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You came along with the Mandalorian and the child to provide childcare for Grogu when his father was hunting bounties. Mando allowed you on this ship to take care of his child because you wanted to see the galaxy, and this babysitting job was the best way to do that at a low expense.

He met you when you were a struggling artist. He was at the flea market with Grogu to look for mittens in preparation for a stretch of bounties on cold planets. 

The mitten booth was next to yours, where you were selling plates, silverware, bowls, as well as paintings and drawings. Everything, at least in his opinion, was very carefully crafted, priced fairly, though maybe a little too fairly. 

As Mando purchased Grogu’s mittens, the green child toddled over to your booth and stroked your painting of a porg. 

“Grogu, don’t touch that,” he scolded as soon as he handed the mitten attendant her credits. 

He scooped up his son and looked at you. “I’m sorry. He gets excited. He didn’t scratch it, did he?”

You shook your head, an easy smile on your face. 

“No, it’s okay,” you said, barely glancing at the painting, too transfixed by Grogu’s large eyes. “Y’know, your kid looks easy to draw, Mando.”

He scoffed beneath the helmet. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, I’m sorry for the disruption.”

He was about to walk away when you asked, “You need a babysitter?”

Mando stayed silent for a moment. “Why?”

“You’re a bounty hunter, and he’s a little kid. Unless you’ve got a lady, then I guess… Anyway, if you need one, take me with you, wherever you’re going.”

He was shocked at the pair on you. What kind of stranger just asks to babysit? Out of the goodness of their heart? Fat chance. 

“What would you get out of babysitting the child?” Mando asked. “Are your sales that bad?”

You sighed, trying not to give away how much that offended you. “You’re a bounty hunter, right? I mean, if you’re not, you have to start carrying yourself differently.”

He nodded. 

“That means you go all over the galaxy, hunting dangerous bounties. I want to see the galaxy; your kid needs stable childcare.”

Selfish reasons. Mando could accept that. You were right. Leaving Grogu with the nearest person and shoving an obscene amount of credits in their hands wasn’t the best idea. 

“You may accompany us today. I’ll let you take the reins for the day. Depending on how you do with him, I’ll make my decision,” he said. 

He watched you take the lead with Grogu that day as if you knew the child from birth. You directed him easily, clearly, and fairly.

When Mando dropped you off outside your apartment building at the end of the night, he told you to pack warm, that he’d be back for you in the morning, and that was that.

///

One night, after working for him for a year and a half, he came back to the ship in the middle of the night after a hunt, limping. Someone threw a knife, and it landed in his leg, particularly in a spot that the beskar didn’t protect. Once you fixed him up, you excused yourself. He had whined and moaned and panted the whole time, and it all went straight to your core. You needed to relieve yourself.

He saw right through you.

“Do it here,” he rasped through the voice modulator.

You turned on your heel with a mortified look on your face.

“I saw you rubbing your thighs together the whole time. If you’re going to take care of that ache between your thighs, do it here, in front of me.”

“Mando–”

“Tell me you’re not about to slip your fingers under your panties,” he interrupted, “and I’ll let it go. We’ll forget this happened.”

You stayed silent for a moment, then lowered yourself to sit on the floor in front of him.

The Mandalorian lost control that day; he let himself get hurt, and he almost lost a bounty that he needed the credits for to pay you and care for his child. Fear struck him as he realized how much he depended on predictability, on him keeping it together, on keeping you and Grogu safe. 

Mixed with the fear was something else that made him feel raw in a way he wasn’t sure if he liked. Losing control terrified him, meant he was vulnerable, and he wasn’t comfortable with that. In that moment, he desperately needed the control back, and you were going to give it to him.

You kicked off your shoes and socks and pulled your pants down. You weren’t totally sure where he was looking exactly, but you knew he was focused on you. Either on the way that your nipples began to harden against your thin shirt and bra, the wet spot that grew in your panties, or the tremble in your thighs occurring because of his scrutinizing gaze, or at least what you think is his gaze.

Slowly and tentatively, you sat down on the cold floor in front of the Mandalorian, about two feet of distance between the two of you.

“Do it the same way you do when you’re in the shower,” he instructed.

Your eyes widened. Fuck, he heard that? Fuck.

You started with what Mando could only call a pet to your clothed pussy. You gently repeated the motion a few times, then added more pressure.

“Take them off,” Mando said, his voice clear and demanding.

He watched you bite your bottom lip, probably to suppress a moan or a whine as you pulled your panties down.

Mando let out a soft groan, muffled by his helmet’s modulator, when you bared your cunt to him.

“Finger yourself,” was his next demand, but his voice shook, and the dichotomy of his making a demand with such a pitiful tone of voice was nearly enough to make you come on the spot.

You did as he said, and when he told you to add a second, then a third finger, you complied then too.

“Fuck, Mando,” you mumbled softly, your entire body on the verge of convulsing.

Pleasuring yourself was always something you did in private, not shamefully, but definitely privately. But doing it in front of the Mandalorian, simply because he asked, was sending a rush throughout your body that you couldn’t explain.

“I’m gonna come,” you whined softly, so as not to wake the child.

“Good girl,” Mando crooned. “Good, show me how you come. Be a good girl for me.”

With a silent shout, you clamped down on your fingers as you came. Mando’s breath hitched as he watched your thighs tremble uncontrollably as you came down.

Carefully, Mando inched closer to you as you caught your breath. He picked up your discarded panties and gently pulled your hand away from your cunt. He used the panties to clean your own juices off your hand and off your vulva.

Then he tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent plea for you to remove the garment.

As you stripped naked, Mando unzipped his flight pants and yanked out his devastatingly hard cock, red and dripping pre-cum.

“Fuck, I need you,” he rumbled.

His voice, altered by the voice modulator, went straight to your core.

You nodded and lay back on the floor, legs spread so Mando could fuck you. 

You weren’t normally so pliant under the people with whom you’d had sex with in the past, but Mando… If the way he shot the man in the leg who made lewd comments about you at a cantina about six months ago was any indication, you knew he’d rather cut off his own arm than hurt you.

He lined himself up and gently pushed inside, checking in with you along the way. He thrusted a few times, probably for less than two or three minutes. Then he was whining and pulling out, coming all over your red, puffy cunt. 

“Shit. Fuck,” he panted. “I’m sorry. I–”

You shook your head. You knew he was repressed—not a virgin—but definitely repressed, probably more so after he took in Grogu. What kind of single father has time for one-night stands?

“It’s okay, Mando,” you assured him. “If you want… We can have a do-over sometime.”

From there, things escalated. You started sleeping in his bed with him, rather than the hammock in the hull after the night he fucked you in the cockpit.

You had straddled his lap, and the beskar of his thigh plates dug into your ass, but fuck, it was worth it. His gloved hands roamed your body and pinched your nipples through your shirt and bra. You leaned your forehead against the cool metal of his helmet and came with a soft yelp.

As he tucked his cock back into his pants, he said he was heading for bed. 

When he saw you toeing your boots off in front of the hammock in the hull that you’d called a bed, he gently wrapped a hand around your wrist and pulled you into his bedroom.

He tucked you in, handling you so carefully that you worried he was hallucinating you to be mere inches tall and green-skinned.

Mando instructed you to face the wall, and once you were, you heard the clink and clank of him removing his armor. All but the helmet.

His hands were warm on your body, his arms were strong as he held you. You’d never felt safer in your life. You could live with never seeing his face. 

What he allowed you to have of himself was surely ten times better than the whole of any other man.

A few months after that was the first time he fucked you without his helmet. You think that’s when it happened. He barely pulled out of you, so it made sense.

He had quietly tiptoed into the bedroom after meeting with Karga to collect more bounties.

You turned over in bed and blinked the sleep from your eyes.

“Mando?”

“Sorry,” he murmured as he began removing the armor.

You sighed and faced the wall again, but stretched your hand out behind you, a silent plea for his touch.

Once Din removed everything but his helmet, fully nude with the exception of his head, he climbed in behind you. He wasn’t quite sure then, and still isn't sure, what made him remove the helmet at that moment, but he did.

You heard the soft pull, then the quiet thud of Mando setting his helmet on the floor, which filled the small bedroom.

“Mando!” you whispered, your voice tight and clipped, almost panicked.

You froze, your eyes trained on the metal wall, unsure what to do now. To your knowledge, Mando took his religion very seriously, was part of a very devout sect, and would only remove his helmet in the presence of his clan.

Did it not count if you didn’t see? What was his plan here?

“It’s alright,” Mando whispered in your ear, his breath warm on your skin. “I trust you.”

That sent a tingle down your spine.

“Just keep your eyes trained on the wall,” he warned softly.

You swallowed roughly, then nodded, the back of your head moving enough for him to see. “Okay.”

Mando pulled at the panties you wore while you removed your sleep shirt, baring your body to him. The idea of being fully naked with him, even if you couldn’t see him, was thrilling.

He gently started rubbing your clit, eventually pulling soft whines from your mouth. It was like music to Mando’s ears.

“Oh, you’re such a good girl for me. You’ll do anything I tell you, huh?” he whispers in your ear as he circles your hole with his fingertip. “You like this? Watching me come undone for you? Huh?”

You gasped out softly when his finger penetrated you. His words were melting you, making you putty in his hands.

“Mando, I… Oh, fuck, I need you,” you whined, your voice a high-pitched whisper.

The Mandalorian growled in response to your vulnerability. He worked you open with two fingers, but didn’t bother making you come. You needed him, and he needed you just as much.

He’d gotten you wet, but not quite wet enough to take him, so he spit on his palm and rubbed it onto his cock before pushing inside of you.

Mando buried his face in the back of your hair for the first time so he could muffle his groans. It was heavenly, having your soft hair rub against his face.

“Fuck, cyar’ika,” he mumbled against your hair, squeezing his hands around your body. “Ori’meshla.”

You clenched around Mando’s cock as he spoke in his religion’s tongue. He was really giving it to you with both barrels. Removing his helmet in your presence and speaking in his native language while he was balls deep inside of you felt like a fucking marriage proposal, but better. 

“Oh, my–Fuck, Mando,” you cried.

He started thrusting and set a quick pace immediately. He still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the sensual side of things, and you’d been a bit apprehensive to dare make things more emotional in addition to physical. 

The dirty talk, though? That just kept getting better.

“Your cunt is so good,” he whined in your ear, one hand busying itself with rubbing your clit, the other groping your breast and rolling your nipple. “Oh, shit, I shouldn’t want you this much. I’ve never wanted anybody this much,” he whispered.

“Oh, fuck, Mando, I–shit–I want you so bad. Your cock is… Oh!” you babbled, completely drunk on his cock.

“Fuck,” he moaned, sounding absolutely pitiful. You only wished you could see the facial expression that went along with that sound. “Fuck. I take off the helmet, and suddenly you’re cock drunk? Huh? You usually don’t get like this until round two, sweet thing. What? Does it turn you on knowing all it would take is you turning your head around for me to break my creed? Huh? You like the danger of it?”

You buried your face into the pillow beneath your head and let out the most pathetic whine Mando had ever heard from you. If only you could’ve seen the smirk on his face.

He picked your head up by your hair and made you stare at the wall.

“Don’t hide your sweet noises,” he whispered in your ear, his facial hair rubbing against you.

Fuck, he was definitely attractive. No one could act like that and not have the face to match the behavior. 

“I won’t,” you promised, hissing softly when he pulled on your hair before releasing it from his grip.

“That’s a good girl. Yeah, you’re my good girl, huh? You feel special because I took off the helmet for you? Hm? You like hearing my voice clear and unmodulated? Did you like feeling my beard rub on your ear? Tell me.”

“Oh!” you shrieked. His fingers just pressed harder against your clit. “Fuck, I like it, Mando! F-Feel so fucking special. Your voice is so–mm–so smooth and, oh, shit, your beard! Fuck, so sexy, Mando, fuck! I need you!”

He had you right where he wanted you: completely dumb for him. He’d watched you, a highly competent woman, care for his son when he was away and when he was tired, watched you intelligently converse with store merchants and negotiate for the best deals on clothing or snacks for Grogu, listened to you list off facts about the new planets he brought you to. You were smart, and you had your shit together, so making you lose it with just his body made him feel like a fucking king.

“Yeah? Gonna come for me?” he whispered in your ear again, rubbing his cheek against your ear to scratch you with his beard.

“Mm! Yes! Oh, gonna come, Mando! Fuck!” you yelped.

Mando began to rub your clit a little faster, and the orgasm he pulled from you was world-shattering.

Your pussy clenched down on his cock so hard that he thought it might fall off.

“Want you to come now,” you panted. “Come on, Mando, use my pussy.”

The Mandalorian whined in your ear and bit down on your earlobe. He took hold of your hips and gently pushed you to lie on your stomach.

“That okay?” he asked breathily.

“Mhm!”

With your okay, Mando started ramming his cock into you, the small room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath.

His orgasm overtook him; he was already coming by the time his tip exited your body. 

“Sorry,” he gritted out as he pumped his cock over your ass. “Still have your implant?” he asked, already reaching for his underwear to wipe his cum off of you.

“Yeah,” you murmured softly.

Mando tossed his underwear to the floor and turned you on your side, facing the wall. He wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “Close your eyes.”

You did so and mumbled, “Closed.”

He gently brought his hand to your face and turned you toward him. You could feel his breath on you, and you held yours.

When his lips pressed against yours for the first time, it was like ecstasy ran through your body. He was unsure, didn’t use his tongue, but you could feel his passion.

He pulled away and kissed your shoulder, then tightened his arms around you.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and you weren’t sure what to say.

You just took hold of one of his hands and brought his knuckles to your lips.

///

It’s been six weeks since the Mandalorian barely pulled out of you in time, and you’ve been sick a few days over the last two weeks. Unrelated, right? You fucking hope so. When Mando lands the ship, he slips some credits into your hand for shopping, like always, but this time the quantity is greater.

“Find something to make yourself feel better,” he says.

“Hm?” You furrow your brow.

“I’ve heard you in the bathroom,” Mando says softly. “If you’re looking after a child as rambunctious as Grogu, you need your energy. Get better.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, taken aback.

You watch as he heads down the ramp, then look down at Grogu, playing with his silver ball in the corner.

“How does a trip to the market sound today, kid?” you ask softly as you walk toward him.

Grogu coos excitedly in response, and you pull your bag over your shoulder, then help the child get situated inside.

It’s a nice town that Mando’s landed in. You wish he would take the time to explore it once he collects the bounty; it seems all he ever does is hunt for bounties rather than a shop that carries his new favorite product. He has a hard time enjoying things and taking everything in, in your opinion. 

The walk to the market is easy. Grogu coos excitedly every once in a while as you make your way through the shops, buying items you’ll need for the week.

When you make it to the medical shop to stock up on first aid, you notice a doctor’s business card left by the box of bandages. Why not get a quick checkup for you and Grogu?

When you enter the clinic, it’s empty, save for the receptionist.

“Walk in?” they ask.

“Uh, yes,” you reply. “For the kid and me. I wondered if we could just get checkups?”

They nod, not looking at you as they search for the forms.

“Fill these out. I’ll let the doctor know.”

You take a seat, take Grogu out of your bag, and set him on the chair next to you.

“Don’t move,” you tell him, your tone stern but loving.

He makes a sound of discontent, but does as you say while you fill out the paperwork.

Then the door opens, and an older man simply asks, “Ready?”

Unprofessional at best, but you still pick up Grogu and head down the hall with the doctor.

Grogu goes first. You don’t even know what species he is, so the doctor ends up grumbling while taking the child’s history.

Eventually, your green charge is deemed to be in good health.

“Alright,” the doctor sighs after handing Grogu a candy. “For you? Just a physical?”

“Uh, I’m actually more concerned about, um, just checking my vitals,” you say.

The doctor furrows his brow. “What was the day of your last cycle?”

“I guess seven weeks ago. Maybe eight?”

He shakes his head. “Let me go get the bioscan device.”

The doctor steps out, and you turn to Grogu. “You keep this between us, buddy, and there’ll be extra cookies in your future.”

The child beams at you, then the doctor comes back. He unceremoniously scans your body, looks at the results, then sighs when he looks at you. 

“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re pregnant. One human baby.”

Fuck, is all you can think.

“Do you do birth control implant removals?” you ask after a few moments.

The doctor nods.

Once the procedure is done and you’re bandaged up and prescribed anti-nausea medication, you take the kid and split, heading back to the Crest.

Shit, what kind of idiot gets pregnant by a Mandalorian? Wait, that’s being too hard on yourself. The birth control failed. This isn’t anyone’s fault.

Oh, fuck, what is Mando going to say?

You’ve never seen his face. Never. Not in the two years you’ve worked for him. He’s fucked you senseless, let you touch his face in the dark, even kissed you with your eyes closed, but you’ve never seen his face. 

Sometimes he’ll walk around the ship in just his pants, the helmet on. Sometimes he’ll even be naked, except for the helmet. 

You’ve gotten over it. He’s given you other pieces of himself. His bed, his cock, his trust, as well as his seed. 

His fucking seed. 

You’re pregnant with the elusive Mandalorian’s child, yet you've never seen his face, and you still don’t know his name.

When you get back to the Crest, Mando’s already back, sitting at the small table in the hull, the bounty encased in carbonite. 

Grogu coos excitedly and jumps out of the bag, toddling toward his father. 

“Hey, kid,” Mando murmurs softly as he picks up his son. “Get everything we need?” he asks you. 

We. Fuck. 

“Uh, yeah,” you say, setting the bag on the small table. “I even took Grogu to the doctor, just for a checkup. He’s healthy.”

Mando cocks his head to the side, slightly confused. “Why did you take him?”

You take a deep breath in through your nose. “Because I needed to get a bioscan. Figured, since we were there, y’know.”

He stays quiet, waiting for you to continue as he lets Grogu hold his finger. 

You thought you’d sit on it for a few days, let the news sink in on your own. Just looking at him is enough to break you. Grogu will still get his cookies; you don’t break promises. 

“I thought I might be pregnant.” Your breath hitches. “I am. The doctor gave me anti-nausea medicine.”

You say it with feigned nonchalance. You may appear stoic on the outside, but on the inside, you’re terrified. These are not technically the proper circumstances to carry a child in, much less to raise a child in, despite the fact that Grogu does so well. 

This stage of your life, traveling and babysitting, was never meant to be the time you raised a baby. It was meant to give you some perspective on the galaxy, help you get to know yourself. 

You aren’t sure how your baby will fare, raised by a woman who does not yet fully know herself and a man who takes his faction of religion so seriously that those in the same religion consider it to be a cult. 

But what if this is how it’s meant to be? What if this is how you grow into yourself? What if this child is the last piece of yourself left for you to be whole? There are so many what-ifs, and that’s what’s tearing you apart. 

Grogu may still be technically similar to a human toddler, but he’s also had decades to learn to adapt to life. You’re not sure how your baby would do with adapting to a new climate so often. It would be entirely different from Grogu’s experience; the baby would be human. What’s more, what if Mando can’t handle this? What if he pulls away?

He’s said taking care of Grogu has been the greatest honor of his life, and that Mandalorians pride themselves on raising foundlings. What if biological children are seen as less than, as adding a soul to the world who didn’t ask for it?

You’re realizing more and more that you really have no idea how Mando thinks, what his values truly are, and that scares you more than you’d like to admit. 

Mando still hasn’t said anything, and it’s making you uneasy. You wish you could see his face to at least know what he might be feeling.

On second thought, maybe not knowing is better.

Mando eventually leans his elbows on his knees, then straightens up again. He’s fucking fidgeting. The first time he’s moved in about twenty seconds. “You’re… Okay. Wow.”

You’ve never seen the Mandalorian falter. You’ve never wanted to. You definitely didn’t want to be the reason. 

“Mando, I swear I had the implant,” you assure him. “I got it out today, though; it’s obviously shit.”

You lower the hem of your pants to show the bandage over your hip. “See?”

Mando shakes his head. “I believe you. It’s okay.” A breath. “So, anti-nausea medicine… You intend to keep the pregnancy?”

You hesitate, then sigh. “I-I guess so. I don’t… I’m not sure I could bring myself to terminate. Y’know, personally…”

He nods. “That’s your decision. I… If you’re keeping it, I can’t allow myself not to be involved.”

It’s part of his creed to be united with one’s family. Mando’s already an amazing father to Grogu; your child won’t have to worry. 

“I understand,” you murmur softly. “That’s good, y’know? Good for the kid.”

A moment of silence goes by, like you’re both silently begging the other to continue or end the conversation. Eventually, Mando is the braver party. 

“Grogu. He’s a rambunctious child,” he says, looking at his son in his lap. “Will you be able to continue caring for him when I’m away? I could get another sitter; I’d make it work.”

You shake your head. “I’ve got him.”

Mando gently sets Grogu on the floor, then stands slowly, rising to his full height in front of you. He places a gloved hand on your shoulder as he takes a step forward. He takes another step and drops his hand.

He turns to face the other way and takes another step toward the bathroom, but it’s like he can’t. Eventually, he turns his body ever so slightly. 

“My name is Din Djarin,” he says over his shoulder.

Your stomach drops. You never expected he would tell you his name, but then nothing with him has ever been expected.

“I figure you deserve to know the name of the man whose child you bear.”

And then he disappears into the bathroom, leaving you reeling.

///

The night that follows you telling Din that you bear his child, all you can think about is his name. He trusts you enough to tell you his name. 

Din Djarin… 

It’s a simple name, but strong, like him.

That night, after your shower, you find him in the bedroom, clad in boxers and his helmet, sitting on the edge of the bed. You drop the towel and bare your naked body to him. He grunts softly in appreciation and holds his hand out for you.

You pad over to him and straddle his lap. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, you hold up a scrap of fabric.

Live with a man for two years, and he’ll know what you mean without you having to say a word. Or at least Din will. 

Din takes the scrap from you and holds it over your eyes and ties it off behind your head, blindfolding you.

“So gentle, Din,” you whisper.

He hums softly in response, but otherwise stays silent.

Big day, big news; you understand. You won’t push tonight.

Din takes in your body. He just had you last night. Neither of you knew a child was growing beneath your heart, but now you do know, and it feels different, like someone’s watching.

You look the same as you did months before. You shouldn’t look different quite yet. He knows that. It’s still too early for any visible changes to your body. He’ll love them; he knows that. It’ll be his seed growing inside of you, responsible for the changes to occur down the line.

This situation feels precarious, and he isn’t sure why. All he knows is that whether or not this baby was planned, he needs to protect them with his life and show you all the care and adoration in the world in the meantime.

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to spread the ability to be a father between two children, but he knows he’ll try. He’ll try with everything he has, regardless of how scared he is. 

Din slips his boxers off and removes the helmet.

You moan when you hear the beskar hit the floor. Tentatively, your hands go to his cheeks, letting his beard scratch against your palms as your hands make their way to his hair.

He’s come to understand that his hair, any of it–whether it be his beard, the mop on his head, arm hair, leg hair, his bush, even his fucking armpit hair–is your favorite part of his body. You fucking love it all.

“Can I kiss you, Din?” you whisper, brushing your nose against his.

The sex, neither of you has a problem with. You know that kissing is another story for him, so you’re in the habit of always asking before you kiss him.

He nods, then remembers that you can’t see him.

“Yes,” he rasps. “Please.”

You lean forward blindly, and when your lips meet his, you moan. He seeks entrance into your mouth by tonguing the seam of your lips. He gets better at this every time.

You tug gently on his hair, and he whines into your mouth.

“Oh, shit, sweetheart,” he moans.

His hands are all over you. It’s like he’s mapping your body out, looking for any changes. His right hand eventually stops above your hip. He gently drags his thumb back and forth over your lower belly. Soothing himself? You? The baby? You’re not sure, but it leaves a pit in your stomach, and you whine into his mouth.

“Din, fuck,” you whine, leaning your forehead against his. 

You grind on the erection growing beneath you and sigh.

“Get inside me, Din,” you whisper breathlessly.

He’s quick. You hold your hips up, and he drags his tip through your wet folds a few times, then helps you sink down when the tip is inside.

You throw your head back in pleasure, and Din scooches back on the bed. He wraps his arms around you and lies back, then turns the two of you on your sides so that you don’t have to do so much of the work.

He’s quieter than normal, and it makes you want to overcompensate by talking more than usual, but you hold back. He needs to process in silence. It’s what he’s used to, so you bite your bottom lip and moan each time your lips want to move.

You whimper and moan when his thumb starts circling your clit, when his other thumb starts tweaking your nipples, so sensitive with the new rush of hormones in your body.

“Shit,” you pant. “Oh, so good, Din.”

“So pretty,” Din murmurs to you as he thrusts a little harder.

“Oh! Din!”

“I got you,” he whispers before kissing you again.

He keeps a steady pace of his hips, as well as his thumbs, pushing you over the edge in no time.

“Din, shit,” you whine. “Fuck, baby.”

He swallows your whines and fucks into you with no abandon as he chases his own high. You’re carrying his baby. His seed is growing inside of you. He got you pregnant. Oh, fuck just the simple thought is enough to make him come.

He spills inside of you and doesn’t pull out halfway through for the first time, and it’s divine. His cum is warm and thick and comforting, and you swear you might want it as a snack later.

You moan softly, and Din watches your ribs rise and fall as you regain your composure. He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles.

“You like my name,” he whispers.

“Hm?”

“You couldn’t stop saying it.”

You shrug.

He smiles.

///

Even with the anti-nausea medicine from the clinic, the first trimester of pregnancy isn’t easy. You’re always so tired and hungry, but you often have trouble sleeping, and pretty much no food ever sounds good. 

Din is understanding. He keeps his distance, but is sure to show his support. 

After a hunt on Naboo, Din coaxes you out of bed and out to the flea market. 

You don’t say much, but he figures fresh air and things to look at other than the contents of the Crest might do you good. 

Grogu makes noises of excitement as he toddles along with you and Din. 

Usually, you’re much more eager to try the vendors’ samples and make a few purchases, but you honestly look dead on your feet. 

“Was this too much too soon?” he asks you in between vendors. 

Your arms are crossed, hugged closely to your body, just trying not to keel over from all the overwhelming sounds and smells. He tried to do a good thing, a sweet thing, and you know that’s a little hard for him. He’s not used to being sweet. 

“It was a nice thought,” you whisper softly, squinting as you look up at him, the sun hitting his armor reflecting right into your eye. 

“I thought the fresh air would help with your fatigue,” he murmurs softly, a gloved hand reaching out to gently caress your bicep. 

You just shrug. Grogu approaches, his hands pulling on your boot. 

“He’s… He’s been cooped up the last two days,” you say softly. “I don’t want to ruin his fun. I’ll go into the cantina, try and choke down some broth. Come find me when he’s ready.”

You’re already walking away, a kind smile on your face. 

Din shifts his weight awkwardly. Grogu looks up at him like it’s his fault you’re gone. 

A woman in the booth nearby shoots Din a knowing look. He cocks his head to the side, and she smiles. 

“The first trimester is difficult,” she says as Din walks closer with Grogu. “Her body is getting used to not belonging solely to her anymore. She’s starving but struggles to keep food down. Tired, but has a hard time shutting off her mind long enough to get to sleep. And it looks like she’s already got a little one to look after. An energetic one, by the looks of things.”

The woman nods over to Grogu, a few feet away, jumping up and down in front of some children, practically begging for them to share their cookies with him. 

Din calls Grogu over, then looks back at the woman. 

“I thought coming here, getting some fresh air and exercise, looking at all the shops would make her feel better,” Din admits, feeling a little silly saying it. 

The woman smiles. “I sell a tea that is sure to at least ease your wife’s symptoms.”

Din doesn’t even realize that this woman has mistaken you for his wife at first. For a moment, he grapples with whether or not it matters that she knows you’re actually his son’s babysitter turned dubious hookup turned mother of his second child. 

“Mando?” The woman’s voice is calm, like she’s making sure his train of thought doesn’t take him too far. 

“Right. I’ll take it,” Din says, glancing over her prices and handing her extra credits. “Thank you. I’m sure my…wife will be grateful.”

The woman smiles and watches him walk off with Grogu. 

Din’s seriously buzzing under all the armor at referring to you as his wife. Is it wrong? He’s not sure. But is it so bad to live in that fantasy where everything is plain and simple and easy and not scary and hard and awkward, for just a moment?

He buys a couple of staples for Grogu’s snacks, then finds you at the cantina, sitting in the back booth, a half-full bowl of broth in front of you. 

“He have fun?” you ask, the bags under your eyes darker than when you left. 

Din looks at the smiling child, then to you, and shrugs. 

“He missed you, mostly. Though, I gave him a cookie to soften the blow,” he tells you, and you let out a soft laugh through your nose.

“Find anything interesting?”

“In a way,” Din replies. “A woman noticed our conversation before you left.”

You tense slightly in your seat. For some reason, the image of a woman ready to be Din’s bubbly arm candy, happy to be at the market, ready to replace your cranky, grumpy self, enters your head for a split second. 

You don’t like the idea, and you don’t like the feeling it gives you. 

“She caught on to your…condition. She said this tea might help,” he says, pulling the box from the bag. “I can go up to the bar and have them make you a cup.”

Normally, you’d just make the tea on the ship, but the walk from the town to the ship is longer than you’d like, and you feel like death warmed over, so you nod, and Din’s out of his seat. 

He speaks to the barkeep for a moment, then stands in wait, occasionally looking over his shoulder at you and Grogu. 

Just a few minutes later, he’s back at the table with the tea. 

“It’s hot,” he warns.

You sigh and rest your chin on your knuckles, your elbow on the table. Grogu stares up at you, and you smile. 

“Wanna blow on it for me, pal? Cool it down?” you ask softly. 

The child smiles and blows air out on your tea, though a little too harshly, making a noise that pulls the first genuine laugh out of you that Din’s heard in a few days. 

Eventually, Grogu deems the tea cool enough for you, and gently pushes it toward you. 

You take a sip, and make a slight face of disgust, then eventually, one of acceptance.

“Fuck, I hope that works,” you mutter.

And it seems to. Half an hour later, the three of you are walking back to the Crest, and you’re in better spirits, smiling at Grogu, cracking the occasional joke.

For the first time all week, you take care of Grogu’s bedtime routine.

On the inside, Din is buzzing, utterly pleased with himself that the tea has worked.

He takes a quick shower while you put Grogu down, and once you’re washed up for the night, you meet Din in the bedroom, his helmet and boxers down. 

Once you’re settled in bed, Din removes the helmet and kisses your cheek, spooning you.

“Thank you,” you mutter softly. “For the tea and trying to make me feel better.”

“Don’t mention it,” he whispers.

///

When Din realizes you’re showing, he’s feral. 

He’s more pleased about the pregnancy than you thought he’d be. 

As the months have gone on, he’s been silently examining your body every day, scanning for new changes, changes that tell the world that his baby is inside you, growing and healthy.

So when you come to bed tonight, he notices the curve of your stomach, more defined than it was last week, not as soft as when you’re bloated, and he feels all the blood rush to his head. 

You squint at him. “Am I paranoid, or are you staring at me?”

“You’re showing,” is all he responds with, sitting on the edge of the bed, helmet and boxers on.

You laugh it off, but then he grabs your hand and pulls you toward him. He has you standing between his legs. He pulls your shirt up and sure enough… There’s an undeniable bump.

“Hm. Guess you’re right,” you mutter.

“How can you be so nonchalant?” Din asks, disbelief creeping into his voice.

“What?”

“You’re showing,” Din says again. “People can look at you now and know, undoubtedly, that you are with child. You are visibly pregnant with my child.”

You furrow your brows, not quite grasping why Din feels so intensely about your bump. “Yeah, I know…”

Din sighs and brings both his hands to stroke your belly.

He’s just completed a hunt on Umbara, and you’re still here, landed in an isolated area. Sunlight doesn’t reach this planet. All you have to do is turn off the soft lamp, and you’ll be in complete darkness. Din won’t have to keep the helmet on, and you won’t have to wear a blindfold.

“Turn the light off,” Din whispers, his voice dominant and commanding.

You hesitate for a moment, then reach over and turn the light switch.

Now in pitch black, Din removes his helmet and sets it on the floor.

You’re already leaking into your panties. 

He removes his boxers, then gently tugs on your shirt and helps you get it off, then your sleep shorts and panties.

He palms your cunt and moans appreciatively. 

“All this for me? All we’ve done is get undressed,” he whispers.

“Hormones,” you mumble.

In the dark, he smirks, and the tip of his middle finger breaches your entrance.

Your breath hitches, and he pushes it deeper inside.

“I’m gonna make you come on my hand,” Din rasps, “and then I’m gonna explain to you how amazing your new body is with my cock.”

You moan at his words and clamp around his finger, then his speed picks up just a little. He adds clitoral stimulation, and with his other hand, he gropes your ass. He leans forward and meets your breast with his lips. He wraps his lips around your sensitive nipple and moans around it, sending vibrations through your body that quickly send you over the edge.

“Shit, Din,” you whine, a hand tugging on his hair for balance. 

“Good girl. Did so good letting me get you all wet for my cock. Now, we’re gonna lie down, okay?”

“Okay,” you pant.

Din maneuvers your pliant body with ease. He stands and turns you around, lying you down in the middle of the bed. He may not be able to see your body, but he knows it inside and out, and he’s ready to worship its new changes.

With you flat on your back, Din runs a hand from your cheek, down the side of your neck, over the curve of your breast, to caress your new bump. He shivers when he holds his palm over it. He swears he could die right here. His child is under his hand, and just the thought is making his cock harden.

Your breathing is deep and heavy, and the sound is music to Din’s ears. He leans down and kisses your belly, just beneath your belly button.

“You have my child inside of you, visibly growing and healthy,” he mutters against your skin. “Do you understand what that does to a man like me?”

A man like me… You can’t even begin to understand all the implications there. Din, who has only ever had physical intimacy since his parents died. Emotional intimacy has only been found with Grogu, yet it wasn’t enough for Din. 

To have his child growing inside of you, to see what it’s doing to your body, what his touch did to you… He hadn’t touched another person in decades, and never the way he touches you.

His touch was one of passion, clearly, and it resulted in the beginnings of new life.

New life that is now palpable.

“This is so special,” Din whispers as he kisses his way up your body.

He hovers over you, one hand planted next to your body as he lines himself up with your entrance with his other hand. 

When he pushes in, you both sigh, relieved and excited.

He lowers his face and kisses you as he gets you used to the feeling of him. It’s almost hungry on Din’s part, and you love it.

Honestly, you were wondering just last week if he would back off once you were really showing. You wondered if he might be too scared or just uninterested. Evidently, neither is true, because he’s barely controlling himself from grinding against you.

“Din, you can move,” you tell him breathily. “It’s okay, baby.”

Immediately, Din starts thrusting hard, but not too fast.

“Oh, shit, pretty girl,” he whines. “Do you have any idea what this is doing to me?”

You just giggle in response, and Din snakes his hands under your body and pulls you up. Now, he has his left foot planted on the floor, his knee hitting the side of the bed, his right knee sinking into the bed. He has you balanced on his right thigh, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and shoulder. His hands roam your back and side, and his cock is hitting deeper places inside of you than ever before.

“Fuck, you look so incredibly beautiful carrying our baby,” he pants as he goes to kiss your neck.

You moan and arch your back, giving him more access to your neck, and the feeling of your bump pressing into his abdomen makes his cock twitch inside of you.

“Oh, shit, sweetheart,” he rasps, his fingers flexing against your skin, his head resting against your clavicle as you both meet the other’s thrusts.

“Fuck, feels so good, Din. Shit!”

All that’s heard in the small room is the sound of skin slapping against skin and breathy moans and whines. It’s pure ecstasy, and neither of you wants it to stop.

“So good to me,” you whine. “Taking such good care of your pregnant slut, huh? Making sure my needs are met, Din? Huh?”

“Don’t call yourself a slut,” Din pants, still thrusting. “You’re perfect. You have my baby inside of you. You’re all mine. Mine.”

“Mm, all yours, huh? Wanna keep me for yourself?” you ask before licking a stripe up his neck.

“Mhm. Mother of my baby. Such a pretty mommy…”

You moan and let yourself fall back a bit, pulling Din with you. He has this musk you can’t describe, and you need a closer angle.

“Smell so good,” you pant, kissing up and down his neck.

Din grabs your jaw and lazily licks the outline of your lips before kissing you again.

You scratch your nails down his triceps and clench around his cock when he hisses in pain.

He moves his arm so he can cup the back of your head, and you lean in to smell his armpit.

It shocks him, and he gasps, but you moan and hold his arm up so you can keep sniffing.

“Fuck, you smell so good, baby,” you moan dreamily.

It’s taboo, even a little gross, to sniff your lover’s armpit and claim it smells good, and you wouldn’t normally do that, but Din knows it’s your hormones. Your hormones are out of whack because of the baby he put inside of you, and now you love the smell of his armpit.

It’s enough to wreck a man.

He feels your nose brush against his armpit hair, and he shivers. Then you have the audacity to kiss and lick his armpit, and the moan that comes out of you has him blowing his load in under ten seconds, which triggers your own climax.

By the end of it, you’re both sweaty, stupid messes.

Din kisses your bump about eleven times before he finally lies down.

///

Five and a half months pregnant and bored while Din has been on a hunt the last two days, you manage to scrounge up some old sketch paper from a box in the back of the ship.

It seems that since you entered the second trimester, you haven’t been drawing as much.

You start with Grogu. He sits beside you while he eats his lunch and plays with his silver ball. You’re halfway through when he peers over your shoulder and oohs and ahs at it.

“Like it, buddy?” you ask.

He smiles in response and drags his fingers over the ears you drew.

You smile. “Accurate?”

Grogu nods.

Next, you draw your new side profile, hoping it will make you feel a little better about it. Din may be crazy for it, but it’s taking some getting used to for you. 

You work on it on and off, watching Grogu play outside, then in between bites at dinner. By the end, you’d like to say it’s worked at least a little, in terms of being a confidence booster. 

After you put Grogu to bed, you sit back down at the table and stare at your paper and pencil.

You’ve mapped out every inch of Din’s face with your hands. Maybe you could try to sketch his face?

For some reason, that makes you nervous, so instead, you sketch his body, fully nude, and you don’t forget even a single scar.

You’re so into it that you don’t hear the ramp open and close or Din’s footsteps when he approaches you from behind, a hand resting on your shoulder.

You jump in your seat and turn around, your heart beating out of your chest.

“Shit,” you laugh softly to yourself.

“You were in the zone,” Din remarks, sitting next to you, looking over your shoulder just as Grogu had done earlier.

Like father, like son.

“Is that me?” he asks softly when he notices the scar you’ve sketched on the figure’s right side.

“Yeah,” you answer simply. 

He stares at the drawing for a moment, eyes squinting inside the helmet. 

“My cock’s not that big,” he mutters softly.

You snort out a laugh, then cover your mouth in embarrassment. You smile and look from his crotch to his helmet, hopefully making eye contact with him.

“Din, yes, it is,” you manage to say in between laughs.

He shrugs and focuses back on the drawing, then notices you’ve started drawing his jaw and wonders how far you’ll go with that.

“Do you think you can draw my face?” he asks.

You inhale sharply and consider it for a moment.

“I’m not sure.” Then you look up at his helmet-covered face. “Would it be okay if I tried? You wouldn’t have to tell me if it was right, or close, or anything.”

Din sighs and removes one of his gloves, then reaches out to rub your belly, something he does lately when you say something that makes him think.

“I’d actually like to see what you come up with,” he says.

You smile, pick your pencil back up, and get to work with the rough sketch.

As he watches you draw, he scoots his chair to be behind yours, his arms settling on top of your bump, his hands able to roam the globe of it while you work.

He watches you sketch sparse hair on the cheeks for his patchy beard, the almost exact slope of his nose, the messy waves of the mop on his head. You get close to the size and shape of his eyes, his chin. All of it is…strangely close to accurate for someone who’s never seen his face.

Din doesn’t say anything until you’re finished, and you hold the piece of paper up for him to assess. 

You’re almost nervous by how long he’s been silent; then he speaks.

“You’re a hell of an artist, sweetheart,” he murmurs before standing from his chair.

That night in bed, you shut your eyes and move your fingers over his facial features once again, as if you’re trying to identify any mistakes you made in your drawing, and also the parts you got right.

///

The first time the baby kicks, it’s the middle of the night. 

You feel some pressure on your bladder and are mentally preparing yourself to blindly crawl over Din to get to the bathroom without catching even a glimpse of his face when it happens. 

A little flutter. 

You gasp and bring your hand to the side of your belly. With a gentle press against your skin, you encourage another flutter, which pulls a breathy laugh from you. 

Behind you, Din stirs, his hand flexing on your hip. 

“Okay?” he mumbles tiredly. 

You take his hand off your hip and push it against your stomach. 

Din’s eyes are barely open as you drag his hand over your belly. He’s always down to feel your bump, but he’s not quite sure why it has to be now. 

Then he feels it. 

“That’s them?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep but full of awe. 

“That’s our baby,” you whisper, staring down at the small ripple of your skin under Din’s hand. 

There’s a lump in both your throats. You’ve both known this was happening for months, that a baby was on the way. Din’s been in a state of perpetual protectiveness since you told him you were pregnant, and it got worse when you were showing, and now the baby can move, and you can both feel it and see it, and it’s miraculous and amazing, and neither of you feel worthy of this child. 

Din kisses the back of your neck and peers over your shoulder, his beard rubbing against your ear as he watches the small movements made by the baby in your belly. 

“What does it feel like?” he whispers. “On the inside, what does it feel like?”

You inhale deeply as you think about how to answer. 

“Kind of like when your leg twitches, or maybe tiny taps, but from  the inside,” you mutter softly, your hand on the top of his forearm while he gently strokes back and forth across your stomach. 

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“No. No, it’s just strange. It’ll take some getting used to.”

Din hums contentedly and kisses the top of your cheek. The two of you just stay like that for a few moments, your hands roaming your stomach, following the baby as they roll around in your womb. 

He kisses your ear and lets you gently push his weight off of you. 

“I have to pee,” you whisper, turning your face toward him with your eyes closed. 

He chuckles softly at the sight and takes your hand, carefully guiding you out of bed and out to the bathroom. He dutifully waits outside the door for you. While he waits, he feels the phantom movements on his palm, like his hand is still on your stomach. In all his travels, Din has experienced a great deal of amazing things, but nothing has come close to feeling his child move in your womb. 

When you open the door, eyes shut and your hand held out for Din, he takes it and guides you to the bedroom. He pulls the covers over you both once you’re in bed and holds you until you fall asleep. 

Slowly and carefully, Din pulls the covers down for just a moment and leans down to kiss your stomach. He’s not sure why he does; he just feels the need to. Like when Grogu sits on his lap, and he carefully squeezes his son’s little body. 

He nuzzles his nose against your belly and sighs. There’s an urge to speak to the baby like he often catches you doing these days, but he isn’t sure what to say, plus he doesn’t want to wake you up again. 

So Din presses another kiss to your belly, then straightens out his body again, his hands cradling your stomach as you sleep. With one more kiss to the back of your neck, he shuts his eyes, ready to fall asleep again. 

///

Din just completed a bounty yesterday, but he hasn’t set the course for a new destination yet. You don’t have any complaints; traveling has fucked with your stomach for the last month. Seven months pregnant and constantly flying in the Crest can’t be the healthiest way to live while pregnant, but you don’t have another choice. 

Or maybe you do, but you just don’t want to make it. 

You’re sitting outside the Crest on a smooth rock in front of Grogu, who’s currently focusing on moving his silver ball with the Force. It’s actually going pretty well, and you cheer him on when the ball moves even an inch. 

The ramp is open, and you can see Din inside the Crest, flight pants and helmet on. Nothing else. The fucking tease. 

You like that he feels comfortable enough to bare even just the top half of his body. In the three days you’ve been set up here, not another soul has shown up. 

“Any progress?” Din calls out, leaning against the opening of the ramp, crossing his feet, his arms around his chest. 

“A little,” you reply, leaning back on your palms. 

He chuckles softly and walks down the ramp toward you and Grogu. He takes a seat next to you and lets his pinkie brush against yours. 

“He’s getting stronger every day,” Din remarks. 

You nod. “Tough little green guy.”

That pulls a soft chuckle from the Mandalorian. You lean your head on his shoulder. Quiet intimacy, something that began when you got pregnant. 

You didn’t realize you had been doing it, but Din did. It startled him at first, but he was often tense when you touched him anyway, so you didn’t think much of it. Eventually, he relaxed when you leaned into him.

Right now is no different. 

“I heard the dinner served at the café in town is good,” he says softly. 

“Mm. I want stew tonight. Do they have stew?”

“They should.”

There are a few moments of comfortable silence before Din slowly brings a hand to your belly. He still finds himself feeling awkward initiating the casual side of intimacy, but he knows you need it. You need the reassurance that he’s there for you and the baby, that he’s not just here to get his dick wet and fulfill his biological duty.

The baby rolls under your skin in reaction to their father’s touch.

“Mm. Always so excited to tell you hello,” you murmur, adjusting your weight as you sit, your body upset at the baby’s movement. “Mmph.”

“Are you alright?” Din asks, an edge of concern in his voice.

“The kid’s energetic at the moment,” you say, your voice calm and even, which lets Din lose some of the tension in his shoulders. “Restless, like their father.”

Din scoffs softly at that.

“It’s true.” You shrug.

Underneath the helmet, Din smiles.

After a few more minutes of play for Grogu, Din heads into the Crest to get dressed in his flight suit and adorn his armor.

The walk to the café is somewhat long, but it’s good for your heart, which is good for the baby, Din says.

The three of you are seated rather quickly. No one wants to make the pregnant woman, accompanied by a wordless Mandalorian, wait.

That’s one of the things Din appreciates about you; you do all the talking with strangers. If he can help it, he prefers silence and observing. 

When he met you, you basically offered the role of Grogu’s babysitter to yourself. You were a struggling artist who only sold one piece worth enough to feed you for a year, but you sent that money to your parents to pay off their debts. After that, you hit a rough patch until you met Din and Grogu. You talked your way out of that rough spot, and Din still admires you for it.

Halfway through the meal, an elderly woman approaches your table with the biggest smile on her face.

“My dear, you are positively radiant,” she exclaims, taking your hands in hers.

“Oh, thank you,” you reply kindly, giving her a soft smile.

“I haven’t seen a woman carry as beautifully as you are in ages,” she continues.

Across from you, you know Din is tense, anxious about the attention you’re receiving, scared that this woman will pull you to the floor, maybe take the unused knife from his place setting, and stab you in the belly. He can tolerate the simple congratulations you often receive, but getting interrupted at dinner to hear about how you carry so beautifully is making him uneasy.

“That’s very kind,” you say.

The woman keeps beaming and notices Grogu. 

“Ah, the little one will soon not be the littlest one. Going from one to two is a whirlwind, I must warn you,” she cautions.

“Well, we’ve been preparing, so hopefully it won’t hit us too hard.”

The woman sighs and looks from you to Din. “Well, if I know anything about Mandalorians, I’m sure your husband will at the very least protect all of you with his life. Good luck to you and your sweet family, dear.”

And then she’s off, but there’s something hanging in the air now.

Husband…

Is Din even allowed to be your husband? Who even are you to him besides the mother of his second child, who also happens to love his first with all your heart?

After dinner is wrapped up and the walk to the Crest is complete, Din goes about Grogu’s bedtime routine while you wash up.

When he meets you in the bedroom, you’re sitting up, your back against the metal wall he makes you face every night.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly as he removes his gloves.

You shrug. 

“I’m fine. I just can’t stop thinking about that woman mistaking you for my husband,” you admit, your hands gently caressing the sides of your bump.

“Oh,” he says, removing the armor from his arms.

“Oh? That’s it?”

Din sighs and leans back against the opposite wall. “I’m not sure what to say, sweetheart. I… I didn’t know until recently that Mandalorians could marry outside our religion, that there’s the possibility of living while showing your face to the world.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. Din chews on the inside of his cheek and removes the armor from his legs, then from his front and back, now just clad in the helmet and flight suit.

He sighs again and inches toward the bed, sitting on the edge, but turning his body to face you. He takes one of your hands from your belly and holds it.

“I never had intimacy before I met you,” he whispers softly. “Sex, sure, but not intimacy. I want to do right by you, make sure you receive what you deserve.”

You take a shaky breath in and then exhale. 

“I can go at your pace,” you whisper, your voice breaking. 

Din’s heart thumps roughly in his chest at the sound of your voice breaking. He wishes he could wrap his arms around you and protect you from everything bad in the world. You, Grogu, and the baby in your belly are all he cares about. 

“I know,” he whispers. “And you… You’re amazing, sweetheart. Better than I deserve.”

You let out a soft whimper at that, too emotional to rebuke his statement, but so, so capable of doing so. 

Din sighs. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. 

You nod and shut your eyes, awaiting the sound of his helmet coming off, but instead you hear his voice. 

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes open, and he tips back his helmet, revealing his chin, his bottom lip, then his top lip and cheeks. 

Just the bottom half of his face is so utterly beautiful, you think you might be sick. 

You sniff, and with his free hand, he pulls you closer and presses his lips to yours. He tastes a tear on your lips and licks it up. 

In the past, you had mapped out his features with your hands in the dark. You knew his bottom lip felt plush and slightly curved, but to see it, and to see the patchiness of his beard, to see the shape of his chin… It’s all overwhelming. 

When he pulls back, he reaches up to kiss your forehead, then lowers the helmet again. 

“I love you,” you whisper through your quiet tears. 

Din’s heart almost bursts in his chest. He feels sick upon hearing your words. He’s dreamed of hearing that for months now. He tries to make his lips move, tries to say it back, but he’s paralyzed.

He’s scared he’s upset you further, frightened that you’re about to turn over and shut your eyes for the night, but you don’t. 

What actually happens breaks his heart even more. 

“Din Djarin, I love you. I wouldn’t change a thing about you. You’re the love of my life,” you say in between sniffles and wiping your eyes. “You’re the greatest man I’ve ever known, and our children are lucky to have you as a father.”

His stomach twists, and you give him the kindest, softest smile he’s ever seen, and then you lie down, pull the covers over your body, and face the wall.

Read part two here!

all works tags: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea

He's tall, the tallest man you've ever seen. You wouldn't be surprised if he could touch the ceiling of the tent if he raised his hand.

Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.

But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.

It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.

When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.

He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.

He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.

“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.

You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.

“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”

He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.

“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”

“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”

“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”

“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.

“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”

“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”

“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”

“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.

That's your call.

“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”

Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.

Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.

And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that. 

His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.

Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.

“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.

“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”

“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”

“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”

Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.

“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”

The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”

“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”

“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.

You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.

The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.

“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”

Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy. 

He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”

A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.

Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.

“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”

Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”

By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.

“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”

Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.

“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”

“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.

Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.

“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”

“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”

“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”

He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.

“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”

“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”

His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.

“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”

“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.

He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”

You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.

He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.

Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.

You notice eyes on you then.

Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.

“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”

You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”

He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.

Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.

His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.

“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”

You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”

You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.

“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”

You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.

You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.

Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.

His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.

You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.

“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”

Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”

“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”

“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”

He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.

“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”

He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”

You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”

He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”

Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.

“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

He is truly pathetic. And you love it.

You hum softly, amused.

“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”

He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.

“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”

His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”

“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”

Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.

It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.

“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”

Your expression softens.

“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.

You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.

“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.

“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”

He blinks. “M-my lady?”

“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”

His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”

You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”

His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.

“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.

You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”

He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”

That makes you still.

Your teasing fades, just a little.

“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”

Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”

“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”

Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.

You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.

“I must go,” you announce softly.

Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.

“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”

There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.

“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”

“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.

You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.

“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”

You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.

“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”

“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”

“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”

“Good night, my lady.”

You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.

Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.

He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.

You are golden and he is brown.

And yet you said ‘I’ll find you’.

The thought burns.

What help can I give when your world’s split in two,

Or heal such a deep wound as this?

If music brings healing, why then, I’ll sing to you

And transform your agony into a peaceful bliss.

//

What joy can I offer when your uncle’s been taken,

And we both find it so hard to breathe?

If rest brings relief, I won’t let you be awakened

For you’ll need much and more in order to grieve.

//

But of course, now you ask me to not waste my breath,

For you sadly believe that you’re the one to blame,

And yet, we both know you never wished for his death

So please tell me, Your Grace, must you alone bear the shame?

//

I pray you, heed Valarr, who mourns just as strongly

And yet swears to the Seven you’ve no blood on your hands.

If not him, then Matarys, who won’t have you wrongly

Blame yourself for a tragedy where no blame withstands.

//

Instead, let’s ride for Summerhall, where we might find some peace

And until next sunrise comes, we may yet have our sleep.

Perhaps then, both of us will know some sweet release

And being thus blessed, allow ourselves time to weep.

//

But for now, my sweet Prince, let yourself come and bury

Your aching soul here within my willing arms,

And if you wish it, I will then gladly carry

daeron dropped his gaze immediately, uneasy and insecure, unable to understand why a woman like you, so confident, so unapologetically sure of yourself, so devastatingly radiant, would focus on a prince who preferred the bottom of a cup over any form of glory.

and still, when you approached him, he didn’t move. maybe because he couldn’t.

you stopped beside him, close enough that your fingers brushed his forearm with total ease, as if touching him were the most natural thing in the world.

“look at you,” you said softly, though your voice carried a warm, unmistakable intention that heated his blood. “you look incredible tonight, daeron.”

the prince almost choked on his own breath. you didn’t whisper; you stated. and you stated it with a conviction he didn’t know how to handle.

“ah… i don’t think so,” he mumbled, rubbing at his neck. “i’m not… i’m not much to look at, really.”

“well, i’m looking,” you replied, leaning in just enough to catch his wandering gaze, “and i like what i see.”

he swallowed hard, tense as a drawn bow. you placed a hand on his chest just a casual touch, nothing more yet it was enough for his heart to slam against your palm.

“you shouldn’t say things like that,” daeron whispered, almost pleading, though he made no effort to remove your hand. “i… i’m not the kind of man who…”

“that i would want?” you cut in with a slow smile. “sweetheart, i’ve spent all night thinking about your mouth. i think that answers your question.”

daeron’s eyes flew wide, his face blooming red, completely undone by a single sentence.

“why…?” he asked, a mix of desire and disbelief twisting his voice. “i don’t understand. you could have any knight. someone better than me. i’m…”

“beautiful,” you finished without hesitation, dragging your finger along the line of his neck. “and gentle. and a delicious mess. and trust me… you have no idea how sexy you look when you try to hide what you want.”

he gasped when your fingers slid to his jaw, holding it with a tender boldness that melted whatever defenses he had left.

“i know what i want,” you murmured, bringing your lips to his ear, “and he’s standing right in front of me.”

daeron trembled, and you felt every bit of it.

“i don’t deserve you,” he whispered, clumsy and insecure, with a raw honesty that made him even more attractive. “i’m… not enough for you.”

your hands framed his cheeks, guiding him to look at you. he did, his eyes full of vulnerability that nearly stole your breath.

“daeron,” you said, your voice turning into a soft weapon, “stop deciding for me. if i want you, it’s because i want you. if i desire you, it’s because you turn me on. i don’t need a hero. i need the man who shakes when i tell him i like him.”

he exhaled sharply, his lips parted, his eyes dark and heavy with restrained need.

“if i tell you i want to kiss you…” he asked, barely audible, “are you going to laugh at me?”

you leaned in close enough that his nose brushed yours.

“if you tell me you want to kiss me…” you whispered, hooking one of his loose strands around your finger, “i’m going to ask what the hell you’re waiting for.”

daeron let out a low, helpless sound, half gasp, half moan and you smiled, satisfied, as he finally leaned toward you, drawn in by a desire he could no longer deny.

and though his mouth hadn’t yet touched yours, you already knew one thing:

She had grown rather fond of the Young Prince since their meeting. He was always more than cordial towards her, and he had been asking her many questions during their walks. What was her childhood like, what did she enjoy doing the most, what kind of books did she like to read?

His interest intrigued her, as she was not accustomed to this sort of curiosity from her suitors. Usually, they could only find it within themselves to talk her ears off about their own skills and accomplishments, with not a single meaningful question aimed at her. Perhaps it is because he had never truly been her suitor, only her betrothed, but regardless of the reasoning, she much appreciated his curious and kind nature. It filled her chest with an unfamiliar warmth and always managed to bring a smile to her face.

She found it quite hard to believe that, after all these years of dreading her wedding like a death sentence, that she was now… honestly delighted to become his bride. She no longer feared cruel treatment or cold disinterest, as he had already proven to her thoroughly that he was not that kind of man. If she had known it could be like this, she may not have spend all those years in fear of her fate.

"How do you feel about tomorrow, gevie?" He asked gently, pulling her out of her train of thought. She still did not quite know what that word meant, but judging by the gentle smile on his face, she did not imagine it to be an insult.

She smiled up at him and squeezed his arm while replying, "I am still quite nervous, truthfully, but I believe it is the good sort of nerves."

He gave her a thoughtful hum before patting her hand in reassurance. The feeling of his hand on hers always made her feel as though butterflies were trapped in her stomach.

"You are not the only one, my love, I assure you."

He had started calling her that the day after their first heart-to-heart. Even after nearly a week of his near-constant flattery, it had not seized to make her heart flutter and to make heat rise to her face, every time he used such words of affection.

They walked out of the Red Keep arm-in-arm in comfortable silence, while her mind drifted to the upcoming nuptials. What perhaps brought her the most anxiety, was the thought of the near-constant attention on her. Lords from all over the Realm would travel to King's Landing to witness her wedding to Prince Baelor's eldest son. They would undoubtedly judge her every move, and quickly determine that their own daughters might be a much better match for the Young Prince.

Her nerves regarding the inevitable scrutiny seemed to pale in comparison to her fears for the bedding ceremony, however. At every wedding she had attended, it had been the worst part of the night to witness. The Lords, aided by the wine they drank, seemed to lose all propriety at the call for the bedding. The fear in the eyes of her sisters at their own respective weddings had been burned into her mind for all eternity, and it was not an image she could let go of easily.

She contemplated her words for a few moments, wishing to address her growing unease with her Prince. They had walked down the stairs and entered the Great Yard, when she finally found the words. Before she could speak up, however, she saw Prince Aerion approach them, which made her tense up immediately. Her betrothed reacted similarly, stopping them in their tracks while his face became closed-off and his stance defensive.

"Good afternoon, my sweet cousin-to-be," he said smugly to her, ignoring her betrothed by her side completely. He gave her a measured once-over, eyes purposefully lingering on her hips and chest before slowly rising to her face. It did not even appear like he did it out of any particular interest, but merely to rile her – or Valarr – up. Despite her attempt at restraint, knowing he was looking for a reaction, anger rose in her at his vulgar gaze.

"Hello, Your Grace," she said coldly. She could not wait for the wedding to be over, if only so that she could address him by his name instead of his title, as etiquette unfortunately required of her. She would not have him bring her down to his level, no matter how tempting it was.

Ever since Aerion had seen his cousin walking the halls with his betrothed, arm-in-arm with adoring looks on both their faces, he had seemingly made it his mission to make their lives miserable. Two nights past, he had even cornered her after dinner and attempted to interrogate her about her maidenhood, and whether she thought Valarr was enough of a dragon for her.

Her anger had taken over then, and she likely would have been accused of treason by Aerion for the words she wished to speak, had Valarr not spotted them and led her away, a deadly stare aimed at Aerion. Since then, Valarr had made sure to walk her to and from her chambers every time, regardless of the time of day or any further duties he might have. She also noticed that one of the Kingsguards seemed to trail her constantly afterwards.

She had never cursed in front of her betrothed before then, but when they reached her chambers, he was made well-aware of her vocabulary on that front. It had made a broad smile spread across his face, and he had informed her the sailors in the ports might want to learn a curse word or two from her. When she tried to bashfully apologize for her unladylike behavior, he had not allowed her to, simply insisting it amused him greatly and that he was glad she felt comfortable enough around him to speak her mind freely.

After that alteration, Valarr had explained to her that Aerion had an unexplained, deep-rooted hatred for Valarr since childhood. It was likely rooted in his jealousy of Valarr's important position in the family as the second in line, though it seemed Aerion had many more unresolved issues that had very little to do with Valarr. She had nodded solemnly at that. She had been well-aware of his cousin's reputation, after all, which is what had almost scared her over the wall. She would not let Aerion scare her away again.

After her curt acknowledgement of him, she simply continued to stare at him, almost daring him to say anything else. Valarr did the same, fire burning in his eyes at his cousin's presence. When Aerion did not seem go get any further response from either of you, he let out an almost bored sigh and rolled his eyes. That gesture seemed to indicate to Valarr that the conversation was over, and he took a firm hold of her arm again to guide her onward, towards the gardens.

Aerion clearly did not like that, and so he suddenly spoke up again, stepping in their path. "Now, wait just a moment. You know, I was just discussing something with the other knights in the training yard," he gave a pointed look to Valarr, as if to silently mock him for his absence during their manly activities. "Please tell me there will be a proper bedding ceremony tomorrow? Because we would all love nothing more than to–"

Valarr interrupted him before Aerion finish his vulgar sentence. Anger burned in his veins at Aerion's words.

"Careful, cousin. You are not insulting some squire or servant. You are addressing my soon-to-be wife, and your future Queen. It would be in your own best interest to learn to hold your tongue in the future. Insult her again, and I will have to duel you to defend her honor, and we both know you will not win that fight."

She had never seen Valarr so angry. His tone was harsh and frigid, the threat heavy in the air. Despite their similar statures, it seemed in that moment like Valarr towered over his cousin in pure rage.

She had expected Aerion to lash out, be it physically or verbally, at his cousin's words. She was not sure what it was, but the sight of something or someone behind them seemed to wipe the smirk off of Aerion's face more than Valarr's threat did. She did not dare turn around to see what it was, but she suspected one of King Daeron's sons had made an appearance. She knew that Aerion only behaved himself if his father or sometimes Prince Baelor were present. The notion had amused her when she first heard of it, but now it only came as a silent relief .

Aerion's gaze had gone cold, and he only gave her and Valarr a quick look before silently retreating back to the training yard. His only response seemed to be that his hand hovered over the sword hanging on his hip.

Once Aerion was out of earshot, she let out a small, shaky breath. She was not frightened of him, not truly. She knew him to be cruel and a coward, but he had not yet dared to actually harm a member of the royal family as far as she knew. If he did, even he could not escape the consequences for that, or so she hoped. It was not quite a comfort, but it was enough for now.

At the sound of her shaky breath, Valarr immediately turns to her. He holds both of her hands in his, bringing them to his lips for a quick, comforting kiss. He looks her deep in the eye, worry evident in his gaze as he speaks.

"I am truly sorry you had to witness that, my love. I will personally ensure that he leaves for Summerhall immediately after the wedding. After that, you will scarcely have to see him again. I promise you, he will never harm or insult you again for as long as I live."

She gave him a weak smile, her dismay already leaving her at the sight of his gentle adoration. How did she get so lucky?

"Thank you, m-" he gave a playfully disapproving look before she could even finish saying his title, "Valarr. You have nothing to apologize for. He is a pest, and a disgrace to your family. He craves attention, so he tries to provoke us because we have something he does not."

He eyed her curiously, taking a slight step closer to lean in conspiratorially. "And what would that be, my lady?"

Love, she almost thought, though she pushed the thought away as soon as it arrived. It was a silly thought, and it was much too soon, she knew.

"A happy betrothal," is what she settled on. "Not to mention that you have the approval and love of your father, which he quite clearly lacks. You are everything he wishes he was, but cannot be."

His eyes twinkled brightly at her, as they often did. The affection was clear on his face as he reached out his hand to gently touch her cheek. She leaned into his touch silently, reveling in the warmth of his palm. The blood of the dragon really did run hotter than most, and the early spring air was still touched with a chill, so his touch was a relief.

"You… are far too kind to me, my lady."

"No such thing," she insisted with a smile, "I only speak the truth."

He just continued to gaze at her lovingly, before slowly taking her arm again, urging them on towards their beloved Godswood.

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Again, I’m working on part 4 and will publish it sometime in the coming days, but starting next week the updates will be less frequent and may stop entirely when I run out of inspiration! (I will also be writing solely on my phone, so if the lay-out suddenly turns to shit, that will be why.)

Taglist: @dewofdawn1 @beeofthesea @awiewie @giaaaarosaaaa @asunshine15 @luckygoddes @li-zayne-wife @tayssauchiha @rebeccawinters @kittyblahhh3000 @theylikesophie @torchbearerkyle @luteswife @tue-loup @girlwat @evajzcks @sujiroses

No matter how much she tried, she could not get his gaze out of her mind. Amusement, awe, contemplation and mild vexation all seemed to swirl in his very different, but equally stunning eyes. Whatever must he think of her now?

Despite all odds, she had not seen her betrothed since the Godswood. The royal family had allowed her and her father to dine privately, as she claimed to be exhausted from their travels. A mild exaggeration on her part, and a weak attempt to evade her inevitable fate, but a reprieve they granted her nonetheless. The news would have come as a relief, had her father not chosen that moment to try and lift her spirits. She had witnessed those same speeches with her two older sisters, and they had not been effective in the slightest. If she recalled correctly, it had only ever made them weep louder. So, she set out to simply agree with everything he said, hoping it would be over soon.

"My dear, you must know this is for your own good. Right?" he looked to her in confirmation, and she nodded carefully.

"He is not like his wayward cousins, I assure you. I met with him just this afternoon, and–"

She dropped her fork loudly on the plate, shock evident on her face before she attempted to mask it, coughing into her hand weakly. Her father gave her a puzzled look before continuing, not truly caring what made her behave that way.

"He was quite a charming young man. He was much like his father, who you would agree was amiable, yes?"

She nodded again before the words she wanted to say, finally found their way out of her mouth.

"I– He… he did not say anything about me?" She asked, warily, before quickly clarifying. "About my… absence?"

Her father shook his head in amusement, simply believing his daughter to be uninformed on the business of lords, as she often was. (Or pretended to be.)

"No, my dear, you were not expected to be there. Betrothal negotiations are not for ladies like you to worry their pretty little heads over."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. This was going to be a long dinner.

When she had still not heard as much as a peep from the royal family after breaking her fast with her father, she was starting to get worried. The worst scenes she could think of started going through her head. She had spoken treacherous words in front of a member of the royal family, after all, and had insulted his cousins in a manner deserving of the noose. If they would even be so kind, she thought fearfully. She did not believe the Targaryens to be above burning people alive, even now, without access to their dragons.

Her father had left immediately after he finished his meal, murmuring something about preparations and the Prince Baelor. She was honestly relieved to watch him go, glad to have some space and time to think. Her chambers, to the credit of the royal family, were gorgeous. Despite the fact that these chambers were temporary, as she would love to her marital chambers soon enough, they were richly decorated in her house colors, with beautifully intricate tapestries covering the walls. The cozy atmosphere, thankfully, reminded her of home. She cozied up into a large armchair by the fire, sipping on her tea as she stared into the fire. While the Conclave had already determined that spring had arrived at long last, today was an unusually chilly day.

Her quiet peace did not last long, however. Not long after her father's departure, a gentle knock sounded at her door. She let out a small sigh before calling out for them to enter. She did not move a muscle, waiting to see who wished to speak to her.

When she looked up at the sound of her door opening, her eyes widened at the sight of her betrothed. She stood up quickly and straightened up, while he closed the door softly behind him. This was very inappropriate, she knew. An unmarried lady should never be alone with a man, not even her betrothed. Before she got the chance to object, however, the Prince had already started speaking.

"I do not mean to distress you any further, my lady," he spoke, a faint smile on his face. Her face burned up at the reminder of her words the day before. She felt more like a lady in distress in this moment than she had in the Godswood, in truth. She had seen a glimpse of freedom then, whereas she knew now that was not only hopeless, but that she had also made a disastrous first impression with her royal husband-to-be.

"I simply wished to ask you whether you would like to take a walk with me in the Godswood, my lady?"

They did not speak much before they reached the Godswood. He clearly had something to discuss with her that he did not want prying eyes and ears to pick up on. Prince Valarr, however, seemed completely at ease despite the exchange between them yesterday, so she was not sure what to expect from him this time around. Once they had walked far enough into the gardens, so much so that they could no longer see the entrance, only then did he speak up.

"My lady," he began, "I must know, for both of our sakes, why you do not wish to marry me."

His voice was beyond soft, and he was clearly trying to put her at ease. She felt anything but at ease, though, as she lowered her eyes to the pale grass in shame before she responded.

"I did not wish to insult you, Your Grace, only–"

She felt a soft touch below her chin, and then he lifted her head up softly to meet his gaze. Despite the chill in the air that day, her whole body warmed at his touch.

"Valarr. I am just Valarr to you."

She simply nodded softly, now mesmerized by his handsome face. What is it she wanted to say to him again? She was painfully aware of the fact he stood way too close to her than was proper, but Gods, she did not wish for him to go. After a few seconds of them simply staring at each other, his brows furrowed slightly before he spoke.

"Do you truly believe I am a monster?"

Her eyes widened at his words, and she quickly took a small step back and shook her head. Once again, he continued before she could speak her mind.

"Then why?" he asked softly, the faintest hint of hurt evident in his tone.

"I– Your Gr–" he gave her a pointed look, and she quickly corrected, "Valarr. It is not that I do not wish to marry you, but rather that I do not wish to marry a stranger. You have to understand, I do not know you, but the things they whisper of your cousins..."

"I do not know you, either," he interrupted gently, a faint smile on his face again at her words. "Except that you are… terrible at climbing a wall."

She could not help but let out a snort at his words, shyly looking away from him. She simply gestured to her elaborate dress, partly covered in a light-colored cloak.

"I dare you to try and climb a wall in this contraption."

A huff left his lips and his eyes sparkled at her again, and she found she rather enjoyed making him laugh. He had a lovely smile.

"What is it you wish to know about me?" he suddenly asked.

He had slowly led them to a marble bench, standing in front of a small pond. He slowly parted from her side, sitting down. He nodded his head at her and then at the spot next to him on the bench, urging her to sit down. She hesitated at first, but then decided there would be no harm in it. He was not here to punish her, and the damage to her reputation that their solitary walk, without any chaperone, brought was likely already done. She sat back down next to him, careful to keep an appropriate distance. When she turned to him, he had an expectant look on his face.

"What do I want to know…?" she repeated dumbly, and he nodded at her encouragingly. She thought for a moment, but she already knew the answer.

"Everything."

He contemplated that answer for a moment. "All right. Everything?" he clarified, and she nodded gently. He took a deep breath before answering her.

"Many say I take after my father, but I fear I do not take after his warrior qualities. I am not a very good knight. Even my own lord father fears I may end up mortally wounded at even the simplest of tourneys, so I do not get to fight any real opponents. I may resent him for it, but I know deep down that he is not wrong to do so."

She could see a deep sadness cross his face before he continued on, undeterred. "My favorite treats are lemoncakes. I rather detest wine, or any sort of liquor, for that matter. My cousin Daeron's obsession with it has put me off completely."

That put a slight smile on her face. He thought for a moment before continuing.

"I most enjoy reading about history, particularly regarding Old Valyria, and most of all, good conversation," he said, giving her a pointed look that made her face heat up. "If I had not been otherwise occupied, I think I would have liked to become a maester."

She look at him in surprise. A Prince of the Realm, becoming… a maester? Her shock did not deter him, however, and he continued speaking.

"I have a scar here," he pointed to the lower left side of his torso, "from falling off my horse during one of my earliest tourneys. And I am very nervous about marrying a girl I'm only just meeting a week before our wedding."

She gaped at him, lost for words.

"But I cannot show it as you can. I cannot climb over a wall, because I am second in line to the Iron Throne, and that would… cause a scandal."

She felt an immense shame at his words, and lowered her eyes out of guilt.

"But I promise you, I am not a monster. Just Valarr."

His soft voice made her look up again tentatively, and he smiled encouragingly at her.

"Becoming the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms will not be an easy task, even if it is still many years away, Gods willing. It will require a lot of hard work, and you may grow to resent me for forcing that life on you," a melancholy look crossed his face quickly before he continued, "I do not wish for you to feel you are obligated to marry me. If you do not wish for this, you can tell me and I will put a stop to it. But I will warn you, it won't be without consequence. Both of our reputations will be affected, but I fear yours most of all. Still, that may be preferable to you in light of the prospects."

His words left her speechless. He was a better man than she could have ever hoped for, and that made her choice that much more complicated. As much as her brain told her to resist, to not agree to this marriage out of pure spite for having it forced on her, her heart never failed to flutter when his gaze was on her. She was not sure she would be well-suited to be Queen, but would she not be able to learn to weather the storm if she could grow to love him? That is all she ever longed for in a marriage, after all, and he was a much more likely candidate for that than most.

He let her mull over his words in silence, though his soft gaze never left her form. After a few minutes, it seemed he could no longer handle the silence, and a small smile formed on his lips before he spoke again.

"I am sure you hear this often, but you are incomparable, my lady," he said with a softness in his tone and his gaze she had never seen before in a man. "No one told me you'd be this beautiful. You may be too beautiful to marry me. People will talk… given I'm a monster," he continued, false exasperation in his voice as he gave her a teasing smile.

She let out a laugh that was much too loud to be considered ladylike, but for once, she did not care. He laughed loudly along with her, and the sound made her heart skip a beat.

Just as she was about to speak up, she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up with a hint of fear in her eyes, scared of getting caught. When she saw her father approach, however, she was not sure how to feel. Surely, he would be happy to see her speaking to her betrothed, at the very least?

He did not look at them with much surprise, just a faint grin on his face and mirth evident in his eyes. His scheming had paid off for the first time in his life, it seemed. Meanwhile, Valarr had stood up with confidence at the sight of the older man, walking towards her father and reaching out to shake his hand. She quickly followed him, not wanting to miss any part of their conversation.

"You must be the man responsible for my possible future happiness," he said as he looked at her, "she was just deciding whether or not she wanted to marry me."

She and her father were both shocked at his words, their faces falling into identical expressions.

"Your Grace, she is, of course, overjoyed to become–"

Valarr simply shook his head at her father, interrupting him.

"No, my Lord, I actually believe she is still deciding. She might decide to escape over the wall instead," He smiled widely at her, a glimmer in his eye once again. "Either way, the decision is entirely hers."

He gave a pointed look to her father that she did not entirely understand, before approaching her. She gazed up at him in slight admiration. He smiled at her before softly grabbing her hand, bringing it up to his face. The soft press of his lips made her heart flutter so violently that it almost scared her.

He left without another word, leaving her alone with her father at the pond. He did not say anything to her, as the look in his eyes said more than words could. I told you so. She just huffed at him, already annoyed at the smug look on his face. She did not say anything else to him, simply wrapping her arm around his as she led them out of the Godswood, back to their chambers.

I hope you guys enjoyed this much-requested second part! If you did, I would really appreciate it if you would reblog or leave a like or comment!

His daughter's betrothed had not been present for their welcome, to his disappointment. His daughter had seemed strangely happy at the absence of the Young Prince, however, smiling slightly as Prince Baelor explained his son had not yet returned from his hunt. That happiness was in stark contrast with her current state.

The young lady lifted her skirts slightly as she hurried deeper into the Godswood. She was not sure where she was headed, but the sight of a tall wall in the distance lifted her spirits slightly. She knew the chances of a true escape were more than insignificant, but she did not know what else to do.

She had known of her future duties as a lady and a wife since before she could even read. The prospect of marriage had always struck fear into her heart. She had seen the tears on her elder sister's faces as they stood before a Septon, kissing cruel men old enough to be their fathers. They had all married into great Houses, her father had explained when she shared her doubts, so her sisters should consider themselves fortunate. She had never heard of a notion so nonsensical. Nothing about their lives seemed fortunate to her.

She rather liked her life as an unmarried lady. Her father, despite it all, doted on his youngest daughter. She got away with things most ladies would have received a beating for, and he had never pressured her to find a husband. Until now, it seemed. Likely because he had been plotting this betrothal for many months now, she thought bitterly. It broke her heart to know that her father had not even given her the opportunity to choose a husband for herself.

They had left for King's Landing not even a full day after he had broken the news to her. He probably knew she would have attempted an escape plan, had he given her more time to mull it over. Tears started sliding down her cheeks as she neared the red walls separating the royal castle from Blackwater Bay.

She did not know anything about her husband-to-be, and perhaps that is what scared her the most. If she had heard tales of him, any at all, she might know better what to prepare herself for. Any tale she had heard of the Targaryen princelings, though, had been worse than the last. Prince Aerion is said to be cruel, vain and heartless, while his brother Daeron was a useless drunk. In contrast, she had not heard much of the heir's sons. She did not know whether that was good or bad, but she did not wish to find out. Even her father had remained tight-lipped on their long journey here. She was not sure why he had not tried to comfort her, even if he had to lie about the prince's nature by doing so, but she did not think it boded well.

As she finally approached the wall, she found herself out of breath. Her maid had tightened her corset more than normal this morning, clearly expecting the young lady to meet her betrothed today. She was glad she was spared that humiliation, at the very least.

She happily leaned against the red stone wall when she arrived, heaving slightly. All shame left her as she decided to sit down, her back to the wall as she tried to blink away her tears. The day had barely started, and she was already overwhelmed. The smell of King's Landing as they entered through the gates, the sheer magnitude of the Red Keep, the burning eyes of the onlookers in the outer yard. The careful judgment in her future father-in-law's strange eyes. She could not imagine herself living here, constantly gawked at and constant pressure to be the perfect wife. She already longed for home.

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally found the strength to get up off the ground. She took a few steps back, carefully assessing the wall. She had heard of the grandness of the Red Keep, but this wall did not seem so tall, all the way in the back of the Godswood and with only the Blackwater behind it. Perhaps she was delusional, but she did not think this was an impossible task. She had climbed many a tree as a young girl, after all, and she had become quite proficient at it.

She held a calculating look on her face as she touched some slight dent in the wall, assessing whether her foot would have enough grip to hold on to it, when someone cleared their throat loudly behind her. She jumped away from the wall immediately, turning around so fast she almost got dizzy.

The man in front of her was covered in a black cloak, covering his doublet underneath. His pants and boots were the same shade of black, and she silently mused whether he was a Sworn Brother who had lost his way. He had short brown hair, eyes a color she could not make out at this distance and a curious, kind smile on his face. She had to admit he was quite handsome, though she knew it to be an inappropriate thought.

When she did not say anything, the man decided to speak first.

"Good morrow, my lady. Are you in need of any assistance?"

She shook her head slightly at him, and turned back to the wall. "I am perfectly fine, good Ser, thank you. You may leave me be,” she said.

Unbeknownst to her, the man's amused smile only grew at her words, and he observed her silently.

"I might, if you answer my question."

Her temper rose at his obnoxious response, turning back to him in annoyance.

"Depends on the question," she replied roughly, narrowing her eyes at him in deviance. That only made his smile grow and his eyes sparkle, however.

"What is it are you doing?" He asked, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left, eyeing her curiously. Unlike the people in the courtyard, he did not look like he was judging her for her bad manners or whatever else she lacked in their eyes. He simply seemed genuinely curious, which confused her a great deal. She did not understand him, and that frustrated and scared her in equal measure. Who exactly was he?

"Nothing," she was quick to resort, crossing her arms.

He chuckled at her response, shaking his head slightly.

"It does not appear that way, my lady."

"And yet it is the truth. What business is it of yours, anyway? Are you some sort of guard send to drag me back?"

His eyes lit up at her words. He clearly knew something she did not, and it unnerved her greatly. Men can be so insufferable, she thought bitterly.

"I am not, do not worry. I am merely curious," he replied, tilting his head at her slightly, encouraging her to answer his question.

She contemplated it for a second, before deciding she did not actually care if he knew the truth. What difference did it make, anyway? If he wanted to return her to her father, he would have done so already.

"If you must know, I am attempting to climb over this wall."

The amused look in his eyes did not disappear, though he did seem slightly bewildered.

"Climb…? Whatever for?"

He must not know who I am, she thought bemused. She rather enjoyed this back-and-forth with him, and she had not had the chance to express her true feelings to anyone as of yet. Why not just subject this random guard to it? Let her true feelings get back to the two princes who had sealed her fate. Not to mention her father.

Her brows furrowed at the thought, and his silly question. She turned her back to the man once more, determination flowing through her.

"Because I think he may be a monster," she replied simply as she attempted to hold on to the smokeberry vines. When she tried to pull on it, however, she found they broke off almost immediately. She let out a disappointed huff as she stood back to reassess.

"A monster?" he repeated dumbly. His amused smile had left his face, though she did not see it. His gaze was almost hurt now, eyeing her carefully.

"Yes. I fear for my life, in fact. Now, would you be so kind as to help me?" She turned her head towards him, awaiting his answer. He plainly ignored her question, however, and instead returned one.

"Who is it you speak of?"

She rolled her eyes at him and let out an annoyed breath.

"That, Ser, is none of your business. Now, if you please–"

"I fear I cannot help you until you answer me, my lady," he replied easily, a slightly smug look on his face now. He crossed his arms, observing her leisurely. What a strange man, she thought. Surely he knew who she was now? What other maiden had arrived to the Red Keep recently, with enough fear in her heart to attempt an escape in this manner?

When he did not relent, she huffed again. She stepped closer to him, waving her arms around slightly in annoyance. "Prince Valarr, of course. No one will speak of him, not even my father. That cannot mean anything good. He must be as cruel or useless as his cousins, if not worse."

A chill went down her spine at the thought of him being worse than Prince Aerion. Was such a thing possible? A flicker of emotion she could not place crossed his face. Now that she stood closer to him, the daylight reflecting in his eyes almost made it seem like they were two different shades. She could not determine what that reminded her of, but her stomach twisted slightly at her inability to place it.

"Ah, I see," was all he said, continuing to eye her curiously, shifting slightly on his feet. His lack of words frustrated her. What could he possibly want from her?

"Now, will you help me? Please?"

"One more question, my lady," He did not wait for her reply, but he seemed entertained by the scowl forming on her face. "Do you believe all Targaryens are monsters, as you say?"

She faltered slightly. Did he want to trick her into speaking treason, leading her to be executed?

"I would never speak such treason, Ser. Now, if you please…?"

"You want me to lift you over the wall so you may escape from the Red Keep?" He tried to clarify once again.

"That is what I said, yes," She said, beyond annoyed at his antics now.

"People will notice you are missing, will they not?" He questioned, not caring in the slightest for her clear annoyance.

"That is not my problem, for I will be long gone by then. Do not worry, they won't know you helped me. Now come on, make haste."

He once again stood there silently, not moving a muscle. She was quite done with him now, and attempted to climb the wall by herself. Once again, to no prevail.

"I have no intention of helping you, my lady," he said, a smile in his voice. His eyes twinkled at her, and she finally saw that his left eye was a brown hue, whereas his right eye was a bright blue. It would be quite enchanting to see, if he was not the most vexing man in the Seven Kingdoms in that moment.

"I am a lady in distress," she called out, desperation evident in her voice. "You refuse to help a lady in distress?" She came down from the wall again, approaching him. She stood only an arm's length away from him when he responded.

"I refuse, when that lady in distress is trying to escape the Red Keep, only so that she does not have to marry me."

Her eyes widened in shock at his words, and she took a quick step back. She suddenly remembered where she recognized those eyes. He had the same dual-colored eyes as his father, Prince Baelor. Those judgemental eyes seemed so soft now as he gazed upon her.

"Hello, gevie. I'm Valarr."

Note: gevie means ‘beautiful’ in Valyrian.

“Tradition, tradition, tradition!” Joker sang, spinning the rusted metal like a baton. He tapped it against your legs, your ribs, the chair.

“Did you know your darling Jaybird and I had a dance once? Ohhh, it was beautiful. I hit him, he screamed, I laughed, he bled. Like music. And when I was done—well, let’s just say he had a little nap. Six feet under, HAHAHAHHA!”

The first strike cracked against your ribs, knocking the air from your chest. You bit down against the scream, but the gag muffled it anyway. Another strike followed, then another. Pain flared white-hot, flooding every nerve.

Joker crouched in front of you, tilting his head like a curious child.

“Hmm. Strong one, aren’t you? I see what he likes. Oh, Jason always did have a thing for the stubborn ones. But stubborn breaks. Everything breaks.”

He pulled the gag loose just long enough to force words into your ears.

“Tell me, do you think he’ll come for you? Or do you think he’ll hesitate? Mmmm, I bet he’s terrified, isn’t he? You remind him of everything he couldn’t save. His mommy, his daddy, his little self. And when he sees you broken—oh, he’ll hate himself more than he hates me. And that is the joke.”

Then he went to work again, slashes of a knife across your arms, shallow enough to sting, to bleed, to paint. He laughed with each line, each drop. He wanted you alive. He wanted Jason to see.

Jason knew the second something was wrong. You hadn’t answered your phone. Not once, not twice, not after three calls. He told himself you were asleep, that you’d forgotten to text. But the itch at the back of his skull wouldn’t let him rest.

By the time he checked the alley near your route home and found your dropped keys, his heart was already in his throat.

“Bruce—he’s got her. It’s him.” His voice was gravel over the comm.

“Jason—”

“Don’t say it. I know it’s Joker. I’m not waiting.”

And he didn’t. Not for orders, not for backup.

Back in the funhouse, Joker leaned against the wall, crowbar still dripping faintly.

“You know what I love about Jason?” he purred. “He’s predictable. Punch first, brood later. Oh, he’ll storm in here, guns blazing, eyes blazing. But when he sees this—” he gestured to your bloodied body, “—ohhh, it’ll be just like old times. I’ll watch his face crack. That’s the real masterpiece. Death is boring. Suffering? That’s art.”

He crouched, forcing your chin up with the crowbar’s tip. His green eyes glittered, mad and bright.

“Don’t worry, darling. You’re not going to die. Not yet. You’re just the punchline.”

Joker was a conductor, and you were his broken instrument. He paced around you, humming a carnival tune off-key, twirling a crowbar sticky with dried blood and your fresh one.

The torture didn't stop.

Joker cackled, planting the crowbar against your shoulder with mock tenderness before yanking it away and cracking it against your shin. Pain ricocheted through your body; your scream ripped raw from your throat. Joker laughed, doubling over like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.

“He cares. Isn’t that hilarious? A Bat who actually lets people in. The others brood and sulk, but Jason? Oh, he opens his door, he lets someone close, he loves. That’s his big mistake! See, love makes you weak. And weakness—” he dragged the crowbar slowly up your arm, leaving a smear of red, “—is my favorite color.”

He shoved a camera in your face, a cheap handheld camcorder duct-taped together, blinking red. He crouched, grinning too wide, and spoke directly to the lens.

“Smile, sweetheart Say cheese! This is going straight to your boyfriend. Let’s see if he laughs as hard as I do.”

Jason hadn’t slept. His helmet sat discarded on the Batcomputer console, his hair sticking damp to his forehead as he leaned over the screen. His fists were bloody from punching walls, his throat raw from shouting at empty air.

“Where the hell is he?!” Jason’s voice cracked, fury and panic blurring.

“We’re tracking what we can" Oracle’s calm voice filtered through the comm, her fingers racing across keys. “He wiped out half the traffic cams in Old Gotham—”

“Because he’s there! He’s in the goddamn amusement district, I know it!” Jason slammed a hand on the desk. His whole body trembled.

Bruce stood behind him, silent, grim.

“Jason,” he said at last, low and heavy. “We will find her. But if you go in blind—”

“I don’t care! She’s out there with him!” Jason whirled, his eyes bloodshot, his chest heaving. “Do you get it, Bruce? It’s happening again! He’s doing it again—and it’s my fault. If I’d been there—” His voice broke. He gritted his teeth hard enough to taste copper.

Before Bruce could answer, a sharp buzz hit the comm line.

Every monitor in the cave flickered.

Static bloomed, then resolved into a grainy video feed: you, bound to the chair in the funhouse, blood soaking your shirt, your face scraped.

Jason froze. His lungs stopped working.

Joker’s painted face leaned into frame, far too close, his grin splitting wide.

“Helloooo, Bats and birdies! Guess who I found wandering all alone? Oh, don’t look so cross, she’s been excellent company! Well—screaming company, but I like variety.”

He yanked your head up by the hair, forcing your face toward the camera.

“Say hi to Jaybird, sugarplum. He’s watching. Ohhh, look at those eyes. He looks like he might cry.”

Jason staggered back a step, his chest caving in. His hands curled into claws.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Jason-” Bruce’s voice cut sharp.

“Don’t you—don’t you dare tell me not to! Look at her!” Jason jabbed at the screen, his voice shattering into a raw scream. “LOOK WHAT HE’S DOING!”

On screen, Joker tapped your face with the crowbar, leaving a streak of blood.

“You know what’s great about déjà vu? It never gets old! Last time, it was poor little Robin, and Batsy never made it in time. Ohhh, but this time—it’s even juicier. Because now Jason gets to watch! Isn’t that poetic?”

He raised the crowbar high. The camera caught the brutal swing as it smashed into your side. Your scream echoed through the cave speakers. Jason flinched like he’d been shot, a strangled noise tearing from his throat.

Joker bent down, breathing heavy with excitement.

“Oopsie! Did that hurt, darling? Don’t worry. I’m saving the grand finale for when your lover boy arrives. I want him to see your last smile.”

The feed cut to static.

Jason stood rooted, his whole body shaking, every vein alive with rage and guilt. His vision blurred red.

“I swear to God—” His voice was a rasp, broken glass and smoke. He grabbed his helmet, slamming it down over his head. “If he kills her, it’s on me. I’m not letting it happen again. I’ll put a bullet in his brain, I don’t care what you say.”

Bruce moved into his path, stern, immovable.

“Killing him won’t save her.”

“It’ll be justice!” Jason roared, shoving Bruce back, chest heaving. “You didn’t stop him then, and you’re not stopping me now! She’s all I’ve got, Bruce! She’s all I’ve fucking got!”

For a second, the cave was silent but for Jason’s ragged breathing.

Then Alfred’s voice, soft, steady, but cutting deep:

“And what will she wake to, Master Jason, if she survives, and the man she loves has become what that monster always wanted him to be?”

Jason froze, helmet tilted down, his shoulders trembling. His voice came out small, broken.

“I can’t lose her. Not like that. Not like me.”

Back in the funhouse, Joker set the camera down, angling it perfectly to catch every angle of your pain. He paced in front of you, manic energy vibrating through every twitch of his body.

“You know, sweetheart, I almost feel bad for you. Almost! Because deep down, you know it, don’t you? He’s broken. He’s not like the others. He’ll never forgive himself for this. And that guilt, mmm, that’s better than blood.”

He slammed the crowbar across your back. You cried out, the sound tearing from you before you could stop it. Joker clapped like a delighted child.

“Ahhh, music to my ears! Don’t worry, lovebird. Jason’s on his way. He always is. And when he comes, I’ll give him the same choice I gave Batsy once upon a time. Save the girl—or catch the clown. Either way…” He leaned in, whispering against your ear, his breath rancid. “You die laughing.”

Jason’s helmet fed him the faint buzz of Oracle’s voice through the comm, tinny, urgent, cutting through the static of his panic. “Jason—I found it. He’s in the old Monarch Theater. Heat signatures confirm—at least two. One’s moving, the other’s… barely.”

Barely.

The word shredded him. Jason didn’t even respond; he was already vaulting across the Gotham rooftops, heart hammering in his throat. The Monarch.

Of course it was the Monarch. Joker loved irony, loved stages, loved memories soaked in blood. Jason hit the pavement hard, boots skidding against wet asphalt as he tore down the block, every muscle wired, every breath jagged and sharp.

He pushed through the shattered double doors and the theater swallowed him whole—dark, hollow, dust clinging to the air. Somewhere in the back, a faint metallic clink echoed. The smell hit him before the sight did—iron, copper, blood. Too much blood.

“Please be alive” his voice cracked inside the helmet, though he wasn’t speaking to anyone.

He followed the sound down into the funhouse maze Joker had built in the theater’s bowels. Mirrors warped his reflection into grotesque shapes, laughter tracks from a busted speaker looped and warped into static. Jason ripped his helmet off, couldn’t stand the distortion. He needed to see with his own eyes.

And then he did.

You were slumped in the chair, arms bound to rusted metal, face a mess of bruises and blood, your lips cracked and trembling with shallow breath. Your chest rose—barely—but it rose. Jason’s knees buckled so hard he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the frame. His chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a crowbar.

“Fuck—fuck” his voice came out strangled as he sprinted forward, dropping to his knees in front of you. His gloves shook so bad he could barely untie the ropes cutting into your wrists.

“Baby, hey, hey—it’s me, it’s me, you’re okay, I got you, I got you…” He pressed his forehead against your shoulder for half a second, just long enough to ground himself before he forced his shaking hands to keep working.

You made a sound then—soft, broken, a whimper of his name that hit him harder than any bullet ever could.

Jason’s throat closed, eyes burning, tears stinging hot behind his lashes. He cupped your face gently, terrified of hurting you, but needing you to know. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here, I swear to god, I’m not leaving you with that fucking clown. I should’ve been here sooner—I should’ve—fuck, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

He got the last rope free and you collapsed forward into his chest. He caught you instantly, holding you so tight his arms ached, but still terrified you’d slip away if he let go even for a second. Your blood soaked through his suit, warm and wet against his skin. His breath hitched, ragged, desperate, pressing shaky kisses against your hair, your temple, whispering like a prayer: “Stay with me, please stay. Don’t do this, don’t leave me, I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

From the shadows, a faint echo of laughter drifted, bouncing through the funhouse walls. Joker was gone. Of course he was. The bastard had staged it perfectly—left just enough life in you for Jason to find, just enough pain to make the memory sear. Jason’s head snapped toward the sound, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every cell in his body screamed at him to hunt Joker down, to put a bullet in his skull and watch the blood spill.

But then your fingers twitched weakly against his chest, clutching his suit with what little strength you had. Jason froze, then grabbed your hand, pressing it to his lips.

The rage burned, white-hot, begging to be unleashed, but he forced it down, swallowed it whole.

You came first. Only you.

“Okay. Okay, I’ve got you.” His voice cracked again, rough and broken but steady enough to hold onto. He slid one arm beneath your knees, the other bracing your back, lifting you gently but quickly into his arms. You were so light it terrified him. Too light. His vision blurred as he looked down at you, your head lolling weakly against his chest. “Fuck, you’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Don’t you fucking quit on me.”

He bolted out of the funhouse, through the ruined theater, his boots pounding the cracked floor. He didn’t care about stealth, didn’t care about backup, didn’t care about Joker’s games. All that mattered was getting you out.

The night air hit his face as he crashed through the doors, sprinting across the empty street. He fumbled with the comm in his ear, his voice breaking. “Oracle—I’ve got her—I’ve got her but she’s bad, she’s real bad, call in a fucking ambulance right now, do you hear me? Now!”

“Jason—” Oracle’s voice cut in, controlled but urgent.

“Don’t fucking argue, Babs, I need a med team here and now!” His voice cracked into a sob on the last word, his throat raw. He ducked into the alley, your body trembling faintly in his arms.

He lowered his head, whispering against your ear, every word ragged, desperate: “Just hang on, baby, please, don’t you dare leave me. You’re stronger than this, you’ve always been stronger. Just a little longer, okay? Stay with me. For me.”

Your lips moved weakly, whispering his name again, almost inaudible. Jason’s whole body shook, and he pressed his face against your hair, choking out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s it. That’s it, I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

The faint wail of sirens grew in the distance. Jason held you tighter, rocking you slightly, his whole body a shield. He could still hear Joker’s laughter in the back of his skull, still feel the phantom weight of the crowbar, but it didn’t matter. Not now. Joker could live another night. Because right now, the only thing that mattered was keeping you breathing.

Jason burst through the ER doors like a storm, boots squealing on the tiles, your limp form cradled tight against him. Nurses and orderlies gasped, rushing forward, their hands reaching, their voices sharp and professional. Oracle had called a trusted medical team, people Bruce had learnt to trust.

“We need to take her—”

“No! No, don’t touch her!” Jason barked, clutching you tighter, panic flashing behind his eyes. His voice cracked, wild. “She needs me—she needs—”

A doctor met his eyes squarely, firm but not unkind. “If you want her to live, you have to let go. Right now.”

Jason froze. Every muscle in his body locked, screaming against the order, but the sight of your blood dripping onto the sterile floor broke him. His breath hitched, his arms trembling violently as he slowly, so slowly, eased you into the stretcher. His hands lingered, desperate, fingers tracing your cheek one last time before the nurses whisked you away. He staggered forward a step, but they blocked him, pulling him back. The doors slammed shut with a brutal finality, leaving him staring at the small window, your form already swallowed by white coats and machines.

And then the silence.

Jason’s chest heaved, his bloodied hands hovering uselessly in the air. Without you in them, he felt like he was collapsing inward. He dropped to his knees on the polished tile, his helmet clattering to the ground beside him. His hands shook uncontrollably, smearing red across his face as he dragged them through his hair.

“Fuck—fuck, this is my fault—” his voice cracked, raw and jagged, bouncing off the sterile walls. “I should’ve been there, I should’ve known—he took her because of me, because of me!”

“Jason.”

The voice was steady, familiar. Jason looked up through blurred vision to see Dick standing there, already crouching beside him. Behind him, Tim, Barbara, Damian, and Bruce hovered like shadows, their faces drawn tight with worry.

Jason’s whole body shook with anger and grief. He shoved Dick’s hand off his shoulder. “Don’t—don’t fucking comfort me. You saw her—did you see what he did to her? That’s on me! I let her walk home alone, I let her—” His voice broke again, ragged. “I swore I’d never let that bastard take someone from me again. And now—”

Bruce stepped forward, his voice low, even, but heavier than steel. “Jason. This is not your fault.”

Jason’s laugh was sharp, ugly, broken.

“Not my fault? He only went after her because of me! Because she matters to me! Don’t you get it? Joker doesn’t give a shit about her—she’s just another way to get at me. And I handed him the knife.” He slammed his fist into the wall beside him, the sound echoing. Blood smeared across the tile. His forehead pressed against the wall, shoulders trembling. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”

“Then she’d be here alone” Dick’s voice was soft but firm, cutting through Jason’s spiral. He crouched closer, his hand hovering just above Jason’s back like he wanted to ground him but wasn’t sure he’d be allowed. “You got her out. She’s alive because of you. That’s the only reason she’s still breathing in there.”

Jason’s breath caught, a sob tearing through his chest before he could choke it down. He buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled, broken.

“She was so fucking cold, Dick. She could barely say my name. I thought—” His throat closed, his body curling forward, folding in on itself. “I thought I was gonna lose her right there in my arms”

Tim, hovering just behind, shifted uncomfortably, his voice quieter than usual but clear. “She’s in surgery. She’s in the best hands in the city. They’ll do everything they can.”

Jason snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot, wild. “That’s not good enough! You didn’t see her—you didn’t hear her! She was begging—” His voice broke off, collapsing into another sob. He dragged both hands down his face, streaking blood and tears across his skin. “I can’t do this again. I can’t bury another person I love because of him.”

Barbara’s voice cut in from behind, calm but steady like steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not alone, Jason. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”

Jason shook his head violently, his hands tugging at his hair. “Yes I do! Because it’s always me, Babs! It’s always my fuck-ups that get people hurt. She’s lying on that table right now because I wasn’t there, because I let my guard down. What if she doesn’t—” His voice cracked again, breaking into silence. He pressed his back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled tight to his chest.

For once, Damian broke the silence, his tone sharp but not cruel. “She is strong. Stronger than most. If she chooses to fight, she will win.” His eyes narrowed at Jason. “But she will not forgive you if you give up on her now.”

Jason blinked at him, startled. The words dug under his skin, raw and sharp, because he knew Damian was right. He let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sob, burying his face in his arms.

Bruce moved closer, crouching so he was eye-level with Jason. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “You can’t carry this blame, Jason. Joker chose this. Not you.”

Jason’s head snapped up, his eyes burning with unshed tears, his jaw clenched. “Then why does it feel exactly like it did when you left me there?!” The words exploded out of him, venom and grief intertwined. The room went still. Jason’s chest heaved, his eyes wide, like he hadn’t meant to say it but couldn’t stop it. His voice cracked, smaller now, breaking apart. “It feels the same. Cold. Helpless. Like I was too late.”

The silence stretched heavy.

Then Dick finally sat down beside him, shoulder pressing firmly against Jason’s, grounding him without asking permission. “But this time’s different,” Dick said quietly. “This time, you got there in time”

Jason didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just let the tears spill, silent and raw, his body shaking as he pressed his bloodied hands to his face. And for once, he didn’t fight them when Dick stayed by his side, when Tim lingered close, when Barbara’s presence steadied the air, when Damian’s quiet stare held no judgment, only truth, and when Bruce remained crouched, silent, unmovable, like the anchor Jason had spent his whole life both needing and resenting.

The waiting room was too bright, too clean. Every second the fluorescent lights hummed above him felt like another nail driving into his skull. Jason paced like a caged animal, his boots pounding a restless rhythm against the tile. Every so often, his bloodstained hands curled into fists until his knuckles whitened. The others sat scattered across the room — Dick with his elbows on his knees, Tim cross-legged in a chair with his phone forgotten in his hands, Barbara leaning against the wall, Damian stiff and silent in the corner. Bruce hadn’t moved from where he stood, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the swinging double doors that led deeper into the ER.

Hours. Hours since they’d taken you from him. Hours since the last time he saw you, broken and bleeding, whispering his name like it was your last breath.

Every time he blinked, he saw it again.

The bruises. The blood. The way your body had felt so light in his arms, terrifyingly light.

Jason slammed his hand against the vending machine, the crash echoing through the sterile space. “What the fuck is taking so long?!” His voice cracked, raw with panic. “They’ve had her in there for hours — what if she doesn’t—”

“Jason.” Dick’s voice was steady, but Jason caught the tightness behind it. “They’re doing everything they can.”

Jason spun on him, eyes wild. “Yeah? And what if it’s not enough, huh? What if I walked in there too late? What if all I did was give her a couple more hours of pain before she dies in a fucking hospital bed?!” His voice shattered at the end, a raw sound caught between a sob and a scream.

The room went still. Even Damian’s sharp tongue stayed quiet.

Jason dragged both hands down his face, streaking dried blood across his skin. His chest heaved like he couldn’t catch air. “God, I can’t—” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I can’t lose her. Not again. Not like this. Not because of him.”

Barbara’s voice was calm, firm, cutting through the storm. “Jason, listen to me. She’s strong. She made it this far. That’s because of you.”

Jason laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

“Because of me? No, Babs, she’s in there because of me. She’s bleeding out on some fucking table right now because I was stupid enough to think I could have something normal. Something good.” He dropped into the chair beside him, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low. His voice cracked again, small, broken. “She’s paying the price for loving me.”

Bruce finally spoke, his voice low, steady, and heavy with something Jason didn’t want to name. “That’s not true.”

Jason snapped his head up, his eyes burning. “Yes it is! Don’t you get it, Bruce? Everyone close to me gets hurt. Everyone. And now she’s—” His voice strangled off. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders trembling. “I swore I’d protect her. That’s all I had to do. And I fucking failed.”

For once, Tim’s voice broke the silence, quieter than usual but clear. “You didn’t fail. You got her out. She’s alive because of you.”

Jason looked up at him, eyes wet, voice hoarse. “For how long, Tim? How long before she realizes being with me is just a fucking death sentence?”

The words hung heavy in the air. Nobody answered.

Hours dragged on. Jason refused to sit still, pacing until Dick finally grabbed his arm. Jason yanked away, but Dick held firm. “She’s fighting in there. Don’t you dare give up on her out here.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his throat tight. He pressed his palm to his face, swiping away tears angrily. “I’m not giving up on her. I’m giving up on me. Don’t you get it? I can’t be near her anymore. I can’t—if she wakes up and I’m still there, what’s stopping him from trying again? He knows. He knows she’s my weak spot now. He’ll never stop.” His voice cracked. “And she’ll never be safe.”

Dick shook his head, his voice sharp but full of something almost pleading. “Don’t do that. Don’t you put this on yourself and walk away. She loves you, Jason. That’s not weakness. That’s the only thing keeping you human.”

Jason’s laugh was hollow, painful. He slumped back against the wall, sliding down until he was on the floor, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling like he was begging it for answers. His voice was raw, a rasp. “Love is what Joker feeds on. It’s what he rips apart. And I gave him the perfect fucking target.” His breath hitched. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance. I should’ve—” His voice broke, tears slipping silently down his face. “But I didn’t. And she’s paying for it.”

The double doors finally swung open. A doctor stepped out, pulling down his mask. Every head in the room snapped toward him.

Jason was on his feet instantly, stumbling forward like his legs barely worked. “Is she—?” His voice cracked hard. “Is she alive?”

The doctor’s gaze softened. “She’s alive. She lost a lot of blood. Multiple fractures, significant internal injuries. But she made it through the surgery. She’s stable for now.”

Jason’s chest collapsed, the air rushing out of him in a broken sob. He grabbed the edge of the nurse’s desk to stay upright, his head bowed, shoulders shaking with relief and grief all tangled together. His voice came out small, wrecked. “Thank God… thank God…”

But then the doctor continued, gentle but firm. “She’s in a medically induced coma. We need to give her body time to heal. It could be hours, or days. There are no guarantees.”

Jason’s head snapped up, his face streaked with tears.

“A coma?” His voice rose, cracking. “You mean she’s—she’s not—” He couldn’t finish. His body folded in on itself again, both hands gripping the back of his neck as he staggered away from the group, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I almost lost her. I almost fucking lost her.”

Bruce reached for him, but Jason shoved past, pacing hard, his boots squealing against the floor. “Don’t you see? This is exactly what I’m talking about! She’s in a coma because of me! Because she let me love her!” He pressed both hands against the wall, head bowed, tears dripping onto the tile. “I can’t—I can’t stay near her. If she wakes up and sees me, all she’s gonna see is pain. All she’s gonna see is what Joker did to her because of me.”

Dick stepped closer, his voice low, tight. “And what do you think she’ll see if she wakes up and you’re not there? You think she won’t notice? She fought to stay alive because of you, Jason. Because she wanted to see you again. Don’t you dare take that away from her.”

Jason froze, his back to the group, every muscle strung tight. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts.

Finally, his voice cracked out, soft, desperate. “What if she doesn’t wake up at all?”

The silence was deafening. Nobody had an answer.

Jason’s hands pressed harder into the wall, his forehead against the cold surface. His voice was barely audible, but the words cut deep. “I can’t lose her. I’ll break if I do. I don’t come back from that.”

And in that sterile hospital hallway, with his family behind him and you fighting for your life behind closed doors, Jason Todd: bloody, guilty, terrified, felt the walls closing in. He loved you so much it was killing him, and all he could see was the cruel possibility that Joker had already won.

The room was sterile white, filled with the low hum of machines and the quiet beeps that measured life in tiny intervals. You had been under for hours, you had no idea how many, fighting a battle no one could help you with but yourself. The surgeries had been long and brutal; Joker hadn’t left much of you untouched.

Jason had spent that entire time pacing hallways like a caged animal, fists raw from punching concrete walls, refusing food, refusing rest. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice hoarse from yelling at doctors every time they told him to “be patient.”

But when you finally stirred, eyelids fluttering open with painful effort, you weren't met with Jason.

Barbara sat by your side, Oracle having stationed herself in the chair since the first surgery ended, her hand wrapped gently around your bruised one. Even if Jason was scared about you seeing him, he had to know you were okay, he thought it was better like that but no one believed it.

Her voice was soft, almost motherly, when she leaned forward.

“Hey… hey, easy. You’re safe. You’re in Gotham General.”

Your throat was too dry to speak much. Every movement was agony, your ribs protesting, the bandages tight, IV lines tugging at your arms. But you managed a breath, a whisper that was barely audible.

“…Jason?”

Barbara’s heart clenched. She had expected it, she knew Jason’s name would be the first word, maybe the only one, on her lips. Babs stroked your hand carefully, keeping her voice calm even though she was already turning toward the door in her mind.

“He’s here. He’s been here the whole time. I’ll get him.”

Out in the hallway, Jason was sitting on the floor against the wall, head buried in his hands, staring blankly at his boots like they held the answers to every mistake he’d ever made. Bruce stood nearby, stoic but tense, while Dick leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching Jason carefully. Tim sat beside him with a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched. Damian was perched further down, silent as ever, though his sharp eyes never left Jason’s broken posture.

When Barbara stepped into the hall, Jason’s head snapped up instantly.

“She’s awake” Barbara said, voice firm but warm. “And she asked for you.”

Jason froze. For a split second, he looked like someone had just gutted him again: disbelief and fear flooding his features all at once.

“She… what?” His voice cracked, rough from hours of silence.

“She wants to see you, Jason”

He was on his feet before the sentence ended, his heart hammering like it was trying to break his ribs apart. But something stopped him in his tracks, his own damn guilt. He hovered, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight.

“She shouldn’t” he muttered, shaking his head, voice harsh to cover the break in it. “She shouldn’t want me. Look what happened because of me. Joker knew. He knew I’d lose it if he touched her. He went after her because of me.”

“Jason,” Barbara cut in, firm now. “She asked for you. That’s all that matters right now.”

Bruce’s deep voice followed, calm but weighted. “Go”

Jason looked up at him, almost as if searching for an excuse to be told no. But Bruce just held his gaze, silent, steady, like he always did when the lesson was obvious.

Jason swallowed hard, turned, and shoved through the door.

The moment he stepped into the room, the machines seemed too loud, the air too heavy. He hadn’t seen you conscious since Joker had taken you. Seeing you like this, pale, battered, but alive, nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.

You turned your head weakly, eyes struggling to focus, but when they landed on him, your lips curled just slightly.

“…hey” you rasped.

Jason froze halfway between the door and her bed, his throat burning, his chest tight. He looked like he might fall apart just standing there.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, and he moved forward, slow like you might vanish if he rushed. He took the chair Barbara had left and dropped into it, his big frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands shaking when he finally reached out and brushed your fingers carefully.

“You shouldn’t…” His jaw clenched, eyes wet. “You shouldn’t be asking for me. You should be telling me to get the fuck out. That I ruined your life. That I dragged you into my shit and nearly got you killed.”

Your weak fingers squeezed his, barely there, but enough to shut him up. Your voice was quiet, raw.

“...you’re the only one I want here”

Jason sucked in a shaky breath, eyes squeezing shut as he ducked his head to hide it. A tear slipped down anyway, dripping onto the sheets. His other hand came up to cover yours, holding you so gently it looked like he was afraid you might break apart under his touch.

“God, sweetheart…” His voice cracked again, lower now, full of the weight he couldn’t hide anymore. “I thought I lost you. You don’t know—fuck—you don’t know what that did to me.”

You tried to smile again, weak and pained, but soft. “..guess I’m too stubborn to let him win”

Jason let out a wet laugh that was half a sob, bowing his head until his forehead rested lightly against the back of your bandaged hand.

“I’m so sorry” he whispered, voice breaking open now, raw and desperate. “I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve known. I swore I’d never let him touch anyone I—” He cut himself off, chest shaking, before forcing it out. “Anyone I love. And he still got to you.”

Your eyes, heavy but clear, stayed on him. Your whisper was almost nothing, but it carried enough to stop him in his spiral.

“…i love you too.”

Jason’s breath hitched, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something other than guilt cracked through his chest. His shoulders shook as silent tears ran down his face, his hand trembling as he brushed his thumb across yours.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice trembling hard. “You’re it for me. You’re all I’ve got. If I lost you, there’s nothing left. Nothing. And I can’t—” His voice broke into silence, the words strangled in his throat.

You gave the faintest smile, eyes barely able to stay open. “..but you didn’t lose me.”

Jason leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your bandaged hand, clinging to you like a lifeline. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Not for a second. He’ll never—never—touch you again. I swear it.”

The fluorescent lights in the hospital wing hummed faintly, the only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.

Jason hadn’t moved from your bedside since the moment the doctors had allowed him to see you.

He was still in his gear, helmet discarded on the floor, chest armor peeled off with shaking hands hours ago, but the rest of him was a mess: blood on his gloves that wasn’t his, bruises spreading purple along his knuckles from punching every damin wall in the hospital.

But he wouldn’t leave. Not even for a second.

You had fallen asleep again, weak and still fragile after the surgeries that had stretched through the night. Jason sat slouched in the chair beside your bed, his head leaning close to your arm, one of his large hands wrapped around your smaller one like if he loosened his grip you might slip away again. Every time the heart monitor beeped too slow, his whole body tensed.

Every time you stirred, he was instantly awake, whispering to you in that low, rough voice that cracked with things he’d never admit aloud.

Sometime near dawn, your fingers shifted in his palm, brushing weakly against his skin. Jason’s bloodshot eyes flicked open. You whispered his name, and he bent closer, forehead pressed briefly against your knuckles.

“I’m right here, sweetheart” he rasped, voice hoarse from hours of silence and swallowed sobs. “Not going anywhere. You scared the shit outta me, y’know that?” His thumb brushed over your bandaged knuckles gently, careful not to hurt you. “But you’re tough. Always were.”

Your lips curved faintly, too weak to laugh, but the intention was there. And Jason, who’d been a storm of violence and fury for days, melted instantly, his whole body curving in to shield her from everything—even the memory of Joker.

It was well past sunrise when exhaustion finally overtook him. Still holding your hand, Jason’s head dropped onto the thin mattress at your side, eyes sliding shut. The chair creaked under his weight, but he didn’t move, and soon he was asleep, his cheek resting against the blanket where your arm lay.

You woke first the next morning. The sun filtered pale through the blinds, spilling across Jason’s broad shoulders where he was hunched uncomfortably in the chair, his hand still clasped around yours even in sleep.

You turned your head slowly, every muscle aching, and just looked at him for a long moment. His dark hair was mussed, face slack in sleep but still tense around the edges, like even unconscious he was bracing himself for another fight.

The sound of the door opening drew your attention. Bruce stepped inside, his presence filling the room instantly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable as he took in the scene: Jason slumped in the chair, you awake and watching silently.

Finally, Bruce’s gaze shifted to you. His deep voice was quiet but firm, carrying weight that made her throat tighten.

“I’m glad you’re still with us” he said simply. It wasn’t flowery, not warm in the way someone else might have phrased it—but it was Bruce. Which meant it was heavy with meaning. Relief. Gratitude. Even guilt.

You nodded faintly, too weak to respond, but your eyes softened. Bruce’s jaw tightened, and after a pause he stepped closer, resting one gloved hand carefully on the railing of the bed. “You’ve been through enough. Focus on healing. We’ll handle the rest.”

It was his way of promising you that you didn’t need to carry the weight alone, that he wouldn’t let Jason shoulder it alone, either.

Your eyes flicked down to Jason, still asleep and refusing to let go of your hand. Bruce followed your gaze, and something softened in his expression. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper.

“He hasn’t left your side.”

Your lips curved faintly, your heart monitor beeping a little faster. You knew. You had felt it in every brush of his thumb against your skin, in every whispered word through the haze of pain.

Bruce lingered a moment longer, silent in the way only he could be, communicating volumes without saying anything at all, before stepping back.

“Rest,” he said finally, and turned toward the door. But before leaving, he paused, his eyes on Jason again. “He needs this as much as you do.”

And then Bruce was gone, the door hissing shut softly behind him, leaving you in the quiet once more. You turned your head back toward Jason, watching him sleep, and though your body hurt, there was a deep calm in her chest now.

“Two hours, twelve minutes if we’re lucky,” you’d said confidently that morning, balancing your travel mug of coffee in one hand and double-checking the last of Dick’s overnight bag with the other. Bruce had given you a look over the top of his own mug—black, no sugar, no soul.

“This is Gotham,” he replied. “We’re never lucky.”

And he was right. The drive stretched past three hours thanks to construction on the interstate, a four-car pileup near the city limits, and the classic Gotham exodus that happened every Friday when people remembered the rest of the state was quieter, cleaner, and didn’t smell like concrete and stress.

But you didn’t mind. Not really.

Bruce drove. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift. Aviators on. Hair slightly ruffled from the wind when he’d checked the tires that morning. Dick sat in the backseat, legs crossed under him, surrounded by snacks and his favorite blue hoodie zipped halfway up. You rode shotgun, one knee tucked under you, elbow out the open window, and your hand in the wind.

The car smelled like leather and your favorite lavender-scented travel wipes. Summer was in full swing now, which meant sunlight poured across Bruce’s arm, and the sky outside was that clear, humming sort of blue that Smallville did better than anywhere else.

It had been just over a month since Dick moved in. A few months more since the press release about the engagement hit the Gotham Gazette like a slap to the face. The article had used the words “bewildering” and “suspiciously convenient” in the same sentence. And that was one of the nicer ones.

You were born and raised in Smallville. Gossip there was practically currency. You learned early that it wasn’t about stopping the talk—it was about not letting it decide how you walked through town. In Gotham, it was louder. Glossier. Paparazzi, editorials, entire segments of talk shows dedicated to who wore what ring and whether or not you were pregnant. But it didn’t get under your skin.

Bruce had handled it exactly the way you expected: with the emotional range of a damp napkin and the subtlety of a live grenade.

“They’re saying it’s fake,” he’d told you one night, pacing your shared walk-in closet while you were still in a towel post-shower. “They think you bribed me. That you are a gold digger.”

He had said it as if it was the biggest offense of his life. You’d blinked at him, toweling your hair.

“They also think we got secretly married last month and that I’m already pregnant with twins. And that I’m secretly a soy sent to take all the billionaires down.”

That one got an actual sound from him. Somewhere between a scoff and a strangled laugh.

You’d shrugged. “People talk, Bruce. Small town, big city, it doesn’t matter. Back in Smallville they thought Clark was a government clone for three years because he grew six inches over a summer and got good at baseball. People just... need something to say.”

“I hate it,” he’d murmured, dropping onto the edge of the bed beside you.

You’d reached out and threaded your fingers through his. “I don’t. Because I know it’s not true.”

But the talking wore at him in ways it didn’t wear at you. And that was how you found yourself here—on the open road with the windows down, a smiling eight-year-old in the back seat, and your fiancé muttering about tractors under his breath while trying not to let the GPS recalculate a fifth time.

“You okay back there, bug?” you asked, craning your head toward the back seat.

Dick grinned up at you from where he was cradling his tablet. “Yeah! This is fun!”

“Still think so after three hours in traffic?” Bruce asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“I’ve been on longer trips,” Dick replied with a shrug. “Circus trains. Sometimes for days.”

That sobered Bruce a bit. Your fingers found his on the console between you and gave them a quiet squeeze.

Things had settled since Dick came come. The good kind of settled. Mornings were softer now, fuller. You’d wake up beside Bruce—something that still made your heart flutter in a completely unfair way—kiss his shoulder, brush your teeth while he stood behind you half-asleep, his hand on your waist like a paperweight keeping you tethered to the moment. Alfred made breakfast with quiet efficiency. You packed Dick’s lunch and walked him to the car like a suburban sitcom. He complained about math homework, asked if he could start karate (“we’ll talk about it”), and still hadn’t lost the habit of sleeping with one foot sticking out of the comforter.

“Well, this train stops soon,” you said, voice light again. “You’re going to love the farm. It’s huge.”

“Yeah?” Dick leaned forward a bit. “Like, how huge?”

You smiled. “Like, ‘can’t-see-the-end-of-it-even-on-your-bike’ huge. My parents run everything. Dairy cows, chickens, goats, sheep. A few horses. And acres and acres of crops.”

His eyes widened. “Real cows?”

You turned in your seat fully now, facing him. “Oh, yeah. Big ones. Brown ones, black-and-white ones. One with a weird splotch shaped like Florida on her side. And they moo at the sunrise like clockwork.”

“Can I pet them?”

“If you want.”

“Do they bite?”

“Only if you get between them and food.”

“That’s... fair.”

“They’re friendly,” you said with a shrug. “They’re like large dogs that smell like hay and don’t know how to be quiet.”

Dick laughed. “I’ve only seen cows in books. And elephants in real life.”

You smiled gently at that. “Yeah? Ever fed a goat?”

“Not unless you count the time a clown goat stole my hat.”

You blinked. “. . . A clown goat?”

“Circus stuff,” Dick said vaguely. “You wouldn’t get it.”

You turned to Bruce. “Did you get that?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You caught Dick smiling in the rearview mirror again.

“Are there really pigs?” he asked, leaning forward between the front seats, seatbelt cutting diagonally across his little chest.

“There are pigs,” you confirmed with a grin. “Loud ones. One of them’s named Sugarfoot. She’ll be your best friend if you bring her scraps.”

“Scraps?”

“Like leftover food. She’ll eat anything but especially likes peach peels and toast crusts.”

He gawked. “What about... circus peanuts?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed from behind the wheel. “What are circus peanuts?”

“They’re gross,” you said flatly. “Don’t feed anything those.”

Dick giggled and leaned back again, kicking his feet lightly. “What about the horses?”

“Three,” you nodded. “Two workhorses and one very old, very cranky pony. Her name’s Miss Patty. She’s missing a tooth and absolutely will bite you if you try to pet her before she’s ready.”

“That’s awesome,” Dick whispered reverently, like a kid being told he was about to meet a dragon.

You smiled, curling one leg beneath you in the passenger seat. “We got the nicest sheep as well. His name is Buttons.”

Bruce’s voice was amused. “You’re making these names up.”

“Swear I’m not,” you said, holding up a hand. “Buttons has been around since I was in middle school. He likes music. Especially banjo. My dad says he’s the reincarnation of an old musician.”

“That explains so much about your family,” Bruce muttered.

“You love my family.”

He glanced over at you, lips quirking. “I do.”

You pecked a kiss on his lips, giggling softly at the yuck sound that came out of Dick’s mouth.

“But for real,” you said, resting your chin on the back of the seat now, “the farm is something else. My mom makes fresh cinnamon rolls every morning. Dad insists on teaching people how to ride horses, even if they say no. And Clark will probably show up before dinner even though I told him not to.”

“You think he’ll bring Lois?” Bruce asked.

“God, I hope so. He’s less weird when she’s around.”

“Clark’s weird?” Dick asked, surprised.

You shrugged. “Farm weird. You’ll see.”

Bruce turned off the main highway and onto a long, winding road that started to look more and more like Kansas the deeper you went. The trees shifted. The air changed. That thick Gotham tension peeled off your shoulders slowly, like a winter coat you didn’t need anymore.

“Was it boring?”

“Sometimes. But mostly it was simple. Peaceful.”

“What did you do?”

“Well... I helped with the animals, especially in the mornings. Fed the chickens, gathered eggs, milked the cows when I was old enough.”

Dick looked scandalized. “You milked cows?! With your hands?!”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You drink milk every day.”

“That’s different! That’s bottle milk. This is cow milk!”

“Same milk, baby,” you mumbled, grinning. “But it’s not so bad. You’ll see.”

“Do you have a tractor?”

“Of course.”

“Can I drive it?”

“No.”

Dick pouted.

Eventually, the city gave way to rolling green. The horizon stopped being broken by towers and started bending into soft hills and pastures. You felt your heart shift in your chest, like it always did. It wasn’t homesickness. Not exactly. It was more like the ache of something familiar, calling softly from the bones.

You turned your head slightly, watching the familiar mailbox come into view. KENT, it read in bold white letters. Weathered but proud. And just beyond it, the long dirt road that led to the farmhouse—a two-story white structure with a wraparound porch and a rocking chair that hadn’t stopped creaking in twenty years. A barn just beyond. Sheds and silos and tractors and fencing. And wide, wide skies above it all.

“There it is,” you said.

Bruce slowed the car as he turned up the long path, tires crunching against the gravel. Dick pressed his face to the window.

“Whoa,” he breathed.

You smiled.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, baby bird. See those fields?” you pointed. “My old man plants corn there. Over there’s wheat. And the far side? Pumpkins, watermelons, whatever’s in season.”

“There’s so much space.“

“I told you.”

Your ma was already outside. She waved wildly, apron fluttering behind her, and your dad stood beside her, one hand raised in that steady, solid Kent way.

Bruce parked the car. Before he could even put it in park, Dick was unbuckled and scrambling out of the back seat, eyes wide.

“This is like five circuses!” he shouted.

You opened the door and stepped out, your feet crunching into gravel. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” you muttered to yourself. “You can cry later.”

Dick made a noise that sounded like joy and disbelief all in one. He pointed at a chicken. “It’s real!“

“Yes,” you said. “And she doesn’t like being chased, so be gentle.”

Bruce chuckled.

Your mom reached you first and wrapped you in a tight hug, murmuring something about your hair being longer than last time. Then she pulled back and cupped your face, eyes glassy.

“You look happy,” she whispered.

“I am,” you said.

And then Dick stepped forward, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes wide and uncertain.

You turned and gestured. “Mama, Dad—this is Dick.”

Your mother’s face softened immediately. She crouched a little and smiled.

“Well, aren’t you just handsome as all get out,” she said warmly. “We’ve heard so much about you, sweetheart.”

Dick blinked. “You have?”

“Of course,” crouched down in front of him, sticking out a hand. “You’re all she talks about.”

You blushed lightly. “Lies.”

“True lies.”

Dick looked at the hand. Then at you. Then shook it, awkward but firm. “Thanks for letting me come.”

“Come?” your mom laughed gently. “This is your home too, honey.”

Dick blinked. He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

The next few hours passed in a blur of warm air, fresh lemonade, and laughter. Dick met every animal. He held a baby goat like it was made of glass. He shrieked when a pig sniffed his leg. He got pecked by a chicken once and then demanded a rematch.

Now the golden sky outside was dimming into dusk, the air carrying that peaceful hum only Smallville evenings could offer—the buzzing of insects, the slow rustle of wheat fields, a distant owl, and the occasional stubborn squeal from Sugarfoot the pig. She hadn’t stopped begging since Dick gave her a crust from his sandwich.

You were at the sink helping with dishes when the familiar whoosh of displaced air passed through the open window over the stove.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. But you did turn around to open the door.

“About time!” you called, grinning.

“We had to stop for pie!” Lois shouted back, sliding off Clark’s back like a practiced gymnast. “Clark heard about a new bakery halfway between here and Metropolis and wouldn’t shut up about it!”

“I brought two kinds,” Clark offered, sheepish but proud.

You hugged him first—tight, firm, grounding. His arms came around you like always, anchoring you to the world.

“Took you long enough. Ma’s been asking about you since breakfast.”

“I brought her Lois. That should buy me a couple forgiveness points,” he replied, kissing the top of your head.

Lois got you next, rolling her eyes. She always smelled like expensive lipstick and newsroom ink. Her hugs were fierce. Comforting. “What he means is, I had to remind him it was tonight and that showing up in his suit would probably give the local mailman another heart attack.”

You laughed, hugging her back as tight as you could. “God, I missed you.”

“Missed you more.”

Dick was on the floor at the edge of the kitchen, playing with the old box of mismatched toy soldiers and tiny animal figurines your dad had kept since your childhood. He froze when he looked up.

He lit up like the sun, then turned and ran straight at Clark with his arms open.

“Uncle Clark!” he shouted.

Clark looked stunned for all of a second before catching him, arms easily wrapping around the boy, spinning him once like a leaf.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, laughing. “You’ve grown at least two inches since I saw you!”

“I’ve been drinking milk,” Dick explained seriously. “And I do jumping jacks.”

Then, he kissed Lois’s cheek and smiled proudly when she ruffled his hair and told him he would be as tall as Clark in any moment. He watched them go, and finally landed his eyes on you.

You watched the moment land. The way his eyes narrowed. How his brows furrowed. He leaned in close and whispered, “I have to tell you something, but you need to promise that you won’t say anything.”

You pushed your fingers to your mouth, closing an imaginary zipper.

“Uncle Clark is Superman.”

You coughed gently, biting back a smile. “Is he now?”

“I can tell,” he whispered quickly. “He landed like whoosh, and he’s huge, and his hair does the same thing, and—he’s totally Superman. I have been keeping the secret because I think he doesn’t want any of us to know.”

“Well,” you said softly, kneeling beside him, “that sounds like a pretty big secret to keep, huh?”

Dick nodded gravely, like a knight being sworn into sacred service.

You gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Then I guess it’s lucky it was you who found out.”

Dinner was loud. Warm.

Your mom cried once—not dramatically, just a soft wipe of the corner of her eye when Clark passed her the potatoes and said it was good to be home. Your dad kept pouring lemonade, Bruce buttered every roll within arm’s reach, Lois recounted a dramatic story about a senator’s toupee, and Dick sat between Clark and you, asking questions between every bite of sweet corn and meatloaf your ma had been slipping into his plate.

Clark answered every single one with patience, wit, and affection. He always had been the best at that. The best at listening like a child’s voice was the most important sound in the world.

Bruce stayed quieter. Not silent—just watchful. He always did that when he felt like the odd man out. You bumped his knee under the table when he got too still. He nudged you back, then took your hand and played with your ring under the table while Dick explained to Clark the entire backstory of a tv show he had been watching lately.

Later, after dishes were stacked and your parents had excused themselves to bed—your mom insisting you didn’t have to clean up, and your dad offering Clark a jar of pickles “for the trip back”—the house settled into that soft nighttime rhythm you hadn’t felt in years.

The windows were open. The breeze cool. Fireflies blinked lazily across the yard.

Bruce had gone out back to check the barn doors, quietly making sure everything was locked and squared away for the night. Lois sat with Dick at the dining table, a worn deck of cards between them as she taught him how to play gin rummy, her voice low and conspiratorial.

You stood at the sink, rinsing out the last pie plate, when Clark appeared beside you, rolling up his sleeves.

“I was wondering when you were going to come help,” you teased.

“I had to wait until the real work was done,” he replied, nudging your hip with his.

You bumped him back.

Together, the two of you worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Clark scrubbed. You rinsed. A few crickets chirped. A dog barked in the distance.

“You’re really happy,” Clark said eventually, his voice soft.

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just scrubbing gently at a stubborn pie crust.

“I am,” you replied. “It feels... real. It’s good. Hard sometimes. But it’s good.”

He nodded. “I can see that.”

You dried your hands slowly, glancing toward the table where Dick was now dramatically laying down his cards and grinning at Lois like he’d conquered Rome.

“He’s amazing,” you whispered. “He’s so smart. So sweet. And God, Clark, he’s been through so much. And he still smiles like that.”

“You’re good for him.”

“So is Bruce.”

Clark chuckled. “I never thought I’d say that. But yeah. He is.”

You leaned your head against your brother’s shoulder for a moment, letting the comfort of shared history settle around you.

“And that kid loves you.”

You looked to the side, where Dick was showing Lois a card and laughing too loud.

“Yeah,” you said. “I love him too.”

He kissed the top of your head. “You’re doing amazing.”

You leaned into him. “Thanks, Clark.”

Outside, the porch creaked quietly—Bruce returning. You met him at the door, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, moonlight painting silver along his jaw.

“All clear?” you asked.

“Miss Patty stared at me like I owed her something,” he muttered. “Otherwise, yeah.”

You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his waist. “She thinks you’re competition.”

Bruce kissed the top of your head. “Not anymore. I know better than to cross her.”

You leaned back enough to look up at him. The soft porch light caught the shadows under his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked.

He hesitated. “I thought coming here would help me get . . my mind off the headlines but . . .”

“I know.”

You didn’t need to ask what kind. It was always the same. Headlines with too many adjectives. Panel shows questioning your motives. Online threads tracking the price of your dress from the engagement party you didn’t even know someone photographed.

“I’m used to it,” you whispered.

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

You tilted your face to look up at him, your fingers sliding beneath his sweater, brushing against his shirt.

“I grew up in Smallville,” you said softly. “The mailman knew when I had a crush in fourth grade because I started checking the mailbox three times a day. There isn’t a rumor I haven’t heard. This is just... louder.”

His jaw tightened. “You deserve peace.”

“I have it,” you said. “Right here.”

He looked down at you then, eyes dark in the evening light, and kissed you—soft, slow, like it was the first time. Like he wanted to memorize your mouth. You sank into it, arms curling around his neck, your body finding his like it always did.

When you pulled back, you whispered, “You’re not alone, Bruce.”

“I know,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I still don’t know how I got this lucky.”

You kissed him then. Gentle. Lingering. His hand settled on your waist, anchoring himself to you like he always did when the world tilted too far.

Lois’s voice called from the dining room, “He beat me again! What kind of child prodigy are you raising?!”

Dick laughed. Loud. Carefree. Happy.

And later, when the house finally fell quiet, the dishes done, the windows closed, the fireflies fading, and Bruce locked the last door—Dick found his way into your old room, clutching his pillow and blinking sleepily.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asked.

You were already brushing your teeth in the little bathroom. Bruce nodded without hesitation.

That night, like he did sometimes in Gotham, Dick curled up between you both—tiny limbs sprawled out, the safest place in the world sealed between two steady heartbeats, mouth half-open in sleep. Your hand brushed gently through his dark hair.

Bruce reached over Dick’s shoulder and caught your fingers.

“Goodnight,” you whispered.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, lips brushing your knuckles.

Dick sighed in his sleep and reached for your arm, pulling it around his chest. You fell asleep with your son tucked in your arms, the man you loved at your side, and the world outside silent for once.

And somewhere beyond the quiet, the wind whispered through the wheat fields, soft and low and sweet.

You were home.

The soft click-clack of your keyboard was the only sound in the office, apart from the muted hum of the coffee machine down the hall. It was late morning, and the light streaming through your windows painted gold streaks across your desk. Your day had started like any other—Bruce in early meetings, Alfred sending an affectionate reminder about your vitamins via text, and Dick at school with his lunchbox packed neatly by your hands.

You were mid-email when your personal phone rang.

Which was strange. No one ever called your personal line during business hours—everyone knew you were Bruce Wayne’s secretary, and your work phone was practically glued to your hip. The personal number was only for family. For emergencies. For home.

Your hand paused over the keyboard as you glanced down, heart already climbing. You didn’t recognize the number, but something inside your chest twisted—tight and immediate.

You answered quickly. “Hello?”

A pause. Then:

“Miss Kent?”

The voice was smooth, professional, and unfamiliar.

“Yes,” you said, already straightening. “Speaking. Who is this?”

“This is Principal Langley from Gotham’s Private Elementary. I’m calling about Richard.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stood up, eyes locking on your office door like you could somehow see through it, as if your sudden anxiety might pull him into the room. “Is he okay?”

“He’s physically fine,” she said gently, and the pause that followed was the kind you’d learned to dread as a Kent—too long, too careful. “But he’s... He won’t stop crying, and we haven’t been able to get him to calm down. We thought it best to call you directly. It might be best if he went home for the day.”

You didn’t ask any more questions.

You just grabbed your coat, pressed the intercom button to inform that you were stepping out, and left. You didn’t bother calling Bruce. He was in the middle of a presentation with WayneTech’s board. He’d find out later. Right now, this was yours to handle.

Wayne Enterprises was exactly twenty-one minutes from Dick’s school if you took the express lane, which you did, and which only shaved it down to fifteen. Still, every second burned. You barely registered the passing streets or the honks or the occasional curious driver doing a double-take at the sight of Bruce Wayne’s secretary barreling through Gotham traffic like her heart was in her throat.

Because it was.

The front office staff was polite—too polite, too composed for what your bones already knew. You could hear it the moment you stepped in. Not the sound itself—Dick was quiet now—but the absence of noise, like every child in the front building had learned silence by association.

When they led you to the principal’s office, you saw him.

Hunched in a chair too big for him, feet not touching the floor, his backpack clutched in his lap like a lifeline. His face was blotchy. Red. Tear tracks down both cheeks. His eyes were glassy and exhausted. He looked up the second you stepped in, and the way he stood nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“Sweetheart,” you breathed.

He didn’t say anything. Just ran to you.

You crouched to catch him, arms wrapping tight, your whole body curling around his.

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, holding the back of his head. “I’m here. I’m here.”

He didn’t talk. Just sobbed into your shoulder, shaking like he’d been holding it in too long. You rocked him gently, hand stroking down his back, murmuring soft comforts against his hair.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “You’re okay now. I’m here.”

It took time. You didn’t rush it.

Eventually, the sobs became sniffles, then long, shaky breaths.

You thanked the principal quietly, took his hand, and led him out. He held your palm like he never wanted to let go.

Outside, on the front steps, you knelt beside him, brushing the damp hair back from his forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“That’s okay,” you said gently. “You can talk when you’re ready. Or not at all. I’m just glad you called me.”

He nodded, still sniffling. “I didn’t mean to cry so much.”

“You can cry as much as you want, bug. That’s allowed. You don’t have to be brave all the time.”

“I wanted to be good,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you and Bruce to send me back.”

Your heart shattered so quickly it left splinters.

“Oh, Dick,” you breathed, pulling him back into your arms. “We would never. Never, never. You’re ours. You hear me?”

He nodded, pressing his face into your collar.

You took him to work.

There was no way you were leaving him alone, and Bruce—currently locked in a board meeting on the twentieth floor—had made it explicitly clear that your judgment was the final one when it came to Dick.

So, that afternoon, Wayne Enterprises had its first unofficial “Take Your Child to Work” day.

You tucked him into your office, laid a soft throw blanket on the carpet, and gave him your emergency sketchpad—the one you kept in your desk for stress-doodling during long calls.

He flopped down stomach-first, crayons splayed around him, drawing with fierce focus. His face was still swollen. His eyes tired. But he looked calm now. Grounded.

Safe.

You worked quietly, pausing every few minutes to peek at him—still there, still okay. He showed you a picture he drew of Buttons. You promised to hang it on your office wall.

Everything was steady. Everything was soft.

Until the shouting started.

It wasn’t loud, exactly—but the tone pierced through your focus like a knife. You frowned, looked up, and heard it again—a sharp, irritated woman’s voice cutting through the hallway like she owned the floor.

“...I don’t care what Eloise said—he’ll see me!”

You stood, pushed open your office door, and stopped.

Security was gathered in front of the elevators. Eloise, the sweet lower-floor receptionist who adored you, stood awkwardly between two suited guards, trying to reason with someone neither of them could seem to wrangle.

A woman. Tall, stunning, tan, and furious.

You knew her. Of course you did.

Carla Vrenzi.

One of Bruce’s old companions. A supermodel with a temper, a flair for melodrama, and an ego that could crack titanium. You’d taken her call many months ago—her voice shrill and furious through the speaker, hurling curses because Bruce hadn’t called her back. You remembered the way she spat his name. The way she hung up on you.

And now she was here.

Your heart dipped.

She spotted you almost instantly.

“Oh,” she sneered. “You.”

Eloise turned, clearly panicked. “Miss Kent, we were trying to escort her down—”

“Don’t bother,” the woman snapped. “Miss ‘Personal Assistant,’ huh? Is this where Bruce keeps you now? Like a little lapdog? Is that why you spread your legs—because you were tired of faxing his schedules?!”

You stiffened, spine going taut.

Eloise looked horrified. “Ma’am, please—”

“You’re nothing!” Carla screamed. “A secretary! A poor little hayseed pretending she’s a Wayne! I’ve worn shoes more expensive than you!”

“Miss Kent,” Eloise repeated urgently. “Please go back into your office.”

Her face twisted. “You think that ring makes you anything? You’re a novelty act. A toy. Do you know how many of us there’ve been? How many women he’s tossed aside like—”

“Stop it,” you said quietly.

She didn’t. She took a step closer. “You t6think you matter? A farmer’s daughter with a clipboard and good hair? You’ll be gone in a year. Maybe less. You’ll wake up one morning in that big house, and he’ll be gone. And you’ll still be nothing.”

The floor felt like it had dropped from beneath you.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t flinch. But you felt your stomach twist, a cold coil of shame and doubt rising.

And then—

“HEY!”

Dick’s voice cracked like lightning.

He stood in your doorway, small but unshaking, fists clenched at his sides, nose wrinkled in absolute fury.

“Don’t talk to my mom like that!”

The hallway fell dead silent.

Carla turned, startled.

“I don’t care who you are!” he shouted, stepping in front of you with a look on his face that was half fury, half fire. “You don’t talk to her like that!”

The woman blinked. “Excuse me—”

“She’s amazing!” he yelled. “She’s kind and smart and funny and she makes the best waffles ever and Bruce loves her a lot! And I love her!”

“Kid—”

“And you’re mean!” he yelled, cheeks flushing, eyes brimming but not crying. “You’re mean and stupid and nobody wants you here!”

The whole hallway went silent.

You didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. Because your eight-year-old son had already said everything.

Carla opened her mouth again—but the security guard beside her had had enough. “Ma’am, you need to leave the premises. Now.”

She huffed, sputtered, still fuming. But she turned.

Dick didn’t move until the elevator doors closed behind her.

Silence lingered.

And then Dick turned back to you, his chest rising and falling fast. His mouth opened like he wanted to apologize, perhaps for screaming, but you pulled him into your arms before he could say anything.

Tight. Fierce. Real.

He clung to you like he had at the school—only this time, he wasn’t broken. He was angry. Protective.

Yours.

You buried your face in his hair, tears welling in your eyes. “You called me your mom.”

His arms tightened. “I meant it.”

You swallowed hard. “You’ve never said that before.”

“I didn’t know if I could.”

You pulled back, just enough to look him in the face.

His cheeks were blotchy again. But this time, it wasn’t from sadness. It was from fire. From love.

“You can,” you whispered. “You can call me anything, bug. Anything you want. But that was the nicest you could have called me. Made me the proudest woman on Gotham. On Earth!.”

He smiled through the tears. “I think I liked calling you mom as well.”

You laughed and cried. You kissed his forehead as the hall slowly resumed normalcy, your coworkers sneaking glances, eyes wide and glassy.

But it didn’t matter.

Because in that moment—in that warm, golden, real moment—you were exactly who you wanted to be. Not Bruce’s fiancée. Not the secretary. Not the girl from the farm.

The first time you saw Johnny Storm was when you were sixteen. On a golf course, as the sun, which beamed down on the grassy terrain, made sweat stick to your forehead. You huffed and puffed the entire time, cursing your brother under your breath for wanting to celebrate his birthday golfing, and for bringing you along, no less. When he knew you never touched a club in your life. You were convinced his birthday wish was to make you humiliate yourself and revel in it.

You were standing on the teeing ground, trying to adjust your stance and your grip, because that was important too, apparently. It felt more like rocket science than something you do as a leisure activity, you thought.

Your swing was off, yet again, prompting low laughs from your brother and his friends.

“This is totally unfair,” you grumbled, a permanent pout on your lips as you moved to try again, hyper aware that the next group was making their way over.

“You guys want to go now? It’ll be a while until the little Miss Professional Athlete finishes,” you hear your brother say to the group, making you hitch your club up, “She had a quadruple bogey on the last one,” he continued, making the other group laugh.

You turned to see the newcomers, chin raised slightly higher than usual due to your flat cap blocking some of your vision.

Which is the moment your eyes land on him. Tall stature, muscular, blonde— handsome. Very handsome.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m sure we can help her figure it out,” he said, looking over to your group.

“By all means, have at it,” came your brother’s response. 

Typical. Nobody even asked you what you wanted. Not that you’d deny a handsome fella trying to teach you, but still! It was the principle of it! You were still a lady— 

“So, what do you need help with?” he asked, “I’m Johnny, by the way. Johnny Storm.” he added, flashing you a charming smile.

“Well, Johnny, I need help with just about everything and I don’t even know what I’m doing wrong,” you huffed before remembering yourself, “I apologize, I’m just frustrated.”

Your little lapse of judgment along with forgotten manners made the corner of Johnny’s mouth quirk up in an amused smirk.

“Alright, then. Show me how you do it and I’ll give you pointers.”

You bent your knees and made sure your back is straight before leveling your club with the golf ball.

“And there’s mistake number one,” Johnny alerted “Cross your fingers on the club.”

Your brows furrowed on their own accord as you interlaced your fingers on the grey padding and turned your head to look back at him.

“Like this?”

“Yeah. Swing it. Not too hard, though,” he instructed, eyes trailing over your form as if he was a rule official.

“How hard is not too hard?” you questioned, making him laugh at how complicated you were being.

“A medium strength. Can you do that?”

“We’ll see,” you said, trying to follow his instructions as best as possible.

Fingers intertwined, medium strength. Swing and hit— 

“I did it!” you exclaimed, your eyes disbelievingly trained on the hole you managed to finish in just two tries.

“You did,” Johnny said, a smile on his face, “Good job.”

Your group gave their thanks to Johnny, ushering you away and saying something about ‘keeping the gentlemen for too long’. You turned around as they all but pulled you away, gaze locked on him and the self-satisfied smile that graced his face.

“Thank you, Johnny Storm!” you called out, giving him a big grin.

“You’re welcome!”

The first time Johnny Storm made you laugh was the kind of thing that could only happen if you weren’t expecting it in the slightest. Not even in your wildest dreams. Truth be told, he slipped your mind entirely since you met. You had more important things to worry about than a handsome stranger who helped you golf.

So, you were surprised when you saw him while making your way back home from school. Your Mary Janes clicked against the damp pavement, thanks to the summer rain that doused you this morning, your eyes squinted as you tried to assure yourself that the blond in front of you was really him.

Screw it, you thought. Can’t really lose anything.

“Johnny Storm!” you called out, watching him turn. Bingo.

“No way, golf girl?” he asked with a smile, halting his steps to let you catch up to him.

“In the flesh,” you answered as you hurried along to him, tightening the hold on your textbooks.

“Let me help you with that,” he said once you were by his side, taking the books from you, “Physics? You any good?”

“I’m okay at it. Not my favourite thing in the world.”

“Seriously? Physics is fun, though,” he said, making you look at him disbelievingly.

“Seriously?” you parroted back. “Are you a prodigy or something, Johnny Storm?”

He turned his head to face you, opting to not answer your question but instead shoot you a charming smile that told you everything you needed to know. He was some sort of genius prodigy.

“And you can call me just Johnny, you know? No need for the last name.”

“Alright, Johnny,” you hummed, “But Johnny Storm sounds better. Very outta sight.”

“So I should consider going by my full name at all times?”

“Maybe.”

Johnny snickered, shuffling through your books as you walked, clearly taking on the role of following you home without being asked to. Handsome, genius and a gentleman? Too good to be true.

“What’s so interesting about physics anyway?” you asked him, more so just to ask, rather than get an actual answer.

“Solving equations,” he said simply, “And the history behind it.”

“You gonna study physics in college, Johnny?”

“Aerospace engineering, actually,” he said simply. As if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Your eyebrows raised on their own accord, eyes widening a little. Not every day you meet a future aerospace engineer. 

“Wow… Impressive. Are you gonna work for ANSA?” you asked, pretending you knew what that fully entailed and not just that it was about space and being smart. But then again, that was the jist of it.

“That’s the plan. And maybe go to space one day.”

“So I’m talking to a future astronaut right now?”

“Possibly, yeah.”

Wow, you thought. Smart— hell, probably a genius if what he’s saying is true, confident, but not arrogant. Johnny Storm seemed like an alien more than anything, really. You knew guys who had nothing going for them but still managed to be arrogant bastards who thought they were God’s gift to mankind.

“Sounds scary. Impressive, but scary,” you concluded.

“Exciting,” he corrected.

“Being in a metal tube that launches you off to space at ungodly speeds is exciting?”

“Precisely. Space is exciting. And fascinating.”

“What are you gonna do in space?”

“Explore. Meet lady aliens,” he said smugly, making you let out a laugh.

No man was perfect and every single one of them had one thing on their mind, clearly. The only difference being that they usually thought of actresses, or models, or the hot girl down the street. But Johnny thought of hypothetical ‘lady aliens’. And for whatever reason that was more endearing.

“Of course,” you said through your giggles, “Lady aliens.”

The first (and last) time Johnny Storm asked for your number was a sunny Sunday, a few days after he walked you home. A soft wind rustled the trees, casting moving shadows across the concrete. You walked outside with a pep in your step, a study session not sounding all that bad if it was happening in your favourite diner with a float and some pancakes. And it was a perfect excuse to doll up and put on your new Go-Go boots.

Your pace was purposefully slower, trying to be present in the moment – enjoy the pleasant breeze which swirled around your dress.

That moment of peace was interrupted, albeit gently, with a soft tap to your shoulder. And you had something to see once you turned around. Blond. Handsome. Strong. Johnny Storm.

“Johnny Storm!” you grinned, “You again?”

“Me again, golf girl,” he drawled, the corner of his lip twitching upwards.

“You know I have a name, right? One that I told you. Or did you forget already?” your smile widened impossibly. The thought of him forgetting your name was more amusing than anything, considering his allegedly genius mind and your run-ins with each other which were just a tad absurd. 

“I do remember. I also remember telling you to just call me Johnny and that didn’t happen, did it?”

“It did, actually. A few times, if I remember,” you teased.

“Doesn’t count now that you called me Johnny Storm. Again.” he stated with a faux huff, but his big, baby blues gave him away.

“So you’ll call me golf girl until I stop calling you by your full name?”

“Precisely.”

“Alright, then. From this point on, you’re just Johnny, I swear on it.”

“Alright…” he trailed off, before saying your name with a silky smooth tone, making your smile softer, more real.

“Well, I gotta jet, but it was nice talking to ya, Johnny.”

“Can I ask where you’re going— Or, no, what’s more important than standing here with the person you’ve seen… three times in your life?” he asked, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Very funny,” you deadpanned, “I’m going down to the diner on West to get some studying in.”

“Smart girl. Tell you what, why don’t you give me your number, so we don’t have to rely on fate to bring us together?”

Your brows raised slightly at that, not being able to help but wonder just what his intentions were.

“You think our luck’s running out?”

“I mean, we’ve had first, second and third charm.”

“Alright, then,” you agreed, sifting through your notebook to rip out a clean sheet of paper and write your number on it. “Here,” you said, handing him the now neatly folded paper that you scrawled your number across.

“Thank you. I’ll give you a call then, so we can hang out.”

So, those were his intentions. To hang out. 

You couldn’t say you minded, really. Johnny seemed like a good friend to have, from the limited glimpses of him you got. A gentleman who’s also smart. Jury’s still out on the genius part though, in your opinion. You’ll believe it when you see it. 

You’d just have to stop calling him handsome in your head every time you see him. Piece of cake.

“Alright, you do that,” you said with a smile as you turned to leave.

“Have fun studying!” he called out.

“Bye Johnny!”

And yeah, maybe you walked with an even bigger pep in your step after that, feeling that familiar high of making a new connection bubbling up in your chest, setting your nerves ablaze. It seemed that the day would be kind to you, very much so.

The first time you hung out with Johnny Storm, you were seated in a booth, tucked away in the corner of a cafe, sipping on your drink as he all but devoured his pastries. All under the guise of being famished from the record store you strolled through earlier. 

“Y’know, maybe you should’ve gotten actual food if you were so hungry,” you looked at him, amusement dancing in your eyes.

“Tastes better,” Johnny mumbled with a full mouth, making you sigh with a sense of mirth.

Johnny was indeed a good person to have around. That conclusion settled in your mind when he not only let you talk his ear off about the new Etta James vinyl, but actively listened. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird how I want to thank you for listening to me talk earlier? I mean, it’s the base level of an interaction, y’know, but ‘s so rare these days. Someone who actually listens, I mean,” you said, pursing your lips in thought.

He hummed around his food, taking a moment to swallow and wipe his mouth.

 “Oh, we’re having a sociological debate now?”

“No,” you snorted, “Just expressing my gratitude for you. And concern for everyone else.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he met your gaze, his voice a little softer now. “‘s hard for people to care these days, I think.”

And that’s when you realized that beyond the very broad things you talked about, music, school, food, space, godawful golf — he hadn’t spoken a lot about himself beyond his interests, the thought sending something akin to protectiveness through you, even if it was maybe definitely too early for that.

“Y’know,” you started, “You never told me who you were at golf with that day.”

“Oh, yeah. That was my sister, Sue, and her husband.”

“Her husband doesn’t have a name?” you drawled.

“Reed,” Johnny said simply, going back to his pastries.

“Your sister’s pretty, I remember that. You have any other siblings?” you asked, sensing he didn’t really want to talk about this Reed guy.

“M-m. Jus’ her. You have anyone other than your brother?”

“Nope, just him, too. Blessing and a curse, really.”

“Why?” he asked between bites, reaching over to take a sip of water.

You shrugged at the question, not really knowing how to put the feeling of being a youngest daughter into words. Your eyebrows scrunched as you raked through your brain, before you settled for an answer.

“Just… Would be nice to be taken seriously from time to time, I guess.”

“Yeah, I get that…” a beat of silence. “Me too.”

You settled into a comfortable silence after that, both of you letting your minds wander. And you realized something then. Something only a teenage mind, stubborn and angry, could conjure up.

You’d always take Johnny seriously.

“So, about your whole genius, future-astronaut thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I have this physics project in like… Two months—”

“Yeah, I’ll help,” he butted in, a grin on his face. “What’s it about?”

“Physical optics. Have no idea where to even start.”

“Thought you said you were okay with physics,” his tone was laced with amusement, his smile turning into a knowing smirk.

“I am okay with physics. But why would I turn away from the opportunity of having a genius help me with it?”

“Fair point.”

“I’ll pay you in the form of a Beatles record.”

“I already have all of them.”

“How about Ben E. King?”

“That's better.”

The first time Johnny saw you cry was stupid. So incredibly stupid and downright embarrassing. It wasn’t who you are, you told yourself. You prided yourself in being strong, put together, being able to hold your own and now you were silently crying like a scolded kid, hoping he wouldn’t see it.

You stare at the papers sprawled over his bed, willing your tears away as he stands by the whiteboard, scribbling. Because of course he had a whiteboard in his bedroom, he was a genius, by unanimous jury verdict. The jury being you, crying over your physics notes.

“...Which is basically Huygens' principle, y’know, every point on a wavefront can be a source of new waves…” Johnny continued explaining as you tried to make sense of everything he went over.

Waves, wave motion, sinusoidal waveforms, superposition and now this Huygens guy. You were so unbelievably lost, unable to keep up with his brilliant mind.

“...And the secondary point—” he stopped himself when he absentmindedly turned around, only to see tears on your face. “Are you crying?” he asked, more confused than anything.

“No,” you stubbornly denied, despite knowing it was futile.

Johnny set the marker down, crossed the room in a few long strides and perched himself in front of you on the bed, looking at you with worried eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m sorry, ‘s stupid,” you managed to croak out, wiping your tears.

“Didn’t ask if it was or wasn’t. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“‘m just frustrated, I guess… I’m not really getting this and it makes me feel stupid and mad and I also feel like I’m wasting your time.”

“Wow, that is kinda stupid,” he said, his eyebrows raised. “Look, you’re not wasting my time, I wanted to do this. And you’re not stupid either, I probably just gave you too much info all at the same time.”

He placed a comforting hand on your knee, his thumb making soothing circles.

“You’re going to make fun of me for crying,” you stated

“Not now, give it a few days,” he smiled. “Let’s just kick back, have some pop. And we can get into this whole thing later ‘mkay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

As Johnny went downstairs to grab your drinks, you tidied up the notes while wiping the last of your tears. You didn’t know why it upset you so much, not really. But you also knew he wouldn’t push for an explanation, especially when you didn’t have one, and you were grateful for that, truly.

“Alright,” he announced when he strolled in, holding way too many things in his hands. “Probably not the same as the float from the diner, but even better because it was made by me,” he flashed you a charming grin, setting the home-made float on the nightstand, a bottle of Coke for himself and an array of Tootsie Rolls and Lemonheads that he dropped on the bed.

“Johnny!” you laughed, “You want us to be sick?”

But the gesture did warm your heart, very much so. You appreciated that he was so emotionally mature, so in-tune. A rare thing for guys your age.

“At least you’d be miserable for an actual, good reason. Can’t have you cryin’ over physics, can I? What kind of host would I be?”

“A horrible one,” you said flatly, reaching over to try the float. 

“Better than the one from the diner?”

And you didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t, that he messed up the ratio. Because he made it for you. To cheer you up. So it wins by default, crowned as the best drink ever made.

“Way better.”

“Ha! Knew it!”

“Thank you, Johnny,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “This is really nice of you. All of this, I mean.”

“Anytime.”

The first time you celebrated Johnny’s birthday you were freaking out. Completely, fully in mental breakdown mode for two reasons. Reason number one being that you didn’t know if he would like the gift and reason number two, you’d be meeting his family. Well, officially meeting his family. You felt as if the brief meeting at golf didn’t count. If you could even call it that.

You knew realistically that he would probably love it. It was Johnny, damnit. Sweet, polite Johnny who would be grateful even if he hated it. Which was precisely the problem. You wanted him to actually like it. Really like it. You spent a lot of time thinking how to incorporate Lucky Charms into cookies and a decent amount of money on the Ben E. King vinyl (which you promised him anyway, so it didn’t fully feel like a part of the gift), a book on space casualties and a mug that said ‘world’s best astronaut’.

You clutched the gift bag tightly, knocking on the door, taking a nervous breath in. This was the first time you were ever antsy around Johnny but God, you just wanted to be half as good a friend to him as he was to you.

“Hey, you made it!” he said when he opened the door, a big grin on his face, dressed in a nice, dark button up with a sliver of his undershirt showing. 

You pulled him into a tight hug, not wasting a second, mumbling a ‘happy birthday’ into his neck.

“C’mon in,” he said, taking the gift bag from you before you even had a chance to offer and taking a peek.

“No manners, Johnny, seriously,” a faux sigh left your lips as you followed him inside, trailing behind him.

“It’s my birthday!” he protested, as if the fact that it was his birthday gave him the right to act however he wanted. It did. “Sweet seventeen.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s only for sixteen, genius.”

“Let me have my moment—” he cut himself off, abruptly planting his feet onto the floor, unmoving, making you bump into him.

“Jo—”

“Lucky Charms cookies?” Johnny looked over to you, a soft smile on his face.

“Yeah. I mean, among other things that are in there—”

He pulled you in for a hug this time, lifting you up from the ground, a surprised noise leaving your mouth.

“Thank you. This is amazing. All of this, really. You’re gonna make a grown man cry.”

“Well, grown man—”

“What did I say about my moment?”

“Fine, I’ll let you have your moment,” you smiled fondly. “But you still can’t interrupt me just because it’s your birthday.”

“Okay, deal,” he said in an overly serious tone, putting you down.

You didn’t even have the time to feel the nerves of meeting his family before he shouted through the place to Sue and Reed.

“Look what I got!”

You bit back a smile at him getting so caught up in showing off your gift that he forgot to properly introduce you. It was a very Johnny thing to do, you thought.

“Coolest things ever!” he said to them, taking every item out one by one. “And nobody is allowed to drink out of the mug,” he punctuated his words with a sharp glare.

Your eyes darted from Johnny to the couple. Sue seemed warm, fond. Reed on the other hand, was hard to figure out. You had the feeling he was staring through everything and everyone in this room. Weird.

“Johnny,” Sue warned, “Your friend?”

“Oh right, right,” he scrambled to introduce you, a hand on your back as he sifted through the formalities.

“He talks a lot about you,” Sue said to you, as everyone made their way to the dinner table.

“I talk about you a normal amount," Johnny corrected, “I talked about you a lot when we kept bumping into each other. What were the chances of that?”

“Fifteen point four percent,” Reed spoke the first time, the statement making you laugh, but he just furrowed his brows in confusion.

“Oh, you’re serious,” you said, wide-eyed. “Wow. Impressive.”

You made a mental note to ask Johnny if everyone in his family was a genius.

The first time you called Johnny your best friend was an accident. Slip of the tongue, not thinking about your words at all. Yet that’s what solidified them even more. You didn’t need to think about it. Not really. Not at all. Loving Johnny was as natural as breathing. Steady, ever-present.

Your back was against the headboard of your bed, your feet propped up on the side of Johnny’s thigh as you painted your toenails with a baby pink polish, your tongue peeking out the corner of your mouth.

“...And then she told me something about how she’s supposed to be my best friend and how I can’t do that to her, which is just ridiculous. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or somethin’ so I just didn’t say anything but everyone knows you’re my best friend,” you recounted the clash with one of your friends, Lydia, not even realizing what you said.

“Seriously?” he scoffed, “She thinks she’s your best friend? Same girl who ditched you for your boyfriend a million times? She’s lucky she’s your friend at all.”

“Right?! And I mean, not like she would say any of that if he didn’t dump her.”

“Exactly. I don’t know why you bother with her anyways.”

“I don’t know… I feel bad, I guess,” you sighed, making steady strokes with the brush.

“Did she feel bad when she kept ditching you?” he asked flatly.

“No.”

“No,” he repeated.

“I just… I don’t know, Johnny. Feel like, just ‘cause she made me feel bad doesn’t have to mean I have to make her feel the same, y’know? But ‘m not gonna be a pushover and let her pretend we’re best friends now that she doesn’t have anyone to fall back on,” you said, finishing the first coat of the polish, letting your feet rest atop his lap.

“Yeah, I get that,” he said, hand coming to pull at the spongy toe separators.

“Stop that,” came your futile protest. You knew Johnny did odd things just because and you could never bring yourself to actually be upset with him.

“Hey, best friend privileges. Your words, not mine.”

And that’s when you realized what you said. So casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it was. It definitely was.

“Don’t let it get to your head, Johnny.”

“It won’t. You have my word, scout’s honour,” he proclaimed dramatically.

“I always forget you’re a Boy Scout,” you giggled.

“Which is offensive, really. That you forget and that they’re still called Boy Scouts.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, should they be called Man Scouts?”

“Matter ‘a fact they should.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggled.

“Still your best friend,” he said, sending you a charming grin, paired up with a wink.

“You just said you wouldn’t let it get to your head.”

“And it’s not. It’s a simple observation.”

You mumbled a ‘nuisance’ under your breath as you moved to do your second coat of nail polish, in hopes that the little time you gave the first one to dry was enough.

“You’re my best friend too y’know?” his tone was more serious now, more soft.

“I know… I’m glad I am, Johnny.”

“Don’t think I say it enough, but I really do love you. You get me, y’know?”

Your heart could’ve broken right that instant, as you always thought it would when he starts repeating his ‘y’know’s’. A nervous habit, as if trying to convince himself and the other person that what he’s saying was widely known, a common knowledge. And it usually was, like right now. And that’s what broke your heart more. His unintentional show of insecurity, his way of saying ‘This isn’t crazy, right? You think this too? You’re listening to me, right?’

“I know,” you said softly. “And you get me too… And I love you too.”

“Even when I’m being really annoying?”

“Especially then.”

The first time you and Johnny cried together happened to be on your ‘sweet seventeenth’, as he so kindly put it.

It was nearing three AM, most of your friends filtered out quite a bit ago, leaving you and Johnny by yourselves, drunk on rum. You stayed upright on your bed, not trusting your brain to not spin your vision if you laid down. Johnny was not much better, sitting on the windowsill, his arm stuck out, feeling the cool night air.

“Y’ liked m’ gift?” he drawled, hooded eyes meeting yours.

“‘Course I did. Best gift ‘ve gotten,” you grinned lazily, making him laugh.

And it was, truly. Between the record, the book and the silly on-brand birthday card, it all screamed him. Johnny. Your Johnny.

“Think y’re not s’posed to say that. ‘S rude to the other people who got you gifts.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my best friend, so… Think ‘m allowed to say that when it comes to you.”

“First time I’ve seen you been rude,” he slurred, letting out a drunk giggle.

“‘m not rude!” you protested, a permanent grin on your face. “‘m jus’ bein’ nice to you, Johnny.”

“At the expense of other people.”

You groaned, throwing your head back, realizing your mistake when the room started spinning and loopily bringing yourself up again.

“I don’t really ‘care ‘f it’s rude. And… Not like there’s anyone else here.”

“‘m glad you like it,” he said, now with an air of  drunk seriousness which arguably, was the most serious a man could get.

“‘m just glad you’re here, Johnny. Gift enough.”

He stood up, sluggishly moving toward you to plop himself beside you, an arm around your shoulder.

“You’re gonna give me a huge head. Huuuuge.”

“Yeah, well… You’re the only person ever who actually deserves it.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You’re you, Johnny,” you slurred, cuddling into him. “Thought you were an alien when we met the first few times. Y’re so smart, Johnny and so… Everything. And you’re still so nice. The nicest.”

“Yeah?

“Mhm… What did you think a’ me?”

“Thought you were… Cool… Opinionated, li’l hothead,” he smiled, ruffling your hair. “Best friend in the goddamn world. Would be lost without you. Dunno how I functioned ‘fore we met.”

“You’re my best friend too,” you said, voice growing higher in pitch, the waterworks threatening to come out. “You’re so patient with me and– and sweet and we never ever fight.”

Johnny looked down at you, his hand moving from your hair to your cheek, softly cradling it.

“And you listen to me,” he added. “That means a lot, ya know? To have someone actually pay attention—” his voice cracked, eyes welling up with tears. “—to the stupid shit I say, to be actually interested.”

Your bottom lip wobbled as you looked at him, your hand clutching at his shirt desperately, the first tears falling from your face.

“I’ll always listen, Johnny. You’re so sm-smart and funny and I love you so much.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I love you so much too,” he cried out, the sound of his broken voice making your hand fisted in his shirt hold tighter.

“You’re not allowed to stop being friends with me, ever, Johnny.”

“That’ll never happen,” he croaked out. “‘m taking New York, I tell you that?”

“What?”

“For college.”

“But Cali—”

“But Cali nothin’. It’s basically the same thing as here. Only you’re here too,” and then a quieter, more choked: “My best friend.”

“You’re crazy,” you sobbed out, holding him tighter, wanting him closer. And he obeyed, hugging you close, holding you more firmly. So you can both cry out your drunken gratitude for each other.

The first time you saw Johnny get sick was absolutely horrible. Downright depressing and objectively, would be annoying to anyone else but God, you were soft for him.

The gloom lifted, birds chirping and flowers blooming. Grass was no longer covered in muddy snow, everything radiated colour again — soulful, happy, projecting a sense of ease everywhere. But, the switch between the harsh winter and a warm spring which was followed by a sudden weather change was not good for anyone’s system. You warned him, one too many times, about the cold he picked up. Told him to stay home, eat some soup and rest a little bit. All to no avail, of course. All met with the protest that he was a ‘strong man’. That he could handle a little cold. ‘A sniffle’ as he called it, while stating how it would be crazy to stay inside when it’s finally so nice out.

All which led to you now being in his room, fretting over him, while he whimpered like he was on his deathbed. Men could be so dramatic, you thought.

You padded across the room, lowering the blinds on his windows in hopes that he would get a decent nap in, maybe sweat the fever out.

“That better?” you asked, only to be met with a grunt in response.

“Johnny, c’mon, you gotta tell me what you need,” you tried. Gently, patiently, not wanting to add onto his discomfort.

“Can you light a candle?” he finally croaked out. “The one you got me… That helps with sleep.”

“Lavender?

“Mm, yeah.”

You moved to the shelf on his wall, cluttered with books and little space figurines, the candle you got him sat untouched in the middle of it. You found a zippo lighter behind said books, making quick work of it and lighting the candle with a flick of your thumb.

Once you brought it over to the nightstand, Johnny wrapped his fingers around your wrist weakly and tugged you down to sit next to his laid out form.

“You still warm?” you asked, hand instinctively moving to press against his forehead. He was definitely still warm.

“You’re like a mother-hen,” he said, giving you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“And you’re acting like you’re dying.”

“I am dying. I feel horrible.”

“Get some sleep, Johnny, you'll feel better.”

“Mm, can’t… Everything hurts.”

“I know, just try though. You need some rest.”

You watched as he closed his eyes, shifting onto his side, his knee trapping you between him and the nightstand.

“Johnny—”

“Jus’ lay down next to me. Please? ‘m dying here,” he whined out his plea. And really, you were powerless against him.

You settled next to him with a huffed out “Only because you’re sick, Johnny.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled, curling up behind you.

You listened to his breathing even out, felt how his arms and legs twitched every now and again.

The smell of lavender spread itself in his room, invading your senses. You let yourself relax, just a smidge, just a little while until Johnny woke up and you had to be in nurse mode.

Not that you minded. Despite his dramatics, you knew he really was sick, even if that translated to acting like a whiney toddler. And you were worried, maybe a bit too much. So you didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to critiquing dramatics.

You just hoped he would feel better once he woke up. For both his sake and yours. You’d rather be in the kitchen for the purpose of making him ridiculously sugary cookies rather than soup, anyways.

Your eyes closed on their own accord, feeling warmth radiating from him, the little content hums he let out lulling you to a half-asleep state.

The first time you and Johnny had a serious talk about the future could be described with one word — somber. It happened, suddenly, unexpectedly, like everything did with you and Johnny. Like impulsively diving off a cliff headfirst.

Sue and Reed were out for date night, so here you were — perched in the living room, eating takeout while Johnny ate Lucky Charms straight out of the box, the display never not making you wonder how he’s still alive and healthy.

But other thoughts gnawed at your mind, too. Slowly at first, then crashing at you with full force.

You’d both be turning eighteen this year. Which meant graduating. Which meant college. Which meant both of you meeting new people. The everlasting ‘what if’ lingering inside your brain.

What if you meet other people who fit more?

What if you stop having time for each other?

What if you start losing interest in being around each other?

What if, in the grand scheme of things, you and Johnny just don’t make sense?

What if, what if, what if.

“Johnny?” you called out softly, mumbling around your food.

“Mm?” he answered absentmindedly, his focus more on the sport’s game playing on the TV.

“We’ll still be friends in college, right?”

His hand stops midway to his mouth, head jerking to face you. His gaze hardened, lips set in a thin line. “What?”

“I asked—”

“I heard what you asked. What kind of question is that?” his tone was terse, like what you said was offensive to his very being.

You placed the cardboard container on the coffee table with a sigh, eyes searching for his.

“I just meant… We’ll both be meeting new people, doing new stuff…”

“So you want us to stop being friends because of that?”

“Wha— No! I’m scared of us not being friends because of that. Big difference, Johnny.”

You swore he could be purposefully obtuse at times because there really wasn’t any other explanation. He was a genius!

“Oh…”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Of course we won’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “We swore on that didn’t we? When we got really drunk on your birthday.”

“Yeah, I know…” your hands seemed to have a mind of their own, pulling and rolling the loose threads of your sweater sleeves. “Just… It’s easy to say that, you know? I don’t want us to stop being friends.”

“And we won’t. We’ll make time for each other,” his hand reached out to grab your wrists and stop your fidgeting. “The worst that could happen is we see each other a little less, promise. I don’t want us to stop being friends either. You know that.”

“Yeah,” you said, the blue mood still not lifting, still swirling around, but you were trying to rid yourself of it. “We can study together… Grab coffee if our schedules end up lining up.”

“Exactly! We’re not letting an academic institution come between us,” he said, the way he described it making you let out a small giggle. Which you knew was the purpose.

You also knew that he probably shared your fears, but was playing them down for your sake, to make you feel better.

“I have another question.”

“Go for it.”

“Like… When we start seriously dating and whatnot… We’ll still, well, be us, right?”

Because up to this point, all your boyfriends were very much put off by Johnny, as were his girlfriends by you. You couldn’t imagine how it would play out in an actually serious relationship.

“Anyone who doesn’t get us isn’t really the right person for one of us, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. So simple, yet so… Soothing and right.

“Yeah… Yeah, you’re right.”

The first time you cried for Johnny happened a few months after that conversation. You graduated and Johnny did too, a few days after you.

It didn’t happen right away, not when he walked the stage, not when you felt an undeniable surge of pride and not when you made it a point to cheer the loudest.

No. It poured out of you during a quiet moment, just the two of you, in a jazz bar, riding the high of officially becoming adults.

And maybe a little too much rum, courtesy to Sue knowing the owners. That— rum —  seemed to be the pattern for the two of you, you figured in your two years of friendship.

You looked at him, his blond hair not as perfect as usual, a light green, form-fitting polo. Devastatingly genius, tipsy, handsome. Why did that thought just come back?

“Did I grow a second head or somethin’?” his question shook you out of your own head, writing away the thought that just occurred for the first time in a long time to just being drunk and proud.

Proud. God, you were so proud of him. You could be proud of him for just breathing, you realized.

“‘m just proud of you, Johnny.”

“Yeah? I’m proud of you too. Smartest girl in the world,” he said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And it was to him, you knew that. You teased him for being your biggest fan more times than you could count, but right now it just left you overly emotional.

“Yeah, but you’re an actual genius—”

“Oh, no, no, no waterworks,” he said, hand coming to rub your back.

“‘m sorry, I’m just proud of you. And I love you a lot,” came your shaky answer, along with an attempt to reel your tears back in.

“Well, I love you a lot too… And, I mean by that logic you should be less proud of me because me being a genius means high school was pretty easy for me, so…”

“Smartass,” you huffed out with a shake of your head, a small smile gracing your lips.

“And you know, I didn’t know you could get so loud. I’m pretty sure people sitting by you got their eardrums blown out,” he smirked, going right back to teasing you because of course he would. Little shit.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that it’s my right both as an American citizen and your best friend to be as loud as I want in times of celebration.”

“You’re exercising your right to be a sap, is what you’re doing.”

“Like you didn’t scream your lungs out for me.”

“Of course I did, but we're not talking about me, are we? I own being a sap. That’s what makes me a cool one. You, however, are a very sore sap.”

“Sap police.”

“Horrible joke.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny!” you protested with a laugh, a warm feeling settling in your chest as you two fell into a comfortable silence, broken every now and then when he hummed the songs that were playing.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, but I keep forgetting,” you said as the fifth, maybe sixth round of drinks ended up on your table. You weren’t really sure anymore, you’ve lost track after the third one.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Well considering the fact that you turned eighteen not long ago, you’re no longer part of the boy sco—”

“Man scouts,” he corrected with a grin. You knew it didn’t actually bother him, yet he made it his life’s mission to correct you on it.

“Well I was going to ask you if you planned on transitioning from boy scouts to man scouts, but yeah sure. Are you going to transition from man scouts to even-more-manly scouts?”

Johnny chuckled, the sound low and deep. “Mm, I don’t think so. Think I’ll have my hands full between college and you.”

“Me?” your eyebrows raised, looking at him questioningly.

“Yeah, you. Obviously. Gotta make time for my favourite girl.”

You ignored the way heat bloomed in your belly at the words he’s never used before, writing it off to both of you being tipsy. Him, saying it because he was tipsy and you, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush because you were tipsy.

The first time you hated one of Johnny’s girlfriends — Anna, who he met halfway through the first semester of college. God, you don’t think you’ve hated anyone more than you hated her.

Usually, you were understanding. You knew how your friendship with Johnny could’ve looked to other people. Especially when it came to his girlfriends or your boyfriends. Relationships were sensitive, fragile, it was easy to get caught up in things that weren’t there, you told yourself. See things that weren’t there. 

But Anna was a whole different ballpark.

You mulled it over your mind a hundred different times, trying to figure out the root of the issue, if you maybe did something wrong. But the issue started as soon as she laid eyes on you.

You remember baking cookies for that day, the kind that Johnny liked, the extra gooey ones, so they could share after you and her finished brunch. But she took the box from you with minimal contact and a slight scrunch of her nose, like you were handing her disease wrapped up in a pretty box.

It didn’t end there, of course it didn’t. Your mere presence was met by comments like:

“Why do you have so much makeup on? I bet you look pretty without it.”

“Isn’t the fashion thing kinda a scam? There’s so many more important things in life than looking pretty.”

“I can’t believe you’d spend so much money on boots!”

“I just can’t stand gossip, I don’t know how you do it.”

None which were outright rude and could be passed off as just a playful jab, but they made your gut churn with a deep sense of rage. You had a feeling she was one of those girls, the kind that put other girls down just because.

Which left you wondering why, in God’s name, was Johnny with her? 

And how this was the same woman Johnny sang such high praises about, from her looks to her intellect, when she obviously, in your humble opinion, lacked the latter. Clearly even geniuses could be blinded by love.

So you were careful when you and Johnny had a debrief and he asked you what you thought of Anna. You really didn’t want to hurt his feelings and maybe you were wrong. Maybe your intuition was askew, was what you kept telling yourself. Maybe you were the one seeing things that weren’t there this time.

Perhaps for his sake, maybe for yours too. You really didn’t want to be the person who ruins all the fun.

“She’s… Different from what I imagined,” you said. A tip-toe around the answer.

“What do you mean? Different how?” Johnny raised a brow.

“I mean… I don’t know, I didn’t expect her to be so… Anti-girly stuff.”

“What do you mean?” he repeated. “She’s very girly.”

“Yeah, but… She told me all this stuff about how she can’t stand gossip or can’t imagine spending so much money on boots, y’know, stuff like that.”

“She’s anti-girly stuff because she doesn’t like to gossip and is careful with her money?”

“No!” you huffed, getting a little worked up, rage still simmering. “It was just… The way she said it. Like she was looking down on me. And everyone likes to gossip.”

“Are you sure— Look, I’m not trying to diminish your feelings here, I’ll talk to her about it, but are you sure you just didn’t get a little defensive?” he asked, his tone curious, warm. You knew you were putting him in a tough situation, but you didn’t want to silent your feelings for his comfort.

“No, I mean… It’s not like— Like, we could’ve had an actual conversation about those things, y’know? ‘Cause, yeah, most things she said were objectively true and we could’ve talked about ‘oh, hey, why do you think this is the way it is?’ but she was basically acting like she was better than me.”

“Okay, then, I’ll talk to her about it. I’m sorry she made you feel that way,” he said, bringing you in for one of his bear hugs. “Swear, I never saw her act like that before.”

“‘s not your fault,” you mumbled against his chest.

“I really wanted you two to get along,” his tone was tinged with sadness, disappointment.

“Me too.”

The first time you and Johnny fought after priding yourself in never doing that, vowing you never would do that, was brutal. A hard hit to your steady foundation which was now crumbling.

It was about Anna. Of course it was.

He said he’d talk to her. And he did, apparently, but they’ve been together for seven months now and nothing changed.

No, it only got worse.

Condescending looks when Johnny was around and harsh insults when he wasn’t. Clearly, Anna moved on from being subtle because she knew she could get away with it.

You’ve stopped telling Johnny about it altogether, tired of your words leading nowhere and Johnny looking at you like he didn’t believe you, like you were lying.

So, when he invited you for drinks with the two of them you politely declined and gave a good, half-true excuse. You have to study for an exam you’re retaking.

But Johnny wasn’t happy with that, no.

“What is your problem, anyways? You never want to go out anymore,” Johnny asked, eyebrow raised.

“We went out a few days ago, Johnny,” you sighed, taking a seat on your bed, definitely not wanting to have this conversation.

“But you bail every time Anna’s there.”

“Because she clearly hates me—”

“She doesn’t hate you—”

“I’m not crazy, Johnny, and you’re hellbent on making me feel that way,” you feel anger flow freely throughout your body, chest tightening as it mixed with the hurt that’s been stewing for a long time.

“I don’t know where you got that from! Okay, I talked to Anna multiple times and she said she’s been nothing but civil! And I’ve seen it, too! She’s nice to you!”

“She barely tolerates me when you’re there! And of course she wouldn’t tell you, Johnny!”

“Oh, she wouldn’t tell me? She told me you just up and left when you two were getting coffee! Made her look like an idiot! She cried for hours!”

You bristled at that, standing up abruptly with an intense need to just move. To turn the anger outwards, into some form of energy.

“Because she insulted me! Straight to my face, Johnny! She told me I looked horrible because I wasn’t wearing makeup!”

“Oh— Jesus Christ, c’mon! It’s a figure of speech! She thought you were sick!”

“That makes it better?! We’re definitely not close enough for her to be saying that kinda shit to me and I’m fed up with it! And not like this was the first time—”

“I think you’re just looking for a reason to be upset,” he said, way too calmly for the tone of your conversation. Like it was a fact, like he really believed that.

“What?”

“You’re just upset because I have someone other than you—”

“So, what, you think I’m jealous? Did she tell you that?”

“Yes, because I can’t have thoughts of my own, clearly,” he said flatly. “And you’re doing it again, by the way. Clear as day.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“You’re making shit up! You’re trying to put these thoughts in my head about her being horrible but she’s not!”

You stilled, taking a step back on instinct as you looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. You’re making shit up. The words echoed through your head, bouncing off of every surface just to land where it hurt the most every time. He thought you were lying.

“What?” your voice barely above a whisper and you couldn’t even bring yourself to care that you were practically baring your neck to him. To Johnny. Your Johnny who was looking at you without an ounce of remorse.

“What? You don’t like being called out?”

“So you just… What? Believe her over me? Think I just got up one day and decided to try and sabotage your relationship for no reason when we never had this problem before— God, you actually believe her over me,” you were pacing now, hands going from your hair, to your face and then down to the sides of your thighs to wipe away the sweat forming on your palms, in an attempt to just do something. Anything.

“She’s my girlfriend!”

“I’m your best friend!”

“She just gets me, okay?!”

“I get you, Johnny!”

“Clearly not,” he mumbled, messing up his perfectly styled hair as he ran his fingers through it.

“What?”

“Clearly you don’t get me. Clearly. Fucking— Why are you putting me in a position like this?”

“A position like what? I’m not the one doing anything! She’s the one—”

“No! She’s not the one doing anything! She’s the one encouraging me to not stop being your friend even when you pull shit like this and all you do is badmouth her!”

You stilled. You could’ve sworn everything in the world stilled in that moment, too. All except your heart, which was beating so wildly you could feel it in your throat, hear it in between your ears.

“You want us to stop being friends?”

Johnny was quiet for a moment, before he spoke softly. As if to soften the blow. 

“I think… I think I need some time away from you.”

“Well then, by all means,” you spat coldly, angrily, “Don’t let your girlfriend stop you from doing that.”

You heard him leave, heard him try and be quiet so he wouldn’t upset you more. It just made you more angry. More everything that you were feeling right now, all your emotions jumbled up in a tangled mess.

You felt like an intruder in your own body, like your limbs were too long and disproportionate to anything with. Like your own existence didn’t make sense without Johnny. You cursed yourself for that thought.

The first time you realized you were in love with Johnny happened slowly, softly. Like a cool breeze dancing around your face.

You hadn’t spoken to him in almost three weeks now, the weight of his absence pressing down on you heavily, making you drag yourself along through your usual activities.

And now, laying on your bed, you hated how affected you were when he had no problem leaving you behind, as if your friendship meant nothing.

But you let the thoughts flow through you, let them come and go however they wished. You closed your eyes, letting yourself feel whatever needed to be felt.

And your thoughts had a pattern, you would come to realize.

“Well, yeah, but you’re exponentially more important than anyone else in my life,” Johnny said one morning over coffee, like he was talking about the news.

“Smart girl, good job!” he praised when you got the jist of something he was tutoring you in.

Or that one time—

“Tastes great, darlin’, thank you,” words punctuated with a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek.

Or how you almost ended up in his lap when you were crying together.

How he used to stand up for you.

Or when he called you his favourite girl.

How he let you prop your feet up on his legs while you painted your toenails. How he picked the colours for you.

Or how he expressed his gratitude in lifting you off the ground and giving you one too many spins until you squealed at him to put you down.

How he showed off your gifts as if they were put down on earth by the gods themselves.

Or how lately, before the fight, before he got with Anna, that word would pop up in your head. Handsome.

How he would comfort you by rubbing your back, brushing his hands through your hair and scratching your scalp.

Or how earnestly he swore you’d never stop being friends.

And it all hit you even harder, now that you were no longer friends. Now that you don’t know if you’ll ever be friends.

If you’ll ever hear the sound of his weird laugh or his genius rambling, that could go on for hours.

You felt the loss in your bones, the way you moved them mechanically, pre-planned, with thought and effort.

The way food seemed bland and unappetizing.

The way you couldn’t stand the sight of the moon and stars because space was Johnny’s thing.

Everything in your life, from the nature around you to the things you owned and felt belonged to Johnny.

And Johnny belonged to Anna.

You let that thought tick you off, you let yourself be washed over in your melancholy.

You let yourself feel the possessiveness rising up in your chest.

You let yourself realize that you were in love with Johnny.

Because Johnny is no longer your friend and that way, it can’t hurt how it would if he was. It can’t be complicated how it would be if your feelings got in the way of your friendship.

Because it no longer existed.

And it was oddly easier to feel it this way. When everything was already said and done and you couldn’t do anything to change it.

To change the fact that you’re in love with someone you called your best friend.

The first time Johnny broke up with his girlfriend for you — two months after not talking, two months of trying to live life without him.

You heard something tap against your window, your brows furrowing as you sat up on the bed, feeling the slightest twinge of anxiety shoot through you.

It was awfully too late and Lee, who you started seeing recently, ‘perfectly’ as your girlfriends called him, was somewhere in Illinois, visiting family.

Maybe you were just hearing things, you thought.

Tap.

Tap.

You mustered up what courage you had to go up to the window and peek through, half expecting some psycho to be throwing pebbles at your window. Or maybe Lee got back earlier—

Johnny.

Your brain blanked out as you stood there, mouth agape while you watched him through the glass. You had half a mind to open the window and lean down a little.

“Johnny?”

“Can I come up?” he asked, hands in his pockets as if trying to make himself look smaller.

“I thought we weren’t friends anymore,” you bit back. Okay, maybe you were still a little bitter but so what? The guy was your best friend, you justified.

“I know, I know, I just— Please? I really want to apologize and then you can kick me out after. I know I don’t even deserve you lettin’ me in but please.”

“...Fine,” you huffed, opening the window fully and stepping away from it so he could climb up properly.

You sat yourself down on the bed, arms curling around your knees and bringing them to your chest in a protective manner.

Once Johnny got in, he took a few steps towards you. Careful, calculated. As if walking up to a stray cat.

“I broke up with her.”

Your jaw set, eyes sharpening.

“So you’re here because she’s not?”

“No, no— I… You were right. About the whole thing. About her hating you, insulting you and lying to me about it… You were right. And I’m sorry I didn’t see that and I’m sorry I didn't take your side.”

You stayed silent, trying to recover from the emotional whiplash that was just given to you.

“Say something, please. I can’t— I was miserable without you.”

“Why didn’t you believe me?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t, I just… Anna’s good at that, I guess. Making people believe her. And I’m not trying to make excuses here, I swear.”

“How did you stop believing her, then?”

“When we had that fight, she seemed a little too happy, y’know? I wrote it off to her wanting what’s best for me, like she always said. But then she wouldn’t let me feel sad about the fact that I just lost my best friend. And then it started being mean comments towards you, like you always said… And then towards me. And I know what this looks like like I’m just here because I’m not with her but it’s not that, I swear, I broke up for you—”

“Johnny,” your voice softer, less guarded. Because yeah, maybe this whole thing was complicated and maybe it hurt, but how could you refuse him when he was so clearly manipulated into a bad situation? God, you cursed yourself for not seeing the full extent of this sooner, for not sitting him down and forcing him out.

“Yeah?”

“Come sit,” a peace offering. An olive branch extending.

He sat next to you, unsure of how close he could be.

“I forgive you.”

“You do? Like, actually, really forgive me?”

“You were in a tough spot, Johnny and it hurt me but—”

“Thank you,” his arms wrapped around you, his body basically on top of yours. “Thank you so much,” he whispered in your neck. “You won’t regret it.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair soothingly, feeling your emotions slowly try to untangle. But the knot in the centre wouldn’t give. 

You were in love with your best friend, still.

You needed to break things off with Lee.

And you needed to never, ever let Johnny know.

The first time you cleaned Johnny up was entirely your fault. Completely yours.

The thing with Lee dragged on for far too long. It was summer break before second year when you started seeing him. And now, halfway through the second semester of second year and he was still there.

In your defense, any time you tried to break things off, he’d steer the conversation, sweettalk you until you forgot about it.

Which now led you here, cleaning Johnny’s bruised knuckles.

You let it slip accidentally, how you tried to break up with him more than five times and he wouldn’t let you.

And if Johnny hated anything, it was punks who didn’t know how to treat a woman.

And he hated you a little bit too, for not telling him sooner and dealing with nonsense for a year.

“You didn’t hav’ta fight, Johnny,” you chided softly, carefully dabbing away at the blood.

“Sure I did. Maybe I wouldn’t have to if ya didn’t wait a year to tell me. What else was I supposed to do with a panty waist like him? Only knows to stick it to the ladies,” he said flatly, making you giggle and look up from where you were kneeling.

You didn’t have to kneel for this, you knew. But maybe you had a flair for the dramatics. And maybe he looked good like this. A little too good.

“You’re something else, Johnny.”

“Gotta look out for my girl, don’t I?”

You went back to work as soon as he said that, pretending his words weren’t making you swoon.

My girl.

God, you needed to get it together.

“What did you tell him anyways?” you asked softly, still not looking up.

“Who, Lee?”

“Mhm.”

“That he needs to leave you alone.”

“That’s it?” you let out an amused huff, eyebrow arched.

“It’s just guy talk, don’t worry ‘bout that.”

“Guy talk that gave you bruised knuckles, Johnny—”

“I’m fine,” he said, pulling his hand away slowly, making you huff and stand up.

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “Seriously, I am.”

“Okay,” you relented, moving to go downstairs to grab you both drinks. And maybe sort your thoughts out.

Your feelings for Johnny were running rampant. Too crazy, too much. You wished you could go back, back when he was just your best friend, just your idiot Johnny.

“A soft one for me!” he yelled after you, already knowing where you were off to.

You didn’t respond, but stored away the information, somewhere in between your jumbled up thoughts.

He just beat up your boyfriend— ex boyfriend, technically. Him. Johnny. The boy scout, heart in line with justice, no violence, Johnny. That same one.

God, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him in a fight before, ever. And now he did it. For you.

You were in trouble, you knew. So much trouble. Cosmic level trouble.

And yet, you still went on normally, pouring him a drink in the kitchen because it was the least he deserved. After this, after the whole situation with Anna that left him scarred.

And because you knew your thoughts were selfish. Unfair. That the little piece of hope that was harbouring in your heart was undeniably wrong, at least morally. That you expected something that you weren’t telling him, something that very well could be impossible.

But the hope prevailed, over anything. Tucked away, hidden, rearing its head in the worst moments. But you’d pretend it didn’t exist. And as long as you never spoke it, it didn’t.

With a deep breath, you shook those thoughts away and went back up again.

“Orange juice, since you started hating fun apparently,” you handed him the glass with a fond smile.

“I’ve had enough fun today, thank you very much.”

“So you did.”

The first time you thought Johnny might love you back fell under the infamous pattern of your friendship. The ‘too much rum’ pattern.

Although, with a twist this time. This time it was gin. His awful cocktails that tasted like drinking the alcohol straight out the bottle. But it got the job done.

It served its purpose in getting you ‘celebratory drunk’, as Johnny called it. For passing the first round of third year midterms, which were kicking your asses. And eating away at your sanity. You don’t think you ever saw Johnny as angry as he was when he was leaned over a paper of about a million formulas that were actually the same one. Or however he explained it.

Thank God that was over.

The back of your head hit the wall a little too hard as you tried to lean back, in search of additional support, which made you giggle lazily.

“You need t’a be more careful, sweetheart,” Johnny drawled as his hooded eyes took you in.

Sweetheart. That was new. 

“You never called me that before,” you slurred, the alcohol in your system disabling your brain-to-mouth filter.

“What? Sweetheart?”

“Yeah… You called me darling before. Well, not darling, without the G. Darlin’,” you rambled.

“Well you are all a’that. Darlin’ and a sweetheart. M’ favourite girl in the whole world, ya know that?”

“Mhm, I do.”

“Do you? I don’t think you do. Not really,” he stood up from his spot on your bed and stalked towards you, making heat rise up in your body in anticipation of what he was about to do.

Your heart raced, echoing inside your ears along with the tiny voice there, whispering that this was it. That he would make a move, that he loved you back.

“M’ favourite girl,” his voice was a coo, his hand brushing your hair behind your ear. “Love you so much.”

You preened under his touch, heart wild in the best possible way, hope burning through your body.

“Love you too, Johnny.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

With no warning, he lifts you up, making you squeal in surprise. The words of protest die on your throat as he throws you on the bed.

On instinct, your body falls limp, your breathing heavier, a wetness between your legs, nipples hardening under your shirt, your bared neck making you want to moan out. All embarrassingly fast and all for little to no reason.

Johnny got into bed next to you, a loopy grin on his face.

You let yourself feel the hope, for the first time. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was him just doing whatever this was. Or maybe it was both that let your brain decide that you had reason to hope. A valid, real reason.

“Sometimes…” he started. “Think I love you so much that I can’t handle it. Like I see you doin’ your girly stuff and jus’ think ‘m gonna implode.”

You giggled, moving to bury your face in his neck.

“Oh, that’s funny now, is it?”

“It is.”

“Here I am, openin’ my heart and my li’l sweetheart of a best friend is laughing. You’re cruel, y’know that?”

“Am not!” you protested, still unable to stop the fit of giggles, the pure happiness radiating off of you.

“Are too. Cruelest woman alive.”

“Y’re so dramatic, Johnny.”

“‘m serious though,” he sighed, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Sometimes I think nobody gets me like you do. No one ever will, probably.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we’re just… Us. It makes sense.”

“We’re us,” he laughed. “God, it’s so stupid how true that is… Like, I don’t think I could explain this to anyone.”

“Me neither,” you mumbled against his neck softly. “Like we’re perfectly aligned all the time.”

“Except for that one time.”

“You’re ruining the moment!”

“Alright, alright. We’re not talking about she who shall not be named.”

The first time Johnny changed — you’d been worried, of course you were, nervously pacing the paddock, every single possible outcome passing through your mind, none of them good.

You’d been happy, ecstatic, shed a few tears when he finally got the job after you graduated. Went out of your way to buy him knock-off ANSA merchandise, even though he could get that at work.

The anxiety started creeping in the second he told you he’d actually go to space.

And sure, you knew that was the plan all along, that was his end goal since forever. And you’d listen enthusiastically to all his rants about space in the eight years you’ve known him. And sure, you were happy that your best friend was finally doing what he desperately wanted.

But you were also out of your mind with worry.

And yet, none of your spiraling thoughts could’ve led you here. You couldn’t even think of it as a possibility. 

Seeing Johnny come out, in a tar black, burned through suit, Sue distraught, Reed trying to keep his composure and Ben nowhere to be seen.

But you could barely process any of the others, your mind focused on one thing and one thing only. Johnny. Black, burned suit.

Your legs worked on their own accord, running to him without even thinking about it.

“Johnny? Johnny what happened? Are you—” your hands reached out to touch him but he took a haste step back.

“No, don’t— Don’t touch me.”

“What— Johnny—” your hands instinctively went to find him and he jerked back again.

“Don’t!” his voice more a plea than anything, bordering on a broken sob. It managed to sober you up, to put your hands up by your head as if to show that you wouldn’t.

“What happened?”

“Cosmic storm,” he said, eyes wide, scared.

“What does that— What happened to you, Johnny?”

“Fire.”

“What does that mean, Johnny? Fire— You—”

“I set on fire. From inside out. We’re all fucked up! Ben’s a big pile of rocks and— No, don’t do that, I’m gonna hurt you, I’m—” his protests about your hands, which now found their way to his face, died into a sob and you brought him closer, guided him into your neck.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whimpered out.

“You’re not, Johnny, I promise. ‘m okay, you’re not hurting me,” you cooed, one hand rubbing his back while the other carded through his hair in an attempt to soothe him at least a little.

“‘m not burning you?”

“No… You’re a little hot, but you’re not burning me.”

“But I don’t know if you can— We don’t know what any of this means— What if you—”

“And you’ll figure it out. ‘m sure you will. And if something happens to me because I’m touching you, I’m sure you’ll figure it out too. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Just let me be here, Johnny. Please.”

His tears dampened your neck and the collar of your shirt as his shaky hands gripped you tightly, his body shaking with sobs and broken whimpers.

“I— I was so scared.”

And God, if you thought your heart couldn’t break any more, you would be so terribly wrong because it just shattered into a million pieces. An overwhelming surge of needing to protect him going through your body, moving to hold him tighter, to shield him from everything.

“I know, Johnny, I know. You’re okay now, I got you”

“Hurt s-so bad”

“I know, I know, Johnny,” you cooed, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

“I lo-love you so mu-much.”

“I love you too, Johnny. So fucking much.”

The first time Johnny showed you his powers, after he calmed down a little bit. After Reed figured out what the hell it meant and then got straight into trying to figure out how to reverse it. For Ben’s sake, more than anyone else’s. Poor guy.

But Johnny being Johnny, bounced back rather quickly. Aside from the nightmares that plagued him about what it felt like to literally be burned alive — and stay alive. Other than that, the awake version of Johnny seemed to be doing well.

“So, how do you even do it?” you asked absentmindedly while laying on his bed.

“Do what?”

“The whole fire thing. Is it like moving a muscle or…?”

“Depends what I wanna do, really… Or how much I wanna do. But ‘s more like… Clenching a muscle.”

“Can you show me?” you asked eagerly for the umpteenth time in the past two weeks, since he seemed to be getting better, all turned down because of the small risk of hurting you.

“I told you—”

“Please, Johnny? You know you won’t hurt me.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “But just a small one.”

You watched in awe as he extended his hand, a small fire dancing around his pointer finger.

“Woah,” you breathed out, almost as if in a trance. “Can you do a bigger one?”

“You’re gonna lose your fire privileges.”

“Wasn’t aware I even had them,” you said, still laser focused on the flame around his finger. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not really.”

“But do you like… Feel the fire coming out of you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Woah.”

“You said that already,” he grinned, looking at how amazed you were.

“Yeah, because you have literal fire coming out of you. It’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” your eyes went up to his for a split second before coming back down to the fire. “So like… If I took a lighter and tried to set you on fire, would that work? Like, are you resistant to fire that comes outside of you?”

“Jesus,” he laughed. “Should I be worried about you trying to set me on fire?”

“No. It was a hypothetical, idiot.”

“I mean, it could work. But I could just absorb it.”

“Woah,” you repeated.

“Are you going to say anything else?”

“Can you do a bigger one?”

“Seriously? I’m starting to feel like a jester for Her Majesty.”

“Please? I won’t ask ever again, I swear.”

“I give you a finger and you take the whole hand. Literally.”

“Pleas—” your words died in your throat as you saw fire engulf his whole hand, the flames reflecting on your face, like a kid with his head stuck to the television.

Your wide-eyed expression made Johnny smirk, looking at you being so in awe of him.

“I know, right? Imagine all the ladies swooning over this.”

Oh.

Right.

You hid your disappointment with a smile, cursing yourself for giving in to hope. And most of all, how it still wasn’t dying. How the disappointment took shape of thoughts like, ‘he’s just saying that’ or ‘he’ll tell you he feels the same soon enough’. Because why wouldn’t he? It was you and Johnny. You and Johnny who made sense, you and Johnny who were perfectly aligned at all times (except for that one time).

“Like they don’t already,” you snorted.

“They do, obviously. But Imagine—”

“You’ll give yourself a big head, Johnny.”

“Alright, alright. Point taken.”

The first time Johnny took you flying was as a gift for your twenty-fourth birthday. Three years after he’d gotten his powers and three years of you begging him to take you.

But he turned you down, time after time because shockingly, he didn’t want to kill you. Real hard-hitting news.

But aside from that, he would need to figure out protective clothes. Top to bottom, not an ounce of skin showing. Something that wouldn’t let the flames anywhere near you.

That was the easy part. But convincing Reed to make it? The extremely hard part. But after years of you begging Johnny and Johnny begging Reed, it was finally here.

“No peeking,” Johnny warned, his big hands covering your eyes as he walked you to Reed’s lab.

“I couldn’t if I tried, you’re squeezing my eyes out.”

“Gross. And you’re a liar,” he said, but still eased up on your eyes even more.

The gesture made you swoon, almost making you let out a dreamy sigh as you two walked.

“Alright, stop here… And open,” he said, taking his hands off.

A baby pink suit, with white boots and a white helmet, propped up on a mannequin.

“No way!” you grinned, all but hopping over to him and wrapping your arms around his neck, hanging off him like a koala. “Are you taking me flying?!”

“I am,” he smiled, his hands on your waist.

“No way!” you repeated. “You’re actually taking me flying! God— You’re the best Johnny,” you punctuated your words with a kiss to his cheek.

He leaned into your kiss, pressing one to your temple in return.

“C’mon, suit up so I can take you flyin’.”

You squealed, running off to take your suit.

God, he even made sure it was pink.

God, you loved him so much.

You made quick work of it, hastily taking your shoes off and pulling the suit up over your clothes, all the while beaming up at him. And he sauntered over, in all his endless grace and kneeled down, going to put the boots on you.

“Oh, I’m getting the royalty treatment?”

“I’m a gentleman. C’mon, foot up,” Johnny ordered, taking your ankle in his hands and slipping the boot on your foot, before moving onto the next one, the contact making heat rise up your neck.

He stood up, grabbing you by your shoulders to turn you around, expertly putting your hair up.

“Didn’t know you could do that.”

“Sue taught me, when we were kids. Said it’d be useful when I get married.”

Your heart stuttered at that, letting the hope take a confusing shape between disappointment and over the top confidence that that’d be you. You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“But she was probably just trying to distract me from everything else going on.”

Oh. Right.

He turned you back so you were facing him and placed the helmet over your head with a warm smile, lightly knocking on the glass front.

“Ready?”

“So ready,” you grinned.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, burying you into his side while leading you up to the balcony.

“Alright, grab onto my neck,” he instructed. “No, c’mon, tighter than that, you’ll fall out the sky like that, sweetheart,” he grabbed you by the waist, pulling you closer.

“Is this better?” you asked.

“Much.”

And in true Johnny fashion, he gave you zero warning before burning up, up into the sky with you in his arms.

Both the proximity and the sheer speed at which you took off made adrenaline pump through your veins, a happy scream leaving your lips.

“Johnny!” you grinned, his name falling from your tongue as a half-squeal, half-laugh.

“Feels good?!” his grin was hard to miss, even when his whole body was ablaze.

“Yeah!”

“Gonna take you every day now if you want!” he yelled, turning both of you upside down, just to hear your delighted scream.

The first time Johnny Storm broke your heart. The end times.

You saw it on the TV. The herald, marking the earth for death. Him, Johnny — your idiot Johnny, following her into space. Of course he did.

“Hold your loved ones close. And speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak. Use this time to rejoice and celebrate for your time is short.”

Her words were the only thing echoing in your head as you anxiously made your way to the tower, your curlers still on, a coat over your nightie and the first boots you could grab a hold of.

You probably looked ridiculous, you knew, but that was the last thing on your mind considering… Well, considering that the world was ending and you were about to tell your best friend you’ve been in love with him for years.

Johnny met you at the entrance, like he knew you’d come. He probably did.

“There you are,” he breathed out, putting his hands on your arms. “I was just about to go looking for you. C’mon, come in.”

“What was that, Johnny? Who— Was she being serious?” you asked as he ushered you inside.

“We don’t know, we’re— we’re trying to figure it out.”

He sat you down with the team, as they talked possibilities, next steps, planning. You stayed silent, unmoving, eyes trained only on Johnny with a one-track mind.

To get him alone later.

To tell him everything that’s been building up in your heart.

But then he started talking.

About the herald’s warm voice, kind tone, about her beautiful face. Every word like a blow to your now beaten heart. Every word replacing the echo of the herald’s.  And you knew then.

You knew that the look on Johnny’s face, the gleam in his eyes — that was infatuation. The real kind. That was interest.

This was Johnny. Your Johnny.

Your Johnny who loved space, loved adrenaline. Liked everything fast, rough and right now.

And you knew there was no room for you in that. Not in the way you wanted to.

But the worst part is that you knew, if you told him, he would try. He would try to love you like you loved him because his kind heart wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of breaking yours.

He’d pretend that you were the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, even if his eyes would wander onto bigger, better possibilities. Vastness of space, pretty aliens.

And you knew that that would break his heart, too. That no matter how perfectly aligned you were, that this — what you imagined, what you, maybe delusionally hoped for, would be doomed.

That you’d break each other's hearts.

And with selflessness that wasn’t hard to muster when it came to him, you decided against it. Against telling him.

If you had to die with a broken heart and without him knowing the extent of your feelings, then so be it.

That would be your final act of love towards him.

Your love, which preceded his experience with outer space and was twice as vast.

But no matter how big it was, it’d make him feel small. And God, you never wanted to make him feel less than the man he is.

Johnny Storm, with his kind heart, his handsome face and expert hands that taught you a lot.

About life, about love, about selflessness. About when to fight. But more importantly, when to give up. When to admit defeat.

About space and physics and about golf.

The final blow was the quiet realization that it wouldn’t have made him feel small if he never knew space. That before it, you probably were the most interesting thing in front of him. That back then, when he was the guy who wiped your tears so they wouldn’t stain your physics notes, it could’ve worked.

“You’re cryin’, sweetheart,” his voice brought you out of your thoughts, his form kneeled in front of you, his hands on your face. “It’ll be fine, I promise. We’ll figure it out.”

“You have to go, Johnny.”

“I know, but I don’t want you crying over me, you hear?”

He brought you in for an awkwardly angled hug, with you leaned forward in your seat and your tears falling in his neck, kisses falling on your hairline above your ear in an attempt to soothe you.

“I love you, Johnny,” you croaked out.

“I love you too. You’re my best friend, silly girl.”

You think it might be a little pathetic, really, spending your Saturday night tucked into your couch instead of out with your friends who had insistently invited you to get weekend drinks. But work has been a pain in your ass and Harold and Maude was only a quarter way through when you opened your television, the box humming to life. Your brain turned off and just thought, fuck it, why not deal with existentialism on a Saturday night? You put an order for Chinese takeout and poured yourself a glass of wine shortly after.

You’ll call your friends later and listen to their drunken rambles of how the night went without you.

A car drives off on the television screen, and you wipe a few lone tears coming out of your eyes as you pick up the remote. You realize then that you probably should’ve chosen something more mind numbing, like a sitcom or The Ted Gilbert Show (you recall an actor you found minorly attractive was going to be on). And maybe you shouldn’t have downed nearly a whole bottle of wine for the duration of the movie.

It’s when you're sifting through channels for the second time that night with a mouthful of food does your phone ring. The red rotary phone vibrates your coffee table to life.

You let out one last sniffle, getting off the dented part of the couch and putting your fork down, padding your way to the phone. Your fuzzy slippers unintentionally shuffle heavy against the hardwood floor, and you come to a halt and pray your downstairs neighbors don’t bang their broom against their ceilings again.

You figure it’s one of your friends calling, ready for slurs from a phone booth about how much they miss you (they’re clingy like that, and you wouldn’t have it any other way).

“Hello?” you say as you knock the sleepiness from your voice and replace it with semi-forced cheeriness.

At first, you’re met with silence.

A telemarketer is your first thought. You’re not surprised, but you do find yourself a little disappointed (it’s been a lonely night—week).

You’re milliseconds away from hanging up, from putting the phone down with half your mind on what channel your eyes will linger onto next.

But then you hear it.

Your name falls clumsily from the lips of whoever’s on the other end of the line.

And you freeze.

You don’t need to double take to understand the familiarity of the voice—you already know.

Your heart thuds in your chest.

Without thinking twice, you immediately put the phone back on its hinges, effectively hanging up. There’s no room in your mind for regret as you numbly go back to your original spot on the couch, sinking further in as you bring your knees to your chest.

His voice sends jolts through your body, and you can’t decipher what any of them mean. It’s hard, really, to hear a singular voice—a singular word—and have your mind sink into so many memories; ones of soft whispers, kisses placed delicately on your forehead, and a hand on the small of your back. Memories that smell like morning coffee on East 8th street, a shared cup with lipstick marks and the scent of spearmint chapstick.

But also memories of sideways glances that could be glares if one person stared hard enough, of snapping voices when he doesn’t understand why one missed date is more important than a sunscreen ad with a pretty check attached to it. Memories of time split being a boy and a superhero, until the lines begin to evaporate and you don’t know which one you’re talking to.

Boy or superhero.

You scoff. You’d rather spend your days alone.

And that’s what you did.

Still, the ache in your chest is fresh no matter how much time has passed. It feels pathetic, more so than spending your Saturday night alone.

You fall asleep on your couch and dream of a blazing fire, a pinky finger latched to yours.

—

Elodie Duncan thinks she has hit the jackpot.

She was frozen—starstruck, really—when Johnny Storm asked her on a date when he came into her bookstore to get books for his nephew. He chatted it up with her for a few minutes, but when he popped the question, her eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

The dating pool in New York City could be more comparable to murky water filled with Florida alligators—she of all people would know. She’s had her fair share of dates where she had to pick up the bill, or brave the streets alone as she watches a man she met at a coffee shop get into a cab home.

Chivalry might as well be dead.

So, who was she to decline a date from the most eligible bachelor in the city? If it didn’t go well, she’d have quite the story to tell her girls.

Except, the date is going really well.

He showed up outside of her apartment building at 7PM sharp, hair combed and a freshly dry-cleaned red jacket that now sat around her shoulders when he noticed her shivering. He opened all doors for her and refilled her water when it got too low, effectively putting the busser to no use. He let her order first, saying nothing on the menu is off limits. He carried the plastic bag with their to-go boxes in one hand, with his other one intertwined with hers. When they found themselves at a stop sign, he held tightly onto her as if to make sure she didn't walk ahead of him until he deemed it safe to jaywalk.

He’s a good man. Her heart leaps.

She now finds herself tucked in a small bar near Chinatown, a few drinks down because she didn’t want the date to end—no, not yet. She silently giggles into his jacket as she waits for Johnny to return (something about needing air because the drinks are making him overheat and No, stay here. I’ll be back). She doesn’t complain or insist on following… her heels are starting to hurt her feet.

Elodie tries not to get ahead of herself—really, she doesn’t—and maybe it’s the three shots in her system starting to kick in, but now she’s imagining a second date. And a third one. And introducing her friends to the Human Torch. And, maybe if she’s lucky enough, her family. God. This all sounds so gross if she ever uttered it out loud, but truly she can’t help it.

Elodie Duncan may not end this life alone? This is a check in her book.

The stool next to her, grating the floor pulls her back to reality. The smile on her face remains.

Johnny takes his seat again and offers her a kind smile.

Only this time, his face appears paler. The smile he offers her lasts maybe a second before it pulls down to something more tragic.

Her brows furrow.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly, her hand instinctively going up to rest on his shoulder.

He stares blankly at her hand for a few moments before shifting his eyes back to her.

Another forced smile.

Elodie’s stomach drops.

Whatever happened while Johnny was outside has clearly dampened his mood.

She senses that this date is over.

“Do you wanna go home?” she asks.

For a second Johnny looks almost as mournful as her. Good, she thinks unkindly, but immediately retracts it in her head. She doesn’t know what could’ve happened in between him going outside and now. Maybe he just heard devastating news or was on the receiving end of something rotten on the streets. She doesn’t know what else to say.

“I’ll walk you back,” he says in finality, giving Elodie no further room to disagree.

He pulls out a card from his wallet and closes the tab.

The walk home starts silent. Johnny offers his elbows for her to hold onto, and she takes note that he has no longer offered intertwined fingers. He still wraps an arm around her shoulder when they’re at a stoplight, looking back and forth at the moving cars with intent. He fiddles with the straps of the takeout bag on his other side.

Elodie’s heart doesn’t have the same flutter from before.

It’s when she starts to recognize the familiarity of the flower shop on the corner and the deli next to it—indicating that they’re close to her building—does she let it slip out.

“What happened?”

Johnny’s head snaps up from where his eyes were intently looking at the concrete to stare at her, frown lines evident on the corners of his mouth. “What?”

“What changed? Back there.” She doesn’t offer any more details, underlining that he already knows.

He continues to stare at her, eyes looking like he’s following the freckles on her cheeks like constellations and avoiding the answer. Elodie hopes he’s trying to commit her face to memory.

She knows he isn’t.

Finally: “I’m drunk,” he says plainly. “If you can’t already tell—more than I usually get on dates. But that’s my fault. And I’m…” his voice trails off as if he’s contemplating his next words carefully; if he should even say the words at all. “… I’m missing someone I shouldn’t.”

Oh. So that’s what Elodie is. A rebound.

Anger flares in her body for a moment. She has it in mind to drop his hand and swipe the takeout from his hands (her roommates would die for pasta with habanero pepper cream) and sprinting as fast as her heels can take her.

Of course she was stupid enough to believe that this would be different—she always thinks that and it never is. She wonders if he’s famous enough to make her sign an NDA with a check to pay off her student loans. She almost laughs viciously.

But then—she looks at him in the face.

She wants to snap at him, or roll her eyes and mutter that all guys are the same.

But his eyes are just so… blue. Blue and sad. The corners of them are downturned as if matching the movement of his lips. The forlorn look doesn’t disappear as he stares back at her, but his eyes do search hers as if it’ll come up with a reply for her.

And—fuck—she feels bad.

She could mutter him curses, or ditch him on the sidewalk. She could start her own pity party and lock herself in her room with a bottle of wine she’d steal from the cupboard, with promises to her roommates that she’ll pay it back.

Instead, she asks simply, “And why is that?”

For a moment, Johnny looks shocked, as if he wasn’t expecting that kind of reply. Elodie is sure that he genuinely wasn’t.

“Because I fucked up. I didn’t put my foot forward… and fame hit me like a truck.”

Elodie nods. She doesn’t get it; has never been famous or come close to a semblance of being in the spotlight. But she knows she can never stomach it if it was her who had billboards all over the city; to have an entire population depend on you for safety. She thinks she can put pieces together. Her anger dissolves to empathy.

“What reminded you of her?”

Johnny scoffs, now seemingly lost in his own head. “Literally everything. The specials on the menu—that truffle shit—was her favorite dish. The lady sitting at the table next to us smelled like her perfume, Elodie. The drink I ordered was hers first and it’s my favorite now. And—fuck,” he sighs, “ I called her when I went outside. Barely even say anything, just said her name and she hung up. It was so stupid of me, okay? I’m so sorry.”

Elodie frowns. “Oh.”

His frown deepens. “I’m an asshole, I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t bring you on this date to hurt you. I thought I was ready to see new people, I really was. But I guess I’m not.”

Yeah, you’re so not, she wants to reply, but refrains from it. Instead she spots her apartment building a few doors down and removes the jacket from her shoulders. It smells like eucalyptus and cedar (consider herself haunted). She hands it back to him with a pained smile.

“Do yourself a favor,” she begins, “and call her sober, so that you’ll actually have something to say.”

He lets a laugh slip at that.

She doesn’t think she has it in her so saying anything else except, “Goodnight, Johnny.” Her hopes have positively dwindled.

“Goodnight,” he says softly, staring up at her as she walks up the steps of her building.

You see? This is why Elodie might as well swear off the entirety of the male population. She wouldn’t go as far to call Johnny an alligator, but this whole night just proves her point.

Men suck. And if they aren’t sheer dickheads, they have someone to miss.

She’s about to slip through her front doors, giving him one last glance when she remembers—

“Wait, can I keep the leftovers?”

—

The second time Johnny calls you, you’re painting your nails a deep shade of red. Rock His World to be specific. You giggle silently at the name.

Weeks have passed since the call. It’s completely withdrawn from your mind—that’s what happens when you drown yourself in work and dog sitting Miss Carmine’s labrador and scheduling daily hangouts with your friends.

Your mind just drifts back to normalcy.

Tonight is a much-needed self care night. You’ve been wringed out at work and your clothes are currently in the wash for the excessive dog hairs that not even a lint roller could fix. Your hair is rolled up in a towel and you’re masked in every skincare product you own. Your face looks very shiny.

You’re sticking your hands in front of your portable fan when the phone rings.

“Shit,” you mutter, blowing haphazardly at your nails as you tumble your way to the other end of the room to grab the phone, rotary coincidentally matching the color of your nails.

“Hello?” you ask kindly, because you’re feeling sickeningly sweet after your everything shower and nails freshly done.

There’s no prolonged silence this time, only a few gaps until the familiar voice speaks your name.

You don’t freeze, instead you hands grip the phone tighter, effectively digging into your skin and staining your palms with lacquer.

“Fuck,” you mutter switching your phone to your other hand before examining your nails. “Shit.” They’re ruined. “Johnny?”

Truly, you weren’t expecting this call. That cursed night has blemished into the back of your mind, convincing yourself that it has been a hallucination.

That’s the thing about missing—about longing—sometimes it doesn’t do you any favors when you’re a bottle of wine deep.

But here he is now, on the other end, and it’s no hallucination or figment of your imagination.

You breathe in deep.

Your name slips from his lips again, this time more assertive and increasingly worried. “Are you okay?”

You realize your small string of curses may have alarmed him.

Nothing serious, you think drily, just ruined the polish that took twenty minutes of convincing yourself that you’re ambidextrous to put on.

“Yeah,” you settle on saying. “My nails are just ruined.” Because of you, you refrain from adding.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Silence follows.

Your brows furrow nervously, itching for a way out of this conversation, or sheer lack of one. You think you may have it in your heart to hang up, but you don’t. You were really never strong enough to fight the effects of Johnny. The day he left your apartment for the final time, you nearly chased after him. But you had put together the last parts of your dignity to stay put and watched the door slam shut. Your downstairs neighbors banged their broom against their ceiling, telling you to shut up. Instead, you sat on your couch and cried silently.

His voice pulls you out of your memories. “I wasn’t sure if I should call you, but I’ve come very close to dialing your number ever since the first time.”

You exhale. Not a dream or hallucination. “Is that so?”

You can imagine him stressfully pressing his palms to his eyes out of habit. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” he murmurs on the other end, as if the admission hurt to say.

You lean against the wall, nails be damned, the faint scent of acetone still clinging to your fingers. His words sit heavy in the air, more intimate than they have any right to be, considering the time, the silence, and the sheer gall of calling you like this.

“Well,” you say very slowly, “you’ve heard it now.”

A pause. You can almost hear him frown. “That’s not—” he stops.

He sighs.

“I don’t know what I thought would happen—calling you. I went on this date two weeks ago and—“

“Johnny,” you say sharply before you can stop yourself. You’re in no mood to hear about his escapades or what he sees as a semblance of moving on. You hadn’t so much as blinked twice towards anyone new since the day you broke things off. It still hurts; a wound that hasn’t closed no matter the time you spent trying to mend it.

He doesn’t stop. “And I drank thinking the ache would go away, but it just got worse. It hasn’t left me. I don’t know what else to do.” Your name escapes him again, almost reverently against the speaker. “I miss you. I really do.”

You look at the clock next to the phone. It’s nearly midnight and you make the conclusion before you stop yourself. “Are you drunk?”

“What?” he replies quickly, “No, I’m not. Not this time. I’m sober and I mean everything I’m saying.”

“I don’t know what to say to any of this,” you say truthfully. No self care books you’ve read in the past six months covers when your ex calls you in the middle the night.

“Then don’t say anything—at least, not now.” A beat. “Meet up with me.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re glad he can’t see. “What?”

“You heard me. Meet me for coffee. You know… our usual spot.” His voice softens at the last few words, testing the familiarity of it with his mouth.

“Johnny—“ You want your voice to sound assertive, a warning, but it just comes out weak.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he says in finality. “At noon. You can show up or not. But I really want you to. There’s things I’m sure we both want to say and we can think it over tonight. Please?”

—

You almost don’t show up.

You woke up that morning with an aching headache and chipped nails, convinced that the night before had been a dream. Though, your memories don’t deceive you and you realized that the conversation with your ex boyfriend had been painstakingly real. It was when you turned on your side and eyed the clock on the side of your bed did you see that it was 10AM, and you had a good hour and half to both get ready and decide whether or not you actually want to meet him.

You were still making the decision when you switched on your bathroom light and looked into the mirror at the frizzy hair that you failed to take care of the night before. So much for self care. You reluctantly decided to put it in a braid as you brush your teeth, though you would have liked to spend more time on it. For no particular reason.

Minutes ticked by as you sifted through your closet, denying every top until you eye a butter yellow one that you had bought recently. You take it as some sort of symbolism or protection; to wear something you bought post-Johnny, like you’re showing up as a brand new person. Not that you’ve decided to go, yet. You slip on your favorite pair of jeans because it makes you feel good. You apply a little makeup to your face because your skin is already smooth from all the product. You delicately spritz your perfume on your wrists and neck because that’s what you’ve always done.

You put a singular piece of bread into the toaster to at least have something in your system, lathering it with the good butter you bought at an overpriced farmers market.

The next time you looked at the clock, you saw that you had approximately thirty minutes to make it to the coffee shop.

And, fuck it, because you knew this would happen. You knew the minute you hung up the phone last night that you would mull over it, as if the answer wasn’t so obvious.

You were never good at denying him.

That’s how you find yourself outside of the coffee shop on East 8th Street, the one that you haven’t returned to since the breakup. It smelt too familiar, even from the outside.

You peak in and easily spot Johnny already at one of the tables, fiddling with the sleeves of his blue button down. Your breath catches, and you have to force the toast from earlier not to come back up your throat. You check your wristwatch. He’s ten minutes early.

You stand there for a moment too long, your heart thudding out of your chest. He hasn’t seen you yet; eyes still set on the table. He has a face that you know means he’s overthinking. Waiting for you.

You could still turn around. Walk away. There’s a shop two blocks down with various trinkets that you could walk around and window shop for hours, taking each piece delicately in your hands and contemplate buying.

But you know you won’t do that, though that’s what your head is saying.

Besides, as if sensing your presence, his head lifts and locks eyes with your through the glass.

He doesn’t give a polite, distant smile that you expect. There’s no awkward wave. It is, however, the same look he used to give you when you saw him after a long day—equal parts relief and something else you don’t want to name.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. The bell over the door chimes, and suddenly you’re inside, breathing in the familiar and painful scent of lavender syrup and espresso shots.

“Hey,” he says, standing halfway up from his seat. His hands are no longer playing with the cuffs of his sleeves, and are instead tucked at his sides nervously.

For a second he doesn’t look like Johnny the superhero; the one that learned to keep a confident stance as he posed in front of cameras. There’s no poised media training or one of his practiced smirks. He looks normal—awkward—like the boy who used to laugh hard at his own jokes and trip over sidewalks because he was too busy making sideways glances at you.

You don’t get your hopes up.

“Hi.” Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to, but it’s not as if you practiced this. You didn’t ponder on what you were going to say between last night and now, just as Johnny had suggested.

No, instead, you put a random record on the player to drown out your thoughts as you fell asleep.

You pull the chair opposite of him and sit down.

“I was waiting for you to decide what to order,” is the next thing he says. “You can get anything.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just my usual.”

“Your usual,” he echoes, nodding. “Got it. I remember if.”

You give him a pained smile, eyes following as he leaves your table to join the small line at the center of the shop. You use this time to take him in.

His hair is combed back, slick and shiny from gel. His blue button down highlights the broadness of his shoulders and you’re painfully reminded that, to you, no one can be more attractive than Johnny. It’s a reminder that you’ve spent months trying to suppress, even when you’ve sworn to yourself—more than once—that you are possibly over him. That you would no longer scan for a hint of his profile in a crowd or freeze at the mere mention of his name. But here he is, standing just a few feet away, and the truth is sharp and unkind: you’ve never stopped noticing him; looking.

You catch the faintest crease in his brow when the barista asks a question, a telltale look he gets when he needs time to think. And it’s absurd, really, the way your mind archives every little thing about him—his posture, the soft curve of his jaw, the way his mouth moves. You’re captivated. You hate it.

You don’t truly realize you’re blankly staring until he’s making his way back to you, two drinks in hand. You thank the universe that his eyes are downcast for a few moments, giving yourself time to stare out the window.

A man walking his dachshund. Two girls splitting a bagel. A child and his mom exiting the entrance of a building. You turn back. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” he says, taking his seat again and sliding a cup towards you. He looks into your eyes. “Anything.”

The word hangs in between you two.

You’re unsure of what to say, mouth opening to fill the silence when his eyes dip down to stare at the hand gripping your coffee cup. He looks back after a few moments and clears his throat.

“Sorry, I was looking at your nails. Did I ruin them?”

You glance down. You already have plans to repaint them later tonight. “Inadvertently.”

He frowns, as if the idea of ruining them pains him. “I’m sorry.”

You shrug.

More silence.

He clears his throat. “I—I don’t really know how to start any of this. I just knew I didn’t want it to be over the phone. I wanted to see you.”

You nod. “I, um, I thought I dreamt you calling me the first time.”

His mouth quirks up nervously, not sure if he should smile or not. “Yeah?”

You nod, taking a sip to distract yourself from the weight of his gaze. It tastes too familiar, and you’re unsure if the feeling in your stomach is glee or something more rotten. You stare at the lipstick stain on your cup.

He speaks up. “I was so nervous that you wouldn’t show. I told myself I’d sit here for an hour and if you didn’t show up, that would be my answer.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “And what would the alternative answer be? Now that I showed up.”

If his gaze can get softer, it does. “I guess, now that you’re here, it shows that I still matter to you… in some sort of way.”

You sigh. “Johnny—“

“I miss you,” he cuts off painfully, exhaling a breath that he’s been holding. “So much.”

The pads of your fingers dig into the cardboard sleeve of your cup, a feeble attempt at keeping yourself grounded. There’s a flash of warmth in your chest—the dangerous kind that has you teetering between hot flashes of anger and the need to reach your hand out to touch his.

It’s unfair, you think, the way his voice still manages to thread through parts of you that have been attempted to be stitched closed.

“You don’t just get to say that to me.”

He presses his lips together, a flash of guilt shadowing his face. “I know. But it’s the truth.”

You don’t look at him when he says it. You can’t. Instead, you look away and out the window. Your reflection stares back at you faintly from the glass, hair pulled back into the braid you threw together, yellow top too bright for your soured mood. You think back to how you told yourself you’re showing him a new version of you; one with post-breakup clarity and hopefully a mended heart. But you don’t feel like a brand new person—you feel like the same version of yourself who didn’t know better than to believe that his promises were true.

And maybe that’s what terrifies you the most: how easy it is to fall back into a rhythm with him without missing a step.

You turn back to him.

“Why now?” Your voice is shakier than you intended.

Johnny looks at you, puzzled.

“You’ve had months to tell me this, but you’re doing this all now. Why?” There was a time, months ago when the wound was especially fresh, where you had shamefully hoped that he would reach out. When you weren’t working, you practically lived by your phone to wait for a call. You looked out your window at night, thinking he’ll show up like he used to, begging for some forgiveness that you eventually gave up hope on.

By the second month, you’d given up hope on him reaching out and already decided that you were going to stand your ground and not do it, either. ABC and every news outlet was practically blacklisted from ever reaching your presence around that time, afraid his face may pop off. You avoided the cereal aisle on every grocery run, trading a quick breakfast for earlier mornings that involved eggs and toast.

His frown deepens, eyes remaining soft. “I tried for a while. To not want you. I tried to convince myself that I already had everything I wanted. But there’s just been this… this gap in everything I do. Everything I did just felt so meaningless without you there. And when I called you two weeks ago, I didn’t say shit but it was the first thing that made sense in so long.”

It’s hard to know what to do; when someone lays their heart out for you and speaks truths that are hard to put into words. A tear threatens to spill from the corner of your eye, but you effectively swipe it away with your finger.

“How do I know—“ your voice is strained. You clear your throat in hopes that it wipes away the nerves. “How do I know that I actually have you this time? That you won’t slip away.”

Hope flickers in his eyes. He swipes his cup to the side as leans closer to your end of the round table. “Leave it to me. Rely on me. I’m not the same person who walked out the door. I promise.”

His words echo in your brain. Rely on me. It’s funny, because there was a time where you think you relied on him wholly, no room needed for his persistent begging. But that Johnny slipped through your fingers before you could blink. You think you started mourning him long before the breakup.

But looking at Johnny now, his eyes blazing with no use of powers, his promise somehow still hits the same as it used to. It shouldn’t, but you feel your resolve slipping as the walls you’ve attempted to build crumble from just a few words.

Rely on me.

—

It’s on a Tuesday when Elodie Duncan thinks love can still exist.

Begrudgingly.

She’s walking back to apartment from a shift at the bookstore, a bouquet of roses in hand.

(If no guy is going to give her roommates flowers, she will. It seems like everyone is on the same boat.)

Her mind is half looking at the cracks in the sidewalks to avoid them in her heels, half thinking about the ingredient of the risotto she plans to make. She’s been eyeing the recipe in her book for a few weeks now, and after the days she’s had, she needs a little pick-me-up.

And then she sees it.

Or rather, hears it.

A laugh. Clear, unrestrained, and bouncing off the parallel buildings of the street. Her head lifts instinctively, following the sound.

She expects to find two friends stumbling their way past the array of buildings, maybe a happy couple she can glare at (she’s bitter like that). But the sound is so melodious that she doesn’t think she’ll be too upset.

What she doesn’t expect, however, is to see Johnny Storm walking the other end of the sidewalk. His arms wrapped around a girl’s shoulders.

Her smile is bright; infectious, not just to Elodie, but to the boy as well. He doesn’t pay attention to any cracks on the sidewalk and he stares at the girl beside him. At one point, he stumbles along a crack and the girl is there to hold onto his arm to make sure he doesn’t fall face-first into the concrete. This seems to make her laugh even more.

Elodie really tries to look at least a little bitter: the boy who went and called his ex during their date is now seemingly happy with his most-likely ex. She should be pissed.

But even she can’t help the smile that tugs in the corner of her lips.

What is it that Elodie said?

Men suck. And if they’re not sheer dickheads, then they have someone to miss.

“You missed me that much?” you whispered into his soft hair as he babbled nonsense, tiny fingers grabbing at your collar. “I was gone for, like, twelve hours.”

Across the room, Johnny was already there, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen like he’d been waiting for his moment. Coffee in hand, wearing that compression shirt he definitely chose just to be annoying.

"You again?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

You tossed him a look as Franklin nuzzled into your shoulder. “Charmed, aren’t you.”

He didn’t move right away, just took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes tracking your every movement. Then he pushed off the frame and strolled over, already hovering. Already being him.

"You're holding him wrong," he said, casually.

You adjusted your grip by maybe a centimeter. “He’s literally clinging to me like a baby koala. He’s fine.”

Johnny peered closer, dramatic as ever. “Just saying. Wouldn’t want his tiny spine to misalign or whatever.”

You gave him a slow side-eye, shifting Franklin onto your hip. “First of all, that’s a morbid thought. And second, I’m a woman, Johnny. I have maternal instinct. Trust me.”

“Oh, maternal instinct,” he repeated with a grin, circling you now like a shark with a caffeine addiction. “How could I forget? That’s why you were letting him chew on the remote last week, right?”

“That was one time.”

He leaned in close like he had a secret. “Pretty sure it still turns the TV on.”

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to let your smirk win. “Keep it up and I’ll put you in time out.”

“Oh no,” he mock gasped. “Not time out. You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would dare.”

There was a beat where your eyes locked. Franklin squealed between you, but Johnny didn’t look away. Not right away. He was close now. Close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his eyes under the warm glow of the living room’s lights, close enough to feel the lingering heat radiating off his skin even through your long sleeved blouse.

His smirk pulled into something a little more crooked, more familiar. “You’re all mouth today.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Worried I’m better at it than you?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your cheek first, barely and featherlight, then ghosted toward your mouth with maddening slowness. And then he kissed you.

Not a dramatic kiss. Not one of those kiss-you-against-the-wall kinds he sometimes pulled when it was just the two of you. This one was simple. Barely parted lips. Warm. Easy. A “hi” with no fanfare. Like he kissed you this way every morning, and every morning was quietly spectacular.

You let yourself lean into it, just for a second, before pulling back with a hum. “Hi to you too, I guess.”

He smiled against your skin. “Took you long enough to get here.”

“I was eating breakfast when Sue called,” you said pointedly. “And I couldn't decide what to wear today.”

“You always look nice,” he said quietly, teasing still, but something else was there. Fondness. A thread of something unsaid. “You know that, right?”

You blinked. “Was that... a compliment?”

He took another sip of coffee, turning on his heel. “Don’t get used to it.” Stingy kind of guy he’s being.

“Too late,” you called after him, grinning. “I’m adding it to my journal entry.”

“Let me know when you get to the one called ‘Why Johnny Storm’s Parenting Advice Should Be Ignored.’”

“I already started on that one months ago. It’s titled ‘He Tried to Feed the Baby Gummy Bears.’”

Johnny’s laugh echoed from the kitchen.

The rest of the day was spent in the whirlwind that came with babysitting a very active, very curious 8 month old cosmic baby. Franklin had recently learned how to crawl, and boy, did he take that freedom seriously. He was everywhere. Under chairs. Behind the couch. At one point, you caught him trying to bite the rubber corner guard off the coffee table.

By early evening, you were tired in a way that only chasing a crawling human all day could make you. After dinner prep was done and you’d managed to stop Johnny from feeding Franklin mini marshmallows as a "snack," you brought the little one to his colorful, plush-filled nursery for some quiet playtime.

"Alright, bud," you sighed, flopping gently onto the carpeted floor, surrounded by oversized stuffed animals and rainbow-colored stacking toys. "I’m just going to lie down here for one second. Just one."

You cradled your head on the soft belly of a giant stuffed lion and closed your eyes. You didn't expect sleep. Just a moment. A pause.

You felt the soft thump of baby hands crawling across the carpet.

And then, a warm little head rested beside yours. Franklin's breath puffed softly against your cheek. His tiny fingers found your hand, curling around your pinky.

Your heart ached in the most beautiful way. A slow, quiet ache. You opened your eyes just a sliver and found him lying there, eyes fluttering closed, cuddled up beside you like you like a cute little cat.

You couldn’t move if you wanted to.

So you didn’t.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

That’s how Johnny found you.

He paused in the doorway, mid-step, holding a bottle of formula he was meant to bring to you. The late golden light from the windows warmed the room in a hush, catching the softness of your expression even as you slept. Franklin, half on your chest, half on the plushie, still had one hand curled into yours.

Johnny stood still for a long time. He'd seen a lot in his life. Battles, crimes, explosions, chaos, but nothing ever hit him in the ribs quite like this did.

You and Franklin. Safe. Soft. Together.

Something flickered behind his heart. Longing. Gratitude. Love.

He crouched beside you, careful not to wake the baby, and reached out. His hand brushed your shoulder gently.

"Hey," he whispered, fingers warm against your blouse. "Dinner's ready."

You stirred, slow and a little groggy, blinking up at him. "What time is it?"

"Almost seven. Come on, Sleeping Beauty."

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

Dinner was warm, family style, with the table full of laughter and the soft clinking of cutlery. Sue was bouncing Franklin on her knee, grinning over at you with a fondness that felt like home.

"I don’t know what we’d do without you," she said suddenly, passing you the salad bowl. "Honestly. You’ve been here almost every week for seven months. Franklin adores you."

You flushed. "He’s easy to adore."

Reed looked up from his plate. "You’d make a good mother someday."

The words landed soft, like snow over your skin. Your breath caught.

Johnny didn’t say anything. But you felt his hand slide beneath the table, finding your knee, warm and steady.

You dared a glance at him.

He was already looking at you.

Dinner turned chaotic after that. Franklin smeared mashed potatoes on Reed's sleeve, which then he flicked peas across the table, and soon the baby-parent food fight had escalated to ridiculous proportions. You laughed so hard your sides hurt.

⌞══════════════════════════════════════════⌝

The Baxter Building was finally quiet.

Franklin had long since surrendered to sleep after an enthusiastic food war with his parents that left pasta shells in Sue’s hair and mashed peas clinging to the collar of Reed’s shirt. You and Johnny had slipped away somewhere after that. To shower, to change, to breathe. The usual post chaos ritual.

Now you were curled up on his bed, one of Johnny’s t-shirts hanging soft on you, your legs tucked under his sheets like you belonged there. Because, at this point, you kind of did.

Johnny stood near the window, one hand braced on the sill, the other ruffling damp hair with a towel. City lights flickered against the pane behind him, casting him in silhouette.

“You know,” he said after a long stretch of quiet, “Reed’s right.”

You glanced over, lazy with comfort. “About what? I’m a goddess? I should be rewarded for my patience with Franklin?”

He smiled, just a little. “That you’d make a good mom someday.”

Your breath caught, not because it was the first time you’d heard it, but because this time it was him saying it. Voice low, not teasing. Sincere. Weighty.

You lowered your eyes, nervous suddenly. “That’s… not something people usually say if they’re not thinking long term.”

Johnny shrugged off the towel and finally turned toward you, walking slowly until he reached the edge of the bed. He sat beside you, then leaned back on one arm, watching your face. Watching the way your fingers worried the hem of his t-shirt like it would answer for you.

“I think about it more than I should,” he admitted, quiet now. “Us. What we’d be like… later. When it’s not just babysitting.”

Your gaze met his again. He looked serious, but not in a way that made you want to run. Just the opposite.

He reached over and traced his fingers down your arm, stopping at your hand, interlacing them slowly. It meant something new now.

“You and me,” he said, voice softer than flame. “We’re already one Storm.”

Then he smirked faintly.

“Maybe one and a half.”

You blinked, smiling despite the heat rising to your cheeks. “One and a half Storm?”

He nodded, thumb brushing your knuckles. “You’ve practically moved in, Franklin loves you more than he loves me, and Sue thinks you're a superhero in disguise. Half a Storm now. Just need to make it official someday.”

You leaned in, forehead resting against his. “You keep saying things like that and I might actually cry.”

“I’d catch your tears before they hit the pillow,” he said. “I’m very fast. It's a whole thing.”

You laughed, soft and real.

He kissed you again then with no teasing this time. Just a quiet, grounding kind of kiss. The kind that said yes. yes, I want this. I want you.

And that night, when you finally curled into him under the blankets, his arms around you and your fingers still laced, you thought to yourself.

One and a Half Storm. You liked the sound of that.

A lot.