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You felt yourself breathing again when you started to recognize the roads, King's Landing was near and that meant that you would no longer had to stay cooped up in a carriage with your husband.

It was becoming increasingly hard to bear with his sad eyes staring at you, yet you forced yourself not to care.

Overall, your travels had been good. You kept to yourself and refused to acknowledge Baelor, even when everything coming from him was begging for you to even look at him more than a second.

“You have not slept" His voice cut through the silence.

Raising your head from its potion against the walls of the small carriage, you glanced at him. "What?”

“I have not seen you sleep since we left Ashford" He said slowly “Not long enough to count, at least"

You hummed, not really in the mood to stablish a conversation with him “I have slept enough to keep me going"

He nodded, staring at you with pleading eyes. A sort of relief flooding him, at least you had muttered a few words to him. "We are nearing King's Landing” He commented, wanting to keep hearing your voice a little longer.

“I have recognized the roads" you agreed “Thank the Gods” you murmured, looking outside the window.

“Indeed" He said softly, silence setting once again in the small space.

It took half a day for you to reach the Red Keep, and soon you felt yourself relaxing. You were home, you knew your home, you knew how to hide yourself here. Most importantly, now you could bring your daughter to her rightful house, the place where her rests would stay permanently.

When the carriage stopped, Valarr was the one to open the door. "We are here, at last”

You sighed in relief, a little loud and unladylike "Finally”

After ensuring his father descended safely, Valarr turned to offer his arm to you, helping you get out of the carriage.

“Thank you, Valarr" you patted his arm once you were safely on the ground.

He bowed softly, offering you a smile before walking to take care of other business. You saw Maekar and Baelor gathered in the entry of the Red Keep, King Daeron and Queen Myriah fuzzing over Baelor, trying to see if he was alright with their own eyes.

Feeling like you were not needed at the moment, and knowing that it was rude but caring too little, you made your way into the Keep by the stables. You wanted to get to your chambers and crash for the rest of the day, preferably without seeing anyone else.

The Gods showed you mercy, allowing you to reach your chambers without further ado. Finally alone, you peeled off your dress, too tired to take a bath after such a long journey, only wanting the comfort of your own bed.

Once you were dressed in your nightgown— a little early to be wearing it but alas — you allowed yourself of, very gracefully, flop down on the bed.

You were tired, both physically and mentally and you regretted the moment you had asked Baelor to join his travels to Ashford Meadow.

If only you had stayed back in the Red Keep… No, it wouldn't have made a difference. What ifs were for dreamers. Your life had already been wronged, nothing would change that now.

It took you a few minutes to fall into a deep slumber, not having a care other than resting and dreaming. You did not noticed movement around you when your belongings were brought into the rooms, you did not feel your husband's longing gaze as he found you fast asleep. The world was mute while you enjoyed a little thing that was still yours.

⊱ ──────ஓ๑∗๑ஓ ────── ⊰

You awakened the next day by the crack of dawn, having slept towards most of the evening and the whole night. Surprisingly, you felt freshly rested.

Looking at the table by the side of your bed, you found a note from your Good-mother; Queen Myriah. She was asking for you to break fast with her in her solar. That you could do, after all you had always been close to both your Good-parents.

It was a while before you managed to bath, dress and do your hair, as you decided to do it alone. By the time your lady’s maid arrived, you were ready.

You had chosen a simple gown, a pink one at that, as you wanted nothing to do with such brim colors of your husband's House.

Deciding to grab a little air before breaking fast with the Queen, you went for a stroll in the gardens, seeking for peace and tranquil.

You were not in luck as you found your husband already there, sitting on a bench and fidgeting with his rings.

Baelor's head moved in your direction as soon as he heard steps. “Wife" his words were soft, sounding unsure of how to address you now.

"Husband” you answered, curtsying as it was proper to do.

His expression quickly soured “Do not do that, as it is not necessary"

You held your chin high, staring at him with coldness "Is it not what is proper? For a Lady to curtsy in presence of a Prince?”

His mouth twitched almost unnoticeable “It is, however you are not required to"

You simply hummed, waiting for him to dismiss you. Under the eyes of the court you had a facade to uphold, you could not afford any gossip to come of your name.

“I did not know you were that good hiding” He commented, his mismatched eyes locking on yours "You were gone out of thin air as soon as you descended the carriage”

“I was in no humor to greet the Court and their prying eyes. For one day I did not wanted to be a tragic tale" You sighed, it was frustrating how easily you poured your heart out with him.

His eyes were looking at you with understanding “You deserve your privacy"

A few moments passed in silence before he nodded at you "I will burden you no more, my Wife” he stood up, still fidgeting with his rings "I will leave you be"

You breathed in relief when you found yourself alone. Every interaction you were having with Baelor was harder than the one before. He had too much to make up to, but you could not stop your heart from hurting every time you saw him.

It was a while before you left the gardens and went to break fast with your Good-mother. She was already waiting for you in her solar, food laid on the table.

“My Dear" She opened her arms as soon as she spotted you entering the room.

You smiled at her, approaching her hug without caring about etiquette and properness. “My Queen"

“How I have missed you, my girl" She squeezed slightly before letting go of you “This place is too dull without you"

“You have your ladies-in-waiting” you pointed out with a giggle. You always felt loved and safe around your Good parents, specially with her.

She waved your words off “They do not speak out of fear of saying the wrong thing" Giving you a look from head to toe, she smiled “You, however, do not hesitate to speak your mind"

"Most would say that is a defect”

“Nonsense, it is a virtue to be as free and clever to know when you can do it" She ushered to the table, taking her place while you took yours.

“I will have to accept my Queen's words" you flashed her a teasing smile. It was easy to banter with her.

"Oh, I believe that is the rule, my girl”

After a few moments of eating and talking about different topics, Queen Myriah waited until you both were finished with your food to move topics.

You saw how her expression changed, more soft and less teasing. “I must inquire about something, my Dear"

Blinking at her in confusion, you nodded slowly “Of course"

She took a deep breath, trying to steel herself "What happened in Ashford?”

"Pardon, my Queen?” you asked her, confused about what could she mean "I am sure news traveled faster than us”

“I know what was informed through letters and gossip" She said softly, her eyes settled firmly on yours “However, I do want to hear what happened coming from you”

Lowering your gaze, you started fidgeting with your fingers “I am sure your sons have informed you of the events that transpired when in Ashford Meadow"

She nodded thoughtfully "They have commented some things, but I am sure they are omitting important details” Her voice was firm, leaving no room for negotiation "And I want you to tell me, as I now you will not lie to me”

"I will never dare to lie to my Queen” You said quickly, defending your principles.

With a shook of her head, she took your hand in hers "Right now I am not your Queen, I am a mother, just like you. I want you to see me as a second mother in your time of need, someone on whom confide”

You took a deep breath, lowering your gaze before murmuring "I am not a mother”

She seemed struck by your words “You are” she said firmly “Your babe is not with us, that is true, but that does not make you less of a mother"

"I could not protect her” You choked out "I did not take care of her”

“But you did" Her voice was firm yet full of love and comprehension “You cared for her since the moment you knew she was coming. All she knew was you, she knew you were safeness, warmth and love" she shook her head “Your baby girl only ever felt you. She was happy and you took care of her while you could, you are as much as a mother as I.”

By the end of her words, you were crying, your eyes full of brimming tears while you tried to maintain some kind of reign in your emotions but it was becoming extremely hard. It had been the first time someone had comforted you this way.

Of course, Valarr, Matarys and Kiera were with you each step of the way, it had not gone unnoticed by you how them started calling you mother when they did not before. You were grateful for it, but no one knew how to talk to a grieving mother like another mother.

Most of your morning was spent with Queen Myriah, mostly she comforting you until you were able to recount the events at Ashford. You could tell that with every word leaving your lips she was growing upset, not at you, rather at her sons.

When you finished— to be honest, you had told more that you would have wanted— her expression was one of fury. “They did what?”

…

Queen Myriah's yelling at her sons could be heard all the way through your chambers, where you held some kind of satisfaction out of it. They really needed an ear tug, or more like a full blown slap to the face. You knew Queen Myriah— whilst kind and fair— had a strong personality and defended those who had been wronged before.

After a while of hearing the shouting, you decided to take a respite and going to visit your baby. Yes, she had been moved to the Sept and you were damn if you were going to let her be forgotten there. She was never going to be alone or forgotten as long as you were alive— and even after death you would find her.

You took your time there, probably hours, first praying for all those things you lacked at the moment; patience, forgiveness, love, comprehension, peace. Secondly praying for the soul of your baby girl, your little Vaellys.

Then you moved from the main Sept towards where your baby's rest were, kneeling there for what it seemed a never ending moment. You have no recognition of how long were you there, too lost in your own mind to even form conscience of time.

You only felt yourself snap out of it when a pair of eyes were firmly set on your form. You could recognize the feeling of those eyes without even thinking. Baelor's.

“I know you are there" Your voice was hoarse, not doubt because of the long time you had spent on silence.

"I am” Came Baelor's leveled voice. He was several steps back from where you were kneeling.

You did not move in the slightest. “Have you come to get me?"

He shook his head, you could feel it even when you could not see him "I simply wanted to…” He cut himself off before taking a deep breath "See where she was. Make sure everything was how it is supposed to be”

Reaching for the cold stone, you left your hand there for a few moments "She is here” you whispered "Resting”

You could hear how his breathing choked on his throat. It was almost unnoticeable but you knew him, everything about him.

"I was hoping we could talk” A soft whisper left his lips after a few moments.

“Your mother gave you an earful" You said softly, still not turning from your place.

“She did. Both of them, actually" Baelor sighed “Thought Maekar had it a bit worse than me"

"Another reason for you to hate me” You murmured, knowing you had been wrong with telling Queen Myriah.

"Nonsense” His voice was firm but gentle “I could never hate you and if you chose to confide in my mother that is perfect, you ought to have someone to trust”

That made you turn to look at him “What did she tell you?’

“She merely made us realize of our mistakes, not that I haven't thought about them" He shrugged softly, offering his hand to help you stand from your kneeling position.

"She is a wise woman” You took his hand, allowing for him to help you “And you needed that lecture"

“I am aware” He hummed and his gaze was caught up by something.

You followed his vision, landing on where your baby girl rested.

"You gave her a beautiful name” He choked out, his eyes not moving from where they were set "I could have never thought of something more fitting”

Nodding, you did not respond. You were sure you would break crying if you did.

"I regret everything” He whispered.

“What does everything entail?" You asked softly, your gaze settled in his tormented face.

“My stupid decision of participating, leaving you alone, not ending the matter of Aerion before everything happened” He shook his head “I have been a fool"

You did not corrected him, merely listening to his heart pouring out the guilt.

After a few moments of silence, you decided to speak your mind "I want Aerion gone”

His gaze snapped to meet yours at that, surprise lacing his face "What?”

"I want him gone, Baelor” Your words were firm, not an ounce of hesitation in your voice. “He has done enough damage already"

“What you are asking me is madness" He spluttered. It was rare to see him this thrown off. “I will not kill my brother's son" He lowly hissed.

"Have I suggested death?” You hissed back, your eyes stone cold "I said gone, I did not say how.” Taking a deep breath, you tried that the anger did not get the best of you "You know what? I do not care, I merely want him gone. I want not to see his face again”

“He is the King's grandson" He said, trying to make you see reason.

"Oh, is that true?” Your words were sarcastic “And Vaellys was not the King's grandchild as well? She had as much Targaryen blood as Aerion has but she is not here!"

Baelor knew you were speaking with levelheadedness even when angry, yet he could not bring himself to do harm to his brother's child "I will not take weight in your words as I know you are angry—”

"Angry?” You cut him off "Angry? I am fucking furious, Baelor!"

“And what should I do? Kill him in his sleep?" He questioned, his voice low to not attract attention from the Septas “Or maybe I will poison his food!"

“I do not care" You snapped at him “Do not allow for this to be a matter I have to take care of"

You did not let him get another words out before you were walking out of the Sept furiously.

Objectively, you would not handle something like you had threaten to, but you had to get that boy out of your lives if you hoped to at least have some resemblance of peace.

He was nothing but a plague in your mind, he had a lot of opportunities to redeem himself, failing on each one. You knew what he had done to Aegon and you would not be surprised if Aerion continued with his mess as no one would seek justice for his actions. Not even Ser Duncan got out of Aerion's mess in Ashford clean. No one did but him.

…

You had a few moments for yourself to calm down after your discussion with Baelor at the Sept. You knew you were mostly helpless to help yourself, but you would not rest until you see a fitting punishment for those who wronged you.

As of late, you had been able to think. Really think and introspect on what your life entitles from that point forward. It would be a long time before you would be able to forgive and forget. Gruesome as it was, you did not care about empty words, you truly wanted peace. That is all, though something that was hard to obtain given your situation.

It was a long time before you were required to break supper with your family, you could not refuse, given that King Daeron sent for you. You were not looking forward to it.

When you got to the dinner hall, most of your family was there, merely lacking King Daeron and Queen Myriah. Naturally, you took your place by Baelor's side— without spearing even a glance to him— and for your luck, Maekar and his children were sitting across from you. You tried to ignore the fact that Aerion was sitting in front of you, staring with an unamused expression but certainly planning something.

Ignoring everything and mostly everyone, you turned to enable on a conversation with Valarr and Kiera, the ones closer to you.

Once the King and Queen arrived to the Hall, supper passed quite fast and uneventful— except for the looks they were giving to their sons.

The night had ran long, the King discussing matters of the Kingdom with Baelor and Maekar. You could not excuse yourself from the table as you did not have a good enough excuse. Maybe your Good parents could have indulged you and let you go without a fuss but it did not seem right so you waited for them to retire first.

Once they had retired, you waited a few moments before standing up to go to your chambers and retire for the night. Valarr and Kiera decided to walk you, standing too and saying your good-byes. You could feel Baelor's pensive gaze as you managed yourself politically towards his family— especially towards Maekar and his children.

Sadly, as the night had ran long so did the wine. It came to no surprise to see Daeron indulging in his cups as it was usual, but you had also noticed Aerion following his older brother's footsteps and he decided to show it interrupting your leave.

“You certainly cannot go this early, Dear Aunt” Aerion sneaker cut through the room.

For your part, you did not desire to confront the man in front of everyone nor when he was drunk, so you slowly turned your head at him, spearing a glance.

“Can't I?" You asked slowly, measured.

He hummed, looking at you with mischief shining in his eyes "Sit down, have a drink. Let's talk”

You took a deep breath, trying to control the shimmering fire inside you “I wish not. Goodnight"

"You cannot be still cross at me for Ashford” He chuckled, noticeably trying to get a rise out of you.

“Boy, shut your mouth" Maekar grunted from his seat, knowing it could escalate amazingly fast should Aerion keep pestering you.

With a scoff, you turned to look at Aerion fully. "Do you find amusing what happened at Ashford? Is everything a joke to you?”

Taking a gulp from his goblet and slamming it into the table, he offered you a shrug “It all was in good fun, was it not?"

Your temperament was raising and you felt everyone tense around you.

"Aerion” Baelor's voice warned, thought it was cut shortly when you shot him a glare.

This was not for anyone but you to resolve. A slap on the wrist would not do, you needed to give the boy a real spanking.

"So that is what you called the mess you created on a whim?” You hissed at Aerion "People died just because they hurt your fucking little ego”

“They were stupid enough to let themselves get killed" was Aerion's response.

"You are a joke to this family, Aerion” You hissed in anger.

That got to him, quickly standing up and facing you with nothing more than despair in his eyes.

Valarr came forward as soon as Aerion got in your face, protectiveness flaring in his face. Maekar and Baelor stood up as well, knowing the whole ordeal was about to escalate. You simply raised a hand to stop them without directing your gaze away, looking firmly in Aerion's eyes.

"A joke, am I?” He scanned you up and down, ready to unleash whatever he could to hurt you. "At least I am remembered by name. I could certainly not say the same about you, Aunt Jenna” A sardonic smile painted his face "Oops, not Jenna. I guess it is easy to mistake you to her, after all, you are merely filling a place that do not belongs to you"

You did not showed it but his words hurt deeply, not because of him muttering them but for the reason he was weaponizing the hell you had gone through in Ashford to get to you.

A scoff left your lips “Seriously, Aerion? Be a tad more creative, would you?" With a shook of your head, you chuckled bitterly “At least I know my place, do you know yours? I do not think so. You are merely a second son of a fourth son who holds no power other than being a brat and delirious"

"Watch your mouth—” Aerion hissed.

“Fuck off!" You hissed back, louder than him “You are a delirious pampered boy who believes he's entitled to be kissed in the arse."

He stayed silent, staring at you with a flex in his jaw. You could see in his eyes that he was beyond furious, your words having cut a deeply bruise to his ego.

Erroneously, you mistook his silence for surrender and turned around to leave.

“At least I was not called by another's name" He cut through the silence but you paid him no mind “… and I was not stupid enough to kill my daughter"

That stopped you in your tracks, everyone staying silent after his words, most surely in shock.

You turned around to face him impossibly slow, the look on your face was cold and devoid of any emotion besides anger and even a touch of bloodthirst.

Whilst being focused solely on Aerion, you could noticed what was happening around you. Maekar inhaled a sharp breath, knowing his son had screwed up. Baelor was looking at him like he wanted to send him to the Wall or strangle him himself but allowing you to manage it. Valarr tensed and had to be held back by Kiera's hand in his arm.

"What did you just say?” You asked in a dangerously low tone.

He met your words with a shrug "It is true, though. You killed your daughter” He hummed softly “Pity, I was hoping for a cousin with Targaryen blood I could marry in a future”

It was like something imploded within you. Without anyone expecting it, you lunged forward, slapping him hard across the face and without giving him a chance to recover you started landing hit after hit; in his face, chest and truly anywhere you could reach. It was not like he couldn't defend himself against you, but your fury was strong, blinding you to anything an everything. You hit, scratched and kicked him. He was still somewhat recovering for his injuries, leaving him to feel it more intensely.

The only thing you could hear was a high pitching in your ears and his cries, whatever happened around you was muffled to your own ears.

It took a pair of men to take you off Aerion. Baelor and Valarr pulled you from him, trying to avoid you slipping from their grasps. It was not like they were against for you to keep hitting him but it would be too messy if you did.

“You wench!" Aerion's words cut the air while your husband and son held you back “I will have you killed!"

“Kill me yourself if you are so brave!" You spat, fighting against the arms that held you firmly.

"This is treason! You have struck me!” He whined, sounding more like a pestering child than a grown Prince.

“Demand for a trial, I do not care. But you will have to face me personally!" You kept squirming, fighting to be freed and allowed to pour all of your frustrations on him.

"Maybe I will! I am the blood of the Dragon! You cannot touch me!”

Maekar snapped at him in that moment “Shut your fucking mouth, Aerion!"

Seeing you still squirming and fighting against him, he handed you to Valarr “Get her out of here and to her chambers"

"Father—”

“Now!" He snapped at his son, who quickly obeyed.

Once Baelor found himself alone with Maekar and Aerion, he looked at the boy with a spine chilling calm, much too different to his usual. “If I ever see you speak your venomous words or even glace in her direction… we will not need a Trial, I will end you myself."

“Baelor—" Maekar tried to reason with his brother.

“No!" He cut him off immediately “I have allowed him to get with a lot of crap, but not this. Not anymore"

"He is of your blood!”

“She is my wife!” He snarled "and he has just hurt her over and over again. I will not allowed anymore. Send him far from my sight" Baelor exclaimed firmly, putting his foot down.

The only thing that could be heard for a moment was Baelor's sharp breathing. “I owe her as much. We owe her that”

Maekar knew his brother was right. “I understand"

Aerion's words died in his mouth as soon as he opened it, being faced with the glares of two men he knew not to cross.

Baelor gave a firm nod before storming out from the Hall. He needed to find you and make sure you were alright.

After arriving to the door to your chambers he took a few moments to calm himself. You were already too upset and someone had to level the other.

He knocked on the door once his breathing had slowed down, before opening the door and stepping inside. Baelor found you pacing around the chambers, Valarr watching you from his place behind the chair Kiera was occupying.

“Leave us” Baelor said to his son and good daughter. “Thank you" He whispered once he passed by him to get to the door.

You payed them no mind, walking around murmuring to yourself. The fury inside of you being too great to extinguish.

Baelor observed you while you paced, he knew you had to get it out of your system. Tire yourself out, if you will. So he waited patiently.

"If you are here to lecture me, avoid me the suffering” You muttered loud enough for him to hear.

He hummed, observing you for a few moments before answering “I am not here to do anything of the sort"

"Then why?” You questioned him "Why are you here, Baelor?”

Baelor took a deep breath, relaxing slightly “I am here to make sure you are alright"

"I am not” You confessed, your anger diminishing slightly “I do not think I would ever be alright"

He nodded in understanding, knowing what you meant. "I gave my brother and ultimatum”

“About?"

"Aerion. He is not to be here, I do not care where Maekar would send his brat but I made clear that I will not tolerate any more of his doings” Baelor's mismatched eyes found yours, making you see the raw truth and honestly.

"That is… good” You murmured, your pacing slowing down. "I will not apologize for how I reacted”

Baelor shook his head, brushing it off “I would not expect less from you. He deserved that and more"

Finally, you stopped and walked towards a chair, sitting down. "I do not know how someone could be as rotten as him”

"My brother's children are not known for their… manners" Baelor sighed, taking a seat across from you “Maybe the loss of their mother played a roll on it, maybe they were always like that"

"My only complain has always been Aerion, you know how much of a… menace he is. Always stirring trouble and hurting other people without a care in the world”

“I cannot argue with that" Baelor murmured “Importantly enough, he is to be gone"

You nodded mindlessly, your mind already moving past the conversation you were holding with your husband.

He is sharp enough to notice you are thinking about something in deep mind. He tilted his head, trying to break through the walls you had. Baelor had always been able to read you like a book, but of course that was before.

“I know there is something in your mind" He said softly, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Indeed it is” You confirmed his words.

“Would you share it with me?"

You mulled over it for a few moments before nodding. "I wish to retire for a time to Dragonstone”

He merely blinked at you in astonishment “I am sure I can prepare everything for us to take time away—”

“No, Baelor. I wish to be alone." You cut him off “I need time apart for everything"

“Even from me?" He asked and his face fell.

"Yes” You nodded "I need time to think”

"You are leaving me” He murmured lowly, his gaze lost.

“It would seem so"

do not copy, reupload, translate or feed to artificial intelligence.

©yawnlovescookies.

You skip right over your own clothes that you finally find, focusing on the other set. Those are Bakugou’s clothes, are they not? Unless you’re going crazy, those are definitely Bakugou’s clothes. Then you look down at the arm curled around you and…and that is definitely Bakugou’s arm. You’d recognize that scar anywhere. You’ve seen it too many times when he shows up to the office in a tight black tank top and leaves his arms out on display. That is Bakugou’s arm, and those are Bakugou’s clothes, so then this must be Bakugou’s bed. 

Which means you slept with Bakugou. 

Bakugou.

Bakugou.

Your heart immediately begins hammering against your ribs.

You slept with your boss, your brain starts chanting in horror inside your head, you slept with your boss, you slept with your boss, you slept with your fucking boss. The thought repeats like a broken record in your mind as you stare blankly at the wall in front of you.

For a moment, you don’t move. Perhaps, if you stay perfectly still, reality will then politely undo itself, and you can forget about this absolutely life-altering mess that you just got yourself into. 

But it doesn’t. The weight of his arm remains around you, and the warmth of his body remains pressed against yours. If you turn around, Bakugou will be right there, (hopefully) sleeping. You try to wrack your brain to figure out how the hell you could have possibly gotten yourself into this predicament, and somewhere behind you, Bakugou lets out a sleepy exhale. The sound alone makes you shiver, and it makes every memory from last night come rushing back with brutal, gut-punching clarity.

The drinks. His friends. The Uber. The elevator ride up. His apartment. Him. 

Everything comes flooding your mind like a wave you can’t escape, no matter how hard you try, and you are drowning. Drowning in guilt, and shame, and disbelief that you could have done this. How could you have done this? You have more self-respect than this, surely. You do. You’re smart and wise and know how to work your way up to the place you’re in now—you’re resourceful and cunning, and you clawed your way into a high-paying position well up the corporate ladder in the hero industry of all industries, and you did it all without a quirk. 

You, a quirkless and overlooked member of this society, despite all the odds, managed to land a place in UA’s business course. Even courses like that—courses so far removed from being a hero—tend to find young, ambitious students who have promising powers to aid in their studies. But you managed to do it with nothing. And you managed to graduate and land yourself a spot in the agency of a hero like Uwabami, and then Riot Grenade, and you are positive that even better things will come later down the road. 

And because of that, you cannot allow this poor choice you made when you weren’t in your right mind to affect anything you’ve built for yourself. Someone like you who has to work three times harder and get recognized a quarter as often. You refuse to let that all go to waste and be for nothing, so carefully—very carefully—you lift Bakugou’s arm.

The movement immediately makes him shift behind you. You instantly stop breathing.

Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake—

A soft snore reaches your ears. You sigh in relief before continuing to pull away until finally, thankfully, you slip out from underneath his arm.

Bakugou grumbles something incoherent into his pillow as soon as you do, face twisting as his arm blindly reaches for the warmth of your body again. You freeze again before quickly pressing your pillow (which thankfully smells like you) into his arms. It placates him. He nuzzles into it and inhales before relaxing. You ignore the deep, piercing ache in your chest at the sight of him and turn to find your clothes, which are scattered throughout the room.

You grab your undergarments first. Then your pants. Then your shirt. Each item you quickly put on after retrieving feels like losing even more tiny pieces of your dignity. By the time you’re dressed, your face burns with shame, but you shove it down to wallow in later. Right now, you need to get out of here, get home, and then be ready for work on time. You are going to go to work and face this head-on and keep your place in that office. 

You glance toward the bed one last time to check on him. Bakugou is sprawled across his mattress, face half-buried in a pillow. His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, and yet, even asleep, he somehow manages to look unfairly attractive.

You immediately look away.

You need to leave. Right now. And it needs to happen before he wakes up.

When you’ve gathered your purse, and you’ve made sure you look at least semi decent enough to leave his place—you could not be any more grateful that he is the only unit on his floor and no one will see you do the walk of shame—you head for the front door.

One hand closes around the doorknob, and you turn it. You’re just about to pull the door and open it, when—

“You know,” a rough voice says behind you, causing you to stiffen. “I always saw you as a sentimental type that stayed mornings and shit. Not the type to walk out ’n do the walk of shame.”

“Ah,” you swallow, hand still on the doorknob, “I uh…need to go home and get ready. So I’m not late to work.”

“You work for me,” Bakugou huffs. “S’not like I’d care. So…come back to bed. Or whatever.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you mumble. It’s silent. You wince at the thick, heavy silence as it lingers on and on…and on. You almost go a little insane by it, so you’re about to speak up and say your farewells before he beats you to it.

“Why the fuck not?” He sounds a little irritated. More shockingly, he sounds a little upset. He almost sounds like it’s bothering him that you think that snuggling up to him in bed the morning after fucking him is a bad idea. “So what, you just fuck your bosses for the hell of it?”

“No,” you frown, still not facing him.

“Good, I’d hope not,” he huffs, “I’d hope you had a valid reason for gettin’ intimate with me—so come back to bed.”

“I can’t do that, and you know it,” you say, barely audible. 

“I don’t know it,” he hisses stubbornly, “if y’don’t have a habit of gettin’ with your employers, then last night was a special case—in which case, why the fuck are you actin’ like waking up next to me is committin’ some crime?”

Your grip tightens around the doorknob. “It’s not that—”

“Then what is it?”

You finally turn, slow and reluctant, and the sight of him nearly knocks the breath out of you. Bakugou is so pretty in the mornings, wearing nothing but his boxers with messy blonde hair sticking up in every direction, and tired, puffy eyes from just waking up. Even with irritation written plainly across his face, he’s so pretty. 

But underneath all that pretty, there is something there in his expression. Hurt. As though your rejection genuinely wounded him.

“You’re my client,” you say carefully, “and I don’t find it wise to get intimate with my clients, and I certainly can’t start making it a habit, so—”

His eyes narrow instantly. “Bullshit answer.” Maybe he cares—does he care?

“It’s the truth.” He doesn’t care—there’s no way that he does.

“No,” he snaps, voice turning sharp. He cares, he cares, he cares, your mind screams in tandem with your heart. But the truth is, that is still not enough to convince you. “It’s not the truth ’cause it didn’t fuckin’ bother you last night.”

Heat rushes to your face. “That’s not fair.”

“Why?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. You don’t know what to say.

The truth is that you don’t know how to explain it without sounding pathetic. The truth is that you know last night was a moment of weakness that fulfilled your wishful fantasies. For a short evening, you let yourself ignore the truth and live in a dream. A dream where this could be your world, and you could belong in it, and that your world could include someone like Bakugou. Last night had been so easy to justify in the moment. A simple lapse in judgment. An easy thing your drunk mind convinced itself to indulge in and then write off as a mistake, and never look back on. 

But staying with him in the morning changes things. Cuddling with him in the morning in his soft bed will destroy your perfect little daydream. Him asking you to stay in the morning will pop your tiny little bubble. This intimacy in the morning exists outside the excuse of alcohol and lust and a rare bad choice, throwing you into reality. And here, in reality, you know you don’t belong. Not with Bakugou, and not in his world.

“Because,” you grit your teeth.

“Because what?” he asks, impatient.

Your fists clench at your sides as you snap, “Because! Last night was us not thinking! We didn’t think before we did…stuff. But if you think about it, we can’t…we can’t be doing this. You’re…I don’t know, you’re just you!”

“What the fuck does that mean?” he recoils as though you’ve just insulted him. He looks so upset, you almost want to cry. You don’t understand it. How could you have let yourself start to genuinely care for someone so above what you’re allowed to have? How could you set yourself up like that?

“It means that us doing this makes no sense! You have no business going after someone like me,” you shoot back, exasperated. “Do you see that? Last night, you sat there with your friends talking about the people you saved, or the new moves you’re working on, or the good old high school memories you share. You’ve all gone through hell and back together. And I was just…sitting there. Listening. And—”

“What, is that it?” he cuts in sharply. “You felt left out over a few innocent conversations about hero work? Do you even hear yourself? You’re above that bullshit. Everyone loved you—”

“No,” you shake your head, voice tightening. “They love you. And they love Kiri. And anyone you both bring, they’ll love them too—because they’re your friends. Don’t get me wrong, they were kind. They did everything right. But you and I both know what I am.”

His brows knit, irritation flashing. “And what the hell are you?”

“I’m just—” you laugh, but there’s no humor in it, “—a random, quirkless girl who types up your social media posts for a living while you and your friends go out and save people. You guys lived through a war after saving everyone, for crying out loud. I have no place in a room like that. With people like them.”

“They’re just fuckin’ people,” he scowls, like you’ve said something genuinely stupid. “They’re just people, you damn idiot. What the hell are you on about? What, you think you’re only half of a person or some shit ’cause you don’t got a power?”

“Wha—no! I never said—”

“They clock in, save people, clock out, and then they live their lives just like you do. What’s there to glorify? Are you dumb? You think heroes need to sit around in capes to have fun?”

“No! I just—”

“Look,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling hard as he forces himself to slow down and gather his thoughts. “I’m not…you’re not—fuck, this is so stupid,” he mutters. “Okay. You’re normal. Nothing special.”

“Wow. Thanks,” you scoff, heat creeping up your neck as you feel extra self-conscious. “I got that—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, cutting you off. “I’m not done.”

You go quiet.

“You’re normal,” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s trying to get it right. “And your life doesn’t have that…that heavy shit like mine does. S’nice—s’not always a bad thing. I don’t wanna come home after a long day of hero things and then deal with more hero crap. I don’t want someone dragging that back with them to me.” He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening. “And yeah, it’s selfish. Cause I’d bring it back to you, so…sorry. Or whatever.”

You blink at that—at the rough, reluctant apology that’s unexpectedly shoved in the middle of his rant.

“But I don’t…” he pauses, sighing, “being a hero isn’t some requirement to sit with me and my dumbass friends in a dumb fucking room. You got that? Nobody gives a fuck about shit like quirks off the battlefield, and nobody’s lookin’ at what power you got before they let you in their company. You just…have to be a person who isn’t fucking annoying. That’s it. It’s not that complicated. You’re the one who keeps making it complicated.”

You stand there, processing his words slowly, one sentence at a time. Your lips wobble, and your vision blurs, and something that sounds like a strangled whimper gets caught in your throat as tears spill over your cheeks. He looks alarmed—fucking horrified and exasperated all at once as he groans and walks over. 

“Now you’re crying?” he huffs in disbelief, “you haf’ta be joking.” Rough and calloused hands—and yet, so gentle and soft—come and grab your face, cradling it as the thumbs swipe at your tears. “You’re gonna drive me fucking nuts, you idiot.”

He kisses your forehead. You let him. Because you need it—need him to care. Care about you. Need to know that caring about you is worth his time and effort. 

“Your world is so different from mine,” you whisper, sniffling, “I just…I don’t know how to be a part of it, Bakugou.”

“It’s Katsuki. And you work in an office that’s two doors down from mine. Are you even hearing yourself?” he rolls his eyes, pulling you into his chest. You tiredly slump right into it. “We’re in the same fuckin’ world. Same air, same sky, same idiots surrounding us—we even piss in the same toilet.”

You let out a watery giggle. “Only you would say that when you’re trying to be comforting.”

“Well, I never have to be comforting anyone, so this is on you,” he scowls, “get out of your head.”

He pokes your forehead with a jab, and you pout, and he closes his eyes as he sees that look on your face, letting out a shaky exhale. Then, without warning, his lips are on yours, kissing you hard and deep and impatient. You kiss back—and it’s needy. It’s just as demanding as his, demanding that he let you into his space and belong. 

And he does. He lets you in, pulling you even closer while he’s at it. 

“I don’t want someone else because if I did, I’d have them in my apartment,” he says plainly as he pulls away. “Simple as that. Got it? And when I want something, I don’t change my mind—you can ask anyone.”

“You’ve never even seemed interested in me, so excuse me if this all sounds crazy,” you tell him warily. 

“Course I have,” he argues, “you’re just fuckin’ dense.”

“Yeah? Why do you want me, then? I need to know,” you demand.

“I have no idea,” he says flatly, looking at you in irritation, “I just do, and it’s annoying. I wish I wanted someone who pissed me off less. And bossed me around less, too.”

You give him a sour look. “Well, I wish I wanted someone a little more sensitive—holy fuck, you suck at this.”

“And you still want me anyway, so what am I losing, huh?” he smirks, looking rather smug. (And then he kisses you again—so sweet, so delicate, you have to wonder if he’s lying. He knows exactly why he wants you, you think.) “So are you gonna have breakfast with me or what?”

You slump back into his chest, hiding your face away as you mumble, “Fine.”

“Oi,” he snaps, “don’t say it like goin’ out with me is a chore.”

“We are not going out, Bakugou,” you glance up at him.

He frowns, very unexcited to hear that, as he says, “I told you it’s Katsuki.” 

“It’s still Bakugou,” you shake your head. 

When he opens his mouth to protest, you cut him off—

“You’ve never hinted that you were interested in me, and you’re still my client and employer, and you have to prove that you’re serious about this,” you say firmly, pointing an accusing finger into his chest, “meaning you have to convince me you’re not just saying stuff out of your ass before you earn yourself a date. And then you can say we’re going out. And then I will address you by your given name.”

“Why does it have to be so damn complicated when we literally fucked last n—”

“Otherwise, this might be considered abusing power in the workplace,” you raise a brow. 

He glares, rubbing a hand over his face before he groans. “Holy shit, are you kiddin’ m—you know what? Fine—I’ll earn that date and show you, you fuckin’ hellcat.”

“Wonderful,” you beam. You detach yourself from his arms as he gives you a flat, unimpressed look. “I like my eggs sunnyside up.”

—

You and Bakugou come into the office later than Kirishima—separately, at least, since you had insisted on going to your apartment and getting ready there properly, despite his deep irritation at the thought of you leaving. But you both walk in not far apart from each other, late by a good thirty minutes. Kirishima does not do a very good job of eyeing between the two of you and hiding his knowing, amused look, so you decide to simply trudge into your office miserably and fight the shame clinging to your skin. 

You fucked your boss last night, and your other boss definitely knows it. Fantastic. 

But you don’t have time to dwell on it because not even an hour into your shift, Kirishima bursts through the door with an envelope in hand as he says in a rushed, almost incoherent sentence: “The-second-semester-ranks-are-here!”

Your jaw drops—that’s rather early. You weren’t expecting them for at least another week and, admittedly, you were counting on having that week to do just the slightest bit more miracle work on Bakugou’s public image. But that is clearly not an option now, so you follow Kirishima into the agency’s conference room, where Bakugou is already seated, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. 

Do not stare at his arms, you tell yourself. Do not stare, do not stare, do not stare—

“Here,” Kirishima hands you the envelope, “you do the honors of opening and reading them. You’re the one who works hard on managing these ranks, right?”

You absolutely do not want to have to be the one who reads them out loud, because if you failed at your job and let them both slip tremendously, then you will have to verbally recite your failures to your bosses with your own mouth. You don’t want to have to do that humiliation ritual. At least, with Bakugou, you have some reasonable excuses as to why he would fall off the ranks. It’s a given that he’d do that much with or without you. But if Kirishima’s rank isn’t an improvement…

Well. Then you’d be a failure, and your career would be over, and you would be a worthless hire, and everyone within the industry would know it, and your future would be dim, and—

“Just read the damn ranks already,” Bakugou grumbles, glaring at you in irritation as you’re pulled out of your spiralling thoughts. 

Right, you think—it’s now or never. Whether there is good or bad news in this envelope, you can’t avoid it forever, so with a deep breath, you rip the envelope open and pull out the paper, skimming the words on the document. 

Your eyes immediately dart downward toward the numbers. And then—

Oh. Oh, thank god.

Dynamight — #15.

Red Riot — #12.

You’re saved. Your career is secure, and your reputation in the corporate world is intact. At the very least, you won’t be jobless. Kirishima has improved, and Bakugou…well, you already knew you were dealing with a drop, but it’s not nearly as catastrophic a drop as you were expecting. Honestly speaking, you’re relieved—which feels horrible to admit, even internally, but it’s the simple truth.

You’ve certainly had a number of successful PR stunts to help him, but the overwhelming reality is that Bakugou has had one too many negative moments in the media. After the last few months of increasingly aggressive interviews and viral clips of him insulting reporters and civilians, you genuinely prepared yourself for the possibility of him dropping below the top twenty entirely.

But fifteen feels like a miracle. Fifteen is easily salvageable. The tension leaves your body so abruptly that it nearly makes you dizzy.

“What?” Kirishima leans forward immediately. “What is it?”

You blink down at the paper once more just to make sure you didn’t somehow hallucinate the numbers. But they’re luckily still there, and your shoulders visibly sag with relief before you can stop yourself.

Bakugou notices instantly. “The hell’s with that face?” he asks sharply.

“Well, before I get into the numbers, I just want to start by saying that all things considered, these rankings are very much on the better side of the coin! Which I think is fabulous news, I would say—”

Bakugou’s eyes narrow immediately. “Just read the damn thing.”

You clear your throat and straighten the paper in your hands. “Red Riot has risen from rank sixteen to rank twelve.”

Kirishima practically lights up. “No way!” he laughs, slapping both hands onto the table. “Seriously? That’s so awesome—four is a huge jump when you’re in the top twenty, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you nod, unable to stop a small smile from pulling at your mouth. “That’s a really impressive increase—this’ll be amazing for the agency.”

“Holy shit,” he breathes, grinning brightly—that same toothy, charming smile so easily spreading on his face. “I can’t believe it.”

Bakugou simply scoffs, still keeping that agitated, grumpy look on his face. But you know him well enough by now that you can see the way tension falls from his shoulders fractionally at his friend’s good news. And his agency’s, for that matter. 

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue. “Good for you.”

Kirishima snorts. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

“I’m not fuckin’ bitter!”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’ll kill you, hair-for-brains.”

You quickly continue before the two of them derail entirely from the matter at hand. “And…” Your voice weakens just slightly as you wince in advance for this blow you’re about to deal. “Dynamight has dropped from rank four to rank fifteen.”

It’s silent. Bakugou stares at you, processing your words from across the table while Kirishima winces loudly enough to be heard. “Oof,” he mutters.

Bakugou’s head instantly whips towards Kirishima as he glares at him. “Oof?” he repeats dangerously.

“W-well, it’s not the worst, of course, but…I’m just sayin’, man, eleven spots is a little rough.”

You can practically see the vein pop in the blonde’s forehead as he hisses, “Shut the hell up! You think you’re better than me?”

Honestly, you expected the yelling. And the irritation. Maybe even an explosion. What you’re not prepared for is the way Bakugou huffs and leans back in his chair with an annoyed scowl, arms crossed. Like he already knew. Which…to be fair, he probably did if he wasn’t particularly dense. And he isn’t. Everyone has more or less been expecting a drop in Dynamight’s rankings. It’s always just…been a matter of how badly the drop would be. 

“Hey, it’s not so bad. Thankfully, you didn’t drop below the twenties, so this is way better than what I was preparing for,” you blurt before thinking. Both men look at you. You immediately want to die—that sounded way better in your head. “I mean, like,” you cough awkwardly, trying to recover, “obviously rank fifteen is still very respectable, so I just think it could be worse! N-not that I think it should be worse or anything—”

“You thought I was gonna drop below the top twenties?” Bakugou interrupts incredulously.

“No,” you lie instantly. “Never!”

He stares at you, lips curling into a rather betrayed scowl. Your face grows hotter. Kirishima bursts into laughter.

“Oh my god,” Kirishima wheezes, “dang, Katsuki. Our own publicist thinks you should be lower!”

“I don’t think that!” you sputter quickly.

“You absolutely do,” he practically giggles. He’s taking more pleasure than you thought in the fact that his literal business partner’s market value has dropped a tad.

“I was just…preparing for all possible outcomes. It’s my job,” you defend weakly.

Bakugou scoffs, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “So what,” he says, eyes fixed directly on you, “you thought I was gonna fall below all the fuckin’ losers on those charts, huh?”

“I didn’t say that,” you huff, rolling your eyes, “I just had some rough estimates based on my knowledge, okay? But it’s not like I’m unhappy to be wrong.”

“Of course you were fuckin’ wrong,” he snaps bitterly, sulking as he gives you a dirty look. “Don’t lump me in with those other idiots on the charts—I’m better than them.”

Beside him, Kirishima scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as he listens, probably choosing to keep his mouth shut from what he really wants to say. It’s probably for the best that he does. Despite it all, there’s a visible sort of excitement he’s trying very hard to suppress.

“Twelve’s pretty good though, right?” he switches the topic back to him earnestly. You nod enthusiastically in confirmation.

Bakugou reaches over and snatches the paper from your hand to see things for himself. “Fifteen,” he repeats flatly.

Kirishima winces yet again. “Hey, but look at it this way—”

“Only way to look at it is I fuckin’ dropped eleven spots.”

“Well, yes,” Kirishima laughs nervously, “but to be fair, you do kinda threaten civilians sometimes.”

“Hah?”

“Yeah,” you agree with a sigh, “in fact, you imply bodily harm pretty frequently,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.

Bakugou’s eyes snap toward you instantly. And it’s awful, really, how you feel when he looks at you. How different it is now to have those eyes on you, no matter where you are. Those eyes that saw every inch of you and roamed every patch of skin they could land on. Those eyes that rolled back from pleasure when you—

You quickly stop yourself. You cannot think about how you spent last night in his apartment. Or how you woke up in his bed. Or how he kissed you half-conscious against his kitchen counter while you tried to make coffee as he made breakfast, grumbling into your mouth about you’re movin’ around too much.

You cannot think about him like that when you are sitting across from him in his office building. For work.

“Jus’ ’cause I say shit doesn’t mean I actually mean it,” he sulks yet again, “these people are such fuckin’ morons for believing everything they hear.”

Kirishima snorts. Bakugou crumples the ranking paper and throws it at him. It bounces uselessly off Kirishima’s shoulder, and you sigh—you’ll be needing that again later to read the reports, so now you have a perfectly wrinkled piece of paper to work with.

“Look. Objectively speaking,” you begin carefully, slipping into your best professional tone, hoping that it’ll soothe him if you sound like you mean business, “these rankings are not disastrous. Red Riot moving from sixteen to twelve is excellent for agency visibility, and fifteen is still a strong enough placement to maintain current sponsorships.”

Bakugou does not take much soothing to that. “Strong enough?” he growls.

“You know what I mean.”

“You seem pretty relieved,” he says bitterly, “why the hell are you relieved over me droppin’ rankings?”

You don’t know if he’ll like your answer. Telling him that it’s because you expected worse, that you spent half of last week drafting backup proposals in case sponsors started pulling out, that seeing fifteen is a miracle compared to the thirties you were expecting, doesn’t seem like it’ll put him in a particularly good mood. And he’s almost always in a bad mood as it is.

“I’m relieved the damage wasn’t more severe,” you answer professionally. And then, a little more genuinely, “Plus, your rank is not indicative of your actual skills. But, I’m sure you realize by now why the press is so important.”

Bakugou gives you a deep scowl for what feels like the millionth time. 

Kirishima, on the other hand, is entirely too excited by his own success and grins brightly as he nudges his friend’s elbow. “Don’t worry, bro! My twelve will definitely get us some good press,” he beams. “C’mon, that’s pretty manly of me.”

“You’re insufferable,” Bakugou mutters. “Everyone get back to work—there’s still shit to do in this agency.”

With that, he walks out of the conference room and into his office, the door slamming and making you wince. You sigh deeply. Of course, just when you allowed yourself to think that perhaps…perhaps you could enjoy whatever this is you have with him, something is thrown in the mix to make it seem impossible. 

Bakugou is probably at his wits’ end with you—partly because he seems rather unhappy that you expected worse from him and partly because…well, you made him do all those things against his will that he hated to keep his rank afloat, and it’s still not something he’s satisfied with. Though you supposed he’d never be truly satisfied with something that isn’t the best—but still. He strives for nothing less than improvement at the very least. 

Before you can dwell on it for too long, however, there’s a hand on your shoulder, and you look up to be met with Kirishima’s kind smile. 

“Don’t take it too hard,” he says gently. “He knows as well as I do that he didn’t drop any lower than he did, all thanks to you. Frankly, I think if we had anyone else filling your spot, he’d have dropped worse. If he’s frustrated, it’s with himself—trust me on that.”

Your lip wobbles a little. It’s so stupid. But hearing it from Kirishima—who is not just your boss, but the best friend of this man you have…complicated feelings for—means a great deal more than you’re willing to admit. 

So you nod slowly, giving him a small, watery smile. “Thanks, Kiri,” you murmur. “Really.”

“Of course,” he closes his eyes and beams, “anything for my amazing publicist! You’re half of why I even jumped like that. Can’t have you thinking you did anything less than spectacular!”

“No,” you chuckle, “no, I think you did that yourself. It was your hard work that did that. You do some really great hero work out there.”

“Yeah, it was my hard work—but it was yours, too,” he says easily. “People only trust me so I can do that hero work because of you and the proper reputation you’ve helped me build. You’re awesome!”

With a light squeeze to your shoulder, he’s off, walking to his own office and leaving you there to ponder over his words. After a few moments, you set your shoulders back and stand, sighing before you pick up that crumpled-up paper to get to work. And you have a lot of work to get to.

You’re going to get Bakugou back up in the top ten—if it’s the last thing you do.

────────────────────────

Despite Bakugou’s initial reaction to his ranking dropping, he surprisingly doesn’t let it interfere with…whatever this is between the two of you. Your budding relationship, you suppose. You return to your normal routine for the most part, but now, you suppose there are some added perks. Bakugou is, shockingly, not the type of person to play mind games when he’s interested in someone. Now that you know he likes you, and now that he more or less has confirmation that those feelings are reciprocated, he’s almost painfully straightforward about it.

So when he says, once the workday finally ends, “Oi, Hellcat. You’re comin’ to the event,” you pause mid-step.

“Huh?”

He gives you a flat look. “The Hero Billboard Charts. They announce the top ten heroes and shit there every semester. We gotta go, don’t we?”

“Oh,” you realize. Then you wince. Bakugou absolutely despises public appearances, and you’re sure he’ll hate this one, especially now that he’s dropped from the top ten, but this is one event that even he can’t avoid. “Yeah…you’re gonna have to attend that.”

“Tch. Yeah. Figured as much.” He twirls car keys in his fingers. “So you’re comin’ with me.”

You blink.

It’s not entirely uncommon for agency members to attend those events as plus-ones, but it’s usually sidekicks or field staff—not publicists. Not people who are on the corporate side of things. You brush off the thought that Bakugou doesn’t even have sidekicks, and the fact that it is quickly becoming the next nightmare issue you’ll have to solve for him professionally. For now, the only thing you can focus on is the idea of attending an event centered around the nation’s top heroes, and how it makes your stomach twist. 

You absolutely cannot picture yourself there among them.

“I can’t attend that,” you protest immediately.

Bakugou gives you a hard look. “You’re makin’ me sit through it, so I’m makin’ you do it too. Fair ’n fuckin’ square.”

“Bakugou, can you not be stubborn for, like, half a day?” you scowl.

Naturally, he only scowls right back. “No. I can’t.”

“I can’t attend that event! It’s for heroes,” you insist. “And besides, I don’t have anything fancy enough to wear to something that huge, and I’m not dropping that kind of money for one night just because you’re being petty and sulky. Some of us don’t have the same amount of disposable income as—”

“Done,” he shrugs, grabbing your wrist and dragging you along behind him. “I’ll get you somethin’ to wear. That settles it.”

You sputter indignantly. “W-what? No—no, it does not settle it! I’m not just going to accept a dress from you, and you can’t—”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s…” You nearly trip trying to keep up with him. “That’s expensive!”

“So?”

“So normal people care about that!”

“I’m not normal,” he snorts. “I’m better than the normal extras you’re used to. Besides. Spoilin’ you is the first step to earning a date with you or whatever the fuck.”

That flusters you into silence. 

Apart from being a deeply smug thing to say, he’s right. He is not normal, and he is technically better than most normal individuals at most things. He is too skilled and successful not to be, so when he says that, you can’t even argue with him. But that’s also why you shouldn’t accept this lavish treatment—he should not be wasting his time and money on getting you a dress when you are too normal. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb when you attend this event, high-end dress or not. Attending alongside him will probably do him even more harm than good when people see the plain, boring publicist he has tagging along, and the media puts you under a microscope. 

But Bakugou is nothing if not stubborn and demanding. He drags you into his car, and there’s a quiet, short drive to a nearby boutique that is far too fancy and far too luxurious for you to even know about its existence. You open your mouth to continue protesting, but he’s already shoving open the glass doors of the absurdly upscale boutique before you can formulate another complaint.

Immediately, once you get a look around, you want to leave.

Everything inside is sleek and pristine and intimidatingly expensive. Dresses hang along the walls in neat rows beneath warm lighting, and the employees somehow look elegant enough to belong among the merchandise itself. One glance in passing at a price tag hanging off a dress nearly sends you into cardiac arrest. You might have to sell a liver just to afford one of these, and even then, you’re not even sure your liver would be worth as much as someone who is in peak condition—like a hero. Your liver must be worth half of that of an average, quirk-having individual. 

“Bakugou,” you whisper harshly, trying to tug him back toward the entrance, “I can’t afford to even breathe in here.”

“Good thing you’re not buyin’ anything then,” he says flatly. “Just hold your breath.”

“That is not a good thing!”

Before you can protest any more, a sales associate approaches the two of you with a bright smile as she says, “Welcome! How may I assist you both today?” She visibly dims the second Bakugou turns his sharp eyes at her—you don’t even blame her. He isn’t the most inviting client, you’d know that firsthand.

“We need somethin’ for the Billboard event,” he says bluntly as he jerks a thumb toward you. “For her.”

As soon as he says it, suddenly every eye in the vicinity is on you. Heat crawls violently up your neck. Billboard event…Dynamight…dress shopping with a girl…you can almost see the puzzle pieces clicking into place on everyone’s face as they stare at you, and you want the ground to swallow you whole from all the pairs of eyes that are hyper-focused on you and Bakugou. Luckily for you (and mainly for Bakugou, if you’re honest), this establishment is high-end enough that there is a strict no filming policy hung by the front, so you don’t have to worry about images of you two being released on the tabloids in a few hours.

Before the sales associate can say anything, another older woman comes in and says, “Ah! Katsuki, hello. Let me assist.”

Katsuki? Does she know him?

Before you can ask, or ponder on it any longer, the new woman takes a moment as she looks you over. If she has any thoughts, you can’t tell what they are by the time she throws on her best smile and says, “Let’s see, do you have a particular silhouette or color palette in mind?”

You open your mouth uselessly, then close it. Silhouette? Bakugou takes the chance to answer for you. “Somethin’ pretty.”

Well. That’s certainly helpful. But, even as it is, the associate smiles knowingly. “I believe we have a few options that may work. Come, along—come, come!” She claps her hands and turns, and you are left with no choice but to jog along behind her as Bakugou trudges beside you. 

“U-umm,” you stammer. “I was thinking…maybe something on the more simple—”

“Not simple,” Bakugou interrupts immediately.

You glare at him. “But I like simple.”

“You can’t dress like a boring corporate worker everywhere you go.”

“Well, I don’t know if this is going to come as a shock to you, but I actually am a boring corporate worker!”

The associate tries (and fails) to bite back a laugh.

The next thirty minutes are spent trying on dress after dress after dress. Bakugou makes himself comfortable on a bench in front of the dressing room, legs spread as he slouches against the wall, and the associate brings you what you assume are the current trending styles in formal attire. You wouldn’t know—the fabrics alone of the dresses you’re trying on are way above your pay grade. You feel like you’re committing a crime just touching them.

More shockingly, than anything, however, is how picky Bakugou happens to be when it comes to women’s fashion. He’s dissatisfied with practically everything the woman suggests and has you try on.

The first dress earns a dismissive grunt. “Too poofy.”

The second doesn’t meet his standards, either. “Ugly color.”

The third, he wrinkles his nose. “You look like you borrowed a dress from somebody’s aunt.”

“You’re probably annoying her,” you scold him through a hushed whisper when she takes back the newest batch of dresses you’ve tried on, heading off to grab a few more. “If you keep saying no to everything, she’s not going to want to help!”

“Tch. Doubt it. She knows my mom.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“My mom’s a designer,” he rolls his eyes, “she’s dragged me here more times than I can count. Fuckin’ old hag always had me carry her shit while she ran errands.”

The sales associate giggles while handing you another dress as she hears the tail-end of your conversation. “How’s Mitsuki doing lately?” She asks.

Bakugou rolls his eyes again. “Same as ever—nagging and screaming all day.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” she hums

You feel a weird tug in your heart. A weird tug that wonders what Bakugou’s mother is like and how his relationship with her is and what sort of life he was raised in. He seems agitated when he mentions her—his eyes are practically rolled to the back of his head, and his lips are curled into a deep frown, but still. There is clearly some form of exasperated fondness in his voice and a spark in his irises from the mention of her. Despite how much he acts like he is trying to hide it, Bakugou is blunter about his endearment than you initially thought.

Now that you know how to read him better, you know affection when it’s written on his face, and there is affection for his mother that makes you ache, to your surprise, for a glimpse of him that is more than hero costumes and bedsheets and office tables. You want to see him exist beyond that—in his childhood home and enduring his mother’s hands on his cheeks and on the photos there must be of him on the walls.

And then you brush the thoughts off with a slow exhale. When—if—there is a day like that, it will come. For now, you focus on the dress you are going to need.

The associate, turning back to you, murmurs, “I have a feeling this one might be a good choice,” as she gestures at the new dress she’s handed you to try on.

You look at it, frowning because you highly doubt it with someone as picky as Bakugou being there to give his opinions, but you take the dress into the fitting room anyway and try it on. And you realize why she seems to think he’ll like it as soon as you put it on—it’s the same deep green shade as his gauntlets. The fabric drapes smoothly over your frame, hugging your waist before flowing down into a long skirt that brushes your ankles. The neckline is modest enough to be event-appropriate, but the back dips lower than you expected, exposing just the perfect-sized strip of skin. The sleeves are sheer, delicate things that gather at your wrists, embroidered with subtle metallic threading that catches the light whenever you move.

It’s beautiful. It’s the first dress you’ve tried on that you not only feel confident enough in, but…but also makes you almost want to attend the event just for the chance to wear it.

The second you step out, Bakugou freezes. He doesn’t even pretend not to stare—just lets his eyes drag over you slowly as the door swings open. You step out in the dress, and he goes unusually quiet. Your stomach flips as he looks, and looks…and just looks. He says nothing. Then, after blinking, he seems to break from whatever trance he’s in and clears his throat, huffing as he crosses his arms and looks away from you instantly.

Suddenly, all that confidence washes away, and you’re left feeling very self-conscious—maybe he hates this one the most and is absolutely speechless at how you can make just about anything look bad.

“You hate it, don’t you?” you blurt, “I make every dress look weird, don’t I—”

He turns to the associate and says, while interrupting you, “This is the one.”

She brightens immediately. “I was thinking the same thing! The color suits her beautifully.”

Your face grows hot under the scrutiny as they both turn and stare at you while they nod their heads in approval. Not long after, with some minor alteration measurements she takes, the dress is paid for, and your address is listed for the upcoming delivery as soon as all the alterations are complete.

You walk out with him, walking to his car as you fiddle with your fingers. “Um, thank you…for the dress. Really—I love it. But, I probably won’t have anywhere else to wear it after this event, so you really didn’t have to waste so much money—”

“Jus’ wear it for me now and then,” he grins smugly, opening his passenger door for you. His canines look particularly sharp as he smirks and says, “’Cause I think we could make some good use out of it, Hellcat.”

—

TODAY 6:47 PM

UNKNOWN NUMBER: hiiiiiiyaa my little networking babe UNKNOWN NUMBER: its me mina. pinky!! u rmr me right? UNKNOWN NUMBER: kiri gave me ur number hope its ok to text u!

You: Hello! Of course it is, please feel free to contact me any time you see fit, and I’ll try and get back to you as soon as I can!

UNKNOWN NUMBER: omg totally no need to be so formal and serious with me nooo UNKNOWN NUMBER: we’re friends ok??? 

You: Right sorry haha I just thought maybe you messaged me for business related things

UNKNOWN NUMBER: well maybe i will soon enough ;) UNKNOWN NUMBER: ANYWAY!! did blasty buy u a dress yet for the billboard thing UNKNOWN NUMBER: he better have. i gave him until today before i took matters into my own hands

You: Yes he did actually You: You were in on that?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: girl LOL u dont even know UNKNOWN NUMBER: he asked me what size i thought u were. he was just gonna buy u some dress and hand it to u until i told him off UNKNOWN NUMBER: he is so lame sometimes UNKNOWN NUMBER: BUT im so glad ur coming we’ll have a good time!!! see u there ;)

You: Yes, I’m sure we will! See you there

(New contact saved: Mina <3)

────────────────────────

The Hero Billboard Chart JP Event is a flashy place to be. 

Of course, it would be grand—you always knew that much as inevitable, but it’s quite literally flashy. There is camera after camera after camera flashing and blinding your eyes with bright lights as they photograph every individual they can who walks into the building. 

Riot Grenade Agency has been generously sponsored by a private transportation company in exchange for an Instagram story highlighting them (courtesy of your resourceful networking), and you, Bakugou, and Kirishima pull up to the entrance in a sleek, black car with a driver who will be waiting for you all when you’re done. It makes things rather simple this way in case you have to leave in a rush, as heroes often tend to.  

Your dress fits you nicely with the alterations, and you think you’ve fixed yourself up to accessorize it and look semi-respectable enough that standing next to Dynamight and Red Riot of all people doesn’t make you look like a complete joke. Still, when you walk out—sandwiched between Kirishima in front of you and Bakugou behind you, the two of them trying to shield you from annoying, pressing reporters who have caught on all too quickly that your dress matches Bakugou’s hero costume—you’re already overthinking your appearance.

It isn’t until you’re inside, and Mina has found you instantly, that you feel better. 

She pulls you into a bone-crushing hug and says, “Oh, look at you! My networking babe looks stunning! Did you buy this gorgeous little piece off of Mister Dynamight’s card?”

Bakugou gives her a hard glare. “Shut your trap, Raccoon-Eyes. She got the dress. S’all that matters.” He gives you a proper once-over now that you’re standing and not cramped in the back seat of a car, and his eyes linger over your cleavage for a second before he huffs and looks away. “Looks good, by the way.”

Your face feels hot as you mumble, “Thank you.”

“You should ask him to take you shopping again and then tell me, and I’ll pull up,” she whispers to you—very loudly, of course, and with direct eye contact with the agitated blonde who is standing right there. “Then, I’ll sneak in my clothes with yours, and we can both dress on his card!”

You giggle alongside her as Bakugou growls at her taunt, shoving his hands in his pockets while he gives her a warning scowl. Mina takes it to no heart whatsoever, and you wonder how many years of friendship have been built beneath that comfortable taunting and bickering that flows so easily between them. How close they had to get during school and stay after it, too. How much a bond can strengthen when you fight things like life-threatening battles and brain-altering wars together. 

You don’t think Bakugou carries any feelings for Mina, nor do you think she has any particularly romantic thoughts of him, either. But a part of you cannot help but wonder how much more things between you and him might make sense if you were like Mina—if you knew him the same way Mina did and met him through the same circumstances. If you were here as a hero on an invite rather than as a publicist as a plus-one.

But you don’t have too long to dwell on that before you’re being ushered to your seats as the ceremonies begin, so you let Bakugou guide you to where there are three chairs reserved for you, him, and Kirishima. You’re once more sandwiched between the two of them—and you’re getting the sense that this was a calculated decision based on how adamant Kirishima seems to be about staying where he is when you offer to switch with him so he can chat with his best friend. 

Just what do they think is going to happen in here, you wonder to yourself—how terrible of events are they hypothetically preparing for that you cannot even sit down in a chair without them both surrounding you? Then again, you suppose that a building with the nation’s best heroes all in one place might be the ideal gathering for someone to attack if they were confident enough that they could actually face all the best heroes. You try not to dwell on how useless you are, that the two of them have to plan in advance for your safety, by just accompanying them.

By the time the stage lights are flashing and the room is dimmed, you spot the newest number two—Todoroki has grown quite a lot since the last time you saw him. The roundness of his young face has fully become an older, sharper version of himself, and his physique is taller and broader than it once was. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper to Bakugou, “do you think you can introduce me to Todoroki after this? I want to meet him.”

His jaw seems to grit at the question alone, but when he senses the awe in your voice, he all but growls. “What business do you have with fuckin’ Icy-Hot?”

“One time, when I was still working with Uwabami, he and Creati were doing an ad with her. This huge light from the set we were on was going to land on my head, but he rushed in and saved me,” you explain with an enthusiastic whisper. “It was so cool—I’ve never seen his ice so up close! I didn’t even get to say a word before they were dragging him back, though, and then I didn’t see him after, so I’d really like to thank him. Though I bet he doesn’t remember someone like me,” you let out a shy laugh. 

Bakugou stares at you with hard, unimpressed eyes. You shrink back at his gaze—right. You must sound particularly pathetic to him. 

“The fact that you had to be saved by that Half-and-Half bastard is an insult,” he grumbles, “don’t be a fuckin’ idiot ever again.”

“How was that my fault?” you huff. “Besides—”

“Shh! This is a ceremony here—have some decorum!” Someone—probably a sidekick since you don’t even really recognize him—in the row in front of you turns to glare at you rather agitatedly. The ceremony has already begun, and you didn’t even notice, too busy speaking to Bakugou. You shrink back in embarrassment as you let out a quick, nervous apology. 

Bakugou tenses as soon as you go, glaring bloody murder at the back of the head in front of him. “Oi!” he calls—and you’re mortified, reaching for his hand as it moves to grab at the stranger’s shoulder. 

“Hey!” you whisper, stopping him, “what are you doing?”

“M’not lettin’ some fuckin’ idiot talk to anyone from my agency like that! Does he not know who the fuck we are? You can’t just take that—”

“Shh,” you try to placate his temper, “just drop it.” The man was a tad bit more rude than he needed to be, that much is true—but still. You know better than to let Bakugou get worked up in the middle of an event that is literally hosted by the very people who decide his rankings. 

“No! That bastard has to apologize—”

“C’mon,” you plead. Then, before you can overthink, you take his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles. He seems to relax on instinct as soon as you do. “Let’s just leave it, okay?”

He sits there and stares at his hand in yours for a moment, lips curled into an unhappy scowl, before finally, after a moment, he caves. “Whatever,” he grunts—sulking, but undeniably complying. 

His hand stays like that in your grasp for the rest of the event, as the top ten heroes each say their pieces in ascending order on the stage. He doesn’t pull away and…and you cannot really bring yourself to let go, either, even if the gauntlets make it a little awkward of a position.

Finally, when it’s Todoroki’s speech, you lean in a little closer. (You don’t even realize the way Bakugou’s hand tightens around yours as soon as he notices it.)

“Thank you for your support. There are a lot of heroes working just as hard as I am, so I’ll continue doing my job to the best of my ability and try to live up to the expectations placed on me.” He pauses. “That’s all.”

You huff out a small laugh, murmuring, “Not a lot of words, that one, huh?”

Kirishima pipes in from the side, “Katsuki, you should be more like him! Maybe if you spoke less, people would like you more.”

“That would save me quite a workload, wouldn’t it?” You snort, agreeing. 

“Shut up, both of you,” he snaps. 

The man from earlier, sitting in front of you, turns and hisses, “Shh!”

And before Bakugou can practically knock his head off his shoulders, you gently pat his chest and murmur, “We’re only joking. I like my workload.”

He’s all but pouting as he eyes you with a nasty side glare and slumps back in his seat, sitting and seething at not just the blow to his pride, but the irritating asshole sitting in front of you that he can’t even tell off thanks to you. 

You giggle, shaking your head in fond amusement.

—

To your absolute delight (and Bakugou’s complete irritation), Kirishima manages to grab Todoroki and bring him to where you’re standing as he congratulates his former classmate, giving you the perfect opportunity to talk to the number two hero. 

“Hi…Shoto? Can I call you that? I know it’s, like, your hero name and stuff, but…I don’t know, it’s kinda weird calling you by your first name. Sorry, maybe that’s a dumb question, huh?”

“No,” he says politely, “Shoto is fine. It’s my hero name.”

“Ah, right,” you laugh nervously, “right, right. Of course it is—so uh, anyway! I think you definitely don’t remember this—you probably save, like…I don’t know, hundreds of people a week, right? And this was a while ago, but I used to work with Uwabami and—”

“You stood under that broken light, I remember you,” he nods in thought. “You might have taken some serious brain damage if that hit you.”

“Yes!” You nod animatedly, “That was me…clumsy me, huh? Standing under that light. Good thing I didn’t get brain damage thanks to you!”

“Yes, I think it’s good your brain is okay,” he nods seriously. Then, just as seriously (and genuinely), he asks: “Your brain is okay, right?”

“Are you fuckin’ dense?” Bakugou asks from the side. 

You give him a sharp look, and he all but pops a vein as you continue speaking. “My brain is perfect—again, all thanks to you! I never got to say anything that day—you were too busy. Totally understandable, by the way! But yeah…I just wanted to say thank you for saving me. And my brain. Oh, and congratulations on being number two! That’s a crazy impressive rank to have so early into your career!”

“Thank you,” he nods, smiling. “Please keep your brain safe.”

“Will do!” You beam as he’s grabbed by another crowd of people. “Lovely to meet you!”

He can only afford you a small, polite nod before he’s whisked away, and you’re left with Bakugou, who is glaring after his former classmate’s figure. 

“He’s so nice,” you sigh, “he’s so awkward, but it’s charming.”

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot, is what he is,” he glowers.

“You think everyone is an idiot,” you snort. Then, teasingly, you hum as you elbow his side, “You should consider being business partners with his agency. Guy like him will do wonders for your image, don’t you think?”

That seems to be the wrong thing to say. Seriously wrong, because he scowls and saunters off towards the exit as he grunts, “Event’s over. M’goin’ the fuck home.”

Without thinking, you run after him. “Wait! You haven’t even said bye to Kiri, or Mina, or the others from—”

“Doesn’t matter. I see ’em enough already.”

“But—” You’re running after him (and his annoyingly long legs that take huge steps) as he marches off to where the car from earlier is waiting for you all in the back parking lot of the building. “Bakugou, wait! What has gotten into you?”

He stops. Abruptly, he stops, turns, and levels you with a firm, hard look. You almost feel like shrinking under his gaze, but you’re used to it enough by now that you only take a step closer.

He grits out, “You wanna be his publicist or mine?”

“Huh?” You do a double-take. 

“It’s a one-word answer. Me or him?”

“You, of course,” you furrow your brows, “I was only joking about—”

“Good. Come on.”

With that, he yanks you into the car and grunts at the driver to drive to your address. 

“W-wait, what about Kiri—”

“He’ll get a ride somewhere. He’s old enough.”

“But—”

“Jus’ be quiet.”

You listen. For the rest of the car ride, you’re quiet. When the car stops at your apartment, you’re quiet. When he climbs out of the car with you and dismisses the driver with a nod, you’re still quiet. It’s not until he’s followed you up to your floor and you’re outside your door that you turn to him and finally work up the courage to say something. 

“Not that…” you clear your throat, “not that you’re not allowed in my home, but what is it exactly we’re uh…doing here?”

He studies you. His gaze is hard, his eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is set. You don’t understand. You don’t understand what it is that’s making him so…so different. He’s as grumpy and prickly as he always is—he’s not being particularly rude or cold, but something about him feels so…so guarded. And you don’t get it. 

Finally, he reaches for your jaw, angling it and pressing his mouth against it heavily. His mouth is hot and heavy against yours—the pressure of him pressing kisses against it is unlike the way he’s kissed you before. This isn’t fast or clumsy or needy or even sweet. This kiss is firm and slow, and he takes his time to make sure you can feel him against your mouth. When he pulls away, you’re pressed against your door, and his arm is caging you against it while the other is busy holding your face with his hand. 

“What’s so great about that Icy-Hot bastard?”

“What?”

“What sort of idiot is so amazed by some fuckin’ ice? You’re tellin’ me you were so amazed ’cause you never seen his ice so up close?” He scowls as he quotes your words from earlier. 

Finally, it clicks—he’s jealous. A feeling you honestly thought Bakugou was immune to, if you were being honest. But he’s only human, after all. A person, even if a rather larger-than-life sort of one. You never took him for someone who would be jealous over something as trivial as a few jokes about PR—you’re sure he’d have been jealous of Kirishima a long time ago if it were just that. 

So then, why is Todoroki such a sore spot? You can’t figure it out—

“You’re not gonna need anyone to save you from here on out,” he brushes his hands over your hips, gliding them behind you to the small of your back before pressing you forward against his chest. “M’gonna fuckin’ be the one who saves you if your dumbass needs saving. Idiot.”

Ah. So that’s what it is—you should have known. Of course, he wouldn’t be jealous of Todoroki’s temperament or his looks or his rank or anything of that sort. Bakugou is…well, rightfully too confident for petty feelings of inadequacy over that. He knows you like him, and he’s not threatened by trivial things such as someone’s charm. You are here with your breath hitched at the simplest touch from him—he is certainly not lacking in his own form of appeal.

But there is only one thing that he is equally rivaled by Todoroki. And that is saving people. They are both strong and capable, and you think, even on their best days, they would end with a draw if they fought. Todoroki being the one to save you, to be your hero, is a loss that Bakugou is not happy to be a good sport about. So you reach forward, cupping his cheeks as you kiss along his jaw. 

“Of course, you will,” you grin as you peck his lips, “maybe I should get myself into trouble a lot. Have you come save me and be my hero—that’s my new strategy to get your rank up. Solid plan, huh?”

He snorts, hands roaming over your hips as he squeezes them and pulls you impossibly closer against him. “Mmh,” he hums, kissing along your jaw and trailing down to your collarbone. “Leave it to you to come up with stupid fuckin’ ideas. Give me a damn headache.”

You pull him by the shirt to come kiss your lips again, and you can’t help but feel so ridiculous standing there in that extravagant dress when he is in his hero costume. All heroes show up to the event in their costumes—seeing as you don’t have one, Bakugou opted for getting you the next best option. The nicest dress you’ve ever owned. And wearing it now, in front of him as his gauntlet-clad hands roam your body, you wonder why he would ever feel jealous over someone like you of all people. Someone who is not worth his jealousy.

But he doesn’t seem to think that—he seems more interested in getting inside your apartment, instead. 

“Open that damn door,” he grumbles against your mouth. 

“Stop kissing me, then,” you huff.

“You’re fuckin’ kissing me.”

“No, you’re kissing me—”

“Open the fuckin’ door before I explode it open.”

You give him a warning look before you reach into your purse and grab your keys. He eyes the little cat on your keychain and snorts, earning a glare from you. “Don’t laugh at my sushi cat.”

“M’not.”

“Don’t lie to me, either.”

“You drive me fuckin’ nuts,” he shakes his head—and he’s smiling. He’s smiling, and his eyes are a rare shade of soft that they only ever are around you. And you think for a moment that, even despite not having a hero costume to wear to an event like the Billboard event the way that Bakugou does, perhaps you’re worth smiling over and being jealous for. 

When your door opens, and you both stumble in, his arms around your waist as he kicks your door shut, he barely has the patience to make it to your couch before he’s collapsing back against it, pulling you onto his lap. You let him pull you onto him, straddling his hips as you cup his face and kiss him harder. 

“Wait,” he grunts after a moment—you’re hardly in the mood to listen, so you ignore him. But his hand grabs your wrists and holds them for a moment firmly as he says, more serious this time: “Wait.”

“Why,” you practically pout.

“Let me take the gauntlets off. They’re dangerous.”

“That’s hot,” you wink.

Bakugou rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Real hot until you lose an arm.”

“Then I could sue you for loads of money,” you wink.

He looks at you incredulously. “You are the worst headache I’ve ever had.”

He shifts you off his lap just enough to work on the bulky gauntlets strapped to his forearms. The familiar clicks of buckles and clasps fill your apartment while you sit there impatiently, watching him.

“Are you done yet?” you ask.

“No. Wait. You’re bein’ impatient.”

“Because you’re taking forever.”

“Then do it yourself.”

You immediately reach for one as you hum, “Well, if you insist—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he levels you with a firm look.

You snatch your hand back, pouting as you huff, “Then why’d you say it? Jus’ wanted to feel them.”

“See?” he says, clicking his teeth. “Headache. I just said they were dangerous.”

A few moments later, alongside some healthy arguing back and forth, both gauntlets are resting safely on your coffee table. The second he’s finished, you barely have time to grin before he’s pulling you back onto his lap.

“There. M’done,” he mutters. “Happy?”

“Very. Pay attention to me now.”

“You’re a fuckin’ brat,” he says—and he sounds rather happy about it, so you like to think he’s not complaining. 

“I think you like that,” you note.

He doesn’t deny it as his hands settle onto your waist, and yours slide into his hair. The kiss that follows makes your body feel like it’s overheating, lighting on fire, and combusting. You wonder if everything Bakugou touches does that—if he can make anything that comes in contact with his hands explode, and not just that sweat he produces. It’s warm and familiar, being touched by him like this, being kissed by him like this. Even if the last time you kissed him was technically only your second time, and kissing him isn’t anything that’s really familiar to you at all, it still feels like it is. Like it’s only natural for you to do so. Like you only know this—him and his lips.

At some point, his shirt is peeled off and tossed messily over the floor. Your dress is unzipped and halfway pulled down your body as his hands cup your breasts and squeeze with a satisfied hum when you gasp and arch into him. 

“You like it when I play with these, huh?” He hums, smirking.

You give him an incredibly scandalized look as you sputter, “N-no, I do not! Stop saying…weird things!”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see,” he chuckles. “I think you’re a liar.” Just when he reaches to undo the clasp of your bra, his phone starts ringing.

Neither of you moves. It vibrates insistently from his pants’ pocket, the sound endlessly ringing through your living room. Finally, you sigh, reaching over to pull it out for him and glance toward the screen.

“It’s Kirishima.”

Bakugou doesn’t look very happy. “He’s probably just callin’ about his ride home. Just ignore it.”

“Maybe you should answer? What if it’s important?” You mumble.

“He’s a grown man, he’ll figure somethin’ out and get home on his own. Now c’mere.” He grabs his phone from your hand and tosses it beside him, the call ringing out and ending. He’s tugging you closer as he kisses your jaw and grabs your bra clasps to undo them. The clasp comes undone, and he slides the undergarment off, freeing your tits for him to see. His eyes darken, and he hums at the sight of them—you can feel the growing bulge in his pants under you. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he breathes. 

Except just when he reaches to touch you, the phone immediately starts ringing again. You both turn your heads and abruptly stare at it. This time, Bakugou groans.

“What could it possibly fuckin’ be?”

“I think it’s important if he’s calling you again,” you bite your lip.

“I know,” he grumbles, “Ei never calls twice—just spams me with texts if he’s tryin’ to get my attention for non emergencies.”

The third ring hasn’t even finished before he snatches the phone off the couch and answers. “What is it?” he says gruffly.

The response on the other end, whatever it is, instantly wipes the irritation from his face. You watch the shift happen in real time. It’s like all the relaxation and ease in his posture is flushed out of his body and replaced with something more rigid and tense. Something more serious and important. 

Bakugou sits up straighter. “Wait—what the fuck do you mean?”

A pause. His jaw tightens as Kirishima speaks again through the phone. You can hear the sound of his voice, muffled, but you can’t make out what he’s saying, even though you try. You do make out a few words, though—attack, serious, civilians, really strong. You have a sneaking suspicion that you know why he’s called.

“How bad?”

Another pause as Bakugou listens. Then—

“Kay, I’ll be there in five—just lemme grab my gauntlets.”

He hangs up, and you already know the answer before you ask. “Is it a villain?”

He sighs, rubbing your arms slowly up and down as he says, “Yeah.” He drags a hand down his face and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “M’sorry, Hellcat, I’ll make it up to—”

“It’s okay,” you smile softly, leaning to kiss his nose. “I know it comes with your big hero job. You promised Kiri it’d be five minutes, so you should hurry.”

You slide off his lap, and he stares at the ceiling for a second. Then another. Finally, he mutters, “I hate this job.”

You laugh, grinning. “That’s a lie.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he grins a little. He stands and reaches for his shirt on the floor, sliding it on before grabbing his gauntlets, pulling them up his arms, and clicking them in place. “We’ll continue this some other time.”

“I’ll count on it,” you hum.

You walk him to your front door, and as Bakugou reaches for the handle, he pauses just long enough to turn, pull you in for one last quick kiss, and murmur, “If this ends up on the news, be sure you watch me kick ass, yeah?”

And then he walks out, and you close the door after him, murmuring quietly to yourself (because you’re not yet brave enough to say it to him where he can hear), “Be safe, Katsuki.”

You skip right over your own clothes that you finally find, focusing on the other set. Those are Bakugou’s clothes, are they not? Unless you’re going crazy, those are definitely Bakugou’s clothes. Then you look down at the arm curled around you and…and that is definitely Bakugou’s arm. You’d recognize that scar anywhere. You’ve seen it too many times when he shows up to the office in a tight black tank top and leaves his arms out on display. That is Bakugou’s arm, and those are Bakugou’s clothes, so then this must be Bakugou’s bed. 

Which means you slept with Bakugou. 

Bakugou.

Bakugou.

Your heart immediately begins hammering against your ribs.

You slept with your boss, your brain starts chanting in horror inside your head, you slept with your boss, you slept with your boss, you slept with your fucking boss. The thought repeats like a broken record in your mind as you stare blankly at the wall in front of you.

For a moment, you don’t move. Perhaps, if you stay perfectly still, reality will then politely undo itself, and you can forget about this absolutely life-altering mess that you just got yourself into. 

But it doesn’t. The weight of his arm remains around you, and the warmth of his body remains pressed against yours. If you turn around, Bakugou will be right there, (hopefully) sleeping. You try to wrack your brain to figure out how the hell you could have possibly gotten yourself into this predicament, and somewhere behind you, Bakugou lets out a sleepy exhale. The sound alone makes you shiver, and it makes every memory from last night come rushing back with brutal, gut-punching clarity.

The drinks. His friends. The Uber. The elevator ride up. His apartment. Him. 

Everything comes flooding your mind like a wave you can’t escape, no matter how hard you try, and you are drowning. Drowning in guilt, and shame, and disbelief that you could have done this. How could you have done this? You have more self-respect than this, surely. You do. You’re smart and wise and know how to work your way up to the place you’re in now—you’re resourceful and cunning, and you clawed your way into a high-paying position well up the corporate ladder in the hero industry of all industries, and you did it all without a quirk. 

You, a quirkless and overlooked member of this society, despite all the odds, managed to land a place in UA’s business course. Even courses like that—courses so far removed from being a hero—tend to find young, ambitious students who have promising powers to aid in their studies. But you managed to do it with nothing. And you managed to graduate and land yourself a spot in the agency of a hero like Uwabami, and then Riot Grenade, and you are positive that even better things will come later down the road. 

And because of that, you cannot allow this poor choice you made when you weren’t in your right mind to affect anything you’ve built for yourself. Someone like you who has to work three times harder and get recognized a quarter as often. You refuse to let that all go to waste and be for nothing, so carefully—very carefully—you lift Bakugou’s arm.

The movement immediately makes him shift behind you. You instantly stop breathing.

Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake—

A soft snore reaches your ears. You sigh in relief before continuing to pull away until finally, thankfully, you slip out from underneath his arm.

Bakugou grumbles something incoherent into his pillow as soon as you do, face twisting as his arm blindly reaches for the warmth of your body again. You freeze again before quickly pressing your pillow (which thankfully smells like you) into his arms. It placates him. He nuzzles into it and inhales before relaxing. You ignore the deep, piercing ache in your chest at the sight of him and turn to find your clothes, which are scattered throughout the room.

You grab your undergarments first. Then your pants. Then your shirt. Each item you quickly put on after retrieving feels like losing even more tiny pieces of your dignity. By the time you’re dressed, your face burns with shame, but you shove it down to wallow in later. Right now, you need to get out of here, get home, and then be ready for work on time. You are going to go to work and face this head-on and keep your place in that office. 

You glance toward the bed one last time to check on him. Bakugou is sprawled across his mattress, face half-buried in a pillow. His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, and yet, even asleep, he somehow manages to look unfairly attractive.

You immediately look away.

You need to leave. Right now. And it needs to happen before he wakes up.

When you’ve gathered your purse, and you’ve made sure you look at least semi decent enough to leave his place—you could not be any more grateful that he is the only unit on his floor and no one will see you do the walk of shame—you head for the front door.

One hand closes around the doorknob, and you turn it. You’re just about to pull the door and open it, when—

“You know,” a rough voice says behind you, causing you to stiffen. “I always saw you as a sentimental type that stayed mornings and shit. Not the type to walk out ’n do the walk of shame.”

“Ah,” you swallow, hand still on the doorknob, “I uh…need to go home and get ready. So I’m not late to work.”

“You work for me,” Bakugou huffs. “S’not like I’d care. So…come back to bed. Or whatever.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you mumble. It’s silent. You wince at the thick, heavy silence as it lingers on and on…and on. You almost go a little insane by it, so you’re about to speak up and say your farewells before he beats you to it.

“Why the fuck not?” He sounds a little irritated. More shockingly, he sounds a little upset. He almost sounds like it’s bothering him that you think that snuggling up to him in bed the morning after fucking him is a bad idea. “So what, you just fuck your bosses for the hell of it?”

“No,” you frown, still not facing him.

“Good, I’d hope not,” he huffs, “I’d hope you had a valid reason for gettin’ intimate with me—so come back to bed.”

“I can’t do that, and you know it,” you say, barely audible. 

“I don’t know it,” he hisses stubbornly, “if y’don’t have a habit of gettin’ with your employers, then last night was a special case—in which case, why the fuck are you actin’ like waking up next to me is committin’ some crime?”

Your grip tightens around the doorknob. “It’s not that—”

“Then what is it?”

You finally turn, slow and reluctant, and the sight of him nearly knocks the breath out of you. Bakugou is so pretty in the mornings, wearing nothing but his boxers with messy blonde hair sticking up in every direction, and tired, puffy eyes from just waking up. Even with irritation written plainly across his face, he’s so pretty. 

But underneath all that pretty, there is something there in his expression. Hurt. As though your rejection genuinely wounded him.

“You’re my client,” you say carefully, “and I don’t find it wise to get intimate with my clients, and I certainly can’t start making it a habit, so—”

His eyes narrow instantly. “Bullshit answer.” Maybe he cares—does he care?

“It’s the truth.” He doesn’t care—there’s no way that he does.

“No,” he snaps, voice turning sharp. He cares, he cares, he cares, your mind screams in tandem with your heart. But the truth is, that is still not enough to convince you. “It’s not the truth ’cause it didn’t fuckin’ bother you last night.”

Heat rushes to your face. “That’s not fair.”

“Why?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. You don’t know what to say.

The truth is that you don’t know how to explain it without sounding pathetic. The truth is that you know last night was a moment of weakness that fulfilled your wishful fantasies. For a short evening, you let yourself ignore the truth and live in a dream. A dream where this could be your world, and you could belong in it, and that your world could include someone like Bakugou. Last night had been so easy to justify in the moment. A simple lapse in judgment. An easy thing your drunk mind convinced itself to indulge in and then write off as a mistake, and never look back on. 

But staying with him in the morning changes things. Cuddling with him in the morning in his soft bed will destroy your perfect little daydream. Him asking you to stay in the morning will pop your tiny little bubble. This intimacy in the morning exists outside the excuse of alcohol and lust and a rare bad choice, throwing you into reality. And here, in reality, you know you don’t belong. Not with Bakugou, and not in his world.

“Because,” you grit your teeth.

“Because what?” he asks, impatient.

Your fists clench at your sides as you snap, “Because! Last night was us not thinking! We didn’t think before we did…stuff. But if you think about it, we can’t…we can’t be doing this. You’re…I don’t know, you’re just you!”

“What the fuck does that mean?” he recoils as though you’ve just insulted him. He looks so upset, you almost want to cry. You don’t understand it. How could you have let yourself start to genuinely care for someone so above what you’re allowed to have? How could you set yourself up like that?

“It means that us doing this makes no sense! You have no business going after someone like me,” you shoot back, exasperated. “Do you see that? Last night, you sat there with your friends talking about the people you saved, or the new moves you’re working on, or the good old high school memories you share. You’ve all gone through hell and back together. And I was just…sitting there. Listening. And—”

“What, is that it?” he cuts in sharply. “You felt left out over a few innocent conversations about hero work? Do you even hear yourself? You’re above that bullshit. Everyone loved you—”

“No,” you shake your head, voice tightening. “They love you. And they love Kiri. And anyone you both bring, they’ll love them too—because they’re your friends. Don’t get me wrong, they were kind. They did everything right. But you and I both know what I am.”

His brows knit, irritation flashing. “And what the hell are you?”

“I’m just—” you laugh, but there’s no humor in it, “—a random, quirkless girl who types up your social media posts for a living while you and your friends go out and save people. You guys lived through a war after saving everyone, for crying out loud. I have no place in a room like that. With people like them.”

“They’re just fuckin’ people,” he scowls, like you’ve said something genuinely stupid. “They’re just people, you damn idiot. What the hell are you on about? What, you think you’re only half of a person or some shit ’cause you don’t got a power?”

“Wha—no! I never said—”

“They clock in, save people, clock out, and then they live their lives just like you do. What’s there to glorify? Are you dumb? You think heroes need to sit around in capes to have fun?”

“No! I just—”

“Look,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling hard as he forces himself to slow down and gather his thoughts. “I’m not…you’re not—fuck, this is so stupid,” he mutters. “Okay. You’re normal. Nothing special.”

“Wow. Thanks,” you scoff, heat creeping up your neck as you feel extra self-conscious. “I got that—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, cutting you off. “I’m not done.”

You go quiet.

“You’re normal,” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s trying to get it right. “And your life doesn’t have that…that heavy shit like mine does. S’nice—s’not always a bad thing. I don’t wanna come home after a long day of hero things and then deal with more hero crap. I don’t want someone dragging that back with them to me.” He clicks his tongue, jaw tightening. “And yeah, it’s selfish. Cause I’d bring it back to you, so…sorry. Or whatever.”

You blink at that—at the rough, reluctant apology that’s unexpectedly shoved in the middle of his rant.

“But I don’t…” he pauses, sighing, “being a hero isn’t some requirement to sit with me and my dumbass friends in a dumb fucking room. You got that? Nobody gives a fuck about shit like quirks off the battlefield, and nobody’s lookin’ at what power you got before they let you in their company. You just…have to be a person who isn’t fucking annoying. That’s it. It’s not that complicated. You’re the one who keeps making it complicated.”

You stand there, processing his words slowly, one sentence at a time. Your lips wobble, and your vision blurs, and something that sounds like a strangled whimper gets caught in your throat as tears spill over your cheeks. He looks alarmed—fucking horrified and exasperated all at once as he groans and walks over. 

“Now you’re crying?” he huffs in disbelief, “you haf’ta be joking.” Rough and calloused hands—and yet, so gentle and soft—come and grab your face, cradling it as the thumbs swipe at your tears. “You’re gonna drive me fucking nuts, you idiot.”

He kisses your forehead. You let him. Because you need it—need him to care. Care about you. Need to know that caring about you is worth his time and effort. 

“Your world is so different from mine,” you whisper, sniffling, “I just…I don’t know how to be a part of it, Bakugou.”

“It’s Katsuki. And you work in an office that’s two doors down from mine. Are you even hearing yourself?” he rolls his eyes, pulling you into his chest. You tiredly slump right into it. “We’re in the same fuckin’ world. Same air, same sky, same idiots surrounding us—we even piss in the same toilet.”

You let out a watery giggle. “Only you would say that when you’re trying to be comforting.”

“Well, I never have to be comforting anyone, so this is on you,” he scowls, “get out of your head.”

He pokes your forehead with a jab, and you pout, and he closes his eyes as he sees that look on your face, letting out a shaky exhale. Then, without warning, his lips are on yours, kissing you hard and deep and impatient. You kiss back—and it’s needy. It’s just as demanding as his, demanding that he let you into his space and belong. 

And he does. He lets you in, pulling you even closer while he’s at it. 

“I don’t want someone else because if I did, I’d have them in my apartment,” he says plainly as he pulls away. “Simple as that. Got it? And when I want something, I don’t change my mind—you can ask anyone.”

“You’ve never even seemed interested in me, so excuse me if this all sounds crazy,” you tell him warily. 

“Course I have,” he argues, “you’re just fuckin’ dense.”

“Yeah? Why do you want me, then? I need to know,” you demand.

“I have no idea,” he says flatly, looking at you in irritation, “I just do, and it’s annoying. I wish I wanted someone who pissed me off less. And bossed me around less, too.”

You give him a sour look. “Well, I wish I wanted someone a little more sensitive—holy fuck, you suck at this.”

“And you still want me anyway, so what am I losing, huh?” he smirks, looking rather smug. (And then he kisses you again—so sweet, so delicate, you have to wonder if he’s lying. He knows exactly why he wants you, you think.) “So are you gonna have breakfast with me or what?”

You slump back into his chest, hiding your face away as you mumble, “Fine.”

“Oi,” he snaps, “don’t say it like goin’ out with me is a chore.”

“We are not going out, Bakugou,” you glance up at him.

He frowns, very unexcited to hear that, as he says, “I told you it’s Katsuki.” 

“It’s still Bakugou,” you shake your head. 

When he opens his mouth to protest, you cut him off—

“You’ve never hinted that you were interested in me, and you’re still my client and employer, and you have to prove that you’re serious about this,” you say firmly, pointing an accusing finger into his chest, “meaning you have to convince me you’re not just saying stuff out of your ass before you earn yourself a date. And then you can say we’re going out. And then I will address you by your given name.”

“Why does it have to be so damn complicated when we literally fucked last n—”

“Otherwise, this might be considered abusing power in the workplace,” you raise a brow. 

He glares, rubbing a hand over his face before he groans. “Holy shit, are you kiddin’ m—you know what? Fine—I’ll earn that date and show you, you fuckin’ hellcat.”

“Wonderful,” you beam. You detach yourself from his arms as he gives you a flat, unimpressed look. “I like my eggs sunnyside up.”

—

You and Bakugou come into the office later than Kirishima—separately, at least, since you had insisted on going to your apartment and getting ready there properly, despite his deep irritation at the thought of you leaving. But you both walk in not far apart from each other, late by a good thirty minutes. Kirishima does not do a very good job of eyeing between the two of you and hiding his knowing, amused look, so you decide to simply trudge into your office miserably and fight the shame clinging to your skin. 

You fucked your boss last night, and your other boss definitely knows it. Fantastic. 

But you don’t have time to dwell on it because not even an hour into your shift, Kirishima bursts through the door with an envelope in hand as he says in a rushed, almost incoherent sentence: “The-second-semester-ranks-are-here!”

Your jaw drops—that’s rather early. You weren’t expecting them for at least another week and, admittedly, you were counting on having that week to do just the slightest bit more miracle work on Bakugou’s public image. But that is clearly not an option now, so you follow Kirishima into the agency’s conference room, where Bakugou is already seated, arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently. 

Do not stare at his arms, you tell yourself. Do not stare, do not stare, do not stare—

“Here,” Kirishima hands you the envelope, “you do the honors of opening and reading them. You’re the one who works hard on managing these ranks, right?”

You absolutely do not want to have to be the one who reads them out loud, because if you failed at your job and let them both slip tremendously, then you will have to verbally recite your failures to your bosses with your own mouth. You don’t want to have to do that humiliation ritual. At least, with Bakugou, you have some reasonable excuses as to why he would fall off the ranks. It’s a given that he’d do that much with or without you. But if Kirishima’s rank isn’t an improvement…

Well. Then you’d be a failure, and your career would be over, and you would be a worthless hire, and everyone within the industry would know it, and your future would be dim, and—

“Just read the damn ranks already,” Bakugou grumbles, glaring at you in irritation as you’re pulled out of your spiralling thoughts. 

Right, you think—it’s now or never. Whether there is good or bad news in this envelope, you can’t avoid it forever, so with a deep breath, you rip the envelope open and pull out the paper, skimming the words on the document. 

Your eyes immediately dart downward toward the numbers. And then—

Oh. Oh, thank god.

Dynamight — #15.

Red Riot — #12.

You’re saved. Your career is secure, and your reputation in the corporate world is intact. At the very least, you won’t be jobless. Kirishima has improved, and Bakugou…well, you already knew you were dealing with a drop, but it’s not nearly as catastrophic a drop as you were expecting. Honestly speaking, you’re relieved—which feels horrible to admit, even internally, but it’s the simple truth.

You’ve certainly had a number of successful PR stunts to help him, but the overwhelming reality is that Bakugou has had one too many negative moments in the media. After the last few months of increasingly aggressive interviews and viral clips of him insulting reporters and civilians, you genuinely prepared yourself for the possibility of him dropping below the top twenty entirely.

But fifteen feels like a miracle. Fifteen is easily salvageable. The tension leaves your body so abruptly that it nearly makes you dizzy.

“What?” Kirishima leans forward immediately. “What is it?”

You blink down at the paper once more just to make sure you didn’t somehow hallucinate the numbers. But they’re luckily still there, and your shoulders visibly sag with relief before you can stop yourself.

Bakugou notices instantly. “The hell’s with that face?” he asks sharply.

“Well, before I get into the numbers, I just want to start by saying that all things considered, these rankings are very much on the better side of the coin! Which I think is fabulous news, I would say—”

Bakugou’s eyes narrow immediately. “Just read the damn thing.”

You clear your throat and straighten the paper in your hands. “Red Riot has risen from rank sixteen to rank twelve.”

Kirishima practically lights up. “No way!” he laughs, slapping both hands onto the table. “Seriously? That’s so awesome—four is a huge jump when you’re in the top twenty, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you nod, unable to stop a small smile from pulling at your mouth. “That’s a really impressive increase—this’ll be amazing for the agency.”

“Holy shit,” he breathes, grinning brightly—that same toothy, charming smile so easily spreading on his face. “I can’t believe it.”

Bakugou simply scoffs, still keeping that agitated, grumpy look on his face. But you know him well enough by now that you can see the way tension falls from his shoulders fractionally at his friend’s good news. And his agency’s, for that matter. 

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue. “Good for you.”

Kirishima snorts. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

“I’m not fuckin’ bitter!”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’ll kill you, hair-for-brains.”

You quickly continue before the two of them derail entirely from the matter at hand. “And…” Your voice weakens just slightly as you wince in advance for this blow you’re about to deal. “Dynamight has dropped from rank four to rank fifteen.”

It’s silent. Bakugou stares at you, processing your words from across the table while Kirishima winces loudly enough to be heard. “Oof,” he mutters.

Bakugou’s head instantly whips towards Kirishima as he glares at him. “Oof?” he repeats dangerously.

“W-well, it’s not the worst, of course, but…I’m just sayin’, man, eleven spots is a little rough.”

You can practically see the vein pop in the blonde’s forehead as he hisses, “Shut the hell up! You think you’re better than me?”

Honestly, you expected the yelling. And the irritation. Maybe even an explosion. What you’re not prepared for is the way Bakugou huffs and leans back in his chair with an annoyed scowl, arms crossed. Like he already knew. Which…to be fair, he probably did if he wasn’t particularly dense. And he isn’t. Everyone has more or less been expecting a drop in Dynamight’s rankings. It’s always just…been a matter of how badly the drop would be. 

“Hey, it’s not so bad. Thankfully, you didn’t drop below the twenties, so this is way better than what I was preparing for,” you blurt before thinking. Both men look at you. You immediately want to die—that sounded way better in your head. “I mean, like,” you cough awkwardly, trying to recover, “obviously rank fifteen is still very respectable, so I just think it could be worse! N-not that I think it should be worse or anything—”

“You thought I was gonna drop below the top twenties?” Bakugou interrupts incredulously.

“No,” you lie instantly. “Never!”

He stares at you, lips curling into a rather betrayed scowl. Your face grows hotter. Kirishima bursts into laughter.

“Oh my god,” Kirishima wheezes, “dang, Katsuki. Our own publicist thinks you should be lower!”

“I don’t think that!” you sputter quickly.

“You absolutely do,” he practically giggles. He’s taking more pleasure than you thought in the fact that his literal business partner’s market value has dropped a tad.

“I was just…preparing for all possible outcomes. It’s my job,” you defend weakly.

Bakugou scoffs, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “So what,” he says, eyes fixed directly on you, “you thought I was gonna fall below all the fuckin’ losers on those charts, huh?”

“I didn’t say that,” you huff, rolling your eyes, “I just had some rough estimates based on my knowledge, okay? But it’s not like I’m unhappy to be wrong.”

“Of course you were fuckin’ wrong,” he snaps bitterly, sulking as he gives you a dirty look. “Don’t lump me in with those other idiots on the charts—I’m better than them.”

Beside him, Kirishima scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as he listens, probably choosing to keep his mouth shut from what he really wants to say. It’s probably for the best that he does. Despite it all, there’s a visible sort of excitement he’s trying very hard to suppress.

“Twelve’s pretty good though, right?” he switches the topic back to him earnestly. You nod enthusiastically in confirmation.

Bakugou reaches over and snatches the paper from your hand to see things for himself. “Fifteen,” he repeats flatly.

Kirishima winces yet again. “Hey, but look at it this way—”

“Only way to look at it is I fuckin’ dropped eleven spots.”

“Well, yes,” Kirishima laughs nervously, “but to be fair, you do kinda threaten civilians sometimes.”

“Hah?”

“Yeah,” you agree with a sigh, “in fact, you imply bodily harm pretty frequently,” you mumble before you can stop yourself.

Bakugou’s eyes snap toward you instantly. And it’s awful, really, how you feel when he looks at you. How different it is now to have those eyes on you, no matter where you are. Those eyes that saw every inch of you and roamed every patch of skin they could land on. Those eyes that rolled back from pleasure when you—

You quickly stop yourself. You cannot think about how you spent last night in his apartment. Or how you woke up in his bed. Or how he kissed you half-conscious against his kitchen counter while you tried to make coffee as he made breakfast, grumbling into your mouth about you’re movin’ around too much.

You cannot think about him like that when you are sitting across from him in his office building. For work.

“Jus’ ’cause I say shit doesn’t mean I actually mean it,” he sulks yet again, “these people are such fuckin’ morons for believing everything they hear.”

Kirishima snorts. Bakugou crumples the ranking paper and throws it at him. It bounces uselessly off Kirishima’s shoulder, and you sigh—you’ll be needing that again later to read the reports, so now you have a perfectly wrinkled piece of paper to work with.

“Look. Objectively speaking,” you begin carefully, slipping into your best professional tone, hoping that it’ll soothe him if you sound like you mean business, “these rankings are not disastrous. Red Riot moving from sixteen to twelve is excellent for agency visibility, and fifteen is still a strong enough placement to maintain current sponsorships.”

Bakugou does not take much soothing to that. “Strong enough?” he growls.

“You know what I mean.”

“You seem pretty relieved,” he says bitterly, “why the hell are you relieved over me droppin’ rankings?”

You don’t know if he’ll like your answer. Telling him that it’s because you expected worse, that you spent half of last week drafting backup proposals in case sponsors started pulling out, that seeing fifteen is a miracle compared to the thirties you were expecting, doesn’t seem like it’ll put him in a particularly good mood. And he’s almost always in a bad mood as it is.

“I’m relieved the damage wasn’t more severe,” you answer professionally. And then, a little more genuinely, “Plus, your rank is not indicative of your actual skills. But, I’m sure you realize by now why the press is so important.”

Bakugou gives you a deep scowl for what feels like the millionth time. 

Kirishima, on the other hand, is entirely too excited by his own success and grins brightly as he nudges his friend’s elbow. “Don’t worry, bro! My twelve will definitely get us some good press,” he beams. “C’mon, that’s pretty manly of me.”

“You’re insufferable,” Bakugou mutters. “Everyone get back to work—there’s still shit to do in this agency.”

With that, he walks out of the conference room and into his office, the door slamming and making you wince. You sigh deeply. Of course, just when you allowed yourself to think that perhaps…perhaps you could enjoy whatever this is you have with him, something is thrown in the mix to make it seem impossible. 

Bakugou is probably at his wits’ end with you—partly because he seems rather unhappy that you expected worse from him and partly because…well, you made him do all those things against his will that he hated to keep his rank afloat, and it’s still not something he’s satisfied with. Though you supposed he’d never be truly satisfied with something that isn’t the best—but still. He strives for nothing less than improvement at the very least. 

Before you can dwell on it for too long, however, there’s a hand on your shoulder, and you look up to be met with Kirishima’s kind smile. 

“Don’t take it too hard,” he says gently. “He knows as well as I do that he didn’t drop any lower than he did, all thanks to you. Frankly, I think if we had anyone else filling your spot, he’d have dropped worse. If he’s frustrated, it’s with himself—trust me on that.”

Your lip wobbles a little. It’s so stupid. But hearing it from Kirishima—who is not just your boss, but the best friend of this man you have…complicated feelings for—means a great deal more than you’re willing to admit. 

So you nod slowly, giving him a small, watery smile. “Thanks, Kiri,” you murmur. “Really.”

“Of course,” he closes his eyes and beams, “anything for my amazing publicist! You’re half of why I even jumped like that. Can’t have you thinking you did anything less than spectacular!”

“No,” you chuckle, “no, I think you did that yourself. It was your hard work that did that. You do some really great hero work out there.”

“Yeah, it was my hard work—but it was yours, too,” he says easily. “People only trust me so I can do that hero work because of you and the proper reputation you’ve helped me build. You’re awesome!”

With a light squeeze to your shoulder, he’s off, walking to his own office and leaving you there to ponder over his words. After a few moments, you set your shoulders back and stand, sighing before you pick up that crumpled-up paper to get to work. And you have a lot of work to get to.

You’re going to get Bakugou back up in the top ten—if it’s the last thing you do.

────────────────────────

Despite Bakugou’s initial reaction to his ranking dropping, he surprisingly doesn’t let it interfere with…whatever this is between the two of you. Your budding relationship, you suppose. You return to your normal routine for the most part, but now, you suppose there are some added perks. Bakugou is, shockingly, not the type of person to play mind games when he’s interested in someone. Now that you know he likes you, and now that he more or less has confirmation that those feelings are reciprocated, he’s almost painfully straightforward about it.

So when he says, once the workday finally ends, “Oi, Hellcat. You’re comin’ to the event,” you pause mid-step.

“Huh?”

He gives you a flat look. “The Hero Billboard Charts. They announce the top ten heroes and shit there every semester. We gotta go, don’t we?”

“Oh,” you realize. Then you wince. Bakugou absolutely despises public appearances, and you’re sure he’ll hate this one, especially now that he’s dropped from the top ten, but this is one event that even he can’t avoid. “Yeah…you’re gonna have to attend that.”

“Tch. Yeah. Figured as much.” He twirls car keys in his fingers. “So you’re comin’ with me.”

You blink.

It’s not entirely uncommon for agency members to attend those events as plus-ones, but it’s usually sidekicks or field staff—not publicists. Not people who are on the corporate side of things. You brush off the thought that Bakugou doesn’t even have sidekicks, and the fact that it is quickly becoming the next nightmare issue you’ll have to solve for him professionally. For now, the only thing you can focus on is the idea of attending an event centered around the nation’s top heroes, and how it makes your stomach twist. 

You absolutely cannot picture yourself there among them.

“I can’t attend that,” you protest immediately.

Bakugou gives you a hard look. “You’re makin’ me sit through it, so I’m makin’ you do it too. Fair ’n fuckin’ square.”

“Bakugou, can you not be stubborn for, like, half a day?” you scowl.

Naturally, he only scowls right back. “No. I can’t.”

“I can’t attend that event! It’s for heroes,” you insist. “And besides, I don’t have anything fancy enough to wear to something that huge, and I’m not dropping that kind of money for one night just because you’re being petty and sulky. Some of us don’t have the same amount of disposable income as—”

“Done,” he shrugs, grabbing your wrist and dragging you along behind him. “I’ll get you somethin’ to wear. That settles it.”

You sputter indignantly. “W-what? No—no, it does not settle it! I’m not just going to accept a dress from you, and you can’t—”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s…” You nearly trip trying to keep up with him. “That’s expensive!”

“So?”

“So normal people care about that!”

“I’m not normal,” he snorts. “I’m better than the normal extras you’re used to. Besides. Spoilin’ you is the first step to earning a date with you or whatever the fuck.”

That flusters you into silence. 

Apart from being a deeply smug thing to say, he’s right. He is not normal, and he is technically better than most normal individuals at most things. He is too skilled and successful not to be, so when he says that, you can’t even argue with him. But that’s also why you shouldn’t accept this lavish treatment—he should not be wasting his time and money on getting you a dress when you are too normal. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb when you attend this event, high-end dress or not. Attending alongside him will probably do him even more harm than good when people see the plain, boring publicist he has tagging along, and the media puts you under a microscope. 

But Bakugou is nothing if not stubborn and demanding. He drags you into his car, and there’s a quiet, short drive to a nearby boutique that is far too fancy and far too luxurious for you to even know about its existence. You open your mouth to continue protesting, but he’s already shoving open the glass doors of the absurdly upscale boutique before you can formulate another complaint.

Immediately, once you get a look around, you want to leave.

Everything inside is sleek and pristine and intimidatingly expensive. Dresses hang along the walls in neat rows beneath warm lighting, and the employees somehow look elegant enough to belong among the merchandise itself. One glance in passing at a price tag hanging off a dress nearly sends you into cardiac arrest. You might have to sell a liver just to afford one of these, and even then, you’re not even sure your liver would be worth as much as someone who is in peak condition—like a hero. Your liver must be worth half of that of an average, quirk-having individual. 

“Bakugou,” you whisper harshly, trying to tug him back toward the entrance, “I can’t afford to even breathe in here.”

“Good thing you’re not buyin’ anything then,” he says flatly. “Just hold your breath.”

“That is not a good thing!”

Before you can protest any more, a sales associate approaches the two of you with a bright smile as she says, “Welcome! How may I assist you both today?” She visibly dims the second Bakugou turns his sharp eyes at her—you don’t even blame her. He isn’t the most inviting client, you’d know that firsthand.

“We need somethin’ for the Billboard event,” he says bluntly as he jerks a thumb toward you. “For her.”

As soon as he says it, suddenly every eye in the vicinity is on you. Heat crawls violently up your neck. Billboard event…Dynamight…dress shopping with a girl…you can almost see the puzzle pieces clicking into place on everyone’s face as they stare at you, and you want the ground to swallow you whole from all the pairs of eyes that are hyper-focused on you and Bakugou. Luckily for you (and mainly for Bakugou, if you’re honest), this establishment is high-end enough that there is a strict no filming policy hung by the front, so you don’t have to worry about images of you two being released on the tabloids in a few hours.

Before the sales associate can say anything, another older woman comes in and says, “Ah! Katsuki, hello. Let me assist.”

Katsuki? Does she know him?

Before you can ask, or ponder on it any longer, the new woman takes a moment as she looks you over. If she has any thoughts, you can’t tell what they are by the time she throws on her best smile and says, “Let’s see, do you have a particular silhouette or color palette in mind?”

You open your mouth uselessly, then close it. Silhouette? Bakugou takes the chance to answer for you. “Somethin’ pretty.”

Well. That’s certainly helpful. But, even as it is, the associate smiles knowingly. “I believe we have a few options that may work. Come, along—come, come!” She claps her hands and turns, and you are left with no choice but to jog along behind her as Bakugou trudges beside you. 

“U-umm,” you stammer. “I was thinking…maybe something on the more simple—”

“Not simple,” Bakugou interrupts immediately.

You glare at him. “But I like simple.”

“You can’t dress like a boring corporate worker everywhere you go.”

“Well, I don’t know if this is going to come as a shock to you, but I actually am a boring corporate worker!”

The associate tries (and fails) to bite back a laugh.

The next thirty minutes are spent trying on dress after dress after dress. Bakugou makes himself comfortable on a bench in front of the dressing room, legs spread as he slouches against the wall, and the associate brings you what you assume are the current trending styles in formal attire. You wouldn’t know—the fabrics alone of the dresses you’re trying on are way above your pay grade. You feel like you’re committing a crime just touching them.

More shockingly, than anything, however, is how picky Bakugou happens to be when it comes to women’s fashion. He’s dissatisfied with practically everything the woman suggests and has you try on.

The first dress earns a dismissive grunt. “Too poofy.”

The second doesn’t meet his standards, either. “Ugly color.”

The third, he wrinkles his nose. “You look like you borrowed a dress from somebody’s aunt.”

“You’re probably annoying her,” you scold him through a hushed whisper when she takes back the newest batch of dresses you’ve tried on, heading off to grab a few more. “If you keep saying no to everything, she’s not going to want to help!”

“Tch. Doubt it. She knows my mom.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“My mom’s a designer,” he rolls his eyes, “she’s dragged me here more times than I can count. Fuckin’ old hag always had me carry her shit while she ran errands.”

The sales associate giggles while handing you another dress as she hears the tail-end of your conversation. “How’s Mitsuki doing lately?” She asks.

Bakugou rolls his eyes again. “Same as ever—nagging and screaming all day.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” she hums

You feel a weird tug in your heart. A weird tug that wonders what Bakugou’s mother is like and how his relationship with her is and what sort of life he was raised in. He seems agitated when he mentions her—his eyes are practically rolled to the back of his head, and his lips are curled into a deep frown, but still. There is clearly some form of exasperated fondness in his voice and a spark in his irises from the mention of her. Despite how much he acts like he is trying to hide it, Bakugou is blunter about his endearment than you initially thought.

Now that you know how to read him better, you know affection when it’s written on his face, and there is affection for his mother that makes you ache, to your surprise, for a glimpse of him that is more than hero costumes and bedsheets and office tables. You want to see him exist beyond that—in his childhood home and enduring his mother’s hands on his cheeks and on the photos there must be of him on the walls.

And then you brush the thoughts off with a slow exhale. When—if—there is a day like that, it will come. For now, you focus on the dress you are going to need.

The associate, turning back to you, murmurs, “I have a feeling this one might be a good choice,” as she gestures at the new dress she’s handed you to try on.

You look at it, frowning because you highly doubt it with someone as picky as Bakugou being there to give his opinions, but you take the dress into the fitting room anyway and try it on. And you realize why she seems to think he’ll like it as soon as you put it on—it’s the same deep green shade as his gauntlets. The fabric drapes smoothly over your frame, hugging your waist before flowing down into a long skirt that brushes your ankles. The neckline is modest enough to be event-appropriate, but the back dips lower than you expected, exposing just the perfect-sized strip of skin. The sleeves are sheer, delicate things that gather at your wrists, embroidered with subtle metallic threading that catches the light whenever you move.

It’s beautiful. It’s the first dress you’ve tried on that you not only feel confident enough in, but…but also makes you almost want to attend the event just for the chance to wear it.

The second you step out, Bakugou freezes. He doesn’t even pretend not to stare—just lets his eyes drag over you slowly as the door swings open. You step out in the dress, and he goes unusually quiet. Your stomach flips as he looks, and looks…and just looks. He says nothing. Then, after blinking, he seems to break from whatever trance he’s in and clears his throat, huffing as he crosses his arms and looks away from you instantly.

Suddenly, all that confidence washes away, and you’re left feeling very self-conscious—maybe he hates this one the most and is absolutely speechless at how you can make just about anything look bad.

“You hate it, don’t you?” you blurt, “I make every dress look weird, don’t I—”

He turns to the associate and says, while interrupting you, “This is the one.”

She brightens immediately. “I was thinking the same thing! The color suits her beautifully.”

Your face grows hot under the scrutiny as they both turn and stare at you while they nod their heads in approval. Not long after, with some minor alteration measurements she takes, the dress is paid for, and your address is listed for the upcoming delivery as soon as all the alterations are complete.

You walk out with him, walking to his car as you fiddle with your fingers. “Um, thank you…for the dress. Really—I love it. But, I probably won’t have anywhere else to wear it after this event, so you really didn’t have to waste so much money—”

“Jus’ wear it for me now and then,” he grins smugly, opening his passenger door for you. His canines look particularly sharp as he smirks and says, “’Cause I think we could make some good use out of it, Hellcat.”

—

TODAY 6:47 PM

UNKNOWN NUMBER: hiiiiiiyaa my little networking babe UNKNOWN NUMBER: its me mina. pinky!! u rmr me right? UNKNOWN NUMBER: kiri gave me ur number hope its ok to text u!

You: Hello! Of course it is, please feel free to contact me any time you see fit, and I’ll try and get back to you as soon as I can!

UNKNOWN NUMBER: omg totally no need to be so formal and serious with me nooo UNKNOWN NUMBER: we’re friends ok??? 

You: Right sorry haha I just thought maybe you messaged me for business related things

UNKNOWN NUMBER: well maybe i will soon enough ;) UNKNOWN NUMBER: ANYWAY!! did blasty buy u a dress yet for the billboard thing UNKNOWN NUMBER: he better have. i gave him until today before i took matters into my own hands

You: Yes he did actually You: You were in on that?

UNKNOWN NUMBER: girl LOL u dont even know UNKNOWN NUMBER: he asked me what size i thought u were. he was just gonna buy u some dress and hand it to u until i told him off UNKNOWN NUMBER: he is so lame sometimes UNKNOWN NUMBER: BUT im so glad ur coming we’ll have a good time!!! see u there ;)

You: Yes, I’m sure we will! See you there

(New contact saved: Mina <3)

────────────────────────

The Hero Billboard Chart JP Event is a flashy place to be. 

Of course, it would be grand—you always knew that much as inevitable, but it’s quite literally flashy. There is camera after camera after camera flashing and blinding your eyes with bright lights as they photograph every individual they can who walks into the building. 

Riot Grenade Agency has been generously sponsored by a private transportation company in exchange for an Instagram story highlighting them (courtesy of your resourceful networking), and you, Bakugou, and Kirishima pull up to the entrance in a sleek, black car with a driver who will be waiting for you all when you’re done. It makes things rather simple this way in case you have to leave in a rush, as heroes often tend to.  

Your dress fits you nicely with the alterations, and you think you’ve fixed yourself up to accessorize it and look semi-respectable enough that standing next to Dynamight and Red Riot of all people doesn’t make you look like a complete joke. Still, when you walk out—sandwiched between Kirishima in front of you and Bakugou behind you, the two of them trying to shield you from annoying, pressing reporters who have caught on all too quickly that your dress matches Bakugou’s hero costume—you’re already overthinking your appearance.

It isn’t until you’re inside, and Mina has found you instantly, that you feel better. 

She pulls you into a bone-crushing hug and says, “Oh, look at you! My networking babe looks stunning! Did you buy this gorgeous little piece off of Mister Dynamight’s card?”

Bakugou gives her a hard glare. “Shut your trap, Raccoon-Eyes. She got the dress. S’all that matters.” He gives you a proper once-over now that you’re standing and not cramped in the back seat of a car, and his eyes linger over your cleavage for a second before he huffs and looks away. “Looks good, by the way.”

Your face feels hot as you mumble, “Thank you.”

“You should ask him to take you shopping again and then tell me, and I’ll pull up,” she whispers to you—very loudly, of course, and with direct eye contact with the agitated blonde who is standing right there. “Then, I’ll sneak in my clothes with yours, and we can both dress on his card!”

You giggle alongside her as Bakugou growls at her taunt, shoving his hands in his pockets while he gives her a warning scowl. Mina takes it to no heart whatsoever, and you wonder how many years of friendship have been built beneath that comfortable taunting and bickering that flows so easily between them. How close they had to get during school and stay after it, too. How much a bond can strengthen when you fight things like life-threatening battles and brain-altering wars together. 

You don’t think Bakugou carries any feelings for Mina, nor do you think she has any particularly romantic thoughts of him, either. But a part of you cannot help but wonder how much more things between you and him might make sense if you were like Mina—if you knew him the same way Mina did and met him through the same circumstances. If you were here as a hero on an invite rather than as a publicist as a plus-one.

But you don’t have too long to dwell on that before you’re being ushered to your seats as the ceremonies begin, so you let Bakugou guide you to where there are three chairs reserved for you, him, and Kirishima. You’re once more sandwiched between the two of them—and you’re getting the sense that this was a calculated decision based on how adamant Kirishima seems to be about staying where he is when you offer to switch with him so he can chat with his best friend. 

Just what do they think is going to happen in here, you wonder to yourself—how terrible of events are they hypothetically preparing for that you cannot even sit down in a chair without them both surrounding you? Then again, you suppose that a building with the nation’s best heroes all in one place might be the ideal gathering for someone to attack if they were confident enough that they could actually face all the best heroes. You try not to dwell on how useless you are, that the two of them have to plan in advance for your safety, by just accompanying them.

By the time the stage lights are flashing and the room is dimmed, you spot the newest number two—Todoroki has grown quite a lot since the last time you saw him. The roundness of his young face has fully become an older, sharper version of himself, and his physique is taller and broader than it once was. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper to Bakugou, “do you think you can introduce me to Todoroki after this? I want to meet him.”

His jaw seems to grit at the question alone, but when he senses the awe in your voice, he all but growls. “What business do you have with fuckin’ Icy-Hot?”

“One time, when I was still working with Uwabami, he and Creati were doing an ad with her. This huge light from the set we were on was going to land on my head, but he rushed in and saved me,” you explain with an enthusiastic whisper. “It was so cool—I’ve never seen his ice so up close! I didn’t even get to say a word before they were dragging him back, though, and then I didn’t see him after, so I’d really like to thank him. Though I bet he doesn’t remember someone like me,” you let out a shy laugh. 

Bakugou stares at you with hard, unimpressed eyes. You shrink back at his gaze—right. You must sound particularly pathetic to him. 

“The fact that you had to be saved by that Half-and-Half bastard is an insult,” he grumbles, “don’t be a fuckin’ idiot ever again.”

“How was that my fault?” you huff. “Besides—”

“Shh! This is a ceremony here—have some decorum!” Someone—probably a sidekick since you don’t even really recognize him—in the row in front of you turns to glare at you rather agitatedly. The ceremony has already begun, and you didn’t even notice, too busy speaking to Bakugou. You shrink back in embarrassment as you let out a quick, nervous apology. 

Bakugou tenses as soon as you go, glaring bloody murder at the back of the head in front of him. “Oi!” he calls—and you’re mortified, reaching for his hand as it moves to grab at the stranger’s shoulder. 

“Hey!” you whisper, stopping him, “what are you doing?”

“M’not lettin’ some fuckin’ idiot talk to anyone from my agency like that! Does he not know who the fuck we are? You can’t just take that—”

“Shh,” you try to placate his temper, “just drop it.” The man was a tad bit more rude than he needed to be, that much is true—but still. You know better than to let Bakugou get worked up in the middle of an event that is literally hosted by the very people who decide his rankings. 

“No! That bastard has to apologize—”

“C’mon,” you plead. Then, before you can overthink, you take his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles. He seems to relax on instinct as soon as you do. “Let’s just leave it, okay?”

He sits there and stares at his hand in yours for a moment, lips curled into an unhappy scowl, before finally, after a moment, he caves. “Whatever,” he grunts—sulking, but undeniably complying. 

His hand stays like that in your grasp for the rest of the event, as the top ten heroes each say their pieces in ascending order on the stage. He doesn’t pull away and…and you cannot really bring yourself to let go, either, even if the gauntlets make it a little awkward of a position.

Finally, when it’s Todoroki’s speech, you lean in a little closer. (You don’t even realize the way Bakugou’s hand tightens around yours as soon as he notices it.)

“Thank you for your support. There are a lot of heroes working just as hard as I am, so I’ll continue doing my job to the best of my ability and try to live up to the expectations placed on me.” He pauses. “That’s all.”

You huff out a small laugh, murmuring, “Not a lot of words, that one, huh?”

Kirishima pipes in from the side, “Katsuki, you should be more like him! Maybe if you spoke less, people would like you more.”

“That would save me quite a workload, wouldn’t it?” You snort, agreeing. 

“Shut up, both of you,” he snaps. 

The man from earlier, sitting in front of you, turns and hisses, “Shh!”

And before Bakugou can practically knock his head off his shoulders, you gently pat his chest and murmur, “We’re only joking. I like my workload.”

He’s all but pouting as he eyes you with a nasty side glare and slumps back in his seat, sitting and seething at not just the blow to his pride, but the irritating asshole sitting in front of you that he can’t even tell off thanks to you. 

You giggle, shaking your head in fond amusement.

—

To your absolute delight (and Bakugou’s complete irritation), Kirishima manages to grab Todoroki and bring him to where you’re standing as he congratulates his former classmate, giving you the perfect opportunity to talk to the number two hero. 

“Hi…Shoto? Can I call you that? I know it’s, like, your hero name and stuff, but…I don’t know, it’s kinda weird calling you by your first name. Sorry, maybe that’s a dumb question, huh?”

“No,” he says politely, “Shoto is fine. It’s my hero name.”

“Ah, right,” you laugh nervously, “right, right. Of course it is—so uh, anyway! I think you definitely don’t remember this—you probably save, like…I don’t know, hundreds of people a week, right? And this was a while ago, but I used to work with Uwabami and—”

“You stood under that broken light, I remember you,” he nods in thought. “You might have taken some serious brain damage if that hit you.”

“Yes!” You nod animatedly, “That was me…clumsy me, huh? Standing under that light. Good thing I didn’t get brain damage thanks to you!”

“Yes, I think it’s good your brain is okay,” he nods seriously. Then, just as seriously (and genuinely), he asks: “Your brain is okay, right?”

“Are you fuckin’ dense?” Bakugou asks from the side. 

You give him a sharp look, and he all but pops a vein as you continue speaking. “My brain is perfect—again, all thanks to you! I never got to say anything that day—you were too busy. Totally understandable, by the way! But yeah…I just wanted to say thank you for saving me. And my brain. Oh, and congratulations on being number two! That’s a crazy impressive rank to have so early into your career!”

“Thank you,” he nods, smiling. “Please keep your brain safe.”

“Will do!” You beam as he’s grabbed by another crowd of people. “Lovely to meet you!”

He can only afford you a small, polite nod before he’s whisked away, and you’re left with Bakugou, who is glaring after his former classmate’s figure. 

“He’s so nice,” you sigh, “he’s so awkward, but it’s charming.”

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot, is what he is,” he glowers.

“You think everyone is an idiot,” you snort. Then, teasingly, you hum as you elbow his side, “You should consider being business partners with his agency. Guy like him will do wonders for your image, don’t you think?”

That seems to be the wrong thing to say. Seriously wrong, because he scowls and saunters off towards the exit as he grunts, “Event’s over. M’goin’ the fuck home.”

Without thinking, you run after him. “Wait! You haven’t even said bye to Kiri, or Mina, or the others from—”

“Doesn’t matter. I see ’em enough already.”

“But—” You’re running after him (and his annoyingly long legs that take huge steps) as he marches off to where the car from earlier is waiting for you all in the back parking lot of the building. “Bakugou, wait! What has gotten into you?”

He stops. Abruptly, he stops, turns, and levels you with a firm, hard look. You almost feel like shrinking under his gaze, but you’re used to it enough by now that you only take a step closer.

He grits out, “You wanna be his publicist or mine?”

“Huh?” You do a double-take. 

“It’s a one-word answer. Me or him?”

“You, of course,” you furrow your brows, “I was only joking about—”

“Good. Come on.”

With that, he yanks you into the car and grunts at the driver to drive to your address. 

“W-wait, what about Kiri—”

“He’ll get a ride somewhere. He’s old enough.”

“But—”

“Jus’ be quiet.”

You listen. For the rest of the car ride, you’re quiet. When the car stops at your apartment, you’re quiet. When he climbs out of the car with you and dismisses the driver with a nod, you’re still quiet. It’s not until he’s followed you up to your floor and you’re outside your door that you turn to him and finally work up the courage to say something. 

“Not that…” you clear your throat, “not that you’re not allowed in my home, but what is it exactly we’re uh…doing here?”

He studies you. His gaze is hard, his eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is set. You don’t understand. You don’t understand what it is that’s making him so…so different. He’s as grumpy and prickly as he always is—he’s not being particularly rude or cold, but something about him feels so…so guarded. And you don’t get it. 

Finally, he reaches for your jaw, angling it and pressing his mouth against it heavily. His mouth is hot and heavy against yours—the pressure of him pressing kisses against it is unlike the way he’s kissed you before. This isn’t fast or clumsy or needy or even sweet. This kiss is firm and slow, and he takes his time to make sure you can feel him against your mouth. When he pulls away, you’re pressed against your door, and his arm is caging you against it while the other is busy holding your face with his hand. 

“What’s so great about that Icy-Hot bastard?”

“What?”

“What sort of idiot is so amazed by some fuckin’ ice? You’re tellin’ me you were so amazed ’cause you never seen his ice so up close?” He scowls as he quotes your words from earlier. 

Finally, it clicks—he’s jealous. A feeling you honestly thought Bakugou was immune to, if you were being honest. But he’s only human, after all. A person, even if a rather larger-than-life sort of one. You never took him for someone who would be jealous over something as trivial as a few jokes about PR—you’re sure he’d have been jealous of Kirishima a long time ago if it were just that. 

So then, why is Todoroki such a sore spot? You can’t figure it out—

“You’re not gonna need anyone to save you from here on out,” he brushes his hands over your hips, gliding them behind you to the small of your back before pressing you forward against his chest. “M’gonna fuckin’ be the one who saves you if your dumbass needs saving. Idiot.”

Ah. So that’s what it is—you should have known. Of course, he wouldn’t be jealous of Todoroki’s temperament or his looks or his rank or anything of that sort. Bakugou is…well, rightfully too confident for petty feelings of inadequacy over that. He knows you like him, and he’s not threatened by trivial things such as someone’s charm. You are here with your breath hitched at the simplest touch from him—he is certainly not lacking in his own form of appeal.

But there is only one thing that he is equally rivaled by Todoroki. And that is saving people. They are both strong and capable, and you think, even on their best days, they would end with a draw if they fought. Todoroki being the one to save you, to be your hero, is a loss that Bakugou is not happy to be a good sport about. So you reach forward, cupping his cheeks as you kiss along his jaw. 

“Of course, you will,” you grin as you peck his lips, “maybe I should get myself into trouble a lot. Have you come save me and be my hero—that’s my new strategy to get your rank up. Solid plan, huh?”

He snorts, hands roaming over your hips as he squeezes them and pulls you impossibly closer against him. “Mmh,” he hums, kissing along your jaw and trailing down to your collarbone. “Leave it to you to come up with stupid fuckin’ ideas. Give me a damn headache.”

You pull him by the shirt to come kiss your lips again, and you can’t help but feel so ridiculous standing there in that extravagant dress when he is in his hero costume. All heroes show up to the event in their costumes—seeing as you don’t have one, Bakugou opted for getting you the next best option. The nicest dress you’ve ever owned. And wearing it now, in front of him as his gauntlet-clad hands roam your body, you wonder why he would ever feel jealous over someone like you of all people. Someone who is not worth his jealousy.

But he doesn’t seem to think that—he seems more interested in getting inside your apartment, instead. 

“Open that damn door,” he grumbles against your mouth. 

“Stop kissing me, then,” you huff.

“You’re fuckin’ kissing me.”

“No, you’re kissing me—”

“Open the fuckin’ door before I explode it open.”

You give him a warning look before you reach into your purse and grab your keys. He eyes the little cat on your keychain and snorts, earning a glare from you. “Don’t laugh at my sushi cat.”

“M’not.”

“Don’t lie to me, either.”

“You drive me fuckin’ nuts,” he shakes his head—and he’s smiling. He’s smiling, and his eyes are a rare shade of soft that they only ever are around you. And you think for a moment that, even despite not having a hero costume to wear to an event like the Billboard event the way that Bakugou does, perhaps you’re worth smiling over and being jealous for. 

When your door opens, and you both stumble in, his arms around your waist as he kicks your door shut, he barely has the patience to make it to your couch before he’s collapsing back against it, pulling you onto his lap. You let him pull you onto him, straddling his hips as you cup his face and kiss him harder. 

“Wait,” he grunts after a moment—you’re hardly in the mood to listen, so you ignore him. But his hand grabs your wrists and holds them for a moment firmly as he says, more serious this time: “Wait.”

“Why,” you practically pout.

“Let me take the gauntlets off. They’re dangerous.”

“That’s hot,” you wink.

Bakugou rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Real hot until you lose an arm.”

“Then I could sue you for loads of money,” you wink.

He looks at you incredulously. “You are the worst headache I’ve ever had.”

He shifts you off his lap just enough to work on the bulky gauntlets strapped to his forearms. The familiar clicks of buckles and clasps fill your apartment while you sit there impatiently, watching him.

“Are you done yet?” you ask.

“No. Wait. You’re bein’ impatient.”

“Because you’re taking forever.”

“Then do it yourself.”

You immediately reach for one as you hum, “Well, if you insist—”

“Don’t touch anything,” he levels you with a firm look.

You snatch your hand back, pouting as you huff, “Then why’d you say it? Jus’ wanted to feel them.”

“See?” he says, clicking his teeth. “Headache. I just said they were dangerous.”

A few moments later, alongside some healthy arguing back and forth, both gauntlets are resting safely on your coffee table. The second he’s finished, you barely have time to grin before he’s pulling you back onto his lap.

“There. M’done,” he mutters. “Happy?”

“Very. Pay attention to me now.”

“You’re a fuckin’ brat,” he says—and he sounds rather happy about it, so you like to think he’s not complaining. 

“I think you like that,” you note.

He doesn’t deny it as his hands settle onto your waist, and yours slide into his hair. The kiss that follows makes your body feel like it’s overheating, lighting on fire, and combusting. You wonder if everything Bakugou touches does that—if he can make anything that comes in contact with his hands explode, and not just that sweat he produces. It’s warm and familiar, being touched by him like this, being kissed by him like this. Even if the last time you kissed him was technically only your second time, and kissing him isn’t anything that’s really familiar to you at all, it still feels like it is. Like it’s only natural for you to do so. Like you only know this—him and his lips.

At some point, his shirt is peeled off and tossed messily over the floor. Your dress is unzipped and halfway pulled down your body as his hands cup your breasts and squeeze with a satisfied hum when you gasp and arch into him. 

“You like it when I play with these, huh?” He hums, smirking.

You give him an incredibly scandalized look as you sputter, “N-no, I do not! Stop saying…weird things!”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see,” he chuckles. “I think you’re a liar.” Just when he reaches to undo the clasp of your bra, his phone starts ringing.

Neither of you moves. It vibrates insistently from his pants’ pocket, the sound endlessly ringing through your living room. Finally, you sigh, reaching over to pull it out for him and glance toward the screen.

“It’s Kirishima.”

Bakugou doesn’t look very happy. “He’s probably just callin’ about his ride home. Just ignore it.”

“Maybe you should answer? What if it’s important?” You mumble.

“He’s a grown man, he’ll figure somethin’ out and get home on his own. Now c’mere.” He grabs his phone from your hand and tosses it beside him, the call ringing out and ending. He’s tugging you closer as he kisses your jaw and grabs your bra clasps to undo them. The clasp comes undone, and he slides the undergarment off, freeing your tits for him to see. His eyes darken, and he hums at the sight of them—you can feel the growing bulge in his pants under you. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he breathes. 

Except just when he reaches to touch you, the phone immediately starts ringing again. You both turn your heads and abruptly stare at it. This time, Bakugou groans.

“What could it possibly fuckin’ be?”

“I think it’s important if he’s calling you again,” you bite your lip.

“I know,” he grumbles, “Ei never calls twice—just spams me with texts if he’s tryin’ to get my attention for non emergencies.”

The third ring hasn’t even finished before he snatches the phone off the couch and answers. “What is it?” he says gruffly.

The response on the other end, whatever it is, instantly wipes the irritation from his face. You watch the shift happen in real time. It’s like all the relaxation and ease in his posture is flushed out of his body and replaced with something more rigid and tense. Something more serious and important. 

Bakugou sits up straighter. “Wait—what the fuck do you mean?”

A pause. His jaw tightens as Kirishima speaks again through the phone. You can hear the sound of his voice, muffled, but you can’t make out what he’s saying, even though you try. You do make out a few words, though—attack, serious, civilians, really strong. You have a sneaking suspicion that you know why he’s called.

“How bad?”

Another pause as Bakugou listens. Then—

“Kay, I’ll be there in five—just lemme grab my gauntlets.”

He hangs up, and you already know the answer before you ask. “Is it a villain?”

He sighs, rubbing your arms slowly up and down as he says, “Yeah.” He drags a hand down his face and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “M’sorry, Hellcat, I’ll make it up to—”

“It’s okay,” you smile softly, leaning to kiss his nose. “I know it comes with your big hero job. You promised Kiri it’d be five minutes, so you should hurry.”

You slide off his lap, and he stares at the ceiling for a second. Then another. Finally, he mutters, “I hate this job.”

You laugh, grinning. “That’s a lie.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he grins a little. He stands and reaches for his shirt on the floor, sliding it on before grabbing his gauntlets, pulling them up his arms, and clicking them in place. “We’ll continue this some other time.”

“I’ll count on it,” you hum.

You walk him to your front door, and as Bakugou reaches for the handle, he pauses just long enough to turn, pull you in for one last quick kiss, and murmur, “If this ends up on the news, be sure you watch me kick ass, yeah?”

And then he walks out, and you close the door after him, murmuring quietly to yourself (because you’re not yet brave enough to say it to him where he can hear), “Be safe, Katsuki.”

next chapter will be a bigggggg rip for reader. rip reader you were a real one

You did not expect to sleep at all. But perhaps finally confessing your feelings – and having them returned – released all the tension you had been carrying for weeks, allowing you to drift into the deepest rest you have had in some time.

You carry the breakfast tray up the tower stairs, your stomach fluttering with equal parts excitement and nerves.

Ser Duncan looks up as you enter the corridor.

“Good morning,” you say with a smile.

“Morning,” he replies, returning it with a knowing grin.

Of course he knows. He delivered your letter. He would have seen Baelor rush off to find you. And now here you are.

You step into Baelor’s chambers. Arnol greets you as he leaves, and Baelor looks up from his desk the moment you enter. The warmth in his expression makes something inside you melt.

“Good morning, your grace,” you say as you carry the tray to the table and begin setting out his meal.

“Good morning,” he replies, rising and taking his seat.

He is dressed in his gambeson, ready for training after breakfast. You step forward and reach for the pitcher to fill his cup.

“When we are alone,” he says, “you may call me Baelor.”

You pause, your eyes lifting to his. “It might take some getting used to.”

You find it difficult to look away. Your attention lingers on him a moment too long, and when you tip the pitcher, water splashes over the rim and onto the table, droplets scattering across the front of his gambeson.

You gasp. “I'm sorry!”

You hastily reach for your cloth and begin dabbing at the damp fabric.

“It is quite alright,” he says with a chuckle.

“A good thing it wasn't wine,” you reply. “Otherwise you might have had to dock my wages to pay for a new gambeson.”

A frown briefly touches his brow before understanding dawns. You are referring to the council meeting, when the handle came loose from the pitcher and splashed Lord Foler with wine.

Baelor shakes his head. “I wanted to throw Lord Foler out that day.”

“Really?” you ask, blotting away the last droplets before stepping back.

“The way he spoke to you was unacceptable.” His voice softens. “I saw how upset it made you.”

The look he gives you is gentle enough to make your chest ache.

“Yes... it was humiliating at the time,” you admit. “But I can laugh about it now.” You smile. “Speaking of Lord Foler... will Lady Foler be joining you at training this afternoon?”

Baelor sighs. “I hope not.”

“You don't enjoy her company? Her fluttering eyelashes and lingering touches?”

He gives you a sidelong glance. “You're very observant.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, which only seems to amuse him.

“Even Egg thought it was excessive,” you say defensively.

That earns a laugh.

“Speaking of Egg, Maekar intends to watch him train today. So if you plan on bringing drinks afterward, you may wish to include one for him as well.”

“Of course.”

~-~

Baelor’s squire helps him into his breastplate and arms him with a blunted practice sword before the prince steps into the training yard, where Ser Duncan and Egg are already waiting, similarly equipped and armed, while Maekar stands at the edge of the courtyard, watching.

Baelor gives Duncan and Egg instructions for an exercise before joining his brother.

“I think you will be pleased with Egg’s progress,” he says.

Maekar merely hums in response. Then he sidesteps a little closer and lowers his voice.

“I saw you last night.”

Baelor stills so slightly that most would miss it. Maekar does not.

“With your cupbearer,” he continues. “Outside the gates.”

“You followed me,” Baelor says, matching his brother's quiet tone.

“Can you blame me? You were acting half-mad when you ran into me.”

Baelor presses his lips together. “And? What is it you wish to say?”

Maekar turns so that he is facing him fully. “Tell me the truth of it. How deep are your feelings for her?”

“Deep enough that losing her would have undone me.”

Maekar studies him for a moment. “And hers for you?”

The tension eases from Baelor's face. That small, disbelieving smile returns.

“She feels the same,” he says softly.

Even now, saying it aloud feels unreal.

“And what do you intend to do with this... affection?”

“I don't know,” Baelor admits. “I only know that I cannot bear to be apart from her.”

“That's not an answer.” Maekar folds his arms. “If you want her as your mistress, say it plainly. If you want her as your wife–”

Baelor's head snaps up.

“I... do not know what choice there is. I would not have her known as my mistress. The way that word is used... it is–”

“Hardly better than whore,” Maekar finishes.

Baelor's jaw tightens.

“You understand, of course,” Maekar continues, “that if you want her as your wife, she will need to be raised up. Given a name, a title, lands. And even then, many would object. The heir to the throne marrying a lowborn woman is no small thing.” He pauses. “And if she becomes your wife, then one day she becomes queen. A lowborn queen is unheard of.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Baelor turns to him, his expression almost desperate, because he knows every word Maekar speaks is true.

“Is her father alive?” Maekar asks.

“No.” Baelor replies. “Her only male relative is her brother. He served me faithfully before recently sustaining an injury.”

“Then you will need to speak to our father, ask him to grant her brother a lordship, and pray that he will allow the match. If this was to be your first marriage, I wouldn’t dare to hope, but since you have already made a political match – and have two heirs to show for it – well… you might just have a chance.”

“You think so?”

Maekar sighs. “I would not build all your hopes on it, but if you really care for her as much as you say, then it’s worth trying.”

-

You step into the training yard carrying a tray of cider, as you usually do, though today there is an extra cup as Baelor suggested.

He and Prince Maekar stand together at one side of the yard. Baelor has his hands clasped before him, while his brother stands with his arms crossed. It is Prince Maekar who notices your approach first. He gives a brief nod in your direction, and Baelor turns. The moment he sees you, his expression softens, the faintest smile touching his lips.

“Your graces,” you say in greeting as you offer them the drinks.

Baelor thanks you softly. Maekar gives a gruff nod as he accepts his cup.

You leave them to their conversation and cross the yard toward Ser Duncan and Egg. Duncan is cleaning one of the practice swords, while Egg sits on a bench nearby. The boy's usual brightness is absent. His gaze is fixed on the ground, his mouth set in a frown.

You offer him a drink first.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

Ser Duncan sets the sword aside and accepts the last cup, offering his thanks as well. He glances at Egg with concern.

“Are you alright?” you ask as you sit beside the boy, placing the tray on the bench between you.

“I’m fine,” he replies quickly, without looking at you.

“You don’t seem yourself,” you say gently. “If something is bothering you, I'd be happy to listen.”

Egg sighs through his nose. “Father was supposed to watch me train.” He glances across the yard. “I've been trying really hard. I wanted him to see. But he's spent the whole time talking to Uncle Baelor.”

Your heart tugs at the disappointment in his voice.

“I’m sorry, Egg.” You place a hand on his shoulder. “I can see why that would upset you.”

“I don't think he means anything by it, lad,” Duncan says. “He's probably just catching up with his brother.”

“But he could do that any other time.” Egg crosses his arms. “He's leaving soon. He won't be here the next time we train.”

You squeeze his shoulder gently. “Perhaps you could ask to train again before he leaves. Tell him you'd like him to watch. Make sure he knows how much it would mean to you.”

“Maybe... I'll try.”

“Good.” You smile. “I know your uncle is pleased with you. And I'm certain Ser Duncan is as well.”

You glance toward the knight.

“Aye,” Duncan agrees. “You've come a long way, Egg. You should be proud of yourself.”

The boy gives a small smile. Then, quite suddenly, his expression brightens.

“Lady Foler didn't come to training today.”

The abrupt change of subject catches you off guard, though you say nothing. Perhaps speaking about his feelings has made him uncomfortable.

“She’s probably upset Uncle Baelor didn't ask her to dance at the feast,” he continues matter-of-factly. “I think Uncle Baelor wanted to dance with someone else.”

He gives you a pointed, mischievous look. Heat rises to your cheeks.

“Oh,” is all you manage.

Egg grins, clearly pleased with himself.

~

You come to Baelor’s chambers at midday, pushing the door open with your hip as you balance the meal and pitcher on the tray in your hands.

You carry it to the table, where he is already seated, waiting for you.

“Was Prince Maekar pleased with Egg’s progress?” you ask as you fill his cup with wine.

“I assume so,” he replies, though his tone is distracted.

“He didn't say?”

He glances up at you.

“He and I spoke of other matters.”

You hesitate briefly before continuing. “It’s just that... Egg was upset that his father wasn't watching him train. He wanted Prince Maekar to see how much progress he's made.”

Baelor frowns. “The fault is mine. I should not have taken Maekar’s attention away from Egg.”

“Might he train again before Prince Maekar returns to Summerhall?” you ask. “He seemed very eager for his father to watch him.”

Baelor meets your eye, and you step back, abashed.

“I’m sorry, it’s not my place…”

“Never apologise for speaking your mind.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “I will arrange another training session before Maekar leaves.”

You smile thankfully.

“Please.” He gestures toward the chair beside him. “Sit.”

You set the pitcher down and pull the chair out, perching on the edge of the seat. It feels odd to sit at the prince’s table.

Baelor exhales softly. “It feels strange now.”

You look up.

“To carry on as before,” he says. “After everything that passed between us last night.”

Heat immediately rises to your cheeks.

“To have you bring my meals, pour my wine...” His gaze lingers on you. “When you are far more to me than merely my cupbearer.”

Your heart gives a painful little squeeze.

“I don't mind doing it,” you say quietly.

His eyes hold yours for several long moments. Then he says, almost shyly: “Would you join me for supper tonight?”

You blink. “For supper?”

“It feels rather foolish to ask, considering you would be the one bringing it upstairs.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “But if you brought two plates, two cups, and enough wine for both of us...”

“I get to drink the good wine?” A smile spreads across your face. “I gladly accept your invitation.”

He chuckles. “Ah. I see now. This was your plan all along.”

“I never planned any of this,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I never thought...”

“Neither did I,” Baelor says. “But here we are.” There is wonder in his voice still, as though he can scarcely believe it himself. “And I would like to share my supper with you beside me, rather than having you stand by waiting to refill my cup.”

The tenderness of the sentiment makes your chest ache.

“I would like that very much, your gra–” You catch yourself, a smile tugging at your lips. “Baelor.”

His expression softens immediately at the sound of his name on your lips. And for a moment, neither of you seems inclined to look away.

~

You enter his chambers that evening carrying two meals and two goblets.

Baelor looks up the moment you step inside. He rises from his desk and approaches the table as you begin setting out the plates – his in its usual place, and yours at the seat to his right.

It feels strange laying two places. Stranger still that one of them is for you.

You fill both goblets with wine and move to take your seat, but Baelor steps forward first, pulling out the chair for you. You look up at him with a smile as you sit, and only then notice what he is wearing.

“You’re wearing the shirt again.” You cannot quite hide the delight in your voice.

His hand moves instinctively to the cuff, his thumb brushing over the embroidery.

“It has become my favourite,” he admits as he takes his seat.

Warmth blossoms through your chest.

“I cannot explain how thrilled I was when I saw you wearing it at your name day feast.”

“I received several compliments on it that night,” he says. “You could earn a good deal of coin if you offered your skills to other members of the nobility.”

You feel your cheeks warm.

“Perhaps.” You smile. “But then the one I made for you would not be quite so... special.”

Something softens in his expression. “I see.”

The smile he gives you is enough to make your heart flutter.

He takes a sip of wine before glancing toward the plates. “Shall we eat before our supper goes cold?”

You nod and pick up your knife and fork. You try not to appear too eager, but the meal before you looks better than anything you have ever had the privilege of eating. You cut a small piece of roast beef, rich with sauce, and bring it to your mouth. The moment you taste it, your eyes close. The meat is so tender it scarcely needs chewing, and the flavours are unlike anything served in the servants' hall.

When you open your eyes again, you find Baelor watching you.

“Is it to your liking?” he asks.

A laugh escapes you. “How can you even ask that? It is very much to my liking.” You shake your head. “I fear every meal in the servants' hall will be incredibly disappointing after this.”

“Then I shall simply have to invite you to dine with me more often.”

Your breath catches. His gaze remains fixed on you, one hand loosely wrapped around the stem of his goblet.

“If that is what you wish,” you reply, suddenly finding your plate very interesting.

“It is what I wish.” He says without hesitation. “But is it something you would like?”

“Yes. I would like that very much.” You glance up at him. “And not merely because the food is good.” You add awkwardly.

His mouth twitches. “Oh?”

“I mean...” You look away. “I would happily eat bread and butter if it meant–” You stop abruptly.

His eyebrows lift. “If it meant...?”

Your face feels impossibly warm. You rest your cheek against your palm in a futile attempt to hide it.

“I only meant,” you continue from behind your hand, “that I would enjoy dining with you regardless of what was served.”

His smile deepens. “There is no need to hide your face. I find your flushed cheeks quite endearing.”

You grimace. “It’s not something I enjoy being observed.”

“Well, I fear it’s too late, as I have already observed it.” He says with quiet amusement.

You lower your hand just enough to give him your attempt at a glare, but the expression only makes him look more amused. When your eyes meet, however, the humour softens into something gentler. Something that makes your chest tighten.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he finally returns his attention to his meal. You do the same, though neither of you can quite stop smiling.

~-~

“Baelor.” King Daeron says with a smile as his eldest son enters the solar. “Come, sit.” He gestures to the chair before the desk, taking his own seat behind it. “You said you wished to speak with me privately. Is something amiss?”

“No, Father, nothing is amiss.” Baelor takes the offered chair. “I wished to speak with you about a family that has served me faithfully. My former attendant, Tom, has shown unwavering loyalty throughout his time in my service. He was especially devoted during my recovery after the injury I sustained at Ashford.”

He folds his hands neatly in his lap.

“Since then, his sister has also entered my service. She has performed her duties with exceptional diligence, and when I fell ill some weeks ago, she cared for me tirelessly. Her dedication went far beyond what was expected of her. I believe their family deserves recognition. I ask that you raise them to noble standing.”

“Loyal service should certainly be rewarded,” the king agrees. “But if I were to grant a lordship to every faithful servant, almost half the castle would be nobility by the year's end.” A small smile touches his lips. “This Tom could be given a more prestigious position. And I am sure something suitable could be found for his sister as well.”

“I believe they deserve more than that.” Baelor says, fingers tightening. “This is not something I ask lightly.”

“I do not doubt their worth, Baelor, but if I was to grant a lordship to your man, others would ask why this family received such favour when so many others have served just as loyally. Were your man a knight who had distinguished himself in battle, perhaps there would be grounds for it. But for a household servant...” He shakes his head gently. “It simply is not done.”

Baelor's stomach sinks. His fingers tighten together, and he twists the ring on his right hand, gathering the courage to say what he truly came here for. The words feel impossibly heavy.

“I wish to marry the sister.”

Silence fills the solar. The king simply stares at him for several moments, as though ensuring he heard correctly.

“Baelor,” he says at last, his voice quiet. “You cannot take a lowborn woman as your wife.”

Baelor lowers his gaze, jaw tightening.

“Father,” he says carefully, fighting the constriction in his throat, “I know she was not born into a noble house. But she possesses every virtue one could hope to find in a wife. She is loyal, steadfast, brave, and kind. Her goodness is genuine – she helps others because it is in her nature to do so, not because she seeks reward or favour.” His voice softens despite himself. “She is better than many noblewomen I have known. She would serve the realm with honour.”

“Good qualities do not make one noble, my son. Birth does. Lineage does. Alliances do.”

Baelor's hands clench together in his lap.

“You granted a lordship to Ser Steffon Fossaway. At the Ashford tourney, he behaved dishonourably at every turn, yet simply because he fought for your grandson during the Trial of Seven – breaking his word to another knight in the process – he was rewarded.”

“Aerion made a promise – publicly – to Ser Steffon. I could not allow a prince of the blood to be seen breaking his word, not when tempers were already inflamed by the events at Ashford.”

“A promise made by an unruly boy who has shamed our house more times than I can count.”

The king inhales sharply, but Baelor presses on.

“You granted his request.” Baelor says, the hurt bleeding through his voice. “Made in impulsiveness and immaturity – to serve to resolve a mess entirely of his own making – yet you will not grant mine?”

“Baelor.” The king says sharply, a flicker of warning in his eyes. “Fossaway was already an established house. I granted a lordship to one man. You are asking me to form an entirely new house so you may marry a commoner. As heir to the throne, a political match –”

“I had my political match.” Baelor cuts in, his voice rising despite himself. “I married Jena. We had two healthy heirs together. I fulfilled my duty. I have fulfilled every duty ever asked of me. I obeyed. I served. I went to war. Time and again I placed the needs of the realm before my own. Now I ask for this one thing.”

“If I granted this, the nobility would be deeply offended. They would see it as a slight against their daughters, women far better suited–”

“When are the nobility not offended?” Baelor scoffs. “They find insult in any decision. It is practically a pastime.”

“Enough.” The single word cuts through the room. “I will hear no more of this, Baelor. It is clear we will not see eye-to-eye on this matter, and my answer will not change. You cannot marry a lowborn woman. That is my final word.”

Silence falls between them. Baelor lowers his head because it is the only way to hide his expression. His throat burns. He forces each breath to remain measured, his jaw clenched so tightly it aches.

“Thank you for hearing me, Father,” he says at last, his voice flat. “Please excuse me.”

He rises from the chair and offers a brief nod. His eyes meet the king's for only an instant before he turns and walks to the door, his hand trembling as he reaches for the handle.

The moment the door closes behind him and he is far enough down the corridor to be out of sight of the Kingsguard stationed outside the king's solar, his composure begins to fracture. The walls feel closer somehow, pressing in from every side.

He reaches out blindly, one hand finding the stone wall. A moment later his shoulder follows, the cool surface bracing him as he struggles to draw a proper breath.

He had prepared himself for refusal. Or at least he had believed he had. He had told himself not to place all his hopes on his request being granted. He had told himself he would endure whatever answer came. But hearing it spoken aloud – hearing his father dismiss the possibility so completely, as though what he felt could simply be set aside – cuts deeper than he expected.

He wanted to do this properly. He wanted you to stand beside him as his wife, not hidden away in the shadows. He wanted your place beside him to be acknowledged, unquestioned. He wanted you to be respected.

Baelor closes his eyes for a moment. Then he draws a long, unsteady breath, pushes himself away from the wall, and straightens.

By the time he begins the walk back to his chambers, the mask has settled into place once more – the calm, dependable prince.

~-~

When you enter Baelor’s chambers with his midday meal, he is nowhere in sight. You set the tray down on the table and glance around the solar.

“Is anyone here?” you call, raising your voice slightly.

A moment later, you hear footsteps, and Baelor emerges from his bedchamber. He looks tired. His movements lack their usual grace, his mouth set in a faint frown. But what stops you cold is the look in his eyes: something dimmed, something wounded. A sharp jolt goes through your chest. Your first thought is that he has fallen ill.

“What’s the matter?” You cross the room in quick strides, and before you can think better of it, your hand is on his arm. “Are you feeling unwell?”

His eyes meet yours. “I spoke with my father today.”

“Oh?”

You search his face, as though the answer might be written there.

“I asked him if he would allow you to be my wife.”

Your lips part, breath catching in your throat.

“But he refused,” he says quietly. “I am sorry.”

You blink. For a moment, your mind goes completely blank. Shock. Confusion. A sudden bloom of warmth so fierce it almost hurts. You had never dared imagine that he would want something so serious, so permanent.

You realise too late that you are simply staring at him.

“I cannot be with you honourably,” he continues.

Your hand, still resting on his arm, tightens slightly.

“Baelor...” you whisper. “I didn't know you intended...”

“I didn't want to speak of it before I knew whether it was possible. I didn't want to give you false hope.” His gaze drops briefly. “I thought I had prepared myself for any answer. But without realising it, I had allowed myself to hope. His refusal felt like a blow.”

“You really wanted to marry me?” The question comes out softer than you intended.

“Of course.” His hand closes over yours where it rests on his arm. “If you had been born to a noble house, I could have courted you properly. We would not have had to spend weeks questioning every glance and every word, wondering whether our feelings were returned.”

A small ache stirs inside you. He notices it at once.

“I do not mean to make you ashamed of where you come from,” he says quickly. “I only mean that if things were different, I would have known what to do. I would have known what was possible.”

You nod. “I understand.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he exhales slowly.

“I do not know what to do now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot offer you what you deserve.” His gaze holds yours. “People will talk if you stay.”

“People already talk.” You say. “I don't want to leave, Baelor. Not now. All this time, I scarcely dared hope you felt the same way I did. And now I know you do… I can't walk away from that. If you'll have me, I want to stay.”

His expression softens. Slowly, he lifts a hand and cups your cheek.

“Of course I would have you.”

The tenderness in his voice makes your chest ache. His thumb brushes lightly across your skin.

“And I swear this to you: I will never cast you aside. Whatever happens, I will be true to you.”

You raise your own hand to his face, the soft brush of his beard grazing your palm.

“I know,” you say, smiling.

He closes his eyes briefly at your touch. Then he gently guides your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. The warmth of his breath and the soft touch of his lips send a shiver through you.

When he lifts his head, neither of you moves away. Your hand remains against his face, your thumb resting near the edge of his cheekbone, his fingers still loosely encircling your wrist.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, and your breath catches. When his eyes return to yours, there is a question there. You don't pull away. Instead, you find yourself stepping a fraction closer. Something flickers across his face, so fleeting you almost miss it. Relief. Wonder. Perhaps even disbelief that this is finally happening.

Slowly, carefully, he lifts his free hand to your cheek. His thumb brushes your skin, and he leans in. Your heart pounds so hard you're certain he must hear it. You have imagined this countless times in quiet moments, in foolish daydreams, while lying awake at night. Yet none of those imaginings compare to the reality.

His lips meet yours softly, the kiss gentle and tentative. You feel the faint brush of his beard against your skin, the warmth of his breath, the careful way he holds you, as though you are something precious.

He tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your knees feel weak. You have wanted this for so long. Wanted him for so long.

When he finally draws back, it is only by a few inches. Neither of you lets go. His forehead nearly touches yours, and for a moment he simply looks at you, his mismatched eyes bright with an emotion so earnest that it makes your chest ache.

 “Will you take supper with me again tonight?” He asks.

“Of course.” You say breathily, eyes not leaving his.

“I only wish you didn’t have to fetch it yourself. After everything that has happened, it feels wrong to have you waiting on me.”

“I don’t mind.” Your hand trails lightly down his arm. “It’s no burden to me, especially if it means I can spend time with you.”

~

You step into Baelor’s chambers that evening, supper tray laden with meals for two.

Baelor rises from behind his desk and comes to meet you, taking the tray from your hands. He carries it to the table and begins setting out the plates and goblets.

“I can do that.” You protest.

“Please, allow me.” He looks up with a smile, then gestures to the seat nearest his. “Sit.”

You hesitate only briefly before taking the offered seat. Baelor pours wine into your goblet, then fills his own before settling beside you.

For a while, there is only the quiet clink of cutlery and warm glances exchanged across the table. Yet you notice a distance in his eyes, and the faint crease lingering between his brows.

“Are you alright?” you ask, setting your fork down.

His gaze lifts to yours, and he hesitates.

“My conversation with my father keeps returning to me.” He exhales softly. “We have never disagreed so bitterly before.”

Your heart aches for him. Reaching across the table, you place your hand over his.

“I don't want to be the cause of conflict between you.”

“You aren't the cause.” His fingers close gently around yours. “Tradition and expectations are the cause. Rules that were written long before either of us were born.” His expression softens. “I am sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologise for.” You give his hand a small squeeze. “Things may not have gone the way you'd hoped, but I'm still here.”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a faint smile. After a moment, you both return to your meals.

When supper is finished, you gather the dishes onto the tray.

“Will you come back after Arnol has attended to me?” Baelor asks. “Perhaps with more wine?”

The hopeful note in his voice makes you smile.

 “I can do that.”

You pass Arnol in one of the lower corridors as he heads toward the Tower of the Hand to attend to Baelor.

After leaving the dishes in the kitchens, you return briefly to your room, filling the basin on your washstand so you can wash your face and freshen yourself. Then you make your way to the wine cellar, fill a pitcher, collect two goblets from a nearby cabinet, and begin the climb back upstairs.

When you enter Baelor's chambers once more, he is just stepping out of his bedchamber.

His outer garments have been removed, leaving him in only a shirt and breeches. Your heart gives an embarrassing little flutter.

He crosses the room and takes the pitcher and goblets from your hands, pouring wine for each of you before taking his seat.

“I spoke with Maekar this morning,” he says, passing you a goblet. “I've arranged to return to the training yard tomorrow with Egg, and I've informed my brother that he isn't to speak to me until training is finished.”

A laugh escapes you. “And how did he take that?”

“I think he regretted disappointing Egg. He wants to make amends.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

He takes a sip of wine. “You seem fond of my nephew.”

You smile into your goblet. “I believe I am. He's a pleasant boy. Clever, too. And he has a mischievous streak.”

“That he does.” Baelor's chuckles. “Would you like to come to training tomorrow? From the beginning, I mean.”

You blink in surprise. “I wouldn't be in the way?”

“Of course not. Though now that I think about it, it may not be the most entertaining way to spend your afternoon.”

“I would like to come.”

His smile widens. “Then I shall be glad to have you there.”

Conversation drifts easily after that. You speak of small things, exchange stories and observations, and share several quiet laughs.

With every smile he gives you, something warm unfurls inside your chest. More than once, you catch yourself watching his hands curled around his goblet. And more than once, your gaze drifts to the open collar of his shirt, where the fabric parts just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of bare skin beneath.

You quickly look away. Lifting your goblet to your lips, you fix your gaze on the wine pitcher sitting between you. Or at least, you pretend to. In truth, your thoughts have wandered elsewhere entirely.

To the night of Baelor’s name day. To your bedchamber. To all the feelings you had finally surrendered to when you believed they would never be returned.

Heat rises immediately to your cheeks, and you are suddenly very grateful that your goblet hides part of your face.

-

He listens when you speak – of course he does – but he finds his attention wandering all the same.

His gaze lingers on your face, on the way your lips move around each word. When you absentmindedly moisten them with a quick flick of your tongue, something tightens low in his chest.

A few loose strands of hair have escaped whatever effort you made to tame them, framing your face in a way he finds distractingly beautiful.

Then your hand drifts upward. Your fingers slip beneath the opening of your shirt as you scratch lightly at your neck. The movement draws the linen aside, revealing a glimpse of skin, and the soft curve of your bosom above the neckline of your kirtle. Heat creeps up the back of his neck. He knows he ought to look away. He doesn't.

When your hand withdraws and smooths the fabric back into place, you seem entirely unaware of the effect you've had on him.

You lift your goblet to your lips. Your eyes are distant. Thoughtful. And there is a faint flush colouring your cheeks. His heart stirs. Is it the wine? Or are your thoughts wandering somewhere similar to his own? He wishes he knew.

Then your gaze flicks toward him and you offer a shy smile. The pink in your cheeks seems to deepen.

Unable to stop himself, he speaks. “Are you feeling alright? You look a little flushed.”

Your eyes widen slightly before you let out a soft laugh.

“I’m not used to such strong wine,” you say. “The one they serve to the servants must be watered down by at least half.”

Perhaps it is the truth. Perhaps it is an excuse. Perhaps it is both. Baelor doesn't press further.

“I hope you will not suffer for it tomorrow.”

You smile. “I suppose we'll find out in the morning. If your breakfast is late, you'll know why.”

A laugh escapes him. Though in truth, he does hope you wake without a headache.

Far too soon, he notices how late it has become.

“The hour grows late,” he says softly. “I should let you rest.”

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He does not want you to go.

You nod and finish the last of your wine before rising from your chair.

“Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

Baelor stands as well, moving around the table toward you.

“And thank you for your company.”

The lingering flush remains on your cheeks. A loose lock of hair has fallen across your jaw. Without thinking, he reaches for it. His fingers brush your cheek as he tucks it gently behind your ear. The touch lingers, his hand sliding along your jaw before settling beneath your chin. His thumb grazes your lower lip, and your eyes lift to his, before dropping to his mouth.

It is all the encouragement he needs. He leans forward, head tilting slightly as he closes the distance between you. One hand slips to the back of your neck, steadying you as his lips meet yours.

The kiss is gentle at first. Tender. Yet beneath that tenderness lies weeks of longing that neither of you has been able to voice. When you relax into the kiss and return it, your hand rising to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, something inside him gives way.

The kiss deepens naturally, no longer burdened by uncertainty. His hand trails from the back of your neck to the front, his fingertips gliding down the hollow of your throat, before slipping under the opening of your shirt, his hand flattening as it glides along the bare skin of your upper chest. His other arm slips around your waist, pulling your body flush against his.

You sigh against his mouth, your hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck, your fingers threading into his hair. He shudders at the sensation, heat flooding between his legs as he hardens at your touch, at your warm, wet mouth on his.

-

He guides you gently backward until the backs of your thighs meet the edge of the table, your breath catching at the impact. He follows you, one hand braced beside you against the tabletop while the other remains firm at your waist.

You lower yourself onto the edge of the table, your feet lifting from the floor. Your hand drifts from the dark curls at the nape of his neck to his throat, slipping beneath the collar of his shirt. His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. He presses closer, and you feel him against your thigh, through the fabric of your skirts, hard and unmistakably aroused.

You throb between your legs, aching and desperate, and with your free hand, you glide your fingers down his torso until you feel the waistband of his breeches. He groans into your mouth, and you continue, moving your hand further down.

Then he suddenly stills. He pulls back and the kiss breaks, his darkened eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before flicking away. He steps away, your body suddenly cold from his withdrawal. You slip from the table, your feet finding the floor once more.

“Is everything alright?” you ask, chest tightening with worry.

“Yes, everything’s fine, I –” He exhales shakily and runs a hand across his jaw. “We’ve both had rather too much wine, I think.”

You lower your gaze. “I’m sorry.”

His head lifts immediately. “No, no, please.” He closes the distance between you, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes softly across your skin before he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I take the blame entirely. I let myself get carried away.” He studies your face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” You assure him, though you can’t ignore the sinking feeling in your chest.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, resting his forehead lightly against yours.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” You say, and you mean it.

You do not blame him for changing his mind, but you hope that’s all it is, and not something you may have done to put him off.

After a moment, you draw a slow breath. “It’s late… I should go.”

You lean forward and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Baelor.”

His eyes close briefly at the touch. Then he takes your hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“Goodnight.”

 -

The door clicks softly behind you, leaving him alone where you left him. His lips still tingle from your kiss, his breath still uneven as everything that just occurred runs through his mind: the feel of you still lingering on his skin, your effect on him still evident between his legs.

He moves to his chamber, shutting the door quietly. He knows he cannot go to sleep like this, with you still clinging to him in every sense except physically.

He drops onto the edge of the bed, and before he knows it, he is already reaching for the laces of his breeches, freeing his hard length from its restraints. He bites down a groan as he takes himself in hand, unable to hold back the wave of longing and need that crashes through him.

It doesn’t take long before he’s hastily fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, barely in time, his release spilling hot and thick into the linen as a shudder racks through him. His breath breaks on a soft, helpless moan as pleasure crests and fades, leaving his muscles trembling.

But any satisfaction he feels is quickly replaced with shame.

What unsettles him most is not his desire for you. It is how completely his restraint had begun to crumble. How easily he had forgotten himself. How close he had come to abandoning caution altogether.

The moment he felt the evening slipping beyond his control, another face had risen unbidden in his mind. His grandsire. The man history now calls Aegon the Unworthy. A king remembered for his appetites, his mistresses, his bastards, and the chaos left in his wake. A man who took what he wanted and expected the realm to bear the consequences.

Tonight, for a few dangerous moments, Baelor had wanted nothing more than to lose himself – utterly, completely – in you.

He bows his head. I cannot be like him.

By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.

Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.

Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.

The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.

You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.

The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.

“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.

“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.

You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.

You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.

“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”

A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.

The machine beeped.

Approved.

You froze.

Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.

“Bag?” the cashier asked.

“No,” Jack said.

You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He finally looked at you.

Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.

“What?” he said.

You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“That’s my lunch.”

“Looked like it.”

“You paid for it.”

“Sharp today.”

You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”

That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.

“Eat the sandwich,” he said.

“I was going to.”

“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”

You opened your mouth.

Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

You closed it again.

Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.

“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”

Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”

“I don’t faint,” Santos said.

“You got lightheaded during central line training.”

“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”

Jack looked at her.

Santos looked back.

The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.

“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”

Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”

Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”

Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”

Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”

Your face was still hot.

The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.

Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.

“I can pay you back,” you said.

Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.

“Don’t.”

“I don’t like owing people.”

“You don’t owe me.”

“That’s not how money works.”

“It is when I decide I don’t care.”

You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You should’ve let it go.

You really should’ve.

But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.

“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”

Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.

Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”

He walked away before you could answer.

You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.

Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.

“Oh, that was not nothing.”

“It was lunch,” you said.

Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”

You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.

Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”

Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”

“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”

You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.

It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.

But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.

He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.

Jack was worse.

Jack was practical.

He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.

Robby noticed before you did.

Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.

It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.

“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.

You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”

Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.

“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”

“He bought me lunch once.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And coffee.”

“Sure.”

“And maybe pasta.”

Robby’s eyebrows rose.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”

“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”

That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.

Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.

Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.

“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”

You swallowed. “I know that too.”

Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.

“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”

“There’s nothing to notice.”

“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”

You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.

Across the department, Jack glanced up.

For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

That was becoming the problem.

Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.

You wished he’d be less good at it.

You wished you liked it less.

The car thing happened on a Thursday.

You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.

Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.

Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.

The expensive one.

A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.

You shut the engine off immediately.

“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”

The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.

You tried again.

The sound came back worse.

A knock hit your window.

You screamed.

Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.

You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”

“No,” he said. “Just me.”

“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”

“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”

“It’s fine.”

Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.

“That’s not a fine sound.”

“It does that sometimes.”

“It shouldn’t do that ever.”

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”

“You’re not driving it until then.”

A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

Your stomach dipped.

Not fear. Not exactly.

Something else.

Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”

“I don’t need you to—”

“Pop the hood.”

There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.

You popped the hood.

The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.

It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.

He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.

“Do not drive this,” he said.

You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, Jack.”

He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”

You did not.

You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.

“I can call someone,” you said.

“Who?”

The question was simple. Too simple.

That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.

You looked away first.

Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.

Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want you fixing everything.”

“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”

You didn’t move.

Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.

“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”

That was how he won.

Not with softness. Not with a speech.

Heat.

You grabbed your bag and got out.

Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.

He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.

You noticed.

You hated that you noticed.

Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”

“Your leg?”

“I said yeah.”

“Right. Sorry.”

His jaw worked.

Then, quieter, “Long day.”

That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.

At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”

You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”

“I’ll call someone.”

“No.”

“You don’t know who yet.”

“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”

The light turned green.

Jack drove.

You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”

“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”

“Jack.”

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you know a guy.”

“I’m old.”

“You’re not that old.”

That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.

“No?”

“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.

“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.

The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.

Not brave.

Not independent.

Just exhausting.

He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.

You didn’t reach for the door handle.

“Thank you,” you said.

Jack nodded once.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”

“No.”

You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop noticing.”

“No.”

Your eyes opened.

Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.

Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

“I don’t know,” he said.

It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.

That made it worse.

You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”

The joke landed differently in the dark.

You felt it. So did he.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.

“You should go inside,” he said.

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.

You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.

“Night, Jack.”

His hand tightened once around the phone.

“Lock your door.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”

His eyes lifted.

There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.

“Don’t start,” he said.

You got out before your face could betray you.

The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.

Jack didn't tell you this.

The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.

Handled.

Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.

You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.

Squared it away.

You were going to kill him.

Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.

You had to wait.

That made you angrier.

By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.

Jack stopped.

Robby, behind him, stopped too.

Dana looked up from the desk.

Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.

Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”

“Oh, no, definitely here.”

Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.

“Coward,” Dana muttered.

“Experienced,” Robby corrected.

Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”

“You paid the mechanic.”

“Yeah.”

“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”

“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”

You stared at him. “That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”

“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.

“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”

Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”

Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”

Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”

You barely heard them.

Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.

“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it done.”

You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”

“Usually.”

“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”

Jack’s gaze held yours.

“Doing what?”

The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.

“You know what,” you said.

For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.

Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.

“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”

Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.

Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.

He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.

“Friday,” he said under his breath.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Pick up your car Friday.”

Then he was gone.

Santos waited exactly three seconds.

“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”

Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”

Santos deflated. “Damn it.”

You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.

By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.

Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.

Your old ones were unsafe.

That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.

You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.

The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.

At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.

PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.

You hadn’t planned to go.

Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”

You’d said yes before checking your closet.

That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.

Your phone buzzed.

Jack:

Car still running?

You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.

You:

yes, dad

Jack:

Don’t.

You smiled despite yourself.

You:

thank you, by the way for the shoes too even though you’re insane

Jack:

You going tomorrow?

You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.

You:

maybe

Jack:

That means yes.

You should’ve stopped there.

Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:

You:

it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident

The reply took longer than usual.

Jack:

Show me.

You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.

You:

the dress?

Jack:

What else would I mean?

Your face went hot.

You:

don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Jack:

You have tomorrow off?

You stared.

Then stared harder.

You:

why

Jack:

Answer the question.

There were several smart things you could’ve said.

You said none of them.

You:

yes

Jack:

I’ll pick you up at 10.

Your stomach flipped.

You:

jack

Jack:

10:30 if you’re going to argue.

You:

you don’t even know what i was going to say

Jack:

I’m learning patterns.

You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.

The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.

Of course he did.

He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.

“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.

“You haven’t gone in yet.”

“That’s why I still have hope.”

He gave you a look.

You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was too easy.”

“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”

You stared at him.

He headed for the shop.

“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.

“It’s exactly a loophole.”

Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.

You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.

Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.

He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.

That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.

The saleswoman brought options.

You rejected the first three.

Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.

“No,” he said through the door.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw the sleeve.”

“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”

“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”

You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.

Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.

His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.

“No,” he repeated.

The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”

You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”

The fifth dress was the problem.

You knew it before you opened the curtain.

The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.

Confidence, maybe.

Or danger.

“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.

“You’re bossy.”

“Yes.”

“You admit that way too easily.”

“I’m old.”

You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.

This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.

That was the bad idea.

You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.

For a moment, he said nothing.

The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.

His jaw shifted.

Your fingers tightened around the curtain.

“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.

Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.

“No,” he said.

Your face fell before you could stop it.

Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”

The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.

“It fits.”

It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.

You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.

“It’s probably expensive.”

“Probably.”

“Jack.”

“You like it?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s my point.”

You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”

He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.

“I can do what I want.”

“You sound like a nightmare.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.

The thought went through you too sharply.

You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”

Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”

There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.

Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”

Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.

So you made it worse on purpose.

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”

Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.

“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”

You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.

Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.

The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.

Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.

Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.

“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”

“That’s never a good opener.”

“You look hot.”

“Santos.”

“What? I said don’t make it weird.”

Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”

Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”

You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”

“Because I’m invested.”

“You need a hobby.”

“I have one. It’s being right.”

You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”

“You too?”

“Me too what?”

“Nothing.”

Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”

“There’s not a thing.”

“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.

Dana smirked and walked away.

Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.

It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.

Robby said something to him at the entrance.

Jack answered without smiling.

Then his eyes found you.

Everything else blurred.

Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.

He walked over slowly.

“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.

“Hi.”

You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”

“I was going to say that.”

“You can still say it.”

“No.”

“Too generous?”

“Too easy.”

His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

You stared. “What is that?”

“Receipt.”

“For the dress?”

“For the car.”

Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”

“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”

You looked down.

Paid.

Your throat tightened.

“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.

“I still owe you.”

“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”

You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.

Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.

“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”

“That makes it worse.”

“I agree.”

Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.

“You look nice,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”

Jack gave him a look.

Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”

Jack didn’t move immediately.

His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.

“Don’t disappear,” he said.

Your pulse kicked.

“I’m working.”

“After.”

Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.

You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.

For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.

Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.

You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.

And Jack kept finding you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.

At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”

He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”

“I was.”

“Bad idea.”

“Because violence is wrong?”

“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”

You laughed into your glass.

Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.

You saw him catch it.

That was the dangerous part.

Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.

You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.

“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”

Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”

The man’s eyes shifted to you.

You felt it like cold water.

“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”

Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.

“This is—” Jack began.

The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”

His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.

Your fingers tightened around the place cards.

Jack went still.

The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”

Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”

“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”

The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.

“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.

Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”

The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.

The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”

“I’m not interested in what you meant.”

Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.

“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”

The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.

“No offense intended.”

Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Your breath caught.

People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.

You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.

You set the place cards down.

“I need some air,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”

But you were already moving.

You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.

You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.

You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.

Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”

You turned on him. “Made it worse.”

“They made it worse.”

“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”

His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.

“They don’t know what you are.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“And what am I?”

The question came out too vulnerable to take back.

Jack didn’t answer right away.

Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.

He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.

You hated that you wanted him to say it.

You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.

Instead, he said, “Not that.”

A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

“Great.”

Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.

You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.

“You bought the dress,” you said.

“Yes.”

“You fixed my car.”

“Yes.”

“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”

Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.

“What do you think people are going to call that?”

“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you call it.”

The words took the air out of the terrace.

You looked at him.

Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.

Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.

All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.

Now Jack was standing there asking.

Tell me what you call it.

Your mouth felt dry.

“I call it confusing,” you said.

His expression shifted.

You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”

Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.

You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”

His voice dropped. “Like what?”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”

The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.

Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”

The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.

His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.

“But I’ve thought about it.”

The terrace went silent.

Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.

You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.

“What was I going to say?”

His eyes lifted.

“That we shouldn’t.”

The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.

You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.

“You’re right,” you said.

Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.

Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”

His eyes sharpened.

You took one more step.

“But it’s not what I want.”

For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.

Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.

“Say that again,” he said.

The words nearly undid you.

You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.

“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “No?”

“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”

The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic at first.

That would’ve been easier.

It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

That was what broke it.

Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.

You grabbed his jacket.

He made a low sound, almost a warning.

You pulled him closer anyway.

The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.

His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.

“This is a bad idea,” he said.

You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”

“I know.”

“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.

“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”

Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

His eyes held yours.

“My car.”

The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.

Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.

Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.

Jack ignored all of them.

You loved and hated him for it.

The elevator ride down was worse.

Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.

In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.

Jack unlocked the car.

You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.

He saw the hesitation immediately.

Of course he did.

“You can change your mind,” he said.

The words loosened something in you.

Not because you wanted to.

Because he meant it.

You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He nodded once.

Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”

His face shifted.

“Do I what?”

“Know what I want.”

The garage seemed to hold its breath.

Jack opened the back door.

“Get in,” he said.

Not loud. Not cruel.

Just low enough to go through you like a match.

You got in.

The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.

Then the opposite door opened.

He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.

“You still think this is about money?” he asked.

Your breath caught.

You shook your head.

“Words.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“What’s it about?”

You could’ve said care.

You could’ve said want.

You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.

Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”

Jack’s eyes flashed.

Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.

"Jack—"

"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"

You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."

He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.

"Look at me."

You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”

Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.

"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."

You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.

"Jack—I need—"

"I know what you need."

He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.

"Get on top of me."

It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.

He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"

He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.

"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."

You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."

He didn't.

His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.

"Tell me you want this."

"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"

He pushed inside you.

The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"

He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.

Then you moved.

Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."

You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.

"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"

"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.

"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."

You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."

He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."

You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.

"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."

"Jack—I'm close—"

"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"

"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."

He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.

Then he laughed.

A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.

"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"

"Stupid," you supplied.

"Reckless."

"A really bad idea."

His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."

You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.

"We should probably—" you started.

"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.

"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.

"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."

He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.

You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.

He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”

That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”

“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”

“He sounds unbearable.”

“He is.”

The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”

Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”

Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.

“Jack,” you said softly.

He waited.

You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”

For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.

“You get breakfast.”

“That’s it?”

“And your car.”

“Already got that.”

“And the shoes.”

“Also already got those.”

“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”

Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”

The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.

But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.

He was looking at you like something worth keeping.

The raven arrived on a Tuesday, and Valarr's world collapsed. Not really. It was just two days. Forty eight hours. Less time than he had spent apart from you a hundred times before. But somehow, with Aelias now three years old and capable of expressing his feelings with words instead of just screams, the parting felt infinitely worse.

Your brother's wife had given birth again. Another girl. Healthy, screaming, perfect. And your brother, the fool, had written to say that he needed you there because his wife was "unwell" and he was "overwhelmed" and you were "the only person who could help."

You had read the letter aloud to Valarr at breakfast. Aelias had been sitting between you, smearing porridge across his face and the table and his father's sleeve.

"I have to go," you had said.

Valarr had opened his mouth to argue. Aelias had beaten him to it.

"No." It was a clear, firm, three year old no. The kind of no that came with crossed arms and a jutted chin and eyes that looked exactly like Valarr's own.

"Mama has to go help Uncle," you had said, wiping porridge off Aelias's nose. "Auntie is sick. The new baby needs her."

"I need you," Aelias had said, which was a devastating argument that Valarr wished he had thought of first.

"I will be back in two days."

"Two days is forever."

"It is two sleeps. You can count them. One sleep, then another sleep, then Mama is home."

Aelias had considered this. His little face had scrunched up in concentration. Then he had looked at Valarr, looked back at you, and sighed the sigh of a child who knew he was beaten.

"Fine," he had said. "But Papa has to do the voices for the dragon story."

"The dragon story is a Mama story," Valarr had said.

"Then you have to learn it." And that had been that. You had left that afternoon, and Valarr had spent the evening trying to memorize a story about a dragon and a knight and a princess who rescued herself, because Aelias had made it very clear that he would accept no substitutes.

Now it was the next morning. You had been gone for eighteen hours. Aelias had woken up three times during the night asking for you. Valarr had not slept at all. He had lain in your empty side of the bed, holding your pillow, staring at the ceiling, and missing you with a physical ache that made him feel like he was drowning.

The small council meeting started at nine. Valarr arrived on time, which was unusual. He arrived holding a locket, which was not unusual when his wife was missing. He sat down in his usual seat, opened the locket, and stared at your painted face with the expression of a man who had just received terrible news about his favorite horse.

Baelor watched him for a full minute before speaking. "Valarr."

"Yes, Father?"

"The locket."

"What about it?"

"You are looking at it."

"I am looking at my wife. There is a difference."

"You have been looking at it for the entire meeting. We have not started yet, but you have been looking at it for the entire time we have been sitting here."

Valarr tore his gaze away from your painted smile. He looked at his father. He looked at the Master of Coin, who was pretending to read a report. He looked at the Lord Commander, who was not pretending to be amused.

"My wife is gone," Valarr said. "She has been gone for eighteen hours. That is eighteen hours without her smile, without her voice, without the way she hums when she brushes her hair. I am allowed to miss her."

"No one said you are not allowed to miss her. But you are sighing."

"I am not sighing."

"You sighed three times since I started speaking. You sighed when I mentioned the grain shipments. You sighed when the Master of Laws asked about the roads. You sighed when the Lord Commander cleared his throat."

Valarr had not realized he was sighing. He tried to stop. He lasted approximately thirty seconds before his chest heaved and another sigh escaped him.

"There," Baelor said. "That is the fourth one."

"I cannot help it. My wife is gone."

"Your wife has been gone for less than a day. She has visited her family before. You have survived. You will survive again."

"This is different."

"How is this different?"

Valarr looked down at the locket. Your eyes looked back at him. Your soft smile. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to bury his face in your neck and breathe in your scent and feel your arms wrap around him.

"Aelias is three now," he said quietly. "He understands that she is gone. He keeps asking for her. He cried three times last night. He cried when I tucked him in. He cried when I gave him water. He cried when I tried to do the dragon story voices because I am not as good at them as she is."

Baelor's expression softened. Just a little. Just enough. "That is hard," he said. "But you are his father. You can comfort him."

"I do not know how to comfort him when I cannot comfort myself."

There was a pause. The Master of Coin shifted in his seat. The Lord Commander looked at the ceiling. Baelor rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed in a way that had nothing to do with missing his wife.

"Let us begin," Baelor said. "We have matters to discuss. Grain shipments. Roads. The situation in the Riverlands. Valarr, if you can manage to contribute without sighing, I would appreciate it."

Valarr nodded. He closed the locket. He set it on the table in front of him. He took a breath.

The door burst open. A small maid, no older than four and ten, stood in the doorway with her cheeks flushed and her hands twisted in her apron. "Your Grace," she said to Baelor, then turned to Valarr. "My prince. The little prince is asking for his mother."

Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. "Is he alright? Is he crying? Did he eat breakfast?"

"He ate his porridge. But he keeps asking. Every few minutes. He wants to know if she is back yet."

"Tell him two days. Tell him she will be back after two sleeps."

"I told him. He said two days is forever and he wants his mama."

Valarr looked at his father. Baelor looked back. The Master of Coin cleared his throat.

"Go," Baelor said. "Take him. Bring him here if you have to. We will manage."

Valarr did not need to be told twice. He found Aelias in the nursery, sitting on the floor with his dragon toy in his lap and his lower lip pushed out in a pout so dramatic that Valarr almost laughed. Valarr saw you. He saw you in the way Aelias wrinkled his nose when he was thinking. He saw you in the way he tilted his head when he was listening. He saw you in the shape of his hands and the sound of his laugh and the fierce protective love that burned in his chest whenever he looked at his mother.

"My baby," Valarr said, crossing the room and scooping Aelias into his arms. "My sweet boy. My little prince."

"I want Mama."

"I know. I know. I want her too."

"When is she coming back?"

"After two sleeps. You remember. We talked about this."

Aelias buried his face in Valarr's neck. His small body was warm and solid, his arms wrapping around Valarr's shoulders with a grip that would have been impressive in a child twice his age.

"I miss her," Aelias said, his voice muffled.

"I miss her too."

"I miss her more."

Valarr smiled against his son's hair. "You definitely miss her more. No one has ever missed anyone as much as you miss Mama."

"Not even you?"

"Not even me. You win. You are the champion of missing." Aelias pulled back to look at him. His eyes were red rimmed, his cheeks wet, but he was not crying anymore. He was studying Valarr's face with that serious expression that always made Valarr feel like he was being evaluated.

"You look sad too," Aelias said.

"I am sad. I miss her."

"Are you crying?"

"No."

"You look like you want to cry."

"I am being brave. For you."

Aelias considered this. Then he patted Valarr's cheek with his small hand, the way you did when you were comforting him, and said, "You do not have to be brave. You can cry. I will not tell anyone."

Valarr's throat tightened. He pulled his son close again and held him there, breathing in the smell of him, porridge and soap and something that was just Aelias.

"I love you," Valarr said. "You know that, right? I love you more than all the dragons in all the stories."

"I know. I love you too. But I love Mama more."

"That is fair. I love Mama more too. We have that in common."

Aelias nodded against his shoulder. "Can we go find her now?"

"She is far away. We cannot find her. But we can wait for her together. Would you like to come to the council meeting with me?"

"The boring meeting?"

"The very boring meeting. But you can sit on my lap and I will let you hold the locket."

Aelias perked up. "The locket with Mama's face?"

"The same one."

"Okay. But only if I can open it myself."

"You can open it yourself."

"And close it."

"You can close it too."

"Okay. Let us go."

Valarr carried him through the corridors of the Red Keep. Aelias was getting heavy, too heavy to carry for long, but Valarr did not put him down. He held his son against his chest and walked past the guards and the servants and the painted tapestries, and he thought about you, about the way you looked when you held Aelias, about the way your whole body softened around him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He walked into the council chamber with his son in his arms. Everyone looked up. The Master of Coin stopped mid sentence. The Lord Commander raised an eyebrow. Baelor looked at Valarr, looked at Aelias, and sighed.

"Valarr," Baelor said.

"Father."

"You brought your son."

"I brought my son. He is missing his mother. I am missing his mother. We are going to sit here together and miss her while you discuss grain shipments. Is that a problem?"

Baelor looked at the ceiling. He looked at the other men around the table. He looked back at Valarr and Aelias, who was now staring at his grandfather with the same stubborn expression that Valarr had worn at every council meeting since he was old enough to attend.

"No," Baelor said. "No problem. Sit down. Try not to sigh."

Valarr sat down. He settled Aelias on his lap and pulled out the locket. He opened it. Your face looked back at him, painted and golden and perfect.

"That is Mama," Aelias said, touching the portrait with his finger.

"That is Mama."

"She is so pretty."

"She is the prettiest. The prettiest in all the Seven Kingdoms."

"Prettier than the queen?"

"Much prettier. Do not tell the queen I said that."

Aelias nodded seriously. He took the locket from Valarr's hands and held it himself, studying your face with the same intensity that Valarr had seen in his own reflection a hundred times.

"Mama," he said softly. "Come home soon."

Valarr's chest ached. He wrapped his arms around his son and rested his chin on top of Aelias's head and stared at the locket over his shoulder.

The Master of Coin began speaking about grain shipments. Valarr did not hear a word. He was too busy watching his son trace the outline of your painted smile with his tiny finger, too busy feeling the weight of Aelias against his chest, too busy missing you with every breath he took.

Ten minutes passed.

Aelias looked up at Valarr. "Is Mama back yet?"

"No, sweet boy. Not yet."

"Oh."

He went back to studying the locket. The Master of Coin droned on. The Lord Commander asked a question about roads. Baelor answered. Valarr sighed.

"There," Baelor said. "That is the fifth one."

"I cannot help it."

"You are not even trying."

Valarr sighed again. Aelias looked up at him with concern.

"Papa is sad," Aelias announced to the council.

"We know," the Master of Coin muttered.

"His wife is gone," Aelias continued. "He misses her. I miss her too. We are both sad. That is why he is sighing."

"Thank you for the explanation," Baelor said.

"You are welcome, Grandfather."

Aelias turned back to the locket. He held it up to the light, watching the gold catch the sun, watching your painted face glow. He kissed it, right on your painted lips, and Valarr felt something crack open in his chest.

"I love you, Mama," Aelias whispered. "I will see you after two sleeps."

The meeting continued. The Master of Coin finished his report. The Master of Laws started talking about the roads. The Lord Commander added his thoughts about the Riverlands. Valarr sat in his chair with his son in his arms and his locket in his son's hands and his heart somewhere far away, wherever you were.

Fifteen more minutes passed.

Aelias tugged on Valarr's sleeve. "Papa."

"Yes?"

"Is Mama back yet?"

"No. Still two sleeps."

"I do not like two sleeps. I want zero sleeps."

"I know. I want zero sleeps too."

"Can we make her come back faster?"

"No. But we can wait together. That makes the waiting easier."

Aelias considered this. Then he nodded, leaned back against Valarr's chest, and resumed his study of the locket.

He asked again after twenty minutes. And again after thirty. And again when the Master of Laws started talking about the roads for the second time, which Valarr suspected was because he was bored rather than because he had forgotten.

Each time, Valarr answered the same way. Not yet. Two sleeps. She will be home soon.

Each time, Aelias nodded and went back to the locket.

And each time, Valarr held him a little tighter, kissed the top of his head a little softer, and sighed a little deeper.

By the end of the meeting, Baelor looked like he had aged ten years.

"Valarr," he said, as the other council members filed out.

"Yes, Father?"

"Take your son. Go do something. Play with him. Read to him. Anything. Just stop coming to council meetings with that locket and those sighs. I cannot take another day of it."

"Tomorrow is another day. She will still be gone tomorrow."

Baelor closed his eyes. "I know. That is what I am afraid of."

Valarr stood up. Aelias was asleep in his arms, finally worn out by the morning of missing, his cheek pressed against Valarr's chest, the locket still clutched in his small hand.

"Look at him," Valarr said softly, looking down at his son. "He looks so much like her."

Baelor opened his eyes. He looked at Aelias. The dark hair. The silver gold streak. The eyes, closed now in sleep. The narrow face and the long limbs and the stubborn jaw.

"He looks exactly like you," Baelor said.

"He does not. He has her nose."

"He has your nose. He has your whole face. He is a copy of you. Everyone says so. Your mother would have wept to see it."

Valarr shook his head. "You are wrong. He has her spirit. Her kindness. Her stubbornness."

"His stubbornness comes from you. You are the most stubborn person I have ever met."

"I am not stubborn. I am determined."

"Valarr."

"Fine. I am stubborn. But so is she. So is he. We are a family of stubborn people."

Baelor stood up and crossed the room. He looked down at his grandson, at the sleeping child in his son's arms, and his weathered face softened into something almost tender.

"He is a good boy," Baelor said. "You are doing well. Both of you. She will be proud when she comes home."

Valarr's throat tightened. "Thank you, Father."

"Now go. Take him to the gardens or something. Let him run around. Stop sighing in my council chambers."

Valarr carried Aelias out of the room. The baby woke up as they walked through the corridor, blinking and confused, still clutching the locket.

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Is Mama back yet?"

"Not yet. But soon. Come. Let us go to the gardens. We can look for flowers to show her when she comes home."

Aelias perked up. "Pink ones?"

"All the pink ones we can find."

"And yellow ones?"

"And yellow ones too."

Aelias wrapped his arms around Valarr's neck and held on. Valarr held him back. They walked through the Red Keep together, father and son, missing the same woman, waiting for the same homecoming.

And somewhere on the road between your brother's keep and King's Landing, you were already on your way back. You did not know that your husband was sighing in council meetings. You did not know that your son was asking every ten minutes if you were home yet.

But you would. Soon and when you walked through the door, Aelias would run to you with pink and yellow flowers clutched in his small hands. Valarr would stand behind him, watching, smiling, crying a little. And you would hold them both, and the waiting would be over.

Two sleeps. That was all.

He had thought this part of his life was over, especially the older one, but then he had met you. Despite being old enough to more than likely be your father you had been instantly attracted to him. 

Also you never did accept when he had tried to be proper turning you down due to the age difference between the pair of you. 

You who could still run on four hours of sleep, were in the prime of your life, and could fall and not feel the consequences for the next week. You had wanted him, and the thought still perplexed him, but you learned not to question it any more. 

You had texted saying that you and your friends would be out in less than a minute. That was five minutes ago, and he was beginning to worry. He let out a sigh, pulling his keys from ignition before making his way into the bar. 

It wasn’t that crowded allowing him to easily spot you and your two friends perched against the bar talking to the female bartender. You had a bright grin on your face, your hands moving widely as he took in your appearance. 

You wore a pair of jeans shorts fitted with a black top. It was nothing widely inappropriate, but the small v neck that curved down to your chest still managed to make his mouth water slightly. 

Your friend, Alice, a red head around the same age as you poked you in the ribs nodding her head toward him causing you to spin around. Your face lit up further, which he did not know was possible and he felt as if he was standing outside in the hot weather at the warmth that spread through him. 

“Baelor!” you exclaimed, practically running into him as you stumbled less than gracefully toward him. 

He reacted quickly, arms wrapping around you to stabilize you as you stared up at him. You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before dragging him back to the bartender that you had been talking to moments before. 

“Oh, meet my new friend Cara! This is my sexy husband I was telling you about,” you gushed grinning up at him as you had won something grand, but he felt as if there was a winner from the pair of you it was definitely him. 

He let out a laugh shaking his head, “I am too old to feel sexy.”

Your reaction was immediate. You looked almost offended, and he would have laughed, but he was trying to take you seriously, but was miserably failing. 

“Alice! Margaret!” you called, causing your friends to turn toward the pair of you. 

“Isn’t Baelor sexy?”

“Extemely! We love Dilfs!” Margaret exclaimed, her words sounding even more slurred than yours, but still just as genuine. 

“Yes! You are rocking the salt and pepper!” Alice added in agreement, before they returned to paying their tabs.

A blush spread across Baelor’s cheeks. He opened his mouth a few times, gaping as if he was a fish out of water. “See! You are sexy! You will probably still be in a nursing home being sexy!”

Your laughter filled the air as you moved cupping either side of his cheeks and before he could react your mouth was on his. His hands gravitated toward your hips pulling you flush against him, as he allowed the kiss to progress further into what he was usually comfortable with in public. 

But you had just fed his ego, you were gorgeous, and he had such a hard time telling you. He was sure that if you had asked for it he would buy you the city if it was a wish of yours. 

“I love you,” you muttered against his mouth, finally needing to pull away for breath. Your chest rising and falling rapdiy against his own as your hand moved to trail across the grey in his beard that you had told him on numerous occasions drove you wild. 

“I love you,” he replied, back staring down at you with a fond expression.

“You are the sexiest old man ever,” you then declared, a wide drunken grin filling your beautiful lips as you stared up at him like he had hung the moon. 

And you meant, because not only was he good looking, but he was caring. He was generous, and he was an amazing husband. 

Your amazing husband. 

“Whatver you say, my love,” he told you press to the top of your head. He looked to your two friends who had finished paying, causing him to look down at you, “Have you paid yet?”

“Nope,” you replied, popping the p as you tucked yourself under his arm. 

“I got it,” he then assured you, despite you having made no move to gather your own wallet.

You let out a small laugh, pulling yourself from him to face the bartender, “Sexy and is going to pay my tab!” you gushed once more looking at Cara as Baelor fished his wallet from his pocket. 

“Can we go get ice cream somewhere, Bae?” you then asked, but he knew you already knew exactly what he would say. 

“Of course,” he replied automatically, handing the woman his card to pay off your tab for the evening. 

Your eyes lit up, “See! Sexy!”

He handed Cara his card as he turned toward you, “Because I am buying you ice cream.”

“Oh, you are anyways. The ice cream is just an added bonus,” you then moved toward him pushing yourself up on your tip toes causing him to duck his head down toward you, “And when we get home I am going to show you just how sexy you are and how wet I am thinking of you,” you told him nipping his ear lobe. 

His eyes widened as he had to look away from you, forcing out a cough as he tried to urge his cock not to harden in his brief, but it was already too late. 

He had never driven to get home so fast before, and you made good on your word.

baelor taglist: @sacha1slytherin @erylilly @thebl00dwyrm @ilocuras24 @xkatherinexo @alaeratrrn @ynnlvrs @theonewhoshallbeunnamed @sem-ra @darylandbethfanforever9

"For the union," your father clinked his glass with Baelor's.

"For the union," Prince Baelor nodded. "Might it be happy and satisfying for both of our children."

"Aye," your father nodded. "Might it be fruitful as well," he chuckled and sat down on the armchair to drink from the glass.

Baelor smiled at first but then he frowned as he stared at the liquor inside his glass.

"What is it?" Your father asked.

"You just reminded me of something... Something important... Yet I seemed to forget about it," Baelor mumbled out.

"Which is...?"

"The wedding night," Baelor smiled to himself nervously. "I am afraid my son has stepped into it completely unprepared."

Your father coughed a little as he swallowed the last sip of his drink.

"Surely, the boy must have had–"

"No, never," Baelor shook his head and your father wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb.

"That is unfortunate."

"Perhaps your wife has educated your daughter?" Baelor asked.

"No, she has not. I believe mothers, aunts and septas should not mess with a maiden's head when it comes to a business that is entirely between her and her Lord Husband," your father explained. "It is a Lord Husband that teaches."

"Your daughter's Lord Husband needs teaching himself," Baelor chuckled and they both laughed, shaking their heads.

You and Valarr ate breakfast in your chambers but you went down to eat dinner with the rest of the family. Your father watched you with squinted eyes and he seemed to chuckle when you hissed after sitting down. He looked at Prince Baelor and the Prince nodded.

You glanced at your husband, a bit worried, but he squeezed your hand under the table to comfort you. For some reason, your mother and Lady Jena excused themselves from the table and approached the maid who was responsible for cleaning your chambers and changing the sheets.

You were chewing on the food with a heart feeling heavy in your chest. You felt watched and whispered about, as if something was wrong yet it was being kept a secret.

"Do you know what they're talking about?" You whispered to Valarr but he shook his head.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted the maid nodding her head and showing both mothers your sheet in the corner of the hall.

"That is odd," you mumbled out.

Lady Jena came back to the table first, smiling and nodding at her husband. Then your mother joined the rest and she nodded at your father as well. Him and Prince Baelor chuckled and clinked their glasses together.

"What is it?" You asked finally, making all adults clear their throats and look somewhere else.

"Nothing, my dear. We are simply celebrating," your mother explained but you did not believe her.

"How did you figure it out?" Your father asked your husband suddenly and Prince Baelor choked on his meal slightly.

"Figured out what?" Valarr inquired.

"What to do on your wedding night."

A blush creeped upon the young prince's cheek.

"It is... natural, is it not?"

"Aye, it is," your father nodded with a grin. Your mother kicked him under the table.

"What are you all talking about?" You whined, looking at your husband. You didn't understand why he seemed to be embarrassed.

"Nothing for you to worry about," Valarr assured you and you chose to believe him.

After all, he was a good husband. He treated you well and he knew how to make you feel good.

He certainly proved that on the night before.

since those early morning hours, as the night falls over the red keep, the information discussed during the day had merely came and went, but still lingering was the light in your eyes when they’d locked with his.

the final meeting of the day had ended, and baelor had set to return to his quarters, with the intent of sleeping off the desire, wishing to remain ever the honorable gentleman, though his thoughts raced of dishonoring you prior to the wedding.

his feet got the better of him, and before he knew it, he’d reach where your personal chambers resided. if he were anyone other than heir to the iron throne, he’s sure the guards would’ve hesitated before allowing him entrance. but surely, the prince wouldn’t do anything dishonorable, as this is his second marriage, after all.

they announced his visit, and you graciously accepted. as he entered, he saw you sitting back in a chair at the window, messing with some stray strings at the end of the embroidery you’d been working on. he knew much about you, and knew of your indifference of the craft, noting that you only did it, ‘because it is what is expected of me’.

you looked over your shoulder and greeted him, that sweet smile that held care and warmth. he’d returned the smile, walking over to your chair to place a hand on your shoulder.

“good evening, my prince. what’s brought you here so late?,” genuine curiosity laced your words, as baelor rarely ever came to see you late at night.

“is it so wrong of me to wish to see my wife?,” he questioned, though you both knew neither of you truly meant much more than a tease.

you laid the embroidery piece in your lap and raised a hand to lay over his, giving it a small squeeze and then immediately running the pad of your finger over the cool ring placed upon his own.

“you know it is never wrong, my betrothed. had it not been that the wedding is still weeks to come, i would want you here all the time. though, of course we’d share the same chambers, so you’d.. be there regardless.” the more you spoke, the more nervous you became as you lingered on that one word— wife. he said it so casually, like you’d already held the ceremony and been married for some time.

baelor noticed, a soft chuckle filling the otherwise silence of the room.

“do not be nervous, my love. everything will go accordingly, and before you know it we will be wed and the duties of each day will return to normal as they were before,” he said as he gave a small squeeze to your shoulder, then removing his hand out from under yours.

a small, almost inaudible grown of displeasure left you at the loss of touch. you felt the hear rise to your face, then stood up despite barely giving it thought.

“i am not nervous, my prince,” you started with a smile, then fading as you began speaking without care now. “well, perhaps a reasonable amount, but my thoughts have been racing as of recent. i cannot seem to keep them consistent or..”, you trailed off, quickly stopping yourself from telling him something you’d think he ought not know now. not until you are bound to one another.

“what is it? you know if you have any hardships you can always come to me, this much we have discussed before.” baelor was correct; you’d had concerns for what was to come for you as a future lady-wife of house targaryen, and how the world as you knew it would change for you. but he also knew you were not truthful in that being the only reason for your shaky voice.

and you knew too, but neither of you were allowed to act upon that until the next fortnight was over.

you looked away from the floor, then up to his eyes, which were already locked on you. subtlety, you bit your lip, and sighed slightly, turning to ask your ladies to leave as you ‘wished to discuss something with the prince.’

as the door closed, you walked over to baelor, the muscle memory to grab his hand returns and you twisted the cold ring round and round before speaking once again.

“i cannot take this anymore, my prince. it is too much, and too long from now.”

baelor felt his heart flutter with worry, as those words were not what he expected. you cannot take this anymore? the betrothal? perhaps he’d read you wrong, or you’d simply let your nerves get the best of you.

he looked at you with worry in his eyes, watching as you furrowed your eyebrows together in thought. he did not know what to say, thinking of how to comfort you, but you began to speak again.

“not like that, my love. i have had thoughts.. of you. and they have ran through my mind like rapids in a riverbed but i cannot take it anymore,” then you sighed, opening your mouth slightly then closing it, before huffing is annoyance at your own tone, “i need you, my prince. i yearn for your touch.”

your eyes slowly trailed up to his, which were dark with lust as they stared into your own. he yearned just the same for far too long now, and the moral decision now lay on him— to be an honorable man and wait for just a few weeks longer, or to take you on this night, and release the pent up desire that now is mutually announced.

“i.. i cannot take you on this night, my lady. you have honor about you, and i of myself, but when the night comes and i bed you, trust that i will love you right and take you properly.”

the fingers you had playing with his ring now gripped his hand. you pulled to place it upon your waist, letting your own hand stay above it.

“you’ve thought of it too, then. i.. i do not ask you to take my innocence on this night, my prince. but i do wish for your touch. nights have came and went that i could not sleep as i wished for your hands to caress me.”

and there it was, now in the open. you’d longed for his fingers, the touch of the gentle but battle-strengthened hand to please you. days you’d watched as he spared with matarys and valarr, watching as his hands fit perfectly on the weapons, then running his fingers alongside the blade as he taught his sons. days were you ran your fingertips along his hand, holding one of his fingers with several of your own. admiring in secret how long and beautiful they were.

he gave you a small smile and a slight nod, then with both his hands, he turned you around so your back was against his chest.

“tell me, my lady, you’ve not pleasured yourself during those lonesome nights, have you?” the tone of his voice now laced with sensualness, breath hot against your ear.

“n- no, my prince. i wished to wait for you but the days have grown to feel too far away.”

he hummed into your hair, vibrations faint against your ear.

his left hand gripped the fabric of your gown to pull it up, the cool air exposing your bare skin, as the right laid flat just above where you needed him most.

“a shame, that is— for you, of course. no one’s touched you here, not even yourself. your skin is so soft, more-so than i’d imagined, now that i’m finally feeling you.”

you closed your eyes, leaning your head back against him as you’re already growing drunk on the sultry rasp of his voice.

“baelor, please touch me,“ you cried, more pathetic then you’d intended but no care was given.

“hmm, touch you where, my dear? my hand is already placed upon you, i cannot touch you more than i am now.”

damn him, you thought, don’t make me say it.

“i tease you, sweet one. i know where you’d like me most. i saw it in those beautiful eyes of yours this morrow, and i feel it in every breath you take against me now.”

his hand slid down slowly, painfully slow, leaving a trail of cold tracks down as the pads of his fingers pushed gently between your folds, feeling the severity of how wet you were.

“all of this is for me? i was unaware that you would excite this quick.”

‘yes, all for you,’ you thought, though your throat betrayed you as the words tried to push through.

his middle finger teased the entrance of your cunt, rubbing just close enough to get you shaking. you hummed in content ridden with impatience.

finally he pushed his finger in, going deeper than you’d thought possible. you weren’t totally innocent, hearing of how men pleasured their wives through your ladies in waiting and from those gossiping in the garden, but to have it done to yourself was different than you’d always imagined. but truthfully in the best way you’d ever thought possible.

his palm now rested flat against your folds, now soaked with your wet slicked and that damn cold ring rested right against the entrance of your core as he settled there, sending cold chills all across your body.

baelor was a smart man, he caught on quick— the rings. that’s what began to drive you insane.

“my lady, pray tell, are the coldness of my rings enticing you? something so normal is so arousing to you?”

you could only muster up a nod and moan, core pulsing around as he rocked it gently in and out just barely.

pulling his middle finger out entirely, he rubbed your clit with the pads of it and his ring finger, then back into your entrance.

his speed was quicker now, each time he pushed them in they gained easier access inside your tight core. your breathing changing into airy moans, quiet and shy but embarrassingly sultry for simply having your future husband’s fingers inside you.

the pad of his thumb rubbed at your clit, aiding you none in holding back your pleasured sounds.

“that feels good, hmm? i believe this is about as exciting for you as it is myself, i must say. seeing you unravel so easily at the feeling of my fingers inside your beautiful body.”

the slick of your arousal and his quick fingers combined made a wet clicking sound, which grew closer together as he sped his actions up.

“baelor.. my love.. i feel something.. i’m not-“

“i know, sweet girl, i know. just let it go, release that pleasure for me. show me how good i’ve made you feel.”

a tear formed in your eye as the intensity heightened rapidly. now, with your knees shaking, you feared you’d collapse, but the hand holding your gown, with the fabrics still in the grip, slid across until his forearm rested on your stomach. with a tight hold, he pulled you somehow even closer to keep you upright as your release ran through your body.

your whimpered moans sounded faintly like praise of his name, somewhere between baelor and my love; it all ran together. you weren’t even sure of what you were saying, only that the sensation was something unmatched to anything you’d ever felt before in your life.

he held you as you calmed down, humming through the remaining waves of excitement. rubbing you a few more times, he removed his hand from your middle and brought it up to see the mess you made on his hand.

you opened your eyes and immediately felt your face turn hot from embarrassment, looking at how went his entire hand had became.

baelor laughed, letting go of your gown and walking towards the bucket of water and rags that were kept in the corner of your room.

“do not be ashamed, my dear. i find it endearing that you enjoy my hands so much. when we are wed, you will feel it every night, if you so desire.”

You paused your walk to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek, “I know, my love. And I adore them all.”

He smiled at you before deciding that a kiss on the cheek was not enough. Gently clasping your chin with his thumb and index finger, he too planted his own kiss, but on your lips- ensuring that it lingered for as long as possible. When you parted, he traced your lips with his thumb.

“My Prince, I-“

Aerion’s head snapped towards the direction of the high pitched voice.

“Not now boy, I am busy.” Your husband snapped at his young squire, not bothering to properly look at him- more focused on you, as he always was.

You pursed your lips slightly in sympathy as you watched the young boy. He stood there, forcing his body to remain upright, shoulders back. He looked at Aerion expectantly, despite his dismissiveness.

You weren’t sure how old your husband’s new squire was, roughly thirteen or fourteen, perhaps. Aerion had no want for a squire, yet unfortunately Prince Maekar had ordered it. As a consequence, since returning from the tourney, your husband had suffered being followed around by someone whom wished to aid him most of the day. His own personal idea of hell.

“Stop calling him that.” You scolded softly in a hushed voice to ensure that the child could not hear you.

“What is it, Edric?”

Aerion frowned, his eyes stayed glued to the side of your face, waiting for you to look upon him once again. Yet, you did not. Accepting defeat, he too turned towards his squire.

Edric now did not know who to look at, or speak to. He wanted to direct his attentions to the beautiful princess whom had shown him nothing but kindness and care since his arrival. Yet he forced himself to look upon the man he served- the man that terrified him to his core. The young boy felt grateful for your existence, daily, hourly even.

When his own father had told him where he would be going and whom he would be serving, he had cried himself to sleep.

You saw his fear, and had explained it to your husband. Unfortunately, your husband didn’t share the same empathy in which you did.

He stuttered, his body sinking lower to the ground as each moment passed. Almost as if a candle had been lit in his head, he propped himself back up, pushing his shoulders all the way back. You had to stop the giggle that wanted to escape your lips and Aerion just groaned.

“Gods, Edric what is it.” Despite the respect of using his name this time, his words were forced through gritted teeth.

“I erm, I just wanted to erm let you know that you,” the boy peered down at Aerion’s boots, “it appears that you have stepped in horse dung, I will clean them immediately.”

Your hand raised to your mouth with haste in a desperate attempt to keep your laughter at bay. Aerion cursed, and you prayed that he wouldn’t take it out on the child.

You knew your husband better than anyone in the realm, and you could feel the heat rising from his chest. You knew a Brightflame tantrum was about to take place.

“The world shan’t crash and burn over it, love.” Your soft words brought him back down to reality, your soft giggles warming his heart. He didn’t even care that you were laughing at him, he just loved seeing you smile. It was the only thing in this dreadful world that brought him happiness.

Aerion rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, scraping his shoe against a small patch of originally green grass, that now had strokes of brown throughout it.

The young boy grinned at you whilst the Prince dug his boot into the ground.

“Don’t just stand there boy, come and-“

A nearby horse whinnied loudly, causing everyone in the yard to snap their heads towards the commotion.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see much, neither could Aerion. From what you could see, though was a group of men that you barely recognised, laughing so hard that they cried. You wondered why the horse’s noise would cause such delight. You stood on a tiptoe, nearly slipping as you did so in the mud below- Aerion caught your waist and held you as you steadied yourself.

“Oh dear.” You commented, now having gained a better view of the scene.

“What is it, Princess?” Aerion asked, despite not caring much. He inspected the nails on his free hand- dirt stuck inside one of them.

“There is a boy who cannot control that horse! Not one of those men are helping him.” You paused, watching the scene unfold. “Horses can be very dangerous you know, when they are not cared for and handled properly.”

You peered at your husband, who remained digging into his fingernails, his tongue between his teeth in concentration.

“Just like you.” You spoke again, a teasing smile.

Aerion peered up and rolled his eyes playfully at you. You felt a swift hand hit your bottom, and then felt the same hand grip it tightly.

“I would say I am far more dangerous when not cared for properly.”

A voice in the distance called for him, and he begrudgingly followed it. Now, alone, Aerion’s squire stared at you awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself.

Suddenly, a loud rip rang through the air, and you heard the horse squeal once more. This time differed to the last, however, as this time you heard the panicked call of men, rather than laughter.

Your attention was drawn toward the commotion just as the horse veered sharply. It ran faster than you could ever have imagined a beast could move.

Straight towards you.

Aerion moved instantly, the man that he was in conversation with now on the floor due to Aerion’s own panic- he had thrown him.

He sprinted towards you, and as he moved closer a hand shot out for your arm.

But the horse was much faster than he had judged.

For the first time since knowing you, since loving you, Prince Aerion Targaryen realised he would not reach you in time. He would never live with himself if he allowed his sweet lady wife to be caused harm.

You braced, yet the impact did not come.

Instead, the boy lunged his whole body towards you, in front of the horse.

“My Princess!” He squeaked, his voice breaking.

A hard shove struck your shoulder causing you to stumble backwards, yet Aerion caught you before you landed on the cold earth. Harshly, he swiped the loose hair from your face and grabbed your cheeks inspecting your face and then body for any harm.

The huge horse thundered past. There was a sickening impact, and then the boy was on the ground.

You were fine, yet you knew the boy wouldn’t be. A wave of guilt flood through your bones.

Aerion, pleased that you were fine, picked you up and propped you on your feet. He pressed a loving kiss to your forehead and then whipped his body around.

His jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened- scanning the area for any of the men. All whom had witnessed the scene stood with their mouths open, knowing what would come next.

The man whom had lost control of the horse- more so whom had never had control of the horse, had been flung off in the process, now lying on the floor cradling his arm with his eyes closed.

“You!” Aerion shouted. His hand found his sword instinctively, forming a solidified grip on the hilt.

As he neared the injured idiot, he withdrew it forcefully from its sheath. He held it to his throat.

“Open your eyes you fucking imbecile.” He ordered.

The man’s eyes tore open, his mouth opening with the intention of speaking yet no words came.

“You nearly killed my wife.” Aerion pressed the sharp blade into his neck ever so slightly, the man let out a small gasp as the ice cold metal nipped his neck.

“Your princess.” He pressed the blade harder, causing a yelp. Crimson began to trickle from the small incision that Aerion had caused. You knew that you should have stopped him, but admittedly, part of you couldn’t have cared less. Despite your usually forgiving nature, you too were annoyed that you were nearly gravely hurt. And you were sure as hell annoyed about the sweet, young boy that now lay unconscious in the cold mud.

Aerion swiftly withdrew his blade, and the man’s hand immediately raised in order to clasp the small slit.

“Speak!” He roared. Even you were slightly taken aback- usually Aerion carried himself calmly when angry or upset, which was one of the reasons that people were so terrified of him. He was not calm now, though- the spit flying from his mouth as he shouted gave that away greatly.

“I didn’t mean too! My friends were taunting the horse and I don’t know how to ride properly and-“

Aerion silenced him with a hard kick to the stomach. While still clasping his neck, the man hurled over in pain.

Aerion’s body swivelled in your direction, “where are you hurt, my love?” His face softened as he saw you hunched over Edric, stroking his hair, ensuring that he was still breathing.

“My ankle hurts,” you gestured to the floor below you, “yet I am more worried about Edric. What will happen?” You didn’t seek an answer to the question- it was more of an inquiry to the gods.

Without a second thought, Aerion swung his sword as hard as he could onto the man’s ankle- chopping it clean off. The man squealed louder than anyone you had ever heard.

He leaned down, and spoke to the man in a quiet voice, “you hurt my princess’ ankle, so I have taken yours. If that boy,” he pointed, “dies, you will also.” His words were simple. Despite his agony, the man mustered a nod.

Aerion ordered his guard to take him away, and to find the other men who had all coincidentally dispersed.

Your husband walked back to you, his eyes as soft as they always were when he looked at you. You attempted to stand, but your ankle gave in as soon as you had put weight on it.

Aerion lunged forward, catching you once more.

“Thank you.” Your words came out shyer and quieter than you had intended.

He tutted at your thanks, still not understanding why, after five whole winters of being completely and utterly obsessed with you, you still felt the need to thank him.

He knew the answer though, it was because you were the kindest person whom he had ever met.

Placing his right arm on your back, and his left under your legs, he smoothed your skirt down first just in case anyone would dare peep at his lady wife. He began to lift you when you protested.

His brows furrowed, and his face scrunched.

“Leave me here and take him first please. Find him the best maester.” Your tone light but your meaning completely serious.

He let out a long sigh and peered down at the boy who still lay unconscious- his chest heaving up and down.

Aerion’s eyes rolled into the back of his head- he knew what he had to do now; carry the both of them. He couldn’t have given less of a fuck about the boy that had been pestering him constantly, always behind him, infuriating him with his very presence.

But what his princess wanted, she got. He knew you cared for him with your pure heart, and that was enough a reason for him.

He placed you back down gently, once again ensuring that your gown stay down, ironically now wishing it did touch the mud now.

He picked you up over his shoulder on the right side of his body, and then clicked at a nearby guard to help him with the boy. He could have commanded the guard to carry him, of course. That wouldn’t impress you as much though. He wanted to show you the true strength of the dragon that you had married.

The guard did as commanded and propped the boy up, aerion dipped his left side downwards slightly, and allowed the boy to claim his other shoulder. Aerion thanked the gods that he was light.

Weeks passed, and Edric lived. Thankfully. You had sat with him daily, he had woken up a night or so after his collision. You had been there when he awoke, as had your husband, unwillingly.

The boy thought he had died; your beautiful face lingering above him and smiling persuaded the boy quickly that he must be dead, or dreaming. Reality crashed down upon him when he moved his head slightly and saw Aerion’s harsh face also staring down at him. He had jumped, you had giggled, and Aerion had scrunched his face in offence.

Aerion found it adorable that you cared so much, but he was conflicted by the fact that he felt so neglected. Usually, you pandered to his every need- you fed him cake, you sat upon his lap, you kissed him tenderly, you stroked his hair- even in times of fume, you were there while he bathed. You did everything together.

Since the boy had been harmed, although you still pandered to every need, there were many times in the day that you instead sat with Edric. Aerion dreaded what it would be like when you conceived a babe. He had spent the entire time pouting, and sulking like a baby. He thought that you hadn't notice. Of course you had, there was no possible way of not noticing. He had been more loving than usual, and he usually poured his entire heart into yours. You quite liked this version of him, though. One morning he even got down on his knees and begged you not to leave the bed. You didn't.

After the third week (which had felt like an eternity), despite you spending less time with the injured child due to his recovery, he still begged for your attention.

While on his way to find you, one evening, Aerion caught wind of what his squire had been vocalising throughout the castle.

Passing through the kitchens one afternoon, he heard a roar of laughter- more so a cackle.

“Seven save us, please! The boy’s at it again.”

Aerion paid it no mind until another voice answered.

“Her smile is more beautiful than all the stars above Ashford.” The woman put on a dramatised voice, causing Aerion to stop in his tracks.

The kitchen erupted into more cackles. A third voice chimed in.

“No, no. My favourite was yesterday,” the woman cleared her voice, “the Maiden herself could not rival her grace, and beauty and gentleness.”

He’s only a boy, Aerion told himself, chewing the inside of his cheek as he internalised the words he had heard.

“Poor lad’s hopeless.”

“Can you blame him? The prince’s lady sat at his bedside every day for three weeks.”

“Still. If Prince Aerion ever hears half of what the boy says…”

The laughter died abruptly as the women noticed who was standing in the doorway.

A heavy thud of silence descended upon the room.

Aerion stared at them, eyebrows raised and his tongue touching his top lip.

The women immediately bowed their heads, a chiming of “My Prince” annoying his ears. He tutted at them, and flicked a finger upwards, signalling them to stand.

“My squire had developed a fondness for my princess?” He asked them.

They nodded.

Much to their surprise, he laughed. Loudly, while clapping his hands together. Without another word, he walked away, leaving the women to stand there, completely and utterly confused.

He was not surprised, though. Of course the pubescent boy had developed a fondness for you- you were the most beautiful girl in all of the seven kingdoms, and he thanked the gods that he barely believed in daily to have you as his own.

He searched for you everywhere, but could not find you anywhere. He even went to the room that the boy had been recovering in, yet it was empty.

The only place in which he hadn’t searched, were yours and his chambers. He walked swiftly, and completely ignored the large man that guarded the room. Pushing open the grand, mahogany doors to your chambers, he was delighted to see you laying there, your nose in a book.

You looked up at him, your eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

“There you are.” You propped yourself up, and laid your book down carefully. “I have been waiting for you.”

He smirked, kicking his boots off and forcefully laying next to you on the warm, fur covered bed. Instinctively, you lay your head on his lap. Also instinctively, Aerion’s fingers attached themselves to your hair, gently raking through it.

“I heard something amusing today.” He said simply. You made a noise in response, silently asking him to continue.

“Edric has been telling anyone that will listen about how much he adores you. I believe he may be in love with you.”

Horror flashed in your mind, Aerion was an extremely jealous and obsessive person, especially when it came to you, even if the subject of the matter was a harmless child.

“Oh dear, bless him.” You said cautiously.

Aerion bent all the way down and planted a lingering kiss to your forehead, causing your eyes to flutter shut.

“I cannot blame the boy, though I do want to kill him.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“Though I won’t.”

A sigh of relief escaped you. You sat up, scooting upwards so you lay next to him, allowing one leg to sprawl over his lap comfortably.

“Please do not, he is a child.”

He leant down and kissed you again, on the lips this time.

“I know my darling, and that is why I shan’t kill him.”

He smiled at you, and you smiled back. He raised a finger, as he had a thought.

"mandy bought the shirt cause it was 'so her style'…"

his tongue traces the edge of your panties, and you gasp mid-sentence but keep talking.

"anyway, then we went to that new boutique downtown-"

bobby hooks his fingers into your panties, pulling them aside and exposing you completely. he groans appreciatively before diving in, his tongue flat against your folds as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up to your clit as his cock strains against his boxers.

"oh god," you breathe, your hands tangling in his hair. "t-then i found this skirt."

"mmmhmm," he mumbles against your folds, his voice muffled.

he sucks your clit into his mouth, and your hips buck involuntarily. "bobby," you moan, your train of thought completely derailing for a moment. "the skirt was…uh…was on sale."

your boyfriend releases your clit with a wet pop, his face pressed against your folds as he rubs his cheeks against you like a cat. "mmmhmm," he murmurs again, the vibrations sending electricity through you.

you whimper, trying to continue your story but failing miserably. "the-um-the skirt was…oh fuck…"

he adjusts your legs, draping them over his shoulders to get deeper access, and you cry out as his tongue plunges inside you, your grip tightening in his hair.

he's making out with your pussy now, sucking and licking and kissing like it's your mouth he's devouring. his nose bumps against your clit as he tongue-fucks you, and you're seeing stars.

he's so turned on it's obscene, the wet spot on his boxers probably growing bigger with every second.

you try to pull away, the stimulation becoming almost too much, but his arms wrap around your thighs, holding you in place. "stay right here." he mumbles against you.

"s-sorry" you whimper, trying to squirm away from his relentless mouth. "anyway," you continue, trying to focus on your story, "so mandy and i spent a-all our money at this boutique…"

he just holds you closer, his tongue working magic on your clit as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right.

you tug on his hair again as he sucks particularly hard on your clit, your hips bucking against his face. "w-wait m'gonna cum- bobby don't stop baby-" you gasp, your train of thought completely derailed for a moment.

he looks up at you, his chin glistening with your wetness, a smug little smile on his face. "keep talking," he says, his voice rough. "i'm listening."

you nod and continue your story as he goes back to eating you out, his tongue doing this amazing flicking thing against your clit and his fingers curling up that's making it hard to form coherent sentences. "so…um…what was i saying?"

"spent all your money-" he reminds you, his voice muffled against you.

"oh right! so-" you gasp as bobby slides a third finger inside you, "fuck, okay, maybe we can finish this story later…"

Tapping away in a computer at the nurses station right when you arrived seemed like a good idea, until Shen noticed your wedding ring, the same one you have forgotten to take off and put on the chain you wear around your neck.

“Woah, is that a wedding ring?" Shen asked you, his eyes open in surprise.

shit

"I- uh,” you stuttered, seemingly being caught. "Yes, it is”

"You're married?”

"No, I just liked the ring and I bought it” you rolled your eyes "I think the ring means I'm married”

“Who’s married?" asked Jack, joining the conversation.

"Apparently, Sunshine is” said Shen, his usual cup of iced coffee— almost empty— in his hands.

Jack turned his gaze to you, assessing you. "You're married?”

You groaned "I think we've already established I am”

Jack raised his hands in innocence “I was just asking"

“How long have you been married, hon?" Lena— night shift's charge nurse— asked you.

You smiled at her “Two years"

"What? Girl, how's that possible? We've known you for almost four years” Ellis, who had just been listening, said from her chair, now very interested.

You shrugged “I'm a very private person"

“No shit" laughed Ellis “I cannot believe you!"

"What's his name?” Lena asked you.

You shook your head, "Not telling. He's nameless” you sealed your lips shut.

As you turned to go check on your patients, you winked at Jack discreetly.

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Days later, you were called in early, something about needing extra hands since various people had called in sick.

“Oh, hello, hon." Dana looked relieved to see you.

“Dana, rude of you to call me in early, I need my beauty sleep" you said playfully while leaning against the counter of the nurses station.

“We needed more hands on deck, chairs are hell, too many patients and too little doctors" she sighed heavily

You brushed her off “No worries, I'm kidding. I'll go to the lockers and then I'm your obedient servant"

She laughed, shaking her head “Of course, hon. Good to have you back on the days, even for a few hours"

You winked at her before walking to the lockers, quickly changing into your scrubs.

Walking back to the nurses station, you decided to check your texts and to no surprise Jack was the one texting you.

Jack

Made it okay?

You

Yes.

You should be asleep

Jack

Can't. Miss u.

You

Miss u too, baby.

Now sleep

Jack

okay, bossy.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you made your way to Robby.

"Hey! Sunshine, you are honoring us with your presence?"

“Indeed. Dana called"

He glanced around “Yeah, today's chaos in here"

"Where do you want me, boss?”

"Central 15 is all yours”

You nodded "Aye, aye”

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Two hours or so later the work had winded down a little, allowing you a respite. You made your way to Ahmad's post, wanting to see what the new betting grid he was running was about.

"Doctor Sunshine!” he greeted, "coming to place a bet?”

You chuckled, shaking your head "I'm merely curious about the recent bet you have going”

"There's two” he nodded towards the white board in his post.

You glanced at it from outside, reading the bets.

Residents/ interns changing shifts. Who? Why?

$20. Santos. Avoiding someone — Perlah

$30. McKay. Night shift vibes. — Shen

$30. Ogilvie. He thinks he fits in there — Princess

$40. Mohan. Wants to try it. — Dana

$10. Whittaker. By the end of the year. Loses a bet to Santos — Santos

You chuckled softly before turning to Ahmad. “I'll take $50, none of them."

He shook his head, impressed “Bold bet" he said, pulling his sticky notes to write your bet.

You shrugged, handing him the $50 bill “I know them Pittlings, they wouldn't last on night shift" you hummed “Well, maybe Joy would fit perfectly but I'll take my chances with my bet”

"Good”

You tilted your head "What's the other—?”

"Nah, that one is not for you” He moved, blocking your gaze from the other one.

"Ahmad”

"Fine,” he murmured, moving away.

Dr. Sunshine’s marriage. Real? Fake? To whom?

$20. She wears the ring to avoid being asked out — Whittaker

$20. He's a hottie but it's just his boyfriend — Princess

$30. He doesn't work here, very real — Ellis

$20. Fake — Garcia

$40. Real. Someone who doesn't work here —Perlah

$30. Attending here. Very real — Santos

Your mouth was open in surprise. “You're betting about my love life? Ahmad!"

He raised his hands “Don't blame the player, blame the game"

You huffed “You're on my list now"

“Care to tell me who's won, then?"

“No"

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Closer to 4 p.m., you decided to text Jack.

You

You wouldn't guess the new bet Ahmad has running.

His reply took a few minutes.

Jack

The resident to night shift? I put $40 on Joy

You

I put $50 on none of them.

I'm not talking about that one, though.

Jack

Bold.

Idk about any other bet.

You

It's about my marriage and whether it's real or not.

Jack

That's hilarious. I'll place a bet.

You rolled your eyes, of course he would.

You

See u in a few.

Love u

Jack:

Love u too

You shook your head, pocketing your cellphone. You couldn't believe your colleagues were to the extreme of betting about your marriage— or rather you could— but they were unbelievable.

You also wondered how oblivious they could be, you had been married to Jack for two whole years and the only ones who knew were Dana and Robby. Robby was the best man, of course, and Dana, well she's Dana, she knew you liked Jack before you even knew. You were beyond grateful they were discreet— and that you and Jack had managed to pull it off this long— it wasn't you didn't want to shout the world you love Jack, it's just you loved to be only the two of you.

At first, it was just a keep it secret to see if it works out when you started dating. It soon became marry me? but we'll keep it a secret still because you had enjoyed your relationship without people mending in. The years passed and you still managed to keep it a secret— it wasn't that much of a secret, you and Jack were pretty joined to the hip, but they haven't connected the dots. Until you screwed up by not taking your ring off.

You knew your secret would be uncovered sooner or later, it was going to be amusing to see all of them trying to find out.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

You were checking something on a tablet when you felt a presence next to you.

“So…” Santos said casually — or so she thinks.

"So?”

"You're married”

You nodded, not lifting your gaze from the tablet "I am”

"Does he work here?” She asks again trying to sound casual.

"Trinity, I know about the bet”

"Damn it!” she huffed but quickly changed her expression, giving you her best puppy eyes "Help me win! Just tell me if he works here, I need the money, I'm a broken R2”

You chuckled, shaking your head "Nope, not telling”

She gave you a look, she was going to start pestering until you told her.

You were quicker, though “Dana?"

“Yes, hon?"

“Is there a patient for Dr. Santos?"

“Yes, South 12, knee laceration. It's not pretty"

“Thanks, Dana" you smiled at Santos, giving her a pat on the shoulder “You heard Dana, c'mon"

She didn't say anything, just stomped her way to see her new assigned patient.

Dana shook her head, chuckling softly “How much longer do you think you can keep it up?"

You shrugged “We'll find out"

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Hours later you were still checking on patients, working every waking moment. Your real shift was set to begin in an hour, the night shift already arriving, ready to go through the hand-offs.

As you were checking the boards, you felt eyes on you, without turning to them, you hummed.

“Perlah, Princess" your eyes kept scanning the board “is there something in my face?"

Seeing an opportunity to talk to you, they got closer.

“We were wondering…” Princess said.

"If you'd talk to us about your husband?” Perlah finished, a hopeful smile on both their faces.

"He's alive and well. Handsome too” you grinned at them, not giving them what they wanted to hear.

"Who are we talking about?” another voice cut through. Jack.

"Sunshine's husband” Princess quickly informed

Jack turned to look at you, an amused smile on his face “Oh, your husband"

You hummed “Yes, they want to know about him"

“Interesting. I want to know too, after all, I just put $50 dollars on who he might be" Jack crossed his arms in front of him, looking at you with a teasing smile.

You rolled your eyes “You all shouldn't be betting on people's lives" you chided all of them.

"Does he work here?” Princess whispered, expectantly looking at you.

"No, I'm not helping you win the bet” you said firmly "I'm taking five before my real shift starts” walking away, you ignored their frustrated groans.

You made your way to the staff lounge, taking a seat and thinking about ordering some food, you were hungry.

"So, this husband of yours…”

You have Jack a grin "I'm not talking about him in my workplace”

"Oh, c'mon. He's a catch” he said teasingly, you were alone, sitting across from one another.

"Says who?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

"Someone who knows him very well”

You rolled your eyes "Well, you could ask him if he wants some food before his shift, I'm about to order”

He stood up, walking to the fridge and taking a container with your name in it "No need, he sends you this”

You gasped, he had brought your favorite. "Oh, I love that husband of mine"

“He loves you too," he said, glancing at the door, checking if no one was coming in before pressing a soft kiss on your head. “Eat, I'll go to take care of the hand-offs"

You winked at him, standing up to heat your food “Yes, Cap"

He chuckled, shaking his head before leaving the staff lounge.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

“If you ask me again, I'm requesting all holidays off and you'll be stuck working, Shen" you threatened him, tired of his interrogation.

He bit the straw of his ice coffee “Please, Ellis said if I help her win the betting grid she'll give me a cut”

You smiled at him as scary as you could "Keep asking and I will give you a cut”

He raised his hands innocently "Point taken”

"Good”

Hours later, it was a fairly decent shift, the waiting room was swamped as usual but you were working fast and efficiently.

Your next case was a kid with a broken arm, divorced parents and they didn't look happy with each other. You steeled yourself to handle the case as best as you could given the circumstances.

"Hello, what do we have here?” You said, entering the room with a gentle smile, introducing yourself.

The little 7 year old boy looked at you with teary eyes, sniffling softly. The parents were on opposite sides of the room, not even glancing at each other.

"He broke his arm” said the child's mother "because of this drunken excuse of a father!”

"That is not what happened–” they started bickering.

You looked at the nurse who was assisting you, Annie, and shook your head. Those cases were impossible because of the parents.

"Enough!” you said loudly, they both stopped. "My concern right now is treating this little one, if you keep bickering you'll be escorted out” you said firmly.

"Alright” "Fine” they both answered

You took a deep breath, moving to assess the child's arm. "Does it hurt here, Dylan?” you said, making a quick exam.

He winced "Yes, it all hurts”

You hummed "Okay. Did you hit your head or was it just your arm?”

“Just my arm" he answered shyly, his tearful eyes looking at you.

“Alright, we're already giving you something for the pain and now we need to know how it's your arm so we'll send you to an x-ray" you looked up at his parents “One of you can go with him"

“I'll go" said the little one's mother

You nodded “Okay. Annie, would you show Mrs. Michaels where she can wait while little Dylan is on the x-ray?"

She nodded “Of course, follow me"

As they left the room, you were left with the father. “I'll come in and check with you when the x-rays are back, Mr. Michaels. Is there something else you need?"

“No" he said gruffly, he was noticeably drunk.

“Alright, I'll be back"

You made your way out of the room, taking a deep breath, you despised divorced rude parents. Arriving at the nurses station, you addressed Lena “Hey, could you make sure security keeps an eye on the parents in Central 15? They don't get along, quickly escalate on bickering and the father is drunk"

She gave you a smile “Of course, doll. I'll inform them"

“Thanks, Lena" you sighed, looking at the board “I'll go check on other patients, let me know when the x-rays are back, please?"

She nodded “You got it"

You smiled at her before going to check on some other patients. 30 minutes later you were back with the kid, checking his x-rays.

“Alright, it's a clean fracture so it's something we can simply fix with 6 weeks immobilization with a cast"

“Oh, thank God" the mother said, caressing the little one's head.

“Could you hurry up? I want to get the hell out of here?" the father snapped at you.

“Of course, sir" asking for the supplies you needed, Annie quickly went to gather it, while you stayed with the parents.

You were talking with little Dylan, trying to lift his mood while the father— still very much drunk— was growing impatient.

“How hard is it to do your job!" he snapped.

“Sir, it just be a little moment more—”

"Calm down, all of this is your fault!” the woman snapped at him.

"My fault?”

"Yes! If you hadn't been drinking as always, he wouldn't be here!”

“He fell!"

"You were supposed to be watching him!”

"It's not my fault he's as stupid as his mother!”

Things were escalating quickly, and the child was growing restless, afraid.

"Okay, that's enough—” you said, getting closer. They didn't listen, still arguing.

“That's enough!" you said louder, getting closer to them, trying to separate them.

It was the wrong move because at that moment the man intended to hit the woman, —and you moved to separate them, causing you to be hit.

You felt the hit, your ears ringing and your vision blurry. He hit you hard.

"Security!” you slurred as you could, since the pair kept fighting.

Your brain felt sluggish. The rest was just blurry, security separated them, you were ushered to the nurses station. Your head felt underwater, you could hear someone talking to you but you couldn't make any of it.

Lena, Shen and a few others were around you.

"Call Abbot!” someone said, causing you to shake your head, insisting that they didn't need to.

You knew Jack, you knew he'd flip out and he'd uncover your secret. Besides, you didn't want him to worry.

"I'm okay” you tried to reassure them.

"You're not, doll” said Lena, the ringing in your ears was easing up. "Let Shen take a look at you, Abbot is with an emergency that arrived a few minutes ago”

You nodded, glad that Jack was occupied at the moment.

It all passed in a blur, Shen informed you that you had hit your head. When? it was all a mystery, so now you were waiting for the results of a CT in a room, practically hiding from Jack. You knew it was a matter of time before he found out.

Shen entered your room after a few moments, checking something on a tablet.

"CT looks normal. You're good but you do need rest”

You hummed "What about Dylan? The little kid with the broken arm?” you asked, still worried about your patients.

"He is—” Shen was interrupted by a presence storming into the room.

"Why did I just overheard you were attacked?” Jack growled "and you didn't think to call for me?”

shit, shit, shit

"Jack—”

"Do you know,” he cut you off "how I felt when I heard someone say my wife had been attacked by a patient?”

"It was the patient's dad—” he gave you a look that shut you off.

Shen, who was very much in shock, still in the room, cleared his throat. "CT came back normal, she's good”

"Thank you, Dr. Shen” Jack said, he was grateful that at least someone checked you out. "Now, would you let me alone with my wife?”

He nodded "of curse”

Once Shen was out of the room, Jack walked to your side "Why didn't you call for me?”

"I knew you'd overreact,” you murmured.

"Overreact —” he took a deep breath, saying your name in that firm manner he used the few times you managed to drive him out of his cool composure "You were attacked by a patient's parent. A man double your size, you should've call me”

You sighed, knowing he was right "I know”

He shook his head, his anger evaporating, leaving just your worried lovingly husband “I hated that I had to hear it from someone else, baby"

Feeling like a scolded child, you nodded "I imagine”

He took your hand in his, taking a seat in the hospital bed "I am glad you're okay and you are pressing charges. That man assaulted you, plus he's drunk and apparently, an irresponsible man”

Your lips twitched, you were not comfortable with taking a man away from his child.

"Don't do that. He is not a good influence on the child. Besides, his ex-wife is going to testify against him too, apparently, he used to beat her”

You sighed “Alright, alright. I'll press charges"

“Good" he said, caressing your face.

“You know you just told Shen I'm your wife?"

“Yes. Secret is out" he shrugged.

You smiled softly “I'm curious about who won the bet"

He kissed your forehead “I'm just glad you're okay"

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Jack forced you to stop working the rest of the shift, claiming he had you on observation until he could take you home. Of course, Shen and his big mouth made everyone in the Pitt know about who your husband was. It spread like wildfire, even the day shift knew now, some of them texting you— while they should be asleep— to know if it was true or not.

You successfully convinced Jack to let you hang out in the nurses station, leaving the room open for potential patients. So now you were watching it all from the sidelines, sipping on water while staying next to Lena (Jack's orders). He even brought you a sandwich and a water bottle.

Ellis approached you, leaning against the counter in the nurses station, peeking at your sitting form on the other side of it.

“I don't like you," she said.

“You do like me, Parker." you hummed, eating your sandwich.

“I don't. Why didn't you tell me you were married to Abbot?"

“Because I didn't tell anyone" you shrugged softly.

“You made me lose money"

“I didn't tell you to bet on my life" you smiled at her.

“You could at least give me a hint" she recriminate you

“Parker, it's not my fault you're all oblivious"

She huffed, not happy with having lost. “This is not over, I'm still mad at you" she said before walking away. You didn't take it at heart.

“She's mad about having lost, huh?" Jack asked, taking Ellis's place.

“Yep" you said.

“How the head?"

“10/10. All good." you shrugged softly.

“That's good. Just two hours left of shift then we'll go home"

You pouted “No, I want to see who won the bet"

He tilted his head in amusement “I thought you were mad about the gambling about your life?"

You shrugged “I was, that doesn't mean I don't want to know who won"

He hummed, thinking for a moment “Does it count as cheating if I placed a bet and I was right?"

“I think it does, seeing the fact that it was a bet about who my husband was and you are said husband"

He shrugged “I'm still collecting my money"

You rolled your eyes “Of course you are"

He leaned in, taping your forehead between your eyes “Stop that, you're gonna get a loose eye if you keep that up"

You swatted his hand away “Do that again and you're sleeping alone"

“Yes, ma'am"

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

It was 7 a.m., time for hand-offs. You were patiently waiting for Jack while he took care of that while observing Ahmad take in the news and going through his post-its to see who won. Surprisingly, Santos won, along with Jack.

“Yes! I knew it" Santos said, jumping in excitement at the money she was about to receive.

You chuckled from your place, happy she won. Jack joined you shortly after, observing it too.

“Seems I'm splitting my money with Santos" he said, amusement written on his face.

“You cheated," you pointed out.

"I still won,” he shrugged.

Ahmad made his way towards both of us, a handful of dollar bills on his hands. “This belongs to you, though I consider that cheating, Santos agreed to split it"

Jack took the bills, you immediately took them from him.

"I think you still owe me money” Jack said to Ahmad, observing you while you counted his prize.

"I already gave it to you?” Ahmad said, confused.

Jack crossed his arms in front of him, a smirk dancing on his lips. "Joy just put her transfer to night shift”

"Oh, man!”

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

When you were finally free, Jack guided you to his truck, his arm wrapped around your shoulders.

"You know,” he began "I'm surprised we managed to pull this up for as long as we did”

You hummed "Yeah, me too. It was nice to be just us for a while, though”

He kissed your forehead "It was. But I am glad we can stop hiding and looking over our shoulder constantly”

You smiled "Now I can say freely you're my husband”

"That too”

Tapping away in a computer at the nurses station right when you arrived seemed like a good idea, until Shen noticed your wedding ring, the same one you have forgotten to take off and put on the chain you wear around your neck.

“Woah, is that a wedding ring?" Shen asked you, his eyes open in surprise.

shit

"I- uh,” you stuttered, seemingly being caught. "Yes, it is”

"You're married?”

"No, I just liked the ring and I bought it” you rolled your eyes "I think the ring means I'm married”

“Who’s married?" asked Jack, joining the conversation.

"Apparently, Sunshine is” said Shen, his usual cup of iced coffee— almost empty— in his hands.

Jack turned his gaze to you, assessing you. "You're married?”

You groaned "I think we've already established I am”

Jack raised his hands in innocence “I was just asking"

“How long have you been married, hon?" Lena— night shift's charge nurse— asked you.

You smiled at her “Two years"

"What? Girl, how's that possible? We've known you for almost four years” Ellis, who had just been listening, said from her chair, now very interested.

You shrugged “I'm a very private person"

“No shit" laughed Ellis “I cannot believe you!"

"What's his name?” Lena asked you.

You shook your head, "Not telling. He's nameless” you sealed your lips shut.

As you turned to go check on your patients, you winked at Jack discreetly.

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Days later, you were called in early, something about needing extra hands since various people had called in sick.

“Oh, hello, hon." Dana looked relieved to see you.

“Dana, rude of you to call me in early, I need my beauty sleep" you said playfully while leaning against the counter of the nurses station.

“We needed more hands on deck, chairs are hell, too many patients and too little doctors" she sighed heavily

You brushed her off “No worries, I'm kidding. I'll go to the lockers and then I'm your obedient servant"

She laughed, shaking her head “Of course, hon. Good to have you back on the days, even for a few hours"

You winked at her before walking to the lockers, quickly changing into your scrubs.

Walking back to the nurses station, you decided to check your texts and to no surprise Jack was the one texting you.

Jack

Made it okay?

You

Yes.

You should be asleep

Jack

Can't. Miss u.

You

Miss u too, baby.

Now sleep

Jack

okay, bossy.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you made your way to Robby.

"Hey! Sunshine, you are honoring us with your presence?"

“Indeed. Dana called"

He glanced around “Yeah, today's chaos in here"

"Where do you want me, boss?”

"Central 15 is all yours”

You nodded "Aye, aye”

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

Two hours or so later the work had winded down a little, allowing you a respite. You made your way to Ahmad's post, wanting to see what the new betting grid he was running was about.

"Doctor Sunshine!” he greeted, "coming to place a bet?”

You chuckled, shaking your head "I'm merely curious about the recent bet you have going”

"There's two” he nodded towards the white board in his post.

You glanced at it from outside, reading the bets.

Residents/ interns changing shifts. Who? Why?

$20. Santos. Avoiding someone — Perlah

$30. McKay. Night shift vibes. — Shen

$30. Ogilvie. He thinks he fits in there — Princess