. From the beginning.” He paused, thinking carefully about his next words. “And yeah… my dream included kids too,” he admitted, his voice softer but steady. “That’s true. But before any of that, I wanted you. I wanted to find someone to fall in love with. To build a life with them.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And I did. I found that with you.”

Something in his expression shifted, softer now, but just as intense. “You gave me that.”

A small breath left him.

“Without you… those kids don’t even exist to me. I can’t picture them. I don’t want them.” He shook his head slightly. “Not if you’re not in it.”

You shook your head, taking a step back, putting even more distance between you as if to prevent his words from reaching you. “You say that now,” you whispered. “But what about in ten years? Twenty? Fifty? What happens when you look back and realize everything you gave up? When you see your students’ parents picking them up after school and think that… that could’ve been you?” Your voice cracked. “You’ll regret it. And then you’ll end up hating me.”

Steve took a step toward you.

You stepped back again.

“No,” he said, his voice firm. “I won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” you insisted, shaking your head, tears slipping down your face again. “And I… I couldn’t live with that. I’d rather —” your breath hitched, “I’d rather lose you now.”

He stopped, as if your words had physically hit him.

“But I don’t want to lose you,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now, fragile.

You looked at him, your expression softening for a split second, your lips parting as if you wanted to say something.

“Me neither,” you whispered.

Steve looked at you, hopeful, thinking that maybe you had changed your mind. But before he could say anything, you continued 

“But if you stay with me… you’ll lose so much more.”

You had already decided.

Steve let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Feels like I already lost everything.”

You lowered your gaze. “You… You’ll fall in love again, Steve,” you said after a moment, forcing the words out. “You’ll find someone —”

He cut you off with a frustrated motion, rubbing his face again. “What? Another woman?” His voice sharpened. “And then what? We have kids and live happily ever after?” He let out a bitter breath. “Sounds like you’ve already planned the whole thing. So go on, tell me. What happens next?”

His words caught you off guard. He didn’t give you the chance to respond.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he continued, his tone harder now, irritation bleeding through every word, “but that’s never going to happen.”

The tension between you thickened, heavy, almost suffocating.

“You’re acting like you’re doing me a favor by leaving,” he went on, shaking his head, his voice rising again. “Like you’re protecting me. But you’re not. You’re just —” he exhaled sharply, searching for the right word, “You’re just condemning both of us.”

His jaw tightened, his eyes burning into yours.

“What happened to us, huh?” he asked after a moment, his voice dropping, but losing none of its intensity. “What happened to the promises we made? ‘In sickness and in health’, you remember that? Or did that just… not mean anything to you? Because I do. I still believe them.”

His words hung in the air between you. The memories of your wedding day replayed on your mind like the scenes of a movie. 

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Of course I meant them, Steve,” you said, your voice quieter now, but steady. Your throat tightened. “I’m doing this exactly because I love you,” you insisted, even if the words felt weak the moment they left your mouth.

Steve let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “Yeah?” he shot back. “Well, it doesn’t feel like it.”

The words hit hard, making you flinch. You hated that he could doubt your love for him when everything you were doing was for him. 

“This isn’t love,” he continued, his voice rough, frustration bleeding through now, uncontrolled. “Marriage isn’t supposed to work like that. You don’t just make decisions like this on your own. Not about something like this.” His eyes searched yours, almost pleading now. “You’re shutting me out. You’re deciding everything by yourself instead of talking to me, instead of trusting me enough to let me be part of it.”

He took a step closer. “But you don’t get to choose for me.”

“Steve, you don’t understand now,” you whispered. “But you will.”

Steve let out a hollow laugh, dragging his hands through his hair, pacing a few steps away before turning back to you. 

“This is insane,” he muttered. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Tears blurred your vision again, but you didn’t wipe them away this time. “You’ll thank me one day,” you said, even if your voice trembled. 

Something in his expression snapped.

“Thank you for what? For leaving me?” he said, firmly. “I won’t. Never. Because I’m not leaving you.”

“Steve —”

“Stop acting like this is some kind of sacrifice,” he went on, ignoring you, his voice rising despite himself. “Like you’re the only one hurting here. You don’t get to walk away and pretend it’s for my own good.”

“I’m not pretending!” you shot back, your own voice breaking now, louder than before. “I’m just trying to do the right thing! For both of us.”

“Well, you aren’t!”

Your chest heaved with the force of your breathing. You could feel yourself slipping, your resolve cracking under the weight of everything you both had said.

“Steve…” you whispered, your voice suddenly smaller, exhausted. “Please… just—just go home.”

For a second, he just stared at you, as if he hadn't understood what you had said.

“What?” he asked, exhausted. 

“Go home,” you repeated, forcing the words out. “Please.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said after a few seconds, shaking his head slightly, as if trying to dismiss your words. “You don’t mean any of this.” He continued. “Look, you’re upset, tired. We both are. We just — we need to calm down and talk about this properly.”

You shook your head.

“No,” you said, your tone firm, as if it didn’t allow for replies. “I do mean it.”

Steve’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening, Hurt flickered in his eyes. 

“Don’t do this,” he said, quieter now, almost pleading. “Please. Don’t shut me out again. We can still figure this out.”

You swallowed, your hands trembling slightly at your sides.

“This isn’t something we can figure out,” you said. “It’s already decided.”

“By you,” he snapped.

You didn’t deny it. He stared at you for a long moment, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. But you didn’t give him one. You couldn’t. Because if you did, you would lose him anyway — just more slowly.

“So that’s it?” he asked, his voice low. “You’re just ending it? Just like this?”

You nodded.

Something in him stilled. Then he let out a slow breath, looking away from you, his hands settling on his hips before dropping uselessly at his sides.

“Well, I’m not,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m not giving up on us. Even if you are.”

Your heart twisted painfully at that.

“Steve…”

“No,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “You don’t get to decide this for both of us. For me. Just because you are scared.”

“I’m… I’m not scared,” you said, your voice trembling, betraying you.

“Yes, you are,” he insisted. “You’re scared of something that hasn’t even happened yet. That might not even happen.”

“That’s not —”

“It is,” he said firmly. “And I’m not going to stand here and let you convince me this is the right thing, because it’s not. It’s just easier.”

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head. “If you think this is easy, then you don’t know me at all.”

“I don’t right now,” he admitted, his voice quieter but no less painful. “Because the person I know wouldn’t do this.”

The words hit you hard. 

“You’re right,” you said suddenly, your voice breaking as the words forced their way out. “I can’t decide for you. But I can do it for myself.”

He froze, fearing your next words. 

“And I made my decision, Steve,” you continued, even as tears streamed down your face. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” he said, his voice low, strained.

“Go home, Steve, please,” you repeated, louder this time.

Steve let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “I’m not done,” he said, his voice firmer now, frustration creeping back in. “We’re not done.”

The sound of the key turning in the lock cut through the tension. A second later, the door opened and Nancy appeared in the doorway. Her eyes flicked between you and Steve, taking in everything at once — the distance between you, your tear-streaked face, the tension sitting thick in the air. Her expression quickly shifted from surprise to concern. 

“What’s going on?” she asked, stepping inside, her tone steady but alert.

“Ask her,” Steve muttered, irritated. 

“Steve —” you started, but your voice faltered, threatening you to burst into tears again. 

Her gaze flicked to Steve again, hardening. 

“It’s late, Steve. I think you should go,” she said, her gaze firm, making clear it wasn’t a suggestion.

Steve blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” Nancy replied, her tone calm but leaving no room for argument. “You should go.”

“Nancy, we’re in the middle of a conversation,” he said immediately, frustration flaring again. “We… I’m not done talking.”

Nancy didn’t raise her voice. “You are for tonight.” 

Steve let out a disbelieving breath. “Don’t take this wrong, Nance, but this is none of your business —”

“It is, actually. You’re in my house, Steve, so now it’s my business too. And I want you to go now.” 

Steve hesitated.

You could see the conflict in his eyes. For a moment, you thought he would ignore Nancy and argue again. But then he exhaled, taking a step back.

“Fine,” he muttered, defeated. “I go. But I’m not walking away from you. I’m not giving up. We’re going to talk about this again.”

He headed towards the door. His hand was on the handle when he stopped and turned back, his eyes finding yours immediately.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, his voice lower now, but steady, resolute. 

Steve held your gaze for one last second but long enough for everything unspoken to pass between you. Then he turned, opened the door, and walked out.

The door closed behind him with a muted click.

For a second, everything went still. Then something inside you gave out. A sob tore through your chest, sudden and violent, like you had been holding it back for too long. Your knees buckled before you could stop them.

“Hey, hey,” Nancy rushed forward, catching you just in time, her hands gripping your arms before they slid around you, pulling you close.

The moment you felt her, you broke completely. Your fingers clutched at her jacket as another sob shook through you, your body trembling, breath uneven. Your legs gave out entirely and she followed you down, one arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, the other bracing against the floor to keep you both from collapsing too hard.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, over and over, as if she was giving you permission to fall apart. Her hand moved gently along your back. “It’s okay, I’m here.” 

But it wasn’t. Nothing about it was okay.

-

Steve pushed the door open and stepped inside, letting his feet carry him forward. The warmth hit him immediately, along with the low hum of voices, the clink of glasses and the faint sound of music in the background. People around him were smiling, laughing while his world had fallen apart once again. 

After leaving Nancy’s house, he had lingered inside his car for a few minutes, not quite sure where to go. Home had been his first thought. But the thought of it — the silence, the emptiness waiting behind that door — had made something in his chest tighten. He couldn’t handle another night staying all alone with his thoughts. Not tonight. He needed something else. Something to take the edge off. To quiet his mind, even just for a few hours. So he had driven to the bar. 

He made his way to the counter and slid onto a stool, barely glancing at the bartender. “A beer, please,” he said, his voice flat.

A moment later, a glass was placed in front of him. Steve wrapped his fingers around it, the cool surface grounding before he brought it to his lips and took a long sip. For a few seconds, there was nothing. Just the bitter taste of beer. But as soon as he set the glass back down, everything came rushing back in. The argument. Your words. His.The way you had looked at him — final, like you had already made your decision, like there was no space left for him in your life. 

His jaw tightened slightly as he stared into the glass, watching the faint movement of the liquid inside.

A part of him had truly believed that going there tonight would fix things. That if he could just talk to you, really talk, he would get through to you. That he could bring you home. Instead, it felt like you had only pushed further away, putting a wall between you and Steve didn’t know how to break through. 

His grip tightened slightly around the glass. 

He hated it — the helplessness, not knowing what to do. It sat heavy in his chest, suffocating him.

Steve dragged a hand over his face, exhaling slowly before taking another long sip.

As he replayed once again what had happened, he wondered if he had been too harsh with you. If he should have handled things differently. But the thought barely lasted. Because beneath it, there was also anger. Not at you. Not really, at least. But at the situation. At the fact that you were hurting too and wouldn’t let him be there for you. Instead, you were carrying everything alone and making decisions for both of you.

He swallowed hard, his gaze unfocused for a moment.

You had just found out that you might never become a mother. And instead of letting him in and share that pain with you, you had just been thinking about him. About what it meant for him. About what he would lose. But who was thinking about you? Had you even stopped, even for a second, to think about what that meant for you? His chest tightened again at the thought of you suffering, crying alone, hiding your pain from him when he just wanted to be there for you too. It was his job to take care of you and he couldn’t because you were shutting him out completely.

“Dad, dad—”

The small voice broke through his thoughts. Steve blinked once, twice, his head turning slightly.

A few tables away, a child sat between his parents, his voice bright, insistent. The father leaned over, trying to wipe something off the boy’s chin, while the kid squirmed, making faces that made the mother laugh.

Steve watched them longer than he meant. For a moment, he let himself picture it. You, sitting there, across from him, laughing like that. A child. He had done it a hundred times before, always with the quiet certainty that one day it would be real. That it would be you and him. But this time, he was looking at it knowing it might never happen. Not like that. Not with you. Maybe not at all. The family a few tables away was everything he had ever imagined. And suddenly, it was also everything he might never have.

Something in his chest twisted painfully.

Steve looked away, almost abruptly, and finished what was left of his beer in one go. He set the empty glass down and signaled for another, hoping the alcohol would blur the edges, dull the thoughts, give him a break from the constant replay in his head. An anesthetic for his pain. That was all he wanted for a few hours. 

Time passed, though Steve wasn’t sure how much.

The bar slowly changed around him. The families started leaving, one by one, replaced by a different kind of crowd — louder voices, lingering glances, slower movement. People who stayed longer, drank more, searching for something that wasn’t on the menu. People who wanted to drink to forget. Like him. 

By the time he finished his second beer, the world felt just slightly softer at the edges. He set the empty glass down, blinking slowly, feeling more relaxed, a little tipsy. 

“Is this seat taken?”

The voice came from his right. Soft. Smooth. 

He turned his head, a fraction slower than he normally would.

At first, his gaze landed lower than intended — a low-cut top that didn’t leave much to the imagination, the fabric clinging just enough to accentuate her curves. Then he lifted his eyes.

A girl — beautiful, younger than him probably — was looking at him expectantly. Her hair fell in loose, golden curls over her shoulders, framing a face that had been carefully put together — full lips glossed, catching the dim light every time she moved, curved into a confident smile. There was a faint sweetness in the air when she stepped closer, her perfume soft but noticeable.

For a second, he just looked at her, hesitant, thinking about what to say. 

She hadn’t asked that question because she needed a seat. The bar wasn't that crowded. She could sit anywhere she wanted. 

A simple excuse to start something. Steve knew that. He had used the same line himself more than once, back when things were different. Before you.

Under normal circumstances, he would have told her without hesitation that the seat was already taken, or simply gotten up and left before things could be misunderstood. He had always been careful about not giving anyone the wrong idea, always respectful towards you. But the alcohol was clouding his mind, dulling the instinct that usually came so easily.

Go home, Steve, a voice inside him whispered, softly, quieter. 

That would be the right thing to do, he thought. But home to who? There was no one waiting for him at the moment and he didn’t want to be alone. Here, at least, there was noise. People. Something to keep the silence away.

And maybe… maybe a little company wouldn’t hurt, he thought, convincing himself. 

He exhaled quietly, then gestured slightly toward the seat. “No,” he said. “It’s free.” After all, he wasn’t doing nothing wrong by letting the girl sit beside him. It didn’t mean anything, he kept telling himself. It was harmless. 

Her smile widened slightly as she slid onto the stool beside him, closer than necessary. The faint scent of her perfume settled in the space between them.

“I’m Kirsten, by the way,” she said, turning toward him, one leg crossing over the other as she extended her hand.

Steve’s gaze lingered for a moment before he responded. It dropped along the line of her bare legs, the hem of her skirt riding a little too high against her thigh, before he caught himself and looked back at her hand. Then, almost instinctively, his eyes flickered to his own, the faint reflection of the bar lights sliding across the surface of the gold band around his finger. His wedding ring. Impossible to miss. And yet, the girl was still there, confirming his suspicions. 

His fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the counter before he finally reached out and took her hand. “Steve.” 

He wasn’t doing nothing wrong, he repeated to himself. 

Her grip was soft, lingering just a fraction longer than it needed to. But long enough to make Steve feel dirty anyway. Guilty. 

Then he heard your voice echoing in his head.

You’ll fall in love again, Steve.

You’ll find someone else. 

-

The phone rang loudly through the apartment, dragging you out of sleep. The sound echoed down the hallway, reaching your room, pulling you out of a restless, shallow sleep. You stirred, disoriented, your eyes blinking open in the dark as the sound kept echoing. For a moment you just lay there, confused, your mind slow and heavy, before turning your head toward the clock on your nightstand.

1:00 a.m.

The phone didn’t stop.

You let out a quiet groan, pushing yourself up, your body still heavy with exhaustion, your head thick, your chest sore in that dull, lingering way that hadn’t left since earlier. You slipped out of bed and made your way to the door, barely awake, just wanting the sound to stop so you could go back to sleep. You opened it and stepped into the hallway at the same time Nancy did, exchanging a brief, puzzled look.

“Who the hell is calling at this hour?” she muttered, her voice low, irritated.

You shook your head and moved first, the ringing growing louder with each step. You reached the phone, grabbed the receiver, and brought it to your ear, your voice rough with anger. “Hello?”

Nancy hovered close beside you, trying to catch whatever she could from the other end.

“Oh my God, thank God you answered.”

You froze. “Robin?” you frowned, confusion slipping into your voice. “Do you have any idea what time it —”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” she rushed, her words tumbling over each other. “But you need to come to the hospital. As soon as possible.”

Your stomach dropped, sleep gone in a second. 

“The hospital?” you repeated, your grip tightening on the receiver, your other hand instinctively coming up to your chest as your breath started to pick up. “Oh my God, Robin, are you okay? What happened?”

Nancy’s posture shifted beside you, her attention snapping fully into place.

“No, no, sorry, I’m fine,” Robin said quickly.

You exhaled in relief. 

“It’s —” Robin stopped. A beat of silence stretched between you. Your heart began to pound harder. 

“Robin?” you pressed, your voice quieter now, but urgent, tense. “What is it?”

Another pause. Too long. 

You could hear her breathing on the other end, uneven, like she was trying to steady herself. Nancy leaned in closer, her eyes fixed on you, searching your face, already sensing that something was wrong.

“It’s Steve.”

Everything inside you stilled.

“What about Steve?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“He… he had an accident,” Robin said, her voice breaking slightly. “You need to come. Now.”

Your fingers loosened.

The receiver slipped from your hand, hitting the floor, Robin’s voice turning distant, muffled.

-

So... How do we feel after this ending? What do you think? Did something happen between Steve and the girl? Is he going to survive? Let me know your opinions, I'm really curious to read them.

READ PART 3 HERE

𐙚 Dean Di Laurentis Part 2

𐙚 John Logan Part 2

𐙚 Garrett Graham

Inevitable | @buckpunny1

After yet another horrible date leaves you stranded, you call your best friend, Garrett Graham, for help. Now, if only Garrett can convince you that he’s the right guy for you, after all…

Feeling flows both ways | @mutantvampireearthquake

You surprise your boyfriend after a big win

Jeep | @bitchinbarzal

garrett loves his car, garrett also loves you. you wrecked his car.

Awaited Moments | @g0ldendesiree

garrett finally decided he’s done with your game of cat and mouse, the only thing standing in front of him? a football player who’s name you can’t even remember.

Problem | @/g0ldendesiree

when garrett finds out about a problem you’ve been having,what kind of friend would he be to not help you?

Play Pretend | @/g0ldendesiree

the boundaries blur between fake dating and what’s real when garrett gets jealous.

BREAKFAST SOUP | @edawgz

Garrett Graham loves that you’re an academic weapon. Well… he loves it until finals week rolls around and suddenly your textbooks are your first love.

mr. perfect | @aliahsarchives

when you’re partnered up with a football player for a class project, garrett can’t help but want you in his sights 24/7.

girls in matching yoga sets don't play | @grahamsangel44

Between Sets | @theunwrittenmoments

You agreed to start going with Garrett to the gym because between hockey practice, games and your work schedule, you have limited time together. Garrett spends the entire time watching you instead of his own training plan before his jealousy gets the best of him.

Fall into you | @girlontheruin

after a nasty fall on the ice, you return many months later to find out a certain hockey player’s stolen your usual slot. Where in Garrett Graham collides with you and your whole world falls down.  Garrett Graham x Figure Skater!Reader

Heating Pad & Hockey Boyfriend | @andy-15-07

PROFESSOR’S DAUGHTER | @darkkdamsel00

Garrett Graham, Briar’s star hockey player, breaks every rule he’s ever had when he falls hard for his strict literature professor’s daughter.

edge of the earth | @finelinevogue

the off campus house is having a party but you're not feeling it. luckily your boyfriend lives there and so you retreat to his bedroom (your safe space)

garrett graham one shot | @kooksandpearls

Laundry Day… | @grahamsangel44

Perfect For Me | @jaylalolz

you lose your virginity to the Garrett Graham. 

breaking point, part two | @pucksandpower

Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call

Caught Looking | @/andy-15-07

Study Date Disaster | @/andy-15-07

spin me in circles | @/finelinevogue

it's your birthday and your boyfriend won't stop kissing you for more than a minute. safe to say, he's obsessed with you.

Off The Market (Current Boyfriend Trend) | @/theunwrittenmoments

When you stumble across the current boyfriend trend on TikTok, you and Allie decide it’s the perfect opportunity to prank your boyfriends. They didn’t find it nearly as funny as you did. Garrett’s response though? That was unexpected.

𐙚 Beau Maxwell

Bad Idea Right? | @/g0ldendesiree

what's the worst thing that could happen when you start seeing your brothers best friend?

Little Black Dress | @/g0ldendesiree

beau knows the rules, but that doesn’t stop him when someone else tries hitting on you.

You, Me, and Her | @/andy-15-07

thats not very heroic | @deansbrat

LOML [chapter 1] | @disco-occasionally-wp

So when they call you to go out for drinks, that they really want to apologise, that they deserve a second chance...you give in. And you decide not to tell Jack about it either. He's working, and if they disappoint you again, you don't want to hear the 'I told you so'.

The nice bar isn't outside of the city this time, but they still have to pick you up since it's on the other side of the city far from your home. Which should be the first sign that you are making a mistake.

It's nice at first but you realise almost immediately that you aren't having fun. You'd much rather be in bed reading your medical books or your fantasy books than being out with them.

And when the night starts come to the end, you aren't even surprised that they are drunk again. Yes, the drivers, too.

This time, you curse the hell out of them, and delete their numbers by the time you even get outside the bar.

You immediately pull out your contact list, but your finger hovers over Jack's phone number. He's not coming for you, not when he's at work.

Shit. And Trinity and all of your other day shift friends are already asleep. It's not like they have a day off like you tomorrow, well today since it's way past midnight already.

There's one more option of how you can get home. Jack's credit card... but then you would have to explain the Uber ride at 2 a.m. and that would be hard without revealing the reason.

You check the app anyways, maybe xou can pay from your broke account. And when the fifty dollar ride pops up, you decide that maybe walking doesn't sound too bad. Even if it's an hour walk to your apartment.

You open your map to see if it somehow isn't as far as you think it is, and the name of one street catches your attention.

Jack's house is barely a block away. You can just go there, sleep off the alcohol and then take a bus home before Jack's shift even ends. He doesn't even have to know about your stupid mistake.

And well, in your tipsy state that sounds like the best option. He's told you multiple times that you are free to come and go to his home.

He basically begs you to come and go to his house how much you want. He loves having you there because you make it feel like an actual home not just a place where he lives.

You know where he keeps his spare key because the one he's given you isn't in this purse you have.

You quick-walk to his house, and the relief you feel when it comes to your view is immediate. You run up the few steps of his front porch, and take the key from the flower pot.

You unlock the door and step inside. And that's when the loud house alarm goes off. You quickly run to the disabling system and punch in the code Jack told you about.

Well, so much for being discreet about this whole thing. Even if you know that you will have to tell Jack about this eventually, you feel heartbroken over the friendship and you don't feel like having Jack be upset with you, too.

With the alarm off, you head for his bedroom. You strip in the bathroom, take off your makeup (yes, Jack bought you your favourite skin care products for his house, too), and then you slip into one of his shirts and go to sleep.

The smell of Jack engulfs you whole, and you are asleep before you can even set an alarm for the morning bus.

-

Jack almost gets a heart-attack when the alarm notification goes off on his phone. He rushes to open the front door camera, practically dialling the police already when he sees you.

You in your going out outfit with the tipsy walk. His heart almost gives out for an entirely different reason. Because why the fuck are you sneaking inside his house in the middle of the night?

He doesn't need to think long. He knows, your 'friends' have been bugging you for weeks now, and he can bet that your soft heart finally gave in.

"Damn it, doll." He mutters under his breath.

He's not mad. You are an adult so you make your own decisions. He's just disappointed that you didn't tell him. Like what if something happened to you and he wasn't even aware that you were out?

God, the thought alone makes him want to keel over. And then the fact that you don't trust him enough to tell him this stuff just makes it worse.

He mulls over this the whole shift, his responses just the tiniest bit snappy and impatient.

-

You wake up to gentle hands rubbing your cheek. Your startle for a second before you realise where you are. Then you startle again.

So much for the bus.

"Morning." Jack says in gruff voice. And you, like the coward you are, keep your eyes closed.

"Hi." You whisper, covering yourself with the duvet as much as you can.

"You okay?" Jack's a patient man, but he's been worrying all night so enough is enough. He's not going to beat around the bush.

"I'm great." You lie. Your startling reaction to him being there makes it painfully obvious.

"Had fun last night?" He raises his brows at you. You sigh, preparing for the scolding. Of course, he knows. You should have known better.

"Go ahead, say it." You mumble out, voice the tiniest bit shaky.

"Say what?"

"The 'I told you so.' " You turn your head away from him, out of his reach.

And maybe if you'd just opened your eyes, you would see that there's no mocking or triumphant expression on his face. Only worry.

"There's no I told you so." Jack says softly, scooting closer to you but you move away again.

"Doll, c'mon look at me." He coaxes, giving you a second or two to do just that, but you shake your head. There are tears stinging at the back of your eyes.

Jack sees your panic immediately. "Hey, hey, hey, sweetheart. I'm not mad. I was just worried when I saw you stumbling home in the middle of the night. But I'm not going to say anything if you don't want me to. I just want to know that you are okay, yeah? Please just look at me."

Your shield of past experiences slowly lowers at his words and you peak at him from under your wet lashes. "I'm sorry."

"There you are, my pretty girl." You finally let him touch you again, and his hands cover your face, wiping away the small tears.

Jack is so gentle with you. He's never ever given you a reason to be afraid of his reaction, and it makes you feel like the biggest fool. Yet again.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Did something happen?"

"I'm just so stupid." You confess in a whisper.

"Not stupid, you are the smartest woman I know, sweetheart. You just need to learn when to say no." Jack says carefully, he doesn't want to say something to make you go back to your hurting shell.

You nod as fresh set of tears escape you. "They got drunk again. The bar was close to your house so I just walked here. I'm sorry."

"Sweetheart, stop apologising. You did everything okay, you can come here whenever you want. I just...you could have told me you were going out."

"I know, I just..." You give Jack a look, refusing to say it. It's all he needs to see to know that your previous boyfriends were real pieces of shit.

"Come here." Jack tells you in a hushed voice, pulling you up from the covers into his lap.

You bury your face into his chest, effectively wetting the fabric by your tears. But Jack doesn't give a shit about that. The only thing that matters to him is making sure that you are okay.

After a few minutes, you pull away, wiping away the remaining tears. "Fuck. I'm sorry you just got from your shift and here I am-"

"Sweetheart. No apologising, remember?" He kisses the sensitive skin just under your eye. Thenunder the other. "I'm just happy you are okay."

"I ruined your shirt." You suddenly say completely out of context.

Jack chuckles and he takes your words as a hint that you feel better. "Can I say something before we go get some breakfast?"

He nudges the tip of your nose with his, and you relish in his doting. "Yes."

"No more walking home at night. You have my card, sweetheart, so please use it. And if it's okay with you I'd like to know next time you go out. You got me so worried. "

"Of course, it's okay. I don't ever plan to go out again though. I deleted their contacts."

"Good girl." Jack says, finally earning a smile from you. He eats it up like a starved man. "Now c'mon, I'll make you hungover pancakes."

"I wasn't even drunk." You mutter as he tugs you after him, his hand never leaves yours. One thing you've learned over the weeks of dating Jack is that he is affectionate and isn't afraid to show it.

"Gosh, such a smart mouth. Just let me dote on my girl, will ya?" That finally earns a real laugh from you, your ex-friends quickly forgotten. And it's practically a music to Jack's ears.

He plans on making you laugh for the rest of the day. And maybe forever too, if you let him.

----------------------------------------------------

Loosely connected Mycroft stories:

“I do” part 2 (nswf)

“Like real people do” (nsfw)

Masterlist

Note: thank you for this wonderful request, i had a blast writing this. I hope you enjoy it! Coincidentally, i had a migraine while writing this, had to take medication and a nap :P My inbox is always open! Any feedback is appreciated. If you come across any mistakes or inaccuracies, inform me!

—————————————————————

Warmth engulfed her; soft pillows and blankets keeping her safe from the cold winter morning. It would have been the perfect morning had Mycroft stayed in bed and her head was not aching so badly.

Burying her face deeper into the soft fabrics she hid herself from the world, from the light that wanted to creep in through the curtains. Sunlight often hurt her eyes, adding to the pain of headaches. Early on in their marriage Mycroft took y/n to see a doctor to determine the cause for her ailments, it took months for a proper diagnosis to be presented—migranes.

During those months, Mycroft dutifully took care of his wife; he took pride in providing her comfort and when he could not—Mycroft blamed himself. After the diagnosis it was easier to notice the signs that foretold of an upcoming bilious headache. Both of them, and the household staff, prepared for such bad days; curtains were kept closed, no loud conversing inside the home—no loud noises at all. 

This time, there were no signs, she thought. Usually, a few days before, she would feel drowsy, head would feel heavy as if filled with lead. This was too abrupt. And if the symptoms changed, if this was her padrome phase, y/n feared what would happen in a day or two. 

Physical exertion amplified her headaches; headaches amplified her physical exhaustion. It was a cursed never ending circle, a process she always chose to go though in their marital bed, room kept cool and dark. 

She drew the blanket over her head, hiding her whole body under it. Y/n managed to lay in bed like that for ten minutes until she was fully awakened by a nauseating feeling. 

Her body became clammy, saliva was beginning to collect in her mount. Getting out of the bed, y/n tried to reach the restroom as fast as she could but the bile in her throat moved quicker than her body.

She gagged once—twice—hand covering her mount but did not manage to keep it in; slightly bent over she threw up. Her hand was covered in puke, the wooden floors, and the expensive carpet Mycroft bought during a work trip abroad. The sight only worsened her nausea; y/n threw up for a second time, coughing and gasping for air. 

Nightgown clinging to her damp skin and hair sticking to her face and neck, y/n felt disgusting. Hot and cold simultaneously. After she stopped, y/n tried to wipe her face with a sleeve of her nightgown but it was covered in bile. That made her gag again, she coughed for a few moments but did not throw up.

Straightening her posture y/n tilted her head to look towards the ceiling and took a deep breath. That did not calm her down; she was sweaty and covered in her own puke, hair matted, carpet ruined. She squeezed her eyes shut when she felt the tears beginning to collect. Her breathing picked up, thoughts began to race.

“Mrs. Mycroft?,” a soft feminine voice interrupted the beginning of her panic. With wide frightened eyes she looked at her housekeeper Mrs. Stanford.

“Oh, dear…” Mrs. Stanford mumbled as she stepped into the bedroom.

“I am sorry,” y/n mumbled, shoulders bunched up as if awaiting for a scolding. The tears now slowly streamed down her cheeks. “I am sorry, for the mess,” she whispered and looked around the room, at the mess she made.

“No need for that, missus,” Mrs. Stanford comforted her, with quick light steps she reached y/n in seconds and embraced her. One hand wrapped around her waist, another holding her hand.

Y/n was covered in her own bile and Mr. Stanford was as well.

“I am sorry—”

“No need to, child. Let us get you to the bathroom. I will draw you a warm bath, yes,” Mrs. Stanford encouraged y/n and began to move towards the bathroom.

The older woman was so gentle with her, embrace caring and warm, it made y/n want to bawl her eyes out. She looked disgusting, smelled awful, and yet received such gentle care from her housekeeper.

Mrs. Stanford set her upon a cushioned chair and went to search for a towel.

“Mr. Mycroft is in his study, do you wish for me to inform him of this?” she asked y/n softly, nearing her with towels in her hands. One she put over her shoulder, the other Mrs. Stanford used to wipe y/n’s face and hands.

Y/n simply nodded.

“Alright, I will be back in a moment. Get the water all warm and proper for you,” Mrs. Stanford brushed y/n’s hair out of her face as she spoke.

“Thank you.”

“There is no need, dear,” with that Mrs. Stanford excused herself and left to find Mycroft.

Her body felt cool now. Shook and adrenaline subsided, and in their wake left her tired and cold. She kept brushing her hair back, tucking stray hairs behind her ears.

“Y/n?” she heard his voice, his long strides carried him from the bedroom to the bathroom in just a few seconds.

“Dear?” he spoke again, remnants of fear were laced underneath his gentle tone. She raised her head to look at him.

“I am sorry—” she began to repeat the comfortable mantra she recited to Mrs. Stanford but was stopped by her husband’s warm palms upon her cheeks.

“No, no, my dear,” Mycroft knelt before her, thumbs caressing her face. She leaned into his embrace and closed her eyes.

“I’m not sure what happened,” y/n felt Mycroft shift, hands lowering from her face and wrapping around her body; one hand resting on the back of her head petting her gently.

“Shh. It is okay,” he murmured into her ear. “Are you in any pain?”

“My head feels weird—but not like a headache,” she added quickly.

“Okay. Just that?”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around him. “I must smell awful.” 

“You do, my dear. But what kind of husband would I be to pay much attention to that,” he spoke, his voice still quiet. He released the hold on her head and pulled back to look at her. Mycroft’s palms found their place back on her cheeks.

“Did you have anything to eat after dinner yesterday?”

She shook her head; he nodded. 

Mycroft raised his hand and covered her forehead with the back of it; temperature seemed normal. He bit his lip and took a deep breath.

“I’ll get the washcloth,” he spoke softly. Mycroft placed a soft kiss upon her brow and stood up, releasing her face from his hold he began to near the washbasin. 

She observed him closely. Mycroft rolled up the sleeves of his shirt revealing his forearms, after pouring in some water he carefully dunked the washcloth in the basin. He turned his head to look at her.

Y/n smiled at her husband; Mycroft smiled back. 

After he wrung out the small towel he found himself, once again, before her on his knees. Gently he used the washcloth to remove the crusted bile from her face and palm, even her hair. Y/n cleared her throat.

“When I awoke my eyes were slightly sensitive to the light but the prodrome phase had never been so extreme.”

“And your head? Still feels weird?”

“A little,” she answered him, voice very quiet, a water droplet could have been louder than her at that moment. 

“Anything else weird?” he inquired further. Mycroft’s gaze is set on her palm, his own gently cleaning hers; he moved the washcloth between her fingers, under her fingernails. So attentive, she thought.

“Maybe my—” she was interrupted by Mrs. Stanford.

“Can I come in, Mrs. Mycroft?” she asked thoughtfully.

Mycroft raised his eyes to look at her face to confirm if it was alright for the housekeeper to enter; she nodded.

“You can come in, Mrs. Stanford,” Mycroft said, his voice louder than before but not enough to startle her.

Y/n saw the elderly woman enter the bathroom and give her a soft smile. “Feeling better, dear?”

“Much,” y/n offered politely, returning a smile. Her gaze returned to Mycroft; he was still cleaning her fingers.

“My stomach feels weird,” she mumbled, loud only for him to hear. She tilted her head downwards and observed how thoroughly her husband worked to clean the bile under her fingernails.

“Weird how?” he asked, eyes not straying from her hand.

“I do not know. Feels like… swirling?” she answered him unsure. This time he raised his gaze, observed her face.

“Has that happened before?” She shook her head. While they talked Mrs. Stanford filled the bathtub with hot and cold water.

Mycroft raised her palm gently and kissed her knuckles. “I will wire a physician,” he mumbled against her skin. Her hand must still stink, she thought, but he did not seem to mind.

“I do not think there is the need for—” she began to say but Mycroft interrupted.

“There is,” his voice firm. “My wife is not feeling well, that is enough to turn the world upside down.”

A soft expression adorned her face; eyes bright, lips slightly parted. God, she loved him. He was everything and more she wanted in this life. A life partner, a friend, a lover; Mycroft was gentle and smart, he never made her feel unwanted or unloved. He cherished every moment he had with her, complimented her like it was his job, bought her gifts—like it pleased him to spend his hard earned money on her, and her alone.

He shifted and began to stand up. Hand still holding hers he leaned to place a soft kiss upon her lips. She knew he most likely tasted the rancidness of the vomit, but he did not show it.

He placed the washcloth atop of a nearby cabinet and went to help Mrs. Stanford.

Y/n shifted in the chair, snuggled herself into the huge towel the housekeeper placed upon her shoulders. Y/n’s hands brushed against her breasts and a stranger sensation coursed through her body. Tender. Her breasts were exceptionally tender and—she shifted again—they were larger? Her gaze did not stray from Mycroft and Mrs. Stanford as they filled the tub.

She was sick, her stomach felt weird, her breasts ached. These were not symptoms of a migraine; these were the symptoms of a pregnancy. Her breath hitched and she bit her lower lip.

Not enough days have passed for y/n to tell if her menstrual flow was consistent or not. She should not reach any conclusion on her own, she will ask the physician when he comes. Or maybe she should wait and see? Maybe her upcoming menstrual flow will pass her by and that will be a strong indication of her pregnancy. She should not rush into anything.

They both wished for a family; they were not actively trying but they were not restricting themselves. Mycroft was experiencing some difficulties at work, making a schedule for them to follow would be exhausting on Mycroft. They made love when they felt like it, often they pleased the other with their hands and mouth alone. 

But Mycroft wanted children, as did she. She knew her husband wanted a daughter, or two—or three. Once, when they attended a party of an acquaintance of his, the both of them got quite tipsy on the wine that was served and on their way home they engaged in a stimulating conversation. 

His hands were set on her; one hand around her shoulders, the other on her thigh. He whispered in her ear the filthy things he was going to do to her when they were home. Her hand was on his knee, squeezing in hard. Her face was pink, covered in a sheen coat of sweat, breath erratic. 

He whispered to her how he would love to be a father one day; to make her a mother. How he wished for people to see her round belly and be jealous of him, because he is the only one who could have her that way. His mouth was hot and warm against her neck.

Usually, her husband was well composed and reserved in public; sitting in the open carriage, the coachmen close to them, that night her husband was possessed, she thought. The wine and the Scotch, the long nights and early morning weakened his body, making his mind more susceptible to the alcohol.

They made love that night; it was passionate and intimate. He pleased her the whole night, until the sun rose. She wished to fall pregnant after that time, it would have been a nice coincidence, y/n thought. She did not.

She watched her husband lift the heavy buckets of water while Mrs. Stanford helped him, they conversed quietly and y/n did not pay much attention to that. Her eyes drifted up and down her husband’s moving form, the exposed forearms, slightly disheveled hair. He was so generous to her. Y/n wished to fall pregnant, to gift her husband a bundle of joy to dote on.

A smile crept into her face; yes, she wanted that very much.

Mrs. Stanford neared her and once more looked her over. “I will leave you in your Mr. Holmes’ care, sweet child. If anything, do not be afraid to ask for me,” she spoke so softly, hand resting on y/n’s cheek. All she could do was smile and nod.

Her eyes followed the elderly woman, dress swaying as she closed the door behind her. Mrs. Stanford will be cleaning the floor, most likely, she thought. She was brought out of her wandering mind by Mycroft’s warm palms. Extending his hands for her to take; he helped her to stand up and moved the both of them to the tub. One hand around her middle, the other enclosed around her palm. What a gentleman her husband was.

“I will undress you, my dear,” he whispered to her, Mycroft’s fingers untying the small strings atop her collar.

“I’m sorry for the mess, Mycroft,” she again said, she was embarrassed over the ordeal. Her husband has never seen her in such a state.

“Do not be silly, y/n, yes,” he was calm and gentle, and she loved him so much at that moment. Y/n nodded. 

Mycroft began to gather the nightgown in his arms, bunching the material upwards and over her head, leaving her exposed. Y/n shivered and began to inch towards the bathtub. She felt her husband's hands upon her hips, helping her in the tub. The water was a little too warm, nothing time could not fix. As she began to descend, Mycroft’s hands still held on to her body.

Warm, so very warm. Y/n felt as if she was surrounded by a blanket weaved from sunlight itself. Her middle was encompassed by water, a moment later her breast too. They were indeed very tender; her nipples ached in the warm water. 

She looked at her husband, whose hands were now on her shoulders; his gaze attentive, observing all of her movements.

“Good?” he inquired. She nodded. 

“Good,” he repeated.

He planted a kiss atop her head and went to explore the cabinets where she kept her products neatly placed.

“You will have to describe what you need me to bring over,” he murmured, hand opening different doors until he found what he was looking for.

“The green glass bottle is for my hair,” she slightly leaned over the side of the tub, eyes squeezed to see better. He moved to the side.

“And the dark blue one is for my body,” she pointed; with a nod her husband complied and a moment later he neared the tub with two glass bottles and a fresh washcloth.

Mycroft placed the items near the small table by the tub and went to get the chair y/n was sitting moments ago.

“You do not have to, Mycroft,” she began to say but was quickly silenced by a wave of his hand.

“I want to,” he simply replied, picking up the chair and coming over again. 

“Okay,” she whispered and lowered herself in the water; the warmth coming up to her shoulders, around her neck, it felt nice, she thought.

“How did you sleep,” Mycroft asked her gently, his hands working to wet the washcloth and pouring the bodywash on it.

“I do not know, I was asleep the whole time.” 

He gave her an incredulous look; she laughed.

He took one of her hands out of the water and began to wash her body, the little towel scrubbing at her skin. The smell of lavender filled both of their noses.

“Good,” she mumbled. “You? I fell asleep without you and rose without you by my side…”

“Paperwork, they…”—he took a deep breath—“a wire came this morning for additional work,” he explained slowly.

“Ah…  but how did you sleep?” y/n replied.

“Well… with my wife beside me and in my arms—like a king,” he flashed her a smile, hands moving over her collar and chest.

A sharp intake of breath caught his attention. Mycroft’s hand stilled, cloth resting atop her breast. His gaze found hers, a quizzical look etched Mycroft's face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered softly and retreated his hand.

“It’s okay, love. They are just tender,” y/n offered him as she took the cloth from Mycroft. She began to wash her collar, gently dragging the cloth over her skin.

“A symptom of the headaches?” Mycroft inquired, elbows placed on the edge of the tub, fingers moving on the water. His gaze was set on her body, closely watching her hand with the washcloth dragging over her breasts.

“No,” y/n replied quietly, notions of embarrassment laced her voice. Their eyes met again. Mycroft’s brow furrowed, head tilted slightly to the side.

His mouth opens then closes. He wanted to ask her or make a comment, she thought. He seems unsure if it would be appropriate, if it would offend her in some way, maybe.

“I do not know,” she whispered back. Her hand stopped atop her chest, the other reached for Mycroft’s.

He nodded once—twice—and squeezed her hand. “Okay…have they been tender for a while? You did not say anything…”

“I only noticed today,” her thumb caressed his palm. He hummed in acknowledgement.

“We will have to ask the doctor…” he mumbled, head lowered and his gaze set upon their hands. She saw the smile emerging on his face.

“I am not sure, Mycroft,” her own face adorned with a beautiful smile now. 

His gaze slid from their hands to y/n’s face; his smile broad, eyes shining with light and glittering with wetness.

“Please don’t,” she began to say, reaching with her hand to wipe at his tears. “I know, I know,” he quickly replied, voice raw. “No hoping until we know for certain.” He nodded to her and his smile could not be contained. He laughed, leaned into her palm upon his cheek.

Her own little giggle could not be contained, either. She shrugged at him, feeling her own eyes begin to water. Y/n whipped her face, wetting it in return even more.

“A baby?” Mycroft whispered, his hand released hers and went to her stomach; under the water he softly caressed her skin.

“Maybe,” she replied hopefully.

“Maybe,” he echoed her words in hope. Another laugh escaped his lips, he looked the happiest ever, she thought. At the mere possibility of a child in her womb.

“Oh, you are brilliant, my wife,” he rose to kiss her on the lips, a quick peck, but intimate nonetheless.

Her hand rose to his neck, tenderly placed upon his skin, and caressed him while they kissed.

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Mycroft kept repeating against her lips with each kiss he planted.

“Do not hope too fast, Mycroft,” she began to chastise him.

“I am not hoping for anything, dear. I know it,” he offered her happily, his hand squeezing her soft stomach. “I know it,” he whispered.

She laughed, caressing his neck, straightening herself she planted a kiss on his jaw; he nuzzled his cheek atop her head.

“I must go call on the doctor,” he quickly said. “If that is alright i will leave you in the care of Mrs. Stanford?” he crouched, to look her in the eyes.

“I will be fine, love,” she replied. 

With that he took his hand away from her stomach, planned one last kiss on her brow and retreated from the tub. She watched as her husband quickly dried his arms. He looked happy, buzzing with anticipation. She felt her face get warm, blushing like a maiden, thumb resting between her lips and she began to think of the possibility of a child.

Mycroft had a steady job, finally. His brother was out of trouble, mother out of the asylum, and sister alive. A baby would lighten up their lives. Cordelia could stay with them, as opposed to staying with Sherlock and Beatrice in Appleton Manor. Y/n could appreciate another woman in her household. Mrs. Stanford was brilliant, so was the cook Emily Johnson, and servant Joana Parker. She appreciated her staff, how they all helped her run this household; she trusted these women, considered them a part of her family. But Coderlia would add to the dynamic; she wanted to see her mother-in-law’s face beam after being told the news.

With the help of Mrs. Stanford she washed her body. The elderly woman carefully cleaned y/n’s hair and helped her out of the tub.

She chose a homey simple dress, braided her own hair and placed it into a low bun. Her body was buzzing, stomach still swirling—with anticipation and something else. She did not want to disappoint Mycroft. Y/n knew that men did not understand much of pregnancies and menstrual flows but Mycroft understood more than most.

He made it his mission to understand her body as best to his abilities, to help her with the headaches or any other pains. He consulted doctors, midwives and nurses. Mycroft asked y/n questions, asked for detailed descriptions. He was not a man who was scared of the natural ways of a woman's body; he did not shun away but rather embraced the possibility to enrich his mind with more knowledge—knowladge of his wife's body inside and out.

She was putting away her trinkets in the vanity drawers when a nock came from the bedroom door. She noted Mycroft, dressed more appropriately for a physician's visit.

“A response came; he will be here in an hour,” he offered her, voice gentle and eyes observing her carefully.

She nodded and scratched her nose. “Should I eat?”

“I am not sure,” he replied, taking a few slow steps closer to her. “If you feel hungry, maybe something light?” Mycroft placed his hand on his hips. “Tea, perhaps? A baked good with it?”

“Yes, tea sounds brilliant. I do not think my stomach would agree with anything greasy or heavy…”

He nodded. “And how are you faring now,” Mycroft came near her, his hand now placed upon the back of her neck, thumb caressing her skin.

She had to tilt her head up to look at him. “Better, Mrs. Stanford bought me some cool water, it helped.”

“Good, good. Feel tired?”

Y/n shook her head. “Well…maybe a little, the whole ordeal… disbalanced me.”

“I understand,” he crouched. “How is your head?”

“No pain.” He nodded, his hand coming to cup her face; softly brushing his thumb over her lips.

“And your eyes, do they hurt?”

“No more than usual.”

He hummed. A soft expression covered his face. He was worried and scared, she thought. He had time to think about what had happened this morning. If it was not a pregnancy, then the symptoms become more acute. That would have severe effects on her health as a whole.

“It’s going to be fine,” she tried to console him.

“Yes,” he answered quickly, voice tight. 

“It will,” she offered him again this small comfort. He nodded and kissed her.

This time it was slow; his hand lowered to rest on the side of her neck, lips parting and tongue exploring her mouth. Her own hand covered his, tightening her hold onto Mycroft. She willingly accepted him into her mouth, her own tongue exploring his.

The kiss was hot and wet; he hummed into her and bit her lip, she smiled in response.

“You are amazing,” he hummed against her, tongue exploring her, lips covering her own. The hold on her neck tightened and she moaned his name at the sensation of it. 

Mycroft chuckled and leaned his forehead upon hers. Both of their eyes were closed, breaths erratic. 

“I love you, darling,” he whispered. “If it is a pregnancy, then there will be more for me to love…”—he retreated his head to look at her—“and if it is not, then we will figure it out together.”

She felt her heart quicken its pulse; the possibility of both scenarios scared her. To become a parent is the greatest and most dangerous adventure one can endeavour, and her body becoming sicker would also be no easy feat.

She felt his love radiating off of him; she felt it in the way he caressed and touched her, in the way he looked at her, and kissed her, the way he cared for her. She was beyond grateful for this life, life so full of love—of him.

After that the both of them retired to the parlour, they tried to sit calmly but neither succeeded. Mycroft paced the room like his life depended on it; y/n played with her rings, twisting them, taking them off and on.

Her wedding band was simple, a thin gold ring with three small colorful gems etched in it. One to represent her, the other to represent Mycroft, and the third to represent their union. Her engagement ring belonged to Cordelia Holmes, a simple gold band with a flower made of small pearls. Mycroft gifted her many pieces of jewellery over their years together. During their courting he often came back from abroad with broaches or earrings, once a necklace and twice with a bracelet. She cherished all of the gifts her husband had been kind enough to present her with.

He, also, bought her trinkets; hairbrushes, a handheld mirror, an intricate oil lamp with coloured glass. Many such items adorned their home; placed for all to see.

She often made him hand crafted gifts; his home office was filled with letters and cards from her, notes of her love for him, pressed and dried flowers framed and placed on his desk, an ink bottle with a fancy label she thought he would enjoy—he did.

The hour passed quickly, as if a blink of an, and their fates were about to be sealed.

But in the end, they did not receive good or bad news. The doctor was unsure of the pregnancy, more time was needed for it to show. As for her sick morning, the doctor could not be sure either. Both scenarios needed time, the doctor could not tell them anything concrete without a repeating patter. 

That upset her husband, she saw it. He wanted to know, he was excited to know, to find out the answer today. Not tomorrow, or next week or even a month later, but today.

She stayed in the parlour, on the settee by the window, while her husband said his goodbyes to the doctor.

She was, too, disappointed. Y/n wanted a clear answer on what was happening with her body; women's bodies, in general, were very intricate and complicated, not many doctors paid close attention to them like they did to men’s. Whether they did not understand or they lacked the knowledge on this particular matter, she did not know. Women to be diagnosed  took ages and for them to be diagnosed accurately was a rarity.

Mycroft Holmes went out of his way to find a reputable physician, someone who was well versed in female anatomy. Dr. Malik, had a medical practice roughly an hour away from them, he had many nurses and midwives at his establishment; Mycroft greatly valued Dr. Malik and his ways of working. The doctor was not opposed to hearing a woman's opinion or knowledge on a specific matter, he employed those who could assist him. 

But this time, Dr. Malik’s knowledge was not enough. Y/n did not show enough evidence, factors or symptoms to come to a solid conclusion. 

Mycroft reentered the parlour silent, head cast downwards, hands on his hips. He neared y/n and sat next to her. 

“We will know in a month or two,” he encouraged her, his hands placed atop hers. 

“I know,” she mumbled.

“All will turn out perfect, my dear,” he encouraged her further. Whether he believed this himself was unclear to her. She wanted to believe him, to believe that this was not a worsening of her health but rather the consequences of a baby growing within her womb.

It was hard to do; it was scary.

“I would love to take you out for a romantic dinner this evening, if you are up for it?” he spoke to her gently, as if she were a wounded animal.

She turned her head to look at Mycroft and nodded. He smiled at her.

“Good… good. We will have a brilliant evening, and when we return home”—he leaned towards her—“if you let me, I will dote on you,” his voice was deep now, suggesting a night of pleasure and intimacy.

She huffed, a small smile appearing on her face.

“I would love that, husband.”

He beamed at her; eyes hungrily gazing at her. 

“I shall go, sent for a reservation,” Mycroft kissed her cheek and stood up. She offered him an air-kiss, and Mycroft pretended to catch it and put it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

That made her laugh, he laughed with her.

********************************************

The month was exhausting for both of them.

Mycroft worked long hours, weekends too; y/n patiently waited for the monthly flow.

Her breasts maintained their tenderness, materials of her underclothes had to be changed since the cotton was too rough on her delicate nipples. Her eyes were sensitive to harsh lights and she found herself sicker with each passing week. No dramatic incidents as previously but accidents nonetheless. 

Her menstrual flow did not come when it should have and it was an indication of a happier outcome. The first to notice this was not y/n but rather her husband, who kept a ledger with various dates that indicated and followed his wife's menstrual flow. 

After their marriage and various doctor’s appointments, Mycroft began to keep notes on her health, that included her menstrual cycle. He was dutiful in filling it every month, it was a way for him to keep up with his wife's health and, additionally, allowed him to calculate the best dates to initiate sexual intimacy, not that he was repulsed by a little blood—he was a man, a gentleman. Of course, he pleased his wife whenever she wanted, even on days that she bled.

Furthermore, the ledger allowed him to calculate the right dates when he could be annoying or ask stupid questions without getting the cold shoulder from his wife. 

This month it was particularly useful, because it showed him that she was three weeks behind this month’s menstrual cycle. He mentioned this to her one evening as they were getting ready for bed.

“My love,” he began as he climbed into the bed. She was already laying under the covers, eyes closed but not asleep.

“Hmh?”

“I have noticed that, well…”—she opened her eyes to look at him—“you have not bled for almost two consecutive menstrual cycles,” he said in a very matter-of-fact way, as if he was in a meeting discussing matters of utmost importance.

“Hmh,” she agreed. And they kept looking at each other. Mycroft sitting up, back resting on multiple pillows. She was resting horizontal, head upon her own pillows.

“I think you are with child,” he whispered. The silence stretched out; eyes did not stray from each other.

“We cannot be sure,” she whispered back. “Dr. Malik said to look out for the quickening… and I am still weeks and weeks from the possibility of that…” she said unsure and voice small, as if she spoke louder than a whisper the dream would shatter. 

“You are with child, I am sure” he said again. She only shrugged. He blew the candle on his bedside table and laid next to his wife. 

She turned away from him, her back pressed into his chest; Mycroft's hand warped around her middle, palm placed atop her stomach, caressing and moving his thumb to sooth her worries.

“I believe it,” he whispered into her hair. She was less optimistic than her husband, women often missed their menstrual flows, their bodies constantly changed or ached. This might me just a cruel trick her body was playing on her and Mycroft.

Before falling asleep they conversed in hushed tones, about the day they had, what she did and how was his workday.

********************************************

Another month passed and still there was no concrete evidence of her pregnancy; no quickening. 

She gained weight, which Mycroft did not complain about. He loved his wife, he loved her flush full body. He enjoyed sinking his cock into her while his hands kneaded her breasts or the flesh on her hips. Of course, for the past few months he could barely touch her breast because they had become exceptionally tender. But there were plenty of other places he could touch. No, Mycroft Holmes did not mind this change, there was more of his wife to love, and he could not complain about that.

Her moods became more acute; one moment she was the happiest she could be, the other Mycroft was begging for her forgiveness… for an eaten apple she had set her eye on that Mycroft managed to snatch up first.

Her senses became stronger; often she would tell Mycroft that the air did not smell good and that the water in her glass was not as delicious as the day before.

Her nausea became a problem and most mornings she was sick, leaning over a bucket or the toilet.

New dresses needed to be tailored to accommodate the additional weight.

All of these symptoms, yet not quickening.

********************************************

Mycroft was in his office, dealing with paperwork others left for him to deal with; often he would bring work home. It had reached such levels y/n had to forbid Mycroft from speaking of work in their marital bed. 

And while he was being a responsible employee, y/n was already in bed reading Jane Austen. She rather liked Mr. Darcy, he was… strangely endearing. Y/n often wished to walk the halls of Pemberley but alas it was not—

A very strange sensation occurred in her stomach. She quickly dropped the book and straightened herself, sitting upright. She waited and waited, making herself breath quietly, trying not to miss the sensation again. Maybe she was mistaken, maybe it was the silk nightgown against her sensitive skin.

Minutes passed.

Minutes turned into a half an hour, and yet the sensation did not come again. Y/n’s hands were splayed over her stomach that was larger than a few months ago. She massaged her skin and it felt divine. Y/n barely noticed the passing of half an hour, sensation soothing her into a dazed state.

Until she felt it again, this time her fingers bore witness to the sensation; a fluttering movement inside of her lower abdomen—her womb.

She stilled again breathing slowly, heart beat picking up. This was real, she felt it; the quickening. 

A laugh escaped her lips and tears began to stream down her cheeks. This was real, just as real as her or Mycroft. Her womb was not empty and the baby was well enough to move. She laughed again.

Launching herself out of the bed, forgetting the comfortable and warm slipper her husband gifted to her, she hurried out of the bedroom to look for her Mycroft.

Y/n found him exactly where she left him. He leaned over the table, surrounded by stacks of papers. His head snapped to her; eyes widening.

“What happened?” he quickly asked her, hand lowering the papers he was holding and rising from his chair.

She just laughed.

“Y/n?” he inquired again as he began to approach her.

“I felt it,” she said breathlessly, a huge smile adorning her face. “I felt the baby move,” she repeated.

Mycroft's hand that was reaching for her momentarily stilled and then lowered to touch her protruding stomach; his huge palm covering almost all of it. His other hand found its place on the side of her neck, thumb caressing her jaw.

“I felt it,” she repeated again, placing her hand atop his, covering her stomach. 

He was shocked. Silently he watched, gaze set downwards to her stomach. They both expected this, they both knew this was happening. But without strong evidence of a moving baby in a woman's womb, one should not begin to celebrate. And if his wife told him she felt its movement, then she was sure of its movements.

“Darling…” he looked at her now, his expression was one of love, adoration, and worship. “You are magnificent,” he bent down to kiss her. 

The kiss was slow, they were enjoying the moment. Tongues playfully mingled, breathes intertwining, saliva exchanging; she moaned into his mouth and he smiled back. She placed her other hand on the side of his face and felt tears streaming down his cheeks wetting her palm.

“I love you so much,” he mumbled into the kiss. “You are the most divine creature, my lady Aphrodite,” he began to plant kisses over her face; nose, cheeks, eyelids, forehead, chin—

Another sensation of fluttering, this time his fingers felt the movement, too. That stopped him; his lips hovering over her cheeks, nose pressed in her hairline. Mycroft closed his eyes, his breath uneven.

“I felt it,” he bubbled against her skin. She nodded.

“A baby,” she replied, her own tears wetting her cheeks. “Mycroft… a baby,” she began to cry. 

Months and months of anticipation; months and months of changes. 

Now she shared her body with a little creature made out of love. A small human growing inside of her womb because two people found each other in this enormous world. 

Y/n cried into his chest; Mycroft cried into her hair.

“A girl,” she barely heard him say, voice raw. “Only a girl would be this strong.”

She nodded into his chest.

“Such an amazing job,” he encouraged her. “So strong and healthy,” she felt him kiss her hair.

“So beautiful, thank you,” he whispered and tightened his hold on her. 

—————————————————————

Padrome phase (of a migraine) – an initial subtle stage of migraine.

“What made me interested—” And right in the middle of your interview with the hiring manager, the office door slammed open.

A woman that seemed to be in their late twenties or early thirties, long gorgeous blonde curls stumbled in, red-eyed and shaking, sobbing so hard her words broke apart as she begged you not to work here.

“THE CEO IS AN ABSOLUTE SHITHEAD—”

“Ma’am you need to lea—”

“Do not work with that sorry-excuse of a MAN!”

“Alright, that’s it—”

“Get your hands off of me NOW! I AM SAVING THAT POOR GIRL—” Security dragged her away while she kicked and cried, and the hiring manager cleared their throat like they were trying to swallow an entire cough drop.

“Anyway…” they awkwardly moved on.

Yikes didn’t even begin to cover it.

After the interview, you just went back to your life. You were cleaning your apartment, keeping your mind busy with chores the next few days, binge-watching a series, and applying to different jobs. Honestly, You kind of assumed that you weren’t going to get the job after that happened, I mean would you hire someone after that interruption? Yeah. After that incident, there was no way they were calling you back.

“I mean, that was the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I just moved here!” You said loudly, half–talking over the sizzle of the pan as you stirred your dinner with one hand and kept an AirPod tucked in the other ear. “What do you expect, babe? You moved from Star City on the west coast all the way to the east coast.” Chelsea’s voice crackled lightly through your AirPod.

You glanced at your phone on the counter. The FaceTime screen showed your friend lounging on her couch in Metropolis, her hair tied up and a mug in her hand, looking far too comfortable compared to the chaos you had walked into this week. Her eyebrows were raised like she already knew you were regretting the relocation.

“You should’ve just come with me to Metropolis, I don’t know why you decided to end up in Gotham, New Jersey. For god sake's, have you seen the crime rate!?” You snort, rolling your eyes.

“I’d rather see dumbass people try to get into my nice apartment and not my whole ass apartment blown away by some creature from another planet—”

“Oh please! At least one of them erases the problem easily!” You frowned at that.

Okay. Maybe she got you there.

“Doesn’t Metropolis rip in half like every once a month—” Chelsea cut you a look through the screen, lifting her mug like she was preparing to smack you with it through FaceTime. Her expression said don’t even start, which you replied with your hands up in surrender, your spatula raised with it.

“Where’d you even apply, anyways?”

You shrugged and kept stirring your food. “I don’t even know. I applied to a bunch of companies, but I think the interview I actually went to was at Wayne Enterprises.”

Silence.

A dangerous, heavy silence.

“Are you dumb—!?”

“Chill! I have my AirPods in!” you shouted back, flinching from the raise of her voice. Chelsea let out a long, exhausted sigh that somehow felt like a lecture.

“Which position did you apply for?”

“…personal assistant?”

She immediately screamed your full government name, and you winced so hard your shoulders nearly hit your ears.

You decided to turn her volume down.

“Are you just going to keep screaming at me without actually telling me what’s wrong with applying there?” you snapped, waving your spatula like it could shield you from her judgment.

Chelsea grumbled, pure disappointment settling into every line of her face. “I cannot believe you live under a rock. Damian Wayne. One of the youngest, successful, and arguably the hottest CEO in the country— not my type, but his father is, he’s a standard DILF in my book and will always be in my heart. Ring any bells?”

You blinked.

Slowly.

Did she have to mention the fact her type is the CEO’s father?

“He is notorious for going through personal assistants,” she couldn’t believe your lack of knowledge while continuing. She gestures wildly with her mug with a click of her tongue. “Girl, they all leave within the first month, it’s all over Reddit! Constantly! And it’s not even because he fires them. They just cannot deal with him!”

“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy?” Chelsea slapped her hand on the coffee table so hard her cat shot straight into the air and sprinted out of frame like it feared for its life.

“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy!” She shouted, leaning so close to the camera you could see every stressed-out pore on her face.

“Well, it’s a good thing I won’t be hired then, right?” You begin to scoop your food into a bowl, turning the stove off while you listen to Chelsea relievingly sigh in approval, her shoulders relaxing when she recalls the story you’ve told her.

“Yeah, I doubt they’ll hire you since Goldilocks decided to save you from the trenches. You’re lucky you dodged a bullet.”

Chelsea was wrong.

The next day, you received an email from the poor hiring manager with stressed eye bags that showed straight through the concealer, informing you that you had been accepted for the job.

You stared at the screen.

You got the job.

You should reject it.

Yet, you’ve been rejected left and right.

And the salary was so good—

Chelsea’s vice echoes through your head, the warnings she has told you.

“They all leave within the first month!”

Well. If you’re expected to leave the first month, you might as well get your money and dip when it gets intolerable. I mean, like, fuck it, the worst you can do is ghost the job.

What’s the worst that can happen?

No one warned you.

Well, Chelsea technically warned you.

But, you knew he would be presentable, but not—

Not like this.

“Ah! There he is, this is your boss, Damian Wayne.”

He didn’t walk into the room so much as he cut through it like gravity pulled differently around him. Sharp posture, silent steps, and sharp narrowed eyes that hit you with the same force as a spotlight— green, but not soft. More like polished jade or a blade’s edge reflecting light. It spoke of calculation, assessing, and it felt so direct when it landed on you.

It felt like getting pinned to a corkboard.

His face was almost unfair.

They were clean, symmetrical, and sharp lines. He had a strong jaw that looked like it had been carved deliberately.

There was no boyish charm to him; he had the kind of beauty people hesitate to call beautiful because it sounds too delicate for someone who carries that much confidence. But handsome didn’t feel strong enough either. He was absolutely striking to look at, unattainable, and unforgettable. He had that kind of attractiveness that makes your brain lag for half a second while your mouth tries to remember how to say ‘hello.’

And his expression didn’t help.

He looked at you the way someone looks at a report they already expect to be disappointed by (it was awful), brows slightly drawn, and lips pressed flat in a line that made you painfully aware of just how nice his lips were, they were clearly well taken care of, moisturized and a hue of color on them.

His hair was annoyingly perfect too. Dark, thick, not a strand out of place, like it was styled by sheer discipline instead of product. The kind of hair you could imagine falling into his eyes if he let it grow even a little longer but he never would, of course.

Then there was the way he dressed: crisp, tailored, so flawlessly put-together that you suddenly felt underdressed in clothes you had ironed twice in your blouse and your slacks. He didn’t even have to try; he just existed and the room rearranged itself around him.

But the worst part?

He didn’t even seem aware of how attractive he was. Or maybe he was and just didn’t care.

He looked at you, held your gaze for a fraction too long, and said flat, cool, and without so much as a greeting.

“Um, it’s nice to meet you, I’m your—”

“Tt, I know who you are. You’re the new assistant. HR must be desperate nowadays. You look like someone they scraped off the bottom of the applicant pile.”

Your first impression of Damian Wayne?

You want to absolutely kill him.

Surely you misheard him. Right?

Surely no living person with a functioning sense of self-preservation would say that out loud. Right?

But no. Damian Wayne just stood there, expression carved from ice, like your existence itself was an inconvenience he was being forced to endure.

You inhaled slowly through your nose.

“I—” You forced your voice to stay even.

“I’m here to make your schedule easier, Mr. Wayne.”

“Good,” he plainly said with a monotone voice, already brushing past you like you were a piece of office furniture. “I don’t have expectations for you to stay here longer than a month, so don’t try too hard as a temporary assistant, they always do.”

Your eye twitched.

This aggravating piece of shit—

He stopped at his desk, not even glancing back before gesturing to a stack of folders that’s on his desk.

“Organize these by priority and competency.” He paused, glancing briefly at your figure.

“Assuming you’re capable of both.” You wore the most corporate expression you’ve ever worn in your life, a face that felt like you wanted to shatter yourself and slap the shit out of him. “Of course,” you said sweetly with the fakest smile you’ve ever worn on your life.

Venomously sweet.

“I’ll handle it.” You knew he could hear that sickening sweet fake voice.

“Good.” He simply stated, sighing before he shooed you away. “Try to keep up.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond.

Not with words. Not with sounds.

You swallowed every snarky comment sitting on your tongue, because nothing in that office could legally be used against you in a workplace lawsuit. Instead, you scooped up the stack of folders he shoved into your arms and marched out before your own mouth created problems your paycheck could not fix.

God, you needed this job.

The salary alone was enough to chain you here for at least a few weeks, maybe even longer if your spite stayed strong. A traitorous part of you even considered turning this into a personal challenge. If you had to endure the daily torment of working for Damian Wayne, then fine. You would survive this place. You would outlast his attitude. You would make it to the one month mark just to prove a point.

And before you finally walked out of this corporate purgatory, you would leave a little surprise in his office, something truly unforgettable, something that would remind him that you had been here. The door shut behind you with a soft click that somehow felt like it saved your life.

The hiring manager trailed after you like a ghost fleeing the scene of a violent crime. Their footsteps were rushed, panicked, like they were afraid Damian might call them back inside if they didn’t move fast enough. They had been completely silent during the encounter, which— given what just happened— felt like its own form of apology.

Or guilt.

You didn’t speak at first.

You needed a second.

Your soul needed a second.

Your blood pressure needs at least 30 seconds.

Finally, once you’d made it a safe distance down the hall, far enough that Damian can’t hear the rattling cage of your heart that wanted to scream at him.

You exhaled.

“…Okay,” you muttered, gripping the folders so tightly they crinkled. You’re going to need to find different folders if they end up creased.

“So that happened.”

The hiring manager let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. It might’ve been a whimper. It was hard to tell. “That,” they said, “was… one of his better mornings.” You stared at them in stunned silence.

They avoided eye contact, shoulders tensed like someone with chronic fight-or-flight syndrome. “I hoped he’d be in a good mood today. He had coffee. And a board meeting went well. Usually that helps.”

“That was him in a good mood?”

They nodded, grimly. “Comparatively.”

You stared down the hallway toward Damian’s office door, half expecting it to burst open again just to finish you off.

Honestly? You kind of hoped he would. At least then you could be the first assistant in Wayne Enterprises history to get fired in under ten minutes.

But no.

You were still employed. And you wanted so badly to prove that dickhead wrong.

“Don’t take it personally,” the hiring manager mentions quickly, hands fluttering like they were trying to calm a spooked animal. “He’s usually like that! I mean, not worse, but not better either.” They winced at their own explanation. “Here, let me… let me just take you to your office.”

You followed with the folders clutched to your chest. Your inch-heels clicked softly against the sleek hallway floors, each step a quiet reminder that you were officially in too deep to turn back.

The office around you was alive in that overwhelming, corporate-machine kind of way. Murmurs drifted from half-open doors, printers whirred like they were running for their lives, phones rang nonstop, and people in tailored suits rushed past with urgent expressions and coffee cups that looked dangerously full.

It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to be moving toward something important.

Except you.

You were just trying not to drop the folders or spontaneously combust. You adjusted your grip, inhaled slowly, and forced yourself to match the hiring manager’s brisk pace.

Every passing face glanced at you, all of them were curious, sympathetic, or simply entertained by the existence of a new victim. The looks were so blatant you started to wonder if there was a running office bet on how long you’d last. If there was, you were absolutely putting your money on surviving a month.

A month and a day. And an extra minute just to spite all of them.

You were going to get through this.

You were going to make it through the first month, even if you hated your boss with the intensity of a thousand suns. If not out of ambition…

Then out of pure, unadulterated spite.

Within an hour, you’ve finally settled into your new office, which was far too large for any normal personal assistant, you began plotting. Every drawer, every neatly stacked folder, every perfectly lined pen became part of your mission to prove him wrong.

You were going to arrive early, organize everything to perfection, and carry yourself with the righteous fury of someone determined to weaponize competence.

You were going to be the best goddamn assistant he had for a month!

You’re going to look him in the eye, tell him to eat fuckin’ shit, and walk out of his office with your dignity intact and his pride dented.

Except.

This is going to be really awkward.

You have been his personal assistant for three months.

Chelsea sits across from you in a high-end Gotham café, the kind of place with marble tables, velvet chairs, and coffee so expensive it feels like a personal attack. It is a luxury you can finally afford thanks to the absurdly generous salary that comes with being Damian Wayne’s personal assistant.

“So what’s been up with you—”

Once she settles into her seat, you launch into the whole story, unpacking every chaotic detail of your first week under the city’s most insufferable, sharp-tongued, walking stress migraine of a boss while she gaped at you, even she choked on her coffee once you mentioned the fact you were originally going to plan to tell your boss to eat shit!

“You have been keeping this from me for months!?”

Chelsea nearly shrieks, her voice shooting up enough that you can practically picture her cat back home sprinting under the nearest piece of furniture in self-defense. She drags a hand through her hair with the kind of exasperation that suggests she is seconds away from either combusting or demanding financial reparations for emotional distress.

“I thought you worked at a different company! I thought you didn’t get the Wayne job!” You flinch and lean forward, shushing her as a few nearby patrons glance over with raised eyebrows.

“I’m sorry! Trust me, I am surprised too!” You exclaimed in a quieter voice, pinching the bridge of your nose before your nerves started leaking out of your mouth. “I thought you would have seen it on the news or Reddit. People keep making threads about Damian Wayne’s personal assistant. Me! I am the longest assistant he has ever had.”

Chelsea just stares.

It is the kind of stare reserved for witnessing small miracles, natural disasters, or an animal walking into a Walmart wearing a vest.

“He hasn’t fired you,” she says.

“He hasn’t fired me,” you repeat.

“Not yet.”

“Hopefully not.”

Chelsea sighs, not out of dialing but exaggeration. “At least it pays you well, right?”

“It does, it pays really well actually.” You point to your bracelet, displaying Tiffany and co., that you were surprised to even purchase with the first paycheck that came in, it could cover your rent, car insurance, and two months worth of groceries!

Chelsea hums.

“Well, it’s been a few months now, why haven’t you left your boss if you hate him, babe?”

Well. Things have changed.

You fiddled with your drink, turning the cup in slow circles before lifting it to your lips. The moment you glanced off to the side, pretending to admire the ridiculously pretentious light fixtures or the overpriced pastries behind the counter, you knew you were done for. Chelsea had known you for years.

She could read you like a billboard on a highway.

Her eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, pointing her straw at you like a weapon, “is your I am hiding something face.”

“I’m not hiding anything!”

“That’s your lying voice too.”

You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “I don’t wanna tell you.” You leaned against your arm on the table with a frown, looking at her with the most depressing gaze ever.

She sighs.

“Tell me, what’s wrong.” You mumbled incoherent words that she couldn’t catch.

“It can’t be that bad, but you gotta tell me clearly, babe.”

“I said I like him,” you folded your arms together against the table, slowly hiding your face while you looked at your friend.

Chelsea froze, processing your words slowly.

For a full three seconds, she did not blink, breathe, or otherwise behave like a living organism. Then she leaned forward, squinting at you like you had just confessed to worshipping a fantasy character.

“You what.”

You pulled your arms in tighter, sinking into yourself like you could physically escape the consequences of your own admission.

“I like him,” you repeated, quieter this time, feeling a burn on your neck and the tip of your ears, and your cheeks as well.

Was it getting hotter in this cafe?

Chelsea slapped both hands on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed, keeping her voice just barely below a scream. “You like Damian Wayne?! THE Damian Wayne!? I thought you said you hated him not even five minutes ago!?”

You winced.

“I know.”

“He insulted you on sight!”

“I know.”

“He made three assistants cry before lunch in one week according to that Reddit post five months ago when I last went on there!”

“I know, I read that too.” You cringed.

She leaned in even closer, eyes wide with catastrophic disappointment.

“And you like him.”

You nodded, defeated.

Chelsea dropped her face into her hands.

“Oh my god,” she whispered into her palms. “There’s absolutely no way.” She dragged her fingers down her cheeks in slow, tortured disbelief, then lifted her head just enough to glare at you through the cracks.

“What happened to your standards!? He was rude, mean, a dickhead, a shit-head! And he said you wouldn’t last a month!”

You huffed, crossing your arms with a pout.

“It’s not my fault,” you muttered. “He’s… different when he’s not being… rude.” Chelsea scoffed loudly.

“Different how. Does he switch from dickhead to mildly tolerable asshat? Does he say please once every equinox?”

Chelsea shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.

“He basically insulted your existence before you even started!”

You glared at her, already feeling a creak of embarrassment from the reminder she’s given.

“He… holds doors sometimes.”

“Oh dear Jesus,” she groaned quietly, staring at you like you had personally disappointed the entire human race, shock was an understatement for her.

“Sometimes? Not all the time!? You are not just down bad. You are subterranean! You are in the Earth’s core and you are at the center of the planet melting!”

You were starting to feel like you were melting into a puddle.

“Holding doors? Are you kidding me!? I fear that’s the bare minimum!” She reiterated once more, shooting back with a cry.

You wilted a little.

“Babe! I literally held the door for you 30 minutes ago!”

She wasn’t wrong.

Chelsea sighed, long and heavy, like she was preparing herself for a friendship intervention. “Okay,” she finally came down from her thoughts, sitting upright again. “Start from the beginning. And tell me exactly how long you’ve had this tragic, misguided crush so I know how early the corruption began.” You glanced away, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips.

You already knew where it began.

Damian Wayne didn’t just hold doors for you— sometimes, he could actually be kind.

Actually, erase that.

What the fuck are you talking about?

It started off when there was an office party at the end of your second week at the company.

The team decided it was best to celebrate after successfully completing a tough collaboration, and despite your reservations, you found yourself there, trying to blend in among Gotham’s elite.

The “party,” which was really just a glorified networking event, was held in a sleek, modern lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of Gotham. Soft jazz curled through the air, creating a warm atmosphere while coworkers clustered in small circles, murmuring over half-finished drinks. Glasses clinked. Ice chimed against the crystal. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that probably wasn’t funny.

You lingered by the refreshment table, holding a champagne flute you had barely touched, watching the room from the safety of the sidelines. The dim lighting made everything feel softer, warmer, less like the corporate machine you worked in and more like a scene from a movie you didn’t belong in.

You were debating whether to grab a cheese cube or just take another sip of your second drink when you felt a shift in the atmosphere beside you. A quiet disturbance, like the air bracing itself.

Damian had appeared.

He stood a few feet away, dressed sharply as always, although the usual severity in his expression seemed dulled by the warm glow of the lounge lights. His posture was still rigid, but the sharp scowl you had come to mentally prepare for wasn’t as deep.

His gaze found yours immediately.

“Oh. It’s you. I wondered why all the birds stopped singing.”

Damian’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, quieter than usual but still carrying that cool edge that scraped your nerves raw.

You raised a brow and crossed your arms, turning to face him fully with a slight fire of irritation, faking a smile in his direction. “No one's forcing you to be around me? Pick another spot, or fire me. I don’t care.”

You were surprised he didn’t fire you right then and there.

It was only your second week.

His eyes flicked over you, assessing, unreadable, before he reached for a drink from the nearby table. “I highly doubt you want to be fired within two weeks.” You furrowed your brows, the anger rising quickly.

You cannot believe you work with this man.

Around the two of you, the soft buzz of the party carried on. Laughter drifted from a nearby table, someone popped open a bottle of sparkling water, and the jazz band eased into a slower melody. Yet despite the noise, the space between you and Damian felt strangely isolated, a small bubble of tension carved clean out of the room’s warm energy.

Please don’t stand next to me. Please don’t come stand next to me. Pleasenotnexttome!

But he shifted, stepping just slightly closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Of course, he stands next to you, but just far enough away that there’s an empty space between you.

“Do you really have to stand there?” you muttered, frowning at him.

“You don’t own the space,” he replied, rolling his eyes with that signature Damian Wayne disdain, the type that somehow felt personally designed to get under your skin.

Before you could bite back, the crowd shifted.

A girl you didn’t recognize wove through the party’s glittering mess of people, smiling so brightly it made your teeth ache. She slipped right between you and Damian, brushing your shoulder with a light, oblivious, “Oops, sorry!”

You step back, momentarily thrown off, while Damian’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.

Luckily, your drink wasn’t spilled.

Oh! Mr. Wayne,” she gushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a move so practiced it should’ve come with choreography. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You look amazing tonight!”

Damian gives her a flat, polite look that is somehow more dismissive than if he’d ignored her entirely.

“Thank you.”

She steps a little closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his.

“I was just telling my friends I’d love to get to know more people in the industry. Maybe you could give me some tips?”

Damian’s expression doesn’t change.

“Tips,” he repeats, voice cool.

“I do not offer those.”

“Oh! Well, maybe you could show me instead?”

“Not interested.”

“Not even one minute of your time, sir?”

“I’m busy.”

“I could jus—”

“Are you deaf, woman?” you cut in before she can finish, smiling sharply when her head snaps toward you in offense.

Your tone is honeyed, your eyes absolutely not. You watch her expression, her mouth opening, outrage bubbling up.

“Excuse me?”

You tilt your head, taking a slow sip of your drink. Her jaw works soundlessly, cheeks flushing red, and she sputters a half-formed insult before managing,

“Who do you think you are?”

Before you can respond, Damian does.

“She’s my childhood best friend.”

You choke on your drink so violently you almost decorate the floor with it.

Childhood best—

The hell is this coming from?

The girl snaps her head toward Damian, frowning, irritation breaking through her forced sweetness.

“Really? She doesn’t look like it.”

You raise a brow so sharp it could cut glass.

What is that supposed to mean?

“Well, she used to be.”

She raised an infuriating brow at Damian with a twisted frown, clearly offended by your continued existence and a tad bit curiosity shining within them.

You mouthed seriously over her shoulder at your boss that completely ignored you.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice in a conspiratorial tone that makes her perk up just enough.

“If you’re so curious,” you say, smiling with all the sincerity of a cat staring at a canary, “we’re not childhood friends for a reason.”

You lie through your teeth without hesitation.

And right beside the woman, Damian watches over you— quiet, unreadable, and unmistakably intrigued.

“Why is that?” she asks, hesitating, clearly torn between morbid curiosity.

You smile sweetly.

“When we were young, I went over to his house and watched him drink his own blood for breakfast, like it was some artisanal smoothie because he thought he was a vampire.” You shook your head. “His family had to send him to a mental hospital after he bit four of our classmates' necks, luckily he only killed two.”

There is a silence so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.

The girl’s eyes widened in absolute horror.

And beside her, Damian— Damian Wayne, Gotham’s coldest, most composed, most impossible-to-shake man stares at you over her shoulder, lips parted, expression stunned.

“Seriously?” She say, absolutely turning pale by the second with a hint of disbelief and skepticism in her tone, yet she’s starting to believe you.

You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a tragic, documented truth.

“One of the nurses put garlic in his sandwich and he absolutely freaked out. Therapists had to come in and talk him down while he kept yelling about curses, mortal treachery, and how garlic was the ‘bane of his eternal existence.’”

You shrugged.

“Thank god he’s on medication.”

Damian closes his eyes for one long, suffering second. When he opens them again, there’s a spark there.

A dangerous one.

“I’ll do you better,” he says, voice smooth and deadpan. “When she was younger, she used to crawl into the garbage at one in the morning because she was fully convinced she was a raccoon. She tried to square-up with the actual animal for dominance. She lost.”

Your smile freezes, peering over her shoulder. Raccoon? Are you serious? You mouthed. “She ate the wrappers in our garbage. Ate them. Like they were gourmet. A total nutcase. She walked on all fours so committedly she developed calluses. Hissed at anyone who got too close— neighbors, mailmen, and the mayor once. Animal control tried to trap her three separate times. A complete lost cause.”

The woman looks like she’s about to throw up, hand hovering near her mouth as if bracing for a second round of trauma.

Your jaw drops.

“She’s come a long way,” Damian adds, eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “but sometimes she relapses and we find her in a dumpster in the back of BatBurger.”

You stare at him, appalled.

You turn to her, lowering your voice like you are sharing the saddest, darkest secret of your generation.

“One time he didn’t take his meds and someone accidentally spilled water on him. He thought it was holy water,” you say gravely, watching her head swivel back to you. “So he started screaming about being burned alive like bread in a toaster. In public. Very loud. Very dramatic. He threw himself onto the floor and writhed like a dying Victorian child. People thought an exorcism was happening in aisle five.”

You sigh, shaking your head as if reliving the tragedy.

“He yelled that he was going to die. It took four security guards and his dad to calm him down.”

“She had to wear an ankle monitor that she bit off,” Damian cuts in, no longer staring at her, but at you.

What the absolute fuck.

“She sharpened her claws since she still thought she was a raccoon and gouged someone’s eyes out in a local church. She ate those eyeballs, but told the police that god took them. The victim is still alive. They’re blind and they no longer go to church.”

The woman swallows so hard you can hear it.

“You’re absolutely joking.”

Yes, he is,” you say sweetly, pinning the woman with a reassuring smile that is only a few degrees away from a threat.

“I’m not, he killed two of my cats and my other friend for one of his sacrificial rituals, trying to summon the damn devil to get immortality. At age ten. We had to get a priest, and the actual exorcist,” you continue, as if you’re giving her directions to the mall.

“We had to strap him to a bed. Full head spin. Latin chanting. He spoke in seven different voices— none of them his. One of them was an elderly Italian man who’s been dead since 1842.”

She looks absolutely sick to her stomach.

“Holy symbols were flying off the walls. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. At one point, he levitated. Horizontally. Like a possessed IKEA shelf.” You lift your glass, sipping unbothered.

“He nearly killed the priest, too. Launched him across the room with telekinetic rage. The priest survived only because we dumped an entire Costco-sized vat of holy water on him and force-fed him garlic cloves like he was a charcuterie board and faced him towards the sun.”

“You— both of you are absolutely insane!” The woman sways a little, looking between the two of you like she’s trying to decide whether to run, scream, or call the police.

“I thought this was a networking event. I’m not… I’m not spiritually prepared for whatever that was.” She makes a choked noise, turns on her heel, and speed-walks away like she expects one of you to start foaming at the mouth.

You watch her disappear into the crowd. Then you turn to Damian, giving him the flattest, most pointed look you can manage.

“Childhood friends? Seriously.”

He exhales through his nose, the closest he ever gets to an eye roll without actually doing it.

“A vampire. Are you kidding me?”

“I just wanted to tell someone that you drank blood for breakfast.”

After that incident, Damian had somewhat tolerated you.

You were going to make it— the first month, you’ve found yourself also tolerating Damian’s presence after that incident.

He stopped ignoring you like you were a ghost only he wished was dead.

You stopped fantasizing about strangling him with his own tie.

He stopped snapping at you every time you breathed within a three-foot radius.

You stopped wanting to shove him into the nearest supply closet (and lock it).

You started walking into his office without rehearsing three insults in your head first.

He started not sighing dramatically every time you would walk in, only because you told him to quit it.“What’re are you fuckin’ five years old? Get a grip.”

You were surprised you weren’t fired the minute you said that too.

There was honestly a lot of things that you’ve been lucky to get away with.

It was honestly nice.

He started becoming too nice.

He started holding doors for you.

Not in a showy, look-how-chivalrous-I-am way.

More like: he’d reach the door, pause, and wordlessly keep it open without looking at you. As if it was simply easier than watching you juggle your bag, tablet, water bottle, and your will to live all in one minute.

Then came the coffee.

Not just any coffee.

Your order.

Perfectly correct down to the amount of sweetener you never told him about.

It would appear on your desk at 8:07 every morning. The exact minute you usually sat down, being 23 minutes early as always with no explanation except a quiet, muttered:

“The barista on the first floor kept messing up my drink. They gave me this instead.”

He said it like it annoyed him.

He handed it to you like it didn’t.

And he walked away before you could question him about how the barista “accidentally” made your drink four days in a row.

Then there were the other things.

He’d push the elevator button for both of you without being asked.

He’d slow his stride by half a step so you could keep up with files in your arms to attend the next meeting with him, pretending it was unintentional.

If you were carrying too many folders, he’d take half without comment, eyes forward, as if he could pretend he wasn’t helping you.

Once, he even redirected a rude executive who barked at you in the hallway, stepping in with a clipped, cold:

“My personal assistant is busy. Speak to someone else.”

You almost dropped your tablet at that comment.

That was when your heart started racing. It was sharp, sudden, and betraying you before you even understood why.

It wasn’t the dramatic kind of fluttering people wrote about in books, nothing soft or romantic. It was a tight, startled thump in your chest, the kind that made your breath catch for half a second as heat crawled quietly up your neck.

It happened in the small moments, the ones you never expected to matter— when his hand brushed yours as he passed you a file, when his voice dropped lower than usual as he asked a question, when he stood just a little too close in the elevator and you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

Every quiet act of consideration, every glance that lingered a beat longer than it should have, stirred something unsteady beneath your ribs. It felt like your body realized something before your mind did, like your instincts were trying to tell you that Damian’s sudden gentleness wasn’t random at all.

And once you noticed it, once your heart reacted— you couldn’t un-notice it.

Each day it only beats a little faster.

Especially that one night, the night everything went sideways so violently it felt personal.

The office was unnervingly quiet after hours. Most of the overhead lights had already clicked off, leaving long stretches of the floor in a low, ambient glow. The only illumination near you came from your monitor, washing your desk in a cold, bluish light that made the scattered papers look like crime scene evidence.

Your shoulders ached from sitting too long.

Your eyes burned.

Your coffee had gone cold sometime around 7 p.m., and you kept drinking it anyway because the bitterness felt like fuel.

You had taken on too much work. You knew that. You felt it as soon as your fingers began to tremble over your keyboard.

The HVAC system hummed softly above you. Somewhere far down the hall, a printer woke up and made a lonely mechanical noise before going quiet again. Your own breath sounded too loud in the open, empty space.

You clicked into the project folder that was supposed to contain sixty-eight documents.

It had six.

Six documents blinking back at you like they were mocking you.

Your stomach dropped so fast it made you dizzy.

You refreshed the tab. Nothing changed. You tried again. Still six. The rest had vanished— scrambled somewhere across Wayne Enterprises’ ocean of internal servers.

You whispered, “No, no, no… oh, come on, not tonight.”

Your fingers flew, searching through subfolders, archives, misnamed files. You found some mislabeled under an entirely different project. Others were saved in outdated formats. A few looked corrupted, their icons taunting you with dull, broken symbols.

You spent the next hour piecing them back together, shuffling between windows, dragging things into place, the soft clicking of your mouse echoing in the cavernous silence.

When you finally rebuilt the folder and opened it again…

Half of it was still missing.

Gone.

Deleted.

Not even a ghost in the recycle bin.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

The fluorescent light above your cubicle flickered once, dramatically, like it was judging your life choices.

The air felt too thin.

Your throat tightened.

All of this— every file, every signature, every revision— was due in two days.

You pushed both hands into your forehead and muttered, “This is it. This is where I die. Right here. In this stupid chair. They’ll find my corpse fossilized into this mesh ergonomic backing.”

You mumbled to yourself before glancing at the clock on your screen.

8:43 p.m.

The rest of the floor was a graveyard. Dark offices. Empty chairs. Silent conference rooms. Not even the janitorial staff had come by yet.

You forced yourself to sit down and get to work because no one else was going to fix this disaster, even if it wasn’t your fault. The responsibility still sat heavy on your shoulders if you didn’t do anything, almost like a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades.

You had to track down every missing document, rebuild what was gone, and prepare the entire set before the deadline that glared at you from your calendar in a furious shade of red.

Your own workload sat beside it, equally demanding after you’ve redone the first five of the thirty documents.

Your email inbox kept chiming every few minutes, each notification a tiny reminder that you were behind.

The piles on your desk had grown uneven and tall enough to lean like stressed-out skyscrapers.

Half of Damian’s stack stared at you like it had been personally offended by your existence. Your shared calendar flickered on your monitor with overlapping meetings, last-minute adjustments, and bright color-coded tasks that all claimed to be the highest priority.

You glance at the time.

10:28 p.m.

Just as you’re about to dive back into the mountain of paperwork, the door to the office swings open. Damian steps in, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation.

“You’re still here?” His voice is calm but edged with disbelief.

You look up, blinking away the exhaustion.

“I have one more thing to finish.”

Multiple things actually.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “It’s late. Everyone else has gone home hours ago. Your light is the only one on.”

Oh.

You bite back the exhaustion creeping into your voice.

“I’m almost done.”

Damian’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable.

Then, without another word, he steps back toward the door, the quiet weight of the night settling once more around you.

You thought he had left, leaning against your chair to take at least a five minute nap without any interruption.

But moments later, he reappears, holding his jacket in one hand, his eyes fixed on you with that same sharp intensity.

“Let’s go.”

You blink in surprise.

“What—?” You shake your head, stubbornness flaring despite your exhaustion.

“I’ve got it under control. I just need a little more time.”

He cuts you off with a flat tone, hearing you yawn afterwards.

“It’s almost 11 p.m. I don’t trust you behind the wheel when you’re this close to falling asleep in your office chair.” You blink, caught off guard by his blunt concern, the tension in the room shifting just a little.

“I can just call an Uber?” you offer weakly, half out of stubbornness, half because you don’t know what else to do with the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.

What are you supposed to do in this situation?

“Don’t be stupid and waste your money on that…” he fiddles with his cuffs, “I’ll drive you home.” His tone snaps like a reprimand, firm and irritated, but underneath it is something unmistakably protective.

He clicks his tongue, already annoyed for you, at you, around you, like you were the one being unreasonable for… existing past 10 p.m. in a corporate building.

He gestures sharply at your desk with a small glare, the kind that isn’t really anger but more of a silent command.

Pack up. Now.

And despite yourself.

Despite how confusing this whole moment is, despite the way your face warms at the edges, you actually listen. Your hands move on instinct, gathering your things while your thoughts spiral in a confused, flustered whirl:

Why does he care?

Why is he doing this?

Why is he taking you home?

Is this normal? You thought.

It’s just work related, right?

Yeah. Work-related.

For a boss to take their personal assistant home?

The realization lands with a quiet, heavy thud— one that makes your fingertips fumble over the zipper of your bag, your breath catching for just a beat.

Did he do this to his other assistants?

You glance at the man and the calendar on your desk.

He shows up at your doorframe at almost eleven at night, jacket in hand, eyes lingering on you as he patiently waits for you to gather your things. And as you sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little too light and a little too frantic, you can’t stop thinking:

Why is he still at Wayne Enterprise at 11 p.m. when his schedule was cleared after 6 p.m.?

You follow him out the door, steps quiet, falling just a half-pace behind him like your body hasn’t caught up to the situation yet. Confusion presses tightly across your face, your brows drawn together, lips thinned as you stare at the back of his head. His strides are steady, purposeful, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Meanwhile, your thoughts are a mess, tumbling over each other as you trail him down the dim hallway lit only by recessed lights and the soft hum of overnight ventilation.

He doesn’t glance back once.

Of course he doesn’t.

Damian Wayne never does anything as obvious as checking if you’re following.

He just expects you to.

And you do.

You both get onto the elevator, pressing onto the garage floor button while you both stand awkwardly next to each other.

“I hope… you don’t mind me asking sir, but what were you doing here past 10 p.m…”

“Finishing reports,” he says simply. His tone is flat, businesslike, but not sharp. “Some of the board files were delayed, so I stayed to review them before tomorrow.”

You nod, knowing he can see it from the corner of his gaze.

The elevator hums around you, the soft whir of machinery filling the quiet. The two of you stand side by side, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off his suit jacket but not close enough to touch. You could smell his cologne that lingers on him. It drifts toward you in soft waves: clean, subtle, and expensive in a way that doesn’t brag.

Something sharp at the start, like bergamot or cedar, softened by something warm underneath, like velvet.

The elevator quietly dings, the soft chime echoing through the empty garage as the doors slide open. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across rows of empty parking spots. You trail after Damian, your footsteps sounding small in the cavernous space.

He walks with purposeful strides, not hurried but direct, straight past the reserved spaces, toward a sleek black car with two doors, a nice Porsche 911 that looks too polished for how late it is. He doesn’t check if you are keeping up, yet somehow you know he is fully aware of every step you take behind him.

You follow him through the quiet, cool air of the garage, watching the way his jacket shifts with each movement, the way he reaches into his pocket for his keys without slowing his pace.

He unlocks the car with a soft click.

He reaches the car and stops beside the passenger side, pulling the handle without hesitation. The door swings open smoothly, the interior lights blooming to life in a soft glow that spills onto the concrete floor.

He doesn’t look at you while he does it.

His gaze stays forward, jaw set, expression unreadable, as if this is purely routine and not an act of shockingly old-fashioned courtesy from a man who once told you “move faster” instead of “good morning.”

He steps back just slightly, giving you room. “Stop standing around and get in.” He says quietly.

You blink at him, unsure whether to be offended, flustered, or concerned that your notoriously rude boss is speaking to you like a person instead of a defective office appliance.

His hand still rests on the top edge of the door, waiting.

You feel more awake than ever.

You think you can drive home.

“Mr. Wayne, it’s fine, I can drive myself home—”

He gives you a look.

Just one sharply raised brow that communicates an entire paragraph:

You’re not driving. Get in the car.

Your protests die on your tongue.

You swallow once, pulse kicking up for reasons you refuse to examine, gather yourself, and finally slide into the seat. The leather is cool beneath you, the interior quiet, the door closing with a soft, final click that feels far too intimate for something so mundane.

He walks around the hood, steps measured, and unhurried.

Instead, he glances at you. Just once. Brief, unreadable, but with enough weight behind it to pin you to the seat.

“Seatbelt,” he says.

Two syllables. Low. Firm. Not unkind, which is worse somehow. Your fingers move before your brain catches up, tugging the belt into place with a soft click.

Dear god. Sitting this close to your boss, the one you’ve found attractive, annoying, tolerable, and infuriating in rotating intervals— has to be the worst experience of your entire life.

You stare firmly ahead, refusing to let your gaze drift even an inch in his direction, because if it does, you’re almost certain you’ll combust on the spot. Meanwhile, he shifts into gear, turning the notch of the volume of his music that slowly settles into the air with the same calm, controlled ease he applies to everything, as if your internal panic isn’t loud enough to fill the whole car.

You exhale once, quietly.

This is fine.

You’re fine.

You’re absolutely not fine.

“Your address.”

You blink, turning your head a fraction before you can stop yourself.

“What?”

Damian raised an amused brow, the expression subtle but unmistakable. “I can’t drive you home if I don’t know where you live. The address.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your pulse sounds in your ears. “Oh. Right. It’s—” you recite it, stumbling only once over the street name.

He inputs it into the GPS with the same calm efficiency he approaches everything with, one hand steady on the wheel, the other moving with practiced ease across the screen.

“You shouldn’t be working overtime without telling me.” You blink, taken aback.

“What? I didn’t— I mean, it wasn’t— that late.”

“It was past ten,” he counters, tone flat but unmistakably irritated, what’s with him and having that underlying tone of passive aggressiveness? This is why everyone’s scared of him.

“That qualifies as late.”

“It really isn’t that late,” you argue, crossing your arms even though it does absolutely nothing to make you feel less defensive.

Damian shifts his grip on the wheel, making a turn at an intersection, leading to the freeway. “For you, maybe,” he says.

“You look like you were five minutes away from face-planting into your keyboard.”

Your shoulders stiffen.

“I was fine.”

“You were drooling,” he adds without missing a beat. You snap your head toward him, scandalized.

“I was NOT—”

He doesn’t even look at you— just continues driving, voice maddeningly even.

“You were. A small puddle. Tragic, really.”

Your jaw drops.

“A puddle—?!”

“Don’t worry,” Damian says, completely unbothered. “Nobody saw, except I did.”

Unbelievable.

This man was lying to your face.

“I didn’t drool.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

He exhales through his nose, like you’re the unreasonable one here.

“You were unconscious in your chair. Head tilted back. Mouth open. Classic drooling posture.”

YOU DIDN’T EVEN SLEEP?!?

“I wasn’t drooling,” you repeat, slower this time, because you know— you know— you weren’t.

“You’re lying.”

Damian’s lips twitch.

Not a smile.

Not quite.

But close enough that your stomach flips.

“I don’t lie,” he says coolly.

“You’re lying right now.”

Silence. A beat.

“…You were about to drool.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You—!”

“That’s worse,” he adds dryly.

You’re ready to launch into a full rebuttal, but he cuts in before you can speak: “You should thank me,” he says. “If you had actually started, I would’ve had to mop you off your desk.”

You’re actually going to kill him.

“Get me out of this car now.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

“If I stop on the freeway, we’ll both die.”

“That’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes. It is.”

He finally glances your way, one eyebrow raised with a spark within his eyes, you knew he was reveling in it.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You literally invented dramatic.” His fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, betraying a flicker of amusement he refuses to acknowledge.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he says, voice calm but edged with something warm.

“If anyone here has a flair for theatrics, it’s the person who nearly face-planted onto a stack of financial reports and told that woman that I’ve supposedly killed two kids and was possessed.” You glare at him.

“It was for a good reason and I did you a favor!”

Damian turns his head just slightly, enough that you can see the curve of disbelief at the corner of his mouth.

“A favor,” he repeats, tone dry enough to evaporate water. “Your solution,” he says slowly, “was to convince her I bit a classmate, splashed with holy water by accident, summoned the devil, and committed— what was it?—‘multiple cat sacrifices.’”

You lift your chin. “To be fair, you added the part about me gouging out a guy’s eyes in church. And face-planting into the reports? Are you serious?”

“It haunts me to this day.”

“You didn’t even see it happen!” You scoffed.

“I didn’t have to. I heard the thud from halfway across the floor.”

Your jaw drops.

“You liar!”

“Possibly,” he admits, gaze returning to the road, “but you can’t prove it.” You grip your bag tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at him.

He’s impossible! A douchebag! A liar!

Despicable. Insolent. Smug. Humorous.

And Handsome with the capital ‘H’ annoying.

A soft, almost amused exhale slips out of him and you hate that your heart notices.

Your apartment building edges into view through the windshield. The familiar, worn brick and warm lights in the windows, something easy curls in your stomach.

You glance at him, then at the building, then back at him. You should probably at least have the decency to thank him for dropping you off to your place.

“Thank—”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow before work.”

Your mouth snaps shut, staring at him.

“…What?” you finally manage, voice embarrassingly thin.

He wants to pick you up.

He’s planning to pick you up.

Damian slows to a stop at the curb in front of your building, the streetlight casting soft gold across the sharp line of his jaw. His hands remain steady on the wheel, expression irritatingly unreadable.

“I said I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he repeats, this time he’s looking at you with a tilt of his head, like he’s informing you of the weather. “You clearly can’t be trusted to get adequate sleep, and I’m not dealing with you hallucinating through spreadsheets.”

Your jaw drops.

“I do NOT hallucinate— you’re— ugh! Unbelievable.” For a second of silence, there was a look of gentleness settling in his eyes, softening the sharp green into something that lingers a little too long on you.

“Seven thirty,” he says, ignoring your previous comment.

“Don’t be late.”

You grip your bag, still stunned, still not sure you’re hearing him correctly. “You don’t have to do that,” you protest, even though your voice comes out softer than you’d like.

“I know,” he replies simply.

You step out of the car on unsteady legs, heart beating far too fast for reasons you refuse to examine yet… but you do look back. You shift your weight, gripping your bag strap until your knuckles ache.

You watch the passenger window slide down. “Mr. Wayne, seriously. You don’t have to—”

“Damian.”

You ignore that.

Your front steps are only a few feet away now, but you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of something a lot higher.

“You’re confusing me, you’re not making any sense at all,” you murmur, even though your voice betrays you by going soft again.

A cold breeze skims across your cheeks, the kind that promises Gotham’s autumn is heading towards the colder month. You pull your coat a little tighter, but it does nothing for the strange warmth curling under your ribs.

“It makes perfect sense,” he counters. “You run yourself into the ground. You forget meals and you revise everyone’s work.”

“I—”

“Twice,” he says without hesitation. “You revise their work twice.” He continues, quieter now, “you need to take care of yourself.” You blink, stunned by the simplicity of it.

By sincerity.

By the fact that it sounds dangerously close to concern.

“And that concerns you?” you ask, trying to keep it light, teasing, anything but the vulnerable thing it threatens to be. His eyes flick to yours, a spark of truth breaking through his usual restraint.

“It should,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t it?”

There’s a silence that feels unsteady, fragile in a way neither of you dare acknowledge. He watches the faint cloud of breath that escapes you in the cold Gotham air, the way your frown tries and fails to hide the shift in your expression.

His gaze flicks toward your apartment, then back to you.

“Go inside. Get some rest.”

And even though you want to argue… you don’t. You can’t with him. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Your fingers curl around your keys. “Seven thirty,” you echo, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel.

He gives the smallest nod, the kind that somehow manages to feel like both approval and silent victory.“Good,” he says, a smirk across his lips.

You hesitate for half a second, then turn toward the entrance. “Goodnight,” he adds, voice low, steady and almost gentle if you weren’t careful with how you interpreted it.

You start walking, each step slow enough that you hate yourself a little for it. The lobby lights spill warm against the pavement, and just before you reach the door, something makes you glance back.

He’s still there, watching you get in safely.

One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely by the gearshift, posture composed— but his eyes remain fixed on you until the very moment you slip inside with a scan of your apartment’s key and disappear from his sight.

Only then does he finally look away.

“And then? Did he pick you up?”

Chelsea asks, her face squished between her palms, eyes wide and sparkling like she’s watching the season finale of her favorite drama.

You stare at her.

She stares back, vibrating.

As if she wasn’t hating your boss 30 minutes ago.“Chelsea,” you say slowly, “I don’t even know what that was.”

“Oh my god, stop—did he pick you up?” She demands again, shaking your arm like she’s trying to rattle the answer out of you.

You sigh, drop your forehead onto the table, and mumble into the wood, “Yes.”

Chelsea gasps so violently you’re pretty sure she inhaled half the air in the café.

“There’s no way—”

“Not only that!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “He would do it multiple times! My poor car would be stuck here at my job forever!” Chelsea doesn’t even try to hide her disgusted wince.

“Honestly… that thing has seen better days.”

“It still works just fine!” you snap, offended on behalf of your dented, aging, slightly rattling Honda civic. She raises a brow. “It screams when you turn left.”

“It groans,” you correct. “And only in winter.” Chelsea leans in, looking way too delighted while you picked yourself up from the table to sit up straighter. “And winter is here, with that next paycheck you should really get a new car.” You sigh, shoulders sinking because— annoyingly— she’s right.

But you can’t help it.

You’re attached to that stupid car. It was your first big purchase after high school, the thing you saved for through every miserable minimum-wage shift, every extra hour you picked up, every time you resisted food to stash a few more dollars away.

“It’s sentimental,” you mutter, poking at your empty drink. “I practically raised that car.”

Chelsea stares at you.

“It’s dying, babe.”

“It has character.”

“It has medical issues.” You glare.

“You’re rude.”

“I picked it up from the best,” she says, giving you a slow, pointed once-over before winking. “Don’t act shocked, you taught me to be quick with it.” Okay, maybe it was about time to get a new car.

“So… what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll buy a damn new car,” you grumble, dragging a hand down your face.

Chelsea snorts.

“No— I mean Damian.”

You freeze. Of course that’s what she meant. “What about him?” you ask, already regretting it. Chelsea lifts both brows like she’s about to deliver a divine revelation.

“Well, are you going to shoot your shot…?” You blink.

“What shot?” She just stares at you.

“Look, you’re not that dumb, but you can’t be THAT dumb.”

“There’s absolutely no way,” you insist, shaking your head.

Chelsea throws her hands up before pointing her pretty manicure finger at you. “Babes, you told me what he’s done. It sounded pretty obvious he didn’t like you at first— sure, but clearly there’s something now.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Chelsea—”

“No, don’t ‘Chelsea’ me. He’s clearly teasing you. He picks you up. He drops you off. He notices when you haven’t eaten. He scolds you for working late. That’s not normal boss behavior. That’s not even barely normal human behavior!”

You blink.

She leans closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.

“It’s playground logic,” she says. “Pulling pigtails to get the girl’s attention. That man is either in love with you… or putting a suspicious amount of effort into someone he claims is ‘just an employee.’”

You fold your arms, leaning toward her, unimpressed and curious all at once.

“Okay, if you’re right. What do you think I should do then?”

Chelsea’s grin spreads slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for you to ask.

“Babe, I know I am right. What’s your dress-code policy lookin’ like?”

You narrow your eyes at her.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Oh, I will say it like that,” she fires back immediately, kicking her heel against your chair. “Because if your boss is driving you home, picking you up, buying you coffee, acting all nonchalant like a storm cloud with feelings—”

“He doesn’t have feelings.”

“—then,” she continues loudly, ignoring you, “it is time to… gently nudge the situation.”

You stare. “Gently nudge?”

She lifts her brows.

“Keep up, dummy.” She rolls her eyes. “Wear something that’s not what you’re wearing now.” She gives a pointed look at your cute button-up blouse and slacks. “You need to remind him you’re not just his sleep-deprived assistant who alphabetizes spreadsheets for a living, ya’know.”

You narrow your eyes at her theatrics, but she just lifts her chin smugly.

“A theory?” you echo, suspicious.

She nods, all-knowing, all-smug, infuriatingly Chelsea.

“Mm-hmm. A very important, scientifically proven theory.”

“What theory?”

“That if you dress even slightly hotter than usual,” she says, leaning in like she’s sharing a state secret, “your boss will start to make advancements.”

Your face heats. “He is not—”

“He is,” she interrupts, unfazed. “And I want updates. Detailed ones. Because when I’m right—”

“When,” you repeat flatly.

“When,” she confirms with a decisive nod, “I expect a thank-you gift. Preferably edible. Or expensive.”

You groan into your hands.

She pats your shoulder.

“Don’t worry. It’s just step one.”

“Step one?” you muffle.

“Oh absolutely,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “I’m making a checklist.”

“Okay,” she announces, displaying the screen of a small list. “Step one: act normal, but slightly hotter and slightly busier. Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”

“I’m literally his assistant. I can’t ‘act busy,’ I am busy.”

“Perfect,” she says brightly with a wide grin. “You’re already a natural!”

You drop your face back into your palms.

“Chelsea, this is a terrible idea.” She leans in until she’s a mere few inches away from your gaze, nose nearly touching your hands.

“But you’re going to do it anyway.”

Your silence betrays you.

Chelsea gasps scandalously.

Loudly. Dramatically. Offensively.

“Oh my god, you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear!”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” she sings, grabbing your wrist and shaking it like you’ve won a prize. “This is amazing. I love this for you. I love this for me!”

You yank your hand back, trying and failing to will down the heat in your cheeks.

“This is not a romance novel,” you mutter. “He’s my boss.”

“And he’s driving to your apartment at seven-thirty in the morning to pick you up from overworking,” Chelsea retorts. “Sweetheart, you already skipped half the tropes and went straight into the slow-burn danger zone.”

You stare at her, she’s grinning like she’s narrating your funeral. “Text me tomorrow,” she says, gathering her purse. “And remember: make his jaw drop!” She winks, watching your face twist into a frown.

“You’re welcome in advance.” And like the good friend you were… you listened to her.

The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, the soft glow of dawn just beginning to filter through your curtains. You began your daily routine that made you groan at the crack of dawn, except this time— you carefully sifted through your clothes, weighing options, second-guessing, and finally settling on the outfit that felt just right.

You stood in front of your mirror with your arms crossed, face scrunched up, judging your own reflection with the same intensity Damian reserved for quarterly reports.

After a full minute of squinting, stepping back, stepping forward again, and muttering to yourself like a deranged tailor, you finally picked an outfit that was technically within the dress code.

It wasn’t your usual safe, comfortable, neutral-choice outfit.

You wore an outfit with clean lines, sharp edges, the kind of put-together that didn’t just fit you, instead it looked like it had been waiting for you. The skirt hit exactly where it should, the stockings gave just enough edge to balance the professionalism, sexiness, and confidence without tipping into trying too hard.

Your skin had that annoying, unfair glow too— not the “I slept a full eight hours” kind, but the lived-in, effortless natural appearance. It kinda gave you that youthful look with a charming smile. It was professional but warm. It made you look like someone who knew exactly what they were doing with both their life and their wardrobe, even if you’d spent the last thirty minutes pacing and overthinking every choice.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with him.

You were lying to yourself and you knew it.

Especially this morning, when you found yourself running later than usual. You had spent too much time trying to look good, carefully applying a light layer of makeup and a nice lipstick color that felt almost weightless on your skin and blended perfectly. It wasn’t just about professionalism; it was about feeling confident in your own skin.

Then there was the traffic. Slow, frustrating, testing your patience at every turn. This was exactly why you usually came in early— to avoid moments like this.

Today is going to be different.

It already felt different.

You clutched your bag a little tighter as you walked through the halls, acutely aware of the way heads subtly turned your way. The usual hum of the office seemed to shift around you, as if your presence had suddenly carved out a new kind of attention— one you weren’t quite used to but didn’t entirely dislike.

A few compliments floated your way, especially from the friendly female coworkers you often chatted with, all emphasizing how great your outfit looked.

“You look amazing today! Who are you trying to impress?”You shook your head with a laugh that escaped.

“Date tonight? You’re glowing!”

“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before! You look good!” Clearly, you were doing something right.

Yet, beneath the surface, your mind was racing, waiting for Damian’s reaction. You told yourself to follow Chelsea’s advice— play it cool and don’t give him any obvious attention. That should be simple enough, right? But the anticipation buzzed quietly in your chest, making it hard to focus on anything else.

You made your way down the hallway toward your office, the soft morning light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. Your heart fluttered just a bit faster with every step, the nerves mixing with the rush of the new day ahead. The usual hum of early activity filled the air. The quiet chatter, the clatter of keyboards waking up, and the faint hiss of the coffee machine from the break room.

“Alright, time to get to work,” you muttered under your breath, already mentally bracing yourself for the long day ahead.

Your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob as you pushed the door open.

Only to freeze mid-motion when you spotted the figure inside.

Damian was there, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, his sharp eyes fixed on you with that familiar unreadable expression.

He didn’t bother to hide his surprise or disapproval as his gaze flicked to the clock on the wall behind him before snapping back to you.

“You’re late.”

The words hung in the air, low and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of the office as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

His gaze briefly flickers to your outfit before meeting your eyes again.

You frowned, glancing at the time on your phone.

“I’m not even late, I just came in a bit later than usual.”

He lets out a quiet, almost amused sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.

“Later than usual still counts as late,” he mumbled, but there was a subtle shift in his voice. Less of a reprimand, more of a teasing edge that made it clear he wasn’t really mad.

“Are you going to fire me over it?” You raised a brow.

“…No, but do you have the documents I asked you to review before my next meeting?” His tone was calm, laced with that usual professionalism.

You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together as a familiar ache settled in your chest. There was disappointment, and something deeper that’s unspoken.

That quiet hope you’d been nursing quietly unraveled, leaving behind a sting of frustration that simmered just beneath the surface.

You fought the urge to let it show, burying the mix of longing and irritation behind a controlled expression as the silence stretched between you.

“Uh, yeah, it’s in the drawers in my desk, let me hand it to you.” You replied, moving around your desk and quietly pulled out the documents that’s given to him immediately.

Damian took the stack without looking away, his grip firm but not unkind. The faint rustle of the papers felt loud in the stillness between you. For a moment, you both stood there. He focused on the documents while you watched the subtle lines around his mouth soften just a fraction. It was small, almost invisible, but it made your chest tighten in a way you could not quite explain.

“I’ll review these now,” he comments, voice low and steady. “Make sure nothing is overlooked.”

You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the morning settle on your shoulders, relief and that quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, he noticed more than just the paperwork today.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, the door closing softly behind him.

Well, okay… fuck you too, I guess.

You slump into your chair, crossing your arms tightly while you lean back against your chair.

Why does he act like he doesn’t notice, yet does all these little things that say otherwise?

Like the way he always somehow knows your coffee order, or the way he holds the door without a word, takes you home and picks you up from your apartment to arrive at work together before anyone else,

You bite your lip, frustrated and confused. You want to ignore him, to stop caring so much, but it’s like he’s woven into the edges of your day whether you like it or not.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

“Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”

Chelsea’s voice rang out in your head.

Hmph. Okay.

If there’s one thing Damian knew, it was this.

You were filled with spite.

Spite that rivaled his own.

Damian walked into your office again, the quiet sound of his footsteps sharp enough that you knew it was him before you even looked.

Not that you did look.

He carried the documents he’d reviewed, the ones covered in his perfectly neat handwriting. Normally, you would have glanced up. Maybe rolled your eyes. Maybe muttered something under your breath. Anything.

But not today.

Today, your spite had a bit of purpose.

You kept your attention fixed on your monitor, staring at a screen full of the usual information. Your schedule. A few reports. His own schedule, and a spreadsheet you’d already finished hours ago. You weren’t even pretending to work well— just clicking occasionally, scrolling through nothing.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t greet him.

You didn’t acknowledge him.

“Just set them down,” you swat your hand in the air calmly, voice flat and professional. “I’ll look over them and send next week’s project to your email. And the financial reports.”

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t give him a single glance.

You just kept staring at the monitor like he was irrelevant.

You could feel him pause beside the desk, like he was expecting you to react.

You didn’t.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him choke on it.

You clicked your mouse once, the smallest little sound, but in the silence of your office it felt loud. Almost pointed.

He set the documents on your desk carefully, almost too carefully, as if waiting for you to turn your head.

You didn’t.

Your heart was pounding, but your face stayed neutral. Your posture stayed still. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen. The stubborn part of you reveled in the fact that Damian Wayne, of all people, was just… standing there, trying to figure you out.

“You will have them done by the end of the day?” he asked, his tone cool but edged with something else. Something you weren’t used to hearing from him.

Irritation?

Annoyance?

Confusion?

Good.

“Of course,” you said, still not looking at him. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

You heard him inhale very quietly, the smallest break in his composure.

For the first time, you realized something.

He didn’t like being ignored.

Not by you.

You could feel him lingering in your peripheral vision, the way someone stands in a doorway when they aren’t done with a conversation. Except you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. You clicked again, scrolling through a report you had already memorized.

You could almost picture his expression without looking.

Brows drawn just a touch.

Mouth pressed into a thin line.

That proud, composed, annoyingly perfect face trying to figure out what exactly you were doing.

Good.

Let him think.

You kept your posture straight and your breathing even, even though your heart thudded a little harder with every second he didn’t walk away. Normally, you would have caved by now— just a glance, just a look.

Something.

But Chelsea’s voice was louder.

Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.

He exhaled quietly. You could feel his patience wearing thin, like the air itself tightened.

“You usually provide updates when I walk in,” Damian said, tone smooth but laced with something sharper.

“Are you not doing that today?” You moved your mouse, opening another tab, to click into your email.

You did not even blink in his direction.

“My updates will be in your inbox once everything is finalized,” you said in the same neutral, pleasant tone used with distant coworkers. “You’ll have them before noon, Mr. Wayne.”

A beat of silence, he was absolutely staring at you.

You could feel it.

The weight of it warmed the side of your face, heavy and irritated and trying to cut through your indifference.

“You seem…” His voice paused for a split second, almost like he was choosing the word.

“Preoccupied.”

You nearly smirked.

Nearly.

Instead, you let out the smallest hum of acknowledgement and said, “Just focused on work.”Your silence after that was deliberate. It was something Damian had felt when you began working here, and now it was back.

It was clean and sharp enough to make something in him twitch. For a man who commanded rooms, who intimidated CEOs twice his age, who was used to precise attention at all times… Being dismissed by you hit differently.

You could practically feel it.

He shifted his weight.

You heard the faint rustle of his suit jacket as he straightened, something colder slipping into his composure.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “I will expect the email.” There it was— that clipped tone he only used when something actually annoyed him.

He walked toward the door.

The sound of his steps was sharper this time.

More pointed.

But right before he left, he hesitated.

Just for half a heartbeat.

As if waiting for you to turn.

You didn’t move.

The door opened.

Closed.

And you finally let yourself breathe, jaw tight with a mixture of triumph and nerves.

Okay.

So ignoring Damian Wayne actually worked.

And that little discovery warmed you with the most satisfying, petty spark of victory.

You really did have things to handle. Your inbox was already overflowing with messages from partner companies, potential investors, a few overeager rivals, and the usual crowd of people who suddenly decided they “urgently” needed a meeting with Damian Wayne. You sifted through each request, drafting replies, rerouting calls, flagging anything even remotely suspicious.

If nothing else, it kept your hands busy.

It kept your eyes on the monitor.

And most importantly, it kept your attention away from him.

Except.

You see Damian Wayne’s email sitting at the very top, stamped with a fresh timestamp that tells you he sent it less than a minute ago.

Of course he did.

The room feels a little too quiet all of a sudden. You hover your cursor over the subject line, debating with yourself like the fate of Gotham depends on whether or not you open a single email.

But your pulse betrays you anyway.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Your amended notes are missing from page 14. Correct this and send the updated file before noon. You also forgot to attach the preliminary figures for the Q4 meeting. Re-send.

YOU

Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Mr. Wayne, I’ll have the updated file on your desk before noon. The missing attachment will be included.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report

Have them by my office an hour from now.

Your stomach drops. Your irritation flares. And something traitorous inside you sparks to life. And being the petty person you are, you did exactly what you were supposed to do.

You compiled the missing files, fixed the notes on page 14, double-checked the preliminary figures, then triple-checked them, because if you were going to be petty, you were at least going to be professionally petty. You formatted everything in the crisp, immaculate style you knew Damian preferred: every header perfectly styled, every section labeled, every graph aligned down to the pixel because God forbid you accidentally offend his sense of order.

Fine. He wanted flawless? You’d give him flawless.

With nothing else left to tweak, you stacked the pages, tapped the spine against your desk to neaten the edges, and slid the packet into a folder. A neat folder. A purposely nicer folder than the one he usually gave you.

You grabbed your things and stepped out of your office, heels clicking down the hall in a steady, determined rhythm. The Wayne Enterprises floor was quiet at this hour— most people had gone for lunch, leaving only the echo of distant printers and the hum of central air vibrating through the walls.

You rounded the corner toward Damian’s office, folder in hand, ready to slam it onto his desk with the polite professionalism of someone who absolutely was being petty and absolutely refused to acknowledge it.

But something shifted in the corner of your vision.

A familiar figure stepped out of the stairwell, head bowed over a tablet, moving with the kind of restless focus that suggested he hadn’t slept in three days.

Tim- ‘F’ucking- Drake.

Sometimes you ran into him in the café on the first floor, where he’d already be two coffees deep and debating whether a third was “necessary or just responsible.” Other times, you’d cross paths when Damian sent you to drop something off for him, because— according to Damian, seeing Tim’s face could “derail the productivity of an entire day.”

Dramatic much? Yes.

Always. Every single time.

Tim, on the other hand, never seemed bothered. If anything, he’d take the file with a blink, a grateful nod, and then immediately forget to breathe while reading it. One time you were pretty sure he walked into an elevator door while scrolling through an email.

IT also adored him.

Half the departments relied on him. He had an office here but never seemed to actually use it. And today, based on the speed he was walking straight toward Damian’s area, he was clearly on some kind of mission.

You slowed just slightly.

His gaze flicked to you, then paused, brow lifting in mild surprise.

“Oh— hey,” he said, offering a small, apologetic smile. His eyes dipped once, taking in your outfit, and he actually registered it. “You look really nice today, the skirt looks good.” He chuckles, which you replied with a coy smile.

“Thank you, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Tim!” You smiled brightly.

At least someone in this building had functioning eyeballs.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy lately.” He hums, “Damian around? I need to drop something off and—” he looks at the folder in your hands.

The universe practically handed you the moment on a silver platter. “Yeah, he’s in his office.” You replied, having a plan already forming within your head. “I’ve actually got some documents for him.”

Tim nodded, stepping closer. “Want me to take them? I’m going straight there and you’re his personal assistant, right? You probably have better things to do than babysitting that kid.”

You laughed, “you don’t say?”

He chuckled under his breath, the tired kind that said he understood exactly what you had to deal with. You didn’t hesitate to give him the folder.

Not even half a second.

You placed the folder into his hands with a soft, grateful smile, one that hid the mild, sparkling pettiness coiling in your chest.

“Thank you, Tim.” He accepted it with the solemn responsibility of someone who absolutely did not realize the chaos he was about to deliver.

“Of course, anytime!”

And somewhere, in his office, Damian Wayne was probably waiting, expecting your knock, anticipating your appearance, ready to critique your delivery or your timing or your skirt or your existence—

Only for his brother to walk in instead.

You remembered turning back to your office, going back to your daily tasks and answering a phone call.

“Wayne Enterprises, this is the office of Mr. Damian Wayne. How can I help you?” The caller launched into a pitch about a potential collaboration, some sleek new product they believed could be mutually beneficial. You took notes, asked the right questions, nodded along even though they couldn’t see you.

By the time you hung up, your head was already drifting back toward your inbox, another email from a vendor, a reminder for next week’s meeting, and three new calendar changes—

A soft knock hit your door.

It wasn’t Damian’s solid, impatient rhythm.

It wasn’t security.

You looked up just as Tim Drake slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him like he was afraid of startling you, or maybe afraid of being seen. He moved with that deliberate quietness he always had, but this time something in his posture was different. His shoulders were too tight.

His mouth twitched like he was holding back commentary.

His expression said he had something to say and definitely something you would want to hear. “Hey,” he greeted, stepping in a little further. His voice carried a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement, as if he had walked straight into a soap opera and was still processing the plot twist.

“So… I delivered your files.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning back ever so slightly in your chair.

“Yeah? And?” Tim inhaled sharply, the way someone does before delivering bad news wrapped in entertainment, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then he started laughing.

Not loudly, it was just that soft, incredulous laugh of someone who’d just witnessed pure, distilled bullshit and needed a moment.

“He was not amused,” Tim said finally.

You blinked. “Define not amused.”

“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Classic Damian. He gave me the look.”

“The… look?”

“He was both offended and confused.” You felt heat prick the back of your neck.

“Well,” you said, turning back to your computer as if you were totally unfazed, “maybe he should’ve specified how he wanted the files delivered.”

Tim leaned against the wall, studying you with that annoying detective perceptiveness he was born with.“No wonder why you’ve given me your files, for someone trying very hard not to care,” he said, rocking back and forth at the heel of his dress shoes.

“You are enjoying this a little too much.” You scoffed at Tim. “I’m not enjoying anything. I’m working.” He snorted at your response. “Sure. And I didn’t watch Damian stare at that folder like it personally betrayed him.” Your heart thudded but you kept your expression flat.

Tim shook his head, still amused.

“Whatever’s going on between you two… I don’t want to know,” he said with a little grimace. “But I do feel obligated to tell you that he told me— very coldly, very dramatically— to ‘inform his assistant she is expected to deliver important documents directly.’”

“Oh, he said that?”

“Word for word.” You let out a slow breath, releasing a very slow, very smug breath.

“Huh,” you murmured, eyes returning to your screen.

“Sounds like a him problem.”

Tim chuckled under his breath as he pushed off the wall.“For a personal assistant I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, you’re driving him insane,” he laughs, heading for the door while you didn’t bother to look up, but you smiled when the door shuts.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: Incompetence

You forwarded the documents through Timothy. Why? If you are capable of delivering them yourself, then do so. If you are not, inform me so I can make the appropriate adjustments to your workflow.

Confirm you received this.

You stared at the screen for a moment, feeling your pulse flicker between irritation and… something far less dignified. The man had the emotional intelligence of a cinder block, yet here he was, typing sentences that made you feel like you were being called into the principal’s office and dragged behind the bleachers at the same time.

Chelsea would call it a toxic cocktail.

You called it Tuesday.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard before you slowly began to type your response.

YOU

Re: Incompetence

Received. Sent the files through Timothy because he was already going to your office. It was efficient for the both of us. Let me know if you have any other concerns regarding the workflow.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Re: Incompetence

Your definition of efficiency is questionable. Next time, deliver the documents yourself. I expect accuracy and consistency, not shortcuts. Report to my office in ten minutes. We need to review the adjustments together.

YOU

Re: Incompetence

You have a meeting in ten minutes. I’m busy, my schedule is booked out the entire week.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Subject: That Was Not a Request

You will make time. You have 5 minutes to get here.

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen, taunting you. Five minutes. Not ten. Not politely asking. A downgrade. A summons. You could practically hear the clipped irritation in every word.“Unbelievable,” you muttered, grabbing your tablet. “Now he wants to act like I’m late twice in one morning.”

You stood, smoothing down your skirt, steadying your breath, choosing professionalism over the urge to slam your forehead into the desk repeatedly.“Fine,” you said to the empty room. “If he wants a meeting, he’s going to get the most unbothered, least impressed version of me alive.”

And with that, you stepped out of your office, spine straight, chin high, fully prepared to make Damian Wayne question every life choice that led him to ordering you around in five-minute intervals. You walked down the hall with purpose, your heels clicking firmly against the polished floor, each step echoing your determination. The usual flutter of nerves twisted in your chest, but you shoved it aside.

Damian wanted your attention? He was going to get it on your terms.

As you approached his office, the door stood slightly ajar, the faint aroma of leather and coffee drifting out. You paused for a brief second, smoothing your blouse, making sure you looked every bit the professional, confident, composed, and untouchable. You stepped inside without knocking. Damian looked up from the sleek glass desk, his sharp eyes briefly scanning you before narrowing ever so slightly, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Five minutes,” he said, voice low but steady. No anger, no impatience, just that razor-sharp control you both knew too well. You nodded once, crossing your arms. “I’m here. What’s the emergency?”

His gaze flickered to the screen, then back to you. “Your revisions on the Q4 projection report. There are discrepancies in the sales figures for three key markets.” You raised a brow, already prepared with a mental list of where things might have gone sideways. “I triple-checked those. Unless you want to explain what you found, I don’t see the problem.”

Damian smirked, the faintest lift of his lips betraying his amusement. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to make sure you’re not missing something.”

Something about the way he said it. It was calm, controlled, but not dismissive. It softened the edge of your frustration. You almost wanted to remind yourself to stop overthinking it.

Almost.

Instead, you pulled up the file on your tablet, ready to dive back into the numbers, ignoring the quiet thrum of something unspoken hanging between you. You tapped through the pages, fingers steady despite the fluttering in your chest. Damian watched you closely, leaning back in his chair with that same unreadable expression, as if waiting to catch you slipping.

“Here,” you said, pointing to the figures that didn’t line up. “This market’s revenue was recorded late, which threw off the totals. I flagged it in the notes, but it looks like your version missed that.”

He leaned forward, scanning your screen carefully.

“I see. Good catch.” The brief praise caught you off guard. He can compliment your work but not your fucking outfit—

“Is that it?” You said in the most infuriating tone ever, a leak of poison lying underneath it.

Damian quirked a brow.

“Is there something else you want to say?”

Oh, this infuriating man.

“No, sir,” you say firmly, trying to keep your irritation in check. Without a word, Damian rises and crosses the room with purposeful strides. He stops just in front of you, leaning casually against his desk with his arms folded, his eyes locked on yours.

“No, really,” he insists, voice low but laced with that unmistakable challenge. “Say it. I’m waiting.” You glare up at him, the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin.

You think back to all the little things he’s done. All those moments you tried to dismiss as nothing more than duty or habit, yet they added up— small cracks in the fortress he built around himself.

Say it? Say what? How maddening he is? How crazy does he makes you feel?

How every little thing he’s done, every unexpected coffee, every silent check-in, every begrudging act of care has tangled up your thoughts and emotions into a frustrating knot you can’t quite unravel. You want to blow up at him for making you feel like you’re under a microscope one moment, and the next, like you’re the only person who matters in his whole damn world.

You want to shout at him for how his sharp gaze can cut through your defenses, leaving you exposed and scrambling to catch your breath, yet somehow, it also holds a softness that drives you crazy because it’s so rare, so fleeting. You want to scream at him for the way he invades your thoughts when you least expect it, like the memory of a red scarf he wrapped around your neck, so unexpectedly gentle it made your skin burn with warmth, or the mysterious lunches that somehow felt like silent apologies or unspoken promises.

You want to tell him how unfair it is that he can act so cold and detached while making your heart race like you’re the most important person in the room. How annoying it is that despite every sharp word, every sarcastic barb, you find yourself wanting him to notice, to care, to see beyond the suit and the stoic facade.

“It’s—”

But most of all, you want to tell him that he’s become this impossible puzzle you can’t stop trying to solve, even if it’s driving you mad.

“Say it.”

And you’re absolutely sick of it.

You are sick of the way he pushes, prodding at you like a stubborn wound that won’t heal. The tension is thick in the air, every word a battle you don’t want to fight but somehow can’t avoid.

“You are—” you start, voice tight with frustration. He cuts you off with a slow, deliberate sigh that feels like it’s dragging the weight of the entire world. “Say it, right now.” He demands, eyes sharp and unblinking, daring you to defy him.

Fine.

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady, though it trembles with the effort it takes to keep everything inside from spilling out.

“I am trying to best to say it! Mr. Wayne, please, you’re so—” He raises a hand, silencing you without a word.

“No, that’s wrong, I’m not going to listen if you don’t say it.”

Say what?!?!! You’re absolutely done with Damian Wayne, the way he gets under your skin.

“Mr. Wa—”

“Wrong.”

Done with his cold, infuriating way of twisting your feelings into knots, like some cruel game only he knew the rules to.

“Fucking— eat shit, Damian!”

The words ripped out of your mouth, raw and unapologetic, carrying every ounce of frustration and anger you had held inside for far too long. They lingered between you, heavy and electric, like a spark igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface. It was a release, a challenge, and maybe the first honest thing you had said aloud in weeks.

You whipped around, determined to leave before your emotions could spiral into something even more reckless. Your chest felt tight, burning with a mixture of disappointment and hurt that you hadn’t allowed yourself to fully acknowledge. But before you could put space between you, his hand shot out and closed firmly around your wrist.

He pulled you back with quiet, steady strength. It was enough to stop you but never enough to cause pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned you to face him.

His grip was warm and unyielding, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Usually, his gaze was sharp and distant, but now it was something different—focused, unreadable, and strangely alive. The cold, controlled expression you expected softened just enough to reveal a small, almost smug smirk. It was the kind of smirk that said he was both amused and pleased by your outburst.

“Took you long enough to say my name,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with something like satisfaction, as if your words were exactly what he’d been waiting for all along.

Your breath caught. Excuse me?

“You wanted me to say your name?” you snap, incredulous, heat rising under your skin. “That’s what this was about?” You try to yank your hand back, fueled by a spark of irritation beneath the haze of desire, but he doesn’t let go.

His grip tightens just enough to stop you, not enough to trap you, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, steady circles that make your anger stutter. “Don’t twist my words,” he says, gaze steady, unflinching. “But yes.” His voice softens, becomes something quieter, more dangerous. “Hearing you say my name like that…” His eyes hold yours, burning.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.” Your heart skips, the fight in you wavering. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, torn between shoving him away and pulling him back in.

“You unravel me,” he cuts the tension, his fingers ghosting over your clenched hand, gentle but insistent. His touch was slow, like he was afraid to break something fragile, yet impossible to pull away from. Carefully, he eased your fingers open, one by one, before weaving his own through yours. His grip was quiet but absolute, as if claiming you wordlessly, without need for permission.

“Every time I told you to drop the titles, to leave the distance between us, you never did.” His voice was softer now, threading through the space between you like a secret. “You didn’t even realize… how long I’ve been waiting for this. Want you.”

You tried to pull away, heart suddenly thundering in your chest, mind spinning too fast to catch a single thought. But his hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm, holding you not to restrain you, but to keep you from slipping out of the moment.

“Wait,” he breathed, and the word washed over you like a shiver. His grip wasn’t demanding, just certain. Certain in a way that made your pulse jump.

“Do you know you make me insane?” The words left him low, almost ragged, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. His gaze pinned you in place, sharp enough to cut through every layer you tried to hide behind. And the way he stood so close, his cologne wrapping around you in a rich, intoxicating warmth, made it impossible to pretend you weren’t affected.

You glared at him, a rush of heat blooming in your chest, a mixture of anger and something more tangled.

“Well, good,” you snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. “Maybe now you understand how it feels.”He didn’t let go. “No,” he murmured, low and rough, “I know exactly how it feels.” His eyes darkened, shadowed with something deeper than frustration or desire— something raw and aching.

“You walk into a room, and everything shifts. The air tightens around me, like a storm rolling in, and I can’t catch my breath.” He exhaled softly, as if confessing a truth too dangerous to hold inside any longer. “You wear your confidence like a second skin, like it’s as natural as breathing.” His gaze dropped for a moment down to your lips, then snapped back, sharp and consuming.

“And you think… you think I don’t notice?”

You face in a different direction, overwhelmed by the intensity burning in his gaze. But he leaned closer— just enough so that his breath warmed your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. “You think I don’t notice the way your skirts sway when you walk, just enough to unbalance me. The stockings that catch the light, like they were made to break me. The way you move, commanding every eye without even trying.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your knuckles— tender and sure.

“You undo me.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. You tried again to pull your hand free, desperation flickering in your movements, but his fingers tightened around yours, firm, steady, and grounding. “With every step you take, every glance you try to hide, and every breath you draw like it’s meant for someone else. You think you slip by unnoticed—” He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded.

“But you don’t.” His voice was a breath, a confession hanging in the space between you.

“You make a liar of everything I thought I knew about myself.”

You stand there, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it, breath catching and unsteady. The room feels impossibly small now, like the space between you has been carved down to this one fragile moment.

His eyes flicker down, tracing the curve of your lips, hesitant but drawn.

The air thickens between you.

“Would you allow me to kiss you?” he breathes, barely more than a question, but charged with everything he’s held back until now.

Your eyes flicker downward for a brief moment, then back up, meeting him again.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you give the faintest nod, a silent surrender that speaks volumes.

His fingers tighten around yours with a gentle yet possessive grip, grounding you. With his other hand, he reaches up, fingers brushing along your cheek before cradling your jaw with careful reverence, thumb tracing small circles that send a shiver through you. The warmth of his touch contrasts with the cool air around you, anchoring you to the moment.

Then, with deliberate, breathtaking slowness, he leans in. His lips hover just over yours for a heartbeat longer. It was soft, tentative, and reverent— before they finally meet yours in a brush of warmth and promise. The kiss is gentle but shattering, breaking down every wall you built, every doubt you held, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth between you both.

Then, his hand tightens on your jaw, tilting your face just so, as if commanding you to surrender, to feel everything he’s held inside. The intensity builds gradually, like a rising tide, each breath mingling, each movement deliberate and fierce.

Your heart hammers, your breath hitches, and his touch sends a shiver that steals what little air you have left. It’s a kiss that is deep, urgent, impossible to ignore, like he’s pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and desire into this one perfect moment.

“Damian—” you gasp, barely able to get the word out as your breath catches in your throat. You try to pull away, desperate for air, but he’s faster, more urgent.

His hand slips from your fingers and moves with a firm, confident grip to your waist. Before you can steady yourself, he shifts you effortlessly, pressing you back against the desk that a few pens slip from his desk, laying on important papers that Damian didn’t care about at this moment. The sudden motion makes your knees wobble, a rush of dizziness swirling through you, but there’s no room for doubt or hesitation in this moment— only the overwhelming euphoria of his lips claiming yours again.

Your back arches slightly against the cool surface of the desk, every nerve igniting with electricity. Each breath is stolen and returned, shared between you as his kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more intense. The world tilts and spins around you, overwhelmed by the raw heat of his touch.

His hands move with purpose, sliding up from your waist to hold you closer, anchoring you as if you might float away. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him nearer, matching the hunger in his kiss.

You don’t remember the exact moment the kiss ended, only that when it did, you were left utterly breathless.

Your chest heaved, every inhale shallow and desperate, and you were certain you looked wild, your lips flushed and trembling from the way he kept chasing for them.

But Damian— he looked even more undone.

Damian looked worse off than you. His usual composed mask was shattered, replaced by a raw, almost vulnerable expression. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glazed with an unspoken hunger and something softer, maybe wonder, and maybe relief. His breathing was heavy, each breath a sharp intake that seemed to shake his entire frame.

Your lipstick was smeared across his mouth, a vivid stain that made his usual cold demeanor melt away. A few strands of his hair hung over his forehead, disheveled and rebellious, like the moment had stolen every last piece of control from him.

His fingers traced a slow line down your arm, thumb brushing lightly.

“I was beginning to think your spite would never stop pretending you didn’t want this.”

You met his gaze, fierce and honest.

“Maybe I was just waiting for you to admit it first, Mr. Wayne.”

Your tone was teasing, light, deliberately provoking. And it worked. His brows pulled together immediately, a sharp, irritated frown that would’ve been funny if your heart wasn’t pounding.

“Do not say that.”

The words weren’t raised, but they carried heat.

They carried want.

“Then what do you prefer?”

You tilted your head, pretending innocence, even though you both knew exactly what you were doing.

His glare deepened, steady and pointed, the kind meant to pin you in place. Not angry— not even close. Just frustrated that you were still playing when he was already past pretending.

He held your gaze for a long, heavy moment, eyes dark with meaning.

And in that silence, it was so clear:

He wanted to hear his name from your mouth.

Not the title.

Not the formality.

Him.

Only him.

He leaned in again, voice just above a whisper.

“You know patience was never my strong suit.”

“I know,” you mumbled, your thumb smudging the lipstick smear a little further with a small smile.

“You look good in this color, Damian.”

His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on your mouth, then dropping briefly to your hand still resting against his jaw.

Your name left his lips like a warning and a plea all at once.

“Do not say things like that unless you intend to finish what you started.”

━━━━┅━━━┅━━━━━━━┅━━━┅━━━

Your lack of fear—for a boy raised to believe terror instilled in others was power, already struck the wrong nerve. If it wasn’t obvious from his cold, scornful tone whenever he spoke down to you, it would be his stubborn will to avoid you.

Every year, as fallen branches wither in the snow, it had been agreed upon your two families that you must reside with the League during the months of winter, to partake in the same trainings as Damian. Thanks to Damian, your classes were quickly separated.

"I refuse to be slowed down by some incapable child." His gaze never once drops to you, trained on his instructor instead with barely concealed fury when you had entered his personal training session.

"We are of the same age." You scoff. There it is again, that shock that flickers in his gaze when you respond with the same fire, unwilling to leave the room simply because he commands it.

"Think twice before spouting your incompetence as if it were some achievement." He mocks, bumping against your shoulder as he made it towards the exit. "Isn't it shameful to be as slow-witted as you are, if we really are of the same age?"

He was cunning, ruthless, a perfect soldier—but frustratingly immature. He refused to see you as an equal, so you refused to see him as yours. With a personality like his, you strongly vowed to never let your heart soften for the demon spawn crafted meticulously from Ra's Al Ghul’s hands to dominate the world.

The first time you see Damian cry, you had only turned ten. His grandfather had punished him to be isolated in his room, for failing to kill. An insubordination, Damian’s longest tutor—revealed to be an assassin.

Hesitance from Damian to strike—was all it took for his grandfather to name it weakness, and Damian took his punishment in obedience. He didn’t break, not as he watched the execution of his personal tutor. He didn’t break, when his grandfather instructed that Damian was to be left in isolation till he proved himself to be deserving, capable—worthy.

No, it was when you peeked through the slim crack of the door to his bedroom, did you hear his quiet sniffles.

The balm hidden behind your palm, under your sleeve, grows warm under the tightening of your fingers over the metal. You had only seen his wound because you had been hiding in the corner, watching as Damian hid the blood on his sleeves from his grandfather’s view. Stubborn, too prideful to admit the assassin has spilt his blood with a blade.

It wasn’t your place to go against the strict instructions given that Damian was to receive no visitors, but—wasn’t your duty to your betrothed, before anyone else?

Gritting your teeth, you slipped through the door with a subtle push before sliding it close. You don't recognise your mistake till you're shrouded in darkness, alone with the demon head's prodigy. There wasn’t a single second spared between the click of the door and Damian tackling you into the ground.

You both fell with a harsh slam onto the floor, your back digging into the wood—the balm sliding around to land above your head.

“What are you doing here?” He hisses.

You wince, feeling the grip of his fingers tighten into your wrists, pinned above you to immobilise your movement. “Ridiculous.” You hiss. “This is the thanks I get for sneaking in healing ointment?”

His painful grip finally falters at your words, but the shadows that shield the depths of his eyes from you makes it impossible to gauge his reaction. Only the pauses between his breath and your own, measures the time stretched between his calculations—before he pushes himself off with a grunt.

“I never asked you to.” He mutters, and from his tone alone—he sounds offended. As if you’ve insulted him with your offering.

“That’s the role of a betrothed.” You spat, hands flaying around for the balm before capturing it with your left. “To take care of her partner, when he’s being too stubborn to do it himself.”

His entire body freezes, movement stilled in the admission of your words. You’ve surprised him. Getting up onto your knees, you don't miss your chance as you wobble over to where he’s sitting, your hands landing on his thighs to stabilise yourself.

He hisses, ready to push you off but you grab his wrist before he’s able to.

“Let me treat you.” You say, one hand raised to show the balm in your hand. “I saw the wound you hid.”

He hesitates, and you expected stubbornness—but not till this point of idiocy. “My grandfather will have you punished, or worse—if he discovers that you were here.”

“Good thing he won’t know then.” You reply coolly. “This balm is scentless, and leaves no trace. My family was chosen for this alliance for a reason.”

Specialised in herbs, ointments, poison—the League has kept an eye on your family for centuries.

His annoying fretting to snatch his wrist out of your grip weakens, but it's clear he hasn't fully given in. “Why should I trust you?”

You purse your lips. It’s the right question, as expected of Ra's heir. Damian has a clear target on his back, leaving him in a position where not even his betrothed could be ruled out from an assassination attempt.

“Here.” You click open the clasp, and your fingers dig into the balm. You apply it on the exposed area of your arms, rubbing the ointment into your skin.

He watches, eyes driven to your revealed skin like a hawk, as you wait—and wait.

“No stings, or rashes.” You show, leaning in closer so that your arm was near his eye view. Up close, you feel the sensation of his long lashes fluttering against your arm.

He swallows, drifting his gaze between your arm and your face. “My grandfather has given clear orders.” His voice is weaker than you’ve ever heard it, ending in a low rasp that signals his pain.

“And your grandfather has taught you that survival comes first, above pride or following orders blindly to your death.” Your words cut through without a hint of remorse. “I will not have my betrothed die of something as minor as wounds, and be forced to marry another child younger than either of us.”

He grits his teeth at your mocking, before letting out a low ‘Tt.’ Turning around, he lifts off his tunic, and you see it immediately despite the low light.

The cut has worsened on his side, healing wrong—covered in sweat mixed with both dried and new blood. You mutter a curse as you grab for other supplies you have snuck in through the useful, hidden pockets you’ve sewn into your garments—cloth, alcohol, bandages.

A louder hiss escapes his gritted teeth when you dab alcohol to clean his wounds, but Damian makes no complaint. If anything, it seemed almost as if he’s punishing himself for falling weak to your temptation of medicine, and submitting himself to the sting of the pain.

By the time you’ve finished, Damian has leaned almost fully into your shoulder, shuddering breaths leaving his lips as you gently apply the balm over his scarred skin.

“Why?” He whispers weakly. You suspect if it weren’t for the pain, he wouldn’t have dared ask you such a question. It sounded uncharacteristically vulnerable coming from him.

“You’re my betrothed.” You answer simply, as if it answered everything.

Maybe it did, but to you—the answer was a mere simplification. Damian is the only person you know, who looks you straight in the eyes instead of cowering like the other children do in your homeland. With a strange look of contempt and understanding, knowing exactly how it feels to be born into a world that rejected you outright before you even had the chance to form a semblance of identity—in the face of what they preferred you to be.

A cracked mirror, and your only, twisted sense of a companion.

Damian doesn’t speak of the incident to you ever again. It’s a silent promise that you don’t bring it up either. A forced truce, because even a whisper of what happened will reveal your insubordination and his shame.

You half expected him to fully ice you out for your insolence. Not only have you disrespected his grandfather's orders, the man he admired most, you had also seemed him at his most vulnerable. Damian was a prideful person, and he didn't bare vulnerabilities easily.

So, it surprised you—when things began to shift.

Damian begins to linger after his trainings to watch over yours, insulting your stance and muttering sudden tactics mid-way through your own fights. His distractive presence is frustrating, but knowing his assessing gaze is locked onto you—it pushed you further than any instructor has. When you tackled your opponent down for the first time, his eyes flashed with brief pride.

Damian sits beside you during meals, instead of across the table. Making pointed remarks when you opt too much for fruits instead of meats—muttering strange declarations of not being able to accept your unbalanced diet. "I can't afford to have a betrothed who will collapse on herself by not prioritising her meals." He tuts. "It will be a disgrace if you are weak."

Damian so happens to cross your guest bedroom most nights, opting for a longer route back to his. He’ll slide the door open, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he eyes your décor with distaste, commenting on how one should never be attached to material things. Yet, he finds himself seated next to you on the tatami mat, listening to you rant of your snuck-in possessions—of bands with loud electric guitars, and comics of superheroes that actually exist in this world.

Damian isn't easy to read, but it was a quick realisation that he was strangely obsessed with one of your collections in particular—Batman. A crime-fighting vigilante that rose to popularity after being introduced in the Justice League collections. He's practically mere myth. A terrifying, dark crusader who hides in the shadows of Gotham. Damian claims that the depictions you own is pure bogus fiction, that they didn’t even get the facts right, but you spot that rare glimmer in his eyes. Curiosity, longing.

"I don't get your fixation on him." You tut mockingly, a habit that's only sprung thanks to his constant clicking of his own tongue. "Wonder Woman is clearly the best member of the Justice League."

His glare flashes with a familiar defensive fire, and you're quick to smother your teasing smirk as you keep up your pretense. Holding out your collection of the Dark Knight, you wave it callously in your hand. "I suppose since you don't want to take it, I'll just throw it in the trash."

He's quick to swing his arms, capturing the collection before you can even aim for the bin. His glower is down-right murderous, but the way he's holding onto the binding as if it were something precious... your lips are practically bitten past the point of recovery to hide your smile. He's so stubborn. He's clearly wanted it from the start, and yet, he was so desperately trying to restrain himself.

You don’t comment on the obvious, of his presence orbiting around you whether consciously or not—and you allowing him to do so. Just maybe, you found it more pleasing than you'd like to admit, seeing this side of him that only revealed itself the longer he continued to seek you out. It felt as if this version of Damian, was only yours.

"Tell me about your father."

Three years have passed since the incident. At thirteen, Damian still sucks in coming up with excuses when he visits your sleeping quarters. His excitement had been brimming since your arrival, obvious through his impatience, when you returned to the League with more collections piled under your bundles of cloth to prepare for a harsh winter—comics, manga, posters, you name it.

You don't tell Damian that you purposely brought more Batman publications, just because you liked the way he furiously flipped through the pages—or snuck in more shoujo, because you noticed how he secretly cared for the endings more than he'd like to admit.

Comics are scattered around the both of you, and he's tucked under your sheets as the lamp shines a low, muted orange over his features. His gaze reflects a hazel-like hue, the green in his eyes mixed with a softened, yellowed rim.

"Haven't you collected most of his depictions?" He mocks lowly. "Stories by my mother barely compare to your obsession with my father."

You snort, because sure, you're the one obsessed with him. Deciding that mocking him could be reserved for another time, you push forward. "You say none of it is real."

He tuts condemningly. "Because it isn't."

"So, tell me." You murmur. "You say he's a great man."

"He is." Damian huffs with a hint of pride. "There is no man my grandfather respects more than my father. His detective prowess and his martial skills, it is only a waste that he did not continue his training. He would have been carrying the League's legacy, if he had accepted my grandfather's offer."

"Do you hate him for it?" You swallow, your words touching a forbidden territory. "For leaving this world behind."

The faint smile in Damian's lips drops at your question. You're nearly convinced he's one breath away from telling you to drop the subject, but he doesn't. He does that less nowadays, pushing you away. "...Hatred is useless. He has made his choice, and I must fill the gap that he has left."

Your brows furrow at his choice of words. The way his tongue stressed on the word, must. "...Because you want to?"

He nods firmly, leaving no room for hesitation. "I will make my grandfather proud."

"Isn't it pressuring?" You ask, your head already weighing heavy just at the thought of it. "To be the one and only heir of the Ra's Al Ghul. He is... harsh on you."

Ah, was that too on the nose? You've been noticing the strange dynamic between Damian and Ra's, as if they were master and pupil, rather than family of the same blood. It's no secret that Damian admires his grandfather with a loyalty carved of steel, but you can never forget that look on Damian's face... when Ra's had declared his hesitation as weakness. That barely concealed fear swarming in Damian's eyes.

“My grandfather—” Damian rushes through gritted teeth. “—I am and always will be his sole heir. His trust to shape the world he’s envisioned is given to me, because I am worthy—because he deems me worthy.”

Your brows furrow, and—it isn't pity, but your heart aches unwillingly. “You don’t have to convince me that he loves you, Dami.” You whisper.

He scoffs, abrasive and rushed. “I do not need to convince you. He is family. He has told me himself—of my value, of how the combination of my father's blood and his teachings will make me his greatest pupil. Of course he—”

His words falter, quieting into a thickened silence. It had hung right there, on the tip of his tongue. What was making him hesitate?

“Do you think your family will love you—even if you’re not worthy?” You ask after a moment.

Damian doesn’t reply you. The silence stretches, and you think you’ve found it. That aching core that made him who he is. The reason why he has never failed—even with every task and expectation soaring higher than before, even when exhaustion plagues him and discipline carves him raw off anything but his defined role.

“I would.” You mutter, and you're not sure why you're saying this. It's not like your opinion matters over his family's, a stranger to blood. “As your wife, I mean. You have many roles to fill, but as my husband, I don’t really have any expectations.”

He’s quiet still, and you almost believe he’s fallen asleep, right beside you in your mattress. He had overexerted himself today during training, gruelling his body past its limits—till it reached a newer level surpassing his previous record. Maybe that's why he still hasn’t left your room, hidden under your sheets and laying beside you to hide the ghastly bruises coating his arms.

“That’s what a moron would say.” He finally speaks, his voice a weaker imitation of itself. “You should have expectations for your future husband.”

Surprised he was willing to delve into a topic like this, when even the mention of romance and marriage used to make his cheeks flush—you turn your head towards his shadowed silhouette with a delicate curiosity.

“And what are these expectations?” You prod. “I’ll let you define them since you’re the one who has to live up to your words.”

Your question catches him off-guard, and his lips part in a rare loss for words. “Well—for one, a husband should swear their life to protect their wife.” He answers, the tone of his voice off—awkward. Making him sound more his age than he usually does. “To be her shield and sword.”

You blink slowly. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing?”

He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “And a husband should make sure their wife is of good health.”

These all sound… incredibly familiar. Your lips curl into a knowing smile, and you hide it behind your palm, pressed against your mouth.

“And?” You press on, muffled by your fingers.

“I suppose a husband should spend time with their wife.” He admits, and you're sure even in the dim light, his ears must be a bright red. “Why else would you be paired with another in a vow sealed for life?”

“That was… the most romantic thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.” You tease. “Have you been sneaking another read at my shoujo?”

“Silence.”

Your laughter trickles under the sheets, muffled by the cotton as you close your eyes, a warm smile etched in your lips. Maybe your arrangement wasn’t so bad after all—if it meant Damian was willing to take his role as your betrothed so seriously. Who would’ve thought—that little, bratty kid with the tongue of a viper, would turn out so considerate?

"Those are your words, not mine." You taunt. "You're the one who has to keep your promises—since you made them yourself."

He scoffs lowly, but much—much later, when your eyelids grow heavy and the edges of your room blur into one, you hear his voice, soft—unguarded in the mistaken belief that you've fallen asleep. "Of course I will."

At sixteen, Damian sneaks you out for the first time. Despite his discipline, years of knowing him has revealed the underlying rule-breaking tendencies running through his veins. He's practically memorised the blind spots where guards loosen up during patrol, especially in the crooks where only he could climb.

His hand is wrapped around your waist, stabilising you as you climbed into an abandoned watchtower, hidden behind tiles of roofing. At your first peek as your hands make contact with softened snow coating the tiles, your breath stills in awe. A rare snowfall has coated the entire mountain terrain, twisting the surrounding forests into an icy, winter wonderland.

A huff of warm breath leaves your lips, caught off-guard as Damian climbs up, offering you a hand and lifting you onto the platform, which overlooks the mountain valleys where the frozen river separates the banks. The sun hasn't completely risen, and in the serene quiet of the world, you suspect maybe only you and Damian were blessed with this rare sight.

"You—woke me up at the crack of dawn for sightseeing?" Your teeth chatter slightly as you spoke, a gust of wind numbing your reddened cheeks.

He huffs a low breath, light snow particles dusting his lashes. Looking over to you, you spot a rare amused smirk. A heavy weight drops onto your shoulders—his coat. He doesn't give you a chance to process or tease him, his lips parting to speak.

"You were always boasting of your homeland and its beauty." He mocks, a puff of air leaving his lips. "You know I'm not fond of letting you gain the upper hand."

You scoff. "As if you've ever let me have the upper hand, Dami."

The nickname rolls off easier when it's just the two of you alone. Something you had once picked up, teasing him when you overheard his mother calling out for her son in a sweet, low voice. It had reddened his ears in such a violent red that you never lost the habit of doing it.

It doesn't affect him as much as it did the first many times, much to your chagrin, but he still blinks slowly, processing the soft call of his nickname like a feline, before forcing himself to look away from your face, a slow bob of his Adam's apple.

"This is where I come to—rest." He admits. "No one will finds us here."

He's showing you a place that has previously only been reserved for him. His hiding spot.

You swallow thickly, unable to form your strange, erratic heartbeat into proper words. "You sure this isn't you orchestrating my murder before we're wed?"

He snorts, hand tugging you closer so you'll have a clearer view of the terrain. His back envelops you with warmth, shielding you from the gusts of chilling wind, and his hand comes up to shadow yours, guiding your index finger with his own towards the river banks.

"On the left." His low voice brushes past your ear. "Those are hunting grounds. In the spring, that's where animals are most fond of frolicking—and you'll find the rarest beasts only known in these lands."

Right, you're usually back in your homelands for spring. You've gotten used to the cold, near unbearable winters in the mountains here—that imagining the lands covered in green instead of frost, was almost impossible.

"To the right." He gestures, coaxing your hand once more. "That path leads towards the waterfalls. The spring water is said to be blessed with good fortunes."

"Your grandfather bathes in those too?" You tease.

Damian's chest rumbles lowly, amusement flickering in his features when you twist your head slightly to meet his gaze. "Focus." He mutters, a warm breath falling over your neck that has goosebumps appearing down your skin.

You turn your gaze back towards the lands, his lands. You realise he's teaching you, helping you understand the terrain because... in a few years from now, this will be your home.

"It is beautiful." You admit. The sun has risen past the spruce trees, coating the icicles with a warm, emitting golden light.

"It is yours." He reminds you.

You blink, unable to contain your—what was this feeling? This strange, erratic tugging in your chest. You've gotten used to teasing Damian, to his grumblings and pulling of your sleeves as he drags you wherever he pleased.

"Isn't it common sense that you are to accompany me?" He once scoffed, ears brimming a faint red. "Your duty as a betrothed is to remain at my side."

It only occurs to you now, in this rare morning light—that without putting it into words, these years have blurred together and you've grown closer to him without realising. To be worthy of his trust in sharing this private spot with you, of his low murmurs in your ears as he mapped out the landscapes of the mountains, of his soft grip over your waist to ensure you didn't slip.

Without being ambushed by the expectations of others, you've begun to truly feel the true weight of being his betrothed on your shoulders. It no longer felt like a simple term encasing you in another role to fulfil, another shackle. It's... starting to mean something new, to be his—and he yours.

At seventeen, you successfully tackled Damian down in your shared trainings. It had been his suggestion, to resume shared classes if you truly meant to keep up with him.

”No way.” Your voice lowers in disbelief, sweat pooling at your brows, hovering over Damian’s disgruntled expression. “That was a completely, fair takedown. I won.”

He scoffs lowly, his expression unsurprised. “I was going easy on you.”

“Sure you did.” You tease, leaning in so that your nose brushes against his. His lashes flutter, a habit he doesn’t notice he does when he’s flustered. His ears redden, but he doesn’t push you off.

“This isn’t an advisable tactic for distracting your opponents.” He mutters hoarsely, voice dropping several octaves as his gaze narrows on you. You love when he does that, the green of his eyes darkening into a similar shade of spruce leaves shadowed by his lashes.

“It’s working on you, isn’t it?” You mutter.

His breath hitches, his chest slowly rising as if fighting for oxygen against the impact of your question. His mouth curls into a scowl, before finally pushing you off.

He shouldn’t have gone easy on you if you were willing to pull tricks like that. Warmth burns at the back of his neck, trickling down with sweat—and he runs a hand through his wet hair to discard useless thoughts concerning the whisper of your question brushing against his lips.

He hears your light laughter, a sound rare within these walls, but it’s delightful enough that he wishes he could bottle it and drink it dry—another mad thought only you’re capable of summoning.

He only catches himself smiling—a foolish mistake, when he turns his head away to avoid your teasing gaze. His eyes lock onto another pair matching his own. His mother was watching him with a set line across her lips—disapproval. The twitch in his lips drops immediately.

When had she returned?

Careless. It's an immediate reprimand, and he senses an error he's made, somewhere lost between the languid smiles you dragged out of him, and his own guard loosening around you. Too often, has he gotten used to indulging in your presence, that he has forgotten the very reason why the exchanges of your smiles and banter never happened in public, around the many eyes and ears surrounding the estate.

A strong union was encouraged, but it was also expected to be emotionless, a mere contractual linkage. If word got around that there he carried a genuine fondness, it would complicate everything. A strategy meant to strengthen his legacy will become a thorn at his side, something easily exploited.

When his instructor dismisses him, he finds his mother stationed outside the corridor. He hasn't seen her in nearly a week, sent off on an escapade his grandfather has ordered her for, and he snuffs out any relief at the sight of her uninjured—or disappointment when his mother's eyes remain narrowed upon his arrival.

Talia Al Ghul stands before him, gaze assessing. “Pulling your punches?”

His jaw twitches. "It is practice, Mother."

His response does not please her.

“Remember, Damian.” His mother’s voice echoes along the walls. “Weakness does not survive in the world we shall build.”

Damian flinches at the accusation. It is not weakness, he wants to argue. You are not his weakness.

Yet, he sees it. The knowing, the pity in his mother’s eyes. She has stood in his place, and till this day—he’s never truly unraveled the truth from his mother’s tightly sealed lips. She once whispered of a secrets she cherished when he was but a boy, still soft enough to lay in her arms without being deemed weak for coveting her embrace. When it had been only the two of them, for his father never returned.

“Your purpose is greater than fleeting, young affection.” Her voice doesn't waver, carrying a tone that is meant to will him from disobeying. “Your grandfather has gifted you with the right to reign over his empire. You will not lose this honor.”

"That thought has never left my mind." He mutters, for it is the truth. How could he ever forsake his grandfather's blessing, to be born with an honor only he is worthy of holding?

A loud slam echoes through the corridors before he can convince his mother further, and he makes the mistake of searching for you instinctively with his gaze. He feels the way his heart thrashes into his ribcage when he finds your body pinned to the ground through the agape door, your expression twisted in pain. His fingers twitch to reach out for you. To be your shield.

Weakness. The voices that have judged his every action, every word, line of thought—combine into one coherent word that slithers down his throat.

His mother places a hand on his shoulder, her voice softening in a way that slithers through his defenses. “I understand, my child. More than you realise—which is why you must listen.”

His fists tighten, digging crescent moons into his palms. He must not be attached. Before his mother’s suspicions are proven right, before his grandfather notices—he mustn’t let you be his weakness. For as much as alliances have let his grandfather prevail in his reign, allies are as easily cut off the moment they no longer serve their purpose to the League.

If even a possibility of you being a liability holds true, you will be eliminated.

He will—no, he must protect you. Even if it’s from himself.

Damian has remained distant ever since that training. You had thought it was mere pride—it was your first success in tackling him down after all. Despite your attempts to coax him out of his sudden walls by teasing him softly, he does not budge.

It felt like a slap to your face when it was announced that your trainings were to return to being one-on-one. A horrid, cruel prank that demanded an explanation. Yet, by the end of the first week of this sudden change, his footsteps do not come by your door.

The comics he once poured over with you remained in their kept box, too painful to scour through when reading them lacked the company of his disgruntled expression and opinionated comments. Even during meals, he opts for different timings—and you end up sitting alone, poking at your fruit with no voice ranting to you on the importance of iron in a cold climate like his.

The silence gnaws at you, and loneliness accompanies you as a shadow when you return to your chambers, lips bitten to silence the ache in your chest and the tears that slide down your cheeks when the night grows too cold, and the wind whips at the windows.

Three months pass by in cyclical days, with hope dying out in your chest when Damian’s shadow doesn’t even cross ten feet of yours during the night and day. You catch servants pitying you, believing you to be thrown away by their master, his affections souring dry. Your own instructor berates you for your lack of focus, and again for your anger that slips between the cracks of your fists pummeled into the punching bags, spilling its contents over the floor.

Controlled. Composed. Obedient.

You didn’t know how to be those things anymore. Not when you had begun to see this place as a home after all these years, accompanying Damian’s side. Exposed to his humanity and a warmth that still lingers in his soul, despite the freezing cold of his climate and family.

After all, he had been the one who promised you, didn't he? Made you promise too, in that quiet, indirect way of his—that your first duty to him was to be his companion.

The loss wasn't only your routine, or your consistent stability as Damian’s betrothed—but also... your best friend. In a world as cold and isolating as the only one you've ever known, you never expected he would take his company from you too.

For the first time in years, when your winter visit is over and you return to your homelands—you choose not to return to the League.

When Damian hears of the news—of your delayed visit, with claims from your family that your trainings with Damian has been more than sufficient and you will continue your own studies in your homeland, he should have felt relieved.

He was—he had to be. No longer did he have to battle himself every morning, to avoid the path he’s succumbed to for years when passing your room, spotting your shadow illuminated by the dim light of your lamp. A room now desolate of your belongings and character, posters and colourful bedsheets removed in a hollow ache of what used to be a comforting sight. He didn’t have to wrestle with discipline, at the sight of your lonely gaze that lingered on his silhouette, twisting something horrid in his chest.

He wasn’t mourning the loss of your laughter, or your warmth. Distractions—that’s all it was. These pointless, fleeting memories that flickered in a passing servant’s movement, similar to your height—or when he stumbled over a fallen manga stuffed in the corner of your room's shelves, forgotten and torn in its pages.

He does not miss you, because you are not his weakness. He will function perfectly as he always has, even in your absence—because to admit anything else other than that is to give power to—No, he has never let himself linger on that teetering, dangerous edge. If he were to admit it, he'll never recover from his admission. So long as he didn’t let the words slip from his lips, and his heart didn’t tremor too strongly when his fingers flip over the teared pages of the volume you had left in your absence, hidden under his sheets. He does not miss you, because doing so will only endanger you.

So... why couldn't he stop these incessant thoughts of you, consuming his every waking moment? Not only have you left a gaping hole in his wake, but you refuse to leave him to rest even in his dreams, haunted by your tears and a piercing disappointment in your gaze. He hates making you cry. He hates it so much, that he has to remind himself, hand over his chest when he wakes, that it is not real. That you are gone, and you are better off for it.

...

The mountain peaks seemed more intimidating in your mind. Once looming over you, towering giant waves as a child—the pointed edges have now disappeared into the greyed clouds. Up at the highest point, that is where you shall be married.

To your betrothed whom you haven’t seen in three years. Unanswered letters on his part, cancelled visitations on yours, Damian has completely isolated himself from you aside from name.

Your gown feels impossibly heavy on your limbs. The paint on your lips has long dried, and your legs have gone numb from the journey. You had always known this was the outcome—set before Damian had even mattered to you as more than a shackle. Today, Damian—your betrothed, a blurred figure in your memories despite your many attempts to recall the green flecks of his eyes, the warmth of his scarred hands—he will be the one to place a ring on your finger and seal this arrangement.

You will be his wife, and he, your husband.

You wonder if he has grown any taller, his scowl any crueler. The hidden twitches in his expression, did they still shine through when the smallest, mundane things astonished him? Did he still sneak up to that hidden watchtower, observing the faint cracks of ice flowing along the rivers when winter began to thaw?

Did he still secretly flush reading shoujo, or has he never touched a single page since you left? You had left a singular volume in your room years ago, but you doubt he would’ve found it. It was his favourite—you would know because his eyes always lingered on the title, despite all your efforts to push him to take it for himself.

You know you're only avoiding the most likely truth—that you wouldn’t recognise the man you’ll marry. He wasn’t a boy anymore—who once carried the world’s weight on his shoulders. By now, he must’ve already learnt to harness it in the palms of his hands—without weakness, without attachment. That is the way of the League, and it shall be his.

The journey uphill is no easy feat, requiring careful turns to ensure there is no skidding along the icy roads, and the slow trickling of time has made you recklessly sentimental. You didn’t need this whirlwind path down memory lane, not when you were a mere pawn used as a symbol for this union.

Not when he's made it clear with his aversion, his piercing silence—that you have always mattered only to that extent.

The vehicle hasn’t moved in minutes, and your surroundings are deafeningly silent aside from the harsh whips of cold wind. Your gaze flickers to the darkened windows, to the deep caverns that disappeared into mist.

The car has been in a standstill for too long. Enough for your gut to churn in anxious dread. No… something was wrong.

Your knuckles knock against the separator between you and the driver, an opaque black blocking your sights from seeing what was up ahead. It's a simple three knocks that is meant to be returned with a knock pattern you're used to.

...There is no response.

Your heart stills, unable to breathe. There are only two possible options. The driver either hasn't heard you, which is nearly impossible from the weight of your fists against the material. Or he has left the vehicle, possibly dead. And someone else has taken his place.

"Is everything alright, miss?" An unfamiliar, detached voice responds to your knocks, snapping you out of your calculations.

Your test has answered your suspicions. You can barely think over the erratic pounding of blood in your ears, but you muster a response before the culprit suspects that you know something is off. "Fine." You respond quickly, eyeing the child lock that's been activated on both doors on either side. "How long is the duration till we reach the League?"

"Not too long from now, miss."

Lies. From the angles of the mountain peaks alone, you can tell there's easily an hour left to reach the League. You are trapped, on a one-way road that's accompanied by a cliff to its left, with a fall that's non-survivable. Even if you escaped now, you'll be easily captured with nothing but snow and gravel in your surroundings.

There is no choice. You'll have to play along till you reach your destination. Your phone has no cellular connection up in these mountains, but you can only hope to send an SOS and it'll catch onto a satellite, anything—to alert the League, to warn Damian.

“A husband should swear their life to protect their wife.” You hope that at the very least, he'll keep his first promise to you.

Damian has lost. He has obeyed his grandfather’s every command, to keep you safe from his prying eyes, to prove that you are nothing more than a useful pawn—and not his weakness. He has parted himself from you for years, despite his every thought being consumed by you even with the distance, carving himself hollow through burying trials and trainings and bloodshed, and he has still lost.

You have gone missing. Kidnapped, despite being escorted by your homeland's guards. All vehicles have veered off into an untraceable path, and if it hadn't been for your quick thinking, he wouldn't have found your blinking location sent from your phone before it had mysteriously disappeared too without a trace.

He’s barely present in this nonsensical meeting, discussions of the culprit and tactics to recover you—when he should already be down in the mountain valleys, looking for you himself. He has failed to protect you.

His grandfather doesn’t bother with the pretense of caring. His hand waves loosely, as if he had matters more important to deal with than the loss of his grandson’s betrothed. “Send men to find her. Alive or dead, as long as we have found her body. That shall suffice as an explanation to her family. Our alliance can continue in other forms.”

Damian’s blood runs cold. How dare he—acting as if you were replaceable. Something horrid churns in his chest, an anxious, writhing pain over the flashing thought of you dead. If this world has lost you, it is not one he could remain in. All his years of teachings, of the new world he's meant to build—he'd let it all burn if you were its sacrifice. He has had enough of this pretense, of this madness.

“You will not send these fools in my place.” It is the first time he’s spoken in this entire meeting, and his voice slithers almost inhumanely—daring anyone to cross him. “I will find her.”

“You will not.” The order cracks like a whip. All nearby warriors freeze, but Damian doesn’t slow in his movements as his fingers scout across the map laid out before him.

“We do not know who is desperate enough to threaten this alliance.” His grandfather reminds him, his voice tinged with slight impatience—viewing Damian as an incompetent boy who’s refusing to see the bigger picture. “Be wise, Damian. She is a mere pawn that can be replaced. To go off on your own, when your importance to the League—"

“She is not a pawn.” Damian snarls. “She is my wife.”

Ra’s glare falters at the sight of his grandson, willing to defy him. His narrowed eyes sharpen, darkening in fury. “You will go against my word, boy?”

It's a challenge, his last warning for Damian to step down.

“You may view this as a mere alliance, but I pledged my loyalty to her.” Damian declares. “She awaits for me. I will not fail her.”

“If you turn away from me now.” Ra's threatens. “You will never be welcomed back, Damian. Choosing your weakness over your purpose, is a fool’s dying wish. You will regret this.”

Damian’s back is turned to his grandfather, his fingers trembling over the grip of his katana. His head raises, facing forward without once looking back.

“She is not my weakness.” Damian announces. “And if I find her blood soiled in the snow, I shall make it your life’s regret for stalling my time—and no Lazarus Pit can save you then.”

He hears the sound of his grandfather’s sword un-sheave, and he readies his own—his steps never faltering towards the gates.

"Damian—you insolent child! I command you to stop."

He must not make this long. You are his priority, and there will be nothing stopping him from getting to you.

Blood streams from your forehead. Not yours, but of your captors surrounding you, littering the floor. Exhaustion plagues your bones, and every movement forced from your limbs is sluggish from what must be an hour of brutal survival—battling again and again with nothing but a stolen sword and numbed fingers.

The League's training has prepared you for this, but even you're at your limit. How much more can you take—before you collapse too? You hear more yelling echoing from beyond the walls trapping you, and a heaved sigh escapes your lips. You're so tired, and you don't know how much longer you can remain on your own two feet.

The frantic shouts echo into piercing screams, before it's replaced with a sudden, deafening silence. You force yourself to crane your neck from the wrecked floorboards, gaze locked onto the closed door.

The grip of the sword in your hand tightens, the blade trembling from the spasms in your fingers, and you ready yourself. It's a simple stance, one Damian taught you long ago.

"To preserve your energy." His hands guide your waist, linger over your skin. "A simple, head-on strike."

How rude of him—to plague your thoughts even here, when life is dancing on the thin edge that's bound to snap.

The door slams open. You squint your eyes, vision blurring as your steps forward tremor. Then, it clears—and you're convinced you must still be unconscious, hallucinating a dream that you desperately wanted to be true. You let out a disbelieving huff, close to a maniacal laugh. Your grip loosens on your sword, the blade falling to the ground with a loud clang. Finally.

How much time has been wasted in between these lonesome years, since you've met his eyes head-on? No, it's been far too long.

Your knees bend in on themselves, and the world tilts in its axis. Only your betrothed could fill you with such mind-numbing relief that strength would leave you so easily.

His silhouette is a blur, moving almost inhumanely across the many bodies you've slaughtered. You only register his touch, your body having never even touched the floorboards, when your heavy eyelids force themselves open again. Despite the impulse to fade away into your unconscious, you fight it because—you need to see him up-close with your own eyes.

Damian has grown taller, shoulders broader than you remember under all his armour. Time has carved his face into sharpened edges, stained with blood trickling down his cheekbones. His eyes finally familiarise themselves in your mind, that haunting green that you've been trying to remember since they faded from your memories. It's softer than you remember, his gaze. Trembling, frantic—desperate as he finally reaches you.

He's kneeling, and that's what snaps you of your daze. The heir of the demon head, Damian Al Ghul, he never kneels for anyone. The grip of his hands pull you into his chest the moment he meets your widened gaze. His chest heaves, a shuddering breath leaving his lips. Relief, you recognise—a shaking Damian was holding you in his arms as if he needed you to breathe.

“Took—you long enough.” You cough out, barely able to inhale without the soreness of your body punishing you. “Thought you gave up on me.”

“Never.” His fingers dig tighter into your frame, and you don't mind it even if it digs into the bruises he's unaware of. He's here—and real. “You are mine—the only opening for Death to find you is if he found me first."

You... are his?

“...Is this you repaying back for the ointment?” You mumble, light-headed from the pain and exhaustion. “Or something more.”

He’s silent, and you think maybe you screwed it up by mentioning that incident. You promised secretly after all, to never speak a word of his moment of weakness.

“Don’t abandon me.” You whisper, hugging him as tightly as you could with your weakened grip. Reality and hope are converging, and you find yourself lost in time—back to when that stubborn boy had just begun to open up to you. Don't turn your back, and leave. “I’m sorry for mentioning it.”

“I will never abandon you.” He responds immediately, his voice a frightened tremor, as if your words have struck him. “Never again. From the moment you chose to defy orders and save me, I already knew I was past the point of return. You are my beloved, and I will always come for you.”

"I made a promise, remember?" He swears. "I will be your sword and your shield. And—you need to keep yours."

Your... promise? "What's—that?"

"To remain by my side." His hands are now assessing, checking your pulse, the blood that covers your gown to make sure it isn't yours. "That's all you need to do from now on."

"I thought you... didn't want me anymore." You mutter weakly.

He lets out a strained breath. His head falls onto your shoulder, buried in the crook as he whispers. "I have always wanted you."

His admission is all that keeps you conscious.

"Even when I knew it was wrong, I allowed you to be my weakness. I could not push you away." He confesses. "I have loved you from the moment you stumbled into my room, declaring yourself as my wife. I have loved you in every single moment spent, in every memory I refused to part from. You are my wife, and I will never promise myself to anyone but you."

"I love you." His voice is softer than you've ever heard it, so raw in its honesty that you have no choice but to accept it. "I have failed you, and I shall never make that mistake ever again. From this moment on, I will never fail you."

The way he's holding onto you now, as if you were his only anchor in this world—how could you ever doubt the desperation seared into his voice, his touch?

"What's going to happen to us?" You ask weakly. This bloodshed will complicate the circumstances of the arrangement, his presence here will surely exacerbate the process.

"We shall be wed." He answers, his arms wrapping around you and hoisting you gently into a bridal-carry. He doesn't falter once as he walks towards the exit, his grip a stable anchor, latching you to him.

"Then?" You ask tentatively.

"Your captors will pay the price for their insolence." His voice darkens, blood staining his shoes. You can't tell if that came from outside, when he had forced his way in, or from your own doing. "Whatever is left of them, they shall perish from this world."

"...I will keep you by my side." He murmurs. "Till spring arrives, and I shall bring you to the waterfalls. When it is summer, I will watch you soak in the sunlight that you adore, to your heart's full content. When autumn comes, I will carry you on my shoulders so that you shall collect as many crimson leaves as you'll like. In the winter, I shall bring you to the watchtower, and we can watch the snow fall together."

"What happens after winter?" For as long as you have known Damian, you had only been able to keep him encased in memories of winter, of snow landing on his lashes.

A soft kiss is pressed to the crown of your head. "We shall begin over again, till your heart's desire."

"I'd like that." You whisper, eyes drooping shut in the weight of your exhaustion.

"Rest, my beloved." His voice is a comforting lure, and it works. "When you wake, it shall all be sorted. I will take care of everything."

Distance hasn't changed the way your body caves into his, the tension of survival fading from your bones because you know. There is nowhere safer than in Damian's arms.

He'll keep his promise, and in his embrace, you'll live to see the snow melt into spring. With his hand in yours, there is nothing more sturdy, more devoted than the bond sealed between the two of you. From the moment you snuck into his room all those years ago, carrying a simple balm for a child that mattered more to you than some political union.

From the moment he uttered his promises to you under the bedsheets as your betrothed—your husband, he vowed to keep them till his dying breath, and even then. For there is no world... Damian has envisioned without you by his side.

His one and only beloved.

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

But then one of your favorite ladies had a baby, and Baelor knew it was only a matter of time before you had the conversation about children again when you came back with tears in your eyes after meeting the baby because, “Baelor, he’s so tiny, and his feet, his feet are so tiny!” You didn’t sound stressed or worried about doing something wrong, as you used to when you were around a baby.

Not only that, but you even started offering to babysit for your friend's child whenever she needed a break. Baelor couldn't help but notice how beautiful you looked as you carefully held the baby, how you smiled every time he babbled contentedly, and how you always made sure his blanket covered him well, keeping him nice and warm.

"Do you think ours would be just as adorable?" you ask one day without thinking, your eyes fixed on the baby as he tries to grasp your hand.

Baelor looks at you with warm eyes. Thinking that one day he will see this image again, only that you will be playing with his child on the carpet in your chambers, a baby with dark hair, a baby who would be the perfect combination of the two of you.

“Even more,” he replies without hesitation, his voice so warm it feels like a blanket on your shoulders.

But Baelor knows that what really makes you buy into the idea of ​​having children is when you see him comforting Rhae after she falls while playing with Egg, ruining her hairstyle. You look like you want to jump on him, and he sees you blush when his gaze meets yours as you stare adoringly as he gently combs Rhae's hair.

Your husband lets you ponder the idea; he didn't say anything as he watched you start sewing baby clothes. He patiently waited for you to bring it up, but he never imagined it would be while he was fucking you.

“I-I want you to come inside me,” you said urgently, your breath ragged, as you realized he was close to climaxing. You knew exactly what sounds came from his mouth when he was about to collapse. “Please, uncle,” you begged, your hands pulling him closer.

The groan that escaped Baelor made your walls tighten around his cock. “Are you sure?” he asked, his hand firmly on your hip.

“Baelor, I want a baby, please.” Your voice sounded so sweet, finally admitting what you so desperately wanted.

This time, your uncle's groan was guttural, and his thrusts became even deeper, eliciting a squeal from you. It was as if your words had flipped a switch in him; the intensity of his thrusts, the sound of his skin slapping against yours, the bed creaking incessantly. Perhaps on another occasion, you would have been worried about all the commotion you were making, but you couldn't think of anything but Baelor and how good his cock felt, as he whispered how beautiful you would look with his baby in your womb while kissing and nibbling your neck.

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The thought lingers longer than it should, warming you in a way that makes your grip on the shelf tighten just slightly. You force your attention back to the task at hand, focusing on the final stretch of work, on the satisfaction of seeing the last of the dust cleared away, the last books set in their proper place.

The library, at last, feels complete. You are perched high enough that the room stretches below you, the quiet undisturbed save for the soft movement of your own work— “It is coming along nicely in here.” Lyonel's voice breaks through the silence.

You scream. The sound is sharp, unrestrained, tearing from you before you can stop it as the book slips from your hand and you grasp the ladder instinctively, your balance faltering for a fraction of a moment that feels far longer than it should.

Lyonel is beneath you almost immediately. You do not see him move, but he is simply there, arms half-raised, ready to catch you if you so much as slip another inch. Your chest rises and falls too quickly, your breath uneven as you steady yourself, one hip braced awkwardly against a rung, your forehead dropping to your forearm as you try to collect yourself.

“I thought you heard me, my love—I am so sorry,” he says at once, the apology quick, genuine, his voice carrying a note of concern that cuts through the remnants of your fright. “I have never been known for light feet.”

You remain where you are for a moment longer, breathing, steadying, the echo of your own reaction settling into something far less dramatic now that the danger has passed. Slowly, you lift your head.

“You nearly killed me,” you say, your voice still breathless, though the edge of it has softened. His mouth shifts at that, not quite a smile, not quite anything else, but something that suggests he knows exactly how close he came to earning far worse for it.

“I will endeavor to announce myself more clearly,” he replies. You look down at him then, properly, and the sight of him—so composed, so solid, standing there as though catching you would have been the most natural thing in the world—pulls something quieter from you.

You exhale once more, slower this time. “…I did not hear you enter,” you admit, though the faintest trace of something else lingers beneath it, something that speaks more to where your thoughts had been than where your attention should have been.

His brow lifts slightly at that, though he does not press you. Instead, his gaze flicks briefly upward, assessing your position on the ladder with a practicality that returns as easily as his concern had come.

“And now?” he asks, his voice steadier. “Are you quite finished frightening yourself?”

The question is light, but there is something beneath it, something that remains attentive, as though he has not yet decided whether to step back or stay exactly where he is.

You glance at the final shelf, then back to him.

“Yes,” you say, quieter now. “I believe I am.” And though your heart has begun to settle—the awareness of him standing there, close enough to have caught you, does not fade quite so easily.

You begin your descent carefully, your hand sliding along the rail as you lower yourself toward him. When you are close enough, he reaches for you without hesitation, his hands finding your waist in a firm, steady grip. The contact is grounding, certain, and he guides you down the last step with an ease that leaves no room for misstep.

The moment your feet meet the ground, he does not release you. Instead, he turns you toward him, his hands still at your waist, and you barely have time to draw breath before his mouth is on yours. The kiss is immediate, unrestrained in a way that steals the last of your composure, his warmth pressing into you as though he means to replace the lingering echo of your fear with something else entirely. His face shifts against yours, nuzzling into the curve of your neck, and the sensation draws a soft, startled sound from you that turns quickly into something lighter, something closer to laughter.

Your hands find his shoulders without thought, gripping lightly as you steady yourself against him, the solid breadth of him beneath your palms impossible to ignore. He does not pause, does not give you the space to retreat back into yourself. Instead, he moves you with him, guiding you backward across the room with a quiet insistence that feels less like force and more like inevitability.

The edge of the table meets the backs of your thighs before you realize where he has led you. He lifts you easily, as though the effort required is negligible, setting you atop the heavy oak surface you had been working at earlier in the afternoon. The shift is quick, seamless, the world tilting briefly as parchment rustles beneath you, the careful order you had maintained dissolving into quiet disarray.

And still—his hands remain on you.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice lowered to something near a whisper. The impropriety of it rises sharply in your mind, bright and insistent, every rule you have been taught pressing forward in quiet alarm. Yet beneath it, something else stirs, something darker, something that curls low in your belly and refuses to be ignored.

“I am appreciating my wife,” he answers, as though the act requires no explanation, as if it is the most natural thing in the world to claim this space, this moment, this closeness. His hand leaves your thigh and rises to your face, cradling your jaw with a steadiness that leaves no room for retreat. His thumb traces slowly along your cheekbone, and his eyes hold yours in a way that makes it impossible to look away. You understand what this is, even as it unfolds. There is no distance here, no shadow to retreat into, no softness of darkness to hide behind. In the clear light of the library, everything is seen. Every flicker of hesitation, every trace of want.

He leans in, and your breath stills as his mouth finds the place where your neck meets your shoulder. It is not a kiss at first. It is the warmth of his breath, the faint scrape of stubble against your skin, a promise held just at the edge of fulfillment. When his lips finally press there, soft and deliberate, your breathing falters, your body responding before your mind can follow. Your hands, which had been braced against the table, lift without instruction, your fingers threading into the thick, unruly curls of his hair, holding him there as though you cannot quite bear the thought of distance.

A low sound leaves him, a hum that vibrates against your skin, and then his mouth changes, opening slightly as he draws against you. The sensation is sharp and immediate, a pull that travels deeper than it should, settling somewhere within you that feels far too aware. Your back arches in response, subtle but undeniable, your body pressing forward against the confines of your dress. The fabric suddenly feels too rough, too restrictive, as though it exists only to keep you from fully feeling what is already unfolding.

“Lyonel,” you breathe, and the name leaves you differently now, stripped of caution, shaped by something far less restrained.

He does not answer with words. His mouth moves instead, tracing upward along your throat, each press of his lips deliberate, each touch leaving its mark in a way that lingers. His hands shift, no longer still, exploring you with a confidence that feels both familiar and new in its intensity. They glide along your sides, tracing the curve of your ribs, and your breath hitches as his thumbs brush beneath your breasts, the sensitivity there heightened by the barrier of fabric that does little to dull the sensation.

He cups you then, his hand shaping to the fullness of you, and the response it draws is immediate, a soft, unguarded sound slipping past your lips before you can contain it. You become aware of yourself in a way that feels almost overwhelming, of the rise and fall of your chest, of the way your body shifts beneath his touch, of the pressure of his hand holding you as though he has already decided you are his to know entirely.

When he pulls back, it is only enough to look at you, and the weight of his attention is as tangible as his touch. His eyes drop briefly, drawn to where his hand rests against you, and there is no subtlety in the way he regards you. The appreciation there is open, heated, and it settles over your skin like something physical, something that leaves you flushed, aware, and undeniably wanted.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low enough that you feel the words more than you hear them. His breath is warm along the damp trail his mouth has left behind, and it sends a shiver through you that you cannot quite contain. “What were you thinking about?”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, not enough to pull him away, only enough to steady yourself against him. Your breathing has lost its rhythm, uneven and unhidden, and the ache between your legs lingers as a steady, insistent pulse that echoes where his mouth has been.

“You do not need the encouragement,” you tease, though there is little steadiness in it. The words come light, breathless, shaped more by sensation than intention.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his expression open, pleased in a way that makes something in you tighten. His tongue presses briefly against his teeth, a small, knowing gesture that sends another wave of heat curling low in your belly.

“Oh, but I do crave it.” Lyonel nearly growls against you. His hands leave your breasts, sliding down the length of your body, tracing the curve of your waist before settling high on your thighs again. His thumbs begin to move, slow and deliberate, drawing circles along the inside of your legs just above your knees, each pass careful, maddening in its restraint.

You part your lips to answer, but he does not wait.

His mouth returns to your neck, and the sound that leaves you this time is brighter, less contained, laughter caught in something softer as his hands move along your sides with a familiarity that has already begun to settle into him. There is no hesitation in the way he touches you, no uncertainty in how he explores you. He has learned you quickly, and he uses that knowledge with quiet confidence.

One hand slides to the small of your back, pressing you forward until you feel the full solidity of him against you. The other remains on your thigh, its warmth seeping through the fabric, anchoring you there.

“Lyonel,” you say again, though the protest weakens beneath the laughter that follows. You tilt your head back without thinking, offering him better access. “You will not desecrate my library.” Lyonel hums softly against your skin, the sound carrying through you as he shifts closer, his breath warm against your ear. His body forms a solid line of heat against yours, from chest to thigh, and you feel him there, firm and unmistakable, pressing against the inside of your leg in a way that makes your toes curl within your slippers.

“I should like to do far more than that,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, roughened just enough to make the words linger. “Though I suspect my lady wife would object to the extent of my intentions.” The words settle between you, edged with amusement, but there is something deeper beneath it, something that feels like an invitation wrapped in challenge.

Your grip in his hair tightens slightly, not to stop him, not truly, but to keep yourself grounded against the pull of it. Your other hand rises to clutch at the heavy wool of his doublet, your knuckles paling as you hold on. The layers between you suddenly feel excessive, your dress, his clothing, all of it a barrier that only makes you more aware of what lies beneath.

His hand on your thigh inches higher, pushing the weight of your skirt upward. The cool air brushes against your skin, sharp against the heat of his touch. When his fingers reach the juncture of your legs, they pause only long enough to trace the line where your small clothes rest beneath your dress. He hooks a finger beneath the waistband.

Your entire body stills.

Your eyes open, meeting his at once, wide with something that is not only surprise, but something far more complicated, something that hums beneath your skin with equal parts shock and anticipation.

“Outside of the bedchamber?” you ask, your voice barely more than breath. His grin sharpens, something fierce and bright in it, his enjoyment of your reaction unhidden.

“The best pleasures are rarely kept to proper places,” he says, his tone firm, as though he is stating something unquestionable. “And I intend to show you that.”

His finger tightens, and with a slow, deliberate pull, he begins to draw the linen downward. The fabric of your smallclothes drags against your skin, catching slightly, and the sensation is almost unbearable in its intimacy. You feel it slide over your hips, down your thighs, your body lifting just enough at his guidance to allow it, the movement instinctive despite yourself.

The air meets you where you have never felt it before, cool and immediate, and it sends a sharp awareness through you that makes your breath falter again. You are exposed beneath the layers of your dress, open in a way that feels both dangerous and intoxicating, the contrast between what is hidden and what is not making every sensation sharper.

Lyonel let the garment fall, forgotten at his feet. His hand returns, not where you expect, not where your body quietly urges it, but to your bare thigh, resting there with a weight that feels deliberate, possessive. He leans in, his forehead coming to rest against yours, his eyes holding you there, close enough that your breath mingles with his.

“And what if your lady wife does not object?” you whisper, your voice quieter now, but no less deliberate.

Lyonel’s response is immediate—a low, rough sound that hums through him and into you, something caught between a laugh and something darker, something that settles low in your belly. His hand slides inward without hesitation, his fingers tracing a slow, heated path along your skin, and your body answers him before your thoughts can follow, a sharp movement against him as your grip tightens.

“Then,” he breathes, his mouth near your ear, his voice dipped low with warmth and something unmistakably sinful, “I shall fuck my wife in her library.”

His fingers do not linger in teasing. They find you, already slick, already wanting, and part you with a blunt, deliberate stroke. The sensation pulls a sound from you before you can stop it, your head tipping back as your body reacts in a way that feels impossible to contain. Your eyes fall closed, but his hand leaves you only long enough to find your jaw, his fingers firm as his thumb presses beneath your chin, guiding you back.

“Look at me,” he says, not harsh, but certain, leaving no room to slip away.

Your eyes open. He is watching you—truly watching you—the warmth in his expression still there, though sharpened now by something deeper, something that takes in every reaction you give him as though he means to savor it. One thick finger circles your entrance, pressing lightly but not entering, spreading the wetness that coats his skin. The quiet, slick sound fills the space between you, louder than it should be, intimate in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Gods,” he murmurs, his attention flicking downward only briefly before returning to your face, “you’re soaked for me. Look at you.” His voice lowers, rougher now. “All this…just from watching me? Will you be able to restrain yourself at the lists?”

He pushes a finger inside, just to the first knuckle, and your mouth falls open on a sharp inhale. “Your body’s clenching on nothing, love,” he continues, his tone dipping, edged with satisfaction. “Aching for me, isn’t it? Can’t even keep yourself still.”

Words slip beyond your reach. The feel of him, the filth leaving his mouth and slithering into your ear, the rough pad of his finger against your inner walls, the stretch—it narrows your focus until there is nothing else. He adds a second finger, stretching you wider, and your hips lift from the table without thought, chasing more, your body already answering him without permission.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, approval threaded through his voice. “There you are. Don’t hide it from me.” His fingers crook, pressing upward, and your vision blurs as a sound tears from you, louder now, less contained. “Is this what had you distracted earlier?” he asks, watching you closely. “Up on that ladder, thinking about me between your legs instead of your duties?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “It’s—ah—Lyonel—”

He hums at that, pleased, the sound low and satisfied. “Good girl.”

When he withdraws, it is slow, deliberate, the loss of him felt just as sharply as his touch. Your breath stutters, your body still reacting as he brings his hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he cleans his fingers with quiet, deliberate appreciation. There is no shame in it, no restraint—only the certainty of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Now,” he says, his voice thickened, grounded in something heavier. “Hold on to me.” Your hands tighten against him at once.

He moves to the laces of his breeches, the sound of leather and cloth filling the space between you, louder than it should be. There is nothing measured in it, only urgency threaded through familiarity. You keep your eyes on his as he has guided you to do, your breathing uneven, your chest rising and falling in a rhythm you cannot steady. The constriction of your bodice becomes unbearable, the fabric drawn tight across your breasts, every breath making you more aware of yourself beneath his attention.

Lyonel’s dark eyes flick downward, drawn by the movement, and his mouth parts slightly. The look he gives you settles over your skin like a hand—slow, deliberate, hungry.

He frees himself and steps back into you, into the space between your thighs, his hand lifting your skirts higher, exposing you fully to him, to the air, to the way your body is already waiting. The head of him presses at your entrance again, and he pauses there, letting you feel him, letting the weight of it settle.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice roughened now. You do, and what you see there is not loss of control—it is restraint barely held. “Tell me,” he says quietly, his mouth near yours, his breath warm as it brushes your lips. “Does this still feel like desecration?”

“Lyonel,” you breathe. 

His mouth curves, pleased, heat and fondness tangled together. “Gods, listen to you,” he murmurs, brushing your lips. “Say my name like that again and I won’t last a moment longer.” His hand guides himself, dragging just slightly against you, drawing a sharp, involuntary reaction from your body before he gives you more. “But I think you like that,” he adds, softer, teasing threaded with truth. “When I make you wait…when I make you need it.”

You barely manage a breath before his hand tightens at your hip and he pushes forward, filling you in one deep, steady motion that leaves no space between you. The stretch pulls a broken sound from you, your body arching as the fullness settles all at once, overwhelming, leaving no room for anything but him.

“Fuck,” he groans against you, the word slipping out unguarded, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stills for a moment, feeling you around him. “You feel…so fucking good.”

He gives you that moment, whether for you or for himself, it’s impossible to tell. His breath is uneven against your skin, his body tense with restraint. When he moves again, it is slower at first, deliberate, each thrust measured, dragging through you in a way that makes your toes curl.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his hand returning to your jaw, keeping you present with him. “Don’t drift off. I want you right here with me.” The rhythm builds gradually, steady and deep, each movement drawing more from you, your body beginning to follow him rather than fight it. The table beneath you shifts faintly, papers slipping, the quiet order of the room unraveling around you.

“You feel that?” he breathes against your skin. “How deep I am? How well you take me?” You nod, your breath uneven, your body moving with him now, meeting him. His attention flicks downward again, drawn to the way you respond, the way your breasts strain against your bodice with every thrust.

“I’m close,” you manage, your voice breaking.

“Not yet,” he says, not denying—dragging it out. “Stay with me a little longer.” He shifts, pressing you back to adjust his angle, and when he drives into you again, the sensation sharpens into something blinding.

“There,” he breathes. “That’s it—right there.” He keeps you there, keeps hitting it, his hand steady at your jaw, his eyes locked to yours as everything builds, coils, tightens— “Cum for me,” he murmurs, softer but no less commanding. “Let me feel it.” The tension snaps. Your body reacts all at once, your back arching, your hands gripping him as your release crashes through you, your voice breaking free, uncontrolled, raw.

He follows almost immediately, his control breaking with it, his body pressing fully into yours as he holds there, his breath rough against your skin. You fall back flat against the table, pulling Lyonel on top of you. For a moment, neither of you moves.

Only breath.

Only heat.

Only the aftermath of what you’ve done and where you've done it.

Lyonel lifts his head slowly, his expression softened but still marked by it, his hand brushing along your side in contrast to everything that came before.

“Outside the bedchamber,” he murmurs, a hint of satisfaction in his voice as he kisses your chest.

“You have made your point,” you whisper, still catching your breath, pulling him down to kiss you.

His laugh is quieter now against your lips, warmer, though no less certain. “That was only the beginning,” he says. And the way he looks at you makes it very clear he intends to prove it.

The work becomes something you begin to guard, though not from fear that it will be taken, but from a quieter instinct that settles into you without asking permission. You grow more aware of the life of the keep around you, of footsteps that pass without warning, of doors that open with little ceremony, of voices that drift closer than expected before receding again. Storm’s End is never still, not truly, and though that movement is not directed at you, it presses near enough that you begin to choose your moments with care.

You keep the materials folded neatly when you are not working, tucked beneath other tasks that would not invite interest, hidden in a way that does not look like hiding. When you return to it, you do so in the quieter hours, when the keep softens into itself and the corridors carry fewer interruptions. Even then, you listen as you work, your hands steady while your attention lingers beyond the small space you have claimed, attuned to anything that might disturb what you are making.

The needle passes through the fabric with a smooth, practiced motion, though your thoughts do not remain entirely with the task. They drift, drawn back to him in a way that has become familiar without ever being simple. You see him again as you had in the yard, the controlled power of him atop his mount, the way the world seemed to narrow to the line of his movement and the force of his strike. You had gone there with curiosity, with the intention to understand something that mattered to him.

You had not expected it to settle into you the way it did.

The favor takes shape beneath your hands, each stitch revealing more of what you have already decided it must be. You have chosen every detail with care, though you could not easily explain those choices aloud. The colors are not for display alone, but for what they hold, for what they suggest without declaring. The pattern is structured rather than ornamental, built to endure movement and impact rather than simply be seen.

You pause, turning the fabric slightly between your fingers, studying the progress you have made. There is meaning in it.

Your thumb brushes lightly over the stitching, testing its hold, and something settles more firmly within you as you look at it. This is not something made in passing. This is not a token meant to be forgotten when the spectacle ends. It carries weight, even now, before it has ever been worn.

A thought follows, quiet but insistent—if Lyonel wears this, he will carry something of you into that space.

The realization does not startle you, though it does not leave you untouched. It presses inward rather than outward, something steady that does not ask to be dismissed. You lower your gaze again and continue, your movements more certain now, your focus narrowing as though the act of making it has begun to take hold of you in return.

You think of the stories you have read, of favors given with little thought, of ribbons tied and forgotten, of tokens that flutter brightly and mean nothing once the tilt has passed. You imagine them scattered in the dirt, trampled beneath hooves, lost among the aftermath of competition.

This will not be that. You hoped it would not be that. 

The thread tightens as you secure another line, your fingers firm, your intent clearer than it had been when you began. You are not making something to be discarded. You are not offering something that can be dismissed as decoration.

If he carries it, it will matter.

The fire has burned lower without you noticing, its light shifting along the walls, drawing the room into deeper shadow. The change comes slowly, subtle enough that you do not mark the moment it happens, only the awareness of it after. The space feels more enclosed now, the edges of it less certain, the quiet settling more completely than it had before.

You still your hand, listening.

There is nothing immediate to mark concern, no sound that does not belong, no movement that draws attention. The door remains closed, the corridor beyond it distant and unseen, the keep continuing in its rhythm beyond your awareness.

Still, the silence lingers.

You glance toward the door without meaning to, your body reacting before your thoughts catch up, your attention sharpening as though expecting something to follow. Nothing does. The latch remains still, the space unchanged. You return to your work.

The needle moves again, the fabric yielding beneath your hands, the pattern continuing to take shape with careful precision. The unease does not deepen, but it does not fully leave either. It lingers faintly, like something remembered rather than experienced, something that watches from just beyond where your certainty rests.

You do not stop.

You continue, each stitch binding your intent more firmly into what you are creating, until the shape of it feels undeniable beneath your hands. Whatever presence the keep holds, whatever quiet has settled into the stone around you, does not break your focus.

You will finish this, and when you place it in his hand, it will not be mistaken for something easily given.

You do not realize how restless you are until you shift beneath Lyonel for what seems like the hundredth time since you’ve laid down, his arm tightening instinctively where it is wrapped around your waist, holding you against him as though your movement alone might pull you from the bed entirely. The room is dark save for the low burn of the fire, its embers casting a dim, uneven glow that leaves more shadow than light, and still your mind refuses to settle within it. Sleep hovers somewhere just beyond reach, close enough that you feel the absence of it, far enough that it does not take hold.

You shift again, your leg brushing along his as you try to find some position that will quiet the energy coiled inside you, though it only seems to make you more aware of it. The thought of the morning presses in without invitation, the journey waiting, the sea you have never crossed stretching wide and unknowable in your mind.

“Sleep,” Lyonel groans, his voice rough with exhaustion, his face pressing deeper into the pillow as though he might force the quiet to return by will alone.

“I cannot,” you answer, your voice softer, though no less certain, as you adjust once more beneath his arm. His hand moves, sliding along your side in a slow, half-conscious attempt to still you, his fingers splaying briefly against your waist before settling again. There is weight in it, familiar and grounding, though it does little to quiet the restless turn of your thoughts.

“You will not be able to sleep on the ship, I assure you,” he mutters, the words edged with the kind of certainty that comes from experience rather than guesswork. He shifts slightly behind you, pulling you closer, his chest pressing more firmly against your back as though proximity alone might anchor you in place.

The mention of it only sharpens your awareness. You can almost hear it now, though you know it is not yet real—the groan of wood beneath strain, the endless movement beneath your feet, the vastness of open water pressing in from all sides. It rises in your mind unbidden, not as something you have seen, but as something imagined too vividly to dismiss.

“I am excited,” you admit after a moment, the truth slipping out before you can weigh it properly. Your fingers curl faintly against the sheets, your body stilling just enough that the words can settle between you. “And I do not think my mind knows what to do with it.”

He exhales, slower this time, the sound less burdened by irritation and more shaped by reluctant understanding. His chin shifts against your shoulder, his breath warm where it brushes your skin.

“That is because you are thinking instead of sleeping,” he replies, though there is less bite in it now. His hand moves again, not to still you, but to trace a slow, absent path along your side, something almost soothing despite the roughness of his voice. “The sea will still be there in the morning whether you worry yourself into wakefulness or not.”

You let out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh though it does not fully become one, your head tilting back slightly where it rests near his.

“I am not worried,” you say, though even to your own ears it sounds only partially true. Your thoughts press forward again, unrelenting, your awareness of what awaits you too sharp to ignore. “It feels… large.”

His hand stills briefly at that, as though the word has caught his attention more fully than the rest.

“It is,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, more awake than it had been. “It will feel larger once you are upon it.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough that your voice carries back toward him more clearly, your body still restless despite the closeness he offers.

“That is not reassuring.” A low sound leaves him, something that might have been a tired laugh if he had given it more breath.

“I am not trying to reassure you,” he says, his tone shifting, something steadier settling into it as he nuzzled against you. “I am telling you the truth of it. The sea does not care if you are ready for it. It takes you all the same.”

The words settle into the quiet between you, and though they are not unkind, they carry weight in a way that draws your thoughts inward again. You imagine it more clearly now, the movement beneath you, the endless horizon, the sense of being carried somewhere you cannot control.

Your body shifts once more, though slower this time, your hand coming to rest lightly over his where it lies against you.

“And you enjoy it,” you say, recalling what he had told you, what you had come to understand of him in fragments that now begin to form something more whole. His grip tightens slightly beneath your hand, not in restraint, but in acknowledgment.

“I do,” he answers simply. There is no hesitation in it. You let that settle, turning the thought over as your restlessness begins to change shape, no longer sharp and scattered, but something deeper, something that lingers rather than presses.

“It is wild,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, your thoughts slipping toward something more reflective. “Unaccounted for. Dangerous in a way that does not ask permission.” Your fingers shift faintly against his, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. “You said it was beautiful.”

He hums low in agreement, his forehead brushing lightly against the back of your head as he adjusts against you.

“It is,” he says. “It will unsettle you at first. Then it will take hold.” The words do not frighten you. You draw in a slow breath, your body easing at last into the space he holds for you, the restless energy beginning to loosen its grip.

“If I do not sleep,” you say after a moment, softer now, your voice edged with something that borders on amusement, “you will suffer for it as well.” That earns a quiet exhale from him, something closer to a laugh than before, though still weighed by fatigue.

“I already am,” he replies, his arm tightening around you as though to prove the point. Your lips curve faintly against the pillow, your body finally stilling, not because your thoughts have ceased, but because they have softened, their edges less insistent now.

The morning waits.

The sea waits.

But for now—you remain here, held in the steady warmth of him, the quiet settling slowly around you as your mind, at last, begins to loosen its hold.

The ride to the shipyard is short, though it does not feel so within the carriage, not with the constant motion of conversation filling the space. The wheels roll steadily over packed earth, the distant scent of salt already beginning to creep into the air, sharp and bracing, a quiet promise of what waits beyond the harbor. You sit among them, the press of skirts and shifting bodies close, the warmth of shared presence softening what might have otherwise been a quiet, inward journey.

Cassandra occupies the space with ease, her posture relaxed, one arm draped along the back of the seat as though she has always belonged exactly where she sits. Beside her, her good-sister—Lady Ellyn—listens with a knowing sort of patience, interjecting where it suits her, while the youngest among them, Lysa, leans forward with a restless energy that refuses stillness.

“Do you think I will be asked for my favor?” Lysa asks, her voice bright with anticipation, her hands clasped together as though the thought alone might make it real. There is no hesitation in her, no restraint in the way she speaks, her imagination already far ahead of where she sits.

Cassandra’s brow lifts, her mouth curving as she glances toward her sister, amusement immediate.

“Oh, certainly,” she says, as though the answer is obvious. “Half the knights in the lists will abandon their lances entirely once they see you in the stands. It will become less a tourney and more a procession of men vying for your attention.”

Lysa’s eyes widen, delight catching instantly at her sister’s jest, though it shifts just as quickly into something more dramatic.

“And what if two of them ask?” she presses, leaning forward further, her voice lowering as though the scenario itself carries weight. “What if they both want it, and neither will yield?”

Cassandra lets out a soft laugh, turning slightly to face her more fully, her expression bright with mischief.

“Then you will have to choose wisely,” she replies. “Or risk inciting a rivalry that may very well end in bloodshed. Imagine it—two knights unhorsed, not for glory, but because neither could bear to see the other favored.” Lady Ellyn hums at that, shaking her head faintly, though there is a smile she does not bother to hide.

“You encourage her entirely too much,” she says, though her tone lacks any real reprimand. “She will begin to believe she commands the lists themselves.”

“I do not need encouragement,” Lysa insists quickly, lifting her chin with all the certainty she can muster. “It is a very real possibility. I am a Baratheon, after all.” Cassandra’s laughter comes easier at that, softer now, though no less entertained.

“A very real possibility indeed,” she echoes, nodding as though in agreement. “Though I would advise you to consider what comes after. Knights are not known for sharing their attentions graciously. You may find yourself responsible for more than you intended.”

Lysa considers this, her expression tightening briefly in thought before brightening again with renewed enthusiasm. “I would not mind,” she says finally, her grin returning. “It would mean I was worth fighting for.”

The words linger in the space between you, light in delivery, though they carry something deeper beneath them. Cassandra studies her for a moment, her expression softening just slightly before she reaches out and taps her lightly beneath the chin.

“You are worth more than a spectacle,” she says, the teasing easing just enough to let something steadier come through. “Do not measure yourself by how many men would draw blood over you. It is a poor standard to hold.” Lysa wrinkles her nose at that, though she does not argue, her attention already drifting back toward the excitement of what lies ahead.

“Well,” she says after a moment, her tone brightening again, “I still hope at least one asks.”

“That, I imagine, can be arranged,” Cassandra replies, her eyes flicking briefly toward you, something sharper entering her expression now, something altogether more deliberate. “Though I suspect you may not be the only one asked.” Your attention shifts to her at that, caught by the change in her tone more than the words themselves.

“What do you mean?” you ask, your voice measured, though curiosity edges through it before you can temper it. Cassandra’s smile deepens, not unkindly, but with a certain relish that makes you wary of what she will say next.

“I mean,” she says lightly, “that there are always those with more nerve than sense. A lord’s wife in the stands is hardly invisible, no matter how much propriety insists she should be. There will be some fool bold enough to test the line.”

Lady Ellyn exhales softly through her nose, already shaking her head. “And that fool will not enjoy the consequences,” she says, her tone dry with certainty. Cassandra laughs, the sound bright and quick.

“No,” she agrees, glancing at you again, her eyes alight with mischief. “He will not. Lyonel will see to that personally, I imagine.” Heat rises faintly under your skin, not entirely from embarrassment, though there is some of that, but it is threaded with something else you do not immediately name.

“No one would be so foolish,” you say, though the conviction in it does not fully settle.”…right?” Cassandra tilts her head, considering you as though weighing the statement rather than accepting it.

“You underestimate how often men mistake boldness for entitlement,” she replies. “And how quickly they forget themselves when something catches their interest. They will see how he parades himself for you and see it as competition.” Ellyn rolled her eyes at Cassandra’s explanation. 

“Men in these settings tend to act on their baser instincts.” Ellyn explains. 

“—they act like dogs, is what my good-sister is trying to say.” Cassandra interjected. “And my cousin is no better. He will be pissing a proverbial territorial ring around you the entire time we're there, I’m sure.” 

“Cass!” 

“It is true, Ellyn! My brother did the same to you. She needs to know what she’s stepping into so she doesn’t faint at the sight of Lyonel acting more beast than man.” She laughed, quite pleased with herself. 

“I cannot argue that point,” Ellyn relents, reaching over to grasp your hand in hers. “But we are going to enjoy ourselves and let the men do as they will anyway.” She assured you with a kind smile. “Once a Baratheon lord has his mind out to something, it is very hard to pull them out of it. 

Lysa leans forward again, her eyes bright with a different sort of excitement now, one that has shifted from her own imagined prospects to something far more immediate.

“Would he truly be angry?” she asks, looking between Cassandra and yourself. “If someone else asked for your favor?”

Cassandra does not hesitate in her answer.

“He would go feral,” she says plainly, the word delivered with far too much satisfaction. “Not loudly, not in a way that would make a spectacle of it before the crowd. He has more control than that, but the man who asked would feel it all the same wither at the end of Lyonel’s lance or the sense would be beaten into him in a duel.”

There is a weight to the way she says it, a certainty that draws your attention inward again, your thoughts brushing against the truth of it whether you wish them to or not.

“He would not like it,” Cassandra continues, her tone softening slightly, though the amusement does not leave her entirely. “You are his, whether you have fully decided how to wear that yet or not.” The words settle into you more deeply than the teasing that surrounds them, not sharp, but steady, pressing somewhere beneath your ribs in a way that lingers.

You lift your chin slightly, your fingers adjusting faintly in your lap as you consider it, your voice quieter when you speak again.

“I have no intention of giving my favor to anyone but him,” you say, the truth of it clear, even if it feels newly spoken aloud. Cassandra’s expression shifts at that, something approving flickering through it before she leans back once more, satisfied.

“I should hope not,” she says lightly. “For the sake of whichever poor soul might be foolish enough to try.”

Lady Ellyn hums again, her smile faint but knowing, while Lysa watches you with renewed fascination, as though the conversation has taken on a new kind of weight she had not considered before.

“And if someone did ask?” Lysa presses, unable to leave it alone. “What would you say?” You glance at her, the question simple, though it carries more than she likely intends. You consider it for only a moment, the answer settling easily despite the complexity that surrounds it.

“I would refuse him,” you say, your tone calm, though there is something firmer beneath it now. “And I would not be gentle about it.” Cassandra’s laughter returns at that, warmer this time, pleased in a way that feels less like teasing and more like recognition.

“Oh, I should very much like to see that,” she says. “Though I suspect Lyonel would enjoy it even more.”

The carriage shifts as it turns again, the movement drawing all of you slightly with it, the change in light near the window revealing the harbor more clearly now. The scent of salt deepens, the air sharper, the presence of the sea no longer distant.

The conversation softens after that, though it does not entirely lose its edge. It lingers, woven into the quiet that follows, into the anticipation that sits beneath all of you as the carriage carries you the last stretch toward what waits ahead.

And beneath it, steady and undeniable, you feel the truth of what you have said settle more firmly into place.

The carriage slows before it fully stops, the change in motion subtle but enough to draw your attention forward, toward the harbor that has already begun to announce itself through sound alone. The cry of gulls cuts sharp through the air, layered over the groan of timber and rope, the steady rhythm of water striking against hulls and dock. It is louder here, fuller, a living thing in constant motion, and by the time the wheels settle into stillness, it feels as though you have stepped into something vast and uncontained.

Lyonel and the rest of the Baratheon men, and advisors, are already there.

You see him through the carriage window before the door is even opened, his presence unmistakable among the movement of the shipyard. Lyonel does not wait for the steward. His hand reaches the latch first, pulling the door open with an ease that feels entirely in keeping with him, as though patience has never been something he has chosen to cultivate when he sees no reason for it.

“My ladies,” he greets, his voice carrying easily over the noise, a smile already set in place as he extends his hand upward.

He offers it first to Cassandra who is closest to the door, assisting her down with a steady grip, then to Lady Ellyn, and finally to Lysa, who takes it with barely concealed excitement, her feet finding the ground with a small burst of energy that she does not bother to hide. When his attention turns to you, there is no change in the gesture, and still it feels different.

Lyonel’s hand is warm when yours meets it, his grip firm as he guides you down from the carriage, his attention settling more fully upon you once your feet touch the ground. The world opens around you in the same breath, the harbor no longer framed by distance or window, but immediate, overwhelming in its presence.

And then—you notice it.

A glint catches your eye as he shifts slightly in the light, something small but striking against the familiar line of him. Your attention lingers, drawn without permission, settling on the subtle movement at his left ear. A gold earring, simple in shape but unmistakable in its presence, dangles there, catching the daylight with each turn of his head.

It is new, or perhaps it is simply something you had not noticed before, hidden by angle or shadow, but now—now it stands out in a way that feels deliberate, as though it belongs there.

Your fingers remain in his as your gaze flicks back up to his face, a faint crease forming between your brows.

“You are wearing jewelry,” you say, your voice quieter than the noise around you, though clear enough that he hears it easily. His mouth shifts at once, the corner of it lifting as though he had been waiting for you to notice.

“A keen observation,” he replies, glancing down at you with something amused threading through his tone. “I was beginning to wonder how long it would take.” Your eyes flick back to it briefly, watching the way it moves when he turns his head, the gold catching the light again.

“I have never seen you wear one before,” you say, your curiosity unhidden now, your attention returning to him fully. He hums softly, lifting a hand as though to brush at it before thinking better of it, letting it rest where it is.

“It has been some time since I last bothered,” he admits. “It seemed appropriate for the journey.” There is something in the way he says it that suggests more than simple ornament, though he does not elaborate, and you do not press—yet.

“It suits you,” you say instead, the words leaving you before you can weigh them, your tone softer now, more thoughtful than teasing. That draws a different look from him. His grip on your hand tightens just slightly, a quiet acknowledgment as the noise of the harbor swells around you once more, the world pressing back in after the brief narrowing of your focus.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his grin widening just a fraction. “If you keep looking at me like that, I may start wearing more of it just to trouble you.”

The shipyard is alive in a way that feels almost consuming. Men move with purpose along the docks, their voices carrying in sharp bursts of command and reply, ropes pulled taut, sails adjusted, cargo hauled with practiced efficiency. The ships themselves loom large, far larger than they had seemed from the cliffs, their hulls rising high and dark, their masts cutting into the sky with an authority that makes the scale of them difficult to fully grasp.

The scent strikes you more sharply here, thick with salt and brine, threaded with tar and damp wood, something raw and unfamiliar that settles into your lungs with each breath. It is different from the cliffs, where the air had been cleaner, distant, touched by the sea without being claimed by it. Here, it surrounds you entirely.

You take a step forward without quite meaning to, your attention pulled outward, your senses caught between the noise, the motion, the sheer size of everything before you.

His hand finds your waist. The contact is sudden enough that you jump, your body reacting before your mind catches up, a sharp intake of breath escaping you as you turn toward him. Lyonel stands close at your side, far closer than propriety might dictate in such a public space, though it does not seem to trouble him in the slightest.

“Exhilarating, isn’t it?” he says, leaning just enough that his voice reaches you beneath the noise, his breath warm against your ear despite the briskness of the air around you.

You glance back toward the harbor, your eyes tracing the length of the nearest ship, the height of it, the way it shifts gently against the water despite its size, as though something so massive should not be allowed to move so easily.

“They look smaller from the cliffs,” you admit, your voice quieter, though not uncertain, your gaze lingering as you try to take it in fully. “I had not understood…” The words trail, not from lack of thought, but because there is too much of it, too much to place into something neatly spoken.

Lyonel hums low beside you, his hand still resting at your waist, his thumb moving once in a slow, absent line as though he has no intention of removing it.

“They have a way of doing that,” he replies. “Distance softens the truth of things.” You glance at him then, the words settling more deeply than you expect, though he is already looking back toward the ships, his attention caught in a way that feels familiar now, something in him easing rather than tightening in the presence of it.

“You will see more of it soon enough,” he continues, his tone shifting slightly, something steadier threading through it. “The first step onto the deck will feel wrong beneath your feet. Too much movement where there should be none.”

That draws your attention back inward, your awareness of what lies ahead sharpening once more, though it does not carry the same edge it had in the night. It feels different now, grounded by the reality of it rather than shaped by imagination alone.

The noise of the harbor swells around you again, a call shouted from further down the dock, the creak of wood shifting under strain, the sharp cry of gulls overhead. It presses in from all sides, overwhelming in its immediacy, and still—you find yourself leaning into it rather than away.

His hand remains at your waist, steady, grounding, as though he knows precisely how much of this you can take at once and no more.

“Stay close,” he adds, his voice lower now, meant only for you, his grip tightening just slightly as though to emphasize the point. “It is easy to lose yourself in a place like this.”

As you stand there, surrounded by motion and sound and something vast enough to swallow your sense of scale entirely, you understand exactly what he means.

Lyonel does not leave you to find your footing alone. His hand shifts from your waist to your arm, guiding your hand to the crook of his elbow with an ease that feels practiced, as though he has done this countless times before and expects you to follow without hesitation. You do, your fingers curling around him more tightly than you intend, your attention drawn forward as he leads you across the dock.

The wood beneath your boots feels steady enough at first, solid despite the constant movement around you, though the closer you draw to the ship, the more aware you become of what waits just beyond the edge. The water moves in a way that unsettles your eye, dark and shifting, catching light in broken fragments that refuse to settle into anything still. It laps against the hull with a quiet insistence, a sound that seems too soft for something that stretches so far beyond what you can see.

You glance down despite yourself.

The space between dock and ship is not wide, but it is enough. Enough to reveal the depth beneath, enough to suggest the pull of it, the way it moves without pattern, without care for what stands above it. Your grip on him tightens, your fingers pressing into his sleeve as your body leans closer without conscious thought.

“You will not fall in,” Lyonel says, his voice steady, unbothered, though there is a trace of amusement beneath it that suggests he has seen this before. He does not slow, does not pause, only adjusts slightly so that your path aligns more firmly with his, his presence anchoring you as the gangway rises ahead.

It is narrower than you would like.

The boards creak faintly beneath the weight of those who have passed before you, the rope along its sides offering little comfort beyond the suggestion of support. The angle shifts just enough to remind you that you are no longer on ground that will hold you without question.

Your heart pounds harder and you step onto it anyway.

Your hold on him tightens further, your body drawing closer, your attention fixed not on the distance ahead, but on each step as it comes. The wood moves beneath you, subtle but undeniable, a living motion that does not align with your expectation of stillness. It sets something on edge within you, something that urges caution even as you force yourself forward.

Lyonel remains steady. He does not look down, does not adjust for the movement in any visible way. He walks as though the shifting beneath his feet is nothing more than an inconvenience easily ignored, his pace measured to match yours without ever calling attention to it.

“You are watching it too closely,” he murmurs, his head tilting just enough that his voice reaches you without carrying beyond. “It will unsettle you more if you do.” You draw in a breath, your gaze lifting from the dark water below to the space ahead, though the awareness of it lingers, pressing at the edges of your focus.

“It is difficult not to,” you admit, your voice quieter now, your steps careful as the gangway gives slightly beneath you again. His arm shifts beneath your hand, not pulling you forward, but offering something firmer to hold, something that does not move in the same way as the world beneath your feet.

“You are nearly there,” he says.

It does not feel like it, but the wood changes beneath your boots all the same, the angle leveling, the subtle give of the gangway giving way to something broader, something more solid despite the motion that still lingers beneath it. You step onto the deck, the shift immediate, the space opening around you in a way that feels both relieving and disorienting all at once.

Your grip on him remains tight for a moment longer.

Then your boots settle more firmly, your balance adjusting as the movement beneath you becomes something your body begins, slowly, to understand.

You exhale, a breath you had not realized you were holding, your fingers loosening slightly against his arm.

“You see,” Lyonel says, the quiet satisfaction in his voice unmistakable, though not unkind. “You did not fall.”

You glance at him, something in your expression caught between relief and the lingering tension that has yet to fully leave you.

“I was not entirely convinced,” you admit.

His mouth curves faintly at that, his hand shifting briefly over yours where it still rests against him, grounding, steady.

“You will be,” he replies. “Give it time.”

The deck moves beneath you still, a constant, subtle sway that refuses to be ignored, but it no longer feels as though it will unmake you. It feels… different.

Uncertain.

Alive.

And as you stand there, your hand still anchored to him, the vastness of what lies ahead begins to settle into something you can hold without being overtaken by it.

You have only just begun to find your balance when they descend upon you.

The deck still moves beneath your feet in that slow, persistent sway, your body adjusting in increments rather than all at once, your hand still resting against Lyonel’s arm as though you are not entirely convinced it will hold you steady without him. The noise of the harbor carries even here, though softened now by distance and the height of the ship, the calls of men below blending with the creak of timber and rope stretched taut.

You are aware of them before they reach you, the shift in sound, the rustle of skirts, the unmistakable presence of Cassandra’s voice cutting through the space with effortless familiarity.

“You have had quite enough of her company, cousin. Months of it, I’d say. Let the Lady breathe.” Lyonel turns his head slightly at that, his attention shifting just as Cassandra steps fully into your space, her expression bright with amusement that she does not attempt to hide. Lady Ellyn follows just behind her, more composed but no less intent, while Lysa hovers close, her curiosity plainly fixed on everything at once.

Cassandra does not wait for permission. She reaches for you as though you belong to her just as easily, her hand finding your arm, her smile widening as she glances between you and Lyonel.

“It is time our Lady Paramount has company of the female persuasion,” she continues, her tone light, though there is a thread of something deliberate beneath it, something that does not quite soften into jest. “She will be sick of you by the time this ship docks otherwise, especially once the mayhem begins.”

Lyonel exhales through his nose, something caught between amusement and resistance, his hand tightening briefly at your waist before he lets it fall away, though not without a lingering touch that suggests reluctance more than concession.

“You speak as though she has no say in the matter,” he replies, his voice steady, though his eyes flick briefly to you, measuring, not commanding. Cassandra follows the look at once, her brow lifting as she turns her attention fully upon you, her grip on your arm light but insistent.

“Well?” she prompts, her head tilting slightly, the mischief still present but tempered now by something more curious. “Will you be taken from him so easily, or must we wrestle you away outright?” The question is playful in its delivery, but it lingers with weight all the same, settling into the space between you in a way that asks more than it first appears to.

You glance at Lyonel, your hand still resting where it had been anchored to him, your body aware of the absence of his steadiness even as you stand upright on your own. There is something in his expression that does not press, does not demand, though it watches all the same, something quieter beneath the surface of his usual certainty.

“I think,” you say, your voice measured as your fingers loosen against him, though softer than it had been moments before, “that I will survive a short separation.” There is the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth at that, something that might have been approval, or resignation, or both held at once.

“A short one,” he replies, the words carrying more weight than the phrasing suggests, his attention lingering on you for a moment longer before he steps back, giving space rather than holding it.

Cassandra, entirely unsatisfied with the pace of his retreat, lifts her hand and makes a shooing motion toward him, her expression sharpening into something far more pointed.

“Oh, go on with you,” she says, waving him off as though he were little more than an overlarge hound reluctant to leave its post. “Join the men as you are off to do. Drink. Be merry. You look half-starved for it already.” Lyonel huffs, a low sound of disbelief slipping free as he looks at her, his brow lifting.

“Do I?” he asks, though there is no real offense in it, only the faint edge of challenge that he seems to carry as easily as breath. Cassandra’s smile widens, pleased with herself, entirely unmoved.

“You do,” she replies without hesitation. “And she will be in fine company, cousin. You need not hover as though she will vanish the moment you turn your back.” His eyes flick to you again at that, lingering just long enough that you feel it, the weight of his attention settling briefly before he exhales and shakes his head.

“You are insufferable,” he tells her, though the words lack any true bite.

“And yet here I remain,” Cassandra returns smoothly, her hand still lifted in dismissal as though she expects him to obey it without question. “Go.”

There is a brief pause, something unspoken passing between them, something familiar enough that neither needs to name it. Then Lyonel lets out a breath that might have been a quiet laugh if he had allowed it more space, his shoulders easing as he finally steps back in earnest.

“Do not let them talk you into anything unreasonable,” he says to you, his voice lower now, meant only for you despite the closeness of the others. The warning is light in tone, though there is something steadier beneath it, something that suggests he knows precisely what sort of company he is leaving you in.

“I will try,” you answer, and there is a softness to it that feels more like promise than deflection. His mouth shifts faintly at that, something satisfied settling into his expression before he inclines his head once and turns away, his attention already being claimed by the movement of men further along the deck.

Cassandra watches him go with open satisfaction before turning back to you, her hand tightening just slightly at your arm as she draws you further along.

“You see?” she says lightly. “Not so difficult.” Lady Ellyn falls into step at your other side, her presence steadier, her tone quieter when she speaks. “It will do you good to find your footing here without him for a time.” You nod faintly, your steps adjusting as the ship shifts beneath you, the motion less jarring now, though still present in a way that keeps your awareness sharp.

Lysa slips closer, her voice lowering as though she carries a secret she cannot quite contain.

“Do you think he will truly be so angry?” she asks, looking towards you. “If someone asked for your favor?” Cassandra laughs softly at Lysa’s question, her attention flicking briefly back toward where Lyonel has gone before returning to you, her expression sharpening with a kind of delighted certainty that suggests she has been waiting for this very line of thought.

“Oh, I would not be surprised if he abandoned the lists entirely for it.” Cassandra begins, and then her smile turns, something more wicked curling at the edges. “He’s fool enough to duel ten men over it.” Lysa gasps at that, her hands clasping together again, though now with a different sort of excitement, one edged with something sharper than simple fantasy.

“Ten men?” she echoes, eyes bright. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Cassandra affirms, entirely pleased with the effect of her words. “He is not a lord inclined to share what he considers his.” You shake your head before you can stop yourself, the response immediate, your voice steady even as something unsettled stirs beneath it.

“He would not duel ten men,” you say, the denial quiet but firm. “Not for that. Not to…harm another man over something so trivial.” Cassandra turns her head toward you at once, her brows lifting slightly, not in surprise, but in interest, as though she has found something far more engaging than the teasing she had begun with.

“Oh?” she draws out, her tone light, though her eyes remain fixed on you, measuring, amused. “You think him so restrained?”

“I think him reasonable,” you reply, your fingers adjusting faintly at your side as the ship shifts beneath your feet. “And this is a child’s nameday tourney, not a battlefield. He would not—” You pause, choosing your words more carefully now. “—He would not make it into something it is not meant to be.”

Cassandra studies you for a moment longer, the silence stretching just enough to carry weight before she lets out a soft breath that might have been a laugh.

“My lady,” she says, gentler now, though the amusement does not leave her entirely, “you have seen him in your halls, at your table, within the comfort of what he already holds. That is not where a man is most easily provoked.” Her hand shifts slightly on your arm, not tightening, but grounding, as though she means for you to hear what she says rather than dismiss it.

“He may not seem it to you,” she continues, her voice lowering just enough to keep it between you, “but he is a beast of a man when pushed far enough. He does not roar without cause, but when he does…it is not something easily contained.” The words settle into you in a way that feels unfamiliar, not because you doubt her, but because they do not align cleanly with what you have come to know.

You draw in a slow breath, your gaze drifting briefly toward the stretch of deck ahead, toward the distant figure of Lyonel among the men, though he is no longer close enough to hear.

“He would not,” you say again, though the certainty in it has shifted, softened at the edges rather than broken. Cassandra watches you, something almost fond touching her expression now, as though she recognizes the shape of what you are holding onto.

“A peacock, he is,” she says, the reminder delivered with a small tilt of her head, her smile returning, though quieter now. “He preens, he performs, he takes pride in being seen, but do not mistake that for softness.”

Lady Ellyn exhales softly beside you, her voice joining in with a steadier tone. “He has always been both,” she says. “It is simply a matter of which side you happen to witness first that holds the impression. Very few have gotten the side you know first.” Lysa looks between you all, her earlier excitement tempered now with something more thoughtful, though it does not entirely dim the spark in her expression.

“I still think it would be rather romantic,” she says after a moment, unable to resist, her voice quieter now, though no less earnest. “To have someone fight for you like that.” Cassandra laughs again, though there is less sharpness in it now, her hand lifting briefly as though to wave the thought away.

“You would,” she says. “Until you saw what it truly costs.  Knights are not known to yield easily. It is a dirty, wretched business to see them go at one another in such a manner. The sentiment of it may hold romance, but the violence of it is enough to make you think twice about it.”

The deck shifts beneath you again, the movement familiar now, though it still draws your awareness inward, your balance adjusting without the same tension as before, and as the conversation settles into something quieter, less teasing, more grounded, you find your thoughts lingering not on the spectacle Cassandra paints, but on the man himself.

On what you have seen, what you have not, and on the space between those things, where understanding has yet to fully take shape.

Cassandra does not slow once she has claimed you, her hand steady at your arm as she guides you along the deck and up toward the upper level, where the noise of the harbor softens just enough to allow for conversation without strain. The movement of the ship feels different here, broader, less confined by the immediate bustle below, though it still lingers beneath your feet, a constant reminder that you are no longer on land.

She leads you into a stateroom set along the stern, its doors already open as though prepared in advance. The space within is warm and well-appointed, far more comfortable than you had expected, with wide windows that stretch along the back wall, offering a clear view of the docks behind you. Ships drift in slow motion beyond the glass, their scale shifting with distance, the water catching light in uneven ribbons that seem almost deceptive in their calm.

It draws your eye for a moment before Cassandra gently steers you further inside, her touch light but certain.

“Here,” she says, her tone easy, as though this space has always belonged to her. “We will make ourselves comfortable before the true chaos begins.”

You allow yourself to be settled among them, the cushions soft beneath you, the table close enough to rest your hands upon if needed. Lady Ellyn takes a chair with practiced composure, arranging her skirts with quiet precision, while Lysa hovers near enough to lean into either of you, her restless attention shifting between the view outside and the promise of conversation within.

A servant arrives shortly after, carrying a tray arranged with care, porcelain cups, a small pot steaming faintly, and a selection of cakes and biscuits that carry the scent of spice and honey. She pours your tea first, her movements measured, respectful, before circling the table to serve the others. The ritual of it, simple as it is, steadies the space, grounding it into something domestic despite the unfamiliar surroundings.

You cradle the cup between your hands, letting the warmth seep into your fingers as the conversation begins to unfold.

It does not begin with anything of consequence.

Small things, at first. The journey ahead, the weather that had held long enough to allow for departure, a passing remark on one of the men below who had nearly tripped over a coil of rope to Lysa’s great amusement. Cassandra guides it with ease, shifting the subject without effort, drawing Ellyn in with quiet prompts, allowing Lysa her moments of interruption without losing the thread of it all.

“And Lord Harwood’s steward has been seen lingering near the kitchens far more often than necessary,” Cassandra says at one point, her tone light, though her eyes carry something sharper. “Which would not be remarkable, if he did not look as though he were trying to avoid being noticed.”

Ellyn hums softly, lifting her cup to her lips. “He has always had a habit of that,” she replies. “Though usually with better success.”

“Not lately,” Cassandra returns. “The scullery maids have noticed—and they notice everything—whether they are meant to or not.” Lysa leans forward at once, her interest captured.

“What does he do there?” she asks.

“Nothing that warrants the amount of time he spends,” Cassandra says, her fingers tapping lightly against the porcelain of her cup. “Which makes it far more interesting than if he had reason.”

Ellyn glances at you then, including you without drawing too much attention to it. “There are always small things moving beneath the surface of a keep,” she says. “One only needs to listen in the right places.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging the inclusion, though you do not interrupt. You listen instead, allowing the rhythm of their words to settle, the names beginning to take shape in your mind, the connections forming slowly as you follow the threads they offer.

“And then there was the matter of the stables,” Cassandra continues, as though she has simply turned a page. “Two horses lame within the same week, both from the same row of stalls.”

“That is not coincidence,” Ellyn says at once, her tone sharpening.

“No,” Cassandra agrees. “And yet nothing has been found to explain it. No loose boards, no stones in the bedding, nothing that would account for it plainly.” Lysa frowns, her brows knitting.

“Could someone have done it?” she asks, her voice lower now, the idea taking hold. Cassandra lifts one shoulder slightly.

“It is possible,” she says. “Though for what purpose, I have yet to decide.”

The conversation shifts again, but the unease of that detail lingers, threading beneath the lighter tones that follow. You feel it settle, not overt, but present, a reminder that what you are hearing is not merely idle talk, but something closer to the pulse of the place you now belong to.

“And just the other day,” Cassandra says, her voice dipping again, drawing Ellyn’s attention with a glance that carries quiet invitation, “I overheard two servants chatting about strange sounds coming from the eastern corridors.”

Ellyn’s mouth curves at once, recognizing the shift. “Oh, did you?” she says, leaning back slightly, her interest piqued. “And what did they hear?”

Cassandra tilts her head, thoughtful, though there is something deliberate in the way she lets the pause stretch. “They were quite certain of it,” she says. “Though I suspect they have let their imaginations wander too far. They spoke of a wailing. Something that carried through the halls in the afternoon.” Her eyes lift then, settling on you with intention. “A spectre, perhaps.”

The biscuit catches in your throat before you can manage it, your composure faltering as you swallow too quickly, the warmth of your tea doing little to ease the sudden tightness that follows.

“A spectre?” Lysa echoes, her voice rising with wide-eyed curiosity. “In the castle? By the Seven, I would hope not.”

“They were mistaken, my dove,” Cassandra replies, smooth and unhurried, though her attention does not shift from you. “There are no spectres that roam our halls. Eat your cakes.” Lysa hesitates, then obeys, though her gaze flickers between you all, her curiosity far from satisfied. Cassandra does not look away.

“You would not happen to know anything about that, would you, my lady?” she asks, her tone light, almost idle, though there is nothing idle in the way she watches you. “Considering your library is situated in the same corridor…you did not happen to hear anything, did you?”

Your mouth opens, then closes again, the answer caught somewhere between instinct and uncertainty, your thoughts turning too quickly to settle into anything coherent. Cassandra’s eyes move over you, taking in the hesitation, the shift, the way your composure wavers just enough to be noticed.

“I did not think you the type,” she says, her smile deepening with quiet satisfaction, “but it seems Lyonel’s influence has grown on you. I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Ellyn laughs at the comment, the sound warmer, less pointed, her hand lifting slightly as though to soften the edge of it.

“It is the Baratheon charm that gets us all, my lady,” she says, her tone gentler now, offering you a reprieve without dismissing what has been said. “None are immune to it, I’m afraid. They are loud, they are gruff, and they love, perhaps, too hard.”

Lysa leans in again, emboldened by the turn of the conversation, but not quite putting the pieces together.

“What kind of wailing?” she presses, her voice hushed now, as though the walls themselves might hear. “Like an angry spirit? Or something else?” Cassandra finally looks away from you then, though the trace of her attention lingers, her expression shifting as she considers.

“Like grief, they said. Perhaps a small death,” she answers. “Though servants have a way of dressing ordinary sounds in something more dramatic when it suits them.”

Ellyn hums again, though there is a faint furrow in her brow now. “The eastern corridor has always been quieter,” she says. “Less used. Sounds travel differently there.”

“Exactly,” Cassandra replies, though the ease in her tone does not entirely return. “It is likely nothing. Just felt it was my duty to bring it to your attention, my lady.” The conversation moves on, drawn deliberately into safer territory, though the thread of it remains beneath the surface, unspoken but not forgotten.

You sit among them, your tea cooling slowly in your hands, the warmth of the room pressing gently against the unease that has taken root somewhere quieter within you.

You listen, you learn, and though the laughter returns, and the conversation shifts and flows as it had before, something has settled differently now.

The conversation has only just begun to settle into something softer when the door opens.

It is not a quiet entrance. The latch turns with purpose, the wood shifting inward without hesitation, and every thread of conversation falls away at once, your attention pulled toward the source of it as surely as if you had been called by name.

Lyonel fills the doorway as though it were made for him, the light from the corridor catching along the line of his shoulders, his presence immediate in a way that alters the space without effort. His eyes move across the room, taking in each of you in a single sweep before settling where they intended to all along.

“I have come to fetch my wife,” he announces, his voice carrying easily, the words followed by a low laugh that lingers in the room. Lysa groans at once, dramatic in her protest as she leans back into the cushions.

“But we have only just got her, Lyonel!”

“And you will have her back once I have concluded my business with her,” Lyonel replies, the ease in his tone unmistakable, his amusement sitting just beneath the words as though he expects no real argument to follow. "I need not explain myself to you lot." Lysa glared at him openly, as if this was a sibling squabble.

"Your explanation would be as lame as the horses in the stable," She mumbled, eyes still narrowed at the Lord Paramount.

"Lysa!" Ellyn chided.

"You'll be lucky if I bring her back at all." He said back in the same attitude she gave him. There is no tension in it, no carefulness. Lyonel speaks to them as he has always done so, as though the space between lord and kin has never required distance or restraint with their family.

Cassandra lifts a brow at him, unimpressed in a way that reads more like familiarity than defiance, while Ellyn watches with quiet interest, her expression softened by something close to fondness. It is a dynamic you are still learning.

There is no fear in how they answer him, no pause to measure their words against consequence. They meet him easily, speak as they wish, and he meets them in kind, teasing and unbothered, his authority resting somewhere deeper than the need to assert it here.

You feel the difference of it—the absence of what you had been taught to expect—and within it, something in you settles, not all at once, but enough that it makes itself known.

Oh, how you loved him.

“What business?” you ask, your voice softer than his, though it carries clearly enough as you set your cup aside and take the hand he offers. Lyonel’s fingers close around yours at once, warm and certain, his grip firm as he draws you slightly toward him.

“We are to depart the harbor momentarily,” he says, his tone shifting just enough to include you more fully now, though the playfulness remains. “And I wish to show you the bow. The skies are clear and the tides are in our favor today, a sign from the gods of our good fortune.” His thumb moves faintly against your hand as he continues, his mouth curving.

“Unless, of course,” he adds, his voice dipping just slightly, “you do not wish to experience this with your husband.” The words are framed in mock offense, the emphasis placed just enough to make the implication clear, as though you might truly choose to remain where you are rather than follow him.

You roll your eyes despite yourself, the gesture lighter than it might have been once, shaped by familiarity rather than caution as you allow him to pull you to your feet.

“If I must,” you reply, your tone carrying a feigned reluctance that does not quite mask the warmth beneath it.

Lysa giggles behind you at once, delighted by the exchange, and when you glance back, you catch the way Lyonel throws her a quick wink over your shoulder, conspiratorial and entirely unashamed.

He does not linger. His hand remains around yours as he leads you toward the door, his movement easy, unhurried, though there is a quiet urgency beneath it, something eager in the way he draws you along. Behind you, Cassandra’s voice follows, pitched just loud enough to be heard as the threshold approaches.

“Either I am already seasick,” she says, her tone edged with a grin you can hear even without turning, “or my stomach is turning at the sight of them.” A soft laugh answers her, Lysa’s voice lighter, touched with something more wistful than before.

“I don't know, Cass,” she says. “I think I should like it. To be loved like that, I mean.” The words linger, trailing behind you as Lyonel pulls you through the doorway and into the corridor beyond, the sound of the room dimming as the door closes at your back.

The ship shifts beneath your feet as you step forward, the motion more familiar now, though no less present, and Lyonel’s hand tightens slightly around yours as though he has felt it too.

“Careful,” he murmurs, glancing down at you briefly, his voice softer now that it is meant only for you. You nod faintly, your fingers adjusting against his, your attention already beginning to turn toward whatever it is he means to show you.

Toward the bow.

Toward the open sea waiting just beyond the harbor’s edge.

Toward Lyonel—who has not once loosened his hold.

The air shifts the further forward he leads you, the sounds of the ship changing as you move away from the enclosed comfort of the staterooms and into something more exposed. The wind meets you first, sharper here at the bow, carrying the full weight of the sea with it, salt and brine pressed into every breath you take. It lifts at your hair, pulls lightly at your skirts, a constant presence that refuses to be ignored.

Lyonel does not slow.

His hand remains firmly around yours as he guides you along the deck, weaving easily past the men at work, their movements purposeful, their attention divided between their tasks and the quiet awareness of their lord passing among them. There are nods given, acknowledgments made, but none that interrupt the path he has chosen.

When you reach the bow, the space opens in a way that feels almost startling. There is nothing before you now but water.

The harbor stretches behind, the docks already beginning to fall away as the ship prepares to depart, but ahead—there is only the vast expanse of the sea, shifting and endless, the horizon cutting a clean line where sky meets water in a way that feels both distant and immediate all at once.

Lyonel slows then. He steps beside you rather than ahead, his hand loosening just enough to allow you to move forward on your own, though he does not release you entirely. His presence remains close, steady, as though he understands the scale of what he has brought you to see.

“Well?” he asks, his voice quieter now, carried just between the two of you despite the wind. “What do you think of it?” You do not answer at once.

Your attention is pulled outward, drawn into the movement of the water, the way it shifts and rolls beneath the hull, darker here than it had been near the docks, deeper in a way that suggests something far less forgiving. The ship rises and falls with it, subtle but constant, the motion beneath your feet now unmistakable.

“It is…” You pause, searching for something that feels sufficient, though nothing quite settles. “Vast. Larger than I expected. It just goes on...forever.” Lyonel huffs softly beside you in quiet understanding.

“The sea has a way of reminding you how small you are,” he says. “If you let it.” You glance at him then, the words catching somewhere deeper than their surface meaning, though he is already looking out toward the horizon again, his expression easier here, less contained than it had been within the walls of the keep.

“You have been on it often,” you say, not quite a question.

“Often enough,” he replies. “More when I was younger. There is a freedom to it that does not exist on land. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to retreat. Only what is in front of you and what follows behind.” The wind pulls at him as it does you, though he seems less affected by it, his stance steady, grounded despite the movement beneath him.