enthusiast of hot older men

The castle has never been quiet on your name day.

From the moment the sun rises over Blackwater Bay the Red Keep hums with the kind of life that belongs only to celebrations.

Servants weave through its corridors, balancing polished silver and bolts of embroidered silk, cooks bark orders from kitchens already thick with the scent of roasting meats and sweet pastries, and somewhere below your window a quartet of musicians have spent the better part of an hour arguing over the same melody.

The sound drifts through the open casement in uneven bursts, carried on the warm summer breeze before it dissolves into the cries of gulls circling the harbour.

It is all for you.

Eighteen.

The number sits strangely in your mind. Lords who once ruffled your hair now bow a fraction lower. Ladies who used to coo at you now ask after your gowns and favourite jewels. Every smile feels just a little too measured, every compliment just a little too deliberate.

But you don't care, because all you're thinking about is Jacaerys.

And he is late.

Well, not truly. The sun has scarcely reached its highest point and no one expected him before midday, but that does little to quiet the restless anticipation thrumming beneath your skin.

It has been nearly two years.

At first the months passed quickly enough. Letters arrived regularly, each bearing your eldest brother's unmistakably careful hand, filled with dutiful accounts of the Riverlands, the Vale, or White Harbour. Tucked inside each letter had been some little trinket that reminded him of you; polished amber gathered along the eastern coast, a tiny wolf carved from pale weirwood by a Northern craftsman, a silver hairpin so delicately wrought that you had been terrified of wearing it the first time.

The gifts had never mattered.

You would have traded every last one simply to hear him laugh across the training yard again.

"Still waiting?"

The familiar voice draws your attention from the road.

Your mother stands a few paces behind you, sunlight catching in the silver-gold of her hair until it almost seems to glow. "I am merely enjoying the view," you reply, with all the dignity you can manage.

Rhaenyra arches a brow. "The view of the Kingsroad?"

"It is a very fine road."

She laughs then, the sound soft and knowing. "You have been watching that very fine road since dawn."

You sigh dramatically, resting your chin upon folded arms. "He promised."

"And Jacaerys has never broken a promise to you."

"No," you admit, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "He has not."

Then, finally, a horn sounds somewhere below.

The guards upon the gatehouse shift, peering out across the road before one suddenly straightens.

"Dragon!"

Every head upon the walls turns skyward.

Your heart leaps into your throat before your eyes have even found him.

Vermax appears, cutting through brilliant blue with powerful, measured strokes of emerald wings. Sunlight catches across his scales, throwing flashes of bronze and green over the city below as he wheels above the Red Keep. He is larger than you remember.

So is the rider upon his back.

"Gods be good," Rhaenyra murmurs behind you, though there is laughter in her voice already. You are halfway down the nearest staircase before she can finish the sentence.

The courtyard erupts into motion as Vermax settles with a thunderous beat of wings, servants scattering instinctively while guards struggle to look composed in the face of a dragon. Dust billows across the flagstones, catching in your skirts as you weave between startled courtiers, heedless of the calls following after you.

Jace has barely swung one leg over the saddle when he hears his name, he turns just in time to see a blur of deep crimson silk racing across the courtyard.

You collide with him hard enough to force him back a step.

The laugh leaves him before he can stop it.

Strong hands find your waist out of pure instinct, lifting you clean from the ground as though no time has passed at all, as though you are still the little girl forever launching yourself at him from staircases and behind pillars in hopes of catching him unaware.

Your feet dangle a good foot above the flagstones, your arms looped comfortably around his shoulders.

"You'll knock me over one day," he says, laughter still colouring every word.

Up close he looks older. The softness that once lingered around his face has sharpened into something unmistakably princely, the line of his jaw more defined beneath the dust of travel, his hair longer than before where the sea wind has escaped the leather tie at the nape of his neck.

He lowers you carefully back onto your feet.

Both hands rise to cradle your face with easy affection, his thumbs brushing absent-mindedly against your cheeks.

His expression softens. "You've grown."

"So have you."

A quiet laugh escapes him.

"I should hope so."

Before you can answer, he bends to press a familiar kiss against your forehead. You simply grin and lean briefly into the touch before stepping back, and he slings an arm around your shoulders, leading you back inside.

Neither of you notices Prince Daemon watching from the gallery above, and neither of you notices the faintest curve beginning at the corner of his mouth.

By the time the sun has slipped beneath the horizon the Great Hall glows beneath a hundred candles.

Music spills from the gallery above in soft, lilting melodies. Gold catches in polished plates, jewelled collars and the circlets worn by lords who have travelled from every corner of the realm to honour the queen's youngest daughter.

Jace has attended more feasts than he can remember.

They have blurred together over the years into a procession of banners and vows, polite smiles and carefully chosen words, each hall distinguished only by the sigil hanging above the high table.

Tonight should be no different.

Instead, he finds himself searching for you before he has even crossed the threshold.

You stand near the queen's chair while one of the ladies fusses with the sleeve of your gown, silver thread shimmering against deep burgundy velvet. Your hair has been left half unbound, pale waves falling over your shoulders in the old Valyrian fashion, catching the candlelight each time you laugh at something Baela says beside you.

You have always laughed with your whole face. That, at least, has not changed.

The feast begins in earnest soon after.

Your mother rises to speak, her words carrying easily across the hall as she welcomes those who have come to celebrate your name day. You sit at her right hand, smiling with the restrained grace expected of a princess, though every now and then your attention wanders, your eyes finding Jace somewhere further down the table.

Each time they do, you smile exactly as you always have.

Lord Rowan's youngest son cannot be much older than five-and-twenty.

Jace remembers meeting him briefly in the Reach; a courteous enough man with an easy smile and an unfortunate tendency to speak longer than necessary. Now he watches as the knight bows over your hand with every appearance of propriety, offering some finely wrapped gift that earns a laugh from you.

You thank him warmly.

The young lord moves away eventually, replaced almost immediately by another.

Then another.

A Lannister cousin. The heir to a minor Crownlands house. A knight from Driftmark whose name escapes him entirely.

Each offers congratulations and smiles, looking at you with unmistakable admiration. It is perfectly reasonable, you are a princess. after all, one who has just turned eighteen.

You are also beautiful, a treacherous corner of Jace's mind supplies.

"They are circling already." Rhaena speaks softly across the table, amusement dancing in her eyes as she follows his line of sight.

Jace frowns. "What do you mean?"

"The suitors." He says nothing. "The realm has been waiting for this birthday almost as eagerly as she has."

In that moment, Jace understands has been absent too long, and the little girl forever racing after him through the corridors of Dragonstone no longer exists outside his memory.

The woman seated at the queen's right hand does.

Some distant part of him, the dutiful prince who has spent years weighing every decision against the good of the realm, should perhaps be appalled by what has just taken root in his mind.

Instead, he is struck only by how little it surprises him.

'If a husband is to stand beside you one day... why should it be anyone but me?'

The feast dwindles by degrees.

One by one the visiting lords excuse themselves. The Great Hall grows quieter with every passing hour until only family and the queen's closest councillors remain, lingering more from habit than obligation.

Jace has scarcely taken three steps beyond the hall when Ser Lorent inclines his head.

"The Queen requests your presence, my prince."

The solar is warm despite the hour, lit by a scattering of candles that throw long shadows across maps and parchment left strewn over the great table. His mother stands beside the open window overlooking the bay, one hand resting against the carved stone.

Daemon lounges opposite her with infuriating ease, a goblet balanced loosely between his fingers.

Neither appears surprised to see him.

"You wished to see me?"

"I did." She gestures for him to come closer. "We were discussing your sister."

"Has something happened?"

"No," Daemon answers before Rhaenyra can speak. "Nothing has happened."

"Yet," Rhaenyra mutters.

Daemon ignores her. "Your sister is eighteen."

"I am aware."

"A great many others are as well."

Jace says nothing.

"The feast made that abundantly clear. It also made clear it is time we considered suitable matches."

Jace nods once. Rhaenyra watches him closely. "So," she says gently, "what would you advise?"

"My advice?"

"You have travelled more of the realm than either of us these past years. You know its young heirs better than most."

Jace considers it carefully, because that is what is expected of him, because he has spent his whole life learning how to answer as the heir before he ever remembers how to answer as himself.

"There are worthy men," he finally scrapes out. Rhaenyra gives a small nod as though she had expected nothing less.

Jace continues, "The son of House Rowan conducted himself well in the Reach. The Redwynes would strengthen our position in the south. The Celtigars remain loyal."

At that, Daemon exhales through his nose with open disdain, swirling the wine lazily around his cup.

“Boring.”

Jace turns to him, frowning. “Excuse me?”

“You are answering as the heir,” Daemon says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “I am asking the man.”

He looks between his mother and Daemon, trying to decide whether he has missed some crucial piece of context, and finds only that strange, infuriating look on Daemon’s face.

“What exactly are you asking me?” Jace says at last.

Daemon studies him for a long moment. "Which of those boys would you choose for her?"

Jace exhales quietly. "I could not say."

"You have met most of them."

"I know them as lords."

Daemon leans back. "But not well enough to know which one deserves to share her bed."

The words strike the room like a thrown dagger. Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a brief, pained moment, as though she can already feel the shape of the disaster coming and would very much like to stop it before it begins.

“Daemon...”

“What?” he asks mildly, with all the innocence of a man who has never once been innocent in his life. “The point of a political match is to produce heirs, and that is generally how marriages produce heirs.”

Jace says nothing.

Daemon watches him for another long moment, “I do not believe you could bear it,” he says at last.

The silence deepens.

“I beg your pardon?” Jace manages, barely.

“I do not believe,” Daemon repeats, his voice calm and level, “that you could bear another man laying hands upon her.”

Rhaenyra straightens at once. “Daemon.”

“I do not believe you could bear another man kissing her.”

“Enough.”

“I do not believe you could bear watching her swell with another man’s children.”

Jace feels the blood drain from his face, every muscle in him going rigid as if he has been struck.

“And I certainly do not believe,” he continues, his tone infuriatingly calm, “that you could stomach another man teaching her what it is to be loved.”

“Daemon.”

Rhaenyra’s voice is sharper now, edged with warning, but the prince merely lifts one hand in a gesture that is almost dismissive, never once taking his eyes from Jace.

“Am I wrong?”

Jace opens his mouth but nothing comes. Because the horror of it is not that Daemon has imagined such things, it is that Jace has.

Daemon’s mouth curves, just slightly.

“I...” Jace begins, and then abandons the sentence entirely, because there is no sentence that can save him now.

“You love her.”

It is not a question.

“You are so thoroughly, catastrophically in love with her that you have spent an entire evening glaring at boys who merely smiled in her general direction.”

Finally Rhaenyra rounds on him. “You cannot simply accuse our son of being in love with his sister.”

Jace would gladly vanish into the stone floor if the gods would be so merciful. Instead he stands rooted where he is while the two most formidable people in the realm discuss him as though he were not present.

“He is miserable,” Daemon says, finally turning his head to look at her. “Because half the realm has suddenly decided my daughter is fit to wed.”

Rhaenyra folds her arms more tightly. “And that does not concern you?”

“Of course it concerns me, hence why we are having this conversation.”

She stares at him in open disbelief. “You cannot seriously believe this is the best solution.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow. “Find me a better man.”

“The point is not whether he is a good man.”

“No?”

He waits. She opens her mouth, clearly intending to explain, and then stops, because whatever argument she had prepared has already begun to collapse under the weight of its own hypocrisy.

“You married your uncle.”

Rhaenyra points a finger at him. “That is entirely beside the point.”

Jace, who has thus far wished for nothing more than escape, finally exhales, very quietly, and when both of them turn to him he feels the full weight of their attention settle over him.

“With respect, Mother...” he says, and both of them look at him with identical expressions of wary expectation. He swallows, then presses on before he can lose his nerve. “...he does have you there.”

Rhaenyra blinks. “You are taking his side?”

“I am merely observing...” The faintest smile threatens despite himself, because if he does not laugh he may very well scream. “...that you did, in fact, marry your uncle.”

The silence that follows is brief, but heavy in a way that feels almost ceremonial, as though something unseen has just shifted its weight in the room and no one is yet willing to acknowledge it.

Rhaenyra is the first to recover.

“This is not something decided in a solar with three people and a bottle of wine.”

Jace shifts slightly where he stands, still trying to understand how he has become the subject of something that feels suspiciously like a verdict. “Mother,” he begins cautiously, “if this is about-”

“It is about nothing yet,” Rhaenyra cuts in quickly, sharper than intended, then exhales and forces her tone back down. “It is about considering what is best for her future.”

Daemon makes a quiet sound of amusement, leaning back in his chair as if the entire matter has already concluded and he is simply waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

“Then consider it done. I am her father and I have found a match for her.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze snaps to him. “Excuse me?”

“You asked for a good man,” Daemon says, as though repeating something painfully obvious.

“You cannot simply decide this,” Rhaenyra says, though even she sounds less certain than before.

“I can,” Daemon replies. “And I have.”

A beat.

Then, almost lazily, he adds, “Unless you intend to send her to some Reachling with soft hands and softer loyalties.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardens. “Do not reduce this to-”

“To what?” Daemon interrupts, finally straightening in his chair. The amusement in him sharpens now, not into anger, but something more focused. “Politics? That is what you are trying to do. I am simply being honest about it. She is our daughter, Rhaenyra.”

Silence again.

He walks a few steps toward the window, looking out over the Blackwater as if the conversation has already moved past him.

“She stays within the family,” he says casually, almost conversationally, as though discussing ship routes. “She stays where she is known. Where she is protected. Where she is not bartered to men who would mistake her for an opportunity.”

Jace clears his throat once.

“If I may-”

“No,” both of them say at once.

He stops.

Daemon turns slightly, looking at him now with something like faint approval.

“You will marry her,” he says simply.

Jace looks at him with wide eyes, “Are you being serious?”

Rhaenyra closes her eyes again, slower this time, as though bracing for impact.

“I refuse to send my daughter away,” Daemon states. His gaze shifts briefly to Jace, sharp and unblinking.

The room goes still.

Jace should object. He should say something about choice, about propriety, about the absurdity of making such decisions in this manner.

“She does not even know we are having this conversation.”

Daemon’s smile returns, slow and infuriatingly certain.

“No,” he agrees. “She does not. And you will tell her, Jacaerys. Better you than either of us."

“And if she refuses?”

“She won't.”

Vermax takes to the sky just after dawn, when the castle is still half-swallowed in morning mist and the water below reflects a pale gold.

The world feels quieter from above, stretched thin and distant, as though all the noise of court and council has been left behind somewhere on the stone below.

You do not question it when Jace comes for you. You never have.

He arrives without ceremony in the inner courtyard where the dragonkeepers have already prepared Vermax for flight.

“You want to go flying?” He asks simply, as if it is an ordinary thing to offer a princess on the morning after her name day feast.

Your smile comes easily. “I always want to go flying.”

That earns the faintest curve of his mouth. He helps you mount with practised ease, hands steady at your waist as you swing your leg over Vermax’s neck.

Then he climbs up behind you.

The moment he settles into place, the world shifts; you can't help but be aware of the warmth at your back, the solid presence of him there, closer than anyone else has ever been permitted to be in this way. One arm reaches around you instinctively to secure the reins while the other steadies you at your side, palm firm against your ribs.

“You are sitting differently,” you note, turning your head slightly to glance at him.

His expression is unreadable for a moment, then softens. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Here, there is nothing between you but wind and sky and the steady rise and fall of Vermax’s wings beneath you.

He gives the command, and Vermax launches forward.

The world slowly drops away.

Wind tears at your hair, pulling laughter from your chest without permission, and you lean instinctively into Jace’s grip as Vermax climbs higher, circling the coast before cutting out over open water.

His arm tightens around you without hesitation.

Somewhere behind you, you feel rather than see him adjust his hold, pulling you slightly closer against him as the wind sharpens at altitude. It is automatic, the same instinct that has always placed him between you and anything that might hurt you.

You tilt your head back slightly, just enough to speak over the rush of air. “I like it when you come home,” you admit, without thinking much of it. “Everything feels louder when you are not here.”

You do not see the way his eyes linger on you again. The way they soften in a manner that has nothing to do with duty.

You are laughing at something Vermax does mid-turn when he speaks.

“I am not leaving again.”

The words take a moment to settle. You glance over your shoulder slightly, confused. “What do you mean?”

There is a pause so brief you almost miss it. “They have decided something.”

That makes you laugh lightly. “Have they?”

“Yes.” The tone is careful now, though still steady.

You frown slightly. “What sort of something?” The wind howls.

“You are to be married.”

For a moment, there is only the feel of him behind you, the steady beat of Vermax’s wings, and the distant horizon that suddenly feels much further away than it did a moment ago.

You blink. “...What do you mean?”

“It has been agreed,” he says more softly. “Between our mother and Daemon.”

Your grip on the reins tightens slightly, though Vermax does not react. “Oh,” you say slowly, as if testing the shape of the word. “That is… sudden.”

“It is.”

You turn your head further now, trying to see his face properly, though the angle is awkward with the wind pulling at you. “And who-”

You stop. Because when his jaw tightens you realise you already know.

“Jace,” you say carefully. He doesn't answer, just stares ahead. "Jace. Are we to be married?"

"...Yes."

You turn fully now as much as the space allows, looking at him properly for the first time.

“You are very composed about this,” you say, attempting levity and failing to find it entirely.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I had some time to think.”

The wind pulls at you again, but he shifts without thinking, bringing you closer still until there is barely any space between you at all. You are suddenly acutely aware of it; of the way his arm anchors you, of the warmth at your back, of the steady, unyielding presence of him in a place where there is nothing else to hold onto.

You swallow. “And what do you think?” you ask.

He finally looks at you. “That I would not allow anyone else to do this,” he says quietly.

Something in your chest tightens. “Do what?”

“I would never allow anyone else to stand where I stand.”

Vermax banks sharply beneath you; it sends you forward, straight into him. His arm tightens instantly, catching you before you can even think to steady yourself, and for a moment you are completely held there against him, suspended between sky and breath.

You search his face for something. Uncertainty? Jest? Anything that might soften what he has just said into something easier to carry. You find none.

Your hand rises without thinking, resting lightly against the side of his face. His breath catches, not sharply, but enough.

“Jace,” you say, and his name feels different in your mouth now. He does not answer.

For a heartbeat, there is nothing but the rush of wind and the distant cry of the sea far below.

Then he is kissing you.

Not like something uncertain or newly discovered, but like something that has finally been allowed to exist.

His hand tightens at your waist, suddenly far too close in a way neither of you can undo.

You make a small sound against his mouth, half surprise, half something you don’t yet have a name for, and it seems to undo whatever careful restraint he has been holding onto.

The arm around you shifts, pulling you back against him with a controlled urgency that sends your breath catching, your fingers instinctively curling into the front of his riding leathers as if that alone can keep you anchored.

Vermax turns beneath you and the world tilts, but Jace does not let you fall.

When you finally break just enough to breathe, it is only by a fraction, your forehead still close to his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air.

You look at him then, properly, and something in your expression seems to undo him more than the kiss itself ever could.

“This is…” you start, but the words fail you.

His thumb brushes lightly against your side where he still holds you.

“I know,” he says quietly.

The wind tears past again, colder now against your flushed skin, and you should pull away, should think, should question, should make sense of any of this.

You don't.

Instead he leans in again, lips claiming yours with a hunger that has been building since the moment he returned days ago. His mouth hot and insistent against your own.

The kiss deepens instantly, his tongue slides against the seam of your lips before you part them, letting him set the pace, and the one sets is perfect, a desperate rhythm that sends sparks racing through you.

Your fingers tangle in his dark curls, pulling him closer as his hands roam your body with possessive certainty, one sliding up to cup your breast through the thin fabric of your riding leathers while the other grips your hip, anchoring you against him on Vermax's broad back.

The dragon soars higher, the sea a glittering expanse far below, but all you can feel is the hard press of Jace's body.

You moan into the kiss, the sound swallowed by the rushing air and the steady beat of wings, as Jace shifts you effortlessly onto his lap, your legs straddling his.

His tongue delves deeper, exploring every inch of your mouth with an intensity that makes warmth gather in your belly, wetness already soaking your undergarments.

"You know," he breathes against your lips, his voice rough, "you're mine now. Always have been."

You let him move you as he pleases, but soon you can feel the way his cock strains against his breeches, thick and insistent against your thigh.

"Are you alright?"

You can only nod shakily, letting your head find the hollow of his shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Jace."

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers deftly undoing laces to find your slick folds, stroking you slow and gathering your wetness on his fingers.

Then he reaches to free himself, hot and heavy as you wrap your fingers around him. He covers your hand with his own, guiding your hand to stroke him slowly.

"We should probably stop." he grits out.

You whine in response, "No, Jace please. I don't want to stop."

Jace lifts you higher, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"You tell me if that changes, okay."

"Yes."

"Promise me." He tilts your head towards him, holding your eyes with his own.

"I promise." With that he thrusts upward in one smooth motion, burying himself deep inside you with a groan that vibrates through his chest into yours.

The fullness stretches you perfectly, every ridge and vein of him dragging against your inner walls as he begins to move.

"Gods you're tight." He grunts, his hands gripping to guide your hips in a grinding rhythm that matches the dragon's powerful wingbeats.

Pleasure coils tight in your core, building with each thrust, the wind caressing your exposed skin where leathers have been shoved aside, breasts pressed to his chest, nipples hard from the chill and his touch.

His mouth finds yours again, the kiss messy and passionate, tongues tangling as he fucks into you over and over.

You can feel it — his claim, his love, his protection — in every thrust.

He feels you start to tighten around him, one hand fisting your hair to make you look at him. His eyes are wild, hair messed by wind and jaw clenched to tight its a wonder its not cracked.

"Not yet my love. Hold on for me."

"I cannot, Jace." You gasp, hand flying to his shoulder in desperation.

"Yes, you can." He coos, pulling your face up to meet his in another kiss, this one softer, coaxing you to match him as his thrusts grew harsher, rougher.

Only then does his hand move from your hair, snaking down to find where your bodies are joined. He rubs tight, deliberate circles that have you arching into him.

"Jace, please, it's too much."

"Okay, you can come now."

You do, raw ecstasy filling your body as you shatter around him, crying out his name into the endless sky.

Your eyes shut, body going completely slack against his for the trembling that claims you. Your legs are shaking where they're slotted around his hips.

"Good girl, just like that. Let me take care of you." He says as his thrusts get harder, his hands now assisting to pull you down to meet them.

Then, his pace grows erratic, and you can feel his breathing is more laboured as it hits your temple.

With one final thrust he goes rigid, following you over the edge, pulsing hot and deep within you. His arms wrap around you, the world reduced to the two of you and the endless blue above the waves.

Jace is the first to move.

It is small at first, almost hesitant, as if he is afraid that shifting even slightly might undo something irreparable.

His hand, which had been steady at your waist only moments ago, loosens just enough for him to adjust you more carefully against him, pulling off his cloak and draping it around your shoulders with a gentleness that feels entirely at odds with the fact that you are both still several thousand feet and he's still inside you.

“You’re cold,” he says, though it sounds more like something he needs to believe than something he has observed.

“I’m fine,” you reply automatically.

He doesn’t look reassured.

Instead, he shifts again, this time lifting you off him with a hiss and placing you in front of him on the saddle again.

“You didn’t have to-” he starts.

You tilt your head slightly. “Have to what?”

The words seem to catch somewhere behind his teeth, like everything he might say is either too much or not enough.

“Do that,” he settles on finally, quieter now. “Like that.”

You blink at him, trying to follow. “Jace.”

His jaw tightens slightly at the sound of his name, but he doesn’t look away.

“It should not have been like that,” he says, and there is something carefully restrained in his voice now, something that feels like it has been pushed down hard. “Your first time should have been-” He exhales through his nose, frustrated with himself more than anything else. “Well, for starters, not in the sky.”

For a moment, you just stare at him. “You think I am going to complain because it was in the sky?”

“I am serious,” he says.

“I know you are,” you reply, smiling faintly. “That’s the problem.”

He blinks once.

You shift slightly in his arms so you can see his face more clearly, even as Vermax continues his smooth, unbothered flight beneath you both.

“I do not need it to be… whatever you are imagining it should have been,” you continue, voice softening now, grounding into something steadier. “I did not think about it being in a bed or a room or anywhere else."

"You must've had some fantasy, something you hoped for or wanted from it." He presses, seemingly not content with your reassurance.

"Jacaerys, I wanted it to be you.”

That quiets him completely.

“That is not-” he starts. “It is,” you interrupt gently.

A pause.

Then, quieter, almost teasing now that you have his full attention again, “Besides, I think I will remember this more than if it had been in a bed.”

Something like a reluctant sound leaves him, half laugh and half exhale, and the tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.

“You are certain?” he asks after a moment.

"Of course."

IYou lean back into him properly, letting the wind rush past as Vermax carries you both forward, the world still impossibly wide beneath you and forever changed.

A month after the Gullet, the castle still smells faintly of medicines, as though the sea itself has followed Jacaerys home and settled in the stone with him.

You have grown so accustomed to it that you hardly notice anymore.

A month ago, you would have given anything to smell it. A month ago, there had been blood. So much blood. But now there are only maesters, all the time.

Three of them stand gathered around the table right now near the window, speaking in low, serious voices while Jace sits in a carved chair looking increasingly irritated with every minute.

Sunlight spills through the narrow panes behind him, catching in his dark curls and turning the edges of them gold, softening him in a way that makes him seem almost boyish despite everything he has endured in the last couple weeks.

His injuries have faded from terrifying to merely alarming. The worst of the bruising is gone, the cuts have begun to heal, and colour has returned to his face, though not yet enough for you to relax.

Unfortunately for everyone else, so has his stubbornness.

You stand beside him with one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, partly affection but mostly precaution if you're being honest with yourself, because the prince has developed an unfortunate habit of forgetting that nearly dying is supposed to slow a person down.

"Your Grace is recovering admirably," Grand Maester Gerardys says at last.

Jace straightens immediately, as if the words themselves have restored him. Gerardys clears his throat with the patient air of a man who has spent his life delivering unwelcome truths to the powerful. "Recovering admirably, however, does not mean recovered."

Jace slumps back with all the theatrical suffering of a man condemned to the Wall. Gerardys continues as though he has not noticed the prince's offence.

"Your ribs are still mending. The wound to your side has not fully healed. The fever has passed, but weakness remains. Any unnecessary strain could set back his recovery considerably."

Jace folds his arms. "What strain?"

The three maesters exchange a glance, and you immediately become suspicious. Jace notices it too, his brows drawing together. "What strain?" he repeats, sharper this time.

Nobody answers.

The silence stretches, and stretches, and then stretches a little further, until finally the old maester clears his throat again, looking faintly pained. "This includes physical exertion."

Jace nods at once. "Yes, I gathered that, obviously."

"Excessive physical exertion."

"Yes."

"Particularly..." Gerardys pauses, and one of the younger maesters suddenly finds the floor fascinating. "...marital exertion."

The room falls completely silent.

For a single moment Jace simply stares at them. Then his face changes all at once, horror and outrage arriving together.

"I beg your pardon?"

You turn away quickly because you can already feel laughter rising in your throat and you know if you let it out now you will never stop. Beside you, Jace looks scandalised beyond measure. "What do you mean?"

"My Prince-"

"No." The word echoes off the stone walls. "Absolutely not. This is absurd and I refuse to accept it."

Gerardys remains maddeningly calm. "It is only temporary."

"Temporary?" Jace sounds personally betrayed. "You are forbidding me from bedding my own wife."

The younger maester goes slightly red. You stare very intently at the tapestry across the room, because if you look at Jace now you will lose whatever dignity you have left. He points an accusing finger at the entire collection of healers. "I survived a naval battle."

"Indeed."

"I was shot."

"Yes."

"I nearly drowned."

"Correct."

"And your conclusion is that my greatest threat is my wife?"

The maesters look vaguely embarrassed. Jace looks outraged. And suddenly, despite the lingering ache that still lives in your chest whenever you remember the sight of him bleeding on a bed, you feel lighter, because this is familiar. This is your Jace. He's alive enough to argue and complain. Alive enough to glare dramatically at innocent old men and be stubborn.

Your hand slips from the chair to his shoulder, and immediately he covers it with his own. Gerardys notices, and his expression gentles. "My Prince," he says, "the restriction is not punishment."

Jace groans. "I would beg to differ."

A few of the maesters smile despite themselves. Gerardys gathers his papers, "It is only another month."

Jace nearly chokes. "A whole month?"

"Perhaps less, if recovery continues."

"A month."

"You survived the Gullet. Surely you can survive a few more weeks."

Jace mutters something deeply disrespectful under his breath, and you squeeze his shoulder in warning and affection both. His fingers immediately tighten around yours as he looks up at you, exhaustion and frustration playing on his features.

You smile at him, and his expression softens immediately.

Then Gerardys speaks again, and the spell breaks at once. "And separate beds may also be advisable."

Jace's head snaps around, "No."

Silence settles over the chamber. Jace's hand remains wrapped around yours, firm and warm and immovable. "I nearly died, so I am not sleeping without my wife."

They exchange glances and then, wisely, surrender. "Very well."

You lower your head to hide your smile, because truly, there are battles even the maesters cannot win.

That evening the matter should have been settled, at least in theory.

The maesters had spoken, their instructions delivered and their warnings had been repeated no fewer than six times over supper, as though saying them often enough might somehow make Jace more inclined to obey.

Instead, he is attempting to negotiate, which is perhaps exactly what you should have expected from him and yet still feels faintly absurd when he is sitting there shirtless on the edge of the bed, looking incredibly offended by the very concept of restraint.

You sit beside him with a fresh roll of linen in your lap while he holds one arm lifted so you can reach the wound along his side.

The chamber is quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the distant, steady sound of waves striking the cliffs below; night has fully settled beyond the windows, leaving only darkness on the other side of the glass and the warm gold of candlelight within.

Carefully, you peel away the old bandage, and he hisses through his teeth at the movement. You glance up at once. “You are being dramatic.”

"Three arrows pierced my body.”

“A month ago.”

“It still counts.”

You make a skeptical sound and reach for the ointment, though you cannot quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. For a few moments silence settles between you. You smooth the salve across healing skin, studying the angry scar that is beginning to form there, the sight still makes something twist painfully in your chest.

There are moments when you look at him and see only Jace; your husband, your best friend, the boy who once raced you through castle corridors and stole lemon cakes from the kitchens with the shameless confidence of someone who had never once been told no in his life.

Then there are moments like this, when memory comes back all at once and with it the blood, the fever, the endless waiting, the terrible certainty, however brief, that you might lose him. Your fingers pause before you can stop them.

Immediately, his hand settles over yours.

He notices. Of course he does.

You lift your eyes, and his expression softens at once. “I am all right,” he says quietly.

“Mm.”

His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.

Then, because Jacaerys Velaryon possesses the survival instincts of an overconfident golden retriever, he says, “I still think the maesters are being unreasonable.”

You close your eyes for a brief, weary moment. You had been wondering how long it would take.

“You are recovering from grievous injuries.”

“I am recovering exceptionally well.”

“You still tire walking up stairs.”

“Well, I dislike those stairs.”

You begin wrapping the fresh bandage around his ribs. “They are not unusual stairs, Jace.”

"They are steeper than other stairs."

Despite yourself, you laugh, and his grin appears immediately. He tilts his head, thoughtful in the way that always makes you suspicious.

“What exactly constitutes marital exertion?”

You nearly drop the bandage. “Jacaerys.”

“It is a reasonable question.”

You finish tying the linen perhaps just a little tighter than necessary, and he winces. You feel no guilt whatsoever.

“They were quite vague,” he says after a moment.

“They were not vague. They were, in fact, extraordinarily clear.”

Jace considers this with the air of a man weighing evidence in a trial he has already decided to win. “Perhaps to you.”

“To everyone.”

“Not to me.” His smile widens, and you are suddenly struck by the realisation that the maesters should perhaps have prescribed confinement in separate castles.

“They said strain,” he says, as though he's continuing a perfectly sensible conversation.

“Yes.”

“And exertion.”

“Yes.”

“So theoretically-”

“No.”

“What if-”

“Jace.”

He stops, though only because he is laughing now, actually laughing, and the sound fills the room so easily that for a moment you forget everything else.

“You are impossible,” you inform him.

“I have been told.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. His fingers close around yours with a warmth that feels almost unbearably familiar, and when he speaks again his voice has lost its teasing edge. “Another month is a very long time.”

You shake your head, smiling softly, but before he can begin constructing another ridiculous argument, you lean forward and press a kiss to his mouth.

The effect is immediate. Jace falls silent, blessedly, wonderfully silent, and when you pull back he blinks once, then twice, as though he has forgotten every thought he was having.

A second kiss lands at the corner of his mouth, then another against his cheek, and with each one his smile grows slower, softer, warmer, until by the third he has entirely abandoned his campaign against the maesters.

You feel rather proud of yourself.

He grins and reaches for you, and you allow him to pull you nearer. The blankets shift around you both as you settle beside him carefully, because he is still healing and you are both painfully aware of it.

His arm slides around your waist. Your head finds its familiar place against his shoulder.

The first week after the maesters' decree is irritating.

The second becomes ridiculous.

By the third, it's infuriating.

Jacaerys Velaryon approaches recovery the way he approaches every obstacle in his life: by refusing to accept that it is truly an obstacle at all.

If the maesters insist upon restrictions, then he will simply find exceptions.

One evening, as you sit beside him on the bed with your book open in your lap, he glances over and says, almost casually, “I stand by my opinion that their instructions were imprecise.”

You do not look up. “No.”

“They never actually provided definitions.”

You turn a page. “They are maesters, Jace, not scholars debating philosophy.”

He sighs, long-suffering and theatrical, and shifts a little closer.

Recently, he has become fond of finding excuses to sit beside you, or hold your hand, or drape an arm around your shoulders, or rest his head in your lap while insisting he is 'too weak' to move despite having spent the entire afternoon arguing in council.

“What if,” he begins. You close your eyes.

“What if,” he repeats, undeterred, “the concern is specifically overexertion?”

“It is.”

“Then surely the solution is simply avoiding overexertion.”

At last you lower the book and look at him properly. His expression brightens at once, as though he has won something merely by drawing your attention.

“Jace.”

“Yes?”

“No.”

He groans, and you return to your book.

Three nights later, he appears to have developed a new argument. You discover this when he is sprawled across the bed with his head resting against your shoulder, warm and comfortable and entirely too pleased with himself.

“What if,” he says thoughtfully.

You nearly laugh. “Again?”

“I have had several days to refine my position on the issue.”

“Gods preserve me.”

“What if I simply did not move very much? You could do all the... moving... uh, like difficult parts.”

You lower your embroidery hoop and glance down at him. He looks entirely sincere, which somehow makes it worse.

“Jacaerys.”

“I am not going to do any part because we are not going to do anything.”

He studies the ceiling for a moment, then turns his head just enough to look at you. “I think you are dismissing my proposals too quickly.”

“I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”

“I enjoy talking to you.”

Oh, you hate how good he is at being charming.

His arm slips around your waist. “You know,” he says quietly, “I do understand why you’re worried.”

The humour fades a little. You look at him, but his gaze remains fixed on your joined hands.

“You frightened me,” you admit.

Something flashes behind his eyes. “I know.”

Silence settles between you, gentle and sad and comfortable all at once. Then, because he is incapable of allowing a serious conversation to remain serious for too long, he lifts his head and says, “So that is still a no?”

You stare at him.

Jace immediately begins laughing, and when you throw a cushion at his face he catches it easily, looking delighted by the rejection.

Which, unfortunately, only convinces you that recovery is proceeding exceptionally well.

One morning at the beginning of the fourth week you're standing at the edge of the bedchamber, the salt-laced wind moaning through the open shutters as the last embers in the hearth crackle low.

Jacaerys is desperate today, even more than usual

He lies propped against the pillows, his bare chest rising and falling with quick, restless breaths, the angry red scars along his ribs and hip still mapped in fresh pink, but they are scars now, nonetheless.

It's been two months since the Gullet.

To the naked eye he seems fully recovered — he partakes in council meetings, goes on long walks with you along the shore, is no longer winded by those particularly steep stairs — but the maesters’ edict remains iron.

No strain, no exertion, no touch that might tear what they say has barely knit. Yet here he is, dark eyes fixed on you with shameless hunger, voice low and frayed.

“Please,” he murmurs, the words thick with frustration, his hand extended, palm up, fingers flexing as if he can already feel the shape of your waist.

“I cannot do this, I’m not some broken thing anymore. I feel you every night in my dreams, and then I wake up and you won't even let me touch you properly. I need your hand, your mouth, anything. Just… let me feel you again.”

He sits up a little straighter, a small grin finding his lips, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re aching too, I know it. Two months without feeling how wet you get for me-"

"Jacaerys, stop being so crude, you cannot possibly think-" but he continues, completely disregarding your objections.

"Gods, I’d give anything to see you under me like I used to, but I won’t move. I swear it. Just you, I'll even lie still.”

Your fingers tighten on the bedpost, because you cannot dent he's right. You do miss him, painfully so. You miss the feel of his hands on you and the stretch of him inside you, but reluctance still coils tight in your chest.

You take one hesitant step closer.

The cool stone floor beneath your bare feet gives way to the softness of the mattress as you perch carefully at his uninjured side, your fingers brushing the edge of the linen without yet touching him.

“Jacaerys,” you whisper, “I cannot, the maesters said-” But the way his hips twitch, just once, desperate and involuntary, stops the protest on your tongue.

A soft, helpless sound escapes him, and something shifts inside you, because this, in a way, is also him in pain, except this time you actually have the power to help him.

Your hand drifts over the sheet, hovering just above the bulge you can just start to see emerging beneath the linen.

“You must promise me you’ll lie perfectly still,” you remind him, the words gentle but unyielding, “There are reasons they forbid it; you could open one of the wounds.”

His dark eyes flash, jaw tightening as if he might argue, but apparently the months of forced stillness have left him too raw, too aching, and he nods once, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.

You smile then, small and maybe a little teasing, and let your fingertips graze the linen over the head of his cock.

Slowly you peel the sheet down, then work on the laces of his breeches before pulling them down and finally revealing him fully to the firelit air.

His cock thick and flushed dark, the vein along its length pulsing visibly as you wrap your fingers around the base with deliberate lightness, still not quite sure how this is going to go.

He groans, low and broken, head tipping back against the pillows, but he holds himself rigid as promised, muscles trembling with the effort.

You lean in, breath ghosting over the sensitive head, and press the softest kiss there, tasting the salt of him while your free hand rests lightly on his uninjured hip to remind him of the boundary.

“Only on my terms tonight, dearest husband,” you whisper against his skin, stroking him once, slow and torturous, savouring the way his breath hitches and his fingers clutch the bedding instead of reaching for you.

“I will give you this, you just lay there and let me take care you.”

You tighten your grip just enough to draw another shuddering groan from him, your thumb circling the slick head of his cock in slow, deliberate strokes that make his thighs tense against the sheets.

He’s so hard it must be painful, the heavy length twitching in your fist with every pass,

The sight of your big, strong husband, normally so commanding, now reduced to biting his lip to keep from thrusting stirs something warm and aching in your chest.

It feels like the biggest relief.

You still remember every moment of the last two months, watching him wince at every breath, lying awake beside his bandaged body while fear gnawed at you both, and now here he is, flushed and leaking for you, trying so hard to obey even as his hips give one tiny, involuntary roll.

It’s adorable, that stubborn flicker of dominance surfacing in the way he grits out your name, only for it to dissolve into a whimper when you lean down and drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft.

His fingers fist the bedding harder, knuckles white, and you can see the war in his eyes, the urge to grab your hair and guide you deeper warring with the maesters’ warnings and his own fragile healing.

“Fuck… just like that,” he rasps, voice cracking with need so raw it makes your own neglected body clench.

You take him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks with a soft suck that has him arching his head back.

It's as if you're watching him heal in real-time, because he’s becoming himself again, that fierce, passionate man who once pinned you laughing to the furs.

You hum around him, savouring the salt-bitter taste of him while your free hand strokes soothing circles over his tightening stomach.

You pull off just enough to murmur against the flushed skin, teasing the slit with the tip of your tongue until his breath stutters.

“Still, Jace.”

Then you resume your rhythm, slow, twisting strokes of your hand paired with wet, deliberate licks. He trembles beneath you, every suppressed sound proof of how desperately he’s craved your touch.

You quicken your pace with deliberate mercy, not seeing a point in dragging this out any longer than you have to, lips sealed tight around him as your tongue swirls and your hand pumps in steady rhythm, feeling the way his thighs quake despite his vow to stay still.

His voice breaks on your name, half-command and half-plea, while one of his hands finds your hair and grips tight, not that you mind at all.

Finally, he spills hot and pulsing across your tongue, thick spurts you swallow with a soft moan of your own. You keep stroking him through it, gentling your touch as the last tremors fade, watching the tension drain from his battered body until he lies boneless and breathless, dark eyes glassy.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you says anything.

The chamber is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant rhythm of the sea beyond the windows. The candles have burned lower than either of you realised, leaving the room washed in warm gold and shadow.

Jace lies beside you with that same dazed, contented smile still lingering on his mouth, as though he has not quite remembered how to put it away.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye and shake your head. “What?”

His smile only deepens. “Nothing.”

“Mhmm.”

He gives a quiet, breathless laugh and reaches for your hand where it still rests atop his stomach, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb moves over your knuckles, warm and absentminded.

The sight of him like this, softened and unguarded, makes something in your chest loosen.

You fuss over him out of habit more than necessity, fetching a washcloth, straightening the blankets around his hips and making certain he is comfortable, searching his face and posture for any sign that he has overdone himself despite every promise he made.

Jace watches the whole business with open affection, his expression growing gentler by the moment.

“My darling,” he murmurs, though there is no real complaint in it. You ignore him. “You are checking on me.”

“Someone has to.”

His teasing fades then, leaving something softer in its place. For a moment he simply watches you, and when he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, the gesture is so familiar that it catches you off guard all the same.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You look up at him.

The words are not playful nor triumphant, not even particularly clever. Your chest aches unexpectedly, because beneath all the bargaining and persistence and impossible shamelessness, you know what this has really been about.

Weeks of fear. Weeks of recovery. Weeks of being careful. Weeks of wondering whether life would ever feel normal again.

You squeeze his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours at once.

“You do not need to thank me.”

“I do.”

His voice is gentle. “I know I was insufferable.”

You giggle softly. “Do you now?”

Without either of you needing to say anything, Jace opens his arm toward you. You move into it at once, as naturally as breathing, as though you have done it a thousand times before. Because you have. Your head settles against his shoulder, his arm folds around your waist, and the blankets shift around you both as you settle more comfortably together.

Eventually you feel his lips brush lightly against your hair, a sleepy, lingering kiss that makes you smile before you can stop yourself.

“Tired?” you murmur.

“A little.”

“You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

The waves continue their endless song beyond the walls.

The waiting is the cruellest part.

Dragonstone had always been a place of storms. The sea hurled itself endlessly against the jagged black cliffs below the castle, the wind screaming through ancient stone corridors as though the mountain itself mourned some forgotten grief.

You had lived there long enough that neither sound troubled you anymore, yet tonight every gust felt like an omen.

The great hall was quieter than you had ever known it to be. No music played, no servants spoke above a whisper, and even the youngest of the dragonkeepers seemed to tread more carefully through the corridors. Word had arrived shortly before dusk that the Triarchy’s fleet had met Prince Jacaerys in the Gullet, that a battle had begun.

Nothing further had followed.

Nothing certain, at least. Nothing that could be trusted.

You stood beside one of the narrow windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, your fingers clenched so tightly against the stone that they had long since gone numb, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

Beyond the glass the sea stretched endlessly into fading darkness, the last traces of sunset vanished an hour ago beneath gathering clouds. Every ship that appeared on the horizon made your heart leap into your throat only for it to sink again when the shape proved wrong. You had spent nearly the entire day doing little else, waiting for ravens, waiting for ships, waiting for news, waiting for someone to tell you whether your husband was still alive, because he had to be.

You miss him terribly, your husband.

There had once been a time when the title had seemed almost impossible, back when you were children racing through the halls of Driftmark and Dragonstone, bickering over everything and nothing while the adults around you exchanged knowing smiles.

Later had come the betrothal, then the wedding itself. Another carefully arranged union meant to strengthen bloodlines and secure alliances, at least on parchment. In truth, neither of you had objected nearly as much as propriety perhaps required.

If anything, Jace had spent the months before the wedding looking infuriatingly pleased by the entire affair.

The memory warmed and ached all at once.

You had been terrified on your wedding day.

Not of him, never of him, but of the enormity of it all. The ceremony, the expectations, the knowledge that after that night the world would no longer see the two of you as cousins who had grown up together, but as husband and wife, the future king and queen.

You remembered sitting beside him during the feast, scarcely touching your food while half the realm seemed determined to stare and smirk.

Jace had leaned closer then, hidden from the crowd by the chaos of celebration.

"You look as though they are marching you to an execution." You had shot him a glare, but his grin had only widened.

He continued, "You are marrying me."

"That is precisely the problem."

He had laughed at that, bright and warm and completely unoffended. The same laugh that had followed you through most of your life.

And later, when the feast had ended and the castle had finally grown quiet, when your nerves had returned twice as fiercely as before, he had been perfect. He was patient enough to coax a smile from you when you thought your heart might pound straight through your ribs, patient enough to sit beside you for nearly an hour talking about everything and nothing until your fear gave way to laughter, and he finally showed you exactly how he planned to demonstrate his love to you.

He had been patient enough to remind you, gently and repeatedly, that he was still Jace.

Not the prince. Not the heir. Not some stranger suddenly placed in your chambers.

Just your Jace.

The boy who had stolen your books and hidden them in absurd places. The boy who had followed you around Driftmark insisting he was helping whenever you attempted anything alone. The young man who reached for your hand whenever he thought no one was looking.

Your husband.

The title had never felt strange after that night.

Not when he reached for you in his sleep.

Not when he kissed your forehead before every departure, no matter how brief.

Not when he looked at you as though the gods had somehow given him more than he deserved.

His wife - the words had never failed to delight him.

Gods.

You would have given anything to hear him say them again.

The thought struck with such force that you had to close your eyes, as though shutting them might somehow keep the ache from spreading any further through your chest.

No. You refused to think like that, he had to be alive.

Jacaerys Velaryon was many things; he was stubborn, reckless, far too willing to throw himself into danger whenever duty demanded it, but he was alive. He had flown Vermax since childhood, crossed half the realm in service of his mother. This would be no different.

The heavy doors at the far end of the hall opened, and this time it was not a servant. Queen Rhaenyra entered surrounded by several members of her household, though even at a glance it was clear she scarcely noted them.

Your aunt looked exhausted.

The last months had carved new shadows beneath her eyes, and war had done what age never could, drawing strain into every line of her face and every measured step she took across the hall. When her gaze found yours, neither of you spoke.

You simply crossed the room together, and for a moment neither of you remembered crowns or titles or the weight of the realm pressing down upon your shoulders.

You took her hands. They were icy cold.

“Nothing?” she asked quietly.

You hated the hope in her voice because it mirrored your own. You swallowed and shook your head.

“Nothing.”

She had spent her entire life learning how to hide fear, yet this was her son, her heir, and no amount of royal dignity could erase that. You watched her glance toward the windows, toward the sea, toward the darkness swallowing the horizon, and suddenly she looked less like a queen than a mother waiting for her child to come home to her.

“I remember,” she said softly, “when he was six years old.”

The abruptness of the statement surprised you, though not enough to keep you from listening. “He insisted Vermax was large enough to carry him.”

Despite everything, a faint smile touched your lips. “At six?”

“He argued with me for nearly an hour.” The memory seemed to warm her briefly, though only briefly. “‘Aegon conquered kingdoms on dragonback,’ he told me. ‘Why must I wait?’” The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “He cried when I refused him.”

You could picture it perfectly. Jace had always possessed that same relentless determination, the same certainty that if something needed doing, he should be the one to do it.

The queen released a slow breath and when she spoke again her voice was quieter still. “He was never afraid.”

The words seemed meant for herself more than for you. You looked down at your joined hands. “No.”

“He should have been.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes met yours as she reached up and touched your cheek, an old gesture, one she had used since you were a child running through the halls of Driftmark. “My sweet girl,” she murmured.

The affection nearly broke you, because it sounded dangerously close to pity.

Before either of you could speak again, hurried footsteps echoed through the hall. Both your heads snapped toward the sound. A messenger, breathless, boots were soaked with seawater, and hope exploded through the room so suddenly it felt physical.

The boy dropped to one knee before the queen. “My Queen.”

“What news?”

The messenger swallowed. You saw it then, the hesitation, the fear, and suddenly every instinct in your body screamed.

No. No. No.

The boy lowered his eyes.

“The battle is over.”

The entire hall seemed to stop breathing as everyone in the room stopped to listen as he continued, “The losses were heavy.”

“The prince-” His words faltered.

You felt Rhaenyra’s hand tighten painfully around yours. “The prince what?” the queen demanded.

The messenger swallowed again. “Several survivors report that Vermax was seen falling.”

The world tilted. For one impossible moment you thought you might collapse. Beside you, Rhaenyra went utterly still. The queen’s face became unreadable, not calm, not composed, simply blank, as though her mind had rejected the words entirely. “Seen by whom?” she asked.

The messenger blinked. “My Queen?”

“By whom?” Her voice sharpened. “Who witnessed this that you speak of?”

“Sailors, Your Grace. Men from Lord Velaryon’s fleet.”

“And did they see his body?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Did they recover Vermax?”

“No.”

“Did they see my son die?”

The messenger looked suddenly terrified. “No, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra released a slow breath. For the first time since the boy had entered, a flicker of life returned to her expression. “No body,” she said, the words sounding as though she were convincing herself.

The messenger lowered his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The queen turned away, and you knew immediately she was finished with the conversation, because if she remained there any longer she might break, and queens were not permitted such luxuries.

Everyone in the room understood what had gone unsaid; a prince missing after battle, a dragon falling from the sky, the heir to the Iron Throne lost somewhere upon a dark and merciless sea.

Three days passed in a blur of ravens, rumors, and prayers that seemed to grow thinner with each hour.

Messages arrived from the Gullet in fragments and contradiction, each one less certain than the last, each one leaving you no wiser than before. Sailors returned with salt in their hair and fear in their eyes, speaking of smoke and fire and the terrible confusion of battle, but none could say with any certainty whether Prince Jacaerys had lived through it.

Some swore they had seen Vermax fall, others insisted the dragon had vanished into cloud and flame, and a few claimed the prince had been lost with him.

The worst part was not knowing.

Death, for all its cruelty, possessed a certain finality. You could mourn the dead, bury them, you could've screamed and raged and wept for your husband until the pain eventually dulled into something survivable, but this was different.

Every morning you woke expecting news.

Every night you went to sleep without it.

You found Rhaenyra in the Painted Chamber shortly after dawn one day, standing before the great table of Westeros with her hands braced lightly upon its edge. The room was empty save for her.

Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting pale gold across the painted mountains and rivers, yet the queen seemed untouched by its warmth. For a long moment neither of you spoke.

“They found pieces of Vermax.”

The words struck like a physical blow. You felt your stomach twist. “Where?” you asked, though you were not certain you wished to hear the answer.

“Floating among the wreckage.” Her voice remained steady, too steady, as if she had forced it into obedience. “The search vessels recovered scales. Fragments of wing membrane.” She paused, and when she spoke again there was something raw beneath the restraint. “Enough to know it was him.”

Vermax.

Gone.

You remembered the young dragon circling Dragonstone years ago, awkward and eager, barely more than a hatchling, all sharp angles and restless energy. You also remembered Jace’s pride every time he spoke of him. They grew together, learned together, and neither truly belonged to a world without the other.

You could not bear to imagine what Vermax’s death must have looked like.

The queen’s fingers brushed the painted coastline. “They say he fought until the end.”

You knew she was speaking as much about her son as she was about the dragon, and neither of you mentioned it.

Rhaenyra lowered her eyes. “I cannot remember his voice.”

The confession shattered something inside you.

“I try.” She pressed a hand against the edge of the table, as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. “I know I should be able to. I know it. Yet every time I think of him, I remember his face and not his voice, and I am terrified that if enough time passes, I shall lose that too.”

The cry came shortly after noon.

It began as a shout from the battlements, then another, and another after that, the sound echoing through the castle in a way that made every head turn. Footsteps thundered through nearby corridors. You looked up to see soldiers already moving toward the harbour below, and a knot of unease formed immediately in your chest.

You rose from your seat, the book resting in your lap slipping forgotten onto the bench. Outside, the castle seemed to have come alive all at once.

“What is happening?” you asked the first guard you encountered, and the man looked breathless when he answered.

“A ship.”

“A ship?” you repeated.

He nodded. “One of Lord Corlys’s.”

Hope was a dangerous thing, something you had learned repeatedly over the last several days, and yet your pulse quickened all the same. Without waiting for further explanation, you gathered your skirts and hurried after the others.

The wind struck your face the moment you emerged onto the battlements. A ship was making its slow approach toward Dragonstone’s harbour; Its sails were torn, one mast had clearly suffered damage.

The harbour below erupted into activity as the vessel finally reached shore. Tiny figures began moving across the docks. “Come,” Rhaenyra said suddenly, her voice sharp with urgency. Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode toward the stairs.

You followed immediately.

By the time you reached the harbour, a crowd had already gathered. You searched every face but none belonged to Jace.

The queen pushed forward, and no one dared stop her. “Where is Lord Corlys?” she demanded. A sailor pointed toward the ship, and moments later the Sea Snake himself appeared.

“My Queen,” he said carefully, and the world seemed to stop.

"Have you found Jacae-"

“The prince lives, your Grace.”

You stared at him, certain you had misheard, and beside you Rhaenyra made a sound that was dangerously close to a sob. “The prince lives,” Corlys repeated. “He was recovered from the water.”

“He is badly wounded,” Corlys continued, his voice rough with fatigue. “We were uncertain he would survive the journey.”

The relief lasted only an instant before terror returned twice as strong. Your feet were already moving. “Where is he?”

Corlys turned toward the ship, and for the first time you noticed the group of sailors descending the gangplank behind him. They carried a litter between them, and upon it lay a familiar figure, deathly pale.

Jace's clothing had been cut away in places, leaving blood-soaked bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulder. Dried blood stained the side of his neck and disappeared into hair darkened by seawater and salt. One of his arms hung limp over the edge of the litter, unmoving.

You had imagined this moment a thousand times over the last four days, and not once had it looked like this.

“Jacaerys.” The name escaped before you realised you had spoken it.

You pushed forward through the crowd, heedless of the bodies in your way.

Up close, the damage was even worse.

A strangled sound caught in your throat. There were arrows.

Not still embedded in him, the maesters aboard ship had evidently removed those, but the evidence remained. Thick bandages wrapped his shoulder and side where shafts had pierced flesh, and another disappeared beneath the bloodstained linen crossing his ribs.

His lips had taken on a faint bluish tinge. He looked cold. Far too cold.

“Jace.”

Your voice broke on the name, but you received no answer.

The sight of his closed eyes filled you with a terror so complete it became difficult to breathe. You reached for him instinctively, but before your fingers could touch him a hand caught your arm.

“My lady.”

You barely heard the words. You tried to pull free at once, desperate to reach him, desperate to make him answer.

“Jace.”

The hand tightened.

“My lady, please. He requires treatment immediately,” someone said, but the words barely registered.

“He needs me.”

The statement emerged before you could stop it, raw and desperate and nothing like yourself.

“My lady, he needs physicians.”

The queen had reached the litter without you even noticing. Whatever composure she had maintained these past days fractured instantly. A trembling hand rose to his face, and she brushed damp hair from his forehead.

“My boy,” she whispered.

The words were so quiet you almost did not hear them.

The queen closed her eyes, and for a heartbeat she looked very close to collapsing. “Get him inside. Now.”

The maesters needed no encouragement. The litter lurched forward, and you followed immediately, only for another hand to catch your arm before you could go after him. This time you fought it at once, not violently, not consciously, but with the blind panic of someone who could not understand why they were being kept from the one person she needed most.

“He is my husband.”

The words came out sharp enough to surprise even yourself.

“He is hurt.”

“My lady-”

“He is my husband.”

The hand on your arm hesitated, and you realised vaguely that it was Ser Lorent, one of the Kingsguard. His grip loosened immediately, though not enough to release you entirely, only enough to keep you from throwing yourself directly into the path of the maesters.

His voice softened. “Princess.”

You looked at him then, and the knight’s expression was full of sympathy. “They must work.”

You looked toward the castle entrance, toward the place where Jace had vanished, and a memory surfaced without warning.

The morning he had departed for the Gullet, you had stood with him in the courtyard while Vermax waited nearby, restless and impatient. He had kissed your forehead before mounting his dragon, a small gesture, almost absent-minded, the sort of thing husbands and wives did every day.

Neither of you had treated it as a farewell. Neither of you had imagined it might become one.

The waiting proved worse the second time, because now he was here.

Only a few stone walls separated you from him, and still you could do nothing.

Occasionally someone would emerge from his chamber, and the queen would immediately rise to her feet, demanding updates before the door had even fully opened, but the answers never seemed sufficient.

"He lost a great deal of blood."

"The arrow missed the lung."

"The fever concerns us."

"We are doing everything we can."

The phrase quickly became one you despised with all your being. It sounded too much like the sort of thing people said when they were preparing you for the worst.

As daylight faded beyond the castle windows, you heard a groan that froze the blood in your veins, and you were moving toward the door before you even realised it.

A guard stepped into your path.

"Princess."

"That was Jacaerys."

The knight hesitated, and you knew immediately you were correct. "Please," you said quietly. "I only wish to see him."

The guard looked uncomfortable. "The maesters instructed-"

Your voice cracked. "I know what the maesters have said."

You stared at the closed door, at the barrier standing between you and your husband. A husband who had nearly drowned, who had fallen from the sky, who might still die while you sat obediently outside waiting for permission to care.

You crossed the corridor before anyone realised what you intended. The guard stepped forward.

"My lady-"

"He is my husband," you repeated, your voice trembling. "Not only a cousin or a prince." The guard looked horrified.

"If he dies, I will not be sitting in a corridor while it happens."

Then another voice spoke.

"Open the door."

You turned.

Rhaenyra stood at the far end of the passage. The queen looked exhausted, more exhausted than you had ever seen her, yet her gaze remained steady.

The guard immediately stepped aside. "Your Grace, the maesters instructed-"

"I heard what they instructed, open the door."

This time no one argued. The guard obeyed.

The chamber beyond smelled strongly of herbs, blood, and vinegar. For a heartbeat you remained frozen in the doorway, and then your eyes found the bed.

The world narrowed once again.

Jace lay motionless beneath a mountain of blankets. Someone had washed away most of the blood. Without it there was nothing to distract from how pale he had become, nothing to hide the dark bruising visible along his neck and jaw, nothing to disguise how frighteningly still he remained.

A maester approached immediately.

"My lady."

Your gaze never left the bed.

"Will he live?"

The question emerged before anything else. The old man hesitated, "He survived the journey."

"That is not what I asked."

"We believe he will, Princess." The maester continued. "The arrow wounds have been cleaned and stitched. The water in his lungs concerns us less than it did earlier. The greater danger now is fever."

You found yourself staring at Jace's hands, at the familiar shape of them, at the fact that they were still. He had never been still, even when he was sleeping Jace tended to move and fidget, to occupy more space than seemed physically possible.

"The fever?" Rhaenyra asked quietly from behind you.

The maester nodded. "If it worsens, infection may follow." The old maester glanced between the two of you, then, surprisingly, his attention settled upon you.

"He should not be left alone tonight."

The maester continued, "We will monitor him, of course. Medicines must be administered. Dressings changed. Yet fevers are strange things." His expression softened. "Patients often fare better when familiar voices remain nearby."

The maester inclined his head. "If you wish to stay, my lady, we would welcome the assistance."

For a moment you could only stare. After hours of being held back, stopped, and sent away, the words hardly seemed real. The old man smiled faintly. "You are his wife, after all."

Beside you, Rhaenyra released a slow breath. When you looked toward her, the queen was watching you with tired understanding.

"You should stay."

You hesitated. "Your Grace-"

"He will want you when he wakes." She stepped forward and pressed a kiss against your forehead, just as she had done when you were a child. Then she reached out and briefly touched her son's hand.

"My stubborn boy," she murmured.

The words were meant for him, for herself, for the gods, perhaps for all three.

When she finally withdrew, the chamber seemed strangely quieter.

You moved toward the bed slowly and sat in the chair which had already been pulled up next to the bed.

The first hours passed quietly. The sun disappeared beyond the western sea. Servants arrived to light candles throughout the chamber before departing once more. Shadows gathered in the corners of the room, and the air smelled faintly of herbs and vinegar, with the salt still lingering stubbornly in Jace's hair despite the maesters' efforts to wash it away.

He never woke.

Several times you thought he might. A slight movement beneath closed eyelids. A change in his breathing. Fingers twitching weakly against the blankets. Each time hope surged through you so quickly it almost hurt, and each time it faded once more.

The fever worsened shortly after nightfall. One of the older maesters noticed it first. You watched him place a hand against Jace's forehead before exchanging a glance with his apprentice.

"What is it?"

The apprentice hesitated, but the older maester did not. "The fever has risen."

Now that it had been mentioned, you could see it. A faint flush had appeared high across his cheeks, perspiration dampened the hair at his temples and his breathing seemed shallower.

The maester moved toward a nearby table. "We expected this, and so we shall bring it down."

A basin of cool water sat upon a nearby table, fresh cloths resting beside it. "When his skin grows too warm, use these." The maester's expression softened. "He knows your voice."

The old man glanced toward the bed. "Patients are often more aware than they appear. Speak to him."

Then he left.

For several moments, you simply stared at the basin, at the cloth resting within it. Then, slowly, you dipped it into the water and wrung it dry. You folded the cloth and gently pressed it against his forehead. The heat startled you.

Gods.

A knot of fear tightened inside your chest. You carefully brushed damp hair away from his face.

"Your mother has frightened half the castle." A faint smile touched your lips, briefly. "She threatened a maester earlier."

"She has not slept."

And so the smile disappeared.

At some point after midnight, a faint sound interrupted the silence. It had come from the bed. For a heartbeat, the room remained still. Then it came again, a murmur, barely audible. You immediately leaned forward.

"Jace?"

His head shifted slightly against the pillow. The movement was so faint you might have imagined it, yet your pulse leapt.

"...higher..." His brow furrowed. "...Vermax..."

The name hit like a knife.

"No," he muttered. The word emerged rough and strained. "No—"

His breathing quickened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked younger, simply a frightened young man trapped inside a memory he could not escape.

Without thinking, you reached for him. Your hand closed around his. His expression remained tense. Another fragment escaped him, too slurred to understand. Then-

Your name.

Tears burned suddenly behind your eyes. You lowered your head, pressed his hand gently against your forehead, and for the first time since the ship had arrived, since you had seen your husband carried ashore looking more corpse than man, you allowed yourself to cry.

Not loudly - there was no strength left for that - only silent tears slipping free while candlelight flickered softly across the room.

The fever finally broke sometime before dawn, though you did not realise it at first.

It was the movement of his fingers that woke you.

For one disorienting moment you thought you had imagined it. The chamber was still dark, save for the faint grey light beginning to creep through the windows, and everything looked exactly as it had an hour before.

Then his hand tightened around yours, and for the first time it was not the weak twitching of fever, but a small yet deliberate squeeze.

You lifted your head so quickly your neck protested. “Jace?”

His eyes were already open, though only halfway, unfocused as he stared up at the ceiling. Then they found you, and the confusion in them faded almost at once. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

“There you are.”

The sound of his voice nearly broke you. You had heard him mumbling through the fever for hours, but this was different.

For a moment you could only stare at him. He looked positively terrible, and there was no gentler way to put it. Bruises darkened one side of his face, his lips were still pale, and his voice sounded rough from seawater and days of unconsciousness.

He looked exhausted even lying motionless beneath the blankets, but none of that mattered anymore.

Tears started burning immediately behind your eyes.

“Oh, don’t,” he murmured, and the faint smile widened just enough to make him look unbearably like himself. “Don't cry.”

“You nearly died,” you said before you could stop yourself.

At once his expression softened, the teasing slipping away. For several seconds neither of you spoke. Then his thumb brushed weakly against your hand.

“I gathered,” he said quietly.

The simplicity of it hurt more than denial would have.

You swallowed hard and gave him a look that was meant to be stern and came out trembling instead. “You stupid man.”

A faint laugh escaped him, though it clearly cost him, his brows drawing together in grimace.

“You married me.”

"Wasn't aware I had a choice, actually." Without thinking too hard about it you leaned forward and pressed your forehead gently against his. Beyond the windows the sea continued its endless assault against Dragonstone’s cliffs, but inside the chamber there existed only the two of you.

Eventually he spoke again, his voice softer now, “I thought about you.”

Your eyes closed. “Jace-”

“When I fell.”

The memory clearly remained fresh, and painfully so. You lifted your head slightly, and his gaze drifted toward the ceiling once more.

“I remember the water,” he said after a moment. “The cold.” One hand tightened weakly against the blankets. “I remember trying to help Vermax.”

He swallowed; the loss of a dragon was not something words would ever mend. You reached up and gently brushed hair away from his forehead, and his eyes shifted back toward yours.

“I could not help him.” The pain in his voice was enough to make your own throat ache. Carefully, you threaded your fingers through his.

“He knew you stayed.” Jace looked at you, holding your gaze. “I promise he knew.”

He nodded once. He trusted you enough to accept the comfort and his fingers tightened around yours again.

“I remember thinking I would never see you again.”

You stared at him then, at the boy you had grown up with, the prince who had spent years pretending he was not watching you across feast halls, the young man who had once climbed halfway up a sea cliff because you had jokingly remarked that the flowers growing there were pretty, the husband who still reached for you in his sleep.

The thought of losing him hit with renewed force.

“Do not,” you said, and your voice cracked on the words. “Do not ever say that again.”

A faint smile appeared. “There is the woman I married.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Jace.”

The smile widened, weak and mischievous and entirely familiar. “I was beginning to think you liked me better unconscious.”

“You were much quieter. He actually laughed, though the sound dissolved into a wince almost immediately. You leaned forward at once. “Do not laugh.”

“You insult me and then forbid me from defending myself.”

“You are injured.”

“I am being persecuted.”

So somehow, despite everything, you found yourself smiling, and the sight seemed to satisfy him enormously.

You had spent half your lives together - before the marriage, before the betrothal, before either of you had been old enough to understand why the adults around you smiled whenever you argued.

His gaze drifted toward your joined hands, and a small smile returned. “You realise my mother is going to be unbearable.”

You laughed quietly. “Only now?”

“She nearly smothered me with affection before I left.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Actually, she may smother me literally this time.”

“You deserve it.”

“I fought a naval battle.”

“You worried her.”

“I was shot.”

You both went silent again.

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For making you afraid.”

Before he could say anything else, you leaned forward carefully, mindful of bandages and bruises and injuries, and pressed a kiss against his forehead.

And when Jace squeezed your hand once more before drifting back toward sleep, you settled back into the chair without complaint.

The club is the kind of place that only exists in the early hours of the morning.

Everything is gold and blue and slightly blurred around the edges, cigarette smoke curling lazily through shafts of light while a remix of something you've heard a hundred times rattles through the speakers. The floor sticks faintly beneath your heels.

You should have gone home an hour ago.

Instead you're leaning against the bar, nursing a drink that's gone mostly untouched, listening to your friend tell a story you've already heard three times tonight. You're halfway through laughing at the punchline when she abruptly stops talking.

"Don't look now."

You obviously immediately look.

"Jesus Christ," she mutters.

Across the room, half-hidden in a darker corner of the VIP section, surrounded by people without seeming remotely interested in any of them.

Brad Pitt.

The name arrives in your head a second after the recognition.

You'd seen him before, everyone has. Magazine covers in grocery stores. Movie posters. Interviews that played on the television while your parents cooked dinner.

But those versions feel strangely unrelated to the man sitting twenty feet away.

This one is more tired, maybe. More handsome, definitely.

You force yourself to look away before it becomes obvious you're staring. "Okay," your friend says. "Now just act normal."

"I am acting normal."

You spend the next twenty minutes successfully pretending not to look at him. Then unsuccessfully. Then pretending again.

By the time your friend disappears toward the dance floor, you're ordering another drink and mentally preparing yourself to leave.

Which is exactly when someone slides onto the empty stool beside you.

One of his friends, maybe. An assistant? You have no idea.

"Hey."

You glance over and the mystery man smiles.

"My friend wants to know why you've been looking at him all night."

"What?"

"He says you've looked over seven times. He counted, apparently."

Mortification crashes through you and you bury your face briefly in one hand. "Oh my God."

The man laughs. "That's actually a much better reaction than most people."

When you finally look up, the friend is already gesturing toward the corner booth. Brad is watching openly now, amusement flickering across his face, clearly entertained.

You should say no.

Instead, a few minutes later, you're crossing the room.

When you reach the booth, he stands. The gesture catches you off guard.

"Hi," he says. His voice is lower than you expected, not the movie-star kind of smooth; it's rougher around the edges.

"Hi."

A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "I owe you an apology."

You blink. "For what?"

"For apparently making my friend embarrass you."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, and his smile grows. And just like that, something settles. You sit, someone hands you a drink, the conversation starts and somehow an hour disappears.

Then another.

You talk about terrible music, favourite cities and the fact that he can't understand why anyone willingly stays awake until four in the morning. You discover he's surprisingly self-deprecating, surprisingly attentive, and annoyingly good at making you feel like you're the only person in the room worth listening to.

Every time you glance away, you find him already looking at you when you look back, and its obvious enough to make your heartbeat stumble.

By the time the club lights brighten slightly, the universal signal that the night's ending, you've forgotten about going home.

He leans back in his seat, studying you for a moment before asking, almost casually, "So what are you doing after this?"

For a second, neither of you says anything and the question lingers in the air, deceptively casual.

What are you doing after this? Not Do you want to come with me? Not Can I see you again?

You look down into your glass, watching the last melting ice cube drift lazily against the side. You could pretend not to understand. You could laugh it off, make an excuse, call a cab, go home and tell this story for the rest of your life. The night you met Brad Pitt in a club and spent hours talking before walking away.

You know it would be the sensible and safest ending to this night.

Instead, you lift your eyes back to his. "I don't know."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "No plans?"

"Not particularly."

Something passes between you then. Not a decision exactly. More an acknowledgement of one that's already been made. Around you, the club is beginning to empty. People are gathering coats, settling tabs, disappearing into the fading darkness before sunrise. Staff members weave between tables collecting abandoned glasses.

You find yourself smiling.

"So," you ask, "is this usually how you pick people up?"

His laugh catches you off guard, a real laugh. "You think this is working for me?"

"I think you had a friend publicly humiliate me."

"...Yeah."

"You literally sent a representative."

"I did."

The grin that follows transforms him completely, shaving years off his face. "To be fair," he says, "I was trying to avoid looking insane."

For a moment neither of you looks away. The noise of the room seems distant now, like everything is muted.

He glances toward the doors.

"You ready?" The words send a ridiculous flutter through your stomach.

You stand before you can overthink it, because you know you will.

His hand finds the small of your back as the two of you make your way through the crowd. The touch lasts barely a second, gone almost immediately, but it leaves a trail of warmth behind that you're absurdly conscious of.

The air is cooler than you expected. A line of black cars waits along the curb. For some reason that's when it finally hits you; not inside the club, not during the conversation, but as a driver steps forward and opens a rear door.

Holy shit.

You're leaving a club with Brad Pitt.

The car door closes behind you, shutting out the noise of the street and for the first few minutes neither of you speaks. The city slides past outside the windows in streaks of gold and white. Traffic lights glow against wet pavement.

At one point you catch him looking at you. You glance down first.

His smile is small but unmistakable.

By the time the car pulls beneath the covered entrance of some absurdly expensive hotel, your pulse is behaving like you've just sprinted several blocks.

The elevator arrives almost immediately.

Neither of you says much while it climbs because there's no need. The atmosphere between you has become something very tangible, stretched tight enough to hum. You can feel it every time your eyes meet.

When the elevator doors finally open the hallway beyond is silent. The carpet muffles your footsteps. Somewhere far away, a door closes.

He stops outside a suite near the end of the corridor and turns toward you as he reaches for the keycard.

The card slides through the reader and a soft green light appears.

The door clicks open.

You stand there in the quiet hallway, impossibly close now, the city still glittering somewhere far below.

And when he finally reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that your breath catches. His hand lingers briefly near your face as his gaze drops to your mouth and then returns to your eyes.

He studies you, properly this time. “You sure?” he asks quietly.

You swallow once and take a small step forward. It seems to be all the answer he needs.

His hand lifts again, slower this time, brushing lightly at your jaw as if he’s still giving you every possible chance to change your mind. And when you don’t, his fingers settle there more firmly.

It feels claiming.

You lean in a little, just a fraction, and then suddenly his mouth is on yours, hungry and consuming, deepening even more when he realises neither of you will pull away.

His hand shifts slightly, moving from your cheek to your neck, and you feel the last thread of hesitation snap.

When you break apart, it’s only enough to breathe.

Then, very quietly, he opens the door wider and pulls you in with him.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the muffled hum outside, and the air feels thicker, charged with the scent of his cologne; something woody and expensive that clings to his shirt as he pulls you closer to him.

The glow of the city lights filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting his face in sharp gold and shadow.

He’s taller than you registered earlier, solid muscle under that black button-down.

You’re still half-starstruck and reeling from the feeling of his kiss when his mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, but the feeling dissolves fast under the heat of his body pressing you back against the polished wood of the minibar.

“Been imagining this all night,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, palms sliding up under your dress. You see he's ordered champagne without asking, the glasses sit sweating on the marble counter.

Any remaining haze burns away into pure want.

He wastes no time, lifting you onto the counter with effortless strength and spreading your legs so the cool marble kisses the backs of your thighs.

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them aside to stroke through your slick folds.

“Fuck, you’re wet already,” he groans, watching your face while he sinks one finger inside you, then two.

With his fingers still buried deep inside you, Brad reaches for one of the sweating champagne flutes on the counter, the liquid inside fizzing gently as he brings it to your lips.

“Drink,” he murmurs, the command soft but edged with that unmistakable authority that seems synonymous with him, "It's expensive champagne. Can't let it go to waste."

You part your mouth obediently, the cool bubbles sliding down your throat while his thumb circles your swollen clit and his two thick fingers pump harder, curling just right to make your thighs tremble.

Your hands grasp for anything solid, finding his shoulders.

The orgasm builds fast, embarrassingly so, under the dual assault of his fingers and the champagne warming your chest, hips rocking helplessly as he works you open.

“That’s it baby, come for me,” Brad urges, voice rough with his own evident arousal, which you can feel the growing evidence of throbbing against your thigh through his trousers.

The release crashes through you in a sharp wave, pulsing around his fingers, a broken cry escaping as your back arches off the marble and your vision whites out for a moment.

He doesn’t stop until you’re shuddering through the aftershocks, gently easing his hand free only when your breathing starts to slow and your hips twitch at every touch. Afterwards, he scoops you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you across the room to the wide king bed with its crisp white sheets.

The linen is a cool shock as he lays you down, giving you an excellent view as he strips off his shirt, revealing toned chest and faint scars.

Then he follows you down, weight settling over you.

Your thighs are still quivering slightly, but you're too distracted by broad shoulders flexing under tanned skin and the way he nips at your neck to care.

Your hands move without thought, fingers hooking into his waistband and shoving the expensive material down his hips.

He finally springs free, thick and veined, the flushed head already slick and smearing against your inner thigh. Brad groans low in his chest, a sound that vibrates through you as he kicks the trousers aside.

“That’s it, sweetheart, just relax for me,” he murmurs against your ear.

You feel the blunt press of his cock nudging you, parting your folds with deliberate slowness, and your hips tilt upward in a silent invitation, craving the stretch you know he'll provide.

His free hand grips your hip, anchoring you as he sinks in inch by inch, the burn and fullness making your breath hitch.

Then he's finally fully seated, every ridge pressing against you.

You wrap your legs around his waist to pull him deeper and his mouth finds yours again, tongue sliding deep in rhythm with his first slow thrust.

His hand siezes both your wrists in one powerful grip, pinning them above your head against the mattress.

“Stay still for me, sweetheart,” he growls against your lips as his stubble rasps your jaw. Sweat beads along his back, muscles flex, and his eyes lock on yours while he keeps rocking into you again and again and again.

His free hand slides down to hook under your knee, spreading you wider so he can watch the way you take him and the increasing mess that paints both your bodies and the sheets below. His hips snap faster, pleasure coiling low in your belly, building with every deliberate grind of his pelvis.

"Fuck, you're tight, baby," he grinds out through gritted teeth, "You feel perfect around me."

He shifts suddenly, the new depth drawing a broken moan from your throat. His grip on your wrists tightens, the pressure sending sparks straight to your core while his mouth claims your neck, teeth grazing the frantic pulse there.

The suite is full of the wet sounds of your bodies meeting, the scent of sex and sweat thickening the air as his thrusts grow more urgent, chasing the edge he’s been building since the first touch of his fingers.

Your body arches beneath him again as the coil in your belly snaps without warning. You clamp down hard around him as the orgasm rips through you.

Brad grunts in response, his thrusts slowing just enough to let you ride it out, his mouth hot against your ear, murmuring filth into your ear,

But he doesn’t stop.

The moment your tremors ease he releases your wrists and flips you onto your stomach, hauling your hips up and pressing your face into the cool silk.

His cock slides back inside you in one smooth thrust, deeper now. One large hand grips the back of your neck, holding you down while the other spreads you wider. His pace starts building again; hard, measured thrusts that make your body jolt forward with each slap of skin.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, another moan building low in your chest as the pleasure coils tighter once more, his body caging yours from behind while the city lights paint shifting patterns across your joined forms.

The coil snaps again, for the third time, with a shattering force.

Your cry muffles into the silk as your body convulses, thighs quaking and fresh slick gushing out to coat him completely, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain while his grip on your neck keeps you pinned and open for every relentless stroke.

Finally after what seems like an eternity his own rhythm falters, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as his hips slam forward one final time and bury deep, shuddering as he spills into you.

Silence follows, broken only by a faint siren and your deep breathing.

His weight eases down slowly, one arm sliding beneath you to hold you close even as he stays buried inside, his breath hot and ragged.

After a while he shifts, wincing as he pulls out.

"You okay?" His voice is rough around the edges, quieter than it's been all night, and when you turn your head to find him already looking at you.

You nod, unable to stop the small smile that appears. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

"I think so." A soft laugh escapes you. "I mean..." You glance toward the ceiling. "This wasn't exactly how I thought tonight was going to go."

"No?"

"I don't usually end up in hotel rooms with movie stars."

He exhales a laugh beside you, dropping an arm over his eyes for a moment.

"Yeah," he says dryly. "I try not to make a habit of it either."

His arm lowers just enough for him to look at you again. Silence settles over the room after that, but it's an easy one. The charged urgency from earlier has faded into something softer.

Eventually, he reaches over, brushing his fingertips lightly against the back of your hand where it rests on the sheets.

"You need anything?" he asks. "Water? Food? Me to stop talking?"

"I'm okay."

He gives your hand a small squeeze before letting his fingers linger next to them on the sheets. "I don't want you waking up tomorrow wishing you'd left an hour earlier," he says quietly.

You look at him for a moment. "I don't think that's going to be a problem."

Outside, the first hints of dawn are beginning to pull colour into the sky, but neither of you makes any move to get up. His hand finds yours again beneath the sheets, fingers threading through yours like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You should get some sleep," he murmurs.

You shift a little closer in response, and he tips his head toward yours, pressing a soft kiss against your hair before settling back against the pillows. 

The last thing you remember before drifting off is the warmth of his body next to yours.

Rain follows you all the way up the hill.

Not the romantic sort of rain they put in films, either. It's cold, mean rain, the kind that turns dirt to sludge and seeps through wool.

By the time the truck finally rattles to a stop near the treeline, your shoes are ruined.

You stay seated for a moment anyway, gloved fingers still curled around the handle of your case while the driver hops out into the mud. Voices carry through the downpour outside, loud American accents, rough laughter, boots against wet ground.

“Miss?” the driver says, poking his head back in. “We’re here.”

“So I gathered.”

He gives you a strange look, somewhere between amused and nervous, before climbing back down. You exhale once through your nose, straighten your coat, and step out into the rain.

Mud immediately threatens your ankles.

Ahead, half-hidden among the trees, sits a miserable little cluster of military tents and dim lantern light. Men move through the camp carrying rifles and crates, broad shapes blurred by weather and smoke.

Several heads turn toward you at once.

You are used to being looked at. Crowds outside theatres, cameras flashing, journalists hanging onto your every expression like starving dogs. You know exactly what people see when they look at you.

But this is curiosity sharpened by boredom; a woman in a camp full of soldiers might as well be a meteor crashing through the trees.

One of the men lets out a low whistle. Another says, “Well, hell.”

You ignore both, instead starting toward the largest tent without waiting for instructions. Rain taps against your shoulders in a relentless hiss.

The flap opens before you can reach it, and the man standing there is taller than you expected.

Broad-shouldered. Uniform worn like he doesn’t particularly care what regulations say about it. A knife at his hip. Another tucked into his boot. There’s a scar along his neck disappearing beneath his collar, pale against sun-browned skin.

And the accent, when he speaks, is pure Appalachian drawl.

“Well now,” he says slowly, eyes dragging over you with open assessment. “Ain’t you a sight.”

So this must be Lieutenant Aldo Raine.

You had expected someone older, somehow. Or cleaner. Or at the very least less obviously dangerous. Instead he looks like a man who would bite someone during an argument.

Your gaze flicks once to the cigar between his fingers. “You’re smoking indoors.”

One corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re late.”

“You’re in a forest.”

Behind him, several men hover with all the subtlety of schoolboys eavesdropping through a doorway.

Aldo doesn’t look away from you.

“You always this friendly?”

“Only when I’m cold.”

Then, unexpectedly, his eyes drop briefly to the suitcase in your hand.

“You carried that yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

You are not sure why that seems to interest him but rainwater slips down the back of your neck before you can think too hard about it.

“Are you going to invite me inside,” you ask, “or continue staring at me like you’re deciding whether I’m armed?”

Another twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Still decidin’.”

The rain does not let up for the next two days.

Everything smells faintly of damp wool, cigarette smoke, and mud. The camp itself exists in a permanent state of somewhat organised chaos; soldiers moving in and out of tents at all hours, voices carrying through the trees, bursts of laughter loud enough to make you suspicious of whatever terrible joke prompted them.

You are beginning to understand why military intelligence warned you about the Basterds in the same tone one might use for unstable explosives.

At the moment, most of them are crowded into the command tent around a scarred wooden table, arguing over cards.

You stand just outside the flap for a moment, listening.

“I’m tellin’ you that is not a real rule.”

“It absolutely is.”

“You made that up because you’re losin’.”

“I’m winnin’, actually.”

“You’re cheatin’, actually.”

“You are from Iowa. That means your opinion does not count.”

A chorus of overlapping insults follows; you push inside before it escalates into violence. The reaction is immediate. Conversations stumble, one man straightens abruptly in his chair, another nudges the soldier beside him hard enough to nearly knock him over.

You pretend not to notice.

Aldo sits at the head of the table with his boots propped on a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cigar balanced between two fingers. Unlike the others, he does not look surprised to see you.

His gaze lifts slowly from the map spread in front of him.

“Well,” he drawls, “look who decided to join civilization.”

“I was informed there would be coffee.”

“There was.”

You glance toward the empty tin mug near Donny's elbow. Aldo gestures lazily toward the empty seat beside him. “C’mere, sweetheart. Briefin’s startin’.”

The nickname catches you slightly off guard.

Not because of the word itself, men call you sweetheart constantly, but because of the ease with which he says it. Like he’s testing how it sounds directed at you specifically. You refuse to let that show on your face.

Instead, you remove your gloves and sit beside him, close enough to smell tobacco and rain on his uniform.

The room settles.

Aldo taps ash carelessly into a tray before speaking. “Alright, listen up. We got ourselves a party.”

Groans immediately break out around the table.

“Aw, hell.”

“I hate parties.”

“You hate bathin’ too, but sometimes sacrifices gotta be made.” A crumpled paper ball flies across the tent. Aldo ignores all of it.

“Three nights from now,” he continues, pointing toward the map, “Colonel Dietrich’s hostin’ a private reception at a château outside Paris. High-ranking officers, diplomats, industrialists. Real fancy evil sonsofbitches.”

You lean forward slightly despite yourself. The château is circled in pencil.

“The colonel’s been movin’ information through these gatherings,” Aldo says. “Names, schedules, supply routes. British intelligence wants copies before the bastard relocates.”

“And that,” another soldier mutters, “is where the movie star comes in.”

Several eyes slide toward you.

You lean back in your chair. “How thrilling.”

Aldo continues before anyone else can speak. “Colonel Dietrich’s wife is apparently a fan.”

You blink once. “Oh, dear.”

“Yeah,” Aldo says, sounding entirely too entertained. “Turns out Nazis love the pictures.”

A few snorts circle the table.

“One of the ladies invited to the reception fell ill,” he goes on. “British intelligence intercepted the replacement request and slipped your name in.”

“So I attend the party,” you say slowly. “Smile politely. Charm fascists. Try not to get murdered.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“And you?”

Aldo’s grin is small and dangerous. “I’m your escort.”

The table goes suspiciously quiet. You turn toward him fully for the first time since sitting down. “My escort.”

“Mhm.”

“You?”

“Try not to sound too excited.”

You study him for a long moment.

“I’m British,” you say. “And you are the most American person I have ever met in my life.”

Around the table, several men immediately start grinning like they’ve just smelled blood in the water.

Aldo only raises an eyebrow. “That right?”

“You sound like you were raised entirely on whiskey and violence.”

“Now hold on-”

“And unless I’ve misunderstood the current geopolitical situation rather severely,” you continue, “how exactly are we meant to walk into a Nazi party together without someone noticing we’re standing on opposite sides of a world war?”

Aldo leans back slightly in his chair, entirely too relaxed under your scrutiny.

“That’s the beauty of it,” he says. “We ain’t.” He reaches over, flips open the file in front of you, and taps the forged papers inside.

“British actress travels through occupied territory under diplomatic protection for cultural relations work,” he says. “Public morale, artistic exchange, maintainin’ communication for the preservation of art or something similarly mushy."

Aldo is watching you now instead of the room, eyes narrowed slightly with that same unreadable amusement you noticed when you first arrived.

“We gotta look natural together,” he says. “Comfortable. Affectionate, even.”

“Affectionate.”

“Might need dancin’, too.”

You stare at him. “You dance, Lieutenant?”

“Sweetheart,” he says, low and easy, “I got all kinds’a hidden talents.”

The men around the table groan loudly enough to shake the tent.

The gramophone crackles somewhere near the back of the tent.

Not loudly. Just enough for the music to drift through the room in warm, wavering strings while someone adjusts the needle with visible skepticism. The space itself has been cleared as much as possible, crates shoved aside, chairs stacked crookedly near the walls, muddy bootprints still visible across the wooden floorboards.

A makeshift ballroom in the middle of a military camp.

Ridiculous.

You pause just outside the tent flap anyway, smoothing a hand unconsciously down the front of your dress before stepping inside.

Several heads turn at once and you have to resist the urge to sigh.

The dress itself is simple by your standards; dark silk, long sleeves, practical enough for wartime shortages, but compared to rough uniforms and muddy boots, it may as well be couture.

And these men have clearly not seen a woman in months.

Your gaze flicks across the room until it lands on Aldo.

He is standing near the center of the cleared floor in shirtsleeves, suspenders hanging loose at his sides, a cigarette caught between his fingers. For once, he has gone strangely still.

Something unreadable passes across his face before he takes the cigarette from his mouth.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

The music skips softly as you cross the room.

Up close, you can smell tobacco and soap and the faint trace of whiskey on him. His hair is still damp from rain earlier, curling slightly at the edges.

“You actually know how to dance?” you ask.

He looks mildly offended. “Course I know how to dance.”

“Ballroom dance.”

A pause.

“I know enough.”

You hum knowingly. “That bad, then.”

One corner of his mouth lifts.

“Careful. Hurt my pride in front’a my men.”

Behind you, someone mutters, “Too late.”

You ignore them and hold out your hand.

Aldo looks at it for a moment before taking it carefully, like he is uncertain whether this is a trick.

“Alright,” you say. “Show me. Lead.”

The first attempt is catastrophic. You barely avoid stepping on his boots.

“Lieutenant,” you say patiently, “if you shove me across the floor any harder I’m going through the wall.”

A few soldiers snort loudly.

Aldo shoots them a dark look before turning back to you. “You said lead.”

“Yes. Lead.” You reposition his hand lightly against your back. “Not manhandle.”

His hand stills.

So do you, briefly.

The warmth of his palm presses through the silk between your shoulder blades, broad and steady. Closer now, you become acutely aware of just how large he is. Not merely tall, but solid. Built with the kind of physical confidence that comes from years of surviving dangerous situations.

For the first time since arriving here, you understand very clearly why people follow him.

You step back before the thought can settle too deeply.

“The point,” you continue smoothly, “is to make me look comfortable with you. Safe and relaxed.”

Aldo raises an eyebrow. “Safe.”

“Yes.”

“That gonna be difficult?”

“Extremely so.”

That earns another laugh from the room. You ignore it and move his arm again, gentler this time.

“You’re thinking too much about where your feet go,” you say. “You should be thinking about me.”

His eyes flick up to yours. “That so?”

“Yes. If you lead properly, I’ll follow naturally.”

For once, he doesn’t make a joke.

You guide him through the first few steps again. Slowly this time. At first he still hesitates, movements slightly stiff beneath your hands. Waltzing requires control in a very specific way, not dominance through force, but confidence. The ability to guide someone without making the guidance visible.

Not a skill men like Aldo Raine are usually taught.

“You’re watching your feet again,” you say quietly.

“Well I don’t wanna break your damn ankle.”

“You won’t.”

“How you know?”

“Because I’m better at this than you are.”

A pause.

Then, begrudgingly, “Alright then.”

Gradually the tension leaves his shoulders. The rhythm settles into him piece by piece until the movement stops looking rehearsed and starts looking instinctive.

Aldo’s hand steadies at your back. His grip shifts from uncertain to assured. He turns you cleanly through the next step without needing instruction, guiding rather than pushing now.

You feel the difference immediately.

Something changes in his expression, the concentration sharpening into confidence as the dance finally clicks into place beneath his feet.

“Well, look at that,” he murmurs.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

For a brief moment, the rest of the room seems to fade strangely at the edges. The music crackles softly through the tent. Rain taps faintly overhead. His hand remains warm against your back, your fingers curled loosely in his, bodies moving together with an ease that feels unexpectedly natural.

You catch the exact second the others notice it too.

The shift in atmosphere is almost tangible. Someone mutters, “Oh, hell.” Donny is openly grinning now, leaning back against a crate with the smug expression of a man watching a prediction come true in real time.

Aldo either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He turns you once more across the floor, smoother this time, and when you settle back into place against him his gaze flicks briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“You learn fast,” you say quietly.

A slow grin pulls at his mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low enough that only you hear it, “I got a real strong motivator right about now.”

By the following evening, the rumours had become a genuine problem. A loud, relentless, deeply embarrassing problem.

It starts small, like when you walk into the mess tent just as one of the Basterds says, “Nah, I’m tellin’ you, there ain’t no way they practice dancin’ that long without somethin’ happenin’ after.”

The second they notice you standing there, the entire table goes silent.

You narrow your eyes immediately.

“What.”

“Nope,” Donny says quickly, staring down into his drink. “Ain’t sayin’ a word.”

“Mm.” You glance between them. “That usually means someone absolutely should.”

Aldo, sitting near the end of the table, suddenly develops an intense interest in cleaning his knife. You point at him. “What did you tell them?”

His head lifts slowly. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I ain’t told ‘em nothin’.”

You feel suspicion beginning to crawl up your spine.

Unfortunately, before you can press further, someone asks, far too casually, “So who made the first move?”

The table erupts instantly. “Oh, definitely her.”

“No way.”

“She looked at him one time and this man forgot how feet work.”

Aldo's increasingly defensive voice joins in, “That ain’t true.”

“You walked into a chair.”

“It was a small chair.”

You stare at them in disbelief, then slowly turn toward Aldo. “You let them discuss me like this?”

Aldo finally looks up from his knife, not remotely apologetic. “Sweetheart, I ain’t got the authority to stop stupid.”

Another soldier leans forward onto his elbows, openly fascinated now that you are trapped here. “So what’s it like?”

You blink. “What.”

“You know.” He gestures vaguely between you and Aldo. “Him.”

Several men nod immediately.

“You all realise I’m sitting right here,” Aldo says.

Donny points at him without looking away from you. “That’s why we’re askin’.”

“So is he actually smooth with women or does he just stand there lookin’ dangerous until they decide that’s attractive?”

You choke slightly on your drink. Everyone starts talking over each other immediately after that.

“I bet he’s possessive.”

“No, no, he’s probably quiet.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You kidding? Look at him. Man probably talks through the whole thing.”

Aldo finally exhales sharply through his nose. “Jesus Christ.”

Donny turns to him, “You’re sittin’ over there actin’ mysterious while sleepin’ with a movie star. We deserve details.”

“I ain’t sleepin’ with nobody.” The denial comes too late and with far too little conviction. The table goes dead silent.

Then, “That’s a guilty voice.”

“Real weak defense there, Lieutenant.”

Aldo points his knife vaguely around the table. “Every single one’a you needs hobbies.”

He looks deeply unimpressed by the entire conversation, sprawled lazily in his chair with one boot hooked over the rung beneath him. But there is something dangerously close to amusement lingering around his mouth.

Another man points between you both. “See? This is what I’m talkin’ about. Y’all keep lookin’ at each other like you already know what the other one sounds like at three in the mornin’."

Aldo laughs this time, a low rough sound, head tipping back briefly before he drags a hand across his mouth. “Alright,” he says. “That’s enough.”

“No wonder the chemistry’s good.”

You set your cup down carefully. “There is no chemistry.”

Every single man at the table stares at you in open disbelief. Then one of them says, with complete sincerity, “Ma’am, we watched y’all dance.”

The mission is less than twenty-four hours away when the mood in camp finally changes.

Until now it's all felt strangely theatrical. Arguments over pronunciation and forged documents and whether Aldo is capable of wearing a tuxedo without looking like he’s about to threaten someone with a shovel.

But the night before the operation, the performance drops away.

You sit alone just outside your tent with a cigarette balanced between your fingers, watching fog drift through the trees.

The dress for tomorrow hangs inside behind you.

Black silk. Elegant enough for a Nazi officer’s reception. Carefully altered to conceal a small blade against your thigh.

You try not to think about that too much. The cigarette glows softly in the dark as you inhale.

“You smoke when you’re nervous.”

Aldo’s voice cuts through the quiet before you hear his footsteps.

You glance sideways as he approaches through the trees, jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. He looks tired tonight. Less sharp around the edges somehow.

“You’ve known me four days,” you say.

“Mm.” He stops beside you. “Still right, though.”

You exhale smoke slowly. “I wasn’t aware I’d become so easy to read.”

“That ain’t what I said.”

Aldo lowers himself into the chair beside yours with a quiet groan.

“You always this tense before missions?” he asks.

“I’m not usually included in missions involving Nazis.” You glance at him, “You?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t sleep much beforehand.”

“No?”

“Nah.”

His voice is lighter than the words themselves.

You study him quietly in the dim light. Without the constant presence of the others around him, Aldo feels different. Still dangerous, certainly. That never disappears. But quieter now. More watchful than loud.

It occurs to you suddenly that he probably carries responsibility in very lonely ways. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower.

“You’re better at that than most soldiers I know.”

Something in your chest tightens unexpectedly.

You look down at the cigarette instead of at him.

“You know,” you murmur after a moment, “when they recruited me for this, they told me you were unstable.”

That earns a genuine laugh. “Did they now?”

“They also implied you were difficult to control.”

“Now that,” he says, “is just hurtful.”

You smile despite yourself, and this time the silence that follows feels easier. Aldo leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Truth is,” he says after a while, “I hate operations like this.”

“Why?”

“Because soldiers know what they signed up for.” His jaw shifts slightly. “Civilians don’t.”

For all his roughness, there are moments when glimpses of something gentler appear beneath the surface so suddenly they catch you off guard. Not softness, because Aldo Raine is not a soft man. But care, maybe?

Care buried under violence and swagger and cigarettes and absolutely terrible flirting.

“Lieutenant!”

The moment snaps cleanly apart.

Aldo closes his eyes briefly like a man being tested by God himself. A second voice follows immediately after.

“You better not be romancin’ out there!”

You stare straight ahead.

Slowly, Aldo drags one hand down his face. “You know,” he says calmly, “I have considered shootin’ every single one’a them.”

The château glows like a jewel against the dark.

Golden light spills from towering windows across the gravel drive, catching against polished cars and damp stone and the glittering movement of people ascending the front steps in silk and military dress. Somewhere inside, an orchestra plays softly enough to drift through the open doors in fragments.

It is beautiful in the way dangerous things often are.

You step from the car and immediately feel Aldo’s hand settle against the small of your back. The touch sends a brief pulse of awareness through you before you can stop it.

“Easy,” he murmurs without moving his mouth much. “You look nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

“Good.” His thumb shifts once lightly against your spine. “Means you ain’t stupid.”

You glance sideways at him as attendants move around the cars nearby and decide that he cleans up infuriatingly well. Dark jacket fitted cleanly across broad shoulders, hair combed back enough to expose the hard line of his jaw, bow tie slightly imperfect in a way that somehow makes him more attractive instead of less.

People are already looking at him.

Not because they recognise him, of course. Because he walks like a man entirely unafraid of any room he enters.

His hand presses lightly at your back again.

“C’mon, sweetheart.”

The front doors open before you reach them.

Warmth spills over you immediately along with music and conversation and the rich scent of champagne and expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers gleam overhead. Marble floors reflect gold light beneath the movement of uniforms and gowns.

The room shifts the moment you enter.

Faces turn. Conversations falter. Someone says your name quietly near the staircase.

You soften your expression instinctively into something poised and effortless, the familiar social performance sliding into place like muscle memory.

Beside you, Aldo adjusts seamlessly.

The swagger remains, certainly, but refined now into something smoother. Controlled confidence instead of open menace. His hand remains steady against your back as he guides you naturally through the crowd like he belongs there.

Like he belongs beside you.

A German officer pauses near the entrance, visibly startled by your appearance.

“Fräulein,” he says immediately, bowing over your hand when you offer it. “What an unexpected honor.”

You smile politely.

“You’re very kind.”

His attention shifts toward Aldo. “And this is-?”

“American escort,” Aldo says smoothly before you can answer, his accent softened just enough to pass beneath the music and chatter around you.

The officer nods. “Ah, yes. Cultural relations.”

“Important work,” Aldo says solemnly.

The officer continues politely, “It is reassuring to see American and British interests maintaining such close communication despite… circumstances.”

Aldo’s fingers flex once against your back.

The officer's gaze returns to you. “And how are you finding Paris, Miss?”

“Complicated,” you answer lightly.

Aldo hums beside you. “She says that about every city.”

The familiarity in the interruption is so natural that the officer immediately smiles.

A couple.

Over the next half hour, the performance settles around you both effortlessly.

Aldo keeps close without hovering, always near enough for contact. A hand at your waist guiding you through crowded spaces. Fingers brushing your elbow when someone stops you too long in conversation. Leaning down slightly whenever you speak to him, as if your voice matters more than the dozens surrounding you.

At one point, a French diplomat laughs at something you say and lets his gaze linger too long down the line of your throat.

Aldo appears beside you almost immediately.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says pleasantly, though there is something dangerous beneath the smile now. “Need to steal her for a moment.”

The diplomat backs off instantly.

You glance sideways as Aldo guides you away through the crowd.

“That was unnecessary,” you murmur.

"Mm. If ya say so, darlin'."

The orchestra begins another waltz as you reach the edge of the ballroom. Without hesitation, Aldo sets down his drink and turns toward you.

He holds out his hand.

You give him yours.

And then he pulls you into him, hand settling at your waist, and suddenly the entire ballroom seems to sharpen around the edges.

Aldo guides you onto the floor with an ease that would have felt impossible three nights ago. Couples move around you beneath the chandeliers in a blur of silk and medals and candlelight, but the second he pulls you into step, attention follows.

Because the two of you look good together.

Alarmingly so, in fact,

“You’re starin’,” he murmurs.

You blink once before realising you are.

“I’m assessing.”

“Sure you are.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

The next turn brings you closer for half a second, your dress brushing lightly against his legs before he guides you back out again with practiced precision.

Too practiced.

“You’ve improved,” you say quietly.

“Mm.” His gaze remains on you rather than the dance floor. “Got a good teacher.”

The compliment lands lower in your stomach than it should and you glance briefly around the room before he can notice.

Colonel Dietrich stands near the far end of the ballroom speaking with two officers. The study lies beyond the western corridor exactly where intelligence suggested it would be.

And tucked neatly inside Aldo’s jacket, hidden beneath the clean lines of the tuxedo, rests a stolen key.

“You got it?” you murmur.

Aldo doesn’t look away from you. “Mhm.”

“How?”

“Colonel’s aide got distracted.”

You narrow your eyes. “Distracted by what.”

His thumb shifts once against your back.

“You.”

A passing officer smiles knowingly as he and his wife drift by. Aldo nods politely back.

“How are we lookin’?” he asks softly.

You force yourself to focus.

“No one suspects anything yet. The colonel’s wife adores you.”

“She should.”

“Your confidence is alarming.”

“Sweetheart, she watched you stare at me through dinner like you wanted me naked.”

Your step falters slightly, the bastard looks pleased with himself.

“That,” you say carefully, “was acting.”

“Uh huh.”

“You were the one touching my knee under the table.”

“Had t'sell it.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “You ain’t?”

The orchestra carries you both through another sweeping turn. Candlelight catches against his eyes when you look up at him, warm amber beneath the chandeliers.

Your gaze flicks briefly to his mouth before you can stop yourself.

His hand tightens once at your waist.

When the music finally slows to a stop, applause ripples politely through the ballroom.

Neither of you lets go immediately.

For one suspended second, Aldo’s hand remains firm at your waist while you stand close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him through layers of silk and wool. Around you, couples begin drifting apart beneath the chandeliers, conversations resuming in low elegant murmurs.

But Aldo is still looking at you.

He smiles lazily and leans down toward your ear, close enough that his mouth nearly brushes your skin.

“Ready to scandalize some Nazis?”

The low scrape of his voice against your ear sends heat down your spine in a way that feels deeply inconvenient.

“Lead the way.”

That, apparently, is all the confirmation anyone nearby needs.

A woman standing beside the dance floor lets out a knowing little laugh as Aldo’s hand slides low against your back again. An officer across the room raises his brows toward another man with obvious amusement.

One of them actually smirks and mutters something in German about Americans.

“See?” he murmurs as he guides you toward the doors. “Told you they’d buy it.”

You stay tucked against his side while the crowd parts naturally around you. Every now and then his thumb brushes absently against your waist, subtle enough to look unconscious, intimate enough to turn heads.

A perfect picture of a couple slipping away early for reasons no one wants to explain.

The hallway beyond the ballroom is quieter, lit only by soft golden sconces along dark panelled walls. Music drifts faintly behind you now, muffled by distance.

Aldo’s posture changes almost immediately.

“The study’s through there,” he murmurs without looking at you, nodding almost imperceptibly toward the western corridor ahead.

You keep your expression relaxed as another couple passes nearby.

“And our room?”

“End of the hall.”

Your pulse kicks slightly faster.

The plan had sounded simple back at camp. Now, walking through a Nazi officer’s private residence while pretending you are on your way to sleep with Aldo Raine, it feels considerably more insane.

Footsteps echo somewhere nearby.

Without warning, Aldo catches your wrist gently and pulls you into a darkened alcove just off the corridor.

You collide lightly against his chest.

The movement is smooth enough to look intimate from a distance, but your breath still catches slightly from surprise. Aldo braces one hand against the wall beside your head while the other remains firm at your waist.

A pair of officers rounds the corner moments later, laughing quietly between themselves.

Neither pays you any real attention, and they continue past without even slowing.

Your heart pounds annoyingly hard against your ribs.

His face is inches from yours now, shadows cutting sharply across the lines of his jaw. Up close, you can smell whiskey faint beneath soap and smoke.

“You alright?” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Ya sure?”

“No.”

He gives you a ghost of a smile, and then straightens, stepping back just enough to breathe properly again before offering you his arm like nothing happened at all.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says lightly. “Let’s go commit espionage.”

The study door unlocks in less than three seconds. Aldo opens the door immediately, one hand already moving to the small of your back to guide you inside.

Dark wood shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with books and polished military awards. A fire burns low in the hearth. On the desk near the window sits a half-finished drink beside stacks of neatly organised papers.

Aldo closes the door softly behind you.

“Three minutes,” he murmurs.

You nod once and move immediately.

You cross to the desk while Aldo moves toward the filing cabinet near the wall. Drawers slide open softly beneath practiced hands. Your pulse beats loudly in your ears while you scan documents, searching for shipment routes, coded schedules, names.

Outside, footsteps pass once down the hallway.

Both of you freeze instantly.

Silence.

The footsteps continue.

You exhale quietly and keep moving. “There,” Aldo says lowly a moment later. He holds up a thin folder stamped with German military markings.

You help quickly, replacing papers in precise order while Aldo wipes down the desk and cabinet handles with calm efficiency. Within another minute, the room looks untouched.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Now comes the difficult part.”

You glance toward the door. “Leaving?”

His mouth twitches.

“Nah. The opposite.”

Realisation dawns slowly.

“Oh.”

Because, of course. People saw you leave the ballroom together. Saw the way he touched you, the way you danced. No one expects you to reappear after ten minutes looking perfectly composed.

Thankfully, the corridor remains empty.

Together, you walk toward the suite at the end of the hall with measured, unhurried steps. A couple disappearing for the night.

The room itself is elegant in the suffocatingly wealthy way the rest of the château is. Gold curtains, crystal decanters, a fireplace crackling softly near velvet chairs.

And one bed.

You stop short just inside the doorway.

Aldo closes the door behind you with a quiet click before noticing your expression. Then his eyes move toward the bed.

A pause.

“Well,” he says finally, voice rough with amusement, “reckon we committed a little too hard to the cover story.”

He loosens his bow tie slightly as he crosses the room, though you notice he keeps his movements careful now, measured in a way they usually aren't around you. Like he is aware of the tension too.

“You can take the bed,” he says after a moment. “I’ll manage somewhere else.”

Your gaze flicks toward the small velvet sofa against the wall.

“You absolutely will not.”

“I slept in worse places.”

“I’m sure you have. You’re still not sleeping folded in half like a traveling salesman.”

A grin tugs briefly at his mouth. “You got a better idea?” he says, glancing toward you again, slower this time.

The tuxedo jacket is gone now, sleeves rolled slightly, bow tie loosened at his throat.

"It's a big bed," you reply after a moment of silence.

He studies you, then seems to make up his mind. “We shared a dance floor in front of two hundred Nazis,” he says softly. “Maybe we can survive a mattress.”

Your eyes catch briefly on the line of his throat where he’s loosened the collar, and when you look back up, he notices.

Of course he notices.

“Well,” you say carefully, setting your gloves down beside the dresser, “try not to flirt with me too much, Lieutenant.”

The grin he gives you this time is slow and devastating.

“Sweetheart,” he says, “little late for that now.”

He crosses the room slowly enough for you to stop him if you want, but you don't, and by the time he reaches you, your breathing has already gone uneven.

“Darlin',” he says softly, gaze fixed on yours, “tell me to back off and I will.”

The fact that he asks nearly undoes you more than the flirting ever did.

You shake your head once, and it seems that’s all it takes.

Aldo’s hand slides carefully along your waist before settling at your back, pulling you toward him in one smooth motion. The kiss lands hot and immediate, all restrained tension finally snapping loose at once.

It is nothing like the polished fake intimacy from downstairs. This is rougher, hungrier.

You grip the front of his shirt instinctively as he kisses you deeper, one broad hand firm against your spine while the other catches briefly at your jaw.

Aldo kisses like he does everything else, intensely, thoroughly, and like he’s been thinking about it longer than he will ever admit.

His mouth drags from yours just long enough for both of you to breathe before he kisses you again immediately, slower this time but somehow worse for it. Your fingers slide into his hair without thinking, loosening it from the careful styling of earlier.

A low sound escapes him at the feeling.

“Aldo,” you murmur against his mouth, half warning, half something else entirely.

“Yeah,” he says roughly, like he barely remembers language at the moment.

The back of your knees bump lightly against the edge of the mattress before you realise he’s been guiding you backwards across the room the entire time your mouth has been locked with his.

His hand moves lower to your hip as he kisses you again, slower now, almost disbelieving beneath the urgency.

He guides you down, and the mattress dips beneath you a second later as Aldo catches himself with one arm braced beside your head, careful despite the obvious strain in his composure.

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Hair dishevelled now. Lips slightly swollen from kissing. Tuxedo beyond saving

You lean up to kiss him again, slow and deep. He draws the dress up your legs, slowly, taking his time. Eventually, he pulls it completely off, and his hand finds your waist, thumb stroking bare skin.

"We shouldn't," he murmurs against your mouth while his hands slowly drag each socking down, fingers smoothing along your calf as he goes.

"Uh huh." You nip at his bottom lip. "But I don't care."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's heat in his eyes but also something infinitely softer. "If we do this, we're doin' it slow, real slow. I won't rush this, not you. Understood?"

Your stomach flips. "Yes."

"And if anythin' hurts, like really hurts, you tell me immediately."

"I will."

He searches your face, then nods. "Scoot over then, sweetheart."

While he watches you move up the bed Aldo pulls the loosened bow tie free with one sharp tug and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder without looking. The shirt comes next, buttons abandoned halfway through, before he simply yanks the thing free and sends it to join the growing pile on the floor. His suspenders snap loose a second later.

Then he follows you up the bed, settling comfortably between your legs with careful precision. His mouth trails down your neck, pressing soft kisses all over.

A low sound emanates from his throat, and you feel him hardening against your thigh. But he doesn't rush. Just keeps kissing you, working his way down your body with a patience that makes you ache.

When he reaches your breasts, he's so careful. Tongue circling your nipple slowly, hand cupping the other with just enough pressure to make you arch into him.

"You're beautiful, sugar," he murmurs against your skin. "So fuckin' beautiful."

Your hands roam his back, tracing the scars there. He shivers under your touch, and you file that away, the knowledge that you affect him just as much as he affects you.

He kisses down your stomach, and you tense.

"Aldo wait, you don't have to-"

"I wanna." He looks up at you from between your legs. "Hell, baby, I've wanted to taste you since you walked into my camp, but only if you can handle it."

You're nervous, probably too sensitive to be with a man like him, but the way he's looking at you makes you nod. "Gentle?"

"So gentle," he promises, letting his lips press against your stomach, and you nod, letting your head fall back against the pillows.

When his mouth is finally on you, it's exactly that. Long, slow strokes of his tongue that build the heat in you. He's reading your body, adjusting to every hitch in your breath, every small movement.

It's not the intense, almost violent pleasure you'd imagined. This is something sweeter. He's making love to you with his mouth, and it's somehow more intimate than you could've imagined.

"Oh my god, Aldo," you breathe, hands fisting in his hair. "That's-"

"Good?"

"So good. Don't stop."

He doesn't. Just keeps that steady, gentle rhythm until you're trembling, pleasure building slowly and inevitably.

When you finally come, it's soft. A warm wave rather than a crash, rolling through you in pulses that make you gasp his name.

He works you through it, then kisses his way back up your body, finally finding his way back to your lips.

"Okay?" he asks.

"More than okay." You wrap your legs around his hips carefully, feeling him hard and ready against you. "I want you inside me."

"Baby, we don't have to if you don't want to-"

"Aldo, shut up and fuck me already."

His eyebrows jump up, but he doesn't have time to be surprised before you're fumbling with his belt, pulling it off and moving to the zip on his trousers. He helps you, and soon he's gloriously and fully bare above you.

“This,” he whispers, a little breathless, “is probably a terrible idea.”

“Yeah,” you murmur against his mouth. “Probably. But like I said before, I don't care.”

A grin flickers briefly across his face before he leans down to kiss you again. "Alright, baby."

He reaches between you, positioning himself, and pushes in slowly. So slowly. Inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, to breathe through the stretch.

"Fuck," he grits out. "You're so damn tight."

"Hurts a little," but you're pulling him deeper with your legs.

"I know. I've got you." He bottoms out and stills, forehead pressed to yours. "Just breathe."

You do, and gradually the discomfort fades into something better.

"Move," you whisper. "Slow, but move."

He does. Long, slow strokes that make you feel every inch of him. It's deliberate and tender, each thrust measured and careful.

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding back.

"Yes. God, yes."

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling gently. The added stimulation makes you cry out, hips rolling to meet his careful thrusts.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Takin' me so damn well, darlin'."

You keep chasing the pleasure while he maintains that steady, gentle rhythm. He's perfect, the way he's holding himself back for you, making sure you're okay, taking care of you even now when you've stopped playing a role.

"You feel so good, Aldo," you tell him. "So good inside me."

He groans, his hips stuttering slightly before he regains his relative composure. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm trynna to be gentle, and you're makin' it incredibly difficult."

He marks the statement with a particularly deep thrust, prompting a startled moan from you which he captures with his mouth. The kiss is deep and slow, his hips still moving in that careful rhythm, and the pleasure builds again gradually, a slow burn rather than a wildfire. You can feel it in your core, spreading through your limbs.

"I'm close," you breathe against his mouth.

"Yeah?" His fingers press a little harder, circle a little faster. "Come for me. C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme feel it"

It builds and builds, and then you're coming, clenching around him with a whine. The orgasm is long and rolling, deep.

He follows you over, thrusts becoming less controlled as he spills inside you with a groan. But even in his own pleasure, he's careful not to crush you, keeping his weight on his forearms.

For a long moment, you just breathe together. His forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling with aftershocks.

"You good, darlin'?" he finally asks.

You hum against him, nodding slightly while stroking his back gently. You both wince when he pulls out, then he collapses onto the bed next to you with a tired groan and draws you against his chest automatically, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You rest your cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat gradually slow beneath your ear.

For once in his life, Lieutenant Aldo Raine appears completely relaxed.

His fingers drift lazily up and down your spine beneath the sheets, slow enough to make your eyes heavier by the second.

“Are you alright?” you murmur after a while.

“Mm.” His voice comes rough and sleepy. “Better’n alright.”

The southern drawl slips thicker when he’s tired. Softer too, and you smile faintly against his skin. Then he shifts just enough to press a kiss against the top of your head.

The gesture is so unexpectedly tender it nearly undoes you.

“You should get some sleep,” he says quietly.

“What about you?”

“Thinkin’ I might stay like this awhile.”

You glance up at him again.

The firelight catches warm along the lines of his face now that all the sharpness has eased out of it. Hair messy. Mouth slightly swollen from kissing you. Eyes heavy-lidded and softer than you’ve ever seen them.

Dangerous men should not be allowed to look this gentle.

“Lieutenant,” you murmur softly.

“Mhm?”

“You’re staring again.”

A slow, lazy smile appears.

“Can’t really help it, darlin’.” His fingers brush lightly along your spine once more. “Got a real pretty thing in my arms.”

Smoke hangs low over the outskirts of Troy long after the fighting ends.

It rolls through the ruined streets in thick grey waves, stinging your eyes, settling into your throat with every breath. Somewhere behind you, something collapses with a splintering crash, followed by another burst of screaming. The sound barely turns heads anymore.

You keep your gaze lowered as you’re dragged downhill toward the shore.

The soldier gripping your arm is young, flushed with the ugly exhilaration of surviving battle. His fingers are locked so tightly around your wrist they’ve long since gone numb, but that seems to be the least of your problems.

You stumble once over broken stone and he jerks you upright hard enough to wrench your shoulder. “Keep moving.”

You nod quickly before he can do any worse.

Around you, other captives are being herded toward the ships in frightened clusters. Some cry openly. Others call desperately for husbands or brothers who will never answer them again.

The beach comes into view slowly through the smoke.

Ships line the shore in impossible numbers, dark against the water, their hulls towering over the sand. Greek soldiers move constantly between them carrying armour, weapons, sacks of grain and other supplies. They are nowhere near done fighting this war.

A wounded Greek soldier collapses several paces ahead of you with a rough cry of pain. The men around him curse in annoyance more than concern.

“He’s bleeding everywhere,” one snaps.

“Well, pick him up then.”

“I’m not carrying him back to camp like that.”

The injured man tries to push himself upright and fails immediately. Blood pours steadily through his fingers where he’s clutching his thigh.

Without thinking, you slow. The soldier holding you notices at once. “Don’t.”

But you’re already staring at the wound. Deep, but clean-edged. Dangerous mainly because no one is stopping the bleeding properly.

“He needs pressure,” you say quietly.

The soldier gives a short incredulous laugh. “He needs a priest.”

“He’ll die before he gets one.”

That earns a few glances. Nothing more at first. Just irritation from exhausted men who want the day finished. Before caution can stop you, you add, “I can help him.”

The soldier beside you snorts. “And why would we trust a Trojan?”

You swallow. “I know how.”

For a moment no one answers. The wounded man groans again, weaker this time, and one of the older soldiers finally looks properly at you. His gaze flicks over your clothes, your posture, your face, as if he's trying to place you.

“You’ve done it before?”

You nod once. He considers it, then must decide he's got nothing to lose and shrugs. “Let her try. If she kills him, we throw her in the sea.”

Your grip tightens briefly around your own shaking hands before you kneel beside the injured soldier. Up close, he can’t be much older than you. Sweat streaks through the dirt on his face and his breathing has gone shallow with pain.

When you press down on the wound, he sucks in a sharp breath and curses.

“Sorry,” you murmur automatically.

You tear a strip from the already ruined edge of your sleeve and bind it tightly around his thigh, trying to ignore the blood soaking warm across your palms. The soldier watches you with visible suspicion the entire time, as though expecting you to suddenly drive a knife into his throat.

Once your hands start moving, the rest becomes easier.

Your father used to complain that you asked too many questions when the physicians came to the house. You had followed them endlessly as a child, more interested in bandages and herbs than weaving or music. At the time it had seemed useless knowledge.

“He needs the wound cleaned properly,” you say, sitting back slightly. “And stitched, eventually. But he’ll live.”

The man guarding you lets out a low whistle. “Well. Look at that.”

“You sound surprised,” another voice says nearby.

The soldiers straighten almost immediately.

The man approaching is older than most of the warriors around him, though not old exactly. His armour is finely made but worn from years of use, and there’s something measured in the way he moves through the chaos of the beach.

Recognition lands slowly and unpleasantly in your stomach.

This is Odysseus.

His gaze settles first on the wounded soldier, then on the blood covering your hands. “You did this?”

You hesitate. “I treated him, yes.”

“And where did you learn?”

“My father employed physicians.”

He lifts an eyebrow slightly. “A noble family, then.”

You say nothing to that.

Around you, the surf crashes softly against the shore. Somewhere further down the beach, men are arguing over spoils loud enough for everyone to hear.

Finally Odysseus says, “Who was your father?”

You almost answer automatically before stopping yourself.

His expression shifts faintly, noticing the hesitation “You don’t have to look so alarmed,” he says, not unkindly. “I asked for your name, not for your loyalty.”

A few of the nearby soldiers chuckle under their breath.

Heat rises embarrassingly into your face. You lower your eyes for a moment before telling him.

Odysseus stays silent for a moment, then looks back at the wounded soldier. “She’s useful,” he says simply. “Send her to the Myrmidons.”

The soldier beside you blinks. “Achilles’ men?”

“Yes.”

Even before the war, stories about Achilles spread across Greece and Troy alike like something mythic. You’d seen what he did to Troy’s outer defences three days ago, and you know enough to understand men do not survive that kind of violence unchanged.

Odysseus notices your expression and smiles slightly, though there’s something tired in it.

“He's not as bad as everyone seems to think.”

Before you can think of any response to that, he turns away, already calling orders to someone else further down the beach.

The closer you get to the camp, the more unbearable the noise becomes.

The Greeks move with the exhausted confidence of victors. Some are still laughing. Others look half-dead where they walk, streaked with soot and blood, too tired even to speak. One soldier sits directly in the sand while another pours wine over a cut on his arm, both of them grinning at some joke you can’t hear.

It feels unreal suddenly, how ordinary they make it seem.

You wonder vaguely if your father is dead. The thought arrives strangely flat, too large for your mind to fully grasp yet.

The soldier leading you gives your arm another tug when you slow.

“Keep up.”

The Myrmidon encampment resembles a small city built entirely for war. Shields stacked in careful rows, spears planted upright in the ground, fires already burning despite the lingering heat of the day.

The soldier finally releases your arm near one of the larger tents. “Stay here,” he says. “Don’t wander.”

As though you could.

Then he disappears back toward the shore without another glance.

A sudden wave of exhaustion nearly buckles your knees.

You steady yourself against the rough wooden support beside the tent, closing your eyes briefly. Your entire body feels heavy now that the fear has nowhere immediate to go. Smoke still clings to your hair and clothes while dried blood tightens across your fingers.

“Here.”

You start violently. One of the Myrmidons is standing nearby holding out a waterskin. He’s younger than the others, his nose visibly crooked from an old break.

You hesitate before taking it carefully. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “You stopped Nikos from bleeding out. Figured that earned you water.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple kindness of it. You drink too quickly and immediately cough.

The soldier grins faintly. “Easy. It’s water, not treasure.”

Another voice cuts in from somewhere behind him. “Depends who you ask.”

You look up as a man steps around the tent entrance, and his gaze lands on you immediately.

“This her?”

“The healer,” the younger soldier confirms.

The man studies you for a long moment, eyes flicking briefly to the blood on your clothes. “You know how to stitch wounds?”

“Yes.”

“Set bones?”

“I’ve helped before.”

“You faint at blood?”

You blink. “No, of course not.”

“Good.” Then he jerks his head toward the inside of the tent. “Come on, then. Someone split his arm open an hour ago and he’s been complaining ever since.”

By the third day, you stop flinching every time someone shouts.

The Myrmidons work you relentlessly from sunrise to well past dark. Most injuries are minor, like deep cuts, split knuckles and bruised ribs, sometimes burns from overturned cooking fires. But there are enough serious wounds scattered between them to keep your hands constantly occupied.

You clean blood from skin until your fingers wrinkle from seawater and wine. You stitch flesh by firelight while men grit their teeth and pretend not to groan.

No one is cruel to you.

That surprises you most.

Some barely speak at all beyond telling you where it hurts. Others thank you awkwardly after, as though uncertain whether they’re supposed to. A few still look at you with open distrust, but even that has faded since the soldier you saved survived the night.

Nikos, the man in question, now grins whenever he sees you, which would almost be charming if he weren’t missing half a tooth.

The camp itself settles into rhythms quicker than you expect. Men training near the shore at dawn, armour repairs are done in the afternoon, and loud arguments over food are always held in the evening. At night, the sea wind carries the smell of salt and smoke through the tents while exhausted soldiers collapse wherever they can find space.

And through all of it, Achilles remains strangely absent.

You see him sometimes from a distanc, crossing the beach or training shirtless in the surf at sunrise, his bronze skin gleaming with seawater while younger soldiers watch him. Once, you see him returning from battle still streaked in blood that clearly does not belong to him.

No one speaks to him casually.

Even the other commanders seem to orbit rather than approach.

The first time he walks through camp near enough for you to hear his voice, conversation dies almost instantly around him.

You understand why before he even reaches you.

It is not simply that he is beautiful, though he is. The stories had not exaggerated that part. Achilles moves with the unbearable confidence of someone who has never doubted his own importance for even a moment in his life. Men look at him expecting greatness and he accepts it as naturally as breathing.

He doesn't glance at you once, which should not bother you.

It does anyway.

Later that evening, you are crouched beside one of the fires grinding dried herbs into powder with the flat end of a knife when familiar voices drift through the camp nearby.

“You should let her look at it.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“It’s bleeding through the bandage.”

“That sounds like a problem for the bandage.”

A few nearby Myrmidons snort laughter and you glance up before you can stop yourself.

Odysseus stands near the centre of camp with his arms folded loosely across his chest, looking profoundly unimpressed. Across from him, Achilles is in the process of removing one bracer with visible irritation.

Even from several paces away, you can see the blood darkening his forearm.

“It’s a scratch,” Achilles says.

Odysseus raises an eyebrow. “That's wonderful news. Then surviving treatment should be well within your abilities.”

“I don’t need treatment.”

“No,” Odysseus agrees mildly. “You need humility, but we work with what we have.”

More laughter this time, quickly stifled when Achilles shoots the surrounding men a look. You immediately lower your eyes back to the herbs, hoping neither of them noticed you watching.

Then, “You.”

Your stomach drops. Achilles is staring directly at you now.

The firelight catches against sharp cheekbones and sun-browned skin still damp from sweat and seawater. There’s dried blood streaked along one shoulder beneath the edge of his armour, and his hair curls loosely around his face from the humidity off the sea.

For one horrifying moment, you think he’s speaking to someone else.

Then Odysseus glances toward you too.

“The healer,” he says helpfully.

“Yes,” Achilles says, still looking at you. “I gathered that.”

Heat creeps instantly into your face. You rise to your feet, trying not to make your awe and nerves too obvious.

Several Myrmidons grin openly.

Then, after a beat, he holds out his injured arm toward you with the vague impatience of a man indulging something unnecessary.

“Well?” he says. “Apparently I’m dying.”

Your feet carry you forward before your mind fully catches up.

Every eye in the camp seems fixed on you as you cross the space between the fire and Achilles. You can feel the curiosity, the amusement, the expectation that this will go poorly somehow.

Your pulse pounds hard enough to make your hands feel unsteady.

Up close, the cut looks worse. Much worse.

The bleeding had seemed manageable from across the camp, but now that he’s holding his arm nearer the firelight, you can see how deep the blade went. The skin along the inside of his forearm is split open almost cleanly, blood still sliding steadily down toward his wrist despite the rough bandage tied around it.

You frown before you can stop yourself. Achilles notices immediately.

“What?” he asks.

You don’t answer right away. Nervousness slips strangely to the background as you lean closer, carefully taking hold of his wrist to turn the arm slightly toward the light.

“What happened?”

“Someone got lucky.”

Odysseus makes a quiet noise from nearby. “That’s one interpretation.”

Achilles ignores him.

You barely hear either of them now. Your focus narrows entirely onto the wound beneath your hands. The bleeding isn’t pulsing heavily anymore, which means whatever vessel was hit has likely slowed on its own. You look up sharply.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His brow furrows faintly. “What?”

“Move them.”

For the first time since you approached him, Achilles looks mildly uncertain instead of irritated. He flexes his hand experimentally.

His fingers move.

“Again,” you say, reaching for his hand before thinking too hard about it. “Grip mine.”

A few nearby soldiers go suspiciously quiet. Achilles stares at you for half a second, then curls his blood-slick fingers around your hand.

Gods, he's strong.

You test each finger carefully, watching the movement of the tendons beneath the skin of his wrist. “Can you feel?” you ask, pressing lightly near the edge of the wound.

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes.”

“And this?” You lightly trace the inside of his palm.

“...Less.”

You release his hand abruptly and turn toward the supplies near the fire.

“I need clean water,” you say. Someone passes it over immediately.

You kneel beside Achilles on the packed sand, soaking a cloth before carefully washing blood away from the wound. The water turns pink almost instantly beneath your hands.

Achilles hisses quietly when you clean deeper into the cut.

“That bad?” Odysseus asks from somewhere behind you.

“Yes.”

The camp stills slightly at that. You glance up briefly. “Not fatal,” you add quickly. “It's only his arm after all, he'll be fine.”

Achilles leans back against a wooden post with his injured arm braced on one knee, watching you work. You rinse the wound again, and the deeper you clean it, the less you like it.

“Gods,” you murmur under your breath.

“What?” Achilles asks immediately.

You hesitate, then reach for the small clay bottle tucked among the medical supplies. Strong distilled alcohol. You’ve only used it twice since arriving in camp because most soldiers would rather bite through leather than endure it.

When Achilles sees what you’ve picked up, one corner of his mouth twitches faintly. “That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“I’ve been stabbed before.”

“Yes,” you say distractedly, uncorking the bottle. “And apparently learned nothing from it.”

A few nearby Myrmidons laugh outright. Achilles exhales sharply through his nose, almost a laugh himself, but then you pour the alcohol directly into the wound. His entire body goes rigid instantly.

You continue cleaning the cut carefully while the alcohol evaporates sharp and bitter into the night air. Achilles doesn’t complain, though his breathing stays slightly uneven beneath the silence.

Once the wound is finally clean enough to examine properly, you thread the needle with steadier hands than you feel.

“You’re lucky,” you murmur.

“Odysseus said I was dying.”

Odysseus immediately protests from behind you. “I implied no such thing.”

“You implied it with enthusiasm.”

You shake your head slightly, concentrating on the stitching. “No. You weren’t dying.” Achilles hums softly, smug already.

Then you add, “But you were very close to losing full use of your sword hand.”

The smugness disappears.

Around you, several Myrmidons straighten visibly and Achilles goes still beneath your hands.

You tie off one stitch before continuing carefully. “The blade nearly cut through the tendon. Another inch and you may never have held a sword properly again.”

For the first time all evening, he says nothing.

The next morning passes much the same as every other morning in camp. Wounded soldiers line up outside the medical tent before sunrise. Someone arrives with a split lip from a drunken fight. Another with a shoulder dislocated during training

You work steadily through all of it.

Still, by midday, you realise people are looking at you differently.

Achilles spoke to you.

Which apparently means something here.

You notice it most among the younger Myrmidons first. Men who barely acknowledged your existence three days ago now step aside to let you pass through camp. One even offers you the better seat beside the fire before seeming embarrassed by his own politeness afterwards.

Later, you’re carrying fresh bandages toward the larger supply tent when two soldiers pass nearby speaking in low voices.

“…nearly took the tendon clean through, I heard.”

“He let her stitch it herself?”

“Well obviously someone stitched it, you idiot.”

“That’s not what I mean...”

Inside the supply tent, the air smells thickly of oil, linen, and dried herbs. You crouch near one of the storage chests, sorting through bundles of clean cloth by lantern light while outside the camp slowly settles into night around you.

The distant sound of waves rolls steadily against the shore. You exhale slowly and rub tired fingers against your eyes.

“You look exhausted.”

You nearly drop the bandages. Odysseus stands near the tent entrance, half-shadowed by the lantern hanging outside. He looks mildly amused by your reaction.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“So I gathered.” Odysseus steps fully into the tent, glancing briefly over the organised piles of supplies surrounding you.

“You’ve made improvements.”

You blink. “What?”

“The medical tent.” He gestures vaguely. “It was chaos before you arrived. Men digging through bandages with bloody hands. Wine spilled over half the supplies. One fool used boiled seawater for cleaning wounds.”

You grimace instinctively.

“Exactly,” Odysseus says.

Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes you.

His expression softens faintly at the sound, though only for a moment. “How is Achilles’ arm?”

The question catches you off guard. “He shouldn’t be training with it yet,” you say automatically. “If the stitches tear, it’ll reopen.”

Odysseus hums, unsurprised. “And will he listen to that advice?”

“…No.”

He's watching you carefully. “You frightened him,” he says.

You stare at him in disbelief. “Achilles?”

“Yes.”

“That seems unlikely.”

A smile pulls faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Not for his life. Achilles values that less than he should.” He pauses. “But his sword hand? That’s another matter.”

Outside, voices drift through camp accompanied by bursts of laughter and the crackle of firewood. Somewhere further off, metal rings sharply against metal from men still training in the dark.

Odysseus leans one shoulder against the tent post. “He’s called for you twice today.”

Your head lifts sharply. “What?”

“You were with other injured soldiers both times.” Mild amusement flickers across his face. “He seemed irritated by this inconvenience.”

“Why would he call for me?”

Odysseus gives you a look that suggests he already knows the answer and finds it entertaining. “You stitched his arm,” he says simply.

Before you can press further, footsteps approach outside the tent. Heavy and familiar. Odysseus hears them too.

Then Achilles ducks through the entrance.

He’s changed out of his armour, though the sight of him somehow remains equally distracting. Loose dark fabric hangs open slightly over his chest, exposing sun-browned skin still damp from seawater. His hair is wet, strands plastered to his neck and forehead.

And despite your instructions, there’s a fresh split in one of the stitches across his forearm. “I tore it,” he says simply.

“Of course you did.”

Odysseus makes a quiet sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

Achilles ignores him completely, his gaze fixed on you. “So... it started bleeding again.”

You can only stare at him, then at the sword hanging comfortably at his side, and then back at him. “You trained with it.”

A beat of silence.

“I got bored.”

Over the next several days, Achilles acquires an astonishing number of injuries.

At first, they are legitimate.

A reopened stitch after training too soon. A bruise spreading dark beneath his ribs from a sparring match that apparently became too enthusiastic. A shallow cut across his shoulder from battle that still bleeds enough to justify attention.

Achilles fights constantly. Of course he gets hurt, so there's nothing strange about it. Still, certain patterns begin to emerge.

For one thing, he never sends anyone else for you. The summons always come directly from him, usually delivered by some deeply unenthusiastic Myrmidon appearing at the entrance of the medical tent.

“Achilles wants you.”

The first few times you go immediately, but by the sixth, irritation begins creeping in. Especially because Achilles himself never appears particularly concerned.

You arrive at his tent one afternoon expecting something serious from the urgency of the message, only to find him sitting shirtless beside the table inside, sharpening a dagger while a thin scrape crosses one knuckle.

You stop in the entrance. “…That’s it?”

Achilles glances up. “It’s bleeding.”

“It’s barely skin-deep.”

“It could become infected.”

You walk forward slowly. “You interrupted the stitching of an actual wound for this.”

“You finished eventually.”

You clean the scrape anyway. His gaze never leaves your face the entire time. Afterwards, as you’re packing away the supplies, Achilles says casually, “Your hands are steadier now.”

You look up.

“When you arrived, you shook every time someone spoke to you.”

Heat rises instantly into your face. “I did not.”

“You did. But you’re less frightened now,” he says. The words should sound mocking, and yet somehow they don’t.

You focus aggressively on tying off the bandages. “Maybe I’m simply getting used to arrogant Greeks demanding treatment for papercuts.”

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Then, from outside the tent, “Is the arm being amputated or are you two finished?”

Achilles’ entire face hardens instantly back into annoyance.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard to stop yourself smiling.

The injuries continue.

A split lip after training. A shallow burn across his palm from grabbing overheated bronze. A cut on his jaw that looks suspiciously like someone else barely managed to touch him during sparring and he’s still offended about it.

Each time, he sends for you. Each time, the injury grows less convincing.

This cut on Achilles’ shoulder is three days old and healing perfectly, which makes it deeply irritating that he insists on having it redressed again.

“You do realise,” you say, trying not to sound annoyed as you unwind the linen from around his upper arm, “that wounds cannot improve out of spite alone.”

Achilles lounges beside the fire like a man with absolutely no intention of taking you seriously. One knee bent, forearm resting lazily across it, bronze skin flickering gold in the firelight. Around him, half a dozen Myrmidons sit scattered through the tent cleaning weapons, drinking watered wine, or arguing over some training dispute.

“It reopened this morning,” Achilles says.

“You trained with it again.”

“Yes.”

“Then it did not reopen mysteriously.”

A few of the men nearby laugh.

Achilles glances toward them briefly, unimpressed. “I liked you better when you were frightened of me.”

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself and the tent goes quiet for exactly one second, because you laughed at Achilles. You realise your error immediately and freeze with the fresh bandage halfway around his arm.

Then, thankfully, Achilles laughs.

The tension breaks instantly around the fire. “Well,” one of the older Myrmidons mutters. “That’s new.”

Heat crawls up your neck as you focus aggressively on tying off the bandage.

Achilles, unfortunately, continues watching you.

“You’re staring again,” Odysseus remarks mildly.

Achilles doesn’t even glance at him. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe she’s pleasant to look at.”

Someone makes a strangled sound into their wine cup and you nearly stab yourself with a needle. Odysseus watches the entire exchange with the expression of a man observing a slow-moving disaster he predicted long ago.

“You could attempt subtlety,” he suggests.

Achilles finally looks over at him then, visibly puzzled by the idea.

“Why?”

The simplicity of the answer sends another ripple of laughter around the fire. You keep your eyes firmly on the bandages in your lap, willing your face to cool.

Achilles, meanwhile, appears completely untroubled.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, like this is an obvious fact no one intelligent would dispute. “I’m not sure what subtlety has to do with it.”

Someone near the back mutters, “Gods help the poor girl.”

You stand quickly, gathering the used cloth before anyone can say anything worse. Achilles' gaze lifts immediately, following you with the same steady focus that’s begun to make your stomach feel strange at unpredictable moments.

“I’ll bring fresh supplies tomorrow,” you say, mostly to the room in general.

“You won’t need to.”

You pause.

“You'll stay,” he says, reaching for his wine, calm as ever.

The words settle over the tent without immediate reaction, almost too casual at first to register.

Then several heads lift at once.

You stare at him. “What?”

“With me, in my tent,” Achilles clarifies, as though you’re the one being slow. “You spend half your time there already.”

A few of the Myrmidons exchange looks but no one seems particularly surprised. Your pulse begins beating unevenly.

“I still work in the medical tent.”

“Someone else can handle scraped knees and drunken knife accidents.”

“That is not all I handle.”

“No,” Achilles agrees easily. “You handle me.”

Odysseus closes his eyes briefly like a man asking the gods for strength.

Achilles barely seems aware of the reaction around him. His attention remains fixed entirely on you.

“You’ll have more space here,” he continues. “And I prefer having my healer where I can find her.”

There’s something underneath the words now. Not hidden particularly well. The implication hangs thickly in the air.

You become suddenly, horribly aware that every man in the tent understands exactly what Achilles wants. And because he is Achilles, no one thinks it strange that he should simply… decide.

Your mouth goes dry.

“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”

Achilles only tilts his head slightly, studying you.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You didn’t.”

That evening you're in his tent, and he's told you of one last injury he wants you to look at before he retires. The fire near the centre has burned low, filling the tent with soft gold light and long shadows that shift across the walls whenever the sea wind stirs outside.

Achilles sits on the edge of the cot while you kneel in front of him with fresh linen draped across your lap.

The cut along his ribs is, like always, very shallow.

“Hold still,” you murmur as you clean away the blood around it.

“I am holding still.”

"Then you're not doing it well enough."

It's bizarre. A few weeks ago you could barely look at him without feeling afraid. Now the fear has changed shape into something far more dangerous. You notice too much; the warmth radiating from his skin this close, the scrape of his breathing every time your fingers brush near his ribs.

You focus harder on the bandage.

“Does that hurt?” you ask quietly, pressing near the edge of the cut.

“A little.”

You pause.

“A little?”

“For most men, perhaps more.”

You snort softly despite yourself. “Of course.” Achilles’ mouth curves faintly at one corner.

Trying to ignore it, you reach for the clean linen and begin wrapping it carefully around his torso. The position forces you closer, one hand braced lightly against his side while the other pulls the bandage tight.

His skin is warm beneath your palm.

When you finish tying it off, you start pulling back immediately, suddenly desperate for distance before he notices how flustered you’ve become.

But Achilles moves first.

One large hand closes around your wrist, and your breath catches.

"Are you done?" His voice rumbles low.

You nod, not daring to meet his gaze fully, and his grip turns to iron, completely unyielding. He tugs you closer, effortlessly lifting you onto the edge of the cot as if you weigh nothing.

"Achilles-" you start, but you stop short when you feel his free hand trace the line of your jaw, rough calluses scraping gently over skin.

"I meant it. That I want you here. That you're beautiful."

His voice has dropped an octave, more of a whisper than his usual commanding cadence.

You try to pull back, instinct screaming caution, but he doesn't let go.

Instead, he manoeuvres you with ease, positioning you astride his lap, your knees sinking into the furs beside his hips. You're enveloped by him. His arms encircle your waist, hands splaying across your back, holding you in place.

"Stay here," he orders, and it's not a request.

Your breath catches as his lips brush your neck, a deliberate graze that sends sparks racing down your spine.

You know you should protest, should remind him of your role, your boundaries, but the words dissolve on your tongue when he nips at the sensitive skin there, just hard enough to mark.

His hands roam now, bold and possessive, sliding under the hem of your tunic to grip your hips. He lifts you slightly, adjusting you against the hard planes of his body, and you gasp at the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you.

He manhandles you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion, the furs cushioning your fall as his weight looms over you. Not crushing, but enveloping, his thighs bracketing yours, keeping you pinned without effort.

You stare up at him, breath shallow, as he peels away the last barriers between you. His fingers hook into the ties of your clothing, pulling with a rip that echoes in the tent.

Cool air kisses your exposed skin, but his touch is fire, trailing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts. He pauses there, thumb circling a peak until it hardens under his attention, drawing a whimper from your lips.

"Don't act so surprised", he growls, voice thick with need, "You knew this would happen."

Before you can process, his mouth descends, claiming yours in a kiss that's all teeth and hunger.

The world narrows to sensations.

The scrape of his stubble, the salt of his skin, the way his huge frame dwarfs yours completely. He moves you again, rolling you to your side, one arm hooked under your knees to draw them up, opening and exposing you to him as he slots his body behind yours.

There is no gentleness in his conquest, only raw, unfiltered desire that mirrors the warlord he is.

In the midst of it, you risk a glance over your shoulder, and his eyes lock on yours, showing a flicker of something deeper. There's possession, yes, but it's laced with a fierce protectiveness.

"Are you scared of me, little healer?" He asks; you can feel his breath stir your hair. You shake your head quickly, then slow, deciding to nod instead.

His grip gentles a bit.

"You need not be. I like you too much to break you, I'll be gentle," he murmurs in response.

You hear the rustle of clothing, faintly registering his own clothes being ripped off. Then his skin meets yours, a shock of heat and muscle.

His hand leaves your body to position himself at your entrance. You feel the rub of his cock through your folds, silken smooth against your gathering wetness.

When he finally enters you, it's unhurried, letting your body accommodate the difference. The stretch itself is overwhelming, a burn that blooms slowly into pleasure.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he sets a rhythm that increases steadily in pace, unrelenting. You cling to his arms, nails digging into hard muscle, head thrown back against his shoulder.

The tent fades, the war outside ceases to exist. There's only Achilles, taking you, binding you to him in this most primal way.

The only kind of claim that matters in times of war.

When he's confident you've grown accustomed to him, he speeds up his pace, cock hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars.

The sound of skin against skin echoes around the tent. His arms draw you further into the cradle of his body, lifting your leg higher so he can hit a spot inside you that you didn't know existed.

You feel his body start to tense, as does your own, the knot in you tightening and tightening with every thrust. His breathing becomes more laboured, the drags of air becoming harsher against the nape of your neck when he leans further into you.

When release crashes over him, it's with a groan so deep it could be considered a roar.

Yet, even as his body shudders against yours, he keeps grinding his hips into you, chasing your pleasure as much as his own. His arm snakes its way around your waist, finding the bundle of nerves that sends lightning rushing through your body.

That, in combination with the deep rolling sensation of him still inside you, finally pushes you over the edge.

You go slack, sagging against his body, whimpering as the aftershocks course through you.

He doesn't withdraw; instead gathers you closer, if that's even possible. His massive arms caging you in and pulling you so you're sprawled over his chest.

"You'll stay right here," he whispers into your hair, the words a vow sealed in sweat and sighs.

And as exhaustion claims you, nestled against Achilles' chest, you accept you've been utterly conquered.

You climb into the helicopter before anyone tells you to.

You half expect a hand on your shoulder, some last-minute correction, someone reminding you that this isn’t your role today. But the crew barely glances up. There’s too much movement, too much noise, too much that matters more than where exactly you’re sitting or why you’re here.

You duck your head under the frame, step over a coil of cable, and take the first open space you can find along the side bench, fingers already curling around the edge like you need something solid before the rotors even start to spin.

It smells like fuel and metal and something faintly antiseptic.

You adjust the headset they hand you without really looking at the guy who gives it to you, fitting it over your ears, pressing it down until the world dulls into a low, controlled hum.

It doesn’t quiet your thoughts. It just makes everything else more distant.

Across from you, someone checks a weapon with quick, practiced movements. Another leans in to say something you don’t quite catch, their voice swallowed by the growing thrum of the blades overhead.

The whole interior feels too tight, bodies and gear packed in close, every inch accounted for.

You keep your hands busy because you know that if you don't, they’ll start to shake.

A strap. A buckle. The edge of your sleeve. You keep adjust things that don’t need adjusting, check pockets that are already checked.

Technically speaking, you know what you’re doing.

You’ve done extractions before, sat in briefings, watched missions unfold in clean lines across screens. You know how this works.

It’s just never been your boyfriend they were pulling out.

The engine noise builds, low at first and then rising until it presses against your ribs, until you can feel it in your teeth. The helicopter lifts with a jolt that’s more felt than seen, the ground slipping away beneath you in a way you refuse to look at.

It’s easier if you treat it like any other deployment but the thought keeps circling back, no matter how many times you push it away. It sits there, heavy and insistent, in the space between each breath.

Tom's out there, alone.

You close your eyes for a second, just long enough to steady yourself, remembering that first briefing.

The office had been too quiet.

Not empty, but quiet in that controlled, deliberate way that meant something was already happening. Muir hadn’t bothered with small talk.

He never did when it mattered.

“He’s in Lujiazui,” he’d said, like he was reciting a line from a report instead of telling you where your boyfriend was being held prisoner. “Public Security Bureau black site. Off the books.”

You remember the way you stood there, hands at your sides, forcing yourself not to interrupt. You’d learned that much, at least.

“And what's the plan?” you’d asked.

He’d watched you for a second longer than necessary, like he was measuring something you couldn’t see.

“We get him out,” he said finally. “We get him airborne. We stabilise.”

“I’m going.”

Muir doesn’t even blink. “No.”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t a negotiation.”

You step closer. “It is now.”

His eyes flicker—just once. “You’re not operational on this.”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s the problem.”

A beat. The room feels smaller. “You think you can separate yourself from it,” he says. “You can’t.”

“I’m not separating myself.”

“You’re attaching yourself to a liability.”

Your voice drops. “He’s not a liability. He's my boyfriend, and I've thought he was dead.”

Muir exhales through his nose, like he’s already tired of this fight but knows it’s not ending. “Fine,” he says eventually. “But you do not improvise. You do not freelance. And you do not become part of the problem.”

The helicopter dips slightly, pulling you back into the present with a shift in your stomach.

You open your eyes, reorienting, the interior snapping back into focus around you. Someone across the way is talking into their mic, voice clipped and precise, and you catch fragments; coordinates, timing, confirmations.

You press your thumb against the inside of your wrist, grounding yourself in something small and physical.

Outside, the world is dark in that washed-out way it gets from altitude and distance. You don’t look for the building. You wouldn’t recognise it anyway.

You shift slightly closer to the open side, the rush of air cutting through the enclosed heat of the cabin. It’s colder here, keeps you alert.

Then, the voices in your headset start to sharpen, overlap, separate again into something more urgent. A change in tone, subtle but unmistakable.

You’ve heard it before, sitting safely behind glass, watching feeds instead of living inside them.

“We’re close.”

The helicopter begins to descend, slow at first, then with more intent, the angle shifting just enough that you can feel it in your spine.

Across from you, the team is already moving; final checks, quick nods, everything efficient and unspoken. You swallow, the dryness in your throat catching for a second.

He’s down there.

You don’t let yourself think past that.

The helicopter hovers, then dips lower, close enough now that the rush of air shifts, bouncing back up from the ground below. Someone slides the door wider, the night rushing in with it, loud and immediate.

“Stand by,” a voice says over comms.

Your heart kicks, hard enough that you feel it in your chest, in your throat, everywhere at once.

The team moves toward the door, one after the other, fast and focused, disappearing out into the dark without looking back.

You stay where you are.

Finally, the last one vanishes into the night.

The door stays open. The wind keeps rushing in.

You exhale slowly, forcing your shoulders to drop, and then you push yourself up from the bench anyway, stopping just short of the opening, one hand braced against the frame as the wind rushes in hard enough to tug at your clothes, your hair, anything not secured.

The ground below is mostly shadow, broken shapes you can’t quite piece together into anything useful. It doesn’t matter. You’re not going to see them.

“Stay clear,” someone says behind you, not unkindly.

You nod without turning, shifting just enough to not be in the way while still staying exactly where you are.

Close enough that if they come back fast, if they need something, you’ll already be here.

Your hand tightens slightly on the edge of the door.

The comms crackle.

At first it’s just static, a low hiss under the constant noise of the helicopter, and then a voice cuts through.

“- we're in position-”

Another voice overlaps it, clearer. “Copy.”

Every part of your attention narrows down to that one channel, the sound pressing straight through the headset and into your skull.

“Move.”

You can't hear a lot, it's too muffled to make out clearly, but just enough to paint a picture your brain latches onto anyway. Hallways, doors, bodies moving fast.

“Clear.”

A beat.

“Left.”

Your fingers press harder into the metal frame, the cold biting into your skin even through the gloves.

You catch yourself glancing down at your watch, the motion automatic, and then immediately regret it.

Barely any time has passed.

It feels like you’ve been standing here forever, every second dragging, and yet the numbers don’t match that at all. You look away, jaw tightening, and fix your gaze back out into the dark like you can force it to move faster.

Another burst of static.

“Contact-”

The word cuts off.

Your stomach drops so fast it feels like the helicopter itself dipped, like something just shifted under your feet. You straighten instinctively, every muscle locking up.

Then, voices again, sharper now, overlapping just enough that you can’t quite separate them.

“-handled-”

“Move, move-”

The comms crackle again, a burst of noise that almost drowns out the next line.

“-target secured-”

For some reason, the words don't loosen the knot in your chest.

Because secured doesn’t mean safe.

“En route.”

Movement behind you picks up again. Someone brushing past, another voice calling out something you don’t catch. The helicopter adjusts slightly, position shifting, readying.

The dark below shifts, just movement where there wasn’t any before, shapes separating from the shadows. Your eyes strain, trying to make sense of it, heart kicking harder with every second that passes.

There are too many of them, too much motion, and your eyes skip over everything that doesn’t matter until they land on Tom.

For a second, you don’t move.

He’s worse than you thought he'd be.

You knew he wouldn’t be okay. You told yourself that over and over, tried to prepare for it, but nothing in your head quite matches the reality of him being half-carried between two men, his weight not fully his own, head tipped forward like it’s too heavy to hold up.

There’s blood, too much of it, smeared dark against his skin, his clothes, and there's something about the way he moves, or doesn’t, that makes your stomach drop hard.

Someone grabs onto the frame, hauling themselves up first, and then they’re lifting him in, guiding him through the opening.

“Careful.”

They lower him quickly, controlled but fast, onto the floor space just inside the door, and you drop with him without thinking, knees hitting hard, one hand already at the side of his face, the other bracing his shoulder as they let go.

“Hi baby,” you say, the words coming out before you’ve even decided on them, breath uneven but voice trying to stay steady. “I’ve got you, sweetheart-”

His skin is warm under your hand, too warm, and there’s a smear of blood along his jaw that your thumb brushes without thinking. His eyes are closed at first, lashes dark against skin that looks wrong, too pale under the streaks of dirt and red.

“Tom-” your voice catches.

You swallow it down, force your voice to hold. “Hey, baby, c’mon, open your eyes for me.”

His brow tightens, just a fraction, and then his eyes open, slow and heavy, like it costs him something to do it. They don’t focus right away, sliding past you like he’s not quite seeing what’s in front of him.

Your hand moves, automatically, cupping the side of his face more firmly, thumb brushing under his eye, grounding him.

“Tom, it’s me,” you murmur, softer now, leaning closer without realising it. “Right here, I’m right here-”

His eyes find yours and stop, and for a moment there’s just that. A quiet, stunned stillness where he’s looking at you like he doesn’t trust it.

Like you’re not supposed to be here.

Your chest tightens, sharp enough it almost breaks through everything else.

“Yeah,” you breathe, a small, shaky exhale slipping out before you can stop it. “Yeah, it’s me-”

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t say anything at first.

He just… looks at you.

“Easy,” you murmur, sliding one arm more securely under his head as the helicopter shifts, lifting him just enough to settle him against you. You shift back, bracing yourself, and his head ends up in your lap without you planning it, your hand automatically moving into his hair, fingers threading through gently to keep him steady.

No one stops you.

Someone’s talking behind you, a medic probably. They work around you instead, hands moving in and out of your peripheral, checking, pressing, doing what needs to be done.

All you can focus on is him.

“Hey,” you say again, softer this time, bending over him slightly so he doesn’t have to look far. “They got you out. You're out, ok?”

His gaze slips for a second, unfocusing, and your hand tightens in his hair just slightly, thumb brushing his temple.

“Don’t do that,” you whisper, the edge of something desperate creeping in despite you trying to hold it back. "Please, sweetheart."

His hand moves.

It’s slow and uncoordinated, fingers catching weakly at your sleeve before sliding down to your wrist. The grip isn’t strong, but it doesn’t need to be.

You cover his hand with yours immediately and his eyes find you again, more focused this time, even if it’s faint.

His lips part.

For a second, nothing comes out, then, rough and low, “you-”

It trails off, breath catching, like the rest of it won’t form. Your throat tightens, and you lean closer, your free hand brushing back the hair stuck to his forehead.

“Yeah, it's me,” you say, voice soft but steady, filling in the space he can’t. “I’m right here, baby.”

His grip tightens, just a fraction.

You don't want to think about how weak he seems, how hurt, so you just press a quick, careful kiss to his forehead, avoiding the worst of the bruising, the blood.

The helicopter climbs, banking away from the building until the lights below smear into something distant and unreal. The door is pulled in partway, not fully closed, and the rush of air settles into a steadier, lower roar.

Everything narrows down to the space between your hands.

The medic returns, and suddenly there’s more structure to the chaos. Gloves snapping on, a case opening, the quick inventory of what’s needed first. You don’t look up when they start talking. You don’t take your eyes off him.

“He’s responsive?” the medic asks.

“Barely,” you answer, already adjusting your grip as his head shifts slightly in your lap. Your hand slides more securely into his hair, steadying him. “In and out.”

The medic doesn’t comment, just nods, already moving in. “Alright. We’ll start with the obvious. I need access-”

“I'm not moving,” you say quickly, before they can try to reposition him. “Just tell me what you need.”

There’s a pause and then a short nod. “Keep his head steady. If he tries to move, don’t let him.”

"I don't think he's going anywhere," but you still adjust, one hand firm at the base of his skull, fingers spread carefully to support him without pressing too hard. The other stays wrapped around his, anchoring him, even as the medic starts working.

They move fast. Cutting fabric where they need to, exposing injuries in quick, practised motions. You don’t let your eyes linger too long on any of it, but you see enough, the dark bruising spreading under his ribs, blood matted along his side, smaller cuts that don’t matter until they all do together.

“Hey,” you murmur, softer now, bending slightly over him as his breathing hitches. “I know, sweetheart, I know-”

His eyes flicker open again, unfocused at first, then catching on your face like it’s the only thing in the cabin that makes sense. His brow tightens, a faint crease forming as something pulls him back toward awareness.

“BP’s low,” the medic mutters, more to themselves than to you. “No surprise.”

Something presses briefly against his arm, a cuff you realise, and then it’s gone again, replaced by other hands, other movements. You track it all in pieces, staying just aware enough to follow instructions when they come.

“Press here,” the medic says, guiding your free hand to his side, over a spot that makes his whole body tense even in this state. “Firm. Don’t let up.”

He reacts immediately, breath catching, head shifting weakly in your lap. Your heart lurches.

“I know, I know-” you murmur quickly, your voice dropping, softer, more instinct than thought. “I’m sorry, I know, baby, just- just a second.”

Your hand in his hair tightens just enough to steady him, fingers threading gently, grounding. You lean closer, your forehead almost brushing his for a second before you pull back just enough to see him.

“It’s me,” you remind him, quieter now. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

His eyes open again, slower this time, like it’s harder to get there. There’s pain there. Confusion.

“…hurts,” he manages, the word slurred, barely formed.

You swallow, hard, and nod immediately, even though he probably can’t process it fully.

“I know,” you say, voice steady despite the way your chest tightens. “I know it does. They’re helping you, alright? Just- hang on a little longer.”

Your thumb moves again, small, repetitive, brushing against his temple, his cheek, whatever part of him you can reach without getting in the way. It’s automatic, something you don’t even think about anymore.

He exhales shakily, eyes slipping half-closed, and for a second you think he’s gone again.

“Hey- no, no,” you murmur, sharper now, leaning closer. “Tom, c’mon-”

His name seems to catch him, and his gaze flickers, drags itself back up to you with visible effort.

“That’s it,” you breathe, relief threading through the words before you can stop it. “That’s it, right there-”

The medic shifts beside you, hands still moving, voice low and steady as they work. “He’s going to want to sleep. Try to keep him with you as much as you can.”

“I am,” you say immediately.

The helicopter rocks slightly, turbulence or just the motion of flight, and you instinctively tighten your hold, adjusting to keep his head stable in your lap. He shifts with it, a faint sound catching in his throat, and your hand smooths through his hair again, slower this time.

“You’re okay,” you murmur, softer now, the words almost lost under the steady thrum around you.

Then you start the deceent.

You feel it, the angle shifting, engine tone deepening, the helicopter pulling down out of the air.

The medic is still working beside you, voice low and steady, but even that starts to blur at the edges as motion takes over the cabin.

“Base in sight,” someone calls.

The words barely land because Tom starts to slip.

You notice it in the smallest ways first. The way his fingers, still loosely wrapped around your wrist, lose tension. The way his breathing evens out, not in a good way; in that thin, drifting way that means he’s not fighting to stay awake anymore.

“Hey,” you say immediately, sharper than before, your hand tightening in his hair. “Hey- no, don’t you do that.”

His eyes flicker once.

“Tom,” you try again, quieter this time, leaning closer, your thumb brushing his cheek. “We're so close, just a little longer.”

But his grip slackens.

“No,” you breathe, almost to yourself, panic cracking through the edges now despite everything you’ve been trying to hold together. “No, no, no- hey, baby, stay here-”

His eyes close.

Not peacefully.

“Tom please-”

Your hand tightens in his hair, the other still locked around his wrist, like that can physically keep him here. Your breath stutters hard in your chest, something sharp and ugly pushing up your throat.

The helicopter jolts.

Lands.

Harder than you expect.

And suddenly everything is moving.

The doors open, voices shout, and hands start reaching in from everywhere at once. The cabin that felt so small in the air is chaos the second it touches ground.

But you don’t move.

For half a second, you just stay there with him still in your lap, his head heavy, unconscious, blood and bruises and everything you were trying not to fully see finally real in the harsh base lights.

Then someone says your name.

You blink hard, once, like it might reset something, and then your hands finally loosen enough for them to take over.

He’s lifted carefully, moved onto a stretcher, stabilised, gone from your hands.

“Where is he going?” you ask, voice rougher than you meant it to be.

“To medical,” someone answers immediately. “We’ve got him.”

You take one step to follow, and then another, but you’re not really thinking anymore, just moving on instinct, because stopping feels impossible right now.

No one stops you.

You follow the stretcher until it disappears through a set of doors, and then you’re left outside them, breathing too fast.

A medic steps out a few minutes later.

Looks at you, “You can come in. He’s stable. We’re just finishing up.”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t answer right away. You just nod, once, and follow.

The room is too bright when you step in. Clean and controlled. Everything is in its place except him.

He’s on the bed, already changed out of the worst of it. They've draped a gown over him, loose and awkward, not bothering to tie it or even cover him decently, relying instead on a blanket pulled up to his waist. Monitors beep quietly beside him, steady in a way that doesn’t feel real yet.

He looks smaller like this.

Someone is checking lines, adjusting something at the side of the bed. You don’t really see them anymore. You just move closer, slowly, like the space itself might break if you rush it.

“He's okay,” someone says softly behind you. “Just resting.”

You nod again, because that seems to be all you can manage right now.

Then you’re at his side.

Your hand hovers for a second before you touch him, just his fingers first, careful like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again if you’re too fast.

He doesn’t wake.

“Hey,” you whisper anyway, leaning in slightly, voice breaking just at the edges now that you don’t have to be controlled anymore. “You scared me…”

Your thumb brushes his knuckles.

Then you notice the blanket shift slightly, the way it’s not quite right over his hip.

Without thinking, you fix it.

Pull it up a little higher, smoothing it down. Make sure he’s not cold, or exposed, or alone.

You sit down carefully in the chair beside him, still holding his hand, still watching his face like if you look away even for a second he might slip again.

You must sit there just looking at him for hours; the room is quieter now.

Not silent, the machines make that impossible, but the kind of quiet that settles once the urgent work is done.

The beeping is steadier. The movement around him has slowed to occasional checks, small adjustments.

Stable.

You still don’t like the word.

Your hand is still in his, fingers loosely curled around his like you’re afraid of what happens if you let go first. The blanket has slipped again at his hip, half-dragged down by a negligent nurse, and the untied gown underneath is… not doing much to hide anything.

It makes something sharp and irritated flare in your chest.

Of all the things for them to be sloppy about.

Your hands are already moving, pulling the blanket back up carefully, smoothing it over him so it actually covers something, so he’s not just left there uncovered.

It slips again the second you let go.

You exhale quietly through your nose.

Your attention shifts to the gown.

Up close, it’s worse than it looked from the chair. The fabric is twisted slightly under him, one side barely holding, the ties at the back completely undone. When you lift the edge to fix it, your hands slow.

Its the clearest you've seen it so far, the bruising, dark and spreading along his ribs, deeper than you realised. Cuts, some cleaned and dressed, some smaller ones left as they are.

You keep going, gentler now.

You shift slightly out of your chair, careful not to jostle him, one hand braced lightly against his side as you pull the gown back into place. The fabric is cool under your fingers, sliding over skin that’s too warm, too still.

You lift him just enough to get the fabric straight underneath and his breathing hitches faintly at the shift. You freeze for a second, eyes snapping to his face.

He doesn’t wake.

“Sorry,” you whisper anyway.

You reach behind him, fingers finding the loose ties at the back. They’re twisted together, half-knotted from being pulled on and off too quickly. You work them free, smoothing them out before tying them properly.

Then you fix the blanket again.

Higher this time. Tucked more securely at his side, drawn up over his waist so it stays where you put it.

“Honestly,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, fingers tugging the fabric into place. “At least pretend you have basic decency-”

His hand moves.

Fast and not very strong, but it catches you, his fingers closing around your wrist mid-motion.

For half a second, your brain doesn’t catch up. Just registers the warm contact, and then the rest of him shifts.

His eyes are open.

Not fully, but open.

He looks wrecked. In a deep kind of pain, breathing uneven and shallow like it hurts to take it in fully.

But he’s looking at you.

“…hey,” he rasps.

It’s barely a word. Frayed at the edges. Like it had to fight its way out.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, and it’s not polished or controlled or anything you’ve been trying to be. “You’re awake.”

His grip tightens slightly, like he’s making sure you don’t disappear.

“You absolute idiot,” you say, but it breaks halfway through into something else entirely, your free hand pressing briefly to his chest like you need to feel him there to believe it. “Do you have any idea-”

Your voice cracks. You hate that it does.

You swallow hard, but it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the pressure worse.

He shifts slightly like it costs him, wincing faintly, but he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he pulls you closer with what little strength he has.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time.

Like he’s testing it.

You shake your head, blinking fast, trying to hold it together.

“I thought-” you start, and then stop because your voice gives out completely.

The waiting.

The helicopter.

The comms.

The way his hand went slack in yours. The way you kept telling yourself stable like it meant something. The way you weren’t sure if you’d ever actually see his eyes again.

It hits all at once.

Your hand comes up to your mouth, like you can physically hold it back, but it doesn’t work. Your breath shakes instead, uneven and sharp, and you look away for half a second like that might help you reset.

It doesn’t.

He watches you do it.

“…baby,” he murmurs, rougher now, and his thumb moves against your wrist, small and grounding even like this. “Don’t-”

You laugh once, but it’s broken immediately.

“I didn’t know,” you say, and now it’s there, all of it bleeding through. “I didn’t know if I was going to... if I’d even get you back-”

Your voice breaks completely on the last word.

You hate that it’s happening in front of him.

He exhales slowly, like it hurts, like everything hurts, and then he pulls again.

You go without thinking.

Your hand releases the blanket without meaning to, and suddenly you’re leaning over him, half-standing, half-falling into the edge of the bed, and he meets you there as best he can.

It’s clumsy. Unsteady.

But it’s real.

His arm shifts, drags you into him until your forehead ends up against his shoulder, careful around everything that’s still hurting him. You feel his hand at your back now, weak but there, holding you like it’s the only thing he’s decided he still trusts.

“I’ve got you,” you manage, but it’s not steady anymore. It’s just honest. “I’ve got you, okay? You're okay now-”

His grip tightens slightly again.

Not much.

But enough to answer.

The sun is still out when you pull up to Rick’s place, but it’s starting to dip. Everything is washed in golden light, like the whole street’s been dipped in honey.

Rick’s voice hits you before the engine even cuts. “Jesus, you made it! Hey, watch the driveway, it’s a little- no, yeah, you got it.”

You barely have time to grab your bag before he’s pulling you into a hug, all energy and movement and half-finished sentences. He smells like aftershave, cigarettes and whiskey.

“C’mon, c’mon, I wanna show you the place. I've been fixing it up, y’know, bit by bit-”

He takes your suitcase like it weighs nothing, already halfway up the path, and you follow, eyes dragging over the house. Inside, it’s cooler, thank god, the curtains half-drawn against the heat.

Rick’s still talking.

“You hungry? I bet you've been eating crap in college, I think I got stuff in the fridge, or we could go out, there’s this place down the-”

“You plannin' to let her breathe first?” The new voice comes from somewhere behind you, lower and slower than Rick's.

You turn.

He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s been there the whole time. Like he belongs there more than anyone else in the room, you know who he is before Rick even says it.

“This is Cliff. You've met, I think, years ago.”

Cliff doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a second, eyes dragging over you in a way that isn’t exactly rude, but definitely isn’t polite either. Like he’s sizing you up.

Then he pushes off the doorframe, steps closer. “Rick’s sister, huh. You've grown up.”

It’s not really an observation as much as a statement.

“Forgot he had one,” he adds, like he’s talking more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, well,” Rick cuts in, dropping your bag with a soft thud, “she still exists, believe it or not.”

He sticks his hand out.

His grip is firm, warm, lingering just a second too long before he lets go. Not enough for anyone to call it out but just enough for you to notice.

“Cliff,” he says, like you didn’t already hear. You give your name back, and he nods once, like he’s filing it away somewhere.

“Long drive?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Mm.”

That’s it. Conversation over, apparently. But you don't have time to dwell on it because Rick’s already moving again, pulling you toward the living room, pointing things out you’re not really listening to.

“-and the pool, you gotta see the pool, it’s the best part you'll love it-”

The next morning comes quieter than you expect. The sunlight slips through unfamiliar curtains, and the air is already warm. For a second you forget where you are.

Then you hear movement somewhere in the house.

Voices. One of them is unmistakably Rick, half-loud even when he’s trying not to be. The other is slower. You throw on something easy and follow the sound down the hall, bare feet soft against the floor.

The kitchen is already occupied.

Rick’s at the counter, mid-story, gesturing with a piece of toast like it’s all a part of the performance.

“-and I’m telling you, the guy didn’t even look at me, just kept-”

Cliff’s leaning against the sink, coffee in hand, like he’s not really listening but you can guarantee he's catching everything anyway.

He glances up when you walk in. “There she is,” Rick says, turning when he sees Cliff's attention drifting away from him. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, good, you want coffee? Cliff made it, so, y’know, no promises, but-”

“It’s damn fine coffee, thank you very much,” Cliff mutters.

You move toward the counter, reaching for a mug, aware of him without looking directly. You pour the coffee.

“Careful,” he says, voice low, just beside you now. “It’s hot.”

You glance up and find him closer than you expected. “I can handle it,” you say. His mouth twitches, like he almost smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

Days fold into each other, warm and slow and sun-heavy, and somehow he’s always there.

Always just around.

You start noticing things, like the way Cliff moves through Rick’s house like it’s second nature; fixing things without being asked, leaning in doorways, taking up space without trying to.

You sit with Rick on the couch, running lines for some upcoming project. You can feel it before you even look. Cliff, somewhere behind you watching.

“C’mon, more emotion, he’s leaving you, you gotta sell it-”

"Rick, I'm not the one in the movie. Why do I have to have emotion?" You protest, already getting frustrated.

"For me, please, I need to feel in the zone." So you try again, louder this time, more force behind it.

Rick nods, satisfied. “Yeah, that’s it-”

“Too much.”

You turn.

Cliff’s in the doorway, arms crossed. Rick frowns. “What?”

“She’s pushing it,” Cliff says, eyes on you, not Rick. “Doesn’t feel real.”

There’s a beat, then Rick sighs, already conceding. “Alright, fine, what would you do, Mr Expert?”

Cliff shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Less.”

The next day you decide to use the pool Rick keeps gushing about.

He's inside, on the phone, voice carrying through the open door, you can hear him where you’re stretched out on a chair, sunglasses low on your nose, heat pressing into your skin.

You hear the gate open, and then Cliff walks in, nodding once when he sees you. He grabs a beer from the cooler without asking, twists it open, and leans back against the fence.

Silence settles.

“You always this quiet?” you ask after a minute.

He glances over. “Only when I don’t got anything to say.”

“And right now?”

Another sip. A small shrug. “I dunno. Still deciding.”

You huff a laugh, turning your head toward him. “About what?”

His gaze lingers this time.

“You.”

That night, Rick is half-asleep on the couch, TV flickering low. You’re at the other end, legs tucked under you, not really watching.

Cliff sits in a chair across from you, boots kicked out, arm draped over the side. Every time you glance up, his eyes are already on you.

Like he knew you were going to look.

It's impossible to point to one exact moment where it changes, but it does.

He starts keeping his distance.

Not always, but enough for you to notice. He sits a little farther away, leaves the room a little earlier, cuts conversations short, like he’s correcting something.

So you sit closer again one afternoon, your shoulder almost brushing his.

He stills and you can feel the tension in his body, tight and controlled. “Somethin’ you need?” he asks, not looking at you.

“No.”

“Then you might wanna give me a little space.”

You lean back anyway just to see what happens. His jaw tightens, just slightly. “Or not,” he adds, huffing.

Rick doesn’t notice anything, he never does.

He just keeps talking, moving, existing in his own orbit, pulling you both along with him without realising what’s building underneath.

One evening the house feels abnormally quiet. Earlier, it had been filled with Rick’s voice; loud, restless, spilling from room to room in half-finished thoughts and half-formed plans. Something about drinks. Something about a meeting. You hadn’t really been listening.

You only remembered nodding, at some point, as he grabbed his keys and disappeared out into the night like he always did.

You sit in the living room with the lights low, the television on but muted, more for presence than your attention. A glow washes over the space in soft, unfocused colours.

The sound of the door clicks through the house before you see him.

Heavy boots on the floorboards. A familiar rhythm now, one your body has started recognising before your mind does.

Cliff.

Keys land on the table with a quiet clink. His jacket comes off in one smooth motion, shrugged from his shoulders. Everything about him feels unhurried.

You glance over as he moves further inside.

“Thought you were with Rick,” you say.

“I was,” he answers simply, nothing else follows it.

He disappears into the kitchen. You hear the fridge open, the soft clink of glass. When he returns, there’s a beer in his hand, condensation already forming along the bottle.

He doesn’t sit immediately, instead, he stays standing for a moment longer than necessary, eyes on you. “Why’re you still up?” he asks.

You shift slightly on the couch, pulling one leg in beneath you. “Couldn’t sleep.”

A quiet hum leaves him, almost dismissive, like he doesn’t fully buy it but isn’t interested in challenging you on it. He takes a sip, slow, before finally lowering himself onto the couch beside you.

The silence stretches out again, filled only by the faint hum of the television and the distant sound of the city beyond the windows.

He takes another drink. You don’t look at him.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

For a moment, nothing moves.

Then he exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite anything. “No, I haven’t.”

You turn your head slightly. “Yeah. You have.”

His jaw tightens in the smallest way, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice. But you’re close enough now that you do.

“Kid-”

“Don’t call me that Cliff,” you cut in immediately.

A beat passes.

Then, quieter, more controlled, he corrects himself. He says your name instead, low and deliberate, “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I really?”

You shift toward him now, no longer pretending to stay still. His grip tightens faintly around the bottle.

“You pull away every time I get too close,” you continue, voice steadier now. “You won’t even look at me half the time anymore.”

“That’s not-”

“It is.”

Another silence settles between you, thicker than the last. Eventually, he sets the bottle down on the table in front of him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Then tell me.”

He doesn’t answer.

For a brief moment, it feels like the entire room is holding its breath around the two of you. “You really want to have this conversation?” he asks finally.

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in you.

He leans back a fraction, studying you now instead of avoiding you. “You’re Rick’s baby sister. I mean, you're in college for Christ's sake,” he says at last, flatly.

“So?”

“So…” He exhales quietly, the sound carrying more weight than his words. “That should be enough for you to understand why... whatever this is, needs to stop.”

“It’s not.” Your voice softens without losing its certainty.

His eyes flicker down to your lips for the briefest moment, too quick to be anything obvious, then return to yours.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “That’s the problem.”

You move slightly, and your knee brushes his. It could be accidental, there's no reason for it not to be, but you both know it isn’t.

He goes still immediately.

“Don’t do that,” he says. Not angry, but firm.

You don’t move away.

“Why not?”

His hand drags once across his face, slow, like he’s trying to steady something in himself rather than change the situation around him.

“Because it’s not a good idea.”

“That’s not a very good answer.”

“It is, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “If you listen to it.”

You tilt your head, watching him more closely now, and the air between you seems to get heavier, charged in a way that makes everything else seem distant. Neither of you moves. Neither of you breaks eye contact.

“You gonna stop me?” you ask.

You see it happen, not dramatically, but unmistakably. The smallest fracture in his otherwise impeccable control.

He leans in, just enough that everything shifts. Close enough that you can feel him; his heat, presence, the tension stretched tight between your bodies, but he stops before anything resolves. Suspended in that space where restraint and impulse collide.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher now. “I am.”

Then he pulls back, rising from the sofa before the moment can stretch any further, running a hand through his hair.

“This isn’t happening,” he says, almost under his breath.

The distance returns all at once, sharp and cold, filling the space between you like it had never been gone. You stay seated as he reaches for his keys again, watching him move toward the door.

He pauses there for a second.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

And then he's gone.

The next time you see him its not the same.

He's standing there like normal, leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, exactly where he was yesterday.

Except it's definitely not normal.

Because this time, when you walk in, he doesn’t look at you.

No one else would notice, but you do. His attention stays fixed somewhere else; on Rick, on the counter, on nothing in particular.

Anywhere but you.

You move around the kitchen, reaching for a mug, opening the fancy cabinets you’re still not used to, but you’re aware of him the entire time. Of the space he’s not taking up. Of the way he’s choosing not to acknowledge you.

Suddenly, Rick launches into one of his monologues, already halfway out the door, grabbing his keys, his sunglasses, talking as he moves. “Alright, I gotta run, I’ll be back before- actually, no, maybe not, depends how long this thing goes. But you’ll be fine yeah? Cliff’s here, so nothing bad will happen.”

There’s something in the way he says it so casually, like it means nothing.

Cliff’s here.

Rick’s gone just as quickly as he started, the door shutting behind him, his voice fading out into the driveway.

And suddenly it’s quiet again.

Just you and Cliff.

The same as last night, except now there’s no point pretending it’s normal.

“You should eat something,” he says, tone even.

“I’m not hungry.”

A pause.

Then, finally, he looks at you. It’s brief. “Suit yourself.”

But there’s something underneath it now; he's less steady than before You lean back against the counter, arms crossing. “You’re really gonna act like nothing happened?”

His jaw sets.

“It didn't,” he says, quieter this time.

“That’s not what it felt like.”

“What you think it felt like doesn't change what actually happened, honey.”

You watch him for a second, taking that in. “Right,” you say.

He nods once, like that settles it.

You wait for a bit, then push off the counter and move past him, close enough that your arm almost brushes his, and move to the living room.

He goes rigid.

Cliff lingers near the doorway for a second, like he’s deciding something, then follows you in.

He doesn’t sit right away. “You got somewhere to be today?” he asks.

“No.”

“Okay.”

A beat.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

You don’t answer immediately. Just watch him, really watch him, in a way you haven’t been able to when Rick’s around.

“Like what?”

He huffs, not quite amused.

“You know.”

You tilt your head slightly, like you’re considering that. “Like you almost kissed me last night?”

“That’s not what happened, and you know it.”

“No?” you ask, softer now.

“No.” He shakes his head, voice low.

You lean back slightly into the sofa.

“Then why won’t you look at me?” you ask.

“I am lookin’ at you.”

“Not like you did before.”

He finally moves, stepping closer. “You want me to?” he asks. The question is low and controlled, but there’s something under it now. A strain that wasn’t there before.

“You’re the one who said it’s a bad idea,” you say.

“Yeah.” His answer comes without hesitation, like he’s already decided how this conversation is supposed to go.

You watch him for a second. “And you always avoid bad ideas?”

That pulls something loose at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. “No,” he says.

It hangs there after he says it. Doesn’t get cleaned up or softened.

He doesn’t look away, and neither do you.

“Probably should,” he says, sighing as he finally sits down next to you.

The couch creaks softly under you as you turn toward him more fully, the distance between you narrowing without either of you naming it. Your knee brushes his.

His eyes flick to where you’re touching him.

Then back to your face.

He starts to lean in, just a bit, but you've run out of patience. You meet him halfway.

Your hand catches at his shirt as you close the space, and when your mouth meets his, it isn’t careful or uncertain anymore.

He responds just as fast.

One hand sliding into your hair, steadying you without hesitation, pulling you in like there was never really a question about whether he would.

He pulls you in closer, not rough, just certain now, like whatever line was holding him back finally gave up. Your hand fists his shirt harder without thinking, fist curling into the fabric as the distance disappears completely.

He's warm and solid, real in a way that makes everything else feel a little far away. His mouth moves against yours with increasing intensity. When you don’t pull away, when you don’t do anything except stay right there, he exhales against you, something in him settling.

His thumb shifts slightly in your hair and you lean into it without thinking.

The sofa behind you shifts as you move further into his lap, bodies adjusting without breaking the contact. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, and you feel him start to harden again against your thigh.

"Jesus," he mutters against your mouth. "What are you doing to me?"

"Same thing you're doing to me." You shift, pressing closer, and he groans.

His other hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you more firmly against him. "We should stop."

"Should we?" You rock your hips.

"Fuck." His grip tightens. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that right?"

"Good." You kiss along his jaw, down his neck. "Die happy."

He makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan. Then he's rolling you onto your back, settling between your thighs. "You're a menace."

"You like it."

"I do." He kisses you hard, possessive. "Too fucking much."

One second you’re pressed into the couch beneath him, and the next his hands are everywhere at once, urgent, searching.

Your fingers catch at his shirt, tugging it loose, and he pulls back just enough to drag it over his head, barely breaking contact before he’s back on you again. Fabric gets in the way after that, yours, his, it doesn’t matter. It’s all just something to push past, to get rid of.

Your breath catches when his hands finally find your bare skin, when yours do the same. Before you can properly process anything, you're left with nothing between you but heat and the press of him against you.

You can really feel him now, hard and ready against you.

"Wait." He pulls back, breathing hard. "Gotta grab a condom, sweetheart, gimme a second."

"Stay here," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead before climbing off you.

You watch him walk to where his wallet sits on the sideboard, completely unselfconscious in his nakedness. He's beautiful, all lean muscle and controlled power.

Even now, after everything, he moves with that same careful precision.

He returns with the small foil packet. "Spread your legs for me."

The command in his voice makes you shiver, but you obey. He kneels between your thighs on the couch, and his expression softens as he looks at you.

"Gotta get you ready for me first, baby," he says quietly, lowering himself onto his stomach.

"Cliff, cmon don't make me wait-" you whine, voice coming out breathy.

His jaw tightens, and you see heat flash in his eyes. "You keep saying things like that, and you won't be walking tomorrow."

"Promise?"

He makes a sound low in his throat, and suddenly his mouth is on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair as his tongue drags through your folds.

"Fuck," you gasp, but you're not pushing him away.

"You can take it." His voice is muffled against you. "You're going to take everything I give you."

He's meticulous, working you slowly despite. His tongue circles your clit in lazy strokes, never quite enough pressure to push you over, but enough to make you squirm.

"Please," you whimper.

"Please what?"

"More. I need-"

"I know what you need." He slides two fingers into you, and you're so embarrassingly wet that they go in easily despite the stretch. "You need me to fuck you again. Need me to fill this pretty pussy up."

"Yes." You're trembling, caught between too much and not nearly enough.

He works you with his fingers and mouth until you're writhing, until you're begging, and only then does he pull back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with hunger.

"Turn over," he says. "Hands and knees."

You scramble to obey, positioning yourself on cushions. You feel exposed like this, vulnerable, and it makes your pulse race.

His hands smooth over your ass, squeezing. "Look at you. So fucking perfect."

You hear the tear of foil, feel him fumble behind you for a second. Then he's pushing into you from behind. The angle is deep, shocking, and you drop to your forearms with a moan as he bottoms out.

"That's it." His hands grip your hips. "Take all of me."

He sets a harsh, relentless pace, a far cry from his usual controlled self. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his rough breathing.

One hand slides up your spine to grip the back of your neck, holding you down.

"You feel so good," he grits out. "So fucking tight."

You can't form words anymore, can only moan and push back against him. The pleasure builds fast, your body already primed from before. When he reaches around to rub your clit, you come with a sharp cry, clenching around him.

"Fuck, yes." He doesn't slow down, fucking you through it. "Give me another one."

"I can't-"

"You can." His fingers work your clit in tight circles. "Come on. One more."

The second orgasm crashes into you before you've recovered from the first, and you sob into the mattress. He follows you over, groaning your name as he spills into the condom.

You collapse forward, and he comes down with you, careful not to crush you with his weight. You're both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling.

"Okay?" he murmurs against your shoulder.

"Mmhmm." It's all you can manage.

He pulls out slowly, and you look down to see the mess on the sofa beneath you.

"Christ. We really did make a mess."

You laugh weakly. "Your fault."

"My fault?" He nips at your shoulder. "You're the one who can't keep your hands off me."

"You're the one who just fucked me."

He rolls off you, and you expect him to get up and grab his clothes. Instead, he disposes of the condom and then pulls you back against his chest, seemingly content to lie in the aftermath.

"We should clean up," you mumble.

"In a minute."

But a minute turns into five, turns into ten, and neither of you moves. His hand strokes lazy patterns on your skin, and you trace the lines of muscle on his chest.

"This is insane," you say quietly.

"What is?"

"This. Us. I only just met you again like five days ago."

"Six," he corrects. "But who's counting?"

You tilt your head back to look at him. "Doesn't this feel weird to you?"

His expression is serious. "Nothing about this situation is normal. Normal rules don't even apply."

"Is that your way of saying you don't regret it?"

"I don't think I could ever regret you." He cups your face. "I just don't want you to regret it. When this is over, when you're thinking straight and back to your normal life in college-"

You kiss him to shut him up. "Stop thinking about later. I want now."

He kisses you back, deep and thorough, and you feel him starting to harden again against your hip. You reach down to wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly.

"Again? Really, honey? You sure you're ready again?" he asks, but he's already responding to your touch.

"Shut up."

This time you push him onto his back and climb on top of him. You're sore, definitely going to feel this tomorrow, but you don't care. You want him again. Want to feel him inside you, want to watch his face as you ride him.

You sink down onto him slowly, and his hands come up to grip your hips. "Fuck. You're going to kill me."

"You keep saying that." You start to move, rolling your hips. "But you're still here."

"Can't seem to help myself." His eyes are locked on where you're joined. "You're addictive."

You ride him slowly at first, finding a rhythm. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into the touch.

"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you need, sweetheart."

You do, chasing your pleasure, using him. He lets you set the pace, content to watch and touch and murmur filthy praise. When you start to tire, he takes over, gripping your hips and fucking up into you.

"Come on," he urges. "Another. Give me another one."

"I can't-" But your body is already responding, tightening around him.

"You can. You will." His thumb finds your clit, and that's all it takes.

You come with a broken cry, and he follows immediately after, pulling you down hard onto him as he empties himself inside you, each pulse sending more shockwaves of pleasure through you.

You collapse onto his chest, completely spent. Your thighs are shaking, you're not sure you could move if you wanted to.

For a moment, there’s nothing except breathing.

His hand moves back to your hair, but slower now. Less intent, more instinct, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it now that everything’s already happened. His other arm shifts around you anyway, steadying you without thinking about it.

Protective, almost automatically.

Like it’s easier for him to do that than anything else.

The room feels different now. Real in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.

You can feel him under you, warm and solid, his chest rising and falling at a pace that’s still not fully even. Like he’s trying to catch up to something his body already decided for him.

Neither of you speaks. There is no clean way back into language from this.

Eventually, he exhales, but it doesn’t sound as steady as he probably wants it to.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet, still rough around the edges.

You nod against him before you can really think about it.

“Yeah.”

Then it hits you, cutting through the daze, your hand tightens slightly against his chest.

He notices immediately.

His arm shifts around you, “What?” he murmurs, voice lower now.

You hesitate, just for a second. “We didn’t- Cliff we forgot the condom the second time, what if-” You don’t finish it, but you don’t need to.

There’s a pause.

He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s choosing calm on purpose. His hand moves up into your hair, steady, reassuring, fingers threading through it in a way that feels more deliberate now.

“Hey,” he says quietly, dipping his head a little closer. “S’alright.”

His thumb brushes lightly along your arm, slow and grounding, like he’s pulling you out of your head before you can spiral too far into it.

“We’ll figure it out,” he adds, softer now, voice right against your hair.

His hand smooths down your back once, slow and grounding, like he’s trying to bring you both back into your bodies again instead of wherever you just were.

Reality starts creeping in around the edges after that.

The shift of fabric, the unfamiliar quiet, the awareness of space that used to be filled. Your hand tightens slightly against his chest without meaning to, a defence mechanism, perhaps.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His arm around you shifts again, not tighter, but firmer. Like he’s anchoring you on purpose now instead of instinct.

“You don’t gotta bolt,” he says after a beat.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I’m not bolting.”

He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out what that actually means, then he gives a quiet huff through his nose. It's not quite a laugh, but close enough.

“Good,” he says.

His thumb brushes lightly once near your shoulder, absent-minded again. “This is… not complicated yet,” he adds.

There’s a hint of warning in it. Or maybe honesty, it's hard to tell. You let out a small breath of laughter against his chest.

“Give it time,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he says after a second.

Neither of you moves to fix anything, because there’s nothing clean to fix yet. Just the two of you, tangled up in the aftermath of a decision that already exists, whether you’re ready for it or not, and a brother who will come home eventually.

The paddock club is humming with leftover adrenaline.

Champagne flutes crowd every surface, half-finished and sweating under soft golden light. Someone is laughing too loudly near the bar. Someone else is already posting highlights before the night is even over. You stand in the middle of it all like you belong here, because you do.

Silk skims over your skin, diamonds press cool against your collarbone. The floor-to-ceiling windows turn the circuit outside into a glittering afterthought.

You are supposed to be celebrating, which you are.

Technically.

You swirl what remains of your drink and watch a cluster of sponsors orbit the man who just climbed onto a podium a few hours ago like he hasn’t spent half his life doing exactly that.

The cameras love him, the team loves him, and the crowd definitely loves him.

And yet, he looks like he would rather be anywhere else. Your phone buzzes against your palm.

Where’d you disappear to?

You don’t turn around immediately. You let yourself finish the sip first, let the familiar burn of expensive champagne settle low in your chest.

Only then do you glance over your shoulder.

Sonny's moved away from the crowd, now leaning in the doorway like he accidentally wandered into the wrong party and decided to stay out of spite.

His hair is still damp from a rushed shower but somehow there’s a faint smear of something dark along his jaw, grease, you suspect. A glass dangles loose from his fingers, untouched.

You sigh, long and theatrical, and cross the room anyway.

“You smell like petrol,” you inform him by way of greeting.

His mouth tips at one corner. “You smell expensive.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “I know.” You fold your arms, eyeing the crowd pressing closer, the flash of another camera. Someone is already trying to pull him back into the noise.

Someone else is asking you a question you don’t bother answering.

“You should enjoy yourself.” you say. “There's more champagne to spray. More interviews to charm your way through.”

“I've done my part.” His gaze drifts over your shoulder to the glass walls, to the dark stretch of track beyond them. “Was actually thinking of getting out.”

A beat.

“And go where exactly?” you say.

He shrugs. Like the answer genuinely doesn’t matter. “I dunno sweetheart, somewhere that isn’t this.”

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it, soft and disbelieving. “You just finished on the podium.”

“Yeah.”

“And you want to leave the party.”

“Yeah.”

You study him then. The stubborn set of his shoulders. The way he’s already half-turned toward the exit like he expects you to come with him without needing to ask.

It’s infuriating.

“You’re unbelievable,” you decide.

He lifts his glass in a lazy toast. “You're still dating me, sweetheart.”

Across the room, someone calls your name but you don’t look back. The man standing in front of you is far more interesting.

“Five minutes,” you tell him, trying for authority and landing somewhere closer to a challenge. “If I get murdered in a car park, I’m haunting you.”

He grins, a quick crook of his mouth that is dangerous in a way the podium cameras never quite capture.

“C’mon then, princess.”

The air outside is cooler than you expect.

The noise from the party fades the further you walk, heels clicking against the concrete in a constant sharp, expensive protest. You wrap your arms loosely around yourself, already scanning the line of black cars waiting under soft floodlights.

Drivers. Secure cars with tinted windows and quiet engines.

Normal.

You glance sideways at him. “You did actually call a car, right?”

He doesn’t answer. That’s your first warning.

“Sonny.”

He keeps walking, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s got nowhere urgent to be. Like you’re not standing here in heels that cost more than whatever questionable footwear he’s currently wearing.

“Don’t tell me,” you say slowly, already suspicious, “you’re about to make me walk.”

“Relax, darlin'.”

You narrow your eyes. “I am relaxed.”

“You’re glaring.”

“I always glare.”

He huffs something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You pass the last of the waiting cars. The lights thin out. The concrete gives way to darker stretches of the paddock lot, quieter, emptier. You slow slightly, hesitation tugging at your steps despite yourself.

“Sonny,” you say again, softer now. “Where are we going?”

He stops suddenly.

You nearly walk straight into him.

Before you can recover, his hand closes around your wrist. It's warm, firm, casual in a way that sends something sharp down your spine, and then he tugs you sideways.

You don’t even get time to protest before a van door slides open.

You blink.

Once.

“…absolutely fucking not.”

He’s already guiding you up, hand steady at your waist like he expects resistance and doesn’t particularly care. The interior smells faintly of petrol and something warm, lived-in. A blanket is tossed over the back. A duffel bag half-unzipped.

You stare at him, scandalised. “You brought me to a van.”

“You say that like it’s a crime.”

“You just finished on the podium.”

“Yeah.”

“And this-” you gesture vaguely, “-this is your grand exit plan?”

His mouth tilts, amused. “You were expecting an Uber?”

“I was expecting a nice car, Sonny, Uber Black minimum.”

He leans back slightly, watching you take in the space, eyes flicking over your dress, your heels, the way you’re very carefully not touching anything.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, softer now. “You’ve survived worse.”

“I actually don’t think I have.”

You step further inside, cautious, like the van might suddenly reject you. Your heel catches slightly on the metal floor and his hand is there again, steadying your hip without comment.

You glance at him and settle onto the edge of what you assume passes for seating, smoothing your dress beneath you like muscle memory.

He shuts the door and the world outside muffles instantly. You shift, glancing toward the front. “You’re actually driving this?”

“That’s usually how it works.”

You exhale, long and dramatic. “If we break down somewhere in a van after you get a podium, I’m going to be extremely annoyed.”

He slides into the driver’s seat, glancing back at you over his shoulder, eyes softer than his tone.

“I’ll try not to let that happen, darlin’.” Your stomach does something deeply unhelpful.

“Sonny, where are we actually going?” you ask again, quieter this time.

He starts the engine. It rumbles low, steady, familiar to him in a way you can’t quite understand yet.

“Nowhere special.”

The drive ends up being quieter than you expect.

The circuit lights disappear behind you, replaced by dark stretches of road and the occasional blur of passing headlights. You shift slightly in your seat, adjusting your dress, then adjusting it again when the fabric refuses to cooperate with the van’s very un-luxurious seating situation.

You can feel him glancing back at you every so often.

You pretend not to notice.

After a few minutes, your phone buzzes again. The messages start piling in. Various congratulations, invitations, someone asking why you left.

You silence it.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m assessing the choices I made tonight.”

That earns you a low chuckle.

“Regretting them already, princess?”

“Ask me again when I know where we’re going.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just drums his fingers lightly against the wheel.

Then, after a moment, “You hungry?”

You blink. “Am I-” You pause, thrown off by the question. “I mean. I assumed we were going somewhere.”

“We are.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He hums, turning the wheel smoothly as the van exits onto a quieter road. Then, a few minutes later, neon appears ahead, flckering slightly in the dark.

You lean forward, squinting.

The sign buzzes faintly.

DINER OPEN 24 HOURS

You can only stare as he slows, pulling into the mostly empty lot like this is completely reasonable.

You stare harder.

“No you’re actually joking Sonny, there's no way.”

He parks, shifts the van into neutral, and glances back at you, expression dangerously calm. “What?”

“This,” you gesture at the glowing, slightly questionable building, “is where you’re taking me?”

“You said you were hungry.”

“I did not.”

“You didn’t say you weren’t.”

You sit back. “Why would you choose… roadside diner food?”

“Baby, this is the best kind of food.”

You look at him like he’s personally offended you.

“Stop kidding around Sonny-”

He kills the engine. “C’mon,” he says, interrupting you, already reaching for the door handle.

You don’t move.

“Sonny.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“I’m wearing silk.”

He glances at your dress. Then at the diner. Then back at you.

“You’ll survive.”

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face before pushing the door open with far more force than necessary. The cool air hits your legs immediately, heels clicking loudly across cracked asphalt as you follow him.

You glance down at your shoes.

You’re going to die here.

"Sonny, wait-"

He turns, offers you his hand, and tugs you closer to his body, walking you to the door.

Inside, the diner smells like coffee and frying oil and something sweet you can’t quite place. A few truckers sit in the corner. A couple in a booth share fries.

You stop just inside the doorway.

“This is… aggressively casual.”

He slides into a booth like he’s done this a thousand times. “You coming, princess?”

You hesitate.

Then you cross the room, carefully, sliding into the seat opposite him like you’re lowering yourself into unfamiliar territory. The vinyl sticks faintly to your legs and you pretend desperately not to notice.

A waitress drops menus in front of you with a tired smile and looks at Sonny, “Coffee?”

He nods once. “Yeah.” Then she looks at you.

“…Do you have wine?”

There’s a pause.

Sonny’s mouth twitches.

The waitress blinks. “Uh… we’ve probably got red.”

You sigh, resigned. “I’ll take it.”

She nods, walking away.

You fold the menu open, scanning it like you’re searching for something salvageable. Your brow furrows deeper with each passing second.

“No starters,” you mutter.

He leans back, watching you with a quiet amusement. “How shocking.”

You glance up. “And I assume there’s no three-course option.”

“If there is I'm pretty sure the third course is pie.”

You huff softly, but you can’t quite hide the hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. Glancing at him over the edge of the menu, you catch the warm look he’s trying not to make obvious.

Your stomach flips again.

The waitress returns, setting down your very questionable glass of red wine, and you take a sip.

It’s terrible.

You try not to show it but Sonny definitely notices.

“Good?” he asks, far too casually.

You lift your chin. “It’s… fine.”

The next morning you wake up before him.

It all slowly comes back in pieces.

The room first; unfamiliar ceiling, streaks of light cutting through the curtains. Then the sheets, twisted low around your legs

Then everything else.

You don’t move right away.

You can feel the weight of his arm slung around your waist, like it never left. The air is cool where it meets your bare skin, and you're sensitive in places you’re not thinking about too closely. When you shift even slightly, you feel the quiet, lingering echo of last night in the way your body reacts before your brain can catch up.

You still.

Breathe out slowly.

Behind you, he stirs, like he’s registering your movement even half-asleep, his hand tightening just slightly where it rests against you.

You let yourself relax back into it.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at nothing in particular. Your phone sits on the bedside table face down.

When you finally turn onto your back, it’s slow, the sheet dragging with you. His arm slips, then settles again across your stomach. He makes a low sound, something caught between a breath and a word, brows pulling together as he wakes.

“Stop moving so much,” he mutters.

“You’re the one attached to me.”

A pause.

His eyes open, unfocused at first, then landing on you. He squints slightly at the light, then at you, like he’s piecing things together.

“…what time is it.”

“No idea.”

“You check?”

“No.”

His gaze flicks to the phone on the table.

Still untouched.

He looks back at you, something quieter in his expression now. You don’t comment on it. Instead, you reach up, brushing his hair back where it’s fallen into his eyes, lingering for a while.

His gaze drops, not to your face, but lower, then back again, like he’s catching himself.

“Coffee?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You hum. “Probably bad.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moves to get it.

There’s a beat where nothing happens. Just the low hum of the room, the faint light, the space between you.

Then his hand shifts.

It slides along your side, slow, like he’s checking something, or remembering. Your breath catches before you can stop it, and that’s all it takes.

His eyes flick back to yours.

“Still tired?” he asks, but there’s something else under it.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him. “You?”

“I could be convinced to stay.”

You huff a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh. “That sounds lazy.”

“Yeah, it is.”

But he doesn’t look away.

And neither do you.

You shift closer first this time, your hand finding his arm, fingers curling over his bicep like they did last night.

His hand comes up to your jaw, not forcing, just guiding enough that when he leans in, you meet him halfway.

The kiss is slow. Warm, familiar, a little messy in a way that feels like you’re both still waking up inside it. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and your mouth parts against his without thinking, breath catching when he deepens it just slightly, like he’s testing the line.

Your grip tightens.

He exhales softly against your mouth, and it sounds almost like a quiet laugh. Then he shifts closer, pressing you back into the mattress without any real force behind it.

When you finally break it, it’s not clean. Just a small pull back, your forehead brushing his, your breath still uneven in a way you don’t comment on.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

Then you glance, briefly, toward the room again; the cheap furniture, the thin curtains, everything that would’ve bothered you before.

“…let's stay a bit,” you say, like it’s nothing.

He stills.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You shrug, arms snaking around his neck to play with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s fine.”

He watches you for a second, hand pressing lightly at your side, grounding, like he’s making sure you’re actually here.

You tuck yourself even closer, your head settling against his chest, leg slotting between his without thinking.

His arm comes around you easily.

A minute passes.

“You’re not complaining,” he says eventually.

Your eyes stay closed. “Don’t ruin it.”

His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh while he presses a soft kiss to your temple.