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Truncated text of tweet from MrPitBull, Mar 11, 2026:
She kept finding women in laboratory photographs from the 1800s. Then she read the published papers—and every single woman had vanished. Someone had erased them from history.
Yale University, 1969.
Margaret Rossiter was a graduate student studying the history of science. She was one of very few women in her program.
Every Friday afternoon, students and faculty gathered for beers and informal conversation. One week, Margaret asked a simple question: "Were there ever any women scientists?"
The faculty answered firmly: No.
Someone mentioned Marie Curie. The group dismissed it—her husband Pierre really deserved the credit.
Margaret didn't argue. But she also didn't believe them.
So she started looking.
She found a reference book called "American Men of Science"—essentially a Who's Who of scientific achievement. Despite the title, she was shocked to discover it contained entries about women. Botanists trained at Wellesley. Geologists from Vermont.
There were names. There were credentials. There were careers.
The professors had been wrong.
But Margaret's discovery was just the beginning. Because as she dug deeper into archives across the country, she found something far more disturbing.
Photograph after photograph showed women standing at laboratory benches, working with equipment, listed on research teams.
But when she read the published papers, the award citations, the official histories—those same women had disappeared. Their names were missing. Their contributions erased.
It wasn't random. It was systematic.
Women who designed experiments watched male colleagues publish results without giving them credit. Women whose discoveries were assigned to supervisors. Women listed in acknowledgments instead of as authors. Women passed over for awards that went to male collaborators who contributed far less.
Margaret realized she was witnessing a pattern that stretched across centuries.
Women had always been present in science. The record had simply pushed them aside.
She needed a name for what she was documenting.
In the early 1990s, she found it in the work of Matilda Joslyn Gage—a 19th-century suffragist who had written about this exact phenomenon in 1870.
In 1993, Margaret published a paper formally naming it: The Matilda Effect.
The term captured something that had been hidden in plain sight for generations. Once you knew the term, you saw it everywhere.
Her dissertation became a lifelong mission.
For more than 30 years, Margaret researched and wrote her landmark three-volume series: Women Scientists in America. She examined letters, institutional policies, individual careers. She gathered undeniable evidence that women in science had been consistently under-credited and structurally excluded.
Her work faced resistance. Many dismissed women's history as political rather than academic. Others insisted she was exaggerating.
Margaret didn't argue emotionally. She presented data. Documented cases. Patterns repeated across decades and institutions.
Eventually, the evidence became undeniable.
Her research helped restore recognition to scientists who had been erased:
Rosalind Franklin, whose X-ray work revealed DNA's structure—credit went to Watson and Crick.
Lise Meitner, who explained nuclear fission—omitted from the Nobel Prize.
Nettie Stevens, who discovered sex chromosomes—received little credit.
Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin, who discovered stars are made of hydrogen—initially dismissed.
And countless others whose names had nearly vanished.
Margaret changed the narrative. Science was no longer just the story of solitary male geniuses. It became a story of collaboration that included women who had been written out.
The Matilda Effect became standard terminology. Scholars used it to examine how credit is assigned, how authors are listed, who receives awards, who gets left out.
Had this whole huge picture in mind. Gore screaming holding a giant fish over his head. DB in the background, grumpy and carrying the actual fishing gear (they were the one who caught the fish, with Gore's help). Lucien cackling as Inigo gives a thumbs up and grins...
But this is all I got!
DB only fishes a handful of times in a year because of ishh like THIS. They think they're cursed to almost die every time they go fishing, Gore thinks they're blessed. As a result, DB only fishes on special occasions or when Gore is feeling DOWN down. It always ends with a screaming hooting happy Gore and an exhausted DB that feels like they wrestled a bear, half-drowned...
DB definitely prefers when Gore fishes and they just sit and chat, hands off and not soaked.
((Sorry for the spam guys, I'm trying to draw more to beat the d e p r e s s i o n))
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Something so funny about rereading one's own unfinished fics. Like wow this is pretty good! Almost as if it was written exactly according to what I personally like in fact! Someone should finish it!
i am actually the biggest sucker for fluff. yes i want my heart to get attacked by the huge amounts of love the two characters have for each other. yes i will giggle and kick my feet even if they do something as small as brush hands. yes i will start crying because they had their first kiss together. PLEASE FEED ME MORE FLUFF!! i love love love love love love LOOOOOVVVVEEE fluff
having both anxiety and depression is like that post about washing your meds down with redbull. you’d like to think that the constant fear of failure caused by your anxiety would cancel out the lack of motivation you feel thanks to your depression, but no. they are both working so very much and you cannot stop it.
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summary: after days of believing jacaerys might be dead following the battle of the gullet, y/n learns that he came back home to her.
warnings: none i just want my boy back.
author’s notes: that fucking episode ruined me i need fluff.
THE SEA STILL SMELLED OF SMOKE.
Even days after the Battle of the Gullet, the winds that swept across Dragonstone carried traces of ash and salt, as if the Narrow Sea itself remembered the blood that had stained its waters. Every report that arrived from the ships returning to harbor made Y/N’s heart pound harder.
No one would tell her the truth.
Not at first.
Every answer she sought seemed wrapped in careful avoidance, hidden behind sympathetic looks and half-finished sentences. Servants lowered their gazes whenever she approached, while knights and messengers exchanged uneasy glances before offering the same frustrating response: they did not know.
Yet rumors drifted through Dragonstone’s halls like ghosts.
She heard that Prince Jacaerys had fought bravely against overwhelming odds, leading men into battle with the same courage that had always made others follow him. Some claimed they had seen Vermax soaring through walls of smoke and dragonfire, his emerald scales flashing amidst the chaos before disappearing into the flames. Others spoke of burning ships, shattered fleets, and the sea choked with wreckage.
There were survivors, they said. Men who had escaped the slaughter and returned with tales of fire raining from the sky. There were casualties too—far too many to count—and with each passing hour the lists of the dead seemed to grow longer. But when it came to Jacaerys, certainty vanished.
No confirmation arrived. No raven carried his name among the living or the dead. As the days stretched on, the whispers gradually faded, replaced by something far crueler.
Silence settled over Dragonstone like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. It was the worst kind of silence; the kind that left room for hope and despair to exist side by side, tormenting her with every heartbeat.
For three endless days, Y/N remained in her chambers overlooking the sea, unable to eat, unable to sleep, staring out the window as though she could somehow summon Vermax from the horizon.
Her betrothed.
Her future husband.
The man she had loved since childhood.
The man who had promised her beneath the godswood trees of Dragonstone that he would return from every battle.
“Because I have something worth returning to.”
The memory hurt.
Especially because she no longer knew whether he was alive.
Outside her chambers, servants moved quietly. Guards spoke in hushed tones.
Everyone feared giving her news.
Because no one knew what news existed to give.
Then, shortly before sunset on the fourth day, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor.
Y/N barely looked up.
She expected another servant, another apology, another uncertainty.
The door opened.
“My lady—”
She stood immediately. “What is it?”
The maid looked breathless. “He lives.”
Tears immediately filled her eyes, and for a moment it felt as though everything around her had come to a standstill. The world blurred into silence, the air caught in her lungs, and even the frantic pounding of her heart seemed to falter beneath the weight of what she had just heard.
Y/N stared. “What?”
“He lives,” The maid was smiling now. “The prince lives.”
For a moment Y/N simply stood there.
Then she ran.
There was no thought of composure or dignity as she broke into a run, racing through Dragonstone’s stone corridors and down its winding staircases. Guards and servants alike scrambled out of her way, startled by her urgency, while anyone unfortunate enough to linger in her path was quickly left behind.
Her skirts tangled around her legs as she raced toward the harbor.
Toward the ships.
Toward him.
Please.
Please let it be true.
Please.
The harbor was bustling with activity as sailors unloaded supplies from arriving ships, their voices mingling with the crash of waves against the docks. Above them, the distant roar of dragons echoed through the sky, a reminder that even here, the war was never far away.
And standing at the end of the dock surrounded by soldiers was a familiar figure.
Alive.
Gods.
Alive.
Jacaerys.
His dark curls had grown longer, falling untidily around a face marked by exhaustion. Damaged armor hung heavily from his frame, a bandage wrapped around one shoulder while bruises darkened his jaw. He looked worn and battered by battle, but most importantly, he was unmistakably alive.
Y/N stopped running.
A sob escaped her lips.
Jacaerys turned as if he had felt her presence.
The moment his eyes found hers, everything else seemed to fade into the background. The soldiers surrounding him, the bustling harbor, the crashing sea, and even the war itself ceased to matter as his entire focus settled on her.
Only her remained.
“Y/N,” His breath caught. “My love.”
Her eyes immediately filled with tears. “You idiot.”
A smile appeared on his face. A weak but beautiful one.
Then she was running again.
Jacaerys barely had time to brace himself before she crashed into him.
His arms wrapped around her instantly.
Holding her.
Clinging to her, almost desperately.
As if letting go would somehow make her disappear.
Y/N buried her face into his chest.
“You stupid, stupid idiot,” Her voice broke. “I thought you were dead.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to feel her warmth against him and the steady beat of her heart. After days of uncertainty and survival, the simple reality that she was truly there in his arms felt almost unbelievable.
“I know.”
“I hated you.”
A laugh escaped him. “You did not.”
“I did.”
“You love me.”
She pulled back just enough to glare at him through tears. “I hate you right now.”
He laughed again.
Gods, even laughing hurt.
But hearing her voice was worth every ache.
His fingers brushed tears from her cheeks. “You cried.”
“Do not sound pleased about it.”
“A little.”
She smacked his arm.
Jacaerys immediately winced.
The smile vanished from her face. “Oh Gods.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.”
“I’m alive.”
“You look terrible.”
He grinned. “You always know exactly what to say.”
For the first time since hearing he lived, Y/N laughed.
A watery, trembling laugh.
Jacaerys stared at her.
Gods.
How many times during the battle had he thought of this?
Of her?
When arrows darkened the sky, when ships burned around him, and when Vermax’s cries echoed through the chaos, her face had remained at the forefront of his mind. Even in the moments when death felt inevitable, thoughts of her were what he clung to most.
He had pictured her face.
Over and over.
The one thing keeping him from surrendering to fear.
Now she stood before him.
Real. Alive.
Beautiful.
More beautiful than memory.
His hand rose to her cheek.
The harbor around them had grown strangely quiet.
Everyone watched but neither noticed nor cared.
His voice came out softer than intended. “I thought I would never see you again.”
The pain in her eyes struck harder than any blade.
Slowly, he pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers. “I am here.”
The words were almost a whisper.
“I came back.”
“You nearly didn’t.”
“I know.”
Silence lingered.
Eventually Y/N spoke. “Did you think of me?”
Jacaerys stared then laughed softly. “Every moment.”
She looked up. “Truly?”
His thumb gently traced her cheek as a soft smile touched his lips. “Every moment,” he murmured before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “When the battle began.” Another kiss followed near her temple. “When our ships were burning.” His gaze softened as he brushed a kiss against her trembling cheek. “And when I thought I might die, you were all I could think about.”
Y/N’s breath hitched.
Jacaerys smiled gently before pressing another kiss against her skin. “I was not thinking of glory,” he said softly. “Nor victory.” His voice lowered as he rested his forehead against hers. “I was thinking about the fact that if I died, I would never get to marry you.”
Her eyes widened at the confession. The prince who commanded fleets, who was destined for greatness, and who always seemed fearless now stood before her looking unexpectedly vulnerable. For perhaps the first time, she could see the fear he rarely allowed anyone else to witness, as though the thought of losing her frightened him far more than any battle ever could.
Y/N cupped his face. “Then do not leave me again.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “If I can help it, I never shall.”
“You promise?”
“I swear it.”
“On what?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “On my crown.”
“That is not yours yet.”
“My dragon then.”
Y/N giggled. “Dangerous.”
“My life.”
Y/N immediately shook her head. “No.”
His expression softened. “Then I swear it on my love for you.”
Neither spoke for several moments.
Because some promises felt too sacred to interrupt.
Finally, Jacaerys leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers once more.
The harbor had vanished again.
The war had vanished.
Only the two of them existed.
And after days of fear, grief, and uncertainty, Y/N finally allowed herself to believe the truth.
He was alive, and he had returned to her at last. In that moment, she did not see a prince, a warrior, or the future heir to a kingdom; she saw only the man she loved standing before her.
And as Jacaerys held her against his chest, feeling her heartbeat beneath his hands, he realized something that no battle had ever taught him.
Pairing: Jacaerys Targaryen x f!reader (Modern AU)
Summary: Luke asks Jace for dating advice. Jace is eager to help but along the way, he comes to a realization that just because he's' got a girlfriend, it doesn't mean he has any idea how he actually managed to do it.
a/n: Jace and Luke are both alive and well guys, wdym. First stage of grief: denial.
The sun shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, painting long, distorted golden rectangles across the imported Italian tile. You were curled on the far end of the enormous sectional sofa, ostensibly reading a novel on your tablet but mostly just enjoying the distant, melodic sound of Jace humming some indie rock song under his breath. He was at the kitchen island, sleeves of his cashmere sweater pushed up to his elbows, meticulously slicing limes for the impromptu guacamole he’d decided the afternoon demanded. It was a perfectly lazy, perfectly content Saturday.
The violent buzzing of the intercom shattered it.
Jace didn’t even look up. “It’s Luke.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Telepathy now? A new Targaryen family inheritance?”
“He texted fifteen minutes ago saying he was on his way and to ‘prepare for a code vermillion,’” Jace said, finally glancing at you with a wry smile that deepened the slight dimple in his cheek. “I assumed it was dramatic, but not ‘let myself in with my emergency key’ dramatic.” The buzzing stopped, the lock mechanism on the front door clicked open, and Lucerys tumbled into the foyer as if propelled by a gale-force wind of personal crisis.
His usually perfectly coiffed dark curls were a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through them for the entire drive over. He was wearing a hoodie from their family’s company, Velaryon Marine Engineering. Luke was nineteen, all gangly limbs and huge, emotive brown eyes that were currently wide with a comical level of distress.
“Jace,” he said, his voice cracking slightly on the single syllable. He spotted you on the sofa and gave a jerky, polite nod. “Oh, hey. Sorry. Good. You’re here. You can help too. You’re a girl.”
“Hello to you too, Luke,” you said, bookmarking your page with a tap and sitting up, immediately invested. “A girl last time I checked, yes. What’s the code vermillion for? Has something actually caught fire?”
“Worse,” Luke groaned, collapsing onto one of the minimalist barstools and dropping his head onto the cool marble of the island. His voice was muffled. “Rhaena.”
The single word hung in the air. Jace’s hands, which had resumed their careful work on the avocado, paused mid-scoop. He and Luke shared a long, meaningful look, a silent conversation passing between them in the way only siblings who have weathered shared catastrophes can manage. Luke had been hopelessly, pathetically, head-over-heels in love with her since roughly the seventh grade.
Jace set the knife down, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and gave Luke his full attention. The older brother persona settled over him like a familiar coat. “Okay. Start from the top. What happened?”
Luke lifted his head, his expression a mask of tragedy. “She asked me to study with her. For the Westerosi History final. Alone. In her dorm room. Tomorrow night.”
A beat of silence filled the kitchen. You and Jace exchanged another look. This time, it was one of utter confusion. Jace voiced it first. “And...this is a bad thing? I thought Baela was your primary obstacle. She’s an intimidating wing-woman.”
“Baela’s on a field trip to the Eyrie this weekend, that’s the whole point!” Luke wailed, his arms flailing. “It’s the perfect opportunity! No distractions, no Baela watching me like a hawk waiting for me to spill something on her rug. It’s just me. And Rhaena. And the economic policy of King Jaehaerys I. Which, right now, I couldn’t tell you a single thing about because my brain has been replaced with a screaming, static void.”
“Ah,” Jace said, a knowing smile starting to form. “So your problem isn’t getting an invitation. Your problem is…what to do with it.”
“Exactly!” Luke pointed a trembling finger at his brother. “This is it! This is the moment! The perfect, flawless, no-excuses moment to…to make a move. To shift the paradigm. To indicate a romantic intention. But how? I know the theory, Jace. Gods know I’ve had it drilled into my head.”
He started ticking points off on his fingers, his voice dropping into a slightly mocking imitation of a stern parent. “Open doors for her. Compliment her genuinely, not generically. Listen more than you talk. Don’t interrupt. Don’t stare at her chest. Make sure she gets home safe. Harwin taught me all of that when I was little, and Mother and Daemon have given me the refresher course every semester. I know how to be a gentleman. I don’t know how to…pivot.”
“Pivot,” Jace repeated, leaning his forearms on the island.
“Yes! Pivot! The problem isn’t being polite. It’s the moment when you’re on the couch, and the textbook is closed, and the air changes, and you have to…you know…bridge the gap. How do you do it? How do you go from ‘the trade routes were vital’ to ‘I want to kiss you’ without sounding like a complete lunatic? That’s the practical I need. And you,” Luke said, whirling his accusatory finger from Jace to you and back again, “you’re the expert. You’re in a successful relationship. You’ve been disgustingly happy for a year. You, brother, have bridged the gap. So tell me. Tell me everything. Give me a blueprint. A script. A flow chart.”
Jace straightened up, a confident, helpful smile spreading across his face. He looked at you, his warm eyes crinkling. “Of course, Luke. That’s easy. I can definitely give you some pointers. You just have to be…you know…smooth. Confident. You look for a signal, and then you just…”
He stopped. His mouth remained slightly open. The confident expression on his face didn’t exactly fall, but it seemed to…fossilize. He blinked. Once. Twice. He looked at you, a sudden, dawning blankness in his gaze, as if he were searching for a reference point in a textbook that was completely blank.
And you knew, with the unshakeable certainty of a year’s worth of shared Sunday mornings and inside jokes, what was happening inside his beautiful, clever, currently short-circuiting brain. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.
“I mean,” Jace started again, more slowly this time, “the first step is…to establish a…an atmosphere. Right?” He was asking you, his partner of more than 365 days, as if you were a focus group of one. You arched an eyebrow. He was quiet for a long moment. Then another.
Luke’s leg stopped bouncing. “Jace?”
“I’m thinking.”
One year and two months earlier.
The library was too warm. That was the first thing Jacaerys noticed. The university’s heating system had apparently decided that late October was the appropriate time to simulate the surface of the sun, and the reading room on the third floor had become a sweltering glass box. He’d shed his jacket within five minutes. His sweater followed ten minutes after that, leaving him in a plain grey t-shirt that he was fairly certain had once belonged to Luke.
He was also fairly certain he was going to fail his Modern Political Theory midterm.
The book in front of him might as well have been written in High Valyrian. He’d read the same paragraph four times and retained exactly nothing. His laptop screen had dimmed to sleep mode. His notes consisted of a single bullet point that read “Hobbes = pessimist?” followed by a question mark that seemed to mock him with its ambiguity.
Across the table, someone laughed. Just a small, surprised sound, quickly stifled.
He looked up.
You were sitting two seats down, a stack of books forming a small fortress around your laptop. You had a pen in your hand, and you were looking at your phone screen with an expression of such profound, quiet delight that he found himself staring. You weren’t laughing at anything dramatic. You were just…happy. In the middle of this roasting, suffocating library, surrounded by the collective stress of several hundred students, you had found something that made you happy enough to laugh out loud.
He didn’t realize he was still looking when you glanced up and caught him.
Your expression shifted. Your head tilted slightly, and pen slipped and clattered onto your notebook. Neither of you looked at it.
Jace’s brain, which had been stubbornly refusing to process political philosophy, suddenly kicked into overdrive with a single, deafening thought: say something. Say something right now. Say anything. Open your mouth and form words like a functioning human being.
What he actually said was: “Your pen fell.”
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Groundbreaking. Someone get this man a medal.
You blinked. Looked down at the offending stationery. Looked back up at him. And then, slowly, the corner of your mouth lifted.
“It does that,” you said. “It’s got a rebellious streak.”
He laughed. It came out a little too loud, a little too relieved, and someone at the end of the table shushed him. He didn’t care. You were still smiling, and he had made a joke, sort of, and you had responded, and this was already going better than approximately ninety percent of his social interactions.
“I’m Jace,” he said, because that seemed like important information to provide.
“I know,” you said, and his stomach dropped. “We had Intro to Ethics together last semester. You sat in the back and argued with the professor about utilitarianism for twenty minutes.”
His stomach dropped further. “Oh gods.”
“It was impressive, actually. You made some good points. He was wrong about the trolley problem.”
“He really was,” Jace agreed, with more vehemence than he’d intended. He winced. “Sorry. I have…strong feelings about hypothetical murder trains.”
You laughed again, properly this time, and the person at the end of the table glared. You ducked your head, still grinning, and gestured toward the empty chair next to you. “Do you want to sit closer so we can be shushed together, or are you attached to that spot?”
Jace blinked. The kitchen came back into focus. Luke was staring at him with an expression caught somewhere between hope and concern.
“I was in the library,” Jace said slowly. “She was there. I said something stupid. She laughed. And then she asked me to sit next to her.”
Luke waited. When no further details seemed forthcoming, he prompted, “What was the stupid thing you said?”
“I told her that her pen fell.”
Silence.
Luke’s expression flattened into something deeply unimpressed. “That’s the secret. You told a girl her pen fell, and that led to a year-long relationship.”
“It wasn’t what I said,” Jace said, defensive now. “It was the context. The energy. The...the moment.”
“The moment of the fallen pen.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I’m listening so hard, Jace. I’m listening harder than I’ve ever listened in my life. You’re telling me the key to romance is office supplies.”
Jace ran a hand through his hair, a gesture you recognized as his tell for mounting frustration. “That’s not...okay, that’s not the only thing. There were other things. Other moments. The first date, for example.”
Luke perked up. “Okay. First date. How did you ask her out? What did you say?”
Jace opened his mouth. Closed it. His brow furrowed again.
One year, one month, and three weeks earlier.
They had been studying together for two weeks. That was what Jace told himself. They were study partners. Study associates. Study acquaintances who happened to sit at the same library table every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon and occasionally walked to the campus coffee shop together afterward. It was a purely academic arrangement.
It was also, undeniably, the highlight of his week.
He had learned, over the course of those two weeks, how you took your coffee, that you had strong opinions about the Oxford comma, and that you bit the inside of your lip when you were thinking hard about something. He had learned that your laugh was his new favorite sound. He had learned that he was, despite all his better judgment and self-preservation instincts, completely and catastrophically screwed.
Thursday afternoon. Coffee shop. You were explaining something about Rawls’ theory of justice, and he was nodding along, and he was absolutely not listening to a single word because he was too busy trying to figure out how to ask you to dinner without making it weird.
Just ask, his mother’s voice said in his head. Be direct. Honesty is always appreciated.
Be bold, Daemon’s voice added, which was less helpful. Fortune favors the brave.
Be a gentleman, Harwin’s voice reminded him. Make her feel safe. Make her feel seen.
Three separate pieces of advice from three separate parental figures, and not a single one of them was telling him what actual words to use.
You stopped talking. You were looking at him expectantly. He realized, with dawning horror, that you had asked him a question and he had no idea what it was.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was...what?”
“I asked if you wanted to get dinner. There’s a new place on Fifth. I’ve been wanting to try it.”
His brain short-circuited. Completely. Total system failure. You were asking him. You were asking him to dinner. He didn’t have to say anything. He didn’t have to be direct or bold or a gentleman. He just had to say yes.
“As a date?” he heard himself say.
Why. Why had he said that. Why couldn’t he just say yes like a normal person.
You tilted your head, and that same curious expression from the library crossed your face. “I mean, I was thinking as two people who are hungry and want to get dinner. But a date also works. Is that something you’d want?”
“Yes,” he said, so fast the word practically tripped over itself. “Yes. I’d want that. A date. With you. Tonight.”
“Tonight works,” you said, and you were smiling again, the one that made his chest feel too tight in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Seven o’clock?”
“Seven o’clock,” he repeated, like an echo with worse vocabulary.
“She asked me out,” Jace said.
Luke stared at him.
“I didn’t actually do anything,” Jace continued, and there was a note of dawning realization in his voice, as if he was only now putting these pieces together himself. “She asked me to dinner. I just said yes.”
“So you’re telling me,” Luke said slowly, “that your girlfriend did all the work.”
“That’s not...I did some things. I planned the third date. That was me.”
“The third date?”
“On the second date we just got coffee like usual, It went well,” Jace defended. “We talked. I was honest about being nervous. That seemed to help.”
“So you were vulnerable,” Luke said, pulling out his phone and typing something rapidly. “Okay. Vulnerability. I can do that.”
“No, don’t...Luke, don’t take notes. That’s weird.”
“I’m not taking notes, I’m making a list.”
“That’s the same thing!”
You bit back a smile. You loved him so much it was almost ridiculous.
“What about the third date?” Luke asked, looking up from his phone. “That’s the big one, right? That’s when you’re supposed to like, define the relationship and stuff. How did you handle that?”
“On the third one, I took initiative. I found this rooftop restaurant, made reservations, the whole thing. I was very smooth about it.”
One year and one month earlier
The third date. Jace had planned it meticulously. Dinner at a nice-but-not-too-nice restaurant, a walk along the river, maybe some stargazing if the weather cooperated. He had a speech prepared. He had bullet points. He was going to be smooth, confident and articulate.
Instead, you’d shown up at the restaurant looking like something out of a dream, and Jace had tripped over the welcome mat, knocked over a potted plant, and introduced himself to the hostess as “Jacaerys Targaryen, I have a reservation at seven” as if she hadn’t literally just watched him nearly faceplant into the ficus.
“Smooth,” you’d murmured, and Jace had wanted to die.
The dinner was fine. More than fine, it was good, you were good, you were easy to talk to and easier to look at, and Jace kept forgetting his bullet points because your eyes crinkled when you smiled, and your laugh did something to his nervous system that he couldn’t quite explain.
By the time you left the restaurant, his carefully prepared speech was a distant memory, replaced by a sort of giddy, reckless courage.
“I have to tell you something,” he said, as you walked along the river, the city lights reflecting off the water like scattered coins.
“Okay.”
“I had a whole thing planned. For tonight. A speech about where this is going and what I want and all of that.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. “I forgot it.”
“All of it?”
“Every word. You’re very distracting.”
You bumped your shoulder against his. “Is that a compliment?”
“Yes. Definitely. Absolutely.” He stopped walking, and you stopped too, turning to face him. The river whispered behind you. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared.
“I don’t want to date anyone else,” Jace said, the words rushing out before he could second-guess them. “I don’t know if that’s too soon to say, or if I’m supposed to wait until we’ve been on more dates, or if there’s some kind of protocol, but I just...I want you to know. I’m not interested in anyone else. I haven’t been for a while.”
You looked at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then you said, “I’m not interested in anyone else either.”
“Oh,” he said, and then, “Oh. Good. That’s...good. Great. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“You’re really bad at this,” you said, but you were smiling, and you stepped closer, and your hands came up to rest on his chest. “Lucky for you, I think it’s adorable.”
“I’m not trying to be adorable. I’m trying to be cool.”
“It’s not working.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.”
And then you kissed him, properly, the way he’d been thinking about for weeks, and Jace stopped worrying about being cool or smooth or articulate. He just kissed you back, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, the other settling on your waist, and it was the best third date in the history of third dates, and he hadn’t needed the speech at all.
“I told her I didn’t want to see anyone else,” Jace said, and even now, a year later, there was a softness in his voice when he said it. “And she said she felt the same way.”
Jace was quiet for a beat too long. “It just happened.”
You couldn’t help it. You laughed.
Jace shot you a look: half betrayed, half pleading. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said. “Keep going. You’re doing great.”
Luke looked between the two of you, his brow furrowing. “Wait. Is there something I’m missing?”
“No,” Jace said quickly.
“Yes,” you said at the same time.
Luke’s eyes narrowed. “Jace.”
“What?”
“How did you actually get together? Like, the real story.”
Jace opened his mouth, and you could see the exact moment he gave up. His shoulders slumped. His head fell back.
“I have no idea,” he admitted to the ceiling. “I genuinely have no idea. I tripped over a plant. I missed every hint she gave me. I forgot my entire prepared speech on the third date because she was wearing this blue dress and I couldn’t remember my own name. Every single step of the way, I had no idea what I was doing, and she somehow still liked me anyway.”
Luke stared at him.
You were laughing so hard now that tears were forming at the corners of your eyes.
“Wait,” Luke said slowly. “So all your advice is just…‘be a disaster and hope for the best’?”
“No,” Jace protested, sitting up again. “That’s not...I’m giving you useful information. Vulnerability. Honesty. Direct communication. Those are important.”
“You literally just told me you tripped over a plant.”
“The plant was not instrumental to the outcome.”
“But it happened.”
“Yes, it happened, but that’s not the point. The point is...” Jace stopped, ran a hand through his hair, and turned to look at you. There was something helpless and fond in his expression, the same look he’d worn a year ago by the river, the same look he’d worn on every significant occasion since. “The point is, I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I wanted to be with her, and I kept showing up, and I was honest about how I felt, and that was enough at first, before I got better hang of things.”
The laughter faded from your chest, replaced by something warmer. You went up to him and and touched his face, your thumb brushing along his jawline. “More than enough,” you confirmed quietly.
Jace’s expression did something complicated, and he turned his head to press a kiss to your palm without breaking eye contact.
“Okay,” Luke said thoughtfully. He’d stopped typing. “So what you’re saying is, I don’t need a strategy. I just need to be honest with her about how I feel.”
“Yes,” Jace said, still looking at you. “Exactly.”
“Don’t be smooth,” you added. “Don’t have a blueprint. The atmosphere might fail. The jokes will be terrible. Your compliments might come out wrong. And the moment you think you’ve found the perfect pivot, you’ll trip right over it. Your job isn’t to be perfect. It’s to have courage to be like him.” You tilted your head toward Jace, who was watching you with a look of wonder and an overwhelming, unspoken gratitude. “He was never, ever smooth. But he was always, always real. Thoughtful, loyal and honest. Be your real, clumsy, earnest, nervous, wonderful self. That’s what Rhaena likes. She’s known you your whole life. She’s not looking for a cool stranger to sweep her off her feet. She’s waiting for her best friend to be brave enough to be just a little bit of a fool in front of her. That’s all.”
Luke let out a shaky breath that was half a laugh. “Just be a disaster. That’s your advice. After a year, that’s all you’ve got.”
“It’s all that worked on her,” Jace said, finally slinging an arm around your waist and pulling you close. He pressed a kiss to your temple, a silent ‘thank you’ for rescuing him from the impossible task of explaining a magic trick he didn’t know he’d performed. “And as you can see, Luke, the results are pretty spectacular.”
“And if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
“Then you respect that, and you move on, and you don’t make it weird. But you won’t know until you try.”
Luke was quiet for a moment. Then he stood up, pocketing his phone. “Okay. I’m going to text her. Not right now, I want to think about what to say...but soon. And I’m going to be honest and vulnerable and all that stuff.”
“Good,” Jace said. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks.” Luke headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the knob. “Hey, Jace?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you tripped over that plant. It makes me feel better.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and Jace groaned, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “I’m never going to live that down.”
“Probably not,” you agreed, carding your fingers through his hair. “But to be fair, it was a very memorable moment.”
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
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