👏✌👌🤚👀

“John?”

Walking out of the living room of your flat, you found your boyfriend exactly where you’d left him nearly an hour ago.

The flat was unmistakably yours. Every inch of it.

The burnt orange velvet sofa you found at a charity shop sat beneath overflowing shelves of paintings and books. In the opposing corner was the walnut record cabinet you’d spent an entire summer restoring. Plants crowded nearly every available surface while shelves were stuffed with books, records, and little trinkets collected over the years gave the place a warm, lived-in feeling.

It was an odd blend of classic Britain and seventies Americana. Floral wallpaper, dark wood furniture, brass lamps, and enough vinyl records to make your father proud.

Though recently there had been signs of John everywhere. A pair of worn boots by the door, accompanied by tattered grey trainers. His jacket draped over the back of a kitchen chair. The green duffle bag he’d yet to fully unpack tucked beside the bookshelf.

Little reminders that he lived here now too. Or at least he was supposed to.

John sat at the small circular dining table near the kitchen window that was ajar, cigar snubbed out in the crystal green ash trey, completely focused on his laptop.

“Hmm?” he hummed absently, not seeming to notice you looking over his shoulder.

You blinked.

Once. Twice.

A very beautiful blonde woman stared back at you from the screen.

John scrolled by the photo. Paused on the next of this stranger. Looked, for a little too long. Then scrolled some more.

“Who’s that?” you asked.

“Classified, darling.” Without missing a beat, John shut the laptop. He immediately busied himself making notes in the margins of a document sitting inside an open Manila folder as though the conversation was already over.

“Who was that?” you pressed, feeling insecurity begin to creep into your chest.

“I can’t say.” The answer came absentmindedly. His attention never truly left the paperwork in front of him.

“Yeah… some hot blonde?” It was meant to sound teasing. Instead it came out sounding suspicious. Accusatory, even. Damn, your insecurity getting the better of you.

“Hot?” That finally got John’s attention.

He glanced up from his paperwork, genuinely perplexed.

“John, c’mon.” You gave him a look. One that screamed ‘just be honest.’

“Her looks mean nothing to me.” His tone was dry, but at least now he was looking at you instead of his work.

“So you’ve got pictures of some hot blonde woman on your laptop and I’m supposed to just go on with my day?” Your eyebrows rose.

You hated how ridiculous you sounded. You hated even more that you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. Insecurity wasn’t attractive, you knew that. But you couldn’t help yourself.

“Yeah, that would be lovely.” John replied.

His deflection immediately irritated you. You hated when he did this. Any time something bothered you, John tried to use humor as a way around it. Usually he’d make some ridiculous comment and you’d find yourself laughing before you remembered why you were annoyed in the first place.

Not today.

“John.” The warning in your voice finally made him stop writing and instead twirl his pen in between his fingers.

“Yes?” The single word was patient. Far more patient than you probably deserved.

“So you’re not cheating on me?” You decided it was better to just say it.

No dancing around it. No pretending that wasn’t where your thoughts had gone.

John’s pen stopped moving. Slowly he looked up. Almost in disbelief at the question.

“When have I ever given you the impression I’m the type to cheat?” Throwing the pen onto the table, he leaned back in his chair and fixed you with a disapproving look.

“You’re avoiding the question.” That earned you another look. The kind that silently asked if you were being serious.

“No,” John said flatly. “I’m not cheating on you.”

“Then who is she?”

“Someone connected to work. Now can we drop it?” The answer did absolutely nothing to satisfy you.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” John waved his hand in effect dismissing the conversation outright. This only made things worse for you. You wanted comfort not dismissal.

“Whatever.” You turned away before your frustration became something worse.

“Darling—”

“Leave me alone.” The words came out sharper than you intended.

Crossing through the kitchen, you disappeared into the bedroom. The door shut behind you with a little more force than necessary.

Silence settled over the flat. For a moment John simply sat there. Then he dragged both hands down his face stopping to scratch his beard as if that might solve something. No part of him wanted to argue with you.

He much preferred your laughter to your silence. Preferred your teasing to your sulking. Preferred almost anything to a closed bedroom door between the two of you. He liked it better when you were just behind him giggling over your book on the couch, only a wall separating the two of you while your records played.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed back his chair and followed. The old floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he crossed the flat. Reaching the bedroom door, he knocked softly.

Nothing.

He tried the handle.

Locked.

John closed his eyes.

“Of course.” He whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Open the door.” He knocked again.

“C’mon. It’s my room too.” Still nothing but silence.

He knocked again, a little louder this time.

“I’m not cheating on you. You know I’m daft, but I’m not stupid.” He tried humor again. It usually worked, but not today.

Silence.

“Or suicidal,” he muttered under his breath.

Normally that would’ve earned at least an eye roll. Maybe a reluctant laugh. Instead he was left staring at a locked door.

With another sigh, John leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling.

The truth was he couldn’t tell you what was happening. Not really. He couldn’t explain that the woman in those photographs was a potential informant. He couldn’t explain that she might possess information capable of preventing a biological weapons disaster. And he definitely couldn’t explain that within a few weeks he might be sent halfway across the world chasing that information.

Most of his life existed behind walls he wasn’t allowed to lower.

Still.

Maybe he could tell you some of it. The harmless parts. Like the fact that Tessa was clearly interested in him. Or the fact that he’d ignored every advance she’d made.

Then again…

That somehow felt like an even faster route to sleeping on the couch. John let out a groan and dropped the back of his head against the wall.

Yeah.

Probably best to keep that one to himself.

——————

“Well don’t you look divine.” John’s voice drifted from somewhere behind you.

Looking up from your dresser, you caught sight of your boyfriend standing in the bedroom doorway.

You couldn’t help but smile. The man looked unfairly handsome.

He wore dark dress pants and a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. The top two buttons were undone, exposing the slightest glimpse of the wiry hair on his chest. His beard had been freshly trimmed and judging by the sharp edges around his ears, he’d managed to squeeze in a haircut too.

“Look who’s talking.” You smiled at him through the mirror.

John’s eyes didn’t even bother reaching your face at first. They lingered shamelessly on your figure, appreciating the fitted black dress hugging your curves. Especially your plump ass that he loved especially on nights like tonight when you got home tipsy and dragged him to bed.

The bastard.

You watched the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

You were dressed simply enough. A black velvet cocktail dress paired with a pair of heels you’d owned for years. Your hair was pinned into a curly bun while your bangs framed your face.

It wasn’t anything particularly extravagant. Though judging by the look John was giving you, one would’ve thought you were royalty.

After yesterday’s argument, John had decided to take you out for dinner and drinks. It was his version of an apology.

He wasn’t a man particularly in touch with his emotions. At least not in the way you were. John tended to keep things locked away until they absolutely demanded to be dealt with. He was quieter with his feelings, slower to speak about them, and more likely to retreat into himself than openly discuss whatever was bothering him.

It was part of what gave him that strong, silent quality you found so attractive.

You, on the other hand, were practically his opposite. John called you a spitfire for a reason. You were quick-witted, outgoing, and the sort of person who could strike up a conversation with just about anyone. John swore you’d never met a stranger in your life.

He blamed it on you being American. You blamed it on him being British. Somewhere between the two of you, it worked.

You pulled him out of his shell. He kept you from setting the world on fire.

It made conflicts like yesterday difficult, though. When something hurt your feelings, you wanted to talk about it. You wanted to understand it, dissect it, and work through it until the discomfort finally loosened its grip.

John preferred to wait. To retreat. To pretend everything was fine until enough time had passed for it to stop being a problem. At least that’s how it often felt from your side of things.

Still.

The two of you had called a truce. John had looked you in the eye and promised there were no other women. No secrets involving affairs. No hidden relationships. Only aspects of his job he couldn’t talk about.

He’d admitted that wasn’t always fair to you. That he understood how difficult it could be to trust someone whose life occasionally disappeared behind a wall of classified information.

But he needed you to trust him anyway. And after thinking about it, you’d agreed.

You trusted him.

John had thanked you for it. Sincerely. Then he’d called himself a prick and asked if he could take you out to make up for it.

Which was how you’d somehow ended up eating dinner at a restaurant neither of you could comfortably afford. And afterward, John had insisted on taking you to a cocktail bar that felt entirely too fancy for someone like you.

You might have been dressed to the nines tonight, but deep down you’d always be the same girl who preferred drinking wine around a bonfire in somebody’s backyard.

The kind of girl perfectly happy sitting in a folding chair with dirt on her shoes. The kind of girl who’d choose a fishing trip and a tent over a five-star hotel every single time.

Fortunately for you, John seemed to like that sort of thing. In fact, you suspected it was one of the reasons he loved you.

You and John were just leaving the bar, your arm wrapped around his strong bicep as he helped you down the stone steps in your heels and onto the brick sidewalk.

“John?” A woman’s voice called from somewhere just behind you.

You froze. There she was. The same blonde woman you’d seen on John’s laptop.

She was stunning. Like unfairly gorgeous. The type you and your friends would gawk over.

A silver sequined dress hugged her figure perfectly while ruby-red lipstick made her smile impossible to ignore. Standing in a pair of red-bottom heels, she towered a few inches over you.

Instinctively, your eyes dropped to your own shoes. Old black heels, with a scuff near the toe.

This woman looked like she belonged somewhere like this. You suddenly felt like you didn’t.

“Tessa, hello.” The woman barely acknowledged your existence before stepping forward with her arms open.

She was going in for a hug. Your stomach immediately tightened. John wasn’t a hugger. You knew that.

Which meant this would tell you everything.

Either John had been downplaying his relationship with this woman. Or your insecurities had gotten the better of you.

In one smooth motion, John stepped sideways. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you effortlessly against his side.

The movement stopped Tessa’s hug before it ever happened and gave John the perfect opportunity to make introductions.

“This is my girlfriend, Dr. Y/L/N.” John barely spared Tessa a glance. His attention remained fixed on you that charming smile directed right at you.

“Darling, this is Tessa.” You met John’s eyes. There was nothing there but sincerity. No guilt. No awkwardness. No crack in his usual confidence.

Just your boyfriend.

“Oh, a doctor?” Tessa smiled. “How impressive. You must be an expert at patching this one up.” Her hand landed on John’s forearm.

The gesture immediately irritated you. The entire interaction felt like emotional whiplash. Only ten minutes ago you’d been wrapped around John’s arm after one of the most romantic nights you’d shared together.

Now this woman had appeared out of nowhere.

“Not a medical doctor,” you corrected politely. “I’m an archaeologist. But yes, I do have to patch him up more often than I’d like.”

Tessa laughed. Fuck, even her laugh was cute.

“Oh well, if you ever get tired of patching him up, I suppose I could take a shift, darling.” Another touch. Another smile. Another reminder that this woman was absolutely flirting.

The darling at the end felt particularly deliberate. As though she’d borrowed John’s favorite term of endearment just to see how it looked on her.

“I’m not too good at sharing.” You smiled sweetly. Hopefully sweetly enough.

“Never a need to share, darling.” John finally spoke.

“Tessa’s got things to attend to.” His eyebrow lifted slightly as he looked down at you.

Then his attention shifted to the blonde woman who was beginning to look noticeably less amused. For the first time all evening, Tessa seemed to realize she wasn’t getting anywhere.

“I’ll see you at work, John.” She stepped back and offered you a polite smile.

“It was nice meeting you.” Then she disappeared into the bar and you watched her go.

“That was the same woman from your laptop.” The words came out dry.

“It certainly was.” John didn’t even attempt to deny it.

“So you work together. I don’t see why—”

“Work together for now. She’s not military.” John shoved his hands into his pockets as the two of you started down the sidewalk.

“In fact, her even meeting you is probably going to get me into a fair bit of trouble.” He tried to joke about it.

Truthfully, he wasn’t looking forward to whatever conversation awaited him on Monday morning.

“Oh, why’s that?” you asked, the sarcasm obvious.

John reached for your hand and began leading you down the main road toward where he’d parked a few blocks away. You were already going to get yourself lost not even a block away from the bar.

“It’s classified. I’m not supposed to talk about—”

“Ah.” You stopped walking.

John took two more steps before realizing you’d planted your feet firmly on the pavement.

“It’s because you weren’t supposed to break the illusion that you’re single, isn’t it?” You asked making John blink at you dumbly for a beat.

“What? Were you planning to seduce information out of her? Who are you, fucking James Bond now?” The question made John close his eyes.

“Now, c’mon. That’s a bit far-fetched, even for you.” With a heavy sigh, he glanced down the empty side street rather than looking directly at you.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“I just watched that woman flirt with you right in front of me.”

“And I introduced you as my girlfriend.”

“After she tried to hug you.” John blinked.

“I’m sorry, what exactly was I supposed to do there?” The question only irritated you more.

“Don’t.” You warned, finger raising.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that thing where you act like I’m crazy. You’ve explained to me for the better half of a year that I need to stop hugging people because it’s not the ‘British’ thing to do.” You used air quotes to emphasize your point.

John stared at you.

“I introduced you to her when I wasn’t supposed to. I shut down the hug. I didn’t flirt back. How are you still angry at me?” John was utterly flabbergasted.

“Because she was comfortable enough to flirt with you right in front of me.” You crossed your arms. “Am I supposed to think it’s somehow better when I’m not around?”

“Her flirting is out of my control.” There was that tone of finality again. Like he could just end a conversation once he was uncomfortable enough. As if you took orders from him and you damn sure didn’t, this wasn’t the military. This was your relationship.

“Fair point.” You nodded. “And me going home without you is also out of your control.” The challenge earned a flat look.

“We live together.”

“Go stay somewhere else then.” You hissed.

John’s eyebrows knit together. Slowly, he rubbed a hand over his beard.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Where exactly do you suggest?”

“Tessa’s.” It came out bratty, almost like you regretted it as soon as you said it.

A humorless laugh escaped him.

“You have to see you’re being unreasonable.” The calmness in his voice only irritated you further.

“You’re telling me that if we weren’t together, you wouldn’t sleep with her?”

John actually scoffed.

“That is wildly unfair.”

“So what?” The words came out sharp.

“If some guy from work came up to me and openly flirted and I didn’t shut it down immediately, you’re telling me you’d be completely fine with that?” Your question seemed to hit a nerve as John had to visibly take a step back.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

“How, John?” Your voice rose.

“How is it different?”

John rolled his eyes.

“If a man is interested in you, that’s a problem.”

“What does that even mean?” You swore you were starting to sound crazy from how frustrated you’d become. Having a meaningful emotional conversation with him was like running into a brick wall over and over.

“Men are idiots.” He said it as though that somehow explained everything or had some meaning to you.

“You can’t even handle men checking me out.” With nostrils flared you felt yourself at your breaking point.

“Now c’mon.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is getting out of hand.”

“Oh, now the argument isn’t fair because I finally have a point you can’t argue your way out of?” The persistence was beginning to wear on him.

“Jesus Christ,” John snapped. “What do you want from me? You’ve made your point. Happy?” Across the street, a few strangers slowed their pace at the sound of a man shouting in the direction of a woman. You immediately noticed but John didn’t.

“No.” Your voice lowered. “You’re being a hypocrite. And you still haven’t denied you’d sleep with her if we weren’t together.”

“We are together.” His voice remained loud.

“That question is a trap and it’s fucking unfair.” Anger unwavering.

“Unfair?” You laughed bitterly.

“If you even got an inkling I was letting some man flirt with me when you weren’t around, and he didn’t know I was taken because it somehow made my job easier, you’d lose your mind.” The words hung between you.

For a moment, John said nothing. Not because he agreed. Because he knew exactly how badly that comparison made him look.

“So are you sleeping with her?” The question finally snapped him out of it.

“No.” The answer came instantly. Firmly.

“I’m not fucking cheating on you. Get that through your head. And it’s ridiculous that you’d even accuse me of it.” There was venom to his words, like you should be ashamed but you weren’t in the slightest.

“It’s not ridiculous.” You took a step closer.

“Not when you’re clearly hiding things.” You spoke earnestly, desperately trying to make him get your point.

“It’s work!” John threw his hands into the air, his voice ringing out.

“I can’t talk about it. Christ’s sake. I love you. I fucking adore you. And one misunderstanding later you’ve gone straight for the jugular.” The confession only made you angrier.

Not because you didn’t believe him. Because it felt like he was missing the point. John turned away and dragged a hand through his hair. This wasn’t him. Standing in the street. Shouting. Fighting with his girlfriend while strangers watched.

“Show’s over,” he called toward the small audience gathering across the road. “Fuck off.” A few people quickly looked away.

“Whatever.” You turned on your heel.“I’m going home.” You’d barely made it a few steps before hearing John’s footsteps behind you.

He moved in front of you, not blocking your path, just slowing you down. Your heels scraped lightly against the pavement as you stopped.

“At least let me take you home.” The anger had faded noticeably from his voice.

“I’m good.” You tried to dismiss the olive branch.

“I’ll sleep on the couch. Just let me make sure you get there safely. And you’re heading in the wrong bloody direction.” You stared at him for a long moment.

“Fine.” The word still carried plenty of bite.

“Fine.” John stepped aside. Then motioned towards where the car was parked. You brushed past him.

“You shouldn’t be mad at me.” That finally earned a laugh, a tired one.

“Yeah,” John muttered. “Whatever you say, darling.”

—————-

It was the following day, a cold and dreary one like most British mornings. You sat in bed listening to the pitter patter of rain and watching it dribble onto the windowsill of your open window.

Looking around the room to try and get your mind off John, you took in the sight of your dress from the previous night left forgotten on the floor alongside your tattered heels. Normally you were neat and would’ve hung your dress up so you didn’t have to eat the dry cleaning fee you’d now have. Or John could iron it for you, which wasn’t really an option since the two of you weren’t speaking at the moment.

Your eyes drifted to the open closet where you could have so easily hung up your dress. Some feeling you couldn’t quite place clanged in your chest as you looked at all your clothes pushed to one side, leaving half the space open for John to hang up his own belongings.

Yet it remained empty.

His clothes were still neatly packed in the two duffel bags sitting on the closet floor. You’d offered to organize his things and put them away, but John had insisted he had a system and to let him do it when he found the time.

It had been over a month since he moved in.

His clothes still sat there.

And the box of records he’d brought with him was still collecting dust on the top shelf.

Sliding out of bed, you pulled on a pair of leggings and kept the grey tank top you’d slept in as your shirt. You wanted to avoid John. You knew how he could be when he was angry.

Cold.

Colder than the breeze drifting through your open window.

Finally stepping out of your bedroom, you felt an odd stillness hanging over the flat. That was until you spotted John sitting at the kitchen table at the far end of the tiny rectangular room that served as both your kitchen and makeshift dining room.

He was dressed for the day in blue jeans, a green crewneck sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his worn watch, and a pair of chestnut-brown house slippers.

It made your heart leap slightly. The man was like a ghost when he got into moods like this.

When John was happy and content, he made noise. Comfortable noise. The creaking of floorboards and cupboards opening and closing meant he was making coffee or looking for a snack. He’d hum along to whatever record you had thrown on because he knew you hated silence.

Actually, now that you thought about it, you didn’t even put your records on anymore.

John did. Without asking.

Because he knew you liked it. But this morning you hadn’t heard a peep.

Yet there he was, sitting at the round kitchen table with a steaming mug, his laptop open in front of him, and a hard look he hadn’t yet cast in your direction.

Deciding the cold shoulder would still be your move going forward, you turned right and disappeared into the bathroom to wash up. There was no good morning from either of you like usual. No smirk from your lover. No fleeting wink as he silently flirted with you.

It was distant. Uncomfortable.

Especially when you were being forced to share such a small space.

While brushing your teeth, you couldn’t help but look at the green toiletry bag sitting on the counter taking up space. It was all of John’s things jammed into it while your belongings sat neatly organized on the spinning tray tucked into the corner.

Taking the toothbrush from your mouth, you stared at it a little longer. You’d cleared the cabinet and made space for all his things. Yet they still sat there exactly like they had when he’d come over to spend the night before moving in.

“Fuck it. I love him.” You spoke to yourself in the mirror, searching your own reflection for what you truly felt beneath all the hurt.

Then you finally rinsed your mouth, braided your hair, and washed off the remnants of last night’s makeup.

Walking out of the bathroom, you saw John had barely moved and was still focused on whatever work he busied himself with. Leaning against the old bathroom doorframe with its chipped paint, you found yourself staring at him.

“So, back home, when I was a kid, we cleaned on Sundays. Even if we pretended like we hated each other, we still had to clean. That was the rule.” You felt awkward as you broke the silence. You hoped you didn’t sound angry because you were trying to bridge the gap in your own way. A way that wouldn’t chase John off like trying to make him talk about his feelings would.

John seemed caught off guard. Mug halfway to his lips, he turned to look at you, blue eyes settling on your face. There was no hard look like you’d expected. If anything, he looked curious.

“A rule?” he asked, testing the waters.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a rule if you don’t want it to be. But even if we don’t like each other right now, would you help me clean?” That weightless feeling of vulnerability settled in your chest as you waited to be shot down or accepted.

“Yeah. Of course I’ll help you, darling.” John gave you one of those small smiles he usually reserved for early mornings when the two of you lay in bed talking while the sun came up.

“Thanks. Could you bring up those last few boxes from your car?” You didn’t wait for an answer, simply hoping he’d do as you asked.

He did.

While John was trekking down three flights of stairs with no elevator to reach his car parked on the street below, you grabbed a step stool and pulled his box of records down from the closet shelf. You had to stop and catch your breath after carrying it into the living room. The thing was far heavier than you’d expected.

Leafing through the records, a smile broke across your face when you found an old Pink Floyd album. Opening the sleeve, a photograph slipped free and fluttered onto the floor. So you bent down and picked it up.

It was a Polaroid of John.

Only he was much younger. Twelve or thirteen, maybe.

He was sitting somewhere in a garden, holding a guitar and smiling. Not the crooked smirk he wore now. A proper smile. Boyish and carefree in a way you’d never seen before.

Setting the photograph aside, you placed the record on the player and skipped ahead to your favorite song.

Wish You Were Here

Then you took the Polaroid and hung it on the fridge beside the faded photograph of you as a little girl eating an ice cream cone on a park bench with your late mother.

With a content sigh, you felt like you’d done the right thing.

Making your way back into the living room, you began organizing John’s records onto the shelf beneath the record player alongside your own. Instead of keeping them separated, one section his and one section yours, you wove them together using the alphabetical system John had once praised during one of his first visits.

That’s when you heard the front door open. The footsteps paused. You continued with your task.

John stood frozen for a moment, his eyes immediately finding you sitting on the floor with your back to him.

You looked like a picture.

Hair braided back. Skin glowing in the pale morning light pouring through the windows. One of his favorite records spinning softly in the background.

The song felt like it was speaking for you.

His pulse picked up unexpectedly as he heard you quietly singing along. It tugged at something deep inside him. He never would’ve guessed you knew this song. Let alone that it was one of his favorites.

That’s when he noticed the Polaroid.

The one his little sister had taken on his twelfth birthday after he’d gotten his first guitar. Back when he thought home was the British countryside in Herefordshire. Not the woman sitting on the floor humming his favorite record.

John’s jaw tightened as he stared at his younger face. At the boy who had no idea what life was going to throw at him.

The deployments. The barracks. The endless duffel bags. The years spent never staying anywhere long enough to call it home.

Setting the box down on the table, John glanced around at his belongings for a moment.

“You mind if I reorganize the cupboards? I’ve got some mugs.” He already knew the answer. Ever since he’d arrived, you’d been making space for him.

“Yeah. You can toss the old chipped ones. Just leave the Boston one and the rooster.” You smiled over your shoulder.

“Yeah.” John nodded, watching you return to your records.

“Darling?” Leaving the mugs on the table, John decided to betray himself for a moment.

“Yeah?” You looked up at him.

“I love you.” A small smile softened his features.

“I love you too.” You matched his gaze.

“You know, Pink Floyd was some of the first music I learned to play on the guitar.”

“Was it really?”

“Yeah. My brother got me into them.”

“Where’s your guitar?”

John couldn’t help the way his heart skipped.

You looked perfect like this.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of your flat, surrounded by records, smiling up at him as though he’d hung the moon.

“Under our bed. I’ll go grab it.”

“Oooooo, are you going to serenade me?” Your giggles had John smiling to himself as he disappeared toward your shared bedroom.

No one else could do this to him. Have him smiling like a fool. Leaving the comfort of silence behind. Trading it for music, laughter, and a home filled with noise.

“Don’t push your luck,” John called back.

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

“And what did we learn today?” You let out an exasperated sigh, arms folding tight across your chest as you looked at your teenagers.

Jj was already tall enough that he was starting to look down at you instead of up. He leaned against the counter, all lanky limbs and which was something he complained about. With his messy hair, sharp jaw, and those unmistakable blue eyes, he was becoming more and more like his father every day. Evelyn stood beside him, her long brown hair tied up in a high ponytail and her expression mirroring yours, unimpressed and slightly irritated.

The two of them glanced at each other, still a little shell shocked.

Evelyn opened her mouth, then closed it again, clearly deciding this was a trap that she’d happily let Jj walk into.

So Jj cleared his throat, stepping in like he always did.

“That dad’s willing to go to jail…?” he said, his confidence dying at the end, the sentence turning into a question.

“Sort of.” You tilted your head, unimpressed. “What we really learned is if you play stupid games, you’ll win stupid prizes.” You shifted your weight, glancing out the window just as headlights swept across the driveway.

Knowing John was about to walk in made you absentmindedly tug your charcoal grey scoop neck t-shirt up. The reason he was even in this predicament was because of you. It wasn’t as if you were dressed inappropriately, but with these jeans that John always said made her ass look good and this top you realized it wasn’t the best outfit. Maybe you should start dressing in burlap sacks. You wished the whole getting older thing would keep men at arms length but clearly it hadn’t.

“Who’s that?” Lily piped up from the floor underneath the kitchen table, where she was curled over a coloring book, her tiny tongue poking out in concentration.

Her short brown curls stuck out in soft, uneven tufts, and a dusting of freckles stretched across the bridge of her nose. When she looked up, her wide sapphire-blue eyes, identical to her father’s, blinked with innocent curiosity.

“So dad’s stupid prize is jail?” Jj scoffed, brow furrowing.

“No,” Evelyn cut in, rolling her eyes, her voice playfully annoyed. “The guy who grabbed mum’s ass won the stupid prize.” Evelyn flung her hand in the direction of your hips which made you face palm.

“Daddy shouldn’t hit people.” Lily said absently, already half back in her coloring, her voice small and matter of fact.

“Well, grown ass men should know better than to touch someone without consent!” Jj fired back immediately, straightening a little, protective instinct flashing across his face in a way that was purely his father.

Seeing Jj so protective of you made you sigh. He was John’s son through and through, you couldn’t argue that. You just prayed to the heavens he wouldn’t wind up in jail one day defending any girlfriends or his future wife. You didn’t know it yet but John would be bailing Jj out one day fifteen years from now for doing just that.

“Yeah, the fucker’s lucky all dad did was knock him out—”Evelyn sneered.

“Should’ve chopped him to bits and used him as bait!” Jj finished for Evelyn, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Okay, okay,” you cut in quickly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Let’s leave the violence to your dad.” You waved your hand hoping that would put an end to this.

“Bait?” Lily’s head popped up again, this time lightly smacking into the tale above her. After rubbing the sore sport her, confusion knit her tiny brows together. “Like… for the fishes?” Lily gestured towards the pond in the back where the boys commonly fished.

“Yeah,” Jj said, smirking now, unable to help himself. “And if you step out of line, dad’ll feed you to the fish too.” He pointed at the seven year old.

“Oi!” Evelyn snapped, smacking his arm.

“Jj!” You gasped.

“Don’t forget,” Evelyn added sweetly, clearly deciding to pile on. “he’ll use your comic books as kindling to roast the fish he catches with you.” She couldn’t even keep a straight face, giggling by the end. Jj cackled out a menacing laugh, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

That did it.

At that exact moment, the back door creaked open.

John stepped inside, filling the doorway like a storm cloud that hadn’t quite decided whether to break. He looked mean, broad-shouldered, and carrying himself like the military man he was, he moved with a kind of controlled intensity that made the whole room feel smaller. You couldn’t help the way it made your breath catch in your throat. He somehow made you feel like a little kid in trouble. After everything that happened you felt guilty he even had to defend you and also pissed he knocked someone out.

His worn boots thudded against the floor, his thick beard slightly damp from the cold night air, and those piercing blue eyes, so like Lily’s and Jj’s, still burned with leftover anger. If you were honest you knew he wanted to smash something but was keeping his rage in check for the sake of you and the children.

“Dad!” Jj and Evelyn chorused, far too cheerful.

“I DON’T WANT TO BE BAIT FOR THE FISHES!” Lily shrieked at full volume.

John froze. He had to blink a few times as loud sobs filled the kitchen.

Slowly, he looked from his hysterical youngest, now scrambling to her feet, to you, who stood there equally stunned.

“Christ.” John grunted out not wanting to deal with hysterics at the moment.

“You’re not fish food, Lil, calm down,” he said, his thick British accent curling around the words as he crouched slightly, trying to soften his tone.

But Lily was already there, clutching at his worn jeans with hands trembling, her freckled face twisted into a frown.

“BUT BUT BUT!!” she wailed, spiraling further into this fit.

“What the fuck is happening tonight!?” John snapped, straightening up, his voice booming through the room.

He was exasperated. Not only could he not take you anywhere without someone putting their grubby paws on you. But now, after getting bailed out of jail by his brother he had to deal with this. He loved Lily, don’t get John wrong. But this level of dramatics at this moment was the last thing she wanted to deal with.

Turning his attention to you leaned across the kitchen island and wagging your finger, you were already quietly but firmly tearing into your teenagers.

“I don’t know what you two did,” John continued, pointing down the hall and toward the stairs without even looking, “but if your mum’s cross, it’s not good. Upstairs. Now.” There was no messing with John when he barked orders like this. Both your teenagers mouth snapped shut.

Jj snorted under his breath, grabbing Evelyn’s arm as they both bolted, barely containing their laughter as they disappeared up the stairs, almost certainly heading straight to Evelyn’s room to debrief.

“Please, Daddy!” Lily sobbed, tugging harder at him. “Don’t chop me to bits! The fish won’t think I taste good!”throwing her head back John had to steady the wailing girl before she fell to the floor.

John’s entire expression broke.

“You, what?” He choked, completely thrown.

“And you can’t use my comics for the fire pit!” She continued, spiraling further, her voice climbing higher. “You can’t, Daddy, y-y-you just can’t!!”

“Hey, hey, none of that’s happening,” John said quickly, dropping to one knee now, his big hands gently cupping her shoulders. His voice softened, but the gravelly edge remained. “No one’s choppin’ you up. No one’s burnin’ anything. Your brother’s a prat, that’s all.” The explanation was suppose to soften things but Lily cried harder and flung herself into John’s sturdy chest.

“Your dad’s not gonna chop you up or burn your comic books.” you added, stepping in beside them. “They were just being mean.”

It didn’t help.

Not even a little.

The night unraveled completely after that.

It took nearly an hour, an hour, of tears, reassurances, cuddling, and John pacing around the living room with her clinging to him like a koala before Lily finally wore herself out. By the time she passed out, it was just past nine, her tear-swollen eyes shut tight, one small hand tangled stubbornly in her father’s thick beard as if anchoring herself to him. It was some odd form of reassurance that she wouldn’t become fish food.

John stood in the dim light, holding her carefully against his chest, his expression somewhere between exhausted and utterly baffled. He was such a seasoned father he didn’t even notice how he lightly bounced her like he did for all your children when they were babies. Or how he rubbed her back while she snored lightly, thumb dangling from her lips. Even at seven Lily couldn’t help but suck her thumb in high stress moments to help soothe herself.

“I go to jail,” he muttered quietly, his voice gruffer now with fatigue, “and I come back to this.” He glanced down at Lily, then back at you.

“I’ve got my youngest cryin’ about me turnin’ her into fish food and burnin’ her books?” He chuckled darkly. “What is this, 1930s Germany?” You could see in John’s eyes he was lost for words. But some part of him, some tiny part of him, loved that his baby girl still needed him.

“Fingers crossed she doesn’t repeat this at school,” you said dryly sprawled out of the couch, head hurting from all the screaming.

“What the fuck?” he huffed.

“Jj and Evelyn can’t help themselves,” you shrugged. “Clearly no one cares you went to jail for knocking that guy out.” You couldn’t help but giggle lightly as you rolled off the couch and on to your feet.

“Fuck’s sake…” he muttered, shaking his head. Then, after a beat he spoke again. “At least they’re not traumatized.” John tried to reason more so with himself.

You raised a brow, glancing longingly at the small, sleeping girl clinging to the man you were so madly in love with.

“I think Lily is.” You playfully teased.

John looked down at her again, his expression softening despite himself.

God, did he love his children more than anything.

“Yeah,” he said in a whisper as to not disturb his sleeping baby girl.

“Not by me.”

“Put her to sleep? Then wine and a movie?” You smiled as John shook his head dramatically.

“Whiskey,” he corrected automatically, though there was no edge to it now. His eyes stayed on Lily a moment longer before flicking to you, like the rest of the room didn’t quite matter compared to that glance. “And bring the bottle in here.” He winked, his charming side on display for only a second.

There was something in the way he said it, tired, yes, but anchored. Like as long as you were there, he could carry anything. Even nights like this. Especially nights like this.

So he was subjected to sleeping in her room until almost midnight, her grip refusing to loosen even while she dreamt. And when he finally slipped free, the house was quiet in that heavy, lived in way, messy, warm, safe, in the way he longed for whenever he was overseas.

John found you asleep on the couch, the glow of the fire place you had lit soft against your face, your breathing slow and steady like you’d been waiting for him without even knowing it. For a moment he just stood there, watching you, something in his chest tightening in a way he never quite had words for.

Your lip curls as you think of him. You’re resting at your Mother’s house to get away from the Prince, but the man is—annoyingly present. 

He worms his way into your infirmary visits, though you suppose that can’t be helped. After all, he’s the reason you’re infirm in the first place. During these visits, Shoko is as thorough as a ripple through a lake and twice as calm, looking you over with expert precision. She tells you nothing is amiss, and your body is regaining its strength with no complications. 

It’s a relief, hearing that. You—you didn’t know if your body would manage—

It’s a relief. Knowing you can get it back.

Good news. Still, Prince Sukuna barks question after question, demanding information that hardly seems relevant. Is she getting enough sunlight, are her clothes warm enough, should she bathe more frequently? Ridiculous.

Sometimes, Prince Sukuna turns these questions on you. “How often do you eat meat?” he asks suddenly. “What is your usual diet?”

You grimace. You want to ignore him, but Shoko looks at you expectantly.

“Mostly porridge,” you mutter.

“Oats?” Shoko asks.

You nod.

“No vegetables?” Prince Sukuna asks after a moment.

“We grow carrots and peas in the garden,” you amend, voice icy.

“Any fish?” Shoko asks.

You shake your head.

“Meat?” the Prince presses.

You grit your teeth. “Two or three times a week.” Not everyone can afford to eat meat every single day, you think savagely.

The Prince clicks his tongue. “Insufficient. Hardly a proper diet. We can provide richer meals in the castle; if you take your meals here—”

“No,” you cut across him flatly. You’re not giving him more of your time.

He stares at you, outraged. Your lips pull back to flash your teeth.

Prince Sukuna gives you an exasperated look. “We’ll give you a parcel of food to bring home, then,” he acquiesces bitterly.

“No.”

His jaw clenches as he glares at you.

You glare right back. You want nothing from him. 

The Prince whips his head to Shoko. She looks at him, looks at you, then shrugs. “It ought to sustain her.”

You smirk grimly. She seems to have realized the inevitable: short of holding your mouth open and forcing it down your throat, he can’t make you eat his fucking food.

He narrows his eyes, wearing a face that says he’d like to do just that. You smile primly, content with your win.

Still, Prince Sukuna doesn’t let up. On another visit: 

“How long do you spend asleep?” he demands. “Do you sleep from sunset to sunrise?”

You scowl at him. “Not often,” you admit begrudgingly. “I wake past sunrise, but I often fall asleep well past sunset.”

His eyes jump, his lips thin. “Ah,” he tsks. “Perhaps your sleeping arrangements are too poor—”

You silence him with a hiss. The nerve of him, you think, furious, the gall to use your rest as a way to manipulate you into his bed. Prick.

He doesn’t back down. “We’ve kept you from guarding so you could recover,” he reminds you softly. “If you are not using the time to rest properly, then we’ll—”

“You’ll what?” you interrupt angrily. What will he do? Call you back into service? Have you resume your place as his personal guard? 

Ha. Over your dead body.

His face grows taut with anger. Prince Sukuna opens his mouth, and you think he’ll shout at you. You tense, ready to kick and scream, but he swiftly controls himself, clicking his tongue lightly.

Your blood simmers in satisfaction. Good. He must remember your threat to leave the Palace altogether. And you mean it, if he attempts to force you back onto his guard, you’ll disappear.

Breath steady, the Prince dismisses Shoko from her own infirmary. She quickly exits the private quarters reserved for the royal family. And you, by extension.

Shoko gone, and you’re alone with the Prince, something you were hoping to avoid. You examine him sharply. He’s calm and you’re not, a poor position for you. The Prince’s face is drawn tight, but it’s lost some of that cold ire, and his body is loose and relaxed. You, on the other hand, are still furious; teeth bared, muscles corded. Your hands clench into fists; you feel you could throw a punch.

Prince Sukuna exhales lightly, gaze measured. “Why must you be so difficult?” he mutters.

You scoff, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “I simply want you to make a full recovery,” he says evenly.

You nearly spit at his feet. Why? Is it out of pity? Wanting a strong personal guard? Wanting you healthy enough to fuck again?

You push the thoughts from your mind, because they don’t matter. You don’t care why Prince Sukuna does what he does, and you’re not going to waste your energy trying to find out.

When you keep silent, he continues. “I want you back on my guard,” he says, voice low. “And—”

“No,” you interrupt coldly.

That irritates him: “Tch.”

You stare at the Prince through narrowed eyes.

He keeps at it, stubborn ass. “I want you back on my guard, and I want to continue training. Privately.”

He watches you carefully. You goggle at him. Is he out of his mind?

You don’t answer, too stunned to speak. He raises an eyebrow. Your disbelief mounts.

“Do you really—” rage grabs hold of your tongue. Snarling, forcing control, you keep going. “Do you really think I’d agree to that?” To sneaking off with him again, being alone in those soundless woods? In that clearing, where you’d train him and let him fuck you after? You’d sooner die than go back there.

Prince Sukuna looks at you shrewdly. “Be sensible. You can’t think I—”

You let out a shocked laugh. Is he trying to convince you? Doesn’t he know that he’s on a fool’s errand, doesn’t he have any idea—any idea—of the hatred you have for him?

Now, his eyes flash. “Hold, little knight,” he commands in a low voice. You still.

When you prove silent, he nods, then moves ahead. “You can’t think I’m skilled enough to be finished training.”

The Prince looks at you expectantly. You scoff. “Of course not,” you say derisively.

He nods again, lips quirking. “So help me improve,” he orders.

Ever practical. “Ask someone else,” you say irritably.

His lips twitch again, like he’s caught you in a trap. “Ah, but no one else is as good as you.”

You preen, then recoil. Bastard, playing to your ego like that.

“Obviously,” you mutter, shifting lightly on your feet. “Ask Yuki,” you say finally. “She’s plenty good.”

The suggestion stings, and the Prince clocks it. “Her style isn’t like yours,” he says smoothly. “Yours is the one I want to learn.”

You growl in frustration. He smiles easily. “Come now, little knight.” His tone is conciliatory. “Train with me again, I know you enjoyed it.”

You rise up onto your toes, eyes above his head. Of course you enjoyed it. Prince Sukuna gave you the sweetest gift; a place where your body could move how it was made to. Where it could move swiftly. You desperately wish you could have that back.

But you can’t. You drop back onto your heels. You can’t. You can’t train with the Prince again, can’t be around him at all. He’s vile, you remind yourself harshly. He’s the reason you suffered through that miss-carry, and if you hadn’t, he would’ve kept you locked up as his captive Queen. You don’t want anything to do with him.

Even if it means giving up those clean, golden hours in the forest and accepting the wretched guarding of the throne room. Even if it means standing still and silent in an empty hall for hours. You’ll swallow that over time with the Prince any day.

“I will not train with you,” you say, voice flat. 

Prince Sukuna’s eyes narrow. After a few moments’ silence, you add, “the visit is over; please dismiss me.”

He closes his eyes; jerks his chin. You walk measuredly out of the Palace.

Back at home, Mother cocks an eyebrow.

“His Highness was there?”

“Of course,” you mutter. 

“And?”

You grimace. “He asked me to rejoin his guard. And to train him.”

Mother scoffs in disgust. “And did you tell him to go fuck himself?”

You pause, thinking it over. “…a little.”

“Good girl.”

The rest of the month passes in much the same way. You visit the Palace because you have to, gritting your teeth while Prince Sukuna tries to demand more and more of you. You fend him off with mounting rage and leave for your Mother’s house exhausted. Your body grows stronger. You are tired.

Soon, it’s time for you to return to your work. You visit Shoko the night before your first shift in the throne room.

“How do you feel?” she asks seriously.

You shrug. “Fine.” Body stiff from disuse, but otherwise normal.

“You’ve refrained from exerting yourself?” she asks pointedly, lips tight with suspicion.

“Just walking to and from home.” It’s been hell, but you’ve kept your body still in an effort to aid its recovery.

Shoko nods approvingly. “Good. You ought to be clear for more strenuous movement.”

You look up at her, eyes wide, heart soaring. “Don’t be an idiot,” she admonishes quickly. “Listen to your body, if it strains, stop and see me immediately. But yes.” She gives you a small smile. “You’re cleared for some physical activity.”

Joy wrings you by the neck. “Thank you,” you say breathlessly.

Shoko thumps her knuckles against your arm. “Yes, congratulations. Now get out, you’re taking up space.” 

You smile brilliantly, then practically run from the room. 

Only to stop short when you encounter the Prince, standing guard by the door. Nanami waits several paces away.

“Cleared for duty, hm?” Prince Sukuna pitches his voice low, only for you to hear.

Heat rises to your face. You feel—you feel caught out, like he trespassed when he saw your delight.

“Yes,” you say defiantly, too defiant for a Prince.

He makes a low noise in his throat. “Good.”

You narrow your eyes. Eventually, he smiles lightly, nods, and turns toward his quarters. 

Nanami follows behind. “Welcome back,” he murmurs when he passes you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. You’re surprised at Nanami, you didn’t—you don’t know how the personal guards will react to your return. To your absence, and the reason behind it.

Your stomach sinks. They’ll—they’ll think less of you, surely. Getting caught fucking a charge would be hell enough, but you’re one of the only female guards in the Palace. The only female guard on Prince Sukuna’s roster, and you let him trick you into his bed. What a stupid, womanly thing to do, you think bitterly. An idiotic lapse of judgment far below what’s becoming of a knight. Of course the only girl went and got herself with child.

Idiot. Ugh. 

You expected the other guards to deride you, to look down on you for your mistake. They should, you think miserably, it would be out of character not to. A knight ought to be strong and sharp, rigidly holding his shape, gripping his principals with clenched fingers. Unflaggingly loyal, prepared to do anything for the crown. The kind of man a father could be proud of. And you just proved you are nothing like that kind of man. 

You expected the other guards to eviscerate you for it. Braced for the worst, and Nanami had been—kind. Unthinkingly so.

Huh.

The disconnect nags you as you make for the personal guard’s quarters. Nanami was the only one to see you after your miss-carry, when the Prince brought you bloody to his quarters. He was there when Prince Sukuna visited you the next day, after you’d snuck back to your Mother’s house; he knows what happened. But he seemed so, so relaxed just now, unbothered by your return. Do the other guards feel the same? Do they know you carried the Prince’s child, but still think the same of you?

No, you decide quickly. The others won’t be as forgiving. You’re friendly with some, amicable with the rest, but at the end of the day they’re knights for the crown, clinging to a chivalric code that demands the shining strong defend the timid weak. There’s no room for a knight hobbled by pregnancy; the only personal guard who could overlook it is Yuki.

And Nanami, apparently.

Is—is it possible he didn’t tell anyone, that the other personal guards don’t know? Hope flares almost painfully. Would Nanami lie for you, to protect your reputation? But how would he explain your absence?

Your answer comes with Yuki, standing patiently beside your bunk. “Are you all right?” she asks, walking toward you. “Did Shoko clear you?”

“Cleared,” you report. Then you hesitate. It’s an odd time of day, day shift still on,

night shift far enough away that the guards haven’t started dressing for it. The room is mercifully empty.

You pitch your voice low anyway. “Do the others know about—did Nanami—?”

Yuki’s face smoothes out. “He didn’t tell a soul,” she says softly. “I started telling the others that you took leave to see your Mother, and he went along with it.”

Huh. You have to stop there, breath going heavy. “I didn’t—” you cough against the lump in your throat. “I didn’t expect that of him.”

Yuki shrugs. "He's an honorable man.”

Huh. You’ll have to repay him.

“How do you feel?” Yuki asks, brows furrowed with concern.

Your stomach clenches. Careful, controlled, you take off your boots. “Fine, I think.” Your voice is quiet, barely above a whisper.

Yuki nods, examining you cautiously. You don’t meet her eyes; settling on the bed and staring at your knees.

“Ready for your shift tomorrow?” she asks, voice light.

You huff a laugh. “Of course.” She grins at you, and you give a tiny smirk.

It’s true, the shift isn’t what you’re worried about. You’re certain your body can handle standing still for twelve hours.

No, what you’re worried about is…the rest of it. Shoko cleared you, but—will your body be the same? Will it—will you be able to fight?

The thought makes your throat close. You need to fight, you need to be able to move like that again. If you can’t, if that awful miss-carry took it from you, your life will be over.

If Prince Sukuna’s bastard child destroyed you on the way out, the Prince will have taken who you are and crushed it in his hand.

Rage surges; you bite it back. It isn’t helpful, not now. 

Yuki hums. “Shoko said you could exercise?” she asks again.

You nod. “Nothing too strenuous.” It hangs in the air. Yuki hasn’t seen you move, not really but she knows something of what you’re capable of.

Enough to smile reassuringly. “The rest will follow.”

You swallow past a lump in your throat. “I hope so.”

The thought plagues you as you sleep fitfully; as you pull on your armor the next morning and walk meekly to the throne room. You take your place by the door, relieving the man on the night shift.

Your spine is ramrod straight. Alone in this large, echoing room, your hands tremble. You are—terrified.

You haven’t thought about it—you’ve forced yourself not to think about it. You’ve thought of nothing but your recovery, of gaining back what you lost, but now that you’re here, now that you’re cleared for some movement—

What if you can’t do it anymore? What if your body doesn’t move, doesn’t obey you like it once could? What if it no longer moves like you?

You shut your eyes, struggling to breathe. You’re like that for the rest of the shift, the next twelve hours. Eyes closed, breath sick and shallow, thoughts eating you alive.

The night guard returns. You take your leave. Eat, undress, force your head to your pillow. Fall into something like sleep.

The next shift starts the same; hours of shut eyes and clenched teeth. Hysteria rises to the point of bile in your throat. 

Abruptly, you can’t take it anymore. You wrench your eyes open.

Your gaze flits about the room before settling on the throne itself. It’s the focal point of the hall, commanding the space like the ruler who sits upon it. You study the high-backed stone chair; tall, regal, and austere.

You’ve never actually seen anyone sit in it, you think, amused. The room itself is ceremonial; only used for a handful of occasions where the ruler needs to make a strong impression. Needs to flash their power in front of an audience.

You’re never called into service on the few feast days where the Queen uses the throne. But the sight of it alone is sobering; enough to remind you of the power she wields, the lives she affects.

Prince Sukuna, too, you think, slightly bitter. Crown Prince, powerful in his own right. He’ll sit on the throne soon enough.

And he was foolish enough to think you’d stand beside him.

You take a deep, measured breath, your first in nearly two days. You can’t wait any longer, you need to know.

Gingerly, you settle down onto the stone floor. You set your legs straight out in front of you, then spread them open wide, then wider, stretching your hips inch by inch, until your body strains.

You take stock of yourself. Nearly the same as before, you think with relief, just as flexible. Hips a touch wider, but you can work with that.

You reach behind you, twisting your right hand toward your left side, then your left hand to your right. Then, you lean forward and stretch out your back. 

Same reach, all over. Same, same.

Cautious joy thrums through you. You scamper to your feet before you can get too hopeful. 

First: bend over, knees straight, hands to the floor. Done. Same stretch.

Now, the one you’ve been most fearful of. Slowly, agonizingly, you raise your leg in the air. 

It’s the kick you drilled with Prince Sukuna, the one you nagged him to get right. Hips square, foot parallel to your body, leg angled high.

You drive your hips forward, stretching your leg out as high as it will go. Your hands are loose fists, close at your chest. Your whole body shakes, foot twitching on the ground.

Your leg runs out in front of you, angled and sharp and strong. Muscles dense, hale and supple. Foot high in the air. The kick is the same as it was before the miss-carry. You can do it. You—your reach is the same, your flexibility is the same, you can still do it.

Relief crashes into you. You hold the pose to prove you can while your leg trembles beneath you, then copy it on the other foot.

You can do it. Your body has not failed you. It will move how you want it to move.

You do a few more tests; stretching at the waist, shifting from one bent knee to the other, twisting your arms this way and that. All the same, or nearly so. Like you don’t hold the pain of the miss-carry in your womb. Like that almost-child didn’t rip right through you.

Your heart stutters. All the same. You drop into a squat, hands braced against the stone. You are yourself. You are still yourself.

Your breath hitches; tears drip onto the floor. You plant your elbows, lock your hands behind your head, and kick off into a headstand. Let the tears roll down your forehead. You take stock of yourself: toes pointed, ankles locked, legs still and sure. Hips even, abdomen clenched, chest strong, arms steady. You are all there. You are all there.

Delight sings over your skin, your toes wriggle in your boots. You still have your life. Prince Sukuna did not take it from you.

After a while, you bring your feet back to the floor. Your body can still stretch, but the month of inactivity weakened you. Your muscles twitch, tight from disuse. Might as well train now, you think wryly.

You begin a drill, punching this time. Give your hips a break. Your fists meet the air again and again. Basic drill, one for novices, but your arms need it. Five minutes of that, and you add another move; a block. Five minutes later, a counter.

Hit, block, counter. Hit, block, counter. You run it again and again, alone in the silent hall. You’ve got hours to kill, and you only stop when your body twinges, when Shoko’s voice rings in your ear.

Exhaling, you lay yourself out on your back, arms and legs spread wide against the stone floor. Your muscles ache a little, and the chest plate is constricting, but you feel so, so good.

You spend another half-hour in a head stand, two more grinning happily at the wall, and then your shift is over. The night guard relieves you, and you slip out of the throne room, back into the main hall.

The door shuts quietly. Your instincts ping; your muscles stiffen. Across the hall, Prince Sukuna stands on the staircase, looking down at you.

You freeze, then bow before you can read his face. Befitting your position.

Face to the floor, holding prostrate, you wait for him to release you.

From across the room: “Tch.”

You stand straight and hurry toward the guard’s quarters. You don’t look at him once.

Stripping yourself of your armor, you eat quickly in the kitchens before returning to your bunk. You fall into bed and sleep hard. 

The next day you wake with excitement, not anxiety. Dressing quickly, you hasten to the throne room, snagging a hunk of bread and cheese on the way. The promise of joy flares over you.

You enter the large hall. Your hackles rise; again, Prince Sukuna stands languidly on the staircase, gaze pointed coolly at yours.

You bow; you have to. But your body can’t contain itself; it fidgets and shifts. You can’t help it, you’ve been waiting to move for weeks.

Twitching, your body holds the bow, waiting for his cue. It takes longer than yesterday, noticeable so, but eventually: 

“Tch.”

You hurry into the throne room.

It’s the same as yesterday; stretches, drills, sequences. You’re more focused today, the blanket relief giving way to something more calculating. Your body can still move, thank God, it’s at least something of what you’re used to. But your body is your tool, the sharpest one you have. You need to know exactly what it’s still capable of, exactly where it’s deficient.

You let your thoughts run over yourself, skin to muscle to bone. Your muscles are weakened; the miss-carry sapped some of your strength. That doesn’t bother you; you can make that up in training. Besides, you could never rely solely on power. You need to be strong, yes, but more importantly, you need to be flexible. And you need to be fast.

The flexibility has stayed; you proved as much yesterday. You check again just to be sure, with the same results: you can still bend and twist.

You breathe a little easier. One advantage stayed with you.

The speed is more concerning. You run through a few foot drills and quickly realize you’re slower. Not by much, but against a good opponent, it will make a difference.

You grimace. Shit.

You repeat drill after drill over the next several hours. The ceremonial guard assignment is the perfect place to practice, you think, amused. No one ever enters the throne room; there’s never a need. You’re left in peace, and you spend the rest of the shift training under the watchful eye of the throne.

You finish just as the night guard comes to take your place. Too close, you think absently, fixing the chainmail more securely over your head. You pop out into the hallway and—

There’s the Prince.

Not across the hall, this time; right beside the door, right next to you. You nearly jump backwards, falling awkwardly into a bow.

Prince Sukuna clicks his tongue; you stand straight. His gaze is narrowed, critical and suspicious. You blanch, then catch yourself. His opinion matters little.

Face kept cool, you meet his eyes. His lip twists. “You were training.”

Your muscles lock. How could he know?

The Prince must sense your confusion; he gives a little smirk. “I know what you look like when you train, little knight,” he says smoothly. “When you exert yourself.” A heavy gaze hits your skin.

It’s difficult, but you don’t flinch. You don’t say a word; you just stand there, looking at him.

Prince Sukuna raises his eyebrows, smile light and cruel. “Training while on duty ought to be grounds for dismissal, no?”

“Probably.” It slips out before you can stop it. Your voice is soft and steady, and it catches him off guard; you can see it in the way his face freezes. He must not have expected you to call his bluff.

You wait placidly. He can do what he likes.

Eventually, he sucks his teeth; jerks his head. Slides roughly past you into the throne room.

You blink. Several steps away, out of earshot, Paul raises an eyebrow. You shrug, heading to the personal guard’s quarters.

Another shift tomorrow, the last day before your break. Again, the Prince scrutinizes you as you enter the throne room. You let his suspicion slide right off your back.

Inside, you hold yourself still for two hours, in case the Prince tries to catch you out. Then you take off your boots and chest plate.

Footwork drills again today, you decide. On repeat, on rhythm: pivot, weak punch, dodge left. Punch, pivot, dodge right. Over and over, until your bones remember.

You’re silent, you haven’t lost that. Nothing to hear, but Prince Sukuna may walk in on you anyway. Make good on his threat to dismiss you from the Palace.

You find you don’t care. Over the past few weeks, you’ve decided you do not need to stay here. You took the position because it’s close to Mother; her poor health won’t let you stray too far. But you can find other work, if you need to. You can leave the Palace, if it becomes unbearable.

And you will leave, the very second Prince Sukuna makes it unbearable. If the man decides to cut the cord himself and dismiss you for training on duty, you’ll leave without a backward glance.

You continue your training, heedless of the Prince. He’s been so difficult, you almost expect him to poke his nose into the room.  Your skin itches for standoff, but he doesn’t interrupt. A small, snobbish part of you tells you to work up a sweat, leave with your face flushed and your chest plate in your hand when he inevitably corners you again.

You smile wryly at yourself. Unnecessary antagonism. Why waste your energy?

You spend the last hour stretching languidly, letting your body come down and settle. By the time you fasten your plate armor and boots, your skin is cool and your breathing even.

Still, you expect the Prince to make a fuss.

He doesn’t disappoint. Rather than wait for you to leave your post, Prince Sukuna throws open the door a few minutes before your shift ends, bursting into the throne room.

You raise an eyebrow. Dramatic.

He strides inside, leaving Paul and the relief guard in the doorway. You begin to fold yourself into a bow, but he scoffs, halting you in place. “You’re training,” he accuses in a low voice.

Suddenly, you’re exhausted with this. “And if I am?”

That wipes his face clean. Half a second; then, the Prince’s eyes narrow. “There are other positions for a royal guard.” Tone locked and ruthless. “Placed at the entrances, on my Mother’s roster.” He looks down at you meaningfully.

Your head dips. He means a position where you won’t be alone in an empty room, where you’ll be on guard in a way that matters.

Your expression cracks. Fury grips you by the throat, tightens your muscles until they nearly snap. The Prince is right, you have no business training while on duty. He has grounds to dismiss you, he should dismiss you. You are in the wrong, and you know it.

Rage rips through you anyway. “I just got it back.” Your voice is quiet, but you snarl nonetheless. “I just got my body back, and you would take it from me again?”

You raise your head, let the Prince see the anger clear on your face. It startles him; his body jerks. For a moment, you think he might take a step backward, but he holds himself in place.

You aren’t finished. “I nearly gave you a child,” you hiss, “and you won’t let me have even this?” You inhale roughly, furious. 

Something shifts in his eyes, you don’t know what. Saying nothing, the Prince steps aside. You storm out of the room.

You change out of your armor, collect your wages, and walk right out of the Palace, stomping angrily to your Mother’s hut. You’re still simmering when you get there, muttering angrily to yourself. Mother eyes you shrewdly but leaves you to it.

The break passes quickly, and the next week is the same as the last. You train; recuperate your speed and strength. Gain back what you lost.

Prince Sukuna stays out of your way.

You expected different; you prepared yourself to fend off his accusations every time you ended a shift. But the Prince keeps his distance.

He’s still there; watches from afar every time you enter or leave the throne room. Beyond that, he leaves you alone.

Small mercies.

He lets you have your time in the throne room, but Prince Sukuna is waiting in the infirmary when you next visit Shoko. He greets you with a measured look, like he’s anticipating a fight.

You bow stiffly. He releases you with a tch, and your eyes slide away from him. Training in peace over the last few days has softened your ire, but you’re still irritated with the Prince.

He ignores your disregard, nodding at Shoko. She turns to you. You give her a weak grin, and she begins her examination.

You roll out your shoulders; jittery, anxious. You just finished your last shift of the week. Your Mother’s house beckons. 

Shoko taps your hip. “Looks good,” she hums. “You’ve been exercising?”

The air in the room tightens. Prince Sukuna looks at you with a tiny smirk, like he’s realized he’s caught you in a trap. Shoko looks at you like she didn’t realize this was a difficult question.

You grit your teeth. “Yes,” you mutter.

The smirk goes taut. His eyes narrow. You don’t bother meeting them.

“Stretches?” Shoko asks.

You nod jerkily. “And drills.”

“Hm.” She glances at you one last time, then smiles. “Looks good,” she repeats. “You’re cleared for all movement.”

You gasp, gathering yourself and jumping to your feet. “Really?” you can’t keep the excitement from your tone.

Shoko looks at you, amused. “Really. Just don’t be stupid.”

You grin fiercely, crossing your arms over your chest and squeezing at your shoulders. You can move. You can move.

“Shoko.” Prince Sukuna’s voice is clipped. “She’s going to spar. Are you certain?”

You glare at him, furious. He meets you easily. “So you don’t injure yourself.” His voice is quiet, reasonable. “So you don’t set your recovery backward.”

Your head whips to Shoko. “Don’t be stupid,” she reminds you. “But, yes. You’re cleared for sparring.”

Your heart loosens, floats away. Your fingers twitch, you rock back and forth on your heels, you curl your toes inside your boots. You can fight again.

Blood sings in your ears. Faintly, you hear Prince Sukuna ask, “Is there anything else she ought to know?”

“No, Your Highness,” Shoko answers meditatively. “She’s healthy enough to do what she likes.”

Yes.

You beam at her. “Thank you, Shoko.” You turn to leave. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Shoko bow to the Prince before he follows you out.

In the hall, you put your back to the wall and lean forward, hands braced on your knees. Your heart pounds. Tears brim at your eyes.

“Cleared.”

Prince Sukuna’s voice doesn’t fill you with the same anger, not right now. You’re bitter, of course, but you’re intact. Whatever wounds he gave you, they weren’t enough to scar. Or at least, not where they’re going to itch.

Your breath comes thick and heavy. “Cleared,” you confirm, smiling happily.

You look up at him, elated. The Prince’s face is—confusing. Attentive, amused, and—maybe something else. “You’ll spar.”

Not a question. You answer, anyway. “Mmh.”

His eyes are careful, his arms at his sides, chest open. You know what he says: but not with me.

No. Not with him.

You don’t answer, you just meet his eyes, gaze steady.

Eventually, he nods. “Your mother’s?”

You twitch. “Yes.”

His lips quirk. “Go on, then.”

You bow, then bolt.

Running, running, all the way to your Mother’s house. Sprinting, because you can. And when you get there—

“Ah,” Mother says easily. “Good. You can entertain our guest.”

Toji’s visiting.

His broad frame fills your vision. You have never been happier to see him in your life. “I’m cleared to spar,” you say, breathless in the doorway.

Toji rises to his feet instantly. “Let’s go.”

Grinning, you wave to Mother and lead him out behind the hut.

Quickly, you set about stretching; frantic, frenetic. Toji watches with raised eyebrows. “Glued to the bed while you were stuck here?” He jerks his head to the house.

You nod grimly. Toji was away during most of your recovery, taking jobs over the border. “Had to rest, couldn’t do anything.”

He sucks his teeth. “And now?” he gestures at your body stiffly.

You sigh. “Alright, mostly,” you say quietly. You pause. “Not as fast, I think.” Voice small; worried.

“Bastard,” Toji says bitterly. You shrug, throat tight.

He looks you over—is there something different in his gaze? There is, you realize with a sickening jolt. There is; Toji looks at you differently now, now that you—now that this happened.

Self-hatred grips you. How could you let this happen? How could you let the Prince do that to you? How could—why didn’t you—why didn’t you stop it when you could, before it got too far?

Toji grunts. “Want me to check?”

You look at him, confused. 

“See where you’re at.” He flicks a hand at you again. “With your speed.”

Oh. “Yeah,” you admit. 

He nods, flashing a grin. “Come on, then.”

You approach him, fists raised. He waits for you to make the first move, and you take it, kicking at his ribs.

Toji ducks out of the way. Easily. 

You chew your lip. That was you at full power.

Anxiety rises to the surface. Toji notices. “Warm up,” he says gruffly.

You nod. He’s right. You need to let your muscles loosen, get used to flowing like this again.

You keep at it, rushing Toji with everything you have. It’s not sparring; Toji’s punches don’t aim to land, but to test how you move around them. You’re attacking, but Toji isn’t fighting back; he’s observing.

Eventually, he steps away and crosses his arms over his chest.

You pant heavily. “Well?”

He gives you a grim look. “You’re slower.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Fuck. “How bad?”

He mulls that over. “I can tell,” he says finally. “Might not make a difference to a weaker opponent.”

Might. “Can I get it back?” 

Toji hums. You open your eyes to see him shrug. “Don’t see why not.”

You let out a breath. Okay. Toji thinks you can get it back, and you believe him.

Suddenly, you’re on edge with determination. You want to get back to where you were, and you want to start now. 

“Come on, let’s spar and mean it.” You put your fists up, looking at Toji imploringly.

He barks a laugh, raising his fists in turn. “I’m taking this one, Princess,” he goads. “You’re slower than a blind horse.” Probably. “Blind horse with only two legs,” he tacks on to be an ass.

You bare your teeth. “Try me and find out.”

Toji closes the distance. Immediately, you see it for yourself. Just as you thought, you’re slow. Noticeably slow. It’s much harder to dodge, to get a hit to connect, now that he’s actually trying.

Still, you hold out. You’re sluggish, but not dead; it takes a while for him to manage a hit.

When he does, it’s brutal: Toji punches you in the face.

Nearly at his full strength; you know him well enough to know he pulled at the last second. It cracks your head back anyway, a clean hit to the jaw that has your teeth rattling.

Pain blooms, from your ear to your chin to your neck. You shuffle backward, breathing hard. Toji watches closely. There is almost, almost something apologetic in his face.

“Should’ve dodged,” he says pointedly, one eyebrow raised.

You grimace. Yeah.

Cautiously, you feel over your jaw. It seems to be fine, it’s not broken. Just a bruise, and it’ll bruise like hell tomorrow. 

You drop your hand, square your shoulders. “More?”

Toji grins. “‘Course, Princess.”

He doesn’t hit you again; he quits before anything lands. It would be belittling, if you didn’t need it.

You spar for another hour; until your body twinges one too many times and you have to call it. Breath heavy, heart calming itself, you lay down in the grass. Your muscles ache pleasantly; you imagine them glowing softly in the twilight.

Toji sits cross-legged beside you. For a moment, you’re eleven again, and the faint stars in the darkening sky are both too close and impossibly far from your grasp.

You breathe, letting your body settle out. On your right, Toji is—locked, somehow. There is an odd silence between you. Unnatural.

You knock your wrist against his knee. “How have the jobs been?”

Toji grunts. “Fine enough.” Then he makes a face.

“Tell me,” you demand.

“Things are getting complicated,” he mutters. “Your man went and fucked everything up.”

Toji glances at you, face flat, eyebrow raised. You bite your tongue, then mirror his expression. “No shit?”

His mouth twitches, cracking a grin. “Making my life harder.”

That gets you. “Oh, is he, Toji?” Toji bursts out laughing. “Prince fuckhead himself is making your life harder? Huh.” You look at him with wide eyes. “What’s that like?”

“Fair enough, princess.” Toji smirks, looking at you how he’s always looked at you. You breathe a little easier.

“Jobs are harder?” you prompt.

He sucks his teeth. “Mmh. Kamo attack on that Gojo outpost has every idiot with a military map shitting their pants. Main roads have watchmen and guards in reserve; fuckass roads nobody cares about suddenly have patrol circuits. Every door has a guard posted up outside and inside. Too many eyes everywhere, too many parts to keep track of.” Toji shakes his head. “That campaign of his was a pain in my ass,” he adds, nodding at the Palace.

Unease flashes. The Kamos. Nobara. 

“Toji,” you say quietly, sitting up. “After the attack on the outpost, I traveled with the Prince to the Gojo's Palace. On the way back the Kamos made a run at the Prince.”

He grunts, unimpressed. And?

“They sent a girl,” you press on hurriedly. “She can’t be more than eleven, they sent a child to spy on him.”

That gets his attention. “She good?”

“No,” you emphasize. “Not enough to be a spy working for the Crown.” He inclines his head, considering. “They pulled her from the fucking rings,” you add sharply.

Toji’s eyes snap to yours. “You saw her fight?”

“I fought her.” Your hands clench into fists at the memory. “The Kamos sent an inexperienced little girl to fight a member of the Prince’s personal guard.”

“And she was unlucky enough that the guard was you,” he says dryly.

“Lucky, I think,” you say softly. “I took her back with me.”

He eyes you, uncharacteristically meditative. Then his face settles into something grim. “How old did you say she was?”

Your face wobbles. “She—” You grit your teeth, head dropping into your hands. “She’s eleven.” Your voice shakes something awful. “Her name is Nobara, and she looks—”

She’s eleven. Her name is Nobara, and she looks like you. 

Despair comes on suddenly. You twist yourself into a ball. You’ve been avoiding this. Pushed it away, kept yourself preoccupied with the highs and lows of Prince Sukuna and swept Nobara right from your mind. Head so cottoned up with despair and fury that there was no room for a little girl from the rings. 

Your fingers dig at your scalp, scratching against the shell of your ear. Your heart thuds dully. No room before, but now that you and the Prince—now that the child is—

Your throat sticks. Now, you have room. Nobara blooms, curling through your mind the way smoke fills a hut. You tuck your chin into your chest, blinking back tears.

Toji reaches out and puts a hand on your shaking back. The heavy palm is comforting, but it’s also Toji’s. It punches you backward, shoves you head over heels until you are sitting here, right where you are now, with him, right where he is now, and you are eleven. Wide-eyed, face pinched with hunger. Desperate, out of options.

Eleven and desperate, and you had Toji next to you at your Mother’s house, but in the ring, under those watchful eyes, you were alone.

Alone and out of place. The eyes of the men watching; the eyes of the boy across the floor from you, they made sure you knew you didn’t belong.

And you didn’t. You quickly outclassed most of your opponents, those miserable boys who took one look at your tits and sneered. You were better, and you knew it and Toji knew it and maybe, maybe one or two of the other fighters had the balls to admit it to themselves. But it didn’t matter. The men in the audience looked at you and made you nothing with just their stare.

From the moment you started. Eleven, eleven, and so small, and those men looked at you and peeled your skin off before they even blinked. Nobara is eleven, and you’re positive the same thing happened to her. You know, you know she stepped in the ring and the men jeered and taunted and said vile vile vile things and she had to turn up her nose and— fight through it.

It makes you ache. You remember it so clearly; you remember stepping into the circle that first time, jittery and anxious and not—not even considering that the men would—

Say. Do. What they said. Did.

You grit your teeth, shying away. Years out, and you still don’t want to think about it. But your brain skips ahead, outstrips your outstretched fingers and puts you right back. Right back in the circle, facing off against—

Your body shudders. Facing off against him; that disgusting, oil-slick bastard, who never failed to remind you that you were a woman, and he a man. And that meant he had power over you. That meant he could make you feel afraid.

Cold air swallows you whole. You shiver horribly. Your vision blurs, and, for a moment, there is nothing but the sickening feeling of being watched. The fear of the threat that might be coming.

You gasp, coughing wetly.

Toji punches you lightly on the back, leaving his fist where it is. He does it again, letting his fingers spread back out flat against you. You force yourself to breathe.

“She was like us, Toji,” you say when you can manage. “Except she was alone.”

And worse. You rode through those years on your skill, skill Nobara doesn’t have. You know she struggled more than you did.

Toji sucks his teeth. “Good thing she’s out, then.”

“There’s more,” you push anxiously, raising your head. “There are others like her, the Kamos are collecting half-assed fighters from the rings, training them, and sending them out into the field.”

He narrows his eyes. “Kids?”

“Kids,” you confirm. “And they’re not training them enough. They won’t survive.”

Toji sticks his tongue between his teeth. “Wonder why,” he says eventually.

“I don’t know,” you stress, planting your feet in the grass and resting your elbows on your knees. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, thinking it over. “Dunno,” he manages with a frown. "What does your man have to say?” 

You scoff loudly. “I don’t give a shit what that bastard has to say.”

Toji raises an eyebrow, smirk on wide. “Glad to hear it, princess.”

You scowl, and he laughs, thumping you on the back again.

Then Toji goes silent, contemplative. Maybe you should ask the Prince, you think uneasily. You’d sooner die than seek him out, but he’s clever, much cleverer than you. He interrogated Nobara weeks ago, he’s probably figured something out.

You wrinkle your nose. Ugh. Do you really want to approach him over this? Is this really that important to you?

Nobara flares bright in your mind. Maybe, you hedge.

Toji clears his throat. “Look here,” he says, serious again. “I meant it when I said things are tough with all this bullshit in the air.” He looks at you sidelong. “Could use some help.”

Your spine straightens, your eyes focus terribly. “Help?”

He smirks. “Mmh.” He looks you over. “Of course, only if you’re still good. Don’t need to carry your ass through a job.”

His eyes dance. “Get fucked,” you say plainly. “Tell me about the gig.”

Toji sets his palms on the grass behind him and leans back, sucking his teeth. “Nothing certain, not yet. Got a couple of things that may line up in a few weeks. Close,” he adds. “Wouldn’t need to travel.”

You nod hesitantly. “They’d have to be quick. Over my two day break.”

His face tightens, and you think he’s going to rail against your position, but then he drops it. “Right. This your schedule?”

“Five days on, two days off,” you confirm. “They might call me into service unexpectedly, but that’s rare.”

“You’ll have to fall ill, then.” Toji eyes you meaningfully.

You shrug. Okay. “I’ll fall ill, then.”

He grins wolfishly. “Attagirl.”

You roll your eyes. “What’s the job?”

“Assassination,” he explains. 

You cock an eyebrow. “You need help with that? Thought you were good.”

He punches you in the shoulder. “Fuck off. Told you, things are harder now. I need another set of eyes, someone to watch my back.”

Toji’s lips quirk up; he looks at you knowingly. Someone to watch his back, huh? 

You hit him in the thigh with a grin, and he laughs out loud. “Thought you’d like that.”

Excitement brews; your breathing kicks up. “What do I need?” you ask. “I’ve only got the plate and leather armor, I can’t wear that.”

“I’ll find you some assassin’s blacks,” he agrees. 

Huh. “Do I get to keep them afterwards?”

Toji snorts. “Sure, princess.”

You nod thoughtfully. Assassin’s blacks. You’ve never worn those.

“And I’m ‘just in case?’” you clarify.

“Mmh. Leave the hard stuff to me.” His eyes glitter dangerously. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, fine. I’ll watch your back.”

Toji’s smirk sharpens. You grin back, lightening hot, muscles skittering. It’s been so fucking boring, being a slave to the Prince these last few months. And with your refusal to act as his personal guard or train with him, you won’t see any action at the Palace for a long while.

Your body itches. Your skin ticks. You’re restless, you want to move.

And now, you’ll get to move with Toji. Brilliant, brilliant.

Your grin grows wider. He laughs again, the sound bouncing through the trees behind you.

“And you’ll get half the pay,” he adds, like it’s nothing.

Your jaw goes slack. You had forgotten about the money.

Toji looks at you and snickers. “We don’t do this shit for free, princess.”

Guess not. “How much?”

He inclines his head. “Three times your weekly pay.”

You goggle at him. “For one night of work?”

“One night of work for you,” he corrects lightly. “I’m charting our course.”

“Then take more than half the pay,” you insist immediately.

He looks at you a moment before shaking his head. “C’mon, princess, don’t—”

“Toji,” you say meaningfully. “Take your full share.”

He holds your gaze. “You’re about to feed me, aren’t you?” You scoff, and he raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be difficult,” he murmurs. 

You bite your tongue. “Fine.”

Silence for a few minutes. You lean back on your elbows, head tilted to the sky.

Something occurs to you. “Who’s the target?”

Toji’s brow furrows. “Dunno yet. Got a guy who’s setting things up. Likely a political target.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Not the Prince?”

Toji’s face is expressionless. “Or the Queen,” you tack on hurriedly.

“No, princess,” he says slowly. “No one from your castle.”

You hum, deciding to ignore his suspicion. Beyond the Prince, you don’t much care who Toji’s killing.

“So you’ll do it, then?” Toji asks abruptly.

“I already said,” you remind him.

“So shake,” Toji says readily.

Rolling your eyes, you spit into your palm and hold it out. Toji does the same, and you bring your hands together to mix your spit into a disgusting, slimy goo.

You grimace, shuddering involuntarily. Toji snickers childishly.

“Just one job,” you say, gripping his hand tight before releasing it.

“What?” Toji seethes indignantly. “That’s not what you said!”

“One for now,” you say reasonably. “Let’s see how it goes.”

He drops your hand with a scowl. You smile calmly, wiping it on the grass. “What, upset I won’t swim in the river with you after we finish our chores?”

He mutters unintelligibly, and you swat at his wrist. “I don’t know if it’ll work, Toji,” you explain evenly. “It’s too—with Mother, I don’t know if I can—”

You cut yourself off with a wry smile. “Let’s see.”

Toji narrows his eyes, then nods. “Fair enough,” he says easily. “Just glad you’re back in the game, princess.”

You grin. “Me, too.” You are, you’re thrilled, body sparking with excitement. That spar with Toji has your muscles melting, bones thrumming with joy.

Familiar delight settles through you, and your grin grows sharp teeth. You can’t lose this again. You can’t—you won’t let Prince Sukuna take this from you.

“More?” Toji offers, holding his fists in the air. 

You think on it before shaking your head. “Can’t push too far.”

Nodding, Toji hauls himself to his feet and reaches down a hand. You grab it and squeeze, letting him pull you up beside him. Together, you troop back into the hut.

Mother clucks her tongue at the sight of you. “Good. I’m starving. Finish the stew,” she barks.

You lay yourself out on the dirt floor. “Finish the stew, Toji,” you say easily.

Mother snorts but keeps quiet. Toji shoots you a glare before moving to the pot. “Thought I was a damn guest.”

Both you and Mother laugh out loud, and his lips jump, grinning. 

“Got a nasty hit,” Mother observes, pointing her chin at your face.

She isn’t worried; neither are you. “He’s getting his hits in while he still can.”

Toji scoffs, and Mother nods approvingly. You tilt your head back and smile at the ceiling.

You spar with Toji again the next day. Like before, he stops himself; killing his momentum to spare you any hits. You’re begrudgingly grateful, and you tell yourself it won’t be for much longer.

It’s late when you finally return to the Palace, night long since fallen. You incline your head to Guy at the entrance, then quickly make for the guard’s quarters.

You don’t expect to see Prince Sukuna. You can reach your bunk without passing through the hall at the main entrance, where he watches for you like a predator. There’s no reason for a member of the royal family to be in the servants’ halls, but the Prince is there nonetheless. Outside the door to the guard’s quarters, like he’s waiting for you.

You can’t help but grimace. You don’t want to deal with him now, not when the practice with Toji has you in such a good mood. You bow to the Prince quickly, then try to slip past him.

“Hold, little knight.” Voice clipped.

Your frown deepens. Shit. He’s probably angry at your insolence, rising without his dismissal.

You bow again. “My apol—”

“Look here,” he demands. Brow furrowed, you tilt your head up, rising to your full height.

Prince Sukuna’s face is taut with fury. Lips twisted, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. “Explain yourself.”

You look at him in confusion. What is he talking about?

He scowls at you for a moment longer. You realize the muscles of his forearms are flexed and corded, hands bunched into fists.

“Come.” His tone brooks no argument. Turning, the Prince strides toward his quarters. 

Paul follows behind, and you hurry to keep up. Prince Sukuna wants to speak to you alone, no doubt. You would be furious that he’s forcing this audience if you weren’t so bewildered. Why is he so angry? What could you possibly have done?

Sure enough, he dismisses Paul and the attendants as soon as you enter his private rooms. You still, body coiled in anticipation, as the Prince rounds on you.

“What the fuck is that?” he growls. 

Your head snaps up in disbelief. Righteous indignation burns a hole in your tongue, but the Prince cuts you off before you can say anything.

“Christ, it’s even worse in the light,” he mutters. His eyes are on your jaw.

Oh. The purpling bruise. You nearly forgot.

Exhaling, he places a hand on your shoulder and shifts you closer to the fire.

You stiffen at his touch. It’s steady. Confident. Hot as ever. He seems to think nothing of it.

Prince Sukuna’s expression grows colder as he examines you, placing his hand on your chin to twist your head this way and that. The touch jolts, and you let it hang for a second before batting the hand away with a glare.

The Prince’s face demands cool obedience. You scowl at it.

“You got that in training.” His voice is low, but something rattles.

You look at him, anger gone slow and careful. “Yes.” No reason to lie, you’ve done nothing wrong.

His lip curls. You watch him now, like you’re sizing up an opponent. He’s furious, body tightly wound, held stiff and still as he fights to control himself. His face is flat with anger, and his eyes are so cold you don’t trust them. There is something there that will make the ice crack.

You marvel. Prince Sukuna is livid. You, on the other hand, are calm. Still, and you mean it; body motionless because it’s relaxed. Cool, because you are fully in control.

Interesting. Lately, you’ve been the angry one, while Prince Sukuna dangled his composure in front of you like meat before a starving dog. You wonder what will happen with the roles reversed.

Your flippant answer seems to stoke his ire. “Tch,” low and irritable.

Is he angry that you trained? You nearly let out a laugh. What can he do? Getting after you for training on shift is one thing, but he has no control over you once you take off the armor.

The Prince scowls like he knows that. “You cannot—overexert yourself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Shoko cleared me for combat.”

“Within reason,” he corrects, almost urgent. “Nothing stupid.”

You shrug. “It wasn’t.”

“That looks stupid,” he says hotly, gesturing to the bruise. “You got decked in the fucking face.”

Huh. Really angry. “My fault,” you say easily. “I should have dodged.”

The Prince scoffs in disbelief. “Then you shouldn’t have been sparring in the first place.”

You give him a cool, long look. “Shoko cleared me for combat,” you say slowly. There’s nothing else to say.

His eyes flash. “If you injure yourse—”

“For fuck’s sake,” you interrupt suddenly. You’re getting tired of this. “It’s a bruise. It’ll heal by next week.” Why do you care, Prince Sukuna?

Eyes narrowed, Prince Sukuna opens his mouth, no doubt to protest. You cut him off again. “I know myself,” you say, digging your fingernails into your palm. “I know which hits are meaningless and which are built to last.”

The Prince flicks his eyes to the wall. “Tch.”

He goes silent, jaw working. You wait him out.

“Fushiguro give you that?” he asks quietly.

You raise your chin, silent. 

“More than enough to try you for treason,” he says, one eyebrow raised.

Your shoulders twitch, chin still in the air. Again, you say nothing.

His mouth flattens; he clicks his tongue. “Fushiguro ought to have been more careful.”

Your mouth drops open; you stare at him in shock. Is he serious? Toji should’ve been more careful? Toji should have pulled his punches?

Now you’re angry; ire floods through you. You inhale sharply, trying to control it. 

You don’t quite manage. “You are a fool,” you snap harshly. “Nose so high in the air that you can’t smell the shit you leave in your wake.”

The Prince freezes, face wiped blank. You blanch, trembling, but hold your head high. You’re not wrong, you reason anxiously, he’s an ass for lambasting Toji, after all the Prince has put you through.

You shake slightly. Wrong or right, you just insulted a Prince. Your muscles wind; you look at him carefully. For a moment, you fear he might dock your wages, or dismiss you entirely. You could leave your position, you remind yourself, but—but you don’t want to.

Narrowed eyes on you again. You measure the cut of his mouth with trepidation.

Eventually, he lets out a long exhale. “If you continue to spar recklessly, you will hurt yourself.” His voice is flat, toneless. “Set your recovery backward.”

Insolence has yet to slacken its grip.  “And what’s it to you?”

Fury rises in his eyes. You stumble, correcting yourself because the question holds weight. “What does it matter to you, Prince Sukuna?” you ask softly.

It’s been floating in the back of your mind since you began visiting Shoko in the infirmary. Prince Sukuna with his excessive questions, his irritating opinions on your health. Why? Why bother? What is it—what are you to him?

You hold his gaze, eyes—your eyes are tired, you think. Too tired for determination, too exhausted from whatever game the Prince is trying to play to have anything like steel.

Your eyes are tired. Nevertheless, they hold his.

The Prince looks—irritated. With what, you don’t know. And maybe—

Your fingers jump into fists. There is something else there, something you can’t read.

In the end, he doesn’t give you an answer. Just growls, jerks his head. “You’re dismissed.”

Short. You bow carefully and slip out of his quarters.

Your brain swirls as you walk slowly to the guard’s room. What happened just now?

You try to make sense of it, picking the man apart as best you’re able. Prince Sukuna was furious with you because you got injured. That much is certain, you thought he’d go blind when he saw the mark. But why is he so invested?

Why does he—no.

You stop yourself short. No. You’re not going to waste any mental effort on that man. It’s not worth your time, it’s not your problem. Prince Sukuna can do whatever he wants, why-ever he wants. You will move onward with your life.

You enter the guard’s quarters, preparing for bed. Move onward. Move onward. You repeat it again and again, and then pretend it doesn’t matter when you dream of him that night.