Lelii

The tiktok opens with Wii music and purposefully awful editing, or at least you hope it was on purpose. The top comment being "Ginge is like a single dad of 4 who looks at her like she fixed everything wrong with his life."

The first clip opened with one of the sidemen charity match practice streams. Morgan jogs across the pitch while you stand beside cameraman Chazz. One of the American guys, you weren't sure who, yells, “GINGE YOUR GIRL IS WATCHING.”

Immediately he starts showing off. Running harder. Calling for the ball more. Acting like he’s prime Ronaldo (if he was ginger and streamed for a living). You happily watch him, acting like the part of a WAG, and appreciating how your boyfriend looked while playing football.

Then, he absolutely eats shit. Straight onto the grass. Chazz zooms the camera in aggressively while everyone loses their minds. You laugh so hard you can barely breathe, almost falling yourself.

Morgan points at you from the ground. “You’re supposed to support me!”

“You looked like a dying gazelle!”

“Get off the pitch.”

It was a late one, almost 4am and Morgan was still streaming. He was also quite grumpy because he'd lost three games in a row, his controller slammed onto the desk.

“Absolute joke, this game is shit.”

You quietly enter frame holding a can of, in Morgans words "canal water", but everyone knew it was Pepsi.

His entire expression changes instantly.

Like genuinely instantly.

“Cheers, sweetheart.”

The chat noticed immediately, of course, flying a bit quicker for a minute.

You kiss the top of his head. “You’ll win the next one.”

“I know,” he says confidently.

He loses again thirty seconds later. You hadn't even left the room yet.

Morgan’s in the middle of raging at 'Trees hate you' when you enter his streaming room in the Bov house. "THIS GAME IS DOGSHIT.”

There were almost 10 thousand people watching him lose his mind live, then your voice floats in from off camera.

“Babe.”

“No.”

“I didn’t even ask anything yet.”

“You’re about to.”

You walk into frame holding one singular  chicken ball.

Morgan pauses mid-rant. “…is that for me?”

“No, I was just showing chat my food.” You say sarcastically 

“Don’t start.”

You hold the chicken ball just out of reach. “What do I get in return?”

Morgan stares at you like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. “…a kiss?”

“Pathetic. You think you can trade a kiss for my food?"

“Please?”

The entire stream loses its mind.

He gets the chicken ball and the kiss, then immediately points at the camera.

“None of you speak to me ever again. You're all banned for making me play that.”

The clip starts with typical Winton Yanited content. They’re in the middle of training and Morgan is in full manager mode.

“PASS THE BALL.”

“THAT WAS A PASS.”

“TO WHO? THE GRASS?”

You’re standing near the sidelines in one of his Nike zip-up hoodies, trying not to laugh while the cameramen record everything.

Cal zooms in on you with the camera. “Thoughts on the gaffer?”

You glance toward Morgan, who’s currently yelling warmups for the team.

“He’s very...passionate.”

The video cuts to a clip in the same video of the ball heading towards you, but before it even reaches you, Morgan appears out of nowhere. Literally out of nowhere. Like he teleported.

He catches the ball, and throws it back to the lads. 

“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE HITTING IT.”

Everyone goes silent for two seconds.

Then, “OHHHHHH.” 

“Protective arc.”

“Gaffers angry.”

Morgan points aggressively at the pitch and says nothing.

You’re trying so hard not to laugh. “I was literally fine, babe”

“Yeah but you could’ve not been.”

One of the boys starts fake cooing. “Awwww.”

Morgan whips around instantly. “SHUT UP.”

The editor of the compilation zooms in on your face because you’re visibly trying not to smile.

Then later in the video, while Morgan’s giving some intense speech about teamwork or whatever, you quietly walk over holding out a drink.

Without interrupting his sentence, he takes it automatically.

Takes a sip, hands it back, keeps talking, then pauses and looks back at you.

“…wait, did you open this for me?”

You nod and the entire team starts yelling.

“OH MY GOD.”

“THAT’S HIS WIFE.”

SECTION 1 — ENTITY SUMMARY

Designation: Entity 0

Colloquial Name(s): "Better Bobby," "The First," "It" (field teams), ██████████████ (designation rescinded, see Incident Report 0-14) Primary Domain: Level 0 (unconfirmed territorial claim over full sublevel network) Secondary Sightings: Levels 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 14, ████, ██████, and the Poolrooms (unverified) Threat Classification: APEX-UNDEFINED Containment Status: UNCONTAINED — ALL CONTAINMENT ATTEMPTS SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY Behavioural Profile: UNPREDICTABLE / ADAPTIVE / SAPIENT (CONFIRMED) Entity Kill Count (Est.): Unknown. See Section 5. Human Kill Count (Conf.): █████ Human Kill Count (Est.): ███████ [DISPUTED — SEE ADDENDUM C]

NOTE FROM DR. ██████, ENTITY RESEARCH LEAD:

It should be on record that the designation 'Entity 0' was not chosen for taxonomic reasons. It was assigned because this entity predates our cataloguing system. We did not discover it. It was already here in what we class as the Backrooms. It may have always been here . The number is not a ranking. It's an admission that we do not know where to place it.

SECTION 2 — PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

2.1 — Primary Manifestation

Entity 0 presents as a young Caucasian male, early-to-mid twenties, consistent with the physical appearance of one Robert "Bobby" Franklin (see Personnel File MEG-P-██████, Status: ACTIVE/DISPLACED). The resemblance is exact in approximately 94% of documented sightings. Remaining sightings note minor deviations: incorrect eye colour under different lighting, subtle asymmetries in facial structure that do not correspond to Franklin's known features, and—in three separate reports—a "wrongness in the joints" that observers struggled to articulate.

Franklin himself has been interviewed extensively regarding Entity 0's use of his likeness. His testimony is included in Addendum A (SEALED). He has requested, on multiple occasions, that M.E.G. ██████████████████████████████████. This request has been denied.

2.2 — Secondary Characteristics

Entity 0 bleeds a black, viscous fluid when injured. Lab analysis of recovered samples has returned ████████████████. A second analysis returned entirely different results. A third analysis caused the spectrometer to ██████████████████████████████████. Testing has been suspended.

Entity 0's body temperature registers approximately 4.2°C below ambient room temperature at all times, regardless of environmental conditions. This remains consistent even in the Poolrooms (if sightings there are verified) and the thermally unstable zones of Level 5.

When Entity 0 believes it is unobserved, field teams have reported the following:

a) Complete cessation of respiration for periods exceeding 45 minutes.

b) Head rotation beyond normal cervical range (estimated 190° in Sighting 0-22).

c) Standing perfectly motionless in a posture that does not account for gravity. One researcher described it as "standing the way a photograph of a person stands. Not wrong. Just not alive."

d) Brief episodes of what appears to be the entity's eyes changing colour—from the documented blue to solid black. Duration: 1-5 seconds. No agent has been close enough to confirm ████████████████.

e) ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ for approximately nine hours. When Agent ██████ attempted to approach, ██████████████████████████████████. Agent ██████ has requested a transfer. Request granted.

2.3 — True Form

Unknown.

We do not know what Entity 0 looks like. We know what Bobby Franklin looks like. Entity 0 has never been observed without this disguise. Whether the Franklin appearance constitutes a "disguise" or has become the entity's actual physical structure is a matter of ongoing—and increasingly heated—debate within the department.

Dr. ██████ has proposed that Entity 0 may not have a "true form." That it may be, at a fundamental level, a thing that IS other things. This hypothesis is ████████████████.

SECTION 3 — BEHAVIOURAL ANALYSIS

3.1 — Unpredictability Index

Entity 0 has been assigned a Behavioural Unpredictability Index (BUI) of 9.7 out of 10. For context, most Backrooms entities operate between 2 and 6 on this scale. The Skin-Stealers register at 5.1. The Hounds at 3.8. A completely random number generator would score 10.0.

Entity 0 scores a 9.7 because it is not random. It is making decisions. We simply cannot determine the framework.

Documented behavioural range includes:

Allowing a wanderer to pass through Level 0 entirely unmolested, even appearing to clear a path by relocating other entities beforehand (Sighting 0-09).

Killing a wanderer. Method: ██████████████████████████████████. No apparent provocation. (Incident 0-03).

Sitting cross-legged in a hallway for an estimated 72 hours, staring at a wall. (Sighting 0-15). Purpose: unknown.

Engaging a Class 5 entity in what can only be described as combat. Entity 0 won. ██████████████████████████████████. The Class 5 entity has not been sighted since.

Humming. (Multiple sightings.) The melody does not correspond to any known song. ████████████████ has suggested it may be original composition. This is ██████.

Laughing at nothing. (Sighting 0-19.) Duration: four minutes. Laughter matched audio profile of Robert Franklin exactly.

██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. All seven members of Exploration Team Kilo were recovered alive. None will discuss what happened.

3.2 — Evasion Capabilities

Entity 0 does not want to be found. When it is found, it is because it has chosen to be.

M.E.G. has deployed tracking teams on fourteen separate occasions. Results were as follows:

Operation: LAMPLIGHTER Duration: 6 days Result: Entity evaded all contact. Team reported hallways "rearranging" around them.

Operation: NIGHTJAR Duration: 11 days Result: Entity sighted once. Made direct eye contact with lead tracker from end of hallway (est. 200m). Smiled. Vanished.

Operation: FOXGLOVE Duration: 2 hours Result: Entity approached team voluntarily. ██████████████████████████████████. Operation terminated.

Operation: SILKWORM Duration: 9 days Result: No contact. Post-operation analysis revealed entity had been following the tracking team for the final four days.

Operation: TIDEPOOL Duration: ██ days Result: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ██████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. All further tracking operations suspended by order of ██████.

3.3 — Intelligence

Entity 0 is sapient. This is no longer debated.

It understands English. It understands Mandarin, Spanish, Arabic, and—following an incident with Exploration Team Foxtrot—fluent conversational Japanese, despite never having been observed in the presence of a Japanese-speaking wanderer. A comprehensive linguistic audit conducted in 198█ was abandoned after Entity 0 responded to a deliberately obscure dialectal prompt in ██████████████████████████████████. The full list of confirmed languages is maintained in Addendum B. It is not short.

It also understands tactical positioning. It understands, based on Operations NIGHTJAR and SILKWORM, the concept of irony.

What must be emphasised—and what continues to unsettle the department—is how dramatically Entity 0's cognitive profile diverges from every other catalogued entity. Most Backrooms entities operate on recognisable behavioural loops. The Smilers hunt. The Skin-Stealers mimic. The ██████ feed. Even the more complex entities can be understood as sophisticated biological (or pseudo-biological) systems responding to stimuli: hunger, territorial instinct, predatory drive. They do what they do because something in their construction compels them to do it.

Entity 0 does not appear to be compelled to do anything.

It does not hunt for sustenance. It does not hunt for pleasure. It does not, as far as we can determine, hunt at all. Its kills appear to be decisions, made for reasons that change depending on context and that we have failed to model despite years of behavioural data. Other entities are, for lack of a better term, animals. Complex animals. Dangerous animals. But animals still.

Entity 0 operates with what can only be described as intentionality. It makes choices. It weighs outcomes. It has, on at least two documented occasions, changed its mind mid-action, which implies an internal deliberative process that no other entity has demonstrated.

This is what makes it dangerous. Not the strength—though the strength is considerable. Not the evasion capabilities—though those are unmatched. The danger is that Entity 0's internal workings appear to be orders of magnitude more complex than anything else in the Backrooms, and we do not understand them. A Wretch is dangerous the way a bear is dangerous: powerful, aggressive, but ultimately predictable. Entity 0 is dangerous the way a person is dangerous. It thinks. It plans, adapts, and learns. And it does all of this inside a body that can tear a Class 5 entity apart in ninety seconds.

The obvious question—and the one this department has been circling for the better part of two years without satisfactory resolution—is why. Why is Entity 0 so far beyond its peers? Two hypotheses currently hold majority support:

Hypothesis A (Dr. ██████): Entity 0's cognitive superiority is a function of age. It was here first. It has had longer to develop, to complexify, to evolve whatever passes for intelligence in Backrooms entities. Under this model, Entity 0 is not fundamentally different from other entities, it is simply older. The designation "Entity 0" is, in this reading, more literal than intended. It is t he first. Everything else came after. Everything else is younger, simpler, less finished.

Hypothesis B (Dr. ████████): Entity 0 is not smarter because it is older. It is smarter because it wanted to be. Something in its composition—its origin, its structure, whatever animates it—possesses a drive toward learning that other entities lack. It doesn't just react to its environment. It studies it. It chose to wear a human face. It chose to learn human language. Not one. Dozens. It chose to understand tactical positioning and irony and the specific way Robert Franklin leans against walls. Other entities absorb. Entity 0 pursues. If this hypothesis is correct, the follow-up question becomes deeply uncomfortable: what is it learning toward? What is the curriculum building to? What does an entity that has spent ██████████████ years teaching itself to be more look like when it decides it has learned enough?

Neither hypothesis has been confirmed. Both are ███████████████.

Researcher's note: I have been asked, off the record, which hypothesis I find more frightening. The answer is (B). It's always (B).

SECTION 4 — TERRITORIAL BEHAVIOUR & DOMAIN

Level 0 (otherwise known as "The Threshold") is, by consensus, Entity 0's domain.

This is not an official M.E.G. designation but a practical observation. Entity 0 moves through Level 0 with a freedom and familiarity that no other entity displays. It does not navigate the space. It inhabits it. Hallways that shift and reconfigure for wanderers appear to remain static in Entity 0's presence, or, more disturbingly, reconfigure according to its preference.

There is a growing body of evidence—currently classified under Review Protocol ██████—suggesting that Level 0 may not simply be Entity 0's territory. It may be its ████████████. This hypothesis was first proposed by Dr. ██████ in 198█ and was initially dismissed. Following Incident 0-11, in which Entity 0 appeared to ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ an entire corridor, the hypothesis has been upgraded to "under active consideration."

Entity 0 has been sighted on other levels, but these incursions appear purposeful and temporary. It always returns to Level 0. One researcher described this pattern as "a predator checking its territory lines," though others have noted the behaviour more closely resembles ████████████████.

SECTION 5 — INTER-ENTITY BEHAVIOUR

Entity 0 kills other entities.

This requires emphasis because it is, within the context of Backrooms ecology, abnormal. Entities compete for territory aggressively. Entities avoid each other. Entities engage in dominance displays. Sometimes they have been observed working together to hunt and kill wanderers. Entities do not, as a rule, destroy each other with the kind of systematic, almost casual efficiency that Entity 0 demonstrates.

Confirmed Entity 0 kills:

1x Class 5 Entity (undesignated). Method: ██████████████████████████. Duration of engagement: approx. 90 seconds.

5x Hounds. Simultaneous. Entity 0 did not appear injured afterward.

17x Skin-Stealer. Entity 0 appeared to take particular ██████ with this kill. Duration: ██████. Research team observing from concealment requested psychological support afterward.

██████x ████████████████. Circumstances: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████. See Section 6.

1x entity of unknown classification. Entity 0 was observed speaking to it before killing it. Words were inaudible. Lip-reading analysis suggested ██████████████████████████████████. Lip-reading analyst has since resigned.

Few entities engage in aggression toward Entity 0. The implication of such is clear: within the Backrooms ecosystem, Entity 0 is an apex predator. Other entities tend to avoid it. Some—including the Hounds, which fear nothing else in our catalogue—have been documented actively fleeing its approach.

There are, however, notable exceptions.

The Howlers appear to be, at minimum, a genuine physical threat. They have engaged Entity 0 on at least three documented occasions. The encounters were violent and protracted in a way that Entity 0's other kills are not. During Incident 0-09, Entity 0 was observed sustaining visible damage. The first and only confirmed instance of an entity injuring it in combat. The black fluid was extensive. Entity 0 killed two Howlers, but it took ██ minutes, and afterward it remained stationary in the corridor for nearly two hours. Whether this constituted recovery, pain, or something else, we cannot say. But it did not move, and field team noted it was not humming.

More concerning is the entity's documented behaviour regarding ████████████████████████████, tentatively catalogued as Entity ██████, sighted exclusively on Levels ██████ and ██████. We have very little data on this entity—three sightings total, all partial, all from significant distance—but what we do have is this: during Sighting 0-46, Entity 0 was transiting a hallway on Level ██████ when it stopped. Abruptly. The tracking team reported that it stood perfectly still for approximately ninety seconds, head tilted, and then turned around and walked the other way.

Entity 0 has never, in our observational history, retreated from anything.

What Entity 0 is protecting, or hunting, or maintaining through this behaviour remains unknown.

SECTION 6 — THE COMPANION

⚠ CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 4 EYES ONLY — SUBSECTION RESTRICTED TO SENIOR RESEARCH PERSONNEL ⚠

6.1 — Initial Sighting

During Operation SILKWORM, tracking team reported an anomalous observation that did not pertain to the primary mission objective. Entity 0 was sighted in a hallway junction on Level 0, sublevel ██████. It was not alone.

A human female was observed walking alongside Entity 0.

Estimated age: ███. Physical description: ██████████████████████████████████. She was wearing ████████████████ and appeared to be in good physical health. She was not restrained, and was not visibly distressed. She was, by all observable measures, walking with Entity 0 voluntarily.

Entity 0 was walking between the female and the nearest dark hallway.

The tracking team leader noted this detail three times in her field report, underlining it twice. I am including it here because the behavioural implication is significant: Entity 0 was positioning itself as a barrier between the female and potential threats. This is protective behaviour. This is not something Entity 0 has ever displayed toward any other human in our records.

6.2 — Subsequent Sightings

Ref: S-31 Level: 0 Observation: Entity 0 and Companion seated against wall. Entity 0 appeared to be keeping watch while Companion slept. Entity 0 was humming.

Ref: S-34 Level: 2 Observation: Companion observed navigating. Entity 0 following. Unusual. Entity 0 does not typically follow. It leads or it ██████.

Ref: S-37 Level: 0 Observation: Entity 0 observed retrieving ██████ and presenting them to Companion. Companion laughed. Entity 0 displayed what appeared to be satisfaction.

Ref: S-41 Level: 3 Observation: Two Hounds approached Companion's position. Entity 0 intercepted. █████████████████████████████. Companion did not appear surprised by the violence. She waited. When Entity 0 returned, she handed it ██████ and they continued walking.

Ref: S-44 Level: ██████ Observation: ████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ████████████████. Observation team was withdrawn immediately. Dr. ██████████ has classified this sighting at Level 5. I have not been told why.

6.3 — Identity of the Companion

The Companion has been tentatively identified as █████████████████████████, a civilian reported missing on ██████████. Missing persons report was filed by Robert Franklin. Notably, █████████████████████████ was in a relationship with Robert Franklin at the time of disappearance.

The implications of this connection—that Entity 0 selected a companion who was romantically involved with the individual whose appearance it wears—are not lost on this department. Theories range from predatory luring strategy (see Dr. ██████'s analysis, Addendum D) to ██████████████████████████████████ to something far more ████████████████ that several senior researchers have declined to put in writing.

6.3.1 — Anomaly: Erasure of Civilian Records

During routine cross-referencing with surface-level contacts, research staff discovered that the Companion's missing persons file had been closed. Not resolved. Closed. Reason listed: ████████████████. The filing officer has no memory of processing the closure.

Subsequent investigation revealed a broader pattern. The Companion's lease has been reassigned. Her workplace has no record of employment. Her university transcript exists but is flagged as a clerical duplicate with no corresponding student ID. Photographs in which she appears have not been removed: she is simply no longer in them. The physical prints are unaltered. The space where she stood is just empty. As though no one was there to begin with.

This is not normal. Wanderers who enter the Backrooms leave gaps. Families search. Records persist. Missing persons cases go cold but they do not evaporate. In ██████ years of documented Backrooms disappearances, we have never seen evidence of a wanderer being actively erased from the surface world.

Something is removing her. Not killing her. She is alive and accounted for in the Backrooms. Removing the idea of her. The evidence that she existed at all.

The obvious question is whether Entity 0 is capable of exerting influence beyond the Backrooms. The less obvious and considerably more unsettling question is why it would want to. If Entity 0 is erasing the Companion's surface existence, the implication is not destruction. It is permanence. You do not erase someone's way back unless you intend for them to stay.

This has been flagged as a Priority 1 concern. Dr. ██████ has requested that Robert Franklin be monitored for signs of ████████████████. Request granted.

6.4 — Behavioural Implications

Entity 0, in the presence of the Companion, behaves differently than in any other documented context. Specifically:

a) Aggression toward other entities increases by an estimated 300%. Entity 0's territory, already dangerous, becomes functionally impassable when the Companion is present.

b) Unpredictability decreases. Entity 0''s movements become more structured, more purposeful, more oriented around the Companion's location. For the first time in our observational history, Entity 0 is behaving in a way that can be partially predicted.

c) The entity has been observed performing behaviours with no survival utility: adjusting the Companion's blanket, standing in specific positions to block fluorescent light while she sleeps, █████████████████████████████████. These behaviours have no precedent in our entity catalogue.

d) Entity 0 has not killed a human since the Companion was first sighted. Correlation is not causation. But the correlation is ██████.

SECTION 7 — RESEARCH & CONTAINMENT PROPOSALS

7.1 — Proposal: Use the Companion to Study Entity 0

STATUS: UNDER REVIEW

The Companion represents an unprecedented opportunity. Entity 0, which has evaded every tracking operation, every surveillance deployment, and every research team we have sent into Level 0, has voluntarily anchored itself to a single human being. Its movements are, for the first time ever, partially predictable. Its behaviour, for the first time, has an identifiable variable: her.

Proposal 7.1-A (Dr. ██████████): Establish covert observation posts along confirmed Companion travel routes. Do nott engage. Do not approach. Observe only. Use the Companion's presence to map Entity 0's behavioural patterns, territorial boundaries, and, if possible, communication methods.

Proposal 7.1-B (Dr. ██████): Make contact with the Companion. Offer extraction. If she accepts, observe Entity 0's response. If she declines—and this is the part of the proposal that generated significant debate in committee—ask her to serve as a voluntary research asset. She has closer access to Entity 0 than any M.E.G. (or outside) operative has ever achieved. She is, in effect, already conducting the field study we have failed to execute fourteen times.

Proposal 7.1-C: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. This proposal was submitted anonymously. It has been rejected. The author is encouraged to identify themselves to their supervisor immediately.

7.2 — Proposal: Use the Companion to Contain Entity 0

STATUS: REJECTED (SEE BELOW)

If Entity 0 will not leave the Companion, then controlling the Companion's location is, theoretically, controlling Entity 0's location.

This proposal was rejected for the following reasons:

We do not know whether Entity 0's attachment to the Companion represents affection, possession, predation, or something outside human behavioural pattern. Assuming it is exploitable is assuming we understand it. We do not.

If Entity 0 perceives the Companion's removal as a threat, its response is unpredictable and potentially catastrophic. Given its documented combat capabilities—including the destruction of a Class 5 entity in under two minutes—the risk to extraction personnel is classified as ██████.

The Companion may not be a hostage. She may be there voluntarily. If so, forcible extraction raises ethical concerns that this department is not equipped to adjudicate.

██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. If this turns out to be accurate, containment is not merely inadvisable. It is ███████████████.

NOTE FROM OPERATIONS DIRECTOR ██████:

I'm going to be blunt. We have spent years and ██████ operatives trying to understand Entity 0. We've tried to catalogue its kills, map its territory and even document its evasion capabilities. And in all that time, the single greatest advance in our understanding of this entity has come from a civilian girl who, as far as we can tell, wandered in through a door that shouldn't exist and started treating an apex predator like a stray cat.

She has learned more about Entity 0 by being near it than we have learned in fourteen operations. I'm not comfortable with what that implies about our methodology. I'm even less comfortable with what it implies about Entity 0's capacity for selective trust.

Recommendation (to be forwarded to every agency looking into this Entity): observe. Do not intervene. Do not extract. Do not, under any circumstances, threaten the Companion's safety within Entity 0's perceptual range.

I've seen what it does to things that threaten what belongs to it.

I don't want to see what it would do to us.

SECTION 8 — OPEN QUESTIONS

The following questions remain unanswered. They are listed in order of departmental priority. Personnel with relevant information are instructed to report to Dr. ██████ immediately.

What is Entity 0? Not what does it look like. Not how does it behave. What IS it?

What does it want with the Companion? Protection implies investment. What is the return?

What is the entity's relationship to Level 0 itself? Is it an inhabitant, a guardian, a ██████, or something we do not have terminology for?

Why Bobby Franklin? Of all possible appearances, why this specific individual? Is is merely due to Companion's prior history with Franklin or █████████████?

The Companion has been in the Backrooms for an estimated ██████. Standard survival expectancy for an unaffiliated civilian without supplies is 1-3 days. She is alive and healthy. How? And more importantly, why?

██████████████████████████████████?

During Sighting S-44, observation team reported ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████. If this is accurate, does Entity 0 possess ████████████████? And if so, has the Companion been ██████?

Is Entity 0 capable of love? (This question was submitted by Junior Researcher ██████ and was initially struck from the record. It has been reinstated by order of Dr. ██████, who noted, and I quote: "It's the only question that actually matters.")

END OF DOSSIER

File Status: OPEN — NEVER CLOSED Next Mandatory Review: ████████████████

"We have been studying Entity 0 for years. I am no longer certain it has not been studying us for longer."

— Dr. ██████, final departmental memo before ████████████████

this time of the year was always gloomy and dark, the forest air foggy and limiting the man’s view. his mask didn’t allow him much access anyways, but all these branches hitting him in the face as he ran wasn’t the best either.

he could hear the girls loud crying from in front of him, her wheezing and low coughing. he had to hand it to her, she was managing to still run away from him with stab wounds and several scratches. some of his victims gave up immediately the second they saw his shrieked expression, but no, not this girl. he was slightly amused by it, but also annoyed.

this dumb blonde had somehow managed to drag him all the way into this forest, dirtying his robe. he swore, he could feel the splinters pricking at his skin. her screaming for help didn’t help his annoyance either.

in the distance he caught a glance of a large amusement park, the trees slowly moving out of the way and showing the night sky more clearly. the wind blew, the loud music becoming more and more clear. the girl noticed as well and started to run towards the open gate. he tsk’d under his breath, stopping for a moment to catch his breath, before continuing his sprint. he tucks his knife into his robe and looks at where the girl is headed.

straight towards a haunted house. a tall, black house with gothic exterior and cobwebs decorating the windows. he could see the led lights from the front, the large sign with all the information written down on it.

anger washed over him as the girl ran into the house through the back door, leaving her bloody trail behind her. why was his job so hard? this girl should of dropped dead minutes ago. adrenaline was a silly thing.

at the front of the haunted house, you stood gazing at the sign with an unsure expression. you had come here with friends a few hours back, all dressed up in cute little halloween outfits in celebration of the spooky holiday. but not even a hour in everyone split up and left you all alone. what a shitty friend group.

to your left you caught a glimpse of a figure running into the back of the haunted house. you frowned and took a peek, watching as a dark robe followed in after her in a hurried manner. weird.

anyways, the sign said admission fee was seven dollars. wasn’t too bad, you guessed. you hesitantly handed the employee a ten dollar bill and waltzed in.

the inside was dark with a fog machine taking up the hallways, giving it an eerie aura. the lace curtains, the dark furniture, the tall paintings of people you had never seen before— this seemed like an actual house more then a haunted one. it was all part of the gig, right?

you wandered into the kitchen, only to get jumpscared by a scare actor that was almost twice your size. he was dressed as a beast, hiding in the corner. with a scream, he pounced at you and caused you to stumble back and drop your soda all over your top. gasping for air, you looked up at him with a pissed off expression, fingers trembling.

the man stared at you for a few seconds with an unsure look, before shrugging and shuffling into the darkness once again, looking for another unsuspecting victim to scare.

“great, just great.” you mutter bitterly to yourself. you sigh tiredly and throw your empty bottle into the garbage, patting some droplets off your top.

you were dorothy for halloween, matching with the rest of your friend group. you were all fairy tale characters. …a more slutty version of them, that is. you had on a blue plaid dress that stopped at your mid thigh, red flats, with your hair styled with cute bows keeping it in messy pigtails.

your pretty blue dress was now covered in soda though, so that wasn’t the greatest. you took another minute to look around the kitchen, flinching at a spider that you realized was fake after a minute, almost slipping on some cobwebs, before shrieking when another scare actor dressed as a bloody bride came out of nowhere.

today was not your day, not in the slightest.

"AAAAH!" a sudden scream from the hallway catches your attention. you shriek and turn quickly, blinking for a moment before shuffling forward and creeping into the door that leads to the hallway. there's a blood trail on the floor that leads to the staircase. that must mean the haunted house wants you to follow it, right? is this one of those haunted houses that has a specific pathway so you can experience every part? probably.

"mmmm, okay." you say to yourself, shrugging and following it up the stairs. it's slippery. you cringe and reluctantly look around the upstairs. scary music plays obnoxiously loud in the background, the lights flickering to give a mysterious feeling and a creepy edge. it's working. working too well.

a door slams to your left and you flinch, looking in that direction immediately. you see the same black robe flash in the distance, the same robe you've seen already. what a committed scare actor. was he targeting you? or were you just witnessing him scaring his other victims?

"SOMEONE! HELP ME!" a girly shriek resonates from said room. you blink dumbly for a moment, looking at the other doors that have cobwebs and poorly drawn blood platters on them, some doors having signs on them. one sign said “danger ahead!” and another said “beware of ghosts!”.

after a moment of thinking you slowly walked down the hallway into the dark room, looking around in surprise. it was a media room that was completely wrecked. the couch had its fabric ripped with stab marks all over it, blood marks, and some stuffing spilling out of it. the table was thrown onto its side with the glass vase shattered.

at the end of a room was a large door with decor hanging off it. you stepped forward and opened it slowly, blinking in surprise as you were immediately met with a reflection of yourself. your lips parted in awe as you realized it was a mirror maze. what creeped you out was the bloody hand marks on the mirrors. this haunted house was very realistic. you didn’t like it.

you walked forward, only to immediately head butt into a mirror. you blinked rapidly in shock and looked around, patting your surroundings and trying to find the pathway to the exit. another long minute passes as you pat the wall, letting it lead you deeper and deeper into the maze.

someway through your little adventure someone suddenly rams into you, making you shriek and give the mirror in front of you another headbutt. she gasps and curls into you, tugging at your clothing and crying out annoyingly loud.

"okay buddy, i don't think scare actors are supposed to get physical-" you grumble, swatting at her clammy hands. she cries and cries, blood all over her clothing and her face covered in tears.

"please! please! h-he's chasing me a-and i-i"m so s-scared and i don't want to d-die—" her voice cracks a dozen times as she sobs into your chest, pulling you closer and closer until you both are pressed together like lovers. you squirm in discomfort, not liking how personal she was getting. you were pretty sure scare actors weren't supposed to cross boundaries like this.

"okay, please get off me." you hiss sharply, gently pushing her away. she sobs more and shakes her head, silently begging you to listen to her. she can barely utter out any words, limping in pain with several stab wounds under her clothing.

she pales as she looks behind you. you turn hesitantly, not wanting to turn your back to this crazy lady. you see the reflection of a shrieked mask, making you flinch and hug the girl in your arms.

“okay, uhm, you guys are very good at your job—“ you chuckle nervously, hugging the girl tightly. she was shorter then you, her head tucked into your chest. she was trembling so much. you frowned.

“are you.. okay?” you asked hesitantly.

“he STABBED me!” she shrieks, aggressively tugging at your hands and showing you her stomach. right there laid a gigantic bloody wound, blood dripping down onto her skirt. your face paled even more and you stood there like an idiot, face to face with this girl who had a gigantic stab mark.

“o-okay— okay— let’s get, let’s get out of here? okay? you’re safe with me,” you shush her gently, helping her walk as you hurriedly pull her alongside you. you lead her to the entrance of the maze, backtracking your pathway. you mostly just followed the bloody hand marks from earlier, though.

the next few minutes is a blur. you’re helping her down the stairs, she’s crying and hyperventilating, you’re freaking out because the blood is looking too real and the creepy music in the background isn’t helping. your heart is pounding and you don’t know what to do.

as you help her down the stairs, she grasps onto your shirt with a terrified look, tugging you. “h-he’s following us!” she screeches. you blink at her for a moment, frowning in fear and not looking where you’re stepping. you open your mouth to respond to her, only to step on air. you send the both of you stumbling down, a scream leaving her as the hard wood digs into her wounds.

you gasp sharply, squinting your eyes to clear your blurry vision. you turn to your side to check on the terrified blonde, only to gape in shock at the sight of her limp on the floor. her eyes are lazily fluttering open and shut, the blood from her gut spilling out. the impact had made her wound deeper and probably set her on the waiting list for the afterlife. and it was all your fault.

“h-hey— hey- hey—“ you choke out, getting up and hurrying to her, patting her face and trying to get her to respond. your hands are full of blood as you inhale deeply, your heart about to jump out of your chest. she looks up at you with all the strength she has, lips moving weakly.

"b..behind you." she whispers.

your heart stops. you blink down at her pale face and slowly peek over your shoulder. down the hall is a tall man in a robe, a white glowing mask on his head. the fog surrounds him as he tilts his head at you, silently watching. you couldn’t see his eyes but goosebumps immediately spread all over your body, making you squirm in discomfort. he didn’t look like a scare actor. no, he looked like the black blur you’ve been seeing all day.

his hunting knife was covered in blood, and that was all you needed to know before you broke out into a sprint in the opposite direction of him. the hallways were closing in on you as you rushed down towards the back door, the screams of the girl echoing throughout the house. you could hear the knife slashing at her, making your eyes water in fear.

you didn’t want to die. no, you were too young! too pretty, too kind, too— you hadn’t even graduated yet. you still wanted to earn your bachelor's, go out on more dates, and get more friends. but no, you couldn’t anymore, because you were about to get butchered by some psycho in a halloween costume.

your sweaty hands pulled and tugged at the door handle, blinking away the tears. you sniffled, your heart somehow dropping further down into your stomach as the door didn’t budge.

“awww, no no sweetie, you’re stuck in here with me. they already shut down the entire park.” you hear his menacing voice coo from behind you. it was dark and deep, a mockingly soothing tone. maybe it would of lulled you to sleep in any other situation. it sends shivers down your spine and a hiccup leaves your throat.

“who are you? why are you doing this?” you mumble hesitantly, your voice small in the gigantic house. he tsk’s at you, waving his knife in a wagging motion at you.

“no, you don’t get to ask questions, sweetheart. you’re a dumb little bitch who got involved in things that didn’t concern her.” he growls darkly, stepping closer and closer. you back to your left and rush behind the couch, shaking. he laughs at your pathetic attempt at getting something in between you two.

“why would you kill her?! is this some sick prank?!” you snap, some tears streaming down your face as he simply shrugs. shrugs.

“what the fuck.” you whisper at him, the sight of her blood all over him making you sick to your stomach. as if you could drop to your knees and vomit. you might, actually.

before you can react, he jumps over the couch and grabs you. you scream as he shoves you face first into the couch, quickly straddling your body. you thrash underneath him, sobbing and shaking your head, letting out incoherent mess of please don’t kill me and i’ll do anything. he’s slightly annoyed by how loud you are. should be cut your vocal records so you don’t gain attention? but then again, no one is near by. no one to hear your pretty screams except him.

his heavy knife glides alongside your spine, his hand only applying light pressure. you hear the sound of your dress getting ripped and more tears slip, your lips quivering as you squeeze your eyes shut. you shiver as the cold air brushes against your back, the back of your bra being revealed to him. what a day to wear your favorite set, right?

“look at you, dressed like a god damn slut. you wanted this, didn’t you?” he hissed, hooking one of his fingers underneath the clasp and snapping it against your skin. he chuckled lightly at your girly squeak. your hands squirm some more and he huffs in annoyance, grabbing them and shoving them above your head.

“keep them right there, got it? you move them and i’ll cut your wrists open, stupid girl.” he bonks the back of your head hard. you yelp and nod, shaking as you hold your hands together tightly above your head just as he asked. more soft cries leave you as he pulls the back of your dress further apart, goosebumps all over your porcelain skin.

“why are you doing this?” you force the words out of your throat, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. it might be blood.

“because i can.” he hums simply, running his fingers down your spine. his hands unclasp your bra and slip it off your body, and you squirm as your nipples press against the scratchy fabric of your dress. you quietly mewl into the couch.

“you don’t need to do this. i-i have money— not much, but i have some,” you beg desperately, trembling as his large body presses you more into the cushion. you felt like you were getting suffocated. you were so overwhelmed and scared, covered in blood and getting stripped down by the reason.

“you think i need your money?” he scoffs, shoving his hands uder your chest and groping your breasts. you squeal hard as he meanly fondles and squeezes them, his large hands covering a lot. his fingers pinch your nipples, causing you to whine loudly into the couch. you can’t help that they harden right away, your body becoming more sensitive to his touch. moans start to slip from your throat as you feel his knee lodge itself between your thighs.

he roughly grinds his jeans fabric against your panties, your skirt lifted and showing the lewd sight of the thin fabric sticking to your messy cunt. the denim material of his jeans is rough and hard, applying a good enough amount of friction to lubricate you further.

little moans leave you involuntarily, trying your best to muffle them by biting down on your bottom lip. your thighs squirm and attempt to close, but it only ends up trapping the man’s knee against your pussy. more rubbing has you crying and moaning, subtly grinding your pussy back onto him. he, of course, notices and swats the back of your head again, your moans stuttering.

“look at you, getting off on this shit.” he whispers into your ear, leaning down so his chest is against your back, his mask is pressing against your head. his hands don’t stop their assault on your breasts, marking them up with hard pinches and twisting your nipples until you're begging him to let go. “i didn’t expect you to be such a down bad slut.” he sneers.

“s-shut up..” you sniffle, your voice muffled and your body covered entirely by his robe. if someone walked in they’d see a small girl getting completely smothered by some dude in a halloween costume. this couldn’t be any more embarrassing.

"s-shut up." he mocks in a high-pitched voice, giving an extra harsh twist to your nipple. he gets harder at the sound of your pained cry. he smiles creepily under the mask as he presses his large hand to your panties, rubbing your clit through the thin soaked material. your body squirms at the feeling of having your sensitive core played with, rubbing your wet face against the cushion in a weak attempt to wipe your tears.

"dont touch me— no, not there- stop!" you gasp desperately, whimpering into the cold air as he keeps rubbing your clit and touching you right where it feels so good. the savory sensation had your lips parting subconsciously and your thighs inching away from each other. you're ashamed of the way you're enjoying this, how you're begging in your head for him to slide his fingers nice and deep.

"i can feel how wet you are, damn. you must really want me to ruin this little cunt of yours, huh? gonna beg?" he sniggered, sliding his fingers underneath and letting the small brush of his middle and ring finger against your hole be all you feel. his eyes are burning through the back of your head, inhaling each movement and sound you make, analyzing your reactions and how you take his touch.

"m'not gonna beg. i'll gonna beg for you to get your dirty ass hands off me—" you're interrupted by him sliding his two fingers deep inside you, immediately curling them painfully into your g-spot. the pleasure takes you so off guard you let out a pathetic mewl, bucking your hips in surprise. his free hand comes down on your waist, holding you down into the couch as he fingers your pussy open roughly.

"what was that?" he hums, pushing them impossibly deeper, scraping the rough fabric of his gloves against your walls and making you cry out in a mix of pleasure and pain. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" he said in a sick tone. he was having so much fun, it's not everyday he gets to fuck his victims. most of the time they're too annoying and he finds himself hating their guts personally after hearing the colorful words they call him.

more little moans leave you as he makes scissoring motions, his grip on your waist bruising and making you hiss softly in pain. his fingers are large and taking up all the space inside you, making you feel so full and satisfied. it felt so good, so good that you were sick to your stomach at how much you were enjoying it. you could feel her blood coating your skin, making you gag softly on your moans as he kept going.

soon enough, you bite back your loud moan as your body cums all over his fingers, coating his gloves in your essence. he rubs the sticky fluid between his fingers with a chuckle of amusement, watching as the blood and cum mix together.

“you’re a filthy slut, you know that? ive killed soooo many people,” he starts, humming softly as he pushes the bottom of his robe aside to unbutton his flip, revealing his dark boxers. the large bulge is visible as you peer over your shoulder with a heavy breath.

“separated families,” he continues, talking in an innocent voice as his hands grasp at his cock. his top springs against his lower abdomen, nice and big with a thick base. you gulp nervously. “ruined lives—“ he coo’s sickeningly sweet.

“and now i’m gonna ruin yours.” he grabs your hips, position his tip against your hole. he gives you barely a second to process his words before he slams himself deep inside you, causing you to shriek and press your face down into the couch.

“a-ah~ s-stop.. wrong..” you blabber cluelessly, your brain all soapy and spilling out of your ears. your body felt weak and limp, giving into his touch as he gave a few shallow thrusts, your moans giving him more encouragement.

“wrong?” he mocks, one hand grabbing your hair roughly to pull at it. you shriek at the harsh tug, your head forced back as he starts to rock his hips at a mean pace. “for someone who hates this, you’re awfully wet and compliant.”

you feel his hard denim slap against your butt each time he sends a punishing thrust into your pussy, more moans streaming out of you. your eyes are fluttering shut as he batters your insides, mouth agape with drool forming at the edge. the sight was slutty— a young girl with her dress all ripped up and her skirt lifted getting fucked by halloween enthusiast.

“feels so good,” you hiccup, sniffling your fat tears as your doe eyes tried their best to stay open, squinting through the tears. your breasts bounce and sway, bubble butt jiggling at his thrusting. he wasn’t letting back on you, not at all.

“you want me to make you cum, sweetheart? hmmm? you want these hands that’s stabbed dozens of people to rub that tiny clit of yours?”

“please.” you say in such a pathetic tone that he can’t help but obey, his hand on your hair letting go to reach under you and gently tap your clit, his pace not stopping for a split second.

“this right here?” he pinches. you whimper and nod, shaking. he snickers and rubs figure eights into your bud, the immediate reaction of your body tightening up on him making him hiss sharply.

“jesus fuckin’ christ, girl. tight ass pussy, huh?” he gives your butt a hard smack. you whine at the impact, cock drunk and not processing a single thing anymore. he focuses on making you climax and grabs your hip tightly, holding you still as he starts shoving his cock as deep as it can go.

your noises grow more high pitched, letting him know he was on the right path. he can feel himself grow harder and more stiff, about to be pushed over the edge. incoherent curses and grunts leave him as he tenses up behind you, still rubbing your clit hard as his cock explodes inside you. his cum paints your walls white, groaning as he fucks you harder.

he feels you clamp down and release as well, a loud sigh leaving you as your body goes limp, your ass being held up by him being the only thing not flat against the couch. the second he lets go of your hips, it drops onto the couch. you groan weakly, cum all over your thighs and dripping down onto the couch.

he stares at your ruined form a few seconds, debating on wether he should stab you now and make a run for it. but then he remembers his dna is currently painting your insides and he sighs. he wipes some of the cum off your leg and fingers it back into you, your caught off guard squeal giving him some motivation to keep you alive.

“shut it.” he jabs the last of the cum into you before parting, patting your butt and smoothing your skirt back down. he glances at your purse that was hanging off the side of the couch, thrown off you at some point, and grabs it. he finds your wallet inside and peeks at your id, blinking at your name. he makes sure you’re not looking(you’re too busy being half conscious face down) and takes a quick photo of your address and number as well as your pretty body under him.

pulling away, he makes sure to tell you one last thing. he roughly grabs your hair and yanks it back, awakening you immediately from your daydreams. you shriek and blink terrified at his bloody mask, eyes blinking widely in shock.

“tell anyone about this and i’ll kill your entire family and force you to watch.” he then proceeds to list your entire name and address, making you gape at him like a dumb puppy, clueless on how he had this information.

“y-yes- yes!” you nod, sniffling with your watery eyes. he gives a condescending pat on the cheek before disappearing down the hall as if this never happened. you lay there on the couch confused before hesitantly getting up and shivering as cold air brushes against the back of your ripped dress.

“uhmmmm….. hello..?” you call out awkwardly to the hall. you peek and see him standing over the blondes dead body, about to grab her by her ankles to assumingely drag out the back door. he stops to stare at you wordlessly.

you frown and motion to your ripped dress. his reaction takes a few seconds to happen but he eventually grabs the hoodie off the dead girl and throws it at you aggressively. you jump and catch it, cringing at the blood and stench. you fucked a murderer and now you have to deal with the consequences.

“thanks.” you choke out before running out the back door. he rolls his eyes at you before continuing to drag the dead body out.

it had been a few days since the incident. he had been haunting your thoughts, making you wonder what the hell was wrong with you to let yourself get fucked by a serial killer.

you had decided to search him up and attempt to find out who he was. all you found out was that there were killings in the near by towns that all linked the one name— ghostface.

you sat on your couch with your feet up on your. coffee table, laptop open on your lap with a dozen tabs open. each tab was a different articles about him, some about his killings, other about the mysterious surrounding his identity. no one had a real idea on who he was or what his motive was— only that he was a force to be reckoned with.

your thoughts were interrupted by a familiar name being said on the tv. you look up and your heart drops as you see her blonde hair and bright blue eyes stare at you from across the room. there she was— on the tv, smiling innocently. her full name was below the photo of her sitting with her friends and her age.

rebecca garcia

age 19

found dead behind halloween horror nights amusement park, her body cut up and put in several bags. she was stabbed repeatedly in the stomach before eventually dying by the hands of the local serial killer, ghostface.

your stomach turned inside out as you maintained eye contact with the photo of the happy girl. the news reporter shared how the town would be on high alert the next few weeks, alerting us of keeping our doors locked and keeping your eyes out for any suspicious behavior. the report ended with a god bless apology to families.

the silence that followed after was deafening, your heartbeat being the only thing you could hear. your palms felt too clammy and the couch was too rough, your clothes pricking at your skin and your eyes welling up with tears. everything felt too real and too close.

the sound of your phone ringing broke the silence, making you flinch. you peered over, blinking through the tears as your shaky fingers picked up your phone and brought it to your eyes.

you frowned in confusion at the unknown number, sighing gently before picking it up and bringing it to your ear. before you could open your mouth, the voice of your nightmares spoke.

“what’s your favorite scary movie, doll?”

Inside, though, the air changed. It smelled like laundry detergent and garlic butter, and the vanilla candle she only lit when she wanted the space to feel warm and intentional. The laminate floors imitated wood grain with a repeating pattern that became obvious if you stared long enough. Near the kitchen, one corner had started to peel, the edge curling upward like a lifted sticker she kept meaning to fix. The baseboards didn’t quite meet at the seams; a faint shadow line marked where precision had run out.

But it was hers.

The living room glowed beneath a soft yellow floor lamp, casting everything in a quiet, forgiving light. An IKEA bookshelf leaned slightly to the left — just enough to notice if you were looking for flaws. It was crammed with thick engineering textbooks: Power Systems II, Advanced Circuit Analysis, binders exploding with neon sticky notes, loose circuit boards tucked carefully into plastic trays. Tangled charging cables were neatly wrapped and arranged to look deliberate rather than chaotic. In one corner, a small potted plant drooped stubbornly, still alive despite irregular watering and long study nights.

The couch was second-hand, dark gray and a little too firm, with one cushion that dipped more than the others. A knitted throw it was uneven stitches and slightly mismatched yarn. It rested folded over the arm. Her mother had mailed it the previous winter. It wasn’t perfect. That was why she loved it.

The TV hung slightly crooked on the wall.

She knew it was crooked. She had measured the studs three separate times before drilling, her knuckles scraped from threading the cables through the drywall herself. The right side dipped slightly lower than the left. She noticed it every time she sat down.

And she was proud of it.

Tonight, she had changed into a soft cream knit sweater, slightly oversized so the sleeves slipped over half her hands. Dark high-waisted jeans hugged her hips. She stood barefoot against the cool floor, her hair brushed carefully and tucked behind one ear. She had added a touch of mascara and small gold hoops she’d bought on sale, convincing herself they looked minimalist rather than inexpensive.

Nothing flashy.

Just intention.

On the tiny dining table, she had set two plates. Pasta steamed gently in a ceramic bowl she’d found at a thrift store. Garlic bread rested wrapped in foil to keep warm. A fourteen-dollar bottle of wine stood between two mismatched glasses, one thick and sturdy, the other thin and slightly cloudy from too many washes.

Her phone buzzed.

I’m outside.

Her heart leapt in a way that still surprised her after three years. She hurried to the door and pulled it open.

Valarr stood there, slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his charcoal wool coat. In his other hand, he held a small paper bag from the upscale grocery store down the street — the one she only walked into when she wanted to feel ambitious.

“I remembered,” he said lightly.

Inside the bag were strawberries, bright and perfectly shaped. A box of the granola bars she liked, but had complained were overpriced. A small container of Greek yogurt she bought only when it was on sale.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, smiling widely as she stepped into him.

He wrapped one arm around her waist without hesitation, his hand settling warm against her hip as if it belonged there. He kissed her softly at first, then deeper, smiling faintly against her lips the way he always did when she leaned into him.

For a moment, everything felt uncomplicated.

When he stepped fully inside, the apartment seemed to draw inward around him. His charcoal-tailored coat fit perfectly across his shoulders. Beneath it, a deep navy cashmere sweater hugged his frame, the crisp white collar of his shirt peeking at the neckline. Slim black trousers fell cleanly to polished leather shoes that likely cost more than her monthly rent. A silver watch gleamed subtly at his wrist — understated but unmistakably expensive to anyone who knew.

He smelled like winter air and clean cologne.

And she smiled as though none of it intimidated her.

“Come in,” she said brightly, tugging his hand. “Okay, wait — look.”

She pulled him toward the living room, gesturing proudly at the wall.

“I mounted it myself. And I hid the cables.... see? I ran them through the wall. It took me three hours because I kept hitting studs in the wrong place, but I figured it out.”

She laughed at herself, cheeks flushed.

“And I finally figured out how to mirror from my laptop so we don’t have to squint at your tablet anymore.”

She was glowing, not because of the TV, but because she had built something with her own hands.

Valarr’s smile was faint, careful. “You did all this yourself?”

“Yeah,” she grinned. “YouTube and spite are powerful tools.”

She moved quickly to the table.

“Oh-, and my mom and little brother sent a care package.”

She opened the box with a kind of reverence that softened her features. Inside were small containers, wrapped carefully, and a flash drive.

“It’s not much, but look- he sent this 3D animation he made.” She opened her laptop and turned it toward him. “Remember, I told you he was taking that animation course for credits? Turns out he really loves it. I think he might switch into fine arts.”

Her voice warmed.

“He pretends he doesn’t care if it’s good,” she said with a soft laugh, scrolling through the animation again, “but he keeps asking for feedback. Oh- that reminds me. Please message him when you have time. He wants help with something.”

Valarr’s mouth curved faintly. “Let me guess,” he said, already knowing the tone. “It’s about a girl.”

She grinned. “He said it’s ‘hypothetical.’”

Valarr shook his head. “It’s never hypothetical.”

He didn’t mind it, the late-night texts from her brother, the awkward screenshots of conversations asking, “Is this smooth or is this cringe?” The way he’d once spent twenty minutes drafting a response for him, only for her brother to panic and send something completely different.

There had been video calls too. Casual ones. The kind where her brother would pop into frame and say, “Hey, man,” like they’d known each other longer than three years.

Valarr had never corrected him.

“I’ll text him,” he said simply.

And she smiled in a way that was entirely unguarded.

“And my mom picked up extra hours, so she slipped me grocery money. I told her not to, but she won’t listen.”

There was no embarrassment in her tone. Only affection.

Valarr’s gaze drifted again around the apartment - the narrow kitchen barely visible beyond the counter, the fridge cluttered with magnets and one slightly faded family photo. Her engineering notes lay spread across the coffee table, equations half-solved and streaked with highlighter.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Always,” she replied lightly. “Full-time engineering. Full-time job. But it’s temporary. Once I graduate…”

Her eyes brightened as she spoke.

“I’ve been looking at internships. There’s this grant for sustainable microgrids that could really help. And maybe we could go to that farmer’s market this weekend? I saved a little extra this month - not much, but enough for something fun.”

She looked at him with hopeful warmth.

“Oh - and my mum and brother really want to meet you. They’re thinking of visiting during summer break. She found cheap economy flights, and they could come during reading week.”

She said it with excitement, with openness.

As if there were no distance at all.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

That was it. The moment she mentioned the flights.

In his world, flights were not something you searched for at midnight while comparing layovers and baggage fees. They were not planned around reading week or booked only when prices dipped low enough to justify them. If Valarr wanted to leave the country, he left. If he needed to land somewhere by morning, arrangements were made. There were jets for that. There were assistants for that. There were entire teams whose sole purpose was to make inconvenience disappear before he ever had to acknowledge it.

He did not look at grocery prices. He did not stand in an aisle doing mental math over yogurt brands. He had never calculated how many tutoring shifts it would take to cover a weekend outing. He had never refreshed a scholarship portal with his heart lodged in his throat, praying a GPA had not dipped below a required decimal.

And standing there in her warm, slightly crooked apartment - beneath the faint hum of that yellow lamp, surrounded by textbooks she quite literally could not afford to fail - he felt the distance between them as something tangible. It pressed into his chest like a quiet weight. Like a seam in the floor slowly widening under both their feet.

Because for her, everything was measured.

Her grades were measured. Her hours were calculated. Her spending was measured. Her scholarship demanded excellence with no room for exhaustion, no allowance for burnout. If she slipped, the funding disappeared. Tuition doubled. Rent became impossible. There would be no family trust, no quiet bailout, no legacy cushion waiting to soften the fall.

And she carried all of it without ever once asking him to carry the burden for her; only to give the support where it was requested, not demanded.

That was what he loved about her.

He loved her stubborn resilience, the way she squared her shoulders and treated impossible workloads like puzzles meant to be solved. He remembered the night she had fallen asleep on her notes, highlighter still in her hand, only to wake up thirty minutes later and mutter, “Voltage collapse can wait, but pasta cannot,” before dragging herself to the stove. He remembered the way she laughed when her simulation crashed after three hours of work, shaking her head and saying, “Guess we’re rebuilding the grid from scratch,” instead of crying.

He loved that she refused to let him pay for everything. He remembered trying to slip his card to the waiter once, and she had kicked him lightly under the table before insisting, “We’re splitting it. I saved for this.” She had grinned at him like it was a victory. He loved that she treated a simple farmer’s market trip like a grand expedition, waking up early, clutching her reusable tote bag, narrating the price of tomatoes as if they were rare artifacts.

More than that, he loved how she made him feel safe in ways money never had.

She made him feel accepted without expectation. When he had come to her after a brutal board meeting, shoulders tight with pressure he couldn’t explain, she had simply listened. No strategy. No agenda. Just a quiet presence and warm hands wrapped around a mug of tea, she had pushed into his grip. “You’re allowed to be tired,” she had told him once, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. No one in his world had ever said that to him.

She saw him - not the surname, not the succession plan, not the future CEO - but the man underneath it. She remembered small details: how he preferred his coffee too hot, how he hated cilantro but pretended not to when it was served at corporate dinners, how he got quiet when he was overwhelmed. When he caught a cold one winter, she showed up at his apartment with soup and scolded him for answering emails while feverish, tucking him into blankets like he was something precious rather than powerful.

She encouraged him in ways that felt dangerously freeing. When he admitted he sometimes wondered what life would look like if he didn’t inherit everything, she hadn’t laughed. She had leaned forward, eyes bright, and asked, “Okay. So what would you choose instead?” As if it were possible. As if he were allowed to choose.

She brought humour into spaces that had always felt rigid. He remembered her dragging him into that haunted house on Halloween, her hand gripping his while she shrieked dramatically at fake ghosts. He had almost not made it that night - obligations, family expectations - but he had arrived late, breathless, and she had beamed at him like he had crossed oceans. He had laughed more in that single hour than he had in weeks.

She celebrated his victories as if they belonged to both of them. When he closed that massive deal - the one that had kept him in conference rooms for weeks - she had been waiting in her tiny kitchen with pasta simmering on the stove, pretending she wasn’t checking her phone every five minutes. The moment he walked through the door and told her it was done, she didn’t hesitate. She laughed, dropped the wooden spoon straight into the sauce, and threw herself into his arms, eyes bright with a kind of pride that felt almost reverent.

“I knew you could do it,” she’d said, like she had been in the boardroom beside him instead of studying circuit diagrams at her cramped dining table.

She hadn’t been allowed to stand next to him in the photographs. She hadn’t been mentioned in the speeches. But she was the first place he went afterward. The first door he knocked on. The first person he wanted to see when the congratulations became too loud and too formal.

What he never forgot, or tried not to, was that she had a major lab project due that same week. A project worth nearly half her grade. She had been running on four hours of sleep, eyes strained from simulation software, fingers smudged with pen ink and highlighter. And still, she had stayed up an extra three hours after finishing her calculations just to bake him congratulatory muffins.

They weren’t perfect. One had sunk in the middle. Another leaned slightly to one side. But she had iced them carefully anyway, piping a slightly crooked “You did it” across the top of the tallest one.

The next morning, when he picked her up on his way to work - dropping her off at campus before heading to his office - she handed him the small container with shy excitement, like it was something fragile.

“I didn’t know what flavour boardroom-success is,” she had joked softly, “so I went with chocolate.”

She had a lab presentation in two hours. Dark circles under her eyes. Backpack slung over one shoulder.

And she still looked at him like he had just conquered the world.

With her, he was not a legacy. He was not a strategist. He was not a succession plan mapped out in quarterly reports.

With her, he was just Valarr.

He loved the way she would ramble about sustainable microgrids and then pivot mid-sentence to show him a video her brother had sent. He loved the way she spoke about her mother with admiration instead of embarrassment. He loved the way she believed in building something slowly, honestly, from the ground up.

He loves her.

And that was the worst part.

Because loving her meant acknowledging that what he was about to do would hurt something real — something safe, warm, and human—in favour of something that merely made sense.

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When she handed him the wine and said lightly, “Okay, sit. Episode three. And you are not allowed to fall asleep this time,” she was smiling - that easy, teasing smile she always wore when she was trying to carve out softness from exhaustion.

He didn’t sit.

The pause was small at first. Just a beat too long. She noticed immediately. The smile faded, not dramatically, just enough that the light in her eyes dimmed.

“Val?” she asked, searching his face.

He exhaled as though steadying himself for impact.

“I don’t think this is going to work.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t harden his tone. But the words moved through the room like a fracture running down glass.

She let out a short, confused laugh. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?”

“About long term.”

The brightness drained from her face in real time.

“You’re always busy,” he continued carefully. “You’re exhausted. We barely see each other.”

Her eyebrows pulled together, disbelief flickering into hurt. “I’m busy because I have to be,” she said, her voice tightening around the edges. “My GPA has to stay high, or I lose my scholarship. I can’t just relax. I can’t afford to.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But that’s my fucking reality,” she shot back, tears rising before she could stop them. “I don’t have a safety net, Val. One bad semester and everything collapses. I’m not doing this because I love stress. I’m doing this because I need that degree.”

Her hand pressed flat against her chest, like she was trying to keep her heart from climbing out.

“I always make time for us,” she continued, words spilling faster now. “Even if I’m drowning in midterms, I sacrifice sleep to see you. I save up money so we can go out. I have never - not once - used you for money.”

His jaw flexed.

“It’s not just that,” he said quietly.

There it was.

“Our families are different. Our lifestyles. Our expectations.”

Her face went frighteningly still.

“So this is about money,” she said, her voice lowering. “And the fact that I don’t come from it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It kind of is.”

“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under.”

“Then explain it to me,” she pleaded. “Please. Explain it.”

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t say that his parents already had someone else in mind. He couldn’t admit that he had never told them about her because he had been afraid they would make him choose.

Instead, he said the safest thing he could.

“I think we want different things.”

Her breath left her in a broken sound.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t make it vague because you’re scared.”

He looked away.

And that look felt like abandonment.

“Then let me meet them,” she said suddenly, desperation sharpening her voice. “Let me meet your parents. If this is about expectations, let me try.”

His head lifted quickly. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Why is it not a good idea?”

“It would complicate things.”

“For who?”

“For everyone.”

She stared at him as though he had physically struck her.

“You’ve never introduced me,” she said slowly, each word cutting cleaner than the last. “Three years, Valarr. Three years and I’m still a secret. You take their calls when you’re with me. You step outside. You lie about where you are.”

Her voice cracked violently.

“You were celebrated for that big fucking deal, and you spent the entire day with your family. I couldn’t even call you because you told me you couldn’t talk. But somehow you came to me that night like I’m some hidden afterthought.”

Her breathing turned uneven.

“When I achieve something, you and my family are the first people I call. The first. I’ve never hidden you. What the fuck do you mean by ‘make it work’?”

He stepped toward her instinctively. “I love you.”

“You love me?” she choked. “Then why am I a secret?”

He tried to pull her into him, hands settling on her arms, but she shoved against his chest. Her fists hit him once, twice, three times. It was not hard enough to injure, just hard enough to express everything she couldn’t contain.

He absorbed it, wrapping his arms around her anyway.

And then she broke.

She collapsed into his chest, sobbing into the cashmere of his sweater.

“You bastard,” she cried, her voice muffled. “Why now? Why wait three fucking years?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

She pushed him away again, creating space between them.

“Then leave,” she sobbed. “If you’ve already decided, then just leave.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice finally cracking under the weight of it. “I don’t.”

“You already have!” she screamed. “You chose them. You chose what makes sense. So go make sense somewhere else.”

He reached for her one more time, wiping tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t do this like this.”

“Just go,” she cried, her voice breaking apart. “Please just fucking go. I can’t breathe when you’re standing here.”

He froze.

He did love her.

But not enough to defy everything he had been raised to protect and uphold. He was the next CEO after his father. His future was mapped in contracts, mergers, and alliances. Even next week’s schedule was already dictated.

His eyes flickered to the framed photo on the table.

Halloween.

She had dragged him to a haunted house and bought the tickets herself. He had almost not come because he was taking his younger brother trick-or-treating. He had arrived late, breathless, apologetic, and she had smiled like it didn’t matter. They had spent one ridiculous hour screaming at actors in fake blood, and he had laughed - genuinely laughed, in a way he hadn’t in months.

Afterward, she had packed homemade pasta into a cheap plastic container and insisted he take it home.

He had thrown the container away before stepping into his house that night, red sauce still smeared along the cheap plastic lid, because he couldn’t justify walking through marble floors and curated art pieces with something so unmistakably hers in his hands. In his world, nothing was accidental. Nothing was messy. Everything was deliberate. And her pasta, warm and homemade and wrapped in love, had felt too real to survive under chandelier light.

Now he stood at the door of her apartment, coat draped over his arm, fingers tightening around the handle. For a second, he almost turned back. He almost stepped toward her instead of away. He almost chose the harder thing.

He looked over his shoulder.

She was standing in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around herself as though trying to hold something inside. Her mascara had smudged faintly beneath her eyes. The lights coming from the lamp enveloped her in gold, making the room look warmer than it felt. The crooked TV hung behind her like a stubborn badge of effort and pride.

For a heartbeat, he imagined walking back. Pulling her into him. Saying he’d fight. Saying he didn’t care what anyone thought.

But the truth pressed in from every side. Board meetings. Expectations. His father's voice. The weight of inheritance that had been placed on his shoulders long before he knew how to carry it. He saw it clearly - not just the resistance, but the years of quiet war that would follow. The compromises. The resentment. The slow erosion.

Fuck me, he thought.

He loved her.

But love didn’t erase the structure he had been built inside.

And somewhere deep down, he feared that even if he turned back now, the difference between them would keep bleeding through every polished room, every family dinner, every expectation he could never quite shake.

They were just too different.

His jaw tightened. The moment passed.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time, almost to himself.

Then he opened the door.

It closed behind him with a quiet click that sounded unbearably final.

Inside, the pasta on the table continued to cool untouched. The garlic bread stiffened slowly in its foil. The lamp hummed steadily, indifferent to what had just fractured beneath it.

She stood there long after the hallway footsteps faded, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Her hands trembled at her sides until her knees finally buckled. She sank onto the couch beneath the slightly crooked TV she had mounted with scraped knuckles and stubborn determination.

The room felt too small and too large at the same time.

She grabbed her mother’s knitted blanket and pulled it over her face. The first scream tore out of her before she could stop it, raw and ugly and uncontained. It broke into sobbing that shook her whole body, grief spilling out in waves she couldn’t hold back.

Because he hadn’t just left.

He had chosen a world where she did not fit.

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Two pink lines stared back at her from the edge of the sink, impossibly bright against the cheap white plastic. The bathroom light hummed faintly overhead, a small electrical buzz she had never noticed before but now couldn’t tune out. It felt too loud, too sharp in the narrow space. Her hands trembled just enough that she had to place the test carefully on the counter before she dropped it. The tile beneath her bare feet felt colder than usual. She lowered herself slowly onto the edge of the bathtub, knees nearly brushing the cabinet in the cramped room. A toothbrush sat in a chipped ceramic holder. A towel hung slightly crooked. A thin crack ran across the mirror, splitting her reflection into two uneven halves. The word “positive” didn’t flash anywhere on the test, but it didn’t need to. The meaning was clear, steady, unarguable.

Her mind didn’t race, it stalled. Valarr’s face flickered into her thoughts, not angry, not cruel, just distant and composed, the same expression he had worn when he chose what made sense. She pressed her palms against her knees to steady herself, telling her body what her thoughts could not. She had been late because of stress, because midterms were brutal. After all, she had barely been sleeping. After all, her scholarship depended on maintaining a high enough GPA to survive another semester. That had to be it. But the evidence sat on the counter, silent and unmoving. “I can’t,” she whispered to the empty room, the words barely audible over the hum of the light. The test didn’t respond. It didn’t accuse or comfort. It simply existed and now, so did this new, irreversible truth.

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A few days later, she walked to the campus coffee shop instead of taking the bus.

The air was cold enough to sting her cheeks, and she welcomed it. She needed something steady beneath her feet. Pavement, gravity, the rhythm of her own steps. The walk gave her something to focus on besides the echo of the bathroom light and those two pink lines she hadn’t stopped thinking about.

She didn’t order coffee anymore.

Not until she figured things out.

The smell of espresso drifting through the open café doors made her stomach turn slightly. It used to comfort her, that bitter, sharp scent of late nights and problem sets. Now it felt like something she wasn’t allowed.

But she could have apple pie.

Three dollars and seventy-five cents.

She stood in line longer than necessary, staring at the display case while students in heavy coats shuffled impatiently behind her. The pie slices were unevenly cut, the crust a little darker on one side. Nothing fancy. Just warm and familiar.

“You deserve it,” she murmured under her breath before ordering.

It sounded like something her mother would say on the phone after a challenging exam week.

The shop was alive with noise. Espresso machines hissed and spat steam in bursts. Milk frothed with a mechanical whine. Chairs scraped against tile. Laughter flared too loudly near the window where a group of undergrads crowded around laptops and energy drinks. Someone’s headphones leaked tinny music.

Midday rush.

She wore a faded university hoodie, the fabric softened by too many washes. The sleeves were pushed up past her wrists, exposing faint indentations from where she had been leaning on her desk too long. Black leggings. Sneakers with frayed laces she kept meaning to replace. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun that refused to sit neatly, loose strands brushing against her temples. There was no mascara today. No gloss. Just exhaustion.

She carried her tray to her usual corner table near the wall outlet and opened her laptop out of habit. Simulation software blinked across the screen: graphs shifting, numbers recalculating. She stared at them, but they might as well have been written in another language.

Her mind had been elsewhere all morning. The café was loud: espresso machines hissing, milk steaming, chairs scraping against tile, but the noise barely reached her. Once, unconsciously, her hand drifted to her lower stomach. Just once. The motion was small, instinctive, as if she were steadying something fragile. She pulled it back quickly, glancing around as though someone might have seen, might have understood something she wasn’t ready to say aloud. When the barista called her name for the pie, she stood too fast. The legs of her chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing a few distracted glances. She turned and walked straight into someone solid.

Her shoulder hit first, then her balance tipped forward. The small plate in her hand wobbled dangerously. Before she could brace for impact, strong hands caught her at the waist. Not grabbing. Not possessive. Just steady. Grounding. “Whoa there.” The voice was warm, lightly amused without crossing into mockery. She looked up.

He had silver hair, slightly tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly. Under the café’s overhead lights, it softened what might otherwise have been sharper features. He wore black jeans that fit well without appearing tailored, boots scuffed just enough to look worn rather than neglected, and a dark charcoal Henley beneath a fitted leather jacket. The leather was good: supple, the kind that aged into character, but he wore it as if it were nothing special. A thin silver ring caught the light as his hands steadied her. He looked expensive too, but not in the polished, curated way she had grown used to. There was no performance in it. No signal. Just ease.

His smile tilted to one side, crooked and effortless. “I think,” he said smoothly, “you just fell for me.”

Despite everything heavy and complicated pressing against her ribs, a laugh slipped out. It startled her as much as it did him. “Did you practice that?” she asked, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

He nodded solemnly. “Only twice this morning.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he released her the moment she found her footing. There was no lingering pressure from his hands, no attempt to prolong the contact. He stepped back enough to give her space but not so far that it felt like retreat. His eyes dropped briefly to the stack of textbooks and the open simulation running across her laptop screen.

“Electrical engineering?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.

She blinked at him, still slightly off balance. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully, “are you in one of my classes? Because I don’t remember seeing you.”

His grin widened. “I enjoy living,” he replied. “So no.”

That did it. She smiled fully, the first unguarded smile she’d felt in weeks. It stretched across her face like a muscle remembering its purpose. He extended his hand. “Aerion.”

She hesitated for only a heartbeat before placing her hand in his. His grip was warm and steady, confident without squeezing, present without overwhelming. It was the kind of handshake that didn’t try to dominate.

“I was just grabbing coffee,” Aerion said, nodding toward the counter where his drink waited. “But if you’re on a break from stress limits and voltage collapse, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

She almost said no. The instinct to retreat tugged at her, back into her chair, back into her thoughts, back into the quiet weight she was carrying alone. The scholarship. The future. The two pink lines she hadn’t told anyone about. “I think I’m okay,” she said softly.

He didn’t push. “Fair,” he replied easily. “But I wouldn’t mind getting your number.”

There was no smirk behind it. No entitlement. Just interest, plain and uncomplicated. Maybe it was exhaustion that made her say yes. Maybe it was loneliness. Perhaps it was the way he was looking at her — not like she was something fragile to protect or something complicated to assess. Just like she was there.

“Okay,” she heard herself say.

They exchanged phones, fingers brushing briefly as they handed them back. He slid his into his jacket pocket and stepped back, hands settling casually at his sides. “No pressure,” he added. “But I’m usually around this time. In case gravity betrays you again.”

She rolled her eyes, but warmth lingered in it. “I’ll watch my footing.”

He gave her one last amused glance before turning and weaving through the crowded café. He moved easily, instinctively finding space between tables and conversations. People shifted without quite realizing they were doing it. He was confident, unbothered, unaware that he had just flirted with his cousin’s ex. Unaware that she was carrying something far heavier than textbooks.

She watched him go longer than she meant to, tracking the easy line of his shoulders, the relaxed set of his posture. Then her phone buzzed in her hand.

She looked down.

Hey, sorry — couldn’t wait. How are you for a Friday two weeks from now? Movie. My treat. 🙂

Her chest tightened, not painfully, just differently. Two weeks from now. Two weeks ago, she had been crying beneath a crooked TV in a too-small apartment. Now someone was asking her out with a smiley face and no visible calculation behind it.

The café noise blurred into background static as she stared at the screen. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel weighed against invisible standards. She didn’t feel dismissed or hidden or measured. She felt noticed.

And somewhere beneath the anxiety, beneath the uncertainty, beneath the fear, there was the slightest flicker of something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since everything fell apart.

Hope.

“At least have us walk you home.” Raymund argues back, already pushing his chair back enough to grab his coat. 

Waving your hands, you try and politely decline, after all you didn’t want your friends ruining their night just to walk you back home. Not to mention the streets were still lively at this hour and you had only lived ten minutes away. After a moment of back-and-forth with Kiera who had been narrowing her eyes at you the whole time and Tanselle who simply wasn’t satisfied with any excuse, you had pulled out your phone to share your location which they had begrudgingly agreed on. 

Minutes later, you step into the cold air with the noise of the door swinging shut. The streets were fairly quiet, but not completely abandoned. Couples walked back from dinner, friends chatted outside and strangers wrapped up in thick coats strolled past you. 

Most bars and restaurants seemed to be closing, and as you pass by another bar a slumped man sits against the brick wall, his head hung low, seemingly struggling to hold it upright. You try not to stare and quicken your pace instinctively, telling yourself to just ignore him.

It’s not your problem. 

Yet, your footsteps slow slightly as you notice nobody attempting to help him, groups of people drinking on the street in deep conversation and stepping over him as if he were cluttering the street. Seeing a man standing near him you gently asked them, “Is this your friend?” to which you only received a dirty look and scoff in return. Great.

You hesitate, sighing when you naturally gravitate towards him in slow steps. However much your thoughts wavered in helping this helpless man, you knew it was the right thing to do, it’s not fair on him to be in the freezing cold alone with absolutely nobody helping him. 

Leaning in slightly closer your eyes adjust to the dim lights from the bar that cast uneven shadows on the sidewalk. The man's head lolls to the side in uncontrolled movement, strands of dirty blonde hair falling on his sweaty forehead which catches the faint glow, uncomfortably sticking together. 

That’s when you realize the carelessly slumped figure is the stranger from the other night, the one that had asked you for a cigarette. To say finding him in a place like this wasn’t that much of a surprise, he hadn’t made the best first impression after all. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t worrying for you. His shoulders tremble in the cold and his chest rises and falls heavily like he’s out of breath, his body on the edge of passing out. A surge of concern coils within you, his drunken body is making you anxious.

You’re worried about this stranger. 

“Hey… um are you── alright?” You murmur, gently enough that it wouldn’t catch him off guard. Growing unsure of whether he could even hear your voice you continue to stare at him, confused on how to go about this. 

Gulping in order to calm your nerves you call out to him again, “Can you hear me?”

This time your voice catches his attention, though he doesn’t look up immediately. Blinking heavily a couple of times, possibly to wash the drowsiness away his pupils flicker slightly. You stand there nervously, fidgeting with the rings on your fingers as you wonder if he will even be able to recognize you, or notice that someone is standing in front of him. 

But he does. His gaze shifts slowly and he moves his head upwards, trying his hardest to focus on the person calling out to him. His violet eyes widen in complete shock as realization dawns on his face and his whole body shivers. With unease, he tries to stand but his weak knees don’t allow it as he immediately fails, falling down on the pavement as his head faintly hits the wall and he lets out a groggy hiss, hand moving up in an attempt to rub the back of his head. 

Holding your hands out in front of you, you gesture to him to stay down and not move. With a quiet hush you continue, “It’s okay. Just sit down.” Eyes looking at him up and down you sigh at his shaky body, “Are you here with anyone?”

It takes him another moment to focus, eyelids heavy as he throws his head back against the brick wall in complete mental reset. He breathes heavily as he moves his head towards you and mutters a dazed,

 “...No.”

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. This stranger obviously had zero awareness of their own well-being if they came to a bar to get drunk on their own. You shake the thoughts away as you could concern yourself with judging him later, for now you had to find a way to get him home. 

“Where do you live?” You guess this could be a decent starting point. You’re met with silence, turning around you can see the strangers eyes drooping in exhaustion. “Hello?” You call out, knocking him out of his daze.

“Somewhere.” He responds, only managing to mumble out that without slurring before forgetting what he was going to say in the first place.

You click your tongue in annoyance, questioning whether it was worth being a good person tonight or not. “That’s really helpful.” You grumble, as if you’re talking to yourself. Which you probably are considering the stranger takes no offence to your sarcasm and only rests his eyes, suggesting he didn’t even hear a word you said. 

Currently, you have two choices. One, leave him here and most likely feel guilty about it for the rest of your life, or two, help this drunken man out and gain some good karma in return. Pulling out your phone, you open the uber app, only to recall that last time your friend had gotten very drunk, and the uber driver wouldn’t let them in. Shooting a look of irritation at the unaware stranger, you slide your phone back in your bag and sigh while glancing over his faintly shaking body.

Beyond burnt out, you go up to him and crouch down, trying not to slump in frustration. You hold out your hand and glance at him, “Do you have your phone on you?” 

Perhaps it’s trust, perhaps it’s not, but the stranger drunkenly hovers his hands over his worn out jean pockets, frail hands reaching for his phone. Despite his earlier sluggish movements he hands you his phone with an unreadable look, as if questioning whether you’re going to take his phone and run. You don’t.

Grabbing the phone off him you unlock his phone, which didn’t need a password to open── you thank the gods that at least something is going right for once. Scrolling through the screen for a minute you find what you’re looking for and manage to pull up his address and you nearly groan loud enough for him to hear. Of course the mysterious man with very obvious problems lives down the same street as you. 

“Alright,” You turn towards him, slipping his phone into your pocket, not trusting him enough to not drop it on the floor. “Get up, we're going.”

The stranger only furrows his eyebrows at the sound of your voice, his eyes training on your figure. Letting on a low and confused groan his unfocused eyes dart around his surroundings, to which you reach down and grab him by his arms in an attempt to pull him up. Fuck, he’s heavy. 

“Come on,” You insist, rolling your eyes while your feet brace on the pavement, conjuring up all the strength you have in your body. 

Taking an embarrassing amount of effort from you, he finally manages to slowly get up, pushing himself upright while swaying uncontrollably for a moment before placing his head on the brick wall behind him, clearly out of breath. A dazed expression paints his face as his eyes flicker towards yours, meeting yours and stopping, as though studying your face with a quiet intensity. You blink a couple of times and turn your gaze away, trying to ignore his obvious staring. 

Grabbing his arm you move his arm closer to you, slinging it over your shoulders, to which he makes a surprised noise and takes a step forward, trying to steady himself the best he can. 

“Fuck, your heavy.” You repeat your thoughts from earlier out loud, and much to your surprise he lets out a laugh that sounds loose and unsteady. He lolls his head over to the side to take a look down at you. It would be a lie to say you weren’t overwhelmed, he’s really tall after all, towering over you entirely. And, the majority of his body weight seems determined to collapse on you. 

He struggles for the first few steps, stumbling and cursing under his breath, for the most part it feels like trying to move a brick wall. Eventually he manages to fall into a slow rhythm next to you, although it’s uneven and wobbly. Just like that, the two of you, complete strangers, begin the slow walk home. 

By the time you reach the building you feel completely deflated, shoulders aching in pain from carrying half his bodyweight. Making it in the entrance you sigh in utter relief, kicking the door open as you drag him through the small lobby.

Reaching his apartment, which he groans and points faintly to signal that’s his door, you mutter, “Okay,” and shift his weight, carefully helping him lean back against the wall, stepping away as soon as he’s stable enough to not collapse. 

“Keys?” You motion to the door, cracking your knuckles as your arms feel like jelly, glancing over at him. 

At first he blinks at you in confusion, and then he straightens slightly as if he remembered something important. “Oh── right,” he fumbles clumsily through the pockets of his jeans, movements uncoordinated. Taking longer than it should, his fingers dip into his back pockets and slide out a pair of keys, holding them towards you. 

Taking them before he can drop them you make your way to the door and unlock it, and the door creaks open. Stepping in first you hold the door open so it doesn’t slam into him, he stumbles through, big hands gripping onto the wood of the doorframe as he passes you and practically collapses on the couch, sober enough to not actually pass out. 

He sprawls his broad body against the cushions, head falling back on the headrest, his messy blonde hair falls away from his face. Spreading his legs carelessly a long relieved sigh escapes him. 

For a second, you watch him breathe, and then your attention darts over to his small apartment. It’s not dirty, or unkept, but it’s completely bare── the walls are empty with no decorations and the curtains hang half open over the windows. Your eyes narrow when they land on the kitchen counter, which has several empty bottles laying on it. You sigh quietly as you turn around from the sight, feeling bad for him. 

It must be lonely. 

You grab a clean glass from the cabinet and fill it up with tapwater, before walking over to the couch to hand it to his exhausted figure. Holding it out to him you softly say, “Take this.” urging him to drink it.

“I’d much prefer if you offered me wine.” He says, barely lifting his head glancing lazily at the glass before he looks at you, giving you a small self-conscious smile, as if he knows how pitiful he looks right now.

“You’re funny.” You reply flatly, not trying to entertain him. His smile drops at this and he reaches out to take the glass from you, taking a small sip from it. 

You can’t seem to scratch the surface of the complicated emotions this man has. It’s not your job to fix it though, you did your part in helping someone that needed it, and that should be enough.

With a quiet breath you turn away from him, walking towards the small balcony that sits opposite the couch. The glass windows are illuminated by the room's light as you reach for the door handle and slide it open, the faint creaking of the door breaking the silence of the room. The cold air drifts in the room silently, and you step onto the narrow balcony, shifting your body to lean against the doorframe as you try to settle your thoughts. Crossing your arms loosely against your chest you look out to glance at the city during the night, the starless sky swallowing what little of the night that remains. 

His gaze behind you lingers, and you try your best to ignore it. It’s heavy and thoughtful, as if he’s choosing his next words carefully. Instead of focusing on him, you continue to look away, cold air brushing against your face and neither of you say anything. 

“It wasn’t always this bad, you know?”

The words are heavy, they hang in the quiet of the apartment heavily. His words startle you, not expecting for him to explain himself. You turn your head to look at him, but you don’t question him, not yet. 

He looks tired, which is normal considering you’ve never seen him be anything but tired, but now it seems heavier than before. In the dim light you can sense the shame that clings to his body, it sits in the way his shoulders slump and his gaze refuses to settle anywhere for too long. But they eventually settle on you. 

“Hm?” You hum softly, not in a questioning manner but more so in a quiet acknowledgement. You choose to let him speak, because it seems like he wants to, or maybe he needs to. You try not to dwell on it. 

“I was supposed to go tonight.” He hasn’t spoken to you properly before, and in his slightly drunken yet sobering state he looks like he’s still gathering his thoughts. It’s like he wants you to know, and he’s decided he’s going to say it either way. He’s handing the truth over to you── a complete stranger, unsure what you’ll do with it. 

“Go where?”

He looks away at first, unable to meet your eyes as they drift along the floor, considering to answer you. The distance between the two of you becomes something real and physical, stretching across the apartment like it’s repelling you both away from each other. The silence continues to press against him and his fingers are restless against the couch as he exhales.

“AA.” 

Oh. Your eyes flicker to the empty alcohol bottles spread against the counter even though you don’t mean to look. It’s not hard to tell he knows the confession carries weight to it, exhaustion written over his face as he finally looks at you again, gaze long and heavy. 

“I couldn’t do it.” His voice sounds smaller, more fragile, like he’s given you a piece of himself that he fully doesn’t even understand yet. “I tried to, but I just couldn’t bear to.” He continues and the silence grows between you two, thick and intimate. 

“Why are you telling me this? I’m nobody to you.” You offer him a way to opt out of the conversation, trying to sympathise with someone who spills their secrets to strangers. His eyes seem glazed from the alcohol as he straightens and answers, 

“I dreamt of you.”

You feel like laughing, and for a second you almost do. The words that leave his lips feel so absurd, something that doesn’t belong in his empty apartment amongst the empty bottles and light breeze that continues to brush past you. Glancing down at the floor you shake your head in disbelief, 

“Oh, fuck o──” The rest of the sentence dies in your throat as you look up at him, pausing mid-word. 

His face is solemn and serious, the amusement from your face drains away instantly as you straighten up, suddenly aware of the quietness of the room. You grapple with your thoughts, unable to tell if he’s joking, but right now, he looks the most serious he has been all night. 

“Dreamt?” You can’t help but ask, voice almost wavering because of the shift in his demeanour that makes you hesitate. 

“My dreams aren’t like yours,” He says slowly, his brows deeply furrowing, tired eyes now fixed on you with a strange intensity. The dim apartment light catches the edge of his silhouette and you notice his pupils dilate as he continues to stare at you. “They’re bad. I don’t sleep much, well… I try not to.” For a moment you notice something flicker in his expression, something that’s pained and heavy. 

“Nightmares?” You ask carefully, trying not to trigger anything. Your shoulders fall and your defense seemingly crumbles, tilting your head towards him.

“Something like that.” He exhales quietly through his nose, looking at you one last time before looking away. You take notice of how his jaw clenches and his expression remains solemn. 

Feeling like you’ve overstayed your welcome, the thought that you need to leave before it gets too late settles in, nudging you to move. Pushing yourself off the balcony’s doorframe you step back inside the apartment and walk towards him, which he notices immediately. You stand in front of him, reaching into the pocket of your jeans to pull out his phone. His gaze drags upwards slowly from where he sits on the couch, starting from your jeans before climbing up lazily until it reaches your face. Even in his exhausted state, his eyes linger a moment longer than necessary. 

The second he notices that it’s his phone in your hands, not yours he lets out a quiet laugh, “So you’re stealing my phone now?” he asks, voice lingering with slight amusement. 

You huff in response, ignoring his comment as you type something into his phone which he can’t exactly make out, he tilts his head slightly, trying to get a glimpse of what you’re doing, which is no use. When you finish he takes the phone back from your outstretched arm, his hand lightly brushing against yours as he does. The contact is brief, but noticeable. 

“Me, a thief? Never.” You answer dryly, a light smile on your face as he exhales an amused breath and glances down at his phone screen, his eyes widening when he notices what you’ve done. Your name sits in his contacts, your number saved neatly beneath it, for a moment he just stares at it. 

“In case you ever need saving,” You add lightly, words only half joking. 

His lips part slightly, the faint humour fading from his expression as his breathing slows. The dim light of the apartment catches the way his eyes linger on your face, like he’s looking at you properly for the first time. 

Then he says your name quietly, almost under his breath. It sounds soft, the words falling from his lips in an unfamiliar vulnerability. It feels strange and foreign.

You step back and move towards the door, giving him one last glance before slipping into the hallway, the apartment door falling shut with a quiet click while his gaze continues to linger on the closed door, leaving him alone in the silent apartment. Exhaling softly, you drag a hand over your face as your body hits the cool night air. Halfway down the street your phone vibrates in your pocket, 

Unknown Number: Thank you for everything

You: You’re welcome

You changed ‘Unknown Number’ to ‘Stranger’

──

Aerion knew who you were a while before the two of you ever spoke. 

It wasn’t exactly hard to notice you, your appearance had almost become familiar. You had a certain way of appearing around campus often enough that he knew you liked to smoke after your tax law lectures. Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t so surprised when you asked him for a cigarette at the party, he had seen it coming. It’s not like he had gone out of his way to notice.

Of course, then there was Valarr, his perfect and insufferably polite cousin who seemed to orbit around you for the past few weeks. Your name had slipped casually into family dinners like it belonged there and Aerion listened to the easy familiarity that slipped past Valarr’s lips from a distance. 

However, that wasn’t what irritated him, not really. The thing that irritated him the most was the fact that you hadn’t noticed him at all. Perhaps you did, and chose not to care, it messed with his mind entirely. 

The memory of you approaching him at the party still lingered even though it was days ago, Aerion swears the memory should be long forgotten, like you should. You had walked up to him, asking for a cigarette with slight hesitation, he supposed you had balls to do that, but in his eyes it still didn’t give you the right to do so. 

And then you had stolen his pack of cigarettes and left before he could even stop you. Leaving him alone with no lingering conversation or second glance. The audacity you had left a strange feeling sitting in his chest, and he didn’t like it. 

He tried to respect the nerve you had, treating him like just another stranger standing in the quiet with a lighter in his hand. That’s what had irritated him far more than he liked to admit. You simply took what you had come to get in the first place, like it didn’t matter who he was. The thought lingered unpleasantly in his mind, and it had been clouding his head more often than it should have. 

It’s ridiculous. 

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. He shouldn’t be wasting his time thinking about you. 

Aerion was certain of one thing currently, the moment he sees you again he’s going to make sure you regret walking away from him like that, just enough to see your calm facade crack. But for now, he frustratedly furrowed his eyebrows as he entered the dining hall footsteps echoing against the quiet hallway. 

With the fast thoughts simmering in his mind Aerion pushed open the large doors of the dining hall, frustration still etched onto his face through the scrunching of his eyebrows and the clench of his jaw. The dining hall is lit dimly, his family gathered around the long table under the chandelier. 

Maekar sat at the head of the table with a hardened expression wearing an all black suit, his posture strained, most likely due to the worry that had not left him for days. Aegon sat next to him, shoulders slightly hunched over as he pushed the fork idly on the table, heaviness evident on his small face. The chair next to his little brother remained empty, it had belonged to Daeron who had disappeared not so long ago. The drunkard had moved out without saying a word, leaving behind unanswered questions and concerned family members. 

Aerion simply huffed at the sight, he didn’t particularly care for the sight, convinced his elder brother would show up when he ran out of money to buy wine. His gaze drifted slowly across the room and his violet eyes landed on his uncle Baelor, who stood at the far end of the table holding the head of a chair while his phone was pressed to his ear. After a moment of silence on his end he puts his phone down and slips it back in his pocket as he turns to his brother, voice awfully calm.

“Still no news of him.” His words hung heavy in the air as Baelor’s mismatched eyes studied his younger brother's distressed expression. 

“For fuck’s sake.” Maekar shifted in his chair, sliding lower as he dragged a hand down his face and rubbed his temples, sighing awfully loudly. Lowering his gaze he noticed that Aerion had walked into the room, “Aerion, come sit. Your uncle and Valarr are joining us.” he said, his head gesturing towards the table. 

Valarr, of course he has to be here. His cousin had sat comfortably at the table with a bored expression he seemed to carry around at family gatherings quite often. His legs were spread slightly under the table, one arm resting against the armrest and his expression was full of boredom. He doesn’t acknowledge Aerion’s presence, finding the wall he’s glancing at more interesting. Aerion isn’t too surprised, it’s not exactly like he was Valarr’s favorite cousin. 

“Aerion,” Baelor looked up at Aerion, offering him a polite smile as he greeted him warmly. 

“Uncle,” Aerion feigned politeness, dipping his head slightly as he stepped further into the room. “Glad you could join us tonight.” He continued smoothly, which Baelor nodded and lifted his eyebrows at.

Passing by the chairs Aerion pulled out the empty seat next to Valarr. The legs of the chair scraped against the floor in a rude sound as Aerion leaned against it, not sitting down yet. Turning his head, a smug smile made his way onto his lips. 

“Cousin,” He said, almost mockingly, waiting for Valarr to respond.

Valarr turned his head, his expression remaining completely as his eyes set on Aerion, lips drawn in a thin line. Saying nothing, Aerion’s smile sharpened slightly, growing agitated at his cousin's cold shoulder. 

“Aren’t you going to greet me?” He asked, although still teasing there was a creep of annoyance that was laced into his tone. 

Valarr’s jaw clenched tightly, eyes still showing disinterest. It was obvious he was refusing to rise to it, deliberately refusing to engage with Aerion. Finally after a moment of his mismatched eyes boredly gazing at his cousin's smug face, he spoke. “Good to see you, Aerion.” The politeness was almost insulting. 

Aerion’s smug expression shifts immediately, his eyes narrowing before he turns around with a sigh and pulls the chair further back, sitting down as he leaned further back in the chair, fingers idly picking up the fork next to his plate and spinning it between him and his cousin as the metal tapped softly against the table.

Valarr shot him a brief side glance of annoyance before looking away as the servants began to fill the room, placing the dishes carefully along the table. 

The dinner sets into a familiar rhythm of forks and knives clinking softly against the porcelain, conversations remain short and quiet as servants occasionally step forward to fill the wine. Aerion doesn’t listen to any of the conversations, leaning back in the chair his arm rests loosely against the table while he plays with his food. Valarr remains entirely silent beside him, focused on finishing his meal with controlled calm.

Aerion’s eyes flick towards his cousin, watching him for a moment before a faint smile tugs on his lips painting the corner of his mouth. “I ran into Y/n at the party,” He says too casually, almost like he’s mentioning the weather, blinking excitedly as he waits for his cousin to respond. 

Valarr’s hand holding the fork halts mid-motion before he drops it sharply against the plate which makes a loud metallic clank, the sound cutting through the room. Baelor glances at his son, brows knitting in concern before he quickly resumes speaking to his brother. 

Valarr’s jaw clenches, the muscle flexing as he slowly turns his head to Aerion, his eyes hardening as his gaze locks onto him, cold and unmoving. Aerion almost feels himself grinning at the reaction, though he quickly turns away and pretends he has sudden interest in the food in front of him. 

“What?” Valarr’s voice strains, asking tightly as his eyes continue to dart towards his cousin, intent on hearing his answer. 

“Don’t worry cousin,” Aerion shrugs in response, voice warm and smooth with amusement that he tries to hide. “I didn’t embarrass you.” His eyes dart back to Valarr who still hasn’t looked away and continues to stare at him with furrowed brows. 

“She’s quite…” Aerion trails off mid-sentence, leaning forward while he lets the words hang in the air. His gaze lazily travels up Valarr’s tense figure, the pause long enough for his cousin to know it’s intentional, which only irritates the seemingly perfect boy further. 

“...fun.” The silver haired man’s lips part, taking in his cousin’s breathing which has grown heavier. His hands tighten slowly as they rest against the table in a tense manner while a vein pulses visibly at the side of his neck. Before Aerion can continue to irritate his cousin, Valarr suddenly stands. 

The wooden chair harshly scrapes against the floor as Valarr reaches forward, grabbing the front of Aerion’s shirt as he yanks him forwards. The sudden movement causes Aerion to falter and let out a whiny gasp, his head knocks back against the chair behind him as Valarr stands over him, his large hand clenching around the material while Aerion can only blink up at him.

The rest of the table notices, their conversation dying down, yet no one intervenes yet. Aerion tries to shrug, which seems impossible as his cousin has such a tight grip on him. 

“Thats a… big reaction from you.” He says lightly, squirming slightly as he tries to loosen Valarr’s grip── though it only tightens causing Aerion to sigh as he lifts his hands up feigning surrender. 

“What?” He says, almost innocently. “We only shared a cigarette.” he adds on, and although it isn’t entirely true the sight of Valarr, the family’s perfect golden boy, standing there practically shaking with anger gives Aerion an unpleasant satisfaction. 

It was interesting to him really, you were a way to get under Valarr’s skin. Aerion’s lips curl into a smug smile as he tilts his head up to get a good look at his cousin, meeting his mismatched eyes without an ounce of fear. Aerion’s amusement only seems to anger Valarr more, but before he can do anything Baelor’s voice cuts through, 

“Valarr, that is enough.” His command is calm but remains firm, and at the sound of it Valarr only exhales sharply through his nose, grip tightening one last time before he harshly releases Aerion’s now crumpled shirt. But before he completely lets go, he uncharacteristically gives Aerion’s a small shove back into his chair, but he barely reacts. 

Before stepping away Valarr stills and leans slightly closer, “Stay away from her.” he says almost quietly as he begins to straighten his shirt as if nothing happened. He doesn’t say another word as he steps away, casting Aerion one more harsh glance before turning and walking out of the dimly lit dining hall.

The smug curve on Aerion’s lips falters slightly. The reaction had been satisfying a moment ago, but the odd warning had left him with a dull and strange aftertaste, his amusement being replaced with an irritation he can’t place. His thoughts drift back to you before he can stop them, finding himself thinking of you when he doesn’t want to. 

──

Your apartment is quiet as the outside world settles into a serenity that is only possible past midnight. Moonlight spills faintly through the curtains, casting pale streaks of light onto your wet hair, strands clinging to your shoulders as it darkens the fabric of your shirt. A knock at your door echoes through your apartment, causing you to pause as your brows pull together in confusion. But another knock, this time firmer lets the confusion in your chest settle as you move towards the door, hands hovering over the handle in hesitation before you twist it open. 

Valarr stands on the other side, simply standing there in the dim hallway light. His tall frame fills the doorway as he locks his gaze onto you with a quiet intensity you’ve never seen from him before. Neither of you speak as you take in his appearance, his hair is slightly disheveled, strands falling across his forehead like he’s been running his hands through it. The tension in his posture is noticeable, his shoulders stand rigid and his jaw remains in a tight line. 

You never would have guessed Valarr was the type of person who would show up at someone’s door close to midnight. 

Then, your name slips from his lips quietly, like a prayer. Hearing him say that makes you feel strange, like something sharp and sudden pressing through your chest before you even get the time to process it. You blink, trying to understand why he’s here. 

“Valarr? It’s late,” you say slowly, shifting your weight across the doorframe as your eyes refuse to leave his. “What are you doing here?” 

A part of him looks like he doesn’t even know the answer to that, not fully thinking it through. His shoulders drop slightly as he exhales through his nose, hand clenching where it lays near his jeans. “Yeah,” he mutters, “You’re right. 

His gaze flickers down for a moment as you can see him clearly think of something to say before returning back up to you, “I’m just──” He cuts himself off. A breathy sigh leaves his mouth as he steps back slightly from the doorway.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters, turning on his heel he looks like he’s about to leave, “Never mind.” 

Instinctively, your hand wraps around his wrist, fingers gently curling around it before he can step away. The contact makes him stop immediately and he finds himself turning back towards you, his brows knitting together as his gaze falls to where your hand rests against his skin. 

“What is it?” You ask gently.

His mismatched eyes lift again, but there’s something different in them now, something softer. Perhaps longing. He hesitates, and you can practically see the moment where he decides to pretend nothing is wrong. 

“It’s nothing important.” He responds, shaking his head once as he tries to compose himself. “I’m sorry for bothering you.” 

Yet, his eyes drift again and this time they linger for longer. Your damp hair continues to cling to the side of your neck and the moonlight mixes in with the dim hallway light, both framing the side of your face that Valarr can’t help but notice. He swallows, and this time you can't help but notice. It’s typical of him, always trying to be perfect and composed, even if something bothers him deeply. 

Continuing to lean on the doorframe you cross your arms over your chest, feeling the dampness of your shirt you loosely tilt your head up to him,

“You can stop pretending.” You say, making his eyes flick up instantly. “You wouldn’t be here right now if it was nothing.” 

The words uttered land quietly between you, to which you continue to add more, “You can tell me anything, Valarr.” 

He only inhales sharply to that, breath pulling through his chest like something has caught him off guard. It’s not exactly shock, but definitely something close to it. For a moment it looks like he might say it, but his gaze shifts past you as his gaze lingers on the empty apartment behind you. The moment passes, and his jaw tightens. 

“Aerion said he saw you at Lyonel’s party.” 

You can’t help but blink. “Aerion?” Your head tilts in a questioning manner, “Your cousin Aerion?” 

Valarr hums and nods once, but the movement looks fairly reluctant. He shakes his head right after, regret painted on his face as if he wished he never brought it up. 

“It’s just──” He pauses, stopping himself. “It doesn’t matter.” 

You sigh softly and call out his name which makes him look at you again. “Tell me.” You urge, to which he hesitates before speaking, giving into your request.

“He said you both shared a cigarette.”

“Shared?” Your brows furrow immediately, staring at him for a second. You certainly didn’t share with him, but rather stole from him. You wonder why Aerion would lie about something like that, especially after he had asked you not to tell anyone about his act of “kindness”. 

“We didn’t share,” You clarify slowly, “He gave me one.” 

Valarr lets out a huff, which you might have mistaken for a laugh if it weren’t for him clicking his tongue right after. He doesn’t respond yet, instead his gaze drops briefly to your lips, the movement is subtle but you manage to catch it. He notices your gaze and quickly drags his eyes back up to you as he straightens his posture. 

“You should stay away from him.” He says quietly.

That makes you pause, huffing as you try to study him more carefully. Taking in his tight jaw, the irritation flickering behind his eyes and the way his shoulders seem rigid like he’s trying to keep himself contained, and you hesitantly take a step toward him, slightly closing the distance. You can’t help but think, was he── jealous? The idea flickered across your mind as you continue to study his expression, and it looks like he’s almost offended. 

“Why?” You tilt your head slightly, and the question clearly irritates him. 

He shifts his weight awkwardly, his stiff expression remaining, like the mere idea of his cousin seeing you at the party has deeply unsettled him far more than he could’ve expected. One of his feet drags slightly against the floor as if he suddenly doesn’t know where to stand. 

“He can be dangerous.” He says, as if trying to convince you. “It would be better if you stayed away from him.” 

“I can choose for myself.” You say, which makes him exhale sharply through his nose and for a split-second his eyes lock with yours again. Maybe you only asked that to push further, to see what he does next, and he certainly gives you a reaction as his eyes widen. 

There’s a flash of something behind his eyes this time, and you’re not entirely sure what it is. Jealousy? Anger? Perhaps both. He straightens, finally forcing his posture back into something more contained and composed. His tall frame looms over you in the hallway as he lets out a slow breath,

“Right,” He says, even as he is visibly frustrated he holds himself back, attempting to soften his gaze which now seems more tired than anything as he continues, “I shouldn’t have bothered you.” 

You watch him for a moment before answering softly, “You didn’t.” The words settle between you two.

He continues to stand in the hallway, close enough that you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. The hallway casts a dim light on the outline of his shoulders and you can see them relax as his gaze lifts again, drifting across your face towards your damp hair, the faint shine of the water still lingering on your skin. 

You realize this is all you're going to get from him tonight. Whatever brought him here, whether it was jealous or pure concern, the restless feelings have already begun to disappear again, folding neatly back behind the careful composure he always hides behind. Even now, standing so close to him you still feel like there’s something separating the two of you. 

You can feel it in the way he always holds himself slightly back, like he’s always protecting something. Your bodies are only a breath apart, but you’ve never felt further away from him. 

Valarr’s eyes linger on you a bit longer as he looks down at you, his jaw clenches again slightly, like he’s already made his decision. 

“Goodnight, Y/n.” The words sound softer than they usually do coming from him, but you try not to get too caught up on it. You only look down from his piercing gaze and nod,

“Goodnight.” 

He steps back after hearing that, breaking the fragile stillness that had formed between the two of you. The hallway light falls across him fully now, covering his broad shoulders as he faces the corridor, yet he looks back. There’s something restrained in them, something he clearly isn’t willing to say out loud, then he looks away and walks down the hallway until his figure disappears into the quiet of the night. You’re left in the hallway, standing next to the doorframe as silence slowly settles back into your apartment complex.

──

The next morning is much quieter than you expected, the city feels softer as you stand in front of a cafe, sunlight spilling across the pavement while you wait for Keira outside. Checking your phone once more, you slip it back into your pocket as you sigh, she’s late. 

A cigarette rests between your fingers and the smoke curls upwards lazily as you bring it to your lips. Inhaling slowly you don’t take much notice of the people who pass by, but your gaze catches one particular person who crosses the street in confident strides. 

Moving like he’s in no rush, Aerion Targaryen approaches you with his hands tucked casually into his black leather jackets pockets. At the sight of him, you feel your stomach sink and you immediately look away, pretending like you hadn’t seen him again. Taking in another slow drag, you attempt to ignore the sound of footsteps approaching you. 

Before you can even look up, you feel the quiet shift in space as he steps too close. Lifting your gaze, he stands in front of you, closer than he needs to be. He tilts his head as he looks at you, the corners of his mouth curling into the same irritating smile you remember from the party. There’s something amused in his eyes as they settle on your face, like he had been expecting this moment. 

“Smoking from the pack you stole, hm?” His voice is slow, full of smugness. You only stare back blankly before you roll your eyes at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

To that, for a split second his smug smile halts, faltering you see his eyes drop. Though, it’s not to the cigarette, but rather your lips that hold it. His grin returns, and this time it’s deliberate. 

“Why are you here?” You question him, narrowing your eyes at his pale violet ones that still don’t meet your gaze. 

“You think you can just take something,” He begins, letting out a quiet breath from his nose like the question amuses him. “And not return the favor?” 

You grow even more confused, “What are you──”

Before you can finish the sentence, his pale hand moves. His long and slender fingers slide forward and reach for the cigarette still resting between your lips. His action is smooth and unhurried, close enough that you feel a brief brush of his knuckles near your chin which sends a flicker of surprise through you, and you sharply breathe in as you still. 

He takes the cigarette from your mouth, and your lips part as he pulls it away. Aerion doesn’t break eye contact with you, lifting the cigarette to his mouth he settles it between his lips as his gaze stays fixed on yours. He inhales, the tip faintly glowing orange before he pulls it away again and exhales the smoke directly toward your face. 

What the hell?

You scrunch your face instinctively before you can utter any words of confusion, turning your head slightly as you wave your hand around in the air. Aerion huffs in amusement, watching for reaction for a moment as you quietly curse under your breath. His eyes trace over your expression like he’s savouring it for later, his eyes linger in entertainment. 

After that, he steps back without offering the cigarette back to you. Breaking the strange closeness between the two of you he smiles slightly once again.

“See you soon,” He says lightly, the words sound like a promise, but it feels more like a threat to you. 

Before you can come up with a reply he’s gone, slipping away into the flow of pedestrians moving down the street. You stand there completely annoyed and very confused. However, for some reason you feel very aware of the fact that you’re certain this won’t be the last time you'll see him.

You let out a hum of agreement and turn back to your laptop, ready to close it when your phone loudly buzzes against the desk. Picking it up, you glance down at the screen, seeing a notification from your friend.

Tanselle: I’m waiting outside. Hurry up 

Quietly letting out an amused huff, you tilt your phone towards Kiera who excitedly grins, immediately starting to gather her things. You both leave the lecture ten minutes early, blaming nothing but Professor Ashford's monotone. Before slipping out the room, your gaze lingers on the crimson red dragon emblem etched into the wall. 

“You coming?” Kiera calls, which pulls you out of your daze and you shake your head freeing yourself from distraction. 

Searching for your tall friend in the vast hallway, when your gaze lands on Tanselle you shoot her a small smile, to which she returns with an eye-roll feigning annoyance. “Missed me that much, huh? I’ve only been gone an hour.” You tease her, practically grinning. 

In return, she wraps her arm around Kiera’s shoulders and playfully replies. “Nice try, but I missed Kiera way more.” 

“Eager much?” Kiera shakes her head, delicately fixing her light pink sweater. Glancing between both of you, she catches the lingering grin on your lips and rolls her eyes in an affectionate yet annoyed manner. 

“Wow. Replaced already? I see how it is, Tan.” You raise your eyebrow, crossing your arms as you take a step closer. 

“Stop flirting and start walking, please. Now move!” Kiera untangles herself from Tanselle’s arms and grabs you, hooking her arms through yours, clearly attempting to flee the building.

Walking through the hall, you felt comforted in the presence of your friends, quietly listening to them chat about anything and everything. Kiera and Tanselle were your closest friends, having met them at the start of the semester you three had grown almost inseparable. 

You had met Tanselle at a crowded and sweaty bar in freshers week, and you were immediately drawn to her effortless style, existing in her own orbit. Hitting it off, you found out she was studying Liberal Arts and Culture. You admired her courage to pursue things she loved, unlike you who decided to retreat into the stable field of law. Often, you envied her for being brave. 

Kiera had been a whole different story, you had met her in your first week of classes and sat next to her a few times before actually talking to her. Completely polished and composed her pencil case and laptop comedically matched her light pink hair. After a few lessons and many stolen glances, you had worked up the courage to ask if she wanted to get lunch sometime. After that, you had come to the realization that the intimidatingly beautiful girl was dragging you by your sleeve to her new “favorite” spot. 

Stepping into the crisp autumn air, the cold wind nipped at your face, yet you found warmth in the familiar rhythm of your friends. Soon enough, you found yourself at Kiera’s “new” favorite spot. Finding a quiet corner in the cafe, you sunk into your chair, as the cafe bustled around you. 

Kiera’s perfectly manicured nails tapped the wooden surface of the table, the sound blending seamlessly into the low chatter and clicking of laptops. Catching the sly glint in her eyes, you knew this was a sign she was bursting with excitement to tell you both something. 

“I know that look.” You groan, slumping in the chair you cross your arms, tilting your head towards her with a knowing look. 

“What look?” She leans forward, trying to conceal the excitement in her tone. 

“That one── That exact one, right now.” Your voice drops into a low and cautious grumble. Eyeing Tanselle in a questioning manner, silently interrogating her as if she's already an accomplice in whatever's happening. 

“Hey, I have no part in this.” She denies, simply meeting your gaze and offering you a helpless shrug, suggesting she's just as unaware as you are. 

Warily your gaze lands on Kiera again, whose grinning now, clearly delighted by your cautiousness. “Oh stop. I promise it’s not even bad,” she insists, laughing as she waves her hand dismissively. 

“Mhm,” you hum, tone dripping with sarcasm. “That look usually results in me getting no sleep and awake until dawn. Oh my god, I'm gonna end up face-down in a ditch. I know it.” You reply, fighting the urge to bang your head against the table in protest to her. 

“It’ll be fun!” Kiera adds, expression feigning offense. 

“As long as it’s not me.” Tanselle mutters, finding your hopeless figure amusing. 

Kiera’s laughter dies down as she gives Tanselle a sharp look, suggesting there was no way of escaping her plans, “You’re not getting out of it either.” Clamping her mouth shut, Tanselle’s shoulders go stiff, to which you muffle a quiet laugh. She didn’t dare speak another word, but her “help me” expression said everything. 

You sigh, and furrow your eyebrows, “Okay…” you say, leaning back in the chair. “So what’s this fun you’re so excited about?”

Kiera’s expression brightens dramatically, as if she was waiting for you to ask her. Sitting up straight, her eyes move towards you, she lets out a giggle.

“So,” she starts, “Lyonel is hosting a house party tonight.”

“Nope.” Tanselle immediately replies, heavy with exasperation.

“Is it a rager?” You ask, though not completely sold on the idea. Tanselle snorts at your question. 

“Well, yes!” Keira replies, showing no signs of shame at all. “And before you guys try and say anything── I got invited yesterday, and I thought we could all go together.” 

“We?” You bark out, narrowing your eyes at her. Sure, you didn’t mind a house party once in a while, and often indulged in them. However, hearing it would be a rager hosted by Lyonel Baratheon did rattle you a little. His parties were known for being insane, and that meant that half the campus would show up── resulting in someone fighting for their life or the cops parked outside.

“Yes, we!” She says in a sweetly sick tone, to which Tanselle can only grunt at. Shaking your head at the idea you already feel overstimulated over thinking about it. “Kiera, you know those parties are like── insane.”

She completely dismisses your worries, waving her hand in front of your face. “Come on, relax. Besides, Lyonel will be absolutely delighted you’re coming.” 

Tanselle casts a knowing glance at you, immediately letting out a laugh. “Uh-huh. He’ll be over the moon,” she sang, letting your name roll off her tongue, her gaze lingering a second too long to be anything other than blatant tease. 

“Don’t.” You groan, dragging your hands over your face in pure embarrassment. 

“You know,” Kiera leans forward on the table in an attempt to catch your attention despite your miserable slump. “Whenever he sees me, he keeps asking me if his ‘favorite girl’ is coming to the next big party.”

“She danced with him once.” Kiera snorts, clearly amused by Kiera’s teasing and your embarrassment. When she notices that you are ignoring her teasing, she continues, “Must’ve been a damn good dance, right?”

“Apparently the best.” Kiera adds on, far too amused for her own good. 

You whine in annoyance and inhale, trying to ground yourself. “Please tell me he doesn’t actually call me that.” 

The memory made you wince. You had been at one of Lyonel’s parties earlier in the semester and had gotten far more drunk than you had intended.

Despite not remembering much of that night, you vaguely remember Lyonel appearing in front of you on the dance floor. He had extended his hand towards you, wearing a stupidly charming grin. And somehow, without thinking twice, you had taken it. You call it foolish, Kiera liked to call it liquid courage. 

Dancing without a care in the world, Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” had been thumping through the room. It was a complete blur of sweaty bodies pressing shoulder to shoulder and the bright flashing lights gleaming through the light. You vaguely remember laughing, spinning, and holding onto Lyonel’s shoulders as he pulled you closer. He leaned close to whisper into your ear loud enough to hear over the loud music. 

“I think you’re my favorite dance partner tonight,” he grinned with a slightly crooked smile, “Trouble, aren't you?”

After that night you tried your absolute best to avoid Lyonel whenever you spotted him around campus. 

Purely out of embarrassment.

Upon this embarrassing memory resurfacing you sit there for a moment, weighing the idea in your head. 

Sure, partying like crazy wasn’t the usual for you, especially at parties Lyonel hosted. However, you hadn’t gone out to a house party in a while, and you couldn’t bring yourself to flake on your best friend. She would simply never forgive you. So, maybe letting loose for a night wouldn’t be a terrible idea, though the thought of seeing Lyonel again deeply shook you. 

You nod with a small sigh, “Alright, one party. 

Kiera’s face lights up in absolute joy, on the other hand Tanselle’s expression drops. You give her a knowing smile, which she can’t help but smile back at despite not wanting to go. 

“Awhh, I knew you’d say yes── eventually!” She jokes, a satisfied smile tugging on her lips.

Soon after agreeing to go to the party, the three of you gather your things and make your way out of the cozy cafe. Once outside, the familiar autumn bite found you again, wrapping around your shoulders like a cold you had not invited. 

Standing next to the door, you pause. 

“Go on ahead without me,” you tell them, reaching into your warm jacket pocket, fumbling to find your lighter.

Kiera narrows her eyes at you bitterly. “Are you serious?” 

You hum, “Mhm.” and pull out your pack of cigarettes, pulling one out of the pack you hold it between your fingers. “I’ll catch up in a bit.” You casually mention.

“It’s bad for your teeth.” Tanselle dryly replies, although you can tell she's just trying to make fun of your bad habit. You can only flash her an annoyingly innocent smile. 

“Smoking kills, you know.” Kiera adds, crosses her arms in disapproval.

You only wink at her tauntingly as you slowly lift the cigarette to your lips.

“Is that so?”

She just shakes her head, turning around to walk off with Tanselle, muttering something under her breath about its health risks. However, she quickly turns around and calls out your name, “We’ll come to your apartment around 8 to get ready!” she yells, and turns back around before you can even manage to give her answer. 

Leaving you lingering behind with a fond smile, you light the cigarette between your lips and take a long drag. 

Just as you flick the growing ash of the cigarette, the low hum of an engine pulls your attention towards the street. A car pulls up too smoothly to belong to a student, yet you recognise it straight away. The sleek black shape of the Porsche 911 glides through your field of vision, and you already know who it is. 

The door of the car opens, and Valarr Targaryen steps out, the cold air catching onto the edge of his navy blue Ralph Lauren sweater. Stepping out like he belongs everywhere he goes, you suddenly become very aware of the cigarette between your fingers. 

Golden Boy, you had liked to call him in private. 

He certainly had radiated that, always looking impossibly put together, and today was no different. His sweater had sat crisply against his shoulders over a button-up blouse── collar peeking out deliberately, tailored perfectly to his exact preferences. His black slacks fall over his Loro Piana loafers in precision, which makes you feel severely underdressed in comparison to him. To put it simply, he looked sumptuous. 

Smoke curls lazily in the air around you, smelling faintly of nicotine. His eyes find you immediately, as if he had been looking for you, which makes you straighten up without noticing. Then, he smiles. Feeling slightly awkward under his charming smile, you lift your hand to wave at him. 

Instead of waving back, he crosses over the street and strides over towards you, hands tucked in his pockets. When he approaches, his gaze lingers over you, his polite smile remaining in place, though it seems too warm just to be polite. You probably shouldn’t stare too much. 

“Hey.” he says, his voice warm and smooth. It seems measured, though you suppose it is. He’s most likely been raised to measure every single word. 

“Hi,” you reply, mentally trying to stop yourself from stammering in front of him. Swallowing, you tilt your head up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

“Kiera said you’d be here.” He answered blatantly, almost too easily. 

Right. 

Of course, you had forgotten that they knew each other. Their families had been business partners for years, long before any of you had ended up at university. However, there's something about the next words he says that has you pausing completely. 

“I thought I might run into you. I hoped I would.”

For a moment you just stare at him, not completely sure what to say. Your eyes remain on him longer than they should, yet he doesn’t look away either── mismatched eyes seemingly taking you in, entirely. Ash falls onto the pavement and you consider putting the cigarette out, you don't. 

You hate how nervous you feel, standing next to him makes you feel unfinished. He looks like the kind of person who has everything figured out, he’s smart and composed, the type of person people naturally gravitate towards. You couldn’t feel any further from that. Your chest tightens a little. Though, you’re not sure whether it's the stark contrast between the two of you, or the way his gaze seems to linger on you. 

Despite everything, you find it hard to look away. 

Valarr was in your course, a law student just like you. In your seminars he had been nothing but kind, always giving you gentle smiles or walking you to your next lecture if your classes lined up. Often he had asked if you wanted to grab coffee in between seminars. You figured he was just being polite, it was in his nature. Yet, his smiles had lingered, your conversations had become more honest and you had found yourself wondering if── no. It seemed a bit too extreme, Valarr Targaryen liking you was unlikely at best. Too good to be true.

But here you are, still watching him. 

“So you were looking for me?” You break the silence, a coy smile growing on your lips.

“I was actually.” He says, untucking his hands from his pockets he rolls up the sleeve of his sweater. Your stomach does something strange at that. “You weren’t in yesterday.”

“Mhm,” You nod at him, taking a final drag of your cigarette you threw it on the ground and stepped on it. “I skipped.” You both don’t say anything, and he simply looks at you, like really looks at you.

“I can give you the notes on the seminar if you want.” He offers kindly, to which you let out a soft laugh. The Golden Boy, you remembered, always prepared, ever so helpful. “Wait── Professor Arlan? His class was actually good enough that you managed to take notes?”

Valarr laughs, quietly amused by you. His smile lingers a little longer, as if he doesn’t mind being the subject of your attention. “Well… I thought you might want them.” He looks down briefly, before running his hand through his hair, glancing at the cigarette your shoes crushed on the floor, but says nothing. 

Your mind drifts to the house party tonight, so you bring it up casually── almost absentmindedly. “You’ve been to one of Lyonel’s ragers right?”

Valarr stills at the name, smile fading slightly. “Rager?” He asks, gaze drifting towards you feigning confusion, suddenly seeming more careful. 

“You know like…I mean one of those massive house parties.” You answer like it's not important, looking down as you answer, trying to avoid his piercing gaze. 

“No.” He answers, his jaw tightening slightly. “Not really. I’ve heard about them.” His tone sounds guarded, like he’s treading carefully around the topic, like he’s choosing his words. As if he knows exactly what types of people go to these parties, and who in particular shows up every single time. 

You hum in response, “Well, I’m supposed to be going tonight.” As the words leave your mouth, you glance up, checking his reaction. Maybe you're looking for something, though you're not sure what exactly it is. 

For a split second, his expression tightens. It’s hardly noticeable, subtle, but certainly there. There’s a faint pause of his breath, paired with a quiet and cautious look.

“Oh.” 

He looks affected, as if the idea of you going matters. You try to not read into it too much, but you feel an unexpected flicker of satisfaction, a strange and warm feeling in your chest. His hands tighten as he carries on talking, “I have a gala with my parents tonight. Otherwise I would’ve offered to go with you.” He strangely mentions, which makes you assume he was concerned for you. He almost says something, but stops himself.

You brush off his concerns, “It’s just a party. I’ll survive.” 

Just as he’s about to answer, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Giving you an apologetic smile he reaches for it and scans the screen, brows furrowing in slight annoyance. He sighs, “I should go, my father’s waiting for me.” 

Standing opposite of him you nod understandingly, not pushing for any details. His troubled expression shifts as he turns his attention to you again, “Do you want me to drop you off home?” he offers, eyes fixed on you insistingly. 

“It’s not far, I’ll walk. But thank you anyway.” You decline, and wave goodbye as you begin to walk, feeling the slight breeze brush against your face. 

You come to a quick halt when you feel a much larger hand wrap around your wrist, the pad of a thumb brushing softly against your skin. Valarr holds your wrist, not tightly, but just enough to stop you. Swallowing in hopes to calm your nerves, you glance over your shoulder to look at him. And  you notice the serious expression painting his face, concern obviously there. 

“Be careful tonight, please.” He says quietly, almost too softly. 

You don’t ask why or question him, instead you just nod. For a moment, his soft touch lingers, his hand remaining on your wrist. Letting go, he steps back without peeling his eyes off you. Then you watch him walk back to his car as you stand there, still feeling his lingering touch. 

──

“Do you think this looks cute?” 

“I liked the first dress more.” Tanselle hums at Kiera, applying foundation with great precision as she sits at your vanity, finishing her makeup. The afternoon glint was long gone, replaced with a dark blanket covering the sky. The three of you were getting ready, Fleetwood Mac playing softly on the speaker while you all chatted, drowning out the music. 

“Wait, really?” Kiera says in surprise, quickly grabbing the other dress that was folded neatly on your chair near the desk. 

“Yeah── is this too much?” Tanselle turned around, tilting her head as she questioned whether she went overboard with her makeup.

“Just perfect,” You replied as you walked out of your bathroom wearing a cute outfit you had put together, feeling a particular surge of confidence. 

Your best friends gaped, showering you with compliments, which made you shy away. Tanselle attempted to whistle, chiding as she wriggled her eyebrows. “I’m kinda jealous of Lyonel now.”

Kiera chuckled as you groaned, casting a glance at your best friend you raised your eyebrow. “Kiera, don’t encourage her.” 

“I’m sorry,” she stifles her laughter, but you could tell she was enjoying it. “But what are you going to do if he spots you this time?”

“Which he will!” Tanselle teases, and you can’t even bring yourself to think about it, growing anxious from imagining it. 

“I’m gonna have to be black-out drunk before I dance with him again.” You reply, retrieving your lip gloss from your bedside, applying it as Tanselle moves to sit on the bed beside you. 

“I think… You actually enjoyed it!” She suggests, laughing when you shoot a look at her. 

“Tan, stop with the teasing. She might run away before we get there.” Kiera said calmly, deciding on which heels she’s gonna wear. 

Despite the relentless teasing, you were actually looking forward to the party tonight. Getting ready with your two favorite people in the world was something you hadn’t done in a while, and you quickly came to realize you missed this── a lot. 

However, you had kept rethinking Valarr’s words pleading you to be careful tonight. You still couldn’t tell what his concern was exactly for, it seemed like he was thinking of something in particular, or perhaps someone. You shook the thoughts away as you turned to your girl friends, who seemed ready to leave.

“Ready?” Tanselle asked with a smile, striding towards you as she adjusted her necklace in the mirror one last time. Grabbing your small leather shoulder bag you slung it around your arm, nodding as you all headed out your apartment. 

──

You make it outside the party as the cold air brushes against your face, but you hardly take notice of it anymore. All you can think of is how large Lyonel’s place is, colossal in comparison to your small apartment. Flashing lights gleam through the windows and the music pulses so loudly that you can feel the bass vibrating through the floor beneath you. 

The front lawn is crowded with people, making you question how many people will actually be inside. Groups of friends linger, laughing with drinks in their hands, some overly drunk leaning on their friends for support. 

It all feels so chaotic, and it all feels so alive.

You grow excited, despite the cold air you feel the anticipation growing in your chest. Leading your friends inside, you come to the realization that here, it’s even louder than expected. The music hits you in full force and the shimmering lights flash across your eyes. Kiera takes it upon herself to grab your hand tightly, unwilling to let go so she doesn’t lose you in the busy crowd. Tanselle moves through the crowd in front of you, tall enough that you won’t be able to lose her in the sea of people. 

People dance on each other, pressed together beneath the dark, some kissing and some grinding on each other with no shame whatsoever. 

Weaving through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen where it seems a lot calmer, the loud music and chattering dying out. Tanselle searches through the cupboards and reaches for three shot glasses while you grab a bottle from the counter, filling the glasses generously. She tilts her head excitedly, motioning for you and Kiera to pick up your shot glasses. 

“Well, welcome to Lyonel’s party!” She says in an almost sarcastic tone, clutching her drink as you all tilt your heads and knock your shots back.

“Eugh── Oh my god! That’s disgusting…” Kiera grumbles, clutching her chest as she makes a dramatic gagging sound.

“Sorry, would you prefer a champagne cosmopolitan?” You tease her, which she rolls her eyes to. 

Tanselle pours another round as you giggle at Kiera’s dramatic gags, making sure the shot glasses are filled to the brim. You and her knock back another round as Kiera silently judges you, eyes widening in disgust and mild horror. Before she can voice words of protest you giggle and grab both of your friends hands and drag them out of the kitchen, leading them to the crowd of people dancing. 

Already feeling a light buzz, you tell them both, “Come on!” as you make your way through the crowd. You clumsily begin to twirl Kiera beneath the flashing lights, making her gasp in surprise as you almost collide with someone nearby. The air smelt like sweat, perfume, alcohol, but strangely enough it's comforting to you. Nobody cares, nobody's thinking too hard about anything, they're all just having fun. 

The music thumps loudly as the bass drops loudly, and a sudden shout cuts through the chaos, catching everyone's attention. 

“Lyonel!” 

You freeze in terror, blinking in shock as he emerges through the crowd upstairs, grinning while holding an expensive bottle of whiskey in his right hand. He waves and yells back at people, greeting some girls with playful hugs and nudging his friends. He continues to move through the crowd like he owns every single inch of this room── which he does. 

Staring at faces in the crowd, and then, almost like fate, you catch his sparkling eyes. His grin widens absurdly, excitement taking over his features. 

“There’s my girl!” He shouts, his voice somehow booming over the ridiculously loud music. 

You glance back at your friends slowly, with wide eyes. They only laugh at your horror-struck expression and gently shove you towards him. Stumbling towards him, you can’t help but laugh, the horror washing away as he approaches in long and prideful strides. 

His large hands reach for your shoulders and he pulls you closer to him. “You have absolutely no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you!” His voice booms, the whiskey making him more exaggerated than usual. 

You laugh at his charming words and wrap your hands around his arms, “Me too──! I’m so glad to see you!” You lied to him, which made his grin widen nonsensically. 

Instead of responding, Lyonel twirls you around, pulling you towards him. Laughing like a storm, he wraps his hands around your back as flashing lights sweep over your bodies. Dancing along with him within the chaos of sweaty bodies you both move together on the dance floor. Perhaps he was your favorite dance partner as well, you were enjoying this immensely. 

“Whats your favorite party song?” He turns towards you, leaning close to your ear so that he wouldn’t need to shout over the music. 

“Um… I don’t know, maybe um── Sexyback!” You reply enthusiastically, giggling as his grin splits wider, if that was even possible. Throwing his arms in the air he laughs.

“Someone! Fucking play Justin Timberlake!” He yells out, winking at you as his body flails theatrically. You burst out in a fit of giggles, nearly stumbling into a drunk boy as Sexyback begins playing and Lyonel resumes dancing. 

The heat of the room creeps up on you, suddenly feeling very tipsy and hot. You pause, gesturing to Lyonel that you were going to go outside, awkwardly mimicking sliding a cigarette up to your lips using your index fingers. He understands instantly, without missing a beat of the music he gestures back, pulling a thumbs-up while still moving his body to the rhythm of the music. He yells out “Come find me later!” which you nod to, shaking your head as you stumble away, crowd slightly parting as you try to escape. Your heart thumps as you smile at the ridiculousness of the night so far. 

Pushing through the doors, you head towards the outdoors patio. Stepping outside, the cold air hits you like a shock to your system. You stand there for a brief second, breathing in the fresh air in the dark. It feels good to escape the harsh and suffocating heat of the house, the music thumping inside relentlessly. 

Moving towards the stone ledge that separates the grass from the patio you dig into your small leather bag which smells of perfume and sweat. Your hand searches blindly for your lighter, coming across lip balm, a receipt you had lost ages ago, and gum. But no cigarettes. You curse in frustration, shoes digging into the floor as you dig again, this time slowly in hopes of retrieving even one stray cigarette. 

Nothing.

“Fucking seriously?” You groan, back slumping in utter torment as you had magically hoped one would appear. Of all nights you could’ve forgotten them, it had to be tonight. 

Your eyes scan the groups of people outside in hopes to find someone smoking who would kindly give you a cigarette. Hell, you’d even be willing to give them a kiss on the cheek as a thank you. Groups of people linger, couples talking, friends laughing, a pair of men arguing about music, but nobody’s smoking. You find yourself wondering if smoking had been banned or everybody universally decided to give it up just for tonight. 

Sighing again, you push away from the ledge and squeeze through the crowd of people, scanning the patio in determination. You weren’t gonna give up just yet, you’re sure someone had to be smoking, or at least carrying a pack with them. Fuck, even iqos would do in this situation. 

That's when you spot him, standing slightly afar from everybody else, but close enough that the dim porch light barely hits him. His short silver hair is disheveled yet looks more intentional than accidental, framing his face perfectly. 

Your gaze lingers on him and then slowly drifts downwards, taking in his figure entirely. His crimson red leather jacket hangs loosely off one shoulder, the kind that looks worn out in an expensive way, fastened with metallic pyramid-shaped studs that glimmer whenever they catch the light. Underneath, a light grey mesh top clings to his lean torso, revealing his toned chest slyly. Clunky silver chains rest against his collarbone, tangled with other thinner necklaces which are connected to a distinctive orb charm, Vivienne Westwood. But what completely catches your attention is his belt, hung dangerously low against his waist. It’s impossible to miss. 

A massive silver dragon head. 

Custom, without a doubt. You narrow your eyes, you’ve heard of him, everyone has. Aerion Targaryen. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. He was nothing like his cousin Valarr, who you had a hard time believing he was somehow related to. There was a rumour that had once told someone, completely seriously, that he believed he was a dragon trapped in human form. 

A voice drifts in the air behind you, “A Targaryen’s here tonight.” A scoff follows. “Yeah. He’s a total asshole, spilt a drink on me then stared at me like it was my fault.”

Everyone laughs at the absurdity of it. “The pretty ones are always temperamental.”

Glancing back at him again, you feel like fate is playing a funny joke on you once again tonight. Of fucking course. He’s the only person outside holding a pack of cigarettes. He opens the pack and rests one against his fingers, bringing it to his lips and lights it, the burning tip faintly glows in the dark. 

You’re not completely sure if it’s the alcohol buzzing through your veins, or it's the curiosity, or it’s the simple fact you want a cigarette but you start walking toward him before you can change your mind. 

The close you get, the more details become clear, such as the numerous piercings on his face that faintly glow in the low light. There’s a small piercing that punctures his right eyebrow, a bridge piercing between his eyes and a pair of snakebite studs resting against his lower lip. All silver, cold and sharp against his pale skin. 

Stopping beside him in the cool air you can feel the faint smell of smoke drifting through the air. He doesn’t look at you, simply staring into the distance, fully ignoring your presence. He doesn’t acknowledge you, not even slightly, as though he's above everyone, above being at this party entirely. 

You consider leaving, instead you glance down briefly and say,

“Nice belt.”

His fixed gaze breaks as he slowly turns his head towards you── almost lazily, the distant focus in his eyes disappearing. His eyes drag over you, not politely, not kindly, but slowly. He deliberately stares at your shoes and rakes his eyes up your figure, from your waist to your face. Then, he lifts the cigarettes to his lips and takes a deep drag, still watching you with an unreadable expression. Then he exhales, and turns his head away from you as smoke spills into the air, the smell of nicotine curling around you. 

Asshole. 

You wait a moment, but he doesn’t respond and instead lifts the cigarette to his lips again, the ember glowing briefly in the dark. You glance at the tattoo that spreads across his skin, a dragon in ink on his collarbone curling upwards across his neck, disappearing just beneath his ear. 

“The tattoo’s interesting too.” You try again, not as determined as before. You tilt your head, eyes lingering on his neck, studying it more openly now. “I’ve always wanted one,” You admit casually, “Never been brave enough though. ‘Feel like it would hurt too much.”

“Yeah. You look the type.” That does it, glancing back at you slowly his expression doesn’t change as he exhales the cold air, idly shifting his foot in front of the other. He seems unimpressed. 

Instead of giving him the reaction he wants, you laugh softly as you shuffle on your feet absentmindedly. This seemingly irritates him more than if you had taken offense, his nose scrunches as he clenches his jaw, looking away again. 

“So it hurt then?” You ask lightly, subtly jabbing him while gesturing towards the dragon tattoo. You might as well entertain yourself. 

“No.” He scoffs in disbelief, perhaps even confused on why you hadn’t left him alone yet. He pauses, and his eyes flicker in slight amusement which catches you off-guard. “You’d probably pass out.”

You laugh again, his insult more amusing to you than anything in this particular moment. His eyes flicker over to you again, as if reassessing his earlier judgements about you. 

You toy idly with the ring on your finger as you glance at the cigarette between his lips, once again.

“You wouldn’t happen to be feeling generous tonight, would you?” 

His eyes roll, almost as if he had been predicting this since the moment you had walked over. You think he might refuse, he seems like the type that would. Instead he sighs and slips his hand into his inner pockets, retrieving a pack of Marlboro Red’s. Tapping his fingers against the box as he slides you a cigarette, holding it out to you. 

Your lips lift upwards in a slight smile as you raise your eyebrows, shocked at his sudden kindness. You didn’t really expect he’d give you one, he was rude and egotistical, not exactly the delightful type. 

You reach for it as you glance at his large hands, several rings covering his fingers, chunky pieces that look heavy enough to leave impressions on his skin. When you take the cigarette from him your hand brushes against his slender fingers donning cold rings── his cold skin against your warm fingers. 

He pulls out a lighter from his dark jeans and then steps closer, closing the distance between the two of you. Your shoulders shift tensely, you suddenly feel very cold in the darkness. You smell a mix of nicotine, violet, and leather, his cologne becoming a large presence between you both. You bring the cigarette to your lips as the soft pad of his thumb flicks the lighter. His large hand rises instinctively, cupping around the tip of the cigarette to shield it from the light wind. The flame flickers weakly. The cold breeze cuts between you and Aerion. 

Clicking his tongue in annoyance he puts the lighter back in his pocket and glances back up at you and gestures to the cigarette dangling lazily between his lips. Your face knits in confusion and you exhale slowly when you understand what he means. You lean in closer, tilting your head upwards as he moves his face closer, and you feel heat rise to your face. He connects the ends of your cigarettes, the ember faintly glowing in a shared dance of flickering flames. 

The cold is long forgotten as his violet eyes briefly glance down at your lips, inhaling before he looks back up again. Tilting his head slightly the ember burns brighter and he pulls away first removing the cigarette from his mouth as he exhales into the chilly night air. 

Smoke curls upwards as you also exhale and he studies you from a distance, as if he’s trying to figure something out. 

“Don’t say I ever did anything for you.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

Despite everything, you come to the conclusion he's still a complete asshole. Tapping the ash away from your cigarette you break eye contact, you suppose you should introduce yourself. You don’t want to be known as a cig stealing stranger after all. 

“I’m──”

“I know who you are.”

That was strange, you pause and look back up at him in confusion. You don’t answer him yet, trying to think of when you may have met him before or bumped into him. You draw a blank. 

“Do you?” You’re sure you’ve misheard him, the words sit heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it should be. 

He exhales slowly, like your question bores him. “I’ve seen you.” He vaguely says, but you’re not sure whether it’s intentional or not.

“You say it like it means something.” Narrowing your eyes, your boldness is shocking, even to you.

“It doesn’t.” He says flatly, like he doesn’t care. You realize he’s enjoying this, which only irritates you further. 

Watching him for a moment longer, you consider whether you should tread lightly or not. You decide on the latter. 

“People weren’t exaggerating.”

To that, he raises an eyebrow, flicking ash on the floor. “About what?”

“About your attitude.” 

Taking a final drag of your cigarette you savour it before throwing it on the floor and stepping on it, crushing it with your shoe. Before he can make a snarky response you brush past him, shoulders touching slightly. As you pass, your hand dips into his outer pocket, casually pulling out the pack of Marlboro Reds. 

He watches in silence as you walk away from him. With an annoying smile you hold up the pack of cigarettes and turn around and you see his expression change from confusion to irritation. Before he can reply you laugh,

“Consider it payment.” 

Then you walk away. 

──

After staying for a bit longer and making the most out of the night with your friends the three of you eventually decided it was time to get going. Being the most sober out of your trio you had walked Tanselle and Kiera back to their homes, lingering outside before leaving to make sure they got in safely. 

Eventually, the cold began to seep in as you made your way home. Your footsteps echoed in the quiet street as you walked through the familiar road that brought you to your apartment building. Streetlights stretched down the long road in golden pools of light as you pulled out your phone to text your friends you had made it home. The branches of trees rustle overhead, but other than that it’s silent. 

Pausing outside your apartment building, you pull out the stolen pack of cigarettes, deciding to have one final smoke before you go back in. The cardboard of the box is slightly crumpled as you shoved it in your jacket pocket earlier. You flick the lighter and the flame catches, and just as you bring your cigarette up to it, movement further down the street catches your eye. 

Squinting slightly you move the lighter away, inhaling as you notice someone walking towards you── more like stumbling and swaying towards you, they’re not entirely steady on their feet. You hesitate for a moment before considering whether you should help or not, but decide not to. However, you continue watching.

The streetlights flicker as the figure moves closer, and you notice that it’s a young man, probably around your age. He’s tall, very tall actually. Stumbling over a crack in the street he catches himself and lifts his head. His gaze meets yours. 

Noticing you standing there across the street, he changes directions slightly, now walking towards you. You glance around in confusion, wondering if there's anyone else around, and it seems you’re all alone. Pulling the cigarette out of your mouth you hold it in between your fingers, ready to stub him with it if necessary. 

Stopping a few feet away from you he moves his hands up defensively, as if he’s surrendering. “Easy,” he stumbles out, “Didn’t mean to scare you,.” He adds, almost apologetically. There's a faint sense of sarcasm in his tone, but it’s dulled by whatever alcohol or exhaustion has settled over him.

“You alright?” You ask him, relaxing slightly. 

“Yeah. Yep. I’m fine.” His words come out unevenly, his voice straining slightly. It takes him a moment to recollect his thoughts, but you can see he means no harm and doesn’t want to stir up any trouble. 

Now that he’s closer, you can see he’s dressed quite simply. A worn oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt stretches over his broad form with a grey zip-up hoodie that hangs loosely over him, as if he’d thrown it on without thinking. His jeans are slightly wrinkled and fabric creased along his ankles. His shoes are old converses that look like they’ve been through hell and were begging to be put to rest. 

Even with the distance between you two he reeked of wine. Odd choice for a guy like him you figured. He shifts his weight as his gaze falls on the cigarette between your fingers. 

“Not to be rude but…” He begins, voice a little quieter than before. “Could I have one of those?” He gestured faintly toward. There's almost something sheepish in the manner he asks. 

“Yeah, sure.”

Shrugging, you pull one from the pack. You figure it’s the least you can do after stealing them from Aerion earlier. 

He steps closer and takes the cigarette from you, his actions way too gentle in comparison to his tawdry stumbling mere minutes ago. Blinking up at him, you come to the realization──  he's attractive. Like really attractive. 

Up close you can see the messy strands of dirty blonde carelessly falling onto his forehead, making him look strangely delicate. His features were soft, almost regal. But what caught your attention was his violet eyes. They were captivating, yet they had a certain sadness to them, carried by sleepless nights and exhaustion.

Something about him seems familiar, but you can’t exactly pin it down. Your lips part to say something but noticing his violet eyes glancing at you the words die in your throat. His gaze moves across your face slowly, studying you with a quiet intensity that you can’t place. 

For a brief second, his tired eyes warm up and he smiles at you. It’s not forced or polite, but genuine. The kind where you assumed he was a kind person. Instead of asking you for a lighter he clumsily pulls one out of his zip-up’s pocket and almost drops it, muttering something under his breath as he finally manages to flick the flame. Once the cigarette catches, he inhales and his eyes linger on you a little longer. There’s something in his eyes again, something sad. Then he turns around and walks away.

Shooting a look at him, you watch him go. Your mind is preoccupied with questions, or rather one main question; who is this guy? There's a strange feeling in your chest that settles, and you can’t quite explain it. 

“Hey,” You call for him suddenly.

He stops and turns back around slightly at the sound of your voice. He eyes you through his peripheral, taking note of your confused expression.

“Who are you?”

He looks like he’s deep in thought, almost caught off guard by the question. He blinks, slowly turning to face you. You can’t exactly read his expression as it remains neutral, but the way he pauses is the only thing that gives you a hint of any of his thoughts. Then he speaks,

“Nobody worth knowing.” 

You hesitate, blinking in confusion. There's no bitterness to his words you note, only acceptance. You’re not really sure how to react, you didn’t want to seem like you pity this stranger nor feel bad for him so you tilt your head to the side with a slight smile,

“I meant your name.”

For a moment, he only continues to stare at you. The sound of the quiet night surrounds you, filling the silence. He then lets out a small breath, almost a laugh, but you can tell it’s tired. He brings his arm down, gaze falling onto the cigarette that's burning between his fingers, and then he looks back up at you. 

“Thank you. For the cigarette.” 

He shifts on his feet, fidgeting a little before he offers you a smile. With slight hesitation he turns back around and begins to walk away, steadier this time. Leaving you alone in the darkness beneath the glowing streetlights.

a/n: wheww this was a long one, took me so long to write but i'm very proud of it!! i miss my wife daeron so much if u guys liked this and would like a part 2 do comment, i haven't got many plans for part 2 yet but would love to hear some ideas i love akotsk sm </33 / also notice how the title and chapter names r fleetwood mac and the smashing pumpkins references... if you would like to be added to the next parts taglist, let me know in the comments !

Her day off had not belonged to her from the moment Aerion handed over his card that morning.

He had done it in the same way he did most things when he was trying not to make care sound like dependence. One hand around his coffee, phone lighting up every few seconds on the kitchen island, tie hanging loose around his throat as if he had only remembered it existed halfway through dressing, he had slid the black card across the marble toward her and said, “Get whatever’s needed. For the flat. For Maelor. For tonight.”

Duncan, leaning against the opposite counter in one sock and no shame, had looked up from the shopping list on his phone. “You say that like I’m incapable of buying groceries.”

Aerion had not even glanced at him. “You bought sparkling water, the wrong rice, and dog treats.”

“We do not own a dog.”

“Exactly.”

You had taken the card, trying not to smile. Aerion finally looked at you then, and the expression on his face had done that quiet, dangerous thing it always did when he was exhausted and pretending he was not. Blue eyes sharp, mouth set, the whole of him wound too tightly beneath the surface. His jacket was still off, but the shirt he wore was a deep ember-red under the kitchen light, dark enough to look almost black until he moved. His hair had been pushed back from his face with impatient fingers, silver-gold and a little untidy at the front, and he looked far too beautiful for the amount of strain he was carrying.

There was still fire in him, even now.

He no longer wore it the way he once had, not openly, not in those shameless years when he had seemed to delight in setting himself ablaze just so everyone else would have to look. Gone were the loud reds and molten golds, the theatrical flourish, the silk and arrogance and the almost taunting way he used to move through rooms. But the thing beneath all that had never disappeared. It had only narrowed. Refined. Learned control.

In his youth, Aerion had been the kind of beautiful person that people spoke about with resentment in their throats. Silver-gold hair, pale skin, a high brow, hard cheekbones, deep blue eyes that could look amused, bored, or cruel with almost no warning. There had been something imperious in his face even then, something too aware of its own effect, too certain that the world ought to rearrange itself around him. And he had been cruel once. Capricious. Vain. Spectacularly difficult to love. The kind of man who could be all smiles and polished courtesy in front of his father, then turn around and show his teeth the moment the room changed.

That version of him had left damage behind.

He knew it.

So did the rest of them.

But he had changed, which in some ways made him more unnerving now, not less. The recklessness had hardened into discipline. The arrogance had become precision. The need to provoke had thinned into something colder and more useful. Even his temper had improved, which was perhaps the most alarming thing of all.

Men who stayed monsters were easy to understand.

Men who learned restraint were not.

And today, with Daeron stepping down and Brightflame’s internal structure shifting like a fault line under all their feet, he looked like a man being pushed toward power whether he wanted it or not.

Daeron had laid his portion down that morning. Publicly, it had all been phrased the way such things always were, private realignment, long-term stability, continuity, all the polished language wealthy families used when they were trying to keep fracture from sounding like weakness. But everyone who actually mattered knew what it meant.

Daeron was done.

He had too much going on in his head, too much damage gathering where none of them could pretend not to see it anymore, and he wanted to step back before it took the rest of his life with it. The family had agreed, begrudgingly, and only because his performance had been slipping for too long. It was no longer yielding the kind of results expected from a Targaryen son bred for inheritance and scrutiny. His drinking had become its own quiet scandal. Public enough to embarrass, private enough to bury, but only just. It had become surprising, frankly, that he had not yet been flagged for something uglier. A DUI. A formal incident. A case someone could not make disappear quickly enough.

So Aerion had been brought in next.

Not the whole family. That still belonged to Baelor’s line and all the glittering, cold authority that came with it. Valarr, golden and correct and built for rooms full of shareholders and cameras, stood closer to the center of the dynasty’s public face. But Maekar held a brutal amount of private leverage. Voting power. Quiet capital. Senior partnerships. The kind of internal force that never made headlines because it did not need to. When he moved, men noticed. When he withdrew support, people bled.

And now that Daeron had stepped aside, more of that burden was shifting onto Aerion, with the unspoken certainty that when Maekar was gone, the full force of that power would become his.

You had seen it in him for days. The tightness around his mouth. The shorter patience. The way he seemed already braced for impact before the first blow had even landed.

This morning, though, all he had said after sliding the card toward you was, “Don’t let Duncan decide anything that requires judgment.”

Duncan had put a hand to his chest. “That is deeply insulting.”

Aerion had looked at him then, deadpan. “You’ll survive.”

Then he had gone still for a second, like another thought had occurred to him too late. His gaze shifted back to you.

“Take Donnel with you.”

You blinked. “For groceries?”

“Yes.”

Duncan laughed. “Christ. We’re buying yogurt, not transporting state secrets.”

Aerion ignored him completely. “Take Donnel. Let him do the driving.”

“Aerion,” you started.

“No.” His tone did not rise, but it sharpened. “No argument. Take him.”

You stared at him.

He looked back at you for one hard, unblinking second, and there it was beneath the control. Not paranoia. Not quite temper. Calculation. The kind that had only gotten worse since the news broke that morning. Since finance pages started talking. Since social media had turned into a landfill fire of speculation, edits, slander, threads, and badly informed analysis from people who suddenly believed they understood the inner structure of the family because they had seen two headlines and a grainy board photo.

Aerion Brightflame taking on Brightflame Holdings.

Aerion stepping into Daeron’s place.

Aerion joining billionaire heir lists.

Aerion, the former family nightmare, now expected to carry a meaningful portion of Maekar’s side of the empire.

Reddit was calling it a disaster in a good suit.

TikTok had already made edits of him leaving the tower the week before, slowed down under music so dramatic it should have come with a government warning. Clips of him in dark tailoring. Clips of him ignoring cameras. Clips of him walking like he was carrying violence in his pocket instead of documents and legal briefings.

And not just him.

There were edits of you and Aerion with Maelor wandering through the expensive side of downtown, his little hand in yours, while Aerion carried the bags and looked annoyed enough to make the comments lose their minds. Gala photographs where you stood somewhere in the frame, not centred but never accidental either, surrounded by the Targaryen family, like you had always belonged there.

Photos in the background of Egg’s stories and posts, boating weekends, polo matches, horseback riding, long lawns and old-money sunlight, where you were simply there. Sometimes with Maelor on your hip. Sometimes beside Aerion. Sometimes in the distance, speaking to Maekar about God only knew what. No one ever filtered you out. You were not a one-time guest or a rumour. You were a constant. A familiar one. A welcome one, if the outside world were any judge of it.

The only thing most people ever seemed to know for certain about you was that you and Aerion had met in the first year at university, when you both took the same required course that happened to overlap between your degrees. He had started in mechanical engineering before he pivoted, surprisingly and irritably, toward actuarial work and eventually the financial structure of the family empire. You had stayed the course, moved into software engineering, and actually finished it.

Through your friendship with Aerion, you had later secured a role within the wider Targaryen business structure as a software engineer, but even that had been positioned carefully. Not under Maekar’s office. Not under Aerion. Under Baelor, Maekar’s elder brother, after the same interviews, the same coding assessments, the same technical screening everyone else sat through. You had not ridden Aerion’s coattails into the building, and everyone who mattered knew it.

You had earned your place.

Both in business and, increasingly, in their lives.

When Maelor had been announced, the public never learned who his mother was. Only a select few knew the truth, that it had been a fucked-up one-night stand Aerion regretted deeply, though never once his son. The arrangement had been swift, ugly, and buried almost as quickly as it had surfaced. NDAs. A private agreement. Full custody to Aerion. A lump sum to make the woman disappear from the story before the story ever really began. No public war. No custody battle. No damage that could not be covered over with money, silence, and the family’s usual efficiency.

Half the comments online called Aerion dangerous.

The other half seemed to think danger was the point.

And a select few were simply appreciative of his face.

And all morning, his name had been climbing.

You understood then.

Not groceries.

Exposure.

So you only nodded. “Fine.”

His jaw eased by a fraction. Then he kissed the top of Maelor’s head, brushed two fingers lightly over the back of your hand where it rested near the card in one of those thoughtless, intimate gestures he never seemed to realize were more dangerous than open flirting, and said to no one in particular, “Good.”

Donnel drove.

He was one of the older security men, broad-backed, quiet, and so immaculately unruffled he gave the impression of having been born in a black suit with an earpiece already in. Duncan rode with you, still in full grocery-errand mode, while Donnel took the wheel like he had been expecting this all morning.

At first, it really did feel stupidly domestic.

Pasta sauce. Cereal arguments. Duncan holding up two jars like the fate of nations depended on your answer. Donnel saying almost nothing from the front except once, very dryly, when Duncan asked if he wanted to weigh in on pasta shapes.

“I like whichever one gets us home fastest, sir.”

That made Duncan bark out a laugh.

Then your phone rang.

The screen made your stomach drop.

Summerhall Private Academy

Duncan saw your face change instantly. “What happened?”

You were already answering. “Hello?”

The woman on the other end sounded calm in the careful, professional way that always meant the opposite. “Hello, is this Maelor’s mother?”

Your eyes shut briefly.

Of course.

Of course that was how they still had you listed.

“Yes,” you said automatically, then corrected yourself too late. “I mean, I’m his emergency contact. What happened?”

“Maelor is alright, I want to make that clear first, but he had a fall during recess. The nurse has seen him, there are no immediate signs of anything more serious, but he’s upset and asking for you. We attempted to reach his father, but his office told us he was unavailable in meetings.”

Unavailable.

No shit.

Not today. Not when half his future had just been dropped in his lap and the other half was being measured by men who still thought his sins at twenty-two mattered more than his competence now.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” you said.

“Thank you. He’ll be very relieved.”

The call ended. Duncan took the cart from your hands without being asked.

“How bad?”

“He fell. They said he’s okay, just shaken.”

Duncan nodded once. The humor had gone from his face. “Go.”

“What about this?”

“I’ll finish.”

“You bought the wrong detergent last time.”

“I’ll call you from the detergent aisle and let you supervise me like the tyrant you were born to be.” Then, softer, “Go get him.”

Donnel was already moving.

By the time he had pulled the car around to the front curb, the whole shape of the day had changed.

He met you at the entrance with the rear door already open. “School?”

You nodded once. “Maelor fell.”

Donnel’s expression did not change much. He only said, “Understood,” and got you moving before the first question could fully settle in your throat.

The drive to Summerhall was quiet in the front and too loud in your own head. Duncan texted twice. Once to ask if Maelor was okay. Once to send a photo of two detergents with the caption:

choose wisely, my tyrant

You almost laughed.

By the time you reached the school, your pulse had worked itself into a tight, aching knot. The place looked exactly the same as always, all polished glass, private funding, and landscaped discretion, but you barely noticed any of it beyond the doors.

The first thing you did notice when Donnel opened your door was the black SUV idling half a block down.

Then another.

Then a man with a camera pretending not to be facing the entrance.

Donnel noticed them too.

His jaw tightened once. “Right.”

Inside, Maelor was sitting outside the nurse’s office with his backpack in his lap and his cheeks still pink from crying. There was a bandage near his temple, and the sight of it made something in you drop hard and fast. The second he saw you, he sat up so quickly his shoes knocked the edge of the chair.

You crossed the floor and crouched in front of him. “Hey, sweetheart. Let me see.”

His eyes went glassy all over again. “I fell.”

“Oh, baby.”

That was enough.

He came straight into your arms, and you held him close while the teacher, already half-apologetic, explained what had happened. A kite had gotten stuck high in one of the trees, and Maelor had tried to help another student get it down. He had climbed higher than he should have, slipped coming back down, and scared himself badly in the process. The nurse was confident it was more fright than true injury. No vomiting, no dizziness, no blackout, no confusion. Just a scraped temple, a hard cry, and a little boy who wanted someone familiar.

You signed the forms one-handed, kept one palm steady against his back, and listened with the kind of focused calm that was really just worry in cleaner clothes.

Then the teacher smiled and said, “He was so happy when we told him his mum was coming.”

Your pen paused for the smallest second.

You should have corrected her. You did not.

Maelor tucked his face harder into your neck, and that settled the matter more than words could have.

The problem started the moment you stepped back outside.

The cameras saw you first.

Or rather, they saw Maelor in your arms, saw Donnel immediately changing course toward you, saw the school doors open, and understood at once that something had happened and they were about to get more than they had expected.

“Ma’am, can we get a comment?”

“Is Aerion prepared to take on Brightflame now that Daeron’s stepped down?”

“How is he handling the transition?”

“Has Maekar formally backed him for a bigger role?”

“Is he expected to join the top-earning heirs list this quarter?”

“Is the family worried about optics?”

“Is Aerion ready to lead?”

“Can you comment on the market reaction?”

The questions came fast and ugly, colliding into one another as more of them surged toward the pavement.

Maelor jolted against you.

That was the only thing you registered clearly.

You pulled him tighter instantly, one arm locked hard around him, the other hand spreading over the back of his head and pressing his face into your neck. He hid there at once, small body curling inward. You could feel his breath against your throat, too fast, too shallow.

Donnel stepped in front of you like a door slamming shut.

“Back the fuck off,” he snapped, voice carrying clean across the entrance. “Back. Up.”

The nearest photographer kept moving.

Donnel took one step toward him and said, colder now, “Do not make me repeat myself.”

It worked.

Not because they were decent, but because they knew who employed him.

Still the shouting continued.

“How does Aerion feel about taking this on when Daeron was supposed to carry it?”

“Has Maekar chosen him?”

“Is the family united on this?”

One idiot with a phone shouted, “People online are calling him the dark horse of the family. Is that fair?”

The flashes started going off. White, sharp, ugly.

Donnel opened the rear door of the car without ever fully turning his back on them.

“In,” he said.

You did not waste a second.

Once inside, you pulled Maelor properly into your lap in the back seat, even though he had technically outgrown that years ago. He pressed himself against you without complaint, face buried in your neck, your hand still firm over the back of his head while the other rubbed slow circles between his shoulders.

Donnel slammed the door, rounded the car, and got behind the wheel in three long strides.

By the time the vehicle pulled away, the shouting had dulled into muffled noise behind tinted glass.

Maelor did not lift his head.

You kissed his hair and kept your voice low. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

His fingers clutched harder at your coat.

Outside, the city kept moving. Inside the car, your phone would not stop vibrating.

Notifications.

Messages.

News alerts.

Three missed calls from an unknown number.

A trending clip somewhere of the school entrance, probably, or the tower from that morning, or one of those edits people kept making of Aerion walking into buildings like he was carrying a knife between his teeth and not a tablet full of merger documents.

You did not look.

Not yet.

Donnel did, once, in the mirror.

“I’ve already called ahead,” he said.

You looked up. “To the tower?”

“Yes.”

That made something in your chest loosen, just a little.

The drive into the city felt different after that. Less like panic. More like bracing.

You got Maelor buckled in again when he finally let you, wiped the last dried tear-tracks from his cheeks, gave him water, and turned the music down so low it was more background than sound. He spent most of the drive looking out the window, little face reflected in the glass, watching traffic lights streak red and gold across it.

Then, somewhere between the expressway and the downtown turn, he said softly, “Papa’s going to do the forehead thing.”

Despite the knot in your chest, you almost smiled. “The forehead thing?”

Maelor pressed two fingers between his brows and dragged them down into a dramatic, severe frown.

“That one.”

A soft laugh escaped you. “Yeah. He probably is.”

He nodded, pleased you understood. Then, after a small pause, he added, “I like when you come better.”

That one landed.

Your grip tightened on the wheel, and the rest of the drive passed with a different kind of ache sitting in your ribs.

By the time Targaryen Tower rose into view, black glass and dark steel against the grey afternoon, you were braced. It looked less like an office building than a modern keep, built by a family that no longer needed crowns because voting power, private leverage, and controlling interest did the same work with better press.

Security recognized your car before you reached the barrier.

The guard at the entrance barely glanced at the screen before lifting it. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

No pause. No check-in. No delay.

Nobody in that building was stupid enough to delay you when you had Maelor with you. More than that, nobody wanted to be the person Aerion discovered had made your day harder than it already was. The fact had become something close to legend over the last year. He had once reduced a junior assistant to tears because she left you waiting in reception for eleven minutes while he was in a call. Another time, a security contractor had tried to insist on protocol while Maelor was sick and half-asleep in your arms. He had not lasted the week.

People learned.

And if Aerion’s temper did not teach them quickly enough, Maekar’s colder displeasure usually did. That surprised outsiders more than it should have. But the old man noticed everything, including who mattered to his son and grandsons. Anyone who made life difficult for you had a way of finding the tower less welcoming after.

So the staff let you through.

Not because they pitied you. Not because they were indulging some unofficial favorite.

Because they knew better.

The tower entrance was already prepared when you arrived.

Two security men were outside before the car fully stopped. The doors were opened for you instantly. The small crowd clustered beyond the outer barrier barely had time to surge before one of the guards stepped forward and cut them off.

“Back.”

There were shouts immediately.

“Can we get a statement?”

“Is Aerion inside?”

“Was that Maelor?”

“Is the family responding to market speculation?”

But you were already moving.

One hand on the back of Maelor’s head. One arm tight around him. Donnel half a step ahead of you and one of the tower guards at your shoulder, clearing a path so efficiently it felt almost choreographed.

Inside, the lobby shifted the second you crossed the threshold.

Not subtly.

Immediately.

A receptionist was already coming around the desk. One of the assistants near the lifts straightened so quickly she nearly dropped her tablet. The new girl at the secondary desk, clearly not yet trained enough to hide her nerves, stared at you, then at Maelor, then at Donnel, and went pale.

No one asked you to sign in.

No one stopped you.

No one was stupid enough.

Because everyone in the building knew what happened when you arrived carrying Aerion’s son and looking like that.

And because if the crowd outside thought they could get a statement from you here, they were about to learn what the inside of this family actually looked like when its own were involved.

Inside, the lobby was all dark stone, brass, and hush. Old money. The kind that did not need to prove itself. Heads turned the moment you stepped inside with Maelor on your hip, but not in a gawking way. More like the floor itself had adjusted to your arrival.

One of the newer assistants stood from behind the secondary reception desk the second she saw you. She looked polished, young, and just uncertain enough to give herself away as new. Her eyes moved from you to Maelor and widened slightly.

“Oh,” she said quickly, smoothing her skirt, “I’m so sorry, ma’am, he’s still in strategy, but if you’d like, I can let him know his wife and son are here?”

You blinked.

Maelor, little menace that he was, said nothing at all. He only settled more comfortably against you and curled his fingers around the necklace at your throat, the gold pendant Aerion had given you, two dragons entwined to signify him and Maelor.

Before you could correct her, the older receptionist beside her made a strangled sound into her throat that was suspiciously close to a laugh and rose to her feet. “I’ve already called Ellyn.”

The new assistant went pink.

You did not correct her.

Not because you were trying to claim something. Not even because some quiet, shameful part of you liked the sound of it more than you should have.

Mostly because correcting it with Maelor in your arms and the whole lobby listening would have made it something larger than it needed to be.

A moment later, the private lift opened.

Ellyn stepped out in charcoal and silk, tablet under one arm, expression composed. She took one look at you, one look at Maelor, and one look at the new girl’s face, and understood everything instantly.

“Well,” she said dryly, coming toward you, “I see we’re having a day.”

“I fell,” Maelor told her with grave dignity.

“I can see that.”

Then, lower, to you, “He’s on the edge. The meeting’s gone on too long, Daeron’s papers are finalized, and three directors have already said the phrase fiduciary continuity like it means anything worth hearing.”

That made you huff the smallest laugh.

Ellyn’s mouth twitched. “The building is still standing, which counts as success.”

She turned to the new assistant. “With me.”

The girl looked like she wanted the floor to open beneath her.

Upstairs, the executive level was all frosted glass, muted light, and the oppressive quiet of expensive places where men with power preferred their panic to happen softly. Ellyn crossed to the boardroom and knocked once before stepping inside.

Voices. Low, clipped, tired.

Then Ellyn’s voice, smooth as polished stone.

“Sir,” she said, “your wife and son are here to see you.”

Silence hit the room so hard it was almost audible.

Then the door opened.

Aerion came out like the room had failed him personally.

His tie was gone. His collar was open. His jacket was still on, but only just, like he had kept it there out of spite. The color beneath the black of the suit was dark and ember-red, visible only when he moved, and it made him look like what he had always been at heart, a man with fire banked beneath control. His hair had been pushed back too many times already, silver-gold disordered at the front. Exhaustion had deepened the violet of his eyes until they looked almost bruised.

Then he saw Maelor.

Everything in him rearranged.

The boardroom vanished from his face. The directors, the votes, the transition, Daeron’s absence, Maekar’s pressure, all of it dropped back the second his attention landed where it mattered.

He was in front of you in a heartbeat, too close, too fast, one hand going first to Maelor’s cheek, then to the back of his head with a tenderness that never failed to catch you off guard because of how complete it was. Not performative. Not careful for witnesses. Just real.

“What happened, little dragon?”

Maelor blinked at him. “I fell.”

Aerion’s gaze swept the bandage, the faint puffiness around his eyes, the dried traces of crying you had not quite managed to wipe away. His jaw tightened. The line appeared between his brows exactly where Maelor had predicted. But his hand stayed gentle, thumb brushing once, carefully, below the bandage.

“I can see that.”

“He was checked by the nurse,” you said quietly. “No dizziness, no nausea, no confusion. He mostly scared himself.”

Aerion looked at you then.

That was the dangerous part.

Not the temper. Not the name. Not even the history.

The way he looked at people he loved.

There was nothing casual in it. No half-measures. No polite distance. Aerion had once been a man who burned through things out of boredom, arrogance, and sheer appetite. Now, when he cared, he did it with terrifying focus. Enough to make a person feel pinned where they stood. Enough to make the room around you both feel briefly irrelevant.

His hand stayed cupped at the back of Maelor’s head.

The other slid around your waist, low and sure, like it had every right to be there and had long since stopped asking permission.

“Thank you,” he said, and the words came out rougher than they should have, quiet enough that they felt like something meant only for you.

It would have been easy, in that moment, to forget the room behind him entirely.

Easy, if Maekar had not risen.

He stepped into view at the far end of the table, broad and severe and unmistakably built from some older, harsher world. Thick through the chest and shoulders, beard cut square, hair silver touched with gold, pox scars faint on his cheeks, he carried himself with the dense, immovable force of a man who had never needed charm because he had always had authority instead. Even in a modern suit he looked like he ought to have been wrapped in black velvet and dragon teeth, one hand on the haft of a mace.

His gaze went first to Maelor.

Something in it softened.

Not enough for anyone outside the family to catch. But you saw it. Aerion saw it. Ellyn certainly saw it.

Maekar loved his grandson in the manner of hard men who had never learned softness and considered that a private failing, not a public one. He did not coo over them. He did not fuss. But rooms shifted for them. Schedules bent. Tempers were reined in. The world, where possible, was made safer.

Then his gaze moved to you.

He did not smile. He probably had not smiled properly in twenty years.

But the look he gave you was not neutral either.

It was that same stern, grudging approval he had never spoken aloud but never really hidden from you, either. The look of a man who thought you were good for his son, knew it, and resented his own inability to say so in a way that did not sound like an operational briefing.

If Maekar had been made with gentler language, he would have said that you steadied Aerion in ways the rest of them could not. That you had never asked anything from the family but had somehow become essential to it. That you made his son less reckless, his grandson happier, and the building itself calmer when you walked through it.

Instead, he said, “I assume the tower can survive ten minutes without you.”

Aerion did not look away from you. “It will have to.”

Maekar’s gaze dropped once to the bandage, then back to you. “Take him into the office.”

It was not really about the child.

It was Maekar’s way of saying go, of making space for Aerion without dressing it up as kindness, of choosing you both openly enough that anyone in the room with half a brain would understand.

Then Maelor, because children were born to betray the adults who loved them most, tucked his face against your shoulder and said, “They called her your wife again.”

The silence that followed was glorious.

The new assistant at the back of the room looked like she might pass out.

Ellyn’s eyes lowered at once to hide her amusement.

Something flickered at the corner of Aerion’s mouth.

He looked at his son first, then at you, and some tiny fraction of the strain left his face.

“There’s my honest boy,” he murmured.

Maelor blinked up at him. “I didn’t tell them no.”

That got you. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Aerion heard it, and the look he gave you after was enough to make your pulse stumble.

Then, still holding your waist like letting go would be an error in judgment, he said quietly, “Come upstairs with me.”

Not a request.

Not really an order either.

Just the truth in its most controlled form.

You went.

His office was dim compared to the corridor beyond, all dark wood, low lamps, and glass running from floor to ceiling behind the desk. The skyline looked cold through the windows, the city blurred silver and slate beneath the weather. Maelor was settled onto the long sofa with juice, crackers, and one of the wooden puzzles Ellyn kept in a cabinet for emergencies that were never officially called emergencies.

By the time the door shut behind you, the hush in the room felt different from the hush outside.

Aerion took his jacket off and dropped it over the back of a chair. He crouched in front of Maelor first, checked the bandage himself, pressed a kiss just beside it, brushed the hair back from his forehead, and asked the same questions the nurse had already asked because he needed the answers from his son’s mouth, not anybody else’s.

Only when he seemed satisfied did he stand.

He dragged one hand over his face, exhaled, and turned toward you.

You leaned a hip against the edge of his desk, watching him. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The city glowed beyond the glass. Maelor rustled softly on the sofa behind you.

Then you said, “They called me your wife, Aerion. What is that?”

His head lifted slowly.

For one suspended beat he only looked at you.

Then he crossed the room.

He stopped close enough that your knees nearly brushed his, one hand coming to your waist again, the other braced beside you on the desk. The position turned the question into something hotter than you had intended, though perhaps not hotter than you had feared.

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and then rose again.

“The first sensible thing anyone’s said to me all day,” he said softly.

That would have been enough.

It was not all he did.

His thumb moved once against your waist, slow and deliberate, and then he leaned in just enough for his forehead to touch yours for the barest moment, like a confession he had no intention of offering anyone else.

Behind you, Maelor gave a sleepy little sigh from the sofa.

Aerion did not look away from you.

“Stay close,” he murmured. “I’ve had enough of everybody else deciding what matters today.”

Because there he was, a man with half a branch of the family settling onto his shoulders, a boardroom full of directors waiting, Maekar watching, Daeron gone, Brightflame shifting, the whole goddamn tower braced for him to become something harder, and still he was standing there with his hand at your waist like the only thing in the room he trusted not to fail him was you.