Additional tags: fem!read; no use of Y/N; adultery; age gap; +18; MDNI

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

The water was still warm.

Baelor sat with his head tipped back against the rim of the copper tub, eyes half-closed, the day’s weight temporarily gone from his shoulders. You stepped out of your shift and into the water without a word. He opened his eyes as you settled across his lap, skin sliding against skin. For a moment there was only the quiet sound of water and the way he looked at you — like a man who had been starving.

He kissed you deeply, one wet hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck. You kissed him back with the same hunger, the same reckless need that had lived between you for months in stolen hours and locked doors. A low, needy moan spilled from your mouth into his as you felt his cock harden against your cunt beneath the water, thick and insistent, already seeking heat.

Neither of you heard the outer door open.

Jena stood in the threshold of the bathing chamber and did not speak. The silence stretched long enough that Baelor finally broke the kiss and turned his head. Whatever he saw in his wife’s face drained the colour from his own.

She looked at the two of you for a long, still moment. Then she turned and walked out.

She did not close the door.

They came for you both within the hour.

You were given a dry robe and nothing else. Baelor was allowed a tunic and breeches. The Kingsguard who escorted you said nothing. The corridors of the Red Keep felt longer than usual. Every torch seemed too bright.

The solar of the King was already occupied when you were brought in.

Daeron II sat behind the heavy table, his crown resting on a cushion at his right hand. He looked older than he had that morning. Jena stood to the left of the table, spine straight, hands folded so tightly the knuckles had gone white. She did not look at you.

Baelor was directed to stand before his father. You were placed several paces behind him and to the side, near the wall. A single glance from the King made the rule clear without words: you would not speak.

Daeron’s voice was quiet and terrible.

“Explain.”

Baelor did not kneel. He stood as he always stood — tall, composed, the Hammer even now. “There is nothing to explain that my lady wife has not already told you.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

A muscle jumped in Baelor’s jaw. “I have been in a relationship with my niece for some time. Tonight Jena found us together.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Jena’s voice cut through it, low and shaking with the effort of control. “In the bath. Naked. Kissing her like a man kisses a wife.”

Daeron closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, something in his face had hardened beyond anger into pure, cold necessity.

“You are Hand of the King,” he said. “You are my son. You are married. You have children. And you have chosen to risk all of it — the realm’s confidence in this family, the peace I have spent years building — for this.” His gaze flicked past Baelor to you, then away as if the sight itself offended him. “For her.”

Baelor’s hands curled at his sides. “I will not insult you by denying what I feel.”

“I am not asking what you feel.” Daeron’s voice rose for the first time. “I am telling you what you will do. The girl leaves the Red Keep at first light. She will be taken to a motherhouse far from this city and she will remain there. You will relinquish the Handship effective immediately. You will go to Dragonstone and remain there until I decide the realm can bear the sight of you again. Your wife and children will stay here under my protection.”

Baelor took a step forward. “Father—”

“No!” The word landed like a hammer blow. “You have already been heard. You will not be heard further on this matter. The scandal will be contained. There will be no public trial, no open accusation, no opportunity for the Blackfyre loyalists or the Faith to make a weapon of your shame. As far as the court is concerned, you have been sent to Dragonstone for rest after long service, and your niece has chosen a life of contemplation. That is the story. It is the only story that will be told.”

Jena spoke without looking at either of you. “I want her gone before the children wake.”

Daeron inclined his head once. “She will be.”

Baelor’s voice came out rough. “And if I refuse?”

The King looked at his son for a long time. When he answered, every word was precise.

“Then I will make the truth public myself, strip you of every title and honour you hold, and let the realm decide what to do with a Hand who cannot keep his oaths or his hands to himself. Choose carefully, Baelor. You have already cost this family enough for one night.”

The silence that followed belonged entirely to Daeron.

Baelor’s shoulders rose and fell once. The fight did not leave his face, but something in him recognised the wall he had driven them all against. He gave a single, sharp nod.

“As the King commands.”

Daeron’s gaze shifted to you for the first and last time.

“You will not attempt to see him. You will not write. You will not return to this Keep while I live. Do you understand?”

You were not permitted to answer, but the weight of the room demanded something. You lowered your eyes and nodded once.

Jena finally looked at you then. There was no triumph in her expression. Only a deep, exhausted disgust and the cold satisfaction of someone who had set a firebreak and watched it hold.

“Get her out of my sight,” she said.

The Kingsguard moved.

You were taken from the solar without another word allowed to leave your mouth. Behind you, the door closed on the King, the Hand, and the wife who had chosen the realm over the man she married.

By morning you were already on the road to the motherhouse, the Red Keep shrinking behind you under a pale sky.

Baelor left for Dragonstone the same day, stripped of the silver brooch that had sat at his breast for years.

The court was told a careful story about rest and contemplation. Most of them pretended to believe it. Some of them did not.

He finds you to be a quiet, shy, gracious thing. Quiet, shy, gracious, presumably drenched in lavender and vanilla.

…Possibly something hazel-esque, something floral, but it's a pleasant feminine oil, he tells himself. Nothing more than an indulgence that any disciplined man like himself could withstand. He has dealt with the likes of common whores throwing himself at him. Your scent, your beauty. No fucking matter.

But...you bow your head, eyes lowered. Is he the first man of the day to make you timid?

The thought soothes Ormund from the way your scent seeps into his throat as you do.

What had seemed floral grows intimate on your skin, as if the sweetness rises from the pulse at your throat and escapes your lips! It clings, clings, clings to the inside of his nose. He can even still smell you after you leave the room, this isolent savor of a Targaryen girl. Have you left it to linger to test him? Must be.

Ormund's resentment of you grows quickly. Quiet, shy, gracious. He'd rather you be brazen, but no, no---you are what he deduces to be silently deceptive. How else would the Gods challenge him?

"I praise you for your propriety, princess."

A Targaryen princess cannot simply be gentle. If there is gentleness in such blood, it must be a lure. It could very well be that your Valyrian instinct has been only made subtle by Alicent's upbringing. In his time in the Red Keep, he witnesses all the signs of your mother's influence.

There is your careful words, reverence for the Seven...

Alicent has done commendable work. At the very least, she has managed to raise one dragon properly. You laugh when he tells you so.

"Your mother’s influence is apparent. She did well in caring for one Targaryen. As have I."

Well enough that the boy is more Hightower than anything.

"I presume my little brother is perfect?"

You humor Ormund with your tease behind your fingers, shyly. Do you think even your amusement requires apology? How intolerable.

How good.

The conversation delves into your wonder about your brother. Beneath all your courtly restraint is a painful hunger to know the boy. Ormund does not know what to make of your questions. Is he happy? Does he have friends? Why has he stopped drawing dragons and swords in his letters to you?

It is a mutually beneficial talk, as he answers with more pride than the questions warrant. He'd ask for forgiveness in the light of the Seven if his claims weren't true.

Daeron is very diligent. Courteous and devout. Well with a sword, regardless of the humble lies within his correspondence with you.

He speaks of you more than he speaks of his other siblings. Yes, that's not saying much, but it's as if he could possibly have any memories to miss you by.

"Oh, good! I'm glad he has had your love and care to bear, Lord Ormund."

At that, Ormund begins imagining what might have happened had you been sent to Oldtown too.

...He could have raised you more than properly.

The guardian he could've been to you, a firm hand set upon a promising but dark flower. The girl he imagines, rising in the Starry Sept and repeating prayers after him.

You'd learn his approval is a priority...

And that his displeasure demands the occasional punishment. He could've cut away every filthified tendency inherited from your father’s blood before it bloomed, even though he has not seen much of it from you, saved for the cunning scent.

By womanhood, obedience would come so naturally that you would never think to call it surrender or suffering, as young women who deny the natural order of things so often do. His voice might have lived inside your currently unknowable mind.

These thoughts horrify him, but only because they are a fucking waste. They are nothing more than fantasy, and it is fantasy that makes him feel cheated of the opportunity of taming you to be rewarded until pleasing him feels no different from virtue itself, if your mother did well enough to teach you virtue's importance.

Nevermind, to the bane of his being here.

"Might I ask what perfume it is that you wear, princess?"

You place a palm on your chest, and Ormund's gaze follows in a way he will never name as helpless.

"I do not know the exact mixture, my lord. My handmaid prepares it differently every other morning. Sometimes I think it is lavender, but I believe she will use vanilla. Do you...mislike it?"

"I find it pleasant, but excessive." He nearly slaps your hand when you reach for your neck, where you must've applied it earlier. "But there is no need to apologize or to alter your habits on my account."

You nod.

"...As you wish, my lord."

Those words follow him into the night. Your scent does too, along with the dangerous, indulgent thought that, perhaps, you are not beyond salvage.

Your soul, despite the dark of your blood, might still be trained into something as lovely as the way you smell.

It lingers in galleries after you have left and blooms in halls where you passed an hour before. He swears on it! It is through no fault of his own that he can scent your movements through the Red Keep like a fucking hound dog---which chair the princess has occupied at supper, that the flight of stairs he walks upon just had her in its grasp.

No. It is not his fault. You linger, and if this is all done with sneaked intention, Ormund would have every right to call you a cunning whore. To lead the overseer of Oldtown astray with some perfumed concoction, to play sweet and innocent to have him believe you good. Yes, every right indeed.

It gets to the very point that Ormund could also have every right to claim he is merely observing a threat. Temptation should be studied before it can be mastered, yes?

Yes, he shall lecture Daeron on this when he arrives home.

"You are the princess's handmaid, yes? I require a favor of you. She has informed me that you mix her oils yourself. What does it contain?"

The need to find the exact ingredients that cause him to bear this dangerous curiosity is great enough that he corners---happens upon your handmaid in a quiet passage.

She lists them. Ormund smiles.

"I require a vial. Just one."

"...A vial?"

"For examination only."

He certainly does not appreciate the cautious look that grows on the young woman's face. She blinks in confusion. "...My lord?"

"Do you require me to repeat everything? The fragrance is unusually strong, and I only wish to determine whether it may affect those sensitive to such things. I will compensate you for your efforts...as long as you do not trouble the princess with the matter."

The maid agrees. And how funny is it that a successfully coerced cooperation of a young bitch maid who can't keep her expressions to herself makes him fear the possibility that he was...diminished by said conversation.

No matter, he was not, even a scholar such as himself bears insecurities. The vial arrives that evening, carried by a servant in a cloth.

Ormund opens it and brings it to his nose. It is, up close, a wonderful scent.

...And utterly fucking lifeless!

Every ingredient is present, yes, yet it does not seize him nor make his blood simmer hot beneath his divine flesh as it did when you first bowed to him, and he to you.

There is no instant thought, with the vial to his nose, of your neck against his tongue or your skirts pushed above your thighs that he has yet to see. Where is it, sweet whore? That ravenous need to bury his face in your bosom and how deeply your perfume seeps?

The missing ingredient is you. Is it your warmth that causes your scent to thrive? Your skin? May the Seven forbid that it might be your filthy, ancient blood he has spent his life regarding as savage.

The irony in the thought is strong when Ormund knows you pass his chamber.

He is only rubbing the oil into his wrist with force just before you do, damning the thing to take him whole as you did, sniffing the---alright, pathetic attempt to reconstruct you from its lifeless ingredients while the fantasies worsen and turn his temper to frustration.

The laugh he hears you give as you pass follows your true scent.

It somehow floods the room and puts the counterfeit oil to shame. It upon his nose, his wrists...his elbows, it all turns offensive, to the point where Ormund rises from his chair so quickly that it screeches against the stoney floor as the life of your lush, warm savor burns itself into the back of his throat.

The moment when he nearly makes the weak mistake of opening the door is wild. The only moments a somewhat untrained Targaryen can produce, it seems.

He has half a tempted mind to call you inside under some pretense concerning your little brother. He imagines your eyes of startled confusion when you find the vial in his hand, your stammer when you realize he has obtained the scent you wear on your skin?

Would it give you a fright? Would it flatter you? Would sweat deepen the scent as blood rushed to your cheeks?

...And, hopefully, untouched cunt?

Ormund's cock hardens painfully at the thought.

He braces himself against the desk, breathing the last traces of you from the corridor. Cruelly, barely...it is enough to turn your slightest corruption of him into bodily need.

Ormund thinks it fair, he has given you the satisfaction of his temporary ruin, as well as happy thoughts of the brother you can only remember as a babe.

It is just enough.

He opens his breeches by the laces, yanking them and letting his cock spring free. He's already leaking at the tip when he turns the vial down to slather the thick oil over the length of his shaft. It's slick, warm, how he imagines the glide of your cunt would be.

He wraps his fist around himself and strokes at a brutal pace. His eyes close, and there is only the picture of you beneath him---shy no longer, your knees parted with force, your mouth trembling those little my lords until you are brave enough to say his name.

As he pumps with friction, the skin of his cock pulling in the twist of his sticky palm, there you are, arching your back as he claims you in fantasy. He would be gentle at first, you have to be with a woman in the beginning. He's sure he must convince you that there is no shame in yielding to a man better equipped to govern you.

The whole of you.

Ormund presses his scented wrist against his mouth. The oil is bitter upon his lips. Still wrong, and the inadequacy only drives him to pump faster, near frantic---he humps his own stroking, precum-covered hand.

Imagination is what he must make do with to supply your warm skin where there is only his own. The man can almost feel your cunt, tight, dripping the way the oil does against his thighs. Oh, how you would welcome his thickness while he whispers filth into your ear. Filth that will be forgiven.

Or easily justified. Well, welcomed? Welcomed...that Ormund cannot be too sure of.

Even with the mother of bastards leading the line to the throne as your half-sister, which is why he cannot also be sure of your own virtue...would you welcome him so easily? Seems unfathomable that you wouldn't, but...

...Once again, a firm hand comes to mind.

Only as his hips begin to jerk, boots sounding out against stone as he hunches over the desk.

Ormund would have to make you acknowledge what your scent has done to him, make you hold his gaze while your breath against the leftover mess you leave upon his aching cock, and if you were good enough, he would tell you how wickedly sweet you must taste, and that you must try you for yourself.

Firmness would do well enough to make you understand that kindness does not leave you harmless, nor does it mean you can move through any hall he paces, leaving your scent for him to find, and expect him to think you honorable of wholesome fucking thought!

...But there can be redemption if you confess what you have done.

Ormund's breath turns harsher, the tight knot in his balls demanding release. The thrusts into his fist burn violent, and he can only bite his lip and groan against his teeth. The oil fills his nostrils fully, and it brings him to the brink of his own pleasure.

"Gods!"

Past the point of no return, you bring him.

With one final, squeezing stroke, Ormund lets out a calmorous groan as his body shudders. His breaths come in quickened hitches, but his ropes of cum splattered across stone and wood in long ropes, long enough that he can pump himself through the mess.

He milks his cock and leaves himself completely spent once finished. If sin had a smell, it would be what he has to wash his shaft of. His wrist. His lips. He looks at the vial with disgust. He must be rid of the rest, surely...

The matter requires further thought, at least until morning---where, in your own chambers of the Red Keep, you wake without the faintest fucking idea that Lord Ormund Hightower has begun resenting...

Even then, when the sunlight splinters through your eyelids and rouses you back to life, it takes a considerable effort to even twitch your little finger, threaded through by a deep exhaustion. The bags under your eyes must be a wonder. 

Your throat feels like sandpaper when you stick out your tongue to wet your lips, grimacing at the taste of your own morning breath. When you try to lift yourself up, your arm buckles, sending you toppling back down. Second time’s the charm though. There’s a deep ache in your hips and joints that you only feel when you roll out of bed. It’ll likely linger into the rest of the day. 

“Where are you off to?” a heavy voice grumbles from the other side of the bed. 

“A shower. Then coffee,” you croak, tucking your feet into a pair of slippers before waddling over to the door where you keep a housecoat hanging.

“Put the kettle on f’r me, darling,” John grunts, before turning over and burying his head back into the pillows.  

The coffee maker boils and bubbles while you take a quick shower. It’s not what you need, but it’ll do until you’re alone, when you can take an hour long shower and luxuriate under the hot water with no thought to anyone waiting somewhere else in your house. 

You sigh and shut the water off.

The breakfast table feels like a scene from a dream. 

On the plate in front of you sits a satsuma orange, quartered, and toast with a thick layer of butter nearly spilling over the crust. Another plate sits on the placemat next to yours, piled high with toast, beans, sausage, and two fried eggs, a stark contrast from your plate. 

At the sink, the man you let spend the better part of the night rutting between your thighs washes a pan. You stare at the meaty, undulating slabs of his back muscles until you’re nearly hypnotized, only snapping out of it when he shuts the water off, laying the pan down to dry in the dish rack. 

“That’s all you’re having?” John asks, gesturing at your plate with his fork.

“For now,” you respond. “I might have something later if I’m still hungry.”

“Of course you’ll be hungry, you’ve hardly got anything on your plate. Here—have one of my eggs.”

He holds his plate over yours and uses his fork to push one of his fried eggs onto your plate. It flops unceremoniously onto your toast. 

You decide against snapping at him because it’s too early and you’re far too tired. You slice open the yolk with the side of your fork instead, staring at the yellow spill over the sides of your toast.

There is a moment over breakfast where you begin to wonder whether John will leave at all. He eats his breakfast and drinks his tea with no real sense of urgency, no indication that he believes that he’s overstayed his welcome. You don’t want to come out and say it, but you can feel yourself getting antsy, your leg jittering under the table. 

Then finally: “Well, this has been lovely, darling, but I’ve got to get going.”

Euphoria swells in your chest at the announcement, but you force it down, schooling your expression into something understanding. “You sure you don’t want more tea?”

The wry look he gives you lets you know that he can see right through your feigned dismay. “No, darling, I think that was enough for now.”

Shrewd man. Far too shrewd for the likes of you.

You send him off with a kiss on the lips and a look so heated that it nearly singes. And then he’s gone, the door locked behind him and his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether. 

And then, and only then, can you finally exhale. 

It’s one of the first weekends in a while where you feel no compulsion to go out or do practically anything. All you want to do is laze about. You make a batch of iced tea and plop yourself in front of the TV, feet tucked under your thighs and phone open in your hand, both screens on at the same time. 

It feels so good to do laundry after making a mess of everything. You strip the sheets and throw them into the washing machine the second John’s out the door, your clothes from the night before not far behind. Later, you cobble together lunch from whatever you have in the fridge, and when supper comes around, you order takeaway, barely cracking open the front door wide enough to snatch the bag off the stoop before retreating back inside. 

He’s still there though. Every time you get a twinge in your hips or an ache in your belly. Every time you glance towards your bedroom on your way to the kitchen and you see the sheets, all clean and neat now, though you can easily recall what they looked like just a few days ago—a tangled, filthy mess of cum, spit, and sweat. 

Unlike your sheets, the stink of John’s presence isn’t easily washed away. 

By the time Monday rolls around, you feel normal again. Like you’ve caught your breath after a long sprint. No bout of Sunday scaries this time, not after the weekend you had, but still you come into work with your head on a bit of a swivel, feeling a bit like an emperor in invisible clothes. Waiting, against all odds and rational sense, for someone to read the signs of your weekend on you. 

No one does, of course. No one says a word because no one notices a thing. You might have expected that if you weren’t so on edge, but paranoia has a way of twisting the mind. By the time lunch comes around though, and no one has said more than a pleasant word to you, you start to let go of the anxiety. Better late than never. 

The latter point doesn’t apply to your period. 

Tuesday is better. You pass a flower shop on your way to work and stop to smell the roses for a change, the heavy weight on your shoulders barely a feather in the light of a new day. It’s that time of summer where every colour is at its most saturated, the pinks and greens and golds and oranges so intense and vivid that their colours seem to almost pour out of them. 

And then it’s Wednesday.

Wednesday is a croissant, the buttery flakes scattered all over the wax paper that you use as a plate, and an iced coffee. It’s a series of boring meetings at work that barely move the needle. It’s a long, circuitous drive home that ends at least once in a dead end because of all the construction going on downtown. It is, in every sense of the word, a profoundly boring day.

The first thing you do when you get home is collapse on the couch for a solid half hour, shoes just barely kicked off at the door. Supper can wait until later. Your stomach grumbles when you think about it, but you just don’t have the energy to cook, all of it eaten up by the stress of the drive home.

This is how the rest of your life is going to look. With a baby, for sure, but still, just you. Just you to come home from work and cook and clean and do it all. And even though it’s what you’ve been working towards, you’re a little morose thinking about it.

There’s a knock on your door. You lift yourself up to sit, frowning at the door. The bell follows soon after. 

You know it’s John before you even check. Call it a sixth sense or intuition, but when the bell rings, your breath catches and your stomach clenches, and you know it’s him on the other side. 

He comes bearing gifts at least. A stack of takeaway containers in a brown paper bag. Even just the smell has you salivating. You can almost imagine that you let him in, that you took a step back and waved him inside, interest and appetite piqued by the smell of greasy food. 

You didn’t though, a sneaky little voice reminds you. You let the door open just enough to poke your head out and he was there on the other side, taking up every inch of space, as if someone had suddenly built a wall right outside your door. And he was gentlemanly about it, smiled down at you and asked you how you were, but his foot was against the door and then wedged between it and the frame, working it open gently with his leg and shoulder, pushing his way inside. Polite all the while, of course, announcing the meal that he’d come with and dropping a sweet kiss on the top of your head, but he did, in fact, push you aside on his way in. 

Your problem is that you can always find a silver lining. Anyone with any common sense would tell you to kick him out tout suite—shove him towards the door, bye bye, so long, thanks for all your help, I’ll let you know if I need you to come back—but you can’t help thinking that, you know, while you have him here, you might as well—

John catches you glancing towards your bedroom door and smiles, amused. “We can get to that later.”

And he does. 

Three times in one week. That’s how many times he comes over. He never leaves without at least folding you over the side of the couch and pumping a load into you, only satisfied when he dips thick fingers into a creamy centre and pulls them out wet, your trembling legs letting him know that the job is done. 

You don’t complain because what is there to complain about? You have a man at your beck and call—though you haven’t yet had to call him—willing to help you make a baby and not asking for anything in return. 

His involvement in your life extends beyond just the bedroom though. You suffer through mid-morning headaches for a week before realizing from the label on the jar that someone must have swapped your instant coffee for the decaf version. John doesn’t deny it when you bring it up. 

Prenatal vitamins are the next thing shoved down your throat, albeit not literally. Fresh, organic fruits and vegetables as well. And grateful as you are for him saving you the trip, you can’t help but wonder if he realizes that you don’t need his help. Eventually, you’re going to have to be self-sufficient. You can’t get used to John bringing you dinner or picking up your meds or getting your groceries because eventually it’s going to end. 

He doesn’t always stay the night. Sometimes he leaves right after the act or in the wee hours of the morning while you’re half-tucked under the sheets, limbs akimbo. His goodbyes are always a long, drawn out affair, even if it means pulling you from a dead sleep. Always a soft, slow kiss sipped from your lips and a little bit of tongue. One last once-over to make sure you’re okay. Sometimes he even fetches a glass of water to set on your bedside table for the next morning. 

A pity you can’t look forward to this for the rest of your life. 

A week and a half later, your period arrives right on schedule.

It isn’t a surprise—you warned John as much over dinner—but it does dampen your mood somewhat when you realize this means that you won’t be seeing John 

The next time John calls, you tell him as much. 

“We should probably reschedule—I’m on my period this week.”

You can hear the raised eyebrow in his voice. “Are you going away as well?”

You frown. “No, I’m not going anywhere. Why?”

“Then why would we reschedule?”

“Oh. Okay.”

Implacable. Unflappable. If you knew more about him, you would’ve expected that from him, but you learn it too late. Instead, you find out about this particular character trait in the shower of all places, your cheek pressed against the wet tile and your hips canted back, John’s cock plunging between your legs, blood dyeing the water around your feet pink and swirling down the drain. 

If you’d known that about him, you might never have let things get to this point. But the dice have already been cast; they’re out of your hands now. All you can do is grip the reins in both hands and hold on for dear life. 

It’s difficult to imagine what your life will be like after this. You’ve spent so long waiting instead of living. Waiting takes up so much space, so much time. It fills the walls of your mind with its presence, a constant, irksome insistence, making the world you’ve been running towards seem leagues away. 

And then there are moments when it seems close enough to touch. 

A month passes like a buzzing fly. Here one second and gone the next. You have an alarm on your phone that goes off while you’re scrolling in bed, waiting for John to come over, and you blink when you see a reminder for the first day of your period. You hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you. 

You pull your shorts and underwear off right there on your bed, checking the gusset for blood and feeling your heartbeat speed up when you find nothing there. You’re late. 

You call and catch him a couple blocks from your place, sounding half-crazy over the phone, but you’re coherent enough for him to double back and grab a box of pregnancy tests. One of the three-pack ones, splurging a little. 

The second you let him in, John herds you into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, flipping the lock at the same time. Your stomach drops out from under you when you hear it click. 

“Here. In this,” he says, handing you a small, plastic cup. 

“Wait, can’t I just pee on the stick?” you ask, reaching for the box that he yanks away from your grasping fingers.

John shakes his head. “This is a better method. Less chance of you missing or not wetting it enough. We’ll put the stick in when you’re done.”

“John—”

“We can stand here all night talking about it, if you’d rather?” The slight furrow of his brows signals that his patience is wearing thin. 

You’ve clearly been giving him too much leeway if he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with putting you through the indignity of peeing in front of him. 

You do it though. Hunched over on the toilet with your pants around your ankles and the cup between your legs, John leaning against the counter and watching you the whole time.You stare down between your spread thighs and into the bowl instead of meeting his eyes, half to ignore him and half to make sure that you don’t miss. 

When you’re done, you hand him the cup. Let him handle it while you wipe yourself off and pull your underwear back up. 

The wait is excruciating. Three minutes of pins and needles, front teeth chipping away at the nail of your thumb. You wish that John would distract you somehow, but his eyes remain fixed on the pregnancy test, unwavering. 

You nearly jump out of your skin when the alarm on his phone buzzes, practically leaping over him to grab the pregnancy test. 

Your heart sinks when only one line stretches across the display. You turn the test this way and that, trying to make out even the faintest indication of a second line, but it’s clear what that one line means.  

Taking it from your hands, John sets the test down on the counter and wraps his arms around you, cupping his hand around the back of your head as he pulls you into his chest.

“It’s alright, love,” he says in a low, soothing voice. “We’ll keep trying.”

His comfort is an unexpected balm. A firm pressure over a wound aching to open back up. 

It’s the first time he sleeps in your bed without making a move on you. You almost have half a mind to bring it up, but you bite your tongue just in time. Why spoil the mood when his arm makes as comfortable a pillow as any one of yours? You like the way his breath tickles the tip of your nose. The way he doesn’t snore but breathes so heavily that he might as well. 

You’re glad that it’s him. This would’ve been harder on your own, with no one around to make the heavy moments lighter. 

Sure, you would have had your friends to lean on. But you would’ve had them on weekends and at mocktail hours, not in the quiet of your bathroom, staring at a negative pregnancy test in only your underwear. 

You’re glad you have John.

Not everyone shares your opinion.

A lawyer friend (not a friend by virtue of being a lawyer, but simply happenstance) goes ashen when you finally break and tell someone about your arrangement with John.

“Did you hit your head or something? Are you out of your mind?”

You wince, sheepish, aware that you deserve the dressing down. “I know.”

“No, you clearly don’t know or you would have come to me about this before having unprotected sex with a stranger in order to get knocked up. Did he even get tested before sleeping with you?”

“Obviously. I’m not that stupid.”

“You actually are that stupid. Did you have him sign anything forfeiting parental rights?”

Your lips form in a perfect circle and she groans, scrubbing a hand down her face. 

A day later, she has something for you to give John to sign. It’s long and technical, but you understand the gist of what a voluntary forfeiture of parental rights entails. 

It should’ve crossed your mind to seek out legal advice before all of this, but you hadn’t been thinking that far ahead. You’d sort of hoped it would be quick, that he’d spend one singular night with you, and two to four weeks later, you’d be pregnant. You hadn’t expected it to take this long; you certainly hadn’t foreseen John's active and prolonged involvement in the process. 

Clearly, you haven’t been thinking straight these past few weeks.

The next time John comes over, you hand it to him, expecting to have his signature by the end of the night. Not anticipating any resistance, and why would you? Your arrangement with him is predicated on this being a temporary affair. 

His face gives nothing away as he works through the document. He might as well be reading a circular. 

“Very official,” he remarks. You almost feel bad about springing this on him after everything that he’s done for you. He’s been nothing but helpful and dependable since this started. 

You feel so bad that you actually apologize. “Sorry. One of my friends is just really paranoid. It’s just a formality.”

John doesn’t respond, flipping over to the next page, eyes still scanning the text.

“You don’t have to sign it right now,” you insist, guilt clawing at your stomach. 

“Nonsense,” he says, dismissing your worry. “I know this is important to you. You have to take care of yourself and our baby. That’s what matters most.”

Your stomach flips. Our baby. It doesn’t alleviate the guilt you feel about ambushing him with a legal document when there are groceries on the counter still waiting to be unpacked, another one of his thankless gifts. It just notches the arrow, the bow pulled back to a taut full draw. 

“Do you have a pen, love? I didn’t think to bring one with me.” The arrowhead punches right between your ribs. 

“No, just take it home. I don’t need it today. Please,” you stress when he tries to argue, trying to take the papers from him. “John, I’m serious.”

He sighs, reluctantly handing you the contract back. “Alright, love, whatever you say.”

There’s a certain relief in getting that off your chest, even if it means putting it on the back burner for a while. It’s not like you have to deal with this now anyway. You aren’t even pregnant yet. 

That must occur to John as well because he wastes no time divesting you of your clothes, his passion tonight a slow burn, a little ember cooking you from the inside. 

Even he seems to be suffering from it tonight. He touches the head of his cock to your lips and sighs like it’s a shame he can’t come in there. He doesn’t mind wetting it though. Makes it a smoother glide when he gets you down on all fours, the floorboards chafing your elbows and knees with every thrust. 

The next morning, you happen to glance down at the coffee table on your way to the kitchen and notice the contract missing. John must have taken it on his way out.