Moonlight

Her name was everywhere in the Red Keep, whispered by serving girls and sung by minstrels, painted in miniature on ivory pendants that his paramours wore at their throats. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, they called her, and when they said it in your hearing, their eyes would dart to you with something between pity and amusement. See the Oakheart girl, their glances said. See how plain she looks beside the memory of Seastar’s shimmer.

Back in the Reach, you had been called beautiful. You had believed it. Here, you were a candle held up against the sun. Back in the Reach, you were praised as a proper lady, and Shiera was called a shameless whore with nothing more than derision. But King's Landing valued influence, the ability to captivate and draw interest, which Shiera had in abundance.

You did not hate her. Hatred required energy you did not possess. But you feared her. You feared the day she would return to court, trailing silk and scandal behind her, and you would have to stand beside your husband and watch his single eye follow her across the hall. You feared the quiet, courteous dismissal that would surely follow. You had married a man who loved another woman. It was a common enough fate for highborn ladies, you knew, but knowing it did not make your marriage bed any warmer.

You spent your days wandering. The gardens, with their rose trellises and marble fountains, their sharp-scented herbs and imported lemon trees shivering in the sea wind. The library, where you read histories of the Seven Kingdoms until the words blurred before your eyes. The sept, where you knelt before the Maiden and asked for guidance that never came. And the stairway that spiraled up to the Hand’s solar, where you would sometimes sit on the cold stone steps with a book open on your lap, close enough to hear the murmur of voices beyond the iron-banded door, the scratch of a quill, the rustle of parchment. You never knocked. You were too afraid of being turned away.

It was on one of those steps, three moons into your marriage, that Brynden Rivers finally spoke to you about the raven.

You had Pebble on your knee, feeding him strips of roasted capon you had wrapped in a napkin and smuggled from the kitchens. The bird was growing stout, you could see it in the way his breast swelled over his claws, the way he waddled rather than hopped when he moved along the windowsill. You had noticed but you had not cared. You had to keep feeding him so he wouldn't leave you as well.

“What am I doing, Pebble?” you whispered. “What am I doing here? My husband does not want me. The court does not see me. My family’s name is a jest and a warning both. I am a wife in name only, and I do not know how to become anything more. I was not taught how to be a wife to a man like him. I was taught how to be a wife to a lord who wanted a gentle lady to manage his household and bear his children. But Lord Bloodraven has a household that manages itself and no desire for children of his body, or so they say.” You paused, your fingers stilling on the raven’s feathers. “Perhaps he would want children if they were Shiera’s.”

The raven croaked.

You stroked the raven’s feathers again, and your voice cracked. “I am even afraid that you will leave me, Pebble. You are the only friend I have in this place. Please do not fly away.”

The door to the solar opened. You scrambled to your feet, the napkin falling from your lap, capon scattering across the stone. Pebble let out an indignant caw and flapped onto the windowsill, his wings laboring under his weight.

Lord Bloodraven stood in the doorway.

His hair, silver-white, fell straight to his shoulders, and his skin was so pale it seemed to drink the light. The red birthmark that crept up his neck and cheek, the source of his name, was vivid as a splash of wine against snow. He wore black, and the eye that fixed on you now was the deep, unsettling red of dying embers.

The other eye was gone. A pale, smooth scar ran from brow to cheekbone, and beneath it, a dark hollow that seemed to see more than any living eye could.

“My lady wife,” he said. His voice was quiet, precise, each word placed as carefully as a stone on a cyvasse board.

“My lord.” You dropped into a curtsy, your heart hammering. You had not expected him to emerge. He rarely did before the hour of the bat. “Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you. I was only...”

His gaze had moved past you to the raven. Pebble was worrying at a shred of capon, his beak tearing at the meat with smug contentment. Bloodraven’s expression did not change, but the air shifted, a faint tightening like the pause before a thunderclap.

“That is my raven,” he said.

“Yes, my lord. I hope you do not mind. He comes to my window, and I...”

“He is fat.”

The words fell like a stone into still water. You felt heat rise to your cheeks, the familiar burn of mortification. Your fingers twisted in the folds of your skirt, a pale lavender silk, pretty and demure. Here in the grey light of the tower it seemed washed-out and childish. You were a woman grown, a wife, and yet you felt like a girl being scolded by her septa for some minor transgression.

“I have been feeding him,” you admitted in a small voice.

Bloodraven stepped forward. His movements were unsettlingly smooth. He lifted one long-fingered hand, and the raven, your Pebble, your greedy, ungrateful Pebble, fluttered up to perch on his wrist without the slightest hesitation, as though you had never existed.

“A raven of the Tower must be lean,” Bloodraven said, stroking the bird’s breast with one pale thumb. Pebble closed his eyes in bliss. “He must fly swiftly over distances that would exhaust a lesser bird. He must carry messages through weather that would kill a hawk. He must be quick, clever, and sharp as a blade.”

He turned that burning red eye back to you.

“You have made him useless.”

The words struck harder than they should have. You had not thought yourself capable of tears, you had not wept once since leaving the Reach, not at your wedding, not on your wedding night when your husband failed to come to your bed, not in all the lonely days that followed, but now your throat tightened and your vision swam. You blinked rapidly, fighting it down, but a single tear escaped and traced a burning path down your cheek.

You ducked your head, hoping he had not seen. The silence stretched, unbearable.

“I am sorry,” you whispered. “I did not know. He came to me. He seemed friendly. I only offered him kindness.”

“Friendly.” He said the word as if it were a foreign concept. His blood-eye seemed to gleam in the half-light, and for a moment you could have sworn you saw the raven’s reflection in it, a dark bird within a darker pool. “Ravens are tools, my lady. They are not pets. This one has been made useless by your kindness.”

The word useless stung again. You dropped your gaze to the floor again, studying the worn flagstones beneath your slippers. “I apologise. I will not feed it anymore.”

You did not wait for a response. You gathered your skirts and fled down the winding stair, your slippers slapping against the stone, your breath coming in short, hitching gasps. You did not stop until you reached your chambers, where you threw yourself onto the great empty bed and buried your face in the pillows and wept until there was nothing left inside you.

You did not go to the Tower the next day, nor the day after that. You kept to your rooms, claiming a headache when your maids inquired. You took your meals alone, the food tasteless on your tongue. You did not open your shutters, though you heard the scratch of claws on the sill more than once. You could not bear to see Pebble, to see the raven who had abandoned you as easily as breathing, who had flown to his master’s hand without a backward glance.

It was on the third day that a servant knocked at your door and informed you that the Hand of the King required your presence in his solar.

You dressed carefully, your hands trembling on the laces of your gown. You chose a dress of pale green, the color of new leaves, the closest you dared come to the Oakheart colors. You pinned your hair up in a simple coil and pinched your cheeks to bring some color back into them. You looked, you thought, like a woman preparing for an execution.

The solar was warm, lit by a fire in the great hearth and by candles in iron holders. Books lined the walls, more books than you had ever seen in a private chamber, their spines cracked and worn from use. Maps and charts covered a long table, and in the corner, a perch held three ravens, their heads tucked under their wings.

Bloodraven sat behind a desk of dark oak, a quill in his hand. He did not rise when you entered, but he set the quill down and gestured to a chair across from him.

“Sit,” he said.

You sat. Your hands folded in your lap, the picture of a well-bred lady. You had been trained for this, after all: to be still, to be silent, to be pleasing. It was the only weapon you had ever been given.

Bloodraven regarded you for a long moment. In the firelight, the port-wine stain on his cheek seemed to shift and writhe like something alive. His eye, that terrible red eye, seemed to see straight through you, past the careful composure and the pretty dress and into the hollow ache at your center.

“You have not been to the Tower,” he said.

“I did not wish to disturb you, my lord.”

“You have not been to the gardens, either. Nor the library. Nor the sept.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers. “My birds tell me things.”

Your heart lurched. The ravens. Of course. You had forgotten, in your misery, the whispers that surrounded your husband like a cloak of shadows. He could see through the eyes of his birds, they said. He could watch the whole of the Seven Kingdoms from his Tower, and nothing escaped his notice. You had thought it a fanciful tale, a legend spun to explain the unerring accuracy of his spy network. But the way he looked at you now made you wonder.

“I have been tired,” you said, which was not entirely a lie.

“You have been crying.”

The words were blunt, without softening. You flinched, your gaze dropping to your hands.

“My lady,” Bloodraven said, his tone had shifted. It was not kind, you did not think kindness was in his nature, but it was less cold than before. “Look at me.”

You raised your eyes.

“The raven,” he said. “You named him.”

It was not a question. You nodded anyway.

“Pebble,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because of his breast feathers. They reminded me of home.”

Bloodraven was silent for a moment. Then he rose from his chair and crossed to the window, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight.

“I have had many ravens,” he said. “Hundreds, over the years. I breed them in the Tower, train them, dispatch them across the realm. They are tools, nothing more. I have never given one a name.”

He turned, his single eye finding you again.

“No one has ever named one of my ravens before.”

You did not know what to say. You sat frozen, your heart beating a nervous rhythm against your ribs.

“He is not useless,” Bloodraven said, and there was something akin to curiosity in his voice. “I examined him this morning. He is plump, yes, but he is healthy. His plumage is glossy. His eyes are bright. He is more docile than the others, more accustomed to human touch. There are uses for such a raven.”

He took a step toward you, then another, until he stood before your chair, looking down at you with an expression you could not read.

“I have been a poor husband,” he said.

Your mouth opened but no sound came out.

“I did not ask for this marriage,” he continued, “and neither did you. We were both bound by the king’s will, and I have not made the binding easier for you. I have been…absent. Preoccupied.” He paused. “Unkind.”

“My lord, you have been...”

“Do not,” he said, lifting a hand to stop your protest, “be polite. I am surrounded by polite people. I find it exhausting.”

You closed your mouth.

Bloodraven lowered his hand. “I loved Shiera,” he said, and the name was a blade between your ribs. “For many years. I asked for her hand more times than I can count. She always refused. Perhaps she was wise.” His jaw tightened, a flicker of old pain crossing his pale features. “But she is not my wife. You are.”

He reached down, and before you could react, his fingers closed around your hand. His skin was cool, dry. But his grip was steady.

“I cannot promise you love,” he said. “I am not a man given to tender feeling. The whispers about me are not all false. I am a sorcerer, of a kind. I do see through the eyes of my ravens. I have done things that would make you flinch to hear, and I will likely do more before I am through. I have little patience for the courtly games that fill the days of most highborn ladies.”

He paused, and his thumb brushed once across your knuckles.

“But I am not cruel without cause. I do not take pleasure in suffering. And I have watched you these three moons, my lady. Through the eyes of my ravens, yes. I have seen you in the gardens, sitting alone on the stone benches. I have seen you in the library, reading the same page over and over because your mind is elsewhere. I have seen you feeding my raven, speaking to him as though he were a friend, because you had no one else to speak to.”

Your face was burning. You wanted to look away, to hide, but his eye held you as surely as a pin holds a butterfly.

“I did not intend to spy,” he said, and there was a note in his voice that might have been regret. “At first, I was merely curious. Then I was...concerned. You are withering, my lady. Like a flower deprived of light. And I am the one who has kept you in the dark.”

He released your hand and stepped back.

“I would like to propose a truce,” he said. “A beginning. I will not pretend to be something I am not. I will always be busy with the affairs of the realm, always be strange, secretive and perhaps a little frightening for your liking. But I will make an effort to be present. To speak with you. To…know you.” He tilted his head, a gesture eerily reminiscent of his ravens. “If you will permit it.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. This was not what you had expected. This was not the cold dismissal, the polite abandonment, the quiet return to separate lives. This was an opening, a crack in the armor.

“I would like that,” your voice came out steadier than you had hoped. “My lord.”

“Brynden,” he corrected. “If we are to attempt this, you may as well use my name.”

You swallowed. “Brynden.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile. “See? Not so difficult.”

He returned to his desk and picked up his quill, but he did not dismiss you. Instead, he gestured toward a smaller table near the fire, where a tray of fruit and cheese and a pitcher of wine had been laid out.

“Stay,” he said. “Eat. You have been hiding in your rooms for three days, and I suspect you have not been eating properly.”

You rose from your chair, your legs unsteady beneath you. As you crossed to the table, you saw a perch near the window, separate from the others. On it sat Pebble, his head cocked, his black eyes fixed on you with reproach.

“He has been sulking,” Brynden said, not looking up from his parchment. “He does not understand why you stopped coming.”

You reached out a trembling hand and stroked the raven’s breast. Pebble made a soft sound and pressed his head against your fingers.

“I am sorry,” you murmured to him. “I am here now.”

Behind you, you heard the scratch of the quill pause for just a moment, and then resume.

From that day, you took your evening meals in the solar with Brynden, sitting at the small table by the fire while he worked at his desk. He did not speak much, but he answered when you asked questions, and sometimes he would pause in his writing to ask one of his own. Small things at first: how you found the Red Keep, whether the sea air agreed with you, what books you had been reading. You answered honestly, and he listened with a focus that was almost unnerving, his eye fixed on you as though every word you spoke were a piece of intelligence to be filed away.

Then he started inquiring about your life, so you told him. Your father had pledged fealty to both King Daeron and Daemon Blackfyre, sending one gold and the other men. King Daeron had kept his crown, and House Oakheart's reputation had suffered. Instead of emerging unscathed either way, as Lord Oakheart had intended, the King inflicted punishments on him. His eldest son, your older brother, was assigned to become a Kingsguard. He had to refute his title, land and future of marriage and instead serve as a guard to the same King he had fought against. You, the eldest daughter, were given to Hand of the King as a reward he didn't ask for. A legitimate lady to solidify his standing. Your mother had acted as if everything was fine, which you suspected it was for your sake, although you didn't want such strained treatment. And you scarcely saw your brother since arriving in King's Landing, even though you both lived at the Red Keep.

You learned things about him in return. He had been born with the birthmark, with hair already white, and his mother had wept when she first saw him. He had been a poor swordsman as a boy, too thin and frail, so he had turned to the bow out of desperation. He loved his Blackwood sisters. He did not sleep well. He never had.

One evening, a fortnight after your conversation in the solar, you gathered your courage and asked the question that had been burning in your throat since the day you arrived.

“Do you wish I were her?”

The quill stopped. The fire crackled in the silence. Pebble, perched on the back of your chair, shifted his weight from one claw to the other.

Brynden set the quill down slowly. “That is a foolish question.”

“I am not afraid of the answer.” You were, of course. You were terrified. But you had spent months living in the shadow of a ghost and you could not do it any longer.

He rose from his desk and came to stand before the fire. The flames cast his face in red and gold, the birthmark nearly invisible against the glow. His back was to you.

“I wished for many things,” he said at last. “I wished for her to love me. I wished for her to choose me, just once, over all the others. I wished for a great many foolish things that a wiser man would have let go long ago.” He turned to look at you. “But I do not wish you were her. You are not her. You are nothing like her, and that is…not a bad thing.”

“I have heard she is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” you said, and you hated the smallness of your voice, the jealousy that crept in despite your best efforts.

“She is,” Brynden said, and your heart sank. “But beauty is a strange thing. Shiera’s beauty is like wildfire: brilliant, consuming, and utterly indifferent to what it destroys. I spent years burning in it, and I have the scars to show. You are different. Your beauty is like…” He paused, searching for the word. “Like the first green shoots after winter. Blooming. Steady. Something that grows rather than blazes.”

You did not know what to say. Your face felt hot.

“I am not good at this,” Brynden said with a flicker of frustration in his voice. “I am no poet. I do not know how to court my own wife.”

A laugh bubbled up in your throat, unexpected and slightly hysterical. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it escaped anyway, a small, surprised sound that made Brynden’s eye widen a fraction.

“I do not know how to be courted,” you admitted. “I was taught to be a lady, not a wife. No one ever told me what to do with a husband who did not want a wife.”

“I never said I did not want a wife.” He took a step toward you. “I said I did not ask for this marriage. There is a difference.”

“Is there?”

Another step. He was close enough that you could smell the faint scent of ink and old parchment that clung to his clothes. Close enough that you could see the tiredness around his eye.

“I am learning,” he murmured, “that I may have wanted something I did not know I did.”

His hand rose, and this time, he did not stop at your fingers. His cool palm cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with a gentleness that contradicted everything you had heard about him: the cold sorcerer, the ruthless spymaster, the man who had killed Daemon Blackfyre and his sons with arrows guided by dark magic. In this moment, he was only a man, touching his wife’s face for the first time.

“You are trembling,” he said.

“I am afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of this ending.” Your voice cracked. “Of Shiera returning. Of waking up tomorrow and finding that you have remembered you do not want me after all.”

His eye searched your face. You had the unsettling sensation that he was seeing more than your skin and bone, more than the fear in your eyes. Seeing into you, the way he saw through the eyes of his ravens.

“Shiera is in Lys,” he said. “She left months ago, before our wedding. She may return someday, she always does, but she is not here now, and she has no claim on me. Whatever I felt for her, it is done. I have been a fool for her long enough.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“As for waking up tomorrow,” he murmured, “that is simple. You shall wake up in my bed.”

Your breath caught.

“The bedding ceremony was waived,” he continued, “because I requested it. I did not think it fair to subject you to the court’s crude jests when we were strangers. But we are not strangers now. Not entirely. And I find that I am tired of sleeping alone in my cold solar while my wife sleeps alone in her cold tower.”

His thumb traced the line of your jaw.

“If you are willing,” he added, and the hesitation in his voice, the faint uncertainty, undid you completely.

“I am willing,” you whispered.

He kissed you. His lips were cool, like his hands. The kiss was cautious, almost experimental, as though he were tasting a new wine and trying to decide if he liked the vintage. But it deepened, slowly, his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. You felt a knot of tension loosen in your chest.

When he pulled back, his breathing was slightly unsteady.

“You will not be alone.” He took your hand again, this time, he laced his fingers through yours. “I have a thousand eyes. Some of them will always be watching over you.”

It was perhaps the strangest declaration of affection any woman had ever received. But you found yourself smiling anyway, a real smile, the first you had worn since leaving the Reach.

That night, you did not return to your lonely tower rooms. You slept in the Hand’s bed, in the Hand’s arms, and though he did not sleep, he had told you he rarely did, he held you in the darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.

In the morning, you woke to find him already dressed, standing at the window with the pale dawn light on his hair. He turned when he heard you stir.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Brynden.”

He crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. From behind his back, he produced a single winter rose, its petals white as fresh snow, its center a deep, vivid blue.

“There are no winter roses in King’s Landing,” you said, taking it with trembling fingers. “How did you...?”

“I have my ways,” he said, the faint smile on his lips was no longer tentative. It was the smile of a man who had unraveled a mystery and found the answer rather pleasing.

You lifted the rose to your nose and breathed in its sweet, cold scent. Through the window, you saw a raven circling against the pale sky, not Pebble but another, its black wings cutting the air with swift precision. It was returning home, carrying something in its beak.

“What is he bringing?” you asked.

“A letter,” Brynden said. “From the Arbor. Lord Redwyne is plotting something tedious involving wine tariffs.” He paused. “Would you like to watch me unravel it?”

“Yes,” you said. “I would like that very much.”

He offered you his hand, you took it.

Pebble, watching from his perch, let out a satisfied croak and followed you and your husband up the winding stair to the solar.

Part 2: coming soon...

a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out.

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Taglist: @foul-human-123 @autumnevanescence @thearchivistshaven

It was your grandma’s camera, a gift she gave herself back then. You stole a quick peek at her, only to meet her eyes already twinkling with approval that made you even more excited. She gave you an encouraging nod, and then it happened.

There was pure fascination as you turned on the small device—that you soon realized was too heavy and too big for a five year old to be holding—and pressed the small button that triggered the flash as it captured the whole living room. The result left you in bewilderment. While the photo remained still, the room kept moving. Your cousins were talking, the adults were sharing a drink, kids your age were still running around the house, and the lights were blinking in the same pattern. But you and the photo staring back at you from the camera remained still.

The initial bewilderment changed to awe and that awe grew to something you love: a hobby you spent most of your time doing. And ever since then, working behind the cameras has been your most favorite thing to do. What was once a hobby eventually turned into a program you chose in college and suddenly, it was your whole life.

Because, how amazing it was to see a single photo, but it could tell a lot of different stories at the same time?

Your love for photography also became a part of your extracurricular activities when you became one of the photojournalists of Briar University’s journalism club when you applied during your freshman year. You cover different events ranging from sports, academics, musical showcases, theatrical plays, and even parties Dean and Beau love to throw every now and then. Though, the last one wasn’t the kind of media your journalism adviser would like to see in newspapers or social media accounts, you sure enjoy capturing moments when people are not paying attention. When the world is moving and you have to stand still in the middle of it to savor what is happening and forever store it in your camera.

You found a sense of adoration and beauty in it. It was your very kind of poetry. If for Justin, it was in the way he wrote his songs; if for Allie, it was in the way the stage embraced her talent; if for Hannah, it was in every ounce of emotion and vulnerability she poured in singing; and if for Garrett, it's in the ice rink and the adrenaline it made him feel; for you, it was this—the silent shutter of the camera in a rather loud and fast pacing world.

Because while everyone else was busy living their lives aloud—laughing, fighting, talking—you were observing quietly, hiding behind your camera, the blinding flash of it, the shutter sound it makes, and the continuous click of the small button that captures frame after frame.

It’s not like you hate catching the attention of your audience, or that you hate when people look directly at your lens, or that you hate doing planned photographs. But you learned early on that people change when they know they’re being watched; their posture practiced, their smile instantly too wide, asking if they look a bit much or a bit less, or sometimes, they turn away altogether. But if you stay still enough, if you become a presence that blends with the wind carrying a lens, they will let you do your thing while you let them do theirs without any mask.

And you enjoy it, people enjoy it. The members of journalism praise you for capturing the best moments. The subject of your photos during different events asking for a copy for their own use because it should be posted too outside Briar’s official account and sent to their families and friends. The praise was just a bonus because you loved doing it and you promised yourself that you’ll never let the praises get inside your head.

But most of all, you love how it allows you to admire someone without giving away so much of yourself.

“Job well done, ma’am. Did you take a good shot of me earlier?” You jolted from your seat when Dean unexpectedly appeared from behind you and slung his arm around your shoulders, peeking over at your laptop as you finished transferring files from your camera that you covered earlier during their game and the afterparty at Malone’s.

“Jesus, Di Laurentis! Why can’t you be normal and appear without giving me a fucking heart attack?” Dean laughed as he straightened his posture before getting distracted when he saw himself on the screen of your laptop. “Wait! I like this one! Please, post this one. Allie will love it.”

You’re currently at their place off campus after having a blast at Malone’s. They just won another game against Eastwood and the energy just kept rolling and was brought to the diner until Della literally had to push everyone outside. You didn’t bother going back to the dorms at Bristol’s since Hannah and Allie practically dragged you with them to the house, drunk and ready to call it a night.

Tucker was sleeping peacefully beside you, who kindly offered you his room for the night despite your protests. You knew you won’t be sleeping soon since you still have to edit the raw photos from the game earlier and Tucker deserved to sleep peacefully inside the comfort of his room. But his Mama didn’t raise him like that, he said. Still, from his room, you ended up joining him in the common area where Dean is currently giving you hums and nods of approval of your shots. Logan also told you that you can sleep in his room, you can take his bed and he’ll sleep on the floor. But you can’t stay with him, especially not with your camera and laptop that’s been keeping your secret safe for so long.

“Oh, Logan totally ate here! Look, you captured every single moment of his goal perfectly.” While Dean was still busy assessing your photos, pointing out the best ones and the funny ones, your mind started drifting elsewhere at the mention of his name.

John Logan.

The man with the number 22 on his back whenever he’s on ice, the man carrying the red toolbox whenever he needs to fix things, the man whose arms always wrapped protectively around his sibling’s shoulders, the man who’s always ready to help carry your heavy equipment whenever you have events, and the man who occupied not only the storage of your camera but also the space in your mind ever since you met him almost three years ago.

And it was all because of your camera.

It all started during Briar U’s Freshmen Day and you were busy setting up your camera when someone accidentally took out your entire setup with a stray foam hockey puck—that travels with a frightening speed—straight from the athletic department’s promotional booth.

You had just carefully leveled your tripod on the campus quad, dialing in the settings on your brand-new DSLR you gifted yourself, when a loud, panicked voice yelled not too far from where you were standing, “Heads up!” Before you could even make sense of what’s happening or where the voice even came from, a piece of orange foam smacked directly into your lens hood. The impact wasn't enough to break anything, fortunately, but it sent your tripod spinning. Your eyes widened in panic as your body twisted in the direction of the puck and your camera. Automatically, your hand reached to save the expensive equipment and in an instant, you lunged forward, tripped over your own camera bag, and fell.

When you looked up, a pair of muddy, dirty sneakers and the hem of faded blue jeans met your line of vision. A crease on your forehead immediately formed as you felt your cheeks heating up. But no, it’s not because you were embarrassed, it’s because you were furious. Clearly, whoever that person was who sent your setup flying to the ground with the puck, and you with it, wasn’t being careful.

“Oh, shit! I am so, so sorry. Please tell me you’re alive.” You squinted up into the blinding September sun with your hand trying to cover your eyes, breathing out a sigh of frustration that soon turned into a silent gasp when you got a good look at the person.

Kneeling down in front of you was a guy you thought just fell from your favorite romantic book. His messy and fluffy dark hair swaying like a curtain that frames his face perfectly, his stupidly mesmerizing brown eyes glinting with both amusement and concern, his cheeks are dusted with a hint of flush—from embarrassment or heat of the sun, you’re not entirely certain, and he’s flashing you a smile too easy for the disaster he just caused. 

The camera!

And that snapped you out of your thoughts, gasping and scrambling to your feet to check your DSLR. “Fuck, my camera.”

But before your hand could make contact with the device, the guy quickly but carefully picked up the tripod and handed it to you like the action in itself was an apology. You quickly snatched the equipment from him, rather with force, and meticulously searched the lens with the rest of the parts. When you made sure that the camera wasn't damaged, you turned toward the guy, who’s patiently waiting for you to notice him, and glared. He raised his arms and offered a sheepish smile this time. “Hey, I am really sorry. Garrett, my friend, dared me if I could hit the tree from fifty yards away and I guess, my aim was a little .. off?”

“Right, hockey puck guy. And I guess that makes you a very, very qualified hockey player, yes?” You grumbled sarcastically while rolling your eyes, setting up the tripod once again and expertly fixing the settings, completely ignoring the presence behind you. This earned you a snicker from him and that earned him another sharp glare from you.

“Woah, hockey puck guy has a name and it’s John Logan.” He held out his hand, expecting you to give him your name in return like the rest of the girls he met that week. But when you just stared at his hand, annoyance still clear on your face, he only grinned. That’s when he noticed a nametag on your left chest, your name written in a funny font. You noticed him staring at it, which prompted you to cover it with your hands as his grin widened. “So, that is your name. Gorgeous.”

“Okay, hockey puck guy has a name and it’s John Logan, you got my name, we made sure my camera is okay, I’ve set it up again, you said sorry, apology accepted, and I have things to do, what else do you want from me?” You didn’t know how your voice reached the booth where Logan came from since you’re sure it was at a normal level, but you heard a blonde guy and a man wearing a pink apron hollering from their booth, “Yeah, Logan, what do you want from her?”. Yet, the moment you raised an eyebrow at them, they immediately closed their mouths and turned their backs on you, while one of them, which you assumed was Garrett, gave you an encouraging thumbs up.

“Ignore them. They are a bunch of kids.” This time, you gave him your full attention. Meaning, he is now at the receiving end of your deathly glare. Logan really finds everything amusing, and he’s wondering if it’s possible to glare at someone with so much passion because that’s what you’re doing now.

“Alright, I do really feel bad for what happened so please, allow me to make up for my terrible aim. That being said, I am officially volunteering to be your personal muse for today and I will abandon my hockey booth just for you. Do you need photos? I am your guy because if you haven’t noticed yet, I am highly photogenic.” And to make his point, he did random poses with the foam hockey puck, with his jersey, and even made faces which contradict being photogenic. This almost made you laugh because he looked ridiculous doing so, but you instantly composed yourself.

“Logan, right? Okay, Logan, I appreciate the poses, but my assignment for today is candid photography and not sports modeling.” You tried to sound uninterested, bored even. However, you noticed how your voice shook when you said his name the second time, your heart suddenly doing weird thumping rhythms against your ribs. There’s no denying that Logan is truly and utterly attractive, but he didn’t need to know what he’s already aware of. 

“Oh, that’s perfect. I can do that.” He insisted and true to his words, he linger in your booth totally abandoning his very own one. The guy who gave you thumbs up earlier, which you correctly guessed as Garrett, even came up and gladly gave Logan the permission to be your personal muse—assistant, actually—for the day. And for the past two hours? You confirmed that Logan both can and can’t do candid things, depending on the situation.

Another two hours passed and this time, it was you going around campus to capture the activities prepared by the students themselves. Logan was just tailing behind you, carrying your equipment while saying hi to the people you and him passed by, which are mostly girls—that you soon learned are called the puck bunnies.

Sometimes, when you have your camera up and ready to take candid shots of the events in your surrounding, Logan’s face would suddenly pop into the frame. That will either draw an exhausted or entertained reaction from you.

There were shots of him where he was being completely normal, photogenic. But most of it? You didn’t even want to describe. The a capella group booth? You did a good job framing everyone in the shot. Except, Logan was suddenly behind one of the alto singers, his hands clasped together and looking at the maestro with so much focus. The cheerleading squad doing stunts in the oval? You captured the timing perfectly when they tossed the cheerleader up in the air and then there’s Logan, who just did a jump shot with both his arms stretched out. Then a photo of their booth, where Tucker is currently giving a masterclass of some sort to the interested student, except, yes, except, Logan is beside his friend acting attentive, but his hand is very busy and very actively doing evil works above Tucker’s head.

When you finally returned to your booth to take a rest and to review your shots, you let out a laugh as Logan handed you a bottle of water that he already had open which you blindly reached for before he gently guided your hand to it. “Alright, ma’am, hydrate yourself first.” 

“Logan, you completely ruined my photos!” You laughed once again, but it’s more delightful this time. Your eyes are still studying the photos, your finger is busy clicking the small button beside the small screen, and you are entirely unaware of your surroundings, already lost in your bubble. 

The sound of your laughter also drew a smile on Logan’s lips, chugging his own bottled water while stealing glances at your face. He couldn’t help but think how natural you are acting toward him. It wasn’t something bad and he wasn’t sure if it’s good either. Maybe he wasn’t just used to this anymore and it’s refreshing. Girls fawn over him because he’s a hockey player, popular, good-looking, an instant boost in their social status, but even after knowing these things the past four hours you’ve spent together, you treat him just the same.

“I mean, look at this! You just made a face while Coach Jensen was lecturing the team earlier!” That brought him back to the present, wiping the side of his mouth as he got reminded of copying their coach while he was just literally behind him.

“Nope, I didn’t ruin anything. I added a new flavor to your techniques.” Logan jokingly corrected and walked the short distance to where you were sitting and peek over your shoulder at the playback screen. The proximity almost made you jump, but you condition yourself to stay calm even though the closeness is slowly making your heart beat rapidly just like what happened earlier. You could smell his cologne, fresh like citrus with a hint of sandalwood and felt his breath fanning beside your cheeks as he spoke, “See? Your shot was so good I looked like an art. Knew it, I belong in the gallery.”

“Nope.” You said, mimicking him, trying your best to stay grounded. “It belongs here in my camera because anyone who sees it will be traumatized.”

“Wow, we just met a few hours ago and here you are hurting my feelings.” A playful chuckle bubbled inside you and was about to throw in another remark but decided to stay silent at the last minute and smiled instead. But Logan took your silence seriously, as he scrambled to sit beside you. He stole your camera from your hand and turned it off, carefully placing it in your bag after capping the lens. And all of a sudden, he seemed so shy under your confused gaze.

“Look, to fully make it up to you, from the foam puck incident to ruining your photos, can I buy you a drink? We can go to Malone’s. What do you say?” You paused and looked intently at his ridiculous, hopeful smile, then at your bag that appeared to be small atop Logan’s lap, and got reminded of the things he did for you today. Even the most unhinged one like photobombing your shots. “Please?”

“Alright, fine.” You sighed in surrender, packing up the rest of your things and watched as Logan rose to his feet with a triumphant fist in the air. “But hey, I was just joking earlier. You didn’t ruin any of my photos. If anything, you made my freshmen day memorable. So, thank you. But! I am gonna have to ask to stay ten feet away from my camera from now on.”

“Okay, okay, that’s fair.” You started walking after asking someone to cover for you for a few hours, with Logan easily falling into step just beside you. And naturally, he took your things from you and carried it himself without even asking you. As if he had done it multiple times in the past even though you only met him today. “But just so you know, the camera loves me. Your camera loves me and you're gonna have a hard time keeping me out of the frame.”

You and Logan reached Malone’s and spent the rest of the afternoon talking. Everything just fell into place in its own way. Fitting, not awkward, comforting, but also thrilling at the same time. And both of you have no idea yet about how right he was about his last statement.

You’re gonna have a hard time keeping me out of the frame.

And sure enough, you spent the next years keeping him in it.

“Hey, you okay?” You snapped your head up toward Dean’s direction and soon realized that you spaced out, his elbow nudging you gently. He’s now holding a glass of water with one hand and the other a bottle of beer. But instead of behind you, he’s now occupied the seat beside you. He passed you the glass of water, in which you said thanks before taking a sip. “Gotta keep you hydrated. Logan will kill me if he learns that I find you awake and didn’t even offer you anything to keep you hydrated.”

“Yeah, he’s very keen on turning me into this online game character, watergirl.” You joked as you keep scrolling, categorizing, and watermarking the photos you’ll soon upload on the university’s website and social media accounts. Making sure that the best ones are chosen carefully while the rest are saved if the students requested for a copy. “How’s Allie, by the way? She was so drunk when we left Malone’s.”

Dean smiled at your question, remembering how he carried Allie earlier and mentioning how they looked like a married couple. “She’s fine. Peacefully sleeping on my bed while reciting random lines from Drunk Shakespeare. I’m scared of her sometimes, you know? She’s—that photo of Tucker is impressive, let me mark this one, can’t miss it—yeah, as I was saying, she’s making me lose my shit with just a smile and that’s fucking terrifying for me and—Logan is so fucking hopeless.”

Surprise etched on your face at the sudden change of topic to Logan. You glanced at Dean and then back at your laptop screen, trying to make sense of what’s going on. Then he pointed at three of the photos and when you observed what’s in it, you immediately understood what he meant.

Photos you took at Malone’s. Photos you took from the entrance with a clear vision of the bar and the small stage at the center. Three photos that appeared to be identical until you saw the shift in Logan’s facial expression. Because in the photo, he was at the side of the stage. At first, he was having a blast and cheering for Tucker; the second one, he was looking over at the bar where you left Hannah and Garrett to spend their time together; and the last one, he got this frown plastered on his face.

Then, it slowly dawned on you.

Dean is also aware of Logan’s one-sided feelings.

“How long have you known?” You silently asked, your voice shaking a little at the end. For the longest time, you thought you’re the only one who knows since everyone seemed to be clueless about it. Logan is really good at hiding his emotions. Before anyone else could figure him out, he’s already way ahead and moved on or at least, he tries to. But your camera, like your own version of a mask to hide yourself and your own feelings, always captures the moments when Logan is looking at Hannah, with or without Garrett.

“Logan’s feelings for you?”

“Yes—what?! Di Laurentis, what the fuck?!” And if that wasn’t enough confusion and surprise for the night, another figure in the form of Tucker appeared from your other side, exhaustion evident in his eyes but he decided that listening and joining in on your conversation with Dean is suddenly very appealing than falling back to his previous slumber.

“Yes, Logan’s feelings for you. Let’s talk about it.” Tucker rubbed at his right eye like a baby, while the other one was blinking at you slowly.

“What—oh, my, you two. Let’s not read too much into my friendship with Logan because he doesn’t have any feelings for me. Not in that way.” Dean and Tucker stared at each other, as if asking themselves if you’re being serious. Then at the same time, they turned to look at you, as if they were asking you the same thing this time.

“Be for real.” The way that they are so in sync almost spook you if it weren’t for the fact that they seemed to know something you don’t. Or that it’s giving you hope and you didn’t want that. Especially if it’s not directly coming from Logan, especially if it could potentially ruin something so precious.

“I’ve known since she first attended our game.” Tucker said, stealing your laptop from your lap to check out the photos himself. He unmarked the photo of him that Dean just saved earlier and chose a funny one of the latter in replacement.

“I've known since day one.” This time, it was yours and Tucker’s turn to look at Dean rather incredulously. He got this proud look on his face as if he just decoded the answer to the country’s greatest national treasure. “What? Come on, Tuck! I’ll understand if our beautiful friend right here doesn’t see it, but haven’t you really noticed the way Logan is always tailing her like a lost puppy ever since they met during Freshmen Day? At this point, he’s become the second shadow of her figure.”

Gears seemed to be twisting and turning inside Tucker’s head as he focused his gaze on you. Your laptop was now left deserted on the center table as he made sense of what Dean just said. “You’re onto something here, D, because I remembered Logan asking if she’s going to cover the first game for that semester.”

“Right? And he never played so well his entire hockey career when he saw her behind our bench taking photos. Dude scored 2 goals and secured our win.”

Dean also pointed out that one event organized by music major students which Logan was too lazy to attend even though Hannah and Garrett asked them to volunteer. Yet, the moment he saw a photo of you with Birdie posted by Jules on The Fifth Line page with the caption, “The artist and her muse?” Logan drove back to the university at an impossible speed and looked for Jules just to say, “Excuse me but I am her first and only muse.”

Tucker also pitched in his observations and before you know it, they are fully discussing your ‘friendship’ with Logan without filter and how you guys are not just friends as if you’re not present in the room with them. You couldn’t deny that they are making a fair point, but as much as you want to believe them, your photos are literally staring back at you. The sequence of Logan’s change of emotions and facial expressions whenever he sees Hannah are too obvious to ignore. And the most shattering part? This is not the only evidence you have, because you got tons of it.

You breathed out a sigh unconsciously as Dean’s and Tucker’s voice faded into distance.

For years, you find comfort in every click of your camera and the way the photos freeze in time. It even got to a point that your camera became an extension of your nervous system. You’ve learned that if you’re anxious, the framing is always slightly tilted to the side; if you’re sad and down, you avoid having humans in your photos because in that way, no stories could be told; and for almost three years that you’re in love, the focus was entirely on Logan.

You had tons of photos of him. Him laughing at a crowded party with Tucker pushing his whole body on the sofa. Him mid-air on the ice, a fierce focus and determination plastered on his face that his head gear couldn’t hide. There was a photo of him sitting on the hood of his car at the beach, a summer getaway with your friends, the sun behind him creating a halo over his head and turning his hair a shade lighter. Your camera bears witness to the feelings you’ve buried and every snap was a quiet confession you never dared to say out loud. So you did the easiest thing—frame him and make him the masterpiece of your own gallery: your heart.

Yet like a double-edged sword, your camera grants you to hide your feelings while it also shows you reality. And that was how you figured it out.

You and some of the journalism club members were spending the night, once again, in your designated office, tweaking raw files, editing online newspaper layout, and writing headlines and captions, immersing yourselves in the comfort it provides. However, there’s something you’ve noticed the past three nights that you’ve been there.

A devastating pattern your photos showed you.

It started with a photo during their game. You stood up from where you were sitting with Allie and Hannah to find a good spot because you noticed that Logan was making a move to score a goal and you didn’t want to miss the moment. And sure enough, he did. You were so proud of that series of shots because you perfectly captured Logan’s winning goal followed by him sending an arrow celebration to the crowd, directly to where Hannah was clapping and screaming in joy.

Once you observed the photo, you pulled up folder after folder, going through your archives as curiosity drove you to check your photos of Logan. 

There was a photo during your group hangout at Malone’s. Garrett was telling a story about his date with Hannah with the latter responding with an angelic laugh. You were directly seated on the same side of the booth with them, pressed against the wall with Logan standing beside them at the aisle. This gave you a perfect view of the couple and unfortunately, Logan’s reaction. There was a soft smile on his lips, but there was something in his eyes that you can’t quite figure out.

Then a bonfire by the lake during Friendsgiving. Logan and Tucker disappeared inside the rented house to get more food and left you sitting with Hannah, Garrett, Allie, and Dean. You thought that the angle from your side was a bit off so you stood up and walked toward a tree not far from them, just enough to frame the bonfire and the two couples acting so lovely. There was the shutter of your camera and Logan’s perfect timing to appear once again, his confused eyes immediately landing on Garrett and Hannah.

Then comes the latest one, a party at Beau’s home. Logan was in the living room talking to Tucker and Birdie, a red cup in his hands that he chugged down in one swing. He looked extremely good under the lights so you raised your camera, adjusting the lens, and ready to freeze the moment when Logan moved. He spun toward the kitchen’s doorway where you left Hannah a moment ago, waiting for Garrett. You noticed that her boyfriend was already standing behind her, and you turned to check the digital preview of your shot just to see Logan already frowning.

You stopped scrolling, you stopped comparing the moments, you closed the folders, bid good night to your fellow journalists, and packed up your things. It was cold outside when you stepped out of the building despite the thick coat you were wearing, but there was nothing colder than the newfound information that made home in your mind. That you weren't the only one hiding behind a lens to cover the fact that you’re hopelessly in love. Because Logan was doing the exact same thing with his own eyes. The only difference was, your camera captured everything—including the fact that he would never see you, because he was too busy watching her while you were looking at him.

And for the first time in years, the comfort you find in every click of your camera became a sound of the slow and quiet breaking of your own heart.

The present only settles once again when you smelled something close to a beef soup and saw that Tucker prepared three cups of instant ramen, which you’re not sure if they are even allowed to eat. Dean carefully handed you your own cup, a bit of smoke escaping the slightly opened lid, and let the heat warm up your hands. And then you realized something, they are still talking about you and Logan.

“Tucker, you are a genius! Because there was one time during—”

“Guys, in case you forgot, which I know you didn’t, I’m still here. And I’m telling you, Logan doesn’t see me that way.” You stared at both of them, fully opening the lid of the ramen and cautiously sipping the hot broth as your friends started doing the same thing. Dean slurped at the noodles, only to regret it right away when he spat it back to his cup. You and Tucker shared a disgusted look, but your friend is too busy eating and too busy thinking to even pay attention to you both.

You thought that the conversation would end there, the three of you sharing a hot, comforting, and much needed midnight snack in the living room. But the universe decided otherwise. Because just when Dean finished his food, a bit red due to the heat with sweat covering his forehead, he blurted out something that made you choke.

“Alright, bestie, let’s say Logan is not totally and utterly and hopelessly and disgustingly in love with you, how are you going to explain the folder in your laptop that said ‘the muse’ with hundreds of Logan’s photos?” It was your turn to get flushed, but you’re sure it wasn’t because of the ramen you’re eating. It wasn’t because it was slightly spicy, no. It’s because they caught you. Your secret.

You could’ve easily denied it, but there’s no way you could’ve hidden the way you froze. Your hand mid-air, the noodles dangling from your fork, your mouth slightly open, and the way your eyes darted around the room, downright ignoring your friends, gave it away. You put down the cup beside your laptop to properly look at Dean and Tucker. There was no judgment in their eyes, the playfulness gone as well. They are just present and gazing at you with understanding. As if telling you that they also know and that your secret is safe with them.

“Well, there’s really no explanation for it. It’s there and you know, Logan isn’t exactly hard to like. And even if there is an explanation, I’m not going to explain it to you, D. Maybe to Tucker, yes.” Dean gasped at your words and clutched at his chest, mouth opened wide in fake offense while Tucker raised his brow at his friend proudly, raising his hand to high-five you.

The night continued on like that. The three of you joking around, throwing banters here and there, you showing them the Logan folder and telling random stories that you’ve witnessed while taking them. Eventually, it became a night of throwbacks as you pulled up your archives and reminisced the past three years you’ve spent with them.

The clock strikes at four AM and all three of you decide that it’s time to sleep. They helped you pack your things and cleaned up the cups of ramen after. Once everything is at their specific places, Tucker told you to go and occupy his room but you only shook your head.

“Tuck, it’s okay. Take your room, I’ll crash at Logan’s. Although maybe my camera and laptop could stay in your room? I mean, I know Logan wouldn’t snoop into my things, I trust him. But yeah, I don’t want to take my chances.” Tucker gave you an ‘Are you sure?’ look, but when he saw that you’re being serious, he nodded and took your things with him. When you turned around to finally go up, you bumped into Dean who got a teasing grin on his lips, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Oooh, she’s going to sleep in Logan’s room. Are we going to hear some—” He didn’t get the chance to finish what he was about to say when you elbowed him at his side, walking past him and toward the stairs. You heard him mumbling something to Tucker but the moment he saw you looking, he just smiled and gestured for you to keep going.

Once you all made it on the second floor, you all bid each other good night. Tucker was the first to disappear inside his room still carrying your equipment but not before giving you a hug. “Sorry for prying into your folders. We shouldn’t have opened it since we already know that it’s Logan’s. But promise, we won’t tell him. So proud of you today. Your photos are outstanding, like always.”

You smiled at his words and returned the hug, patting his back in the process and sent him to his room. You were about to do the same until Dean called out for you, his head peeking from behind his door.

“Hey, there’s no denying that you are incredibly good at capturing genuine feelings in your photos. It shows, and I wish I have the same talent. But maybe you’re missing something in Logan's photos? What I meant to say is, just—just try not to hide too much behind your camera, okay? I know you love it and we do too, but don’t forget to live in the moment as well. Good night, bestie!” He already closed his door before you could even ask what he meant, his words replayed in your mind in a loop. You didn’t dare to ponder too much about it, though you might have an idea, because you felt the exhaustion catching up on you and decided to think about it once you have the energy.

The moment you made it inside Logan’s room, you saw him peacefully sleeping under his covers. His bed is enough to fit two people and you could easily sleep beside him, but you decided to choose the safe option. So, you took two blankets from his cabinet, stole one of his pillows, and sat on the floor just beside his bed to look at him once more.

He was hugging a pillow and his body is facing you so you have a clear vision of his face that is illuminated by the moonlight peeking from the window. He looks so beautiful like this. Sleeping so serene without a care in the world. You smiled as you felt your eyelids getting heavier and with one last glance at Logan, you lay down on the floor and turned your back on him, muttering a silent good night—a picture of his calm resting figure the last thing you saved in the space of your mind before you drifted off to sleep.

The smell of Logan’s cologne greeted your senses when you woke up, followed by the comfortable and fluffy feeling beneath your body. You blinked against the morning sun and stretched your arms, becoming aware of the fact that you were buried under a thick, navy-blue comforter rather than the blankets you wrapped around yourself with last night. You were pretty sure that you passed out on the floor. Not unless you crawled all the way up to his bed last night.

Before you could fully process the confusion of how you got up there, the bedroom door slowly opened and Logan’s head appeared, his wide and cautious eyes directly landing on you as if to check if you’re still sleeping. When he saw that you’re already awake, though still a bit out of it, an easy smile graced his lips as he walked in. Then you notice the paper bag he was carrying. The mouth-watering scent registered in your mind and with one look at Logan, you quickly catch on that he bought your favorite food.

“Look who’s alive.” His grin widened when you made space for him on his bed, silently inviting him to sit beside you. He handed you the brown paper bag and helped you with the food, setting the drink on his nightstand after telling you to take a big sip. “Good morning, ma’am. You look good.”

“Yeah? I probably looked like a mess right now, but thank you?” You laughed at his words, taking a bite of your meal. Logan just waved it off and urged you to eat while he scrolled at his phone. “Also, you should really stop calling me ‘ma’am’. Even Dean is calling me that.”

“Well, you are the boss in this dynamic and I’m just happy to follow your lead. And believe me, D is calling you that just to tease you.” Logan replied without even looking at you, still busy using his phone, as if what he just said didn’t hit you in a whole different way. As if you shouldn’t be saying such a thing because it’s obvious, like both of you have already established that a long time ago. But at that moment, for you, he just basically admitted something beyond his words. And suddenly, you were reminded of what Dean told you last night.

Maybe you’re missing something in Logan’s photos.

Try not to hide too much behind your camera.

Don’t forget to live in the moment.

You don’t want to overthink it, you don’t want to make something out of pure observation, you don’t want to give meaning into his words especially after what they mentioned to you last night. You don’t want to believe their words, not when your photos show an entirely opposite thing.

Logan has feelings for you, Tucker and Dean said.

Logan is always looking at Hannah, what your camera captured for you.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to develop any kind of negative feelings toward Hannah. The girl is very kind and she helps you out a lot if you have events and vice versa. She made sure that your ‘Welcome Back to Uni’ video for last year’s semester has good and upbeat music and you were always the one she calls to film her music videos with. You’ve always been present in each other’s lives since Logan introduced you to her and there’s no way you could hate her.

You shake off the thoughts in your head and focus on the present.

Live in the moment.

Logan is still beside you, but you noticed that he’s closer now. His leg is touching yours, his body leaning on you that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. He tilted his head until it landed on your upper arm, a soft sigh escaping his lips at the contact.

The proximity isn’t something new between you and Logan. After hanging out with him a couple times, you’ve learned that he’s rather clingy when he becomes comfortable.

At the hockey house during movie night? He’d plant himself beside you just to pull you against him. Or sometimes, he’d make you his personal pillow and will lay his head on your thighs. Whenever you have university events to cover? He always had his arms around your shoulders when you’re not taking photos, or he’d play with your fingers while you’re checking your images. And even when he’s carrying your equipment, he’d still find a way to stay close to you. At parties? He will always place his warm hands over your hips or waist whenever someone is standing too close for your own comfort. And even if it’s just the two of you, his body will just automatically cling to you like a magnet.

But just because it’s not new doesn’t mean it makes you feel normal. No, you’re far from feeling normal. You even got to a point that you feel like the closeness will be the death of you because your heart rate always spikes up. You seemed calm outside, a relaxed smile on your face, joking around with your friends, but inside? A total chaos. And that’s happening right now.

Logan appears to be unaware of this since he just stole a bite of your breakfast by bringing your hand with the food to his mouth and took a gulp from your beverage that you’ve been drinking. Given, he was the one who bought it and maybe he intends to have it shared, the whole thing just happened so naturally it almost gave you a heart attack. So before it could actually happen, you tried to focus on something else.

“Hey, did you carry me onto your bed?” You cautiously asked, trying to stabilize your voice.

“Yeah. Well, actually, you kinda did it yourself when I was about to. I think you felt my arms because you literally said, ‘Logan, leave me alone’, but still let me guide you toward my bed anyway.” Logan chuckled at the memory as he copied you and you raised your eyebrow at his overexaggerated execution of what happened, a sarcastic smile on your lips. “But no, even if you tell me to leave you, I won’t. The floor is bad for your back so, yeah.”

“Then I guess that deserves a, ‘thank you, Logan’.”

“Always, ma’am.” He shrugged casually, his attention back on his phone even though there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes. He didn’t dwell on it though, and instead watched the video currently playing on his screen. But not even a minute passed, he locked his phone and glanced up at you. “By the way, where are your camera and laptop? You didn’t leave them in my room so I assumed it was downstairs, but I didn’t find them.”

The question caught you off-guard. You took a moment to let the question hang in the air, diverting your attention to the last of your food. It wasn’t like you’re planning to lie to him or avoid the question altogether. However, lately, Logan is always eager to see your photos of him. But due to the amount of it that you haven’t let him see, it’s getting harder and harder for you to hide the folders. Especially when he borrows your laptop to send himself a copy of the available ones that you allowed him to see, separated from the original transferred file folder. And the rest where he was just the sole focus while the rest of the world blurred behind him? Those, he cannot see just yet.

“Oh, they’re in Tucker’s room. I was supposed to stay there last night since he offered his room but we kinda ended up in the living room with D—”

“I have my room, you can always stay here.” Logan’s eyebrows shot up at the information, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face and he did the thing with his lips that he always does whenever he’s thinking. But before you could read him, he already turned away.

“You know what? I am giving you my full permission to access my room whenever you want to. And before you protest, which I know you will, don’t. From now on, this room is yours now as much as it is mine. That’s why, you should grab your things from Tucker’s room so we can check the photos you took last night—forget it, I’ll go get it myself.”

Logan was about to stand up when you grabbed his arm that was just leaning on you earlier. There was an unsure smile over your lips, not used to this side of Logan. Sure, you’ve seen him talking a lot, but that’s when he’s playing video games or on ice with his teammates. And on other occasions, when he’s reviewing for his exams. But not like this, not in this kind of situation. He almost sounds envious of the fact that your things are staying somewhere else other than his room. But you pushed the thought at the farthest back of your mind and instead, teased him.

“Logan, relax. If you want me to move in with you and be roomies, all you had to do was ask. There’s no need to use the photos as an excuse.” Logan plopped down beside you again, his eyes studying your face to see even a hint of your seriousness in it. He sighed when he saw none, it was just you joking around with him.

“I mean, think about it, it’s not a bad idea. It would be like a work-university-hockey-life balance for me and you can ask me for help or annoy me whenever you want to.” This time, faux confusion swims on your expression as you ponder over his words. 

“I’m not sure I understand. Am I gonna be part of the university and hockey category so you can have professional and unlimited photos of yourself, in exchange of me annoying you—hold up, did you just call me annoying? Excuse me, John Logan?” He laughed out loud at your words, throwing his head back in the process. When his laughters died down, there was an adoration pooling in his eyes that you weren’t prepared to see.

“You’re not annoying.” He softly said. “And my life, you fall in the life category. The whole of it, but only if you want to.”

Your stomach did a violent flip as silence enveloped the room. You didn’t even know how long it stretched out, but you are pretty sure that you just kept staring at each other. The moment was vulnerable and it’s scaring you, especially when Logan’s gaze didn’t waver. The same adoration is still present but now mixed with honesty and yearning.

“Life category, interesting.” You swallowed hard, anchoring yourself to stay calm when you heard that it came out a little breathier than it should. “And you didn’t deny the unlimited photos. In case you haven’t realized the severity of your silent acceptance, that means a lot of storage space in my hard drive. Are you willing to buy me storage space for the whole of it?”

You didn’t know how you managed to say those. Maybe you’ve finally mastered the art of masking it up, of not acknowledging what this might be, of ignoring the insinuations, of accepting that Logan is really just like this and there’s nothing real special about how he treats you.

But Logan’s lip twitched, a fond smile spreading across his lips that reached his eyes as they smiled with him, leaning forward in your direction. “Anything you asked me to, ma’am, you got it.”

“You’re so annoying, Logan. Get out of my face.” 

Logan moved a bit, but his body is still pressed slightly against you. He watched you for a moment as you started cleaning up the paper bag, his smile now softening into something curious. The bubble of vulnerability floating around inside the room a moment ago shifts into a much comfortable state. Like the conversation itself made peace with the two of you, like it understood that whatever occurred isn’t just something that came and passed, but it stayed and will live with the both of you.

“Hey, we’ve been friends for years now and I’m sure I haven’t asked you this, but why did you choose candid photography? Of all styles, why do you love it so much when people are not looking?”

You paused, looking back on the reason on how your love developed for that certain style. Soon, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips and then you realized something. Over the course of three years, aside from the main reason why you kept doing candid photography, Logan unknowingly spent it being your favorite subject and he never knew about it.

Eventually, you let out a sigh, the smile still maintained which didn’t go unnoticed by Logan. “There we go, there’s that smile.”

“It actually started when I was five. When I took a photo of my family while they were busy doing their own things, it was Christmas that time. The world kept spinning, but time froze and so was the moment when I used the camera.” A soft laugh escaped you as you tried to find the right words, your voice dropping just a little.

“And that’s beautiful. Because I learned that they don’t just freeze in time, it holds stories as well. When I asked my mom later on if she remembered what happened, she told me a version different from my uncle. My cousin said she was chasing her cat, my grandma said she was just watching me, my other cousin said she was busy critiquing her mom’s roasted chicken, and my story? I was the one who took the photo and it was so, so beautiful, Logan.”

Logan was just silently listening beside you, studying your every word and making mental notes on how this certain conversation is making you feel. What do you look like, how you talk about it, your hand gestures, and how your face contorts into different expressions. His silence urged you to keep going, the words pouring out.

“Also, people are more honest when they don’t know there’s a camera. Because when they know, they put up a wall. I have nothing against that, I do that too sometimes and I love it when they pose for the camera, I pose for the camera. But candid photography? It captures how people actually look around them. What they’re feeling in that instant and who they are looking at.”

Then suddenly, you were thinking of the photos you had of him. During his hockey games, at parties, at Malone’s, at a group vacation, and a few completely random moments where your camera happens to be with you and you can’t resist taking photos of your surroundings. Logan dwells on your words, still quiet but present.

Then all of a sudden, he took your phone from his nightstand and asked you to open it. He pulled up your gallery and clicked on one of the photos, handing the phone to you.

“Tell me a story then.” And of all the photos that he chose, he chose the one where you guys spent Friendsgiving on the lakehouse. The photo you took where he suddenly appeared from inside the house and directly looked at Hannah. 

“Uhm, suddenly? Well, I remembered Allie complaining that Dean was leaning too close to her and that Garrett was starving and he wanted more of Hannah’s lasagna and Tucker’s turkey.” You purposely skipped out the part where he was visibly seen in the background. You ignored the look he has on his face and focused on the sole subject of the photo, the couples. 

“I’m in the photo too. What’s my story?” You turned to look at Logan, your mouth suddenly dry. You cannot possibly say, “Oh, you’re looking at Hannah, right? And you had this look on your face because you wished you were in Garrett’s place instead.” So, once again, you chose the safe option.

“How could I possibly know? You were too far.” You laughed dismissively and locked your phone, but Logan wasn’t finished.

He didn't say anything for a moment, thinking over his words as he bit his lower lips. He just stared at you, his dark eyes shimmering with courage and searching your face as if what he wanted to say was something that could make or break the moment, as if you are what he wanted to say. The silence grew heavy with unsaid words until Logan opened his mouth.

“I know. You were—” But the harsh buzz of his phone cut him off. He pinched the bridge of his nose at the intruding sound, breathing out heavily as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He cursed at the small device, reading the message before tucking it back inside his jeans.

“Sorry to interrupt our conversation, ma’am. But I have a plumbing business to attend to and apparently, a car that suddenly broke down.” He sighed, collecting the garbage from his bed and the nightstand. He offered you a regretful smile, standing beside his bed, not ready to leave just yet. “Anyway, stay as long as you need if you don’t have classes but shoot me a message if you need a ride back to campus, okay? Make sure to get your things from Tucker too. Remember, my room is yours now.”

“Wait, I thought I’m the boss here? Why are you giving me orders?” He walked toward the door, but stopped right at the threshold at the sound of your teasing voice. He turned back, his gaze locking onto yours one last time, his own tone copying yours.

“You’re still in charge, but even you have house rules to follow. Like, Rule No. 1: You are not allowed to walk back to campus when I’m capable of driving you back there—”

“And I’m also capable of walking, Logan.” The playful glint in his eyes is still present, but it’s softer now. He exhaled, knowing well that you have something to say in return. But he stood his ground and stepped out of his room, only to peek inside once more just to tease you.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot seem to comprehend that statement so I’m still driving you back to campus, alright? See you later.” With a quick wink he threw your way, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone in his bed with your heart hammering against your ribs. And you finally let out the heaviest huffed you breathed out your entire life. The past hour that you’ve spent with him almost felt like a lifetime and you were nearing your death. You silently thanked whoever that was who called him for a job, because if Logan stayed a bit more, you’re not sure what’s going to happen.

You were still recovering from everything when your own phone buzzed between your hands, the notification sending your heart in shock at the unexpected sound. When you’ve calmed down, you check to see what it’s all about.

The notification was from the journalism club group chat. And it’s about the annual exhibition related to media and arts. However, this year’s theme wasn’t about the usual subject. It wasn’t about “what the journalism club covers?” but it’s about “who makes the coverage happen?” The editor-in-chief, Meadow, who is a senior, wanted to shift the attention to the students that keep the Briar university media alive and the adviser approved it.

You opened the link and it directed you to a private document where the complete details of the exhibition laid out. There, in bold letters were BEHIND, the overall theme for the exhibition. You scrolled through the document until you saw the part specifically for photojournalists, the assignments and guidelines carefully listed out.

BEHIND: The Lens.

Each photojournalist must showcase a minimum of 10 (20 at maximum) high resolution and raw images where they were the subject. (Photos taken during an event, party, personal getaway, etc. as long as they are the subject are acceptable.)

It is important that they are carrying their camera, doing their usual task as photojournalist.

Those were some of the important ones that you read. And it said twenty days. You only got twenty days to prepare everything. That includes the photos, the captions, the stories, the editing, the perfect printing, the exhibit setup. You love Briar U, you love your adviser, you love being a journalist and a photographer, but doing everything in twenty days? While also juggling other courses and activities? You thought you might as well just disappear.

You’re already thinking about how you’re collecting the photos. Maybe your fellow photojournalists have stolen photos of you while you’re covering, maybe your friends got a few as well. But it’s a very rare occasion for a photojournalist to be photographed. There’s a reason why you’re the ones carrying the camera and for a moment there, you started stressing out. You’re lucky to get at least five or eight, but ten to twenty? You really hope your friends have some photos, even the blurry ones would suffice.

You were still reading the guidelines when you received a message from Logan.

And that was enough to forget the stress as you started getting ready for the day, the corner of your lips beaming with anticipation. The only thought in your mind is Logan and how he always knows when to appear, even unknowingly.

“They changed the guidelines, guys! Imagine that! And now, they wanted a maximum of twenty photos. Like, how would over a hundred photos fit in the gallery? I only have ten photos at the moment, which met the initial guideline. We only have seven days left. We barely got everything together, Ms. Rodriguez is sick, and at this point, I’m not sure if the exhibit is still feasible at all.” You all but ranted at your friends at the diner, pushing a fry around your plate in which Logan picked up to bring near your lips so you could finally eat. “Stop feeding me, Logan. These fries are just as stressed as I am, they taste so bad.”

Allie and Hannah gave you a sympathetic look, offering you a light squeeze on your shoulder since that was the only thing they could do for now. Three out of your ten photos actually came from them, four were from Tucker, Garrett, and Dean, while the remaining three were from Logan. They have asked around themselves but to no avail, and the stress is slowly eating at you.

That moment, it dawned on you that being a candid photographer means literally blending with the wind because none of your subjects notice you which you don’t mind in many cases, but you do now. Even your friends from journalism don’t have photos of you. Well, they have. But you were not carrying your camera, you were instead posing for theirs. 

“And I mean, I can’t fake it. I can’t just ask you guys to take pictures of me right now because that’ll be unnatural which kills the sole reason why I’m doing this in the first place. Candid is my brand, my trademark.”

Garrett then chimed in, a memory flashing in his mind during your rant. “Wait, I think I have another photo of you during my birthday but it’s in my old phone. I’ll check it later, okay? Can’t promise you it’s good though.”

You almost cried at that, sending Garrett a grateful smile. This made you turn to your friends, the same look on your face, while Logan was still busy feeding you fries from time to time. “Guys, any photo will do at this point as long as I have my camera. It’s not even important now whether I’m checking photos or just simply holding it, I just need the photos because they must be printed by Friday this week and it’s already Tuesday. I swear, I’ll treat all of you to dinner once this is over.”

Hannah shook her head as she reached for your hands, enveloping it with hers as she smiled at you. “Hey, we got this, okay? I’ll double check if I missed anything from our beach trip last summer. You’ll complete the twenty photos, babe, trust me.”

You didn’t know if it was the dread of the upcoming deadline playing with your mind but you saw Hannah throwing Logan a look. But when you glanced at him, he didn’t say anything, he also stopped tending to your fries. He just took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes looking back at Hannah before landing on you for a second longer than usual until he looked down at his phone. You felt the familiar ache in your chest before you turned away from him yourself. He was probably thinking about something else, or someone else. And he didn’t speak anymore for the duration of your stay after that.

Time passed by quickly in the diner as you spent it sending out messages to your friends to help you collate photos for the exhibit. You even got Beau and Dexter to help when they joined your table. And before you know it, all of you call it a day.

By the time you got back to your dorm, with Logan driving you, he still hasn’t said a word. You didn’t know what’s going on or what he was thinking about, but his silence is affecting you. Logan was never this quiet when he’s with you, so you’re not very sure how to approach the situation.

“Thanks for the ride, Logan. Be safe on your way to the house.” You muttered quietly as you unfastened your seatbelt. When he stayed silent, you started to collect your bag and camera between you and him, refusing to look his way. But when you were about to hop out of his truck, he stopped you, his hand reaching out to gently grab your arm. However, even with the contact, he still didn’t say anything. “Logan, are you okay?”

“Yeah, uhm, let me walk you to your room.”

You just nodded in response and waited for him as he parked his car. On your way to your dorm room, that’s when he started asking questions about the exhibit. How many more photos do you need, can’t you really just take new photos, what else is lacking, what kind of photos do you want the audience to see the most for your entry, and the like. You were surprised how attentive he is now compared to when you were at the diner, but you weren’t complaining.

When you reached your room, you offered to invite him inside but he kindly declined and mentioned there’s something important he needs to do tonight. You shook your head in understanding and gestured that he should go back home.

“Thank you, again, for the ride, and for listening to my rants. Message me once you’re back home, okay? Good night, Logan.” You stood there for a moment, waiting for Logan’s response that didn’t come. Instead, he engulfed you with a hug. His warmth quickly spreads throughout your body, your arms automatically wrapping around him.

“Research shows that hugging can reduce stress so let’s stay like this for a moment.”

It was completely random, you thought. But it’s true, you felt yourself melting against Logan as he held you close to him. His arms only tightened on you when you tugged at his sweater, trying to be as close to him as possible. It wasn’t the first hug that you shared, but there’s something about this one that felt different. It felt intimate and not just for the sake of physical contact.

You didn’t know how much time had passed when you loosened your hold on him, pulling a foot away to look at him. “I don’t know how many times I’m gonna say thank you tonight but thank you. That hug really helped a lot.”

Logan gave you a slight tap on your nose as he completely let go, though reluctantly. The silence came back, but it’s much more comfortable now unlike earlier. Logan busied himself by fixing your clothes that wrinkled during the hug and gazed directly at your eyes.

“Don’t stress, okay? I got you. Tonight, allow yourself to relax. You’ll be okay, I promise.” And then he left, right after sending you inside your dorm, after hearing you lock the door, after making sure that you’re safe.

And especially after gracing your forehead with a kiss that he couldn’t help himself to give.

You weren’t sure what to do with what happened.

Logan, who was supposed to like Hannah, just kissed your forehead and just left. He hugged you for who knows how long and then he kissed you. After telling you not to stress and to relax for tonight, he did the exact thing that kept you from doing so. Obviously, you couldn’t relax. You don’t kiss your friend on their forehead. Because that will blur the line between being friends, nothing in the friendship would feel normal after that.

Not unless Logan kisses all his friends to their forehead, you wouldn’t react this way. Well, he did kiss Garrett one time on the same spot but you were playing some drinking game that time. Do the dare, tell the truth, or drink the weird mixture prepared by Tucker. But that was a totally different scenario. See, that’s the thing, Logan doesn’t kiss all his friends that way and he wasn’t definitely playing with you earlier. And that is a territory that you’re trying to understand at two AM in the morning.

You’re currently sitting on the floor of the journalism club office after accepting the fact that sleep is miles away from your reach because of two things. One was obviously because of Logan, and two, you’re still contacting friends about your photos while also brainstorming possible layouts and captions. Ms. Rodriguez allows students to stay for as long as they need in the office. Especially at times like this when everyone is busy preparing for an event. 

A few other members also came to do their assignments. But unlike you, they are actually accomplishing something. You glanced at the door when one of the editorial cartoonists bid good night, wishing the rest of you good luck to finish your tasks. And you hoped that it’d work because you badly needed it.

Puffing out a breath, you put your attention back to your laptop and continued scrolling on your archives. You knew it was no use since the photos were not you, but looking at them brings you comfort. Until you pulled up Logan’s folder.

The Muse.

You clicked at the small icon and patiently waited for it to load. The photos appeared one after another, the pixels forming into clarity. You gasped, the small numbers on the left down corner of your screen still surprising you whenever it stops at a certain amount. You’ll never get used to it, because you know that as long as the lens of your camera catches Logan, you’ll click that small button to capture him. The sequence of his whole existence turning into pages inside your album.

I am your guy because if you haven’t noticed yet, I am highly photogenic.

He mentioned during your first meeting, and did he lie? No, he didn’t. Because keeping his words, he wasn’t just photogenic but he also became your guy. The last years proved that, the present proved that. You just didn’t know how much longer you could keep it in considering the observations of your friends and the way Logan acted the past few days, especially earlier. And you thought to yourself—hiding his photos is one thing, suppressing your feelings is another, and a girl can only do both for a long time.

“Ruin the friendship, babe. He’s a senior, who knows what will happen after graduation?” Meadow suddenly appeared behind you, balancing her laptop with her left hand while the right one was carrying probably her third cup of coffee since 12 AM. “And before you deny it, I’ve seen the way you look at him and the way he looks at you, and I’m telling you, it’s worth ruining the friendship.”

“Meadow, it’s not—” But she’s already backing toward the door, her playful eyes never leaving your form. And before she completely left, she pointed at your phone beside your laptop. “He sent you a message, by the way, but you were too busy looking at his photos. Live in the moment, babe. Good night!”

You didn’t get to respond to her as she briskly went and closed the door, leaving you dumbfounded and realizing that she said the same thing as Dean. Your phone buzzed again, preventing you from thinking over the words. You picked it up to see four messages from Logan.

Curiosity and excitement clouded your mind as you opened your email, thinking that maybe he collected the photos Garrett and Hannah promised to double check for you and a few more from him and the others. When the page loaded, Logan’s mail sat at the top of your inbox which contained a shared drive link with a camera emoji as the title.

When you click the link, you expect to see blurry and casual frame phone snaps. The photo Garrett said was probably bad, the photo from the beach getaway by Hannah, but you saw none of those. Instead, you had to wait a full minute for the folder to fully load.

Your breath caught in your throat as the sheer volume of files flashed before you, each thumbnail beginning to clear.

There are hundreds of them. Hundreds of candid photos of you.

It was all you.

Holding your camera, browsing the photos, capturing others.

You were completely in your element.

And they were all taken by Logan. You confirmed this by seeing the small watermark, JL22, located at the uppermost right corner of the photos. A watermark you helped him design a year ago that you never see him use. But now, you understand. He never intended for it to be seen by other people, it was solely just for you.

You scrolled at the shared folder, your heart hammering against your ribs as if it wanted to jump out. The corner of your eyes started to sting without permission, tears forming the longer you browsed. The photos weren’t accidental nor taken with low-effort, and as someone who has been doing photography, Logan’s angles were so good he might be mistaken as part of the club. The lighting was perfect, the focus was measured, the background fading behind as you stood out.

You’ve taught Logan how to use a camera one time, but you didn’t realize how much attention and effort he put into that day for his photos to turn out this way. They were taken so carefully.

Or maybe because he’s been observing you, he’s been paying attention. That while you were too occupied adjusting your lens, his focus was already on yours.

The tears in your eyes fell one by one but you weren’t sure what the reason was. All you know was you’re overwhelmed, you’re confused, and you really want to talk to Logan about this. Because this completely changed everything. The hug and the kiss? It was just the start, but this? You’re crossing a whole foreign zone in this predicament.

You clicked on the photos and observed each one, remembering the moment and what you were doing—what was your story.

There was a picture of you during an off-campus party, your face half-hidden by your camera as you try to capture Justin and his band. Another photo was you sitting behind Logan’s truck during your beach getaway as you set up your tripod to shoot the sunset, looking for the best angle. And there was a candid shot of you from a random day in the library but this time, you were transferring files, your camera resting safely beside your laptop.

You continued scrolling, too mesmerized to stop. Because at that moment, you felt seen, you felt loved. It feels like Logan learned how to appreciate you and what you do based on how you appreciate the world, and it was destroying your walls—both in good and bad ways.

Until you noticed something. A pattern, again. But it wasn’t the kind that breaks you, it was the kind that showed you another side of the story, Logan’s side of the story. And there was only one way to prove these patterns. You opened the tab containing your own archive, splitting the screen so you have it side-by-side with Logan's shared drive.

The photos you took at Malone’s to celebrate their win, the same night you spent hanging out with Tucker and Dean. Your photo was taken from the entrance and Logan was looking at Hannah and Garrett over at the bar where you left them to hang out. And Logan’s photo was you, laughing and capturing the couple in front of you, right before you left them.

The photo during your group hung out at the same diner. You were pressed against the wall as you pictured the same couple teasing each other. But looking at Logan’s photo, he didn’t even include Hannah and Garrett, he just focused on you while you were still holding your camera.

And there was Friendsgiving by the lake. He was in the background emerging from the lakehouse, confusion obvious on his face. Then you glanced at his version, and the picture was taken inside the house, you were still sitting beside Hannah, preparing to photograph your friends.

Then Beau’s party. Logan was frowning at your photo, looking at the kitchen’s doorway where Garrett stood close behind his girlfriend. But then there was you, perfectly captured by Logan, at the same kitchen doorway where you were showing Hannah something in your camera.

Realization hit you at once. Logan hadn’t been looking at Hannah all this time, he had been looking at where he last saw you, which was usually beside the latter. He wasn’t tracking her movements, he was tracking yours. He wasn’t paying attention to her in ways that you thought, he was paying attention to you. He positions himself in every possible corner of the room to give himself the clearest sight of you—the person holding the camera, the person who’s always engaged behind the lens of her camera that she totally missed the eyes of the person she wanted to catch the most.

Live in the moment. Maybe you’re missing something in Logan’s photos. 

That instant, it occurred to you that the reason he rarely looked at the lens of your camera was because he was too busy trying to catch your eyes. You're too occupied watching Logan and the way he's looking at Hannah, that you missed who he's actually looking at.

Sitting on the floor of the journalism club office, the overwhelming feelings slowly dissipate as your mind clears out. Your heart goes back to its normal rhythm, while your mind is gradually absorbing the new information you’ve found out. Your emotions are still not at its one hundred percent best, but the ache of the last year believing that Logan likes someone else is now being replaced by a cure you didn’t know existed.

A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you stared at the split screen in front of you. Because all along, you thought that you and Logan were in the same heartbreaking situation of being in love with someone you could never have.

Turned out, both of you have been harboring a secret and hopeless love for each other.

You then looked at the printer a few feet away from you, then back at the laptop. You already printed out the first ten, you just have to choose ten more. And after a few careful consideration, you’ve chosen the best ones from his folder, a satisfied smile crossing your lips at the last one.

The night is getting deeper, but you know that Logan is still awake. So, while the printer was doing its job bringing the photos in its form, you took your phone from your bag and messaged him.

The last of your photo was printed out when you heard the entrance door open, Logan’s head peeking behind as he glanced inside the empty office. You smiled at his presence, gesturing for him to come inside as you picked up the final photo to put beside the other ones to dry down.

He didn’t come in right away, he just stood at the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets as a slow and knowing grin spread across his face. He had his eyes locked onto yours, watching you organize the things you used for printing and at the photos hanging just behind you.

His photos.

Logan felt a sense of pride knowing that you were able to complete the twenty photos because of him. He always calls you ma’am, he always says that he’s happy to do whatever you ask him to, but what he doesn't say is that he likes taking care of you. In ways that you allow him, without making you feel like you’re dependent. And this is just one of the ways he shows it. Making himself present, but not hovering.

“You weren’t kidding, those are mine.” He softly said, his voice carrying a gentleness to it that made you look at him. At the same time, he glanced down to meet your gaze. “They’re beautiful.”

For a moment, none of you speak. You just let the silence take over the both of you, his words lingering like a reminder of what’s about to come, of the reason why you messaged him. Both of you understood that it wasn’t just about the ride, but it’s also about the path you’ll navigate after tonight.

“They are, and you were the person behind these photos.” The way you said it went straight to Logan’s heart, because you said it with ease, with normalcy. You sound so proud and it did something to him. “Come in, please. We need to talk.”

Logan walked over, the gap between you disappearing instantly and suddenly, the room felt small. But he didn’t push, he didn’t crowd your space, he just let you take the next step. Just like he always did. He always patiently waits for you, in many ways that you could name. Then you nudged at your laptop so the device was facing him, the screen displayed your folder and his; showing him that both of you kept an archive of each other.

“First of all, thank you. For the photos, it truly helped me complete my entry for the exhibit. You have no idea how grateful I am for these.” You began, your eyes casting toward the ten printed photos that hung in a line above you. You started tracing the outline of yourself and the way Logan made you appear like a main character in his photos, an intimate tug at your lips forming. “And I’m sorry, for not seeing it sooner.”

You exhaled shakily, twisting around to face Logan who’s already looking at you. “When I saw your email, what it contained, your photos, I realized that I relied on my camera too much and what it showed me. Dean was right, there was something missing in your photos. I missed to capture the way you’re looking at me, because I thought you were looking at someone else.”

Logan’s expression softened, it was a subtle change in his eyes but it was enough for you to notice. He was hanging on every word that you’re saying, longing for it to unfold. But being the man that he is, he didn’t say anything, he just let you find the right path through your thoughts.

“Then, it dawned on me that you were not hiding your feelings for someone else—you were not hiding anything at all. It’s always been laid out there for me but I was too scared to ruin what we have. Because what we have is good, Logan. You’ve been such a good friend to me and I can’t ruin that. But looking at my photos, at your photos, I feel like I only captured a fraction of what is actually happening.

“And that it was actually me that has been hiding a lot. Behind my camera, behind the blinding flash of it because it was easier for me. It was easier to look at you when I have my camera because it lets me control how I see things, how I see you. And that’s not fair.”

The admission almost broke Logan’s heart, because in the past three years that he’d known you, this is the first time that he saw you totally break down your walls. Sure, there were the vulnerable times when you allowed yourself to rely on him, to cry in front of him, but he never saw you this way. And he wanted nothing but to tell you that it’s okay, that he doesn’t find it unfair. That he understands because if he were being honest, he didn’t exactly come clean himself. He never actually admitted his feelings for you and he could only hope at that moment that he had done it a long time ago.

“I always say that I love candid photography because there is always a story behind it. But you, you’ve always been my favorite person to picture yet I didn’t exactly give you the chance to tell your side of the story.” Then you took a step forward, there was still space between you but it’s almost nonexistent now. “If you want, I wish to hear every single version of the stories you have through your lens. I’m done telling mine, Logan, I choose to listen this time, I choose to see this time.”

Logan let out a quiet, breathy laugh, keeping his emotions at bay. He doesn’t know whether to slap himself to confirm if this was a dream or just put you in an embrace, in his arms, and hold you for the rest of time. But he stopped himself and moved forward, and he swore he could almost feel your heart beating the same rhythm as his.

“Oh, baby, it wasn’t unfair. You have every right to interpret this however you want, because I didn’t say anything sooner. And I’m sorry too, for making you feel that way.” He said, his tone dropping to a velvet whisper that seemed to absorb the remaining space between you. His hands hovered beside your arms, testing the moment, and when he didn’t see any hint of hesitance on your face, he wrapped his hands around yours. 

“I wished I did things differently, there was no reason for me to keep my feelings a secret. But I believe I was just terrified as you are because you were right, what we have is really good. And I will never be able to handle knowing that I could potentially break what we have because I started seeing you more like a future than a friend.” He confessed, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, staring at the way they fit perfectly together. Like it was sculpted to be that way. You felt your tears build up once again and you looked up to prevent it from falling, your throat constricting as you do so.

Logan drew comforting circles against your skin before his eyes met yours again with a raw and obvious vulnerability, yearning to look at you and to be looked by you. He let go of one of your hands just so he could wipe a stray tear that fell, and eventually, he gently cupped your cheek.

“I cannot go back and change what happened, but I can definitely make up for it starting now. And if you wanna know what I want? I want us. I want what you want and everything that you don’t. I want myself with you, not just for now but for—”

“The whole of it.”

“Yeah, baby, the whole of it. But only if you want to?” You laughed, the glee sound of it echoing in Logan’s mind, taking note of how you looked right now. And while you’ve always been beautiful in his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice the way you appeared so breathtaking in his gaze that second.

“John, did you just use the same words you told me a week ago?” His hand that was holding your cheek dropped back to his side as he sheepishly smiled at you, but you saw a depth behind it. He genuinely wanted to know the answer, because that time in his room, you didn’t give a clear response and he understood why. But now, things have changed. You knew that the moment the both of you walked out the journalism office, you’ll no longer be just friends. Your relationship will be more, and that includes making decisions.

“Hey, you didn’t have to say anything now. We have time, love, there’s no rush.” Logan gave your hand a squeeze, a final assurance to his words. But you shook your head, your mind swirling with something else.

“Logan, I spent—we spent a lot of years not saying anything and I don’t want to do that anymore. And this is not us rushing, this is you and me finally choosing us. And I want more of it, I want the whole of it.”

Logan exhaled heavily, like he wasn’t expecting you to say the words he’d been dying to hear. None of you said a word, but the silence was enough to speak for itself as you tugged him closer to your body. Logan’s hands automatically held your hips, while yours wrapped around his neck, drawing him toward your face.

Your foreheads bumped together as your eyes meet, the connection palpable. He didn’t move, he was just waiting again on your next move. But his grip tightened on your body when he felt you gently grab the back of his neck, a hint of coyness on his expression.

“I want it, Logan. I want you.”

And with one pull, the gap completely disappears as your lips connect for a kiss. The hesitation, the holding back, the years you’ve spent watching each other from lens’ reach, all of it evaporated the second your lips met. It was everything both of you have expected and more.

Logan’s tightened grip on your hips moves toward the small of your back, pulling you flush against him as if the proximity wasn’t enough; while his other hand cradled your cheek, guiding your head as he deepened the kiss. You felt everything at once instantly—the yearning, the warmth, how the contentment settled in, how both of your bodies melted into each other.

You pulled back just a little to catch your breath, only to dive back in for another kiss. A low ragged breath escaped Logan and it turned to a quiet rumble against your chest as he started laughing in between kisses.

“Point proven.” Logan’s forehead rests against yours, the smile lay permanent on his lips. His voice is a little rough, but it was laced with affection that touched your heart. He leaned in again, but the kisses this time are lighter, softer, as it lingered and traced down your jawline up to the spot just below your ear, and back to your lips.

You naturally arched into his touch as the kiss grew more desperate, hungrier. His tongue swiped at the top of your lips, as if asking for permission to explore your mouth, and you didn’t hesitate to let him in. Despite the growing passion, both of you made sure to savor the moment. Memorizing the pattern of the kiss, which angle makes Logan heave a breath, and what makes you shiver when his hands explore what he can touch.

He broke the kiss for a second just to gaze at your eyes, a glint you’ve never seen before swimming in them, and buried his head at the junction of your neck to inhale your scent. You still felt him leaving small kisses on your skin, his hands engulfing you in another hug.

“This is per—you’re so perfect.” The admission left you chuckling as you played with the back of his neck, massaging his scalp, while your other hand rubbed at his back. The comfort and solace it brings made Logan sigh in your arms. “I didn’t even want to think how I managed to go on the last years without this. If I had known that it'd feel like this, I would’ve shown you how I feel for you.”

“Well, you never have to think about it now. You got me.”

A few minutes have passed when Logan lets go, glancing around the office as his eyes land on the wall clock, realizing that it’s time to go home. You quickly caught on at the change in his posture and started gathering your things, which Logan took from you right away.

“You ready to go, ma’am?” Logan stretched out his hand your way, waiting for you to clasp your own ones with his. And when you did, he tugged you beside him to lay a peck on your forehead, satisfaction filling his system. “Alright, let’s get you home.”

Once outside, you started locking the doors but Logan stole another scan of your photos from the glass window. Then he caught the last photo you printed out and it made him pause. He didn’t think you’d notice, but he should’ve thought better than to believe you wouldn’t. His expression softened at the realization that you picked out his most favorite photo from his own folder.

It was a perfectly angled and photographed image of you in the hockey house. You were holding your camera toward his direction, your lips curved in a smile as you took a picture of Logan. At that time, you thought he was busy looking at his phone. But that was proven wrong because while you definitely stood out in the picture, Logan was in the background, his reflection clear on the mirror just behind you. A perfect image that showed how the camera works in two ways.

With one last glance, Logan pulled you to walk alongside him, a newfound peace settling in. 

And as you turned a corner going to the parking lot, you looked up just to see Logan already staring back at you. And as much as you don’t want to admit, Dean has always been right all along.

You should live in the moment.

Do not hide behind your camera all the time.

So you’ll not miss what’s happening in front you.

And as you’re nearing his truck, it struck you that while you're busy loving him through the lens of your camera, he's spent the past few years loving you through his very own eyes and you can’t wait to do the same.

BONUS: Exhibit day, opening.

It was a messy jumble of words, ink stains obvious on the fading paper, the emotions spilling out before you could even register what you were writing. All you knew was that you needed the whole thing out of your system and onto the only thing you knew what to do and that was to write. 

Before you could stop, or be smart about it, everything was poured on the paper. Lengthy, descriptive, and full of the things you wanted to say, and things you know you can’t say, because even at that age, you knew that liking John Logan was a beautiful terrible idea. 

Because he was your best friend. And you aren’t supposed to like your best friend. At least, in your head. Who are you to ruin the friendship, you know?

You remember folding it in half. Then again, then for a third time, like you were trying to make it as small as possible. Like diminishing it physically would diminish what the words on the paper meant. 

You'd been looking for somewhere to put it. The trash felt too final, too much like admitting it had existed, and you were halfway on just stuffing it under your pillow  when you'd found the box. Your grandmother's, handed down at the end of summer with a kiss on your forehead and the words for letters you mean to send someday. Wooden, old-smelling, with a brass latch that stuck a little if you didn't press it just right.

You'd tucked the letter in and shut the latch.

That was the beginning of it.

-

It had been a random tuesday, back in junior year of high school.

John – he had always been John to you before he became Logan – had after school hockey practice. You'd been draped over the boards for the past ten minutes, watching from the bleachers the way you always did when you had nowhere better to be, which was most days— something you'd never quite admitted to yourself until recently. Because the walk home was shorter from this direction. You had a whole catalogue of reasons, and not one of them was true.

John had been the last one off the ice.

That in itself was not unusual. John Logan was always the last one off the ice. The coach was nice enough to lend him that extra time, considering that he had always been the kid that loved hockey more than anything else. 

And you would always wait in the bleachers. Sometimes on your phone, most times watching him as he skated. You count the amount of times he circled it, especially when you felt bored but didn’t have the strength to look away. Because something about him was magnetic to you. You wondered what it was, every time you stay that extra ten minutes in the rink.

Then after his usual rounds (at most, seven rounds), he looked up, and caught your gaze.

John grinned. The stupid, lopsided grin that suddenly made your heart skip. Then he skated all the way over to the boards, where you were, and leaned on them as he grinned. His helmet was tucked under his arm, hair damp at the temples, “You just got here?”

“Yep. Passed by after practice.” You tried to keep your tone as casual as possible, like the sight of him didn't make your heart skip. 

“You really didn’t have to come by, you know. It’s late.”

“I wanted to.” You smiled. You didn’t say anything else as follow up. Because adding something else after that would mean that you were admitting something that you weren’t ready to admit. And you would have to explain everything else that you didn’t name yet.

He looked at you for a second, searching for something in your face, and then he looked down and smiled again. It was softer this time, private, the one that felt like it wasn't for anyone else, the one he wore when something surprised him in a way he found pleasant, and tilted his head. 

"Sure. Thanks for that.”

You just shrugged.

John nods over at the locker rooms. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll get you hot chocolate at the cafe nearby.”

You huffed, lips curling in amusement. “There? Really? Last time we went there, you said you didn't like the hot chocolate they made.” 

John just grinned at you. “Yeah. But you like it.” 

He skated away after that. Like those words didn’t make you freeze, your eyes trailing after him, heart stuttering and your brain finally naming that warmth that spread on your cheeks. 

And that was it. That was the whole thing. That was the moment that broke you open.

You'd gone home that day and picked up the closest paper and pen, and the words just started coming, because they didn't have anywhere else to go. You wrote about how his smile was the most disarming thing he could have. You wrote about the way he'd leaned on the boards and looked at you like looking at you was just a natural extension of breathing. You wrote about how his curls fell perfectly on his face.

You wrote about how the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store nearby had been terrible, watery and too sweet for him, and even when you told him he didn't have to drink it, he'd laughed and drank it anyway and said that it was fine with all the cheerfulness of someone who genuinely didn't mind, and how that had somehow made everything worse.

You wrote, hesitantly, but filled with everything in your chest— I like him. 

You folded the paper into thirds, tucked it into your grandmother's box, and pressed the brass latch shut.

You didn't open the box for three weeks after that. Not because you were over it, but because you were hoping, very determinedly, that if you didn't look at it, the feeling would dissolve on its own.

It didn't.

-

The letters accumulated the way all things do when you are trying not to notice them: gradually, and then all at once. 

By the end of junior year, there were ten. By senior year of high school, fifteen.

They were not all long. Some were barely a paragraph, dashed out on notebook paper in the middle of class when something happened that you had no one to tell except him, which was the problem, because he was the person that you would usually go to about these things… so you tell the paper instead.

Junior year, you wrote about how naturally John seemed to do things for you. Carrying your bag, buying things in the cafeteria when you didn't want to get up from the bench. But at the same time, it was always the question if he liked you, or if he was being nice

You remembered I hate raisins in things. You picked them out of the muffin before you gave it to me. You've been doing that since seventh grade and I only just noticed today that it's something you do on purpose.

Jealousy would often seep into your letters, as well. Because you knew he was well liked. That John had a future of having girls that would throw themselves at him, and he would always entertain it with his smile and pretty curls and— 

— but you act like I’m special, and that they don't matter. But I don't have the right to even stop them from liking you, so all I could do is watch and wish that you would instead look at me.

You kept those folded five times. 

--

Senior year, anger would sometimes seep into them.

I should tell you. I should tell you that I lie in bed until 3 am wondering if anything would happen between us. I should— but you are so unfair. You act like you care, and then I'm left hanging again. I still have your jacket. That stupid, gray jacket that you gave me. The damn gray jacket that was your favorite and you don't let anyone wear but you handed it to me when I was cold. And at the same time, you turned and smiled at Kaia like she mattered and. I hate that I like you and I hate that it feels like you do too— but then you turn around and act like you don't.

Some were the soft, bewildered variety, written in the margins of homework you’d never turn in, about something small he'd done that shouldn't have meant as much as it did.

You know how everyone else talks over me when I'm telling a story and moves on before I'm done? You always wait. You just… wait. You wait until I'm finished, and then you respond to what I actually said, not what you were going to say next. I don't know if you know you do that. I don't know how to tell you that it matters.

When you both got into Briar University, John on a hockey scholarship, you on a Merit Scholarship— you celebrated together in the parking lot of the ice rink, his arms around you, lifting you a full two inches off the ground, and you laughed and said “John, put me down!” even if you knew that deep down, you didn’t mean any of it, wanting him to keep his arms around you longer. 

You'd gone home that night and written four pages.

I keep telling myself I'm not following you. And I'm not. I worked for this, I studied late into the night and doubled my efforts whenever I would fail because I wanted Briar before you got in.  But some part of me is terrified that the reason I want it so badly is mixed up with the reason you're going, and I can't separate them cleanly, and that scares me.  What if I didn't want Briar so much as I wanted to be wherever you were going to be? What does that mean? What am I supposed to do with that? I don't have an answer. I'm going to go to sleep. I'm going to not think about it. I'm going to go to Briar, even if I can't solidify why I am.

You went to Briar.

You don’t address it after the long four page letter, and somewhere between orientation week and prelims, the box had gone from a strange habit to a necessity, a pressure valve that kept everything from building to critical mass.

You'd gotten good at it. At the translation of feeling into ink, at the sealing away of things that had no business existing in the open air. The box lived under your bed, behind your extra blankets and a stack of Intro to Lit anthologies you kept meaning to donate. The latch, temperamental from the start, had gotten worse with age. 

You'd meant to fix it.

You kept meaning to do a lot of things.

The letters still ranged from two lines to four pages, even when you entered Freshman Year in Briar. They still kept the same amount of yearning and thoughts you would never find the courage to say, or even send to Logan– and soon after, you started signing them too.

John – or maybe Logan?  You started being called Logan after you teamed up with Tucker and the rest. So maybe I should change it up to. Adapt and change, you know. Though it would be weird to start calling you by your last name.  – With love, and judgement.

You tried to call him Logan. He looked at you then with such offense that you back tracked and went back to calling him John. He said it made him feel better. Special, because John was a name only you could use. 

You wrote another letter that night, trying to reason out the butterflies and the implications of what he meant. Because rationalizing it away makes it easier than admitting it out loud.

They kept piling up. Letter after letter.

This sucks. You remembered my coffee order even after I changed it three times in two months. I can’t blame you for how well you treat me. It’s just how you are.  I should just stop putting meaning into things, but the other part of me just wants to believe that maybe it did mean something. UGH. John Logan you fucking suck. I hope you trip on the ice during practice. Actually, no. That was a joke. Maybe. – With love.

You called the longest ones your pathetic, yearning lovergirl letters. Late-night things, written when the distance between what you felt and what you were allowed to say felt too wide to sleep across. Those ones you sometimes read back in the morning with a kind of horrified tenderness, like finding a diary from a younger self. 

They were overwrought. 

They were honest in ways you couldn't quite access in daylight.

John, I've been thinking about the thing you said last week, that you don't know what you'd do without me. You said it so easily. Like it was just true, just a fact of your life, the way you'd say it's cold out or practice got cancelled. I don't know what to do with that. I've been turning it over and over in my head trying to figure out what it means and I think the honest answer is that it means exactly what it sounds like and nothing more and I need to learn to be okay with that. I'm working on it. – With love. P.S. You should stop handing me your hoodies when I get cold and letting me keep them. It messes with me and my late night 3 am delusional thoughts.

John, You have this thing you do when you're listening to someone — you get very still. Most people, when they listen, they nod, they mm-hm, they start formulating their response and you can see the moment they stop actually hearing you. You don't do that. You just go still and you look at the person and you listen, like it costs you nothing, like you have all the time in the world. I don't think you realize you do it. I don't think you realize what it does to people. What it does to me. I'm going to stop writing now. Before I start turning into the 3 am yearner I was last night. Again. — With love.

By freshman year of college, there were thirty letters.

Sophomore year is when it all cracked.

Classes started to weigh on you in a way freshman year hadn't warned you about. Rehearsals that ran until midnight, choreography notes bleeding red ink across marked-up scores, tech week for the department showcase bleeding into finals week, the constant ache in your calves and the tape on your feet that never seemed to come off in time — a dance major was not a degree that let up, and you were running harder than you ever had, barely sleeping, more often than not with Logan being the one thing keeping you sane, showing up with food you hadn't asked for and quiet company at your desk — or in the studio doorway — at midnight, watching you run the same eight counts until your body finally understood what your brain already knew. 

And then there was the puck bunny thing.

You didn't have the right to say anything about it, not really. You understood why. John Logan was hot. He was charming, easy to talk to, easy to fall for — and there was always a rotating cast of girls finding excuses to linger near him after games. You watched it happen the way you'd always watched it happen, except now you were closer to it, in his dorm, at his games, in the middle of the aftermath. And you had no claim to any of it. He wasn't yours. He'd never been yours. You just got to watch, the way you always had.

So you stopped writing. You shoved the box into the dark crevice under your bed and didn't take it out again. You prayed it would stay there. You told yourself you were moving on.

Meeting Davis was almost spontaneous — a late night out at Malone's, small talk with a guy from your gen-ed class that turned into something steadier. He was easy. Uncomplicated. He didn't make your chest hurt the way John did, and for a while, that felt like a relief instead of a warning sign. The letters stayed buried. Things between you and Logan went back to what looked, on the surface, like normal. Friends. Best friends. 

Because that was all it was going to be.

-

"So how are things with Davis?" Logan asked, leaning against the kitchen counter while you hunched over a marked-up piece of choreography notation, notes scattered across the counter in purple and yellow highlighter, counts and spacing diagrams bleeding into the margins. Gen ed notes scatter on top of them, but you seemed more preoccupied with the scrawls of markings for your major.

"Things are fine." You tried to keep the annoyance out of your voice, but Logan had always been perceptive, and it showed in the way his brows drew together.

"Yeah? Then why do you sound like that?"

Your pen dug a little deeper into the page. "Sound like what?"

"Like things aren't fine."

Your head snapped up, an evident frown pulling at your mouth. "It's none of your business, John."

Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, and you winced, immediately regretting it. "Sorry. That was — sorry."

He didn't push on the apology. Just crossed his arms and softened his voice instead. "What's wrong?"

You hesitated, pen hovering over your notes, and then you let out a long groan and dropped your forehead against your textbook. "I don't want to start venting."

"Vent anyway."

"He keeps asking when I'm free. Wants to hang out constantly, and I get it, I do, but callbacks are in two weeks and I have a showcase piece I'm not off-book for yet, and I told him that, and he just —" You sat up, dragging a hand down your face. "He said it's kind of pathetic that I care this much about a theater degree. That I don’t have a future in this and that I’m only wasting my time."

Logan's jaw went tight. He would also do that when something pissed him off, and you knew him enough to know that he was also pissed off at what you said. "He said that?"

"Basically."

"That's not — " He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, clearly working to keep his voice level. "You've wanted this since we were sixteen. You used to run your combinations for me in your driveway at eleven at night in the middle of winter because you couldn't get the phrase to feel right, and I stood there freezing my hands off holding your phone so you could film it."

That got a small, watery laugh out of you. "You always came outside, though. Even when it was that cold."

"Because it mattered to you." He said it so plainly, like it wasn't even a decision he'd had to make. "Anyone who makes you feel stupid for caring about the thing you've wanted since we were in high school doesn't get to also get your time. That's not — that's not how it should work."

You didn't have an answer for that. You just nodded at your notes, throat tight, and went back to studying, and Logan stayed leaning against the counter a while longer before he finally pushed off it and went to make you tea you hadn't asked for, the same way he always did.

-

Things ended with Davis not long after that — quietly, without a scene (an irony you did clock, even mid-breakup), the kind of ending that comes less from a single fight and more from a slow accumulation of moments where you'd chosen your scripts, your late rehearsals, your friendship with Logan, over him, and he'd finally said out loud what he'd clearly been thinking for weeks. You didn't wallow in it. It hadn't felt like losing something so much as setting something down.

Allie, your dorm neighbor across the hall, caught you in the laundry room a few days later, sorting a basket of mismatched socks.

"Wait, so you and Davis are actually done?" Allie asked, propping her hip against the dryer.

"Yeah." You shrugged, feeding a quarter into the slot. "It didn't work out." She knew about what he said, and she made the same face as you the moment you told her. She was the friend you made in one of the early collaborations your major did with hers, and she was the one who knew well how taxing it would be on your body and to have someone just brush it off? She had also pushed for you re-evaluating your whole relationship before you even talked to John about it.

"Huh." Allie studied you for a second too long. "You don't seem that broken up about it."

"I'm fine," you said, and mostly meant it, which felt strange enough that you didn't examine it too closely.

Allie didn't push, but she gave you a look on her way out that said she'd clocked something you hadn't said out loud.

Your roommate and best friend in all things best friend, Jai, was less subtle about it. She came in that night to find you cross-legged on your bed, not doing anything in particular, just sort of staring at the wall.

"Okay, what's actually going on with you?" Jai said, dropping her bag and sitting across from you. "You broke up with Davis, which you knew most of us had been telling you to, but usually break ups have the whole grieving process. And right now,  you look like you're thinking about a math problem, not a breakup."

"I don't know. I think I just — I didn't care as much as I should have. The whole time. I feel bad about that." You fiddle with your fingers. “That maybe I feel this apathetic because I didn’t care as much in the beginning.”

Jai considered you for a moment, tilting her head the way she did when she was about to say something you weren't going to like. "You know what I think?” 

You looked up at Jai, who nodded over at the space under your bed. “You never wrote about him.”

You blinked. "What?"

"The letters." Jai said it like it was obvious, like she'd noticed the box's absence the same way she'd notice if you'd rearranged the furniture. "You've had that thing since I've known you — you disappear into it when something's actually gotten to you. You didn't write a single letter about Davis. Not one, in like four months."

You opened your mouth to argue and found you didn't have anything to argue with.

You hadn't written about Davis. Not once. Every single letter in that box, every one you'd ever written, had one name on it, and it wasn't his.

The realization hit you like cold water. 

You hadn't moved on. Not even a little.

That night you pulled the box out from under the bed — dusty, a stray cobweb clinging to one corner — wiped it down, and wrote the first letter in months. You didn't let yourself think too hard about what it meant that your hand knew exactly how to start again, like it had never really stopped.

I dated someone in hopes of getting over you– only to realize that every time I sit across from him, I imagine its you. It’s not fair on him. Or myself. But though he did deserve the break-up… he didn’t deserve someone who is still hung over a guy she liked since high school, It’s stupid. Terribly so, but I had four months of thinking that dealing with him was much easier than dealing with the constant ache in my chest every time I see you.  Maybe it’s more stupid of me to get back to writing to you and acknowledging the constant hurt i feel. — With love, reluctantly, again, and always.

By Junior year, the letters slowed but never stopped completely. The program was, if anything, worse than sophomore year — a full-length ensemble piece now, not just technique classes, and you were buried in rehearsal schedules and rep notes, and the only thing that made any of it bearable was Logan, constant as ever, still showing up with food, still sitting on the studio floor with you at 1 a.m. while you both pretended you weren't exhausted, still somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. 

Jai, who had appointed herself the unofficial keeper of your feelings since the Davis revelation, was relentless about it.

"You have to tell him," she said one night, apropos of nothing, while you were both supposed to be doing readings for your gen ed classes. "Junior year of high school, senior year, all of freshman and now half of junior year of college. That's — I did the math, that's four years, and you're going to keep writing it down instead of just saying it?"

"It's not that simple."

"It kind of is, though."

You'd relented eventually, worn down by her insistence and your own exhaustion at holding the same shape for four years straight. You told her you'd do it. You'd tell him. Maybe at the house party that weekend, when everything felt looser and easier and less like something you had to plan for.

You didn't get the chance.

You found him in the kitchen of the party, laughing with a girl whose name you didn't know, and before you could process anything, she'd leaned in and he hadn't leaned away.

You didn't wait to see more than that. You turned around and left before he ever noticed you'd been there, walked back to your dorm in the cold without your jacket, and didn't cry, exactly — just sat on your floor and wrote until your hand cramped.

I stopped hoping tonight. I think I needed to see it to actually believe it, because apparently telling myself wasn't enough. I'm not writing this one for you to ever read. I'm writing it so I stop lying to myself about what almost happened this weekend, and didn't, and isn't going to.

I keep thinking about how badly I wanted to walk over there and how I didn't, and how that's the whole story of us, isn't it. Me, standing a few feet away, wanting, and staying exactly where I am.

You told Jai it hadn't worked out. She didn't push for details, just sat with you until you didn't feel like crying anymore.

Things between you and Logan, in the weeks after, went quiet in a way that wasn't quite a fight and wasn't quite normal either — some instinctive retreat on your end that you dressed up as being busy. Eventually it faded, the way most things did when you were both incapable of staying upset at each other for long, and by the second half of the semester you'd settled back into something that looked, from the outside, exactly like it always had. You told yourself that was enough. You tried, in your quiet, determined way, to move on.

There was one more letter before the long silence, written the week after, when he'd shown up at your studio with soup because Jai had mentioned you were sick, and stayed on the floor doing his own reading while you slept on and off on the yoga mats, and woken you gently every hour to make sure you drank water.

You have no idea what you do to me by being like this. You have no idea, or you do, and you just don't care, because it's easier to be kind to me than to explain why you keep being kind to me. Either way, I am so tired of this constant wishing and wanting. I’ll move on. I have to. Or I’ll never get out of this stupid hole.  I love you. But it hurts to keep loving you.

By the second semester of junior year, there were forty-three letters. You left it at forty-three letters.

Ever since that night, where your anger and everything about you spilled into paper and ink– you didn't slip in another letter. It stayed at forty-three.

Forty-three letters, across four years, across the span of a friendship that had become the most important thing in your life and the most carefully guarded secret you kept. Forty-three letters that were supposed to go with you to the grave while you plan out your whole moving on shtick.

That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

The plan, it turned out, was not consulted before Thursday afternoon.

—

It was a fire drill that turned out not to be a drill.

You'd been on the floor beside your bed, hunting for your phone charger, having pulled the mattress out from the wall and tangled yourself in the extra blankets you kept stuffed behind it, when the alarm split the air — sudden, violent, the particular shriek of the Briar dorms that had never once not startled you no matter how many times you'd heard it.

Your elbow caught the edge of the blanket stack. The box, which you'd shoved back into place after re-reading that last letter just the other day, teetered on the edge of the mattress frame. You grabbed for it, fingers catching the corner.

The latch — that brass, temperamental, long-suffering latch you'd always meant to fix and never had — gave.

The box opened.

Forty-three letters, across the floor of your dorm room.

You were still on the ground, staring at them, trying to process the scope of the disaster, when you heard Logan's familiar voice, your name, followed by a quick, "It's me, don't freak out —"

You looked up. Panic set in immediately, your heart dropping to your feet.

John Logan stood in the doorway, your dorm key in his hand — the one you'd given him freshman year for emergencies and never asked back — the opening words dying in his throat as he watched the letters settle.

The alarm was still going. Someone in the hall was shouting about everyone needing to get out. The late-afternoon light came through the window, gold and slanted, landing on the scattered envelopes and the stunned expression on his face and every single letter that bore, in your own handwriting, his name.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you hit the floor on both knees, grabbing at the letters with both hands, stacking them against your chest with no particular order, your mind repeating the same panicked loop — collect them, get them back in the box, get them away from his line of sight.

"These are nothing — they're old, they're just — don't look at those—" You scrambled, but the panic made the ones in your hand slip loose again, and you nearly wanted to just sprawl over the envelopes and pretend they'd never fallen at all.

But John was crouching too. He wasn't reading them. He was just looking at the envelopes scattered across your floor, and you could see the exact moment he registered what they all had in common.

All of them. Every single one.

John Logan.

Your handwriting. His name. Over and over, in blue ink and black ink, and once in green, junior year of high school, when you'd been out of everything else.

His name on the front of forty-three letters you never sent.

He picked one up. He did it with the careful hands he used for things he wasn't sure about — the same way he picked up injured birds on his way to practice, the same way he handled other people's textbooks, and, twice, your feelings, on the two occasions you'd broken down in front of him and he'd gently cradled your face and helped you through the tears. Those were among the ten thousand other things written in your letters. Things you loved him for.

"These are addressed to me," he said. His voice was quiet. Unsure, tentative, like if he spoke louder he'd scare you off entirely.

"They're not —" you stammered. "I didn't send them. That's the whole —" You pressed the stack still in your hand to your sternum. "Please. Just — pretend you didn't see them."

"How many are there?"

His voice was doing something you couldn't quite pinpoint. Low. Careful. Something heavy underneath it, if you read between the lines.

You looked at him over the letters clutched to your chest, not sure what expression was on your face that made him soften even further. Maybe it was the pure panic. Maybe it was something else.

"Twenty — wait, uhm." You paused, blinked. "Thirty-four."

He lifted a brow. "You hesitated."

"...Forty-three."

The silence after that had weight. The alarm had stopped — someone had pulled it, or the drill was over, or building staff had caught up to whatever triggered it — and the sudden absence of noise made everything feel louder. Your heartbeat. His breathing. The soft scratch of the envelope he was turning over in his hands, not opening, just turning.

"How long?" he asked.

You didn't want to answer that. The answer was the part that would make it real. The part that would say out loud what had only ever existed on paper.

"Since junior year of high school," you said quietly.

You watched him absorb it.

He sat back on his heels, and you could see him doing the math. Junior year of high school. The end of the letter stack. The date on whatever letter he was holding. The span of years between then and now.

"You've been writing me letters," he said slowly, like he was learning the sentence as he spoke it, "for four years. That you never sent."

"It's not — it's a journaling thing. It's not —"

"Your journals have my name on them."

You winced and closed your eyes. "Yes."

"Why didn't you send them?"

You opened your eyes. He was watching you with an expression that made it very hard to think clearly, and you needed to think clearly to get through this conversation without losing something you couldn't afford to lose. Carefully, you thought. Be careful. He is your best friend and he is looking at you and you are not allowed to ruin this.

"Because I didn't want things to change," you said, which was the truest and most incomplete answer you had.

"What things?"

"Us." The word landed between you, bare, nothing around it to soften it. "The way things are. The way things have always been. I didn't — I wasn't willing to risk it. So I wrote it down instead, and I kept it, and I was going to keep it forever, and this was a mistake, Logan —"

"John." He interrupted quietly. You ignored the correction.

"— you were not supposed to see these."

"What are they?" he asked. "Just — tell me what they are. In plain English."

You looked at him. Then at the forty-three letters — the ones against your chest, the ones still sprawled on the floor, the one in his hands, the stupid brass-latched box open between you. You thought about every 2 a.m., every bleacher, every game, every borrowed hoodie you'd never given back. You thought about how long you'd been careful not to say a single thing. How much energy you'd spent on the not-saying, and how completely, catastrophically exhausted you were from it.

"They're everything," you said, "that I didn't know how to say to your face."

—

He was quiet for a long time after that.

You spent most of it looking at the floor, cataloguing the letters you could see from where you sat — the corner of the very first one, faded and ink-stained, from that Tuesday in junior year. The familiar blue pen of the one from a few months ago, the night of the game where he'd scored the tying goal in the final minute and looked up into the bleachers and found you immediately, like he'd known exactly where to look, like he always knew where to look, and you'd gone home and written four pages you didn't remember most of the next morning.

Then right by your knees was the latest letter. The one that was lengthy and full of hurt and anger and everything else that you poured out after seeing him make out with another girl– You push down the memory. 

The afternoon light had shifted. It was later than you'd realized.

"I want to ask you something," Logan said, "and I need you to answer honestly."

"Okay."

"Is it —" He exhaled through his nose, tried again. You watched the struggle on his face — that particular Logan expression of someone who had something to say and was working out how to say it without saying too much or too little. You'd seen it a thousand times. You'd written about it. Letter fourteen, sophomore year of high school. The way he gets quiet before he says something he means.

"Is it the same thing I think it is?"

"Probably," you said, to the floor. "Unless you think it's a grocery list, in which case, no."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh — hoarse, surprised out of him.

"You've liked me," he said, still careful, "since junior year."

"Yes."

"And you didn't say anything because you didn't want to lose the friendship."

"Yes."

"And you wrote — forty-three letters. Instead."

"I was going to say forty-three seemed excessive, but honestly, given the timeline, I think it's fairly restrained."

"Hey." His voice changed. That made you look at him. He was watching you with something so open on his face it hit you square in the sternum. "Don't do that. Don't make it a joke right now."

You swallowed. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry either." He set the letter down between you, gently, the way he set down things he didn't want to damage, and ran a hand through his hair — the thing he did when he was thinking hard, when something had knocked him somewhere he hadn't planned to go. "I just need a second."

You gave him the second.

Outside, someone on the quad was playing music, drifting up through your open window without any particular hurry. Late afternoon light cut across the room at the angle it only ever hit in March — long and gold and slanted, the kind that made everything look like it was happening in the last good hour of something. The last hour before whatever came next.

He abruptly brings up Davis. "What about Davis?"

Your brows furrow. "What about him?"

"You dated him last year."

You hesitate. "It was a half-hearted attempt to try and get over you."

"Did it work?"

You deadpan. "Well, I broke up with him, didn't I?"

John laughs through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah that makes sense."

Another beat passes, quieter this time, before he asks if you know why he's shown up to every single one of your performances since freshman year. Not just the winter and spring showcases. The studio showings nobody came to, the ten-minute improvisation pieces you took for the sake of getting better, performed to an audience of six, the Tuesday afternoon rehearsal run-throughs that overlapped with his lift block, when he'd shown up, hair damp, sitting cross-legged in the back corner of the studio so he could leave before anyone noticed a hockey player watching a modern dance rehearsal like it was the only thing happening in the building.

"That's practice, though," you say. "You're always busy."

"Not always." He says it like it's nothing, like it was never a real sacrifice, just a matter of arranging things around each other the way you'd both always done. "I never missed a lift block or a mandatory practice for it, if that's what you're asking. Coach would've had my head, and there goes the scholarship. I'm not that much of an idiot."

"So how—"

"I just used the time I actually had. Free blocks. The hour after morning skate before class. You'd be in Studio B until midnight running the same eight counts over and over, and I'd come sit in the corner with a granola bar and my laundry, because doing laundry at the machines by the dance building was somehow always more urgent than doing it in my own dorm."

You protest anyway, because your brain is still catching up, still trying to file this under good friend the way you have filed every other thing he's ever done for four years running. "You're just — that's just you being supportive. You did that for Summer-"

"I went to Summer's event once, and that was because Dean wanted us to. I have sat through you running the same eight counts eleven times in a row at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday because you couldn't get the turn right, and I have watched you mark a whole solo with a busted ankle because you didn't want to fall behind, and I still came."

"That was one time."

"I know. I counted the limps."

That gets you. Something in your chest cracks open a little wider.

He tells you about the incidents, then — the small things you never clocked because you were always mid-combination or too deep in your own head to notice him in the doorway, or slumped against the wall outside the studio with his bag still packed from practice. The night your partner dropped you a beat early in a lift and you both recovered it so smoothly the audience never noticed, and how he'd told Tucker after, unprompted, that he'd never seen anyone save a mistake like that mid-air, like it mattered to him the way his own game footage mattered.

The way he'd show up straight from morning skate, hair still wet, to walk you back to your dorm after a late rehearsal because he didn't like the idea of you crossing the quad alone at midnight, ice pack pressed to your shin, making conversation about nothing in particular just so you wouldn't have to walk in silence. The stretch of a week during tech for the fall showcase, when you barely left the studio, and he started just bringing his own homework to do on the floor during your five-minute breaks, so you'd have someone there without either of you having to say why that mattered.

"You did that the whole week," you say slowly.

"I did that the whole week."

"You never told me you had a physics midterm that same week."

"Didn't want you to feel bad about it." He shrugs, like this is a reasonable thing to have kept from you for two years. "It wasn't your fault. I wanted to be there."

You're quiet for a second, turning that over, and something about the quiet must give you away, because he tilts his head at you. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You've got a face on. That's not nothing."

"It's just—" You stop. Start again. "If you wanted to be there that badly. If you were doing all of that. Then what was with the girls?"

He blinks. "What girls?"

"You know what girls, Logan." Your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, two years of swallowed irritation finally finding a door. "The ones after games. Hanging off the boards. The ones who got to walk up to you, because they didn't have some — some rule in their head about not ruining anything."

"That's what this is about?"

"I'm asking."

He drags a hand down his face, and for the first time all night, he looks ashamed instead of careful. "Those weren't anything," he says. "You know that, right? They were never anything."

"They looked like something."

Logan lets out a hoarse laugh — short, not really about anything funny. It's the sound of a person getting cornered by their own bad decisions. "Yeah," he says. "I bet they did."

There's something almost shameful in the way his jaw works before he goes on.

"They were a distraction." He says it plainly, no dressing it up. "You didn't — I thought you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was the only one carrying this, and I didn't know what to do with that, so I did the dumbest possible thing, which was try to feel something for anyone else so I'd stop feeling this much for you. It never worked. Not once. I always ended up back at your door with food you didn't ask for, like an idiot."

"I did care," you say, and it comes out smaller than you mean it to, four years of carefulness still clinging to your voice even now. "I thought you didn't."

"I know that now."

You stare at each other for a second, and it lands on both of you at once — the sheer, staggering waste of it. Four years of two people orbiting the same unspoken thing, each one certain the other didn't want it, each one building elaborate, private monuments to a feeling neither of you would say out loud. You almost want to laugh. You almost want to be furious. Mostly you just want to sit in the wreckage of it with him and not move for a while.

That's when he tells you about the texts.

"There's something you should probably know, since, well– I just accidentally saw your very personal letters." he says, and something in his voice makes you go still before he even finishes the thought. "I've been deleting texts to you since October of junior year."

"What texts?" you said.

"The ones I wasn't going to send." A muscle in his jaw moved. "Different medium. Same problem."

You stared at him.

"You," you said carefully, "have also been —"

"Yeah."

"Since —"

"Junior year." He kept his eyes on you. "You did that solo — the contemporary piece, the one set to that stripped-down piano track, for the fall showcase. I only went because you asked me to come, and also promised to buy me free snacks right after. So I came. I sat in the back row not expecting to care, and then the lights came up on you and you just — you weren't you anymore, you were something else entirely, and I remember thinking, very clearly, that I had never seen anything move like that. Not the piece. You. I didn't say anything to anyone. I definitely didn't say anything to you. I just knew, sitting in that folding chair, that something in me had rearranged itself and it wasn't going back." He stopped. Shook his head. "I thought you knew, later, that something had shifted for me. I thought it was obvious. I thought you didn't feel the same way, and I figured I could live with that — be your friend, be fine. And I was mostly fine. I was fine until you and Davis started whatever that was, and I wasn't fine anymore, and that's when I knew I was a lost cause."

"There was nothing with Davis," you said. "It was just — a gen-ed class, and I thought it was something—" The words died on your tongue.

"I know that now."

"John." Something enormous was rising in your chest — too big for any letter, too loud for that box. "We've been — we've both been —"

"Catastrophically stupid," he said, with a short, helpless laugh. "Yeah. I'm aware."

"Four years."

"I know."

"I have forty-three letters —"

"I know, I can see them —"

You laughed, and it came out slightly broken, and he laughed too, and for a moment it was just that — the two of you on your dorm room floor, surrounded by four years of everything you hadn't said, laughing at the sheer, impossible absurdity of it. At how close you'd been the whole time. At how completely you'd managed to miss each other while never once being apart.

Then the laughter faded.

He was looking at you. The gold light had shifted, fallen across him, and he looked the way he always looked when he was done thinking and had arrived somewhere decided. You knew that look. You'd written about it. Letter twenty-one. The way he looks when he's made up his mind about something and nothing in the world is going to unmake it.

"What do we do now?" you asked.

John reached out slowly, giving you every chance to move away if you wanted to. He tucked a loose strand of hair back from your face, hand staying at your jaw, careful. His thumb traced, barely, along your cheekbone.

"I have a practice slot tomorrow morning," he said. "Early. Six a.m., the rink's usually empty." He paused. "You could come. Sit in the bleachers, like you always do. And after — I could buy you hot chocolate. And maybe this time I could actually say what I haven't been saying for four years."

You looked at him. His hand was warm at your jaw, and the room smelled like old paper and cedar and whatever that specific thing was that his jacket always smelled like, because of course he was wearing the jacket you knew best.

"And we're doing it at the rink," you said slowly, "because —"

"Because that's where it started," he said, shrugging. "It should start there too. Not the ratty ice rink back home, but it still counts."

The feeling in your chest crested, enormous and warm, nothing like the quiet ache you'd carried for four years. That ache had been private and careful, kept deliberately small so it wouldn't take up too much room, wouldn't crowd out anything else. This was not small. This was taking up every room you had. This was refusing, loudly and completely, to fit inside a box.

"Okay," you said.

He smiled — the full one, the private one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you. Maybe it had been. Maybe you'd just been too busy cataloguing reasons not to believe it.

"Okay," he echoed.

He let go of your jaw slowly, like he was in no hurry about it, then stood and started helping you gather the letters off the floor, stacking them with surprising care, not reading them, just collecting. You watched him do it and didn't say anything. There was something strange and sweet about watching his hands handle these things that had existed in secret for so long.

He asked a few questions. Simple ones. The things you could admit to. Small rants you'd written. How you didn't read back on some of them, out of fear of what you'd find. You mentioned the one where you'd hoped he tripped, and how the very next day, he actually had.

Logan laughed at that — bright, curls settling around his face. You had to stop yourself from staring too long.

"Which one's your favorite?" he asked, holding the stack against his chest the way you'd been holding it minutes ago.

"I'm not telling you that."

"Come on."

"Absolutely not."

"I'll find it eventually."

"That sounds like a threat."

"It's a promise." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "I have forty-three letters and the rest of my life. I'll get there."

When all the letters were back in the box, he set it on your desk and looked at it for a moment.

"You're going to have to let me read them eventually," he said.

"I really am not."

"The 'I hope you trip' one. I want to find that one."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm going to find it."

"Get out of my room, Logan."

"I thought I said you could call me John?"

You rolled your eyes. "I'm adapting to Briar. You're either Logan or John. Now get out of my room."

He grinned, the lopsided, lethal one, and you felt it the same way you always had — right in the sternum, like a bell being struck — and went, unhurried, toward the door.

"Six a.m.," he said from the doorway.

"Six a.m.," you agreed.

He left.

You stood in your room surrounded by the afterimage of all of it, then sat on the edge of your bed and put your face in your hands, staying that way for a while — not crying exactly, just feeling the full, enormous weight of something shifting into a new configuration, four years of tectonic plates rearranging themselves into something that finally made sense.

After a while, you got up, took the box from the desk, and put it back under your bed.

You set your alarm for five-thirty.

Hockey rinks always smelled and looked the same, no matter where you would go. It would always smell like ice and rubber and something underneath, though it didn't have the same ratty smell from the old hockey rink at home.

You climbed to your usual spot in the bleachers. Third row, center. You'd been sitting here since the first time you ever came to watch him practice. Even when you moved closer to Briar, you always gravitated to the same spot, before you'd known it was your spot, before you'd known you'd keep coming back. You'd just sat where the sight line was clear and the draft from the ventilation didn't hit as hard. You'd sat there every time after that, out of habit, out of something you'd told yourself was just habit.

John stepped onto the ice.

He didn't look up at the bleachers right away. That wasn't unusual. He rarely did, at first. He had a routine — you knew the routine, had watched it enough times to know it by heart — where he'd take a lap or two before he settled into the actual work of it, like he was reacquainting himself with the ice, reminding himself of the particular quality of this rink on this morning. Then he'd pick up speed. Then he'd look like himself.

You watched him. You were done pretending you weren't.

He skated the way he always skated — like it required nothing, like it was breathing, like the rink was just another place he lived and the ice was simply the ground beneath him. He did a lap, and then another, and then he started working through something, crossovers into a long sweep across the length of the rink, and you watched the way he held his weight, the clean economy of every movement, and felt the thing you always felt watching him, which you'd spent four years filing under aesthetic appreciation, nothing more, and which you were now allowed to call by its actual name.

After a while he came to the boards and looked up at you.

"You're in your spot," he said.

"I'm always in my spot." 

"I know." He leaned on the boards, the same way he had the first time, junior year, helmet under his arm, and he looked up at you with that look you were done misreading. "I skate better when you're here. I don't know if you knew that."

"I didn't."

"I didn't either, for a while. I thought it was just that the bleachers were less empty, which helps. But then I figured out it was specifically you." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was just a thing that was true. Like it was weather. Like it was temperature. "Third row, center. Every time."

"You knew the seat."

"I always knew the seat."

You looked at him, and the rink was cold, and the light was just beginning to come in through the high windows, pale and early and new, and forty-three unsent letters sat in a box under your bed, and standing at the boards in front of you — in his skates, in his gear, on his ice — was the person they were all addressed to. 

With a smile, you got up and headed down from your seat. The second you stopped in front of Logan, the only thing separating you being the rink’s wall, you smiled wider. "Hi," you said.

"Hi," he said back.

He reached for you, and you reached back, and when his hand found yours over the boards it was easy, the easiest thing, like something that had been waiting a long time to finally happen and was not going to make a fuss about it now that it had. His hand was cold from the ice, and you held it anyway, and neither of you said anything for a moment, because there wasn't anything that needed saying.

You got the hot chocolate from the machine in the convenience store. Different store, same franchise. It was, as promised, terrible. Watery and too sweet, dispensed in a thin paper cup that was already going soggy at the base.

He handed it to you and watched you take a sip and pull a face.

"Still bad," you reported. “It’s surprising how consistent the store is.”

"Still bad," he agreed, leaning against the wall, holding his own cup, looking entirely unbothered. He'd never minded the terrible hot chocolate. You'd written about that once. Letter seven. The way you seem genuinely content with things that aren't good. Like the contentment is the point, not the quality of the thing.

"You said you were going to say what you hadn't said."

"I was getting to it."

"It's been twenty minutes."

"I was working up to it," he said, and there was something almost shy in the way he said it, which was not a quality you'd had many opportunities to observe in him, and which was doing things to you that you weren't prepared for. "I've been working up to it for four years, give me another thirty seconds."

You giggled, but you still waited.

He looked at his terrible hot chocolate. Then he looked at you.

"I love you," he said. "I've loved you since I saw you performing on stage and I thought — I thought, that's her. That's the person. And I didn't say anything because you didn't, and I figured I was misreading it, and I kept not saying anything for four years and I had a phone full of deleted texts and a very long mental list of things I was not going to tell you, and then yesterday I walked into your room and saw my name on forty-three envelopes on your floor and I thought—" He stopped. Something moved across his face, somewhere between wrecked and grateful. "I thought: we are both absolute idiots."

"We really are," you said.

"We really are." He pushed off the wall and set his cup down on the machine and took yours out of your hands and set it next to his, and then he looked at you the way he had yesterday, with that decided, arrived quality, and said, "I'm done not saying it. I love you. Okay? I just — I love you."

You looked at him. This person you'd known since before you knew what it meant to know someone. This person who remembered your coffee order and picked raisins out of muffins and drove forty minutes in the rain and kept nine of your hoodies and showed up to every meet in every kind of weather and had, apparently, been composing and deleting texts to you since junior year of high school.

"I love you," you said. "I have loved you for a very long time."

He exhaled, slow, like something he'd been holding finally let go, and then he smiled — the private one, the full one, the one that had always felt like it was only for you because, you understood now, it had always only been for you — and said, "Yeah. We're definitely idiots."

"Monumental idiots."

"Historically unprecedented idiots."

"There should be a word for it."

"There probably is, in some language we don't speak." He reached out, and you let him pull you in, and he held you the way he'd held you before, the same arms, the same warmth, but with something different in it now, something that had been allowed to be what it was instead of being carefully kept at a certain size. You pressed your face against his shoulder. His chin dropped to the top of your head.

"We wasted four years," you said into his shoulder.

"Nah." His voice rumbled against your ear. "We just took the long way."

You thought about that. About the letters, and the bleachers, and the hot chocolate, and the forty-minute drives in rain,  the deleted texts, and the space between what you feel and what you're brave enough to say. About all the things that had happened in the gap.

"The long way," you agreed.

Outside the rink, the morning was getting started. Inside, it smelled like ice and rubber and cedar and something new.

—

The forty-fourth letter was the last one. Written that night, because some habits deserve a proper ending.

John. Logan. Or whatever name you want to be called–  The hot chocolate was terrible. The one near our old school was better (I’m lying, but you know that), but it’s not like you would drive an hour just to get there. Still, you know hot chocolate is always terrible from that machine. You bought it anyway because I said I wanted it and you cannot help yourself. I've been writing these since high school. I don't think I'm going to write another one. Not because I have nothing left to say — I think I'm going to have a lot to say, for a very long time — but because I'm going to say it to you from now on. Out loud. In real time. Without a box to put it in afterward. You told me today that you skate better when I'm in the stands. I wanted you to know that I run better when you're at the end of the finish line. I have never told you that. I'm telling you now. I love you. I have loved you since a Tuesday in junior year in High school when you offered me bad hot chocolate on an empty rink and smiled at me like I was someone worth skating across the ice for.I loved you through every year after that, through every letter I wrote and sealed and tucked away, through every moment I talked myself out of saying something because I was afraid of what it would cost. It turns out it didn't cost anything. It turns out you were over there deleting texts. We were both such idiots. Though I guess it does make sense with our track record. I'm done keeping it in a box, and I'll say it to your face from now on, and I'm sorry it took me four years and a broken latch and forty-three embarrassing letters, some of which you are never going to read, to get here. But I'm here. And so are you. That's enough. That's more than enough. — With love.

Instead the Stranger had taken her in her prime, through dragon fire that had burned her flesh and rotted her core until she had eventually succumbed to it. Or perhaps it was the grief of losing another son, that in the end had been too much to bear. Many in the Red Keep suspected that the loss of Queen Helaena and their youngest son had been what had driven Aegon to madness, until his own men had taken pity. 

Only the Gods knew the truth of it, now all there was for Jacaerys to understand was that the two rulers, legitimate and usurping, who had sat the throne after Viserys were now dead, and the crown had landed on his head. 

Under the looming presence of the Iron Throne, Jacaerys paced the marble floors, attempting to make sense of the utter devastation around him. The high ceilings now felt suffocating, as though the very sky was crumbling over his head. 

“I should not be there,” he said outloud, almost to himself, or perhaps to the Gods, but his faithful friend Cregan Stark still answered his call of anguish. 

Wrists resting atop the pommel of Ice, which he carried at his waist these days, the young lord was watching over him as Kingsguard would, with the sort of silent presence that reminded Jacaerys that he was not alone in carrying his grief. 

“This is your rightful place, my prince,” he reminded him with the steadfastness he had come to expect from the northerner. 

“No it is not. It shouldn’t be, not by decades at least,” he resisted, and Cregan knew him to be right. 

Upon answering the call of the Dragon Queen, never would he have imagined that he would see a great dynasty fall to its knees in such a short time. Dragon riders had risen and fallen as quickly as the tide and as unpredictably, and he feared that it was only through sheer fate that one legitimate heir remained.

While it was not in his character to contemplate potential ruin, he knew the face of the crown could have been a child not even a decade old, would Jacaerys have drowned along with his dragon at the Gullet.

“Why have the Gods allowed it? Why allow my mother to die but me to survive?” Jacaerys lamented, the healed wound in his shoulder throbbing then, a pulsing burn from an arrow that had scarcely missed his heart—in that instant he almost wished it had not, and had allowed him to rest at the bottom of the sea with Vermax, instead of standing to inherit ruins.

“It is not for us to know,” Cregan replied, knowing it was no comfort. Then he cleared his throat, meaning to lead the young king to where he was expected. “They are waiting for you.”

Jacaerys turned to him then, his eyes rimmed with red and his face gaunter than a man of his age should be, the face of a man who had seen the Stranger many a time. “I cannot rule.”

Cregan stepped forward and put a heavy hand on his shoulder—still, the touch felt like the comfort of a brother, the sort Jacaerys sorely missed, and he leaned into it for support. “Then allow me to counsel you. We have been friends, haven’t we?”

Jacaerys nodded, swallowing heavily—the battlefield forged strong friendships, bonds of brotherhood the like he would have never imagined beforehand. “We have,” he confirmed. “There is no one else I trust.”

“Then believe me when I say, you will be a fine king,” Cregan replied, and it planted the seed of an idea in him, that perhaps not all of it was a curse—perhaps this was the call of destiny, no matter how painful, and he only had to answer it. “One I will gladly bend the knee to.”

The Red Keep had been your birth place, and now you were certain it would be your resting place. It had now been a fortnight since Rhaenyra had taken the Iron Throne once more, returning to King’s Landing with an army several thousands strong, made of Rivermen and Northerners, only to find that the revenge she sought had already been taken from her. Aegon laid cold in his bed, and she followed mere days later. 

You had been confined to Maegor's Holdfast, kept under close watch in your rooms most days, as though you were more than you were, more than a woman and instead a danger to the unlikely king now wearing the crown. You had never had to think of yourself as a political pawn until your brother Aegon, having taken the throne once more, had summoned you to the capital. You had obeyed your king, but in the span of a few weeks, he had perished and left you and your mother to face the consequences of his actions.

You loathed him as much as you loathed Rhaenyra and her brood. It was a cruel turn of fate, almost a cruel sort of poetry, that both pretenders to the throne had perished in the pursuit of it, leaving their heirs to scrub their blood from the stone floors and rebuild the dynasty they had destroyed, or pay the price of their pride in their own blood. 

All those that had betrayed Rhaenyra’s faction were now facing justice, and you feared you were only waiting for the executioner’s blade. You wondered whether your nephew’s own sword would do it, or if he would entrust the task to his most loyal man, Cregan Stark. Perhaps they would show mercy and send you into exile, to become a Silent Sister. 

Death or eternal silence,you knew what you would rather endure. 

Thus you waited for the Stranger in the room that had seen your childhood and little else, as you had been sent to Oldtown for your education once the first spring of your womanhood had bloomed. The Faith of the Seven now rooted you and guided you, and you clung to prayers as not to fall into madness.

On the third night of his reign, it was not the hand nor the blade of justice that came to you, but Jacaerys himself, and you wondered whether the following morrow would be the last dawn you would see. 

You stood abruptly as he entered, glancing towards the guard at the door with dread. “Rest easy, you have nothing to fear from me,” Jacaerys assured you. He was dressed in regal clothing made of black, the velvet layer on the inside of his cape a deep red. His hair fell to his shoulders in dark curls, nearly black in the low light of the candles. 

“Don’t I?” you asked, openly weary and hostile. “Where are my niece, and my mother?”

“Confined to their own rooms,” the young man replied with what seemed to you as regret. 

You noticed that he was not wearing the crown, but his head was bowed as though it was weighing on his neck, a constant presence. “Might I see them?” you inquired, but it sounded more like an order you were giving him.

“Your niece, yes,” Jacaerys conceded. 

“She’s a motherless child. Surely you would not have her be confined alone,” you insisted, and it seemed to convince him.

“You will be escorted to see her,” he offered, but it did little to appease you.

You approached him in careful steps until he could see the unshed tears glimmer in your eyes, your brow furrowed in concealed anger. You were trembling, ever so slightly, and when he searched your face for any familiar flicker, he found none—you were his blood, and yet nothing tied the two of you together but hatred.

“What will happen to us, now?” you inquired, gauging him. Standing face to face, you were reminded then of the years of your childhood, and you wondered whether the boy you had known then was still within reach, or if he had perished alongside his kin, replaced by a man you did not know.

“Nothing, for the time being. You are to be confined until trials have been run,” he explained.

Hope burst in your chest then, a starving dragon freed from its chains taking to the skies, ready to burn the lands around it. “And after that?”

Jacaerys looked pained then, a frown between his brows. “I do not know,” was all he answered, and he looked like a child, frightened by his own crown and unable to yield the power he possessed, and you hated him for it. 

“Why have you come, then, if you do not know of my fate?” you accused, your burning tears pearling at the corners of your eyes, your simmering rage like a silent sob caught in your chest, and he did not have any more answers for you.

Once Jacaerys had left, leaving more doubts and fears behind, you realized you had only addressed him in questions. There was a rage inside of you, and a primal fear that was no doubt similar to that of a beast caught in a trap, forced to eat through its own leg to free itself. 

You only had blunt teeth, but you still hoped you could sharpen them in due time.

Over the last pair of years, Jacaerys had sat at many a council of war, at the Painted Table in Dragonstone, but always as a councilor himself, advising his mother—it was only now that he realized how comfortable such a position was, making the decisions without having to enforce them, or without having to consider their consequences.

Now he was the one standing at the head of the table, leading men that sat in front of their marble ball as though they had paid a price for it and ought to claim them with pride, when in truth they had been named because they were alive and breathing. 

Corlys Velaryon was still abed from his wounds, but the men who had advised his mother during her last days were now serving him, waiting for him to name his council as he wished. All of them were taking their orders from a king young enough to be their son or grandson, one or two failing to conceal their contempt for that fact, and Jace wondered if such was the fate of all the kings that had preceded him. 

However what Jace lacked in years lived, he made up for in the devastation he had seen. In many ways grief was his experience, more so than strategy and governance, and he supposed it forged a man just as well.

Before the war he had never realized what came with being king—the grief, knowing the crown had only been passed on because the previous monarch had perished. It was all the more burdensome knowing his mother had barely reigned, and never over peace.

Since Cregan’s declaration of devotion, he had had the time to contemplate the sort of king he would want to be, the sort of legacy he would want to leave behind, whether his reign would be long or short. What mattered to him most was not to assert his authority or to be admired—he needed to rebuild and to leave the crown strong for his heirs. His reign would not be for himself, but for those who come after. 

With such a conclusion he sat before his council that morning, Cregan at his right where the Hand would usually be.

Roland Westerling, an older man with a calm disposition, handed a roll of parchment to Jacaerys, the seal of which had already been broken, a golden stag. “Lady Elenda Baratheon has accepted your terms of peace,” he informed the council as soon as they were all seated. 

“Nearly half of the great houses in the land are now ruled by babes and their mothers as regents,” Unwin Peake commented, as though this simple fact held an inherent flaw.

“I will gladly deal with these women. They might make wiser rulers than their husbands, who took to arm against my mother,” he said, unrolling the parchment and reading it over quickly before passing it along to Cregan. “Lord Roland, your daughter Joanna now rules House Lannister, does she not?”

“Indeed,” Roland answered with a slight smile of pride. “Loreon is a boy of barely five.”

Once great, powerful houses with proud men at their helm, the Lannisters and the Baratheons were now led by women, mothers of their heirs who would now lead the very men that had marched to war refusing to bow to a queen, and Jacaerys would laugh at their fate if he could summon the mirth. 

“There is still unrest in the Reach, I’m afraid,” Thaddeus Rowan said. “Those who remain loyal to the Greens are loath to settle, however the Hightowers are now ruled by a boy of seven and ten. He might easily be reasoned with.”

“Summon him to King’s Landing. I will receive him,” Jacaerys decided, to which Roland took note.

“He has made a rather unusual request to the High Septon,” Thaddeus continued with an appalled expression on his face. “He has asked for permission to wed his own father’s second wife, Lady Samantha Tarly.”

Jacaerys frowned—while there was no blood between a boy and his step-mother, it was still highly unusual and perhaps distasteful, especially since Oldtown was the cradle of the Faith. “How do you know of this, my lord?”

“Lady Sam is my niece, by my sister,” Thaddeus supplied. 

Without a word, Cregan gave Jacaerys a slow tilt of his head. “The Tarlys supported my mother, as did your house, did they not?” Jacaerys asked Lord Roland. “Did Lady Sam’s loyalties lie with my mother?”

Thaddeus observed Jacaerys for a moment. “Indeed.”

“Write to the High Septon in my name,” Jacaerys then decided. “Have him grant the marriage.”

As soon had he given the order, barely breathing after his words, that Unwin Peake cleared his throat. “While we are speaking of marriage, your grace, there is a matter we must discuss,” the man said, sharing a look with the other lords that spoke of a preceding agreement. “I loathe to be the one to say it, but a young king shall need a queen and heirs.”

“My brothers are my heirs,” Jacaerys protested. 

“The future of the realm partly rests on you securing a long-lasting peace,” Roland said. “While we have come to understand that an informal betrothal was made in childhood between yourself and Lady Baela Velaryon, she might not be the wisest match.”

Baela and himself had been children together, and while the expectation had been for them to marry, he cherished her friendship and had rarely considered the prospect. “A marriage is an alliance, a political calculation,” he continued.

Cregan crossed his hands atop the table and leaned forward. “What do you suggest?” he asked, but Jace could tell he already knew what point they were about to make, and he braced himself.

“The breach between the two branches of House Targaryen may be mended,” Thaddeus offered carefully. “Were his grace to wed the remaining child of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower.”

Horror rose from the pit of his stomach, settled only when he caught eyes with Cregan, whose gaze was calm and direct—without a word needed between them, the northerner gave him a slow nod, and with that, his fate was sealed.

Evening was falling, a heavy veil over the Red Keep, made of darkness and cold wind. Winter was settling and the days were darker and shorter, plunging the castle in a grim atmosphere that lasted from the end of the afternoon to the late morrow.

Supper was still an hour away when you were summoned to the king’s quarters. The room was brightly lit with candles and a fire, perhaps even more than was comfortable, as though Jacaerys was attempting to keep the darkness at bay. You stood near the threshold while he remained further into the room, arms clasped behind his back like a soldier at attention.

“I have asked you here to present to you a proposal I hope you will agree to,” he announced, the words sounding rehearsed, empty of all sincerity. “The realm is shattered and House Targaryen is in ruins, but together we might unite it.”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, you knew you had come to hear. “Will you wed me, and put an end to this bloodshed once and for all?”

Your answer came like the crack of a whip. “I may not.”

“I understand that this is not what you would have wanted, however—” Jacaerys prepared his arguments, but you did not let him speak.

With a raised hand, you silenced him. “You misunderstand me. This has nothing to do with what I want, but what I can do,” you explained, your face contorting in anguish.

“I don’t understand,” he said, cutting you off as though he suspected what was coming and desperately wanted to keep it at bay, but he could not have known, you thought.

Rage rose in your throat, acrid and burning, but you swallowed it down. You wanted to curse your brother out for putting you in such a vulnerable position, but damning the dead would do you no good, and you did not wish to betray your king’s memory in front of the man who had replaced him.

“A few days before Aegon died, he took me to wife in a secret ceremony,” you admitted, tears clouding your eyes, and Jace’s heart ached in sudden pity. “Ask the Septon and he shall confirm.”

“Aegon is dead, a widow is permitted to remarry,” he countered, and he could tell from your face how impatient you were becoming with him.

“I have not bled since,” you clarified. It had been two moons now, but the Maester could not say with certainty until the quickening, and your morrows remained without any sickness, yet you doubted, dreading the child that might be inside of you.

Jacaerys blamed his naiveness. “Are you implying—”

You looked upon him severely. “I may be carrying Aegon’s child, yes,” you said, and this simple but devastating truth rang loud in the room—it could be your salvation, as much as your downfall. 

“This changes everything,” Jacaerys whispered, and upon noticing the subtle way you were trembling, once more inhabited by fear in his presence, quickly made his promise. “No harm will come to you, you have my word. I shall keep your secret until you are certain either way.”

You knew you should have been grateful, but you hated the mere thought of owing him any sort of gratitude. It was just as well that he ignored your tears, much as he had done the day prior, as though he sought you out not to converse with you, but to shout into a void that echoed back to him. 

Jacaerys waved you away, crumbling once the doors shut and he was alone once more. He might have been young and uncertain of himself, but he knew what would happen if you were to birth a son.

Aegon’s supporters were still many, and his reign was still too fragile. Power often turned loyal men into self-serving traitors ; he could still easily be toppled, be murdered in this very room as Aegon had, and a babe placed upon the throne in his stead. 

Unable to bear the storm inside of him he took hold of the crown resting atop the mantle of the hearth and threw it at the wall, wailing until his voice broke. 

Grief held him by the throat, an invisible hand that felt like that of the Stranger choking his breath from his very neck. The wounds on his shoulders ached and throbbed anew, as fresh in his mind as the day they had been inflicted.

“What should I do, mother?” he pleaded to the night. “What would you have me do?”

Alone and broken, the young king wept. 

Fire danced with a horrific, erratic grace across the blackened waters of the Gullet, transforming the vital shipping lane into a sprawling, floating graveyard. Flames leapt from ship to ship in hungry arcs, feeding on timber and pitch and the desperate prayers of drowning men. Beneath the merciless onslaught of Team Black’s dragons, mighty Triarchy war-galleys splintered like kindling, their hulls cracking open to swallow their crews whole. Great masts toppled into the waves with the slow, theatrical finality of falling monuments. And yet, this was no easy victory. No clean triumph etched into the history books with golden ink. Below, Lord Corlys Velaryon’s fleet fought with everything it had, attempting to trap the armada in the narrow, choking passage, buying time in blood and smoke and screaming iron.

The atmosphere was a living thing, a suffocating shroud woven from the sharp salt tang of brine, the acrid bite of billowing smoke, the unmistakable iron-sweetness of fresh blood, and the sickening, almost honeyed stench of burning pitch. It coated the throat and burned the eyes.

High above the carnage, roaring through the roiling tempest of fire and ash, rode Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.

He sat astride Vermax like a man born to the sky because he was. The great emerald dragon cut through the smoke-choked air like a gleaming blade, his scales catching the hellish firelight below, wings spread wide. Jace’s riding leathers were already dark with spray and soot. His dark curls whipped against his face. He did not notice. His eyes were fixed on the battle, calculating and measuring, feeling the terrible weight of command settle across his shoulders with the intimacy of something he had worn all his life.

He had locked his mother in her chambers at Dragonstone before leaving. Had stood outside the door and listened to her pound against it, her voice cracking on his name. The sound had nearly unmade him entirely. But she was the queen. She was the cause. She could not be lost, and Jacaerys Velaryon had long since made peace with the arithmetic of that.

She lives. Therefore, I go.

Beside him, Baela streaked across the smoke on Moondancer fierce and brilliant, her silver hair streaming behind her like a war banner. And then, piercing through the mist like something half-imagined, a new silhouette emerged. Jace’s eyes snapped to it. His stomach lurched with shock before his heart swelled with a pride so fierce it nearly hurt.

Rhaena. Flying the wild dragon Sheepstealer.

Of course she was.

Together they were three dragons raining hell from the heavens, and for one blazing, exhilarating moment, Jace believed they might actually win this despite Sheepstealer almost knocking him out. He watched their collective fire devastate Admiral Lohar’s vanguard below, great tongues of flame consuming the armada’s leading ships, sending men screaming into the sea. He felt the savage triumph of it. The rightness.

Then the heavy, rhythmic thrum of scorpions began.

Massive iron bolts tore through the clouds around them. The Triarchy fleet was enormous, he had known this, had known it academically the way one knows a thing from maps and reports but knowing it and watching it materialize below him in all its terrible scale were entirely different experiences.

He pressed Vermax into a steep, dangerously low dive.

Below, through the roiling chaos, Jace had spotted Lord Corlys’s flagship being violently rammed by Lohar’s vessel. The silver-haired sea snake, his grandfather by every measure that mattered, surrounded and struggling. Jace made his decision in the space of half a breath. He would break the enemy lines. He would fly low. He would end this.

He flew too close to the water.

His focus had narrowed to a single burning point, the ships, the threat, the duty and so he did not hear the volley until it was already too late.

A heavy iron shaft sliced violently through the membrane of Vermax’s right wing with a sound like tearing cloth and screaming metal fused together. Another slammed directly into the dragon’s chest with a concussive, world-shaking force that Jace felt through every bone in his body.

Vermax screamed.

The sound ripped through Jace like a physical blade. Not a roar, not the magnificent, terrible declaration of a dragon in battle. A scream. Raw and agonizing and so deeply personal that Jace felt his own lungs seize in sympathy, as though the bolt had pierced him too. The great emerald body shuddered beneath him. The massive wings faltered, losing the steady rhythm that held them aloft. The world tilted.

They were falling.

“No-”

Jace yanked desperately on the reins, his boots straining hard against the stirrups, body thrown forward as the sea rushed upward to meet them with terrifying speed. Wind screamed past his ears. The fire and the smoke and the battle became a chaotic blur of sensation.

“Vermax, fly!”

The dragon fought. Even now, even broken and burning, Vermax fought. A beast born of fire, refusing absolutely to yield to the water. One wing beat heavily, then another. The torn membrane fluttered uselessly, a tattered rag of what it had been, but still Vermax tried, and something in Jace’s chest shattered at the sight of it.

“Soves!” His voice broke on the word, all royal dignity stripped away, reduced to something raw and helpless and very young. “Soves, Vermax! Please-”

One final, agonizing beat of the wings.

It was not enough.

Freezing, brine-heavy water swallowed Jacaerys Velaryon whole. It was not like diving, it was like being struck by the earth itself, like the sea had become solid in the last instant before collision, and he felt the shock travel up through his ankles, his knees, his spine, rattling his teeth in his skull. The sheer velocity of the crash tore his fingers from the saddle. The weight of his armor dragged at him immediately, a slow, patient, lethal pull downward into the dark.

Primal instinct flared.

He unhooked himself and practically clawed upward. His lungs burned. The cold was absolute, the kind that doesn’t feel cold at all but rather feels like being unmade, like the sea was simply erasing him a layer at a time. He could see nothing, only dark water and distant fire and the enormous bulk of Vermax somewhere below him, a shadow become a nightmare. He burst through the surface with a gasp so violent it tore his throat.

“Vermax!”

He spun in the churning water, hair plastered to his face, salt burning his eyes. The battle raged on around him, ships groaning and splitting, men screaming, iron raining from all directions. The world had not paused for him.

“Vermax!”

Through the haze of cresting waves, he found him. His dragon, his Vermax, who had carried him since boyhood, who had grown as he had grown, who had been as much a part of him as his own heartbeat was desperately trying to swim. The damaged wings beat uselessly to try to swim up. His great neck was straining upward. His eyes, when they met Jace’s from below the water, held something that a person with less grief in them might have dismissed as imagination. They did not look like the eyes of an animal.

They looked like the eyes of someone saying goodbye. A massive anchor, or debris, Jace could not tell which, tangled around Vermax’s exhausted body. The sea accepted its offering. With a final, sorrowful look that Jacaerys Velaryon would carry with him for the rest of his life.

He never resurfaced.

Something inside Jace broke. Not cracked. Not bent. Broke, the way an old bone breaks, the kind that doesn’t ever quite knit back the same way. He hauled his upper body onto a large piece of floating wreckage with the determination of a body that had not yet received the message from his mind that none of this mattered anymore. His chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps. He was shaking. He was exhausted in a way that reached all the way down into whatever part of him had believed, until this moment, that he might survive this.

He had not brought enough of that belief. He saw that now.

He thought of his mother.

The image of her face, proud and terrified and trying not to show either rose unbidden. He had done this for her. Had done all of it for her. He hoped she would understand, someday, that locking her in her chambers had been the most love he had ever offered anyone.

He thought of Baela. Of Rhaena.

He thought of-

A sharp, dull impact struck his upper back.

Jace lurched forward with a sound that was almost nothing, barely a breath. Confused, of all things, not yet understanding, he glanced over his shoulder. A heavy crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder blade at an angle that his mind catalogued with strange, distant calm, the way one notices a detail in a painting.

Slowly, numbly, he turned his head toward the source. A Triarchy war-galley drifted just yards away. Lined along the wooden railing stood a row of Admiral Lohar’s soldiers, unhurried, methodical, their crossbows leveled at the figure in the water.

They knew exactly who he was. There was no urgency in their posture, no battlefield fever. This was an execution.

The heir to the Iron Throne, stranded and defenseless. A second bolt flew. It slammed into his chest. He heard it before he felt it.

Then a third...straight to the neck.

A strange, sudden calm washed over him.

The deafening roar of the battle receded, becoming muffled, distant, the way sounds narrow when one goes underwater. The sea rocked him gently now, almost tenderly, as if it had been waiting all along to offer this small mercy at the end. He had not expected kindness. He was grateful for it.

He thought of his mother, safe on Dragonstone.

He thought of Baela’s laughter.

He thought of his brothers.

And he thought with a softness that surprised him, with something that might have been the very last warmth his body could generate, of you. Of a future that would not be built. Of a promise he was not sure, now, that he had ever been given the chance to make.

The last image to imprint itself on the fading mind of Jacaerys Velaryon was that reflection.

A burning sky, mirrored in the water.

Beautiful.

Tragic.

Then everything went black.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Jacaerys bolted upright with a gasp that felt like surfacing.

His eyes flew open. His hand flew to his chest and then to his neck, pressing hard against his sternum, feeling for something, a wound, an absence, a bolt buried in bone and found nothing but the soft cotton of his t-shirt and the solid, living rhythm of his own heart. He sat there for a long moment, chest heaving, and simply stared at the ceiling.

White plaster. Crown moulding. A small water stain shaped vaguely like a continent.

No smoke.

No dragon.

No sea.

No battle.

Just a bedroom. His bedroom.

Morning sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows in long, clean shafts, illuminating the warm disorder of his life: the desk buried under business textbooks and notebooks with pages dog-eared and margins crowded with his handwriting, his laptop open from the night before with a lecture slide still visible on the screen, a hoodie slung over the back of his desk chair. Outside the windows, King’s Landing stretched endlessly in the early light, the city already stirring, glass towers catching the sun.

His alarm clock flashed 7:00 AM.

No swords or the banners of House Targaryen. Jace pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes and breathed.

The memories were still there. That was the wrong word for them, memories. They did not feel like the soft, dissolving stuff of ordinary dreams that faded on the edges as soon as you tried to examine them. They felt like the other kind of remembering, the kind that lives in the body rather than the mind. He could still feel the cold of the Gullet in his fingers. He could still smell the smoke. He could still feel the weight of dragon-riding leathers across his shoulders, the particular pull of Vermax’s movement through the air, the way the saddle had sat against the backs of his thighs.

He could still feel the bolts.

Just a dream, he told himself. The words felt inadequate in his own mouth, like trying to describe a storm with the word weather. He muttered them anyway, pressing his face harder into his palms.

“Just a dream.”

A dream where he had been a prince.

A prince who had died.

His stomach dropped with a physical lurch. The alarm was still beeping. He silenced it with a slap and sat on the edge of the bed for one more moment, just one, breathing in the ordinary scent of his ordinary room.. Then his brain supplied the information he had been avoiding.

Classes.

Shit.

He was already late.

He moved through his morning routine with the efficiency of someone running on instinct rather than thought, shower, clothes, a cursory battle with his curls that ended, as it always did, in a draw. He emerged from the bathroom in jeans and sneakers and his favorite dark hoodie, his hair doing exactly what it wanted. There wasn’t time to argue with it. There was rarely ever time.

The smell of coffee reached him in the hallway. It pulled at something in his chest and he followed it through the penthouse to the kitchen.

His steps halted in the doorway.

Rhaenyra stood at the island counter, reading something on her tablet with the focused, slightly stern expression she wore when she was processing information she found annoying. A coffee mug steamed beside her elbow, forgotten. She was already dressed soft grey, elegant, effortlessly so in the way that had always seemed to come naturally to her and she looked exactly as she always looked in the morning, tired by all the corporate bullshit.

CEO of Targaryen Corporation. One of the most influential women in King’s Landing. The most formidable person he had ever known.

His mother.

The word hit him somewhere unsteady. Something twisted painfully in his chest, relief so acute it nearly hurt, threaded through with the dreaming grief of a boy who had watched her face in his mind as the water closed over him, who had spent his last conscious moment believing she was safe, needing her to be safe, and had been right without ever knowing he was right. He crossed the room before he had consciously decided to.

He wrapped his arms around her.

Rhaenyra nearly dropped her coffee.

“Jacaerys-”

She caught herself, setting the mug down with a firm clink on the marble countertop, and then without hesitation, because she had always been this, whatever else she was, she wrapped her arms around him and held him back.

“Sweet boy.” Her voice was softer now. Her fingers found their way into his curls the way they had when he was very small. “What’s the matter?”

Jace swallowed against the tightness in his throat. The dream came rushing back through him like a tide, the war, the weight of a crown his mother should have inherited without blood, the desperate, bone-deep need to protect her. The image of her face as he had walked away from Dragonstone, toward the dragon, toward the battle, toward the Gullet. The way he had looked back.

He shook his head against her shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not fine.”

Her hand moved in slow, soothing circles against his back. Despite himself, despite everything, Jace felt something in him begin to loosen.

He laughed. A weak, slightly broken sound, but genuine. “I just…” His voice cracked on the nothing he was trying to say.

Rhaenyra pulled back slightly to look at him. Not the way she looked at her board of directors, or at rivals across conference tables, or at the city from thirty floors up. The other way. The private way, that only he and his brothers ever saw.

“What happened?”

He wiped his eyes quickly, hoping she wouldn’t comment on it and took a breath.

“I had the most vivid dream.”

“What kind of dream?”

He hesitated. There was something strange about saying it. As though speaking about it aloud would make it either more real or less, and he wasn’t sure which outcome he wanted.

“I was a prince,” he said.

Rhaenyra blinked. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not that.

“A prince?”

“Yeah.” A small smile found its way onto his face, unwilling, almost involuntary. “You were a queen.” Something passed across her expression something soft, something she would never have allowed in a meeting room. “Oh?”

“I died fighting a battle for you.”

Silence.

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead with the gentleness that had no performance in it, something she reserved for the three of them and no one else.

“Well,” she said finally, her smile warming to something that was almost, almost teasing. “That sounds exhausting.”

Jace stared. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“You are standing in my kitchen wearing yesterday’s hoodie and telling me about dragon wars, Jacaerys.”

He opened his mouth to protest then closed it. “Fair.” She squeezed his shoulder. “It was only a dream.”

“You know,” said a new voice from the doorway, “some families start their mornings with good morning.”

Luke wandered in carrying a cereal box like a trophy, nineteen years old and permanently, professionally smug. He surveyed the scene with the cheerful heartlessness of a younger brother who had found ammunition and intended to use it.

“Did Jace finally lose his mind?”

Behind him, Joffrey, fourteen and grinning with the particular delight of someone who had been waiting for this squeezed past into the kitchen. “About time.” Jace rolled his eyes so hard it was almost an athletic achievement. “There he is.”

“Dreaming about being a prince?” Luke plucked a bowl from the cupboard with casual ease. “That’s because you’re already treated like one.”

The napkin Jace threw hit him square in the face. Luke threw it back. Rhaenyra sighed with the air of a woman who had calculated exactly how many more years of this lay before her and found the number disheartening.

“My sons,” she said, picking up her coffee. “Truly intellectual giants.”

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

Breakfast passed with the comfortable velocity of mornings that had been rehearsed through repetition until they ran themselves. Luke complaining about something, Joffrey eating cereal in quantities that defied his size, Rhaenyra reading from her tablet while simultaneously tracking all three of them with the peripheral attention of someone who had never once been entirely off duty.

Jace was reaching for his coffee when Rhaenyra glanced up.

“Are you still picking up your girlfriend?”

He froze.

The coffee cup remained halfway to his face, arrested in mid-air.

“…My what?”

Luke’s head snapped up. The expression that crossed his face was one of pure, unalloyed joy. He looked like he had been handed a gift.

Rhaenyra stared at her eldest with the patient, faintly incredulous expression of a woman who had not expected to be performing this particular reality check on a Tuesday morning.

“Your girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Jace set the cup down carefully. “Right.”

You.

He had a girlfriend.

A beautiful girlfriend, and she was his girlfriend, and she had been his girlfriend for- he was briefly lost in the arithmetic of it, which was itself a kind of answer and she was wonderful, she was brilliant, she made him laugh, and somehow in the space between waking up with the sea in his lungs and standing in his mother’s kitchen in yesterday’s hoodie, he had momentarily forgotten she existed.

And then, because his brain was apparently in full catastrophic mode this morning: betrothed. Not yet. Not technically. But the word had been sitting in the back of his mind ever since he woke up from his dream.

Heat flooded his face with spectacular completeness. Luke nearly choked on his cereal.

“Oh my God.”

“Shut up.”

“You forgot your girlfriend.”

“Only briefly.”

“Only” Luke dissolved entirely, shoulders shaking. Across the table, Joffrey watched with the dignified appreciation of a connoisseur.

Rhaenyra shook her head slowly. “Honestly, Jace.” “It was a very intense dream,” he said, with as much dignity as one can muster while slowly turning the color of a sunset.

“You forgot your girlfriend.”

“The dream had dragons, Mum.”

She gave him the look. The specific look, the one that had been making him feel twelve years old since he was actually twelve years old. “She’s a lovely girl. I wish you’d bring her home more often.”

Jace stood from the table with the decisive energy of a man drawing a conversation to a close. “I was planning to.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Today?”

“…Possibly.”

“Good.” Rhaenyra returned to her tablet, the slight smile at the corner of her mouth saying everything she was too dignified to say aloud.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The underground parking garage was cool and dim, smelling of concrete and oil and the expensive quiet of a building where people took the lift rather than the stairs. Jace’s Porsche sat in its usual spot, Oak Green Metallic, catching the fluorescent light.

Vermax.

He had named the car Vermax which now sounded so ionic to him.

He stood beside the driver’s door for a moment, hand on the handle, the thought arriving fully formed and then sitting there in his chest with an odd weight. He had named his car Vermax years ago. He had thought it was because he liked the sound of it, or because it was the name of a character in a book he’d read, or because of some half-remembered reason that had never quite solidified into anything coherent.

He looked at the car. The deep green of it. The long, low lines of it, built for speed, built for the sky-

Built for the sky.

A strange feeling settled over him, the kind of not-quite-vertigo that comes with recognizing something without being able to name what it is you’re recognizing. Like seeing an old friend across a crowd before you’ve registered their face.

He shook it off. Got in and drove.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The street outside your house was quiet in the way that Tuesday mornings in King’s Landing occasionally managed to be, with the morning light that made ordinary things seem briefly considered. Jace pulled to the curb and sat for a moment with the engine idling, window down.

Then the front door opened and you stepped out. He got out of the car.

The morning light caught your hair the way it always did, making you look almost angelic in Jace’s eyes in that moment. You were still in the act of adjusting the strap of your bag when you spotted him, and the smile that crossed your face. Happy just to see him.

And for one strange, suspended moment, another image overlapped the morning like a transparency laid over a photograph. A figure standing on the cliffs of Dragonstone. The sea grey below and the wind pulling at dark fabric. Watching him leave. The expression on her face, your face, heartbroken and resolute and trying to be neither.

Waiting for him to come back.

The image dissolved as quickly as it had arrived. The morning reasserted itself. You were walking toward the car, your bag settled on your shoulder now, your smile still in place, and Jace found himself already stepping forward already moving toward with certainty that was less decision than gravity.

Before you could say a word, he took your hand and raised it, and pressed a kiss against your knuckles. Deliberatea and unhurried. Like he’d done it a thousand times before, in other rooms, in other centuries.

“How are you, my beloved?”

You stopped.

Looked at the hand.

Looked at him.

And then, because you were you, you laughed, the bright, surprised sound of someone caught genuinely off guard. “What has gotten into you this morning?” you questioned him.

Jace grinned, and the grin felt more like him than anything else had all morning. “I genuinely have no idea.”

“You’re being sooo weird.” You studied him with the narrowed eyes trying to grasp his words and actions. “How weird is this going to get?”

“I had the wildest dream.”

“Oh?” Already your expression was shifting into the one you wore when you were preparing to be entertained. He leaned forward and kissed you softly quick, warm and certain.

“In it,” he said against your smile, “you were my princess too.”

Your cheeks went pink with entirely gratifying speed. “Oh my God.”

“You asked.”

“I asked what was wrong with you, not-”

“Details.”

“Jacaerys Velaryon, I am going to need you to be normal for the next five minutes-”

“I make no promises.”

He opened the passenger door for you, still grinning, and the morning felt lighter than it had when he’d left the penthouse.

The dream wasn’t entirely terrible, he thought, settling behind the wheel. If nothing else, it had done this, sharpened his vision, made ordinary things brilliant again. Made you more vivid than you’d already been, which was saying something considerable. He found himself smiling the entire drive to university.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

University should have felt normal.

Instead, Jace spent the entire morning convinced he was losing his mind by degrees as new details of his dream would hit him.

The dream lingered with a persistence that ordinary dreams did not have, the kind he usually forgot by the time he reached the kitchen. This one clung. Every corridor he walked reminded him of castle hallways, the echo of footsteps on stone, and the smell of torch smoke. Every crowded lecture hall conjured the geometry of noble courts; the subtle theatre of power performed through proximity. His Strategic Management lecture had an entire section on resource allocation that kept pulling his thoughts sideways, toward councils and war rooms and Dragonstone. He stared at his notebook.

He had written, in the margin: Corlys was right about the Gullet.

He had no idea when.

“You’re disassociating again.”

Jace blinked.

Across the seminar table sat Cregan Stark, regarding him with the expression he used on everything: tall, dark-haired, slow-blinking, fundamentally and constitutionally unimpressed by the world and all its events. He was from Winterfell like genuinely, actually from Winterfell, which Jace had always found slightly funny without ever quite being able to explain why.

They’d been best friends since secondary school, the friendship that had calcified into something so much more. They were like brothers in every sense. Also, he looked almost exactly like the Cregan from the dream.

Same jaw. Same eyes. Same expression, the one that said I am listening to you and I find you exhausting. Same, in other words, as he always looked well except his had slightly shorter hair.

“What?” Jace managed.

Cregan raised one eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at me for ten seconds with an expressionless face.”

“Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I had a strange dream. I feel like I keep repeating these words over and over again.”

“You texted me at four in the morning.”

Jace went very still.

“I did?”

Cregan reached for his phone with the patience of a man who had long since resigned himself to the chaos of being Jace Velaryon’s closest friend. He scrolled briefly, then began reading aloud in the flat, informational tone of a news anchor delivering a weather report.

“‘Brother, imagine if we were medieval nobles.’”

“Oh, God.”

“‘You would have loved Winterfell.’”

“Cregan-”

“‘You were Lord of the North.’” He glanced up briefly. “I’m from Winterfell, Jace. I grew up in Winterfell. I know what Winterfell is.”

“Please stop-”

‘I miss Vermax.’

Cregan lowered the phone.

“I don’t know what Vermax is, if its not talking about your car.” he said.

Jace buried his face in both hands and made a sound that was less a word than a comprehensive statement. “You were never meant to read those.”

“You sent them to me.”

“I was apparently not fully conscious at four in the morning. I don’t remember doing this at all.”

“That’s concerning.”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

The question arrived without ceremony, Cregan always asked things he actually wanted to know, dropped into a conversation like a stone dropped into water, watching to see what it displaced. Jace hesitated for long enough that the silence became its own answer.

“Yeah,” he said. Then, quietly: “Not entirely.”

Cregan nodded. He didn’t push. This was something Jace had always valued about him, the Stark capacity to hold space without filling it.

“Tell me later,” Cregan said, and turned back to his laptop.

Mostly, Jace thought. He was mostly okay. ┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

You found him outside the business building at noon, materializing from the flow of students and your smile arrived before you did.

Jace felt the thing in his chest that had been clenched since 7 AM ease, slowly, like a hand opening. There was something about you that operated on him this way, had always operated on him this way, since the beginning. A quality of presence that grounded him, that made the world’s coordinates make sense again. He’d never found quite the right words for it. He’d stopped trying.

You slipped your hand into his without ceremony.

“Better than this morning?”

“A little.”

“Still thinking about your prince dream?”

He laughed, the sound freer than he expected. “Unfortunately.”

“You are such a nerd.”

“I was literally fighting a war.”

“You were dreaming about fighting a war.”

“Details.”

“Jacaerys Velaryon, if this dream becomes your entire personality, I want it on the record that I tried to prevent it-”

“Noted and rejected.”

You rolled your eyes with magnificent feeling. “I make no promises about what I tell your mother.”

Together you walked toward the café nearby. A small, overcrowded place called something Jace could never quite remember but it had had excellent coffee and terrible lighting and was perpetually full of students and professors who had clearly rather be somewhere else. The place that existed to absorb the ambient anxiety of a university and convert it, through caffeine, into something marginally more functional.

You had barely settled into your seats when a familiar voice arrived from approximately two tables away, belonging to someone who had apparently been watching for them.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite nephew.”

Aegon Targaryen dropped into the empty chair beside Jace with the comfortable confidence of a man who owned, and this was literally true, approximately half the building they were sitting in. Twenty-six, blond, expensive, reliably catastrophic. His jacket probably cost more than Jace’s car maintenance for the year, and he wore it with the carelessness never once considering the cost of anything.

He was nothing like the monster from the dream. The dream-Aegon had been something Jace couldn’t fully bring himself to examine yet. Jealous and bitter and capable of terrible things. This Aegon was mostly known for throwing parties that became local legend and mysteriously managing to avoid all professional consequences for anything he did, ever. Jacaerys supposed that has something to do with his mother and his uncle Aemond keeping these things contained.

“To what do we owe the honor?” Jace asked.

Aegon’s attention had already moved to you.

“And how are you?”

“Good,” you said politely.

“Still putting up with him?”

You smiled. “Barely.”

“Excellent answer.”

Jace groaned. Aegon looked absolutely delighted. “You’re blushing,” Aegon observed, with the tone of someone reporting a natural phenomenon.

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

You leaned over the table, and Jace recognized the look on your face immediately. The collaborative look. The look that meant you had identified an ally.

“He was calling me his beloved this morning.”

Aegon’s chair nearly lost him. He grabbed the table.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“In what context?”

“He kissed my hand. In the street. Before nine in the morning.”

Aegon looked at Jace the way someone looks at an archaeological discovery with facination, slightly appalled, deeply pleased. “This is the greatest thing that has ever happened.”

Jace contemplated his options. Leaving. Changing his name and moving to Braavos. Committing entirely to the persona of someone who had never been caught calling his girlfriend my beloved at eight forty-five on a Tuesday.

None of these were practical.

He reached for his coffee and said nothing, which Aegon correctly interpreted as total defeat.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

After Aegon eventually wandered off, ostensibly to a meeting, credibly to cause chaos somewhere else and so the café settled back into its ordinary rhythms. Students came and went. Espresso machines hissed. The ambient noise absorbed itself.

You and Jace remained at your table, and the laughter faded naturally, the way good laughter does, not dying but simply becoming something quieter.

He was staring into his coffee again.

You watched him for a moment.

“You never told me the whole dream, since it has you in a weird mindset today.” you said quietly.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the cup. He was aware of you looking at him, with your full attention, which had always been more like listening than looking, patient and genuine and without agenda.

“To put it simply, there was a war,” he said.

You didn’t ask him to explain. You waited.

“A civil war.” He looked up briefly, then back at the table. “A war over who would rule over Westeros. My mother was supposed to inherit as was the rightful heir to the throne but there were those who didn’t accept it. Didn’t accept her.”

“And you fought for her.”

“Of course.”

The images came without invitation, Dragonstone’s grey halls, the council table, the maps spreading the whole kingdom out before them like a wound. The feeling of duty that had lived in his chest since childhood, not as a burden but as a definition. This is who you are. This is what you do.

You reached across the table and took his hand. He continued.

“I flew a dragon. I know this sounds no so scary but-” Despite everything, he heard the ghost of wonder in his own voice. “Vermax. He was- he was mine. Since I was a boy. He knew me.” The wonder curdled, softened into something heavier. “He died with me.”

Your thumb moved in a slow arc across his knuckles. “The last thing I remember,” he said quietly, “was dying. Floating in the sea, after everything.” He paused.

“It was strange. It wasn’t- it wasn’t the way I would have imagined. It wasn’t terrifying.”

“What was it?”

He thought about it honestly.

“It was sad,” he said. “But calm.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then you reached up, and the gesture was so unexpected that he went still, your hand cupping his cheek, steady and warm, thumb tracing a line beneath his eye.

He leaned into it without thinking.

“I’m glad it was only a dream,” you said softly trying to calm his anxieties that he didn’t want to confess out loud.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

The tightness in his chest released, not all at once but in stages, like a knot worked loose over time. He turned his head slightly, pressing his lips briefly to your palm, and you let him, and neither of you made anything of it. She’s right, he thought. Whatever that was. Whatever it meant.

He was here. Alive. With his family, with his best friend, with his girl.

Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was, actually, everything.

The afternoon passed.

Classes ended. The university slowly emptied like it did every day at dusk, students and professors releasing themselves back into the city like a pressure valve opening. The parking lot filled briefly with the usual chaos and then thinned.

“My mother wants you over more often,” Jace mentioned, as they walked toward the Porsche.

“Apparently she likes you.”

You brightened immediately. “Really?”

“She said so unprompted. First thing this morning.”

“Good.” You smiled with satisfaction. “I’m charming.”

Jace looked at you sideways. “You are deeply smug about this.”

“I’m charming,” you repeated, pleasantly. He laughed. “Come over tonight?”

You looked at him, with that look you had, the one he’d never found a word for, the one that made him feel simultaneously seen and unsteady in the best possible way. Made him feel a bit giddy.

“I’d love to,” you said.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The penthouse was unusually quiet when they arrived. Rhaenyra was visible through the glass of her home office, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, reading from a document with the focused intensity and it was clear that the woman needed a break from everything. Luke had evaporated somewhere. Joffrey was reportedly studying, a claim no one in the household had ever been successfully able to verify.

You and Jace settled at the dining table with laptops and scattered notes and the collective fiction of productivity.

For forty minutes, it was remarkably functional. Jace had his economics module open. You were working through something, he didn’t ask, didn’t need to and the sound of quiet typing and the occasional turn of a page created a kind of companionable silence that he had always thought of as the specific luxury of being comfortable with someone. presence. You could simply be in it.

He was reading about capital allocation.

“Jace.”

He looked up.

“You’re getting lost in your mind again.”

“I’m not what are you talking about?” he said automatically. Then, because honesty was something he’d apparently committed to today: “I was thinking about- uhhh. Economics?”

“That is not better.”

“You look pretty,” he said simply.

The silence that followed had a distinct texture. You looked at him for a long moment. Then you slowly, deliberately, closed your laptop.

“No,” you said.

“What?”

“You don’t get to say things like that when I’m trying to study.”

“I was simply making an observation.”

“You are impossible.”

He was very pleased with himself. He did not bother hiding it.

An hour later, the economics module had not progressed. The textbooks had been consolidated into a single pile and pushed to the far end of the table, a gesture that meant these exist and will eventually be addressed, which was as much as either of you were willing to commit to. A film had been agreed upon via negotiation.

Blankets appeared.

The overhead lights went off.

And somehow, as these things always somehow managed, you ended up curled against his chest on the enormous sectional, his arm around your waist, the film playing distantly while neither of you particularly watched it. Your breathing slowed first. His heartbeat was steady and familiar beneath your ear.

The city moved quietly outside the windows.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The prince stood before you.

The wind came off the sea like a cold hand, whipping through his dark, curling hair, pressing his black riding coat against his frame. Behind him, Dragonstone rose in its glory against a steel-grey sky, all sharp towers and dark stone, magnificent and terrible, built by people who had never believed in half measures. The sea crashed against the rocks far below. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon with the patient, deliberate advance of something inevitable.

“No.”

Your voice came out broken.

“No, please.”

He looked at you the way he always looked at you as if you were the clearest thing in a world that had lately become very unclear, like looking at you was the one thing he could do without effort in a life that had demanded extraordinary effort from him since the moment he was old enough to understand what he was.

“I have to go.”

“You don’t,” you said, even though you knew it wasn’t true. Even though somewhere beneath the desperate present tense of the argument, the truer, older part of you already knew exactly what was coming. Already knew the shape of this farewell.

His hands found yours.

They were warm. Strong and real, so real that makes their loss so much more brutal than the loss of things you never fully believed in.

“You can stay,” you said. Your voice was steadier than you felt. “You can let someone else-”

“I cannot.” His voice was gentle but stern. He was stubborn and so if he made peace with this decisions, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tears burned behind your eyes. The fear inside you was almost unbearable and burning, it was twisted and layered, because you knew. You already knew. This was not a premonition, not a vague presentiment. It was knowledge, carried somewhere beneath language, beneath memory, in whatever part of you had been this person before.

You knew what awaited him at the Gullet.

Fire.

Water.

“You promised.” The words escaped before you could decide to say them.

His expression shifted. Something moved across it, grief, tenderness, the ache of a man who loves something too well to pretend it isn’t breaking. “And I will keep that promise but this is a battle I must fight for both myself and my mother.”

He stepped closer, and you let him, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead so gently it barely qualified as a touch at all.

Then he rested his brow against yours. His eyes never left yours.

“If I do not return- which I intend to,”

The world seemed to hold its breath.

“I will find you.”

A tear escaped. Traced the line of your cheek. He watched it with eyes that were very dark and very steady.

“In every lifetime if not this one. I promise.”

The words landed somewhere deep in you, somewhere wordless, somewhere older than the language you used to think with. A promise that had the weight of truth rather than intention.

You memorized his face. The curls. The strong jaw. The eyes, brown and earnest and alive, so alive.

He smiled.

Then he stepped away.

He turned toward the waiting dragon.

Toward the dark water below.

Toward a destiny that was also a death.

And all you could do was watch him leave. ┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

You woke with a gasp that tore itself from somewhere past your chest.

For several seconds, you could not find the room. Could not find yourself in it. There was only the dream...the cliffs, the wind, his forehead against yours, the sound of his footsteps retreating and the grief of it, which was specific and devastating and nothing at all like the vague emotional residue of ordinary sleep.

Tears burned behind your eyes. Your heart was pounding.

You pushed yourself upright. A blanket tangled around your legs. The room was dim, the film long since ended, the television showing a menu screen. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, King’s Landing glittered in the full dark of night, the city’s lights reflected upward in a warm wash against the low clouds. Jace must have moved you to his room when you fell asleep.

The bedroom door opened.

Jace stepped in carrying two mugs, steam rising from both. He had apparently, at some point during your sleep, been productive.

The moment he saw your face, he froze.

“Hey.”

The concern in his voice was immediate, the shift from normal to careful happening in the space of a single syllable.

“What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer. The words were somewhere on the way, but in the meantime your body had already decided what it needed, and what it needed was to close the distance between you and him as quickly as possible.

You stood.

Crossed the room.

The mugs barely survived. He caught them against the edge of the side table with an impressive reflex, setting them down quickly before his arms came around your waist, and you buried your face against the side of his neck, and breathed him in.

“Sweetheart?” Low and careful. His chin came to rest on top of your head.

You stayed there for a moment just letting the reality of him replace the dream of him. The warmth of him. The solidness.

Then you pulled back. Not far. Your forehead came to rest against his, which put you close enough to feel his breath and see the small crease of worry between his brows.

“I had a dream,” you said. It seems it was your turn to utter those words.

Something moved across his face. He went very still in the way that meant he was paying every variety of attention he had.

“What kind of dream?”

“I saw a prince.”

His breath caught. You felt it.

“I saw him leaving for a battle. He was going to fight-”

Your voice faltered, then steadied. “He knew he might not come back. And he said-” You stopped.

Jace’s arms tightened around you, almost involuntarily. “He said he would find me,” you continued. “That if he didn’t return-” Your eyes met his, and something in your chest recognized something in his. “He would find me in every lifetime.”

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence.

Jace stared at you.

Because those were the exact words. Not a version of them, not a paraphrase but the exact promise, the exact phrasing, the exact scene, the stone of Dragonstone under grey skies and wind coming off the sea. He had lived it from one side and you had lived it from the other, and here you both were, in a penthouse above a city that did not have dragons, with the memory of them living in your bones.

His throat moved.

You smiled softly with tears still bright at the corners of your eyes. Your hand lifted, your fingers moving gently through his curls, the same gesture that felt simultaneously new and ancient.

“I don’t know what any of that means,” you said.

“Neither do I.”

“But if it was real-”

His forehead pressed more firmly against yours.

“You kept your promise,” you whispered.

He felt his throat close.

And for the first time since he had woken to the sound of an alarm clock and a bedroom that wasn’t the sea, he stopped wondering whether the dream had been real. He stopped wondering whether he was grieving something imagined or something true. He stopped needing to know.

Because you knew.

You had been there.

You rose onto your toes.

Your lips met his.

It was slow and gentle. He kissed you back like someone returning to something, like a navigator finding a landmark in familiar water.

Like he had been waiting centuries and perhaps his soul had waited for this moment. The moment to return to her. ┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

The knock was soft.

They both startled apart with the excellent reflexes of guilty consciences, then immediately demonstrated the dignity of two people pretending they hadn’t. Jace cleared his throat. Rested his forehead against yours for one final second. His breath was unsteady in the best way.

Another knock.

“Jacaerys?”

Rhaenyra’s voice, measured, carrying through the door with the easy authority of a woman who managed board rooms and board members and the shenanigans of three sons as a single uninterrupted professional skill.

“Dinner is ready.” They heard the muffled voice of his mother.

Jace answered at a volume calibrated for normalcy “We’ll be there in a minute!”

A pause that had weight.

“Five minutes,” his mother’s voice returned, drier than a desert, and entirely aware of everything and perhaps making a wrong assumption of you two being alone in his room.

You laughed, pressing your face briefly against his shoulder to muffle it. He was already smiling.

“Your mother doesn’t trust you.”

“She absolutely does not.”

“And honestly?” You poked his chest. “I don’t blame her.”

“You wound me.”

“Good.” You pulled your hand back, but he caught it, quick and easy, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles again. The same gesture as that morning. The echo of it traveled through both of you clearly.

Your cheeks went pink.

He watched it happen with a feeling in his chest that was too large and too simple to require any examination at all.

There she is, he thought. My girl.

My princess.

He took your hand properly, fingers laced and led you toward the dining room.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈ They heard the argument before they reached the dinner table.

Luke and Joffrey, seated across from each other in the arrangement that the family had collectively accepted as a flaw, were conducting a debate with the commitment of two people who had come to win.

“No, because you’re objectively wrong-”

“I’m objectively right-”

“You don’t even know what objectively means.”

“I literally do.”

“You used it wrong.”

Joffrey groaned with his whole body. “I hate this family.”

“You are this family,” Luke pointed out.

Joffrey considered this. “Exactly.”

Rhaenyra, at the head of the table, was pinching the bridge of her nose with annoyance. This was her normal and yet it was tiring.

The moment she saw you, her face entirely changed.

“There she is.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

She stood and pulled you into a hug with a warmth that was, Jace thought privately, rather more enthusiastic than his own homecoming greeting most mornings. “I was beginning to think my son had invented you.”

“Mum.”

“What? He never brings you over.”

“That’s his fault,” you said.

“Traitor,” Jace said.

“You’re literally my boyfriend.”

“Exactly.”

You smiled sweetly. “I’m allowed.”

Rhaenyra looked delighted in the specific way she allowed herself to look delighted when she was genuinely pleased, a rarity outside this apartment. Luke immediately leaned toward you.

“See? This is why she’s my favorite.”

“I’m sitting right here.”

“Unfortunately.”

Jace threw a bread roll at him.

Luke threw one back.

The war began immediately, and lasted approximately five seconds before Rhaenyra’s single sharp look ended it. She had a look for this. It was very effective.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, settling back into her chair and accepting a bread roll from the basket with the serenity of someone who had already mentally exited the building, “if I raised wolves.”

“That’s insulting,” Joffrey said.

Everyone looked at him.

The fourteen-year-old shrugged with the composure of someone who had thought this through. “Wolves are smarter.”

The silence held for two seconds before Luke’s expression cracked. Jace looked at the ceiling. Rhaenyra’s attempt at severity collapsed at its foundations.

You sat beside Jace with your hand warm against his under the table, and you were already laughing, and the sound of it filled the room the way laughter does when a room is already full of people who are glad to be there.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

Dinner found its rhythm.

Conversation moved in the easy, overlapping way it does with people who have logged enough hours together that they no longer need to manage it consciously. Luke complained about a group project with the vivid resentment of having decided the problem was everyone else.

Joffrey explained something about a game or a film or a historical period but the audience could not quite keep up, but that seemed to be part of the experience. Rhaenyra complained, with great economy, about company politics, and then told a story about a colleague that had everyone at the table paying full attention (It was Aemond who everytone is afraid of in their company).

You listened to all of it.

Jace, mostly, watched.

He had not expected this. Had woken this morning in the sea, or the memory of it. Had spent the drive to university with the dream still active in his body, had sat through lectures half-present, had carried the weight of Vermax’s last look in his chest all day like a stone.

And now.

He watched his mother smile at something you said. He watched Luke do the thing he did when he was actually amused, which was different from when he is pretending. Watched Joffrey explain something to you directly, having apparently determined that you were worth the effort, and watched your face do the thing it did when you were genuinely interested in something, slightly forward, slightly bright, entirely present.

You fit here. Not as a guest, not as someone being accommodated. As someone who belonged. He thought of the dream again.

Remembered standing at the dragonpit of Dragonstone with his armor on and the dragon saddled and the sea grey behind him, and looking back at everything he was leaving, his mother, his brothers, you, the stone halls and the cold salt wind and the ordinary miracle of a morning that didn’t require a king’s son to die for it.

He had wondered, in those last seconds at Dragonstone, if he would ever see any of them again. He had his answer now.

The realization settled in his chest quietly, without drama. Not a revelation, something more like a confirmation. A peace he hadn’t known he was looking for, finding him here, at a dinner table with a bread roll dent in the tablecloth and Joffrey currently holding forth on something no one else understood.

No war. No dragons. No succession. No battles. Just family. Just love.

Just this.

Halfway through dessert, Joffrey’s phone lit up. “Oh!” He reached for it with the speed of receiving news they’d been waiting for. “Dad’s calling.”

Jace felt himself smile before the screen even showed Laenor’s face.

It appeared a moment later, that face, familiar and warm and slightly tanned by whatever sun was currently shining on whatever harbor on whatever coast he was sailing toward. Behind him, a bright blue sky suggested somewhere in Essos, probably. The man was perpetually in motion, perpetually somewhere else and yet found time for them. He was not their real father, but he might as well have been. After Harwin passed away, Rhaenyra had remarried Laenor as more of a deal since Laenor wasn’t interested in anything but he cared for Rhaenyra platonically and it seemed to have worked out great and that’s all that mattered.

“There are my favorite children.”

Luke snorted. “We’re your only children.”

“And yet somehow still my favorites.” Laenor’s gaze found you across the table, and his face smiled “There she is.”

You laughed. “Hello.”

“Good. Finally, someone sensible has arrived.”

“Hey!” Three voices, simultaneous.

Laenor continued as though he hadn’t heard. “How are you, darling?”

“I’m well, thank you.”

Jace groaned. “Why does everyone in my family like her more than me?”

“Because,” Laenor said, and the timing was beautiful, “she has manners.”

The table erupted. Even Rhaenyra, which was a significant achievement.

Laenor spent twenty minutes on the call, chatting about his route, trading insults with. He heard both Luke and Joffery’s rambling. He asked Rhaenyra about the board meeting she’d complained about, and listened to her answer. He asked you about your studies, and remembered something you’d mentioned three calls ago, and asked a follow-up question about it.

The man had walked into their lives years ago and simply decided, without announcement or conditions, that these were his sons. No performance of it. No documentation. Just- love, extended to fill the available space.

Dream Laenor had disappeared. The thought arrived gently, without bitterness. The dream-Laenor, who had been present mostly in his absence, who Jace had barely known, who had been lost before Jace could understand what losing someone meant. This version was here. This version showed up.

And Jace was, quietly and completely, grateful for that. The call ended. The dessert finished. The evening moved toward its natural conclusion with the comfortable inevitability of all good evenings. Luke vanished in the direction of his room. Joffrey disappeared with a quantity of snacks that could feed a whole army. Rhaenyra retreated to finish what she’d started, she always had something she was finishing, this was simply who she was and the penthouse settled into quiet

Which left you and Jace, alone on the balcony.

┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈

King’s Landing stretched below them without end. The city was all light from up here, not the individual lights, not streets and windows and the moving points of cars, but the collective glow of it, the warmth of a few million people living their lives in proximity, translated upward into something that looked, from this height, almost like its own kind of fire.

A cool breeze moved through the dark, carrying the city’s particular nighttime mixture of warm pavement and distant food and the faint, improbable ghost of something floral from a rooftop garden somewhere below. It found its way into Jace’s curls and did what it wanted with them.

You stood beside him. Close enough that your shoulders touched.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. The city was enough, for a while.

Then you broke the silence the way you often did when a thought entered your head.

“Do you think it was real?”

He didn’t ask what you meant.

The dreams. The prince and the princess. The battle. The promise made at the edge of the world on the morning of an ending. The specific weight of standing on Dragonstone and knowing.

“I don’t know,” he said.

You slipped your hand into his. Your fingers were cool from the night air. He closed his hand around yours.

“But it felt real,” you said.

“It did.”

Another silence, this one richer. Weighted, but not heavily, weighted the way a good book is heavy, in a way you want.

“If it was real…”

Jace looked toward you. The city’s light caught you from below, softening the angles, turning you luminous in the warm way of a portrait painted with care. The same thing he’d thought this morning returned, effortlessly, as though it had simply been waiting for the right lighting.

Radiant.

The same as the princess from the dream. The same, and also entirely herself.

“If it was real,” you continued, a smile finding the corner of your mouth, “I think she’d be happy.”

“Who?”

“The princess.”

Your fingers squeezed his.

“Because she got her prince back.”

Something moved in his chest and he felt a giddy sensation.

“And he got his princess,” he said quietly.

The smile you gave him in return was the specific, undone kind that he privately thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He doubted this would change.

“You know,” he said, after a moment, “I’ve spent all day thinking about the battle.”

“The Gullet?”

“Yeah.” He looked down at the city. “The part where I died.”

You were quiet beside him.

“And?” you said, finally.

He looked back through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.

His mother, visible in her office, signing something. The small movement of her hand showing her actions. Luke in the hallway beyond, typing away at his phone aggressively with determinations of someone looking to win an argument even if he may be wrong.

Joffrey somewhere in his room planning a prank on his mother.

And all of it, all of this life, this ordinary, extraordinary life, glowing warm behind glass thirty floors above a city that had never known a dragon. His family.

“I think that prince would’ve liked this,” he said.

You followed his gaze.

You understood immediately. He could see it in the way your face softened, not with sadness but with tenderness that recognizes grief and holds it carefully.

A life without war. Without the weight of a crown.

Without sacrifice, the kind that swaps one beloved thing for another in an endless, devastating ledger.

Just family.

Just love.

Just peace.

You rested your head on his shoulder.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your hair, slow and quiet.

Neither of you saw it.

But just for a moment, a breath, almost a blink, the glass of the balcony door held a reflection that was not quite yours.

Two figures. Side by side. Dressed in black and red, the colours of a house that had once held the world.

Standing exactly as you were standing. Looking out at exactly what you were looking at.

Smiling.

At each other, and at this, and at everything that had managed, against all odds, to survive.

Then the image dissolved.

The glass held only the room behind it, warm and lit and full of the sound of Luke losing the argument.

And Jace, and you.

Exactly where you were always meant to be.

You wonder whether it is chance or divine intervention that a Targaryen prince washes ashore beside your cottage.

By the time you get to the edge of the sea after catching a glimpse of the corpse from your porch, it is half buried in the wet sand, lying limp at your feet, and there is a lump in your throat that you cannot seem to swallow away. 

You do not know how you didn’t notice the sigil sooner.

It should have been the first thing that caught your eye, considering it was only a fortnight past that the Prince Aemond brought the great dragon Vhagar over the town you were raised in and razed it to the ground. The green and gold banners have been flying over the area since, and soldiers from the Reach have been constantly patrolling the roads, seeking out rebels and sympathizers.

You know better than to involve yourself in the affairs of any man that dons the three-headed dragon, you tell yourself, trying to will yourself to walk away from the corpse before anyone can catch you standing near it.

Red or gold, black or green—it does not matter to you, the wars of nobles are graves for common folk, and you have no desire to meet an early one. You have done well enough for yourself since your father passed. You refuse to squander the life you’ve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.

The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but notice—your age, perhaps—dark of hair and fair of skin. At a distance, he had looked like any other body the sea had decided to return, and your first instinct had been to rush toward him rather than avert your gaze and pretend you had seen nothing.

Your hands tremble at your sides, and you have to forcibly still them as you take in a deep breath.

This is war, you recall the soldiers saying when the survivors demanded to know the reason for the tragedy that took place at Sharp Point—mothers with tears in their eyes and no bodies to bury, fathers who had lost their livelihood and the children for whom they built it, your neighbors, your friends. They say Lord Bar Emmon sits on the usurper’s council, so all of the commonfolk who were unfortunate enough to be born beneath his banners have been made to pay the price of his loyalties, allies of a queen they have never seen and casualties of a war they never chose.

This is war, they will tell you the same as they cut off your head if they see you kneeling beside this corpse and call mercy treason. Because it is always the burden of the commonfolk, paying the price of noble quarrels. Princes speak of honor and succession, of rights and oaths and stolen crowns, and it is fishermen and farmers who have to bury their dead. They will not care to hear what you have to say if they think you're affiliated with the Black queen and her supporters, just as the Prince Aemond did not care whether the people of Sharp Point had declared for the Blacks or merely happened to be born beneath the wrong lord.

But now, a prince lies dead upon your shore, and you wonder if this is how it begins again. 

You should leave him.

The thought comes immediately, sensible in light of the circumstances, even if it does make your stomach flip. You should turn around and go home, bolt your door, and tell no one what you saw. The sea will reclaim him, or the crabs will pick his bones clean; maybe the patrol will stumble upon the body before the tide rises, and they can parade it through the streets the same way you heard they did to Princess Rhaenys’s dragon.

By the morning, he will be gone one way or another, and you can move on with your life as though you never saw him at all. He will be somebody else’s misfortune, or more hopefully, no one else’s at all. 

It is a corpse, anyway. The boy has not moved since you arrived, and his chest does not seem to be rising and falling. There are two arrows through his shoulder, and a blueness to his lips that you’ve only seen in the dead, so—

As though to mock you, he lets out a wet, ragged cough, water bubbling at his lips, lashes fluttering just enough for you to catch sight of dark, hazy eyes that slip over you once before they slide shut again.

You feel sick to your stomach.

He does not stir again. One side of his face is bruised an ugly purple, his dark hair plastered to his brow with seawater and blood. He cannot be much older than you—the traitorous thought crosses your mind again. There is something terribly young about him, lying there half-drowned in the surf, one hand curled weakly into the sand as though, even unconscious, he is still trying to cling to something.

He does not look like a prince, you think miserably. He looks like a boy who is going to die.

The sea foams around your boots, and his body twitches as it threatens to reclaim him—the only feeble resistance he’s capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathes—the fires might still burn on the Gullet, but the fighting ended days past. How long has he been floating about, dragged around by vicious currents and tossed by waves? It doesn’t even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened and—

—and dropped him on your shore, in your hands, and you are contemplating leaving him to die.

The thought is unpleasant, a heavy stone in your chest in place of your heart.

You are not a cruel person. You have cared for gulls with broken wings, and you leave scraps outside your door for the old orange cat that wanders the area. During the winter three years prior, you spent a fortnight nursing a lamb that did not even belong to you because you could not bear the sound of it crying.

And now there is a boy at your feet—bleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to life—and because there is a dragon sewn onto his chest, you are trying to convince yourself to let the sea finish what arrows and war could not. 

His lashes are dark against his cheek. Young, you think again, even more traitorous than the last, no older than ten and nine, if even. There is salt crusted at the corners of his mouth and blood soaking through his tunic in sluggish, rusty streams that stain the pale sand beneath him.

He looks cold—traitor, traitor, traitor.

He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous. 

Cold. Hurt. Dying.

You need to walk away, you tell yourself again, desperate this time, because the longer you stand there staring at him, the more you fail to convince yourself of the correct path. 

A prince's life is worth more than yours, more than your cottage and your little patch of land and the fishing boat your father left you. It is worth armies and dragons and castles and men willing to kill for a name. 

If this boy lives, others will come looking for him. 

And if the soldiers discover him in your home, they will not ask questions. They will not care that you found him by chance or that you never bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyra—that you could not even tell anyone why one half of House Targaryen wishes the other dead. They will see the three-headed dragon on his breast and the roof over his head, and that will be enough to condemn you.

Worse, the Prince Aemond and the dragon Vhagar could return. You think of Tom, the miller’s son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Grace’s face as she searched the ashes for her mother. You think of all of your neighbors, all of your friends, who hardly survived the first time fire rained from the sky, and you think of all of those who didn’t. 

He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, there’s no reason you should save him and condemn countless others—he bleeds the same, he dies the same, and when the Stranger comes for him, he is no more spared than any other man.

Except, he didn’t, did he? 

He should be dead—any other man would be dead.

Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on end—there is no surviving that. Yet he breathes still, ragged and shallow though it may be, his fingers twitching every now and then.

The Stranger came for him and left empty-handed.

The Stranger came for him and left him with you. 

Why?

There are no prophecies in your life, no gods whispering in your ear. You are a fisherman's daughter with a cottage by the sea and enough coin to keep yourself fed through winter if the catch is good. You know little of the gods save for the prayers your father taught you as a child and the candles you light for him on his nameday. The Seven did not save your father or your town; they did not save Tom or Grace’s mother or any of the others who screamed as dragonfire turned their homes to ash.

So why? Why this boy? Why this prince? Why should the gods spare a dragon's son when they had not spared children and fishermen and mothers? Why have they left him for you?

You do not have an answer. The only answer before you is a body on the sand, breathing when it ought not to be.

You stare down at him, furious and distressed and so, so unsure. He looks dead again—still as driftwood, cold and pale, stiff. His lips are blue like the dead, and his chest hardly rises and falls. You wonder if you imagined what you saw before. If your guilt conjured a cough where there had been none, if your conscience simply could not bear the thought of walking away even from a corpse.

Slowly, you sink to your knees beside him, damp sand clinging to your knees, the sea foam wetting your trousers. Your hand is still trembling in spite of all efforts to still it. You lift it to his throat, hesitating only for a moment. 

If there is life, you will do what you must.

If there is not, you will turn and walk away. 

You have never prayed for someone to be dead before. 

Please, you think now miserably. Please.

Your fingers brush the skin of his throat—it is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and then—

There is a flutter—it is weak and uneven, so faint that you almost miss it, but it is there.

Your head hangs forward, and you blink away the tears that prick in your eyes, because you know this action will have consequences. You know that there is no going back once you have entangled yourself with dragons. You know that every story told of House Targaryen ends in blood and fire and ruin for everyone foolish enough to stand too close them.

You know that this boy could be the death of you.

The soldiers could discover him. Your neighbors could discover him—as much as they care for you, they fear Vhagar more. If word spreads that a prince of the black faction lives and is hidden beneath your roof, you could hang for it. They could burn your cottage to the ground. They could drag you through the streets and call you traitor.

Worse still, he could recover.

Because then he would not be a half-dead boy on the sand. He would be a prince again. A son of the house of the dragon. He would leave, and the war would continue, and perhaps one day you would hear his name in some tavern and learn that he had mounted a dragon and burned a town much like your own.

The sea rushes forward again, cold water washing over your boots and his legs alike. He does not move. He is so cold.

“Why did you have to wash up here?” you breathe out—frustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need. 

His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir. 

Then, because the gods have a cruel sense of humor and because your heart has always been softer than your head, you slide your arms beneath the prince’s shoulders and knees.

With a soft curse and the sea at your heels, you gather the dragon prince into your arms and carry home your ruin.

—————————

He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne. 

Three days have passed since you found him on the shore, and he has hardly stirred since you dragged him into your cottage. You have been riddled with anxiety since, jumping at every sound and fearing the worst when someone addresses you. It is only a matter of time—whenever a rider passes on the road beyond the trees or the patrol sweeps down your shore, you think they care coming for him. Coming for you. 

You spend the first day trying to keep him alive. 

You drag him home, soaked to the bone and half-frozen, laying him atop your bed as you get a fire going and wrap him in your blankets. For a while, you can only stand there staring at him, because it is one thing to decide not to leave a boy to die and another entirely to realize you have no idea how to save him.

You have to cut away his tunic to remove it, and it makes it easier to breathe once the three-headed dragon is out of sight, but then you have to address the monstrosity beneath it—bruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood. 

You wonder how many rocks the currents slammed him into before he finally washed to shore. The sea around Sharp Point is, well, sharp. Jagged rocks and narrow inlets line the coast, and more than one fisherman has vanished into the sea after his boat drifted too close to reefs beneath the tide.

It is a cruel stretch of sea—crueler still to a boy half-dead and alone. 

And then there were the arrows. 

The shafts protrude from his shoulders at awful angles, the flesh around them angry and swollen. You cry while removing them, because you have never done something like it before, and your hands cannot stop shaking. A part of you wonders if the gods left him for you so that his blood could be on your hands instead, and you cannot fathom what you’ve done to deserve this.

You expect him to wake once you start removing them. At the very least, you expect him to scream. The first shaft pierced cleanly through his shoulder and is easy enough to ease out, but the second lodged itself deep in the flesh, refusing to budge until you brace your foot against the bedframe and pull with both hands. 

It should have been agony—any man would have cried out. 

The prince does not so much as flinch.

You remember staring at him afterward, the arrow clutched in your hand and your own cheeks wet with tears, wondering if he had died while you were removing it. You press your fingers to his throat with a panic that borders on hysteria, and you aren’t sure if you’re relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there. 

A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died. 

A corpse is a tragedy, but a tragedy can be dumped in the sea and abandoned. A tragedy will not bring more war to your ravaged home.

A living prince, on the other hand, is a catastrophe that you do not know what to do with. Your home has already faced ruin once, and the longer he remains in your care, the more at risk you will be of bringing it upon you all again, because if he is captured in your care, then that means war and blood and fire and more dragons. The whole town, all of the survivors, everyone will be branded traitors to the crown.

But the prince lived, so you can only hope that he will heal quick enough and be gone before you have the chance to regret helping him.

The fever comes on the second day, and the corpse in your bed finally gives to life. 

You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. It’s as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. It’s what you expect of a Targaryen prince, really—the burning heat, closer to dragon than man— it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway. 

You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever. 

Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade past—no matter how hard your mother worked to keep it at bay, he was dead by nightfall. Your mother passed in the same moon, to the same sickness, as did half of the children in Sharp Point, because fever does not care whether you are young or old, rich or poor, prince or peasant.

His skin is flushed, sweat beading along his brow and soaking the dark hair at his temples as he twists in the sheets violently, threatening to reopen the wounds you just stitched close. His breathing changes too—no longer the slow drags of air, shallow and erratic, like he had spent days at sea only to begin suffocating on dry land.

You fetch water from the well until your shoulders ache. You lay cloths upon his brow and change them whenever they grow warm. You feed the fire, then fear you have made him too hot and let it die down, only to panic that he would grow cold again and build it back up.

Every few minutes, you find yourself pressing your hand to his forehead or his throat, checking for fever and pulse alike. There is never a change—still alive and burning, and you don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. 

At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of it—the words are slurred, little more than broken sounds spilling from fevered lips. Names, you think. Places, maybe. Some do not seem to be spoken in the common tongue.

Once, very clearly, he whispers, "Mother.”

You have to change the cloth on his forehead afterward and pretend your eyes are not stinging with tears. You curse the gods throughout that second day—you wish that you’d never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish you’d left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore. 

You sleep little that night, sitting beside your bed and watching him breathe. Terrified every time his breathing slowed, and equally terrified every time it quickened. You count the moments between each breath until dawn creeps through your shutters, and by morning, you feel like you have lived a lifetime in a single night.

The third day—today—you have to make the trek into town.

You have used the last of your willow bark, and there is only a heel of stale bread left, a few onions, and enough drinking water to last another day if you’re careful. You need fruit and vegetables, more barley, and you have a catch that you never got the chance to bring to the market to trade the morning you found the prince. 

You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wish—the prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.

You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into town—you have always been fond of your neighbors and your friends, but you were not fond of the way they circle and crowd you whenever you make your weekly appearance for trade. You got overwhelmed too quickly, and you didn’t know how to make an exit without seeming rude, so you ended up staying there for hours when there were many chores you had to get done at home.

Now, it is like a graveyard. The destruction following the Prince Aemond’s attack on Sharp Point has yet to be cleared. The soldiers are too busy with war and patrols, and the survivors are too busy trying to salvage what they can of their ruined lives. 

When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death. 

The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games they’ve played and the rumors they’ve heard, if you saw the wild dragon Grey Ghost while you were out on your boat this week, and you smile and nod along with them. But all of the children are dead now, and you are not crowded by friends and neighbors eager to make conversation with you, because most of them are dead now too.

It is in the market when you overhear green-cloaked soldiers talking about the battle that took place in the Gullet, and you finally put a name to the face of the prince in your home. You try to pretend that you’re not eavesdropping, fingers shaking terribly as you sort through the fruits and vegetables that Wylem carted in from his farm, because you need to know if they have figured out what you’ve done, if they know the prince is in your care, under your roof.

But they only laugh as they speak of dead dragons and a mourning pretender queen. They say the Blacks have lost two dragons, and the bastard prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is dead. Any man who can find his body washed up on the shore to deliver to the King will see unfathomable riches. 

Momentarily, you are angry at yourself because the royals brought this war and have caused all of this suffering, but when your lashes flutter shut, for a split second, you can only picture the haunted look on your mother’s face as she held your dead brother in her arms. You think of Miss Ellyn, who tossed herself into the sea when she found out her son had been killed on the Kingsroad. You think of your friend, Marie, who you found screaming, fisting her infant daughter’s ashes after the burning of the town. You think of them, and then you think of the black queen on her throne, and you feel the same lump in your throat.

Then you remind yourself that this is her doing. 

Her doing, her half-brother’s doing, the other nobles’ doing. They brought this war to Westeros, they brought death and destruction, fire and blood, and you force yourself to shake your head and push it all away, trading some of the fish you caught for fruits and vegetables and barley with a watery smile that you’re sure Wylem took notice of. 

There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the prince’s body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people too—your friends, your neighbors, everyone. Many starve, more struggle, so if there is an opportunity for gold, they will all be on the hunt. You need to burn his cloak and tunic when you get back to the cottage, anything that associates him with House Targaryen. 

You nearly trip over your own feet racing back to the cottage, second-guessing every conversation you had in the town. Wylem asked you why you were getting twice as much food as you usually get—you do not remember how you responded. 

Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why can’t you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why can’t you remember? You’re scared—you do not think you’ve ever been so scared in your entire life. 

You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that they’re going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. You’re not cut out for this—you’re the daughter of a fisherman. There’s no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince. 

There are tears in your eyes when you make it back to the cottage, and your fingers are trembling around the bags Wylem packed for you. You shut the door behind you, and it takes you three tries to bolt it properly. When you finally do, you rest your forehead against the wood and let out a trembling sigh.

You—

“Who are you?”

There is a knife to your throat.

You stare at the crack in the wood of your door, breath catching, desperately trying not to move lest you risk the knife slicing through your skin. The crack appeared last winter, you remind yourself, trying not to focus too much on the fact that you can feel the cool edge of the blade. Your friend, Evander, was meant to fix before the next, but Evander is dead now, and you may well be too, if the knife at your throat presses any deeper. 

“Answer me, who are you? Where am I? Wh—” the prince—Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne—falters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. “You—you are a woman.”

You do not turn to look at him immediately, eyes sliding shut as you fight to steady the frantic beating of your heart, drawing one slow breath after another until your shaking eases enough to trust your legs. Your fingers tighten on the bags cradled in your arms before you force yourself to turn around.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands three paces behind you, one hand braced against the edge of your table, pained, pale, barely conscious. He is bare from the waist up, and the stitches you painstakingly worked through his torn skin have pulled loose, fresh blood soaking the bandages and dripping down his chest and back. 

You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cuts—you think his ribs must be broken, you did not notice just how bad off he was when you had him lying in the dim corner where you keep your bed. 

For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen prince—it is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive. 

Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, “You reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.”

The prince stares at you. 

As soon as the words fly from your mouth, you remember who it is before you. The son of a queen. The heir to the Iron Throne, if one listens to his mother. A pretender's heir and bastard, if one listens to her enemies. You do not know which of them is right, nor do you particularly care. Such questions belong to lords and knights and people with far too much time to argue over crowns. 

To the likes of you, prince is title enough for you to keep your mouth shut and your head bowed.

He does not immediately respond, gaze flicking around your cottage uncertainly. Your bed, stained with his blood. The dying hearth. The table where you left out the last bits of the bread, just in case he awoke while you were gone and was hungry. The bandages you left at his bedside. The basin of pink water you forgot to empty before leaving for town.

His lips, dry and cracked, part as he stares at you and murmurs more to himself than to you, “You tended my wounds.”

You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. “I found you on the shore a few days past, my prince—” Your Grace? What is the proper way to address a prince? My Lord does not seem grand enough for the heir to a queen. Prince feels the safest—whatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. “—I… you should probably be resting.”

“I need to know what happened,” he says instead, stepping closer to you. He is too pale, sweat beads at his forehead, dark curls matted to his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dilated the same way you’ve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. “What do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaena—she was on that wild dragon, and—my brothers, did my brothers make it back? How long has it been? Where are we? How far is it to Dragonstone? I must return immediately, I—”

The prince only just seems to realize how you’ve drawn away, back pressed against the door to your own home, arms tightening around the sack in your arms whenever he comes closer. His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, gaze flicking to the knife he dropped onto the floor and the fear in your face. 

Shame crosses his expression instantly.

“I—” His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether it’s from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, “You have helped me—saved my life, most like—and here I am frightening you. I… I thought I’d been captured. I woke in an unfamiliar place. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was a prisoner or if the battle had been lost. I heard the door open and…”

He trails off, and you stand there awkwardly, tension easing slowly from your shoulders. He is still on guard, but he does not seem so inclined to pull a blade on you again. Your lips part to tell him where he is, what little you know of the battle on the Gullet. 

Instead, you ask, “Do most enemy strongholds look like a fisherman’s cottage, my prince?” 

You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lips—he is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though he’s one of your peers. 

Prince Jacaerys stares at you for a long moment, and then, to your astonishment, his gaze flicks around the inside of your home again, and something suspiciously like embarrassment crosses his face. 

“I suppose not.”

The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and you let out a soft puff of air through your nose before making your way across the room to place the sack you’ve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what you’ve got later; for now, you need to get the prince resettled before he opens up any more of his wounds.

You turn to look at him again, faltering when you see the pained expression that crosses his face, so sudden that it steals all the color from his cheeks. His hand shoots to his side, fingers digging into the bandages wrapped around his ribs.

“My prince?” you ask hesitantly, taking half a step forward, arm only slightly extended. It is one thing to carry him to your cottage and treat his wounds while he’s unconscious; it is different now that he’s awake.

Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallow—he looks as though he’s moments from collapsing hard onto your wooden floor. Still, his jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck tighten as he draws himself upright through sheer stubbornness.

“I am fine,” he insists.

“You should sit, my prince.”

“I am standing,” he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isn’t rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips aren’t trembling with pain.

“Barely.”

The prince blinks as though caught off guard by the response, casting a look that is partially confused, and mostly offended in your direction. Your lashes flutter shut as you brace yourself for a volatile reaction, because he is a prince and you are a fisherman’s daughter, and you are arguing with him as though he is an equal and not one of those dragon-riding royals people compose songs about. You think you must have lost your wits entirely these past few days. 

Instead, he shoots back, with all the dignity he can muster while visibly swaying, "I have endured worse."

You stare at the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, uncertain if you believe him. You say with less heat, "That is not the same as being well, my prince."

His jaw tightens, and you fight a sigh. Gods, he actually looks as though he is preparing an argument. 

You wonder, briefly, what your life has become. Three weeks ago, your greatest concern had been whether the currents would ease up enough for you to take the boat out of the shallows to catch some fish. Now, Sharp Point has burned and you are standing in your cottage, arguing with a dragon prince about his injuries. 

The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leila’s uncle’s dubious ale. 

Then, Prince Jacaerys’s left leg buckles. 

He reaches for the table and misses, injured shoulder slamming into the edge hard enough to wrench a strangled cry from him, and before you can think better of it, you're moving.

You let go of the sack of fruits and vegetables and barley you were keeping steady on your table; it topples over, and all of your pristine apples go rolling across the floor of your cottage, but you barely notice, panicked when you realize that he careening right toward the hardwood floor.  

You catch the prince around the waist just as he starts to fall, but he is heavier than you expect.

You brace yourself, convinced that he is going to take you down with him, but you manage to steer him sideways toward the chair beside the table. He collapses into it heavily, breath hissing through clenched teeth as pain flashes across his face.

Momentum carries you forward with him—far, far too forward.

One hand lands against the uninjured side of his chest to steady yourself, the other gripping the arm of the chair. For a horrifying second, you are practically sprawled across the heir to the Iron Throne’s lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.

"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, I did not mean—”

“I believe,” Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, “that was my fault.”

You do not respond, flustered, trying to put more distance between you to calm yourself down. Your gaze flicks back over to him, but he is too busy grinding his teeth as he glances down at his wounds to pay you any mind. You let out a soft puff of air through your nose before you look at the apples rolling about your floor, and then reach for one still on your table—you might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep you’ve gotten, but you are not about to feed a prince food off your floor.

You make your way back over to him and hold the apple out to him. He blinks once at it before his gaze lifts to yours questioningly.

“I do not know when last you ate—a while, certainly,” you tell him quietly. “You should get something in you while I redress the bandages. I’ll cook some stew once I’m certain you’re not going to bleed out.”

Prince Jacaerys exhales through his nose before he takes the apple from you, rolling it between his fingers. You step past him so that you can move the basin of water closer to where he’s sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed. 

You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, “May I?”

His dark gaze flicks up to yours briefly before he nods, and your throat tightens as you shift closer, fingers fumbling a bit as you grab for the edge of the bandages to unwind them from around him. It is much more intimidating doing this while he’s awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.

“I found you three days ago, my prince,” you tell him at last, trying to remember all of the questions he asked earlier so that you can busy your mind with something other than the fact that you can feel his skin hot against yours. “Before that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.”

Prince Jacaerys says nothing in response. His attention remains fixed somewhere beyond the wall behind you, expression distant. You suspect he is counting the days since the battle, the hours his family has believed he is dead, the minutes his mother has spent mourning him. You keep your gaze trained on his shoulder as you unwind the last of the bandages and set them down on the table. 

You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulder—where one of the arrows had dug deep, but not deep enough to pass cleanly through. Pulling it free had torn through muscle and flesh alike, leaving a ragged injury that had taken you nearly an hour to clean, stitch, and stop bleeding.

You exhale as you run the pad of your finger briefly over the stitches, trying to figure out if you can salvage what effort you already put in or if you would have to pull them out and redo them entirely. 

“And my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?” the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. “Did we win the battle?”

“I do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,” you answer quietly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you finally start to get to work at reclosing the wound. Your gaze slips to the side when he finally starts to eat the apple you passed to him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, as though he’s only just realized how hungry he is. “Both fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.”

How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then? 

Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands. 

Most of the rest of the dead have washed up on the northern and western shores of Sharp Point, as it is where the currents run strongest, but the prince somehow made it to where your cottage sits on the eastern shore. If he had washed up anywhere else, the patrol would have certainly found him by now. You've heard they have spent the last several days combing the beaches, hauling bloated corpses from the tide and turning them over with the tips of their spears, searching for the dragon prince they are certain the sea claimed.

Prince Jacaerys’s breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, he’s finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away. 

It is only when the last bite is gone that he seems to notice, and his gaze drifts toward the table. He hesitates, and you think it is almost comical—this is the heir to the Iron Throne, a dragonrider, a prince who has flown into battle, and he looks as though asking for another apple might be an imposition too great to make when he’s been floating at sea for at least a week. 

You hold the stitches carefully with your right hand so that you can lean forward and grab another apple from your table to pass to him. His cheeks color slightly when he realizes that you noticed.

“I did not mean to stare,” he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, “Have you heard what has become of my family?” 

You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that you’ll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you think—you can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didn’t eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and you’re starting to feel a lightness in your head. 

“I’ve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,” you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly won’t take well. The last thing you need is for grief to send him bolting for Dragonstone before he can so much as walk across your cottage without collapsing. If he does not kill himself by straining his body when it is not ready, then the patrols will certainly catch him and have his head—and then yours. 

You let out a soft sigh as you tie off the stitches on his shoulder blade and lean down to wet the clean rag before lifting it to his bloody skin. You’re careful around the edges of the wound, trying not to disturb the stitches, working slowly at the dried and wet blood from the curve of his shoulder, over the collarbone, down the length of his back. 

You try not to think too hard about what you’re doing. 

If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate. 

It is one thing to drag an unconscious stranger from the sea. It is another to stand so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to brush your fingers across the line of his shoulders. You have spent three days tending him without much thought, because there had been no room for embarrassment while the Stranger lingered at his bedside.

Now he is awake and watching you, and every accidental brush of your knuckles against his skin seems to linger a heartbeat too long. He is a prince of the realm, and you are a fisherman’s daughter—people like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yet—

You exhale through your nose harshly. You busy yourself with the rag, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at a streak of dried blood along his collarbone simply to distract yourself, and his jaw pinches.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

“It does not hurt,” he replies—a lie, surely, any man would be in agonizing pain. But maybe not; any man also would have died in the sea. Maybe the rumors are true: the Targaryens are closer to god than man; they do not feel pain or have to fear the Stranger the same way people like you ought to. “What have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?”

“Half a league from Sharp Point, my prince,” you answer, still evading the question, which he seems to realize from the way he glances at you over his shoulder, gaze sharp and accusing. He knows you are withholding something. You exhale lightly through your nose and then say hesitantly, “They say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.”

“Two?!” Prince Jacaerys demands, immediately rising to his feet, so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, and you fear he might rip back open the stitches. He whirls on you, eyes wide, pupils large as coins, and you almost flinch. “Two dragons?”

You swallow thickly as you nod. “My prince—”

“One must be—” His voice catches. He cannot finish the thought. For the first time since he awoke, real grief overtakes him completely. It drains his face of what little color had returned, leaves him staring at nothing as though he can already see the answer waiting for him. “I need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?”

It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryens’ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a stranger’s cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread. 

The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldn’t help your thoughts from turning to your own mother, to Miss Ellyn, to your friend, Marie. For a moment, he is not a Targaryen prince or a dragonlord; you see a son and an older brother. A boy your age who knows there are only a handful of dragons flying over the Gullet, and every one of them belongs to someone he loves.

“I do not—”

“I need to return home,” he says immediately, as though his face isn’t white with pain and his stitches don’t strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though you’re not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. “Sharp Point—there must be passage to Dragonstone, there—”

Panic flares in your chest when he makes as though to leave. It is noon, and the patrols have become more frequent along the shores outside your cottage. They’ve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and they’ve been sending more and more men to the east—you worry they’re becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isn’t one.

If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, they’ll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him. 

“You cannot,” you say before you can think better of it, lunging forward as though to grab his wrist, but you stop yourself before you can make a terrible mistake, stopping a hairsbreadth from brushing his skin. 

What is wrong with you? you think furiously. You need to rest tonight before you do something you cannot take back. Already you have gotten snide with and you have argued with a prince of the realm—now you have commanded him and nearly tried to seize him. You would have been lucky to only lose your hand in any other circumstance. Had he been standing in a hall instead of your cottage, surrounded by knights instead of rough-hewn furniture, you might have lost your head. 

“I cannot?” Prince Jacaerys turns to you, bafflement momentarily eclipsing the fear that had consumed him only seconds before, as though he cannot quite fathom that someone has just told him no. 

“My prince, you can scarcely stand,” you say. His gaze drops to where your hand is still hovering near his arm, head cocking to the side and brows lifting, and you snap it back to your chest immediately, heat flooding your face. “You have lost a lot of blood, you have barely eaten in a week, your wounds have only just been stitched again, and there are patrols searching for you every road between here and the sea.”

He continues to stare at you, disbelief riddling his expression. You have the distinct impression that no one has ever spoken to him this way before—certainly not a fisherman’s daughter. You force yourself to press on while he’s silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed. 

“The Prince Aemond burned Sharp Point’s harbor. There are no ships capable of navigating the currents of the Gullet, and the water still burns besides. I do not have a horse for you to ride to Stonedance. You could not get to Dragonstone even if you were not hurt,” you insist. “I will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustn’t leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.”

For a long moment, you think that he will invoke his title or duty and insist upon leaving anyway, or maybe he will simply walk out the door despite everything you have said, and there is nothing you could do to stop him. 

Then, his expression changes, twisting into something pained as he looks away, a shuddered breath escaping his lips. His shoulders, held tense since the moment you uttered the word two, sink ever so slightly. The panic that had driven him to his feet has nowhere left to go, draining from him all at once, leaving only exhaustion behind. 

One hand drops back down to his ribs, pain crossing his face. Whatever strength carried him to his feet abandons him just as quickly as the panic, leaving him swaying where he stands. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he reopens them, the panic has been replaced by a type of defeat that is infinitely more difficult to look at.

You step forward cautiously when you see how his body is trembling, hand hovering uncertainly between the two of you, silently asking permission to help him. Prince Jacaerys stares at your outstretched hand, then at the bed on the far side of the room; you think, for a second, that he will attempt to cross on his own, but then his nostrils flare as he exhales, inclining his head just enough to grant you the permission his pride refuses to voice aloud.

Carefully, you slip beneath his uninjured arm, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He is warm—still warmer than he ought to be—and you can’t help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon prince’s typically run. 

He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulder—you suspect he is trying very hard not to. The journey from the door to your bed is scarcely a dozen paces, but it feels much longer. 

“We were supposed to win this victory for her,” Prince Jacaerys says after a moment, voice breaking, the words slip free before he can stop it. You do not think the admission is meant for you, so you stay quiet. His throat works as he swallows. “We were supposed to—”

He cuts himself off, looking away again as you help him ease back down into your bed. As soon as he is seated, something close to relief crosses his face, lashes fluttering; the pain is still there, but not quite as terrible as it was when he was straining on his feet.

“The fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,” you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. “You should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. I’ll cook up a stew and wake you when it’s finished.”

He exhales again, jaw tightening as he looks away with a resigned expression. You turn your back on him to deal with the mess you made of the kitchen area, grimacing slightly at everything spilled across your floorboards and the table. 

“What is your name?” Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. “I think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.”

You let a soft breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. He is pained still, but there is an earnest look in his eyes that makes you falter—you remember how close you were to leaving him to his fate, and you have to look away again before he can catch the guilt that crosses over your face.

With a shaky exhale, you give the prince your name, and you cannot help but feel as though your life has irrevocably changed, and you do not think for the better. 

————————————

The sea is on fire.

Jace cannot tell where the flames end and the water begins. Ships burn around him, masts collapsing into the waves with deafening cracks; men scream as they’re consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries. 

He tries to focus.

He chases after the rogue dragon, hoping to kill the rider before the dragon can burn any more of the Velayron fleet—or worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He’s screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and then—then he sees Rhaena. 

He sees Rhaena atop the wild dragon, and she is screaming, crying, desperately trying to get it under control, and Jace is confused, reeling as he yells at Vermax to stop at the last second. He and dragon both diving down away from the chase before Vermax could breathe fire on his cousin.

Rhaena does not have a dragon, he thinks, trying to figure out what is happening, and Rhaena is supposed to be with his brothers, and his brothers are captured by the enemy, and he isn’t sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, and—

—and Vermax is falling. 

Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jace’s stomach lurches. He’s yelling—begging—Vermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, he’s trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himself—he feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermax’s, and they are bonded, and Vermax is drowning, and the water is so cold, and Jace cannot feel his legs or his hands or his face.

He fumbles as he tries to unhook himself from the saddle, choking on water and air, maybe a sob, as Vermax sinks into the sea, a stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he cries for Jace, slowly disappearing into the dark waters. Jace desperately tries to dive after him, as if he has the strength to hold them both above the sea, because Jace has already lost Luke, and he—he cannot lose Vermax. 

Not the dragon who had slept beside his cradle before he was old enough to walk, the hatchling he had grown up alongside, whose neck had once fit beneath his arm, whose first uncertain flights had ended with both of them tumbling into the sandy shore of Dragonstone while his mother laughed herself breathless.

Jace does not know a life without him—he does not want to know a life without him. His earliest recollections are not of nursery songs or wooden swords, but of warm green scales beneath tiny hands and the deep, rumbling croon that had lulled him to sleep when he was scarcely more than a babe. 

When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jace’s voice deepened, Vermax’s roar had too. 

There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.

But Jace’s lungs are burning, and he cannot see the familiar green scales anymore, and his body is reacting, seizing and spasming because there is no air left in him and water all around. He does not know which way is up and which way is down, the water is too dark and too cold, and he cannot think, but—but he sees the bubbles. He sees the bubbles, and he follows them, and even as Vermax sinks to the bottom of the sea, he saves his rider one final time. 

He reaches the surface with a gasp, gulping the smoky air, and everything hurts. His arms ache, his chest is too tight, his eyes burn, and he cannot breathe, because Vermax is gone. He can feel that Vermax is gone; there is a gaping hole in his chest where his dragon used to be, and Jace does not know what to do, he does not know how to live anymore, and he wants—

He wants his mother.

He just wants his mother. 

He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancer—they are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.

And then, there’s a dull throb in his shoulder blade as he pulls himself over a floating piece of driftwood, but he hardly takes note of the pain, because everywhere hurts, because Vermax is gone, because he wants his mother. He turns when he hears the cheering, and he sees the men on the ship, and he sees the crossbows and the bows and the Myrish banners, but he does not see anything at all, really, blinking once, staring.

The second arrow catches him closer to the chest.

And then—then all he remembers is sea. 

White foam and bubbles, vicious currents and sharp rocks. He thinks he is dead more than he thinks he is alive, but there is so much pain. There is pain and emptiness, and Jace just wants—

“... prince, the stew is ready.”

Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he is—he remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not remember…

The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fear—was he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, mother—

You avert your eyes suddenly, an awkward expression on your face, and Jace suddenly remembers. He remembers you, the apple you passed him as you tended to his wounds; how he held a knife to the throat of a woman who is risking her own life to save his. He remembers that he is stuck bedridden in the bed of a commoner while his mother thinks he’s dead and fights for her throne alone.

He opens his mouth to apologize—to tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure you’re properly compensated for saving his life—but he falters when he feels something hot and wet drip down his face.

He lifts his hand to his cheek and wipes at his face, looking down at the wetness smeared on his fingertips. For a long moment, he does not understand—seawater, maybe? But he is no longer being tossed around by the sea. He is warm in your cottage, the hearth burns low and your blankets are tangled around him. He blinks once, and another fat droplet of water rolls from his eye down his cheek.

Is he crying?

Heat rushes to his face so quickly he thinks it rivals the fever. He wipes away furiously, not sure if it’s more or less humiliating that you’re pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table. 

Jace has wept before, more than most ought to—for the father who taught him fishing and sea shanties, and the other who passed before either of them could speak the truth out loud, for the grandfather he never truly knew, for the brother who felt less like a brother and more like his other half—but never, never in front of a stranger. 

Jace promptly clears his throat and pulls himself together. He glances at you, praying that his face does not betray him, an excuse on his lips as takes a deep breath. Then he falters, mouth watering instantly, gaze cutting to the side where you are busy ladling stew into two chipped wooden bowls, back politely turned, as though you never noticed anything at all.

Jace doesn't think he’s ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his life—roasted swan, lemon cakes, arbor wines. He has consumed the finest meals Westeros has to offer and found them lacking, but he almost feels dizzy with need and pleasure at the scent of the stew you made.

“It—” Jace’s voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. “It smells good.”

You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, “I’m sure nothing compared to what you’re used to, my prince.”

“I do not know that,” he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body. 

Everything aches—his chest, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his head. In truth, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep more; he cannot bear to keep going. Not now. Not after Vermax, after Luke, after making such a terrible mistake that he might have cost his mother her throne. His stomach flips at the thought, and he fights a shuddered breath.

He needs to keep going—there is no other choice. He needs to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.

You pause in the middle of setting the bowls on the table at his words to give him a questioning look. “My prince?”

“I have not tasted it yet,” he tells you, forcing levity into his tone, because you have saved his life, tended to his wounds, and now stand over a pot of stew you cooked for him, worrying that it is not good enough to satisfy a prince. The least he can do is ease your mind. "It would seem unfair to compare a meal I have not eaten yet.”

You blink at him once, and then you smile slightly—it’s a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just before—and Jace tries his best to return it as he crosses the small room. He shuffles the last few steps toward the table with considerably less grace than he would have liked.

“Perhaps” you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well. 

You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitates—for a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at King’s Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such things—cups were poured and tasted before his mother, and plates were sampled before any of them took a bite of their food. The paranoia claws at him and disappears as quickly as it comes.

You had dragged him half-dead from the sea, spent days stitching his wounds and breaking his fever, and gave up your bed so he could sleep comfortably. If you wished him dead, you need only have left him on the shore. 

“I never thanked you for what you’ve done for me,” he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. “When I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.”

“There is no need,” you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips. 

The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple meal—carrots and celery, chunks of what he thinks is rabbit. It is the plainest thing he has eaten in years, and yet somehow, the best meal he can remember.

His stomach twists painfully as warmth settles into it, and before he can stop himself, he takes another spoonful, then another, the hunger of the past week overwhelming whatever restraint court etiquette had once led him. It is only when half the bowl is gone that he realizes how quickly he is eating.

Embarrassed, he forces himself to slow, lowering the spoon.

“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat. “I fear I may have forgotten my manners.”

“You haven’t had a meal in over a week, my prince. You’re allowed to be hungry,” you say with a faint smile.

Jace lets out a half-hearted huff of amusement through his nose, though his smile fades as quickly as it came, returning to conversation to try to force himself to slow down and show a modicum of etiquette before he embarrasses himself further. 

“There is every need for reward,” he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes you—you cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but there’s a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. “You saved the life of the heir to the Iron Throne. You surrendered your bed, tended wounds that would have killed most men, and risked the wrath of the Greens simply by allowing me beneath your roof. I cannot allow that debt to go unanswered.”

You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.

“I do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myself—” nor, he suspects, does anyone “—but my mother will. You needn't live here any longer if you do not wish to. We could see your cottage rebuilt if the fighting has damaged it, or grant you land elsewhere, if that is what you'd prefer. Whatever you ask, so long as it is within my power, I will see it done.”

You are quiet for a long while as Jace finishes off the stew, but he expects hesitation as you mull over what to ask for: gold, land, a better ship, perhaps. Your gaze drifts off to the side, and Jace’s follows it, faltering when he realizes that you’re looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.

That’s right, he remembers—you mentioned your cottage was less than a league away. 

From where he sits, he can just see the destruction through the small window. The town is little more than scorched foundations and splintered timbers now, dragonfire having reduced generations of work to ash in the span of a single afternoon. He cannot look at it for long, stomach twisting so unpleasantly that he fears the stew you just cooked him might come right up. 

You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely. 

“We used to think they were beautiful, you know?” you say, voice barely over a breath. “We would watch your family fly from King’s Landing and Dragonstone. The children would cheer and call out the names of whatever dragon and royal was passing overhead, even though they knew you could not hear them.” A wistful smile tugs briefly at your lips, and Jace suddenly feels a rock in his stomach, a heaviness that he cannot seem to push away. “There is a wild dragon in these parts—we call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my father’s boat out. We lived alongside him for years—sometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curious—shy, but curious.”

You exhale suddenly as you rise to your feet; Jace wonders if he should ignore the unshed tears in your eyes the same way you politely did for him.

“Then the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,” you say at last. “The only thing I want, my prince, is for this war to end, but I know you cannot give me that. If you don't mind, I should see to my father's boat before the tide turns. There is more stew in the pot if you would have it. Then you ought to rest. You'll not heal by arguing with your own body.”

Jace opens his mouth.

He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to end—he does, his mother does. Maybe not Daemon, but why do you say it as though he stands opposed to peace? He did not choose this, nor did his mother. It is not his fault that the Greens usurped his mother's throne.  

He desperately tries to formulate an answer, but how is he supposed to respond to that? What were they meant to do? Yield to the usurpers? Stand aside while his mother’s birthright was stolen? Let Luke die for nothing? Should he say that he is sorry for your loss? That his mother would never have done this? That Vermax would never have burned a fishing village? That this was all the Greens? That they fight to avenge what happened here? 

That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your face—it is the people who ride them. It is the Greens. It is Aegon and Aemond, Alicent Hightower and her father.

His lips are parted as though to respond, but he only finds himself staring at you helplessly. 

You incline your head politely before slipping out the door, the cool air rushing briefly into the cottage before it shuts behind you once more. Jace remains where he is, staring into the last of his stew until the steam no longer rises from it, the reality of his situation settling over him—Vermax is dead, Luke is dead, and his mother believes them both lost. He does not know whether his brothers and cousins are safe, if his mother still fights for her crown. He is useless, wounded in a fisherman's cottage, alive only because a woman from a town his family failed to protect chose mercy over sense.

You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”

A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”

He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”

“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”

Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.

The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.

There’s so much blood.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”

Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”

“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”

“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”

“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”

“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.

You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”

“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”

He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.

You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”

But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.

You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.

Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.

“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”

“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”

“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”

“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”

You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”

Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.

The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.

You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.

You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.

Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.

“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.

Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.

You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.

“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.

Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-

No. You push the thoughts away.

“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”

You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.

“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”

You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.

Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.

Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.

“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”

“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.

Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.

You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.

“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”

Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.

The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.

“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”

But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.

“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”

You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.

“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”

The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”

“Med student. Second year.”

“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.

You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.

“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”

“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.

“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”

“But-”

“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”

You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.

Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.

Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.

“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.

The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”

You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?

The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.

You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.

Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.

Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.

You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.

Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.

The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.

You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.

You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”

Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.

***

The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”

“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”

Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.

He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.

“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”

“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”

Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”

“I need you to sit down, son.”

The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened?”

Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”

Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.

Beau.

Critical condition.

The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.

“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.

“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.

Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”

“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”

The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-

No. No, he’s not going there.

“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”

“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.

Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”

The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.

They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more. 

Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.

Beau is his brother.

And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.

They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.

“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”

They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.

They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.

His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.

“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.

She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”

That’s what breaks him.

Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.

“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”

Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”

Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.

“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”

He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.

“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”

Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.

“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”

“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”

“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.

Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”

The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.

“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”

He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.

“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.

Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.

“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.

“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”

“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.

Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”

The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.

“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”

“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”

The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”

“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”

“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”

“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”

The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”

“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”

After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.

Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.

Gratitude.

“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”

“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”

“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”

Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.

“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”

“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”

“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”

Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.

“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”

“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”

Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.

“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.

They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.

Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”

He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.

His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.

Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.

Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.

But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.

Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.

“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”

“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”

Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.

And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.

***

The world comes back in pieces.

First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.

Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”

That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.

“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.

“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”

Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.

***

The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.

The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.

“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.

“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.

“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”

“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”

Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.

“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”

He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.

“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”

Footsteps. Fast.

Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.

“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”

“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”

That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.

“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”

“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.

The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”

After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”

Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”

His parents exchange a look.

“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”

“A branch?”

“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”

Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”

“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”

A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.

“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.

“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”

“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.

“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”

A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.

“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”

Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”

Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.

“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.

It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.

“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.

“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”

The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.

Instead, a young woman steps in.

She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”

“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”

She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”

She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”

You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”

“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”

Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”

“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”

Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.

“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”

You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”

“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”

“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.

Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.

Because holy shit.

You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-

Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”

You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”

“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”

“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”

“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”

“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”

“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”

“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”

You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.

“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”

“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.

“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”

“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”

You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.

“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”

“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.

You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.

“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”

“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.

You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”

Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”

Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.

You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.

You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”

Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”

“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”

“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”

“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.

You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”

“I was perfectly respectful-”

“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”

“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”

“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”

“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.

“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”

Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”

“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”

“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”

“Dean, I swear-”

“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.

“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.

After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.

“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”

“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”

“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”

“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”

Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.

“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.

“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”

“I know what I feel.”

Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”

“I really mean it.”

“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”

“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”

“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”

“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’ll convert her.”

“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”

“Her name is Y/N.”

“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.

His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.

But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.

Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.

And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.

After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.

Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.

Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.

***

The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.

“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”

Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.

“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”

It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.

After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.

And one from you.

Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!

Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.

Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.

Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.

You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.

The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.

He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.

Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”

But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.

He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?

Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.

“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”

Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”

“Everyone?”

“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”

“You invited—without asking me-”

“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”

“By ambushing me?”

“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.

Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.

“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s just my face.”

“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”

Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”

“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”

Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.

“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.

“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.

“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.

“I am talking to her.”

“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”

Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.

“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”

“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”

“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”

Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Just open it.”

He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.

Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”

“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”

“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”

You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.

Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”

The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.

“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”

The crowd is silent, watching.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.

“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”

Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.

“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”

He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.

He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.

He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.

“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”

“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”

You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.

Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.

Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.

“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.

“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”

“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”

Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.

“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”

“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”

“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”

“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”

He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”

“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”

“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.

“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”

“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”

“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”

“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”

“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.

You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.

“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”

“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”

“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”

“I do now,” Dean says simply.

“People do not change that fast.”

“Watch me.”

“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.

But Dean is faster.

He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.

“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”

“The conversation isn’t over.”

Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.

You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.

“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.

He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”

“I am not scared.”

“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.

“Honest,” he corrects.

He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.

Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.

You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.

“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.

“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”

“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.

You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.

He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.

You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.

“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”

“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”

Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.

“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”

He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.

“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”

Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.

Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.

“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”

“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”

“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.

“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”

“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”

Your breath hitches.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.

When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.

“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.

“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.

He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.

“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.

Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.

You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”

“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”

“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”

“That’s right.”

Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.

Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.

“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”

“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.

Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”

He starts to move.

The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.

You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.

You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.

The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.

“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.

“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.

“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.

“Yes!” You cry out.

“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”

The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.

Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.

“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.

“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.

He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.

“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.

“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”

You shatter.

Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.

Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.

For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.

Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.

Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.

“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.

You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.

But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.

Let the game begin.

***

The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.

You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.

Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.

“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”

“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”

“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”

You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”

“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”

You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”

“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”

“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”

Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.

The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.

“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.

Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.

You turn your head slowly.

Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.

Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.

“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”

“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”

“I am watching a hockey game.”

“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”

It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.

“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”

“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”

“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”

You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”

“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”

Your breath hitches slightly.

Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.

“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”

“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”

“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”

Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.

“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.

“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”

As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.

The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.

Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”

You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.

For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.

When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.

“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”

“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”

“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”

Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”

“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”

You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.

Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.

The game is officially up.

“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”

***

The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.

You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.

“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.

“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.

The heavy double doors swing open.

The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.

Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.

He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.

“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”

Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.

Logan’s mouth drops open.

Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.

“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”

“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”

“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”

“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”

Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.

And then, the doors swing open one last time.

Dean steps out into the hallway.

His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.

He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.

A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.

“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”

Dean stops.

He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.

Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.

The silence in the hallway is absolute.

Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.

You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.

“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”

Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.

“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”

Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.

He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.

Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.

Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.

“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.

“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”

“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”

“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”

“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”

“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.

“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”

Garrett actually whimpers.

You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.

Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.

“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”

The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.

And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.

He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.

“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”

The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.

Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”

“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”

“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”

“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”

“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”

“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.

“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”

“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”

As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.

You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.

Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.

They have the exact same posture.

They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.

They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.

You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.

The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.

“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”

“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”

“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”

“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.

But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.

They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.

And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.

“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”

“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”

“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.

They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.

You stand in the hallway, watching them go.

“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”

Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”

“Yes, Garrett?”

“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”

You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”

“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”

“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.

As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.

When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.

Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.

For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.

But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.

Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.

“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”

“Yeah?” Dean asks.

“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”

Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.

“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.

One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.

You really are going to need more deadbolts.

***

The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.

“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”

“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”

“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.

The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.

“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”

“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”

You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.

Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.

“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.

“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”

“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”

“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”

“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.

A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.

“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”

“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.

Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.

“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”

Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”

You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.

Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.

“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”

A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.

“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”

“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.

“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.

“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”

Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.

“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.

You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.

Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.

“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.

You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”

“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”

“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”

“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.

“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”

“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”

“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”

The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.

Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”

The transformation is instantaneous.

Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.

“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.

Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”

“Dean,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.

Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.

“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”

You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.

Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”

“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.

You look across the island.

LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.

LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.

“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”

“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”

You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.

***

Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.

Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.

It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.

By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.

You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.

Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.

You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.

“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.

“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”

Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.

“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”

Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”

“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”

“Which is?” Shane asks gently.

“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”

You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.

“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”

“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”

“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”

Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.

“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”

“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.

Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”

“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.

“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.

The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.

Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.

“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.

“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”

“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”

Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.

Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”

“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.

Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.

“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.

You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.

The first time Tucker saw you, you almost took out an entire row of glasses at Malone’s. Not one, not two, but an entire row.

It happened on a Friday night, which meant the bar was already packed with students pretending they didn’t have assignments due, hockey players pretending they weren’t exhausted from practice, and Della behind the counter pretending she wasn’t five seconds away from throwing someone out for ordering another round only to forget what they’d asked for immediately.

You were new, and that much was obvious. Not because you were bad at the job, exactly, but because you still had the bright, nervous energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned that Malone’s on a Friday night was less a bar and more a sticky-floored battlefield.

You came out from behind the counter with a tray balanced carefully in both hands, brows pinched in concentration as your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You were wearing black jeans and a Malone’s blue shirt, your hair pulled back messily, as if you’d done it in a rush, and Tucker found himself noticing you before he could think better of it.

He noticed the way you smiled at a customer who was definitely being too loud. He noticed the way you thanked Della twice when she moved around you. He noticed how hard you were trying to do everything right.

And then you set the tray down on the bar too quickly, caught the edge of a napkin holder, and sent three clean glasses tipping into each other with a loud, terrible clatter.

Everyone at the table flinched. Dean was the first to turn around, Garrett’s attention snapped away from whatever Hannah was saying, and Logan started laughing before he’d even fully figured out what had happened.

You froze immediately.

“Oh my god,” you said, hands flying up like you were surrendering to the glasses. “I’m so sorry. I swear I’m usually less of a disaster when no one’s watching.”

Della sighed, though there was already affection in it. “Sweetheart, nobody expects grace here. Just survival.”

Dean grinned from the booth where he sat with the boys. “Ten out of ten entrance.”

Garrett kicked him under the table without even looking at him.

You winced, cheeks burning, and immediately started gathering the glasses before any of them could fall off the bar.

Tucker was on his feet before he’d even thought about moving.

“Here,” he said, already grabbing a stack of napkins from the end of the counter and stepping closer. “I got it.”

You looked up at him, startled, like you hadn’t expected someone to help instead of laugh. Something weird shifted in Tucker’s chest.

“Oh,” you said, your voice softening. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, steadying one of the glasses before it could roll off the edge. He gave you a small smile. “First Friday?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” he said, smile tugging at his mouth.

Your mouth curved into an embarrassed but sweet smile, and Tucker noticed the way your whole face seemed to warm with it.

Dean, because of course he did, leaned over the booth and said, “Careful, Tuck. She might make you work for free.”

You glanced between them, your smile still lingering. “Tuck?”

“Tucker,” he said, handing over the glass he’d rescued. “John Tucker.”

You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for half a second.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said. Then you looked down at the glasses, sighed, and added, “Apparently also a public safety hazard.”

Tucker laughed, not because it was that funny, though it was, but because you were smiling at him like you were happy he had.

That was the first thing Tucker noticed. Not that you were the prettiest girl in the room, though you were. Not that you were the clumsy new waitress, though the boys would absolutely bring that up later. Not even that you were the transfer student Hannah had mentioned once, the one who’d started working at Malone’s because she needed extra money, and Della liked hiring people she could boss around.

The first thing was that you looked at Tucker like he was the one you were talking to — not the guy beside Dean, not Garrett’s friend, not one of the hockey boys. Him.

It was a stupid thing to notice, so of course Tucker noticed.

Over the next few weeks, you became part of Malone’s the way some people became part of a song — slowly at first, then all at once.

You were there on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays, always with your hair tied back in a way that never lasted more than an hour before pieces started falling loose around your face. You learned the regulars’ orders faster than anyone expected. You learned Della’s moods, learned that Dean always said he wanted something different before ordering the same beer anyway, that Logan would steal fries from whoever sat too close, that Garrett was polite because Hannah elbowed him when he forgot, and that Allie always tipped too much because she knew what the job felt like.

And Tucker — you learned his drink by the third Friday. That shouldn’t have affected him. It did anyway.

“You want the usual?” you asked, already reaching for it as he and the boys slid into their booth after the game.

Dean stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly toward Tucker, wearing the most irritating smile imaginable. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to seem delighted. Tucker ignored every single one of them.

“You remembered?” he asked, which was the wrong thing to say because it made him sound surprised.

You blinked at him, then smiled. “You order the same thing every time.”

“So does Dean,” Tucker said.

“Yeah, but Dean changes his mind three times before going back to the same thing. You have to prepare for that emotionally.”

Garrett laughed quietly into his drink.

Dean put a hand over his chest. “I feel attacked.”

“You should,” Allie said, appearing beside him like she’d been summoned by the opportunity to tease him. “It was accurate.”

You grinned and slid Tucker his drink first, and he hated how quickly he liked it—hated how his eyes followed you when you walked away to help another table. Hated even more that Dean noticed immediately.

“Oh, you’re so in trouble.”

Tucker glanced at him. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything specific,” Dean said.

“You didn’t need to.”

Logan leaned forward, as if this were crucial evidence. “She gave you your drink first.”

“Because I was sitting closest.”

“You weren’t,” Garrett said.

Tucker shot him a look. “Aren’t you supposed to be mature now?”

Garrett shrugged, his arm around Hannah. “I’m in a relationship, not dead.”

Across the room, you laughed at something Della said, nearly dropped a pen, caught it against your chest, and looked far too proud of yourself for saving it.

Tucker tried not to smile, and failed.

Dean pointed at Tucker’s face as he’d just found evidence. “That. Right there. That’s pathetic.”

Tucker picked up his drink, unimpressed. “You’re literally dating Allie.”

“Yes, and I became pathetic in public. It’s part of the process.”

“I’m not becoming anything,” Tucker said.

“Sure,” Dean said.

Tucker knew exactly what they thought.

He knew how it looked: new girl, pretty smile, sweet enough to make everyone in the room feel like she was happy to see them. Of course, he liked her. Everyone probably liked her. You were the kind of person people noticed because you made it easy for them. You asked questions, laughed without trying to seem cool, apologized to chairs when you bumped into them, and once gave a drunk sophomore a full pep talk because he looked sad over mozzarella sticks.

You were sunshine in a place that mostly smelled like beer and fried food.

Tucker told himself that was all it was: you were friendly, and he was interested because of it. It didn’t mean you were interested back.

Girls usually went for guys like Dean: loud, confident, easy to flirt with because he did half the work for them. Or Garrett, with the captain thing and that accidental golden-boy charm, even though Hannah would probably murder anyone who tried. Or Logan, who looked like trouble and knew exactly how to make it work.

Tucker was the nice one, the safe one, the one girls asked to hold their coats while they danced with someone else.

He’d made peace with that a long time ago — mostly. Then, on the fourth Friday, you proved you were going to be a problem.

It was later than usual, with the crowd thinning out around midnight and the booths left sticky and half-empty. Tucker had ended up at the bar while the others argued over whether to go back to the house or order food. You were wiping down the counter with your sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the long shift.

“You’re staring again,” you said, not even looking up.

Tucker blinked at you. “What?”

You glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. “I said you’re staring.”

“I wasn’t,” he said.

“You were,” you said.