hot mess of a person, hot mess of a blog

The first word you ever said was more. Not mama or papa. More. You had wanted a second spoonful of something sweet, and when the nursemaid withdrew the spoon you had looked at her with what your father later described, as an expression of royal outrage, and said it clearly enough that the entire room heard. More! They gave it to you, naturally. They always did.

You are twenty years old and heir to the Kingdom of Paradis, and you have never—not once in the entire span of your living memory—been told no by anyone who mattered. Your tutors gave you whatever subject you wanted to pursue, your ladies gave you whatever gossip you asked for, the cooks gave you your favourite things on the nights you told them to. The Commander of the Royal Guards gave you fencing lessons at thirteen when you decided, abruptly, that you were bored of embroidery.

Your father gave you everything else. This was the thing about your father: he is a good king and a better man, and he has loved you with a completeness that borders on the political problem. You are his only child, your mother having died when you were four, and what little you know of grief you learned from watching him carry it so quietly over the years that you only recognised it for what it was when you were old enough to have your own. Since then it has been the two of you, and he has looked at you—always, as though you contain something irreplaceable. As though the universe would go wrong without you in it. It is wonderful, but it is also, in certain practical respects, a disaster.

It means that when you want something, you get it; and when you don't want something, it goes away. When you are bored, there is a festival or an event. When you are restless, there is a journey to take. You are not a cruel person, and you do not use this power badly of course. But you have never had to practice patience with wanting, and you have never had to practice the particular grief of wanting something that is simply not available in its entirety.

Until now.

Your father tells you about the ball on a Wednesday afternoon, when you are in the garden with your two ladies-in-waiting, Sasha and Mikasa, when he finds you. Sasha is doing a fairly poor job of pretending to embroider while eating the small pastries she has smuggled out of the kitchen in her sleeve. Mikasa is actually embroidering, with the focused precision she brings to everything. You are reading, which is to say you have a book open in your lap and have been staring at the same page for twenty minutes, thinking about nothing in particular.

Your father sits in the empty chair as though he was always going to, and says quickly: "My darling, I am holding a ball."

You look up from your book. "Really? When?"

"This Saturday."

"That's three days away!"

"Yes—"

"The kitchen will be furious—"

"The kitchen has been informed already." 

He has the look. The love-and-apology-and-good-intentions look. You have been fluent in it your entire life, and it tells you now that this is not a casual ball. "I’m doing this ball specially as I’ve invited two princes to our court, to stay with us at our castle. I'd like you to meet them in a setting that's—comfortable." 

"Comfortable?" you repeat. "You mean where you can keep a close eye on me?"

"Just a ball," he says patiently. "Dancing, and music."

"And the two princes are—"

"Prince Reiner of Marley, and Prince Jean of Trost."

Sasha drops a pastry, then she picks it up and pretends she didn't. "I see," you mumble.

"You know what this is about, don't you?” Your father asks.

"I know what this is about."

"I'm not ordering you to marry them," he says, the way he always says it, the way that means: I am asking you with my whole heart, which is the thing that works. "I'm asking you to meet them. To actually try to get to know them to see if they’re…suitable."

You look at him— this man who has given you everything, who has never once looked at you as a burden or a problem, who carries your mother's absence in his face every day and never lets it make him small— and you think, not for the first time: the very least you owe him is an attempt at grace.

"All right, Father," you say.

He smiles. You feel the weight of it, warm and not entirely uncomplicated. Sasha waits until he has gone back inside before she says, with tremendous solemnity: "Two princes?"

“It seems so,” you mutter. 

"At the same time?"

"Sasha!"

"I'm just saying," she says.

Mikasa, who has not looked up from her embroidery, says: "She'll manage."

You are not sure if this is a compliment.

Saturday arrives the way important things tend to—faster than you planned for and with entirely too much expectation attached to it. Mikasa does your hair for over an hour, taking her time. She never rushes anything that matters, and apparently your hair matters tonight, which you suspect is her private opinion on the importance of the evening made tangible through the large amount of pins and ribbon. She works in silence until the very end, when she meets your eyes in the mirror and says, simply: "Perfect."

"Thank you," you smile at her in the mirror. She nods once and steps back.

Sasha, stationed at the door in her formal gown gives you a thorough once-over and pronounces: "Very intimidating—in a good way! Like a very beautiful problem."

The ballroom has been transformed with the particular extravagance your father deploys when he means something by it. Three hundred candles, flowers banking every surface, and the full orchestra in the gallery, playing something warm and sweeping. The court in its finest colours, arranged in the usual formations of power and alliance and old grudge. You take it in from the landing at the top of the stairs the way you always take things in— fully and quickly, before anyone can watch you doing it.

Your father is on the floor below, near the central floor, and he is not alone. Two men flank him a slight distance away from him—not together but not quite apart, placed with the careful choreography of a man who thinks about these things.

You find who you assume is Reiner first, and he was not difficult to find. He is built like a fixed point—broad-shouldered and solid, dressed in Marley's colours of deep burgundy and silver, standing with the grounded stillness of a man who knows how to be in a room without being moved by it. His golden blonde hair close-cropped, and jaw set heavily. Handsome in that specific, slightly worn way of someone who has come through something and made their peace with what it cost. He is holding a glass of wine and not drinking it, and is looking at absolutely nothing in particular with the focused blankness of a man who is, in fact, watching everything.

Then he looks up, and  finds you at the top of the stairs—not slowly and not by accident. As though he already knew where to look. He goes very still.

You find Jean second, because Jean is harder to find—not because he is less present, but because he is moving. He is making his way around the edge of the room with the easy, slightly restless energy of someone who thinks better while in motion, pausing occasionally to take in a painting or a detail of the architecture with what appears to be genuine, if mildly critical, assessment. He is lean and angular where Reiner is broad, ashy light brown hair doing largely whatever it wants, dressed in Trost's navy and pale silver with an ease that suggests he dressed well because he chose to rather than because protocol required it. He has a glass and is actually drinking, quite heavily. He turns and catches you at the top of the stairs. His expression does a thing very quickly. Something unguarded that is there and then very deliberately isn't.

You descend slowly. Your father makes the introductions with the warmth of a man who genuinely means it, and both men bow respectfully— Reiner with a precision that is formal without being stiff, and Jean with a slightly more individual tilt that manages to be correct while also being entirely his own.

"Prince Reiner," your father says. "Prince Jean, I’d like to introduce my daughter."

He doesn't say heir, or future queen. He just says daughter, the way he has always said it, like it is the thing that matters most, the title that means the most to him— and for a moment you love him so much it sits heavy in your chest.

"Your Highness." Reiner spoke first, his voice low and unhurried, hazel eyes meeting yours with the kind of steadiness that doesn't need to announce itself.

"Your Highness." Jean spoke next, a fraction quicker, like he couldn't quite wait his turn, and he caught himself.

 "Gentlemen," you say, with the pleasant composure of someone who has attended three hundred events and never once looked uncertain at the top of a staircase. "Welcome to the capital."

The orchestra begins something new. Your father, with the elegant ruthlessness of a man who has staged this entire evening, excuses himself to speak to someone across the room who very obviously does not need speaking to, and leaves the three of you standing together in the warm golden light.

A pause. The specific pause of three people recalibrating. "The ballroom is extraordinary," Reiner says, and he says it the way he seems to say most things, not as a compliment deployed for effect, but as a plain observation that happens to be true.

"Yes, and they put this together with three days' notice," you say. "The kitchen nearly revolted when they heard."

"Worth the risk," he nods.

Jean, beside you, says: "The ceiling is impressive. I wish my hall looked like this but the proportions are off—but in here they got it just right." You look at him oddly. He looks back, steady. "What? I have opinions about architecture."

"Most people don't lead the conversations with them..." You almost giggle. 

"Most people aren't being honest then."

Reiner, on your other side, makes no visible expression. But something in his posture has adjusted, fractionally, the way a person adjusts when they have taken a reading of the room and filed it away. You turn to him. "Do you like architecture, my prince?"

"I can't say I do," he says. "Sounds rather—" A beat, almost imperceptible. "Boring."

Jean looks at Reiner, and Reiner looks at Jean. It is not unfriendly, but it is also not entirely easy. It is the look of two people who have assessed each other and arrived at a complicated verdict. You watch them watching each other, and you think to yourself: oh. This is going to be interesting.

The evening moves the way good evenings do—fast enough to feel alive, slow enough to remember. Your father circulates, occasionally steering the right people into your orbit with the subtle precision of a man who has been doing this his entire reign.

You danced with a duke’s son first, which felt awkward and quite unsettling. Then once with Jean, which is— notable. Jean dances the way he does most things: with complete commitment and no performance. He is good at it, better than he probably lets on— and he keeps his hand at your waist with the correct formality and also with a quality of attention that makes the correct formality feel like a choice rather than a rule. He talks while he dances, which most people don't, but Jean is constitutionally incapable of silence when there is something to say.

"How many of these have you attended?" he asks. "Events like this."

"Since I was sixteen? Hundreds, probably."

"Do you like them?"

"Sometimes." You consider. "When the music is good and the company is bearable and I'm not being watched too closely."

"You're being watched very closely tonight."

"I know."

"Does it bother you?"

"It depends," you say carefully. "On who's watching me."

He looks at you. Something moves in his expression, very quick and careful— and then the corner of his mouth shifts, just slightly. "That's a very interesting answer."

"I'm an interesting person."

"So am I," he says. "We'll see how that goes, shall we?"

The music ends. He steps back and bows with that same individual tilt, and you find yourself watching his hand release your waist and thinking about the particular warmth of it, and how you missed it already.  You do not share this thought with anyone.

You do not dance with Reiner surprisingly, and this is not entirely accidental.

You find him instead, late in the evening, at the edge of the terrace doors, standing apart from the crowd with the glass of wine he has been incrementally not-drinking all night. He doesn't look up when you approach, but he knew you were coming. "The duchess isn't happy," you say, coming to stand beside him, nodding toward the far end of the room. "She's been trying to get your attention for forty minutes."

"I know," he says. "I've been trying not to look at her."

"Why?"

"She has a son she'd like placed on the Marleyan council." He says it without inflection. "I'd rather not have that conversation tonight." 

You consider him for a moment. The firelight from inside makes the angles of his face look older than they are, or perhaps just more honest. "You came a long way," you admit, "for a ball."

"I came a long way," he says, "to meet you." No decoration on it, no careful framing. Just the thing.

You look at the room rather than at him. "And?"

A pause. Long enough that you think he is actually considering his answer rather than reaching for a flattering one. "And," he says, "I think the journey was worth it."

You look at him then. He is already looking at you, with those dark hazel eyes that hold more than his face tends to give away, and there is something in them that is quiet and certain and slightly too much. "Don't do that," you smile.

"Don't what?"

"Look at me like that when we've only just met."

Something moves in his expression, not embarrassment, exactly. More like: caught, and still choosing to hold it. "Sorry," he shrugs.

"You're not."

The almost-smile appeared, barely there. "No," he agrees. "I'm not."

You look back at the ballroom as your pulse is doing something unhelpful. You are twenty years old and heir to the Kingdom of Paradis and you have never in your life been looked at quite like that, and you are not going to let it show. You are not going to let it show.

You find Mikasa at eleven o'clock, as the ball begins its long slow unwinding, near the column by the east wall where she always stations herself at events—close enough to reach, far enough to observe. "Well?" you ask her quietly.

She looks at you for a moment with those careful eyes. "The Marleyan prince, Reiner," she says, "hasn't stopped tracking your position in the room all evening. Even when he was talking to someone else, he was still watching you."

"And Jean?"

"Prince Jean," she says, "watched you dance with the duke's son like someone who was about to explode any minute."

You are quiet for a moment, deep in thought. "And you're not going to tell me which one to pick?" You sigh.

"It's not my choice."

"No." You look out at the room. "But you have an opinion that matters to me."

"I always have an opinion," Mikasa says. "But I'm not sharing it yet."

"Why not?"

"Because you haven't spent enough time with either of them." A pause. "Yet." The word lands with weight, and you let it.

The ball ends, however the problem does not.

You walk in the royal gardens every morning, which Reiner discovers on the second day after the ball while staying at your castle— not, you suspect, by accident, but because Reiner seems like the kind of man who finds out the things he wants to know quietly and without fuss. He is simply there, on the Tuesday, at the start of the rose walk, in plain clothes rather than formal dress, looking at the red roses with the expression of a man who is waiting for something and intends to do so correctly.

"You seem to have learned your way round fast," you say when you get closer to him. 

"One of your ladies told me you take this route most days in the garden."

"Did she now,” you sigh, knowing already who it would've been. 

"Is that all right?" You consider him for a moment, this broad, quiet, carefully composed man in the cold morning light— and think that anyone else who turned up uninvited in your garden would irritate you, and that this is not, for reasons you intend to examine later, irritating you.

"You may as well walk with me," you tell him.

He falls into step beside you without ceremony. He is quiet in the way that people are only quiet when they are comfortable— not suppressing something, just content to let the morning be what it is. "You don't need to fill the silence with small talk," you observe, after a while. 

"Neither do you."

"Most people do with me. They think I expect conversation from them."

"Do you?"

"Sometimes." You turn at the end of the path, along the outer wall where the espaliered pear trees stand bare against the stone. "When I have something to say, I'd rather say it than perform around it for their sake."

He thinks about this. "I know what you mean." Something in the way he says it makes you look at him. There's the edge of something old in his voice— not sadness, exactly, but the texture of a man who has spent years saying things he didn't entirely mean, wearing faces that weren't his, and has grown very tired of it.

"Marley," you say, carefully. "Is it much different from Paradis?"

A pause. Not evasive— considered. "Parts of it," he says. "Parts of it are……difficult to live in.” He looks at the pear trees. "Sorry, I don't talk about it much."

"You don't have to."

"I know." He glances at you, briefly. "I noticed you didn't push about it either."

"Pushing tells you what people already know. Waiting tells you what they trust you with."

Reiner is quiet for a moment. And then, quietly, he says: "That's a good way to put it."

You walk the rest of the path without speaking. When you reach the gate back to the palace, he stops. "Same time tomorrow?" he asks. Just that.

You look at him. His expression is careful. Hopeful in the specific way of a man who will accept no for an answer and would prefer not to.

"Tomorrow," you agree. He nods once, and goes. You watch him cross the courtyard and think about the particular way he looked at the pear trees. 

Jean finds you in the library on the Wednesday. Not the third-floor one small one— the main library, which is large and cold and has north-facing windows. You are at the long table with the trade documents you have been meaning to review for a week, and he appears in the doorway with a book under his arm and an expression that says he is prepared to pretend this is a coincidence if you would like him to.

"You're not even going to pretend this is a coincidence?" you half smile.

"I heard you were in the library." He crosses to the table, uninvited, and sits—not beside you, but across, which is both respectful and somehow more direct. "I have questions about the northern trade routes. One of your ladies said you were the person to ask."

"Did she now?"

"She mentioned you were here. I inferred the rest." He opens his book— it is, you note, a volume of Paradis geography, which means he has been doing his reading— and sets it on the table between you. "The northeastern pass. Does it actually close in winter or is that an exaggeration?"

You look at him for a long moment. He looks back, patient, waiting.

"It closes," you say, "for approximately six weeks in deep winter. The exaggeration is for tariff purposes and has been since my grandfather's time."

"I knew it." Not triumphantm just satisfied. He pulls the map toward him. "So the Marleyan route through the southern valley is actually faster for winter goods—which means the current levy structure is—"

"Wrong," you interupted. "I know. I've been arguing about it for two years with the council. They don't like being told the levy structure is wrong."

"It is, though."

"Obviously."

He stares at you for a moment. Then he leans forward, forearms on the table, and says: "Show me where the error is. I want to see if it's the same place I think it is."

It is the same place. You spend two hours at the table with the maps spread between you, and Jean argues with you about three things and concedes two of them and is absolutely correct about the third, and at one point you are both leaning over the same section of map and his shoulder is three inches from yours and neither of you mentions it. When the light goes you sit back and realise you have entirely forgotten to be formal.

"You're good at this," Jean says simply.

"You don't sound surprised?"

"I'm not surprised," he says, with a directness that lands differently than flattery would. "I'm— I don't know. It's easier than what I expected talking to you."

"What did you expect?"

He considers this with genuine honesty. "More of a performance," he says. "More distance between us. The kind people use when they're not sure if you're safe."

"And now?"

"Now," he says, "I think you've been waiting for someone to just—talk to you. Normally."

The accuracy of this sits in the room between you. "That's perceptive."

"I know."

"And it's slightly annoying."

He smiles then— a real one, wide and briefly unguarded, and it changes his face entirely. "I've been told," he says.

The days layer themselves into a pattern. Reiner in the mornings, your garden, the two of you walking in a quiet that grows more comfortable by degrees. Jean in the afternoons, the library or the council chamber or wherever you happen to be, talking until the light goes. Evenings at the formal dinners where both men are present and you sit between them and feel like a compass between two different norths, the particular problem of caring in two directions at once.

They are civil to each other. Almost excessively civil— the specific civility of two people who are aware that the other is also there and have decided, independently and apparently simultaneously, to be fair about it. Reiner speaks to Jean with measured courtesy. Jean speaks to Reiner with the directness he uses for most things, which is the version of courtesy he actually does. They do not ignore each other, and most of the time they do not compete visibly.

But there are moments. Reiner's jaw tightening almost imperceptibly when you laugh at something Jean has said. Jean's posture shifting fractionally when Reiner appears at your shoulder at the evening reception. Just the small things. The things you see when you are looking, and you are always looking. You are in, you understand, a great deal of trouble.

It is Sasha who makes you say it out loud.

You are in your sitting room on a Thursday evening, having come from dinner feeling slightly undone in a way you cannot attribute to the food, which was perfectly good. Mikasa is by the window doing something with silk thread and focused attention. Sasha is on the window seat with her legs tucked under her and a plate of small cakes balanced on her knee, and she is watching you with the particular expression she wears when she has decided to say something and is choosing her moment. You are pretending to read, but you have been on the same page for a while now.

"Soo," Sasha says.

"No." You say.

"I haven't said anything!"

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you wanted a cake." She holds out the plate. "Do you want a cake?"

"No."

"You should eat something. I bet you hardly ate your dinner."

"Sasha—"

"It was because of the Marleyan prince sitting next to you, wasn't it," she says, with the guileless accuracy that is either her greatest gift or the thing that will one day get her reassigned to the outer provinces. "Or the Trost one. Or both!"

Silence, and Mikasa sets down her embroidery.

"I like both of them," you say quietly.

The words sit in the room. You have not said it out loud before, and it is substantially worse out loud than it was in your head. Sasha puts down the cake she was raising to her mouth. This is the most alarmed you have ever seen her. "Both?" she repeats.

"Both," you say again, because apparently you are committed.

"At the same time?"

"It's the same time, yes. That's how time works."

"I mean—you like them both at the same time? Simultaneously."

"Sasha, I understood your question."

She picks the cake back up, stares at it, puts it down again. "I don't know what to do with this information."

"Neither do I," you huff. "That's the problem. I want both of them."

Mikasa, who has been watching you with those dark, careful eyes since the moment you said it, says: "How long?"

"Since the ball."

"You've known for two weeks," Mikasa says, not as an accusation, just as the thing she is taking in, "and you didn't say anything."

"I was hoping it would resolve itself, you know? And I’d like one more than the other…"

Mikasa's expression says, very quietly, that she does not know what she expected. "Tell me," she says instead. The same voice she uses when you are upset and she is not going to make it worse. "Why both of them?"

So you tell them in great detail. You tell them about the garden and the way Reiner waits at the turn of the rose walk and the specific quality of his silence and the weight of the words you share together. You tell them about the library and Jean leaning over the trade maps and the moment you forgot to be formal. You tell them about the evenings, the compass-between-two-norths feeling, the moments of tightening jaw and shifted posture that you have been cataloguing for a fortnight.

You tell them all of it, which you have not done with another person in a very long time, and the sitting room is quiet and warm and both of your ladies are listening without interrupting, which is its own kind of gift. When you stop, Sasha says: "That's a lot."

"Yes."

"And you actually—are you sure you don't like one more than the other?"

You think about Reiner in the morning sun of the gardens, and then you think about Jean's face when he smiled properly, how it changed everything. "No," you say. "And even if I did, it's in a way that will not make the decision easy."

Sasha picks up her cake and eats it in one thoughtful bite. Then she says: "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet."

"Are you going to talk to your father?"

"Eventually."

"Because he's going to want you to choose."

"I know."

"And you can't have both."

"Sasha," Mikasa says.

"She knows that," Sasha says. "I'm not being mean. I'm just—" She looks at you, and her voice goes softer. "It's not fair, is it?"

"No," you say. "It really isn't."

Mikasa reaches across and puts her hand briefly on yours. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. The warmth of it says: I know. I'm here. I have always been here. You sit with your ladies in the warm sitting room, and outside the night is cold and somewhere in this castle two princes are sleeping in guest chambers that are nowhere near each other, and you have never wanted something you couldn't have, and you are still trying to figure out how.

The next morning you decided it was time to be straight with yourself, and speak to the both of them– together. You write the letters to them, asking them to meet you in the east drawing room at seven in the evening, sharp. Mikasa offers to write it and you wave her off, but not unkindly. Some things need to be your handwriting, with your weight behind them. Sasha brings you tea and then removes herself to the far corner of the room with tactful quiet, which is possibly the most disciplined thing you have ever seen her do. The letters are hand dropped off by Mikasa— and when she returns you sit back in your chair and let out a long breath and Sasha, from the corner, says quietly: "Do you want a cake now?"

"Yes," you say.

She brings you one. It is rather excellent. "Are you scared?" she asks.

"No," you say, and then, more honestly: "Maybe a little."

"What are you scared of?"

You think about it. The real answer, not the careful one. "I'm scared that they'll look at each other and look at me and one of them will decide it's not worth it."

Sasha is quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't think either of them is going to decide that."

"You don't know that."

"No." She tucks her feet under her on the chair. "But I've watched them both for a while. And neither of them looks at you like you're something that can be walked away from."

The east drawing room is the most private room in the castle that is not a bedroom. This is, you realise, as you stand in it at ten to seven waiting for the sound of footsteps in the corridor, possibly a choice that reveals something about your state of mind. It is a small room— smaller than most receiving rooms, which is why it is rarely used for anything official. Two low sofas facing each other across a dark wood table and two armchairs. A fireplace wide enough to heat and light the space properly. The tall windows look out onto the east garden, which is blue-grey and silent in the evening, the bare trees like ink lines against the last of the light.

You have had the fire built high. You have had wine brought and then second-guessed the wine and then decided the wine is fine, it is not a strange thing to have wine, you are a princess receiving guests in a private drawing room, this is entirely normal. Nothing about this is entirely normal.

You are wearing a dark, emerald green silk dress, the one with the low neckline, and your hair is down, falling in waves around you. You made this choice deliberately and you have not interrogated it. Mikasa is not in the room, which was your instruction. She stood outside your door when you gave it, looked at you for a long, searching moment, and then nodded once and said: "I'll be at the end of the corridor." Close enough, as always. You stand by the fireplace and watch the door and listen to the castle settle around you.

At seven o'clock precisely, there are footsteps in the corridor. Then a knock.

"Come in," you say.

They come in together, which is surprising, you had not imagined them arriving together, you had pictured one and then the other— but they have apparently encountered each other in the corridor and made the wordless decision that arriving separately would be more awkward than arriving at the same time. This tells you something about both of them, and you file it away alongside everything else you have collected.

Reiner fills the doorway the way he always fills spaces— wide-shouldered, solid, with that grounded stillness. He is dressed simply tonight, and there is something in the set of his jaw that tells you he has been sitting with your letter since yesterday evening and has arrived at some kind of decision about it, though what kind you cannot yet tell.

Jean is just behind his left shoulder, and his expression is the one he wears when he is being honest rather than composed— eyes a little too sharp, jaw a little too set, the careful neutrality not quite covering the thing underneath it. He sees you by the fireplace and something moves in his face that he controls quickly and not quite quickly enough.

"Close the door," you say steadily.

Jean closes it, and the three of you are alone in the small, firelit room.

You do not invite them to sit. You stay where you are by the fireplace, and they stand—not quite together, not quite apart, a foot of space between them that is doing a great deal of work, and you look at both of them for a moment before you speak. "Thank you for coming," you say. "Both of you."

Neither of them says you're welcome. Reiner watches you with those steady hazel eyes. Jean has his arms folded, not defensively— just the way he stands when he is paying close attention and wants his hands occupied. "I asked you here because I owe you both honesty," you begin. "And because what I have to say is the kind of thing that should be said in person and not in a letter—" you pause briefly. 

"We're here now," Jean says quietly. Not impatient— just: it's all right, continue.

You look at the fire for a moment. Then at them. "I have fallen for both of you," you say. "And I want to be clear about that from the start, because I think the rest of this conversation makes more sense if you know that first. Not one more than the other. Not one as a choice and one as a runner-up. Both of you. Equally. In ways that are different from each other and that don't— cancel out, or resolve into a preference, no matter how many times I've tried to make them."

The room is very quiet. The fire shifts slightly beside you. Reiner has not moved. His expression has not changed. But something in his eyes has—the careful neutral quality gone, something more open underneath, more present. Jean has unfolded his arms, his hands are at his sides now and he is looking at you with an expression you have not seen from him before: not sharp, not composed. Just waiting.

"I know that's not a simple thing to say to two people at the same time," you continue. "I know it's—an uncomfortable thing to be in the room with. I know what the world expects me to do, and what my father needs me to do, and what both of your kingdoms are waiting for. I know all of that." You pause. "I'm telling you anyway, because you both deserve to know the thing that is actually true, rather than a version of it that's easier to manage."

"How long?" Reiner asks. His voice is very low.

"Since the ball."

He absorbs this. "The whole time? Both of us?"

"The whole time. Both of you."

Jean makes a sound that is not quite a laugh— too short and involuntary. "And you've been— what—walking in the garden with him every morning and arguing about trade routes with me every afternoon and—"

"Yes," you say quickly, interrupting him.

He looks at the ceiling briefly, then back at you. "All right," he says. Not angry, just— processing. Jean processes out loud, you have learned, it is simply what he does. "All right. So……what happens now?"

"I don't know," you say. "That's why you're both here. I don't think I can decide this by myself. I don't think it would be right to."

Reiner has been watching Jean speak with that careful, quiet attention he brings to everything. He looks at you now. "You said you've tried to make it resolve," he says. "Into a preference."

"Yes."

"And it won’t?”

"No."

A pause. "What does it feel like?" he asks. And the way he asks it, so carefully, like he has chosen the question with intention— tells you he is not asking to be difficult. He is asking because he actually wants to know. Because he is the kind of man who would rather have the whole true thing than the comfortable half of it. You look at him. "It feels," you say slowly, "like wanting two different kinds of warmth at the same time, because you find both so comforting in different ways. And I know that sounds—"

"No," he says softly. "I understand that." Jean is watching Reiner now, and his expression has shifted again— something more complicated, more reluctant. The expression of a man who did not come into this room expecting to understand his competition and is finding, inconveniently, that he does.

The fire pops. Outside the windows the garden is fully dark now.

You have said what you wanted to, and now all three of you are standing in it. "So," Jean says finally, in the voice he uses when he has decided to just say the thing. "What do you want? Right now. Not politically or long-term." His dark eyes find yours. "What do you actually want?"

The question lands in the centre of the room and sits there. You look at Jean, then at Reiner. You feel the fire warm at your back and the weight of the whole situation and the fact that you have never, in your entire life, been asked so directly what you want by two people who actually intend to listen to the answer.

"I want," you say, and your voice is very steady, "to kiss you both right now."

Silence. "Not at the same time," you add. "Separately. And I want—" you pause, because this is the part that is harder to say and that you are going to say anyway because you have started and you are not a person who leaves things half-said "—But I want the other one to be in the room when I do, because I'm not going to pretend, to either of you, that I don't want one more than the other."

The silence is different now. Jean's jaw is tight, but his eyes are very bright. He is looking at you like you have said something that has rearranged several of his interior furniture pieces and he is still taking stock of the new arrangement.

Reiner has gone very still, the particular stillness of a man who is holding something carefully because he is afraid of what he will do if he puts it down. "That's—" Jean starts.

"Unusual," Reiner finishes.

"Yes," you say. "I know, and you can say no–"

"You want us both to—" Jean starts. "You want to kiss him while I watch, and then kiss me while he watches."

"Yes….."

"And this is your solution?"

"This is what I want right now," you say. "I told you I didn't have a long term solution."

Jean looks at Reiner and Reiner looks at Jean. Something passes between them— not words, not warmth exactly, but the specific communication of two people who are realising they are in the same impossible situation and have arrived, independently, at the same impossible answer. Reiner looks back at you. "All right," he says.

You turn to Reiner.

He has not moved since he had stepped into the room. He is standing exactly where he was, close enough that you are suddenly aware of how much space he takes up. His eyes are on your face and they have been on your face and there is nothing in them now of the careful blankness he usually keeps there, nothing of the controlled neutral that he wears in public. Looking at you the way he has probably been looking at you since the ball and trying, until this moment, not to let you see it. You close the distance, and you have to tilt your chin up as he is significantly taller than you, and broader—and when you stop in front of him you are close enough to feel the warmth coming off him and to see the way his breath has changed, the slight deepening of it, the deliberate steadiness of a man who is keeping himself very controlled because he does not yet have permission to stop. You reach up and put your hand against his jaw.

He closes his eyes. Just for a second, just the space of a breath— and in that second his whole face does the thing it never does in public: it lets go. You rise up on your toes and kiss him. He is still for the first half-second, holding himself back with what must be an effort—and then his hand comes up and finds the side of your face, gentle but certain, the way he does everything, and he kisses you back with a restraint that is somehow more devastating than force would be. The kind of kiss that is not trying to take anything but is giving something, offering something, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone as though he is trying to memorise the shape of it. You pull back, very slowly. The air between you is warmer than it was.

Reiner keeps his hand at your face for a moment longer, his thumb still. His eyes are dark and his breath is not quite even and he is looking at you with an expression that has no name in any language you speak. You move away from Reiner and look at Jean to find he is already looking at you. He was looking at you the whole time—you knew he was, you could feel it— but seeing him now is different. His arm is still crossed over his chest, his hand still gripping his own wrist, and his knuckles have gone white. His jaw is tight. His eyes are so bright, the brightness of a man who has watched something he wanted very much and has held himself perfectly still for the duration and is now at the very outer edge of what still looks like composure. Jean crosses the room, stopping in front of you and he is so close— closer than formal, closer than proper, close enough that you have to look up to find his face and what's on it is nothing like composure. He is trying to be controlled. You can see the effort of it in the set of his jaw and the way his hands are at his sides rather than reaching. He is trying, and he is not quite managing. You reach up and take some of his shirt in your hand. You don't pull, just hold, just anchor him— and you feel him go very still at the contact, his breath catching in a way he doesn't try to hide.

He then kisses you roughly, and his hands come up to cup your face. He kisses you like he's been arguing for it in his head since the ball and has finally, finally been ruled in favour of, and you gasp a little against his mouth because the difference— the difference from Reiner, who was so careful, so deliberate—is startling and then it isn't.

His thumbs are at your cheekbones and you have fistfuls of his shirt. He kisses you with a thoroughness that is somehow deeply characteristic— the same thoroughness he brings to trade route arguments and architectural opinions and every other thing he has decided is worth his full attention— and you feel it everywhere, the warmth of it, the pressure of his hands holding your face like he has thought about this and is doing it right.

You pulled back, just enough to break the seal of your mouths and to drag a much-needed breath into your burning lungs. Your chest heaved, the tight lacing of your corset suddenly feeling like a cruel restraint. Your gaze met his, and you saw the same fire reflected in his dark eyes. He looked utterly undone, his lips swollen and wet, his cheeks flushed with a high, hectic colour. The low cut front of your silk gown had started to slip forward to expose the generous swell of your breasts and the delicate, intricate lace trim of your corset. Jean’s eyes dropped immediately, his gaze devouring the sight of your exposed skin— and you watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, his throat working with a nervous, hungry click. He was a prince, a man trained from birth in poise and control, but right now, he looked like a starving man presented with a feast.

A wicked, utterly intoxicating thought bloomed in your mind, a thought so audacious it made you dizzy. Why should you have to settle for one? You were a princess, the heir to the throne. You had never been told ‘no’ in your entire life, and you had no intention of starting now, despite what your father had said to you about choosing one. The world was yours for the taking— and tonight, these two princes were part of that world. Reiner was standing near the fireplace now. one hand braced on the mantelpiece. He hadn’t moved a muscle since you had started to kiss Jean, his body frozen, but his eyes were fixed on the both of you. His expression was a fascinating, volatile mixture of shock, raw, unadulterated hunger, and a deep, simmering jealousy that was almost palpable. He had seen everything.

“Reiner,” you called out, your voice a husky, breathy command that cut through the thick silence of the room. “Come back.”

Jean’s head snapped up at your words, a flicker of confusion and something that looked suspiciously like betrayal crossing his features. But you kept your eyes locked on Reiner— your gaze a challenge, an invitation, a royal summons he dared not refuse to the princess. For a long moment, he didn’t move— he simply stared at you, his chest rising and falling with each deep, controlled breath. Then, with a deliberation that was thrilling, he walked back to you. He wasn’t walking towards a princess; he was walking towards the devil.

When Reiner reached you, you didn’t give him a moment to think or hesitate. You reached out, your fingers tangling in the stiff, high collar of his shirt, and you pulled him down to you. You crushed your mouth against his, a kiss that was all fire and impatience this time. It was a kiss of a man who had been watching you and Jean, and wanting. His hands, hesitant for only a second, found your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through the thin silk of your gown, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard, rigid length of his cock pressing against your stomach, a testament to his desire of just kissing you.

A low, guttural sound ripped from Jean’s throat, a sound of pure, primal frustration. His hands tightened on your shoulders, a possessive grip that was both a protest and an acknowledgment of the new reality of the situation. You broke the kiss with Reiner, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips for a fleeting moment, but you didn’t let him go— you simply turned your head, your body still pressed against Reiner’s, and captured Jean’s lips again. The contrast was dizzying and intoxicating; Jean’s kiss was forceful, possessive, a battle for dominance, while Reiner’s was exploratory, eager, a desperate plea for more. You were the axis they both spun around, the center of their universe.

You moved between them, turning your head from one to the other, alternating kisses, your hands tangling in Jean’s long hair round his neck and then Reiner’s pale golden strands. You pulled them closer, until you were sandwiched between their hard, muscular bodies. Reiner’s hands slid from your hips to the curve of your ass, squeezing hard, possessively, as he ground his erection against you. Jean’s fingers moved from your shoulders to your neck, his thumb stroking your pulse point as he tilted your head to deepen his kiss, to stake his claim when it was his turn. The air in the room grew thick, heavy, almost liquid with desire— the strong scent of their colognes, your perfume and the musky, primal scent of raw arousal that was coming from all three of you was mixing into the air. Your body sang under their touch, a symphony of sensation, heat pooling between your legs, a wet, slick warmth. Your nipples hardened into tight, sensitive points, pressing almost painfully against the restrictive lace of your corset and silk.

“Please,” Reiner breathed against your lips when you turned to him again, his voice ragged, broken with desperation. “L-let me taste you, please.”

His words, so direct, but so utterly perfect, sent a bolt of pure electricity straight through you. You pulled back slightly, your head spinning, your body thrumming with a need so fierce it was almost painful. You looked between them. Both men were flushed, their breathing ragged, their eyes dark and fathomless pools of pure need. The power you held over them in this moment was a potent, intoxicating drug, better than any wine, richer than any jewel. You, a princess, had two powerful princes utterly at your mercy right now. 

“What do you want, Reiner?” you asked, your voice a low teasing purr, though you already knew. You just wanted to hear him say it.

He didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees before you, the fabric of his trousers whispering against the expensive rug. His hands moved immediately to the hem of your gown, his fingers trembling with anticipation as they brushed against your ankles. “I want to eat your cunt,” he said, his voice a raw, rough growl that was more of a confession than a request. “I want to bury my face in your pussy and make you cum until you can’t stand. I want to taste you, all of you.”

Jean made a strangled sound, a mix of shock and grudging approval. His hands moved from your shoulders to cup your breasts through the thin silk of your dress and corset, his thumbs immediately finding and brushing over your hardened nipples through the fabric. “He’s not wrong,” Jean murmured, his lips hot against the shell of your ear. His breath was warm, sending a shiver down your spine, his hair tickling your neck. “I bet you taste like fucking heaven.”

Your knees felt weak, your legs threatening to give out from under you— you leaned back against Jean for support, your head resting on his strong shoulder, trusting him to hold you up. Reiner, still on his knees in front of you, pushed your dress up your legs, his touch reverent, almost worshipful. His fingers traced the lines of your stockings, the delicate seam running up the back of your thigh. The feel of his warm hands on your bare skin above the stockings was exquisite torture.

“No one has ever said no to you, have they, Your Highness?” Jean asked, his voice a low, dark chuckle against your ear. His words were a statement, not a question, a recognition of the power you wielded so effortlessly. “You just take what you want….so used to daddy saying yes to you…”

You shook your head which was a small, breathless motion. You couldn’t form words, not when Reiner’s fingers were so close, so torturously close to where you needed them most and Jean was slowly fondling you. He looked up at you, his hazel eyes dark with a desperate, pleading hunger. He was waiting for your permission, for your command. “Don’t you dare stop now, Reiner,” you managed to say, your voice a husky command.

Reiner let out a groan of pure relief, a sound that vibrated through you as his fingers pulled down your undergarment, pulling them slowly and torturously, his eyes never leaving yours. The fabric whispered down your legs, a slow, teasing caress, until it pooled around your ankles. You stepped out of it, kicking the scrap of linen aside without a second thought. You were naked below for them, exposed and vulnerable, yet you had never felt more powerful.

Jean’s hands moved from your breasts to your shoulders to your back, his fingers working at the tiny buttons that held your silk gown in place. He pushed the dress down your arms, and the cool, heavy silk slid over your skin, whispering as it went, to pool in a soft heap around your hips. He made quick work of your corset, his fingers surprisingly deft as they worked the complicated lacing. With a final tug, the constricting garment came loose, and you took a deep, freeing breath. The cool air of the room hit your bare breasts, making your nipples pucker even more.

You stood between them now, completely naked and your dress a bunched-up ring of silk around your hips. Reiner’s hands explored your thighs, his touch a mixture of reverence and hunger as he mapped every inch of your skin, every dip and curve. Jean’s lips moved along the column of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point, a sharp, possessive bite that made you gasp. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Reiner breathed, his voice thick with awe. His fingers parted your slick folds, his touch gentle but sure. He circled your clit with his thumb, using your own wetness to make the glide smooth and easy— and the direct contact made you cry out, a sharp, high-pitched sound of pure pleasure. “So wet already.”

Jean chuckled against your neck, the sound a low, arrogant rumble. “I bet she’s been dripping like this since I kissed her,” he murmured, his hands moving to your now-freed breasts, cupping their heavy weight. His thumbs brushed over your nipples— sending jolts of pleasure straight to your clit. “These perfect fucking tits.”

Reiner leaned forward, his hot wet tongue replacing his thumb. The first touch against your sensitive, swollen clit was so intense it made your entire body jerk— your knees buckling, but Jean’s strong arms wrapped around your waist, holding you up, holding you steady for Reiner. Reiner’s tongue was a masterpiece of sin, hot and wet and impossibly talented. He explored every ridge and fold of your pussy, his movements slow and deliberate at first— learning you, tasting you. He found your clit and sucked it into his mouth, his tongue working the hard little nub in tight, relentless circles. The suction was exquisite, a pulling, aching pleasure that made you cry out again, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the thick, golden strands.

“Jean,” you gasped, your head falling back against his shoulder. He kept one hand remained on your breast, kneading the soft flesh, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers, while the other slid down your stomach, his fingers tangling with yours in Reiner’s hair. He used his grip on your hand in Reiner’s hair to guide his movements, to press his face harder against your dripping cunt, to direct that talented tongue exactly where you wanted it.

Reiner increased his efforts, his tongue fucking your tight entrance, thrusting in and out in a lewd, wet rhythm, while his nose rubbed relentlessly against your clit. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a perfect storm of pleasure— and Jean’s demanding hands on your breasts and in Reiner’s hair, and Reiner’s sinful mouth on your pussy. It was too much and not enough all at once. Your hips began to move of their own accord, a slow, grinding rhythm against Reiner’s face. You were fucking his mouth, using his tongue for your pleasure, and the thought was so depraved, so perfect, that it made you moan. He moaned against you in response, the vibrations adding another layer of intense, indescribable pleasure that shot through you like lightning. Jean’s teeth found your earlobe, biting down gently, a sharp, possessive sting.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper that was pure filth. “Having two men worship you like this….one eating your pretty little cunt while the other plays with your tits.” You could only nod, your head thrashing against his shoulder, your mind going blank with pleasure. Reiner added a finger, then two, his thick digits stretching your tight hole open as his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. He curled his fingers inside you, finding that spongy, sensitive spot deep within, the spot that made your toes curl and your vision white out.

“Right there,” you gasped, your hands tightening in his hair, your knuckles white. “Fuck— right there. Don’t you dare stop–” Reiner responded with a renewed, almost frantic vigor. His fingers pumped faster, harder, their crooked tips hitting your g-spot with every thrust, while his tongue flicked your clit in a rapid, maddening rhythm. Jean’s hands became more demanding, more punishing. He pinched your nipples hard, rolling the sensitive buds between his rough fingers, sending sharp stabs of pain-pleasure straight to your core. The mix of sensations was pushing you higher and higher, closer to the edge of a precipice you had never before dared to approach.

Your orgasm built, a deep, low hum of pleasure starting in your stomach and spreading outward through your veins. It grew and grew, a tidal wave of sensation, until it was a roaring, unstoppable force. Reiner seemed to sense it, his movements becoming even more precise, more targeted— as he sucked your clit hard into his mouth, his tongue working it in tight, merciless circles while his fingers pressed insistently against your g-spot. “Fuck!” you cried out, your back arching, your body going rigid. “Fuck, I’m cu–”

The wave crashed over you before you could finish, an orgasm so intense it was almost violent. It ripped through you, stealing your breath and your sanity as your thighs shook uncontrollably, your pussy clamping down like a vise on Reiner’s fingers. He didn’t stop, not for a second. He drank from you, his tongue lapping at your cum, his fingers continuing their relentless assault, drawing out your orgasm until you were a sobbing, writhing mess, begging for mercy, for reprieve. When you finally came down, your body limp and spent, Reiner pulled back. His face was glistening, shining with your juices, from his chin to his forehead. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with a deep, primal satisfaction. Jean’s arms tightened around you, his body a solid, warm wall of muscle holding you upright as your legs trembled and threatened to give out completely.

“Stand up, Reiner,” Jean commanded, his voice rough with a desire that was now painfully obvious. 

Reiner rose to his feet, his lips swollen and red from his efforts. He looked magnificent, his shirt disheveled, his hair a mess, his eyes burning with a dark fire. You turned in Jean’s arms, your hands moving to the complicated buttons of his shirt. You wanted to see him, to feel his skin against yours. He watched you, his eyes heavy-lidded with need, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath as you made quick work of his shirt, your fingers clumsy with a desperate urgency. You ripped the last few buttons open, and his shirt joined your dress on the floor, revealing a muscular chest dusted with a trail of hair that led down to the waistband of his trousers. You ran your hands over his skin, feeling the hard ripple of muscle beneath the warm, slightly rough texture— he was so strong, so solid.

Reiner moved behind you, his hands on your hips as he began to press soft, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulders and the back of your neck. His touch was gentler than Jean’s, but no less hungry, no less possessive. You pushed Jean’s trousers down his legs, your breath catching in your throat when his cock sprang free, slapping slightly against his hard stomach— he was thick and long, the head already leaking a steady stream of sticky precum. The sight of him, hard and ready for you, made your own pussy throb with a renewed, insistent need.

You wrapped your hand around him, your fingers barely meeting as you stroked his hot, velvety length. He hissed, his head falling back, his throat working as he fought for control— you could feel the frantic, racing pulse of his heartbeat through the thick vein on the underside of his cock. “Y-your mouth,” he said, his voice strained, tight with a need that was bordering on pain. “I want your mouth on my cock…please...”

You sank down on the plush rug, the movement graceful and deliberate and looked up at him, a small, wicked smile playing on your lips. Reiner followed you down, kneeling behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders, his presence a warm, solid weight at your back. You leaned forward, your tongue darting out to taste the drop of precum beading at the slit of Jean’s cock. He tasted a little salty, and a flavor that was uniquely him— and you took the head of his cock into your mouth, your lips stretching to accommodate his impressive girth.

You took him deeper, inch by thick inch, your tongue swirling around the shaft, tracing the veins, exploring every ridge and bump. Jean’s hands tangled in your hair, his grip tightening as he began to guide your movements, setting a slow, deep rhythm. You relaxed your throat, taking him as deep as you could, until your nose was pressed against the coarse hair at his base and you were gagging, your eyes watering— the sound was wet, messy, and utterly depraved.

You moaned around his cock, the vibrations making him curse, a stream of low, guttural profanity. Reiner’s hands moved from your shoulders to your breasts, his fingers finding your nipples again. He pinched them, rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers, the sharp stabs of pleasure making your pussy clench around nothing. The dual sensations, Jean’s cock filling your mouth and Reiner’s hands on your tits, were almost too much to bear.

Jean began to thrust, his hips snapping forward, fucking your mouth in slow, deep, powerful strokes. He was using you, taking his pleasure, and the thought made you so wet you could feel it dripping onto the rug. You took it, welcoming the slight burn, the stretch of your jaw, the taste of him— and his movements became faster, more erratic as his need grew, his control fraying.

“Fuck, your mouth feels so good,” he gasped, his fingers tightening in your hair, holding you in place. “So fucking good.”

Reiner’s hands left your breasts, moving down your back in a slow, teasing caress. His fingers traced the curve of your ass, dipping into the crease between your legs. teasing your tighthole. You wiggled back against his touch, a silent invitation, wanting more, wanting everything.

“Reiner,” Jean said, his voice strained, his thrusts becoming shallow and quick. “Fuck her. I want to watch you fuck her while she sucks my cock.”

Reiner moved behind you, his hands on your hips to steady you and lift them up slightly. You felt the blunt, thick head of his cock nudging against your dripping entrance from behind— and he was even bigger than Jean, a thick, heavy piece of flesh that promised both pleasure and a delicious, stretching pain.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked, his voice a rough low growl. You nodded, your mouth still full of Jean’s throbbing dick. You couldn’t speak, but your body screamed its consent. Reiner pushed upward into you slowly, so slowly, stretching you open inch by agonizing inch. The burn was intense, a sharp, aching pleasure as your tight pussy adjusted to his massive size— you’d never felt so full, so completely and utterly possessed by a man.

He bottomed out with a deep, guttural groan, his heavy balls slapping against your clit. You paused for a moment, your body trembling, adjusting to his size, to the feeling of being so incredibly full— then, you began to move. The three of you found a rhythm, a primal, perfect beat— Jean thrusting into your mouth and Reiner pounding into you, your body caught between them, a vessel for their pleasure and your own. Each of Reiner’s powerful thrusts behind you pushed you further onto Jean’s cock, creating a delicious, friction-filled slide that had you seeing stars. Reiner’s movements were smooth and deep, hitting spots inside you you never knew existed, each thrust was a deliberate and devastating blow against your g-spot. Jean’s hands tightened in your hair, his movements becoming more erratic, his control finally shattering.

“Fuck, I’m– close,” he warned, his voice a strained, desperate gasp. “Where do you want it, Princess?”

You pulled back slightly, letting his cock fall from your mouth with a wet pop. You looked up at him, your lips swollen and wet. “In my mouth,” you said, your voice a husky, breathy command. “I want to taste you.”

That was all it took. Jean’s body tensed, his muscles locking as his cock pulsed in your hand, and then he came, thick, hot ropes of cum shooting into your open mouth, across your lips and your chin. You swallowed eagerly, savoring the taste, the feeling of him marking you— some of his release escaped, dripping down your chin in pearly white streams. Reiner continued to thrust, his movements becoming faster, more desperate as he chased his own release, his gaze now fixed on the sight of your face covered in Jean’s cum as you turned round to look at him.

Jean’s stumbled back toward the armchair, collapsing into it with a satisfied sigh. His cock glistened in the firelight, semi-hard and spent for the moment. "Please don’t stop on my account," he said, his voice thick with contentment. "Put on a show for me."

You turned your full attention to Reiner again at Jean’s words, pushing back against him, meeting his powerful thrusts with equal force. “Harder,” you demanded, your voice a raw, needy cry. “Fuck me harder–”

Reiner responded with a renewed, almost brutal vigor— his hands tightening on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He slammed into you, the sound of skin slapping against wet, sweaty skin filling the room, a lewd, percussive rhythm. Each punishing thrust pushed you closer to another earth-shattering orgasm. Jean watched from the chair, his hand lazily stroking his semi-hard cock, a look of deep satisfaction on his face. “That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a low, dark purr. 

Reiner reached around, his fingers finding your swollen, sensitive clit as he rubbed tight, fast circles, matching the relentless rhythm of his thrusts. The added stimulation was the final, perfect push— your second orgasm built fast, a freight train of pleasure. When it hit, it was even more intense than the first, a full-body convulsion that made you almost scream, your pussy clamping down around Reiner’s thick cock like a silken vise. Reiner followed you over the edge a moment later, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he filled you with his hot, thick release. He collapsed against your back, his body heavy and sweaty, both of you breathing heavily, trying to catch your breath in the thick, sex-laden air.

After a long moment, Jean stirred, rising from the armchair. His cock was already hard again, a testament to his youthful vigor and the sheer depravity of the scene. “My turn,” he said, his voice already thick with renewed, predatory desire. You moved to lie back on the rug, spreading your legs invitingly as you smirked at him. Jean knelt between your thighs, his eyes dark with lust as he looked at your cum-filled pussy. He entered you in one smooth thrust, making you gasp at the sudden fullness— he wasn’t as thick as Reiner, but he was just as long, and he knew how to use every inch. "Wrap your legs around me," he commanded, and you complied eagerly.

He began to move, his strokes deep and measured. Unlike Reiner's powerful thrusts, Jean's movements were more controlled, each one designed to maximize pleasure between both of you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, grabbing onto his hair and pulling him down for a passionate kiss. The taste of his cum was still on your tongue as your lips met— and the kiss was deep and hungry, full of unspoken need. Jean's tongue explored your mouth as his cock explored your pussy, a perfect parallel of desire.

Reiner moved to kneel beside you, his hand wrapping around his recovering cock as he reached for your breast with his free hand, his fingers finding your sensitive nipple. "Don't mind me," he said, beginning to stroke himself in time with Jean's thrusts. "Just enjoying the view."

You turned your head to capture Reiner's lips in another kiss, tasting remnants of yourself on his tongue— and the three of you moved together in a tangle of limbs and desire, Jean's cock filling you while Reiner's hand worked your breast and his own erection.

Jean increased his pace, his movements becoming more urgent. "You feel so good," he murmured against your lips. "So fucking good–"

You arched your back, meeting his thrusts with equal force. Reiner's fingers tightened on your nipple, the slight pain mixing with pleasure to create an intoxicating sensation.

"Jean," you gasped, breaking the kiss to look into his eyes. "Don't stop—"

He responded with increased vigor, his hips snapping against yours with enough force to make your body slide across the rug, and Reiner's hand moved faster on his cock, his eyes fixed on where Jean's cock disappeared into your body. The room was filled with the sounds of sex—Jean's grunts, your moans, Reiner's harsh breathing, the wet slap of skin against skin. The firelight cast everything in a warm, golden glow, making the scene almost surreal in its intensity. Jean's movements became erratic, his control fraying as he approached his release. "I'm close," he warned, his voice strained. "Fuck, I'm so close."

You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Cum in me," you demanded roughly. 

Reiner groaned beside you, his hand flying over his cock. "Yes," he agreed. The dual encouragement sent Jean over the edge, and he buried himself deep inside you with a final, powerful thrust, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his hot release— and Reiner came at the same time, his cum spurting across your stomach and breasts in hot, white streams. The three of you collapsed together in a sweaty, satisfied heap, breathing heavily in the aftermath.

Jean rolled off you, his body limp with satisfaction as Reiner stretched out on your other side, his arm draped across your waist. The rug was damp beneath you, stained with cum and sweat, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. "That was..." Jean started, but seemed unable to find the words.

"Incredible," Reiner finished for him, then he asked, "What are you going to tell your father?"

"I suppose," you say softly, "I'll have to tell him I'm going to marry you both." They both look at you as you giggle. “Don’t worry. He can't say no to me.” 

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The morning your father summoned you, the sky was flat, grey and unyielding, as if the heavens themselves had been beaten into submission. You stood before him in the great hall, hands folded at your waist, doing your very best to look like a princess and not like someone who had just been crying in the chapel. Because crying in the chapel was where you had spent the better part of the previous evening, kneeling on cold stone, thinking of Ser Roland.

Ser Roland, with his habit of whistling off-key through the corridors. Ser Roland, who had been your personal guard for eleven years— since before your mother died, since before you understood what it meant that your father was a king and you were his only child and the world beyond the palace walls was not kind to girls with crowns. He had passed three weeks ago. A quiet death, in his sleep, after a winter that had been brutal on old bones. The palace physician said he had not suffered. You thought that was the sort of thing people said when they had nothing useful left to offer.

"I have made arrangements," your father said, from the high-backed throne he seemed to grow out of like bark from a tree. Solid and deliberate and so certain of everything that sometimes you wanted to shake him just to see if anything rattled loose. "Your new personal guard will begin his post tomorrow."

You looked up. "Tomorrow?"

"The appointment has been considered carefully." He did not look at you when he said it— he was reviewing something on the scroll across his knee, and that alone told you the decision was final. Your father only avoided your eyes when a conversation was already over. "He is one of the finest soldiers in the kingdom. He is very experienced, a real large man, his record is without flaw."

"I'm sure it is," you said, and you were proud of how steady your voice came out.

"You will extend him the same courtesy you extended Ser Roland."

"Ser Roland earned that courtesy over eleven years, Father."

"Then I suggest," your father said, and now he did look at you, grey eyes meeting yours with all the warmth of the November sky outside, "that you begin extending it now, so that eleven more years may follow."

You learned his name was Ser Reiner Braun. You learned this from the herald who announced him the following morning, and then you learned it again in the few seconds after the announcement when you simply stood and stared, because no one had warned you. He was enormous. Not in the lumbering, awkward way of some soldiers— not barrel-chested and slow —but built like something that had been carved specifically for the purpose of being immovable. Broad through the shoulder. Tall enough that he had to angle his chin down slightly to meet your eyes. His armour was polished silver-grey, the royal crest of your kingdom embossed over the left breast, a sword at his hip that looked like it had been used and cleaned and used again many times. His hair was short and pale gold, pushed back from a face that was...

Well, remarkably severe. That was what you decided, in those first few seconds. A strong jaw, a crease between his brows that looked like it had been there so long it was now simply part of the landscape. Green eyes, no, amber eyes, you realised close up— a colour that shouldn't have been soft but somehow was, at the edges. He dropped to one knee before you without being asked. The stone floor did not shake, but it felt like it should have.

"Princess," he said. His voice was low and even, like the first note of a bell before the full ring reaches you. "It is an honour to serve you."

You looked down at the top of his golden head. You thought about Ser Roland and you felt tears prick in your eyes. 

"Rise," you said, and your voice only wavered a little. "And follow at three paces, please. Not two. Three."

He rose, and something moved across his face—not quite a smile, not quite the absence of one, and he settled behind you at exactly three paces, and that was how it began.

The trouble with Reiner Braun, you decided within the first week, was that he was extraordinarily good at his job. This was not, on its surface, a reasonable thing to find troubling. You understood that. But the quality of his attention was relentless in a way that felt almost rude. He was there in the morning when you left your chambers— three paces back, hand resting loosely at his sword hilt, eyes moving across every corridor before you reached it. He was there in the library when you read, stationed by the door, still as a statue, so quiet you sometimes forgot he existed until you looked up and found him watching the room with that same steady, unwavering focus. He was there at the evening meal, standing behind your chair at the high table, present and silent and entirely impossible to ignore.

"You don't have to stand during dinner, you know," you told him, on the eighth night of him being there.

"I prefer to stand," he said simply.

"You've been standing since dawn."

"Yes, Princess."

You turned in your chair to look at him properly. He looked back at you, calm and composed, like a man who had made peace with every possible discomfort. "That's absurd," you tell him.

"I'm sure it is," he said, and there it was again—that thing that was almost a smile, the slight softening around the eyes. Gone before you could name it. You turned back to your meal and ate rather more aggressively than was strictly ladylike.

By the third week, you had catalogued his most infuriating qualities. First: he never stumbled. Never tripped, never caught his shoulder on a doorframe, never made any of the small human errors that made other people tolerable. He moved through the palace with a precision that bordered on supernatural, always exactly where he needed to be, always three paces behind unless the corridor narrowed and then he fell to one pace, and always stepped back to three the moment space allowed.

Second: he was not cold. That would have been easier to resent. He was simply... contained. When you spoke to him, he answered, and his answers were not dismissive or curt— they were considered, measured, as if he weighed each word before releasing it. When you complained about the morning drills that kept you from sleeping past dawn, he said, The yard is at its quietest after the fourth hour, if it helps to know when to expect silence. When you mentioned that the library's east window let in a draught that made the candles flicker, he had it re-sealed by evening without being asked.

Third, and most maddening of all: he watched you.

Not in any way you could complain about. Not staring or leering, nothing inappropriate. Simply watching— alert and attentive in the way a person watches something they have been entrusted with. The way you might watch a flame in a lantern on a windy night, as if losing track of you would be a failure he had already decided he would not allow.

It should have felt intrusive. It did feel intrusive. It also, and this was the part you shoved firmly to the back of your mind and refused to examine, felt rather like being the most important thing in a room.

"You could at least pretend to find this boring," you said to him, on an afternoon when you had been forced to sit through three hours of petitions in court, and he had stood behind you through all of it without showing any sign of existing anywhere in time.

"Find what boring, Princess?"

"This." You gestured at the now-empty hall. "The standing and the watching. The endless quiet vigil of it."

He considered. "I was a soldier for a long time before this post," he replies. "I've stood longer watches in worse conditions."

"That's not an answer."

"No," he agreed. "It isn't." And he reached past you to open the door, three paces ahead for once, holding it so you could pass through, and you walked out into the corridor and told yourself you were annoyed, and mostly you were.

By the fourth week, you had started doing things purely to test him, which you were not proud of.

You took your evening walks later than usual, when the garden was properly dark and the lantern-boys had gone to bed, just to see if he would say something. He didn't. He simply lit the small oil lamp he had apparently started carrying for exactly this scenario, and fell into step behind you without comment, and the pool of amber light moved through the dark garden around you both like a private world.

You rode out further than your usual route one afternoon, past the approved boundary markers, into the wilder part of the estate where the old stone walls crumbled and the trees grew in close and strange. He kept pace beside you on those stretches, not behind, and said nothing until you pulled up at the edge of a frost-thick meadow that technically fell outside the permitted riding grounds.

"Princess," he said.

"I know," you said.

A pause. "The ground is uneven from here. Your horse doesn't know the terrain."

"I know that too!"

He said nothing else. He simply positioned himself between you and the deepest shadow of the treeline, and waited, and after a while you turned back and rode toward the palace, and he rode at your side all the way home. You didn't say thank you. You weren't sure what you would have been thanking him for.

By the fifth week, you stopped fighting it. Not loudly or with any announcement. You simply... stopped constructing reasons to be irritated, and found that without the effort of building them, you were left with something quieter and more difficult. You noticed things.

The way he took his post before your door each morning with a kind of resolve that looked almost like a ritual— straightening his posture, settling his weight, becoming the person he needed to be for the day. The slight stubble that graced his face, the way he sometimes, when you were reading or working, allowed his gaze to settle somewhere distant, and in those unguarded moments he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with standing. Tired the way a person looks when they have survived things they haven't spoken of. You knew better than to ask. You were a princess, not a confessor. But you thought about it.

And you thought about the way he looked at you— that careful, focused attention—and you thought about how long it had been since anyone in your life had looked at you like you were worth keeping safe, rather than simply a thing that required managing.

You're being ridiculous, you told yourself, on the thirty-eighth night of his post, lying in bed with the fire dying to embers and the winter dark pressing against the window glass. You were absolutely certain you were being ridiculous.

The night it happened, you hadn't planned to ride far. It had been a suffocating kind of day— court functions and a meeting with your father's council that had gone two hours over its allotted time and left you feeling scraped hollow. You needed air and you needed space. You needed the particular silence that existed only on horseback, when the world narrowed to hoof-beats and wind and the smell of cold grass.

You told Reiner you were going to the east meadow and back. He said nothing. He simply went to saddle his horse too.

You rode out just after the eighth hour, when the last light was bruising the horizon purple and the stars were beginning to appear. The air was sharp with the cold that had been building all week, and there was something in it— a pressure, that your riding master had once told you meant weather coming. But the sky overhead was clear, and the east meadow was only twenty minutes away, and you thought you had time.

You did not have time, however. The storm came in from the north-west with very little warning. You were at the far edge of the meadow when the first crack of thunder split the sky so close overhead that your horse shied sideways, nearly unseating you. The temperature dropped in what felt like seconds. Rain followed in a wall— not drops but sheets, horizontal and vicious, the kind that didn't so much fall as attack. Your horse was not a battle-trained animal. She was well-bred and fast and she loved you, but she had a deep and well-founded fear of thunder, and at the second lightning strike, she panicked.

What happened next was not graceful. Reiner was beside you in seconds— you weren't even sure how, whether he had anticipated it or simply reacted faster than should have been possible— his hand closing around your horse's bridle with a grip that did not allow argument. He spoke to her in a voice so low you couldn't hear it over the rain, and she shuddered and stamped and gradually, unwillingly, stopped trying to bolt.

"There's a mausoleum close by, princess," he said, close to your ear, his voice cutting through the noise of the storm. "Fifty yards. Can you ride that far?"

You pushed soaked hair from your face, your heart was still slamming. "Yes."

"Stay close to me.” And you did. 

The mausoleum was old— older than the palace by several centuries, according to what you'd once half-read in a history of the estate. It sat in the corner of the eastern grounds where the formal gardens gave way to older, wilder land, a square building of dark stone with a heavy iron door that had not been opened in living memory. The lock was rusted through; Reiner forced it with his shoulder, and it gave with a sound like a complaint, and you both stumbled inside.

The noise of the storm fell to a muffled roar. The silence inside was enormous by contrast. You stood in the dark, dripping, breathing hard.

Reiner moved by feel, found something— a wall-bracket, and a flint in his belt, and the small oil lamp that apparently he still carried everywhere, and after a moment there was a small, wavering pool of amber light. The interior was stone throughout. The walls were carved with old script you didn't recognise, and there were carved stone effigies along the far wall, the long resting shapes of ancestors you had never known. It should have been cold in the eerie way old places are cold. Instead it was simply stone-still and quiet, and the lamp made shadows dance, and outside the storm raged itself against the walls like it had a grievance, and you stood there and became aware, slowly, that you were shaking.

Not from cold. Or not only from cold. Reiner had moved to check the door— ensuring it would hold, you thought, or perhaps looking for any other entrance. He turned back, and in the lamplight his face was all shadow and gold, rain-dark hair plastered to his forehead, armour gleaming wet, and he looked at you and his expression changed.

"You're shaking," he says.

"I'm fine,” you insisted, but you shivered slightly.  He crossed the space between you in three steps and removed his cloak with the quick efficiency of someone who had performed field care before, and put it around your shoulders. The weight of it was extraordinary, warm from his body and heavy, and he kept his hands on your shoulders for just a second before letting go, and you looked up at him in the lamplight and you thought: I cannot keep doing this.

"Reiner," you said. He took one step back. Giving you space. Always, always giving you exactly what you needed before you had to ask for it. "You don't have to keep your distance from me anymore," you tell him. He stilled. "I know now that you're just doing your job," you said, and your voice came out strange. "It's your post, and your duty, and that you would do this for anyone your king assigned you to protect, and I am being—I have been—" You stopped. "I have been unkind to you."

He said nothing. Watching you. "And you have been—" The words caught. You made yourself finish them. "You have been steadier than I deserved. More patient than I had any right to expect. And I have spent the last month trying not to notice that, and yet I am standing in a mausoleum in a thunderstorm, and I find I've run out of ways not to say it."

Lightning strobed through the narrow window-slits, and in that white flash you saw his face clearly— the furrowed brow, the careful set of his jaw, and something else beneath that. Something that looked, you thought, like a man trying very hard to hold very still. "Say what?" he asked quietly.

The thunder came a beat behind. You let it pass. "That I think about you," you admit. "Constantly. That I have been furious about it for weeks, because it isn't—I didn't ask for this, and I know it isn't —I know what is and isn't appropriate. I know what I am, and what you are, and I know all the reasons this is—"

"Don't," he interrupted.

You looked at him. He had taken the step back toward you that you had told him he didn't have to take. He was close now— close enough that you could see the rain still on his jaw, close enough that when he spoke his voice was very quiet and still somehow the only thing in the room. "Don't list the reasons to me, princess," he said. "I've spent a month listing them myself. Every night. I am very familiar with all of them."

The lamp flame wavered. "I was given a post," he said, "to protect someone I was told was difficult." His voice was careful and measured, but there was something under it now, something that the composure was holding by sheer effort. "That was the word they used. Difficult. And I came here prepared for that. I wasn't prepared for—" He stopped.

"For what?" you dared ask, and your voice came out barely above a whisper.

He looked at you for a long moment. Long enough that the storm outside seemed to recede, and the lamplight was everything, and you became aware of how completely alone you were in the world, in this strange ancient quiet room, with the rain locked outside. "You," he said simply and finally. "I wasn't prepared for you."

You breathed out, and you were not be able to say who moved first. You thought it was you, or it could have been him. You thought perhaps it was the thunder— a crack so loud it startled you both forward and the gap closed between you, and then there was no gap at all, and his hands came to your face with a gentleness that had no right to belong to hands that large, and he kissed you in the dark of an old tomb while a storm tried to bring the world down outside. He kissed you like someone who had decided. Like someone who had been waiting to decide for a very long time, and it was desperate, messy and wet. His cloak was still around your shoulders, warm and drying you from the rainwater at a surprising rate, and you reached up and gripped the front of his armour to keep yourself steady.

Reiner's hands moved to your shoulders, unbuckling the heavy cloak with practiced movements. The fabric pooled around your feet, leaving you suddenly chilled in your thin, slight damp riding dress. He spread his coat, the thick, dark wool thing that smelled of leather and him—across the stone floor. The contrast between the rough wool and the smooth marble beneath was stark.

His armor clinked softly as he knelt, the sound echoing in the sacred space. You watched his hands—calloused from sword practice, scarred from battles fought in your name—as they reached for the hem of your dress. The fabric whispered against your skin as he drew it upward, his knuckles brushing your thighs. Your breath hitched when his fingers traced the ribbon of your drawers and undergarments.

"May I?" he murmured, his voice deeper than usual, rougher. The stubble on his chin had caught the faint light from the high windows, making his jaw look like granite dusted with gold. You nodded eagerly, too breathless to even speak. His fingers work quickly at the laces of your upper undergarment, parting the silk until cool air of the tomb kisses your breasts, causing them to instantly harden. He lowers his head to take one of your nipples into his mouth, tongue circling the stiff peak while his hand palms the other. You arch, gasping loudly as you threaded your fingers through his golden hair. You had never felt anything so….sensational. Reiner groans against your skin and switches sides, teeth grazing lightly before he sucks harder, pulling off with a pop. 

You lifted your hips without thinking, an automatic response to him as the silk slid down your legs, cool against your flushed skin. His eyes followed the movement, dark and hungry, before meeting yours again. Something passed between you then—a recognition, an acknowledgment that this moment had been inevitable, waiting behind every formal bow, every guarded glance across the room. He positioned himself between your legs, his broad shoulders forcing them to open wider. The cold stone seeped through the wool, but you barely noticed. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows there, holding you open for his gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but also powerful—the way his breath quickened, the way his pupils swallowed the light, it made you feel wanted.  

When his mouth first touched you, you jolted. His lips were softer than you'd imagined, softer than they looked against all that hardness of armor and duty. He started slow, exploring with gentle pressure, learning your shape. Your fingers tangled in his hair, which was still slightly wet from the rain. His stubble created a delicious friction against your inner thighs as he shifted, finding better angles– the roughness contrasted with the velvet of his tongue, now tracing patterns that made your toes curl. He found your clit with unerring precision, circling it once, twice, before sucking gently. Your back arched off the coat as he did, the pearls on your necklace rolling against your throat. The mausoleum's acoustics carried every sound—the wet slide of his tongue, your gasping breaths, the distant patter of rain against stone. Someone had carved prayers into these walls centuries ago, but this felt more sacred, more honest.

Reiner's technique was relentless, methodical yet passionate. He varied pressure and speed, reading your responses like a battle strategy. When your hips began to rock instinctively, he flattened his tongue, licking you from entrance to clit in one broad stroke. You cried out, the sound swallowed by the vaulted ceiling. "Like that, oh–" you managed, your voice breaking. "Gods, Reiner, like that."

He hummed against you, the vibration shooting through your entire body. His hands tightened on your hips, holding you in place as his tongue worked faster, harder. The stubble burned now, a sweet fire that only heightened the pleasure. You could feel the tension coiling in your belly, drawing tight as a bowstring. Your thighs began to tremble, muscles quivering with the effort of staying open. Reiner noticed, shifting to hook one arm under your knee, holding you wide and exposed. The new angle allowed him deeper, his tongue fucking you in rhythm with the circling pressure on your clit.

The pressure built and built, wave after wave of sensation crashing through you. Your fingers clenched in his hair, pulling perhaps too hard, but he only groaned and redoubled his efforts. The sounds he made—hungry, desperate sounds—sent you higher. When the orgasm hit, it shattered you. Your body convulsed, hips bucking against his mouth as pleasure ripped through you in pulses. You sobbed his name, the syllables echoing off marble and stone. He didn't stop, drawing it out, prolonging it until you were wrung out and shaking.

He finally lifted his head, his face glistening in the dim light. His chest heaved with each breath, the armor plates rising and falling. You watched him undo and set down his heavy armour hurriedly until he was bare chested in front of you, and then undoing his trousers with fumbling fingers, his usual grace abandoned to urgency. You thought about broad and handsome he was like this— all needy and desperate— his chiseled biceps flexing as he moved. "I can't wait anymore, princess—please," he growled, almost begging as his hands fumbled with the laces of his breeches. "I need to be inside you."

He freed his cock, thick and heavy, springing up against his stomach as you gulped at the sight of it. He stroked it once, the head flushed and angry before leaned forward, catching your mouth in a searing kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. It was a dominant, possessive kiss, claiming your breath.

He lined himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your wet entrance.  When he entered you, the stretch was perfect—painful enough to ground you, pleasurable enough to send sparks through your oversensitive flesh. He braced himself above you, his arms corded with muscle, the veins popping out of skin.

"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. The intensity there stole your breath. "I've dreamed about this since the day I met you,” he grunts, before began to move, each thrust deliberate and deep. The wool coat beneath you provided little cushioning from the stone, but you didn't care. The sound of your bodies joining—wet, rhythmic, primal—filled the sacred space. His stubble scraped your neck as he buried his face there, his breath hot against your ear.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. The angle changed, and suddenly he was hitting something inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. You clawed at his back, seeking purchase against the toned muscles bulging under your hands.  "Harder," you breathlessly begged, and he obliged, his hips snapping forward with renewed force. The mausoleum seemed to spin around you—the stone angels on their perches watching, the carved saints bearing witness to this raw, human need. 

"You're so beautiful," he panted, his rhythm increasing. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with the roar of the rain. "Taking me so well…my perfect princess."

His rhythm grew erratic, his control finally breaking. You felt him swell inside you, his thrusts becoming shallower, faster as he chased the high. His hand reached down and found your clit again, rubbing in tight circles that pushed you toward another peak.

"Reiner," you moaned, my nails digging into his back. "Please."

"I know," he grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. "I know. Let go for me again, princess.” 

The command sent you over. Your second orgasm was sharper, more intense, your inner muscles clamping around him as pleasure blinded you. He followed you with a hoarse cry, his body stiffening as he spilled himself deep inside you. 

For a long moment, you lay tangled together, Reiner still inside you, and the only sounds your ragged breathing and the rain still falling outside. Eventually, he shifted, his weight pressing you more firmly into the stone. His lips found your temple in a soft kiss, tender after the ferocity of moments before. "We should get dressed," he started, then stopped, clearly at a loss. The formal knight had returned, but his eyes still held the wildness of the man who had just claimed you.

You smiled, tracing the line of his jaw. "The storm's not over yet."

His answering grin was slow, dangerous. "No," he agreed, already hardening inside you again. "It's not, Princess.”

Everyone talks about the Olympic Winter Games like they're a single thing. One event, one moment, one answer to four years of work.

They're not. They're a thousand small things— the smell of a foreign city through a cracked bus window, the sound of a different accent to yours, the way your legs feel after eleven hours cramped on a bus, the particular quality of cold that comes from a place that's had winter for a while. You've competed in seven countries, but you've never been to Marley.

It's older than you expected. The streets in the city centre are stone-paved and narrow, buildings pressed close on either side like they're holding each other up, and everything has the layered quality of a place that has been building on top of itself for so long it's forgotten what the bottom looks like. For the Games, the whole city has been dressed up— Olympic banners on every lamppost, the five rings reproduced on facades and bridges and shop windows, enormous screens mounted at intersections cycling through athlete profiles and event schedules and footage of last cycle's medal ceremonies. It should make it feel less serious, all that decoration, but it doesnt— if anything, it adds to the pressure. 

You look back out the window. A woman on a bicycle is navigating the gap between the bus and a parked van with an ease that suggests she's done it a thousand times. A café is just opening on a corner, a man in an apron pulling chairs off tabletops in the early morning cold. Ordinary life, carrying on underneath the Olympics, indifferent to all of it.

Twelve days. That’s all you were here for. Twelve days. 

The Marley Arena is everything promised and then some— purpose-built but old-feeling, with the particular gravitas of a venue that has hosted things that mattered. It smells when you push through the service entrance on Tuesday morning at six-fifty, like cold metal and rubber matting and the clean, specific sharpness of refrigerated ice, which is the smell that has meant home to you since you were six years old and your mother first laced up your skates.

You're moving fast and swiftly— you always move fast, it was just more efficient to you. Which is why, when you come around the corner from the warm-up room corridor, you don't see him until you've already walked into him, and by then it's too late to do anything useful about it.

The impact is total. It's like walking into a wall that wasn't there a second ago— sudden and immovable— and he catches you before you can go anywhere. Both hands, one on each arm, grip sure and immediate, but the grip is— careful, you think. For hands that size, and the speed it had to happen at, it is remarkably careful.

You look up and find a face you don't recognise— sandy-blond hair, cut short and slightly dishevelled. A jaw that's all clean angles, with two or three days of blond stubble across it. A nose that's been broken at least once, maybe even twice— and reset slightly crooked, which should read as a flaw and somehow doesn't; like his face has been revised by experience into something better than symmetry. And his eyes: a beautiful amber, almost gold. Holding the corridor light in a way that makes them look warm even here, even now, even in a moment that is mildly chaotic. "Sorry," he says. The word is low, accented— and he looks genuinely alarmed. "I didn't see you— are you hurt?"

You are not hurt, but you are, if anything, a little memorised by the amber eyes, which you recognise as an unhelpful response. "You caught me," you say. "So no."

He looks down at his hands on your arms, registers he's still holding you, and lets go with a speed that is almost comical— stepping back, a flush working across those high cheekbones. "I wasn't watching where I was going," he says.

"Neither was I," you say, which is fair. You look past him into the arena entrance, where you can see players already on the ice— dark red jerseys, a crest you don't know. Marley? You look back at him. He's still looking at you with a quality of attention that is more than the situation strictly requires. "You're with the Marley squad?"

"Captain," he says. Then, like he's remembered other words exist: "I mean— I’m the captain. Reiner. Reiner Braun."

"I know," you say, which is only marginally true— you know of him….in the way you know all the major names in the Olympics, distantly and without detail— but the way his expression shifts when you say it, that small surprised lift, makes it entirely worth saying.

"You know me, huh?" he repeats.

"You're hard to miss," you say. "You're practically the biggest person in this arena."

The flush again. He measures himself involuntarily, which involves glancing down at you— you are several significant inches shorter than him— and then back up. "I'm not— that's—" He stops. "You're just—"

"Small?" you offer, pleasantly.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"But you were thinking it."

Something moves at the corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile yet. "Maybe," he says, carefully.

You smile at him— bright and deliberate— and watch him blink, like you've done something unexpected. "I'll stay on the left side," you say. "You and your team can have the right."

"This slot is—"

"Shared, now." You tilt your head. "Unless you'd like to go find a coordinator and spend your morning in an administrative queue…."

He looks at you, contemplating. "Right side for my team it is then," he says, finally.

"Right side," you agree. You walk past him onto the ice and you feel, with complete certainty, that he watches you the entire way.

Bertholdt Hoover also from the Marley team finds you at the sides twenty minutes in. He's taller than Reiner —slightly apologetic about his height, as if he's been meaning to do something about it and hasn't got round to it— and he introduces himself with a warmth that seems entirely genuine, says his name, and then nods toward the far end of the rink where Reiner is directing a drill, and says, Have you met our captain Reiner yet? 

You tell him you ran into him, and then go back to practicing. You try not to look over at the Marley end more than three times. You are unsuccessful.

What you see, from across the ice: is a different kind of athlete to the ones you spend your life around. Figure skating is control made visible— the management of appearance, every line intentional, every error hidden inside the performance of absolute perfection. Hockey is controlled chaos, reactive and physical, and Reiner moves through it with a bluntness that shouldn't be as fluid as it is. All that size and mass, and it carries itself with a certainty that reads less like athleticism and more like instinct. Like his body knows things his brain doesn't have to think about.

He's working with one of his younger players— the kid keeps misreading the breakout positioning, and Reiner is demonstrating it at half-speed, voice too low to carry across the distance but expression clear: patient, focused, not a trace of frustration even on the third attempt. 

You come out of the step sequence three beats late, which you have not done since you were fourteen. You remind yourself that you are very focused and very professional and you look over at the Marley end only twice more after that.

The Olympic Village dining hall was built for the games and has the airy self-consciousness of something designed to impress— glass ceiling, long communal tables, food stations lining the walls like an international argument about what constitutes a proper meal. Every nation has found its corner. Your country, Paradis, is near the east windows, claimed by the captain of your countries hockey team, Jean. You had been friends with a few of the guys off the team for a few years now— Jean, Connie, Eren and Marco, all of you coming together when in close proximity at games. 

Tonight there are too many bread rolls and someone's water glass has been knocked over and Connie is explaining, at great length and with hand gestures, something that happened during the short-track relay. Eren is eating Connie's food while Connie isn't looking. Marco is listening to Connie with genuine interest, because Marco is constitutionally incapable of not listening to people. You sit down with your tray, and you try not to immediately look around the room. But you do. 

Reiner is at a table across the hall— Bert on one side and a couple of other Marley players you didn't recognise or hadn't met yet. He has his head bent over his food, and then— the way it keeps happening, this week, this specific thing that keeps connecting you two— he looks up. Directly at you, across the full width of the room, like he knew exactly where you were. The eye contact holds for three seconds, maybe even four. Long enough to be a choice. He dips his chin, that same slow, deliberate acknowledgement, and goes back to his plate.

You pick up your fork. "Who are you looking at?" Jean suddenly asks from beside you. He's watching you with that specific flat attention he uses when he's already formed an opinion and is waiting to see if you'll confirm it.

"No one," you say quickly.

He turns around. His gaze locates the Marley table without what seems like any particular searching, which suggests he already knew where it was. He turns back, and his jaw has acquired a new tension. "Braun," he mutters.

"Are you asking or stating?"

"Stating." He picks up his fork. "He's Marley's captain."

"I'm aware of who he is. He introduced himself this morning."

"Hm." He sets the fork down, then picks it up again. "He's good."

The words come out like they cost Jean something to say. "Is he?" you ask.

He finally looks at you properly. "Remeber he's competition. Marley's strong this year— their whole squad is—"

"Jean," you say, patiently. "I'm a figure skater, remember? We are in completely separate events— what does it matter?"

"That's not—" He stops. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

"Then what are you talking about?"

He's quiet for a moment. Around you, Connie has moved on to his second bread roll and his third retelling of the lane incident, and Eren has started on what appears to be Connie's dessert, and Marco has noticed and is deciding whether to say anything.

"Nothing," Jean says, finally. "Forget it."

Which is not nothing, and you both know it isn't nothing, and you let it be what it is for now. Across the room, you don't look at the Marley table again for a while. When you do, Reiner is already looking at you, and this time neither of you looks away for almost five seconds, which is a very long time when you're paying attention. 

You look down at your dessert. "Subtle," Connie says, from nowhere.

"Mind your own business," you hiss.

"I'm just saying," Connie says. 

"Connie," Jean says, in a tone that closes the subject.

Connie eats his bread roll and says nothing else. But you catch Marco smiling quietly at his plate, and you decide, on balance, that you don't mind.

Wednesday was your slot, properly yours. The ice at six AM is silver and untouched and entirely silent, and it is the purest version of itself at this hour, before the day gets hold of it. You push out onto the surface and the blades sing against the fresh ice and everything else drops away.

You run your routine, then you take it apart piece by piece, the way your coach taught you: build the thing completely, then dismantle it, find what's wrong, rebuild. By the time you reach the step sequence you've been on the ice for nearly two hours and your body has found its rhythm, the good kind of tired, warm all the way through.

You don't hear the door, and you don't hear him come in. You become aware of Reiner the way you sometimes become aware of a change in weather— not a specific sound, more like a shift in the quality of the air, a sense that the room is different than it was. You hold the line you're on, finish the sequence, and decelerate into a long glide toward the boards.

He's there. Forearms resting on the barrier, chin slightly down, watching you with the look of someone who has completely forgotten they were going somewhere. He's in a practice base layer— no jersey— which does nothing at all to obscure the fact that he is built like something that belongs in a museum. He doesn't say anything when you stop in front of him. He just looks at you, and there's a density to it, like there's more going on behind it than he's letting out.

"Wrong slot?" you ask.

"Day off for me," he says. "I was going to use the gym, but I—" He pauses. "I heard your skates from the corridor."

"And you decided to stay."

The corner of his mouth does something. "Maybe."

You lean your arms on the boards from the ice side, mirroring him, which puts you closer than you need to be and you both know it. "How long have you been standing there?"

He considers. "A while."

You look at him. "And….what do you think?" you ask. "So far."

"Honestly?" He glances at the ice behind you, at the marks your blades have left. "I don't have the words for it." He says it simply, without embarrassment. "I've watched figure skating on television and it didn't— it looks different from here. From close up."

"Different how?"

He thinks about it. "It should look harder," he says, finally. "At that speed, with those rotations— it should look like something that could go wrong. Yours doesn't. It looks like—" He pauses. "Like the ice is just doing what you tell it."

Something warms in your chest. "That's the goal," you say softly.

"I figured." He meets your eyes. "I also looked up the different jumps you do.” 

You stare at him. "You looked up the jumps I do?"

"The axel seems like the hardest," he says, matter-of-fact. "Is that the one that goes forwards on the takeoff?"

"It is." You hold his gaze. "Do you want to see it?"

Something opens in his expression— quick and genuine, before he pulls it back. "Yes," he nods eagerly.

You hold his gaze one beat longer, just because, and then push off. You build the approach over the full length of the rink, letting the speed accumulate, edges clean and precise— then pick in off the toe, rotate. You're in the air for a few seconds, and the landing is sure and clean, one unbroken line all the way through— and you hold the edge long before letting it go.

From the boards, Reiner makes a sound— something that escapes before he can do anything about it. You glide back. His expression is completely undone— the look of someone who has just seen something that's rearranged their idea of what's possible. "That's the triple axel," you say proudly.

"Wow," he says. Slightly rough before he clears his throat. "You make it look—"

"Easy?"

"Like It's nothing," he says. "Which is harder."

You're close enough now to see the detail of him properly— the gold of his eyes, the particular way the morning light catches his jaw, the slight asymmetry of his nose that you've already decided you like more than you care to admit. He's looking at you like you're the most interesting thing he's encountered in a long time, and he's not being subtle about it, and you find that you don't mind.

You don't go straight back to the village after. It's Reiner who suggests it, almost offhandedly, like he's been thinking about it for a minute and decided it was worth the risk— "there's a cool place just outside the athlete entrance, if you wanted coffee"— and you say yes before he's finished the sentence, which you think tells both of you something.

The café is small and warm, the kind of place that's been there long enough to stop trying to impress anyone. Stone walls, mismatched chairs, a woman behind the counter who recognises Reiner and greets him and then looks at you with a very specific kind of curiosity that you decide not to examine too closely. He orders for both of you— asking you first what you want, which you note— and you find a table by the window, the winter street outside grey and quiet.

You're settled into your chairs, coats still on because it takes a while for the warmth to get in, when the door opens and Connie comes through it, followed by Eren and Jean.

Connie sees you first. His face does several things in quick succession— surprise, delight, a look sideways at Jean that he probably thinks is subtle. Eren follows his gaze, registers Reiner beside you, and has the decency to at least attempt a neutral-ish expression. Jean doesn't attempt anything. He just looks at you— at Reiner— back at you— and then looks away, jaw set, and steers the other two toward the counter without a word.

You watch this happen and Reiner watches you watch it.

"They’re my teammates," you say before he could ask. "They play hockey— Jean's the captain of th—."

"I know who he is," he says, not elaborating after that. There's something in the way he says it that's neither warm nor cold— the specific flatness of someone who knows a person professionally and has filed them under ‘competitor’. You don't ask if they've spoken to each other since arriving here. It doesn't feel like your question to ask. 

Reiner glances toward the counter, where Jean is staring at the menu like it's personally wronged him, and then back at you. Something shifts in his expression — a small recalibration, the kind that happens when information doesn't quite fit the shape you'd given it. "You're friends with them?" he asks. 

"We all train at the same facility," you say. "Same rink, mostly the same hours. You end up knowing people….and obviously we compete together every four years."

"Same hometown too?"

"More or less," you tell him. "We grew up in the same area. It's a small world when you've been doing this since you were eight."

He takes this in quietly, the way he takes most things in— not rushing to respond, just letting it settle. He nods once and moves on. "What made you come watch the practice?" he asks. "Actually."

You smile into your coffee. "I had some time."

"You had some time?" he repeats, a smirk evident in his tone.

"I was curious," you admit. "I wanted to see what you actually looked like on the ice."

"And?"

You look at him, tilting your head a little. "You already know the answer to that."

The corner of his mouth flicks upwards. "I want to hear it anyway."

"You're very good," you say, simply. "You make everyone around you better without making them feel like they need to be better. That’s great leadership."

He's quiet for a moment, looking at his cup, and there's something in the set of his face that's slightly unguarded, like the compliment landed somewhere real. "My coach has been saying that to me for ten years," he says. "I still don't always believe it."

"Well, you should believe it," you say honestly.

He looks up at you. "Okay, I will," he says, and it sounds like he might actually mean it.

You stay for a second coffee, which neither of you planned. The conversation moves the way good conversations do — without effort, without agenda, from one thing to the next like following a path you didn't know was there.

He tells you about growing up in Marley. His mother raised him alone, which he says plainly, without making it either a tragedy or a triumph, just a thing that was true. "She worked a lot," he says. "I spent a lot of time at the rink because it was warm and she didn't have to worry about me there."

You nod as he spoke. "That's how you started playing?"

"That's how I started playing." He wraps a hand around his coffee cup. "The coach at the local club let me hang around if I helped with the younger kids. I didn't have any brothers or sisters so I think I liked it, you know— having people to look after."

"You're still doing it," you say. "Just with your team now."

He considers this. "I suppose I am."

"Do you have family nearby? Still in Marley?"

"My mom." He smiles when he says it— small, automatic, the kind that happens without deciding to. "And my cousin Gabi. She's fifteen. She plays hockey too, actually— she's been playing since she could walk, she's furious that she can't compete yet at this level." He says it with such obvious, helpless fondness that something in your chest does a small quiet thing. "She's better than half the senior squad and she knows it. She's been texting me updates about my games before I've even come off the ice."

"She sounds terrifying," you laugh.

"She's absolutely terrifying," he agrees. "She's also the best person I know, probably. Don't tell her I said that, she'll be insufferable."

"Will she be watching?" you ask. "The Games?"

"She’ll be watching all of it, no doubt," he says, then he pauses. "She may have already looked you up."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh? How does she know about me?” 

"I may have mentioned you," he says quietly, and the flush is back, faint and extremely gratifying, creeping across his cheekbones. "In passing…."

"In passing?" You repeat, a smug smile on your lips.  

"Once or twice."

"And what did Gabi say about me?"

He picks up his coffee. Doesn't answer immediately. "She said," he says, carefully, "that you are the best figure skater internationally, and also that I should stop being an idiot."

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile from becoming something he could tease you about. "She sounds very wise."

"Frighteningly," he says. 

"Well." You look at him over the rim of your cup. "She's not wrong."

"I know," he says. "I've seen you skate—"

"I wasn't talking about that one."

He meets your eyes. “Ah,” the flush was still there on his face. "I’m working on it," he says.

You laugh— properly, surprised by it— and he watches you do it with that particular expression of his, the one that's slightly arrested, like he's catching himself. Across the room, you don't look at Jean's table, but you're aware of it anyway, the way you're always aware of Jean when he's nearby. You hope he's all right. You think he will be, eventually. He's Jean— he'll be all right.

"Tell me more about Gabi," you say, turning back to Reiner.

And he does.

You'd only come to pass the time. Your own practice wasn't for another hour, and the Olympic Village had started to feel suffocating after spending the entire morning either training or stretching. Someone had mentioned the Marley hockey team were practising in the main arena, and with nothing better to do, you'd wandered in.

The stands were almost empty. A few coaches sat scattered around the arena, notebooks balanced on their knees, while the rest of the seats remained deserted. You settled into the second row, arms folded over the barrier in front of you as you watched them skate through drill after drill.

Hockey, you found— was oddly satisfying to watch. Fast, physical, chaotic—but there was still a rhythm to it. And then there was Reiner, and of course your gaze kept returning to him. It wasn't intentional. At least, not at first. For someone built like a brick wall, he moved with an ease that made no sense. Every turn was smooth, every stop controlled, and he wasn't the fastest skater on the ice, but somehow he never seemed late to anything—always arriving exactly where he needed to be before anyone else realised the play had changed.

He looked... comfortable, like he belonged out there.

You found yourself smiling without noticing, and then one of the drills ended. The players slowed, catching their breath while pucks were gathered from around the rink. Reiner skated towards the boards near where you were sitting, one gloved hand resting on his stick as he exhaled heavily.

Without a second thought, he hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his crimson jersey and lifted it over the lower half of his face, wiping away the sweat. Your thoughts vanished completely. The jersey rode high enough to expose his stomach, revealing the firm lines of his abdomen— every muscle tightening as he reached across his face. Broad shoulders, defined waist, skin flushed pink from exertion and a thin sheen of sweat—

Well. You hadn't expected....that. Heat instantly rushed straight into your cheeks before you could stop it. You looked away, suddenly fascinated by literally anything else— the empty seats, the scoreboard, a water bottle abandoned on the bench.

Get a fucking grip. It was just abs. Perfectly sculpted, unfairly attractive— Stop.

You pressed your lips together, willing the warmth to leave your face, and when you finally risked another glance, Reiner was already looking at you. He'd caught you. Of course he had. He gave a small laugh to himself before skating over.

"So," he called up, the corners of his mouth lifting, "you're watching me now?"

You forced your expression into something that resembled indifference. "I was bored."

"Mhm." His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, amused."You didn't look very bored."

You rolled your eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, Braun…..I just happened to end up here."

"And you just happened to keep looking over here?"

You felt your face warm all over again. "I was watching everyone." A grin spread slowly across his face— one that made you want to throw something at him. "You know," you sighed, "you've got a ridiculously high opinion of yourself."

He shrugged, entirely unbothered. "So I've been told."

You shook your head. "I was bored," you called over. "Don't get used to it." His laugh followed you across the arena. "...Arrogant idiot," you muttered under your breath.

It's a good game, even at practice pace. Marley runs a system that's different to Paradis's— tighter, more structured in the neutral zone, with a defensive discipline that's clearly been drilled to the point of instinct. Jean adapted to it within the first five minutes, which you notice because you know Jean's game, know the specific shift in his posture when he's reading something new and adjusting.

What you're mainly watching, and making no particular effort to pretend otherwise, is Reiner.

He's different in a game context than in a drill— still the same controlled authority, but there's an edge to it now, something sharper, the difference between a musician rehearsing and the same musician performing. He's on Jean's line repeatedly, and the two of them are well-matched in a way that's almost beautiful to watch and also, you suspect, intensely irritating for both of them. Jean is faster with the puck. Reiner is better without it. Jean reads the zone; Reiner reads Jean.

Though, apparently, today Jean is reading more than just the game.

Because every time Reiner comes near the boards, his eyes flick briefly toward you. He'd noticed earlier— the way Reiner skated over during the break, the way the two of you had exchanged that annoyingly familiar back-and-forth, the way you had tried and failed to hide your smile when Reiner teased you.

Jean knows you. Knows the way you pretend not to care when you very obviously do. He's seen it a hundred times before— on the ice, in training, everywhere. And watching you look at Reiner like that seems to bother him more than he'd ever admit.

Twelve minutes in, a loose puck at the boards. Jean goes for it from one side, Reiner from the other, and they arrive at exactly the same moment with the combined poor judgment of two very competitive people who are not going to yield— and Jean's elbow, coming up as he turns, catches Reiner across the bridge of the nose.

The sound is......not good.

Reiner goes back half a step, one hand coming up to his face, and even from the stands you can see the dark red starting against his skin. Jean, to his credit, looks immediately appalled.

"Braun—I didn't—"

You are already at the tunnel entrance. You're not sure when you stood up. You're not sure when you started moving. But you're on the ice in your trainers before anyone's had time to collect themselves, the cold of the surface immediately soaking through the soles, and you get to Reiner just as Bert gets to him from the other side. Jean follows quickly, pulling his helmet off as he skates to you.

"Hey, wait—"

You don't even look at him.

"Move," you say to the general situation, and people move.

Reiner has his hand over his nose, head tilted back, and his eyes find you over the top of his hand with an expression that cycles through surprised, slightly pained, and something else in very quick succession.

"I'm fine," he says, muffled.

"You're bleeding," you say. "Tilt your head forward, not back." You put a hand on his jaw and redirect him without waiting for agreement, and he goes with it, because apparently when you put a hand on his jaw he does what you tell him. "Can you breathe through it?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly is fine. Come on." You get a hand on his arm— which is, through the practice gear, about as useful as trying to steer a building, but he comes with it anyway— and you start moving him toward the tunnel. Behind you, Bert says quietly to Jean, it's all right, he's had worse, which you hear and which you can tell Jean doesn't find as comforting as Bert intends it.

The changing room corridor is empty and quiet, the sounds of the ice muffled behind the double doors. Reiner sits on the bench just inside the Marley room with his head forward and his hand still over his nose, and you go to the first aid kit on the wall— there's always a first aid kit, in your experience, in any room that borders ice— and come back with gauze and a cold pack from the small freezer unit beside it.

"Move your hand," you say.

He moves it. The bleeding isn't bad— his nose is intact, just caught across the bridge, and the blood is already slowing. You press the gauze there and he reaches up to hold it and his hand covers yours and neither of you address this.

"You didn't have to come out onto the ice," he says. His voice is slightly thick but otherwise fine.

"I know," you say. You crack the cold pack, wrap it in a second piece of gauze, and hold it out. He takes it from you with his free hand and presses it to the bridge of his nose, and you perch on the bench beside him— close, because the kit is between you and the space is small— and look at his face with the clinical attention of someone who has taken enough knocks herself to know what you’re looking at. "It's not broken," you say. "Or no more broken than it already was."

He lowers the cold pack slightly to look at you. His eyes, from this distance, are a golden honey and very direct, and his hair has gone slightly messed and there's a streak of red on his cheekbone and he is still, objectively, distractingly good-looking. "It's been broken twice," he says. "I have a high bar for what counts."

"Apparently." You reach out without thinking and push his hair back from his forehead— just clearing it from the gauze, just practical, of course— and your fingers brush his temple and neither of you move for a second.

"Thank you," he says, quietly. "For coming out."

"You would have done the same."

"I would have," he agrees. "I would have run out onto the ice in my trainers for you without thinking about it." He says it simply, like it's just a fact he's submitting. You just look at him. He's looking back at you with an open expression and the cold pack is still in his hand and you're sitting very close. You lean in, just slightly— and he also leans in, the distance between you is very small now, and his eyes are on yours and then on your mouth and then on yours again, and his free hand comes up slowly to rest at your waist—

The door opens.

Bert appears in the doorway, stops, and in the single most efficient social detonation you have witnessed in recent memory, takes in the entire situation— the bench, the proximity, Reiner's hand, your expression— and says, with genuine apologetic horror: "Oh fuck. I'm— I'm so sorry, I just wanted to check— the bleeding, I thought—" He looks at the ceiling, and then back at the door. "I'll just— I'll wait outside," Bert says, already retreating. "I'll just be— yes. Outside."

The door closes, and silence follows. 

You become aware that Reiner's hand is still on your waist, and you also become aware that you haven't moved either. You become aware that you are sitting approximately four inches apart in a changing room corridor in Marley and that the moment has shifted into something that is extremely funny if you let it be. The laugh comes before you can stop it— quiet, surprised— and Reiner looks at you, and then something in his own face gives, and the sound he makes is low and warm and real.

"He has the worst timing," Reiner chuckles.

"He looked like he wanted to die," you giggle.

He shakes his head. The hand at your waist hasn't moved. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." You look at him. He's looking at you. The moment the door interrupted is still here, you both know it's still here, sitting in the room with you alongside the first aid kit and Bert's lingering mortification. "How's the nose?"

"Fine now," he says. "I told you. High bar." He holds your gaze. "I meant what I said. Before Bert—"

"I know," you say.

"I would have come out for you," he says. "Without thinking about it."

"I know," you say again, softer.

He looks at you for a moment, and the hand at your waist shifts slightly — just a small movement, adjusting, settling — and his expression does the open thing, all of it visible. "Tonight," he says, "are you— after the ceremony preparations —"

"Yes," you say.

He blinks. "I haven't asked anything yet."

"I know." You stand up, and you let the moment reconfigure itself and go to the door. You open it to find Bert, standing in the corridor with his hands in his pockets and the expression of a man who has been sincerely suffering, straightens up immediately.

"He's fine," you tell him. "The nose is fine. The bleeding's stopped."

"Right," Bert says. "Good. That's— yes. Good." A pause. "I'm very sorry about the interruption—"

"Bert," you say, gently. "It's all right."

He looks deeply, privately relieved. "Thank you," he says. "For looking after him."

You glance back through the open door, just for a second. Reiner is watching you go with an expression you're going to be thinking about for the rest of the day.

You find Jean at the far end of the corridor, still in his gear, stick in hand, doing the thing he does when he's uncomfortable — moving, always moving, like stillness gives the feeling somewhere to settle.

"Jean."

He turns around. He has the look of someone who was hoping for more time before this conversation.

"It was an accident," he says, before you've said anything.

"Was it?"

A pause. "Yes."

You look at him. Jean looks back, and the thing about Jean is that he's a terrible liar when it matters — he can deflect and sidestep and change the subject with real skill, but when something is genuinely true and he knows it he can't quite hold the denial in his face properly. It keeps slipping.

"Jean," you say again, quieter. "Was it actually an accident?"

The silence goes on long enough to be its own answer. He looks away, and he turns his stick over in his hands once, twice, the same way he fidgets with things when he's got nowhere good to put his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he says, finally. "I want that to be clear. I didn't go in trying to—"

"But you went in harder than you needed to."

"But you went in harder than you needed to."

He doesn't deny it this time. "He's Marley's captain," he says. "We play them in three days. And you've spent every morning this week with him and I just —" He stops. His jaw tightens. "It got to me. Okay? It got to me."

"Jean." You look at him steadily. "Is this about the tournament? Or is this about something else?"

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Both," he says, eventually. Quietly. "You know it's both."

And there it is. You look at him— at the tight set of his shoulders, the way he can't quite meet your eyes— and you feel something for him that is genuine and warm and also completely beside the point right now.

"That's not fair," you say. "Taking it out on him because of how you feel. That's not fair to him and it's not fair to me."

"I know," he says. Low. "I know that."

"Apologise to him. A real one."

"I will." He finally looks at you, and his face is more open than he'd usually allow. "I'm sorry. For making it your problem."

You hold his gaze for a moment, then turn to walk away.

And stop.

Reiner is twenty feet down the corridor.

Close enough to have heard every word. He's standing completely still, cold pack at his side, eyes on you. When your gazes meet he doesn't look away or pretend he wasn't listening. He just looks at you, steady and quiet, and his expression is — soft, almost. Like something in him has settled.

You hold it for one second. Then you walk, right past him, back toward the rink.

You don't stop. You don't explain. You just go. 

Saturday. Your competition begins tomorrow morning.Now it's almost midnight and you've run through your routine in your head for the last time and you've laid out everything for tomorrow— and yet you still can't sleep.

So you go to the ice.

The Marley Arena at night is completely different. Competition lights off, just the maintenance panels, everything washed in a blue-grey dimness that makes the ice look like it goes on forever, like you could skate out onto it and not find the other end. The stands are empty and vast around you. You lace up your skates, step onto the surface, and the sound of your blades is the only sound in the building.

You skate without the pressure, without the intention. Just moving, the way you did when you were a small girl that loved the ice without complication. Long, easy sweeps across the surface, the cold in your lungs— it all felt so nostalgic to you. You've been out there maybe twenty minutes when you hear the entrance.

Reiner comes through the tunnel in a hoodie and joggers— with his skates already on his feet, and he stops at the sight of you, and you stop at the sight of him, and for a moment you just look at each other across the empty blue-lit ice, and then you both say, at exactly the same time:

"I couldn't sleep."

A beat of silence, then you both laugh. It opens up in the empty rink, fills all the space, and the whole weight of the week— the almost-sayings, the careful distances, the back-and-forth of it— suddenly feels very light. He steps onto the ice in his skates. He moves toward you with that unhurried ease, and the blue light does something to his face, makes the amber of his eyes deeper, and he is very tall in this low-lit rink. 

"We're not supposed to be here," he says, when he reaches you.

"Definitely not." You tilt your head. "But do you care?"

He looks down at you— that slight adjustment he always makes, the angle between you— and the corner of his mouth moves. "Not even a little."

"Good."

He looks around at the empty stands, the dark, still ice. "I keep thinking about how I wish I had time to show you Marley," he says. "The market. The harbour. I wanted to show you all of it it." He looks back at you. 

"There's still time," you tell him. "After the tournament….you can show me then."

He's looking at you with an open expression. "Yeah?"

"Yes," you say honestly. "I'd like that."

Something in his face settles warmly. He glances at the ice around you. "Skate with me," he says. 

You hold out your hand for him. He takes it. His palm is warm and broad, the grip certain, and you start moving together across the surface— slow, side by side— and he isn't graceful, not the way you're graceful, but he is so completely solid, and he follows your lead without tension, without second-guessing, with the same trust you watched him give his linemates all week. It's a good way to be trusted, you think. It's one of the better ways.

Reiner is quiet. You can feel his hand shift slightly in yours, a small, involuntary tightening, and you hold it. You slow down near the centre of the rink, and the ice holds you both still in the blue-grey quiet. You're close— close enough to see the grain of his stubble, the particular way the light sits in his eyes, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"Reiner?"

"Hm?"

You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes drifting to his mouth before finding his again.

"I’ve been thinking about kissing you since Bert interrupted us."

A faint flush crept across his face. "I....I—"

You smiled. "There you go again."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"Over-thinking."

A breath of a laugh escaped him. "I just don't want to—"

You didn't let him finish. One hand slid gently to the side of his face, your thumb brushing the roughness of his jaw as you leaned in and kissed him.

For the smallest moment, he went completely still. Then he kissed you back, slow yet desperately— like he'd been holding himself back for days and had finally been given permission to stop. His hand found your waist almost instinctively, drawing you closer until there wasn't any space left between you. Every movement was careful, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he rushed, yet there was a quiet certainty in the way he held you that made your heart ache.

You didn't admit to him you'd how much and how often you'd imagined kissing him since Bert had walked through that door, and you had decided reality was infinitely better.

His lips were softer than you'd expected, the kiss lingering without urgency, without anyone interrupting, without either of you laughing it off this time. It felt wonderfully, overwhelmingly right—as though something that had been suspended in mid-air for days had finally settled into place. You bring your free hand up to the front of his jacket and hold on.

When you come apart for air, neither of you goes far. His forehead drops to yours. His chest is rising and falling unsteadily, and the cold is everywhere except where he is, and where he is it is very warm. "There," you say, quietly against his mouth. "Was that so difficult?"

"You have no idea," he says, rough-voiced.

You laugh, soft in the empty rink, and he pulls back just enough to look at you when you do it — his expression open and completely undone, like he's been waiting to see you do that from up close and is making the most of it now that he has the chance.

Then he kisses you again, and this time there is nothing tentative about it. His hands frame your face and he kisses you like he means every second of it, deep and certain, and you meet him there, and the ice is cold under your skates and the rink is dark and quiet around you and it doesn't matter, none of it matters, only this: the warmth of him and the certainty of him and the feeling that this, too, like the best moments on the ice, was already decided long before either of you said anything.

When you part the second time, you're both breathing harder. You look at him— the golden eyes, unguarded; the careful, earnest face of him— and something in you is very settled and very certain.

"Come back to my room," you say to him before even thinking it through. 

He goes very still. Not hesitation, no— this is the stillness of someone who has been handed something they want so badly and need to take a moment to make sure it's real. "Yeah?" Very quiet.

"Yes," you say, and you meant it. 

He looks at you for one more moment— checking, because he checks everything, because he is careful about the things that matter most— and then something in his face settles. Simple and sure. "Okay," he says.

You skate off the ice side by side, and in the corridor you don't hold hands because this building has other people in it, but his shoulder stays against yours the whole way back— warm and solid and steady.

The Olympic Village dormitory rose ahead, its glass-fronted lobby spilling weak yellow light onto the snow-dusted walkway—it was a tall building, built to house hundreds of athletes every four years. A volunteer sat behind the desk, scrolling her phone, and didn't look up as you entered. The elevator was small and industrial, the kind that shuddered before it moved, and when the doors slid shut you were alone with him in a space barely big enough for one person, let alone two. You looked up at him to find he was already looking at you with an almost smirk on his face. It was almost funny how little restraint either of you seemed to have left.

You looking at him was apparently enough. His hand found yours first, fingers threading effortlessly between them before he gently tugged you closer— if that was possible— until your coat brushed against his. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and for a heartbeat you simply stood there, smiling at each other like idiots.

"I’m trying to behave," he admitted quietly. “Till we get back to your room.” 

“Oh, yeah?” You smile at him, tilting your head. "And how's that going for you?"

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not very well."

You laughed softly, and before the sound had even faded, you reached up, caught the front of his jacket, and kissed him. He answered instantly.

One hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you in until there wasn't an inch of space left between you, while the other cupped your jaw with effortless gentleness. The kiss deepened naturally, unhurried but impossible to pull away from, as though the two of you had been stealing moments all week and were finally alone long enough to enjoy one properly.

The elevator hummed steadily upwards, and the floors passed unnoticed.

You only broke apart when the cheerful ding announced the fourth floor. The doors parted. He dropped his hand and stepped out first, turning to check the corridor— left, right, clear — and then he waited for you to lead.

Your room was at the end of the hall. 417. The keycard beeped green and you pushed the door open and the room was exactly as you'd left it— small, institutional, the single bed with its white sheets still rumpled from your sleep, the desk lamp casting amber light over scattered energy bar wrappers and your phone charger and the garment bag hanging from the closet door with your skate dress in it for tomorrow. The narrow window showed the city beyond, streetlights smeared by snow, the distant glow of the broadcast center still lit at this hour.

The radiator ticked. The building breathed.

He stepped in behind you, and the room shrank. Not just because he was broad (though he was, shoulders nearly brushing both walls when he stood in the center) but because he took up space the way certain people did. He pulled the door shut behind him, and the click of it closing was very loud in the quiet room.

And then his hands were on you— not rough, never rough. His palms landed on your waist and turned you, guided you back until your shoulders met the door— the wood cool through your pullover— and then he was there, his broad frame caging you; his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. His eyes found yours in the warm light, and they were the colour of the medal you were hoping to win tomorrow, and they were very, very steady.

"I've been thinking about this," he said, his voice rough, scraping low in his throat. "Every second since I bumped into you in the corridor and—" He stopped, the muscle in his jaw jumped. "I need you to know that."

"I know," you say softly.

His hand came up, tilted your face toward his the way it had on the ice— fingertips under your chin, thumb brushing the corner of your jaw— and then his mouth was on yours and it was nothing like the careful, searching kiss from the rink. His stubble scraped your skin raw as he kissed you deep and slow and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that he was barely containing, and you could feel the effort of it in the way his hand trembled against your jaw, in the way his other hand gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself to something solid.

He kissed you the way he played— total commitment, nothing held back and every part of him present and accounted for. You brought your hands up to the front of his jacket and held on tighter than before, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer, and the sound he made against your mouth— low, desperate, a groan he tried to swallow— sent heat flooding through you like a wave breaking.

His hands moved over your ribs, counting them through the fabric. Down your sides, spanning the curve of your waist. Up again, slower, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts through your bra and pullover, and he pulled back just enough to look at you— really look, amber eyes dark in the low light, his lips parted, his breath coming uneven.

"You're gorgeous," he said. The words were rough, almost angry in their intensity. "So perfect—” His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing, and his hands kept moving, slow and reverent, mapping the terrain of your body like he was memorising it by feel alone.

"I've got you," you whispered soothingly. "I'm right here."

"I know." His breath shuddered out. "I know you're here—" He didn't even finish his sentence. He kissed you again instead, and his hands found the hem of your pullover and slid beneath it, and the heat of his palms against your bare stomach made you gasp into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, letting out a small groan himself. His fingers splayed wide across your lower back, pulling you away from the door, pulling you into him, and you could feel him now— hard through his track pants, the thick length of him pressed against your hip, and the reality of that, the physical evidence of how much he wanted this, made your knees soften.

He walked you backward. Three steps, four, the narrow room tilting around you until the back of your knees hit the mattress and you sat. He followed you down, one knee on the bed, then the other, his weight dipping the mattress, his body over yours — not crushing, hovering, his arms braced on either side of your shoulders, his face above yours.

"Let me—" His hand found the hem of your pullover again, and you lifted your arms. He pulled it over your head in one motion, tossed it somewhere, and then he went still.

The amber light caught your skin. Your sports bra was black, simple, the kind made for function and not this moment, and his eyes tracked over you— the defined lines of your shoulders, the curve of your waist where it dipped in above your hips— and his throat worked.

"You're beautiful," he said. Not a compliment. A statement of fact, delivered like testimony. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You felt the instant heat rushing across your cheeks. "Reiner—stop—"

"I mean it." His hand came up, fingertips tracing your collarbone, his touch feather-light. "Every time I watch you skate, I think— how does something that perfect exist? How does someone move like that? And now you're here, and you're real, and I can touch you, and I—" He stopped again, shaking his head as the stubble on his face caught the light. "I don't deserve this."

"You do," you said, and you reached for him. “Of course you do.” 

His jacket came off first. Then the hoodie beneath it, and the t-shirt beneath that, and each layer revealed more of him— the dense, slabs of muscle across his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the way his shoulders were even broader than they'd seemed in clothes. His skin was warm under your hands, flushed, and you could feel the strength coiled in him, the contained power of a body built for impact and speed, and the contrast of his gentility against your skin like he was handling something precious— made your breath come shorter.

He kissed your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. His mouth moved down your body slowly, deliberately, each kiss placed with precision, each touch of his lips a kind of worship. He unhooked your bra with one hand, and you didn't ask how he was so good at that, because his mouth found your breast and your thoughts dissolved completely.

His tongue circled your nipple gradually as his hand cupped the other breast, thumb brushing, and you arched into him with a sound that surprised you— a high, breathless moan that escaped you before you stopped yourself. Reiner pulled back to look at you, eyes dark, his lips wet.

"I want to hear you," he said roughly. "Don't hold back. Please. I want to hear you."

You swallowed. "I—"

"Please." The word cracked something open in his voice, and you nodded, and his mouth returned to your skin.

He worked his way down. Your ribs, one by one, kissed. The flat plane of your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, making you squirm. His hands hooked in the waistband of your leggings, and he looked up at you from below— broad-shouldered and golden-eyed and stubbled, his face between your hips, waiting for permission.

"Yes," you said.

He peeled the leggings down your legs, taking your underwear with them, and then you were bare on the white sheets in the amber light, and he was still mostly dressed from the waist down, and the asymmetry of it— him looking, you being looked at— made heat climb up your chest and into your face.

"You're perfect," he said again, and his voice was reverent. "Every curve, every line— you're—" He pressed a kiss to your hip bone you whimpered, and his hands tightened on your legs, and the sound he made in response was almost a growl. "Every time. Every single time you make that sound, I—"

"Come here," you said, and your voice was wrecked, coming undone from just his words.

He moved up the bed, and you reached for him, your hands finding the waistband of his track pants, pulling, and he helped— shoving them down, kicking them off, and then he was bare against you and the full length of him was pressed to your body and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest against your breasts, the heat of his skin. The thick, heavy length of him against your thigh, and the wetness at the tip that told you exactly how much he'd wanted this. You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his whole body jerked, his hips stuttering forward, a low groan tearing out of him that he muffled against your neck.

"Fuck— wait, wait—" His hand closed around your wrist, stilling you. "I'll— if you do that, I won't last. I need— can you—" He pulled back, looked at you, and something in his face was pleading. "I need to watch you first. Please."

He sat back against the headboard, his legs stretched out, his cock hard against his stomach, and he reached for you. You went to him— straddling his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your hands on his shoulders— and his hands found your waist and held you there, and his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

"Perfect," he murmured. His hand slid between your bodies, and his fingers found your entrance, already slick and sensitive— and he pressed two fingers inside you, and your head dropped forward, your forehead against his.

"Oh—" You were so tender, and the stretch of his fingers inside you sent sparks up your spine. "Oh, fuck—"

"That's it." His voice was low, rough, a rumble you could feel in his chest. "That's it. You feel so good— so good around my fingers. I want you to move, can you move for me?"

You rolled your hips, and his fingers curled inside you, finding the spot that made your vision blur, and you rode his hand— slow at first, then faster, your hips finding a rhythm, your hands gripping his shoulders. His burning eyes never left your face. He watched you like you were something sacred, something he couldn't believe was real, and his other hand came up to brush your cheek, his thumb tracking the tear that slipped out without your permission.

"You're beautiful," he said. "You're so beautiful when you come apart. Can you come for me?"

"I—" Your voice broke, your hips stuttering. "Reiner—"

"I've got you." His fingers pressed deeper, his thumb finding your clit, and he worked you with such a focused intensity. "I've got you. Come for me— I want to feel you." You came apart on his hand, your body clenching around his fingers, your spine arching, his name on your tongue like a prayer. He held you through it— one arm around your waist, his mouth on your shoulder, his whispered words of affirmation steady against your skin. "That's it— you're so good. I've got you."

When you came down, he was trembling. His whole body was tense, coiled, his cock hard and leaking against your thigh, and his eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, and you could see— could feel— how much it was costing him to hold back.

"Reiner," you said, and his name in your voice made his eyes open. "I want you, please..I need you to be inside—” 

"Yes." His voice cracked, not even letting you finish your sentence. "God yes."

He reached for his wallet out of his track pants pocket, and the condom slipped out, and his hands shook as he rolled it on, and you watched— the thick length of him, the way his stomach tensed as he touched himself, the concentration on his face; and then he was reaching for you again, pulling you back into his lap, and you rose up on your knees and positioned him against you.

You sank down onto him slowly, taking him inch by inch. The stretch of him was overwhelming— thick and filling you so completely that your breath caught and held and your hands gripped his shoulders hard enough to bruise. He groaned, low and broken, his head falling back against the headboard, his hands on your hips steadying you.

"Fuck— you're so— you feel—" Words failed him. His eyes found yours, and they were wet. "You're perfect. I can't — I—"

You moved. A slow roll of your hips, and his whole body shuddered, and the sound he made— guttural, raw, a sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest— made you do it again. And again. You found your rhythm, riding him slow and deep, your hands braced on his shoulders, his eyes on your face, his hands on your hips guiding you but never pushing— never forcing, just holding on like you were the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid.

"Look at you," he breathed. "You're— you're incredible. I—"

His hands moved. Up your sides, over your ribs, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples. Down to your hips, gripping harder now, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass as you rode him. His hips started to move with yours— small thrusts at first, meeting you halfway, then deeper, harder, his body pushing up into you as you came down.

"Reiner—" His name broke out of you, and his hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and his eyes— amber, gold, bright with something that looked like worship— held yours.

"I'm right here," he said breathlessly. "You're so good. I've got you."

He shifted beneath you, and suddenly the angle changed, and he was hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and your rhythm faltered, your legs shaking, your hands slipping on his shoulders. He felt it— felt you losing the rhythm— and his arms wrapped around you, and in one fluid motion he rolled you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his hips settling between your thighs.

"I've got you," he said again, and he pulled back, almost all the way out, and then thrust back in— slow, deep, a full-body stroke that dragged against every nerve ending you had. "Let me— fuck— let me take care of you."

He set the pace– slow at first, deep and grinding, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot on your lips. Each thrust was deliberate, measured, and you could feel the control in it— the way he held back from coming too soon, the way he kept his weight on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you, the way his hips snapped forward with just enough force to make you see stars without overwhelming you.

But his composure cracked. You felt it happen— felt the moment his rhythm stuttered, felt his breath catch, felt his hands fist in the sheets beside your head. His hips drove forward harder, faster, and the sound that came out of him was desperate, broken, a sob caught in his throat.

"I can't— I'm not going to—" His voice was wrecked. "I need you to come first— please, I need—" His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, and he circled it in time with his thrusts, and you were already so close, had been building since his mouth was on you, and the combination— his fingers, his cock inside you, the weight of him, the sound of his voice breaking on your name— pushed you over.

You came hard, your whole body clenching around him, your back arching off the mattress, and he followed you— two more thrusts, deep and uncontrolled, and then he groaned your name into your neck, his whole body going rigid, his hips pressed flush against yours, and you felt him pulse inside you as he came.

He collapsed, carefully though— he caught himself on his elbows, but his full weight settled against you, his chest heaving, his face buried in your neck, his stubble scraping your collarbone. His breath came in ragged gasps, hot and damp against your skin, and his arms trembled where they held his weight off you. You wrapped your arms around him. Your hands found the back of his neck, the short gold hair there, the sweat-damp skin, and you held on. His heart hammered against yours— fast, hard, the rhythm of an athlete's heart in overdrive— and slowly, slowly, it began to settle.

He turned his head, pressed a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. His eyes found yours, and they were soft now, the amber muted, the intensity banked to something warm and steady. "Please stay," you ask quietly, almost pleadingly.  

He didn't answer with words. He shifted off you, disposed of the condom, and then he was pulling you close— his broad chest against your back, his arm heavy across your waist, his stubbled cheek resting against your hair. The radiator ticked. The window showed snow falling now, soft and steady, the city lights diffusing through it. The medal on the wall caught the amber light. His breath slowed, deepened, and his arm tightened around you, and you felt the moment his body relaxed into sleep— the way his muscles unknotted, the way his breathing evened out, the way his hand on your stomach went slack and warm.

You lay there in the amber dark, his heartbeat against your spine, and thought about cities you'd never been to before this week that felt, tonight, like somewhere you could stay.

aux ⟋ can't take my eyes off you by frankie valli

you step into the apartment, taking a deep breath as you drop your keys into the wooden bowl on the entry table. you pry your jacket off your tired and stiff arms and neatly hang it up in the coat closet. your eyelids struggle to stay open as you lie down your purse onto the counter chairs in the kitchen.

"jean? i'm home." you call out, searching around for him.

a familiar tune plays from the living room. you step through the hallway and peek into the room as you push aside the frosted glass sliding door. jean stands in the middle of the room, wearing a warm toned sweater and dark brown dress pants.

you giggle lightheartedly, "this is our song."

he smiles sheepishly, his hands shaking. as you move closer to him curiously he reaches his arm out for you to take. his head tilts slightly as he stares at you through his eyelashes.

"dance with me? like we did at homecoming all those years ago?"

your heartbeat quickens as you take his hand, his fingers curl around your own. his arm curves around your waist, holding you tightly. he takes a deep breath of you, his eyes closing softly.

"what's got you so romantic, baby?"

jean chuckles, but his voice cracks faintly. he rubs comforting circles into your lower waist, you can't tell if it's to comfort you or himself.

"i just wanted to hold you," he admits quietly.

your face warms up, "you can always hold me."

as he twirls you around, you're transported back to high school. you were far from the perfect pair, in fact you partly hated each other. neither of you know what possessed him to ask you to dance, he insists it was the aftereffects of cupids arrow. for a moment you swear you can still smell his cologne, it was smokey and earthy. his hair was slicked back, some baby hairs betrayed him in a way you found so cute. you were so young then, you hadn't realized at the time how deep your love went for each other. after that dance, things changed completely. a part of you thinks that maybe you never hated each other in the first place, you just didn't know what love was yet.

as the music plays around you, he mouths the lyrics 'can't take my eyes off of you.' you rest your head on his shoulders as your hips slowly sway to the music. you hear his heartbeat pounding in hid chest, faster than normal. jean runs his hand through your hair. you feel the vibration of him humming the song softly as his cheek rests against your head. the world stops completely. nothing else outside of your apartment exists anymore. just the soft music playing from the record his mother gifted you a few christmases ago.

you let your body relax against him, your shoulders lose tension you didn't even know you were holding and your breathing slows into a calm and steady pace.

he slows down the dancing, standing still as a statue before you. his golden eyes shine under the dim light. he looks at you as if you're divine, an answer.

"[name]."

before he can even utter another word, everything snaps into place. you can tell by the tone of his voice exactly what's coming. it's the same way he asked you to dance all shyly by the bleachers. it's cupid.

"before we even danced, i knew things changed. i didn't see you any differently, i just realized i'd always seen you that way."

he chuckles, "i couldn't take my eyes off of you."

your heartstrings pull at the love laced in his words. his eyes tell it all. the raw emotion and vulnerability he's showing to you feels like you're looking right at his soul. as if you've known him for longer than you've existed in this world.

he squeezes your hand gently, "whatever our life looks like going forward, i ask to be with you through every step."

he slowly lowers to one knee, you cover your mouth to keep from crying. although, the tears betray you as they fall down your cheeks.

you hadn't even realized that he pulled out a small cloth box, and he opens it gently, revealing a beautiful golden engagement ring. the soft white stones curve downward, leaving place for the wedding ring. for some reason, that simple detail makes you full on weep. it's not just a ring, it's a promise.

"i love you so much, [name]. will you spend forever with me?"

you struggle to force down the lump in your throat so you're able to speak, you manage to choke out, "yes, yes. i will."

he takes your hand in his, both of you tremble softly. he gently takes out the ring, placing it gingerly onto your finger. he pulls you closer, planting kisses along your knuckles.

you lower yourself to his height, sitting on your knees. you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer into a kiss. he melts into your touch and suddenly his self control fades away. he instantly tosses the ring box aside and wraps his arm around your waist, leaning into the kiss. your chests press together, heart to heart, soul to soul.

you're past love, way past. it's more now. so much more that there simply isn't a word for it yet and there never will be. it's so much more than a language could offer, more than a word could ever express. it's only something you can feel and never describe. the warmth of a hug, the love of a family, the trust of a friend. jean is all that and more. in every lifetime and in every universe, you'll always find each other. all the times you longed for something you couldn't name fade away into nothing as you find the missing puzzle piece to your heart.

    my masterlist

𖦹 do not reproduce, distribute, or use my work to train artificial intelligence, all rights reserved.

christmas index ⟋ headcanons post →

𖦹 thank you for reading !

@12daysofchristmas

getting the shirt from him was the easy part, he had it sitting by the door after you texted him about it. it was leaving that really hurt. jean didn't argue or bicker. he just gave you the shirt without a single word. the front door didn't even have the chance to close behind you.

could it really have been 'the breakup'?

that didn't matter now, you just needed to get home, get away from him, and eat a tub of ice cream like everybody does when they're sad. you'll listen to your favorite songs in the car and forget all about the way he looked at you like you were just his past.

it's really raining by the time you get to your car. your interior lights hadn't even turned off. it really was a one and done. yeah, it's a breakup, but the relationship isn't actually over. right?

your eyes suddenly lock onto a very important item sitting inside of your passenger seat. oh god. it's your fucking keys.

your heart skips a beat as you quickly attempt to shake the door open. damn it. you're locked out. this is exactly the shit that would happened to you when it's pouring and you're right outside of your exes house.

what the hell do you even do??

you subtly turn behind you and jean is watching from inside of his house. it was always his thing to make sure you left safely before he shuts the door. curse his caring habits.

he notices, of course, your hesitation, "what's wrong?"

unfortunately, you heard that, and more unfortunately, he hears you reply back, "nothing!! just left my keys in my damn car!"

"come back inside!" he yells from the porch, arms crossed.

"no, i'm not going back inside," you grumble.

if you did, things would change again. you'd put down your purse where it used to sit every day, take off your shoes and lay them gently right beside jean's, by then you'd snap out of this stubbornness and just stay the night. probably forgetting the shirt again.

you can hear his annoyed grumble through the downpour, "fine, be stubborn. i'll just come out there."

"ugh! don't bother! i'll figure it out myself," you huff, aggressively pulling the handle, "can't have you ruining your hair, huh?"

you swiftly move to the other side of the car to the drivers side, testing that door too. oh if you had the chance to just drive off before he got to you.

but alas, fate isn't on your side today. with the car inbetween the two of you, he attempts to calm down the situation as if that's at all possible.

he tugs on the door handle too like it would work for only him, "it really is locked."

"no, really??" you roll your eyes, "i had no clue."

he looks over at you deadpan, "it doesn't hurt to check twice."

"it does a little," you mumble under your breath.

when he groans, you know he heard that, "i don't understand why you won't just come inside."

"because!" you reply.

"that doesn't help," he retorts, "you can call someone inside."

you pull out your phone, "i can very well call someone out here too."

"it's pouring, do you really want to ruin your phone right now?"

"at least i wouldn't have to see your face in my photos anymore! or in my recommended contacts!" you let out a long, frustrated groan. your phone won't accept your wet finger's commands.

he sighs, "can we just figure this out and get you home without an argument?"

you glare at him, "i don't need your help."

"it really seems like you do, [name]."

"then just shut up and help me already!" you cry out.

you can't tell if the water flowing down your cheeks is rain or tears. deep down, you know what they are. you hope jean can't tell so easily, but he always knows you better than you could know yourself.

you lean your head against the roof of your car defeatedly, letting the downpour practically waterboard you in the process.

this feeling reminds you all too well of the breakup. you never cry when it happens, the final blow is always an angry 'i hate you,' or a frustrated 'we're never getting back together,' followed by a breakdown at your apartment that night.

it's always the same forumula.

but a couple weeks ago felt slightly different. it wasn't the usual argument, tossing around meaningless insults and promises with a slight romantic tension in the air. this breakup was cold and quiet. it was exhausting. you don't even remember what started it anymore. he said something that pissed you off, or vice versa, and it just got worse from there.

"okay, let's just breakup then," you rolled your eyes, already tossing some of your stuff in your backpack.

he reached his arms out to you, but his hands never quite made it to your waist, "come on, [name], let's talk about it."

"fine, apologize then?" you retorted.

he sighed, pulling his arms back, "for what?"

"this is exactly it. this is exactly the problem, jean," you threw your hands up frustratingly, "you don't have the faintest clue that you're an asshole."

his eyebrows furrowed, "that's not fair. apologizing is pointless if i don't know what i'm apologizing for."

"i know that," you hissed, "that's not the fucking problem. the problem is that you don't even know."

you expect anger, fighting. a quick witted counter or a match in your energy. but instead he just let his shoulders fall and a tired breath escaped his lips.

"okay."

you smiled, "'okay,' you'll apologize?"

he just shook his head, "'okay,' let's break up."

your hands froze in place, one of your hoodies fell from your grip. you turned to face him and saw just how over it he was. he didn't look at you, but you could tell in his eyes he just couldn't do it anymore.

instead of fighting more or acting happy, you just silently packed the rest of your things and left. of course you were stupid enough to leave behind the most important shirt.

at the time, you just convinced yourself he was tired for some other reason and that nothing had actually changed. in a few months you'd be back together like nothing happened. you'll become a better person for him and then you won't break up again. and even though you say that every time, this will be different.

in the rain, seeing his face again, the same expression, you know it's actually different. he's done. it breaks your heart in a way you've never felt before. it takes you until now, when the relationship is really over, that you love him more than anything else out there.

you turn to him in the rain, his tired and dejected eyes stare back into you, "is it really over this time?"

he doesn't reply, but his eyes tell you everything.

suddenly you remember your spare key that you keep in the side pocket of your bag. you dig around and find it, soaking everything else in your purse. manually, you unlock the door, popping it open.

and it's over just like that.

still, you wait in the rain. he could stop you, tell you to come inside anyway. he would only have to ask once.

instead, he just stares at the propped open door, "good, you figured it out."

'so you can go now,' you mentally finish his sentence.

you bite your lip and slide into the car, tossing your bag and the tee into the passenger seat. you stare out of its window, you're just met with his chest. he doesn't bother to bend down and say goodbye like he always does.

you simple turn on the engine and begin to drive off. the car automatically connects to bluetooth, playing the two of your's song. you'd listened to it on the way, ignorantly believing that things would stay the same. you look back at him in your side view mirror. he stands in the rain, watching you drive off. your relationship has changed for good. it can't be mended like it normally can be.

but, you know, maybe next spring.

sorry it's a bit shorter this time!! i really couldn't figure out any other places to put more detail. i hope u enjoyed!

𖦹 do not reproduce, distribute, or use my work to train artificial intelligence, all rights reserved.

nav.

“Maybe you came back too late.”

The words remained suspended between the two of you long after they were spoken aloud. For a while, the only thing filling the silence was the distant hum of the city below, the muffled sound of passing traffic, the occasional burst of laughter drifting upward from the streets, the soft rush of wind curling through the balcony railings. The world beyond this moment continued moving forward without hesitation, completely unaware that something fragile and unfinished was unraveling quietly between the two of you.

Reiner’s eyes stayed on yours for one lingering second longer before they finally dropped away.

Not because he wanted to look elsewhere.

Because he needed to.

You noticed the way his jaw tightened faintly afterward, the subtle shift in his throat as he swallowed down whatever reaction threatened to surface first. His fingers remained wrapped loosely around the cigarette resting between them, though the thing had nearly burned itself down unnoticed by now.

And suddenly, painfully, you understood it.

For years, Reiner had imagined this differently.

That was the cruel part.

You could see it written all over him now, in the exhaustion sitting behind his eyes, in the restrained disappointment he was trying and failing to hide beneath composure.

Some part of him had truly believed that after everything, he would return and still find you waiting exactly where he left you.

As if time would pause for people like the two of you.

As if war did not steal years from people faster than they realized.

As if love could survive untouched beneath silence and distance and grief.

The realization made something inside your chest ache sharply.

Slowly, Reiner lifted the cigarette toward his mouth before stopping halfway through the motion. He stared at it for a moment, distant and unfocused, before quietly crushing the ember against the railing instead, the orange glow extinguished instantly.

Smoke curled upward between the two of you, dissolving slowly into the cold night air.

“I used to think about you all the time,” The confession came quietly enough that you almost missed it. "I mean, I'm lying if I say I don't anymore."

Your eyes lifted toward him again.

Reiner still wasn’t fully facing you yet. One arm rested against the balcony railing beside him while the other remained lowered at his side, his posture tense in a way that felt less guarded and more exhausted now.

“Before missions,” he continued after a moment, his voice roughened slightly by memory. “During them too.” A quiet, humorless breath left him. “And afterward, if I made it back.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

His gaze drifted toward the city lights below, though it was obvious he wasn’t really seeing them anymore.

“I’d wonder what you were doing.” His voice softened slightly on the admission. “Whether you were sleeping yet. Whether you were okay.”

The corner of his mouth twitched faintly, though there was no real amusement behind it. “Sometimes I’d try to remember your face before things got bad.”

You felt your breath catch at that.

“And every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it back…” His fingers tightened briefly against the railing. “I think part of me kept holding onto the idea that if I survived long enough, I’d come home to you.”

The honesty in his voice nearly undid you where you stood, because he meant it, every word.

You suddenly wondered how many nights Reiner spent clinging to that thought just to survive another day. How many missions he walked into carrying your memory like something sacred tucked carefully between all the blood and violence and fear.

And maybe that was what hurt most.

Not the fact that he still loved you, but the realization that he never really stopped.

Reiner finally turned toward you then.

Fully this time.

One of his hands lifted slowly before settling against the side of your face, his palm warm against your skin as though he still remembered exactly how to hold you after all these years.

The touch nearly unraveled you on the spot.

Your breathing slowed slightly.

So did his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Reiner’s eyes simply searched yours carefully, quietly, like he was trying to find traces of the person he had carried with him through every passing year.

“I thought…” He stopped briefly, his thumb brushing faintly against your cheek before continuing. “I thought maybe things would still feel the same when I saw you again.”

The vulnerability in his voice made something inside your chest ache painfully, just hopeful in a way that felt deeply unfair after everything he had survived.

Your eyes dropped briefly before lifting back toward him again, and before you could stop yourself, your hand slowly rose to his wrist, your fingers curling gently around the hand cupping your face. The contact made Reiner go still almost immediately, like even that small touch meant more to him than it should have.

You stared at him quietly for a moment before shaking your head slightly. “It was never that easy, Rein.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “There were days I thought you were dead.”

The words visibly landed somewhere deep inside him. You saw it immediately in the way his expression tightened slightly, the way his eyes flickered away for the briefest second before returning to yours again.

“There were times where nobody heard anything,” you continued quietly. “No letters. No updates. Nothing.” Your fingers tightened faintly around his wrist without realizing it. “And I waited,” you admitted, your voice weakening around the truth. “Longer than I should’ve.”

Reiner’s eyes lifted toward yours immediately.

You could almost see the hope threatening to rise inside him again despite everything.

“There were nights where every knock at the door made me think maybe it was you finally coming back.” Your throat tightened painfully. “I kept thinking one day you’d just show up again like nothing happened.”

Something in Reiner’s expression faltered at that.

Not entirely heartbreak.

Something worse.

Longing.

The kind that survives long after it’s supposed to die.

“But eventually…” You swallowed hard. “Life doesn’t wait for people forever.”

Silence settled heavily afterward. The space between you had somehow disappeared without either of you noticing.

Reiner stood impossibly closer now, your back shifting, now facing against the railing behind you while one of his hands remained cupped gently against the side of your face. His thumb brushed slowly along your cheek once, almost absentmindedly, though the look in his eyes made it clear there was nothing careless about the touch.

Close enough that you could hear the slight unevenness in his breathing now.

Close enough that every shift of movement felt deliberate.

Then slowly, his other hand found its way to the other side of your face, cupping it. Reiner’s gaze dropped briefly toward your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again, and the caress of his thumb against your skin softened slightly afterward, like touching you again after all these years was undoing him in real time.

Your eyes flickered downward before you could stop yourself.

Toward his mouth.

And the moment you did, Reiner noticed immediately.

You knew he did from the way his breathing caught almost silently afterward.

God.

The tension between you felt unbearable now, thickened by years of unfinished love, unresolved grief, and every version of the two of you that had once existed before life complicated everything beyond repair.

Reiner’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips then slowly returned to your eyes again.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you stepped back.

It would have been so easy.

That was the terrifying part.

One small movement forward and the years between you would collapse completely.

You could see the restraint wearing thin in his expression now.

The conflict.

The wanting.

The quiet desperation he was trying so hard not to act on.

“Tell me not to.” His voice came low enough to almost blend into the night air. The words wrapped themselves tightly around your chest. Your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and never fully returned.

Reiner’s eyes remained fixed on yours, searching them carefully like he was waiting for the smallest sign to pull away.

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t tell him to stop.

And maybe that alone was speaking for itself.

The city lights blurred faintly behind him now, swallowed entirely by the unbearable awareness of how close he was standing. You could feel the warmth of his body against the cold night air, could hear the unevenness in his breathing every time silence stretched too long between the two of you.

“Reiner…” His name left your mouth quietly, almost uncertain.

The sound of it nearly undid him. You saw it immediately in the way his jaw tightened. In the way his eyes closed briefly, like hearing you say his name like that again after all these years hurt more than he expected it to.

“I tried,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper now. “I really did.”

His gaze searched yours carefully. “Tried what?”

Your throat tightened painfully. “To move on.”

The words settled heavily between you.

Reiner stared at you for a long moment afterward without speaking. Then, quietly, “I know.”

God.

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache even harder, like he understood far more than you wanted him to.

“But every time I heard something happened overseas…” Your eyes dropped briefly before lifting back toward his again. “Every time there was another report about soldiers not coming home…” Your voice weakened slightly. “I’d still wonder if you were alive.”

Reiner’s expression faltered almost immediately.

“And when years passed and nobody heard anything about you…” A shaky breath left you quietly. “Part of me thought maybe waiting was crueler than letting go.”

Reiner’s eyes never left yours. “You think I didn’t try too?” he asked quietly. “There were missions where I told myself I needed to forget you,” he admitted. “Thought maybe it’d make things easier.”

A faint, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth before disappearing just as quickly.

“It never worked.”

The confession wrapped itself tightly around your chest. Reiner lowered his head slightly then, close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath every time he spoke.

“No matter where I was…” His voice softened. “No matter how bad things got…” His eyes searched yours again. “You were always there.”

Reiner’s gaze flickered toward your mouth again, lingering there this time.

Waiting.

Asking.

And God, you wanted it.

That was the worst part.

After everything, after the years, after Colt, after convincing yourself you had survived losing him, you still wanted him close in the same devastating way you always had.

“You have no idea how many times I imagined this,” he admitted quietly.

Your breath trembled. “Rein…”

His forehead nearly brushed yours now. “So tell me to stop.”

The words came softer this time, you both already knew he wouldn’t unless you asked him to. Your eyes closed briefly, and for one terrible second, you almost let it happen, almost let yourself fall back into him completely.

But reality came rushing back all at once.

Colt.

Your marriage.

The years between you.

The life you had already built trying to survive Reiner’s absence.

Your hand pressed lightly against Reiner’s chest before the distance disappeared entirely. “I can’t.”

The words came out barely steady. Your breathing shook slightly as you forced yourself to look at him again. “I can’t do this to him.”

The words barely left your mouth before the change in Reiner’s expression became visible, the quiet understanding mixed with something so deeply disappointed it made your chest ache.

For a second, neither of you moved. Reiner’s hands remained against your face, warm and steady despite the tension running through him. His thumbs brushed lightly against your skin once, almost instinctively, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go yet. And honestly, neither could you.

The realization sat painfully inside your chest and Reiner let out a slow breath before lowering his forehead gently against yours. The contact nearly unraveled you completely. Your eyes closed for a brief second on instinct, your fingers tightening slightly around his wrists where you still held them against your face. It should’ve felt like resistance. It should’ve been you trying to stop this before it crossed a line neither of you could uncross.

Instead, it felt dangerously close to surrender.

“I figured.” Reiner said quietly, his voice sounded tired now.

That was what made this so impossible.

Reiner stayed there for another lingering second, forehead pressed lightly against yours, breathing unevenly enough that you could feel it every time the silence stretched.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to make this harder for you,” he murmured softly.

Your chest tightened painfully. “You didn’t,” you whispered back immediately.

The response came too fast, too honest.

Reiner’s eyes opened slowly then, lifting toward yours from inches away.

“That’s the problem,” you admitted quietly.

Something in his expression faltered again.

God.

You hated that look.

The one that made him seem less like the decorated soldier everyone respected and more like the same boy you loved years ago before the world ruined both of you differently.

Your fingers loosened slightly against his wrists before one hand slid upward unconsciously, brushing faintly against the back of his hand still cupping your face.

“I tried not to think about you,” you admitted after a while, your voice softer now. “After a few years, I thought maybe it’d finally get easier.”

Reiner gave the faintest shake of his head against yours. “Did it?”

A weak laugh almost escaped you then. “No.”

“I knew it,” he murmured quietly.

You rolled your eyes slightly despite yourself, and somehow that only made the moment feel worse, more intimate, like the years between you suddenly disappeared for one terrifying second.

His thumbs brushed lightly along your cheeks once more before his gaze dropped toward your mouth again.

And God.

There it was again.

That unbearable pull between you.

The distance between your mouths had become almost nonexistent now, the tension so thick it felt impossible to breathe around it, uou could already feel yourself losing.

Then-

“Well,” a voice suddenly cut through the balcony, dry with amusement, “this looks emotionally catastrophic.”

Both of you jumped apart so fast it was almost embarrassing. Your hands dropped from Reiner’s wrists immediately while Reiner took an abrupt step backward.

Standing near the balcony doorway was Zeke, holding a drink in one hand while staring at both of you with the exhausted expression of someone who had definitely seen far more than he was supposed to.

Silence.

Then Zeke looked between the two of you once.

Twice.

“…Should I come back after the unresolved sexual tension kills one of you?”

“Oh my God,” you muttered instantly, mortified.

Beside you, Reiner dragged a hand roughly down his face. “Zeke.”

“What?” Zeke asked innocently. “I knocked.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“I knocked emotionally.”

You let out an actual laugh before you could stop yourself, the sound slipping out suddenly from somewhere beneath all the tension still crushing your chest. And somehow, that made everything worse, because Reiner looked at you immediately afterward, like hearing you laugh again after all these years nearly undid him more than anything else tonight.

You cleared your throat quickly before turning away first, moving back toward the railing and resting both arms against it like maybe pretending to admire the city would somehow erase what almost happened seconds ago.

Beside you, Reiner followed a second later, positioning himself against the railing too, though the tension radiating off him remained painfully obvious.

Zeke stared at both of you for another long second before he sighed dramatically. “This balcony suddenly feels very divorced.”

YOUR POV

The apartment had gone quiet by the time you finally stepped out of the bathroom. Warm steam still clung faintly to your skin, following you into the dim bedroom as you adjusted the strap of your nightgown absentmindedly. The exhaustion from the evening lingered heavily in your body now, though it had nothing to do with the party itself.

Your chest still hadn’t settled properly since the balcony.

Since Reiner.

God.

Even thinking his name now made something twist painfully inside you.

You exhaled slowly, trying to push the thoughts away before they swallowed you whole again.

The soft light from the living room spilled faintly into the hallway ahead, catching your attention immediately.

You frowned slightly.

Had Colt forgotten to turn it off?

Quietly, you stepped farther into the apartment, and stopped. The sight waiting for you in the living room caught you off guard enough that you almost smiled immediately.

Colt was still awake.

Or at least… partially.

He sat stretched across the sofa, clearly having intended to rest “for a minute” before exhaustion won completely. His head leaned back against the cushions, eyes closed, broad shoulders visibly heavy beneath the loose uniform hanging slightly open at the collar. One arm rested along the back of the couch while the other remained on his thigh, fingers relaxed loosely against the fabric of his pants.

His legs were spread comfortably apart in the way tired soldiers always seemed to sit after unbearably long days.

Completely unaware of how unfairly attractive it made him look.

A quiet fondness settled inside your chest almost immediately.

After everything, Colt had always carried exhaustion like this, openly, honestly and without pretending he wasn’t worn thin by the weight of things.

And tonight had been long, too long perhaps.

You stared at him for a second longer, your expression softening despite yourself. Part of you genuinely thought he had already fallen asleep sitting there.

Carefully, you walked around the back of the sofa, your fingers brushing lightly against the fabric as you moved closer behind him. Even now, Colt didn’t stir immediately, his breathing slow and steady enough that you almost laughed quietly to yourself.

“You’re gonna wake up sore tomorrow,” you murmured softly, though you doubted he heard you.

Slowly, your hands lifted toward his face. Your palms settled gently against his cheeks from behind, your thumbs brushing faintly along the light stubble there before you leaned down carefully. It was soft and brief, meant to wake him gently more than anything else, but the moment your lips touched his, Colt smiled against them almost immediately.

Your heart melted a little at that.

Still half-asleep, he lifted one arm lazily until his hand found your hair without hesitation, fingers sliding slowly through the strands before settling against the back of your head to keep you there another second longer.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and Colt finally opened his eyes properly then, warm amusement already sitting there despite the exhaustion clouding them.

“There you are,” he murmured quietly, his voice rough with sleep.

You smiled faintly at him, hands still resting against his cheeks while his fingers remained tangled loosely in your hair. “You were supposed to be asleep already.”

“I was trying to wait for you.” The honesty in his tone made your chest soften immediately.

Colt let out a slow breath before finally sitting up properly, his hand slipping carefully from the back of your head down to your wrist. His fingers curled gently around your hand, warm and familiar, before he guided you around the side of the sofa toward him without letting go once. The movement felt unspoken and natural, like the two of you had done this countless times before.

You followed easily, your fingers still loosely intertwined with his as you moved around the couch until you stood directly in front of him. Colt leaned back slightly against the cushions, looking up at you with tired eyes softened by something unbearably affectionate.

God.

He looked exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that settled deep into soldiers after long days filled with too much noise, too many people, too many things expected from them at once. But the moment you stood in front of him, some of that heaviness seemed to ease.

His thumb brushed lightly against the back of your hand before he tugged gently. “Come here.”

Carefully, Colt guided you forward until you were standing between his legs. One of his hands settled against your waist while the other remained holding yours, helping you lower yourself slowly into his lap. The second you straddled him, the thin strap of your nightgown slipped carelessly down your shoulder. Colt noticed immediately. Without a word, he lifted his hand slowly to your shoulder, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin as he slid the strap carefully back into place. The touch sent warmth rushing through your chest. His hand lingered there afterward for one extra second longer than necessary.

“My beautiful wife,” he murmured quietly.

The words settled somewhere deep inside you.

Your fingers moved instinctively into his hair then, combing slowly through the soft strands near the nape of his neck while Colt leaned into your touch almost immediately, eyes slipping closed for a brief moment.

You stared down at him quietly.

At the tiredness resting beneath his eyes.

At the faint shadows beneath them from sleepless nights and responsibilities neither of you ever talked about enough.

At the softness that only ever really appeared when the two of you were alone like this.

And suddenly, guilt twisted painfully inside your chest again.

Because Colt looked at you with such uncomplicated love.

Such certainty.

His hands settled more securely against your waist now, thumbs brushing absentmindedly along the fabric of your nightgown while his gaze lifted back toward yours again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You smiled faintly, running your fingers through his hair again. “Just tired.”

“Mmm.” His eyes studied your face carefully for another second before softening. “Today was a lot.”

That was an understatement. You looked away briefly with a quiet breath before nodding once. “It was.”

His fingers traced slowly along your waist, soothing and unhurried, like he could already feel the tension still sitting inside your body.

“We should probably sleep,” you murmured quietly after a moment.

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Probably.”

But neither of you moved. Your fingers continued combing gently through his hair while Colt kept looking up at you with that same warm, exhausted affection that always made your chest ache in the softest way possible.

After a moment, he leaned forward slightly until his forehead rested lightly against your chest, his arms slipping more securely around your waist.

You felt him exhale slowly against you.

“Tired,” he mumbled quietly.

You laughed softly under your breath, your hand sliding down to brush gently along the back of his neck. “I can tell.”

“Mm. Don’t make fun of me.” His voice came quieter now, sleepier. “I’m trying to be romantic.”

“That’s your romantic face?”

“Absolutely.”

Another laugh escaped you then, softer this time. You looked down at him quietly, fingers still combing through his hair while Colt stared up at you with that same tired softness slowly beginning to melt into something heavier.

“You know,” you murmured softly, “for someone supposedly exhausted, your hands seem pretty awake.”

A quiet laugh escaped him immediately, low and rough from sleep. “Can you blame me?”

His hands slid upward until his fingers hooked lightly beneath the thin straps resting on your shoulders. Your breath caught softly as he dragged them down just enough for the fabric to loosen against your skin. “You show up looking like this and expect me to behave?”

Your brows lifted slightly despite the heat rising in your chest. “Behave?” you repeated. “You’re currently holding your wife hostage on the couch.”

“Mm.” Colt tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider it. “Legally, I think this counts as affection.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It absolutely is.”

There was something so unfairly gentle about him sometimes.

Colt looked at you for a second longer before one of his hands finally slipped down to your thigh, his palm settling there warmly beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown. His thumb moved slowly against your skin, caressing absentmindedly while his gaze stayed fixed on yours, heavy-lidded now with exhaustion and something softer sitting beneath it.

Wanting.

Your breath slowed slightly as his hand traveled higher.

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric entirely this time, dragging slowly upward along your thigh until his palm reached your hip. The movement pushed the material of your nightgown higher alongside it, bunching gradually against your skin as his touch continued upward toward your waist.

The warmth of his hand against your bare skin made your breathing catch quietly.

Colt noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before his other hand joined the first, both palms smoothing slowly along your hips and waist now, dragging the loosened fabric higher with every lingering touch.

The tension between you shifted almost instantly after that.

No longer soft enough to pretend otherwise, his mouth met yours with enough force to pull a quiet breath from your chest immediately. Your hands moved instinctively, sliding quickly to the front of his uniform as your fingers fumbled against the buttons with growing impatience.

Colt kissed you like he already knew exactly how you’d respond to him.

Like he knew every sound you swallowed back against his mouth.

Every shift of your breathing.

Every small movement of your body pressing closer into his.

The loosened fabric of your nightgown slipped farther down your shoulders as his hands traveled upward again, smoothing along your sides before hooking more securely against the material itself.

Your mouth barely separated from his long enough to breathe properly before he pulled the gown upward slowly, his palms dragging against your skin underneath as the fabric lifted higher between the two of you.

Your fingers worked impatiently at the front of his uniform, fumbling with the buckles and straps between kisses until Colt finally helped tug the heavy fabric down from his shoulders himself, letting it loosen enough beneath your hands.

By then, your nightgown had already been abandoned somewhere on the floor beside the couch.

Neither of you cared where.

Colt’s hands moved over your bare skin immediately afterward, warm and familiar as they settled along your waist before sliding lower, gripping your ass firmly enough to pull a quiet breath from your chest.

The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.

Heavy-lidded.

Wanting.

Completely focused on you.

His grip tightened slightly against your hips as he lifted you just enough to position you over him properly, the tip of him pressing against you while his eyes stayed fixed on your face the entire time like he didn’t want to miss a single reaction.

“Just like that,” he murmured softly.

One of his hands slid along your waist while the other guided your hips down slowly, steady and deliberate as he eased you onto him inch by inch.

The stretch pulled a sharp breath from your chest immediately, your lips parting as your head tipped back for a second, fingers clutching tighter against his shoulders instinctively while your body adjusted to the feeling of him.

Colt let out a low breath at the sight of you like that, his hands holding your hips firmly as he leaned closer again.

“There you go,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough with satisfaction. “Atta girl.”

REINER'S POV

The shower is running too hot, but Reiner doesn’t bother adjusting it. He stands under the water like he’s trying to outlast something in his own head, one hand planted against the tile wall, fingers spread and pressing hard enough to steady him. The other drags back through his damp hair once in a rough, frustrated motion before falling still again, like he immediately regrets trying to reset himself.

It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse, because the second he stops focusing on the physical sensation of the water, everything else comes rushing back.

You.

Earlier.

The way you looked at him.

The way the moment between you lingered just slightly too long, like something passed between you without words and he’s been stuck replaying it ever since, trying to decide if it was real or just something he imagined.

“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, barely audible under the water. Somehow, his free hand found its way down to his length. He massages his cock like as if the pressure alone can force his thoughts into order.

It doesn’t. It’s not just the memory of you, it’s the way his mind keeps rearranging it when he stops resisting.

How close you stood.

How your attention felt like it locked onto him for a second longer than usual.

And then, without meaning to, his thoughts twist it.

Not Colt.

Him.

He sees it differently now, the way his mind betrays him when he’s alone with it. The kind of attention that makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t immediately have a name for.

Reiner exhales sharply and tilts his head forward into the stream of water, trying to cut the image off before it builds further.

But it doesn’t stop.

It never stops cleanly.

His hand presses harder into the tile wall, like he’s grounding himself against something real while his mind keeps constructing things he never asked for. Scenarios he shouldn’t be thinking about. Moments that didn’t happen, but feel too easy for him to picture anyway.

“Don’t…” he starts again, quieter this time, like he’s warning himself more than commanding anything.

The water keeps running. Steam thickens in the air. His reflection in the glass is blurred and indistinct, which is almost merciful.

His breathing becomes heavier as he strokes his length in a certain rhythm, his imagination doing it's wonders.

But even as he stands there, trying to steady himself at least, there’s a realization settling in under everything else.

It’s not just that you’re in his head.

It’s that the version of you his mind keeps reaching for… always seems to end up with him closer than he’s willing to admit.

And that’s the part he doesn’t know how to shut off.

──── ⋆.⋆˚꩜｡ ˚ ──── ──── ⋆.⋆˚꩜｡ ˚ ────

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

sending lots of love to those who've supported this series so far. busy days are ahead so apologies in advance if i go inactive for a bit <33

The first time Reiner shows up looking for you, it’s late in the afternoon after a training session. He’s taken the time to wash himself first and change into something a bit more presentable. You can smell the lingering masculine aroma of his heated skin beneath the clean scent of soap.

It’s not a surprise that he’s at your door. The elders have been arranging a series of planned outings for the two of you to be seen together in public. But when he suggests a quiet stroll through the gardens before dinner, you hadn’t expected something so impromptu.

The resulting walk starts out unbearably awkward. Neither of you can seem to think of the right thing to say. A chaperone trails you several paces behind, boots crunching in the gravel as you trade inconsequential details about each other that feel embarrassingly shallow.

“Uh, you—,” Reiner begins, rubbing the back of his neck. “You seem to like, uhm… flowers?”

He winces internally. Was that really the best he could come up with? You feel a smile tug at the corner of your mouth.

“Yes, Reiner,” you say. “I do like flowers. Like most people, I suppose.”

“I just thought—,” he gestures vaguely to the neat rows of flower beds lining the path. “You were looking at the roses during the ceremony.”

“Ah, yes,” you say with a nod. “They’re nice. I prefer the winter blooms, though. Delphinium, crocus, those kinds of flowers.”

Reiner nods dumbly before he remembers he should probably just be honest. “I don’t really know that much about flowers.”

You let out a soft laugh that sounds so unlike anything he’s ever heard from you. Reiner almost stops in his tracks, warmth spreading in his chest.

“I gathered as much,” you say, giving him a sidelong glance. “Not exactly required learning for an Inheritor, is it?”

“Not really,” he mutters. “More familiar with mud than gardens, I guess.”

You tilt your head musingly. “Mud has its uses, too. If you know what to do with it.”

Reiner blinks, at a loss. “Like… for patching roofs?” he offers lamely.

This time, you laugh outright, finding his attempts surprisingly endearing. Reiner’s heart thumps in his chest.

“I was thinking more along the lines of sculpting or pottery,” you explain. “But yes, I suppose roofing works, too.”

He chuckles, feeling a bit more at ease now that he’s managed to amuse you, even if it’s at his own expense. The garden is bathed in the warm light of the setting sun, the air carrying the faint scent of freshly-turned earth. Reiner steals a glance at you, trying to work up the nerve to ask something more meaningful.

“So, uh, do you actually like any of these outings they’ve been planning?” he asks, surprising even himself with the question.

You’ve shown up together to formal family dinners, attended performances on the grounds of the estate. All orchestrated appearances, courtesy of the clan elders for the sake of public interaction. They’re not exactly the kind of outings that facilitate any informal discussions between you.

“To be honest, I find them a bit stifling,” you admit, lowering your voice slightly. “But it’s necessary, isn’t it? For appearances.”

Reiner nods slowly. “Yeah. I guess so. Necessary,” he echoes.

You stop and turn to face him. “And you? Do you like it?”

He’s caught off guard by the hint of a challenge in your tone. “I—I don’t mind it,” he says after a moment. Then, after seeing the skepticism in your expression, he adds, “I mean, it’s a lot better than sparring with Porco.”

Your lips pull into a smile that you’re trying and failing to temper. You huff out a small laugh through your nose. “I imagine sparring with Porco is less confusing.”

“Honestly? I’m not sure about that,” Reiner says, pleased that he seems to have broached past the cold distance between you.

Subsequent meetings manage to transpire more smoothly than the first. You’re continually bemused by the choice of activities Reiner manages to come up with for the two of you to share. He invites you out for a horseback ride through the estate grounds the second time. The fresh air is enjoyable, and the ride acts as a good butter during the natural lulls in their conversation.

You’re particularly impressed when he chooses to ask if he can join you for archery practice once. When Reiner shows up at the range, clad in a simple yet crisply fitted uniform, you don’t know quite what to expect. He’s all broad shoulders and stern focus, which you assume will make him stubbornly competitive when it comes to a skill that doesn’t involve brute strength.

You’ve seen it before—the way soldiers bristle when they realize your aim is more precise than theirs. It’s practically a sport in itself for you to watch their pride wither under your calm instructions. But Reiner surprises you.

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” you ask as he sets his uniform tunic aside and rolls up his sleeves. “It’s not exactly like throwing a punch.”

He grins, though you notice the telltale signs that he’s nervous. The way his eyes flit a little and his feet can’t stay still. “I might as well give it a shot. I’m already here, aren’t I?”

“Alright,” you say, handing him a bow. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

As expected, his first few shots go wide, the arrows thunking into the grass beyond the target. Reiner huffs in frustration but doesn’t stomp away or throw down the bow like you half-expected. Instead, he turns to you with a sheepish grin.

“Guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”

You give him a flat look. “Archery requires strength, but you also need patience. A steady hand.” You pause, noticing the way he seems to be shifting his weight uncomfortably under your scrutiny. “A clear mind.”

Reiner furrows his brow. “Clear mind, huh? I’ll try,” he murmurs, attempting to adjust his stance.

“Here,” you say, stepping up behind him. You’re used to this, to guiding people and correcting their posture. But with Reiner, there’s a strange tension, a coiling in your stomach as you come to stand behind his burly frame.

He’s stripped down to just his plain white undershirt. The fabric of it is thin enough to display the flexing of his swollen muscles beneath, and the hem clings to the band of his trousers where it’s been carefully tucked in at his comparatively narrow waist. You tell yourself to remember to breathe.

“Your feet are too close together. Widen your stance a little.”

He does as instructed, shifting his heavy boots a bit further apart and drawing your eyes to the backs of his thick, robust thighs. Your throat runs dry as you place your hands lightly on his shoulders.

“Relax,” you say, though perhaps you’re telling yourself as much as him. “You’re too tense. The bow isn’t going to bite you.”

Reiner chuckles at that, and you can practically feel the low, nervous sound vibrating through his chest. “Easier said than done.”

You peer up at the sliver of his strong profile visible to you. Maybe you’ve never noticed before, but the line of his jaw could cut glass. There’s a whisper of rosiness at the tops of his cheeks. Are you making him bashful? The prospect lights a spark at the base of your belly.

“It’s all about control,” you say, leaning in closer to adjust the angle of his elbow and wrist. You notice the way his breath catches at your contact with his warmth.

He nods like he’s absorbing your words, and perhaps he really is trying to be serious about this, not just pretending. You step back to ease his nerves, in case your closeness is actually affecting his focus. Reiner draws the bowstring again, this time a little slower and more deliberately. When he releases, the arrow flies true, striking just outside the center of the target.

“Better,” you say with a genuine smile. “You’re a quick learner.”

“You’re a good teacher,” he says, turning to look at you almost reverently. “I didn’t think—I thought this was just something you did for… I don’t know, appearances. But you’re really good at this.”

At first, he thinks he’s messed up. Your brows lift like you’re taken aback. Reiner swiftly opens his mouth to emphasize his sincerity.

“I’m just good at it because I practiced,” you reply softly. “I wasn’t born with perfect aim.”

“Right,” he says. “I get that. I mean, I wasn’t born strong either. It was a lot of work. Messing up, getting up, trying again.”

You understand that more than you can put into words. You’ve both put in a lot of work, poured long hours into becoming who you are today. You’ve recognized for a while now that Reiner’s more than just a muscle-bound dolt, ready to nod his head and obey every order his commanding officers bark at him. But now, you’re starting to wonder if maybe you’re a lot more alike than you initially believed.

The sun is beginning to set, casting a golden light over the estate and painting Reiner’s blond hair and peachy skin in a warm wash. You find yourself almost regretting the arrival of the chaperone, who clears her throat and reminds you that dinner will be served soon. Reiner thanks you for teaching him before he heads back toward the wards’ wing of the estate, leaving you alone and feeling a bit astonished.

The following meeting is one you initiate yourself, a week before the engagement ceremony is set to take place. Reiner’s been nervous plenty of times in his life, but he’s never understood when people said they got butterflies in their stomach. Until, that is, he opens the small, neatly folded message delivered to him from the main estate.

Inside, the note is simple and to the point, written in a precise hand. Join me for tea tomorrow afternoon, east courtyard. There’s no flower preamble, no explanation, just your name signed at the bottom. Reiner rereads it over a few times, much to his own embarrassment, before folding the note and carefully rucking it away.

He makes his way through the grounds the next afternoon, winding through cobblestone paths lined with manicured hedges. The air smells faintly of woodsmoke and damp fallen leaves. As he approaches the east courtyard, he finds it quieter than the bustling parts of the estate he’s grown accustomed to.

Here, the trees are just beginning to turn a soft mix of yellow and orange. The courtyard itself is sheltered with ivy-covered walls and a trickling fountain at the center. You’re already waiting there, seated at a laughably small table near the fountain. You’re dressed more simply than usual when you’re not in your training attire, your hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders instead of pinned up elaborately.

The sight makes you seem more approachable than he’s perhaps ever seen you, even back when you were children. Reiner pauses a moment, feeling like his heart is about to beat out of his chest. He has to collect himself before he strides forward.

“You came,” you say, looking up. He can’t read your expression, but you sound mildly pleased.

“Of course,” he replies. “Thanks for the invitation.”

You nod, gesturing for him to take the seat across from you. The table is already set with delicate porcelain cups and a pot of fragrant tea. You pour for both of you, your movements fluid and practiced. Reiner catches himself staring at your fingers for a second too long, wondering if he can come up with an excuse for you to touch him with them again.

You both take your first sip in silence, listening to the distant sound of birds and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. The peacefulness of the courtyard feels tinged with the ever-present tension of the upcoming ceremony. You set your cup down with a sigh.

“I imagine your schedule’s been quite demanding with preparations for the ceremony on top of all your usual duties,” you say, as if you’ve read his mind.

“It has been,” Reiner admits. Though, the truth is, he’s grateful for the distraction. Busywork keeps his mind off the growing anxiety he feels about the future. His future with you. “I expect it’s been just as hectic for you.”

“You have no idea,” you say. “The elders have endless opinions on every detail. I think I’ve been asked about the floral arrangements at least three times today alone.”

Reiner shakes his head with a chuckle. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” you agree, absently tracing the handle of your teacup. Your eyes flick up to him with a more serious expression. “Reiner, I don’t think there’s any point in playing coy.”

He stiffens and frowns, your meaning lost on him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it might as well be official now. After the ceremony next week, everything will be set in stone,” you say bluntly. “We’ll be married.”

You speak steadily despite the swirling unease inside you. But this was what you had invited him here to discuss. Dancing around the inevitability feels ridiculous. You’re both adults, after all. You ought to be able to talk about it.

“O-oh. Yeah, that—I guess so,” Reiner stammers, still unsure of what you’re getting at. “Don’t worry. I know you’ve been preparing for this far longer than I have, but I’m ready. Or at least, I’m ready to do what I need to do, you know?”

A flicker of surprise runs through you. You stare at him for a second. Then, you let out a short, quiet giggle. He looks utterly nonplussed by your reaction. All he means to say is that he’s ready to protect you, to protect this clan.

“That’s nice, Reiner,” you say. “So, can I take that to mean you’re experienced?”

“Experienced?” he repeats obtusely, studying you. Then, he jolts, eyes wide and face exploding with heat.

“With women,” you clarify plainly.

“I—I get it,” he says, flapping his hands in front of him.

But you don’t stop yet because, frankly, his scandalized reaction is too delightfully amusing. “Should I assume that you aren’t, then?”

Reiner flounders hard. He doesn’t know why his tongue feels so twisted up. The answer is really quite simple. He’s had about as much experience as can be expected of a ward of an elite clan. A soldier shouldering the expectations of his family—with the little time, energy, and privacy that afforded him.

“I’ve had enough,” he manages, though he wonders what exactly is the right answer here. If there even is one, or if the question posed by you was a trap from the beginning.

Your fingers tap out a light rhythm on your lap as you consider his words. Likely, Reiner has been largely too blinded by his singular goal over the years for any substantial relationships. If he’s familiar with any of the steps to this particular dance, you figure he’s got nothing more than a few hurried encounters in shadowed corridors or pitch-black tents.

Which is a shame because you think he’d be rather popular if he only had the time for such pursuits. Decorated soldier, rugged good looks, dreamy eyes.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you decide, crossing one leg over the other.

Reiner glances away, still tinged pink. He’s struggling to come up with how exactly to handle the strange turn your conversation has taken before it veers into dangerous territory. Before his head fills with thoughts that’ll make it hard for him to look you in the eye again.

Something slides against his calf, and he realizes it’s your foot. Reiner startles, and his knee accidentally bumps into the underside of the table. The resulting clatter of the porcelain ware seems to echo off the walls louder than it should have. His gaze darts around wildly in the desperate hope that there aren’t any nosy chaperones spying on them from the hedges.

When he looks back, you smile at him coyly from across the small table, and he feels extremely lame. You must think him pathetic, unable to keep his composure or show due restraint around a noble member of the clan he serves.

“Just not your type, huh?” you say, your smile fading just slightly. Your foot drops away from his leg. “I could have sworn—well, nevermind. It’s alright.”

Reiner feels his jaw drop. Shit. He’s really messed up now.

“No! That’s not it,” he says hastily, rising up and leaning over the table a little in his insistence. “You—you’re beautiful. I’m just…”

He trails off, opening and closing his mouth once. He’s just what? Technically, he’s a Ritter now, even if he still has to remind himself every morning. You stare up at him expectantly.

Reiner takes a deep breath and tries again. “There are rules. Propriety—,”

You’re not so much thinking as you are acting on impulse when you surge up to cut him off. Reiner’s lips just looked so plush and inviting that before you knew it, you were on your feet and capturing his mouth with yours over the table between you. Teacups and spoons clink against their saucers again as you press your lips to his.

Reiner inhales sharply the moment you connect, eyes wide—but he doesn’t pull away. Maybe, he’s too stunned to move, frozen in place by his shock or the softness of your lips. For a long moment, you don’t move either. You just stay there, applying steady pressure, your eyes lightly closed.

When you do move, it’s to take his bottom lip between yours. Reiner chokes back a groan, every nerve ending alight. Even though only your mouths are touching, he’s surprisingly sensitive, shivering at every catch of your supple skin and the hot, wet flick of your tongue tip. He fists his hands at his sides, worried that if he reaches for you, you might slip through his fingers like water.

You take the initiative he doesn’t, delving a hand into the shorter hair at the back of his head. Reiner realizes only when you urge him a little closer that he’s just been standing there stiffly. Not wanting you to think him deficient, he finally tilts his head and kisses you back, plucking at your mouth with his lips.

The table edge bites into the fronts of his thighs, but he no longer pays any mind to the rattling and tinkling of the tea set as he drifts the fingertips of one hand to gently rest at your jaw. You take his reciprocation as encouragement and lick your way into his mouth. A shudder racks Reiner’s frame at the sting of your fingers tightening in his hair.

He’s overcome with the sense that you’re not close enough. He needs to gather you into him, feel your warmth pressed against home without the obstruction of the table. But just as quickly as your lips were on him, you pull away.

Your hair remains in his hair, and his fingers are still on your face as you remain there for a few seconds just looking at each other. You take in his parted lips, flushed and a little puffy as he catches his breath, and the heaviness of his lids over darkened hazel eyes. So, you haven’t misread things, but instead of satisfaction, you feel the overwhelming urge to squeeze your legs together at the tight coil of desire forming there.

Reiner’s voice comes out as a low rumble as he murmurs your name. “What do you want?”

“Honestly?” you breathe, a wave of boldness swelling inside you. “I want to take you to bed.”

His throat bobs, swallowing his lust. “We shouldn’t.”

You pout, releasing your hold of his hair to drag your fingers over his firm shoulder. “Why not? We’re engaged.”

“Not yet,” Reiner points out, covering your hand with his large palm and carefully prying it off. Gently, he lowers it to your side and straightens, gritting his teeth at the slight ache in his lower back. “We’re not engaged yet.”

Your pout shifts into a frown as you regain your proud posture, haughty mask slipping back into place. It isn’t a snub, not really. But it feels like one. You smooth down the front of your blouse and clasp your hands together primly.

“Very well. After we’re engaged, then,” you say.

The words sit for a brief while before they sink in, and Reiner’s pulse quickens.

“That’s not what I—,” he snaps his mouth shut as you lift your eyebrow. To say he doesn’t want you would be a lie. He chews the inside of his lip and nods. “After we’re engaged.”

Your frown melts into a teasing smirk that makes Reiner squirm. “You’re far too easy to fluster. I’ll have to remember that.”

He rubs the back of his neck, willing the heat in his face to subside. “I’m not usually…”

There’s no point in trying to defend himself, so he just trails off instead. You’ve already seen through him entirely, and you’re clearly enjoying it. Before Reiner can attempt a change in subject, the sound of deliberate footsteps crunching on gravel catches your attention.

“I believe it’s time to wrap up,” says a firm voice.

Reiner sighs, turning to face the newcomer—one of your chaperones, an older unmarried aunt with a perpetual air of disapproval. He’d been wondering when one would rear their head.

“There are still preparations to attend to,” she says, eyes narrowing at Reiner.

You’re already a perfect picture of ladylike composure beside him, stepping away from the table. Not a hint of mischief betrays you as you address the chaperone.

“Of course,” you reply smoothly before offering Reiner a small smile. It could almost be read as innocent if not for the glimmer of amusement in your eyes. “Thank you for joining me, Reiner.”

Then, you step past him, leaving him to stew in discomfort with the chaperone. Reiner watches you leave, his mind spinning and his lips tingling faintly. The chaperone looks at him exasperatedly, her lips thinning.

“Lord Reiner,” she says priggishly. “I trust you’ll maintain propriety moving forward.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, not daring to look her in the eye.

Now here he was. Watching. Eyes following you as you walked into the ED beside Shen, both of you carrying trays piled high with various hot and iced drinks. He can’t imagine how much even one of those things cost. 

Within moments most of the drinks are gone, taken by Ellis and Lena and whoever else had placed their order with the two of you the night before. Jack, for just a moment, regrets not having done so. Not that he even likes the sugary sweet monstrosities you always chug your way through before midnight, always somehow armed with another one to get you through your second half of the night. 

He’d pretend though. Especially if it meant you’d stop and smile at him and maybe even talk to him for just a couple seconds about something not medicine related before diving into the mayhem. 

“Hey!” Your voice isn’t a hallucination, Jack determines when he sees you walking up to him with a smile. 

He tries not to look too surprised. Or flustered. Or excited. “Hi.”

Nailed it.

“I brought you something.”

Jack thinks he might melt into the floor. 

You hold out a drink, one clearly meant for him. It’s green on top and pink on bottom with strawberry slices floating above the ice. 

“You didn’t have to.” He takes it from you and relishes in the brief moment that his hand touches yours. You need to calm down, he thinks to himself. 

“I know, I wanted to. It’s on me.” You say it so easily and Jack thinks now might be a good time to excuse himself and go jump off the roof because he can feel his whole body warming in a way it shouldn’t be at the sentiment. 

You’d thought of him. Part of him wonders how long you’d been doing that for and if it was for as long as he’d been thinking of you. Day and night. Hour after hour. In ways he definitely shouldn’t be.

“I just figured you could use a little caffeine that wasn’t the stale black coffee in the break room for once,” You shrug like it’s nothing but it means everything to him. “As a certified drink specialist I thought you might like this one. Shen said I was crazy for picking it but I spent every minute I was awake looking through the cafe's menu debating and I think I finally narrowed down something to live up to your incredibly high standards.”

Jack had stopped listening as soon as you looked up at him. Wide eyed and a little nervous but with that sweet smile he was maybe just a little bit obsessed with already. “What is it?” 

Frankly, he didn’t really care. He’d love it no matter what because you’d been the one to hand it to him. You’d put effort into finding something you thought he’d like and that was more than enough for him.

“An iced strawberry oat milk matcha. It’s not too sweet but definitely a step up from a black coffee. I,” You stop yourself for a second, hesitating a little. One look from him though, one that practically begged you to continue, and you kept going. “I see the face you make when you drink it even when it’s fresh so I thought we’d switch it up a little.”

You’d noticed him. He was one more observation away from imploding. He swirled the drink around to distract himself from the fact and then took a huge gulp. 

“Holy shit,” His eyes went wide as he took a second to savor the drink. It was good. Really good. He had no clue how you’d figured him out so perfectly. Part of him was hopeful enough to think that you just knew him. Saw him. He took another sip. 

“You like it?” You were beaming at him now, satisfied and proud of yourself. 

He couldn’t be more obsessed with you if he tried. He was tempted to propose marriage right then and there. Instead all he said was, “This is phenomenal.” 

Jack couldn’t help himself. He looked directly at you and hoped that maybe these abilities of yours to read him perfectly well extended past the drinks and you’d be able to look into his head to see what he really wanted to say. You’re phenomenal. I like you. Probably more than is healthy. Never leave me, actually.

“Oh you’re kidding,” Jack had almost forgotten where he was until Shen walked over, handing you a half drunk iced coffee along with a fresh one for later, just like usual. “He liked it?” 

“Just like I said,” You held up your hand for a high five, which Shen gave you despite dropping his head and groaning. “Which means you’re buying for me tomorrow.”

Jack rolled his eyes at the sight of the two of you. His smile pushed through the serious facade he was trying to put on. Nothing could ruin his mood right now he was positive of it.

“Is it that surprising?” Jack held his drink a little tighter and held back the urge to take another sip of it. He was seriously already starting to understand your guys' shared obsession with always having some kind of drink on you.

“No, it’s just,” Shen paused for a moment and it hit him all at once. Abbot was in a good mood. And all it’d taken was a personal delivery straight from you. He was wearing a smile, a genuine one. Best of all, his eyes kept straying back to you. Like you were some kind of magnet pulling him in against his will. Oh yeah, he’s obsessed. “I’m glad you found something you like.”

Jack heard it. The tone. His eyes snapped back to Shen and narrowed the slightest bit. All he did in response was wink at him and take a sip of his first coffee of the night. 

He could see right through him.

2. The Confession

It had been three days of this and every time Jack saw you he felt the question at the tip of his tongue. And every time something else came out instead. So here he was. Two weeks into your time here and he was obsessed with you. That much he could admit. 

If he wasn’t he wouldn’t be lingering by the nurses desk, pretending to look at a stack of papers he was pretty sure were blank. Every few seconds he glances up to where you were deep in a conversation with Ellis and Walsh. The three of you had gotten yourself partnered on the same case and were taking advantage of the fact that your patient was doing perfectly after surgery to actually talk about something normal while you could since you found yourselves with a little downtime.

“You don’t have to hover, you know.”

Jack freezes. 

He thinks he might’ve actually stopped breathing. He knows exactly what Lena’s talking about though and he’s determined to lie his way through it.

“What?”

Okay, maybe not the best start. He doesn’t look up from where he’s pretending to flip through whatever papers were in front of him. Definitely not eavesdropping. 

“Oh, please,” Lena rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair. “She’s not gonna disappear into thin air. You can get work done and I promise she’ll be there after.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Jack betrays himself when he glances back over in your direction. He smiles to himself when he sees you laugh, a beaming grin on your face. When he looks back towards Lena she’s already staring at him with her arms crossed.

“I think you just might be the world's worst liar,” Lena leans forward conspiratorially. Her voice drops when she asks, “So when are you gonna ask her on a date instead of moping around?”

Jack freezes again, “What are you talking about?”

“Seriously?” She lets out a disbelieving laugh at his bad attempt at faking innocence. “You’re worse than a kid with their first crush, it’s a miracle she hasn’t noticed yet.”

Okay so maybe she had a point, Jack could admit that much. He remembers the first time he’d seen you here clearly. He’d felt some kind of pull towards you the moment you entered the PTMC just over a year ago. It’d been easy to ignore then, though. You’d just graduated and had been doing an emergency medicine residency program under Dana during the day shift and it was only every now and then he’d be there at the same time too. Yet every time he did happen to work with you, even for a fleeting moment, it was like the entire place shifted a little bit.

Dana had even stopped him one time, so casually that he hadn’t even questioned why she was calling him. “You better watch yourself, Abbot. That’s my girl, best one to come through here in ages. Last thing she needs is you distracting her.”

He’d scoffed at the statement at the time, claiming that it wasn’t like that. It had been exactly like that, though. He knew that now. You’d been easy to avoid when you were on day shift but now you were here all the time and he couldn’t imagine not finding every reason he could to stick to your side. 

“She’s not one of yours, you know. She’s one of mine,” Lena’s voice brings him out of it. There’s an I told you so look on her face that he rolls his eyes at. “I’m just saying, the paperwork will be a lot easier to fill out.”

“Aren’t you a romantic,” He knows he can trust Lena, though. If it was really a bad idea she’d tell him so with zero hesitation. So finally, hesitantly, he says, “I’ll think about it.”

***

Jack barely needed time to think about it. He had made his choice quickly and it was eating him up inside. It was just past 7 AM and he could hear the day shift and night shift looking for you both. His time with you was running out and fast. It was just the two of you alone in the room, your patient had just miraculously gotten a bed upstairs and you’d been there to ensure a smooth transition. Maybe that was his sign that you’d say yes. 

He stops you before you can pull the curtain open to let them know the room was now open. He reaches for your hand, grabs your waist, and spins you around to look at him in a single swift move. “When can I see you again?” 

The question doesn’t phase you.

“In about twelve hours.” You answer him with a teasing smile, choosing to stay just a little bit too close to him instead of stepping back. 

“You know what I mean, honey.”

And then you look at him in a way that’s new. Your smile turns less teasing and falls a bit. It makes you look a little more vulnerable. He watches your eyes flicker across his face and he knows you’re trying to see what he’s really made of. If he really means it. He wants to shout the truth to you in that moment. That he can’t get enough of you.

“Say it,” Your voice comes out soft and he wonders briefly if you can read his mind. You step a little bit closer to him. “Tell me what you really want from me.”

Jack is painfully aware of the voices and footsteps coming closer. They’ll walk in any moment now, he knows it. He glances towards the door and when he looks back he can see you about to step away, thinking he wasn’t going to tell you the truth. He blurts it out before you can. 

“Everything.” He says it so easily that it makes your breath hitch a little bit, he can see it happen. “I want to take you on a real date again and then take you home with me because you will not believe how hard it is to sleep without you next to me. When I wake up I want to just lay there looking at you for a little bit wondering how the hell you agreed to all of that. And then I want to do that over and over again until you get sick of me.”

You don’t say anything after his confession. A few seconds pass where you just let the words sink in and then, “Only if your plan includes taking me to that cute little cafe down the street too.” 

“Whenever you want.” Jack’s never agreed to anything so fast in his life.

“Right answer,” You finally will yourself to step away and swing the curtain open. Before you walk away you look at him again and the teasing smile is back. “I’ll meet you outside in a bit?” 

He walks towards you again and he’s really pushing it when he stands so close you can feel the heat of him. “Odds we can sneak out of here before they can stop us?” 

“Abbot!” Dana's voice.

You laugh at the way he groans as his head falls onto your shoulder briefly. “Not likely.”

3. The Kiss

It’d only taken a month for everything the night shift knew about Jack to change. It had also been a month since you’d joined them. The two things had to be related. They just couldn’t prove it yet. 

“Hey,” Ellis whispered as she practically ran to where Shen and Lena were deep in a conversation. There was an uneasy look in her eyes as she looked around, as if she was expecting someone to overhear what she was about to say. “Is he being weird?” 

They look towards where she had subtly nodded and found Jack. He was in an exam room laughing with a patient as he finished stitching him up. Laughing. 

Night shift chief attending Dr. Jack Abbot was in a good mood. For the first time maybe ever, as far as they knew. At least publicly in a good mood. He was never like this at work, always opting for serious and stoic with his patients because he needed to be at a job like this. 

But this was his third patient in a row now that he made easy conversation with. It was a lot more than pleasantries and small talk, it was real conversations. Questions about themselves and their lives and jokes traded back and forth. It was unsettling, frankly. 

“Thank you! I told you something was up with him,” Shen slams a hand down on the counter before looking at Lena and leaning forward the same way Ellis was, mocking concern. “ Have we tested him for any substance use lately?” 

“Alright drama queens,” Lena rolls her eyes at them and leans back in her chair. “Why can’t he just be having a good night?” 

Ellis shakes her head at that, nose scrunching as she disagrees, “No, I think he might actually be physically incapable of that.” 

“Well what do you think it is then?” 

“I think he got laid,” She says it confidently and with zero hesitation at all. Shen chokes on his drink and Lena’s eyes go wide as saucers. “What? He’s all glowy and shit, there is literally no other explanation?”

“Explanation for what?” Your voice comes out of nowhere and Ellis and Shen nearly jump out of their skin. 

“For,” Ellis recovers faster and quickly glances at Lena and Shen, neither of which provide any help. “For why Shen’s guy in south 18 is really concussed.”

“Oh he’s having an affair with his neighbor for sure,” You set your tablet down and swipe your badge along the card reader at one of the computers. “This guy shows up with his pants backwards, shirt inside out, and his left shoe missing and he expects us to believe he just tripped while on a late night walk?”

It’s at that moment that Shen notices it. There’s no iced coffee in your usual place. It’s always right there, tucked in the corner of the desk Lena sits behind. You always reach for it every time you’re nearby, it’s how you make your way through it faster than almost anyone else. He watches carefully as you reach in that exact direction subconsciously before pulling your hand back. Empty.

“Where’s your drink?” He blurts the question out suddenly and you glance up at him.

“What?”

“Your drink,” He glances at Ellis and Lena and they can see the real question in his eyes. “You always leave it right there. It’s barely nine, there’s no way you’ve had enough downtime to finish it already.”

“Oh,” You go back to the computer screen and shrug. “I just woke up late, didn’t have time to stop.”

“Right,” Shen’s eyes narrow at you but he doesn’t say anything else. That’s when he notices Jack leave his patient's room and walk in the direction of the break room. “Hey, my second one is in the fridge if you want it?”

You sit up instantly and immediately a little bit of life fills you again. So maybe you both had a little bit of an addiction. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it.” And that’s all he has to say before you’re making a beeline to the break room, steps faltering just the slightest bit when you see Jack disappear through the door. Then you glance back at them, smile, and disappear in the same direction.

“Hang on,” Ellis immediately leans forward again. “You don’t think -”

“No,” Shen shakes his head immediately. “It's a coincidence. There’s no way.”

“And what makes you so sure?” Lena, admittedly, is invested now. 

“Uh, because Sweets is my best friend in the whole wide world and would have told me obviously,” He rolls his eyes like it's obvious. “Plus there’s no way Abbot would admit how deep he is in his feelings already. He’s due for at least another couple weeks of yearning from afar.”

“I don’t know, he might’ve,” Lena shrugs as she recalls all the little things she’s witnessed the last few weeks. “This is intense, even for him.”

“Besides, look who we’re talking about,” Ellis points out the fact that they all know is right. You were sunshine personified. The piece they didn’t even realise the night shift was missing. And it was just like Jack Abbot to want you all to himself. “He’d be crazy if he didn’t.”

“Wait,” Lena pieces it together first. The missing coffee. The good moods. The hesitation before your smile, the one that was just a little bit different than usual. Softer. “Didn’t they walk in together today?”

There’s a moment of silence as they all realize the same thing at the same time.

“First one to find out pays for the others drinks for the next two weeks?”

“Deal.”

“You’re on.”

***

“You’re insane.” 

Jack only grins at you as he locks the door of the supply closet behind him. He wastes no time at all and immediately wraps you up in his arms, skipping all formalities and letting his mouth fall to your neck. “I thought that’s why you liked me” 

He knows now how easy you are to distract. One glance at you and how your eyes have fluttered shut already confirms that. You let out a content little sigh as you pull him closer to you, “Among other reasons.”

The noise that fills the pitt disappears and suddenly all you know is Jack. His hands wandering underneath your shirt. His mouth on every bit of skin he can reach. The way he cages you in between his body and the shelf behind you and holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Jack seriously,” It takes every bit of your self control to pull yourself back and attempt to look at him for real. “We can’t do this here.”

“We're alone, honey. No one has to know,” He doesn’t even look at you, eyes trained on your lips instead. He slips your scrub top over your head leaving you in just the thin, see-through, white undershirt. You're both quickly losing all sense of rationality. 

“Someone’s gonna come looking for us”

“I'm their boss, I'll make them go away,” One of his hands tangles in your hair this time and he pulls your head back so he can look into your eyes. Blown out pupils, breaths falling heavy, lips swollen from how you’d been biting them in an effort to keep quiet. He groans a little bit at the sight. “Just this once, baby, I swear,” He kisses you. Really kisses you. Long and slow and deep. Enough to make your thoughts go blurry and your knees weak. He pulls away the slightest bit and smirks when you chase the feeling of him. “Promise.”

“You know, somehow I don’t believe you.” He laughs then, pretending he doesn’t notice you start to push his own shirt up little by little. Your hands are cold on the warm, bare skin of his chest and he shivers a little bit, smiling even wider. He's addicted to you, he thinks.

“Can you blame me?” Another kiss, this time picking up where he left off before. “You’re perfect.”

Someone pulls on the door seconds later, just as his hands start wandering lower. 

“Why is this door locked!” 

You slip your scrub shirt back on in record time and Jack pushes you behind him when he goes to open the door as Ellis starts pounding on it. “I swear to god I -”

She doesn’t see you when he opens it. Not at first. 

“Can I help you?” Jack asks the question like nothing is wrong in the slightest. 

Ellis looks around for a second, trying to determine if anyone else was seeing this or if she had finally entered a state of hallucination. “I just need -”

That’s when she sees you. Tucked behind Jack, clothes a little crooked on your body and a little more disheveled than before. You’re smiling at her, only the slightest bit shy but mostly looking a little pleased. “I - hi?” 

She doesn’t know what else to say to you. 

“Hi,” You smile at her and step around Jack. “What did you need to grab?”

“I just - I just need a suture kit.”

You grab one off the shelf next to you and step around Jack, stopping for just a second to shoot him a smile. She watches him return the smile, absolutely noticing the way he reaches for you. His fingers barely skim against you when you step just a little too close to him, like even that feather light touch will get him through the rest of the night. You turn back towards her like nothing happened. “Do you want any help?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Ellis tries not to stare when Jack grabs your hand for real, pulling you back and kissing you again, modestly this time. On your forehead as he whispers something to you that she can’t hear. 

It’s not until you’ve walked further away from the storage closet that she leans a little closer to you. “Hey, are you two…you know?” 

You laugh a little bit at the question. “Dating? I thought it was kinda obvious after that.” 

“I didn’t want to assume.” Ellis laughs along with you and shakes her head, leading you in the direction of one of the rooms. Then she notices Shen and Lena out of the corner of her eye again and stops. “Hey, can you get started? I need to check with Lena about some lab results real quick.” 

“Yeah, go for it! Take your time.”

Ellis watches you pull the curtain of the room closed. Then she waits until Jack has disappeared into another room on the other side of the ED, the most smug looking grin on his face, before she practically runs to the nurses desk. “They’re dating, I told you so.” 

“What?” 

“And we’re just supposed to believe you? How do you know?” 

“I asked,” She pauses for a moment before leaning closer. “And I found them both in the supply closet with the door locked, you connect the dots.” 

Shen’s face scrunches in disgust. “Ew.” 

Lena on the other hand only lets out a sigh. “We’re gonna have to keep an eye on them aren't we?” 

“Probably.” Ellis looks incredibly pleased as she starts walking back to the room you’d gone into. “I’ll send you guys my drink order before next shift.”

4. The Reveal

The day shift doesn’t usually notice when the night shift starts to trickle in. You remember it clearly, the way it feels like every single person with every single ailment known to mankind seems to congregate in the pitt all at once right before it’s time for shift change. That’s something you don’t miss. By the time you guys come in it feels settled. Or maybe you all just like to think so. 

Either way, they definitely don’t notice when you and Jack walk in together, your bag slung over his shoulder. They’re too distracted by the drinks Shen and Lena walked in with, relegated to delivery service after losing some bet to Ellis. 

All the noise is forgotten quickly. This, the rare quiet moment in the staff locker room where it feels like the whole world comes to a stand still, is Jack’s time to breathe. He watches you throw all your things into his locker, somehow getting to the point of sharing custody of one now in the last couple of weeks. 

He knows you’re saying something. He can hear the sound of your voice but you’re also tying your hair up so it’s out of your way for the night and he loses all ability to think straight. Some kind of pavlovian response overtakes him and this feeling fills him up inside and suddenly he can’t help himself. 

He stands up and it's like his hands move on their own without him meaning for them to. They set themselves firmly on your hips and pull them back, completely flush against him. He bunches the scrub top up and settles his hands underneath the long sleeve shirt you’re wearing under it. Your skin is warm under them and the little noise he lets out is perfectly content. 

“Can I help you?” He can hear the smile you’re wearing when you ask the question and he can picture it perfectly. 

“No,” Jack shakes his head a little and kisses your cheek. It lingers for a second before he starts moving down the expanse of your neck. “I’m fine. What were you saying?” 

“You're so needy, you know that?” 

“Are you complaining?” He doesn’t get a response from you. Instead your arms settle over his and you relax into his hold. He smirks. “That’s what I thought.” 

You don’t get very long to escape into the moment. 

“There you are. Robby’s looking for - woah,” The exhausted look on Santos' face turns into a shit-eating grin in a fraction of a second. “What’s going on here?”

Jack frowns when you wiggle out of his hold to turn to look at her. 

“Hey,” You smile at her like she hadn’t just seen what she clearly just did. She shares a look with both Javadi and Whitaker who’d walked in with her. “How was your shift?”

“Uh, I'm sorry,” Javadi laughs in disbelief a little as she looks between the two of you. You, smiling brightly at her in the way she misses seeing so much on the day shift, and Jack, who looks like he’s never hated three people more. She’s pretty sure he’s committing their murders in his head. “What is this? When did this happen?”

Jack all of a sudden feels protective in that moment. Over your relationship that very much fuels his will to live and over you. Part of him is surprised you hadn’t told them yet. The first friends you’d made here, probably some of your closest, clearly had no idea about you and him. Then he remembers your opposite schedules and the constant cycle of work and being completely enveloped by the so-called honeymoon phase of your relationship he thinks might actually never end.

“Wait, did I not tell you guys?” You’re trying your hardest to trace back every moment of the last few weeks. Jack takes it upon himself to hand you your drink and grab his before shutting his locker, taking a second to just listen. One of his arms wraps around your waist again.

“You did not, sweets,” Santos shakes her head and speaks slowly, trying to push through her absolute shock at this revelation. And trying very hard not to stare at the casual display of affection from Jack Abbot of all people.

Whitaker is the one who recalls the last real interaction you’d had with them fastest. Somehow he’s the least surprised. “You spent all of breakfast the other day telling us about that kid you patched up with Ellis. The one who slipped off the fire escape trying to sneak into his girlfriend's room."

“You told Mel, Samira, and Langdon," Jack says it in between sips of his matcha like it’s nothing. “When you had them over for dinner at yours your last night off. You sent me a picture of their reactions.”

“Right!” You try your hardest to hold in a laugh at the recollection. Samira had shouted into a pillow. Mel had asked a lot of questions, incredibly excitedly. Frank had decided he needed to take a walk to process and stood on your balcony for ten minutes. “I guess I forgot, everything kinda blurs together. They didn’t tell you?” 

“Sweets, I think you told the three least nosy people in the ED,” Santos makes a mental note to yell at all of them for keeping this from everyone else. “Of course they didn’t.”

Then your attention slips from Jack completely when Javadi prompts Whitaker to tell you about something that happened earlier. He stops listening completely, now perfectly distracted by the excited look in your eyes and the way you smile at them. And okay so maybe he’s a little bit clingy. 

Jack wraps himself around you from behind again, arms now fully circling your waist. He does not hesitate in the slightest to pull you flush against him again either. He does exercise a little bit of self control though. There’s no kiss this time. Instead he let out a soft sigh and let his head fall onto your shoulder, chin resting against it silently as you talk.

He doesn’t notice the way Javadi covers her mouth with one hand to hold back the comment she wants to make out loud. Instead she points at the sight as subtly as she can and mouths “oh my god!” you only grin at her. You roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed at Jack’s display, but you settle back into him anyway.

He also doesn’t notice the way Whitaker stares at him, eyes narrowed in his direction and head tipped to the side curiously, debating to himself whether or not Jack was actually in the room with them. Physically or mentally.

Santos, ever curious, is the one who finally cracks and breaks him out of his self induced trance. “Okay, I have to know. How did this even -”

“Hey!” Ellis cuts in before she can even ask the question all the way. She pops her head in the door, eyes skipping past everyone until they land on you and Jack. She doesn’t look phased by the sight in the slightest. She nods at you with a smile in greeting before looking at Jack. “If you don’t get out there in the next five seconds for hand-offs, Robby might just track down a guillotine and use it on you.”

“Alright, alright,” Jack rolls his eyes and takes his time standing up straight again. He lingers for as long as humanly possible. Another kiss, to your forehead this time, before he very begrudgingly lets you go one arm at a time. “I’ll see you out there.”

Jack keeps holding your hand as he walks out of the room, not letting a single second go to waste. He holds on until he takes a step too far and lets it fall out of his own. An absolutely devastating moment in his eyes. 

“Later, kids.” He just barely glances at Whitaker, Javadi, and Santos, saluting them with two fingers before taking another sip of his drink and walking out of the locker room with Ellis, who hands him a tablet.

The silence sinks in around you. In those few moments your friends realize that Abbot’s whole little display is evidently very much normal for the night shift. And then -  

“Since when does Abbot drink matcha?”

5. The Declaration

It was bordering on 2 AM when the trauma came in. A young girl, who’d just wanted some pancakes and coffee while pulling an all nighter studying for her upcoming SAT exam. She’d been hit by a drunk driver on her way home from the diner and was in rough shape.

The room was already tense. She’d coded in the ambulance and they’d only just managed to get her stable. Every single one of you held your breath as you all did everything in your power to try to save her. 

It was really with no hesitation that everyone else took a backseat to you and Jack moving easily around each other. The two of you were the girls best bet at surviving, a well oiled machine at this point. In every sense of the phrase. You could anticipate what he was about to do before he even said it. All he’d have to do is give you a look and you just knew, you’d hand him whatever he needed, or ask someone else if your hands were full, and you were right every single time. 

“Honestly I think the rest of us can go home,” Walsh, who’d been paged to consult and make sure the girl was stable enough for surgery, said from where she stood on the other side of the hospital bed from you and Jack. She was watching closely and honestly, was more than a little impressed. Especially when you pointed something out to Jack that he’d missed right before she could. “Our sweet little angel face over there has this whole place locked down.”

“Including Abbot,” Shen watches from beside Walsh, looking on curiously at the silent understanding between the two of you. “It’s like they have some freaky mind meld thing going on.”

“You think its contagious?” Walsh puts up her side of the bed railing, seeing that Jack was just about done. 

“Hopefully not,” Shen makes a face at the thought. “I'm more than happy letting her be the one to keep him too busy to yell at the rest of us.” 

Neither one of you notice their conversation in the slightest, too involved in each other even in a trauma room. It’s almost unsettling. The small little smiles and the bedroom eyes and whispered comments passed between the two of you. The way Jack pauses for just the briefest moment mid procedure to turn and send you a wink that makes you roll your eyes and grin back at him. 

Walsh watches the whole interaction, positive the two of you have forgotten everyone else is the room. “This can't possibly be normal. Are they like this their whole shifts?” 

Shen thinks for a moment before shaking his head, “It’s usually worse. Boarding on an HR violation is their normal.” 

A moment passes where Walsh realizes that yeah, that kinda tracks considering the moments she’s been witness to up until this point. Then, to Shen’s horror, she smiles. “Hey, do you wanna see something funny?” 

His eyes narrow at her but ultimately his curiosity gets the better of him. “I’m not taking responsibility for your funeral expenses if this goes badly.” 

That only makes her smile wider.

Walsh maneuvers her way to your other side, taking the place of one of the other nurses that was there. Shen’s eyes go wide when she looks at him again. She speaks before he can shake his head to stop her, breaking you and Jack out of the little bubble you’d put yourselves in.

“You know you’re really good at this, Sweets,” Walsh grins when you look over at her instead and Jack hesitates for just a second. “When can I steal you to help me in the OR? You’d be amazing in there.”

“Anytime,” You meet her smile easily. “I’m always down for a change in scenery.” 

“Perfect,” She smirks a little at your answer. “Name a day and time and I'll steal you all for myself.”

“Done,” The other side of the railing snaps up, maybe a little more harsh than it needs to be. Jack looks up, not a hint of the smile he’d been using with you left when he looks at Walsh. “You can go now.”

Walsh looks more than pleased by his reaction. She looks at Shen who’s trying his absolute hardest not to laugh giddily at what he just witnessed. 

“Down, boy,” She unlocks the wheels of the hospital bed and smirks even wider when Jack removes his gloves and loops his fingers into the hem of your scrub top, pulling you back into his side. It’s completely subconscious, she realizes, when neither one of you seems to even notice it happens. “Even when I steal her from you for my OR you’ll still get to take her home at the end of the night.”

“Wait, hang on, that’s where I draw the line,” Shen unlocks the wheels on the other side and starts wheeling the bed out with her. “You are not taking our best nurse all for yourself. Especially not when she’s the one who also brings us our caffeine every shift.” 

“You know, you’re only giving me more reasons to steal her.” 

Neither one of them notices that you don’t follow. Instead, the room empties out and then it’s just you and Jack. The silence settles between you as Jack unties the back of your surgical gown. When you turn to face him again he speaks softly.

“You could go, you know. To the OR. If you wanted to.” Jack says it before you can say anything about it. “Walsh is right, you’d be a natural up there.” 

“Jack -” 

“You don’t have to stay here forever. I mean, Shen is also right. We’d miss you down here. It hasn’t even been a couple months yet and it feels like you were made to be here with m- with everyone -” 

“Jack -” 

“Even if you just wanted to try it out. I think you should. I mean it’s-”

You kiss him. Not in the storage closet or the locker room or in an on call room or behind a curtain like usual. Right there in the middle of a trauma room, windows wide open and the ED buzzing all around you. 

Jack melts into you immediately. Hands moving to your hips to pull you closer before one moves to the back of your neck to deepen the kiss. A small groan leaves him when you pull away, the sweetest, most innocent smile on your lips.

“You talk too much,” A moment passes where you just stare at him, making sure he’s really listening to what you’re saying. “I’m not leaving the ED,” and then you add a little quieter, a little more shy, “You’re here.”

“I love you.”

Jack doesn’t know what possesses him to say it out loud here and now of all places for the very first time. But he feels it and he acknowledges it and there’s no way he can hold it in after that. There’s a need that settles deep in his bones and he knows he’s never going to want anything less than you right there with him always. Forever. He doesn’t know how he’d survive otherwise. 

It takes a moment for what he said to sink in. You can see the intensity in his eyes, how much he feels it and means it. You really wish you were anywhere but the ED right now. Maybe if you wished really really hard you could somehow will everyone and everything to slow down long enough for you to sneak away with Jack for just a little bit. 

Jack Abbot who loves you. The knowledge of that fact makes you feel warm all over. 

“I love you too.” 

+1. The Move

Jack is obsessed. He knows that for sure now. 

With the way you kiss him and how you look at him after. With the way you let him be as attached to you as he needs to be at any given moment and you don’t mind at all. With the way you hold his hand and pretend not to notice when he moves his fingers to rest on your pulse point out of instinct. And especially with moments like these. 

It’s pushing ten am and the two of you have only just left the hospital. A morning rush hour pileup meant that not only was there an influx of trauma’s coming in right before 7 but also that a good chunk of the staff were stuck behind the backed up traffic. 

Despite the fifteen hour shift, you’re still happily nodding your head along to the soft music that fills Jack’s car. He watches you out of the corner of his eye. You’re mumbling the words to the song playing and taking sips out of the drink he’d just bought you, your third one of the day. His drink is sitting the cup holder. His second one, your habits had rubbed off on him.

The song switches once and then twice. By the time it switches a third time he’s watching you frown as you reach the bottom of your drink. 

“Honey, don’t take this the wrong way,” He looks at you for a moment before looking back at the road. “But I think you might have a problem.” 

“I do not!” You feign offense and turn towards him in your seat. “God forbid I treat myself to something nice after a long day.” 

“What were the other two for then?” 

“A treat for going to work and a pick me up for halfway, clearly.”

“Clearly.” Jack shakes his head as stops at a light. Silently, he drops one hand from the wheel and sets it palm side up on the center console. Almost immediately you’re placing your hand in his, the exact way he was craving. 

The light turns green and he makes the split second decision then. He turns right, the direction that’ll let him turn around to head towards his place, instead of continuing straight, the direction that would take him to yours. 

You watch as he does so, driving further and further away from your apartment. “Jack, what are you doing?” 

He kisses the back of your hand. “Taking you back to mine since you’re clearly not planning on sleeping after all that caffeine.” 

“Okay, one,” You turn to face him again, even while he’s driving. “I’ve built up a tolerance. This is nothing. And two, I've been out of clean clothes for like a week. I can only wash the ones I have there so many times.”

“So steal some of mine.” Jack shrugs and maybe the thought of you in his clothes is a little bit for him too.

“Bad idea, cause then neither of us will ever have clean clothes again.”

“I’ll buy you new ones then.”

“Not if I don’t let you.”

“Good luck stopping me.” 

He’s winning and you both know it. So instead you say, “I have to stay at my place sometimes, what’s the point of even having it if I give in and always let you win these fun little arguments.”

The stop is sudden. Jack pulls over into the first empty spot he sees on the side of the road and turns to face you fully before you can ask him what he’s doing.

“You know what, honey? You’re right,” He leans towards you, fully leaning on the center console until he’s close enough to kiss you if he really wanted to. “There’s really no point in you paying for an apartment you’re barely ever in so I think it’s the perfect time for you to let me move you in with me.”

For a second you’re not sure if you heard him right. Maybe he was right and the cocktail of caffeine and sleep deprivation was finally making you imagine things. “What?” 

“Move in with me.” 

So you definitely heard him right. 

“You’re not serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“It’s barely been three months,” You shake your head as if that should explain everything. “And we haven’t even technically been dating for that entire time.”

“What can I say, I know what I want,” You’re still looking at him in disbelief so Jack takes your hand again and he sounds more serious when he says it plainly. “What I want is you. Every morning, every night, every shift, every minute you’ll let me. If you’ll have me.”

“It’s too fast.” You’re only trying to convince yourself at this point.

Jack smiles at you, softer than before. “You’re forgetting I’ve been pining over you for more than a year now.” 

You catch the implication immediately. It went way further back than just three months. All the way back to the day you walked through the doors of the PTMC halfway through him going through shift change. He’d lingered a lot longer than necessary and you had thought it was just normal for him. 

“You’re crazy.” 

“That’s why you love me.”

And he’s right. It’s the reason why you finally give in. “Will you at least let me split the rent with you?”

“I own the place.” Jack shrugs and you know for a fact that he’s not sorry in the slightest. 

“Mortgage then.”

“Already paid off.”

“Bills?”

“Paid in advance for the next three months.”

“Groceries?”

“Not a chance.”

“50 50?”

“90 10.”

You huff a little and pout at him. He doesn’t fall for it, only pausing for a second to kiss the look off your face. “Are you ever going to let me win one of these arguments?”

“Not unless it’s in your best interest.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me for that too.” 

Jack finally thinks for a moment and that’s when his eyes land on the drinks in the cupholder between the two of you, his half full one and your empty one. “How about I let you pay for my drink every time we stop for one?”

You light up at his proposition. “Will you let me pay for mine?”

“Only after the first one. First one I’m paying for,” He leans in a little bit closer, knowing he’s got you on his side now. “Consider it a compromise.”

“Works for me.”

“You can pay for Shen’s too,” He adds quickly before you can agree. “I refuse to fund his addiction, he’s worse than you.”

“Deal.” That makes you laugh and you finally lean in and kiss him, sealing everything in place. 

He can taste the sugary vanilla drink that still lingers on your tongue and it makes him smile against your lips. “Will you let me take you to our home now?”

Tonight was no different, you could feel the love pouring out of him with every move he made. The arm wrapped around your shoulders, the hand squeezing your arm to make sure that you were warm. Trost was known to be a rather cold city, especially at night, but it never stopped you from having your date nights. 

“What are we watching next?” Jean leans down to stare at your phone with you. You were scrolling through the long movie list you had made together, reading carefully through the movie titles.

“We can do… Beautiful Boy? We haven’t watched it yet, surprisingly.” You look up at your boyfriend and he nods. 

“Okay, Beautiful Boy.”

“Oh, I’m gonna ugly-cry though…” 

Jean lets out a laugh before pressing his lips to the side of your head, pulling you closer to him. “Not the first time I’ve seen you cry.”

You roll your eyes before shoving your phone back in the pocket of your long coat. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Oh you do?” Jean smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I would’ve never guessed.”

But before you could come up with your own smart retort, a rather loud bang interrupts your moment. It pulls you back to reality for a moment, and you find yourself holding onto your boyfriend’s arm.

“What was that?” You whisper, too nervous to step closer to the sound. 

Jean immediately goes into protective mode, gently pushes you to hide behind him.

“Who is there?!” He yells out, all protective and serious as his eyes scan for potential danger. You would’ve run away, had it not been the alleyway that leads directly towards your apartment building. 

Another soft, wet sound comes from the alleyway, but this time Jean squints as he takes a closer look at what was happening. 

Orange, white, a little bit of black….white, and then orange again. Fur. There is fur everywhere, and multiple pairs of bright eyes stare directly into yours and Jean’s souls. 

Cats were gathered around the dumpster, only distracted for a moment by your presence before diving back into their food. You step from around Jean and towards the animals, your voice careful and concerned.

“I hope they’re not eating something spoiled.” 

And as if they could understand what you were saying, their gaze immediately shifts towards something in the sky.

Or more like someone.

“Miss! Watch out!” A child’s voice can be heard from above, and you look up at the third floor window. 

Two kids — a boy and a girl, had their heads sticking out of the window. The light was very bright from where they were looking, and you assumed that they were probably in the kitchen. 

“Oh,” you place a hand on your chest as you realize what was happening, and you turn to Jean with what he can only describe as the biggest smile on your face. “Look, I think they’re feeding them.”

Jean approaches you with a warm smile, reaching his hand towards your face where he gently holds your jaw before leaning down to kiss your forehead. His carefulness makes butterflies dance in your stomach, and you move closer to him as the two of you watch the cats eat.

“Mommy says we can’t go out and feed them at night.” It’s the boy who speaks up this time, his words laced with disappointment. Jean is quick to respond to him.

“Your mommy is right, it’s dangerous at night.”

“But you’re outside at night.” The pout is so evident in his voice that it makes you chuckle.

His sister hisses at him, quickly correcting him. “They’re grown ups, dummy! Grown ups can walk outside at night!” 

“Then I wanna be a grown up some day!” The boy exclaims loudly, before tossing another piece of meat down to the cats. 

It seems that this was a regular occurrence, as the cats look fairly healthy and are full after a couple of bites. The kids bid them goodbye very loudly, and then you hear a loud shush coming from inside their apartment.

“It’s way past your bedtime!” 

“But mommy! It’s the weekend!”

“And I let you feed the cats, now it’s time to sleep.”

“I wanna say byebye to the nice lady and her husband!”

That elicits a chuckle from you and a surprised sound from Jean who looks down at you. “Am I just an accessory now?”

You wrap your arms around his middle. “A nice accessory.”

“Byebye!” Both kids wave at you, and you and Jean wave back as you watch them retreat inside. 

“Goodnight!” You exclaim loud enough for both of them to hear, and their giggles echo through the night before the window closes and the rest of the conversation is muffled.

You stand there, your arms still wrapped around Jean before you feel his eyes on you, warm and adoring.

“What?” You can feel your cheeks warming up under his gaze, his firm body feeling extra nice against yours. 

“Husband, huh?” He tucks a hair strand behind your ear, taking in your flustered look. “I like that. Do you?”

The question comes out soft, careful — this was Jean’s way of testing the waters, the relationship in itself. He wanted to make sure that you two were on the same page, that the past year and a half of you two being together has been just as amazing to you, as it has been fulfilling to him. He cradles your face with his hand, his thumb brushing against your warm cheek as you gaze at him lovingly. 

“I love it.” 

Your words hang in the air for a few moments, surrounded by the silence of the night and your mixed breaths. Your chest feels tight, eyes brimming with tears because this was so incredibly overwhelming yet steadying. Because this was Jean, this wasn’t the man who had stood you up or the one who made you pay despite being the one to invite you on a date, or the one who expected sex after one date.

This was Jean, and not your ex-boyfriend who had told you that he wasn’t ready for commitment after being in a relationship for a year, nor was he the man who ghosted you after three dates.

You tilt your head, melting against his touch and allowing him to take the lead from here. 

And soon enough, he leans down and captures your lips with his in what starts out as a gentle kiss. A couple of pecks turned into deeper kisses, and in no time you were burying your hands in his hair, fingers pulling at his mullet. The action elicits a soft sound from the taller man who pushes you up against the nearest wall, not before stumbling a bit and giggling against each other’s lips.

“Would’ve been bad if you fell.” He whispers in between kisses, his hand resting on the back of your head whilst the other grips your hip. You can feel the self-restraint slipping with each kiss, and it makes your body feel warm as you smile against his lips.

“You would’ve fallen with me so I don’t get embarrassed.” You tease him, your finger poking at his cheek and he chuckles, his hand falling from your head. He was now fully gripping your hips, caging you between the wall and his body.

“Mmm, my girl knows me so well.” He nudges your nose with his, smiling at your euphoric giggles. His lips attach against your cheek, then your jaw and down to your neck as you gasp in between giggles.

“Jean!” 

“My girl, my wife,” he says the petname with so much pride, so much possessiveness that you could’ve sworn you felt your heart was about to explode. 

“I have a feeling you like the sound of that,” you tease the man, brushing his hair away from his face before holding it in your hands. “Your face feels warm.”

“I love it,” he kisses the palm of your hand, before melting against your touch. “You have no idea.”

“Oh I think I do.” You whisper with a shy smile, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “My husband.” 

Jean’s eyes widen for a moment, a strong feeling washes over him before he squeezes his eyes shut. He takes the hand that is holding his face before kissing it — its palm, its knuckles, repeatedly and so lovesick that you could feel your heart in your throat. 

And then he opens his eyes, and his stomach flips at the way you’re looking at him. All flushed, almost drunk off his love for you. You were breathing hard, chest heaving as you stared at him as if he held the key to all of your secrets. Like he was the answer to all of your problems, as if existing without him was the worst and most unforgivable sin. 

He pauses. Because telling you what he was thinking would ruin it, saying out loud that he was thinking of a million ways to have a conversation with your family about proposing to you would ruin the surprise. Because revealing that he had been saving up for a ring for the past six months would make you worry about him, about whether or not he was using his own salary for himself. 

Jean knows you like the back of his hand. And he knows that if he were to propose tomorrow, with a paper ring and a shoebox for a house, you would accept.

But he would never do that — you were his princess, his sweetheart, his love. He was going to make you live out the fairytale of your dreams. 

—

It should be illegal to be this attracted to your partner.

Jean’s eyes have been devouring your body ever since you got home, watching you walk around your shared bedroom then head for the bathroom. He leans against the doorframe as you remove your make-up, getting ready for the night as you grab a towel and your skincare products. Sensing his presence, you look at your boyfriend and smile.

“What?” you step closer to the shower before turning on the faucet. Jean quietly moves behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle.

“I can scrub your back?” He whispers against your cheek, groaning loudly when the smell of your perfume hits his nostrils. You giggle, a bit taken aback by his boldness. 

“You never just scrub my back.” You point out, and the taller man playfully bites down on your earlobe.

“Did I say just scrub your back?” His hands sneakily find their way on your bare thighs, traveling their way up and under the fabric of your dress. “Scrub your back, wash your hair—” 

Your hands rest on his toned forearms, smiling to yourself when you feel him squeeze your thighs. 

“Soap my body too?” 

This elicits another groan from Jean, and he swiftly reaches for the zipper of your dress. “Alright, let’s take it off.”

You can’t help but laugh at the urgency in his voice, but you’re also deeply flustered by how easy it is to make his self control crumble. 

“Don’t forget yourself,” you mutter as he finishes unzipping your dress, taking a step back so you can step out of it and stand in front of him wearing only panties. With deliberate slowness, you undo the clasp of his belt and let it slide free. You thread it carefully through your fingers before gently yanking Jean towards you. 

You continue to lift the leather belt through its loops, your other hand undoing the buttons of his white blouse. You let the belt drop to the floor, the sound of metal clanking against the tiles echoing through the bathroom, then you move closer to the man until your boobs are pressed against his bare chest. 

The air is charged as you wrap your arms around his neck, a bashful smile dancing on your lips. “I wanna see all of you as well.” 

Whatever self-restraint Jean had is long gone the moment he feels your skin against his. His lips crash against yours, messy and hurried as he swallows your sounds with his mouth. His big, warm hands grope your ass cheeks as you press your groin against his, gasping against his lips when you feel the growing bulge against your stomach. 

You open your eyes, half-lidded and glossed over as you pull away from the kiss to catch your breath. But Jean captures your lips again, and you gasp when he pushes you up against the cold shower glass. 

“I know baby,” your stomach twists at his tone — teasing yet mocking, and you pout at the man when you notice his playful smile. “Look at your nipples, they’re hard.” 

He wastes no time in touching you, his thumb roughly grazing over the sensitive bud. Your back arches at the touch, your hand resting on his chest to make a small distance between the two of you.

“The water’s running.” 

With a soft push, you put a little distance between the two of you before easing the glass door aside, Jean’s gaze following you. You step under the running water, making sure that your back was facing Jean as your fingers slide under the edge of your underwear. Looking over your shoulder, you send Jean a smile as you gradually work your underwear down and over your hips. 

Once fully naked, you hear rustling coming from outside of the shower and smile to yourself as you see Jean yanking his blouse off his body then practically jumping out of his pants and boxers. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous, d’you know that?” 

You gasp as you feel his hands on your boobs, shamelessly groping and fondling them as you reach for the body wash. You hum in response, pushing your ass back so that it grazes his now fully erect cock. Immediately, Jean folds against you as he rests his forehead against your shoulder. 

“Are you okay baby?” you ask and Jean can tell you’re finding this way too amusing. 

“Mmmm,” is all he can say as he pushes his cock against your ass, his hand sliding down from your boob down to your stomach. It rests on your pubic bone, and the tall man can tell that you’re slowly losing patience as well just from the way your body was reacting to him. 

You shudder at the feeling, hips bucking up. You wish he could just fuck you stupid, but a part of you was enjoying the build up a little too much. 

“Was just thinking,” his chin is now propped on your shoulder, eyes staring down at your boobs and the rest of your body. “About how bad I want to fuck you.” 

You sigh, cheeks flaring up at his dirty confession. Your hand reaches behind you to cradle his face, and you turn your head to look at him. “How bad do you want to fuck me, Jean?” 

Pressing his forehead against yours, Jean carefully nudges the tip of his cock against your wet folds. It’s a euphoric feeling despite the lack of penetration, and he basks in the way your face contorts and twists when he swipes the tip of his cock over your clit.

“Til you feel it in your stomach, baby.” 

You bite down on your lip, sighing at his words. “Please.”

The first thrust feels like you have been sent to heaven and back. It feels good, comforting, your warm walls hugging his cock so tight that Jean curses under his breath and bites down on your shoulder to suppress his own noises.

“Fuuuck, you’re so tight. Don’t I fuck you enough, huh? How’s this pussy still so fucking tight?”

You can only moan in response as you start to fuck yourself back against him, a gutteral sound escaping Jean as he watches your ass recoil with each thrust. He only lets you do the work for a couple of moments before his hand hooks under your leg, lifting it up as he starts to fuck you hard. 

You gasp, holding yourself up against the wall as your eyes roll back. 

The obscene sound of his cock pumping in and out of you fills the bathroom, the large vein that wraps around his dick dragging against your folds with each thrust. And he reaches so deep inside you that it elicits an embarrassing moan out of you, one that has you covering your mouth.

“Don’t hide from me,” Jean quickly removes your hand from over your mouth, his pace quickening. The tip of his cock reaches spots inside you that your own fingers can’t, and you quickly figure out that holding up your leg allows him to reach even deeper if possible. 

The light-brown-haired male can no longer hide his own sounds, as the lewd sound of his hips violently slamming against yours were the only thing to reach his ears. The feeling of your tight pussy is the one thing that he can feel in his entire body, and he makes it his mission to make you cum as hard as you can.

“Fuck, you’re taking me so well.” 

He holds you up well, making sure that you were balancing yourself well as he continues to fuck you with your leg in the air. Your leg starts shaking when the tip of his cock grazes that spot, and so he frees your leg before wrapping his arms around your body. With embarrassing ease, Jean manhandles you so that you are pressed face first against the glass door of the shower.

“What I’d take to see what you look like right now,” he mumbles against your ear, his cock buried deep inside your pussy. He starts to fuck you again, this time going so deep that you could almost feel him in your stomach.

It makes your eyes roll back, your cheeks stinging from the heat as your body gives out and lets him take full control. You rest your forehead against the glass when the pleasure becomes mind-numbing, your hands reaching behind you to grip his forearms as he continues to fuck you so good.

“Oh my god Jean, oh my god—”

“Don’t stop?” His voice was strained, he was close too.

“Please!”

Saying the magic word always got you what you wanted. Jean’s hips are relentless as he continues to slam the tip of his cock exactly how you liked. Coupled with his hands gripping your hips so possessively, your orgasm hits you like a train. 

Your body shakes, goosebumps forming all over your skin as your pussy gushes on his cock. And you can’t stop cumming, Jean’s cock keeps fucking into you as he chases his own release and mutters filthy words of praise against your hair.

“My perfect woman, my pretty wife taking my cock like a fucking champ.” His moan is long and drawn and you cry out even more when you feel his hand go around your body to rub at your poor and neglected clit. “You’re so fucking good for me, you’re gonna cum for me again. Right?” His teeth sink into your earlobe and you sigh, your body temperature rising as you nod.

“Yeah!” 

“Good girl.” 

Jean gives one final slam of his hips before he’s emptying himself inside your pussy, cock nestled between your tight and warm walls. You take a moment to catch your breath, your body still twitching and recovering from what just happened.

You tell your boyfriend that you two need to hurry and wash up before the warm water runs out, and he jumps in action as he scrubs both your body and his, rinsing with water before stepping out to grab towels for the two of you.

By the time he returns with a warm towel, you’re trembling from the cold.

“Sorry I took too long.” You shake your head, letting him wrap the towel around your body. 

“It’s okay,” you smile as you kiss his cheek. “Cover yourself or you’ll get sick.” 

Jean kisses your forehead before patting your butt. “Go get dressed, you look like a poodle.”

You feign being offended as you gasp. “Take it back!”

“Thought you liked me for my honesty!”

You shout from the bedroom. “No! I liked you because you were tall and handsome!” 

You hear Jean make the same noise you made earlier. “My girlfriend is shallow?!”

“Better break up with me.” you say playfully and Jean pops his head from the bathroom, his face all serious. 

“Not even the devil could convince me to do it.”