amparo

Sweetling reader ! who is beloved by everyone, she truly is the people’s princess. She is renowned for her beauty and her kindness to the court and Smallfolk. Tales are told and song’s are sung about her all across the regions. The Red Keep etc., is constantly receiving ravens and scrolls asking for the princess’s hand in marriage. She truly has everyone wrapped around her finger; her light touches all over the regions.

Sweetling reader ! who struggles with dragon dreams. She tries to figure them out, but the harder she thinks about them, the more it takes a toll on her. When she does get a dragon dream, it’s extremely hard for her to fall back asleep. Sometimes they get so bad the maesters have to give her a sleeping tonic. She hates talking about them; it makes her feel drained and not herself, as if she wasn’t in her body.

Sweetling reader ! who’s first love was her lady in waiting, Lady Arsa Dustin, a brown-haired and brown-eyed beauty who was 2 years older than the princess. She introduced sweetling into a lot of things; she helped her learn how to command court with her softness and shyness, and how to use it to manipulate others. Arsa truly was Sweetling’s safe place; she would stay up and help her calm down from her dragon dreams. But she sadly had to be sent back to her household in the north to be wed, breaking both of their hearts.

Sweetling reader ! who is spoiled with the prettiest dresses, the finest jewelry, and the most lavish silks and accessories. She is always brought gifts by people. She’s always so grateful and kind about it, not bratty or entitled. She always looks her best and moves with grace and composure. The perfect princess. She loves helping the smallfolk when she can, advocating for them and trying to find ways for their livelihood to improve. When she goes to the markets, she always pays extra for the things she buys and spends extra time at the orphanages.

Sweetling reader ! who tries to hide it, but she’s a very emotional and sensitive person, which can lead her to be dramatic at times. As she got older, the better she handled it, but sometimes it still gets her. When she is too stressed or upset, she likes to train with her sword and bow to let off some steam. She is skilled at both but prefers her bow. If she is too emotional, she will play her harp.

𓏲𝄢 𝒾f she was in house of the dragon...

Sweetling reader ! who is the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Born a year after her older twin brothers Jacaerys and Aerion. (Or just a year after Jace if we are following the actual hotd plot) She is such a mama’s girl, was always at her side and following her around, hiding behind her skirts and holding her hand. She would have her Maids do her hair like her mom’s. She was also very close with laenor, she loved to listen to his tales, he loved to read stories to her before bed.

Sweetling reader ! who is the rider of silverwing, she didn’t seek out to claim her, silverwing was the one to come to her when the princess was age 10. she was with daemon when silverwing came to her, and ever since then the two of them have had an inseparable bond. They spend so much time together, they try to go on flights every day. She loves to sit next to Silverwing and read a book, the dragon curling around her protectively. Silverwing feels her emotions strongly, it’s written that their connection is the strongest a Targaryen and dragon has ever been. They are one.

Sweetling reader ! who was the closest to helaena growing up. She had a fear of bugs and crawlers but she would go along with helaena, helping her collect them, helaena smiling at her dramatics when she touched them. They also had many sleepovers, finding comfort in each other when they had their dragon dreams. They also just understood each other better than anyone else can. They loved to match dresses and hair styles, having tea parties and walking the palace with their arms looped or spending hours under the trees reading. They would send each other letters as much as they could when she left to dragonstone. sweetling loves to send her pressed flowers.

Sweetling reader ! who has been the object of Aemond’s obsession since they were little. she was always so kind to him, and they bonded over not having a dragon of their own. Aemond’s obsession with her only grew stronger when he overheard a betrothal offer between the two of them, but the obsession turned unhealthy after the incident with him losing his eye. He wants her all to himself.

𓏲𝄢 𝒾f she was in a knight of the seven kingdoms...

Sweetling reader ! who is the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen. Born a year after her older brother Aerion. As the eldest daughter, she’s really taken the responsibility of taking care of her siblings, sometimes to a point where she’s not getting enough care herself. She’s a big daddy’s girl; as a child, she would follow him around and hide behind his legs, holding onto his pinkie. She is very close with her father; they are each other’s safe place.

Sweetling reader ! who was sent to stay with her uncle Baelor for several years, and she grew up very close with him and her cousins Valarr and Matarys. Maekar was worried for his daughter, so he sent her to his brother, he knew Baelor would keep her safe and help her grow without being under the influence of her elder brothers.

Sweetling reader ! who has been having the same recurring dream since she can remember. It always starts with her walking through a dark cave, her dress dirty and ripped, and her hands trembling as she searched through the cave passages, falling to her knees with a gasp when a loud, deafening roar shakes the cave. But she didn’t stop searching; she kept going, getting more panicked. The dream always ended with a large silver blue dragon appearing in front of her, stopping her from leaving through the cave entrance. The dragon pressed its snout to her chest with a hot breath that would have her waking up with a loud gasp.

𓏲𝄢 𝒾f she was in game of thrones...

Sweetling reader ! who is the younger sister of Daenarys Targaryen. She was separated from her siblings when she was little. A trusted guard had taken her to the north; all she had was her blanket and a silver dragon egg. She grew up under the protection of the Starks and the North, becoming one of them. The north loves her, calling her their own princess and delicate winter flower. The beauty of the north. Ned thinks of her as his own daughter, raising her as his own but being truthful about who she is and where she came from. The Starks and people of the North are all very protective of her.

Sweetling reader ! who ‘ran away’ from Winterfell at the age of 14 after an argument with Theon and Robb at breakfast. Robb noticed something was wrong with her, and she mentioned her dragon dream and how she felt something was wrong, and Theon made fun of her, calling her crazy. She then yelled at them that she’s not crazy and stormed off. She went to her chambers and packed a satchel, her brush, some jewelry, and her dragon egg. She then snuck off on a horse and headed to the woods. She rode for a while, crying and singing to herself. She came across an injured deer and got off the horse to help it, but the horse ran off when it got spooked. Leaving her in the cold woods with an injured deer and only her satchel she had on. The deer ended up dying, making her cry and try to find her way back, but ending up getting even more lost. She found a hot spring and ended up falling asleep next to it. She woke up to the feeling of her satchel moving and opened it to see her dragon egg cracking open. It was only late into the night when Ned and Jory found her, the smallest little campfire lit next to her curled-up body, holding a silver hatchling close to her chest.

Sweetling reader ! who only got to meet her sister several years later when Daenerys came to the north to find her and strengthen her alliance with the north before she rightfully and successfully claimed the Iron Throne. The two of them became instantly close, making up for the years they unfairly lost. She stayed safely in the north until Daenerys sent for her, letting her know that it’s finally safe to be with her. When she did arrive at the Red Keep, her sister named her as her heir… She can also be requested with the original Game of Thrones plot.

𐔌 ⠀ 𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀ SWEETLING WORKS !

✷ commonly paired with twins Jace & Aerion for my au here !

✷ can be paired with anyone from asoiaf

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…main masterlist ❜❜

roro's note. she is genuinely my favorite reader of mine , like I am so in love with her and I hope you guys are as well 🥹 pls pls fill my inbox with thoughts for her , this is a interactive reader so your guy’s thoughts, ideas, and opinions are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🤍

۶ৎ taglist is open

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Aemond Targaryen. He tries to calculate the right moment to make his confession more meaningful. Aemond loves grand gestures that are remembered for a long time. That is why he so carefully and tenderly sketched the outlines of his future gift on cream-colored paper, a gift he so passionately wanted to give you. It was a dagger inlaid with sapphires, very fine work. On the blade was engraved an inscription he had been writing out on paper with a smile at the corner of his lips. A dagger, as it seemed, was not the most romantic gift, and few men, perhaps only a northerner, would be capable of such inelegant generosity. For Aemond, there was far more meaning, far more poetry in it than in lyrical lines written in a letter. Love for him was something worth fighting for, clawing for it like a victory. What could be more deadly than metal sharpened so diligently that simply looking at it was dangerous?

Aemond also feared he would not always be able to be by your side, no matter how fiercely he wished to protect you every second. His heart was uneasy when he thought of how his helpless, tender lady might be fleeing from someone down the steep castle stairs. The shadow that loomed over you in his mind was sinister, eyes blinking like flames, hands like claws reaching for the escaping skirts of your dress. Aemond wanted to be there, to hold you in his arms in his bed and never let you go a step away, but the duties he had taken upon himself forced him to be far from your hot lips, which begged to be roughly crushed.

He left his gift covered with a velvet cloth, hiding the gleaming steel like a secret. You would only see it later, after he had flown to Harrenhal, having said goodbye to you. Aemond left a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth, unable to pull away when propriety demanded, and told you to look at his gift later. When you pinched the fabric and pulled it up, you gasped at the beauty that bloomed before your eyes. On the wave-carved dagger was elegantly engraved forever yours, A.

Helaena Targaryen. Her love manifests shyly, sweetly, through small gestures that mean a great deal to Helaena. She always chooses the best for you. She hands you the apple she considers more rosy and flavorful, she pushes the piece of pie she deems prettier than her own toward you. A sweet smile lights up Helaena's face, making her look like a warm, kind sun. The wind plays with the ends of her silver hair, and her fingers, slightly pricked from sewing, are the warmest and most tender you could ever imagine. You reach for her yourself. And is it really so hard to love Helaena?

You trustingly lean toward her, a little ashamed of the feeling that has bloomed in your soul. When you rest your head on her shoulder, watching the care she gives to every stitch, you can't help but think how much you want to warm those hardworking hands with yours, innocently, gently. She turns her gaze from the linen to you, starting like a dove. Her lashes are long, trembling, white as a moth's wings. "What is it?" Helaena smiles awkwardly, so sweetly that you want to kiss her cheeks, already touched by a blush. "I'm so... so in awe of you, Helaena, do you know that?" Her lips part into a wider, joyful smile, showing the top row of her pearly teeth. "What are you...?" she asks with slight embarrassment, but she almost places her hand on your knee. Her elegant fingers hover over the fabric, politely asking permission. You nod, returning her smile with one just as radiant. When she touches you, you can't help but think how soft and warm her body is. You involuntarily want to squeeze her in an embrace, never to let go. And it's even harder not to think about how unworthy Aegon is to be called her husband. You couldn't overcome the jealousy within you, you wanted to occupy just as significant a place in her life. Helaena seemed to guess your thoughts. She moved closer infinitely carefully. "I love you. Only you," she assured softly, her voice turning to a quiet, penetrating whisper. She returned to her threads and needle as if compelled, as if she hadn't just sworn loyalty to you a second ago, but every now and then she would glance at you, checking, and perhaps reassuring herself.

Daemon Targaryen. Loud declarations or love songs under a lute are definitely not what Daemon enjoys. He operates with rough honesty when he wants to let his beloved know she matters to him. But this man won't rush to voice those feelings. He is not a romantic hero from bedtime stories told to girls. Daemon comes to you late in the evening, not wearing armor in the full sense of the word. Fatigue has settled on his face in a crease above his brows, and his lips are tightly sealed in silence. There is nothing more convincing than coming back to you again. Returning, carrying the weariness he cannot hide from the one he loves.

His fingers are hard as stone when they touch the silk of your skin. It feels like a warm tide kissing the grey pebbles of a seashore. The prince's fingers slowly pull down the sleeve of your nightgown, eager to bare a little more of you. He kisses your collarbone unhurriedly, tracing the bone with the tip of his tongue. Daemon tastes the salt of your skin, his gaze unreadable and complex, and you would hardly guess that this is how he is absorbing you. You would hardly guess that when he sees a strand of hair left on the plump pillow where your head recently rested, he feels it with his fingertips and does not put it away. A fine tremor runs through your whole body when the tip of his nose traces a winding path, tickling the thin skin of the inside of your elbow. Daemon still hasn't said the treasured „I love you” when his lips press tightly against your wrist, where the blood beats feverishly loudly. The prince looks at you from under his brows for so long that you feel almost shy, despite how often you have shared a bed. Tomorrow he will come again, making you moan his name, and you will only be able to guess how much he needs you.

Jacaerys Targaryen. He wants to do it beautifully. His whole nature strives for something poetic and tender. Jace jumps out of bed and reaches for the quill, but stops himself, looking down in embarrassment. It's foolish enough to write poetry for his beloved lady to let her know how much she means to him. The prince had already tried to write something worthwhile before dawn, as sleep wouldn't come to him. Jacaerys's fingers are smeared with ink, awkwardly and carelessly, like the hasty kisses of a lover. The thick black liquid has already seeped under his nails, leaving uneven black trails there. Sheets of paper are crumpled and scattered across the stone floor of his chambers. He winced at the sight of how untidy love had made him.

The prince returned to his bed, sinking into the soft featherbed, his honey-colored eyes fixing on the small cracks in the limestone. He sighed convulsively, trying to gather his thoughts, but your image would not leave his head. You appeared in his dreams, beckoning him with your fingers, and Jace followed you blindly, like a faithful dog. There was not a trace of prophecy in this, he simply thought of you when he fell asleep and as soon as he woke up. The prince ruffled his hair, running his palm over his pale face with small freckles scattered across it. His lips moved silently as he tried once again to compose a rhyme praising your beauty. Jacaerys was slowly going mad, fruitlessly searching for comparisons, for elegant ways to describe you through his eyes. Everything seemed insufficient and pale, unworthy of you, his beautiful lady.

He remained in this nervous reverie until noon, until he finally took a deep breath and pushed open the door, knowing exactly what it hid. He sat down beside you carefully, but covered your hands with his decisively, pulling from them the dry bundle of herbs you were tying. "My lady, my intentions toward you have never been more serious. You are my sun and my moon, and life without you holds no meaning." Jacaerys spoke quickly and fervently, no longer wanting to take the words back.

Rhaenyra Targaryen. When you were young girls who snuck into the garden to watch the clouds drift across the sky, everything was certainly simpler. She turned on her side and couldn't wipe the smile off her face, simply because you were there, so close to her. And the way you trustingly followed her, always ready for any adventure the princess offered, warmed her heart. Rhaenyra moved closer carefully, worrying inside that you might flinch, run away from her. Her lips barely moved, trembling with nervousness. Nyra always thought of herself as brave, but when she looked at you, at how wide your wonderful eyes were, seeing every speck settled in your irises, she didn't have the courage to say such simple words.

The way she whispered "I love you" sounded no louder than the rustle of crimson, fire-like leaves of the weirwood tree. You didn't know if only your heart stopped or if your whole body had gone numb. Then the princess, her cheeks reddening like a bright sunset, repeated more boldly. "I love you. Not the way friends love each other, you understand?" The corners of her lips lifted in a hopeful smile.

But you couldn't find any suitable words that could reassure Rhaenyra. Of course, your feelings were mutual, but honestly, you hadn't even dared to hope for it. After all, this was Rhaenyra! So many people adored her with lovestruck gazes, watching how her silver strands glowed gold in the sunlight. The best you could do was press yourself against her, awkwardly cup her delicate face in your hands, and just as clumsily press your inexperienced lips to her parted ones. But that was so long ago. The memories had faded with time, yet she still couldn't forget the way your tongue had grazed her teeth, and it was the best kiss of her life. She had given you your first kiss and hoped she would take your last, just as openly loving.

Rhaenys Targaryen. She cannot call herself sentimental, but it's hard to doubt her feelings. Her very presence speaks of them. Rhaenys's gaze is warm, almost maternal. You remembered it well long before she became Corlys's wife. For you, it had always been a throbbing, painful reminder that your indecisiveness had ruined everything. Although you had no right to wish for a shared future together.

But could you ever forget the way the two of you laughed, tangled in the skirts of your own dresses, falling onto the emerald blanket of grass? Your fingers worked deftly, weaving green stems together to form a lush wreath. You crowned Rhaenys, placing your floral tiara on her head, covered in thick, night-dark hair. "Your husband will be lucky. You are so beautiful," you cooed sweetly, tucking her silky locks behind her ears. "No luckier than your husband," Rhaenys mirrored your actions, first gently running the inside of her palm down the length of your hair, but a second later a familiar mischievous spark appeared in her violet eyes, making her tangle your curls. You didn't keep her waiting, pushing her to the ground and pressing her down with your own body. You playfully shoved each other, the princess trying to shift you off and gain a better position. Your breasts rose quickly, heaving. Whether it was excitement or a hidden desire, it made her do it. Rhaenys kissed you firmly, leaving you no choice. You responded without hesitation, but when you realized the catastrophe of what had happened, you pulled back, jumped to your feet, and without a word, ran away cowardly. You had no right to do that! And she stood there in the greenery, so confused, her always proudly straightened shoulders slumped, the wreath slipping from the crown of her head down onto her forehead. That image was seared into your mind, and even now, seeing her with silver-streaked strands of age and the same gentle gaze, you saw that Rhaenys, silently and longingly speaking to your disappearing figure, "I love you."

Baelor Targaryen. He doesn't wait for loud declarations. He is more certain of his feelings than ever, and Baelor won't hesitate to voice what lies in his heart. He is convinced that his marriage is built on great love and doesn't skimp on repeating to you, again and again, that he loves you.

Baelor, exhausted after yesterday's hunt, was sleeping in your bed, almost hidden under the bulky layers of silk, furs, and a down comforter. He rarely allowed himself to wake up later than you, but yesterday they had been chasing the beast he had promised to get you for your dress collar. His whole body ached, but it was a happy, stubborn pain. There hadn't been a single promise he hadn't fulfilled for his lady wife. The future king peeked out from under all that heap, watching as your maid wrapped you in cords. Because you were carrying a child, your old dresses had become too small, and new ones needed to be sewn, ones that wouldn't press against your rounded belly. You sighed with mild resignation. Hearing about pregnancy was one thing, but facing it was quite another. Baelor had begun to notice how critically you looked in the mirror he had given you with such reverence when you told him about the pregnancy. You felt your cheeks, sensing they had become fuller than before. He didn't like how you had been speaking of yourself lately and wanted to present you with the whole world on a gleaming silver platter, just to see a smile on your wonderful, mother-lit face. When the maid finished, gathering the knots into a bundle, Baelor waved her away languidly. Sunlight kissed his ring, which gleamed with a precious ruby. When only you and your husband remained, he escaped from the captivity of the down. The prince crossed the room in a few strides that resembled leaps and stood beside you. His hands spread across your pregnant belly. "You are so beautiful in the morning light." Baelor leaves a slightly ticklish kiss, due to his beard, on your yielding lips. "The most beautiful woman in all of Westeros and my wife. Only mine." He kisses you again, a little deeper, letting you know his words are true, that you are the air that fills his lungs. "I love you, my dear, more than anything in the world," he says into your lips as soon as he breaks the sweetness of the kiss.

Maekar Targaryen. For him, these three words are like a painful incantation. Maekar himself probably doesn't know how many times in his life he has uttered them, whether there were moments that made him so unbearably soft? The words get stuck on the tip of his tongue, as if drying there, when the maester looks at him helplessly, trembling all over. The grey-haired man, whose age was approaching old age, was afraid to voice the horrifying news that fate had in store for the prince. Maekar's heart stopped beating when the maester said there was a high probability his wife would not overcome the illness.

You lay in your bed, almost completely soaked in your own sweat. Your mind was clouded, your forehead hot as a glowing coal. The prince was grateful that the children were not allowed to see you, because when he sat down by your bed and grasped your weak hand, his eyes would moisten on their own. He didn't allow himself to shed those tears, even knowing you were delirious. The hot moisture seemed to cloud his eyes, making everything around him blurry and trembling. The tears remained in his eyes like stubborn knights refusing to surrender without a fight.

But earlier, the maester had encouraged the prince by saying you were on the mend and needed a little more time and rest to fully recover. But earlier, hope had burned for him like a timid flame, making him wake up every morning with the thought that he would come to you, wrapped in blankets like a helpless infant. Maekar ran his fingers over the lines on the inside of your palm, the shapes he drew coming out uneven and broken because of how his fingers trembled. "You can't leave me... our children, you know there are quite a few of them, and I can hardly manage..." Maekar didn't recognize his own voice. He wanted to sound mockingly defensive, as always, but the words cut his throat painfully, coming to him with such difficulty. He rasped like a tearful child, choking on the oncoming hysteria, only now beginning to understand that he had never told you that you were the whole meaning of his grey life. "I need you..." he whispered, feeling the hot hail of tears that had broken through the wall of his control.

Daeron Targaryen. He doesn't rehearse! Daeron convinces himself of this as he paces around the room, probably completing his tenth lap. He wants to hit himself over the head for how ridiculous he looks from the outside. He mutters under his breath, starting over whenever he stumbles. Daeron stopped in the middle of the room as if he'd heard a command. He felt hopeless. He could tell himself a hundred times what he needed to say, but he was always afraid that his confessions weren't needed by you. He wouldn't survive your rejection. Daeron already believed he had no right to love you. There wasn't an ounce in him of what Valarr carried with pride. No one ever sighed after him, because he wasn't the embodiment of reborn hope. His romantic gestures seemed insufficient, not grand enough for a lady of your standing. His younger brother would have long ago showered you in gold and pearls, while Daeron, like a boy, carried flowers to your chambers, adding with such stupidity that they reminded him of you.

The prince was never ashamed of his adventures in the brothel, but when it came to you, he thought it wasn't enough to just wash that off. Your dresses, white as the first snow, your palms as tender as the petals of the lilies he had reverently ordered to be cut for the glass vase hidden in your elegant kingdom, your kind smiles that were given to more than just him and which aroused in him this disrespectful, insolent jealousy. Daeron wished you belonged to him, but that was too bold. Perhaps he knew you so well, but he didn't think he could be your equal. You were a sought-after bride, and that's why he couldn't help but worry that your parents would make an alliance with some lord he would hate for the rest of his life, simply because he had taken you from him.

He knocks impatiently on the door of your chambers, already preparing a thousand excuses to throw at your maid, but it's you standing before Daeron. All the speech he had prepared with such care evaporates. "I... you... you know... love..." he says, blushing ridiculously. "Don't marry... them... marry me..." the prince stammered right there on the doorstep, not even bothering to step inside your room.

Aerion Targaryen. He doesn't think it's worth saying such nonsense at all in his life. Words of love are for lovesick fools, a list Aerion has never been on. He hates himself for watching you twirl in a dance with some idiot lord and daring to laugh at what is surely an equally idiotic joke. All his blood boils with terrible force, and he frankly doesn't care whether you are his wife or not. He likes you, and that is quite enough for him to believe, with capricious grandeur, that you already belong to him.

Aerion doesn't ask when he grabs your wrist roughly. He doesn't hide, ready to show you and everyone around that you are a much better match for yourself. The way you look at him, with what fury you are ready to grab his throat in indignation, only makes him admire your fiery nature more. You don't skimp on harsh words in his direction, only praising your other suitors, and in return receive his iron grip. The prince's hands squeeze you tightly, unforgivably vulgarly. Your snarl mirrors his, as if you were molded from the same dough, ready to compete with each other until someone begs for mercy. But no one will beg. You grip his shoulders, you don't push him away, not even thinking about it.

"When you laugh with those idiots, you look like a complete fool," Aerion hisses caustically, running the tip of his nose along your cheek, momentarily forgetting he's playing the role of a furious dragon, not a hungry cat. The scent of the oils you use hits his nostrils. "Don't you dare anymore." His voice faltered, becoming hoarse and raspy from the emotions you gave him in a generous whirlwind. "You may be a complete fool, but you're my complete fool..." Aerion looks almost bewildered as he whispers this, staring at your lips. His whole being wants to squeeze you, to show you why you shouldn't play on his nerves, but he holds back, because another part of him wants to kiss every one of your fingers, the ones that nervously grip the fabric of his doublet. He wants to bite them gently, but softly, to leave behind small marks that would say not just that you are his, but that he wants you to be his and only his.

Valarr Targaryen. He is a gentleman, and he is convinced that confessions only go hand in hand with a serious proposal. He doesn't expect anything else. Valarr observes you, but he is not testing you, in whose perfection he does not wish to doubt. He is testing himself. It would be unforgivable for him to say such important words to you only to later wonder if you were the right one. But when he secretly watches you talk gently to the doves that have flown to the castle windows, Valarr can no longer lose himself in his thoughts.

You startle in surprise when you feel the prince's presence only by your back. You hastily brush off the breadcrumbs you had just scattered on the stone sill. You hide your hands behind your back, as if you had unforgivably misbehaved before Valarr. A chuckle escapes his lips when he catches you so adorably flustered and utterly charming in your mischief. "Are you feeding the doves, my lady?" he asks playfully, raising one eyebrow. "What do you have behind your back? I hope it's just a piece of bread." Valarr's voice is warm and unusually mischievous. He looks like a man who has plucked a star from the sky. You have never seen him in such a wonderful state of mind.

Forced by the awkward situation, you held out the hunk of bread you had refused but had conveniently found a use for as food for the hungry birds. "Only you would do something like that, you know, my lady?" The prince looked at your palm, clutching the recent pigeon feast. He seemed to glow like that very star he had caught. You smiled, embarrassed. The way he looked was too much for you. In his violet and brown eyes, admiration was poured out. "It's merciful. Don't be embarrassed. You have a kind heart, my lady. I have always known that." Unable to accept praise from a prince who was almost like a god to you, you quickly asked why he was so joyful today. Valarr, without a moment's hesitation, lowered his voice to a velvety tone. "I realized that someone is very important to my heart. And that this lady's kindness will always be my guide in life." A no less beautiful smile spread across his handsome face, making your legs weak.

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Sean Rafferty that is instructed by Arthur to ‘keep her away from trouble’ during his wedding — to not let her dance with the ones that shouldn’t be given attention, to not let her drink to oblivion, to not let her make a fool of herself while the reception takes place — but failing miserably when she disappears from his sight the moment he goes to fetch for a carriage for Anne.

Sean Rafferty who finds the Guinness sister slumped in her bed with a drunk smile and still fully clothed as if she hasn’t even considered taking her clothes off for her own comfort. She’s drunk, her feet hurt from dancing and she wishes for nothing more than to not be bothered by another aunt.

Sean Guinness that with shake of his head reaches to take her pumps off, then undo her corset and whatever was left of her hairstyle. He takes away the glass of champagne standing on the nightstand she brought with her to the bedroom before she can reach for it.

Sean Rafferty who scolds her for being so reckless and stupid but his voice is hoarse and warm as he pulls off her stockings what only makes her hot all over as she looks at him with the glossy eyes. His hands are rough against her skin as he undoes more and more ties, peeling off the layers of clothing from her.

Sean Rafferty that let her talk back like a misbehaving child until he grabs the fabric of her skirt and pull it off with a harsh movement, making her gasp and blush like a virgin. He pulls her closer to him before his hips lands between her legs and she’s swallowing, looking at him with silent intensity almost as if expecting or pleading for him to peel off the rest of the clothing.

Sean Rafferty that shakes his head, undoing his waistcoat and shirt as she ask for ‘just one more sip of champagne’ with her doe eyes that always drive him crazy. His resignation is even worse when she looks up at him, practically begging him to stay with her, to fuck her good like she knows he can.

Sean Rafferty who fucks her like he’s punishing her — one hand on her mouth to muffle the whimpers and moans she would not be able to hold back due to her drunk state, her corset undone but not fully taken off yet, left just perfectly to let him look at her breasts as he drives into her, her nails digging into his back, fingers grasping at whatever she can just to keep him close.

Sean Rafferty that dirty talk straight into her ear, telling her how bad of a girl she is and that she needs someone to teach her how to behave accordingly to a lady of her birth. Every word is punctured with a rough thrust that makes tears swell in her eyes because of how good he’s fucking her.

Sean Rafferty who doesn’t let her come and pull out just to put her over his knees and smack her ass — making her count each one of the slaps and if she does it correctly he’ll let her cum. His hand leaves red handprints behind because of which she surely will have trouble sitting for few days.

Sean Rafferty that finally lays her down on the mattress of her bed — panting and shaking, desperate for her reward for how good she was behaving for him. He kisses down her back, leaving small marks on her shoulder and then pressing his lips to her spine before making her shiver from how his breath is hot against her ear and how he’s grunting with each slow drag of his cock when he finally push back inside her.

Sean Rafferty that pushes her back into mattress, one hand on the back of her neck to keep her still as moans when her orgasm crushes against her — like a wave against a rock that could sweep off the feet.

Sean Rafferty who cums deep inside her with a groan, his seed filling her up to the brim and leaking out as he pulls out, kissing her shoulder and brushing her hair away from the sweaty skin.

Sean Rafferty that stays in her room, in her bed, watching over her sleeping, head over his arm, chest lifting and dropping with each tired breath caused by the night of chaos and passion. After all he was told to ‘look after her’.

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baelor breakspear

— baelor always prided himself on being the dutiful son, the perfect heir who never put his own desires above the realm.

— he never expected to be the type of man to steal away a bride, but seeing you dressed for a match meant to secure a political alliance he engineered himself broke something inside him. the duty that always defined him suddenly felt like a cage, and the thought of another man holding you was the one thing his noble heart couldn't endure.

— the planning was meticulous, handled with the same precision he used on the battlefield. he didn't trust anyone else with the logistics, mapping out a quiet, midnight escape from the red keep through old tunnels that even the master of whisperers had overlooked.

— when he met you at the hidden postern gate, he didn't say a word at first; he just wrapped his heavy traveler's cloak around your shoulders to hide your bridal silk and pressed a firm, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his hands trembling just a fraction.

— he chose a ruined, secluded hill overlooking blackwater bay for the ceremony, a place where the wind howled through ancient stones. there were no lords or septons, just the two of you under a dark sky, exactly as he wanted it.

— baelor was incredibly solemn during the valyrian rites, his voice deep and steady as he spoke the ancient high valyrian words. he looked at you not as a prince looking at a subject, but as a man giving up his carefully built reputation for the only woman he ever truly desired.

— as he cut you to bind your blood with his, his touch was incredibly tender, his thumb instantly wiping away a stray tear. he whispered soft, soothing words in your ear, promising that the pain would be the last he ever caused you.

— when he pressed his bleeding mouth to yours, the taste of copper and the warmth of his breath sealed the vow so fiercely it left you breathless.

— wrapping the traditional dragonglass-clasped mantle around your shoulders felt more sacred to him than any crown he would ever inherit; he swore a silent oath to the old gods of valyria that he would shield you from the wrath of the king and your jilted betrothed.

— the morning after the wedding, he didn't look back toward king's landing with regret. instead, he held you tightly against his chest in a small room at an inn, watching the sunrise and softly telling you that he would face a hundred trials at court just to keep you by his side.

— he kept the piece of blood-stained silk from your wedding garment hidden in his breastplate, right over his heart, carrying the physical proof of your secret union into every tourney and council meeting he attended afterward.

— whenever the lord you were supposed to marry was mentioned at court, baelor’s usual polite smile would turn dangerously sharp, a silent warning that he had claimed you completely and would cut down anyone who questioned it.

— he loved the absolute privacy of your life; away from the weight of the iron throne, he became just baelor—a man who would happily brush your hair by candlelight and whisper that choosing love over duty was the best command he ever gave.

maekar targaryen

— maekar spent weeks watching your betrothal feast with a dark, suffocating fury building in his chest. he was always the brother left in the shadows, but he refused to let the woman who actually understood his bitter heart be handed over to some soft, arrogant lord.

— his approach to eloping was abrupt and demanding; he cornered you in the godswood the night before the wedding, gripped your wrists with desperate strength, and told you plainly that if you didn't leave with him right then, he would kill your betrothed in single combat.

— the ride to dragonstone was fast, with you riding pillion behind him on his warhorse, pulling you so close against his armor that you could feel the frantic, terrified thumping of his heart.

— he insisted on a traditional valyrian wedding because he despised the faith of the seven that his brother championed. he wanted something raw, old, and undeniably yours, a bond that no fat septon or political decree could ever dismantle or declare void.

— during the blood exchange, he didn't flinch when his his own flesh was cut. his eyes were locked on yours, fierce and burning with a possessive intensity that made it clear he was laying claim to your soul just as much as your body.

— when it came time to cut your skin, his rough hands became surprisingly gentle, his breathing hitching as he pressed the dragonbone blade against your skin, whispering a harsh, raw apology in high valyrian before making the mark.

— the moment your blood mingled with his, a dark, triumphant smile broke through his usual scowl. he kissed you with a desperate, hungry passion, tasting the iron on your lips and cementing the fact that you were finally his, completely beyond anyone else's reach.

— after the vows were spoken, he wrapped you in a heavy mantle of black and red, holding you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart finally slowing down into relief.

— maekar knew his brother baelor and his father would be furious, but he faced the eventual confrontation with a grim, defiant pride, standing before the iron throne with his arm clamped around your waist.

— he took a dark pleasure in the scandal, relishing the look of utter defeat on your former betrothed's face when maekar bluntly announced that the blood rite had already been consumed and could never be broken by any mortal law.

— in your shared bedchamber at summerhall, he becomes a different man, pouring all his unspoken devotion into quiet, intense embraces, constantly reminding you that he chose you over his own duty.

— he becomes fiercely protective of you after the elopement, never letting you out of his sight when guests arrive and keeping his hand permanently resting on the pommel of his sword whenever anyone dares to look at you with pity or disrespect because of the elopement

— in the quiet hours of the night, he would hold you so tightly it almost hurts, burying his face in your neck and admitting in low, muffled tones that he had never been truly happy until the moment you chose him over a comfortable life.

valarr targaryen

— valarr was usually the golden, obedient grandson, but the thought of you marrying someone else turned him into a rebel overnight. he couldn't bear the thought of your smile belonging to another man, and his usual desire to please his father completely vanished under the panic of losing the only person who truly understood the pressure of being the future heir’s heir.

— he approached the elopement with a sort of frantic, youthful romanticism, slipping a silver ring and a note into your hand during a crowded court session, telling you exactly where his horse would be waiting at midnight.

— he was incredibly nervous during the escape, constantly looking over his shoulder and checking your cloak to make sure you weren't cold, his boyish charm melting into a fierce, protective focus as he guided you away from the castle.

— the traditional valyrian wedding was something he had researched in secret, bringing an ancient text from the red keep's library to ensure every single word spoken was exactly as their ancestors had done before the doom.

— he chose a secluded cliffside on dragonstone where the waves crashed violently below, wanting the ancient elements of fire and water to witness the truth of his love when the rest of the world was forcing a lie upon you.

— his voice cracked slightly as he recited the high valyrian vows, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears of pure relief because he could scarcely believe you actually chose him over your duty and your family's wishes.

— the blood binding terrified him a little because he hated seeing you in pain, but he knew it was the only way to make the marriage unbreakable under old valyrian law. he kissed your forehead repeatedly to distract you before drawing the blade.

— when he tasted your blood during the final kiss, it felt like an awakening; all his doubts about being a good heir disappeared, replaced by a fierce, driving ambition to become strong enough to protect you from the consequences of your flight.

— he laughed with pure, breathless joy the moment the ceremony was over, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around on the dark beach, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders now that you were his wife.

— back in the capital, he had to endure his father’s quiet, disappointed looks, but valarr never broke under the pressure; he just looked down at his boots, thinking of you waiting for him in his private chambers, and felt entirely justified.

— he bought you exquisite gifts with his own coin—silks from lys and old valyrian scrolls—shattering his own allowance just to see you comfortable and happy in the hidden life you had to lead for the first few months.

— he loves combing your hair before bed, whispering sweet, idealistic promises about how one day, when he sits on the iron throne, he would crown you his queen in front of the entire realm.

— every time he looks at the faint, silver scar on your forearm from the ceremony, his eyes would soften completely, and he would press his lips to the mark, reminding you that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

daeron targaryen

— daeron was already a man plagued by terrible, prophetic dreams, but the vision of you clad in another house's colors, weeping at an altar, was the one nightmare he refused to let come true. it gave the usually timid prince a sudden, reckless courage.

— he didn't plan a grand escape; instead, he came to your window in the dead of night, his eyes wide and anxious, begging you to leave with him right then because he had seen a dream where you were lost to him forever if you stayed.

— he was drinking heavily to steady his nerves before the ceremony, but the moment he looked at you beneath the moonlit sky, he set the flask down, his eyes clearing with a rare, sharp lucidity that he only ever possessed when he was with you.

— the valyrian wedding was his idea because he believed the old dragon gods were the only ones who could protect you from the terrible things he saw in his dreams. he wanted a bond written in fire and blood, something the mortal lords couldn't touch.

— his hands shook terribly as he held the dragonglass knife, his voice trembling as he spoke the high valyrian words, but there was a deep, underlying devotion in his tone that made the ancient phrases sound like a desperate prayer.

— when his lip was cut, he pressed his mouth to yours so hard you could taste the iron immediately. the kiss was messy, desperate, and filled with a profound relief that made him sob against your lips.

— he cried softly when he had to draw your blood, murmuring endless apologies against your skin as he made the shallow cut, his tears mixing with the red droplets on your arm before he bound the linen around it.

— after the ceremony, he collapsed against you on the grass, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your lap, muttering that the dark shadows in his mind had finally gone quiet now that you were bound to him.

— he spent his days pretending to be his usual, useless self to throw off suspicion, drinking in appearance while actually spending every spare coin on food and comforts for you.

— he loves listening to you read to him in the dark; your voice is the only thing that could keep his dragon dreams at bay, and he would sleep peacefully only when his head was resting against your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

— he views his scar from the wedding as a badge of honor, often tracing it with his finger as a secret comfort, knowing that whatever terrible future awaited his house, he had managed to save the one piece of light he cared about.

aerion targaryen

— aerion viewed your upcoming marriage to another lord as a personal insult to his royal blood; he believed you were a creature of creature of old valyria, meant only for a true dragon like him, and his arrogance quickly mutated into a wild, obsessive need to take you.

— his method of elopement was chaotic and terrifying; he essentially abducted you from your chambers in the middle of the night, laughing like a madman as he carried you down the castle walls, entirely unbothered by the guards he had to bribe or threaten.

— he took you to the ruins of an ancient targaryen outpost, a place smelling of old stone and sulfur, where he had prepared a lavish altar adorned with dragonglass candles and wild, dark silks.

— he demanded the most ancient, extreme version of the valyrian rites, dressing himself in elaborate crimson silks and insisting that the gods themselves were watching his triumph over the lesser lords who dared try to steal his prize.

— his eyes danced with a frightening, erratic light during the vows, his high valyrian spoken with a dramatic, theatrical flare that made the ancient words sound like a dark, beautiful spell meant to bind you to him for eternity.

— when he cut his lip, he didn't just make a small scratch; he sliced it deeply, his smile turning wicked as the blood spilled, before slamming his mouth against yours in a fierce, bruising kiss.

— he took an almost unsettling pleasure in drawing your blood, his eyes widening as he watched the red line form on your skin. yet, his touch was strangely possessive, his fingers trailing the blood down your arm before he licked a drop from his own knife.

— he draped a heavy cloak of black and scarlet over you, declaring you his dragon-wife and laughing maniacally at the thought of the look on your father's face when he realized his daughter had been claimed by a true prince of valyria.

— he didn't care about hiding the marriage for long; he flaunted your presence in his quarters, daring anyone to challenge him, his volatile temper flaring violently whenever a courtier even looked in your direction.

— he treats you like a precious, stolen relic, showering you with stolen jewelry and demanding that you wear nothing but the colors of house targaryen, effectively erasing any trace of your former life and identity.

— he took a cruel delight in taunting your former betrothed, sending the lord a letter written in your shared blood to inform him that his prize had been taken by a true god of the realm.

— in his quietest, rare moments of vulnerability, his madness would soften into a fierce, almost desperate dependency, where he would press his face into your hair and whisper that you were the only one who truly understands his greatness.

— he made you promise that if the world ever turned against him, you would burn with him, showing you his scar from the wedding as proof that your fates were permanently intertwined in blood and fire, never to be parted by man or god.

from the moment aerion targaryen met you, he was ruined for everyone else.

he had known it immediately, which offended him greatly.

you had stood in the great hall beneath streaming banners and candlelight, speaking softly to some elderly lord whose name aerion could not remember now, and he had stared at you with the unnerving certainty that his life had just divided itself into before and after.

he had wanted you at once.

not simply for your beauty, though the gods knew you possessed enough of it to make men foolish.

no, it was worse than that. it was the way you smiled when spoken to you. the way your voice softened around frightened animals. the way you listened carefully to him, as though every word mattered.

you were gentle and yet you were smart. unbreakable.

and aerion, for all his arrogance, for all the monstrous streak that lived comfortably beneath his skin, found himself following that gentleness like a frightened man following candlelight.

once he married you, he became unbearable about it.

he could not go anywhere without you.

court meetings became impossible unless you sat beside him. feasts irritated him if you were seated too far away. he would find excuses to leave conversations midway simply because he had caught sight of you across the hall and suddenly needed to hear your voice more than whatever tedious noble was speaking to him.

people noticed, of course they noticed. it was impossible not to.

aerion targaryen, proud and cruel and impossible, followed his wife around like a man enchanted.

and he did not care.

when your gown fittings were scheduled, he attended them as though invited personally by the gods. he would lounge dramatically across velvet chairs in the corner while seamstresses fluttered around you adjusting hems and sleeves. a goblet of wine would rest lazily in his hand while he watched you with shameless devotion.

“you are staring at me again,” you would murmur, smoothing your hands down the front of some pale silk gown.

“you mustn't blame me wife, for you are simply beautiful,” he would answer easily. “we both suffer from consistency.”

the seamstresses would blush furiously. you smiled every time.

sometimes he would rise simply to touch the fabric himself, rubbing it between long fingers before looking at you critically. “no,” he would decide. “this color does not suit you.”

“it is blue.”

“it is horrid blue.”

“you said yesterday that blue was my color.”

“that was a better blue.” then he would press a kiss to your inner wrist as though that settled the matter entirely.

often the two of you escaped to the gardens whenever court became too suffocating. hidden away beneath twisting vines and dragon roses, you would spend hours tangled together beneath the shade.

you liked adventure stories, romance too. aerion preferred gruesome histories filled with betrayals and executions and bloodshed. he would read them aloud with disturbing enthusiasm while you laughed softly beside him, your head resting against his shoulder.

“it is educational, wife, it is not a laughing matter.”

“it is horrifying!”

“that as well.”

you smiled and stole the book from his hands. “then i shall save your soul with something gentler.”

“my soul is beyond saving.”

“mm. i have hope.”

he watched you read the same way he watched flames, utterly entranced. your voice drifting through the gardens became one of his favorite sounds in the world. sometimes he stopped listening to the actual story entirely, too distracted by the shape of your mouth around certain words.

he would kiss you slow and lazy beneath flowering vines while the world continued without you.

everywhere in the red keep there were glimpses of you together. your arms linked through endless corridors. his hand possessively at your waist during feasts and parties.

his favor wrapped around your wrist during tournaments because he insisted his colors belonged on his wife and only his wife.

and you understood him.

you understood the sharpness in him. the cruelty. the terrible anger he carried like another heartbeat. you never excused it, but neither did you recoil from it. you saw all the ugliness inside him and loved him still.

it made him worship you for it.

so when you fell ill, it destroyed him slowly.

you would smile and insist you were well enough, brushing it aside with gentle reassurance whenever his expression darkened with concern. a cough lingering too long after the autumn rain, a fever that came and went in waves, exhaustion settling into your bones until even simple things began to tire you.

but aerion noticed everything about you.

he noticed when you stopped finishing your meals. when your hands felt warmer than usual curled inside his. when you leaned more heavily against him during long walks through the gardens. he noticed the shadows beginning to gather beneath your eyes no matter how carefully you tried to hide them.

and selfishly, desperately, he had hoped it was something else.

he had hoped you were with child.

the thought had rooted itself in him almost immediately, growing quietly into hope before he could stop it. he imagined your sickness explained away by life instead of illness. a babe. your babe. his hands resting against your stomach while you laughed softly at his unbearable protectiveness.

he clung to the possibility with frightening intensity.

“you have been tired for weeks,” he murmured one evening, sitting beside you near the fire while you leaned sleepily against the cushions. “and sick in the mornings.”

you looked up at him over the rim of your cup. “are you attempting to diagnose me yourself now?”

“i am saying there may be another explanation.”

the faintest smile touched your mouth then, soft and knowing. “you think i am carrying your child.”

“i think it would explain things.”

“and if it does not?”

his expression shifted immediately, the fragile hope there dimming just slightly. “it will.”

you reached over to touch his face gently. “aerion.”

“you would tell me if you thought it possible.”

“i would.”

his hand slid over yours quickly, holding it there against his cheek. “i want it to be true.”

you softened instantly, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin. “i know you do.”

for a little while, the possibility sustained him.

he became almost absurdly attentive after that. hovering constantly. insisting you rest. arguing with servants if meals were not prepared exactly right. pulling blankets over your lap himself with quiet irritation whenever he thought you looked cold.

“you need not be so concerned aerion,” you teased weakly one afternoon as he adjusted the pillows behind your back for the third time.

“you are coughing again.”

“it is one tiny cough.”

“it was a terrible cough.”

you laughed softly despite yourself. “you would make a dreadful maester.”

“i would make an excellent husband.”

“that much is true.”

he kissed your forehead immediately at the praise, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “then obey your excellent husband and sleep.”

you smiled but closed your eyes obediently anyway, too tired to argue much anymore and that frightened him because you were never this tired.

weeks passed.

the sickness did not improve.

the fevers worsened instead.

and slowly, horribly, the hope inside him began to rot into fear.

the maesters stopped speaking optimistically when he entered the room. their careful expressions told him everything long before their mouths did. he hated them for it. hated their silence. hated the medicines that did nothing. hated the smell of herbs and boiling tinctures that now permanently lingered in your chambers.

most of all, he hated the growing weakness in you.

one evening he found you asleep by the window, a book fallen forgotten in your lap. the sight should not have broken him the way it did. fear struck him so violently, he crossed the room immediately, sitting beside you with his hands wrapping tightly around yours.

“you should rest,” he told you quietly when you stirred awake.

a tired smile touched your lips at once. “i am resting.”

“properly.”

that woke you more fully. your expression softened immediately as you looked at him there beneath you, still dressed in dark court clothes he had evidently never bothered changing out of. his silver hair was disheveled from repeatedly dragging frustrated hands through it. shadows lingered beneath his eyes now too. had he slept at all recently?

“aerion,” you whispered gently.

his grip tightened unconsciously around your hands as he stared down at them, his throat working once. when he finally looked back up at you, there was something raw in his eyes that made your chest ache.

“i do not know what to do,” he admitted quietly.

aerion hated helplessness. hated uncertainty. yet here he was before you like a man praying at an altar, unable to fight the thing slowly stealing you from him.

you lifted one hand carefully from his grasp just to touch his face. “you are already doing it,” you whispered.

“that is not enough.”

“it is for me.”

his eyes closed briefly at that, leaning instinctively into your touch. for a moment he simply stayed there, holding your hand against his cheek like something precious.

then, very softly, almost angrily, he murmured, “i am going to grow old with you. hear me. i will."

he rarely left your side.

meetings were abandoned midway. letters unanswered. duties forgotten entirely. he remained beside you obsessively, sleeping in chairs when he refused to leave your bedside, holding cool cloths to your skin with hands more accustomed to swords than gentleness.

his patience disappeared entirely. goblets shattered against walls when maesters offered uncertain answers. servants flinched when entering the room because even the scrape of shoes against stone seemed enough to provoke him now.

then came the anger. not at you, never at you. at the maesters who could not heal you. at the gods who would dare touch what belonged to him. at himself for being unable to stop it.

“you said the fever would break,” he hissed at one trembling maester after another miserable night left you barely conscious. “you assured me she was improving.”

“she did appear stronger yesterday, your grace-”

“do not lie to me.”

the old man visibly faltered beneath the fury in aerion’s voice.

“she needs rest,” the maester managed carefully.

“she needs curing.”

silence.

aerion’s expression darkened into something terrifying. “get out.”

no one argued with him anymore after that.

the servants cried quietly outside the doors sometimes. you could hear them if the hall fell silent enough. the sound seemed to haunt aerion more than anything else because people only cried like that when hope was beginning to die.

then came the night everything changed.

the room was dim besides the fire and a handful of dying candles. rain struck softly against the windows while thunder rolled somewhere far over the bay.

aerion sat beside you holding your hand tightly between both of his as though warmth alone might anchor you here.

“you will get better,” he told you hoarsely. “you must.”

your breathing caught unevenly before settling again.

“aerion- husband-”

“no.” his voice cracked violently. “do not speak like that.”

you looked at him with unbearable softness. “my love,” you whispered.

“you are not leaving me.” tears filled his eyes instantly, furious and helpless all at once. “you hear me?” he said desperately, leaning closer. “you cannot leave me here. i do not know how to-” his voice broke entirely.

your trembling fingers brushed weakly against his cheek, even now, you were comforting him.

“aerion,” you whispered softly, “look at me.”

and he did immediately, like he always would. your eyes searched his face slowly, lovingly, memorizing him the same way he had memorized you a thousand times before.

“i loved you very much,” you breathed.

“no.” he shook his head instantly, panic rising sharp and ugly in his chest. “no, do not say it like goodbye.”

“you made me very happy.”

“stop.” his grip tightened painfully around your hand. “please.” aerion targaryen did not beg. not kings, not gods, not men. but he begged you.

your eyes softened immediately at the sound of it, filling slowly with tears that slipped silently down into your hair. even now, with death hovering so terribly close, you looked at him with nothing but love.

“do you understand? i cannot- i cannot sit here and listen to you speak as though this is ending.”

your breath trembled faintly. “aerion…”

“no.” his voice cracked violently again. “no, you listen to me now.”

his free hand cupped your face desperately, trembling hard enough that you could feel it against your skin.

“you will stay,” he said, the words frantic now, like if he spoke them firmly enough the world would obey him. “you will survive this. the maesters are wrong. they have been wrong before.”

you gave the faintest shake of your head.

he looked suddenly furious at it. “at least pretend to believe me.”

a weak little smile touched your mouth then, heartbreakingly gentle. “you sound angry.”

“i am angry.”

“at me?”

“no- no my love, never at you. at everything.” his voice splintered on the last word.

the fire crackled softly somewhere behind him, rain tapping against the windows in uneven rhythms. the room smelled of wax and herbs and sickness. aerion thought suddenly, wildly, that he hated every part of it. hated the candles. hated the storm. hated the bed beneath you because it had become a place of dying instead of sleeping beside him warm and laughing.

most of all he hated how cold your hands had become.

he brought them closer between his own instinctively, rubbing warmth into your fingers as though he could force life back into them through sheer desperation.

“you promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly.

your lashes fluttered weakly. “i meant it.”

“then do not leave me.”

you looked at him for a very long moment after that and something in your expression changed with acceptance.

“no,” he said again, harsher this time. “do not look at me like that.”

you had never seen him like this, not truly, not stripped this bare. aerion had always loved fiercely, possessively, almost violently in the depth of it, but he rarely let anyone witness the rawness underneath. he hid softness behind arrogance. devotion behind sharp words.

but there was nowhere left to hide now not while you were dying in front of him.

“you cannot leave me alone here,” he whispered suddenly. the confession sounded childlike. small.

“my husband,” you breathed gently.

his face twisted instantly at the title, grief ripping visibly across it. “you said we would grow old together,” he murmured. “you said we would have children.”

tears slipped harder down his face now. he did not even seem aware of them.

“i bought that little carved dragon you liked in the market because you wanted to have it for our child.” his voice shook violently. “it is still sitting in gift velvet because i thought-”

his breath broke. “i thought there would be time.”

you began crying then too, silent tears slipping into your hair as you watched him unravel before you.

aerion pressed your hand desperately against his lips.

“there is still time,” he insisted suddenly, like he could force the truth backward if he spoke quickly enough. “tomorrow you will wake and i will carry you into the gardens again. to roses near the fountain, you always say they smelled sweeter after rain.”

“aerion…”

“we will read together.” his words tumbled over each other now, frantic and disjointed. “and i will complain through your ridiculous romance stories and you will laugh at me and-”

his voice snapped apart completely.

you gathered what little strength remained in you and brushed your thumb weakly against his cheek. “i need you to be brave for me. my brave dragon.”

“no.”

the answer came instantly like a child refusing.

you tried to smile through your tears. “you are a dragon prince.”

“i am also your husband.” the words came out fierce and broken all at once. “i love you,” he whispered desperately. “do you hear me? i love you so much i cannot breathe when i think about losing you.”

your eyes closed briefly at the pain in his voice. “aerion…”

“i should have loved you less.” but even as he said it, both of you knew it was impossible. he had loved you from the very first moment. too much. too fiercely. with every ruined part of himself. and now the gods were tearing you away from him piece by piece.

“i do not regret loving you,” you whispered. you were breathing differently now. slower. weaker.

panic flooded his face so fast. your fingers tightened faintly around his once. “i am- tired now. aerion.”

“no.”

“i love you- so- aerion-”

“no, stay awake my love. stay with me. look at me.” his voice broke into something desperate and terrified.

you tried. gods, you tried. your eyes found his one last time, full of love so deep it nearly killed him on the spot.

then your breathing faltered.

every part of him seemed to stop existing except for the hand clutching yours.

another breath, still shallow. then another, smaller still.

“no,” he whispered again, tears falling freely now. “please. i love you.”

and then-

nothing.

silence. complete and horrible.

aerion stared at you waiting. waiting for your chest to rise again. waiting for your fingers to twitch in his hand. waiting for the impossible. but you stayed still. and slowly, horrifyingly, your warmth began to fade beneath his hands.

the sound that left him afterward was raw enough to tear through stone.

he folded over you instantly, clutching your hand against his mouth as violent sobs ripped through him hard enough to leave him breathless. his entire body shook with it, years of pride and cruelty and arrogance collapsing into grief so enormous it hollowed him out completely.

“no, no, no-”

he kissed your cold knuckles desperately between broken gasps of air. “you cannot do this to me,” he choked out.

the gods, cruel as they were, had finally taken the only thing aerion targaryen had ever truly loved.

the silence afterward nearly drove him mad.

he had not cried like that since childhood. since lonely nights hidden away in dark chambers where no one came looking for him. he felt small again suddenly. helpless. frightened.

they had given him an hour to calm down, and when his tears subsided and all that was left was anger, grief, and longing, the maester quietly began to approach the bed before aerion turned with such horrifying fury that the old man stopped instantly.

“get out.”

“your grace-”

“get out.”

the room emptied immediately and no one dared argue.

aerion was alone with you. alone in the suffocating silence of your shared chambers while candlelight flickered softly against your still face. he loved you more than he knew what to do with, and now there was nowhere for that love to go.

hours passed before anyone dared enter again. even then, aerion refused to let go of you. it nearly killed him when they tried to take your body from the bed.

“no,” he snarled hoarsely, gripping you tighter. “do not touch her.”

“prince aerion-”

“do not touch her.” his voice barely raised, yet stern. frightening.

they had to pry his hands away, hold him back. he looked- no, he was- half-mad, watching them place you inside the coffin, his face white with horror like he could not comprehend how the world expected him to survive such a thing.

afterward, he refused to clear your rooms.

your gowns remained hanging exactly where you left them. your oils and perfumes stayed lined carefully along the vanity. books remained half-open where you had abandoned them.

your side of the bed stayed untouched.

every now and then, late at night, standing in front of your grand dresser, he would hold one of your dresses against his face, breathing in the fading trace of your perfume with devastated desperation.

the gardens became unbearable to him. the reading alcoves remained empty. and aerion wandered through the red keep like a ghost haunting a life that no longer existed.

people feared him more after your death. he grew colder. crueler. quieter.

but worst of all were the nights.

because sometimes, very late, servants passing your chambers would hear him speaking softly into the silence as though you were lying beside him still.

“i told you to listen to me,” he would murmur. then, quieter, “yes, i know. you are cold tonight.”

there would be the faint sound of movement. a chair dragged closer. a goblet set down. and then, gently, almost tenderly, “you should sleep now.”

no one ever dared open the door. because sometimes they also heard him laugh softly, as though you had answered.

he began to drink heavily.

wine at first. then stronger things brought in quietly by servants too afraid to refuse him. the maesters warned against it, cautiously at first, then more urgently as the pattern worsened.

“your grace,” one of them said carefully one evening, “this will not ease your suffering. it will only deepen it.”

“i am not suffering,” he said. “you are mistaken.” aerion continued calmly. “my wife is simply away. that is all.”

the maester exchanged a look with another before bowing stiffly and retreating.

he began speaking of you in the present tense.

“my wife prefers the roses after rain,” he told a bewildered servant once. “do not cut them yet.” another time, he stopped a maid in the corridor and snapped at her, “have you seen my son?”

she froze. “my prince…you do not have-”

aerion’s expression sharpened instantly.

“see to it that he is with his mother,” he said firmly.

no one corrected him. it was easier not to.

he began to see you again. at first it was fleeting. a reflection in the mirror that was not his own. a flicker at the edge of his vision when he turned too quickly. a warmth in empty chairs.

then it became clearer. you were in your chambers again. sitting at the vanity. adjusting your hair. looking at him as though nothing had ever gone wrong at all.

“aerion,” you would say softly. “must you stare at me, my love? it is quite jarring.”

and he would believe it. he would believe it completely. there was no longer any separation between memory and reality. only you.

until even that began to fracture.

the night he drank wildfire.

he believed it would truly take the pain away, turn him into something different. into a dragon.

maesters agreed, because no one truly denied a targaryen anything for long, suggesting it might “calm the mind” if handled carefully, and with all of aerion’s temperaments they agreed to add in a little something extra, something that might ease the sleeplessness, the agitation, the grief that had begun to consume him.

that night, after drinking, he stood alone in your chambers, holding one of your gowns again. when suddenly his grip tightened violently around the fabric.

“i cannot do this,” he whispered. “i told you,” he murmured hoarsely into the empty room, “i told you i cannot be anywhere without you.”

his vision blurred and he felt a sharp burning sensation from inside himself. the wildfire had burned him, saved him from the madness and grief that had been burned into him long ago.

aerion targaryen could not bring himself to let go of the one thing he had ever truly belonged to. because aerion targaryen, in the end, was exactly what he had always been.

An apology is going to taste like bile on Homelander’s tongue, but he’s willing to extend something of an olive branch if it will placate Soldier Boy enough to help him find the key to immortality. 

That had been his plan, anyway—try and smooth things over with Ben. He just hadn’t anticipated stumbling upon the two of you caught in the throes of passion.

Homelander hears your voice through the walls, high-pitched and loud, his father’s name spewed out like a prayer before ending on a sharp moan.

He knows, immediately, that it’s you on the other side of the door—his father’s sweet little pet, the human that worships Soldier Boy like a god, who has no regard for the heavenly power that Homelander has been gifted with. 

You are also the only human in the world that’s getting away with such misplaced devotion. 

Homelander licks his lips, tensing his jaw as his eyes itch to burn through the drywall, red flares that will your pretty little head off once his father spills his seed into you. It would be gratifying to knock Soldier Boy down a few pegs, to make him realize that Homelander is the god that humans are supposed to worship, not him. Ben does not have the upper-hand just because his poor, powerless lover has been allowed to live this long. 

He considers it; that timeline of events plays out before Homelander’s eyes like a film reel. It would be gratifying, yes, but stupid—the life of one human isn’t worth risking his chance at eternity. 

Homelander knows that his father would hate him if he killed you, would see him as something worse than a disappointment, and he’d track down any remaining V1 to destroy it himself. 

Not that Homelander thinks he can’t succeed without his father. He can find the V1 on his own, but there’s no reason to create unnecessary obstacles. 

Your death can wait a little longer. 

“Please, Ben,” Homelander hears you say through the wall, your voice soft, far too gentle for someone like Soldier Boy to love. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah? You like that, hm?” There’s a pause, a mocking laugh as his father’s voice deepens. “’Course you do, pretty cunt’s still squeezing my fingers so tightly. Can’t even count the number of times you’ve come, and she still wants more. Dirty girl.” 

Homelander considers leaving, but the thought is brief, overshadowed by his growing desire to, somehow, get back at his father. Soldier Boy will be more sorry about what happened back at Fort Harmony if the real force of Homelander’s powers are used against him, if he can find a way to prove he’s misjudged his son yet again. 

The desire to kill you erupts once more, but Homelander stays still, silent, assessing the scene from a shadowy advantage like a natural predator. 

When another cry leaves your lips, curiosity wins out and Homelander peers through the wall, peeling back the layers with his super-powered vision. 

The room is a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, and he grimaces at the bodily fluids he can detect on nearly every surface. His scan of the bedroom is quick, much more dismissive than studious, before he focuses his attention on you and Soldier Boy. 

Your cheek is pressed into the bed, head tilted in Homelander’s direction, the view enough to see the pleasure, laced with a hint of pain, that is sketched into the lines of your expression. Exhaustion wears at you, spilled cum is drying on your stomach, but your body still radiates with heat, still beats with need as tears gather at your lashes. 

His father’s face is deep in your cunt, fingers stretching your folds as he sucks your clit, hard enough to have your back arching up off the bed. With a gasp, your hands fly to Ben’s hair, lacing through the strands as you tug reactively. 

To Homelander’s surprise, Ben doesn’t seem to mind your attempts at control, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat, every word raspy and salacious. “You taste so fucking good. Sweet as candy, aren’t you, doll?” Ben mutters against your skin, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder before diving deeper into your cunt. 

He pins your other leg onto the mattress, spreading your thighs far enough that every inch of you is exposed to the man before it. It also gives Homelander the perfect view of his father’s tongue deep in your core, slurping up the juices with more passion than he’s ever seen him devote to anything. 

Homelander feels himself growing hard, an erection forming steadily in his pants, straining against the tight material of his uniform. He grits his teeth, trying to ignore it, hoping that his hatred for you will cool the conflicting lust he feels. 

A few of your nails have cracked, the tips bloody from the way you’d dug them into Ben’s back. Had he been a weaker man, a man without V1 and years of experimentation done on him, there would be long, red lines scratched into his taut muscles. 

Instead, the skin is flawless, the dried blood there belonging to you alone. You’re not strong enough to harm him, but Ben doesn’t care, perhaps, even, derives pleasure from how easily he can handle you. 

Homelander thinks it’s demeaning that his father is so devoted to you when you’re so weak, when you’re nothing compared to his otherworldly strength. It makes Homelander sick to look at you, to see the hazy affection that clouds Ben’s irises, because that’s his father, and it’s wrong that any love he’s able to muster up should go to such a pathetic creature. 

Tears gather at your lashes, and you dig your nails deeper into Ben’s scalp, crying out painfully. “Too much, Ben,” you say, writhing on the bed beneath him, voice wracked with desperation.

No sympathy is spared from Soldier Boy. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you free even as the tears fall onto your cheeks, heavy from the overstimulation. Your lips are swollen and parted, saliva coating the corners of them as you take whatever Ben will give you. 

For whatever reason, his father is infatuated with you. You aren't special; there’s nothing marginally interesting about you, except for, perhaps, the fact that you aren’t scared of anyone on the Seven, not even Homelander. 

You’re still human, though, still sickeningly fragile, and Homelander is beginning to wonder if that’s why Ben is so determined to find the V1, if he has ulterior motives that don’t include giving his son the gift of immortality. 

That lights him up with indignation that, for some reason, only goes between his legs. He can’t look away from the scene before him, can’t tear his eyes from the sickeningly sweet affection that has become tangible between the two of you. His father is many things, things that even Homelander can’t figure out, but he is just as starved for adoration and you give it to him tenfold. 

He doesn’t understand—can’t understand why your love is so undying. Soldier Boy is no better than Homelander, he is no God, and yet, he has still earned the pure, innocent love of a human, the love that Vought had always promised was Homelander’s birthright. 

Frustration rises in him and Homelander palms himself over the suit, suppressing a groan, the pressure relieving only a bit of his lust. He needs to be more careful, needs to find a way to get to the V1 before his father. There’s more room in his heart than Homelander initially believed, and while there’s a slim chance you’d even survive an injection of V1, his father might be foolish enough to try. 

Homelander could kill you—he should kill you before it comes to that. He wants his father to see that you’re not worth anything, certainly not worth the world that could be built with their two forces combined. If he can just get you out of the picture, maybe things will be smoother. 

Maybe you’re the reason his father keeps turning against him.

The thought flares his eyes red again, threatening and bright, but the color flickers, dies back down into their normal blue as he feels the repulsive want take control. Homelander is too intrigued by the way his father is fucking you, the way his tongue flicks into you, rendering you a mess. He’s never seen Soldier Boy so vulnerable, and though his walls are still high, there’s a softness about him that remains behind these doors. 

“Come on, sweetheart, I know you’ve got one more in you.” Ben says, scoffing at the tears running down your cheeks. He is mocking, but gentle at the edges, careful to search for your breaking point. The stamina and strength of a supe is ten times that of a human, and ten times that for someone like Soldier Boy. If he doesn’t want his toy to break, he has to know its limits. 

You whimper, closer to pain now than you were before. A choked sob escapes your lips, but your orgasm creeps up on you, your body shaking miserably as it tries to force another one through the painful stimulation. 

That’s more gratifying to Homelander than anything—the pain on your face—and he presses his palm to his bulge harder, faster, resting one hand against the wall as he thrusts his hips into the other. He’s careful not to make a sound, though he’s certain Ben’s hearing is not as good as his, and he’s probably high enough to write it off as delusion. 

“I-I can’t—” you say, and it would seem miserable if you weren’t breathless, if you didn’t want to come again so badly.

Soldier Boy groans into your cunt, his eyes commanding as he gazes up at you over your hips. The tears falling down your cheeks, onto the bed, are making him harder, his cock swollen between his legs, even though he’d come just minutes before. He drags a hand down the length of it, enough to give him some relief, but not enough to come quite yet. 

“You can. You’re close I can feel it.” He traces a soothing, possessive circle on your thigh with his thumb, keeping you steady on the bed. “Touch those pretty tits for me. My girls aren’t getting enough attention.” 

You obey without question, lazily dragging your hands up your stomach and onto your chest. The moment your fingertips graze your nipples, you come to the edge of a climax, your voice louder, body more pliant under Ben’s touch. 

His father grins, face shiny with your slick as you grope yourself. 

Homelander pulses with need, shaking with a silent moan as he watches you play with your breasts. He swallows back the sounds, suppresses the lasers that flick in his irises. You have a nice pair of tits, ones that would look even better swollen, leaking with milk, and briefly, he wonders if his father would share you. You’re just a human, after all, and you could serve a much greater purpose if you devoted yourself to two gods instead of one. 

Or, maybe, his father will find a way to fix the mistake he’s made in his lab rat son, to create the child that Homelander apparently isn’t. A better version of him will never exist, and Soldier Boy would be stupid for ever thinking so, even though Homelander knows the thought has crossed his mind, knows that he is too much of a disappointment for Ben to ever try to build the kind of relationship with Homelander that he craves.

The hypotheticals don’t matter because Homelander knows you wouldn’t be a good mother, not to someone of their bloodline. You’d infect any super-abled child with your pathetic human morals, twist their minds until they suppress their powers and try to fit into a world that doesn’t want them. 

That is, of course, if the child didn’t tear you apart from the inside-out first. 

Homelander grits his teeth, a metallic taste flowing into his mouth as he thinks of it, of watching you grow a baby inside of you that will ultimately be your demise. His breath stutters; he’s pathetically close, but his orgasm doesn’t come until a moment later, when he realizes that his father isn’t half the man he thinks he is, and he’ll never be the God that Homelander is. 

Soldier Boy a slave to your pleasure—a weak, measly being—even when he pretends everything he does is for himself. You’re crying, and though Soldier Boy is tugging at himself, he’s not focused on making sure he comes—he wants to break you down, build you back up with his mouth and his hands. Ben wants you to worship him, wants you to see him as a holy figure, wants you to praise him even as he degrades you.

He is controlled by his emotions, too swayed by a pretty face and a sultry tongue.

Unlike his father, Homelander is no longer focused on winning over people’s love, and certainly not the love of one person. 

You release one more sob before you come, soaking his father’s face with whatever your body has left to give. His father works you through the orgasm, even though you can hardly move, your eyes shut, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. 

“That’s my girl,” Soldier Boy says, and he’s so proud, so caring, that it has Homelander spilling into his pants right after you. It lasts for a few seconds, and then relief comes, then the disgusting sensation that settles as the cum dries in his suit. 

The realization of what he’s done is not staggering, but it hits him just as his father presses a kiss to your forehead. You’re half passed-out already, eyes closed as your breathing evens out, thighs still sticky with bodily fluids, but you mutter something unintelligible under your breath anyway. 

Even with his hearing, Homelander can’t catch the words, but Ben doesn’t seem to understand either. Still, his father gives you something of a smile before leaning over to pluck the joint off of his nightstand, keeping one hand possessively on your thigh. He’s still hard, but for a few minutes he sits there in the quiet of the evening, smoking, before he places the blunt back in the ash tray and moves to take care of the erection himself. 

Homelander decides that’s his cue to leave. He can justify watching his father fuck you, but watching only him masturbate over your sleeping body feels like a line he shouldn’t cross. 

Sparing one last exhale, Homelander slinks off the floor, hoping that neither of you hear the elevator ding.

you did not think about where you ran. you did not think at all — only that you needed to get away from there, far from the darkness, from someone else’s breathing above your bed. and only when you burst into his chambers, when the door slammed against the wall with a dull thud, you suddenly realized: you did not come to your brother, not even to your father. you came to him.

maybe deep down you always knew the thing your mind refused to believe: that aerion would kill anyone in the world and die himself if it meant you were safe.

he jumped out of bed in an instant — sleepy, disheveled, in only a shirt, but already on his feet, already ready. his eyes found you immediately, and all the sleep vanished from them in a moment, replaced with worry. “what happened?” his voice sounded low and rough with sleep.

you tried to speak, but the words stuck somewhere in your throat — you only caught air with your mouth, swallowed, tried again. “there… there was someone… i saw… he had a blade…” you forced out broken pieces of words that drowned in all your fear.

you shook your head, unable to continue, and he crossed the distance in two steps, took your face into his hands — firm, but careful, making you lift your eyes. “hey,” he said quietly, and his voice suddenly turned soft, almost gentle. “i am here. you are safe.”

you shook your head again — and tears flooded your cheeks once more, and the trembling returned, and you could not stop it, could not force yourself to calm down, because that silhouette with a blade in its hand still stood before your eyes.

“i woke up because i felt someone else’s presence,” you breathed out, almost in a whisper, and your voice cracked. “and when i opened my eyes — i saw him. he stood over me, aerion. with a knife. i do not know who it was, but he wanted… he wanted to kill me—”

he frowned so hard that a deep line appeared between his brows, and his eyes darkened, turned cold and dangerous like ice. "where the fuck were the guards? whoever he is, i will fucking kill him.”

he let go of your face and stepped back — toward the door, toward the sword, toward murder. and you grabbed his hand sharply, almost desperately. “no,” you breathed out, and there was such pleading in your voice that he froze in place. “do not leave. please. stay with me.”

he stood still for a moment — looked at you, at your face wet with tears, at your hand trembling in his, and his expression softened. the look he showed only to you and only when nobody saw. “come here,” he said quietly and pulled you toward him.

you fell into his arms, pressed your nose against his chest, breathed in his scent and felt his arms wrap around you. one rested on your back and slowly, heavily stroked it — from top to bottom, again and again, chasing away fear with every touch. the other rested on the back of your head, fingers buried themselves in your tangled hair, played with the strands, soothed you.

he rested his chin on the top of your head, and you felt him breathe — steady, deep, and that rhythm slowly became yours, pushing the panic away.

you still trembled — in your thin nightgown, in the fear that refused to leave completely — but with every touch from him, the trembling weakened. his lips touched your temple — slowly, gently, as if he sealed your pain away with that kiss — and stayed there for a long, long time. then he brushed his lips lower — over your cheek, your cheekbone, where the trails of tears still glistened — kissed them and wiped them away. and finally — the corner of your lips. he froze there, feeling you relax, feeling the last tension leave you, feeling your body stop trembling and trustingly melt against him, surrendering to the warmth.

“nobody will touch you,” he whispered against your skin. “let them just fucking try.” you sobbed one last time — quietly, with relief, letting the last pieces of fear leave with that sound.

“i was so scared,” you said, and your voice sounded muffled because you still did not lift your head, still hid your face against his chest. “i do not want to go back there. i do not want to sleep alone.”

he held you tighter. “you will not go back there,” he said. “and you will not sleep alone. you will sleep with me.”

you lifted your head, rested your chin against his chest, and looked up at him with wet, shining eyes. “aerion,” you whispered. “if father finds out…”

he leaned down and kissed you — soft and quick, without deepening it. enough to stop your words and your doubts. “he will not,” he said, pulling away only enough to see your eyes. “and if he does — we are soon to be betrothed. i think i have the right to sleep beside you.”

you looked at him for a long time — at his face, at his eyes where there was no usual mockery, only quiet, tired tenderness — and finally nodded. “fine."

“fine,” he repeated and led you toward the bed, never letting go of you for even a second, one hand holding your waist as if he feared you would disappear.

he laid you down on the bed, covered you with a blanket — thick, warm, smelling like him — and you felt warmth spread through your body, driving away the last remains of cold and fear. and then he simply looked at you — for so long that you started to feel shy.

“stop looking at me like that,” you mumbled quietly.

he smirked. “it is not every day you see a princess in your bed.”

you rolled your eyes — but smiled, and for the first time that night the smile came easily. then you reached your arms toward him, and he did not make you wait, settling beside you. he covered both of you with one blanket, pulled you close, and you felt him breathe, felt his heartbeat — steady, strong, calming. his nose buried in your hair, his hand found your waist on its own, and his thumb started drawing slow circles against your skin — again and again, lulling you to sleep, taking away the last scraps of anxiety.

and your fingers wandered across his chest, tracing patterns even you did not know the names of — simply moving back and forth, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it felt so familiar, so right, as if you had done this your whole lives. “i thought i was going to die,” you said quietly into the silence.

his hand stopped for a moment — and immediately held you tighter, almost painfully. you stayed silent for several heartbeats, feeling the knot in your throat finally melt away.

“the only thing i thought about,” you said even quieter, “was that i didn't have time to tell you… didn't have time to say the most important thing.”

his hand froze on your waist. his whole body tensed at once.

you understood that he stayed silent because he did not know how to speak about things like this. aerion always thought feelings were too complicated — he preferred to act instead of explain. he knew that he needed you, knew that he would never give you to anyone else, knew that you were his — and that was always enough for him. why use useless words that might mean nothing when everything already showed itself without them?

but now he stayed silent not because he did not care. but because he was afraid. you felt it in his tense shoulders, in his uneven breathing, in the way his fingers dug into your skin.

you leaned down and kissed his chest — right where his heart beat beneath the skin. loud, fast, frightened. “i know you will never say it,” you whispered into his shirt. “because you think you are above things like that. but i… i love you, aerion. and i always will. i was afraid i would die — and never get the chance to tell you.”

his hands froze where you left them. the chest beneath your cheek barely moved — he held his breath. one second passed. another. a third. you already thought he would not answer, that he would simply pretend he did not hear — the way only he could.

and then — a slow, long exhale. his hand started stroking your back again — heavy, soft, soothing. and he said nothing. but you felt it — he heard you. you closed your eyes. breathed in rhythm with him. almost fell asleep.

and when you already drifted into sleep, when your thoughts turned slow and weightless, you suddenly heard his voice — quiet, rough, almost impossible to hear.

“me too.”

deep in the night, while you slept — and did not feel how he carefully slipped out from beneath the blanket so he would not wake you. through your sleep you only heard his quiet “i will be back soon,” and then the darkness closed around you again.

in the morning the whole castle talked about nothing except the traitor knight who broke into your chambers. they found him dead in the dungeons — people said he died the most vile, most inhuman death these walls had ever seen.

and you sat in his chambers, lying on his bed, and understood. understood that he did not know how to speak beautifully. that his words would never carry the tenderness you read about in old books. but he always spoke through actions — every single time. and you did not need anything else. this was enough for you.

“what?” your voice came out quiet, trembling, almost impossible to hear.

aerion let out a short, bitter laugh and released your hands, which he held crossed against his chest all this time. and you immediately felt the cold, even though a second ago you yourself tried to pull away from his grip.

“now it is your turn to pretend, huh?” his voice sounded low and rough, and he dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek. he looked at you, and there was no mockery in his eyes — only bitterness, so thick it could choke someone.

“what will you do this time to avoid marrying me? throw yourself off the castle walls? or lie to me again all this time — gain my trust, make me think…” he fell silent for a moment, and his voice turned quieter, heavier. “and then run away to that puppy?”

your heart twisted into a tight knot — painfully, so painfully that it stole your breath. but then anger replaced the pain. how dared he? after all those years when you thought you would die faster from the way your heart hurt than from some illness or accident — how dared he look at you as if you were guilty of everything?

you opened your mouth to answer — but he spoke first. a quiet laugh with not a drop of amusement slipped from his lips.

“tell me one thing,” he leaned closer, and his voice turned smooth, dangerous. “judging by how hard you defend him, did he already shove his coc—”

he did not finish. your hand flew forward before you could think — the sharp slap tore through the silence. every sound disappeared — the noise of the feast beyond the walls, the voices of drunken guests. aerion froze, his head turned to the side, and he did not move. did not turn back. simply stood there, taking the blow.

your voice trembled — from pain, from anger, from thousands of nights you cried into your pillow, and now all of it finally burst out. “it hurt to breathe!” you shouted, and tears streamed down your cheeks, hot like molten metal. “it hurt to breathe from the thought that something could happen to you! never — do you hear me? — never in my life would i say something like that about you. and you… you think i was capable of writing something like that?”

he slowly turned his head, and his eyes met yours. he looked at you — without looking away, without blinking — and you did not know what you saw in his gaze.

you did not stop, because if you stayed silent now — it would tear you apart from the inside. “did you not feel even a drop of respect for me?” your voice cracked, and you did not even try to hide it. “did you really not have even a drop of warmth left to not make up this lie right now? to stop justifying yourself? to stop pretending this is my fault? guilty because you left. because you abandoned me. because you broke my heart, and then i dealt with the consequences alone — all that pain, all that humiliation…”

your voice broke, and tears poured endlessly, and you did not even wipe them away. let him see. let that man see how much suffering he brought you.

he opened his mouth — wanted to say something — and stepped toward you. you flinched back as if his hand was fire, as if he could hurt you with one touch.

his face fell. for a moment something flashed in his eyes —confusion? disbelief? you saw the way he clenched his jaw, the way his shoulders tensed. he did not know what was worse — that you did not even want to stand near him, or that you were afraid he could hurt you.

“i know you never loved me,” you said, and your voice turned quieter, but no lighter. “but making up such a stupid lie just to justify yourself — that is low even for you, aerion.”

you sobbed, closing your eyes, and the tears still slipped through your lashes. it always seemed to you that you cried out every tear in the world — from your mother’s death to the day he left — but somehow new ones still came.

and then you turned around and ran. not walked — ran, grabbing the skirts of your dress with both hands so you would not trip, even though it was pointless — everything blurred before your eyes from tears, and you simply prayed none of the guests walked outside tonight. rumors about your family were the last thing anyone needed now. you did not want the reputation your grandfather and his sons built for years to collapse because you and aerion failed to divide something that never existed. not love, of course. because it never existed.

behind you, fast footsteps echoed. you quickened your pace. aerion was wounded — he could not run at full strength, and you hated yourself for the way your heart still tightened at the thought that every step probably caused him pain. you would give everything you had to every god alive if they granted you the same calm and devoted love for tristan instead. instead of what you felt for a man who was never worthy of you.

you did not look back. you rushed into the castle, made your way through the corridors without stopping for even a second. in your chambers you almost slammed the door shut — it nearly closed completely — but at the last moment his hand slipped through the gap. the door flew open, and he filled the doorway, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

you turned to face him, dragged your palm across your cheeks — wiping away tears even though new ones still fell — and lifted your gaze. “i command you to leave the princess’s chambers immediately.”

aerion breathed heavily one of his hands clenched into a fist, the other pressed against his chest, where the wound hid beneath his shirt. you noticed the movement, and something inside you twisted violently — you almost physically forced yourself not to step closer, not to touch him, not to check the wound the way you used to. like back then, near the old wall, when he was just an angry boy with bloody knees, and you were the only one who dared touch him. you were never able to look at his pain calmly. what a bitter joke — he did not feel the same about you.

“i am not going anywhere,” he said, and there was no doubt in his voice.

“as heir to the throne, i stand above you,” you barely raised your voice, but every word fell heavy like stone. “and i tell you—”

"i do not give a fuck about all these. i am not leaving this room until we fucking talk.”

he stepped forward, and you aggressively shook your head, backing away even though the wall was already close and there was nowhere left to go.

“there is nothing to talk about,” you threw back, and your voice trembled, but you could not stop. “feed your lies to someone els—”

he did not let you finish — grabbed your wrist, pressed you against the wall, towered over you, and you smelled blood. apparently his wound reopened when he chased after you, and that thought caused almost physical pain, even though you should not care about him. should not. but you still noticed how the hand pressed to his chest stained dark and sticky.

“i did not lie to you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “i received that letter.”

you looked up at him — tiredly, so tiredly that you did not even have strength left for anger. “and all those things you said were really written there?”

he stared directly at you, without looking away. “every single word,” he said, and then smirked — bitterly, looked away to the side and added as if spitting the words out. “ah, yes, and ten more lines. about how you regretted the gods ever bringing us together. about how all those septas and all those people were right — calling me mad and saying i belonged in exile. about how slitting your own throat would be less humiliating than becoming my wife and carrying my heir beneath your heart.”

he looked at you again, and there was such emptiness in his eyes that it stole your breath away. “detailed enough?”

your lips parted more and more with every word he said, and you shook your head sharply, unable to believe it. he tried to hide it, but you saw it — saw the pain and hurt he hid behind that smirk. and the sight of it made your heart tighten so painfully that breathing became difficult.

“i did not…” you started, but he did not let you finish.

“and you know what?” he leaned closer, and something new appeared in his voice — almost desperate. “after all those words about me — i still want you more than anything.”

“i would never…” you tried again, but once more he interrupted you with a bitter, joyless smirk.

“me and your knight are on the same level now, huh? what makes me different from that dog?”

“you are not different from a dog?!” the words burst out of you — loud, almost a scream, and they spilled from your mouth on their own, without thought, without restraint.

he fell silent immediately, he breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling hard, and right now he did not look angry or arrogant — he looked empty. you had never seen him like this.

but you did not stop yourself anymore — you could not, did not want to. “i was the pathetic fool who believed i meant something to you!” your voice cracked, and you no longer tried to hide that you cried — tears streamed down your cheeks, and you did not care. “i wrote that letter after i spent an entire week begging father to speak with you! to give you a chance!”

you looked at him — at his confused, tense face — and continued. “do you want to know what i wrote to you? instead of all that filth you just repeated?”

you stepped closer yourself — one step, then another — and pressed your finger against his chest, right where his heart beat beneath the fabric.

“i wrote that father wanted you to prove to everyone else that your intentions were serious. that if you waited for the right moment to announce the wedding — then you should stand before everyone like a man. that if your feelings for me were pure and you loved me, then he would give you his blessing, and we would be married within two moons.”

you pulled your finger away as if burned. “that is what i sent, aerion. not whatever madness you imagined instead.”

he looked at you, and you saw the way he frowned — heavily, slowly, as if he tried to swallow every word you said, but they stuck in his throat like a stone.

you sniffled, and the sound came from somewhere deep inside — from that little girl who sat beside her mother’s bed and did not understand why she would not wake up, while valarr stood behind her and tried to stay strong for both of you. you felt like that same helpless, crushed little fool again.

“i talked nana’s ears off since morning,” you continued, and your voice turned quieter, but heavier. “i told the servants to prepare the best dress. the jewels — the ones mother used to wear.”

you squeezed your eyes shut — the memories pressed down on you, hurt physically, as if someone squeezed your ribs.

“because i wanted to look like your bride,” you breathed out, opening your eyes. “we talked about it for so long, and i wanted that day to be memorable. i wanted you to think i was the most beautiful woman alive. do you know how happy nana was? how she said she would tell our story to our children?”

his face changed — his brows pulled together, his lips parted slightly. he looked at you as if you spoke in a language he did not understand, as if he heard all of this for the first time. he did not take his eyes off you for even a second.

but you did not let him say a word — you sobbed again, unable to stop the trembling in your voice, and you noticed the way he twitched automatically, wanting to step closer, but you immediately stepped back, and he froze in place, not daring to follow you.

you slowly shook your head, and your hand grabbed at your heart so tightly it felt like you could tear the fabric of your dress apart. “i stood in the rain and waited for you,” you said, and your voice broke into a whisper. “i stood in that cold garden for three hours. my dress soaked through completely, my hair came undone, i could not feel my fingers anymore. i thought i would die from the cold, but i did not leave — because you promised. you promised you would come.”

you squeezed your eyes shut — and suddenly that night stood before you again, the cold garden, the empty benches, and you alone, small, worthless, waiting for the earth to split open and swallow you whole.

“then i heard footsteps,” you continued, and your voice trembled. “and do you know something, aerion? i was so happy. i could barely stand, but it was enough that you came.”

you opened your eyes and looked directly at him. “it was tristan.”

his body tensed immediately — his jaw clenched, muscles moved beneath his skin, and you knew that even hearing that man’s name infuriated him. but it was not aerion who stayed with you that night. not him who covered you with his cloak. not him who took responsibility for explaining everything to the royal family while the servants led you back to your chambers and forced hot bath.

you struggled to breathe — the air disappeared, your lungs burned, and it felt like you would collapse right there at his feet. “that was when i understood,” you breathed out. “that you were not coming. and then tristan told me…”

you could not finish. your voice broke, you shook your head, covered your face with your hands, and your shoulders trembled with silent sobs.

this time he did not stay still. he approached quickly, soundlessly, towered over you and pulled your hands away from your face. carefully, almost gently. “what did he tell you?”

you shook your head, tried to pull away from his hands, to move back. “it does not matter, aerion,” you whispered, and your voice cracked. “none of this matters anymore.”

“what the fuck did that dog tell you?” he repeated, and there was steel in his voice, bordering on desperation.

you stopped resisting. lifted your gaze to him — swollen, red, with wet lashes clumped together from tears. and you spoke — quietly, almost soundlessly, but every word felt like another step into nothingness.

“he said people saw you leaving a brothel.”

you did not hold back anymore — tears poured endlessly down your face, and you no longer wiped them away, no longer tried to seem strong, because you had no strength left at all. for anything. “while i stood beneath the pouring rain and froze, while i breathed onto my numb fingers and shook from the cold, you… you chose that easy pleasure instead…”

he shook his head sharply, almost violently, and tried to catch your gaze, but you saw nothing, heard nothing except your own voice tearing the silence apart.

“i was always beside you, aerion. there was nobody i loved more than you. nobody. and on the day when you were supposed to tell the entire kingdom that you loved me… you chose them. you chose these women instead of me.”

you sniffled, your chest heaving, and you almost choked on your own sobs.

“no,” he said, and his voice sounded dull, desperate. “i nev—”

but you did not hear him. you stopped hearing him completely.

“all this time, while i believed you felt at least something for me, at least something small that looked like love… you went there and…”

he stepped closer — right against you, took your hands and pinned them to the wall on either side of your head, leaned so close that his breath mixed with yours.

“i was never there,” he said, and there was no steel in his voice now, no anger, but something else you never heard from him before. pleading. “i swear on my dead mother, i was not there. how could i even do that?”

you froze. because he never joked when it came to his mother. never. you lifted your eyes to him and saw his face — confused, pleading, more open than ever before. he looked at you as if you were his last hope.

“i was not in a brothel or anywhere else,” he continued, and the words rushed out quickly, unevenly, as if he feared you would stop listening. “i swear. i got that letter, got angry, and left immediately. i could not even think straight after that wretch handed me the lett—”

he stopped in the middle of the sentence. you saw the way his eyes scanned your face, and with every second something new appeared in them — understanding, heavy and cold. his brows pulled together tighter, deeper.

you were not foolish children. both of you understood in the same second.

there was only one person who needed all of this to happen. the one who could easily switch your letter — you studied under the same septa, even if he was often absent because of his duties. the only person besides aerion and your family whom you trusted completely, without ever asking for proof.

and he used that trust.

something cruel and dark appeared on aerion’s face, and his voice turned low, almost into a whisper. “i will kill him. he will die the most painful and shameful death.”

he pushed himself away from the wall, turned around, and you grabbed his forearm sharply, with the last of your strength. he turned back to you, looked down at you, and that cold fury still burned in his eyes.

“don't,” you said.

“are you still protecting him?”

you stayed silent. because you knew his words were not empty threats. if he wanted to kill tristan, he would do it. right now. and maybe somewhere deep inside you wanted the same thing. but tristan was your friend, your brother, your support. the person who stayed beside you when nobody else did. and your heart still could not believe that he spent all those years saving you from pain he created himself.

so you said the thing that would work. you knew it was not a lie — just not the whole truth. “can you stay with me?”

he looked at you for a long, long time — and you saw the rage fighting with something else inside him — he knew exactly what you were doing. knew you distracted him, bought time, saved someone who maybe did not deserve saving.

but he was too tired. or maybe he always allowed you too much. either way, he let out a deep painful breath and then sharply pulled you closer.

his lips crashed against yours — not softly, not gently. there was nothing careful in this kiss.

he pulled you by the waist so suddenly that you cried out against his mouth, but the sound drowned in his silent groan. your hands slid over his chest on their own, wrapped around his neck, fingers buried themselves in silver hair — so soft, so familiar, so him.

he bit your lower lip — not painfully and there was so much desperation in the gesture that it stole your breath. using your short gasp, he deepened the kiss, and his tongue pushed into your mouth — greedy, demanding, tasting you as if he wanted to memorize every part of you, every tiny piece.

he kissed you as if he wanted to devour you whole, swallow you completely so you would always stay inside him, beneath his skin, in his blood, where nobody could ever take you away. and you answered him the same way — pressed yourself against him, tugged at his hair, bit his lower lip, and he groaned, low and rough, and there was so much desperation in that sound that it made your chest tighten.

“finally,” he breathed directly against your lips, and his voice cracked, and you felt his smile — too unexpected and too rare.

he pulled away from your lips — but not from you, his mouth started wandering across your face, covering it with small, lingering kisses: your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your lips, your eyelids that you already squeezed shut.

“how could i ever want anyone else,” he kissed one cheek, then the other, “when you are the only thing i have ever needed?"

you only breathed out quietly, melted against him, because you no longer felt that heavy guilt that suffocated you for years every time you thought about him. the pain of all those years did not disappear — it stayed there, beneath your skin, in your memories, in those nights. you did not know if you would ever forgive him, if you'd forget. but right now, while he kissed your face and held you as if you could disappear, you thought maybe you could think about that tomorrow.

he was never a master of tender words. but now — it seemed even this stubborn, unbearable man could not hold himself back anymore.

he lifted his hands, brushed your hair back, exposing your forehead, and kissed it for a long time — simply stood there with his lips against your skin, breathing in your scent as if he would not survive a single day without it.

“never,” a kiss to your cheek, “nobody,” a kiss to your nose, “was or ever will be worth more than you. i realized that after you started coming to my training sessions.”

you stayed silent for a long time, simply pressed against him, feeling his heart beat in rhythm with yours. then you hummed quietly, lazily, hiding your smile. “actually, that was my reading spot long before your training sessions.”

he smirked — softly, without any sharpness — and kissed your temple. “whatever you say, my love.”

he held you tighter, and you stood there for a long time, you felt his fingers stroke your back — slowly, soothingly, felt the way he breathed — steady, deep, pulling you into himself.

you pulled back just a little to look at him, and he immediately resisted, pulling you close again. you did not want to ruin this moment — the one where you could finally be with him openly, not in stolen one. but you could not stop yourself from saying it. you could not do this to yourself again.

you lifted your head and met his piercing gaze. in the light of the few candles his eyes looked only at you.

“if you truly love me, you will let tristan win the tourney.”

a/n: i genuinely believe this story needs sad ending. pt5 is in process ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

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The 2am conversations when you need extra meds, running to the gas station to grab you energy drinks or anything to cheer you up, and slipping in some chocolate just to make you smile. And he does all of it without question, without argument, just a simple nod, and a tender kiss to your forehead.

“I’ve got you… just breathe, okay?” And he’s off, leaving you wrapped up in a blanket and the door shutting closed carefully slow.

Once he’s back, he stays and he doesn’t rush it, doesn’t get impatient. Instead, he rides it out with you like it’s his pain too, curling up to you on the sofa or the bed and pulling you into his arms, only getting up to grab you some water and whatever you ask for. Most of the time when he feels he’s drifting, he’s nodding himself back awake just to check on you, even if you fell asleep before him. he’s on constant ‘healer mode’ once you’re not feeling well.

And until you’re well again? That doesn’t end. A simple migraine or a bad one, or any kind of sickness for that matter, he’s treating it like top priority, because to him it is, even if things are constantly trying to drag him away.

You’d expect a sort of impatience, an inflation of an already large ego and all of the careless cruelties that come with it, but when it comes to caring for you with Aerion, although that doesn’t disappear, there is certainly less of it. Once you’re his, you’re his, and there’s no denying that. He could speak all day about his list of wants, about than believing himself better than others, and you with him, your health isn’t something he messes around with.

He’s almost frightening curling around something so fragile. At least to everyone else. The first signs of weakness and he’s watching carefully at a distance, the stumble in your step, the pull of your brow as pain shoots through you, but only in private does he move toward you. And when he takes you into his arms, studying your closer, mere breaths away from you, not tender but not callous, he listens, to your pain, to your body.

“Ease, dove..” His voice is strained, coming out a weak whisper, letting your eyes flicker closed as he leans over you.

And there he hardens.

Silence is enforced among the halls, your chambers are cleared, and no one is to enter them so much as come near you unless it’s him, or a trusted maester should your condition worsen.

He’ll sit at your side with cool fingers, pressing them to your forehead, looking you over with an expression that is darkened, watchful, like the only affliction he has is they he can’t take it away for you. Though he doesn’t hover, when it comes to illness he prefers to stay away from it, believes it’s beneath him, and so he shadows you. Whenever you call for him, he’ll be close enough to approach you calmly, slyly like he hadn’t been listening the whole time, sending your ladies maids with a sharp eye to tend to you, or when you finally feel somewhat better he will orbit you amid courtly duties and feasts.

He wouldn’t admit it but seeing you in pain irks him, given what happened to his own mother, and the sight of seeing you in pain, at your most vulnerable, Aerion doesn’t know what to do. And though he less often shows it to you, as much as he can manage, others that step at all out of line form his word or your wants, get the brunt force of that anger and coarseness.

Somehow, Shawn is the practical type, and when it comes to your wellbeing he’s on it and already clocked your tells before you even say mention word of a migraine or the pain you’re in. Hell act cool about it, as always, but he’s got everything you need. Water? Poured your a cup and it’s in hand. Meds? Already your hand, he got them from the drugstore on his last run remember. Your bedroom? Dark and quiet.

Only then does he really soften, he’s calling his friends and telling them to leave him be for a couple of hours, sitting you down and pulling you into his lap with an arm around your shoulder. He lets your head rest against his chest where it’s steady and predictable.

He keeps voice low, rumbling through his chest and soft at your ear, almost teasing just to keep you anchored, “You look like you’re about to fight god. Let’s not, yeah?” His fingers brush through your hair, taking not of when and where your face pulls tight, and what makes you curl into him tighter.

His hand rubs at your back in slow, rhythmic motions, like he’s trying to lull your nervous system itself. Shawn doesn’t suffocate you, he’ll leave off and on to pick up some more stuff when you fall asleep, going out on runs for booze once you’re occupied, but he won’t leave either.

His presence is steady, and whenever he’s not hassling someone he’s at your side pressing kisses to your temple.

Before you even have to say anything, although a little unsure, a little intense, like he feels everything too much and doesn’t know where to put it. Olly is alert as he usually is, and he seems to notice just as the pain sets in.

He panics at first, nothing loud or over the top, but you can see it in the way he trips over himself, somehow more clumsy than usual, his hands half-reaching like he’s scared to touch you. But once you let him in, he settles. And by that, he sits close to you, like really close, like proximity alone might help. His hand finds yours, squeezing it gently as his thumb brushes over your knuckles again and again.

“Just tell me what you need.. I’ll do it, yeah?” And he’s running at the first sign you tell him.

He whispers soft, random things, not even full sentences sometimes, just to keep you tethered to something outside the pain, some things he did in the hours he wasn’t with you, some stupid thing he saw on his phone earlier. It’s simple, it’s playful and he tries his best to cure you through that.

And when it gets bad, the fever sharpening and when your body starts to tense, he leans his head against yours with his eyes closed, going utterly silent until you tempt to speak again, sharing the weight of it as much as he can manage.

Care with Marcellus feels deliberate. almost ritualistic. like you’re something sacred he’s tending to, because there’s little else he’d bide himself with to care for anyway. but you are something else entirely, you’re his, the one thing he can hold onto solidly, and he isn’t going to let go of that.

Especially when you are sick.

He dims the room himself, with no servants or anyone else surrounding you, this is his to do. Oils were prepared with cool cloths, a faint scent of herbs still lingering that he was told once helped.

You’re laid down with your head in his lap, fingers combing through your hair in slow, methodical strokes, tracing the lines of your face like he’s sculpting it. And it’d grounding. His voice is calm, assured, the one he keeps reserved for you, without the sarcasm, without the

“The pain is temporary. You endure it you always do.” And he believes it, and so you do aswell tucked into each other in the warmth of your bedchambers.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲

He notices you long before he admits it to himself. At first, you’re just an inconvenient detail— his new ally’s niece, the woman he absolutely should not be watching across crowded rooms. But then he starts memorizing how you hold eye contact with him instead of looking away, and that is where the trouble begins.

Thomas reacts to wanting you by becoming colder, not warmer. Every clipped answer, every narrowed glance, every sudden exit from a conversation is him trying to put distance between himself and the thing he knows could become dangerous.

He tells himself it’s strategy. He convinces himself that asking where you are, who you were seen with, whether you got home safely, those are business questions. They stop sounding like business the moment he starts asking them twice.

You would catch him studying you when he thinks you aren’t looking. Not with obvious softness, but with that sharp, unsettling focus that makes you feel like he’s trying to solve you and losing patience because he can’t.

The forbidden part makes him furious with himself. Thomas hates weakness, and falling for you feels exactly like that, an opening someone clever enough could use to put a knife straight through him.

He becomes more protective than he has any right to be. If someone speaks to you disrespectfully, he doesn’t explode publicly. He simply handles it later, quietly, efficiently, and with enough finality that the insult is never repeated.

Around you, his control slips in small ways. He lingers after conversations are over. He lights cigarettes and forgets to smoke them. He says your name like it means more than it should, and both of you hear it.

He would try to push you away first. He’d tell you staying near him is dangerous. He’d say it harshly on purpose, hoping you’ll get angry enough to leave before he loses the ability to let you.

If you challenge him instead of retreating, that’s what ruins him. Thomas is used to fear, obedience, calculation. You standing there, refusing to be intimidated, makes something in him shift permanently.

The first real sign he loves you is not a confession—it’s trust. He starts telling you things he doesn’t tell other people. Not everything, never everything, but enough for you to realize he has quietly made space for you inside the locked rooms of his mind.

He grows territorial in ways he tries very hard to hide. If another man takes too much interest in you, Thomas suddenly appears nearby, saying almost nothing, but making it unmistakably clear that he is paying attention.

When he finally gives in, it happens in a moment of exhaustion. Late at night, after too much blood and too much silence, he looks at you like you are the only peaceful thing left in the world—and that look says more than words ever could.

Loving you means accepting the one truth he hates most: you could destroy him simply by mattering. And once Thomas Shelby realizes he loves you, he knows there is no going back. He will still call you a bad idea but now he’ll say it while standing close enough that neither of you believes he means it.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧

John falls first and realizes it much faster than he wants to. You’re supposed to be off limits—his mate's little sister—but the moment you make him laugh when he’s in a foul mood, he knows he’s in trouble.

His first reaction is denial. He acts louder, flirtier, more reckless around other women, like if he keeps moving fast enough he won’t have to look too hard at why he keeps searching every room for you.

Unlike Thomas, John doesn’t get colder—he gets more restless. He finds reasons to be wherever you are. Suddenly he’s “just passing through” when you visit, or he volunteers for errands no one asked him to do.

He teases you relentlessly because it’s safer than honesty. He likes seeing you roll your eyes, hearing you snap back at him, watching you try not to smile when he says something outrageous just to get a reaction.

The moment someone reminds him you’re off limits, he gets defensive immediately. Not because he means to reveal anything, but because the idea of being told to stay away from you irritates him more than it should.

He becomes absurdly observant about you. John notices when you’re tired, when you’re upset, when you’ve been pretending not to be bothered by something. He acts casual about it, but he notices everything.

If you’re connected to a rival or someone he’s meant to tolerate, the conflict eats at him. John isn’t subtle about emotion, and being forced to act indifferent when he wants to pull you closer makes him sharp-tempered with everyone else.

He gets jealous fast. If another man leans in too close, John’s grin disappears. He won’t always start a fight but he absolutely will plant himself beside you like he belongs there.

Around you, there’s a boyish softness he can’t entirely hide. He brags less when you’re genuinely upset. He checks whether you’re cold. He remembers things you mentioned weeks ago and pretends it was accidental.

The first time he realizes it’s serious is when you’re in danger. That flash of fear hits him so hard it strips away every excuse he’s been using. It’s not attraction. It’s not amusement. It’s love, and he hates how obvious it suddenly feels.

He would probably confess in anger first. Not cruel anger—frustrated, cornered honesty. Something like, “You think I want this? You think I meant for it to be you?”

Once it’s out, John becomes stubborn about it. If you tell him it’s impossible, he’ll argue. If you tell him it’s a terrible idea, he’ll probably agree and then kiss you anyway.

Loving you makes him unexpectedly serious. He still jokes, still grins, still acts impulsive but underneath it is something steadier. If you matter to him, then you’re his choice, and John Shelby has never been good at walking away from what he wants.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥

Michael falls in love quietly, almost academically at first. He notices patterns—how you think before you speak, how your voice changes when you’re irritated, how you never quite behave the way he expects. He tells himself he’s only curious.

Because you’re off limits, he initially treats the attraction like a problem to solve. Distance should fix it. Logic should fix it. A few weeks later he realizes he’s somehow more aware of you than ever.

He becomes more formal around you, not less. Polite, composed, carefully measured. The better he likes you, the more deliberate every word becomes because he is terrified of saying too much.

You would notice him listening to you more closely than anyone else does. He remembers tiny details you assumed he’d forgotten—an offhand complaint, a favorite book, the way you once said you hated being underestimated.

Michael hates that other people could use you against him. The forbidden nature of it makes him cautious in a way that almost looks detached, but the truth is the opposite: he’s being careful because he already cares too much.

If you belong to someone politically inconvenient—an enemy’s daughter, a business partner’s niece—he starts watching every interaction for hidden meaning. Not because he distrusts you, but because he distrusts everyone around you.

He grows jealous in silence. Michael won’t make a scene. He’ll just go quieter, his expression flattening while he watches someone else monopolize your attention.

Around you, he has moments where his composure slips. His gaze lingers too long. His reply comes half a second late. His hand brushes yours and suddenly he forgets the rest of the sentence.

He tries to convince himself that if he never acts on it, it doesn’t count. Then he starts making choices with you in mind, and that’s when he realizes the feeling has already moved past control.

Michael’s protectiveness is subtle but unmistakable. He won’t hover. He won’t order you around. But problems disappear before they reach you, and you slowly realize that isn’t coincidence.

The first time he nearly confesses, it happens in private—late, quiet, when there’s no audience. He says your name differently, softer, and then stops himself because once he starts, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop.

If you ask him directly, he cannot lie well enough. He might evade, might stall, might look away but the truth is there all over him, and for a man who values control, that vulnerability feels almost unbearable.

When Michael finally accepts he loves you, he becomes determined rather than reckless. He doesn’t want a stolen moment. He wants something real enough to be worth the trouble, and that is when you understand he has already decided you are worth the consequences.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞

Alfie realizes he’s falling for you almost immediately, and his first reaction is irritation so profound it borders on personal offense. Out of all the women in the world, it had to be you, the one tied to someone he absolutely should not cross.

He starts talking more when you’re around, not less. Half of it sounds like nonsense, stories, insults, philosophy but underneath all that noise is a man trying very hard not to say the one thing he actually means.

You’d catch him looking at you with unsettling intensity, then saying something deliberately ridiculous the second you notice. Alfie hates being caught in sincerity.

The forbidden part doesn’t scare him morally, it annoys him strategically. He knows exactly how much trouble could come from wanting you, and that only makes him more fascinated by the fact that he wants you anyway.

He becomes infuriatingly attentive. He remembers what tea you prefer, which subjects make you angry, which ones make you laugh, who you dislike and why. He’ll pretend he hasn’t noticed a thing.

Alfie’s version of flirting is verbal warfare. He needles you, provokes you, pushes until you snap back. And every time you do, he looks absurdly pleased with himself.

He becomes very particular about who speaks to you. He’ll act like it’s about politics, appearances, timing. It isn’t.

The moment another man gets too familiar with you, Alfie’s entire mood changes. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. He just says something so calmly threatening that everyone in the room understands perfectly well.

Around you, there are rare flashes of startling gentleness. A chair pulled out before you ask. His coat around your shoulders. A hand at the small of your back guiding you through a crowd like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He tries to warn you away in his own crooked way. Not because he doesn’t want you, but because he does. He knows what proximity to him costs, and for once he isn’t entirely selfish about it.

If you refuse to be pushed away, that’s when he truly loses. There is something about you choosing to stay that cuts straight through every layer of bluff, wit, and menace.

Alfie’s confession would never sound like a confession. It would come out half-angry, half-amused, something rough-edged like, “You are, without question, the worst bloody idea I’ve had in years.” And yet the way he looks at you would make the meaning painfully clear.

The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.

On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.

You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.

He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?

You didn’t answer.

You don’t plan to.

The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.

Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”

Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”

His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”

“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”

As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”

Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”

She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”

Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”

“Whatever you say, cap.”

The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.

In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”

She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”

He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”

The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.

—

It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.

You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”

“No worries, gorgeous.”

Your focus snaps.

Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”

Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”

You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”

He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”

You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”

“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”

“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”

Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”

You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”

Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”

Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.

“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”

Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.

Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”

“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”

He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”

“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”

Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”

You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”

It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.

He sends you texts. You don’t reply.

He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.

After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”

“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”

Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”

Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”

“But I’m not your girlfriend.”

“And thank god for that.”

“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”

“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”

“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”

“And you repaid her by leaving.”

Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”

“But she did.”

“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”

“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”

“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”

“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”

“Flatterer.”

“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”

Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”

“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”

At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.

When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”

His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”

Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”

“Not hostile, just professional.”

“You were definitely hostile.”

Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”

She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”

Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”

“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”

“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”

“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”

Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”

Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”

“At the door.”

Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”

Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”

“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”

Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”

“It’s ten thousand dollars.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”

Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”

You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”

“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”

“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my drama.”

“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.

Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”

Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”

Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”

“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”

“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.

She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”

“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”

“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”

“And you’re not forgiving enough.”

You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”

“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”

Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”

With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.

I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life. That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice. But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that. So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that. It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please. I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more. And I promise I love you. Both of you. I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it. Love, Sincerely, Yours, M.

All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.

Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”

Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”

You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”

Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”

Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”

You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.

In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.

In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.

I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.

Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should let him grovel.”

Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”

“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your co-parent or sperm donor or whatever. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”

“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”

“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”

“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”

You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”

“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”

“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”

“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”

“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”

Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”

“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”

You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”

And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.

Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.

Then.

After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”

“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”

Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”

Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”

Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”

“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”

The world tilts slightly.

Robby’s breath catches in his throat. 

Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?

You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.

You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.

“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”

“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”

You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”

Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”

You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”

His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”

Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”

“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”

“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”

Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”

“I’ll pick you up at ten.”

You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”

With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”

“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”

Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”

You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.

“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”

You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”

“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”

“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”

‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.

After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”

One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”

You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”

“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”

You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”

His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”

“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”

Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”

You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”

He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m 100% confident.”

“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”

That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”

“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”

Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”

“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”

Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”

“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”

He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”

Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.

Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.

With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.

Noted. Thanks for the tip.

Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.

I’m rooting for you.

If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.

Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.

Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.

“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”

“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”

With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”

Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”

“Kids. Plural.”

He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”

You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”

Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”

You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”

“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”

“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”

Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”

“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”

Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”

You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”

“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”

“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.

“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”

You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”

He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”

“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”

“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”

You tease, “Sounds horrible.”

“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”

Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”

“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”

“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”

Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.

…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…

After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”

Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”

Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”

“You were just talking to her.”

He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”

She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”

Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”

You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”

He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”

Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.

“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”

You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”

“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”

“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”

“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”

“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”

He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”

“Michael!”

“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”

“I will not hesitate to splash you.”

Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”

Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”

“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”

After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”

His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”

You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”

He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”

And you want to kiss him.

You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”

He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”

You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.

As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”

You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”

Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then he curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”

You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”

“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”

You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”

He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”

You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as his confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.

Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”

Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”

Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”

Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”

“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”

Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.

Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.

You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.

For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.

So you decide.

Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”

His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”

“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”

“What would it be, then?”

He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to be something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”

You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.

When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-

Woah, asshole.

Calm down.

He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.

All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”

When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint fluttery aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes. 

To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”

Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”

Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.

He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”

“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”

Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”

“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”

“You do?”

There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”

With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”

“See you soon, Michael.”

“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”

When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.

Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.

Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”

He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”

You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”

You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.

As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”

“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”

You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”

When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”

You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”

“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”

“God forbid.”

“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”

“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.

“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”

“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”

Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”

“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”

Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”

You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”

“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Good. As he should.”

Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”

“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”

“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.

Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”

Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”

You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”

You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”

He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”

The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”

And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.

Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”

You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”

“What? You don’t want a shower?”

“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”

Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.

Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.

She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”

“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”

“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”

Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”

“We’ll see.”

You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”

“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”

Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”

You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”

Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”

You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”

Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”

You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”

Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”

When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”

He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”

You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”

So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”

Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”

Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.

You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”

Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”

He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.

Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.

From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.

That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.

Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”

Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”

Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”

Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”

Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”

“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”

“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”

As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my boyfriend or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”

Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”

“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”

A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”

“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”

“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”

“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”

“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”

Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.

“Rest of your life, huh?”

“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”

You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”

“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.

Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”

Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.

Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”

Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”

You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”

Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”

You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”

“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”

Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”

As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”

“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”

He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”

“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”

You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t play dirty with me.”

“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”

He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”

“Now who’s playing dirty?”

“I would never.”

Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.

God.

God.

Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.

Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”

“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”

“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”

You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?” 

Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”

He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”

The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.

Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.

And you kiss him.

It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”

Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”

You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”

“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”

“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”

Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”

“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”

He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”

You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”

Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”

“I want a hot tub.”

“Okay.”

“And a soaking tub.”

“Okay.”

“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”

“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”

Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”

Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”