Calantha

Your mere presence enthrals the sword master so much that he can’t help but want more.

Every time you finish speaking he immediately longs to hear your voice again. Despite being in front of him he misses you greatly. Whenever your skin touches his he wants nothing more to pull you close to his chest and never let go.

The moment you are part of the equation Choi Han wants to discard everything else and just let his greed consume you whole.

However, he did not become a sword master because of his lack of discipline.

That and he fears ruining what the two of you already have.

“Give yourself more leeway, being too uptight isn’t always the answer.”

Cale, his liege, told him one time. And while he did not give any context, both of them knew that the redhead was pertaining to you. Cale is explicitly telling him that it’s okay to let a little bit of greed consume him. That not everything will fall apart if he decides to act on his feelings.

But how could he when the possibility of not being a part of your life gives him nightmares?

Can he really let go of his worries when he thinks that he’ll get severely sick if he can’t hear your beautiful voice?

Fear consume him more than greed.

Hence why he tells himself that his current disposition is fine.

As long as you look at him even for just a second then he’ll be alright.

Yes, he wishes he could mean more to you, but he’ll also be okay if you just let him hear your entrancing voice.

He will.

He has to be.

“Someone sent me a letter asking to court me…”

But will he really be fine seeing you in another person’s arm?

Choi Han wants to answer yes. He wants to say that it’ll be alright as long as you are happy.

He can only lie to himself for so long.

Because deep in his heart, Choi Han knows that he wants to be the reason for your smile. He wants to wake up in the morning with you in his arms as the sun perfectly frames your face. He longs for nothing more than putting a ring on your finger that he carefully carved with his aura.

How can he do such things if sometimes he even doubt his friendship with you?

You’re so great that he doubts you remember him. You burn so bright that a dark shadow such as him will combust even before he can think of coming closer.

“Did you reply?”

Please no.

Please say no.

Please say that you don’t even want to acknowledge the letter.

And if you did reply, please tell him that it was a reply of rejection.

Please tell him that you said no.

Please laugh and say that such things didn’t even cross your mind.

“Not yet, I’m putting it on hold for now.”

Cale actually asked you to not reply for now, but poor Choi Han doesn’t know that.

And so his whole world crumbles right before his eyes.

“Are you thinking about marriage already?”

He doesn’t think he can handle hearing the answer, yet he still needs to know.

“Umm…”

You placed a finger under your chin as you think about it. Despite his current internal turmoil, the sword master can’t help but admire how cute you look when you’re all serious thinking like that.

“Not really, but then again I’m already at that age right?”

“That’s true, but I don’t think that really matters.”

“How so?”

Choi Han brightens up. If he can dissuade you from marriage today he’ll take it as an ultimate win.

“Look at everyone in our group. They are also at that age, but none of us seem to have that as priority.”

Please work. Please work. Please work. Please work. Please work. Please work. Please work.

“Oh, you’re right! Thanks Choi Han, I’ll keep that in mind!”

Yes, please do and never think about marriage again unless the groom is him.

“You know that you can only keep stirring her in the other direction for so long right?”

Rosalyn asks him once you’re out of earshot. Choi Han says nothing, perhaps if he refuses to acknowledge it then it won’t happen.

“Make a move on her already. She might be a little dense when it comes to romance, but I’m sure she’ll give you an answer if you openly court her. You never know, she might even say yes.”

However, you not being able to tell if someone has romantic feelings for you isn’t the problem. Because in the first place Choi Han thinks that he doesn’t deserve even the thought of being with you. Even if you’re the most perceptive person out there, he still wouldn’t dare dream covet you.

“Still a no? Well suit yourself. That is if you can stomach seeing her being in love with another person that isn’t you.”

With that the mage waves goodbye as she walks back to her laboratory.

Alone with no one to bother his thoughts, Choi Han begin weighing his options. Does he push through his feelings of inferiority and pursue you, or will he swallow his longing and force a smile as he watch another man make you happy?

If thinks about it rationally the answer is obvious. Even now, he knows what path he should take and what actions should be done next. However, when it comes to you Choi Han is anything but rational. He overthinks and thinks some more. Always fearing the what-ifs especially if they pose a threat to his relationship towards you.

Meanwhile, the unaware you merrily made your way towards Cale’s room. Not only did the young master told you to put a hold on replying, he also told you to come to him in order to plan your next steps regarding your love life. Honestly speaking, you didn’t expect for Cale to take such interest at the topic of your marriage. He’s so nonchalant about most things that you you thought he would just tell you to pick well. But then again marriage can be a tool so perhaps he’s going to utilise it in that way.

“Did you let anyone else know about this matter?”

Cale asked you the moment you entered the room. Him and the children are all sitting down on the sofa with snacks and refreshments laid out on the table in front of them.

“Sir Choi Han actually asked me about it on my way here. Was I not suppose to disclose it?”

You warily sat in front of them, a little afraid to slip information you weren’t suppose to talk about. What if you were actually supposed to keep it a secret? What if Cale didn’t want you to inform Choi Han because he sucks at acting?

“No, it’s fine. I was just curious.”

That made you audibly sigh in relief. Good to know that you didn’t ruin whatever plan Cale is cooking up.

“It’s actually better if he knows about it as early as now.”

“Did you say something Sir Cale?”

“No. So about that letter, do you even know the person who sent it?”

You think you heard Cale whisper something. But since he denied it, then you must’ve imagined the whole thing.

“Mmm, not really. They told me they fell in love at first sight? During the nobles meeting? Aside from that I don’t think we interacted much.”

So either that noble is a lovesick fool or is using you to gain access to Cale now that it is known just how capable the young master is. Either way, Cale won’t let you marry such a scoundrel. Afterall, if it’s a lovesick fool you want he already have someone in mind for you.

“And just to confirm again, you don’t feel anything for that guy nor you have any marriage plans right now?”

“None whatsoever. If possible I’d like to focus on what’s in front of me right now.”

‘And yet you can’t see the lovesick idiot dangling right in front of you…’

Cale keeps his thoughts to himself. He knows that romance isn’t your strongest suit. He also knows that you can be a bit dense sometimes.

…It’s still frustrating to see his swordsman act like an utter fool in front of you while you’re none the wiser.

That’s why his taking Choi Han’s love life in his hands despite the sword master’s protests. Needless to say, if you didn’t like it or is uncomfortable with the idea then Cale would let the matter go.

“Just a hypothetical, but what if it was Choi Han who asked to court you? Would you think about it more seriously?”

“Sir Choi Han? I suppose I would.”

“So you don’t oppose to him being your boyfriend or maybe even your husband?”

“I don’t think so. Additionally, I think it would be better if my significant other is someone I already know beforehand.”

If you really hate the idea Cale wouldn’t push it and would even do his best to separate the two of you to help Choi Han move on. However, you not being opposed to it changed things. If asked, the young master suspects that you either have feelings for the sword master that you aren’t aware of yet, or you have blooming ones that just need a little bit of cultivation.

Either way, Cale just have to create opportunities for the two of you.

The first step to that is making Choi Han realise just how miserable he would be if he sees you with another man. The letter actually came at a perfect time, it’s a great medium they can utilise to help the hopeless romantic.

And with Rosalyn informing the young master later how devastated Choi Han looked then it’s safe to say they’re in the right direction.

Sorry Choi Han, Cale is getting tired of your bullshit.

Interacting with other dense people made Cale realise that even if you give them a hint with bright red lights and arrows they wouldn’t see it. For those typed of people, you just have to be blunt and say what you mean directly.

In other words, they need to make Choi Han tell you outright that he tends to court you.

Despite being a deluded fool, Choi Han knows you well enough to know that he has to do at least that much if he wants you to see him in a romantic light.

All in all, the main challenge is getting Choi Han worked up to the point where he thinks he has no other choice.

Sorry again Choi Han, but you’ll have to suffer for a while until you get rid of that stubbornness.

Cale’s plan? Simple effective: annoy the sword master as much as possible.

“These flowers? A dashing young noble sent it here this morning. He said he wants our young miss to receive it.”

“Who that guy was? Just some scoundrel trying to force his way in to look at the young miss'“

“Oh this? These are the letters address to the young miss, seems like her popularity skyrocketed since Young Master Cale took her with him to that nobles meet.”

“Beacrox didn’t make this cake. It’s from that famous bakery in the city! Someone gifted to Miss and she decided to share it with us. Do you also want a slice kind Choi Han?”

Every day, every hour, every moment. Whenever Choi Han asks about you Cale and the others make sure that the first thing he hears is how everyone and their mothers want to court you. It also helps that you are indeed that popular. You’ve been popular since Cale took that commander position, Ron, Beacrox, and Rosalyn just made sure to guard you fiercely so that no one can get to you. Once they loosened that security, everyone can see first hand just how many young man is vying for your hand.

“If Choi Han reads one of these letters he’s going to go berserk.”

Rosalyn commented to no one in particular as she toss yet another letter towards the fireplace. They let you read of them, but for the more… intense ones they dispose of before you even know they arrived.

“His fault for not making a move when they’re literally together every single day.”

Beacrox grumbles as he reads another letter. He just wants all of this to end already. Before, they would just dump all these letter in the fireplace or in the trash, but now they have to filter them one by one.

“Oh wow that guy has it bad huh?”

Cale comments from the chef’s shoulder as he gets a glimpse of the letter’s content.

“Who got it bad?”

“Usually I would say it’s you, but that’s unfortunately not the case this time.”

Choi Han enters the room after overhearing their conversation from the outside. Beacrox couldn’t help but quip back as Cale silently hands the letter over to Choi Han.

“…I have loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you. Your bright eyes full of innocence and curiosity. Your smile that can rival the sun to the point that must anger the Sun God. Even your beautiful voice that I sometimes hallucinate about. Your entire being has entranced the poor and lonely me to the point that I can’t sleep at night for I am too preoccupied thinking about you. Have you eaten? Did you take a walk in the gardens? I bet the flowers planted there cannot compare to your beauty. Are you sleeping well? Did I perhaps leave an impression when we first met?”

Choi Han reads out loud, his face becoming more sour at each passing word.

“Did a lunatic write this?”

“As if you’re any better…”

“Actually, this is one of the tamer ones. Some of them just repeat the same sentence over and over until they fill at least three pages.”

Beacrox and Rosalyn spoke almost simultaneously at Choi Han’s question.

“Then that…”

“Yes that mountain pile of letters are all love letters addressed to her.”

The sword master freeze on his spot. The only indication he’s still alive is the shaking finger he’s using to point at the letters Rosalyn and Beacrox are going through.

“It’s why I keep telling you to be more selfish.”

Cale casually commented as he eats another grape.

“I…”

“If you don’t we don’t know until when the young miss will stay single.”

“That…”

“She gets like hundreds of letters everyday, it’s only a matter of time before one of them catches her eye.”

“But…”

“Don’t forget about the gifts. The scale keeps getting bigger that I had to ask the crown prince to intervene to some extent.”

“I’LL DO IT OKAY!? I’LL COURT HER! I WON’T LET SOME SCOUNDREL WHO BARELY KNOWS HER TAKE HER AWAY!”

The usual kind and composed Choi Han couldn’t help but shout in frustration as the three before him kept piling on comments.

And the moment he shouted that…

“You’re going to court someone Sir Choi Han? Who’s the lucky person?”

Of course, you just had to overhear.

For the record this wasn’t a part of Cale’s plan. It’s still a welcomed surprise as it makes things easier for him. Cale wouldn’t let this chance slip even if Choi Han tries to deny what he said.

Good thing that there doesn’t seem to be a need for that though.

“You, okay!? I’ve been wanting to be your boyfriend for so long now!”

Poor, frustrated Choi Han huffs once he was done speaking. Like someone had to strangle the confession out of him.

“I… I didn’t know. I’m so sorry Sir Choi Han!”

You apologise profusely as you also felt the frustration that laced his voice, not knowing most of it came from three other people agitating the sword master minutes before your arrival.

“At least you know now.”

Rosalyn cheerfully says as Beacrox silently—but gladly—dumps all of the letter in the fire.

“Yes, that’s all that matters now.”

Choi Han agrees. He seems to have calmed down exponentially.

“Oh, but are these letters for me? I didn’t realise I have so many! I thought I was just getting one or two a week, turns out everyone was taking care of it for me. Thank you for your efforts everyone!”

No one can focus on your sincere smile as the three perpetrators are too busy scurrying away before Choi Han can kill them with his glare.

Sure, they made it seem like you’re aware of all of these things to ignite his jealousy, but didn’t it work out in the end?

You were reading over his shoulder, a letter from the Warden of the North, something about grain stores and winter preparations, when his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress. The touch was casual, almost absentminded, as though he were stroking the arm of his chair rather than the inside of your thigh. You shifted slightly, surprised but not displeased, and his hand moved higher.

His fingers found the slit in your smallclothes, and then they found you, warm, dry and entirely unprepared.

You opened your mouth to speak: a question, a protest, you were not sure which, but the word dissolved into a sharp intake of breath as his thumb pressed against your pearl. He did not look at you. His eye remained fixed on the parchment before him, his quill still scratching across the page, but his hand was moving now, stroking you with a slow rhythm that made your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

"Brynden," you managed, but the word came out strangled.

He did not answer. His thumb circled your pearl, feather-light, then two of his fingers dipped lower, slipping inside you with an ease that made your face burn. You were already growing wet, your body responding to his touch with a readiness that was at odds with your confusion. His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you bit down on your lip to stifle the sound that wanted to escape.

He worked you steadily, methodically, his thumb stroking and pressing while his fingers pumped in a rhythm that was almost leisurely. The pleasure built in waves, coiling tight in your belly, and you felt yourself approaching the peak, your breathing quickening, your fingers digging into the arm of the chair...

He stopped.

His fingers stilled inside you. His thumb lifted from your pearl. The sudden absence of sensation was jarring, like a door slamming shut in your face. You made a sound, a small, desperate whimper, and tried to shift your hips, seeking the friction he had denied you.

His arm tightened around your waist, holding you still.

"Brynden, what..."

He pinched your pearl. Not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make your words dissolve into a high, breathless squeak. His fingers twisted inside you, and the sharp jolt of sensation somewhere between pleasure and discomfort, stole the rest of your sentence from your throat.

You slumped against him, panting. He released the pressure and resumed the gentle stroking, his thumb soothing the ache he had just created, his fingers moving in that same unhurried rhythm.

He still had not spoken. He still had not looked at you. His quill was still moving across the page, though you noticed now that his handwriting had grown slightly less precise, the letters a fraction larger than usual.

The pleasure built again. You tried to stay quiet this time, tried to prepare yourself for the moment he would stop, but when his fingers slowed and his thumb lifted, the denial was just as jarring as before. You let out a sound that was almost a sob, your head falling back against his shoulder.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, I..."

Another pinch. Another twist of his fingers. The words shattered on your tongue, replaced by a moan that you could not have suppressed if your life depended on it.

He gentled his hand again, returning to the slow, steady massage of your cunny, and you realized with a kind of dazed wonder that he was not going to let you speak. Every time you tried to form a word, every time you opened your mouth to ask a question or voice a protest, he would pinch your pearl or twist his fingers or press down hard on that spot inside you until your voice failed you entirely.

This was on purpose. This was calculated. This was, in its own strange way, a kind of conversation, one in which you were not permitted to participate.

The cycle repeated. Over and over. He would stroke you to the edge of release, his touch steady and relentless, and then he would stop just before you could fall, leaving you gasping, trembling and clutching at his arm. You tried to be quiet, tried to hold still, tried to prove that you could endure whatever strange game he was playing, but your body betrayed you every time. You whimpered. You begged. You moaned his name.

"Brynden. Brynden. Please, husband..."

He inhaled sharply at that, husband, and for a moment his fingers stilled entirely. Then he resumed his stroking, slower now, gentle, you felt the tension in his shoulders ease a fraction.

But he still did not let you peak.

By the time the candles had burned down to stubs and the fire had settled into a bed of glowing embers, you had stopped trying altogether. You were slumped against his chest, your head lolling on his shoulder, your body a trembling, over-sensitized wreck. Your mind had gone blank and hazy, all thought dissolved into a fog of thwarted pleasure and exhaustion. You could not have formed a sentence if you tried. You could barely remember your own name.

You did not understand. Your husband was strange, you had known that from the beginning, had accepted it, had learned to love it. He had his moods, his silences, his moments of peculiar intensity. But he had never directed anything of the sort toward you before. He had always been gentle with you, even in passion. He had always explained himself, even when the explanation was difficult. It was one of the cornerstones of your marriage, this habit of laying your minds bare to each other, no matter how ridiculous or uncomfortable the thoughts might be. It was what had brought you together in those early, uncertain days, and it was what had kept you together through everything that followed.

Yet now he would not speak. He would not look at you. His brow was furrowed as he read the text in front of him, a different letter now, something about trade routes in the Stormlands, and his jaw was tight. His fingers were still moving inside you, and you did not know what you had done wrong.

The tears came without warning. One moment you were drifting in the fog, and the next you were crying, silent tears sliding down your cheeks and dripping onto his doublet. You sniffled, a wet, pathetic sound, and your shoulders shook with the effort of keeping quiet.

Brynden sighed.

It was a soft sound, more weary than exasperated, but it made you flinch anyway. His hand stilled. His quill stopped moving. For the first time since you had settled on his lap, he spoke.

"Silly girl," he murmured.

His voice was low, almost tender, but there was an edge to it that you did not recognize. He sounded...miffed, you thought. As though you had somehow disappointed him, though you could not fathom how.

But even as he said it, his thumb found your pearl again, and this time he did not stop. He stroked you with a firm, steady pressure, his fingers curling inside you in just the right way, and the release that had been denied so many times crashed over you like a wave. You cried out, your back arching, your hands clutching at his arm, and he held you through it, his touch gentling as the last tremors faded.

You were too exhausted to move. Your limbs felt like water, your eyelids too heavy to lift. You were dimly aware of Brynden setting down his quill, lifting you in his arms and carrying you through the darkened Tower to your bedchamber. You were aware of him laying you on the bed and drawing the blankets up to your chin, of him pressing a kiss to your forehead and murmuring something you were too tired to hear.

Then you were asleep.

The next day, he acted as though nothing had happened.

He was already gone when you woke, his side of the bed cold. You lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the night before. The memories came back in fragments: his hand beneath your dress, the endless cycle of pleasure and denial, the tears on your cheeks, the sound of his voice calling you a silly girl.

Your body still ached faintly, a pleasant soreness between your legs that made your face heat when you shifted under the blankets.

You dressed slowly, your mind turning the puzzle over and over. Perhaps he was simply stressed. The realm was always demanding, and the Hand of the King bore the brunt of it. There had been tensions with the Iron Islands, trade disputes in the Vale, the usual undercurrent of conspiracy that ran beneath the court like a hidden river. It was possible that he had needed an outlet, some strange release from the pressures of his office.

It was possible. But it did not feel like the whole truth.

You found him in the great hall at midday, breaking his fast with the king and the small council. He looked up when you entered, and his single red eye met yours across the room. There was nothing in his expression to suggest that the night before had been anything out of the ordinary. He nodded to you, a brief, courteous gesture, and then returned his attention to Lord Velaryon, who was expounding at length about something to do with shipwrights.

You relaxed, a little. Perhaps you had imagined the strangeness. Perhaps it was only one of his moods, and it had passed.

But that evening, when the summons came again, your stomach tightened with a mixture of anticipation and unease.

You went to him anyway.

The second night was worse.

He did not even bother with the pretense of working. When you settled onto his lap, his hand went immediately to your thigh, sliding beneath your dress with a purposeful efficiency that made your breath catch. His eye was fixed on you now, not on the parchments on his desk, and his gaze made you feel like a mouse pinned under the shadow of a hawk.

You tried to be still. You tried to be quiet. But when his fingers slipped inside you, already wet, already aching from the memory of the night before, you could not stop the small, desperate sound that escaped your throat.

The cycle began again. Pleasure, building and building, and then the sudden, jarring halt. Pinching. Twisting. Denial.

This time, you tried to scramble off his lap.

You twisted in his grip, your hands pushing against his chest, but his arm tightened around your waist like an iron band. He did not yank you back or hold you down by force. He simply…held you. His arm was immovable, his grip unbreakable. You looked up at him with wide, bewildered eyes. He arched a single silver eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Did I displease you somehow?" The words burst out of you before you could stop them, high and trembling. "Have I done something wrong? I do not understand what is happening. I do not understand what you want from me. Please, Brynden, just...just tell me what I did..."

"You did nothing wrong." His voice was calm, measured, entirely at odds with the chaos he was wreaking on your body. His fingers were still moving inside you, slow and steady, and it was almost impossible to think through the haze of sensation. "I simply want your thoughts on me."

You stared at him, uncomprehending. "My...my thoughts?"

"Your thoughts." He repeated the words as though they should be self-explanatory. His thumb traced a lazy circle around your pearl, and your hips jerked involuntarily. "I want your thoughts on me. Your mind. Your attention."

"My thoughts are already on you." Your voice cracked with frustration. "They are always on you. You are my husband. My dearest friend. My closest confidant. The father of my daughter. Of course my thoughts are on you. I have not been refusing my wifely duties. I have not been refusing to bed you. I do not understand what you..."

He was not listening. Or rather, he was listening with only one ear, his attention divided between your words and something else entirely. His eye had dropped to your chest, to the emerald necklace that rested against your collarbone, the oak leaf pendant he had given you years ago, the one you had worn almost every day since.

You fell silent, your protests dying in your throat. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, you did not know what it was, and the man who had always explained things to you was staring at your necklace as though it held the answer to a question he had not asked.

Then he spoke.

"Do you ever imagine a different life?"

The question was so unexpected, so disconnected from everything that had come before, that you could only blink at him. "What?"

"A different life." His fingers stilled inside you, but he did not withdraw them. His eye lifted to meet yours, his gaze was cold and searching but terribly fragile. "Some days. When you are alone. Do you imagine what your life would be like if the king had never decreed that you be married to a bastard sorcerer as punishment for your family's treachery?"

Your heart stopped.

"If you had married a pretty Reach knight instead?" His voice was quiet, almost conversational. "A man with a bright smile and a lively laugh? Sunlit curls and a face unmarked? You would live in his castle, surrounded by green fields and summer flowers. You would bear him children who shared his comely likeness and a legitimate name. You would wake every morning to a handsome face on the pillow beside you, instead of..." He gestured vaguely at his own face, the birthmark, the scarred hollow of his missing eye. "Instead of this."

You stared at him. The haze of pleasure had evaporated entirely, replaced by a cold, creeping understanding.

The lord from the Reach.

He had arrived at court three days ago. A young man, newly come into his inheritance, with hair the color of honey and eyes like summer sky. He had been charming and polite and almost impossibly beautiful, the kind of beauty that belonged in songs and tapestries, the kind of beauty that made people stop and stare.

You had been charmed by him. Not in the way Brynden feared, not in the way of a woman tempted to stray, but in the way of someone who had spent years surrounded by the muted colors of the Crownlands and who had suddenly been reminded of the vivid greens and golds of home. He had spoken of the Reach, of Oldtown and Mander and Arbor, and you had drunk in his words like a woman dying of thirst.

You had also, you remembered with a sinking heart, commented on his appearance.

He ought to have a dozen portraits commissioned of himself, you had said to Brynden, after the lord had taken his leave. It would not be vanity. He is simply breathtaking to look at. Like a painting come to life. Like a statue by a master sculptor. I have never seen a face so perfectly proportioned.

You had meant it as an observation. An aesthetic appreciation. The way one might admire a sunset, or a particularly well-constructed bridge, or a bird with exceptionally glossy feathers. The lord was beautiful in the way that a mountain was beautiful: impressive, awe-inspiring, and entirely irrelevant to your personal happiness.

But Brynden had not heard it that way.

You looked at your husband now and you saw what you had missed before. The tension in his jaw that was not from the pressures of the realm. The way his hand trembled slightly where it rested on your hip. The fragile, defiant misery in his single red eye.

He had heard your words and he had understood them in the only way he knew how. He had heard you praising another man's beauty, and he had remembered every time he had burned for Shiera Seastar, every time he had begged for her hand and been refused, every time he had watched her choose another man over him. He had remembered what it was like to love a great beauty and dream of her, and he had assumed that you were doing the same.

That you were dreaming of a prettier life. A prettier husband. A prettier face to wake up to.

"Oh, Brynden," you breathed.

His expression flickered. "I am not asking for reassurance. I am asking a question. Do you imagine it? Do you wish..."

"No." The word came out stronger than you expected. "No. I do not wish for a different life. I do not imagine being married to a pretty Reach knight. I do not dream of sunlit curls and bright smiles. I do not want a castle in the Reach or children with his comely likeness. I want you. I have always wanted you. You are my husband, my friend, my home. How can you not know that?"

"You said he was breathtaking."

"I said the sunset over Blackwater Bay was breathtaking last week. Do you think I wish to marry the sunset?"

"That is not the same."

"It is exactly the same." You reached up and cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "He is beautiful in the way a painting is beautiful. Something to admire and then walk past. He is more beautiful than either of us. It means nothing. He is not you."

Brynden's mouth opened but no sound came out.

"You have spent so many years believing you are hard to love," you continued, your voice trembling. "You have spent so many years measuring yourself against beautiful things and finding yourself wanting. But I do not love you for your face. I love you for your heart, your mind, your strange and stubborn soul. I love you for the way you lean down to kiss me. I love you for the way you look at our daughter as though she is the most precious thing in the world. I love you for the way you said 'silly girl' last night, even when you were being cruel, because I could hear the tenderness underneath it."

His eye was very bright. "I was not being cruel."

"You were being frightened." You stroked your thumb across his birthmark, the way you had done a thousand times before. "You were frightened that I might want someone else. Someone easier. Someone prettier. So you tried to…what? Keep my attention? Prove that you could hold it, even if you could not hold my heart?"

"I was not..." He stopped. Swallowed. "I do not know what I was doing."

"Yes, you do. You were trying to make sure I could not think about anyone else. You were trying to fill my mind so completely that there was no room for pretty Reach lords or imaginary lives." You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. "But my mind was already full of you. It has been full of you for years. You did not need to do any of this."

He was silent for a long moment. His hand was still inside you, you realized distantly, though it had gone still and slack. The absurdity of the situation struck you suddenly.

"I am an idiot," he said finally.

"You are a man who has been hurt very badly and who never quite believed he deserved to be loved." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "But you do. You deserve to be loved. And you are loved. By me. By Alysanne. By that wretched raven, in his own way. You are loved, Brynden Rivers, and no pretty Reach lord is going to change that."

His hand slipped out of you, you felt the loss of him like a small ache. He wiped his fingers absently on a handkerchief and then wrapped both arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, his breath was warm and unsteady against your skin.

"I am sorry," he said, the words muffled. "I should have spoken to you. I should have explained. I should not have..."

"No, you should not have." You stroked his hair, the silver strands slipping through your fingers. "But I forgive you. Just…next time, use your words. You are very good with words when you choose to be."

"I am out of practice with difficult ones."

"Then practice." You pulled back and looked at him, your hands still framing his face. "We will practice together. As we have always done."

He looked at you, the misery in his eye fading. "I do not deserve you."

"You say that so often that it has ceased to have meaning." You kissed him deeper and felt his arms tighten around you. "Now. Are you going to finish what you started, or are you going to leave me aching for a second night in a row?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "That depends. Are your thoughts on me?"

"My thoughts," you said, "are so full of you that there is no room for anything else. There never has been. There never will be."

He kissed you and his hand found its way beneath your dress again.

The first time Pebble stole a strip of bacon from your breakfast plate and flew off with it still dangling from his beak, you assumed he was simply being greedy.

The second time, when he snatched a chunk of chicken and vanished out the window without so much as a parting croak, you assumed he was being greedy and ungrateful.

By the fifth time, you knew something was amiss.

"He is not eating it," you said, standing at the window of the solar with your hands on your hips, staring at the empty sky where your raven had disappeared. "He takes the food, flies away, and does not come back for hours. He is not eating it here. He is taking it somewhere else."

Brynden did not look up from his desk. "He is a raven. Ravens cache food. It is what they do."

"He is not caching it. I followed him once...well, I tried to follow him. He flew over the rooftops and I lost him near the kitchens." You turned to face your husband, your expression accusing, as though he were personally responsible for Pebble's mysterious behavior. "Something is going on."

"He is a raven," Brynden repeated, his quill scratching steadily across a parchment. "He does raven things. You are overthinking this."

"I am not overthinking. I am observing. You are always telling me to observe."

"I tell my spies to observe. You are not my spy."

"I could be your spy. I am very observant."

Brynden set down his quill and looked at you. His expression was the one he wore when he was trying to decide whether to be amused or exasperated. "You wish to be a spy now?"

"I wish to know what my raven is doing with all the food I give him." You crossed your arms. "He is not eating it. He is taking it somewhere. What if he is in trouble? What if he has gotten himself caught in something and he needs the food to...to bribe a cat, or something?"

"My love..."

"Ravens are intelligent. He could bribe a cat."

Brynden pinched the bridge of his nose. "My love. You are aware that I am currently attempting to prevent a war between the Iron Islands and the North. There are Greyjoy longships massing near Bear Island. The Master of Ships is in a panic. The Warden of the North has sent three ravens in as many days demanding the Crown's intervention. And you wish me to divert my attention to investigating the dietary habits of your pet raven."

"He is not a pet. He is a companion."

"He is a stout bird who has you wrapped around his talon."

"He is not..." You stopped, took a breath, and tried a different approach. "You can see through the eyes of your ravens. You do it every day. It would take you five minutes. Less than five minutes. You could send one of your working ravens after him, follow him to wherever he is going, and then you would know. I would stop asking, and you could go back to preventing the war with the Iron Islands."

Brynden stared at you. You stared back.

"I will stop asking," you repeated, "if you just look. Once. Please."

The silence stretched. Ravens on the perch had gone silent as if sensing an argument.

"Very well," Brynden said with the voice of a man who had weighed the costs of resistance and found them too high. "I will send a raven after your errant bird. But when we discover that he is simply hoarding food in a gutter somewhere, I expect you to concede that you were being ridiculous."

"I will concede nothing until I have evidence."

"You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met. I love you. Now shoo and let me work."

The next morning, you fed Pebble an extra portion of shredded capon, the tender meat you had specifically requested from the kitchens. He wolfed down a few bites while perched on your wrist, his black eyes bright with satisfaction, and then he snatched the largest remaining piece and launched himself out the window.

"Now?" you asked, turning to Brynden.

"Now," he agreed and closed his eye.

You watched him as he reached out with his mind, his consciousness slipping into the network of ravens that blanketed the city. His expression went distant, his body still and relaxed in his chair, his breathing slow and even. It was a strange thing to witness, the man you loved, present and absent all at once, his mind soaring over the rooftops of King's Landing while his body sat motionless before you.

Minutes passed. You twisted your hands in your lap and tried to be patient.

Then Brynden's eye opened.

"He has a family," he declared.

You blinked. "What?"

"A family. A mate and three hatchlings. He has been taking the food you give him and bringing it to them." Brynden's voice was flat, but his expression was bewildered. "They are living in a crevice in the Tower of the Hand. Three floors down. He has been commuting."

You stared at him. "Pebble has a wife?"

"A mate. Ravens do not marry."

"Pebble has a mate and children and he did not tell me?"

"He is a raven. He does not speak. He cannot tell you anything."

"He could have indicated. He could have…I do not know. Drawn pictures in the dirt. He is very intelligent."

Brynden leaned back in his chair and regarded you with an expression perilously close to amusement. "You are upset that your raven did not inform you of his marital status."

"I am not upset. I am…surprised." You stood up and began to pace, your skirts swirling around your ankles. "All this time, I thought he was lonely. I thought he needed my attention. I brought him into our bed because I thought he was sad and cold. And the whole time, he had a family three floors down."

"A family you fattened him up for. He has been using your generosity to provide for his mate and offspring. It is rather resourceful, when you think about it."

"He has been using me."

"He has been accepting your offerings and distributing them to his dependents. It is what any good provider would do."

You stopped pacing and turned to face your husband. "I want to see them."

"The hatchlings?"

"The mate. The hatchlings. All of them. I want to meet them."

Brynden sighed. "They are wild ravens. They are not accustomed to human interaction. They will not perch on your finger and eat from your hand the way Pebble does."

"Brynden."

He held up his hands in surrender. "When the hatchlings are old enough to fly, I am sure Pebble will bring them to meet you. He has brought you everything else. Dead mice. Shiny buttons. The occasional stolen ring. His offspring seem like the natural next step."

You sat down heavily in the chair across from his desk. "Pebble has a family," you repeated. "He was not lonely after all."

Brynden rose from his chair and crossed to you. He knelt before your chair, his hand finding yours, his single eye searching your face.

"You were lonely," he said quietly. "When you first came here. You were lonely, and you found comfort in a raven because there was no one else to give it to." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. "But you are not lonely now. You have me. You have Alysanne. And Pebble, it seems, has a family of his own. Perhaps that is not a betrayal. Perhaps it is simply…growth."

You looked at him. "When did you become so wise?"

"I have always been wise. I simply did not always apply it to matters of the heart."

"Because you were too busy applying it to the Greyjoy longships."

"The Greyjoy longships are significantly less complicated than you are."

You let out a wet laugh.

Three weeks later, Pebble brought his family to meet you.

You were in the nursery, playing with Alysanne on a blanket spread across the floor. She was sitting up on her own and grabbing at everything within reach, her silver hair sticking up in soft tufts and her eyes bright with curiosity. She had recently discovered the joy of blocks, small wooden cubes painted with letters and animals, and was engaged in the serious business of knocking over every tower you built.

Then you heard the familiar scratch of claws on the windowsill.

Pebble hopped through the narrow opening and landed on his customary perch. But he was not alone. Behind him came another raven, smaller and sleeker, her feathers a glossy black with a blot of white on her left wing. And behind her came three young ravens, their flight still a little unsteady.

You stared.

Pebble puffed out his chest and made a sound that could only be described as smug. Look, he seemed to be saying. Look what I made.

"Pebble," you breathed. "Are these your...is this your family?"

The female raven cocked her head at you, her black eyes assessing. She did not seem afraid, only curious. The hatchlings, fledglings, you supposed they were now, huddled together on the perch, peering at you with the wide-eyed uncertainty of children meeting a stranger.

Alysanne let out a delighted shriek and waved her blocks in the direction of the ravens. "Ba!" she announced, which was her current word for everything.

"Yes, birds," you said. "They are birds. Very good, sweetling."

Pebble hopped down from the perch and waddled across the floor to where you sat.

"You want me to feed your children?"

Pebble croaked.

"Your children who you did not tell me about. Your children who you have been feeding with the food I gave you."

Another croak, this one slightly more insistent.

You looked at the fledglings, still huddled on the perch. They were watching their father with expressions that clearly said, Father, why are you talking to the large featherless creature?

"All right," you said, picking up the dried meat. "But only because they are your children. And because they are adorable."

You held out the meat toward the fledglings. They did not move. The female raven, Pebble's mate, you supposed, gave a soft caw, and one of the fledglings, the boldest of the three, fluttered down from the perch and landed on the floor a few feet away from you.

"Hello," you said softly. "I am your father's…person. I am the one who has been feeding him all these years. You have my food to thank for your survival."

The fledgling hopped closer. Its eyes were bright and curious, so like Pebble's that your heart warmed. It snatched the meat from your fingers and fluttered back to the perch, where its siblings immediately began squabbling over the prize.

Pebble watched this with an air of paternal satisfaction.

Brynden found you an hour later, still in the nursery, surrounded by ravens. The female had come down from the perch and was sitting on the arm of your chair, allowing you to stroke her breast feathers with a tentative finger. The fledglings had grown bold and were hopping around the blanket, investigating Alysanne's blocks and pulling at the fringe of the rug. Alysanne herself was in raptures, her tiny hands reaching for the birds with the focus of a child who had inherited her father's determination.

"What," Brynden said from the doorway, "is happening."

"Pebble brought his family to meet us." You looked up at him with a smile that was only slightly sheepish. "This is his mate. I have not named her yet. And these are the children. Also not yet named."

"You are going to name them."

"Of course I am going to name them. They are Pebble's family. They deserve names."

Brynden looked at the ravens. The ravens looked at Brynden. There was a moment of mutual assessment, the Hand of the King and the flock of birds regarding each other with identically tilted heads.

"Pebble has found himself a handsome family," Brynden said finally, nodding toward the fledglings.

"They are beautiful," you agreed. "What about Pearl for the wife? For the white on her wing. It looks like a pearl against the black. The little one with the white spot on his breast, I am thinking of calling him Speckle. The smallest one shall be Pudge. And the bold one who came down first, perhaps Pebble Junior. Though that might be confusing."

"You are going to name the bold one Pebble Junior."

"He is very like his father."

Brynden crossed the room and knelt on the blanket beside Alysanne, who immediately grabbed a fistful of his silver hair and yanked. He endured this with the stoicism of a man who had long since accepted that fatherhood involved a certain amount of physical abuse.

"Your mother," he told Alysanne, "has adopted an entire flock of ravens."

"Ba," Alysanne agreed.

"Indeed." He extricated his hair from her grip. "Alysanne, there is something important I need to tell you about your mother and these ravens."

Alysanne looked at him with the grave attention of a baby who understood none of the words but appreciated being included in the conversation.

"You must not tell anyone about this," Brynden said, his voice very serious. "When you learn to speak...and I suspect you will learn early, given your parentage, you must not tell the lords and ladies of the court that your mother talks to birds. Do you understand?"

"Ba."

"People will think her mad if you tell them. They already think certain things about this household. They think your mother is being held captive by a ruthless sorcerer who does terrible things to her in his tower. They do not need to know that she spends her afternoons naming ravens."

You snorted. "They think you are torturing me?"

"Rumors persist. I have not bothered to correct them. It is useful to be feared." He glanced at you and his expression softened. "Though I would prefer that our daughter not grow up believing her father is a monster."

"She will not." You reached over and covered his hand with yours. "She will grow up knowing her father is clever and sometimes terrifying, but also kind and gentle and deeply loving. She will know him for who he truly is."

Brynden was quiet for a moment. Then he turned back to Alysanne, who was now attempting to put a wooden block in her mouth.

"The point," he said, "is discretion. The ravens are a family matter. They are not for court. They are for us. Do you understand?"

Alysanne removed the block from her mouth and said, "Bird."

You and Brynden stared at her. She could not yet pronounce the letter r properly, it sounded more like bighd, but it was close enough.

"Did she just..."

"She spoke."

"Her first word was 'bird.'"

Alysanne, apparently pleased with the reaction she had garnered, pointed at the fledglings on the blanket and repeated, "Bird. Bird. Bird."

They responded with caws.

Brynden pinched the bridge of his nose. "Her first word was not 'Mama' or 'Papa.' It was 'bird.'"

"To be fair," you said, "there are a lot of birds in her life."

"This is your fault."

"It is Pebble's fault, actually. He is the one who brought his whole family here."

Alysanne, having grown bored of blocks, crawled over to her father and climbed into his lap with the determination of a tiny conqueror. "Bird," she informed him.

"Yes," Brynden said, wrapping his arms around her. "Bird. There are many birds. And your mother loves them all, and your father loves your mother, so the birds are here to stay. But remember..." He touched a finger to the tip of her nose. "...discretion."

"Bird," Alysanne said firmly.

"That is not discretion."

Alysanne reached up and patted her father's face, her small hand landing squarely on his birthmark. "Ba," she said.

"I will take that as agreement." He pressed a kiss to her silver hair. "You are a good girl, Alysanne. The best of girls. And one day, when you are older, I will explain everything. The ravens, the dreams, the blood of the old gods that runs in our veins. But for now, this is our secret. Yours and mine and your mother's. Can you keep a secret?"

Alysanne looked at him solemnly. Then she turned and pointed at Pebble. "Ba-ba."

"Close enough." Brynden rose to his feet and offered you his hand. "Come. The small council is meeting in an hour, and I need to brief the king on the situation before then. You should eat something before the meeting."

"I am not attending the small council meeting."

"You are attending the small council meeting. You have a better understanding of Reach politics than half the lords on the council, and I need someone in the room who will not spend the entire time arguing about grain tariffs."

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet. "Is that the only reason?"

"No." He leaned down and kissed you. "I also like having you there. You make the meetings bearable."

"What about Alysanne?"

"The maids will watch her. And our esteemed guests," He glanced around the nursery, at Pearl on the headboard, Speckle and Junior on the windowsill, Pudge on the rug and Pebble on his perch. "shall have to relocate to the Rookery."

Part 5: coming soon...

a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out. Comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated! <3

a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist.

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

He realizes the fullness of his soul. The slight flutter of his heart at the sight of his own reflection. Or how often he sleeps, almost with his eyes closed. Like the second born.

That cannot be, Maedhros reasons with himself.

It is simply his mind making up its own conclusions.

Those excuses work most days. They work on all but himself.

He never wed you. Never would, actually.

Maedhros had left you on the eve of your wedding to him. The one where you had promised to wait for him and Maedhros had fled.

He had never sworn to you, nothing beyond courting. Never consummated binding by his kin's ways. There could be no binding.

But it had come to be nonetheless.

Your soul lingered. A part of his own. Maedhros was certain of it. Although he could never distinguish his own from yours.

That was the reason for his quick recovery. That was why, once damned, he still walked the lands of his birth.

Yet, he could not fathom how you had given it to him. Without oaths, without passion of wedding night, how a mortal soul had clung to him, even with his retreating back to you. Across death and rebirth.

The small part of his own soul now. The one that pulses anxiously whenever his mother brought up another betrothal to establish the House of Feanor back. The faint echo of wonder at the sights of Valinor. Part of him that now adores roses.

Maedhros's kin grow weary with the passing of time. They tire of the world, as they are bound to. But the small mortal part of his soul burns bright as is the way of men.

Never allowing a bout of weariness on Maedhros.

You keep him restless. Traveling, writing, reading with intensity of a mortal out of time. Maedhros brims with hunger. Yearning for the excess of his soul.

Part that should have been yours.

Beran kneels by your side, hands gently taking yours. Hands that once delivered you to the world. "The elven prince and his party left hours ago," comes the quiet voice. "They are not returning."

Beran shakes you as if to wake you from a dream. As if you aren't already awake. You have not slept a wink since you have beheld your prince.

The wedding regalia is snug, heavy as most traditional robes are. Your hair is pulled tight, scalp aching, but you don't ask for it to be loosened. Maedhros will do that. Scarred yet, patient fingers will undo it strand by strand, the way Maedhros promised.

"Go rest, Beran," you murmur. "Tonight is not for you."

You sit alone in the grand tent after Beran withdraws, reluctant and worried. The lamps burn bright. Too bright. Servants did well with the roses from the nearest village. They smell sweet. That was the last of your coin, spent on flowers. They had known you couldn't pay them after tonight. A disgraced noble eloping with an elven prince. They followed anyway, into this uncertain future, and you gave them everything you had left.

You do not rise. You do not pace. You settle onto the cushioned seat and you wait.

Maedhros will return. Maedhros promised.

He will return before the vows are spoken. Before the sun rises. At the brink of dawn. Before your brother's riders catch the scent of this camp and drag your back, away from him.

Your eyes are fixed on the tent's entrance. The stars wheel overhead, indifferent. He has told you of the Vala queen who put them there with such care.

You open your mouth. Barely whisper the words in his language. Ancient words that seal elven unions.

You practice them again, softer still. "My fea to your fea." The binding of spirits. The old magic. The way the firstborn swear, words that can bind worlds.

Hours pass like a held breath. You do not move from the seat. Your hands rest in your lap. The roses beside you begin to wilt from the heat of the lamps, and you do not extinguish them.

How else will you see his approach. You do not have his sight.

You recite the wedding song of your people under your breath. You have sung it since childhood, at every wedding, every binding ceremony.

You will sing it for real when Maedhros arrives. Maedhros will sing the Noldor response. Even now your lips pull in a smile when you imagine that. Soon it will be real.

Maedhros promised.

You touch the hem of your regalia. You check your reflection in the polished silver mirror he gifted you.

The night stretches. You sit unmoving on the cushioned seat. You recite the vows again, and again, and again. You just have to remember, you just have to say it loud enough for the stars to hear.

You sing the song. You whisper the vows. You sit with unshakeable certainty that when the sun rises, you will no longer be alone.

The night wears on. You do not sleep. You cannot. Your eyes remain open. Sleep has been a stranger for a week.

And then Maedhros is there. In front of you. You almost rise. You speak your words, even when Maedhros does not. If Maedhros will not swear, then you swear for both of you.

"My fea to your fea." You kneel, your voice but a rasp. Maedhros was there. And the stars heard. You knew they did.

For when you looked at your prince's fair face, Maedhros smiled. Smiling free of oaths, of pain, of the weight of scars.

He has repeated those words back. Countless times. In nightmares. In daydreams. In letters he will never send. In echoes across the valleys of Tirion. He has screamed them in the dark, desperate for them to be accepted.

For the stars to be merciful. For them to reach back to you, as they had reached for him.

"I accept. My fea is yours in return."

He has carved it into stone. Painted it over his own madness, only to write it again decades later. The words of a man who should despise oaths, who should be weary unto death of vows and binding words. Yet here he is, tormented by the need to speak them. To complete something long gone.

Every shrine of Varda receives his prayers. Every dawn finds him whispering the same desperate petition: If time runs backward, let some part of my love reach back. Let that night be reciprocated. I accept my love. I was a fool my love. I am yours.

If this is penance for making you wait, Maedhros will pay it gladly. Endlessly. For as long as the stars of your vows grace the skies he walks under.

There is a pull. A restlessness that will not be named. A fragment of his own soul that thrums with alien heartbeat. It is not his own anymore, he holds onto it, to give it to you. To complete the bargain, you cheated.

He tries to reciprocate across the distance. He screams the words into Valinor's blessed air. I accept. I accept. I accept.

As if repetition could reach backward through time. As if desperation could bind what was bound one-sidedly.

He was quiet for a moment. "I do not fully understand it myself," he admitted. "But the old gods are in my blood. The blood of the First Men, the blood of the greenseers. It passes from parent to child. And while the child grows within you, some of that blood…touches you. Just a little. Enough for the ravens to notice."

You turned your head to look at him. "You mean I am becoming like you?"

"No." His hand tightened on your belly. "You are carrying something like me. There is a difference. But the ravens do not make fine distinctions. They know what they feel, and they are drawn to it."

You considered this. The thought of sharing even a fraction of your husband's strange gifts was not entirely unwelcome. You had watched him work his magic, if magic it was, and the fear you had once felt had long since given way to something closer to wonder. If your child was to share his nature, you would love that child no less for it.

"Ravens better not start leaving droppings on my new gown," you said.

He laughed, that rusty, still-rare sound that never failed to warm you. "I shall have words with them."

The dreams began a fortnight later.

At first, they were ordinary. The strange, disjointed dreams of pregnancy that the septas and the older ladies of the court had warned you about. You dreamed of falling, of drowning, of losing the baby in a dozen different ways. You woke gasping and tearful, and Brynden was always there, hand on your brow, his voice low and steady in the darkness.

"It is only a dream," he would say. "The baby is safe. You are safe. I am here."

You would burrow against him and let his heartbeat lull you back to sleep, and by morning the nightmare would be nothing but a fading wisp.

But then the dreams began to change.

You dreamed you were flying. Not as yourself, but as something with wings that caught the wind and eyes that saw the world in different colors. You soared over the Red Keep, over the city, over the bay, and you saw ships with crimson sails and men in golden cloaks and a woman weeping on a balcony. The dream was so vivid that when you woke, you could still feel the wind in your feathers, the ache in your wings, the strange, sharp hunger in your belly.

"The ships," you murmured, still half-asleep. "The ships from Lys. They are bringing silks. And the woman...she has a bruise on her wrist. Her husband gave it to her. She is going to poison him."

Beside you, Brynden froze.

"What did you say?" His voice was carefully neutral, the voice he used when interrogating a suspected traitor.

You blinked, the dream already fading. "I…I don't know. Ships? There was a woman…" You yawned, the exhaustion of pregnancy pulling you back down. "I think I was dreaming about flying. It was rather nice, actually."

You fell asleep again before you could see the expression on his face.

The next morning, you found him standing at the window, his back to you, three ravens perched on the sill before him. He was speaking to them in low tones, and they were answering in soft croaks. When he heard you stir, he dismissed them with a flick of his wrist and came to sit on the edge of the bed.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Well enough." You stretched, your hand drifting to your belly. The baby was kicking: tiny flutters, like the wings of a moth. "The babe is active this morning. Here, feel."

You took his hand and pressed it to the spot. He waited, patient as ever, until a small thump greeted his palm. His expression softened.

"Strong," he said.

"Stubborn, more like. Just like his father."

"Or her father."

You smiled. "Or her father."

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on your belly. Then he said, without looking up: "The ships from Lys arrived this morning. They are carrying silks, as you predicted. And the woman on the balcony, Lady Staunton. She has a bruise on her wrist. Her husband gave it to her. The servants found poison in her chambers last night. She was planning to kill him."

You stared at him. "What?"

"You told me. Last night, in your sleep. You spoke of ships with crimson sails and a woman weeping on a balcony." His eye lifted to yours. "I saw those things through a raven's eyes three days ago. I did not tell you. There was no way for you to know."

The room felt very cold suddenly. You pulled the blankets up around your shoulders. "That is not possible."

"I would have said the same, once." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You are seeing through my ravens. Or rather, the child is. The connection I spoke of, it is stronger than I realized. The old blood is waking in you, channeled through our son or daughter. You are dreaming my dreams."

"Am I becoming a sorcerer?" Your voice came out smaller than you intended.

"No. You are carrying one." His hand cupped your cheek. "I am sorry. I did not expect this. I did not know it would affect you so directly."

You sat with the knowledge for a moment, turning it over in your mind.

"Is it dangerous?" you asked. "For the babe?"

"I do not believe so. The magic is in the blood. It is not a sickness. It is simply…more active than I anticipated."

"Then I do not mind." You leaned into his touch. "It is only dreams. And they are not nightmares, not really. Flying was beautiful."

Brynden's expression was unreadable. "You are not frightened?"

"A few strange dreams will not send me running."

His eye closed for a moment, and when it opened again, there was a brightness in it that might have been relief. "You are remarkable."

"I am pregnant and tired and my feet hurt. But I am also, apparently, a little bit magic. I shall add it to my list of accomplishments."

"I will watch over you," he kissed you. "More closely than before. If the dreams trouble you, if anything feels wrong, you must tell me immediately."

"I will."

"And the ravens, if they become too much, I will keep them away."

"Let them come." You settled back against the pillows. "They are only curious. I do not mind the company when you are away."

The ravens always followed you now. They lined the branches like black leaves, watching you with their bright, knowing eyes, and you spoke to them as you once had spoken only to Pebble.

"You are all Pebbles now," you told them. "I cannot possibly name you all. You shall have to share."

One of the ravens croaked. It sounded almost amused.

Pebble had taken to perching on the arm of your chair, keeping watch over you with a vigilance that belied his lazy nature. You were fairly certain Brynden had given him orders. When you asked, Brynden only said, "He is your raven. He does as he pleases."

You laughed, then winced as the baby kicked hard against your ribs. "Your child is trying to break my bones."

"Our child." He knelt before your chair and pressed both hands to your belly. The baby kicked again, and his lips curved into that small smile he reserved for moments like this. "Restless. Eager to be born."

"Like his father. Always wanting to know things before anyone else."

"I have already seen her."

You blinked. "What?"

"I have seen her," he repeated. "A glimpse, in the godswood, when you were sitting under the oak tree. The future is…unclear. But I saw a child with silver hair and your smile. A girl."

Your heart squeezed. "A girl?"

"I could be wrong. The visions are not always reliable." But his voice was thick. "But I think we shall have a daughter, my love."

You covered his hands with yours. "Alysanne?" You had discussed names. Alysanne was a name that had been given to a Targaryen, Blackwood and Reach ladies alike.

"Yes." He looked up at you, and his eye was wet. "Alysanne."

The pains began in the ninth month, three weeks before the maester had predicted.

You had been in the godswood, as had become your custom, sitting beneath the old oak with your hands folded over the great swell of your belly. The ravens were there, of course. Pebble was on your knee, dozing, his round breast rising and falling.

The first pain came like a fist closing around your spine.

You gasped. Pebble startled, flapping his wings in alarm, and the ravens in the branches above set up a sudden, raucous cawing that echoed through the godswood like a storm of angry voices. The pain faded, and you pressed a hand to your belly, your heart hammering.

"It is too early," you whispered. "It is too early."

The second pain came ten minutes later, as you were struggling to your feet. It was sharper this time, a tearing sensation that made you cry out and clutch the trunk of the oak for support. The ravens erupted into the sky, a black cloud of wings and screaming. Pebble was shrieking. Somewhere in the distance you heard footsteps running.

"My lady!" It was one of the gardeners, a boy of perhaps four and ten, his face white with terror. "My lady, are you...should I fetch the maester?"

"The babe," you gasped. "The babe is coming. It is too early..."

The third pain took your legs out from under you.

Brynden was in a meeting of the small council when the ravens came.

He told you later how it happened. The window of the council chamber had suddenly filled with black wings, the birds had battered themselves against the glass with a frenzy that made Lord Tyrell knock over his chair and the Grand Maester drop his papers. He had felt them through the bond that connected him to every raven in his network, a surge of animal panic.

He did not wait for the king's dismissal. He ran.

By the time he reached the godswood, you were on the ground, surrounded by a ring of servants and guards, your face twisted with pain. The gardener's boy had found a septa, the septa had sent for the maester, someone had brought blankets, someone else was crying, and the ravens were still circling overhead in a great black wheel, their cries drowning out every other sound.

"Move, you blithering..." Brynden started, panicked, but the crowd parted before him like water before he could finish. He knelt at your side, his hands found yours. His face was tight with a fear you had never seen in him before.

"I am here," he said. "I am here. You are going to be fine."

"It is too early," you sobbed. "Brynden, it is too early, the babe..."

"The child is strong." His voice was steady, but his hands were trembling. "You are strong. I will not let anything happen to you. To either of you." He looked up at the servants, his single eye blazing. "Where is the maester?"

"Coming, my lord," someone stammered. "He is coming."

"Then someone run faster."

A guardsman sprinted toward the maester's tower. Brynden turned back to you, his hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears that were streaming down your face.

"I cannot do this," you whispered. "It is too early. What if something is wrong? What if..."

"Do not." His voice was fierce. "Do not go there. Stay here. With me. Look at me. We are going to get through this. You are going to bring our child into the world, and I am going to be here, and the maester is going to do his job, and everything is going to be fine. Do you understand me?"

You nodded, though the next contraction was already building, a wave of pressure and pain that made your vision swim.

The maester arrived, red-faced and breathless, his chain clanking. "We must get her inside," he said. "The birthing chamber..."

"Then carry her," Brynden snapped. "Carefully."

It was the Grand Maester himself who organized the litter, who directed the servants, who spoke to you in calm, measured tones about breathing and pushing and time. But it was Brynden who lifted you onto the litter himself. He refused to leave the birthing chamber, even when the septas clucked their tongues and the maester suggested, gently, that the Hand of the King might be more comfortable waiting outside.

"No," he said, and there was no arguing with that voice. "I am staying."

The labor was long and hard. You lost track of time. There was only the pain, coming in waves.

Brynden's did not leave your side. He did not flinch at the blood or the screams or the chaos of the birthing chamber. He held your hand and murmured to you in a voice so low that only you could hear, a stream of words that wove together love and reassurance and the occasional threat of violence against anyone who did not do their job properly.

"If the maester drops his instrument one more time," he said at one point, his voice perfectly conversational, "I will have him reassigned to the Night's Watch."

A startled laugh burst out of you, cut short by another contraction. "You cannot send the Grand Maester to the Wall."

"I am the Hand of the King. I can do whatever I want."

Hours passed. The sun sank below the windows and rose again, and still the baby did not come. The maester's face grew grave, and the septas exchanged worried glances, and you were so tired, so terribly tired, your body wrung out like a rag.

"I cannot," you gasped, after what felt like an eternity. "I cannot do this anymore. Please. Please."

Brynden leaned close, his forehead pressing against yours. "Yes, you can," he said. "You are the bravest person I have ever known. You walked into this court alone, into a marriage with a man you had every reason to fear, and you made a life here. You made a home here. You made me love you." His voice cracked. "You can do this. One more time. For me. For our daughter. One more push. I am here. I am not leaving."

You pushed.

"A girl," the maester announced after a few more excruciating minutes. "A healthy girl."

You collapsed against the pillows, body shaking, vision blurred with tears and exhaustion. You heard a thin cry.

The septas bustled around you, cleaning and swaddling, their voices a distant murmur. Brynden was there, he was holding something small and white-wrapped, and his face...You had never seen his face like that.

He looked young. Younger than you had ever seen him, the lines of worry and weariness smoothed away, his eye bright with a joy so pure it made your heart clench. His hands, those long, pale, clever hands, cradled the tiny bundle with a reverence that belonged in a sept.

"She has your eyes," his voice was hoarse, broken, wonderful. "She has your eyes and my hair. She is absolutely perfect."

"Let me see her," you whispered. "Please. Let me hold her."

He brought her to you, settling the bundle into your waiting arms with infinite care. And there she was, your daughter, Alysanne, small and squalling, with a tuft of silver-white hair on her tiny head.

"Hello," you breathed. "Hello, my love. My little one. My Alysanne."

Alysanne was a hungry, loud baby, who seemed to have inherited her father's distaste for sleep. She nursed eagerly and often, and when she was not nursing, she was wailing, and when she was not wailing, she was watching the world with those uncanny eyes that seemed to see more than any infant's eyes should see.

But she was healthy. The maester pronounced her strong and well-formed, with no signs of the frailty that sometimes plagued early babes. "She is small," he admitted, "but she has a fighter's spirit. She will grow quickly."

You were too tired to do much more than nod and smile and fall asleep at odd hours, the babe cradled against your chest. The septas and the wet nurses hovered, offering to take Alysanne so you could rest, but you could not bear to let her go. You had waited so long for her. You had dreamed of her and carried her and labored to bring her into the world. You were not about to hand her off to strangers now.

Brynden, for his part, had become utterly insufferable.

It started the day after the birth, when you tried to sit up in bed and he appeared at your elbow as if conjured by magic, which, you supposed, he might well have been.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I am sitting up."

"You should not be sitting up. The maester said you need to rest."

"The maester said I need to recover. Recovery involves moving occasionally."

He hovered, his hands outstretched as though he expected you to collapse at any moment. "Let me help you."

"Brynden, I am sitting up in bed. It is not a complex maneuver."

"Nevertheless."

You sighed and let him arrange the pillows behind your back, his long fingers tucking and adjusting with the meticulous care he usually reserved for intelligence reports. When he was satisfied, he stepped back and surveyed his work with a critical eye.

"There," he said. "Is that comfortable? Do you need more pillows? A blanket? Some water? Are you hungry? The kitchens have prepared a broth..."

"Brynden."

"..and there is bread, fresh bread, and cheese, the maester said you should eat to regain your strength..."

"Brynden."

He stopped, his mouth still half-open.

"I am fine," you said, as gently as you could. "I am tired, and I am sore, but I am fine. You do not need to fuss."

"I am not fussing." He paused. "I am attending to my wife's needs."

"You sent a servant to fetch the maester because I sneezed."

"Sneezing can indicate a number of underlying conditions. It is important to be vigilant."

"You threatened to have the cook executed because the broth was too salty."

"It was inedible. I merely suggested that he might benefit from a change of career. Possibly in a location with a colder climate and fewer cooking implements."

You stared at him. He stared back, his single eye wide and earnest. He had not slept, you could see the shadows beneath his eye, the slight tremor in his hands. He had been awake for three days straight, by your count, attending to you and the baby and the affairs of the realm with the manic energy of a man who had decided that sleep was for people with fewer responsibilities.

"Come here," you said.

He came, and you caught his hand and pulled him down to sit on the edge of the bed.

"You are exhausted," you said.

"I am perfectly fine."

"You are not. You have been running yourself ragged taking care of me and the babe and the entire Seven Kingdoms, and you have not slept since before I went into labor."

"The realm does not pause for..."

"The realm can wait." You squeezed his hand. "Your wife and your daughter need you alive and healthy. You cannot pour from an empty cup."

He was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he sagged, the tension draining from his shoulders. "I was afraid," he admitted. "When the ravens came, when I found you in the godswood...I was afraid I was going to lose you. Both of you. And I could not..." He stopped, his jaw tightening. "I could not bear it."

"You did not lose us." You lifted his hand to your lips and kissed his knuckles. "We are here. We are safe. And we need you to rest."

"Perhaps," he said, "I could lie down. Just for a little while."

"Just for a little while," you agreed.

He removed his boots and his doublet and climbed into the bed beside you, moving with the careful deliberation of a man who was trying very hard not to jostle anything. When he was settled, he reached out and pulled you gently against his side, your head coming to rest on his shoulder.

"This is nice," he murmured.

"It is."

"I should do this more often."

"You should."

His arm tightened around you, his breathing began to slow. "I love you," he murmured, the words slurring slightly. "I love Alysanne. I love…" He yawned. "I even love that wretched raven of yours."

"Pebble is your raven."

"He was my raven. Now he is a nursemaid. He watches the cradle. Did you notice?"

You had. Pebble had barely left the cradle since Alysanne had been placed in it. He perched on the rail, his head cocked, his black eyes fixed on the baby.

"She has already charmed him," you said.

"She charms everyone." His voice was fading, sleep pulling him under. "Like her mother."

You smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

He did not answer. He was already gone, his face slack with exhaustion, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

The wet nurses had taken Alysanne for the night.

It was a practice that had become routine in the weeks since her birth, though you still felt a pang of guilt every time they carried her away. The maester had recommended it: your body was still recovering from the early labor, and the interrupted sleep was wearing on you more than you wanted to admit. Alysanne was a hungry baby, demanding and vocal, she woke every two hours with the relentless regularity of a water clock. The wet nurses could feed her through the night while you rested.

"You need your strength," Brynden had insisted. "The wet nurses are here for a reason. Use them."

So you had relented, and now, two months into your daughter's life, the night feedings had become a ritual. The maids would come at the hour of the bat, lifting Alysanne from her cradle, and Brynden would pull you back against his chest and murmur sleepily into your hair until you relaxed.

It worked, mostly. You slept more deeply than you had since before the birth. But your body had not yet adjusted to the new rhythm, and your breasts still filled with milk at the hours when Alysanne would normally feed, heavy and aching and sometimes leaking despite the cloths you tucked into your nightgown.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You were dreaming. You stirred in your sleep, turning onto your side, and the movement pressed your heavy breast against the mattress. A warm wetness spread through the linen of your nightgown.

Beside you, Brynden stirred.

He was a light sleeper at the best of times, a lifetime of vigilance had made sure of that, and the early days of fatherhood had sharpened his senses. The slightest sound from the cradle could pull him from sleep, his hand reaching for the dagger he kept on the nightstand.

But this was not a sound. This was a sensation. Wetness, seeping through the sheets, warm against him where your body pressed against his.

His eye snapped open.

In the darkness of the bedchamber, his mind, still fogged with sleep, still caught in the grip of whatever dreams a greenseer dreamed, registered only one thing. Something wet. His first memory was of the battle of the Redgrass field, his mind flashing back to grass painted red with sticky blood. Then he sensed something leaking from his wife's body. His wife, who had labored early and nearly died, who had bled and screamed and clutched his hand with a grip like iron. His wife, who was lying still and silent beside him, and there was wetness spreading between them, and...

Blood. His mind supplied the word with cold, absolute certainty. It's blood. She's bleeding. She's...

He sat up so fast the blankets tangled around his legs. His hands found your shoulders, he turned you onto your back, his heart hammering against his ribs, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Brynden..." Your voice was thick with sleep, confused, your hands coming up to push weakly at his. "What...what is it..."

"Where are you hurt?" His voice was urgent, his hands already moving over your body. He pushed aside the blankets, ran his palms down your arms, your torso, your legs, searching for the wound, the source of the wetness. "Tell me where you are hurt."

"I am not hurt..."

"There is wetness." He was babbling now, his usual composure shattered. "I felt it. You're bleeding. I can feel it."

"Brynden." You caught his wrists, stilling his frantic examination. "Brynden, stop. Look at me."

He looked at you. In the dim light of the dying fire, his face was a mask of barely controlled terror. His red eye was wild, the pupil blown wide.

"I am not hurt," you assured. "It is not blood."

"Then what..."

You released one of his wrists and guided his hand to your chest, pressing his palm against the damp fabric of your nightgown. "Milk," you said. "It is only milk. Alysanne did not feed tonight, and I am…full. It happens sometimes. It is perfectly normal."

He stared at you. Then at his hand, which was cupping the curve of your breast, the wetness seeping through his fingers. Then back at you.

"Milk," he repeated.

"Milk," you confirmed.

The tension drained out of him so suddenly that he slumped, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath leaving him in a shuddering exhale. "I thought you were bleeding. I thought...Gods, I thought I had lost you. I felt the wetness and I thought..."

"I know." You lifted your hand and stroked his hair, the silver strands slipping through your fingers like silk. "I know what you thought. But I am fine. I am not going anywhere."

He was silent, his face pressed against your shoulder, his hand still resting on your breast. When he spoke again, his voice was muffled and miserable.

"I am a fool."

"You are a husband."

"A fool of a husband."

"A husband who loves his wife." You pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "There is no shame in that."

"I woke you."

"You did. Rather rudely, I might add. You grabbed me like a sack of grain."

"I am sorry."

"You will make it up to me." You shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and winced as the movement sent another small gush of milk soaking into your nightgown. "Oh, for the love of..I am going to have to get up and change. The sheets will need changing too. I should probably pump, or the maids will have a mess to deal with in the morning..."

"Wait."

You paused, halfway to sitting up. Brynden was looking at you with an expression you could not quite read, curiosity, you thought, but hesitant.

"You do not need to get up," he said.

"Brynden, I am leaking all over the bed."

"The wet nurses will not come until morning. And you are tired." His hand, still resting on your breast, moved in a slow, almost unconscious circle. "I have heard that milk…that it is sweet."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "You have heard?"

"I hear many things." His voice was regaining some of its usual dry composure. "I am the Master of Whisperers. It is my business to know things."

"And the Master of Whisperers has made a study of breast milk?"

"The Master of Whisperers is curious." He paused, the hesitation was back. "And you are in discomfort. I do not want you to get up. I thought perhaps I could…help."

The silence stretched between you. Brynden was asking, with the awkward hesitancy of a boy asking for his first kiss, if he could taste your milk.

"All right," you said softly.

He blinked. "All right?"

"All right. If you want to."

"I do not want to make you uncomfortable..."

"Brynden." You cupped his cheek, the marked one, the one he had spent so many years believing made him monstrous. "You are my husband. You have seen me through childbirth, nightmares and ravens roosting in my hair. I think we are past the point of being uncomfortable with each other."

The last of the tension left his shoulders. He lowered his head to your chest.

His lips were cool against your skin, a familiar sensation after years of marriage. He hesitated for just a moment, as though giving you one last chance to change your mind, then his mouth closed around you.

The sensation was strange at first, not unpleasant, but different from the eager, demanding pull of Alysanne's tiny mouth. Brynden was tentative, as though he were afraid of hurting you. His eye closed.

Then the milk let down, and he made a small sound in the back of his throat, surprise, maybe, or satisfaction.

"It is sweet and warm," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin.

"I told you."

He lowered his head again, this time with more confidence. His mouth worked gently, drawing the milk from you in slow, rhythmic pulls, you felt the ache in your breast begin to ease.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet and his expression was drowsy and peaceful.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better," you confirmed. The pressure was gone, and the wetness had stopped. "Thank you."

"Mm." He settled against you, his head coming to rest on your chest, his arm draped across your waist. He dozed off quicker than Alyssane.

Pebble was upset.

Alysanne was four months old now, a plump and solemn baby who had recently discovered the joy of grabbing things. Specifically, she had discovered the joy of grabbing Pebble's tail feathers and yanking them with the surprising strength of an infant who had inherited her father's stubbornness. Pebble, for his part, bore this treatment with the long-suffering patience of a creature who had been spoiled rotten for years and knew, on some fundamental level, that he deserved this.

But even the most patient of ravens had limits.

You were in the nursery, rocking Alysanne in your arms while she gummed at a silver rattle, a gift from her father, who had commissioned it from a smith and had it engraved with tiny ravens in flight. Pebble was perched on the windowsill, his feathers ruffled, his black eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that could only be described as wounded dignity.

"She pulled out three feathers," you told him. "Three. That is hardly any feathers at all. You have hundreds."

Pebble made a sound that was distinctly indignant.

"You are being dramatic."

Another indignant caw, this one accompanied by a pointed turn of his head.

"Pebble. Look at me."

He refused. He stared resolutely out the window, his round body silhouetted against the pale morning sky. You sighed and shifted Alysanne to your other hip. The baby had abandoned her rattle and was now reaching toward the raven with both hands, making the grabby motion that Pebble had learned to dread.

"Fine," you said. "Go. Do whatever it is ravens do. But be back before sundown, do you hear me? I do not want to have to send Brynden after you."

Pebble turned his head just enough to give you a look that said, clear as words: you would not dare.

"I would dare. I have dared before. Ask your master."

The raven let out a croak, spread his wings, and launched himself from the windowsill. You watched him go, a black shape against the blue sky, wheeling once over the Tower before disappearing into the maze of rooftops and chimneys.

"Your brother is very dramatic," you told Alysanne. "I hope you do not learn that from him."

Alysanne responded by grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking.

"Ow. You have inherited enough from your father already, thank you."

Pebble did not return by sundown.

You noticed his absence at dusk, when you went to close the nursery windows against the evening chill. The perch by the window was empty. The little dish of shredded meat that you always left for him was untouched. The sky outside was a deepening purple, the first stars pricking through the velvet darkness, and there was no sign of a fat black raven winging his way home.

A small knot of anxiety tightened in your chest.

"He is probably hunting," you said aloud, to no one in particular. Alysanne was already asleep in her cradle. "Or he found a particularly interesting bit of rubbish to investigate. You know how he is about rubbish."

You went to bed, telling yourself that Pebble would be back by morning. He always came back. He had been your companion for years now, your confidant and your comfort, the first friend you had made in this cold stone Tower. He would not abandon you. He would not.

You did not sleep well.

Morning came. Pebble did not.

You stood at the window in your nightgown, your hands pressed against the cold glass, scanning the sky for any sign of a returning raven. The sun rose over Blackwater Bay, painting the water in shades of gold and rose, and the other ravens began to stir on their perches in the Tower rookery. But none of them were Pebble. None of them were your raven.

The knot in your chest became panic.

He was domesticated. That was the problem. Years of sleeping on silk sheets and eating from your fingers had softened him. He was plump and slow and accustomed to having his meals delivered to him on a silver platter. What if a hawk had caught him? What if he had flown into a window and broken his wing? What if he had gotten lost, confused by the winding streets of King's Landing, unable to find his way back to the Tower?

What if he was hurt? What if he was dying? What if he was already dead, and you would never see him again, and the last thing you had said to him was that he was being dramatic?

By the time the maids arrived to take Alysanne for her morning feeding, you were in a state of barely contained distress. Every few minutes, you went to the window and looked out, hoping to see a familiar black shape flying toward you.

Nothing.

At midday, you went to find your husband.

Brynden was in his solar, bent over a stack of parchments with a quill in his hand. The ravens on their perches stirred as you entered, cocking their heads at you with their bright, knowing eyes. Brynden looked up, and the moment he saw your face, he set down his quill.

"What is wrong?"

"Pebble is missing."

He blinked. "Missing?"

"He flew away yesterday morning, and he has not come back. He always comes back. He has never been gone this long." The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. "I am worried about him. He cannot survive in the wild. What if a hawk got him? What if he is hurt? What if..."

Brynden rose from his chair and crossed to you, his hands closing around your upper arms. "Breathe," he said. "You are spiraling."

"I am not spiraling. I am concerned."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eye was serious. "Pebble is a raven. He was bred for long-distance flight. He is capable of surviving outside for more than a day."

"But he is not a normal raven. He is domesticated. You said so yourself. You said I made him into a lap-raven."

"I may have been…exaggerating."

"You said he was spherical."

"That was also an exaggeration." He paused. "A slight exaggeration. He is merely…robust."

You pulled away from him and began to pace, your skirts swirling around your ankles. "Can you find him? You can see through the eyes of your ravens. Can you look through their eyes and find Pebble? Can you tell him to come home?"

Brynden watched you pace, his expression unreadable. "I could," he said slowly. "But it would require me to divert my attention from several rather pressing matters of state. Lord Greyjoy is making noises about reaving again, and there is a trade dispute in the Vale that requires my..."

"Please." You stopped pacing and turned to face him, and you felt the sting of tears in your eyes. "Please, Brynden. I know it is foolish. I know he is just a raven. But he is my raven. I love him. I cannot bear the thought of something happening to him. Please."

"Come here," he said.

You went to him, he pulled you into his arms. "I will find him. I will look through the eyes of the flock and locate your errant raven. But you must promise me something in return."

"What?"

"You must stop tormenting yourself with worst-case scenarios. Pebble is a grown raven. He has survived this long despite your best efforts to turn him into a feathered housecat. He will be fine."

"You do not know that."

"I know that he is too stubborn to die. He learned it from you."

You let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "That was almost sweet."

"I am capable of sweetness. Occasionally." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Now sit. I will do my work, you will wait here. I will tell you the moment I find him."

You sat in the chair by the fire, the same chair you had sat in during the early days of your marriage, when you had been too shy to speak and he had been too preoccupied to notice you. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, you watched your husband close his eye and reach out with his mind, his consciousness spreading through the network of ravens.

The minutes stretched. The fire crackled. You twisted your hands in your lap and tried not to think about hawks, about broken wings, about small black bodies lying still in dark alleys.

Then Brynden opened his eye.

"He is in Flea Bottom," he said.

"Flea Bottom? What in seven hells is he doing in Flea Bottom?"

"It appears he has made friends with a baker. A baker who gives him day-old pastries." Brynden's mouth pressed into a thin line. "He is sitting on the baker's windowsill, eating pumpkin filling, and he appears to be...singing."

"Singing? Ravens do not sing."

"They can mimick sounds. The baker has taught him a tune. It is obscene."

A laugh bubbled up in your throat, startling and slightly hysterical. The tears that had been threatening spilled over, but they were tears of relief now, not fear. "He is not dead."

"He is emphatically not dead. He is, in fact, having the time of his life."

"Can you make him come home?"

Brynden was quiet for a moment, his eye distant. "I have sent a command. He is...ignoring it." A pause. "He has just finished the pumpkin pastry and is now begging for another. The baker is obliging him."

"He is ignoring a direct command from the Hand of the King?"

"It appears that your influence has made him immune to authority." Brynden's voice was dry, but his expression was fond. "He has become a creature of pure appetite. He goes where the food is and he does not care about the consequences. He will come back when the pastries run out or when he remembers that he has a warm perch and a woman who loves him. Whichever comes first."

"You are certain?"

"I am certain. In the meantime, you are going to eat. You missed breakfast, and I suspect you missed supper last night as well."

"How did you..."

"I have my ways." He helped you to your feet and guided you toward the door. "The kitchens have prepared a lamb stew. You will eat it, then you will rest, and by the time you wake, your raven will be back on his perch, fatter than ever and smelling of Flea Bottom."

You let him lead you, too drained to argue. "You are very good at this."

"At what?"

"Taking care of me."

He paused at the door, his hand on the frame. "It is my privilege," he said quietly. "And my penance."

"Penance?"

"For the time I did not." He did not look at you as he said it.

You reached up and touched his cheek, turning his face toward you. "You have more than made up for it."

"I am still making up for it." He leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead. "Now come. Lamb stew. Rest. Then tonight, when your raven has returned and you have stopped fretting, I intend to have you to myself for a few hours."

"Have me to yourself?"

"The wet nurses have Alysanne for the night. The small council is not meeting until tomorrow. There are no pressing crises requiring my attention." His eye met yours, there was a glint in it that made your stomach flutter. "I intend to take full advantage of the situation."

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. "I see. Then I shall eat quickly."

He smiled. "See that you do."

Pebble returned at dusk, just as Brynden had predicted.

You were sitting in the solar, finishing the last of the lamb stew, when you heard the familiar scratch of claws on the windowsill. You looked up to see a black shape squeezing through the narrow opening, a rather tighter fit than it used to be, you noted with a mixture of exasperation and affection. Pebble tumbled onto the perch with a graceless flop, his feathers ruffled, his beak smeared with pumpkin paste.

"There you are," you rose from your chair. "You wretched, ungrateful, insolent bird."

Pebble cocked his head at you and let out a croak that sounded distinctly unrepentant.

"Do you have any idea how worried I was? I thought a hawk had eaten you. I thought you had broken your wing. I made Brynden search for you with his magic."

Pebble preened his breast feathers, utterly unimpressed by your scolding.

"You smell like a bakery. You have jam on your face. You are..." You broke off, your voice catching. "You are home."

You crossed to the perch and scooped him up, holding him against your chest. He was warm and slightly sticky.

"Do not do that again," you whispered into his feathers. "Do not disappear like that. I cannot lose you too."

You had not meant to say that last part. It had slipped out, unbidden, a truth you had not quite acknowledged to yourself. You had lost so much already: your home, your family's honor, the life you had expected to lead. Pebble had been your constant through all of it, your small, feathered anchor in a world that had been cold, strange and unwelcoming. The thought of losing him, even now, even with Brynden and Alysanne to love, was more than you could bear.

Pebble, for once, did not squirm or complain. He let you hold him, his black eyes half-closed, and when you finally set him back on his perch, he reached out with his beak and gently preened a strand of your hair.

You laughed, a watery sound. "I forgive you. But you are not getting any more cakes for a week."

Pebble's eyes snapped open. He let out an indignant caw.

"A week," you repeated. "Maybe two. We shall see how repentant you are."

From the doorway, a voice spoke. "I would not count on repentance. He looks entirely unashamed."

You turned to see Brynden leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his expression wry. He had changed out of his formal doublet and was wearing a simpler black tunic, his silver hair loose around his shoulders.

"He came home."

"I see that." He pushed off the doorframe and crossed to you, his eye flicking to Pebble with an expression of mild exasperation. "You," he told the raven, "have caused my wife considerable distress. I hope the pastries were worth it."

Pebble made a sound that strongly implied they had been.

"I am going to put him on a diet," you said. "A proper diet. No more scraps from the kitchen. No more pastries from bakers in Flea Bottom."

"An excellent idea. I will believe it when I see it." Brynden's hand found the small of your back, his touch warm through the fabric of your gown. "But that is a project for tomorrow. Tonight, as I recall, you have other obligations."

"Obligations?"

"To your husband." He leaned down, his breath against your ear. "Who has been very patient. And Pebble..." He shot a pointed look at the raven. "...is going to stay on his perch and not cause any more trouble."

Pebble tucked his head under his wing with an air of supreme indifference.

Part 4: coming soon...

a/n: I decided to unite two parts so sorry if it's a bit choppy. There will be smut in the next chapter. Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out. Comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated! <3

a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist.

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

Your hands smooth down your dress again and again, as though doing so could calm the trembling you feel inside. Your eyes remain lost upon the stone wall before you, cold and grey, just like this room that is not your home. You no longer clench your fists as you once did, but your fingers still tremble faintly as you run the fabric of the dress between them. You have been waiting for a long time, far too long. Gwayne should have arrived by now. Every night, when the sun disappears and everything falls silent, you whisper his name into the darkness, as though speaking it could make him appear, as though the words themselves possessed the power to bring him back to your side. But he does not return, and the fear grows within your chest like a weed you cannot tear out.

You remember when it all began, when Otto Hightower learned that Gwayne wished to marry you. It was a scandal that spread through every corner of the stronghold. Of course, you were nothing more than the daughter of an ordinary peasant woman, with no lands, no important family name, and no wealth to offer. And carrying the Hightower name after marrying him was almost an insult to them, something shameful they whispered about behind your back. But in the end, it was not quite so important, because Gwayne was the youngest of the family, the second son, the one who, according to the laws of the realm, had practically lost his importance from the moment he was born. He would inherit neither lands nor great titles, so if he married whomever he wished while continuing his training as a knight of the realm, there would not truly be a problem. And so Gwayne did it. He took you as his wife and, at the same time, became a knight, fulfilling both his dream and yours.

You remember that day clearly, as though it had been yesterday. Queen Alicent had left her youngest son, Daeron, with the Hightower family. Gwayne took him into his arms and looked at you, and in that instant, you understood everything without him having to say a single word.

“He is so small,” Gwayne said, holding him carefully and bringing him closer to you with a tenderness that made you smile.

You looked at him curiously, watching the baby who could barely open his eyes, and an unavoidable smile escaped you before you could stop it. “He has the Hightower name written all over him,” you whispered, pointing toward the small emblem on the blanket wrapped around him.

“Well, he was left with the greatest recognition a Targaryen can receive,” Gwayne admitted, before pointing toward the dragon egg that had been left beside the child, unhatched, cold and grey like a stone. “Father wants to send him far away so that he may be raised as a warrior.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke, as though he were sharing a secret. You lifted your gaze to meet his green eyes. “The same fate he chose for me,” he whispered.

“I can care for him,” you said, looking directly at him as you felt your hands longing to reach for the little one. “Having a child now is… well, your father believes it is not the right time. He has warned us many times, but with Daeron, we can… be that for him.” Your words emerged in a whisper, filled with hope and fear alike. “We can be his parents and give him the love he might not receive elsewhere.”

Your husband’s green eyes looked at you with a light you had never seen before, and he slowly nodded. “Although Alicent might someday… claim him,” he whispered, watching you with concern as he held the child with only one arm, while his other hand moved aside the brown hair that had fallen rebelliously across your face. When he tucked that strand behind your ear, his hand caressed your cheek with such gentleness that you closed your eyes for a moment, and then he tenderly lifted your chin so that you would look at him. “If we become attached…” He left the sentence unfinished, but you knew what he meant.

“You will have to do whatever the queen commands,” you said as you looked at him, feeling the weight of those words settle within your heart. But he shook his head.

“I would never take something away from my wife,” he said firmly, although his voice trembled slightly. “Least of all if doing so would make her suffer. I would stand against the Seven Kingdoms if they tried to take Daeron from us.” His hand tightened around yours, as though he wanted to make certain that you understood what he was saying.

“She has three children, Gwayne,” you said, remembering the other Targaryen children. “Making him grow up as though he had been forgotten would be… a miserable life, and he does not deserve a miserable life.” You moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body near yours. “We must give him a real family.”

And so he remained with you. Throughout all those years, you were always honest with the little boy who grew up as your son. You reminded him that his true parents were Alicent and King Viserys, because you believed it was only fair for him to know the truth, but you also told him that, to both of you, he was your only son, the most important one, the child who had entered your lives and filled them with joy.

But one night, when Daeron was eight years old, he asked you a question that broke your heart. He was preparing to sleep, his small head resting against the pillow and his large eyes looking at you solemnly.

“And when you have children,” Daeron asked in a calm voice, though there was a faint tremor beneath it, “will you remove me from your lives as well?” His fingers played with the edge of the blanket as he waited for your answer.

“No, never,” you told him, settling him into bed and carefully tucking him beneath the covers. “When we have children, they will be your siblings, because you are my son, my first, and your father loves you just as much as I do.” You gently stroked his hair. “It does not matter if they claim you. I will be there no matter what happens, always, because you are mine, and nothing will ever change that.”

And you kept that promise, even when war began in King’s Landing and everything changed. That night, Gwayne told you in a low, trembling voice, while your hands began to shake uncontrollably.

“Why now?” you whispered fearfully, feeling as though the ground were shifting beneath your feet. “Why does it have to be now?”

Gwayne knew it was the worst possible moment. Daeron was already a sixteen-year-old adolescent, a young man who loved the peaceful life you had given him, who spent his days caring for his younger brother Tyland, the child who had been born with the same red hair as a Hightower, just like Gwayne’s. That was enough for Daeron to truly love his family, because neither you nor Gwayne had ever drawn a distinction between your sons. Despite everything, Daeron carried Targaryen blood, and in that war, both of you knew what would come if someone claimed him.

“It is… I need to fight so that I may return to you,” Gwayne said, cradling your cheek between his large, warm hands. His fingers caressed your skin as though they wished to memorise every part of your face. “My sons and my wife are in danger. If Daeron is claimed in this war, I cannot imagine it. I cannot bear the thought of losing him or of someone using him.” His voice broke slightly, but he continued speaking. “But I will return. I always return. A knight never lies, and no matter where I may be, I will never dishonour my wife or my family.”

“Will you go with Ser Cole?” you asked, feeling the knot tighten in your throat. “The same man who never tires of insulting any woman who crosses his path.” You remembered the times you had heard his cruel words, the way he spoke of women as though they were lesser than men.

Gwayne shook his head, and his green eyes looked upon you with love. “Your husband is different, is he not? Have I not shown you, time and time again, that I am yours?” His fingers intertwined with your own. “Give me your trust once more, and I will return to you. I swear it by the Seven Gods.”

But the war caught up with Daeron, with you, and with little Tyland. One night, when you thought Gwayne had returned, Lord Ormund arrived at your home with his men and walked inside as though the lands belonged to him. You watched him from the doorway, feeling your heart begin to race with fear.

“The boy is coming with me,” Ormund said without any further preamble, looking you up and down as though you were nothing more than an ordinary servant. His voice was harsh and left no room for argument. Your body shuddered at those words, and your hands clung to the doorframe to keep yourself from falling.

“Daeron will not take part in that war,” you said in a voice firmer than you had believed yourself capable of, but Ormund laughed in your face, a cold laugh that froze your blood.

“This is what happens when too much power is given to a simple peasant woman,” he said, gripping your chin forcefully and pulling you closer until you could feel his breath against your face. “You are nothing before me. Now tell Daeron that he will fight for his family. I am going to begin cleansing him of that foolishness about you being his mother, because you are not. You never have been.”

“We never lied to him about where he came from,” you said with difficulty, feeling his fingers pressing into your skin. “If he sees me as his mother, it is because I did what Alicent could not. I gave him love and care. I raised him as though he were my own blood.”

Ormund smiled, but it was not a kind smile. That was when you heard Daeron’s voice behind you.

“Mother?” he asked, and then his tone changed when he saw Ormund. “Lord Ormund,” he said at once, his body going rigid.

Ormund released your chin and turned toward him with a triumphant smile. “I see that they have at least taught you some manners,” he said sarcastically. “We are going to war. Everything has already been prepared, and you will even bring that beast from outside.” He spoke of the dragon with disgust, as though it were an irritating animal rather than a powerful creature.

You looked at him, and you knew that Daeron would always protect you, no matter what. It was what Gwayne had taught him: to care for his family, to remain loyal, and never to abandon those he loved. But he was also your son, and fear ran through your entire body at the thought of what might happen to him.

Then your gaze returned to the present. You were in a room that was not yours, in Bitterbridge, which was nothing compared to your home. The walls were made of cold stone, the room itself was cold, and Tyland slept in the bed, the younger of your two sons, his dishevelled red hair spread across the pillow. Ormund had taken you with them. He had dragged you into the small encampment houses they had prepared for the war. Because, of course, he had to make certain that he would meet Gwayne despite everything, and if he kept you with him, then it was more than obvious that Gwayne would come. He always did. He always came looking for you, no matter how far away you were.

Your hands tightened over your dress as the memory of those days returned to your mind like a cold wave. You had been unable to protect Daeron, and that weighed on you more heavily than anything else. You had argued with Ormund so many times that you had already lost count. The first time was when he forbade Daeron from flying with his dragon, claiming it was a waste of time and that the boy needed to remain close to the ground like any ordinary soldier. The second was when he ordered the men in his army to shout at a group of defenceless civilians merely to frighten them, and you tried to intervene. But the worst of all was when he forced your boy, your Daeron, to kill an innocent man with his own hands. That day, you had tried to reach him, to run toward him and stop it, but Ormund seized your wrist with such force that you cried out.

“You cannot make him do that. He is only a child,” you said desperately, feeling tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you watched Daeron holding the sword, his hands trembling, looking at you with fear and confusion. His pale face broke your heart.

“It is none of your concern,” Ormund whispered with a cold smile, because of course he would not speak poorly of you while Daeron and his dragon were both in the same place. He knew the boy defended you, and that irritated him more than he wished to admit. “Servants do not interfere where they have not been summoned. You are not his mother. He was born for a greater role.” His voice became poisonous as he continued. “Besides, I need to make certain that your husband is still alive. Otherwise, I will decide what is to be done with you and your child.” His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you felt the pain all the way to the bone. “Now leave,” he ordered, and his men dragged you out of the hall while you could do nothing but look back and see Daeron with fear filling his eyes.

The mere memory of those days made several tears slip down your face now as you sat in that cold room. But then the door opened with a quiet creak, and you heard a voice you knew better than your own.

“Mother,” Daeron’s voice whispered, and you quickly wiped away your tears with the back of your hand, not wanting him to see you like this. You rose from the chair and looked at him, trying to appear strong.

“Yes?” you asked, straightening your dress and smoothing it down with your still-trembling hands. “We agreed that you cannot call me that here. I am your aunt,” you reminded him, looking directly at him and hoping no one else had heard. He slowly nodded, understanding the danger.

“Father has returned,” he whispered excitedly, and his eyes lit up in a way that reminded you of when he had been only a small child.

“Thank the gods,” you said with emotion, feeling the weight in your chest ease slightly. You looked toward the bed where Tyland slept and thought about how you would wake him to tell him that his father had returned.

But before you could leave to search for him, footsteps echoed through the corridor. Daeron immediately straightened, his body tense like a drawn bow, but when he saw Gwayne enter through the doorway, he relaxed completely. Your eyes fixed upon your husband, and your heart lurched.

“You look dreadful,” you whispered, taking in his filthy clothes, his dishevelled hair, and the dark circles beneath his eyes. But he approached you without caring about any of it, as though he had gone years without seeing you.

Gwayne cradled your cheeks between his large, warm hands and looked at you as though he were committing every part of your face to memory. He tilted your neck slightly so that he could see you better, and then took your hands in his. Daeron, who had been watching, did not understand his father’s actions until his eyes followed Gwayne’s gaze and landed upon the dark bruise around your wrist, the one Ormund had left days earlier when he had gripped you with such force.

“Did he do something to you?” Gwayne asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. But you shook your head, trying to make it seem unimportant. “Daeron, did Ormund do anything to your mother?” he asked his son without taking his eyes off you.

“No, Father,” Daeron replied quickly, but then corrected himself as you had taught him. “Uncle,” he whispered, lowering his gaze.

Gwayne clenched his jaw, and fire burned within his green eyes. “If he did anything to you—if he did anything to any of you—I will not hesitate to slit his throat,” he said with a calmness far more frightening than any shouting could have been.

“He did nothing to me,” you said, and he nodded, though he did not appear convinced.

Then he embraced you, and you felt his body against yours, the scent of sweat and earth clinging to him, and the beating of his heart against your own. “I know I smell awful,” he said with a tired laugh, “but I spent so many nights dreaming of holding my wife again.” His arms wrapped tightly around you, and you clung to him as though he were your only lifeline in the midst of a raging sea.

Daeron smiled nervously as he watched his parents embrace, but his smile faded when he spoke. “You are not going to leave us, are you, Father?” he whispered in such a small voice that both of you turned to look at him. His large, frightened eyes reminded you of when he had been an eight-year-old boy asking whether you would abandon him.

Gwayne slowly released you and looked first at you, then at Daeron. “I need to think about what we should do,” he said seriously. “He is their most valuable piece. You know that, do you not?” he asked you, referring to the way Ormund used Daeron as his most valuable weapon.

“He made that perfectly clear,” you said, feeling a knot tighten in your throat. “Perhaps he can escape from here with Tessarion,” you added, looking at Daeron. “And we can flee by land. Rhaenyra is queen now, and I know it will not be long before they come here.” Your voice trembled slightly as you said it, because you knew danger lurked around every corner.

“Then let us ask for forgiveness,” Daeron said, hope rising in his voice, but you shook your head, feeling the weight of reality pressing down upon you.

“Darling,” you said, taking his face between your hands, “they killed two of her children in the span of only a few months. They deceived her with a boy who was not you.” You remembered how they had used a false Daeron to deceive the queen, and a shiver ran down your spine. “Had they surrendered you alongside Daemon, Queen Rhaenyra would surely have forgiven us. But now she may believe that we are traitors.” Your fingers caressed his cheek as you watched him come to understand your words.

“We will get out of here,” Gwayne said with determination, looking at both of you. “I will do whatever it takes, but for now, we must be cautious around Ormund.” He looked directly at you, and his hand found yours. “Be prepared. We may have to leave at any moment. Daeron, study every possible escape route you could take with the dragon, and I will take care of your mother and your brother.”

Daeron nodded and then stepped closer to embrace you tightly. You could feel his body trembling slightly, and you wrapped your arms around him in return, pressing a kiss to his hair. Gwayne smiled, taking your hand and kissing it gently. He had spent weeks believing that he would never see you again, that you had been lost to him forever. The fact that you were here against your will was a grave mistake on Ormund’s part. He believed that manipulating Daeron would allow him to control Gwayne, that holding you hostage would make him meek and obedient. But all he had truly accomplished was enraging a husband devoted in body and soul to his family—a man who would do anything to protect those he loved, regardless of the consequences.

What to say of it? What to say about the future which stretched in virtuous phantasmagoria? The one he craved for your prepubescent mind to grow soberly within? Had he kept you back in the Atelier, had he not been bent by your stomping feet, you'd be safe in the four walls of your lodgings—nonetheless, he had supposed taking you to see the girls’ second trial had its pedagogical fairness. None was to blame but his inadequacy.

“Darling? You must answer me. Master wants to ensure your safety…” you whined like a wounded kitten, forcing a palm against the wound—removing it provoked the neverending pouring of the cascade.

“It hurts so much, Master Qippi…”

Oh, do not break his heart like this.

“It hurts.”

His chin quivered; he forced your wrist away from the wound—each pivot of his spine responding to the visual stimulum with a star-shaped horror of no resemblance. He gulped, well aware of how children would imitate their caretakers’ reactions: had he expressed extreme fear, you would worsen.

“Shush, come here, my love…” as Qifrey advanced to orchestrate your body closer, he learnt he hadn’t ever suffered in a form allied to this—you squirmed, assailing his ears with a shriek of pure horror, mingled with the saliva that heralds a newbornish wail.

“Oh… dear, I'm so sorry. My darling, Master Qifrey won't try to pick you up again. I'm so sorry, my love… I just…”

“It hurts, please… make it stop… please, Master Qippi…”

How utterly dreadful.

He was wont of being outlawly in the gloom of cisterns and antique grottos, with none but the echoes of stalactites to send his cooing notes spiraling. No red-bedight knights in sight.

Only him and the basin of blood forming underneath his world.

All heavens above shall watch it unfold and be gloated with unadulterated pardoning essence.

“I ‘prommy’ I'll drink any medicine, I won't cry-”

“Shush. No need to, my love.”

“No…? But Master Qippu…”

Qifrey smiled.

If Master was smiling, then the pain would soon diminish.

“Do you want to see a spell? It's a pretty one… here, Master will get closer…”

Qifrey reached for your garment, undressing only the necessary to expose your vexed flesh.

“Master… what will you do…?” He avoided looking up—in other moments, that red-eyelided stare of glossiness would be the cutest vision. But not now.

“Master…?” what was it? Why was he wielding his pen? Why did the chillness of its tip meet your skin?

“Master Qippi, you cannot! You taught me it's wrong!” you tried to kick him away, but you bore no strength and, even if you did, you couldn't fight a grown-up.

“Master Qippu!”

He wrought the initial symbols, stretching your skin with the index and the thumb of his non-dominant hand to ensure the straightness of his linework.

“Master told you we cannot do it, yes. But now you're hurt and Master Qifrey cannot take you to the Medical Spire in time. You're dealing with…” he pressed his lips together. It could not go wrong. Any misplaced line could unravel an unfairly worse outcome. “You’re dealing with so many big feelings now, hmm? Oh, it must hurt so bad… but Master is here, alright, sweetheart? Yes, breathe slowly… you're so brave. So, so brave, more than I could ever manage.” he sighed while fretting away, watching your little eyes blink. “Master is so proud.” he closed the circle. “So proud of you. Oh, you cannot fathom how much.”

The queer sensation begun, one of every blood vessel intertwining in its designed position; adipose tissue returning to its pre-defined place and muscles knitting themselves back

together—Qifrey rejoiced. For him it was pure joy.

“Oh, baby…” Qifrey embraced you, kissing the entirety of your face, running his nosetip over your countenance and wuthering sounds akin to cries. “Hurts still? Tell Master Qifrey, please? Oh, you must still be so bashful. But can you? Please?” his face was on the crook of your neck, silver locks tickling your chin and cheek. Master was so nice to hug.

“Doesn’t hurt anymore! Master Qippi made it stop!”

“My sweetheart… I will never let it happen again. I will protect you, I ought to… come here, give me a kiss?” you giggled, obeying his demand. “Hmm… so good! Aren't you the bestest cheek kisser in the world…?”

“Master Qippi, the drawing on my tummy…“

“Oh? My, my. Do not fret. Master knows a couple of hidden spells. The ink will vanish, but you'll remain safe. Now, you must remember…”

“Hmm?”

“It’s our little secret. No one else can know about it. Just you and Master. Can you do it? Can you keep our tiny, itty sized secret?” he caressed your scalp with a fingertip of sub rosa undertones—just like when he made you fall asleep.

“I can! I won’t tell anyone!” you pinched your index and thumb together, pretending to zip your lips with them.

“Gorgeous! Now… come here, my love… oh, you lost so much blood. No, do not look. I'll cook you something really tasty and rich in iron…”

He hadn't wasted saliva with those accolades for no reason, he had truly meant to keep you in the light. Yet you were still so small. You'd grow to comprehend the components of his feat and he could not let you—nor could he allow that dark memory to take roots and tarnish your mind. As soon as the needed seconds passed and that spell could be removed without bringing you back to that disgusting state, he would take charge of another feat. If freeing your mind from such a moment was cottony to your brain, so would he do.

It's none but one’s perception of the world through the years who’s the best tutor at lecturing about misery and its polychromed presentations. Nevertheless, for Easthies, its promised multicolorness spread in nothing but crimson—drank unassumingly by his vests, which neatly synthesized it in its same hueness. The reaching of his palm served no purpose but of resting atop your hand’s back, pressing your own palm forcefully as a way to tell you not to remove it. Certainly, keeping your non-disinfected hand against an open wound was far from pertinent. But had he other choices, he'd be the first to utter this thought.

Easthies had more to worry himself. His first reveries were of the pact and how he was bound to no tresspassing, even a millimetrical step.

His second one was of how he could convince himself to overcome it, putting you on the pearly plateau of his mind and dissing all forepromised duties.

Saving the life of a child with the use of forbidden magic would be, if adapted into sturdy book spines, seen as the act of a knight, one whom no net ensnares.

Now here he is: pondering things he had promised himself to never wonder.

“Master Eas, will I die…?” you weep like a litter that find itself in no state other than motherlessness. Last time you asked him the same question, you had occupied yourself with hiding a scrapped knee. Now you were not so far from the truth: you would if he deemed fit, if he thought a child with upcoming years of life should be sacrificed in the name of the pact—the laws of the pact shall be upheld through any means.

“Master Eas…? Talk to me… please…”

“I’m here, darling. You shall not worry… can you move?” you shook your head.

“It hurts…”

“I know it does, my dear. But…”

“Make the pain go away, please…”

You couldn't conceptualize what was running through his mind in the time being. You could not know that, the moment you begged for him to stop it, he had thought of applying unthoughtful methods. Your begging weaved a chorus in unison, both intimate and profane—although the last adjective was one only he applied to it.

“I can't do it, dear.”

“I promise I won't cry! I'll drink any medicine at the hospital!”

“The Medical Spire is too far.” He held onto the flagpole until his fingers became white. “I cannot take you there.”

He could still do something, couldn't he? His knowledge wasn't wide, he refrained from harboring anything that stepped too far. Yet counterclock was a good option. He could safely remove it when approaching the Medical Spire. He would clean it off pristine and swiftly so as to not raise any suspicions.

Nothing would be off place.

“So I will die…?” it was sorrowful how you uttered those mostly to seek his affection. You did not believe you would, not when Master was close—he was your knight in shiny armor, none could lay an ill-intended finger upon you if you had him within reach. Yet could he protect you from his ideological cage?

“No, dear. I will not allow you to. Here, I'll help you out…” Easthies removed a small percentage of your attire. Your cheek was tear-rolled, for part of the fabric had stuck to your wound. “Hurts? It'll stop soon, I assure you.” you squeezed Master’s forearm and, once enough skin was exposed, he retreated. Could he? No one should be unwilling to save a child, especially if that child is one’s own. Therefore He brought his pen forward.

“Master Eas, what are you doing…?”

“Shush…”

“M-master, no! You cannot!”

“Do not squirm. If the lines are shapeless it will worsen your case.” he pressed the pen’s tip against your side, neatly mastering a straight line. He had already stepped too far. No ink should be on one's skin but blotches from practicing.

“Master Eas, you told me we cannot do it!”

“You’re right, darling. Master is being a nincompoop today, I must agree.”

He looked upon the scene before him, the childhood of rosy frame you've been sharing by his side—nothing but preciousness could be expected from you. But he still had time to pull back and watch the watery aspect of your eyes becoming the only thing to give your gaze a glow of life. He could still stop it and ruffle your hair, cooing your way towards forevermore.

He could still withdraw. Should he?

What to say of it? What to say about the future which stretched in virtuous phantasmagoria? The one he craved for your prepubescent mind to grow soberly within? Had he kept you back in the Atelier, had he not been bent by your stomping feet, you'd be safe in the four walls of your lodgings—nonetheless, he had supposed taking you to see the girls’ second trial had its pedagogical fairness. None was to blame but his inadequacy.

“Darling? You must answer me. Master wants to ensure your safety…” you whined like a wounded kitten, forcing a palm against the wound—removing it provoked the neverending pouring of the cascade.

“It hurts so much, Master Qippi…”

Oh, do not break his heart like this.

“It hurts.”

His chin quivered; he forced your wrist away from the wound—each pivot of his spine responding to the visual stimulum with a star-shaped horror of no resemblance. He gulped, well aware of how children would imitate their caretakers’ reactions: had he expressed extreme fear, you would worsen.

“Shush, come here, my love…” as Qifrey advanced to orchestrate your body closer, he learnt he hadn’t ever suffered in a form allied to this—you squirmed, assailing his ears with a shriek of pure horror, mingled with the saliva that heralds a newbornish wail.

“Oh… dear, I'm so sorry. My darling, Master Qifrey won't try to pick you up again. I'm so sorry, my love… I just…”

“It hurts, please… make it stop… please, Master Qippi…”

How utterly dreadful.

He was wont of being outlawly in the gloom of cisterns and antique grottos, with none but the echoes of stalactites to send his cooing notes spiraling. No red-bedight knights in sight.

Only him and the basin of blood forming underneath his world.

All heavens above shall watch it unfold and be gloated with unadulterated pardoning essence.

“I ‘prommy’ I'll drink any medicine, I won't cry-”

“Shush. No need to, my love.”

“No…? But Master Qippu…”

Qifrey smiled.

If Master was smiling, then the pain would soon diminish.

“Do you want to see a spell? It's a pretty one… here, Master will get closer…”

Qifrey reached for your garment, undressing only the necessary to expose your vexed flesh.

“Master… what will you do…?” He avoided looking up—in other moments, that red-eyelided stare of glossiness would be the cutest vision. But not now.

“Master…?” what was it? Why was he wielding his pen? Why did the chillness of its tip meet your skin?

“Master Qippi, you cannot! You taught me it's wrong!” you tried to kick him away, but you bore no strength and, even if you did, you couldn't fight a grown-up.

“Master Qippu!”

He wrought the initial symbols, stretching your skin with the index and the thumb of his non-dominant hand to ensure the straightness of his linework.

“Master told you we cannot do it, yes. But now you're hurt and Master Qifrey cannot take you to the Medical Spire in time. You're dealing with…” he pressed his lips together. It could not go wrong. Any misplaced line could unravel an unfairly worse outcome. “You’re dealing with so many big feelings now, hmm? Oh, it must hurt so bad… but Master is here, alright, sweetheart? Yes, breathe slowly… you're so brave. So, so brave, more than I could ever manage.” he sighed while fretting away, watching your little eyes blink. “Master is so proud.” he closed the circle. “So proud of you. Oh, you cannot fathom how much.”

The queer sensation begun, one of every blood vessel intertwining in its designed position; adipose tissue returning to its pre-defined place and muscles knitting themselves back

together—Qifrey rejoiced. For him it was pure joy.

“Oh, baby…” Qifrey embraced you, kissing the entirety of your face, running his nosetip over your countenance and wuthering sounds akin to cries. “Hurts still? Tell Master Qifrey, please? Oh, you must still be so bashful. But can you? Please?” his face was on the crook of your neck, silver locks tickling your chin and cheek. Master was so nice to hug.

“Doesn’t hurt anymore! Master Qippi made it stop!”

“My sweetheart… I will never let it happen again. I will protect you, I ought to… come here, give me a kiss?” you giggled, obeying his demand. “Hmm… so good! Aren't you the bestest cheek kisser in the world…?”

“Master Qippi, the drawing on my tummy…“

“Oh? My, my. Do not fret. Master knows a couple of hidden spells. The ink will vanish, but you'll remain safe. Now, you must remember…”

“Hmm?”

“It’s our little secret. No one else can know about it. Just you and Master. Can you do it? Can you keep our tiny, itty sized secret?” he caressed your scalp with a fingertip of sub rosa undertones—just like when he made you fall asleep.

“I can! I won’t tell anyone!” you pinched your index and thumb together, pretending to zip your lips with them.

“Gorgeous! Now… come here, my love… oh, you lost so much blood. No, do not look. I'll cook you something really tasty and rich in iron…”

He hadn't wasted saliva with those accolades for no reason, he had truly meant to keep you in the light. Yet you were still so small. You'd grow to comprehend the components of his feat and he could not let you—nor could he allow that dark memory to take roots and tarnish your mind. As soon as the needed seconds passed and that spell could be removed without bringing you back to that disgusting state, he would take charge of another feat. If freeing your mind from such a moment was cottony to your brain, so would he do.

It's none but one’s perception of the world through the years who’s the best tutor at lecturing about misery and its polychromed presentations. Nevertheless, for Easthies, its promised multicolorness spread in nothing but crimson—drank unassumingly by his vests, which neatly synthesized it in its same hueness. The reaching of his palm served no purpose but of resting atop your hand’s back, pressing your own palm forcefully as a way to tell you not to remove it. Certainly, keeping your non-disinfected hand against an open wound was far from pertinent. But had he other choices, he'd be the first to utter this thought.

Easthies had more to worry himself. His first reveries were of the pact and how he was bound to no tresspassing, even a millimetrical step.

His second one was of how he could convince himself to overcome it, putting you on the pearly plateau of his mind and dissing all forepromised duties.

Saving the life of a child with the use of forbidden magic would be, if adapted into sturdy book spines, seen as the act of a knight, one whom no net ensnares.

Now here he is: pondering things he had promised himself to never wonder.

“Master Eas, will I die…?” you weep like a litter that find itself in no state other than motherlessness. Last time you asked him the same question, you had occupied yourself with hiding a scrapped knee. Now you were not so far from the truth: you would if he deemed fit, if he thought a child with upcoming years of life should be sacrificed in the name of the pact—the laws of the pact shall be upheld through any means.

“Master Eas…? Talk to me… please…”

“I’m here, darling. You shall not worry… can you move?” you shook your head.

“It hurts…”

“I know it does, my dear. But…”

“Make the pain go away, please…”

You couldn't conceptualize what was running through his mind in the time being. You could not know that, the moment you begged for him to stop it, he had thought of applying unthoughtful methods. Your begging weaved a chorus in unison, both intimate and profane—although the last adjective was one only he applied to it.

“I can't do it, dear.”

“I promise I won't cry! I'll drink any medicine at the hospital!”

“The Medical Spire is too far.” He held onto the flagpole until his fingers became white. “I cannot take you there.”

He could still do something, couldn't he? His knowledge wasn't wide, he refrained from harboring anything that stepped too far. Yet counterclock was a good option. He could safely remove it when approaching the Medical Spire. He would clean it off pristine and swiftly so as to not raise any suspicions.

Nothing would be off place.

“So I will die…?” it was sorrowful how you uttered those mostly to seek his affection. You did not believe you would, not when Master was close—he was your knight in shiny armor, none could lay an ill-intended finger upon you if you had him within reach. Yet could he protect you from his ideological cage?

“No, dear. I will not allow you to. Here, I'll help you out…” Easthies removed a small percentage of your attire. Your cheek was tear-rolled, for part of the fabric had stuck to your wound. “Hurts? It'll stop soon, I assure you.” you squeezed Master’s forearm and, once enough skin was exposed, he retreated. Could he? No one should be unwilling to save a child, especially if that child is one’s own. Therefore He brought his pen forward.

“Master Eas, what are you doing…?”

“Shush…”

“M-master, no! You cannot!”

“Do not squirm. If the lines are shapeless it will worsen your case.” he pressed the pen’s tip against your side, neatly mastering a straight line. He had already stepped too far. No ink should be on one's skin but blotches from practicing.

“Master Eas, you told me we cannot do it!”

“You’re right, darling. Master is being a nincompoop today, I must agree.”

He looked upon the scene before him, the childhood of rosy frame you've been sharing by his side—nothing but preciousness could be expected from you. But he still had time to pull back and watch the watery aspect of your eyes becoming the only thing to give your gaze a glow of life. He could still stop it and ruffle your hair, cooing your way towards forevermore.

He could still withdraw. Should he?

This morning was like the others. You woke to dawn light filtering through the narrow windows of the Tower, to the familiar scent of old parchment and candle wax, to the gentle rise and fall of your husband's chest. His arm was around you, his long fingers splayed against the curve of your waist. His eye was closed, his breathing even. He looked, in these rare moments of counterfeit sleep, almost peaceful.

You propped yourself up on one elbow and studied his face. The birthmark that others whispered about, the blotch of deep red that climbed his neck and pooled on his cheek, no longer seemed odd to you. It was simply part of him, like the silver of his hair or the pale arch of his brow. You traced a finger lightly along its edge. His eye opened.

"Good morrow," you said.

"Good morrow." His voice was rough with disuse. "You are staring."

"I am admiring."

A faint crease appeared between his brows, his version of a puzzled expression. "There is little to admire."

"There is everything to admire." You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then to the bridge of his nose, then to the scarred hollow where his missing eye had once been. He held still for this ritual, as he always did, and when you reached his mouth, his hand came up to cup the back of your head and hold you there for a moment longer.

"You are very odd," he said when you pulled back.

"I am your wife. I am allowed to be odd."

"Hm." The sound was almost amused. He released you and sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. The morning light caught the pale angles of his torso, the lean muscle. "I have something for you."

"You always have something for me."

He rose from the bed and crossed to his desk, where a small wooden box sat beside a stack of parchments. You watched him, the way he moved with that uncanny grace, the way his silver hair fell across his bare shoulders. When he turned back, the box was in his hands.

"For you," he said, placing it on the bed beside you.

You opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, lay a necklace. The chain was white gold, so fine it seemed spun from spider silk, and from it hung a pendant of deep green emerald, carved into the shape of a leaf. Oak leaves. Your house sigil.

"Brynden." Your voice caught in your throat. "This is…where did you find this?"

"A craftsman in Myr. I commissioned it some moons ago. It arrived by ship yesterday."

The emerald caught the light, flashing green fire. You lifted it reverently, and the chain slithered through your fingers like water.

"It is beautiful," you breathed.

"You said once that you missed the Reach. The trees, the green." He was standing awkwardly now, his hands clasped behind his back, his eye fixed on your face with slight anxiety. "I thought perhaps you might like to carry a piece of it with you."

"I love it." You rose from the bed and went to him, the necklace clutched in your fist. "Put it on me please."

He took the chain with careful fingers and fastened it around your neck. The pendant rested against your collarbone, a small green anchor to the home you had left behind.

"There," he said. "It suits you."

You looked down at the emerald leaf, then up at your husband's pale, strange, beloved face. "You give me so many things," you said. "The ruby bracelets, the sapphire hairpins, the pearl drop earrings. The ivory comb from Volantis, the silk shawl from Yi Ti. My jewelry chest is overflowing."

He tilted his head, that familiar birdlike gesture. "Do you not like them?"

"I adore them. Every piece." You reached up and touched his cheek, the smooth skin beside the birthmark. "But you do not need to bring me treasures every week, Brynden. I am not Shiera."

The name hung in the air between you. It was the first time you had spoken it since that night in the solar, the night everything had changed. You watched his face carefully, looking for the flinch, the shadow of old pain. It flickered there for a heartbeat, and then it was gone.

"I know you are not," he said.

"I only mean that I do not require rare jewels to be happy. Shiera collected beautiful things. I…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "I collect moments."

He was silent for a while, his eye searching your face. Then, slowly, he leaned down. It was a gesture he had developed in the first weeks of your true marriage, when he had noticed how you stretched onto your toes to reach his mouth. So he had taken to bending toward you whenever you were close, a small, unconscious courtesy.

You kissed him. When you pulled back, he looked thoughtful.

"I see," he said.

"I am not ungrateful…"

"You are not." He touched the emerald leaf at your throat. "But I have been foolish. I have been courting you with the wrong currency."

"Brynden…"

"I have a meeting with the Master of Coin this morning." He was already turning toward his wardrobe, reaching for his doublet. "It will be tedious and I will likely have to threaten someone before it is done. But afterward…" He paused, his shirt half-buttoned. "Afterward, I have no obligations. The afternoon is clear."

You blinked at him. "It is?"

"I have ensured it." He finished the buttons. "I thought we might take a walk in the gardens. I have heard there is a new fountain, some ghastly thing from Braavos with mermaids. I would like to hear your opinion on it."

A walk in the gardens. Such an ordinary, unremarkable thing that any husband might do with any wife. Yet your eyes stung with sudden tears, because you understood what he was offering. Time. His time, which was the rarest treasure of all.

"I would like that," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. "Very much."

He nodded, a crisp, businesslike gesture, but you had learned to read him now. The faint relaxation around his mouth, the slight softening of his red eye. He was pleased.

"Good," he said. "I shall send for you when the meeting is done."

He crossed to the door, then stopped, turned, came back to you and leaned down again, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Wear the necklace," he said. "It truly does suit you."

True to his word, Brynden sent a servant to fetch you in the early afternoon. You had dressed with care, a gown of pale cream silk, simple in cut but elegant in drape, the emerald necklace displayed against the bare skin of your throat. Your hair you had left loose, the way he seemed to prefer it. When you descended the Tower stairs and found him waiting in the courtyard, his single eye swept over you with an intensity that made your cheeks heat.

"You look lovely," he said.

"You look like you have just threatened the Master of Coin."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I did. He was most cooperative afterward."

The gardens of the Red Keep were beautiful in the afternoon light, the roses in full bloom, the lemon trees heavy with fruit, the sea breeze carrying the salt-tang of Blackwater Bay. Lords and ladies strolled along the gravel paths, their silks and velvets a shifting tapestry of color. As you walked at Brynden's side, his arm tucked through yours, you felt their eyes on you. The whispers, too, rising like the hum of insects.

"…the Oakheart girl and the sorcerer…"

"…look at his face, gods be good…"

"…she seems happy enough, poor deluded thing…"

You had learned to ignore them. More than ignore them, you had learned to pity them, for they could not see what you saw. They could not know the quiet sweetness of the man beside you, the way he described the Braavosi fountain in a dry, precise deadpan that made you laugh aloud. The way he paused to point out a particularly clever raven perched on a fig tree, explaining how it had been trained to deliver messages. The way his hand tightened on your arm when you stumbled on an uneven stone, steadying you before you could fall.

"That fountain," he said, gesturing to the marble monstrosity ahead, "The mermaids were supposed to spout water from their mouths. As you can see, they are spouting from their…elsewhere."

You clapped a hand over your mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway, bright and startled. The mermaids were indeed spouting water from anatomically dubious locations, their stone faces frozen in expressions of eternal surprise.

"Who commissioned this?" you managed.

"Lord Redwyne, as a gift to the king. I suspect it was revenge for the wine tariffs."

You laughed again, and the sound drew stares from a nearby cluster of ladies. You did not care. You were walking in the gardens with your husband, your arm in his, he was making you laugh, the afternoon sun was warm on your face, and the emerald leaf was a cool weight against your skin.

"Brynden," you said, when your laughter had subsided.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For this afternoon."

He was quiet for a moment, his eye on the fountain. The mermaids continued to spout water from various unseemly places.

"I have been thinking," he said, "about what you said this morning. About collecting moments. I have realized that I do not know how to be a husband. All of my tools are wrong." He turned to face you. "I gave Shiera jewels because jewels were what she wanted. I gave you jewels because I did not know what else to give."

"You give me plenty," you said, touching the emerald. "I was not complaining."

"But you were teaching me." He took your hand, his cool fingers wrapping around yours. "And I am a quick learner."

He lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, right there in the middle of the garden path, with half the court looking on. The whispers rose to a crescendo, but you did not hear them. You only heard the beat of your own heart, the soft intake of your husband's breath, the rustle of the wind through the trees.

"Come," he said, releasing your hand but keeping your arm in his. "There is a bench by the sea wall. I am told the view is tolerable."

It was more than tolerable. It was magnificent, the bay spreading out before you in a sheet of hammered gold, the sails of ships glinting in the distance, the sky a pale, washed blue. You sat together on the stone bench, your shoulder brushing his, and watched the waves.

"May I ask you something?" you said after a while.

"You may."

"What do the ravens see? When you look through their eyes?"

He was silent for a moment, and you worried you had overstepped. But then he spoke, his voice low and contemplative.

"It is difficult to describe. It is like…being in two places at once. I am here, with you, but I am also above the city, riding the wind. I see the rooftops and the streets and the people going about their lives. I see ships coming into harbor and carts rumbling along the roads. I see a thousand small moments that no one else notices, all happening at once." He paused. "It is overwhelming, sometimes. It is why I do not sleep well. There is always something to see."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. It is simply…much." His eye found yours. "Does it frighten you? Knowing that I can see through them?"

You considered the question. "It should," you admitted. "But I have grown rather fond of ravens."

"One raven in particular, I suspect."

"Pebble is a good friend."

"Useless creature."

"You could stand to be kinder to Pebble."

Brynden Rivers laughed. It was a small sound, rusty, as though his throat had forgotten how to make it. But it was unmistakably a laugh, and it transformed his face. For a moment he looked young.

"I shall endeavor to be kinder to the raven," he said. "For your sake."

"Thank you."

A raven fluttered past, disappearing into the dusk sky towards rookery. You slipped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.

"Bad news?" you asked.

"No. Merely information." He turned in your embrace, his hands settling on your hips. "Lord Butterwell has been buying up land. I will need to look into it."

"Tomorrow."

He blinked. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw. "Tonight, you are mine."

His eye softened, the red dimming to something warmer. "Am I?"

"You are." You tugged gently at his collar, pulling him down. He leaned obligingly, bending to your level, and you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We are going to have supper. You are going to eat more than three bites. And then we are going to sit by the fire, and you are going to tell me about the most ridiculous thing you have seen through your ravens this week."

"The most ridiculous thing?"

"Surely there must be something. Courtiers are absurd creatures."

He considered this. "Lord Bracken was seen attempting to serenade a milkmaid last Tuesday. He fell into a cow pat."

You laughed, delighted. "There. That is exactly what I mean."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Very well," he obliged. "Supper. And cows. And…being yours."

"Good." You kissed him again. "Brynden."

"Yes?"

"I am happy."

"So am I," he said, and there was wonder in his voice, as though he had only just realized it was true.

The hour was late, and the Tower of the Hand was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the distant cry of gulls over Blackwater Bay. You had retired to your chambers hours ago, leaving Brynden to his endless parchments and his murmured consultations with agents who came and went like shadows. You had grown accustomed to these nights, they no longer stung the way they once had, back in the cold early days of your marriage, when every empty hour had felt like a rejection.

Now, you simply waited. You knew he would come to you eventually.

You were half-drowsing when you heard the door open and close, the soft tread of boots on stone. The mattress dipped as Brynden sat on the edge of the bed, and you heard the familiar sounds of him undressing: the rustle of his doublet, the soft thump of his boots hitting the floor. You kept your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips, savoring the anticipation.

He slid under the covers beside you, and his hand found your hip in the darkness. His touch was urgent in a way it rarely was. Usually, he came to bed with a kind of restrained gentleness, as though he were still learning the language of intimacy and wanted to pronounce every word correctly. Tonight, his grip was firmer, his body pressing closer, his voice was rough with a weariness that went beyond the physical.

"I need you," he muttered. "Today was…I need to not think. I need to be here. With you. Only you."

Your heart clenched. You knew his burdens, the weight of a kingdom pressing down on his shoulders, the endless schemes and counter-schemes, the dark whispers that followed him wherever he went. You opened your eyes to tell him that you were here, that you would always be here, that he could lose himself in you as much as he needed…and then you remembered.

"Brynden," you whispered carefully. "Wait."

His hand had been sliding up your thigh. It stopped. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong. It is only…" You bit your lip. "There is something under the covers."

He went still. You felt the shift in him, the instinctive alertness of a spymaster who had survived a dozen assassination attempts. "Something," he repeated.

"A friend."

"A fr…" He stopped. His eye, adjusted to the darkness, dropped to the lump in the blankets between your bodies. A small lump.

From beneath the covers came a soft, contented squawk.

Brynden reached over and pulled back the blankets with a sharp flick of his wrist. There, sprawled across the soft mound of your stomach, wings spread as though drunken, lay Pebble. The raven's eyes were closed, his beak slightly open, his round belly rising and falling with each tiny breath. One of your hands was still resting on his breast feathers, frozen mid-stroke.

There was a long silence.

"My lady," Brynden said, in the tone of a man who was choosing his words with extreme care, "why is there a raven in our bed?"

"He was lonely."

"Lonely."

"He was tapping at the window. It is cold outside tonight. And you were working so late, and I was alone, and he looked so sad with his little beak pressed against the glass…"

"So you brought him into the bed."

"I put down a towel," you said weakly. "In case of…accidents."

Brynden stared at Pebble. Pebble, perhaps sensing that he was the subject of discussion, opened one bleary black eye, regarded the Hand of the King with casual insolence, and closed it again.

"He is lying on your stomach," Brynden said.

"He likes to be close to me."

"He is lying on your stomach in our bed, where I was about to…" He stopped himself, took a breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "My love. You have made my raven into a lapdog."

"He is not a lapdog. He is a raven."

"A lapraven, then. A creature that does not exist in nature. You have invented it." He reached down and scooped Pebble up with one hand. The raven let out an indignant squawk, his wings flapping uselessly. "This bird was bred to carry messages across the Seven Kingdoms. To fly through storms and evade hawks. To serve as my eyes and ears in places no man could reach. And now he sleeps on silk sheets and eats from your fingers."

You sat up, clutching the blankets to your chest. "He still carries messages."

"Once a fortnight. To the kitchens. Begging for scraps."

You tried to look dignified. It was difficult when your hair was mussed and your husband was holding your pet like a naughty child. "I will put him back on his perch," you offered.

Brynden sighed. It was a long, tortured sigh of a man who had spent the day dealing with treasonous lords and bickering councilors and who had come to bed wanting nothing more than to bury himself in his wife's warmth, only to find a plump bird in his place.

"Stay," he said. He crossed to the perch near the window and deposited Pebble onto it with more gentleness than you had expected. The raven ruffled his feathers, gave Brynden a reproachful look, and tucked his head under his wing with the air of a monarch who had been grievously insulted.

Brynden returned to the bed. He did not lie down. Instead, he sat on the edge, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight. The scars on his shoulders, old and pale, traced patterns you had memorized with your fingertips.

"I am not angry," he said, without turning around.

"I know."

"I am…concerned."

You crawled across the bed and knelt behind him, wrapping your arms around his chest and pressing your cheek to his back. He was tense, the muscles hard. "Concerned about what?"

"Pebble is not a pet. He was never meant to be a pet. He is a tool that has forgotten its purpose. And you…" He paused, and his hand came up to cover yours where they rested on his chest. "You have made him forget. With your kindness, with your attention, with your need to nurture something."

"Is that wrong?"

"It is not wrong. But it is…misdirected." He turned, shifting so that he faced you, his single eye found yours in the dim light. "A raven cannot love you back. Not truly. It can only take what you give and grow lazy on it. You deserve something that can return your affection."

"Pebble returns my affection."

"Pebble returns to anyone who feeds him. I have seen him beg from the kitchen maids."

You wanted to argue, but the image of Pebble waddling after the scullery girls, croaking pitifully for bacon rinds, was unfortunately vivid. "I like ravens," you said instead, a little defensively. "They remind me of you."

Brynden went still. "They remind you of me."

"Your eyes. Your cleverness. The way you tilt your head when you are thinking." You reached up and touched his cheek. "When you are away, which is often, Pebble is…a piece of you that stays with me. A small, feathery, ill-behaved piece. But a piece regardless."

"Then perhaps," he said slowly, "what you want is not a raven at all."

"What do you mean?"

He took your hand from his cheek and held it in both of his.

"Perhaps what you want is a child."

The word hung in the air between you. A child. Your breath caught, your heart stuttered, and you felt the blood rush to your cheeks.

"I…" you started, and stopped. "I did not mean to suggest…"

"You did not suggest. I am suggesting." His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "You have made this Tower warmer than it has ever been. You have filled it with your laughter and your gentleness and your stubborn insistence on loving things that are not easy to love." His eye met yours, and there was something almost vulnerable in its depths. "A child would be lucky to have you as a mother. And I…" He hesitated. "I would be honored to give you one."

Your throat tightened. "Brynden, you do not have to…you said once that you were not a man given to tender feeling. That you were strange and secretive and cold. If you do not want children…"

"I did not say that."

"Then what are you saying?"

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I am saying that I have spent my life serving the realm. I have given my eye, my youth, my conscience, everything I have, to the Iron Throne. And I would do it again. But there is a part of me that is tired. A part of me that wants something that is not duty." His hand tightened on yours. "Something that is ours."

Your eyes were burning. You blinked rapidly, but a tear escaped anyway, tracing a hot path down your cheek.

"You want a child with me?" you whispered.

"I want a family with you." He said it simply, as though it were a fact he had long since established and was only now reporting. "I want to see you holding our son or daughter in your arms. I want to teach them to read and to shoot a bow and to understand the language of ravens. I want to watch you be the mother I know you will be: patient, kind, fierce when you need to be." He paused, a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "And I want to stop finding birds in my bed."

A laugh burst out of you, wet and startled. "That is what this is about? You are jealous of Pebble?"

"I am not jealous of a raven."

"You are. You are jealous of a useless raven."

"I am not…" He stopped, his smile widened involuntarily. "Perhaps a little. He sees more of you than I do, some days. And he is always on your stomach."

You laughed again, it the tears spilled over. You threw your arms around his neck and kissed him. He caught you and kissed you back with a fervor.

"You are a ridiculous man," you murmured against his mouth.

"I am a pragmatic man. I see a problem, I propose a solution."

"A child is a solution?"

"A child is many things." He pulled back, his red eye bright in the firelight. "A legacy. A hope. A piece of us that will outlast all the schemes and wars. A child is the one thing that matters more than the realm." He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. "You asked me once what I wished for. I told you I had wished for foolish things. But this…this is not foolish. This is the wisest thing I have ever wanted."

You kissed him again. His hands slid up your back, pressing you closer. You felt the tension drain from his shoulders as he let himself sink into you.

"What about Pebble?" you asked breathlessly as his lips traced a path down your throat.

"Pebble," he said between kisses, "can sleep on his perch tonight. And every night hereafter. Our bed is about to become considerably less accommodating to ravens."

"That seems unfair to him."

"I will buy him a larger perch. The finest perch in the Seven Kingdoms." He lifted his head and looked at you, his expression was serious now. "But this is not about the raven. This is about us."

Part 3: coming soon...

a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out. Comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated! <3

a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The raven croaked.

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

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

Lord Bloodraven stood in the doorway.

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

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

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

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

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

“That is my raven,” he said.

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

“He is fat.”

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

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

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

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

He turned that burning red eye back to you.

“You have made him useless.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have been crying.”

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

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

You raised your eyes.

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

It was not a question. You nodded anyway.

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

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

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

He turned, his single eye finding you again.

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth opened but no sound came out.

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

“My lord, you have been...”

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

You closed your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He released your hand and stepped back.

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

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

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

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

You swallowed. “Brynden.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you wish I were her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is there?”

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

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

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

“You are trembling,” he said.

“I am afraid.”

“Of me?”

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

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

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

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.

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

Your breath caught.

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

His thumb traced the line of your jaw.

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

“I am willing,” you whispered.

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

When he pulled back, his breathing was slightly unsteady.

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

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

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

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

“Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Brynden.”

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

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

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

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

“What is he bringing?” you asked.

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

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

He offered you his hand, you took it.

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

Part 2: see here

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

a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist. Rn I'm tagging those who went along with my freaky birdman propaganda.

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

The whole space is immersed in silence - or as silent as living in a city like New York can be, traffic sounds muffled down by the windows and the distant cry of a baby a few doors down the hall.

But the apartment itself is quiet. 

That’s a good sign, he thinks as he carefully sets his work bag in its respective place by the door and neatly sets the keys in the wall hook. That’s a good sign, he thinks as he makes his way to the bedroom and yet his skin prickles with anxiety. 

With a hand hovering just over the knob, Dex hesitates. 

His heart accelerates, thrumming against his ribcage as if attempting to escape. The buzzing in his head overwhelms him and Dex stumbles a step back, trying really hard to push away the thoughts that threaten to swallow him whole. 

Breathe in and breathe out.

Closing his eyes, Dex works on his breathing, focusing on the slow exhale of air, mimicking the breathing exercise doctor Mercer taught him. He can do this. He’s dealt with much worse. He can do this.

He can do this.

With a twist of the knob, Dex lets himself inside the bedroom. 

The small room is enveloped in absolute darkness, the curtains tightly closed just like he left them this morning before leaving for work - the last thing he needs right now is for curious neighbours from across the building to peep into his apartment.  

His knee bumps hard against the leg of the bed and Dex lets out a small curse, now moving with more careful steps in the darkness. It takes nearly ten seconds for him to finally get to the bedside table. He flickers open the small lamp and as soon as his eyes adapt to the yellow brightness of the light, Dex turns his attention towards the small figure curled upon the bed’s edge and just like that, everything gets better. It works like magic every time.

The moment his eyes land on you, his mind calms down, the buzzing dissolving away into a serene quietness. 

You’re deep into slumber, closed eyes and features softened by sleep. Dex watches you with something that borders admiration, watching you sleep as always has been precious to him. 

Despite the dampness that clings to your eyelashes, proof of the tears you must’ve shed a few hours or a few minutes ago, there’s a serene expression in your face. A gentle peace that has been lacking for the past few days.

Dex hesitates for a brief moment before he crouches down and brushes the hair away from your cheek.

His touch receives no reaction - no terrified flinch, no scared grimace - and Dex feels lighter, both in soul and body. With the back of his fingers, Dex gently strokes your cheek, feeling the soft skin under his stiff touch. A soft smile slowly creeps up to his lips and for a minuscule moment, his mind flees at how nice it would be if things were always like this, unrushed and peaceful.

Dex wants this moment to last forever. 

But of course, all good things must end - particularly soon when he is involved. So distracted marveling at the softness of your cheek, Dex is caught off guard when he realizes that your eyes are wide open, fear quickly pooling in them.

 Fuck!

He immediately snatches his hand away and stands up. 

“You were sleeping. I was just… the hair on your face.” he blurts out, as if whatever excuse is gonna magically erase the fact that you just woke up with his hands all over you. Great. Now in addition to kidnapper, you’re also gonna think he’s a pervert.

Just what he needed right now.

You look away from him mid-sentence and squirm, wincing a moment later when you’re pulled back by the cuffs latched onto your feet.

Right, he almost forgot about them. Dex takes that as his cue to remove the bindings keeping you in bed.

“Here, let me just- ” 

He reaches over, carefully as to avoid touching you too much, and begins to loosen up the cuffs keeping your feet chained to the bed and the belt from around your wrists. Your wrists are left indented and the skin irritated by the belt that was tightly clasped around them. 

You don’t move for a few moments, body too numb and weak from the countless hours you spend in bed with close to zero mobility, bound and chained to make sure you’re not running to the door the moment you get a chance.

Dex watches you wince before pulling at the cloth tied around your head, a weak substitute for a gag; just a precaution in case you remember to start hollering for help while he’s away at work. 

With a snail’s pace, you move to sit at the edge of the bed, breathing heavily as Dex expectantly stands to the side like a shadow. 

Dex opens his mouth to say something, maybe ask a stupid question ‘are you alright?’ but before he can even get a word out, you’re standing up with unsteady feet and limping your way to the en-suite bathroom without so much as glancing at him. 

His feet follow you on instinct, but the door that slams hard on its hinges stops him from going any further. The lock aggressively clicks into place, a repulsive sound that echoes in his head like a gunshot. 

Dex has to take a deep breath to ease up the impulse of putting his fist through the door. 

–

Your stomach growls as you eat the pizza slice.

It’s still warm, laced with extra cheese and tasting absolutely divine - although your opinion may be biased on the last part. Anything would taste delicious after a fast of nearly eight hours.

Dex - that’s what he called himself although you’re not too sure if you believe him - clearly isn’t prepared for the logistics that holding someone hostage involves because if he were, you wouldn’t be left to rot in bed the entire day without so much as a drop of water while he goes to work. For the past three days, you’ve been surviving solely on breakfast and dinner, without any snacks or lunch throughout the day.

The arrangement sucks, always leaving you with a mouth drier than the desert and with a stomach ache that doesn’t fully go away even after finally eating. 

Dex tries not to make it obvious that he’s looking at you, while chewing his own slice.

Seated right next to you on the small dinner table, he’s much closer than you'd prefer, his arm nearly touching yours every time he moves. The living room’s light shines on his face in a particular way, revealing the small patches of silver on the sides of his short brown hair, and the sharp angles of his face. There’s a small dimple in his chin and he’s clean shaved. Albeit tired, he looks… normal.

A normal-looking guy, living in a normal apartment with a normal life. But looks are often deceiving, aren’t they?

It’s not hard to understand that he has issues. Serious ones, the type that could easily secure him a place in a psychiatric facility - the assumption supported by the drawer full of meds you found in the bathroom cabinet the first night. 

In all honesty, you have a hard time understanding him. But so far Dex hasn’t done anything remotely weird to make you feel like you’re about to get jumped at and you’re grateful for that. He’s been polite enough to let you use the bathroom unsupervised and his eyes never linger towards where they shouldn’t. His hand hasn’t been raised against you and no explicit threats have been hissed your way. It’s almost like you’re roommates, of sorts. 

But the positive aspects don’t outweigh the negative ones nor do they alter the fact that he has kidnapped you and is currently holding you hostage.

He lies as well because you have serious doubts about him being an FBI agent, like he said that one time. The badge that is usually perched on his belt could very much be a fake and the gun on the holster an illegal one. 

You distractedly glance at him and for a moment, your eyes meet. 

You regret the eye contact as soon as it happens because Dex immediately takes that as a sign to strike a conversation. 

“How’s the pizza?” he eagerly asks, “It’s the same one you always ask for.” He’s right, it is the same pizza with the exact same ingredients you tend to order for yourself on a regular basis.

While this shouldn’t shock you, considering Dex has reluctantly admitted to following you around for weeks, you still can’t shake off how creepy it is for him to know the exact specifications of the food you find comfort in eating.

What else does he know about you that he shouldn’t know? What else has he seen about you that he shouldn’t have?

Your stomach answers for you, letting out an absurdly loud groan. 

“It’s fine.” your voice comes out hoarse and weird, not a surprise given this is the first time in the whole day you’re using it.

When you grab the glass of water in front of you, his hazel eyes flit over to your wrists and the marks engraved into the skin from how deep his belt dug in, the skin itchy and red. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout that.” Dex lowers his head, “Didn’t mean to tie them so hard. I’ll… I’m gonna find something better for your hands.” 

“Or maybe you could just not use them.” 

Your voice is low, barely above a whisper but Dex catches them anyways. He shifts in the seat, a wrinkle settling in between his brows. 

“Maybe one day. In the future.” he says.

“Why not now?” you press him. “You don’t trust me?”

“I do.” 

He doesn’t.

You know he doesn’t. Both of you know that. And he’s right not to because you’re bolting out of the door the moment you get a decent chance.

“I do. I trust you.” he repeats, this time with more conviction. He leans closer to you and you do your best not to push yourself off the chair and walk away. “I trust you more than you know.”

“But not enough to let me out of the bindings, right.”

He swallows hard, shaking his head. “It’s complicated.”

“Right.” you sigh, tearing your eyes away from him and back to the food. 

Dex sighs your name, slumping back on the chair. “I know this might be hard to believe in but this isn’t what I want either. It’s really not. I don’t want to keep you all cooped up like you’re a prisoner. You’re not one, anyways.”

He rubs his face with one hand, jaw set tightly. Your eyes notice the thickness of his arm, the subtle but defined muscle stretching underneath the shirt. An FBI agent, he said, a former army soldier too.   

“I just can’t take risks right now. Not until… we figure things out. I know this arrangement, if we can call it that, isn’t the most beneficial for you. But I need you. I need your help.”

You freeze, hand stopping mid-air with the remainder of the pizza slice. 

“My help?”

Dex nods, nudging his chair closer. His cheek ticks for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. 

“Yeah, I… how can I put this.” he breathes in deeply. One of his hands reaches forward, nervously fidgeting with the edge of the table. 

“I’ve seen the way you are around people. You feed the homeless. Help blind people cross the street. Bake cookies for your elderly neighbour.” his own lips curl into a smile at that, “You’re kind to people even if you don’t have to be. You listen to them and show them compassion. That’s… that’s something I really need in my life.” 

The confusion you feel has your thoughts scattering all over your mind. He thinks you’re kind. How is that enough reason to kidnap someone?

“I don’t understand…” you say, brows raised. 

Dex presses his lips together, rolling his shoulders tensely. “Being kind, compassionate like you are… it doesn’t come easy to me. Never has, not even back when I was a kid. So I do the second best thing and try to pretend it. It’s what I’ve been doing my whole life, pretend like I care about the good and the bad and hide who I really am.”

You hesitate, before asking. “And who is that? Who you really are.” 

His fingers still and when Dex answers, it’s with a shadow obscuring his face, his eyes focused on some distant point beyond the wall. 

“Someone who has killed before.” 

Your blood runs cold. Maybe you had a suspicion that there was something deeply wrong with him, but for him to admit it loudly is a whole new thing. 

“It’s part of why I joined the bureau and the army before that.” he reveals, with a cold voice and a hardness in his face. “I get to kill without feeling bad for it. It’s part of the job now, strictly professional and nothing personal about it but it fulfills more than what duty calls for. It scratches that itch that never really goes away.”

You swallow dryly, the knot in your throat refusing to go down. 

The fear and shock that flood you are hard to push down but you quickly mask them when Dex glances back at you. He visibly swallows, slightly shaking his head. 

“I’m sorry.” he apologizes, “I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now. But I promise that you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you, I would never do that to you.”

Right. His words fail to reassure you after what he has just revealed, but you pretend otherwise. Maybe if Dex thinks you believe him then his guard will be lowered. 

“I’m aware that it’s wrong, I know that. But I just… I can’t help it, sometimes.” he swallows, fingers twitching. “I’m trying to do better. Trying to steer into the right path. That’s why I need you, I need your help.”

“Me?” you mumble, completely lost. 

Dex doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares, focusing on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. 

“I do better when there’s a North Star to guide me.” 

–

A small, muffled sniff comes from inside the room, bed gently creaking as you adjust yourself. With an arm half-bent beneath his head, Dex stares at the ceiling. It’s nearly midnight and he has an early day tomorrow but sleep evades him. 

The couch is stiff under him, much too short to comfortably accommodate all of him but Dex doesn’t complain, he’s slept in much worse places before.

Compared to sleeping on the hard floor, no pillow or blankets, stones and dirt digging into his back with the obnoxious snoring of fellow army soldiers ringing in his ears, this is far from unpleasant. Especially with you sleeping just around the corner. 

The apartment is small enough that the couch sits just outside the bedroom and with the door wide open, Dex can hear the sound of your breathing. You’re awake, he gets that from the way your breathing keeps changing every now and then, the soft clink of the metal cuff on your feet as you shift once in a while, trying to get comfortable. 

His mind is calm now, no incessant buzzing or relentless thoughts.

It keeps drifting towards you instead. Details cling to him such as the way you smelled like him when you came out of the shower, having used what he owns - his soap, his shampoo, his moisturizer, his lotion. Even his clothes. With wet hair and dressed in his clothes, you looked like a dream.

He tried to not ogle much at the freshly moisturized, shiny skin of your legs; tried not to let his hands wander too much when closing the cuff around your ankle and securing the other end to the bed’s metal structure.

The small scowl on your face didn’t go unnoticed by him and part of him gets it. Sleeping cuffed to the bed can’t be easy and you deserve to be treated like a princess, not like a prisoner but Dex’s hands are tied for the moment being.

Giving you too much freedom when things are still slowly building between you two can be dangerous. He wishes things weren’t this way but right now he can’t afford to give you that amount of leeway. 

In theory Dex knows that what he’s doing is bad. Really bad. 

He has full conscience that this is far from healthy .

That what he’s doing falls on the exact opposite side of the spectrum of what he and doctor Mercer agreed he should do to keep him in the straight, narrow path and that if she were alive today, she’d be horrified at what he’s done. Kidnapping his North Star.

That sure would make her reconsider everything about him. Holding onto a good person isn’t the same as making one hostage and definitely not what she had suggested, not even in the slightest, before passing away.

If doctor Mercer was here, she’d be disappointed beyond measure and she’d force Dex to release you, to let you return back into your life. 

He supposes it’s a good thing that she’s dead. Because Dex isn’t sure he could give you up without a fight. You mean so much to him, more than you could ever know and enough for him to refuse allowing you the chance to just walk away like he means nothing. 

Everyone in his life - every single person - has abandoned him. Left him to fend for himself in the dark solitude of his mind, of the buzzing thoughts that plague him day and night. Dex refuses to let you do the same.

You’re good, kind and sweet. You’re the missing piece of the puzzle, the solution to his problems. You’re gonna help him get back on the right track, even if you aren’t sure about him.

You didn’t lash out at him after everything he revealed during dinner. You didn’t scream or call him a monster or push him away. No, you just sat there and patiently listened to him. Tried to understand him. Told him that you’d try to help him. 

He smiles, hope fluttering in his chest. 

So long as he has you, everything will be alright. 

–

Your stomach lets out a soft growl. 

Judging from the bright sunlight filtered out by the closed curtains and from how badly the pit in your stomach is starting to feel, it’s around lunch time. Not that it matters, you won’t be getting any food even if you want to. Not in your current position. 

You let out a sigh and move your head around, trying to find a better position.

By the end of week, you’ll be surprised if the bed doesn’t show a permanent dent shaped to your body given it’s where the majority of your days and nights are spent. 

Dex did follow through with his word and found some handcuffs this morning to use around your wrists instead of the circulation-cutting belt. The cuffs are nicer, looser than the belt, but still offering little to no opportunity to evade them. 

The more you think about it, the more helpless you feel. You have no plan, debunking each and every one given their potential of failure but mostly due to fear. Every time you begin to craft an escape plan, hesitation has you faltering. 

So far Dex has been nothing less than an exemplary kidnapper… what happens if you get caught trying to escape? The words from the other night are still bouncing around in your head, unwilling to let you forget who he truly is. 

Will he hurt you, or do worse, if you get caught - maybe as a lesson, maybe as a punishment or maybe because he wants to. You don’t want to find out what Dex can do and with your life on the thin line, reckless actions are what you can’t afford to do. 

Every single night, after Dex removes the chains, your body aches to act on the most basic survival instinct. Run. To lunge forward and reach for the door, to run down the hall and scream as loudly as you can.

Every night you fight against that impulse, nails digging into the palm of your hands every time Dex turns his back on you and the opportunity presents itself right there for you to seize.

Every night you have to control yourself, eyes flickering towards the door and adrenaline running through your veins. 

Think positive, is what you tell yourself.

A little hopeful voice whispers into your ear that maybe luck will be on your side and maybe you won’t have to do anything at all and that before you know it, the police will break down the apartment’s door and rescue you.

That’s one of the nice, comforting fantasies that keeps you entertained for a good amount of your days; distracted from the miserable turn your life has taken. 

The exhaustion you feel on a mental level adds up to the physical one. The tension accumulating in your body is hard to shake off, shoulders burning up at the uncomfortable position that allows your wrists to stay chained to the bed’s headboard. And you absolutely despise the sharp needling that occurs in your legs when you finally get to stand up. Ugh. 

Dex thinks you’re his North Star, someone kind enough to help him get into the right path. You genuinely don’t believe in it.

How are you supposed to help him? How can you possibly help him be a good person? For all you know, he might be lying to you, using some half-baked lie to get you to lower your guard. Maybe it’s a side-effect from the medicine he takes.

You don’t know, you genuinely don’t know. 

Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply. The music reaches the end and the announcer takes over, something about good weather these days.

Another song begins shortly after, some energetic tune you don't recognize. 

It was a nice gesture from Dex to leave the radio on. To keep company, he had said. And indeed it does keep you company although the radio station he tuned in keeps repeating the exact same playlist of old songs over and over again. But beggars can’t be choosers and you’re glad to at least have something to dull the static silence of your days. 

*knock* 

The sound startles you. 

For a moment you freeze, heart accelerating in your chest.  

You try listening in despite the interference of the radio that is still going on, the song playing on a low volume making it hard to listen properly. For the next few seconds nothing happens and your brain nearly convinces you to believe the door knock to be a product of your imagination. 

And then it happens again. 

Subtle and hard to listen to, but it’s definitely there. 

Without wasting another second, you scream as loudly as you can with the gag cloth around your mouth. Despite being laced with desperation, your voice comes out muffled down, the gag absorbing much of the sound and tears of frustration begin to build in your eyes. 

The cuffs securing your hands and feet rattle when you tug at them as aggressively as you possibly can with the hope that the clanking of metal can attract the attention of whoever is outside the apartment. 

Despite your best efforts, nothing happens.

There’s no more knocking on the door, no booming voice asking ‘is everything alright?’. 

Nothing. 

After excruciatingly long minutes, exhaustion wins and you give up, teary eyed and devastated. 

–

“Can I help? I don’t mind washing them.” you offer, eyeing the plates and silverware pilling on the sink.

Dinner is over and now it’s that weird time window where Dex handles chores while you just lurk around the apartment without any real purpose. Back in your apartment, this would be the time for you to pick the next day’s outfit and prepare your work bag while listening to your favorite podcast.

Here you don’t have any chores or obligations. No dishes to wash, no clothes to iron, no meal prep.

There’s nothing for you to do other than walk around in circles around the apartment and pretend you’re not counting the minutes until it’s bedtime and the cuffs are back on. 

“It’s okay. I got this.” Dex turns you down, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows and turning the faucet on. 

Your shoulders slump in the slightest as you awkwardly stand by the counter, watching the meticulous way in which Dex scrubs and re-scrubs every piece.

You were half-hoping to take advantage of a distraction moment to sneak away a knife. Or a fork. Anything sharp enough to be used as a weapon although to use under what circumstances, you’re not yet sure. You’re not sure of anything. 

Your nerves are rattling you on the inside tonight, the memory of the door knocking still lingering in your mind. Dex hasn’t mentioned anything about neighbours and you’re not stupid enough to bring it up. 

You don’t know what to do. All the ideas your brain conjures feel… risky. You can’t stop feeling scared, like one wrong move and you’re gonna mess everything up. If you attempt to escape, only to fail… 

Dex has blood on his hands, more out of pleasure than for his alleged job. Despite his promise, what guarantee is there that his hands won’t ever become stained with your blood?  

You nearly wince when Dex speaks, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, shutting off the faucet and drying his hands before turning towards you. “You look a little… I don’t know. Is something wrong?” 

Yes. Everything. Everything is wrong and it’s all his fault. 

Dex considers you with a little wrinkle between his brows. “Is it your wrists? I saw you touching them earlier. I can get something for them, if they are bothering you.”

You shake your head slowly. And then speak without meaning to, the words just slipping out of your mouth before you have the good sense of keeping them to yourself. 

“I need my phone.” 

You can tell the words takes Dex by surprise from the way he tenses up, shoulders straightening up. 

“Why don’t you sit down on the couch?” he stiffly suggests and then turns his back on you, opening and closing the kitchen drawers practically without looking at them too much. “I’ll make some of that tea you like so much.”

“I need to call my parents, Dex. They must be worried about me.”

“They know you’re fine. I already texted them on your behalf." Dex says, bumping against an open drawer with a hiss. “Said you’d be cutting back on phone time.”

A small incredulous sound escapes from your throat. 

“They won’t believe that.” you argue, crossing your arms. “We talk over the phone every week, sometimes even videocall. Please, Dex, just one phone call. I promise I won’t say or do anything suspicious. Please?”

Dex closes a drawer with enough force to rattle its contents. 

“We can talk about that later.” 

“Dex, c’mon, one call. Five minutes, on speaker. Please, it’s all I ask for.”

“Later.”

“Dex, please, just one-”

The knock on the door interrupts your argument. 

Both of you snap your heads towards the door and something twists inside you at the sound of voices in the hallway. But before you can even consider getting a word out of your mouth Dex moves with a speed so impressive that it startles you, cornering you against the counter with his palm firmly pressed against your lips. 

“Not a word.” he whispers, brown eyes focused on you intently. “Please.”

It’s suffocating to have him so close, body nearly molded to yours and trapping you against the counter, his breath fawning over your face and you can see every short, light-brown hair from his five o’clock  shadow. 

It’s only when you give a small nod that Dex finally looks away and turns his face to the door when another knock resonates and a chirpy female voice speaks. “Hello, Jehovah witnesses here. If we could just have a moment of your time…”

“Yeah, thanks but I’m not interested.” 

You glance at the door, eyes drawn to it like a moth to flame and heart thrumming at the fact that there are people on the other side of the door. People that might call the police if a commotion is heard… 

Almost as if tuned in to your mind, Dex glances at you and his remaining hand reaches for you with fingers slithering around your forearm, holding onto you firmly. 

“Oh, but sir, if you could open the door it would only take-”

“Not interested.” Dex loudly repeats, losing the polite tone from just moments ago. “Now get lost before I call the cops on you.”

Seconds drag by but the hand clamped over your mouth only slackens when the disappointed voices dim down into distance, footsteps scampering away from the apartment. 

Only when the coast is clear does Dex fully remove his hands from you, fingers brushing against your lips one last time and you let out a shaky exhale.

“Thank you.” Dex blurts, stepping aside and finally putting some space between you and you can see that the tips of his ears are blazing red. “For not….y’know. Making a scene.”

You nod, but can’t shake the nagging feeling in your chest that maybe you wasted an opportunity that might not appear again. 

–

It’s late when Dex comes back home the next night. 

That alone is enough to set alarms ringing in your head as Dex is never late. Punctuality is a trait of his, always adhering to consistnt routines and schedules.

It gets worse when you notice the heavy expression Dex wears, lips pressed into a tense line as he greets you. Something is off in the way he moves, tense limbs and a stiff spine. He tries to hide it, but the recoil that runs down his body when he bends down to release your cuffs and then again when he slams the radio’s off button reveals it. 

You slowly sit on the bed, rubbing your sore wrists and watching him storm into the bathroom. The sound of water running travels through the ajar door, but it's the pained hiss that catches your attention.

After a moment of pulling yourself together, you stand up and take small steps to the bathroom, supporting yourself using the wall as your legs slowly recover from a whole day of inactivity. 

Another distressed sound reaches your ears and you hesitate only for a brief second before pushing the door open. 

“Dex.” you call him, “Are you okay?” 

He’s hunched over the bathroom sink,  palms pressed against the small vanity and face hanging low between his shoulders. 

You can’t avoid the concern that prickles you when he turns around, face pale and dewy, looking more like a ghost than a human. Is he sick? 

“I’m fine.” Dex grits out and palms a hand through his face with a rough motion, cheeks hollowing as he exhales sharply. “Just give me a second.”

His face twists as he holds back a wince and this time his hand flies to press against his torso. You gasp when you catch sight of his ruined white shirt, horrified at the way the left side of the material is soaked in bright crimson. 

“Dex, you’re bleeding!”

“I’m okay, it’s nothing.” Dex rushes to say, one hand trying to hide the shirt with his coat but you’re faster than him and pull it away to get a clear view. 

“It doesn’t look like that.” you remark. “Let me see it.”

“You don’t have to, I told I’m-”

“Yes, you keep saying that. Just let me see, please.”

Dex sighs at the stubbornness you show but thankfully relents under the pressure, removing his coat and shirt while you attempt to help him.

When the shirt comes off of his body you freeze. There’s an injury on the side of his stomach, the skin torn and raw, blood trickling out of the wound.

Dex curses when he looks down and then glances at you.

“It was work.” he explains, “FBI had a raid today and this guy had a gun. The bullet grazed me for a second. I’m fine, really, I’ll put some bandages on and  get dinner started.” Dex tries to step aside but you get in his way. 

“Forget dinner, what you need is to go to a hospital.”

His answer comes quickly as lightning. “No.”

“Dex.” you cross your arms, incredulous. 

“I’m fine.”

“You got shot at, you definitely aren’t fine. That looks like it needs stitches.”

“I’ll survive.”

You shake your head, biting your lip. Maybe later when you’re back to being cuffed to the bed and spending your days rooting in bed you’ll regret this, but right now the humanity inside you refuses to let this go. 

“Let me help you.” you propose, “You don’t wanna see a doctor, fine. Let me do it instead. I once did a first-aid workshop for work, I know the basics. I can help.”

Dex looks at you, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and not looking entirely convinced with your suggestion. You sniff, glancing at the blood that now trails down to his waist, staining the top of his pants. God, you’ve never liked the sight of blood. 

“The other night you told me you watched me help people. You also said that I’m here because you need me and my help. My kindness, right?” you start, taking a step towards him with the back of your neck burning as Dex holds on to every word you say like it’s the gospel.

“Then don’t shut me out now, Dex. You’re not alone in this. Let me help you, okay? Let me show you kindness. Let me take care of that wound. Please.” 

You watch Dex gulp, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows like it’s the hardest thing in the world. You know the words hit the right spot when at last he nods with a small, shaky movement of his head. “Okay…”

The next forty minutes are spent in mental agony of blood smearing and dripping everywhere - and you mean absolutely everywhere: your hands, your clothes, the counter, the floor - as you do your best cleaning the gunshot wound and then having to steady yourself while holding a sterilized needle in your trembling fingers to sew up the split skin back together as Dex guides you through it, with his medical training from back at Quantico.

He is surprisingly calm as you sew him up at the best of your abilities, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles become pale, exhaling through clenched teeth. 

It’s only when you’re patting down a bandage over the stitches that it dawns on you how close you are to Dex, on your knees with face nearly pressed up against his bare torso.

The realization of the position’s intimacy suddenly has your heart racing and when you glance up, you find yourself to be the center of Dex’s attention.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes meet and his intense stare is penetrating enough to have shivers run down your spine and you freeze when his hand reaches for your cheek, thumb gently rubbing against your cheekbone. 

“Thank you.”

–

You’re folding one of Dex’s shirts when he speaks. 

“I bought some brownies, the ones with the caramel filling. From that bakery you like so much.” 

Spinning your face around, you glance at Dex, hiding your confusion with a smile. “Oh, thanks, Dex. That’s… really sweet.” 

The corner of his lips curl into a smile as he looks at you, stirring the pot of pasta that is meant to be your lunch without breaking eye contact. “Yeah, I know how much you like those things.”

The silence hangs awkwardly in the air when you turn around, focusing back on the small mountain of warm clothes fresh from the dryer waiting for their turn.

It’s a nice distraction from the boredom of having nothing to do, simple enough for you to handle and harmless enough for Dex to trust you with. That’s part of why you like the weekends so much. With Dex around the apartment the entire day, except when he’s running errands, you get to stay free of the cuffs and the bed.

Even if he’s looming and hovering over you at all times, like he’s unable to let you out of his sight at the risk of losing you in the minuscule apartment. 

As the days morph into weeks, things have started to change and you’re not sure if you like the shift.

Something changed that night you patched up Dex, though you can’t exactly put your finger on it. Since then, you’ve lost count of how many occasions you’ve catched him staring at you, when you’re drying the dishes or helping him vacuum the apartment. His eyes often find you even while he’s doing chores around the house, fingers finding excuses to brush against you and it’s beginning to bother you.

The lingering touches, the fixated gaze, the nice gestures, it’s all starting to make you uneasy. Despite how much you attempt to brush it off, you can’t avoid feeling a romantic undertone in his demeanour.

You wonder how truthful were his words when he said he needed your guidance and how much of that was a lie. And while maybe Dex has forgotten the nature of your relationship, you haven’t. Not for one second.

You know all about Stockholm syndrome and you have zero intention of falling for that bullshit. 

It’s only after lunch is over, when Dex takes out the small paper bag of brownies from the fridge and brings them over to the table, that you remember them. 

He takes out one of the pieces, chocolate sprinkled on top, and offers it to you. “Wanna do the honors?”

You stare at it.

“Maybe later. I’m full right now.” you lie. 

“C’mon, one small bite.” Dex insists, but you shake your head. You really don’t feel like playing into whatever fantasy he has. 

“Really I’m-”

“One bite.”

Dex opts to ignore your excuses and the chocolate delicacy is insistently pressed against your mouth, leaving you no choice other than to part your lips and begrudgingly take a small bite from the brownie.

Only then does Dex pull his hand away, watching you chew on the food. A dimple appears in his cheek, his eyes dropping to follow the movements of your lips.

Before you can wipe your mouth clean, his fingers brush against your lips, pulling away a dark crumb left behind. A knot curls tighter in your stomach when he pops his fingers into his mouth, tasting your leftover crumb with a hum. 

“Tastes delicious.” he nods, shoving the rest of the brownie into his mouth. “Knew you had good taste.”

You force out a smile. “Thank you.”

“Maybe next time we can try making these at home.” he suggests and your hands clench at the word he uses. Home. This isn’t your home. “Homemade is always better and you’ve always been good at baking, I’d love to try something of yours.”

“Yeah, sure. Whenever you want.” Maybe by then you’ll find some laxatives to slip into the food. 

You grab your glass and gulp down the water. Dex folds the paper bag with the brownies inside and stops you from grabbing your plate, taking it in his hands. His fingers brush against yours.  

“s‘okay, I got this.” 

“Thanks.”

Dex smiles. “Anything for you.”

–

There’s a rotten feeling taking root in Dex’s mind. 

He sets the paper sheet on the table in front of you before claiming the seat next to you. Your fingers immediately hold onto the paper, lip pulled between your teeth as you consider the words that are probably memorized by now. He insisted on practicing for an entire hour before finally pulling your phone from his pocket but even with your insistent promises, insecurity still gnaws at his mind. 

“Just stick to the script.” Dex repeats for the fourth time in less than a minute, “Stay calm, don’t say anything you normally wouldn’t say. And if they ask-”

“I’m just taking a break from technology. Yes, I know. We’ve been over this.” there’s a slight edge in your voice and that has Dex jittering his leg in an anxious bounce. 

“Okay.” he nods, dragging the moment for as long as he can. “Let’s get this over with then.”

Dex unlocks your phone and goes through your contacts, absolutely despising the long list of friends and family he has to scroll through til he gets to your mom’s number. 

The tense grip Dex has on your phone grows tighter by the second as the call rings. 

He’s not happy about this.

If he could have it his way, your phone would be hammered down and its pieces scattered in the bottom of a garbage dumpster. But that would undoubtedly cause you distress and Dex doesn’t want to see you upset. Especially after everything you’ve done for him. Not just the fact that you patched him up that other night or that you haven’t tried to escape in all these days you’ve been a ‘guest’ in his home, but your presence alone is enough to give him a sense of peace that usually escapes him.

You keep him sane. You make him be better. With you around, he feels less… lonely. He’s not alone anymore, you said so the other day, didn’t you. He’s got you now and you fill the void inside him with your warmth and kindness. You’ve been so kind and good and sweet and no one’s ever been like that to him. 

So he supposes that after everything you’ve done for him, a short two-minute phone call with your parents following a pre-prepared script is a small gesture of gratitude he can give you.

But that doesn’t mean his nerves aren’t burning him on the inside, an intrusive thought telling him to just crush the phone with his bare hands, throw that piece of shit through the window before someone answers on the other side of the line and be done with all of this. You don’t need to talk to your parents, you don’t need to talk to anyone other than him-

He stops himself before he gets too worked up. He can’t do that. He can’t be cruel to you, not after giving you hope. You’d be beyond disappointed and upset and then you’d definitely hate him for giving you false hope.

Dex wants to do better for you and that starts with this. 

But that doesn’t stop a frown from twisting his features, something ugly threatens to come out of his chest as he watches the genuine smile growing on your face at the sound of your mother’s voice. 

“Mom! Yeah, I’m doing fine. Just busy and….” 

Dex tenses up, fingers picking at the material of his pants, listening intently to every word that you say.

You don’t steep out of line, don’t say anything remotely suspicious or let your voice waver. You’re a good actress and don’t crumble under the pressure, which comes handy for this moment. 

Dex trusts you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be tempted into taking your chances. You’re only human, same as he is. 

The numbers on the screen keep on increasing and Dex impatiently waits until it marks exactly two minutes and then signals you. That’s your cue to finish up the call.

Your shoulders slump and annoyance fills your face but you oblige. 

“...tell dad I love him. I have to go now, mom. Love you too-”

Dex thumbs the red across the screen and finishes the call as soon as you’re done with your goodbyes. The chair scrapes the floor as you get up on your feet and storm off to the bedroom, the bathroom door slamming shut a second later. 

Dex waits exactly one minute before he retraces your steps, making a small detour to turn off your phone and place it inside the safe in his closet.

His knuckles rasp against the bathroom door and he doesn’t wait for an answer before pushing the door open. He freezes at the sight of you leaning against the counter with watery eyes and you sniff, quickly cleaning your cheeks. 

“Hey. Everything alright?”

“Uh uh. I just miss them, is all.” you justify your reaction with a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“I’m sorry. That sounds… hard. Really hard.” 

Dex reaches for you and you move away, the smile fainting away from your face. 

“I just need a minute alone, Dex.”

“If you wanna talk about this-”

“I said I need a minute.” your voice rises and Dex frowns at that. You’ve never used that tone with him before.

He slowly walks out of the bathroom, the door shutting behind him with a harsh sound. He walks back to the living room like he’s in a trance. Pulling out a chair, he stiffly sits on the table with his hands crossed in front of him. 

Two minutes.

Two fucking minutes.

That’s all it took for someone else to steal your attention away from him and that’s all because of him. It’s his fault. He allows you a taste of freedom, offers you a good deed and now you’re pulling away. You’re shutting him out. Like he’s nothing. Like he means nothing to you. His hands clench at the unbearable thought.  

Things were finally starting to work out between you two and now this happens. He tries to be good, for once, and this is what he gets.

It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. Isn’t it always?

He always messes up and maybe that’s why no one ever stays around him, because he’s never enough for anyone. Everything about him is broken, unfixable and fucked up beyond repair.

He’s a fuck up. 

Time passes. Seconds, minutes. Maybe hours, he’s not sure. 

It feels like an eternity later when he’s pulled out of the buzzing that had taken over his mind with a gentle tapping on his shoulder.

It’s you, standing with eyes dried up and an apologetic expression. Dex stands up so fast he nearly knocks into you and his hand flies to your forearm to keep you from tumbling. 

“Shit, sorry.”

“No, it’s… I’m the one who has to apologize.” you sigh, lips pressed together. “I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to sound… ungrateful or something like that.”

The pressure in Dex’s chest eases up, like a heavy weight has been lifted from him. “You don’t have to apologize.” he forgives you right away because how can he not when you’re looking up to him with those pretty eyes of yours, giving him all of your undivided attention. “I could never be mad at you, I mean you… you’ve done so much for me. You’re very special to me, I don’t think you realize just how much.”

He notices the way you squirm and how your eyes flit down to the grip Dex has yet to let go off, but he makes no move to remove his hand. If anything his fingers tighten around your arm, pulling you closer. 

“Dex…”

“You’re the most important person in my life.”

Your eyes widen when he brings his other hand up to your face, cupping your cheek in his hand.

You nervously gulp and he can’t help but glance at your parted lips, slightly glowy from the lip balm he bought you a few days before you could ask for it. Same brand, same flavor you always used. 

“All this time you’ve been so good to me, no one’s ever been this kind to me before. You make it all better and you don’t even have to try.” he leans closer, a heartfelt smile breaking through. “You make this apartment feel like the home I never had and you make me so damn happy. My whole life, there was something missing and now it finally feels like I found that missing piece.”

“You mean the world to me. And I…. I love you.” he abruptly confesses and your eyes start getting teary again. Happy tears. 

Dex captures your lips with his and suddenly everything clicks into place, everything makes sense. You belong together. You’re every thought that consumes his mind, you’re everything he can feel, everything he can touch.

Pretty and so damn delicate in his arms, you’re all he needs. 

Not just his North Star, but you also own his heart, his mind, his body, his everything. 

You’re his. 

–

“Sweetheart?”

The knock on the door startles you.

Not even five minutes in the bathroom and Dex is already acting like you’ve been apart for hours. God, he has given the word clingy a whole different meaning after everything that went down the other night.

He’s been breathing down your neck ever since he kissed you and now you’re stuck playing along with his fantasy, acting as though you share his feelings and love him back.

Your suspicions were right all along. Dex is a liar.

The whole moral compass dilemma, the North Star thing, the keeping him on the right track, it was all one big lie and you’re so stupid because you should’ve seen that from the beginning. 

It feels like one of those insane dreams that have you waking up in the morning, feeling more exhausted than rested, where logic doesn’t exist and nothing makes sense. How the hell did you even end up in this situation, playing house with your kidnapper?

It’s only been three days since that happened and you still can’t wrap your mind around Dex’s confession and everything it involves.

You need a way out. Immediately. How many days until his hormones dictate him to do more?

While his newly proclaimed affection has granted you some benefits - you don’t need your hands cuffed to the bed anymore, which has been a relief for your chaffed wrists and sore shoulders - it doesn’t go without a few sacrifices on your behalf. For now, Dex is settling with kisses that don’t go beyond pecking on the lips and clumsy hugs, but how long until he decides that’s not enough?

The way he hesitates every night around the bed, kissing you goodnight with eyes fleeting to the spot next to you. How his hands sweep the entire expanse of your back and then back up when he hugs  you. You’re not stupid, you know how men are and what they want and in the present moment, you are very much stuck with one.

Dex is a ticking bomb and you’re at risk of being collateral damage. 

The knob rattling has you holding back a sigh. Still, you take your sweet time in washing your hands and drying them. Why must you hurry when you have to be around Dex all day?

When you finally come out, Dex has his back to you while standing by the window, phone to his ear and speaking in hushes. 

“... I’m off duty today, I told you. No, I can’t-” he hisses, hand on his hip as he looks outside. “Damnit, Ray, fine. Just drop the files and I’ll take a look at them. You know my apartment block, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

You wait until he’s finished with the call before making a show out of closing the bathroom door with an audible click. Dex immediately swirls around, shoving his phone in the back pocket of his pants and away from your sight, irritation vanishing from his face.

You barely get one step in his direction before he beats you to it, rushing across the room to meet you and you have to physically hold back a wince when his hands reach for you and he leans forward to peck at your lips.

He’s getting a lot more comfortable around you than you are with him, touching and kissing you and frankly, you’re not certain if he genuinely enjoys the affection or if he’s just reminding you that you’re still stuck playing house with him.  

“You okay?” he asks, “You spent a lot of time in there. Was getting worried.” 

His comment brushes you in the wrong way.

Dex’s attention to details sometimes borders on obsessive vigilance and the way he notices every detail about you, no matter how small and insignificant, feels like a violation of your privacy. Sure, the apartment is small and crowded, but you get the feeling Dex specifically monitors every action you take and finds satisfaction in doing so. Maybe control issues.  

“My head is feeling a little heavy, actually.” you lie, figuring you can dodge Dex for the better part of the afternoon. “Think I might lay down for a while.” 

The price you pay for such a small lie involves enduring with tremendous patience as Dex fusses and hovers over you as he gets you in bed, arranging and rearranging the blanket several times and having to refuse his offer of painkillers at least six times.

His hand caresses your head and it’s only when you close your eyes and pretend to fall asleep that he finally leaves you be, with a soft ‘rest well’ and a kiss to your forehead before quietly slipping out of the bedroom. At least he doesn’t put the cuff around your feet, a small comfort. The door doesn’t close all the way and so, you listen to the quiet clinking of glasses and metal as he works around the kitchen, drying them off as he always does after lunch. 

Minutes are slow to pass and you nearly doze off until the chiming of a phone brings you back to consciousness. 

“... yeah, I’m coming downstairs. Wait up.” Dex irritatedly hisses. The apartment door opens and keys clank before the door slams shut. 

Your ears twitch at the complete silence that submerges the apartment and it takes you a solid moment to understand that Dex stepped outside the apartment.

With your heart pounding in your ribcage, you push yourself off the bed and hesitantly peek into the living room.

He’s not there or in the kitchen.

He actually left the apartment without cuffing you.

You can’t believe it. An incredulous chuckle escapes you, but it quickly dies down when you run for the door only to find it locked from the outside. That’s not good, you need to leave now. Time is running out because Dex surely won’t be gone for long, you heard him on the phone.

The emergency stairs are the only option left so you sprint towards them, knocking your elbow against the wall in your haste. 

You waste precious time fumbling with the complicated lock but eventually manage to figure out how to open the living room window and push it all the way up, wincing when scraping your knees in the sill while getting out. Ouch. You’re so rusty you can’t even move straight. 

The cold wind blowing strongly has you freezing the moment you find yourself outside for the first time in weeks, goosebumps erupting all over your body as your lungs fill out with fresh air and you nearly tear up at the freedom of the moment, after so long of being held up in the four walls of Dex’s grim apartment, it feels surreal to be outside. 

The sound of the door shutting has your head snapping backwards, heart sinking. No, no, no. 

Dex is back inside, keys dangling as he locks the door.

Shit. You didn’t even hear the door opening. He hasn’t noticed you yet so maybe you can still… Your attempt to sneak down the stairs fails massively when the metal plate sharply creaks under your weight as soon as your bare feet touch the step. 

The moment processes like a slow motion frame of a movie and you watch with horror as Dex’s head snaps to the side, alerted by the sound as he takes notice of the open window and realizes that you’re standing on the emergency stairs like a deer caught in the headlights, instead of laying down in the bed he tucked you in, recovering from a headache.

The files in his hand carelessly drop to the floor, same as his keys, and the change in his expression is immediate and terrifying and it makes your blood run cold. 

He holds out one hand, taking one cautiously slow step towards the window. 

“It’s chilly outside, sweetheart, gonna catch a cold if you stay there.” he says with a normalcy that both confuses and scares you. “Why don’t you come back inside? It’s warmer here. C’mon.”

You don’t reply nor take your eyes off him, your grip over the handrail being the only thing keeping you steady.

You don’t run just yet, not just because Dex will easily catch up to you the moment you make a break for it, more because you’re scared down to your core. This whole situation is a ticking bomb and you’re just stalling - for what, you have no idea. 

Dex repeats your name like a warning, eyes narrowing when you go down one step and then another.

“Please. Just come back inside. Trust me, you don’t wanna do this, alright?” he pleads with a deep exhale, features twisting when you ignore him and his words in favor of descending one more step. “Come back and I promise we can just forget about this, act like it never happened. I promise, okay?”

Dex mirrors your movements, stepping forward just as slowly to keep you from evading his vision.

You don’t dare turn your back on him, terrified, but there’s no way you can reach the street if you keep this slow, hesitant rhythm. 

“Dex, please.” you gulp, blinking away tears that insist on clogging your eyes. Your voice wavers and you sniff. “I just wanna go home.”

“You are home, damnit.” Dex snaps. “This is our home, you and me, we belong together. Can’t you see that?” his jaw tightens, same as his hands. “After everything we’ve been through and you’re still… you still wanna abandon me. Just like everyone else. Yeah, well, I’m not letting you.”

The steel determination in his voice, the dangerous glint in his eyes is enough for your hands to turn clammy and sticky and you warily take another step down, heart thrumming in your chest when your foot nearly skips down that step.  

“Sweetheart. Not another step.” he growls, “Think this through, okay? You’re not leaving, we both know that. So, you can make things easier for both of us and come back inside on your own or we can do this the hard way, which none of us is gonna like. It’s your choice.”

His words may appear honest, but you know the truth behind them.

None of this was ever your choice. You didn’t choose this, didn’t choose him, didn’t choose to be his North Star or play whatever farce he’s been throwing at your eyes the whole time and yet here you are, forced to confront a situation you never imagined yourself in.

You’ve never really had a choice when it comes to Dex. 

All you know is that you can’t go back in there, living a mad man’s fantasy, caged in an apartment especially now that you’ve broken his delusions. Before your mind can fully process it, your legs make the decision for you. 

You spin around and take off down the stairs, feet slapping against the metal stairs as the muscles in your legs strain to keep up with the adrenaline that curses through your veins.

There’s clamour behind you, heavy steps resonating through the metal structure at an impressive speed and Dex shouts something you can’t quite understand but you don’t dare glance behind. 

The ground floor street gets closer the faster you run and there’s a hint of hope flourishing in your chest at the possibility of actually being able to reach freedom-

Something small collides against your back, harshly and with such a strength that it sends you tumbling forward, pain exploding in your vision when your forehead slams against the metal railing.

You crash and cry out when your knees land on the metal, one of your kneecaps ruthlessly bumping against one of the steps. There’s an agonizing hammering in your head and you go limp. Darkness takes over your mind but not before the dizzy, distant realization of being scooped up by firm arms.

–

"Fuck!"

A frightened sob escapes you as the tears overflow from your eyes and you push your knees to your chest and hide your face in the small space, though you find little comfort in the motion especially with the awkward stretch of the only hand cuffed Dex apparently remembered to cuff.

The painkillers somewhat helped with the pain that is splitting your head in two and the sharp throb in your left knee, but they do little to numb the blood-curdling fear that Dex’s erratic behavior is provoking in you.

Ever since you woke up, a while ago, it's been like this. 

There’s a trail of destruction in the bedroom, the contents of the bedside table scattered through the floor, broken and mutilated and you try not to stare at the fist-shaped holes decorating the wall.

The deafening sound of plates and glasses shattering against the kitchen floor makes you flinch, an animalistic holler following soon.

You don’t think Dex is upset. More like absolutely furious and livid and right now, you just want the floor to swallow you whole and make you disappear. There’s nothing you can do except to hope and pray his focus doesn’t turn towards you, even if you are the reason behind his violent crash out. 

You listen to him ravish and destroy the apartment for for what it feels like an eternity, objects violently crashing on the floor and his shouting bouncing off the walls until it progressively dwindles down. And then it finally ends. 

The silence feels oppressively quiet, in contrast to the loud destruction from moments ago, but it doesn’t make you feel any safer. Not that you’ve ever felt safe in this place.

The quietness feels dangerous in its own way but your energy drains quickly, exhaustion settling in after the events of the day. You close your eyes, intending only to rest for a few minutes if the pain allows you to do so.  

When you groggily blink your eyes open, you’re disoriented to find the entire room swarmed by the darkness of the night.

Only the small bedside lamp casts a dim, yellow light to the room and you nearly jump with fright at the tall figure looming by the bed’s edge.

It’s Dex, looking beyond miserable, messy up hair and red-rimmed eyes. He’s staring directly at you, vintage-looking headphones covering his ears as his unsettling focus remains on you, dark eyes clinging to you obsessively.

He looks somewhat calmer, despite appearing as pale as a ghost and the heavy breathing that shakes his bare chest and you only now do you notice how he’s only wearing his black shorts, his skin dewy with sweat.

Your eyes meet and Dex pulls the headphones away, throwing them onto the table. Weariness begins to grow in you when he climbs to the bed and reaches for you, your cuffs jingling as you try to back away from him. 

“Dex, I’m so sorry, please-” 

His lips crash against your with a vigor that sends him toppling you and you cry out when his weight presses you down, crushing you against the bed and putting awful pressure over your aching knee as your left leg gets trapped between his legs. 

Your hand, the only one who isn’t cuffed to the bed, flies to his chest and pushes against the humid skin but to no avail, Dex has always been stronger than what he looks like. His hands cradle your head with a tight hold, strong fingers framing your face and it worsens the pain in your skull until it feels like your head is gonna implode.

His kiss is forceful, his mouth pressing painfully hard to the point you can’t breathe, muffling down every sob and wail of yours. 

Something hard pokes your thigh and you dig your nails into his arm when Dex groans and presses harder against your leg till you can’t even move it away. Bile rises in your throat when he begins to move, humping your thigh with a pace that quickly becomes frantic enough to have the bed creaking.

There’s little you can do except to just shut your eyes and let your hand limply fall to the bed, knowing in your conscience that you’ll never be able to wash off the humiliation and disgust of this moment. 

Dex breaks the kiss, hovering over you as his mouth sucks desperate kisses over every inch of your tear-streaked face.

“s’okay, sweetheart, I forgive you.” he breathlessly growls into your skin, teeth grazing your cheek.

Dampness soaks through the thin fabric of his shorts and onto your leg as he moves faster, your leg having gone numb at this point. “I forgive you. Cause I love you and I know you love me back. Need me just as much as I need you.”

the two of you were making breakfast together in his kitchen. you stood behind him while he cooked eggs,  arms wrapped around his bare waist, chin resting on his shoulders as you hummed. every few seconds you’d press a kiss to his neck or cheek.

sunghoon laughed softly when you stole a piece of fruit from the cutting board.

“you’re gonna eat everything before it’s done, baby,” he teased, squeezing your hands on his tummy. you giggled and kissed his jaw, pressing you chest against his back.

“can’t help it… you look so cute when you’re cooking.”

you both ended up eating at the counter—you sitting on the top and sunghoon standing in between your legs as you fed him pieces of bacon. he laughed at how cute you looked, and you giggled at his terrible jokes.

it felt domestic.

at work, you two couldn’t keep your hands off each other. 

in the breakroom, sunghoon had you pressed against the wall, kissing you deeply. your hands were in his hair, pulling him closer as you moaned softly into his mouth. you made the breakroom like his bedroom.

jake walked in at the wrong moment. he froze, eyes wide, then quickly looked away with a muttered, “jesus christ…” before backing out. he found it odd. weird, bizarre even to see sunghoon and you… but you, especially in this state.

he supposed he didn’t know you enough—despite knowing each other since the earliest days of jake’s life.

haewon, who had been right behind him, looked visibly uncomfortable, eyebrows furrowed as she turned and left without a word. 

you and sunghoon didn’t even notice. or even if either of you did—no fucks were given.

on the floor, you were “checking out cds” together—but really, it mostly meant him standing behind you with his arms around your waist as the two of you decided which movie to watch for the night.

even during his band practice time that you’d tag along—sunghoon spent most of it teaching you how to use his electric guitar, sitting on his lap with your back pressed flashed against his chest, sunghoon’s arms wrapped around your waist.

his members would give him a look, and so did your girl friends who shared the room.

it’s weird. it’s unlikely.

every night was spent together under the sheets. 

you loved kissing him. you could do it for hours, everywhere, anywhere—slow, deep kisses that turned hungry, soft pecks all over his face, neck, chest, or just lying there with your lips pressed against his for long moments.

you’d pull him on top of you, legs wrapped around his waist, whispering i love you between kisses like it you couldn’t bear even an inch of space between your bodies.

sunghoon wasn’t complaining. not even a little.

he had never been this happy.

waking up with you curled into his side, making breakfast together while you hugged him from behind, stolen kisses, falling asleep with your head on his chest every night—it felt like a dream he never wanted to wake up from. the constant affection, the way you looked at him… it filled every empty space he’d carried.

days turned into weeks.

and now it had been almost two months together.

“acoustic guitar?” 

you and sunghoon were sitting across from each other at a small table by the window, sharing a plate of pastries and drinks. your fingers were playing with his hand on the table—tracing his knuckles, interlacing your fingers, gently squeezing every few seconds.

you genuinely couldn’t stop touching him.

sunghoon chuckled softly, watching the way your pretty manicured fingers traced the lines on his palm. “yeah. the band’s been doing mostly acoustic sets now. the electric stuff is fun but… i don’t know, it feels different when it’s just the guitar. personal, i guess?”

you nodded, still playing with his fingers. were you even listening?

“i like when you play acoustic. your voice sounds really nice like that.”

“you think s—”

RING—!

sunghoon glanced down to his phone with its screen facing upwards—seeing jake’s contact. he simply acknowledged it before flipping his phone. 

the conversation flowed easily as it should between two lovers—about his band’s past gigs, practice, and whether he should start his own project since the band wasn’t as active anymore.

“you should,” you said, eyes sparkling. you squeezed his hand, nails lightly digging into his flesh. “you’d be amazing leading your own band. i wanna come to every show—wanna follow you everywhere you go.”

sunghoon smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. 

“of course you will.”

you picked up a piece of bread, tore a small chunk, and fed it to him with your fingers. sunghoon accepted it, lips brushing against your fingertips. he was about to do the same for you when his phone buzzed on the table.

jake was calling, again.

sunghoon sighed. “hold on, baby. it’s the second time he’s called now. i’ll be quick.”

he excused himself from the table and stepped outside to take the call. 

you watched him go, your expression shifting. your smile faded. a subtle annoyance flickered across your face as you stared at him walking away, fingers tapping lightly, impatiently on the table.

“what?” he answered, a little impatient. “i’m busy.”

“busy with yn?”

sunghoon sighed. “what do you want?"

there was a beat of hesitation on the other line.

“okay, so…” jake started. “i haven’t told anyone because i don’t know how true this goes, but i went to yn’s house the other day to pass some pie. her grandma was asking where yn is.”

sunghoon frowned, “your point?” 

“she thinks yn lives with me. thought she was sick of her. i didn’t tell her what yn said about her kicking her out but… something’s going on.”

sunghoon glanced back at you. you were staring in his direction, smiling in an unnatural, almost too–wide way. he gave a small wave. you waved back, smiling.

jake continued, voice lower. “and plus, this is just so weird, man… i’ve never seen her acting this way. i didn’t even know she liked you.”

that ticked sunghoon off—he didn’t like that. so what if it was fucking weird? so what if jake didn’t know you liked sunghoon? jake didn’t need to know everyfuckingthing there is to know in this world. just because you and him were childhood friends, it doesn’t mean you need to tell him everything.

his grip on the phone tightened. “what the hell are you trying to say?”

a beat.

“i’m just saying it’s weird,” jake replied carefully. “i’m happy for you two, really. but it’s… it’s like yn snapped into a different person.”

sunghoon looked back at you again. you were still staring at him with that same unwavering smile. it was as if you didn’t stop smiling, at all. 

jake kept going. “i don’t know what’s going on with her… or you… but i think you guys should be apart for a while. she literally hasn’t been home.”

a beat.

“hello? sunghoon?”

call ended. 

sunghoon hung up and slowly walked back to the table. he was annoyed, slightly shocked, and trying hard to hide it. his mind was still replaying jake’s words.

you looked up with him with that soft, adoring smile.

“everything okay, baby?”

he sat down, forcing a small nod. “um, yeah.”

you tilted your head, watching him carefully.

“actually, do you…”

“mmmhm…?” you hummed, leaning forward slightly. sunghoon hesitated, then shook his head. “nothing.”

you studied him for a second longer before smiling again. “hm, okay…. i have something for you.”

you reached into your bag and pulled out a small red box, sliding it across the table toward him.

sunghoon blinked. “what’s this?”

“...open it.” 

he hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the box, before finally opening it. inside was a beautiful gem—a deep, dark onyx with flecks that caught the light. it was attached to a simple silver chain, clearly old but well–cared for.

“oh… wow,” he murmured, genuinely surprised.

you smiled gently. “it was my grandma’s… then my mom’s, then mine. but i want to give it to you.”

sunghoon looked up at you, confused. “why are you giving it to me?” 

you reached across the table and gently took his hand. “well… it’s important to me. and so are you—but you’re way more important.”

sunghoon looked at the onyx in his palm, then back at you. “you sound like you love me,” he said, heaf–teasing, half–testing. 

you gave him an eerier, almost creepy smile—too wide, too unwavering, full of teeth. “hoonie… i love you so much. i love you more than anyone else.”

the way you said it sent a chill down his spine.

he tried to keep his voice light. “you’d be sad without me?”

you didn’t even hesitate. “i could die.”

the silence that followed was heavy. sunghoon played with the stone between his fingers, the weight of your words sinking in. then, what jake had said slipped into his mind.

i’ve never seen her acting this way. i didn’t even know she liked you.

yn’s grandma thought she was sick of her.

“yn?”

“yeah?”

“did your grandma really kick you out?”

a beat.

you blinked. then you started chuckling—low, strange sound that quickly turned into scoffing. you stood up from the table abruptly. 

“no, no, no, no, no…”

sunghoon looked up at you, confused. “what?”

you raised your voice, almost childlike in your denial. “nooooo, don’t you do that!”

the entire restaurant went quiet. heads turned, the uncomfortable tension was immediate—all eyes on your table, whispers began scattering around in the space. 

sunghoon stayed seated but reached out, gently grabbing your hand. 

“what? baby, calm down. let’s sit first, please?”

your eyes were twitching, and so were your fingers—gripping into the hem of your pretty sweater. “why does it matter?!”

he looked around, clearly embarrassed, cheeks burning as people continued staring. you pulled your hand back slightly but didn’t sit back down. 

“i thought we were having a nice date?” your voice trembled. your head jerked and tilted sideways, shoulders shuddering. to others, it might just seem like a girlfriend getting psycho over the boyfriend, but to sunghoon who knew better—

it was anything but it.

“we are! we are…” he tried to reassure you, lightly nudging you to sit down again—but you wouldn’t budge. 

“so why does it matter?” you repeated, voice getting smaller. just then, you started crying—softly, almost childishly, tears rolling down your cheeks as you stood there by the table with sunghoon’s hand holding yours.

the silence around you was deafening.

sunghoon was growing concerned and embarrassed—people were getting the wrong ideas, he could feel the judgemental eyes on him—the guy must have done something terrible to make his girlfriend cry in public.

swallowing the lump in his throat, he squeezed your hand gently. “doesn’t matter to me, baby. doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, voice low and soothing.

he finally managed to pull you toward him. you collapsed into his lap and chest almost instantly, sobbing quietly against his shirt. sunghoon wrapped his arms around you tightly, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

you finally went quiet.

“shhh, it’s okay… i’ve got you,” he whispered into your hair, holding you close as your body trembled with hiccups. “it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t matter to me.”

the restaurant slowly, very agonisingly so, went back to their own conversations, but the uneasy atmosphere lingered. 

sunghoon kept holding and rocking you gently, completely focused on calming you down.

——

the night ended with another fucking session. tonight lasted slightly longer than usual—one sunghoon could only assume was due to your frustration from the dinner date earlier. admittedly, it was sunghoon’s fault. he shouldn’t have brought it up, shouldn’t have listened to jake, shouldn’t have put you on the spot.

if you really wanted to talk about it, you would’ve.

sunghoon accidentally woke up sometime in the middle of the night. groggily, he checked the time on his phone.

03:47

and your side of the bed was cold. 

he sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes as he looked around the dark room. at first, he thought you might have gone to the bathroom, or went down to get yourself a glass of water. but then his eyes caught something in the far corner—behind a stack of boxes.

a figure. barely visible. so faint it might’ve been nothing.

sunghoon sat up and leaned forward, squinting to get a clearer view. the figure stepped forward at his movement.

“yn…?”

you were standing there in nothing but his oversized shirt, the hem barely covering your ass. your nipples were visibly perky through the thin fabric, and your eyes reflected just enough light from the window to look almost glowing. eyeshine.

“go back to sleep,” you said softly.

sunghoon’s heart rate picked up.

“what are you doing…?”

you tilted your head slightly. a small, serene smile on your lips. 

“watching you sleep. you’re cute when you sleep, hoonie.”

then, without a word, you stepped back into the shadow of the dark corner, becoming almost invisible again. sunghoon stared at the spot where you had been for god knows how long—unable to shake the chill that ran down his spine.

“...can you come back to bed?” sunghoon asked. voice careful.

“no.”

“yn?”

“no.”

the silence that followed was thick and suffocating. sunghoon sat there in the dark of his room, heart beating faster, tummy gurgling with uneasiness. he was getting weirded out—uncomfortable—getting scared by the girl of his dreams.

you were just standing there, not doing anything. not fiddling with the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, not moving an inch, not blinking or cracking a smile. hell—sunghoon couldn’t even see your lungs expanding. 

it was… uncanny. 

he thought of calling out again—but out of nowhere, you started giggling. a childish, high–pitched sound that didn’t belong in the middle of the night, and was definitely not yours. your shoulders shook and trembled with each giggle that slipped past your lips, but you weren’t moving.

“yn—”

you were acting fucking weird when you hopped back toward the bed like nothing had happened, crawling onto him and kissing his cheek with wet, eager presses of your lips.

“you know i love you the most, right?” you whispered sweetly against his skin, voice dripping with something unhinged. “i love you sooooo much…” 

your hands roamed his bare chest possessively, cold fingers digging into his skin as you groped his bicep, squeezing like you were testing how much of him you could claim—ripped out with your bare hands.

you kissed down his neck, grazing your teeth along his pulse point—not quite biting, but close enough to send a shiver of fear through him.

“i could eat you up…” you murmured, teeth scraping harder this time, voice low and obsessive and not yours. “just…. consume every little part of you until there’s nothing left for anyone else—not even for yourself. wouldn’t that be nice? you’d be all mine. only mine. forever.”

your nails dragged down his chest as you nuzzled into his neck again, pressing your chest against him. sunghoon state frozen beneath you, heart hammering. the earlier warmth completely replaced by a deep, instinctive dread. 

with your hand roaming along his body, they travelled down until you were caressing his thigh, close to his boxer. sunghoon let out a small grunt as you licked the part where his major jugular vein pulsed, then followed it with wet, butterfly kisses along the slope of his neck.

sunghoon had never noticed or felt how sharp your canines are. 

“i wanna do it again,” you murmured, fluttering your pretty lashes with that same unhinged adoration. 

even through the fear he’d never felt before in his life, sunghoon couldn’t deny you. not when you leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear as you whispered,

“fuck me, please?”

——

sunghoon stepped out of the bathroom, still half–asleep as he adjusted his shirt. at the same time, you walked out of the kitchen looking as normal, cute, girlfriend–ly, and happy as ever—bright smile, fresh face, still wearing the same oversized shirt as last night. 

“oh! good morning, my baby!” you chirped, immediately walking over and kissing his cheek sweetly.

sunghoon smiled despite the lingering unease from last night. “hi, morning.” he hummed, kissing you back softly on the lips. 

he hesitated for a moment, then spoke carefully.

“... can we, uh, talk about last night?”

your expression shifted. you looked down for a second, then back up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“ugh, i’m sorry,” you said softly. “i had a really bad dream… and i think i was sleepwalking or something. i don’t even remember most of it…”

sunghoon hummed, rubbing the back of his neck. “it was kinda scary. you were saying and doing stuff. and the way you looked at me—” “i know, i know,” you cut in gently, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around his waist. you hugged him tight, pressing your cheek against his chest. “i’m so sorry, baby. i won’t do it again—promise.”

he slowly hugged your back, arms clinging around you. his voice was relieved, but still worried. 

“it’s okay. just promise me it won’t happen again.”

“i promise,” you said sweetly, giving him a squeeze. “i love you so much.”

“i love you too.”

it’s all so weird, but also not. just last night, sunghoon swore he could piss himself on the bed—but came the morning, and he couldn’t help himself.

he reached for his nametag on the counter and pinned it on. “i’ll see you later.”

“mmhm,” you hummed happily. then you suddenly perked up. “oh! i made you a little something.”

you hurried back to the kitchen counter and came back holding a neatly packed lunchbox, handing it to him with both hands like it was a precious gift.

“since i’m not working anymore, i couldn’t stand not doing anything for you and feeling like a useless sex doll—”

sunghoon frowned almost instantly, cutting you off. “what? what are you talking about?”

for a split second, your expression glitched in real time—eyes flickering, smile twitching unnaturally like a bad video feed. your pupils constricted and dilated before it went back normal. you recovered almost instantly, laughing it off like it was nothing. 

“what? sorry, just forget it! here.”

you pushed the lunchbox into his hands with a wide smile. 

sunghoon took it, a little confused. “um… alright.”

you leaned in and kissed him again—soft, lingering, and full of that obsessive affection. he kissed you back, placing his hands on your hips momentarily. 

you pulled away with a bright smile, brushing off nothing from his shoulders like a doting girlfriend. then, you did that cute giddy thing—standing on your tiptoes, dropping back down, then rising onto your tiptoes again, hands clasped in front of you.

“enjoy your day, hoonie!” you said sweetly. “but not too much.” you smiled.

“i’ll be right here when you get home.” 

sunghoon gave you a small smile, and turned toward the door.

only to find it taped shut, literally. layers of grey duct tape crisscrossing over them frame and knob and wall, sealing it completely.

he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “uh… um…”

he didn’t say anything else. he just walked over and tried to pull the knob—the tape held firm.

behind, you stood perfectly still, watching with that same serene smile. you were still standing on your tiptoes, then dropping back down, then onto your tiptoes again. 

“you okay, baby?” you asked, voice soft and innocent. “you seemed to struggle a little… maybe you should just stay at home?”

sunghoon forced a chuckle, still tugging at the door. “no, no, i uh… i got this, baby. just…”

with a sharp rip, he finally tore enough of the tape off to open the door. he turned back to you, trying to act normal. 

“i’ll see you soon.”

you waved at him with an unnervingly sweet, cute smile. still standing in the same spot—still doing your tiptoes movement.

——

sunghoon and haewon were in the aisles arranging the new cd arrivals. 

“been a while since we hung out,” she said casually, sliding a few albums into place. 

“yeah,” sunghoon replied, not looking up from where he was crouching down. “got busy. and yn’s not exactly the hang–out type anymore.”

haewon paused, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“what, really? she used to come over a lot and watch movies with jake and i.” she shrugged. “huh. guess relationships change people.”

sunghoon chuckled, then he smiled, finally looking up to her. “what’s up with that?”

the girl laughed lightly, shaking her head as she continued with her task. “nothing? i always thought yn was like this really cool, whimsical girl, you know what i mean? but now i barely even see you, let alone her. just… bummed.”

sunghoon’s hands slowed on the cds. “uh. i guess so.”

the silence between them grew a little awkward. sensing it, haewon quickly changed the subject with a brighter tone. “oh, yeah, also—jake wants to hold this big, cool movie night at our place tonight. you’re joining?”

sunghoon pursed his lips, then thought for a little while. true—it’s been a while since the three—or four, if including you—hung out together since sunghoon and you became a thing. it had also been a while since he properly talked to haewon and jake outside of work.

everything lately had revolved around you.

“...yeah, sure, actually,” he finally said. “who else is joining?”

haewon smiled, relieved that the awkwardness had passed. “mm, i think jake invited some band people too. aerona’s there too, if you remember.”

sunghoon nodded. “sure. yeah, that works.”

they were cut off by kim calling out from the front counter. “haewon! can you work on this aisle? and sunghoon, you can take your break now!”

haewon grunted softly, rolling her eyes. “i’ll see you tonight.”

“sure,” sunghoon replied with a small smile. 

with another grunt from him, he stood back up, rubbing his hands together and setting the box aside.

as he was walking toward the counter to head to the breakroom, sieun—your bestfriend—suddenly appeared in front of him. she was wearing a low cut sleeveless top and jeans shorts, boots that rose up till her knees.

“sunghoon, hi!”

he was slightly taken aback. “oh, sieun, hey. what are you doing here?”

he kept walking, slipping behind the counter and into the small breakroom to grab his lunchbag. the breakroom door was right behind the front counter, so sieun waited in front with her arms folded in front of her, pressed against her chest—making her cleavage appear more… prominent. 

when he came back out with the lunchbox you’d made him, sieun grinned.

“oh, you know… i kinda wanna rent something,” she said, voice playful. “secretary, maybe?”

sunghoon didn’t know sieun like that aside from sharing a band practice room together occasionally. so seeing her this way, kinda changed the way he viewed her. 

he hummed, letting out a small scoff. “we don’t sell porn here.”

sieun giggled, tilting her head. “oh! so you know?” she leaned forward a little more. “it’s not porn, though? it’s just… suggestive.”

the atmosphere between them felt changed—flirty on her end. 

“well, you gotta pirate it, ‘cause we don’t have it here.”

he then set the lunchbag you made him on the counter between them, creating a space. sieun’s eyes flicked to it. 

“awe, mommy made you lunch, sunghoon?”

“nope,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. “yn did, actually.”

sieun let out a soft laugh, raising her eyebrows. “oh, how sweet. she’s the best at cooking,” she hummed, raising an eyebrow. “very… housewife material of her.”

sunghoon chuckled lightly and opened the lid.

the smell hit them both at the same time. 

inside was the most unappetising, inedible, atrocious looking lunch either of them had ever seen—it was just a sandwich. except, the sandwich was both burnt and wet at the same time—the bread charred back on the edges while the middle looked soggy and slimy. a small bug was even crawling slowly across the top.

both of them recoiled instantly.

siuen made a disgusted noise and turned her head away. sunghoon quickly slammed the lid shut, eyes wide with horror.

the lunchbox landed in the trash.

——

the drive started quiet. after shift, jake asked for a ride home in which sunghoon agreed—having lived in the same row of neighborhoods, after all. 

then, jake cleared his throat.

“i wanna talk about you and yn.”

sunghoon kept his eyes on the road. “what’s there to talk about?

“come on.”

the driver sighed, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “you know i like her. for a long time too.”

“i know,” jake said carefully, knowing how fragile the topic was. “but i just think you guys should be apart for a bit—”

“i’ve never been so fucking happy,” sunghoon cuts in, voice sharp, laced with defensiveness. “not after my dad passed.”

jake tried again. “it’s just for a little—”

“and you’re trying to give me reasons not to be.”

a heavy beat of silence settled in the car.

“look, i just don't want you, or yn for that matter, to get hurt,” jake said, tone more serious now. “she’s my friend, and you’re my bestfriend, and i’m totally thrown and weirded out by this. can we please break this down?”

sunghoon’s grip on the wheel tightened. “i don’t want to break it down for you.”

jake pushed. “she lied about her grandma. she didn’t have a reason to—”

“i’m still not breaking down our relationship—”

“we don’t even hang out anymore—”

“right, like i had to hear about your cool–ass party from haewon—”

“and you don’t think this is fucking weird at all?”

“were you going to invite us?”

their voices overlapped, the argument building fast and messy in the confined space of the car.

jake frowned. “don’t change the subject. and i wasn’t sure if i wanted to, if i’m being completely honest.”

sunghoon’s jaw clenched. “why not?”

the car slowed to a stop in front of jake’s house.

he turned to sunghoon, expression serious. “because it looks like yn is going through something worse than molly, and it seems to me that you’re taking advantage of it—”

“oh, for fuck’s sakes!” sunghoon snapped, turning to jake. his arms rested on the shoulder of the car seat. “she’s all over me! are you fucking kidding?”

“exactly!” jake shot back. “you were all over her, now she’s all over you and it doesn’t look good. it doesn’t look good at all, man.”

sunghoon let out a bitter laugh, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “why are you trying to ruin this for me? she’s the one who won’t leave me alone.”

jake exhaled, rubbing his face. “alright. then be a man, and make that clear. you can come, but out of love, yn can’t. or yn can come, and you stay at home.”

just before jake stepped out of the car, he paused, one hand on the door.

“i don’t want my friend’s relationship to be built on some weird codependency or what-the-fuck-ever.”

he shut the door behind him.

——

tired from the long day and the argument with jake, sunghoon pushed the door open and flicked on the lights. he just wanted to shower and rest—and cuddle with you until sleep took over.

but the moment he stopped inside, the smell hit him first—sour, acrid, vomit, and urine.

you were still standing in the middle of the living room, the same spot he left you in, soaked in sweat and vomit, standing in a pool of your own piss. the same shirt from earlier was ruined, clinging wetly to your body. urine stained your legs and the floor beneath you.

you hadn’t moved from that spot.

“hoonie!” you said brightly.

sunghoon froze, eyes wide with horror.

“oh, shit—yn?! what the fuck? are you okay?”

you seemed to realise the state you were in. at his reaction, you stepped back embarrassed, looking down at yourself with a small, confused frown.

“i—i’m sorry… oh gosh, i should’ve showered…”

sunghoon moved toward you quickly, concerned and utterly confused. he grabbed a tissue from the tv stand and started wiping your face, trying not to gag at the smell.

“what happened?” he asked, voice laced with worry.

you looked up at him, eyes glassy. “my body feels weird and i couldn’t stop puking… ugh, i don’t know…”

sunghoon’s eyes widened. he scrunched his nose at the overwhelming stench. “did you have a seizure or something?" 

you shook your head slowly.

“i was waiting for you to come home.”

you looked down at yourself again and shivered with visible revulsion.

“oh gosh… i’m so disgusting… you’re probably so disgusted with me. i’m so sorry—let me shower, and i’ll clean this all up.”

you walked toward the bathroom. sunghoon followed close behind, but you slammed the door in his face before he could do anything. the shower water turned on a second later.

“yn, i don’t understand how—” he started, voice raised above the noise of the water.

“i’ll clean it, baby,” you called back, voice sweet despite everything.

sunghoon stood right outside the door, shoulders slumped, forehead resting against the door.

“yn?”

“yeah?”

“...you love me, right?”

“yeah, a lot!”

he closed his eyes.

“...okay. so never do that again, hm?”

“do what? wait for you to come home?”

sunghoon rested his head fully against the door, voice tired.

“not that, baby. you can wait for me—but you know, you can also do things around the house.”

“okay, baby.”

a beat of silence.

“so uhm… what did you do today?”

“nothing, baby.”

another long pause. defeated and unsure, sunghoon finally spoke up again, “i’m going to jake’s house tonight.”

the shower water stopped. and everything went eerily quiet. 

you sounded hurt when you replied. “okay.”

“so i, uh… i’m gonna go there, okay?”

“yup. i can get dressed after this.”

“that’s nice, baby, but uh… i think it’s just a band thing.”

“oh, i know ‘cause sieun was telling me she’s going.”

sunghoon frowned, taken aback. “sieun too? what, really?”

the bathroom door suddenly slammed open. 

you stood there, drenched, wrapping only in a towel. hair dripping water onto the floor. your eyes were wide and intense. 

“yeah. why? are you happy? excited? is that why you’re telling me not to go?” with every sentence, you walked towards him. your eyes were wide, and your skin was warm and flushed from the hot water. you tilted your head once harshly, it threatened to break.

sunghoon stepped back until his back met the wall, hands raised. “no, no, no, baby, no that’s not it—”

then, like a switch, you stood still, like normal, with an innocent look on your face. “but um, okay. if you want me to stay at home, i can stay at home, hoonie.”

now he was feeling overwhelmingly guilty. he didn’t know sieun, your bestfriend, was coming too—so now it just seemed like an overall big misunderstanding. 

“no, it’s okay. i’m sorry—you should come.”

“mm, it’s fine. you can go without me.”

he started persuading you to go, but you kept insisting in that soft tone of yours—”i don’t want to bother you, i’ll just wait here like always,” “i don’t want to make you uncomfortable…”

sunghoon didn’t know what to do.

——

jake deadpanned sunghoon the moment he walked in with you clinging to his arm. sunghoon avoided his gaze. around the low table were two other guys from the band circle and sieun, who gave sunghoon a flirty little wave. 

you and sunghoon sat together on the couch, your body pressed close to his. jake and haewon were sitting on single chairs across the table, and others just scattered around.

the group was playing “dare or drink”—a stack of cards with ridiculous and explicit dares.

one of the guys, jaemin, pulled a card and grinned.

“switch spots with whoever you want.”

“hell yeah,” he said immediately, eyes landing on you. “i wanna sit next to yn.”

your eyes widened slightly and you instantly looked over to sunghoon, pouting and pleading, “nooo…” and caught sunghoon’s hand as he got up, squeezing it lightly. “baby, i’ve showered…”

he gave your hand a gentle squeeze back. “it’s fine, babe.”

he stood up and moved to the only empty spot—right next to haewon.

jaemin happily took his place beside you. you looked visibly sad, like a kicked puppy with your eyebrows frowned inwards, scooting slightly from the other guy. 

he laughed. “damn, sunghoon, what kinda spell you got on her?”

the group chuckled. sunghoon forced a smile but didn’t say anything.

it was now your turn. you pulled a card but didn’t read it out loud. instead, you stared at it for a long second before standing up and suddenly speaking in a soft, rambling voice—like you were telling a story no one asked for.

“my wish is to die like an angel, sinless… i don’t know what it is, and i don’t think i’m the only one. falling from the sky with wings made of glass, shattering beautifully so everyone can see who i really am inside. but i can’t. i can’t die like an angel, and i think i can’t die at all. i can’t die like an angel like i wanted to. i’m not an angel—i’m not—i don’t know. i just want to be something.”

the room went deathly quiet. whatever it was… hung heavy in the air—deeply unsettling in everyone’s ribs. jake blinked, swallowing the lump in his throat. haewon, too, blinking confusedly, her lips parting like she wanted to say something—but not sure what.

sieun made a face—a clear what the fuck….? expression—while the other two guys exchanged awkward glances, one of them muttering a quiet, “what…?”

sunghoon just stared at you, completely confused, mouth slightly open like haewon—wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

sieun finally broke the silence, raising an eyebrow. “uh… you good, babe?”

you blinked, sat down again, then smiled like nothing strange had happened at all. 

“yeah. i’m perfect.”

haewon cleared her throat awkwardly. “um… okay, sunghoon—it’s your turn.”

sunghoon blinked, snapping out of it. “oh shit, okay.”

he reached forward and pulled a card. his face paled the moment he read it. he glanced at you—you were leaning forward with sweet anticipation, smiling brightly. then he looked at jake silently pleading. 

“...kiss the person to your left.”

it was haewon.

“ooohs,” and “wows,” rippled through the group. sunghoon made eye contact with you again. your expression had gone completely dead—emotionless, empty. then, the corners of your mouth stretched downwards tightly while your eyes remained unblinking and wide.

then you stood up slowly. everyone’s eyes followed you. 

you stood behind haewon’s folded chair for what felt like forever.

swiftly, you moved behind haewon’s chair and grabbed the back of it—dragged it backward with a loud, grating creak that echoed through the room. haewon’s eyes widened and she gripped the armrests for support and balance. 

then you crouched right next to sunghoon’s chair, puckered your lips, and waited.

the whole room was shocked into silence.

sunghoon stared at you for a second. he hadn’t even planned to do the dare—he was going to drink instead. but the way you were looking at him now…

he leaned in and kissed you. 

then, you looked at sunghoon with glassy eyes.

“no one on this earth will ever comprehend what it feels like to love someone as much as i love you,” you whispered against his lips.

you stood up abruptly and giggled, clapping your hands once like a child who’d just finished a performance. 

“that was fun!”

jake looked almost hurt for a second, but then forced a smile. “um, okay… dare still count. who wants shots?”

a beat.

jaemin raised his hand. “i’ll take one.”

“god bless, thank you jaemin,” jake said, trying to keep the mood light.

“who else?”

you locked eyes with sunghoon. he looked rather uncomfortable. guilt suddenly washed over your face. your heart beat once, then twice, then thrice before something in you snapped.

you jolted violently, swiping the entire stack of cards off the table with one arm. before anyone could react, you grabbed the vodka bottle and smashed it hard against the edge of the table.

CRASH.

glass exploded everywhere. everyone jerked back in fear, chairs scraping loudly as people scrambled away. haewon nearly stumbled over her chair. 

“it’s not me!” you screamed, voice cracking. “i’m not the devil!”

you kept smashing the broken bottle against the table, shards flying. sieun gasped aloud, but wasn’t able to do anything to stop you. sunghoon too, just watched in horror.

“help her! shit—sunghoon!”

“get her to the fucking hospital!”

then, in a frenzied motion, you lifted the sharp, broken vodka bottle and stabbed the jagged end into the side of your face. 

the blunt glass failed to puncture deeply, but it still caused crazy damage—tearing open your cheek in a ragged, bloody gash. blood poured down your face instantly, dripping onto your pretty little dress (too pretty for a simple movie night) and onto the floor. 

sobbing, you kept pressing it in, twisting it slightly. more blood spraying as the glass cut deeper into your skin.

“please—it’s not me!”

the room erupted into chaos—people standing up, chairs knocking over.

“yn, shit!”

sunghoon just stared at you from where he was sitting, almost… emotionless. almost. he blinked like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. his mind was racing—every moment, every strange behaviour, every time he’d ignored it all. he didn’t move.

he couldn’t.

you kept pressing the jagged glass into the side of your face for a few more terrifying seconds before you suddenly stopped. the broken bottle slipped from your bloody fingers and clattered to the floor.

your expression changed instantly. you blinked, looking around the room like you just woke up from a nightmare. 

“oh… oh my gosh, i’m so sorry…”

you looked horrifying. blood poured freely down the left side of your face from the ragged rash on your cheek, staining your pretty dress. your hands were cut and bleeding from gripping the broken glass—and your eyes were wide and teary.

you chuckled awkwardly, nipping at the bottom of your lip as you darted your tongue to lick the blood around your lips. 

everyone in the room was horrified. haewon had her hand over her mouth. sieun was colourless. the other guys were frozen. jake looked like he was about to be sick. 

you tried to smile, voice shaky as you stood up, wiping your bloody hands on your skirt. 

“okay, okay… i’m so sorry, guys. oh gosh, silly me,” you let out a weak laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear. “it was just a joke, um—i’m leaving. sorry, sorry…”

you started crying softly, tears mixing with the blood on your face.

then, you turned to sunghoon, voice small as you extended your arm out.

“come on, baby.”

everyone’s eyes snapped to him.

——

the hospital didn’t take you in.

the nurse had asked sunghoon to make a report and leave you there for treatment, but he refused. he didn’t want to leave you alone. not now, not like this, not ever.

so he drove home instead, your head nuzzling into his shoulder the entire ride, one of your hands tightly gripping his free arm like you were afraid he’d disappear.

back at his house, sunghoon sat at the dining table. the cut on your cheek had stopped bleeding but the parted flesh looked raw and ugly. it gave him chills how you were so unbothered by it.

he was about to stand up when you grabbed his hand.

“where are you going…?”

“just getting water, yn…”

you looked down on your lap, still holding his wrist. sunghoon stared at you for a long, heavy moment—contemplating, licking his dry lips wet.

“why did you do that?”

you finally looked up to him, eyes showing visible sadness, your eyebrows dropped. “...you and haewon were going to kiss…”

sunghoon sighed. he’d half–expected that’d be your answer. sighing, he ran his other hand along his face. “i wasn’t even going to do it,” he said, frustration creeping in. “i was going to drink—you… you scared everyone.”

swallowing the lump in your throat, your gave his wrist a gentle squeeze. “i don’t know why i did it…” you whispered. 

sunghoon shook his head, sitting back down. “look at your face,” he said, voice softer but still strained.

“i’m sorry—i got scared…”

he reached out and gently wiped the dried blood from your cheek with his thumb. you leaned into his touch like a starved animal. 

then, you added quietly, “sieun likes you too.”

sunghoon’s patience finally snapped. he frowned, and pulled his hand back, growing frustrated. why the fuck would it ever matter if sieun liked him? 

“that’s… god, that’s—”

you looked up at him, confused, pulling your hand back. “what…?”

it all blew up.

“god, everything was fucking normal!” he burst out, voice cracking as he stood up. sunghoon turned around to face the wall, clear frustration, anger, disappointment, confusion—all displayed on his face. 

“and now you’re so—you’re so—!”

sunghoon turned and stopped himself, seeing the way you flinched, eyes wide and shocked and teary. 

“i’m sorry… i’m sorry,” he said quickly, voice breaking as he reached for you again. his hands were shaking as he held your cheeks, thumbs gently brushing away the tears. 

“you’re normal,” he whispered, voice cracking. “you’re so normal, and you’re so beautiful and i love you so much but—oh god, yn, please don’t ever do that again.”

sunghoon’s eyes were glassy, filled with fear and guilt and love all at once.

“it’s not okay,” he murmured, shaking his head. “this isn’t okay.”

you looked up at him. he searched for your face desperately, still cupping your cheeks.

“do you… do you like me?”

“of course, hoonie. i love you—”

“no, no, no, no, no,” he cut you off, shaking your head frantically. his grip on you tightened a fraction. “do you like me? do you even like me?”

you tried to answer again. “i lov—”

sunghoon frowned—he almost pressed his thumbs into your flesh. “did yn like me?” he pressed, looking right into your eyes for answers. “is yn happy? did she like me?”

slowly, you cracked a smile, all teeth and almost like a grin. 

“yeah.”

sunghoon let out a shaky breath, eyes filled with pain and confusion. “yeah… no, no, no, no…” he whispered, suddenly pulling away, standing up and walking away.

you stood up too, voice small and scared. “where are you going?”

“bathroom, yn,” he said almost quickly, not turning around. “can i even do that?”

you frowned, now looking frustrated. the obsessive mask cracking as it bled through like the blood from your cut fleshes. “well, can you tell me you love me?” you said, tone laced with something of annoyance and eagerness. 

sunghoon stopped and turned around. his eyes were red, exhausted, and full of everything he’d been holding in.

“yn… this is all i’ve ever wanted.”

you tilted your head before stepping closer. “of course. i know that. this is all i’ve ever wanted too.” 

sunghoon shook his head slowly, stepping back. “no… it’s not…”

you stepped forward, eyes wide and pleading. “yes it is. this is all i’ve ever wanted.”

“i want this to work so bad,” he murmured, pain clear in his voice as he rubbed his face. 

“it can,” you said quickly, almost desperately as you stood before him. “of course it can.”

“no, it can’t.”

“yes it can.”

he ran a hand through his slightly sweaty hair, exhausted but not quite slowing down. sunghoon was borderline tearing up too out of frustration that you were just not getting it. “okay—so i’m gonna send you home and we’re gonna take some space—”

you immediately broke. your shoulders slumped like your soul just left you, like all the energy within had drained out. “noooo…” you started crying, then sobbing, then full–on wailing in a matter of seconds. 

“i don’t want space! i don’t wanna be apart from you! tell me what i should do!”

sunghoon frowned, voice cracked with frustration as he stepped away. “just be normal! be normal, yn!”

you screamed through your tears, “i can be normal!”

“god, i just want you to be yn!”

“i can be yn!” you screamed back, voice breaking and sobbing as your shoulder trembled. you followed wherever he went. “i can be anything you want!”

“don’t say that.” sunghoon said quietly, obviously drained. he held your shoulders, pressing his thumbs into your flesh to keep you steady. “yn will never say that.”

“it’s true!” you insisted, tears screaming. you held onto the hem of his shirt like an upset child. “i’ll be anything!”

sunghoon looked completely exhausted, no emotion left on his face. he was quiet now, staring at the floor. 

your lips parted when he didn’t look at you in the eyes. 

“oh… i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry, baby.”

you dropped to your knees in front of him with a thud, wrapping your arms tightly around his leg, clinging desperately as you buried your face against his thigh. your tears wet the fabric. 

“i can be yn… i can be yn… i’ll be whatever you want.” you murmured, kissing his thigh through his jeans.

“i’ll be sweet, and soft, and kind, caring… like yn… i’ll take care of you and we can cook and read together. i can be yn…” you continued, pressing your cheek into his flesh.

sunghoon slowly crouched to your level, cupping your cheeks so you were looking at him. 

“i love you too…” he whispered, voice breaking.

sunghoon really did.

then something in you snapped.

your face went completely emotionless. your eyes were empty, and you weren’t smiling—and it was as if your tears just stopped trailing down your flushed cheeks. you stood up in one unnaturally smooth, but quick motion—moving backward toward the table with stiff, mechanical steps. 

it didn’t look human.

sunghoon’s eyes widened in terror as he stumbled backwards against the desk, knocking things over. 

“stop! stop—fuck, yn, stop!”

you stood still in the darkness of the room, body rigid. for a terrifying second, he couldn’t predict what was coming next—only hearing his own heavy, ragged breathing and loud thumping of his own heart beat in his chest.

sunghoon didn’t know what was coming—cause you lunged forward, running straight at him—

but you stopped yourself.

“i’m sorry,” you murmured. 

a beat passed.

sunghoon was terrified, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

“okay… god, okay. yn, i… i’m gonna step out. why don’t you… why don’t you take the bed, and i’ll just… i’ll just sleep somewhere else and i’ll come back in the morning before you’re even up.”

you stared at him for a long moment—sunghoon couldn’t see, but he could tell you were because of how heavy everything felt.

“okay.”

then you turned around and walked into the kitchen. a loud crashing sound echoed through the house—glass shattering, cabinets slamming, steel pans and pots clattering through the tiles. 

sunghoon flinched, frozen in fear. 

“yn?! what the fuck is happening? what are you doing?!”

the loud chaos went on for the next few seconds before it completely stopped. eerie silence. you came back out of the kitchen, still shrouded in shadow. your voice was calm, almost sweet, but the words were nothing but. 

and you were holding a knife.

“well… if i have the bed all to myself tonight…” you tilted your head, voice distant and almost flat, like you were not in the same space as he was. “...you’re not going to touch me. so i’ll do it myself. over and over and over. i’ll keep going until there’s nothing left inside. until every piece of me is used and hollowed out. my hands will move long after they go numb—and my body will keep moving even when it stops feeling like mine. it won’t stop until it hurts, and i won’t stop until i’m empty. i’ll just keep pushing until the last little bit of me breaks,” 

“...and then there’ll be nothing.”

the sharp blade of the knife in your hand glinted.

then you switched again.

“or you can stay!”

sunghoon’s eyes remained wide in terror as he gripped the carpet beneath him. trembling and shaking in fear, he let out a soft—

“...yeah.”

——

“do you love me?” 

that was the 27th time you asked that night.

you were on top of him, riding him slow and deep, hips rolling in a rhythm. your arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, pulling him as close as physically possible. you wanted to intertwine the cages of your ribs with his’—if that was possible. 

you couldn’t stop kissing him. kisses that tasted like salt from your tears and blood from your cut cheeks that didn’t want to leave your skin.

“do you love me?” you whispered against his lips for the 28th time that night.

sunghoon groaned softly, hands gripping your waist as you sank down onto him again, taking him to the hilt. despite everything—the fear, the confusion, the guilt, the violence—it felt so fucking good. too fucking good.

you’re perfect around him, warm and tight and desperately his.

“yeah…” sunghoon breathed, voice hoarse. “i love you.”

you smiled against his mouth, kissing him deeper, tongue sliding against his as you rode him harder. your hips moved with needy, possessive rolls, like you were trying to fuse your bodies together. 

“i love you so much, hoonie,” you murmured between kisses, whispering the confession straight into his insides. “i love you so much like no one else can…”

sunghoon’s eyes stung, wet. a tear slipped down his cheek as the overwhelming mix of pleasure hit him. he loved you. he loved you so much. even like this, he still loved you.

you noticed the tears and slowed your movements, cupping his face with both smaller hands. 

“why are you crying, baby?” you whispered sweetly, kissing the tear away. “i love you so much. i love you so much…”

you rode him again, slower this time, grinding down deep as you kissed him like the world was ending tomorrow. your bodies moved together in the dark of his room. 

sunghoon held you tighter, burying his face in your neck as tears fell down your shoulder, along your collarbone, tits, and down.

he didn’t know what this was anymore.

and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

——

some hours later, after the sex and the clinging, sunghoon was awoken by the soft buzz of his phone.

slowly, quietly reaching for it and careful not to wake you up. the screen lit up.

sieun: can you meet me at the park? sieun: i need to tell you something about yn.

at first, he quickly typed back with one hand.

sunghoon: i can’t. sieun: please. it’s important.

sunghoon: text.

the bubble appeared, then disappeared.

siuen: if youre not cmg, then im cmg over sieun: its about yn

he stared at the scene for a long second. 

sunghoon: fuck. fine

he glanced at you—sleeping on his arm, naked beneath the blanket, looking as soft and calm as ever. slowly, very slowly, he moved your arm off his chest and slipped out of the bed. he put on his pants and shirt as quietly as possible.

sunghoon was just about to leave the bedroom when—

“sunghoon.”

he froze.

“i’m just getting water…” he whispered back, heart pounding. he didn’t want to deal with another breakdown. 

there was a long pause. then your voice came again—different, smaller, quieter. 

“sunghoon… kill me. please.”

he stopped dead in his tracks, ashamed and in disbelief as he stared at your unconscious, sleeping body.

“what?” “shh… she’s sleeping. it’s me.”

despite the tremble in your voice, you were sleeping soundly. 

“you are you, yn.”

“shh… please don’t wake her up.” your voice cracked, desperate. “just kill me.”

a beat of heavy silence.

sunghoon’s throat tightened as he glanced at the floor, before returning to your sleeping form. your hair covered your face, but even so, he knew your eyes were closed, and your mouth was shut.

“what would be so bad… about being with me?”

he could hear the tears in your voice. 

“i’ve never been with you, sunghoon.”

a single tear slipped down your cheek.

“just kill me. please.”

sunghoon stood there, frozen. his heart shattered like it had never been before. without sparing you another glance, he turned and left the room. 

behind him, your voice followed, weak and broken, repeating and chanting like a prayer—

“please… please… please… please… please…”

——

sunghoon got into her car, closing the door behind him. 

“alright. so what about yn?”

sieun raised an eyebrow, unbuckling her seatbelt. “jeez, calm down… what’s up with her first? is she fine?”

sunghoon darted his eyes away, sighing. “nothing. she’s uh… she’s fine. she just wasn’t feeling well at the party.”

the girl gave him a look. a long one. full of suspicion and doubt. “she was about to kill herself.”

“i know,” sunghoon said quickly, trying not to recall the moment you stabbed yourself in the face with a vodka bottle. “but she’s fine now. she’s just going through something.”

the car fell quiet for a moment. sieun tapped her fingers on the steering wheel before she shifted in her seat.

“um, okay… well, first of all, i’m saying this as yn’s friend. and also your acquaintance, somehow.” she paused, raising an eyebrow, then continued. “i’d hate to see your hurt, and—oh, yn too, i guess. and i wouldn’t have done this if you guys weren’t together.” 

sunghoon frowned. “yeah…?”

sieun took a deep breath, dropping her hands from the steering wheel and onto her lap where she played with the hem of her short skirt. “i promise yn i wouldn’t tell you this.”

“what are you on about?”

“well… yn and jake have been hooking up on and off like, three years ago—and they’ve stopped, but i’m not sure when. probably a year ago, or something. it’s chill. i don’t think it’s romantic. and i know jake’s your bestfriend and all, and i’m sure he stopped going after her because he knows you like her. i’m just saying this just so you know.”

sunghoon stared at her, stunned. his heart was beating as fast as it could. he never knew this. he never fucking knew you had a history—a fling—with his own bestfriend before. 

the thought of jake fucking you the way sunghoon did was making his blood boil. the thought of you moaning jake’s name the way you did in his dream was making his skin crawl. the thought of the two of you sharing a kiss—the same lips sunghoon kissed every night—was making him… repulsed.

“what the fuck…?”

“yeah,” sieun said softly. “i just… i don’t know if she’s told you that, so i felt like i had to.” she said, still playing with the fabric. “you couldn’t imagine what it’s like being me, and having to be in a room with jake, you, and yn all together.” 

the mood in the car shifted. sieun leaned a little closer, her voice dropping into something more… slicky. 

“i just think you deserve someone more… outgoing. or something. like, chill…”

sunghoon looked at her and swallowed the lump in his throat. distracted, his hands landed on the way her fingers were moving around the skirt. 

he parted his mouth to say something when—

CRASH.

the driver–side window shattered violently. 

glass exploded inward as you ran head–first into it like a battering ram. before sieun could even scream, you wedged a brick against the steering wheel, grabbed a fistful of her hair—so tight it threatened to rip off her scalp—, and slammed her face down hard against the brick.

HONK!

the horn blared with every slam..

you didn’t stop.

you yanked sieun’s head back by the hair and smashed her face into the brick again.

HONK!

blood sprayed across the dashboard and onto sunghoon’s face. sieun’s nose crunched on impact, splitting open. her cheek tore wide open, teeth falling down on her lap. 

HONK!

more blood poured from her broken nose and split lip. her cheekbone cracked with a wet sound. one of her teeth flew out, clattering against the windshield.

HONK!

you were relentless, animalistic. your face was covered by your hair, unfiltered rage as you kept yanking her head back by the hair and driving it down over and over and over again. 

HONK! HONK! HONK!

it was a bloodbath inside. on the seats, the roof, the windows, sunghoon. her face was unrecognisable, swollen, and mangled, one eye swelling shut, the other was exposing her eyeball. she was gurgling, choking on her own blood,

dead.

nothing to the name anymore.

playgirl’s just lost the lead singer.

sunghoon sat frozen in the passenger seat, paralysed by shock and terror. his body wouldn’t move, not a centimeter. his mouth hung open in silence as he watched you—the girl he loved—violently smashing her bestfriend’s face with raw force. 

he could only stare.

HONK!

with one last slam, you let go of sieun’s chunk of hair that you’d pulled out. her body slumped lifelessly against the seat, head tilting back. warm blood poured from her face, dripping down.

sunghoon stared. smoke from the broken horn lingered in the air like a ghost. he was paralysed—eyes widened, body frozen in horror.

you finally sighed, lifting your head up to face him with a bright, almost cheerful smile, blood smeared across your cheek and hands.

“oh—oh gosh! i’m sorry you had to see that, baby!”

you moved your hair out of your face, still smiling.

“my heart took a path i never chose… but just know you wanted this. this is all your fault. this is what you’ve wished for.”

sunghoon’s face was pale, mouth slightly open but nothing came out. upon his terrified reaction, your heart broke and the smile was instantly wiped off your face, replaced with a concerned look. 

“oh, no no no no no—” you rushed to his side, opening the passenger door. you cupped his face with your bloody hands, wiping the sweat and specks of blood from his skin. “breathe, baby, breathe,” you said, taking deep breaths.

“it’s okay. i’ve got you. that’s all that matters… you’re fine, baby. i’m soooo sorry for the drama, but this is your fault. sieun’s your fault.”

you pulled him into a tight hug, pressing your blood stained cheeks against his chest. 

“and you’re gonna have to help me get rid of her body, okay?”

sunghoon shook his head frantically. “no… no no no—”

“yes, baby. you’re gonna help me.”

“no, no, no—” he groaned, voice breaking.

you pulled back, still holding his face gently, eyes soft but insistent.

“baby, i forgive you and i won’t hold it against you. but we have to get rid of her, okay? now shake your head yes.”

he shook his head again, tears welling up.

you smiled patiently. “yes. yes. yes, baby.”

he kept shaking his head.

“nod your head yes.”

realizing he had no choice, sunghoon finally nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks.

——

sunghoon helped you move sieun’s body into the trunk of your car. you kissed him softly on the lips before saying you’d take it from here.

he drove back to his house but couldn’t bring himself to go inside. the fear was too heavy even though he knew you weren’t inside. the thought of being in his house by himself, waiting for you to come back was too much.

so instead, he drove until he reached crystal cove. 

it was barely 8 in the morning when he barged in, the bell above the door ringing violently. he went straight to the shelf where he’d found the one wish willow—

it wasn’t there.

“what the fuck…”

out of breath, sunghoon rummaged through the other display boxes, panicking—if it was all just his imagination. when he couldn’t find it, he stormed to the cashier, voice shaking.

“where is it? where’s the one wish willow?”

“what?”

sunghoon’s eyes twitched. “the one wish willow! it’s—it’s a white box with a twig that you can only wish for one thing!”

the cashier, with a cup of coffee in hand, raised an eyebrow, clicking his tongue.

“hey, look—you gotta chill… it like 7AM. what’s with the vibes you’re giving off?”

sunghoon was frantic, he looked around the shop for it. “come on, one wish willow! please, please—”

he stared at the bloodied guy like he was crazy. “...what? are you okay?”

sunghoon’s heart dropped. “what…?”

was it because of the blood on his shirt that nobody was taking him seriously? or was it because there was no such thing as one wish willow in the first place?

he was in disbelief. “no, no, no—don’t fuck with me. you guys had those!”

the cashier looked at him weirdly for a second—before chuckling like it’s the funniest fucking thing ever.

“chill out, jeez… i’m just messing with you. we moved them here.” he pointed right at the counter, where a small display now sat. 

sunghoon frowned, wanting to flip the cashier off but decided there was more important matter now. he grabbed the remaining one wish willow box from the display. 

“how can you fucking sell this to people?!”

the cashier shrugged, sighing. “look. we just sell what the boss wants us to sell. now if you can’t chill out and wipe that theatre blood off your face, i’m not gonna scan those for you.”

sunghoon snapped out of his rage for a second, realising how crazy and unhinged he sounded. he let out a deep breath and rubbed his face with one hand, on the verge of another round of tears and break down.

“sorry… fuck, i’m so sorry. oh god…”

the cashier’s expression softened a little when sunghoon calmed down, then he glanced at the boxes, and realisation kicked in.

“... what did you do?”

sunghoon couldn’t speak. the words wouldn’t come. 

the cashier sighed. “oh well. that’s just how it is.”

sunghoon’s voice cracked as he put the boxes on the counter. “help me reverse it.”

he shook his head. “nope. already used mine.”

“please, please, please—” 

sunghoon was begging at this point.

“nooo, you know that’s not how it works. it’s one wish for a reason! the box is full of warnings—did you read the instruction paper?”

“instru—dude, please, please—”

“nope. you know what you were wishing for.”

“i didn’t—”

“no.” the cashier said firmly, now looking at sunghoon straight into his eyes. “you do. there’s no way to undo, or break the wish unless you kill youself—”

sunghoon’s eyes widened, he froze.

“—unless you kill youself, or have someone else reverse it.”

“k—kill… myself?”

the cashier nodded, drumming his fingers against the countertop. “yeah. that’s usually the easy way people do it. i’ve dealt with unsatisfied customers like you all the time for the same reason. it’s too much of a hassle to explain it to others, so they just kill themselves.”

sunghoon remained frozen, swallowing the lump in his throat. his hands shook around the box. the weight of his mistake finally came crushing down on him when he realised just how heavy the consequences were. 

noticing sunghoon’s reaction, the cashier sighed, rubbing his head. 

“just have someone undo it for you. that’s probably the best option you got here—since,” he lifted an eyebrow, seeing sunghoon in a state of shock.

 “...you don’t wanna kill yourself.”

the cashier scanned all the one wish willows for sunghoon.

——

sunghoon knocked on jake’s door—loud, frantic, over and over until jake finally opened it, looking confused.

“hey, what’s up? you almost knocked my door over.”

sunghoon ignored it and pushed past him into the house. jake closed the door behind. the friend wanted to ask about the stain and blood on sunghoon’s shirt, but didn’t get the chance to when sunghoon began.

“is haewon here?”

jake frowned at his friend’s urgency before shaking his head. “no… she left cause she wanted to check up on yn…”

“what—?! fuck, uhm, okay, listen to me first. listen to me well. you know—you know how yn started acting all weird and liking me all of a sudden?”

jake nodded slowly, still confused. “...yeah?”

sunghoon pulled out one of the one wish willow boxes from his pocket and held it in front of jake with shaky fingers.

“it’s ‘cause… it’s ‘cause i made a wish. i made a wish—and i broke this twig and at first i was confused as hell but it’s real!”

jake frowned, staring back and forth between sunghoon and the box. “what…?”

“no, it’s real!” sunghoon insisted, voice shaking. “you can make a wish, but just one! just one… and it’ll work. i wished yn loved me, and i didn’t think it was gonna work but it worked and it’s why she’s acting insane all of a sudden!”

sunghoon’s voice cracked. “you don’t even recognise her anymore.”

a beat.

jake took it all in, quiet for a long moment. then he looked at sunghoon with wide, stunned eyes. 

“...you made a wish… on yn?”

sunghoon looked down on the box in his hands. “...yeah.”

jake was shocked, almost disgusted. it felt as if he didn’t know who was standing before him. “why the fuck would you do that… why the fuck would you wish something like that on her?”

“because i fucking like her, jake!” sunghoon exploded. “i fucking like her and you know it and you would’ve done the same too if you had this! and—and i know you guys have been fucking!” 

jake’s face hardened. “what the fuck? that’s none of your business! and for the record, you know i liked yn first. you fucking know it but you decided to like her too and i’m too kind of a friend to give that to you!”

he snapped, heart pounding. jake’s never fought with sunghoon this bad, ever.

quietly, like a murmur, he continued, “and no, i’m not that big of an asshole to wish something like this.”

sunghoon scoffed, bitter. “sure. right. ‘cause you’re yn’s most perfect guy that she loves. because you’ve been with her since childhood—so naturally, you guys are meant to be together? is that it?.” 

the tension in the room was suffocating. 

not being able to stand jake anymore, sunghoon swallowed the lump in his throat before storming away from the house, slamming the door behind him loudly.

——

“...yn…?”

the house was dark except for the slivers of sunlight cutting through the curtains and the candles flickering across the house. the air smelled like wax, and heavy with metal.

you were nowhere to be found.

but on the coffee table was a memorial, or at least what looked like it—photos of sieun, locks of her hair, her eyeball that threatened to roll out of the skull, her id, and her belongings from the car. 

there was also stuff of haewon’s, arranged carefully with flowers and little trinkets. it looked like a shrine too. 

next to the table, on the tv—played clips of sunghoon sleeping, with you recording and appearing every now and then.

sunghoon’s stomach dropped. “yn…?”

“i’m right here, baby.”

you stepped out from behind him.

you were wearing sieun’s clothes—a short denim skirt, boots, and a tight tank top. your hair was cut shorter, choppy, and you’d stabbed a nose piercing through your nostril. blood still trickled down from the fresh wound.

you smiled at him sweetly. 

“do you like me better now?” 

sunghoon was stunned, shocked into silence. his mouth opened, but no words came out. he couldn’t get his eyes off you.

“...yn… yn, i need you to do something for me… okay?”

you tilted your head, eyes wide and glassy. even after all these, you still weren’t enough for him. 

“why can’t you just love me? why don’t you love me?”

you started hitting yourself—hard, open–palmed slaps against your own face until sieun’s rings and bracelets split your cheek open, fresh blood running down. 

“i just want you to love me!”

“stop! stop!”  

you stopped, standing still. sunghoon stumbled backwards, backing away slowly, terrified. you stepped closer, voice dropping obsessively, hungrily, and almost sweetly inhumane.

“gosh, i want to eat you up… i want to be with you,” you licked your lips, tilting your head as you followed him. “i want you to love me… i love you more than anyone else in this world…”

sunghoon’s breath hitched.

outside, a loud knocking started on the door. 

jake’s voice came through, urgent. 

“dude, i’m sorry! i’m so sorry—tell me again what’s happening and let’s fix it! can we still save her?!”

sunghoon’s eyes widened. he fell back onto the couch, mouth open like he wanted to scream at jake not to come in—but he couldn’t bring himself to. the words died in his throat as he’s forced to look at you.

you straddled his lap, eyes wild and unhinged. the screaming outside grew louder as jake kept banging on the door. 

“hoon—i’m coming in! shit, i’m coming in!”

you pressed the tip of the knife you’d been holding right in front of your left eyes, smiling with pure psychotic glee as blood trailed out of your mouth. 

“i’ll kill myself, hoonie! i’ll fucking kill myself right in front of you!”

the horror in sunghoon’s face was pure. his body was shaking as he stared at the blade hovering too dangerously close to your eye.

right at that moment, you turned with crazy speed and hurled the knife toward the door.

THUD.

the blade sank deep right into jake’s chest the second he forced the door open. he stumbled back, eyes wide with shock as blood instantly soaked his shirt. he collapsed, back hitting the door shut.

dead, before he even hit the ground.

almost instantly, you turned back to sunghoon, fisted the collar of his shirt before screaming—

“i’ll rip my fucking eyes out of my skull and shove them up my fucking cunt, hoonie!”

you vomited stomach acid right at his face. sunghoon flinched, shutting his eyes as the warm, burning  liquid slid down his skin. 

he was trembling, broken, unsure what to do or what was real anymore, but the words still came out soft and full of the love that had ruined everything. 

“i love you. i love you, yn. i love you.”

you screamed at him, eyes wild. “scream it!”

“i love you! i love you, yn!”

like a flick of a wrist, you fell on top of him, sighing contentedly as you rubbed your cheek against his chest. your voice dropped into that sickly sweet tone again.

“i know… i know. i love you too, baby. you owe me that. you owe me that.” 

sunghoon’s voice was hoarse and dry as he lifted his arms to wrap them around your frail body. “we can… we can work this out.”

his hand came upon your head, brushing your hair. 

“mmhm. mmhm. i’m sorry for the drama… ugh, i don’t know why i do that. i know you love me. i’m gonna stop on the mollies…”

he nodded slowly, still in shock. if you could feel, or hear his heartbeat—you didn’t comment.

you nuzzled closer, kissing his jaw. “i’m such a mess… i’ll be pretty again, i promise."

“no, no,” he whispered, holding you tight as he planted a kiss on top of your head. “you’re gorgeous, baby. i love you so much. i love you.”

“i’m sorry—”

“you’re beautiful. my beautiful girl.”

you smiled against his neck, all soft and loving. 

“i love you so much. more than anyone else in this world.”

he knew that.

sunghoon closed his eyes and looked up, tears slipping down his cheeks. he’s fucked up. he’s fucked up like no one else ever did before. he’d ruined you—an angel, the sweetest girl anyone’s ever met. he’d turned you into a version of yourself not even your parents could recognise—admit it was theirs. 

a version not even you, would know. 

“let’s take a shower. let’s take a shower, okay? freshen ourselves up.”

you hummed happily. “mmhm.”

——

“open up! open this fucking door, hoonie!” 

you were yelling and slamming on the door like manic, voice shifting from wild rage and sickly sweet.

“baby, please… i’m sorry, i’m so sorry—did i scare you? just open the door. i love you. i love you so much. don’t leave me! don’t you dare leave me—!”

“let me in, bitch! fuck you, fuck you!”

“oh shit—just a second, baby! just a second!” he screamed back.

“okay, just a second. thank you!”

sunghoon stood in front of the sink, staring back at himself in the mirror. his face was bloodied—did some belong to him? some yours, some sieun’s. he’d like to think jake’s and haewon’s were there too.

his eyes were empty. he couldn’t cry if he wanted to. there was just nothing left.

he touched the onyx necklace you had given him, the stone cold—meant for protection and grounding, felt meaningless in his hand. 

“baby?”

a beat.

“i thought about what you said, and maybe you were right… we need some time apart for us…”

sunghoon opened the cabinet with shaking hands and pulled out a razor. he held it to his wrist, then his throat, then his neck—aiming for the spot that would it fast. 

his hand trembled as he pushed the blade deeper into his skin, not yet puncturing, but making a dent.

he couldn’t do it.

“if space is what you need—then sure, okay, we can take some space.”

sunghoon pulled away with a deep breath, shaking his head and tossing the razor aside. he rubbed his face and pressed the heels of his palms deep into his eyes—praying this was all some sick nightmare that was about to end.

and then he’d wake up, and everything will be fine. you’ll invite him over for a movie night where he would come in bringing popcorn and drinks. and he’ll confess—tell you everything he’s been keeping to himself.

just like the way he rehearsed it. 

“i’m really sorry for scaring you, hoonie. i just—i just love you but i want to respect your decision.”

instead, sunghoon opened the cabinet again and found the old bottle of insect poison pellets—the same ones that had killed kibbles.

he sat on the toilet, staring at the bottle for a long moment. he knew there was no turning back. he poured one pellet into his palm, then put it in his mouth and swallowed it.

not convinced enough, he dumped the rest of the bottle straight into his mouth and forced them all down, choking them dry.

“hoonie…? baby, please open the door…”

sunghoon got off the toilet and rested his forehead against the door, when he knew you were standing and waiting for him on the other side of the door. 

he spoke softly, exhausted.

“um, yn… i… i’m really sorry.”

he swallowed hard, eyes closed.

“i’ve liked you for so long. so fucking long. i just… i couldn’t find the courage to confess. i thought you didn’t like me back and i was scared of losing you,” sunghoon said, the tip of his nose brushing against the hard wood.

“and now… now this is happening and there’s nothing i can do to fix it. i just like you so much. i love you so much.”

a beat of silence.

it felt like hours passed in a matter of seconds.

then a whisper, barely audible through the door—

“she likes you too.”

sunghoon’s eyes snapped open.

“what?”

before something shifted.

a spark ignited within him. the world snapped back into focus as the heavy fog that clouded everything lifted. 

his eyes widened. he stared at the bathroom door like it was the first time he was seeing it. slowly, sunghoon opened the door and walked out.

you were standing across from him, smiling shyly at him, a little nervous, a little hopeful. your hands are clasped in front of you. all sweet and innocent girlfriend.

he smiled back.

the two of you laughed together.

it was romantic when he approached you. sunghoon leaned in and kissed you passionately, hands cupping your face. his lips moved against yours with all the love and longing he had. on your tiptoes, you cupped his cheeks as well and with a soft flick of his tongue, you parted your lips partly and he wasted no time slipping his tongue in, overlapping and dancing your own. 

“i love you,”

when sunghoon pulled back slightly, his face was covered in blood from your wound, but neither of you cared. 

then suddenly, his knees buckled.

sunghoon collapsed—but you caught him, lowering him onto the sofa on your lap. pure panic flooding your face as you cradled his cheeks, hands trembling.

“baby… babe… oh gosh, don’t leave me alone—what did you do? oh gosh, baby no!” 

your voice cracked, high and desperate, as you searched his face for anything. his eyelids fluttered, skin already turning clammy. you could feel his warmness fading beneath your palms.

“no, no, no—stay with me. stay with me, baby,” you whispered, pressing frantic kisses to his forehead, his temples, his lips. tears streamed down your cheeks, mixing with the blood still drying on your hands. “you can’t leave me. i love you more than anything. i did everything for you… everything. don’t you dare go. i won’t let you.”

you wailed, hugging his head tightly to your chest, rocking him back and forth. you stroked his hair while the other clutched his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric as if that could hold his soul down.

sobs wrecked your entire body as you buried your face in his hair, breathing in his scent. his breathing was growing weaker and shallower—white foam of saliva began forming to the corner of his mouth as his body went limp. 

"i love you... i love you so much, hoonie, please—"

his body gave one final, weak shudder in your arms.

then everything went still.

for a heartbeat, the room was silent except for your ragged breathing.

the moment his heart stopped beating, you snapped back. 

your eyes widened in horror—followed by a blood-curdling scream ripped from your throat as you shoved yourself backward, letting sunghoon's limp body fall onto the bloodied floor with a dull thud. 

you stared at your bloodstained hands first—they were coated in sticky crimson that you could probably never remove no matter how many times you washed your hands. then your gaze darted around the room, confused, panicked, scared.

jake's body slumped by the door, eyes still open.

the memorial of haewon's and sieun's on the table.

and... sunghoon's motionless on the floor when you'd pushed him off you.

the wish shattered, and reality crashed over you like ice water.

"no... no, no, no—"

you scrambled onto the sofa, pulling your legs up and hugging your knees tightly to your chest. your sobs came harder and harder, violent, whole body shaking as you rocked back and forth. 

tears poured down your face as you buried it between your knees, screaming and sobbing louder. the weight of every horrible thing you had done—despite being only a witness hit you at once.

you were finally yourself again.

and you had never felt more alone.

ㅤ© ⌞hoonkitti⌝ ⁞ all rights reservedㅤ please don't share, copy, or translate my work.

You smiled faintly. Oscar Wilde always sounded as though he were arguing with the world.

The front door opened. Even before the sound of heels echoed across the marble floor, you knew your mother had returned.

She never simply entered a room. She arrived.

Her perfume preceded her by several seconds—something floral and expensive that lingered like a carefully rehearsed first impression—and when she appeared in the doorway, she looked untouched by the outside world. Every strand of honey-blonde hair remained precisely where it belonged, her ivory blouse showed not a single crease beneath the tailored camel coat draped elegantly over her shoulders, her lipstick was subtle enough to appear effortless despite the twenty minutes it had undoubtedly taken to perfect, and her freshly manicured nails caught the afternoon light as she removed her gloves.

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.

She stood framed by the doorway, polished down to the smallest detail, while you remained curled beneath the window in an oversized sweater several winters too old to be fashionable. Your hair had long since surrendered, escaping the pencil that barely held it together, and the afternoon sunlight painted you not with elegance but with an almost careless softness.

You had inherited your mother's features. The same eyes, the same mouth, the same graceful lines that made strangers glance twice and yet, the resemblance ended there.

She treated beauty as something to be maintained. You treated it as something that happened, or didn't, with little consequence either way.

Looking at the two of you felt less like looking at a mother and daughter than at two women who had learned entirely different definitions of what it meant to exist in the world.

Her eyes found you. Then the oversized sweater. The loose cotton trousers. The socks that didn't match. The pencil holding your hair in a carelessly assembled knot. She sighed.

"You truly have a remarkable talent for looking like you've survived a shipwreck."

You glanced down at yourself. "I thought I looked comfortable?"

"Comfortable," she repeated, as though tasting the word and finding it disappointing. "Comfort has become terribly fashionable lately."

She crossed the room without waiting for an answer, adjusting a vase by less than an inch before straightening a picture frame that had never been crooked to begin with. You watched her in silence.

She could never enter a room without changing something. A cushion. A curtain. A vase. If everything already appeared perfect, she simply searched harder until she found an imperfection no one else had noticed. You, on the other hand, had always believed a room should look lived in. She believed it should look admired.

"Presentation matters," she continued absentmindedly. "People notice these things."

"I've noticed."

"No, darling." She smiled patiently. "You don't." Silence settled between you for only a moment before she opened her handbag and began searching through its contents with meticulous precision. "I met Baelor for lunch."

The name meant little for you. Baelor, you remembered, was the name of your mother's new romantic conquest—as you liked to call him. Another replacement for your dad's position, a position no one would ever truly fill.

You hummed politely.

"He's looking forward to meeting you."

That finally drew your attention away from the book. "Oh?"

"This Saturday."

She withdrew a hardcover volume from her bag and placed it gently onto your lap.

The title gleamed in gold lettering.

Modern Etiquette for Formal Society.

You blinked. "...Seriously?"

"Entirely."

You turned the book over. "It teaches table etiquette, conversational decorum, introductions, proper posture, the correct use of silverware" She counted each topic on perfectly manicured fingers. "Everything you'll need."

"I know how to eat."

"You know how to consume food." She smiled again. "There is a difference."

You laughed quietly. She did not.

"There will only be Baelor and his sons," she said, her tone softening just enough to disguise, though never quite conceal, the calculation beneath it. "I'd appreciate not being embarrassed."

You looked at her for a long moment. The words lingered in the room. Not I'd like you to make a good impression. Not I hope you like him. Only that.

Don't embarrass me.

Sometimes you wondered whether your mother had ever realized how often she spoke about appearances without mentioning feelings even once.

"Are you introducing me to your boyfriend—" You lifted the heavy book slightly. "or applying for admission into a royal court?"

"If you knew the difference," she replied smoothly, "I wouldn't have needed to buy the book."

You looked down at the book resting across your lap without opening it again.

Your mother was already moving through the sitting room once more, adjusting the folds of a curtain that didn't need straightening, aligning a decorative bowl by barely half an inch, polishing a fingerprint from the polished surface of a side table with the edge of her sleeve.

She couldn't walk past disorder without correcting it, even when the disorder was imaginary.

You watched her in silence.

It occurred to you that she never seemed tired of perfecting surfaces. Every gesture she made was directed outward, toward the version of life other people would eventually witness.

She never asked what book you had been reading. She never noticed the tea had gone cold. She never wondered why you preferred quiet afternoons to crowded dinners.

Somewhere along the way, the distance between the two of you had stopped feeling like something either of you intended to cross.

She adjusted one final picture frame, smiled with quiet satisfaction at a room that had looked exactly the same five minutes earlier, and reached for her handbag.

"Saturday," she reminded you without turning around. "Please don't make me regret introducing you."

The front door closed softly behind her.

The house returned to its familiar silence.

You remained on the sofa for several moments, listening to the fading sound of her heels until it disappeared completely, before lowering your gaze once more to the forgotten page in your lap.

—

Saturday belonged entirely to your mother.

You realized it the moment she swept open your bedroom curtains without asking, flooding the room with pale morning light before laying a garment bag across the foot of your bed.

"We're leaving in twenty minutes."

You blinked sleepily from beneath the blankets. "For what?"

She looked at you as though the answer should have been obvious. "Preparation." She pronounced the word with the solemnity another person might have reserved for surgery. "You aren't meeting Baelor looking like..." Her gaze traveled over your oversized sleep shirt, your tangled hair and the novel lying face-down beside your pillow. "...yourself."

You couldn't help smiling.

"I thought that was exactly who he was supposed to meet."

Your mother's expression barely shifted. "Not the first time."

—

The salon smelled of jasmine, hairspray and freshly brewed espresso, while women drifted gracefully between mirrors discussing charity galas, upcoming holidays and social engagements beneath the soft strains of classical music that floated almost unnoticed through the room.

Your mother belonged there effortlessly. She greeted the receptionists by name, kissed one of the stylists on the cheek and accepted a cappuccino before anyone had even asked whether she wanted one.

You, meanwhile, settled awkwardly into an oversized leather chair with your backpack resting between your feet, feeling as though someone had accidentally invited a university student into a room designed exclusively for women who never appeared to have an untidy day in their lives.

Within minutes, strangers surrounded you. Your hair was brushed until every knot disappeared before long sections were lifted, examined beneath bright lights and discussed over your head as though you weren't sitting there at all.

"It has beautiful texture."

"It only needs shape."

"A little movement."

"No," your mother corrected gently. "Elegance."

You watched your reflection while another stylist carefully curled the ends of your hair, realizing with quiet discomfort that you barely recognized the girl in the mirror already.

The manicure came next.

The technician smiled warmly as she took your hands into hers. "You don't usually have your nails done."

"No."

"They're lovely."

"They're practical," your mother corrected before you could answer. "There's a difference."

The woman laughed politely.

You lowered your gaze while the file moved rhythmically across your nails, surprised by how something so insignificant could make even your own hands begin to feel unfamiliar.

—

Boutiques proved even more exhausting.

Dress after dress disappeared beneath your mother's unwavering scrutiny.

"Too casual."

"Too youthful."

"Too loud."

"Too plain."

Sales assistants hurried between racks while you obediently stepped in and out of changing rooms until the fabrics, colors and silhouettes blurred together into a single expensive haze.

Eventually one of them returned carrying a midnight-blue dress whose elegance came not from embellishment but from restraint. There was no glitter, no embroidery, nothing that openly demanded attention. It possessed the quiet confidence of something that never needed to ask to be admired.

Your mother smiled the instant you stepped out wearing it. "There you are."

You turned toward the mirror. It fit perfectly. For reasons you couldn't explain, that only made you feel worse.

—

By the time the afternoon ended, shopping bags occupied nearly every available space inside the car. Shoes, jewelry, a silk scarf and a small evening clutch lay carefully arranged across the back seat while your mother drove home wearing the quiet satisfaction of an artist admiring a masterpiece nearing completion.

"You'll make an excellent impression."

You rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window. "I wasn't aware making an impression was my responsibility."

"It always is."

—

The house felt unnaturally quiet by the time evening settled over it.

The dress waited outside your wardrobe. The jewelry remained inside its velvet case. The shoes sat perfectly aligned beneath the bed, every detail prepared with the meticulous precision your mother considered indispensable.

One piece at a time, you dressed.

The fabric settled comfortably across your shoulders, the necklace rested lightly against your collarbone and the earrings caught the light with the smallest movement. Only when everything was finally in place did you step before the mirror.

You stopped.

The young woman reflected in the glass was undeniably beautiful. Her hair fell in soft waves instead of the untidy bun you wore almost every day, while makeup so subtle it was nearly invisible brightened her eyes, softened every feature and erased the quiet university student who spent afternoons reading novels beside forgotten cups of cold tea.

She looked graceful. Elegant. Refined. Exactly the sort of young woman your mother wanted the world to admire.

You continued staring. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Searching for something unmistakably yours.

The thoughtful expression that always appeared when you reached an interesting paragraph. The quiet awkwardness you had never felt the need to hide. The girl who forgot to match her socks because she had become distracted by a book.

She wasn't there.

For one impossible moment, it felt as though someone had borrowed your face and learned to wear it better than you ever had.

A gentle knock broke the silence. "Darling?" your mother's voice called through the door. "Baelor will be expecting us."

You didn't answer immediately. Your eyes remained fixed on the stranger standing inside the mirror.

When you finally spoke, your voice sounded oddly distant. "I'm coming."

The woman reflected in the glass moved exactly when you did, and you weren't entirely convinced she was you.

—

The drive unfolded beneath a sky slowly surrendering to dusk, where the last traces of sunlight dissolved into long ribbons of amber reflected across rain-darkened streets. Beyond the windows, the city continued with its ordinary rhythm. People hurrying home, cafés beginning to fill, traffic lights blinking patiently at crowded intersections, but inside the car there existed only your mother's voice.

She spoke almost without interruption, moving effortlessly from one subject to another as though rehearsing a speech she had delivered countless times before.

Baelor's career, his impeccable reputation, the elegance of his home, the charity foundation he chaired, the respect his family commanded; every detail seemed carefully selected, polished until it gleamed, another stone laid upon the immaculate image she had spent months constructing around her new life.

Listening to her, one could almost forget that only a year earlier she had been speaking about your father with the very same certainty, with a love that you still kept like an arcane relic inside you, but he had vanished from the face of her psyche like the wind does with the sand.

You answered when necessary, though most of the time a nod seemed sufficient. Silence had always come more naturally to you than conversation, and your mother had long ago mistaken that quietness for agreement.

Every few minutes she glanced sideways, not to ask whether you were nervous or excited, but to inspect the work that had occupied her entire afternoon. She straightened an invisible fold near your shoulder, smoothed the fabric gathered over your knees and frowned when she noticed the faintest imperfection in your lipstick.

"You've smudged it."

Instinctively you rubbed your thumb against the corner of your mouth.

"No, darling." She sighed with patient resignation before retrieving a neatly folded handkerchief from her handbag. Leaning across the console, she corrected it herself with delicate, practiced movements, then leaned back to admire the result. "There. Perfect."

For a brief moment you wondered whether she had ever looked at your face that carefully after you had cried the night she and dad separated.

—

Baelor's residence stood beyond imposing wrought-iron gates framed by ancient oaks whose branches intertwined above the driveway like the vaulted ceiling of an old cathedral. It was undeniably grand, yet possessed none of the ostentation displayed by people who felt compelled to advertise their fortune. This was quieter wealth, older wealth, the kind that had ceased needing to impress because everyone already knew it existed. Warm light spilled from tall windows onto perfectly maintained gardens where marble statues rested among trimmed hedges, and somewhere beyond them the gentle murmur of a fountain drifted through the evening air.

Your mother drew a slow, almost imperceptible breath before stepping from the car. Had anyone else been watching, they would never have noticed. You did.

The front door opened before either of you reached it.

Baelor himself descended the steps to greet you.

He was taller than you had imagined, broad-shouldered without appearing imposing, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit him with effortless precision. Everything about him projected understated refinement, from the silver watch resting beneath his cuff to the warmth with which he smiled the instant he saw your mother. There was nothing performative about his manners; they seemed so deeply woven into him that courtesy had become instinct rather than performance.

"There you are."

His voice possessed the calm confidence of someone accustomed to making other people feel welcome. He kissed your mother's cheek first, greeting her with easy familiarity before turning toward you. The expression on his face softened almost imperceptibly.

"So this is the famous daughter."

The words themselves were harmless. Perfectly polite. Something about them unsettled you before you could explain why. Perhaps it was the quiet amusement in his voice, perhaps it was the strange certainty with which he said them, as though he had heard enough stories to feel he already knew you.

Your mother rested a light hand against the middle of your back. "My daughter."

You extended your hand automatically. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Targaryen." You answered in the way your mother had instructed you.

Instead of taking it immediately, he smiled with gentle care. "Baelor." He made you repeat it, only then did he accept the handshake.

His grip was light, respectful and brief, exactly as etiquette demanded. Nothing about the gesture crossed any boundary, and when he released your hand, his eyes lingered on your face for the smallest fraction of a second too long. It wasn't staring. It wasn't inappropriate. It felt more like quiet observation, as though he were committing your features to memory with a concentration too subtle for anyone else to notice.

The sensation vanished almost immediately.

You told yourself you had imagined it.

The dining room reflected the same restrained elegance as the rest of the house. A long walnut table occupied its center beneath an antique crystal chandelier whose warm light settled softly over polished silver, delicate porcelain and crystal glasses that caught every flicker of candlelight. Fresh white lilies rested in low arrangements along the table, beautiful enough to enrich the room without obstructing conversation, while the scent of rosemary and roasted herbs drifted from the adjoining kitchen.

Two young men were already waiting when you entered.

"The eldest," Baelor said, resting an affectionate hand upon the taller one's shoulder, "is Valarr."

Valarr greeted you with a slight inclination of his head before offering his hand. He appeared only a few years older than you, impeccably dressed and impossibly composed, with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life succeeding at everything expected of him. Peculiar features, you noticed. Attractive heterochromatic eyes, and a silver streak impossible to miss. Every movement seemed deliberate without becoming rigid, every word measured before it was spoken.

"It's a pleasure." His voice was low and calm.

Beside him stood another young man whose expression immediately suggested a far less disciplined temperament.

"And this menace," Baelor continued with an affectionate sigh, "is Matarys."

"I object to that introduction."

"You object to everything."

"I simply have standards."

Baelor laughed softly. "I'll let you discover those standards for yourself."

Matarys grinned before shaking your hand with easy enthusiasm. "I promise I'm considerably more entertaining than my brother."

"That isn't a particularly high achievement," Valarr replied without looking at him.

"Oh, don't encourage him," Baelor said, though the fondness in his voice betrayed how accustomed he had become to these exchanges.

The room relaxed almost instantly.

Dinner unfolded with surprising ease, carried along by the comfortable rhythm of a family that had long ago perfected the art of talking over one another without anyone feeling unheard. Matarys possessed the peculiar gift of transforming even the most ordinary events into elaborate adventures, embellishing every story until it became impossible to distinguish memory from invention. Baelor corrected him with long-suffering amusement whenever the exaggerations grew too ambitious, while Valarr quietly dismantled each embellished detail with the patience of someone who had performed this exact ritual since childhood.

"That professor didn't throw you out."

"He intended to."

"He asked you to lower your voice."

"Which, under the circumstances, amounted to the same thing."

Valarr sighed into his wine. "I was there."

"Traitor."

Laughter circled the table, even your mother relaxed enough to forget, for a few precious minutes, the careful perfection she carried everywhere.

Baelor never attempted to dominate the conversation. Instead, he listened far more than he spoke, thanking the staff by name whenever they entered the room, asking thoughtful questions without prying and allowing everyone else the space to answer at their own pace. He seemed genuinely interested in whatever people chose to say, a quality so uncommon that it almost felt rehearsed.

Eventually his attention settled upon you.

"Your mother told me you were an avid reader. Tell me, what are you reading these days?"

"The Picture of Dorian Gray."

Something brightened behind his eyes. "Wilde."

You nodded. "I've nearly finished it."

"And what do you think?"

You considered the question before answering. "I think everyone mistakes admiration for love."

Silence settled gently across the table. Not uncomfortable. Reflective.

Valarr looked toward you with unmistakable interest. "I would've said vanity."

"So would most people."

"And you disagree?"

"I think vanity is only the excuse."

For several seconds nobody spoke. Baelor continued watching you with quiet fascination before smiling almost to himself.

"You notice things."

You hesitated. "I like books."

"I'm not talking about books." His voice remained as warm as before, yet something about the remark settled strangely beneath your skin. "I'm talking about people."

Before you could answer, Matarys interrupted with another wildly exaggerated account of an ill-advised fencing tournament that immediately pulled everyone else's attention away.

Yours never fully returned to the conversation.

Throughout the remainder of dinner, you became increasingly aware of Baelor's gaze. He never stared openly, never allowed his attention to linger long enough for anyone else to notice, and never behaved with anything less than perfect propriety. Yet every time discussion shifted elsewhere and you happened to glance in his direction, you found him already looking at you—not at your dress, nor your carefully arranged appearance as your mother had done all evening, but at your expressions, your pauses, the small unconscious movements that escaped your control. It wasn't desire. It wasn't impropriety. If anything, it resembled quiet fascination.

For reasons you couldn't name, that disturbed you far more.

By the time dessert arrived, your mother looked happier than she had in months. She laughed easily, Baelor listened whenever she spoke, Matarys continued filling the room with effortless humor and Valarr had drifted into an animated discussion about politics with the calm precision of someone who genuinely enjoyed intellectual disagreement. It should have been a pleasant evening. It should have felt reassuring to watch such decent people surrounding your mother.

Instead, an uncomfortable certainty settled silently inside your chest.

Baelor was, by every reasonable measure, a good man. Thoughtful. Patient. Courteous. The kind of man any daughter should have hoped her mother would meet after a painful divorce.

That was precisely the problem.

Every kindness he offered only reminded you that he wasn't your father. He occupied a chair that had once belonged to someone else. He poured wine into your mother's glass with familiar ease. He made her laugh using stories that should have belonged to another life. No amount of gentleness could make him feel like family.

When the evening finally came to an end, Baelor accompanied both of you to the front entrance himself.

"It was truly a pleasure meeting you."

You offered the polite smile expected of you. "You as well."

He held your gaze for just a heartbeat longer than courtesy required before returning your smile. "I hope this won't be the last dinner we share."

The words were perfectly innocent. His expression was perfectly kind. As your mother climbed into the waiting car visibly content with how the evening had unfolded, you found yourself turning back one last time.

Baelor remained standing beneath the warm light spilling from the doorway. Still watching, still smiling, and, for reasons you couldn't explain, you couldn't shake the quiet certainty that throughout the entire evening, he had paid far more attention to you than anyone else at that table had realized.

—

The following Saturday arrived wrapped in one of those quiet afternoons that seemed suspended outside of time. The city moved lazily beneath a pale autumn sky, parks slowly filling with families, cyclists drifting along tree-lined paths and children chasing one another through blankets of fallen leaves while cafés spilled soft conversation onto the sidewalks. It was the sort of day that had once belonged entirely to the two of you.

Your father had always insisted that weekends were sacred, no meetings, no work, no excuse, and because of that you had grown up believing Saturdays existed for museums where he somehow knew the history behind every painting, for bookstores where he never left without buying you one more novel than he'd intended, for long walks that inevitably became improvised history lessons as he pointed toward old buildings and transformed ordinary streets into stories about forgotten kings, architects and revolutions.

When you were little, he had possessed this remarkable sense to make the world seem endlessly interesting, answering every impossible question you asked with absolute seriousness, and when he didn't know the answer, he would simply smile and promise to learn it before the following weekend.

Back then, it had been impossible to imagine a version of your life in which spending time with you wasn't the highlight of his week.

After the divorce, that certainty dissolved so quietly you almost failed to notice it. At first, the distance disguised itself as exhaustion.

He answered your messages a little later than usual, cancelled a lunch because of work, forgot to return a phone call and apologized with genuine sincerity the following day. You believed him because you wanted to. Adults became busy. Divorce complicated things. Life had simply become heavier than either of you had expected. But weeks slowly stretched into months, and every conversation seemed to require more effort than the last.

Eventually, arranging a simple lunch with your own father began to feel less like speaking to family and more like requesting an appointment with someone whose schedule you were grateful had managed to accommodate you at all.

It took three unanswered messages, two calls that rang until voicemail and nearly two weeks of waiting before your phone finally vibrated one evening. The message contained only four words.

Dad 💗

Saturday. Two o'clock. One hour.

There was no I've missed you. No How have you been? No apology for the silence that had settled between you. Not even your name. You stared at the screen for several minutes before replying with a simple I'll be there, telling yourself it didn't matter how brief the invitation was because what truly mattered was that he had answered at all.

The café overlooked the river, its terrace scattered with wrought-iron tables where elderly couples lingered over coffee, students revised notes beneath striped umbrellas and children leaned over the railing to watch boats drift lazily across the water. You arrived nearly fifteen minutes early, partly because you had always inherited your father's punctuality and partly because some childish part of you still hoped he might already be there waiting. You chose the table closest to the river because it had always been his favorite place to sit whenever the weather allowed it. The waiter asked whether you wished to order something, but you only requested a glass of water, promising you were waiting for someone.

At exactly two o'clock, you saw him crossing the street.

Your heart recognized him long before your mind did. The familiar stride, the dark wool coat you had seen every winter for as long as you could remember, the same broad shoulders that had once carried you through airports whenever you had fallen asleep on family holidays. For one impossible second, instinct urged you to stand and throw your arms around him just as you had done countless times growing up.

Then he glanced at his watch before looking toward you, and that impulse disappeared. "I'm sorry," he said as soon as he reached the table, pulling out his chair before sitting down. "Traffic."

"It's okay," you answered immediately, smiling more brightly than you actually felt.

He returned the smile politely. It was warm enough to avoid seeming cold, yet strangely formal, the sort of expression exchanged between acquaintances who respected one another rather than between a father and the daughter who used to climb onto his lap every Sunday morning demanding pancakes shaped like dinosaurs.

"You look well."

"So do you."

Silence followed.

Not the comforting silence you remembered from childhood, when the two of you could spend entire afternoons reading different books in the same room without either of you feeling obliged to speak. This silence felt unfamiliar. Empty. It searched desperately for a conversation that refused to begin.

The waiter returned. Your father ordered black coffee without looking at the menu, and you asked for the same simply because, for years, copying his order had become such an unconscious habit that you did it before realizing it. When you were younger he would always laugh, teasing you for refusing to develop tastes of your own. This time he didn't even seem to notice.

You carried the conversation the way one carries something unexpectedly fragile, careful not to let it slip through your hands. You asked about work, and he told you it had become demanding. You asked whether he had finally finished renovating the study he'd always talked about, and he admitted he hadn't found the time. You asked after your grandparents, whether they were healthy, whether he'd visited recently, whether the roses your grandmother insisted on planting every spring had survived another season. Each answer arrived complete enough to close the subject before another could naturally grow from it, leaving you constantly searching for something else to ask.

Finally, you reached for memory.

"Do you remember when we got lost trying to find that little bookstore near the cathedral?" you asked with a laugh that felt almost genuine. "You were absolutely convinced you knew the way."

He frowned faintly, searching through recollections that once had belonged to both of you.

"Vaguely."

"You insisted we were only one street away."

"I guess…"

"You definitely weren't," you smiled. "We walked in circles for almost three hours before we discovered the bookstore had moved months earlier."

He smiled back. A small, courteous smile. "I suppose." Nothing else followed.

The story, which had once made him laugh until tears gathered in his eyes whenever either of you mentioned it, simply ended there. You lowered your gaze toward your untouched coffee, realizing with quiet disbelief that the man who had once been capable of turning every shared memory into an hour-long conversation now responded to them as though they belonged to someone else's life.

You had imagined this meeting so many times over the previous months. In every version, eventually something softened. Eventually he admitted the divorce had broken him too. Eventually he apologized for disappearing, asked whether you were sleeping alright, whether your mother's new relationship had been difficult, whether you were lonely. Instead, his phone illuminated against the tabletop. He picked it up almost immediately, typed a brief response without explanation and placed it face down once more.

"I'm sorry," he said almost absentmindedly. "Work."

"It's alright." The answer escaped you so naturally that you barely noticed yourself saying it. Lately, it's alright had become another way of saying please don't leave yet.

By the time the waiter returned with the bill, you realized with growing horror that nearly the entire hour had been spent trying to persuade your own father to remain inside a conversation he seemed eager to escape. As the two of you walked slowly toward the parking lot beneath rows of yellowing trees whose leaves drifted lazily across the pavement, you deliberately shortened your steps, stretching the distance for as long as possible because some stubborn, frightened part of you still believed that if the afternoon lasted another few minutes, perhaps your father would finally become your father again.

"So..." you began carefully, clasping your hands together. "I was wondering... maybe next weekend we could go to the museum again? They're opening a new exhibition."

Genuine hesitation crossed his face. "I'll have to see."

"Oh."

"My schedule's complicated lately."

You nodded too quickly. "Right."

"I'll let you know."

You smiled anyway, even though both of you already knew he probably wouldn't.

When you finally reached his car, neither of you moved immediately. You stared at the pavement for a moment before forcing yourself to ask the question that had been living inside your chest for months.

"I've been texting you."

"I know."

"I thought maybe—" Your voice faltered. "—maybe you weren't seeing them."

"I saw them." The answer was gentle, almost unbearably so.

"Oh."

Another silence settled between you.

"I didn't want to bother you—"

"You weren't."

"You seemed busy."

"So were you."

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "I just—" The words caught painfully in your throat. "I miss you."

He looked away toward the rows of parked cars, and for a fleeting instant something unreadable crossed his expression. Regret. Fatigue. Guilt. You couldn't tell.

"I've had a lot on my mind."

"I know," you whispered immediately. "I know."

Another pause.

"I just kept thinking—" You laughed quietly, ashamed of how desperately you suddenly sounded. "—that maybe if I called at a better time..."

He sighed. Not with irritation, simply with exhaustion. "You don't have to keep trying so hard." The sentence was spoken softly, kindly, which somehow made it infinitely crueler.

You stared at him, unable to reconcile the man before you with the father who had once answered every midnight phone call simply because you couldn't sleep. The man who had never missed a school recital, who used to arrive thirty minutes early to every performance just so he could wave from the front row before the curtains opened, who texted you photographs of pastries he'd discovered because they reminded him of the ones you loved as a child, who once apologized for an entire week after missing a single bedtime story because an unexpected meeting had run late.

Now you were apologizing for wanting him to answer your messages.

"I'm sorry," you murmured automatically. "I didn't realize—"

He smiled. "It's alright."

You felt something inside you collapse with astonishing quietness not because he was angry, not because he had shouted, but because the smile resting on his face no longer belonged to your father, it belonged to a courteous stranger trying not to hurt someone else's daughter.

He stepped forward, pressed a brief kiss against your forehead out of habit rather than affection, wished you goodbye and climbed into his car without looking back. You remained standing exactly where he had left you, watching until the vehicle disappeared into the flow of traffic, your phone still clutched tightly in your hand.

Only then did you understand that grief was not always born from death.

Sometimes it arrived much more slowly, hidden inside unanswered messages, postponed lunches and conversations that became smaller every month, until one ordinary Saturday afternoon you found yourself standing alone in a parking lot realizing that you had lost your father while he was still alive.

—

The weeks that followed settled into a pattern so painfully predictable that they eventually ceased to feel like individual days at all. You still texted your father every now and then, always with the quiet restraint of someone terrified of becoming an inconvenience. Sometimes you asked how he was doing. Other times you told him about something inconsequential—a novel you had just finished, an amusing lecture at university, or a café you'd stumbled across that reminded you of the one he used to take you to when you were little. You never wrote much. Somewhere along the way, you had learned to compress affection into as few words as possible, as though love itself could become too heavy to send. His replies arrived hours later, sometimes the following day, and sometimes they never arrived at all.

"Busy."

"Maybe another day."

"We'll see."

Two words. Three, if you were lucky.

You kept telling yourself it meant nothing—that the divorce had been difficult for him too, that he simply needed time to rebuild a life that had been broken just as thoroughly as yours. You repeated those explanations with the discipline of someone memorizing a lesson she already knew wasn't true, because the weeks became months, the months continued slipping by, and still he never called unless you reached out first. Eventually, your messages became shorter as well, not because you had less to say, but because hope had quietly begun to teach you the value of lowering your expectations.

Saturdays began to resemble one another so perfectly that they blurred together into a single memory. You would wake with the quiet, unreasonable hope that perhaps your phone would contain a message from him and, when the screen remained empty—as it almost always did—you found yourself sending one instead.

Would you like to have lunch?

I'm near your office today.

I could stop by if you're free.

You always added an escape at the end, carefully constructing an excuse for him before he had the chance to make one himself.

"f you're busy, that's completely fine.

Whenever you have time.

No pressure.

It was remarkable how love could find endless ways to excuse neglect.

One Saturday, nearly a month after the last time you had seen him, he agreed. Not enthusiastically. Not happily. Simply:

Thirty minutes.

Nothing else.

Thirty minutes.

As though spending time with his daughter could be scheduled no differently than a business meeting, but for you, who had lived in a desert waiting for his affection, that was an oasis.

You arrived ten minutes early. You always arrived early when it came to him. He was already seated beside the café window, paperwork spread neatly across the table while he spoke on the phone. He didn't even look up when you walked inside. Instead, he raised one hand absentmindedly, gesturing for you to sit while he continued discussing contracts, deadlines, and meetings that seemed infinitely more important than your presence. So you waited. Five minutes. Seven. Ten.

When he finally ended the call, he offered you a polite smile—the sort of smile he might have given a client.

"Sorry. Busy morning."

"It's okay."

You always said that.

Always.

He ordered another coffee and asked how university was going. He nodded while you answered, though every few seconds his eyes drifted back toward the phone vibrating endlessly beside his cup. Halfway through one of your stories he answered an email; moments later he declined another incoming call, not because he wanted to hear you speak, but because it interrupted the rest of his schedule. You continued talking anyway, not because you believed he was truly listening, but simply because, after so many months, you had begun accepting anything that vaguely resembled spending time together.

When he finished his coffee, he glanced at his watch.

"I have to go."

You had been there twenty-six minutes.

He hadn't even stayed for the thirty he had promised.

You hugged him before saying goodbye. He returned the embrace with a distracted pat against your back, so brief it almost felt accidental. As you watched him disappear into the crowd, you found yourself trying to remember the last time your father had hugged you first.

You couldn't.

Baelor noticed long before anyone said anything. It wasn't obvious. There were no arguments between you and your father, no raised voices, no visible hostility. It was, strangely enough, the complete absence of those things that made the distance between you so unmistakable. Whenever your father appeared, something inside you seemed to shrink—not physically, but in a quieter, subtler way, as though part of you immediately began searching for his approval. You spoke more carefully, measured every sentence before letting it leave your lips, and smiled with a cautiousness Baelor never saw when you spoke to anyone else. He noticed something else, too. You were always the one reaching across the distance. You called. You texted. You asked. You tried. Your father simply responded... when he responded at all. The imbalance became impossible to ignore once Baelor had seen it.

He never mentioned it. It wasn't his place, nor did he ever attempt to replace the man who already occupied that place in your heart. Baelor understood that there were loves no one could inherit, absences no amount of kindness could erase, and wounds that belonged exclusively to the people who carried them. Still, he began paying attention. He realized that every time you returned from seeing your father, there was a new book tucked beneath your arm—not because your father had given it to you, but because you bought one yourself, usually on the way home, as though you needed to leave those meetings carrying something because you always walked away feeling as though your hands had been emptied.

One rainy afternoon he found you sitting on the library floor, surrounded by uneven stacks of novels while an annotated edition of Jane Eyre rested open across your knees. You had been staring at the same page for so long that it was obvious you had stopped reading several minutes earlier. Baelor didn't disturb the silence. He simply walked to one of the bookshelves, let his fingertips wander thoughtfully across the rows of worn spines until they settled upon a dark green volume, then crossed the room and held it out to you.

"Have you ever read this one?"

You lowered your eyes.

The Remains of the Day.

You shook your head. "No."

"I think you'd like it."

He offered no explanation. He didn't tell you it was about opportunities left behind, emotions buried beneath duty, or the quiet devastation of realizing what should have been said only after it had become impossible to say it. He simply handed you the book.

You accepted it with a small smile. "Thank you."

"If you disagree with the ending..." A faint smile touched his lips. "—I'd like to hear why."

That was all. He didn't linger when he saw your attention return to the pages. Instead, he selected another novel for himself, settled into the armchair opposite yours, and began reading in comfortable silence. For the first time in months, someone sat beside you without asking anything of you—without demanding conversation, without expecting smiles, without trying to rescue you from your own quiet. He simply shared the silence with you, and somehow that gentle restraint said far more than any attempt at comfort ever could, that act contained more attention than your father would ever have given you.

—

Over the following weeks, the distance between you and Baelor dissolved so gradually that neither of you could have pointed to the precise moment when occasional conversation became routine. It began, as many unexpected things do, with books. He noticed that every time he found you somewhere in the house, there was another novel resting on your knees, another page folded over with absentminded care, another pencil tucked between the chapters. One afternoon, almost out of simple curiosity, he asked what you were reading, expecting the sort of polite answer that would end the exchange after a sentence or two.

Instead, you spoke for nearly half an hour.

You talked about history, about unreliable narrators, about the peculiar loneliness that seemed to haunt nineteenth-century literature, and about the strange comfort of characters who were never entirely understood. You listened before you disagreed, challenged ideas without hostility, and possessed the rare ability to make disagreement feel less like conflict than collaboration. It reminded Baelor of conversations he had once believed existed only within university halls, the kind that lingered in the mind long after they had ended.

From then on, speaking with you became remarkably effortless. It was never inappropriate, never unusually intimate, simply natural. Conversations that began with a recommendation soon wandered into philosophy, politics, poetry, architecture, or history, only to circle back to literature again. Sometimes they spoke for ten minutes. Sometimes an hour slipped away without either of you noticing. There was nothing unusual about it, at least not on the surface.

Your mother couldn't have been happier.

She had hoped the two of you would eventually find common ground, and watching the awkward courtesy of that first dinner slowly transform into genuine ease felt, to her, like confirmation that she had made the right decision. Whenever she found the two of you discussing history over breakfast or exchanging books after dinner, she smiled quietly to herself, pleased that the man she loved had taken such sincere interest in making you feel welcome within what he hoped would soon become a shared family.

She mistook familiarity for harmony.

She had no reason not to.

By the time the invitation to spend the weekend at the family's seaside villa arrived, your conversations had become an ordinary part of daily life. No one questioned them anymore. Baelor would ask what you were reading, you would ask whether he had ever finished the biography he had mentioned the week before, and the discussion would unfold naturally while everyone else carried on with their own routines. It looked exactly as one might expect from two people who simply happened to enjoy the same subjects.

The villa overlooked the sea, its wide terraces bathed in warm afternoon light while the constant rhythm of the waves softened every conversation into something almost dreamlike. Guests drifted naturally into smaller groups. Your mother remained beneath the pergola with a glass of wine in her hand, exchanging stories with friends, while Matarys disappeared toward the shoreline in search of shells, leaving you leaning comfortably against the stone balustrade with Valarr.

The conversation had begun, as so many of yours did, with a book.

Valarr insisted that a certain character's downfall had been inevitable from the very first chapter. You disagreed immediately, folding your arms with quiet certainty before explaining that it had never been ambition that doomed him, but vanity itself. He laughed, accusing you of always defending impossible arguments. You answered that he had a habit of confusing confidence with intelligence, prompting him to place an exaggerated hand over his chest and declare himself mortally offended. You smiled despite yourself, and a soft laugh escaped your lips, carried away almost instantly by the sea breeze.

Across the terrace, Baelor looked up.

At first, your mother assumed the sound of your laughter had merely drawn his attention. Then she realized he was no longer listening to the conversation unfolding around him. Someone sitting beside him continued speaking, another guest laughed, glasses clinked gently against the table, yet none of it seemed to reach him.

He was watching you.

Not with pride, not with amusement, not even with suspicion.

His attention had narrowed so completely that everything else appeared to dissolve beyond the edges of his awareness. He followed the conversation between you and Valarr with an almost unsettling concentration, as though every sentence you spoke deserved to be carefully examined before it disappeared, every smile unconsciously catalogued, every gesture committed to memory without him realizing he was doing it.

It was not affection, it was not desire. It was something your mother found far more difficult to understand.

It resembled the fixed concentration of a scholar confronted by a question he could not solve, or a collector standing before a painting he could not persuade himself to stop studying. There was something strangely absolute about it, something that excluded the rest of the world with quiet, almost frightening ease.

Then Valarr said something else.

You laughed again.

Only for a moment. Nothing more than a brief burst of genuine amusement.

Yet, in that same instant, something crossed Baelor's face so quickly that your mother almost convinced herself she had imagined it. His jaw tightened by the smallest degree. A faint crease appeared between his brows before vanishing just as quickly, like a ripple disturbing perfectly still water before the surface became smooth again.

The transformation lasted no longer than a heartbeat.

Someone beside him asked a question. He answered without hesitation. He smiled. He lifted his glass.

Within seconds he had resumed the effortless composure for which everyone admired him, carrying on the conversation as though his attention had never wandered elsewhere.

No one noticed, no one except your mother.

She could not have explained what disturbed her so profoundly. There had been no inappropriate gesture, no careless remark, nothing she could ever repeat aloud without sounding irrational. If anyone had asked what she had seen, she would have struggled to put it into words.

And yet, as she watched Baelor continue embodying the flawless gentleman everyone believed him to be, an unfamiliar unease settled quietly beneath her ribs.

She had not witnessed the expression of a man who had simply become distracted. She had witnessed someone whose attention had remained fixed on a single person for far longer than it ever should have.

For the first time since bringing the two of you together, she found herself asking a question she could neither answer nor dismiss.

Not what Baelor had been thinking, but why, for those few silent moments, he had seemed to forget that anyone else in the world existed.

She had never provoked that in him before.

—

The library had become their unspoken meeting place.

It was the quietest room in the house, sheltered beneath high ceilings and walls crowded with books collected over decades. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, settling over polished oak shelves and turning the floating dust into slow-moving flecks of gold. Somewhere beyond the glass, the garden shimmered beneath the summer heat, but inside, time seemed content to remain still.

You sat in one of the leather armchairs, a novel resting open across your knees.

Baelor entered carrying two cups of tea.

"I thought you might be here."

"I usually am."

"I've noticed."

There was nothing unusual in his tone. He placed one cup beside you before his eyes drifted toward the book in your lap.

"Lolita?"

You looked down at the familiar cover. "I've never actually read it."

"No?"

"I know what people say about it."

"They usually say the wrong thing." That caught your attention.

"You don't think it's a love story."

It wasn't a question. Baelor smiled faintly.

"No." He lowered himself into the chair opposite yours and folded one leg over the other.

"I think it's one of the greatest examples of an unreliable narrator ever written."

You tilted your head. "So the opening doesn't romanticize him?"

"It seduces the reader," he answered after a moment. "There's a difference."

He reached toward the coffee table, where an old annotated copy already lay waiting, and opened it with the familiarity of someone returning to a place he knew by heart. Without theatricality, he read the first lines aloud.

"Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul."

The room fell quiet.

He closed the book again. "It's beautiful prose."

"It is."

"And that's precisely the danger."

You frowned.

"The language is so extraordinary that, for a moment, you forget who's speaking."

You traced a finger along the edge of your own copy. "So the beauty becomes... camouflage."

A small smile appeared on Baelor's face. "Exactly."

He seemed genuinely pleased—not because you agreed with him, but because you had arrived at the conclusion yourself. "The novel asks something uncomfortable of the reader," he continued. "Whether elegance can make evil sound convincing."

You considered that for several seconds. "I don't think it can."

"No?"

"It can delay your judgment." You looked toward the rain beginning to gather against the windows. "It can make you hesitate." A pause settled between you. "But eventually," you said quietly, "you have to remember who's telling the story."

Baelor's gaze rested on you for a brief moment before he nodded. "Yes.” His voice had become strangely thoughtful. "That's the part people forget."

Neither of you spoke again for a while.

The silence wasn't awkward. It was the kind born from a conversation that had ended naturally, leaving both people with something to think about.

Outside, the first drops of rain began striking the windows. Inside, the two copies of Lolita remained open on the table between you—not as a romance, nor as an object of admiration, but as a reminder that the most dangerous stories are often told by voices eloquent enough to make us forget, if only briefly, that they cannot be trusted.

You'd learn that soon.

Baelor remained quiet for a while after closing the book, his fingertips resting lightly against its worn cover as though reluctant to break the silence that Nabokov's opening had left behind. Outside, the rain continued tracing slow paths across the windows, blurring the gardens into muted shades of green and gray.

"May I ask you something?"

You looked up from your own copy.

"Of course."

He considered his words carefully before speaking, his eyes focused on you, and in them, the same strangely appreciative look that he had given you at the first dinner. "Have you ever experienced that suffocating desire for someone?" He leaned closer to you. "That heavy feeling coursing through your bones, stealing your breath? Disturbing your sleep? Corrupting your very being?" His face was now just inches from yours.

Yes, you were going to answer, yes. I've felt it for my father's affection, I've begged for it. I've gone to bed thinking about the barriers that stand in the way of our nonexistent connection. That he doesn't love me, that he suffocates me and revives me every time I see him.

But you stopped. Overlapping you were two kinds of desires inherent in human beings: the thirst for affection that you projected onto your father, and, beside you, the unequivocal primal desire that Baelor's eyes transmitted in you, towards you, for you. Your reaction was late when you felt the contact of his lips against yours, his aging skin against the firmness of yours.

The third sensation was a revulsion that boiled within you, preventing you from pushing him away from you with a strong thrust. Anyone who witnessed the act would interpret this as consent, but this could not be further from the truth.

This was wrong. There was no fancy word to disguise it, no right thermal. Recovering from the vulnerability, you pulled away from the seat and from him. "What—what the hell did you just do?" Your voice was trembling.

"I..." Baelor was looking at you the same way as always, with that hint of something inscrutable that you hadn't yet deciphered. "My deepest apologies. I noticed that glimmer in your eyes—"

"You assumed that I wanted it."

"—and I decided to take it."

Take it. As one does with one's own belongings when they fall to the ground. Take it. As when one believes legitimate possession over something or someone.

"I didn't want to—I didn't—" You looked anywhere but at his face. "You're my mother's boyfriend. I'm the same age as your oldest son, why would I want to?"

Instead of answering immediately, his eyes drifted to your lips, to the sweet nectar he had just tasted. He rose from his seat, and taking a few steps closer, he was standing in front of you. "I see you" He began. "You wish it because I see you. I'm the only human who pays attention to you. I know your blessings and sorrows, the way you shrink when you send a message from your father. You need me, you're hungry, and I can feed you."

He saw you. He had done it; he had seen the need for love, the misfortunes that occurred in your mother's company. He noticed the balm that books were for you, how absence was your life, and, consequently, his best way of access you.

He was right.

"You—" You pressed your lips together, trying to calm your inner turmoil. "You have no right to judge me or my life. You don't know me, you are not important to me."

While you defended what you believed to be reality, he breached the remaining thin wall to reach you. With genuine affection, he wrapped his arms around yours. An embrace. Something so simple, yet so devastating.

"Shhh," his calloused fingers caressed your scalp. "Let it go." Heavy tears streamed down your cheeks, trailing down to his immaculate shirt. The dampness of the fabric clung to your skin, and it was unpleasant, just like the lively erection that stood against your thigh.

But it was attention, right? You wanted it. It didn't matter from whom, just please, notice me.

His large palms slid down to your waist. "You're just a pathetic little girl who needs to be noticed, Y/N." His face buried itself in your hair. "You want it. You've been chasing him ever since your parents separated and Dad, as a customer who's paid off his debt, washed his hands of the bank. He didn't love you the way I do."

"You're no longer his responsibility. That's why he abandoned you, little one." He slowly leaned you down at the table where they had both been sitting. "A burden, your father sees you as a burden."

You knew it. You felt it. You were it.

Your father showed it with every postponed outing, by only fulfilling his financial obligations, in how he spoke of your meetings as mere slots in his schedule. You weren't his daughter, just a task on his endless monthly to-do list, if you were lucky.

When Baelor placed his lips against yours again, you realized. You wanted him, didn't you? You wanted someone to want you. Not like this, but it was still want. His mouth was gentle, expert and patient, just like the rest of him.

He wanted you to believe that you deserved to be touched by him. That way, this violation wouldn't feel like a crime or mere lust, but like liberation, and he was succeeding.

"I'll give you everything" was what you exactly wanted to hear. "You're not a burden, sweetheart. You're a blessing. The personification of an angel sent from heaven," he proclaimed as his palms cupped your breasts over your clothes, squeezing. "Say it. Say you deserve it."

What exactly did you deserve? His dirty hands on your body? Your mother's demands? Your father's abandonment? Misunderstanding? Isolation? Insecurity?

What, what was it that you so richly deserved?

You didn't say anything. You were frozen, crying on the table. His hands moved down to your thighs, his touch now demanding as he groped you, making his way to your crotch.

"Say it," he demanded. "Tell me. Tell me what you deserve."

This was the Steppenwolf Hesse referred to in his prose. Wild, maladjusted, hidden. He tore at your underwear with such intensity that panic surged through you at the reality. The ruined fabric was real, as was his uninvited touch on your skin.

You kicked him, and he stopped you. "Stay still," he warned. "You want it. You haven't pushed me away once, and you do it just when things escalate?" He squeezed your thigh roughly, digging his fingers into your flesh, making you whimper. "Tell me. Say you want it."

"No—"

"I would be careful with the words that come out of my mouth" One last sentence. "Now. You'll open your legs like the good girl you are, I'll take you, and no soul will ever know about this. Or do you want to lose your only source of affection?" His face was close to yours. "Do you prefer your mother getting to know what a whore she has for a daughter?"

His language was foul. There was no ethical or respectful gentleness accompanying his words. It was raw, real. The wolf—or dragon—beneath disguised as a sheep.

You didn't answer. That was answer enough. "Good."

You didn't realize when he had removed his pants, but you did when you felt his phallus tear at your walls. A painful sob escaped your throat, one that was silenced by your unpleasant lips. It was impossible not to notice the temporal difference in their bodies, the youth and the age.

His attacks were cruel. His hands, restless. They were digging somewhere to grab, and they were never satisfied.

—

"Baelor asked how your classes were going."

Your mother's voice carried the same effortless composure with which she spoke about the weather, dinner reservations, or charity galas. There was nothing particularly significant in the sentence itself, yet something about the way she chose to mention his name made it sound almost rehearsed, as though she had been waiting for the right moment to introduce it into the conversation.

You continued stirring your tea without looking up.

"That was thoughtful of him." There was a certain unease in your voice, almost anxious.

"He seemed genuinely interested."

The spoon circled lazily against the porcelain before you set it aside.

"He likes talking to you. He mentions your conversations surprisingly often" The sound of her heels echoed as she approached you. "Especially the conversations in the library."

Library.

"He says you have an extraordinary way of looking at literature." Her fake smile widened almost imperceptibly. "Apparently the two of you spent nearly an hour discussing Lolita the other afternoon. He seemed quite pleased, if you ask me."

You knew what he meant, and you weren't going to answer.

"Pleased, Y/N. My boyfriend looked pleased."

"Mom—"

"You—you slept with him. With your own mother's boyfriend." She bit her perfectly painted lip. "I know. He smelled like your perfume. That's why he pays you so much attention, the reason he looks at you the way he does: like he's eyeing prey."

"He raped me!" you exclaimed, your voice breaking, dark circles under your eyes visible. "He took me, he—" Herhand slapped you across the face, hard.

She felt betrayed. Her own daughter sleeping with her partner, accusing him of rape after moaning his name surrounded by books and walking out of the library as if nothing had happened, making her look like a fool.

"You little brat." She pointed a finger at you. "Baelor would never—he would never do that unless you provoked him. You've been sleeping with your mother's boyfriend, Y/N. Aren't you ashamed?!"

You didn't know this version of Mom. The out-of-control, irrational one, the one who believed him.

"And you dare accuse a man of his caliber of raping you? You?" He looked you up and down, judging you. "You, who won't dress up unless I tell you to? Who would rape a girl who doesn't even take the time to care about her appearance? You damn whore."

Baelor was right.

Humbert had captivated thousands of readers with nothing more than language. His greatest weapon had never been desire, but narration. He chose which details deserved to be remembered and which would quietly disappear between paragraphs, softened cruelty beneath exquisite prose, and wrapped obsession in poetry until even intelligent readers found themselves hesitating before condemning him. History had always belonged to whoever told it best, and the voice that controlled the story inevitably controlled the judgment that followed.

Baelor understood that better than anyone. He controlled the narrative.

Minyoung would spread himself out somewhere in the shade with a stack of paper and start drawing whatever insect or dinosaur had his full attention that day. Anton would sit nearby with a pencil of his own, sketching beautiful landscapes or even faces.

You were never much of an artist, you stuck to architectural designs and sometimes landscape but it was never your specialty. You never really showed people your architectural work, not even Maya or Harvey but you found yourself wanting to share your work with Anton and he always complimented you without fail, noticing little details that would have gone unnoticed by many.

Other days, Minyoung would climb into your lap with a book too big for his hands and read to you until he got bored and started spitballing facts about sea otters and tree frogs. Sometimes the books were about insects, sometimes dinosaurs, once an entire one about deep sea creatures that left you momentarily worried for Maude and her family who were on a cruise across the Pacific.

You had even stopped checking your phone every ten minutes to see what everyone else was doing without you. You still missed Harvey and Maya of course, you still missed noise and traffic and being able to order food past midnight but the FOMO had died down and the mountains stopped feeling like such a huge punishment.

The mountains brought you a father and his bug obsessed six year old son, a duo you never would have thought you needed but yet manage to bring joy to your otherwise dull and lonely life.

You can confidently say Anton has become a good friend.

He listened when you complained, which was unfortunate because you did a lot of that. About the heat, the bugs, the reception. He often would just look at you and let you go on and on before asking if you were finished or give you a reasonable answer to your complaints. After that you would move on and talk about pretty much anything, from the weather to music to what he should make Minyoung for dinner. It should be odd how well you fit but you enjoy his company.

Which is why, when you come downstairs that afternoon and find Mrs. Kim in the kitchen arranging three jars of lemonade onto a tray, you don’t need to ask who they’re for.

The lemonade is pale yellow and suspiciously cloudy with enough sugar in it to make your teeth ache just looking at it. Minyoung likes it that way. Anton says it’s less lemonade and more liquid candy but still drinks it every time he’s here. You catch sight of the extra little plate balanced beside the jars too, already stacked with sliced fruit and chocolate chip cookies you baked the day before.

Mrs. Kim looks up when she hears your footsteps and offers you a small smile before lifting the tray. “I was just taking this outside.”

“I’ve got it,” you say, stepping forward before she can protest.

The tray is cool against your palms, the glasses clinking softly as you carry it through the back doors and out onto the patio. The humidity hits you almost immediately. By the time you cross the stone toward the lounge chairs by the pool, you can already feel the heat settling at the back of your neck.

Minyoung notices you first. He sits cross-legged on one of the chairs with a book open across his lap, his glasses sliding low on his nose and his hair slightly damp from the heat. Anton is beside him in a white wife beater and shorts, one arm stretched along the back of the chair while he half listens to whatever Minyoung is saying and half squints down at something on the page. He looks good you think to yourself.

“Noona!” Minyoung brightens immediately. “You’re here!”

You set the tray down on the little table beside them and hand him the sweetest-looking glass first. “Well duh, I live here, bug.” You say dryly.

Minyoung giggles and reaches for the lemonade with both hands. The outside of the glass is already sweating in the heat, little drops of condensation sliding down over his fingers as he takes a long sip. Anton takes his next, glancing down into it like he already knows exactly how much sugar is waiting for him.

You prop a hand on your hip and look out toward the water, the pool glittering bright beneath the afternoon sun. “Gosh, it’s hot.”

It’s not lost on you how you make sure to sensor yourself to avoid cussing in front of the kid. It’s something you find yourself doing more and more often. You turn your head and catch Anton wiping the back of his wrist across his forehead. The heat has left a slight sheen across his chest and shoulders, the white tank doing absolutely nothing to make him less distracting. You look away before your gaze can linger long enough to become obvious and nod toward the pool.

“It’s a good day to go swimming.”

Anton’s head turns toward you immediately looking almost worried that your words might reach Minyoung's ears. You cock your head to the side in confusion as Minyoung sits up straighter in his chair, lemonade forgotten in his hands. “Drowning is one of the leading causes of accidental death,” he says.

You blink at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “For children and also…” He squints down at the book in his lap as though the exact number might be written somewhere between the butterflies and fish. “A lot of adults too, probably.”

You stare at him for a second then slowly turn toward Anton. Anton sighs into his lemonade and sets the glass down. “Minyoung doesn’t know how to swim.”

You frown. “Really?”

Anton nods once. “Not for lack of effort. I tried when he was younger.” His mouth twitches faintly, though there’s more resignation than humor in it.

Minyoung hunches a little over his book. “I don’t like not touching the floor.”

Anton glances at him. “I know.”

The patio goes quiet for a moment after that. Minyoung looks almost embarrassed at the fact but Anton doesn’t push. He just reaches over and taps the side of Minyoung’s glass with one finger. “Drink your lemonade before all the ice melts.”

Minyoung obeys, though not without a small frown and you find yourself watching the way his shoulders hunch around the book. “You know…I didn’t learn how to swim until I was eighteen.” You say after a moment.

Both of them look at you, Minyoung’s eyes widen. “Really?”

You nod. “Really.”

It isn’t exactly something you talk about often, there has never been much reason to. Back home, swimming had always been Maude’s thing. Maude and her records and her water polo matches and her endless collection of medals your parents used to display like religious relics.

They had tried with you too, when you were younger. Lessons, instructors, the whole routine but you were never quite comfortable in the water and it took longer for things to click than anyone wanted it to so eventually they stopped paying for the lessons and pivoted to the one thing you were actually good at, horse riding. Something you took to quickly enough that nobody had to waste time being patient with you.

“It was kind of embarrassing,” you admit, looking down at the condensation slipping over your glass. 

Minyoung is listening to you now, even Anton has gone quiet. “My friends taught me,” you continue. You were on your first trip with Maya and Harvey freshman year to the Amalfi Coast, they were shocked you were willing to go yachting with them not knowing how to swim so they took it upon themselves to spend the whole first day teaching you.

“I thought they were going to laugh at me.”

“But they didn’t?” Minyoung asks.

You shake your head. “Not once.”

The answer seems to matter to him. You clear your throat and bend down so you’re level with him. “So if you want, I can teach you.”

Minyoung glances immediately at the pool, fear lighting up his face so you quickly cut in. “We can get floaties and stay in the shallow end the whole time. You can hold onto me if you want or your dad, or both of us.” You shrug one shoulder. “Whatever makes you feel safer.”

Minyoung worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “But what if I go under?”

“You won’t,” you say simply.

He doesn’t look convinced so you add, “Because I won’t let you.”

You can feel Anton watching you closely but you don’t look in his direction, instead you keep your attention on his son and say even more softly, “your dad will be there too and he used to swim professionally so between the two of us you’re probably the safest person in South Korea.”

That earns another small smile from Anton though he says nothing. Minyoung still hesitates, his fingers now twisting in the hem of his shirt. “With floaties?”

“With floaties,” you promise.

“And I can touch the floor?”

You nod slightly, “at first, yes.”

“And if I don’t like it I can get out?”

“Immediately.” You say seriously.

He looks at Anton then, his father meets his eyes and says, calm as ever, “We’d both be right there.”

Minyoung’s grip loosens from his shirt then very slowly, he nods.

Anton looks at him for another second as if making sure the answer is real and not something his son is about to immediately take back. When Minyoung doesn’t, he glances up at you instead. “I can run home and get his swim trunks,” he says.

You nod. “I’ll find floaties.”

That seems to settle it. Minyoung slides off the chair with his book still tucked beneath one arm and begins pacing the edge of the pool. Every so often he mutters something under his breath that sounds like a list: breathe, shallow end, floaties, daddy, noona. It’s weirdly endearing.

Anton notices it too. He presses a hand briefly to the back of Minyoung’s head and says, “We’ll be back in ten, okay?”

Minyoung nods without looking at him. “Okay.”

Anton disappears with him not long after that and the second they’re gone you head inside to find whatever inflatable neon-colored monstrosity your grandmother’s storage closet has to offer. You end up with a pair of arm floaties decorated with little cartoon fish and a bright pink pool noodle. You drop the items off by the pool before heading back inside.

You go upstairs and stand in front of your suitcase for longer than necessary before finally pulling out a bikini. It’s one of the nicer ones you packed for Greece and never got to wear, pale blue and minimal. It would’ve looked excellent on a yacht somewhere off the Saronic gulf but now will have to settle for your grandmother’s pool in the mountains of South Korea.

By the time you make it back outside, the two of them are already by the water. Minyoung has changed into little navy swim trunks and stands near the edge of the pool with his goggles looped around one wrist, not yet brave enough to put them on. Anton is beside him in black swim trunks, arms folded loosely across his chest as he watches his son scan the water thoughtfully. Neither of them notices you right away and for a moment you just stand there, taking in the sight.

Minyoung is clearly trying to work himself up to it and Anton with the patience of a saint is just standing there letting him.

He just stands there letting his son have the time he needs without crowding him or trying to force him before he’s ready. Anton looks up first when he hears your steps on the stone.

His eyes find your face then dip just briefly to the details of your bikini. It’s quick but not so brief that you miss it. The look is quick enough to be polite and long enough to tell you he definitely noticed your figure. Something flickers across his expression and then he’s looking back at your face like nothing happened. You pretend not to notice.

You walk over to the floaties to begin blowing them up while Minyoung continues his walks round the pool perimeter, taking his necessary precautions. Anton comes over to help you, while you work on the right floatie he blows up the left.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You shrug and hold the floatie up. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my street cred.”

That gets a laugh out of him, you find yourself feeling pleased and left with the desire to keep being the one making him laugh.

“I’ll try to keep your reputation intact,” he says.

Minyoung turns at the sound of your voices and spots the floaties immediately. You walk over and crouch in front of him, holding them out. “Ready bug?”

Minyoung stares at the cartoon fish printed on them. “They look babyish.”

You gasp in mock offense. “Excuse you! All the great swimmers have used these floaties before.”

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

“That’s how you know they’re good,” you continue. “Only the best swimmers get fish like these.”

Minyoung giggles before shaking his head. “You’re silly noona!”

You smile in response and help him put on his goggles before he lifts his arms and allows you to place on his floaties. Once they’re in place, he stares down at them for a second trying to adjust.

“Well?” you ask.

He rolls his shoulders experimentally. “They’re okay.”

You clap. “Awesome!”

You stand and set the pool noodle aside for later then look at the pool. “I’m getting in first.”

Minyoung’s attention snaps right back to the water.

You toss your cover-up on the nearest chair and step toward the shallow end, aware in the back of your mind that Anton is still watching you.

The water is cool when you lower yourself in, a sharp relief against the humidity clinging to your skin. You wade in until it reaches just above your waist then turn back toward the edge and hold out your arms to Minyoung.

“See? No drowning. Very boring so far.” You say.

Minyoung hovers at the edge, floaties bright against his small arms. Anton crouches beside him, one forearm braced over his knee as he looks up at his son. “You don’t have to do this today. If it feels too scary, that’s okay. We can try again another day.” He says quietly.

Minyoung’s fingers curl against the tops of his floaties. For a second you think he might take the out. He looks at the water then at you then back at Anton. His mouth presses into a tiny line.

“Daddy does stuff that scares him,” he says after a moment, voice small but certain.

Anton’s face softens immediately. “Yeah?”

Minyoung nods once. “So I can too.”

You find yourself suffering from cuteness aggression. Anton smiles big enough for Minyoung to see it and take courage from it. “You can,” he assures.

Minyoung turns back toward you after that and gives one tiny, solemn nod. “Okay…I’m ready.”

You step a little closer and hold out your hand. “Come on then, bug. Nice and slow.”

He takes it. At first it’s easy. The water barely reaches his ankles, then his shins, then his knees as you guide him carefully down the shallow steps one at a time. You don’t rush him. Every few seconds you pause and let him adjust, let him feel the water moving around him, let him decide for himself that he’s still safe. Behind him, Anton follows a step or two back, close enough to catch him if needed but not so close that it feels like crowding.

Minyoung’s grip on your hand tightens the deeper he goes. By the time the water reaches his waist, his breaths have started coming quicker. You can see him doing the math in his head, measuring the distance back to the steps, the slope of the pool floor beneath his feet, all the possibilities that end with him sinking instead of swimming. He takes one more step and his heel slips just enough off the bottom that panic flashes across his face all at once.

“Noona—”

You move before he can spiral. Your arms wrap around him immediately, one around his back and the other beneath his little arms as you gather him against you. He clings just as fast, floaties squeaking softly as his arms lock around your shoulders and his knees tuck reflexively against your hips. “I’ve got you,” you say at once. “I’ve got you, bug. You’re okay.”

Behind you, the water shifts. Anton fully gets in then, the pool sloshing quietly around him as he moves closer. A second later he’s there, close enough that when you step back to steady your footing, the solid plane of his chest brushes your back for half a second. You have to force your attention away from that immediately.

Minyoung gulps against your shoulder, still breathing too fast. “Okay,” he says, though it comes out shaky. “Okay…I’m okay.”

“You are, you’re doing really well.” Anton says from behind you, voice calm and even.

Minyoung loosens his grip only enough to look between the two of you. His eyes are still wide behind his goggles. You shift him a little higher and smile. “See? No drowning. Still very boring.”

That earns the tiniest breath of laughter out of him. Anton slips a hand around your waist and squeezes gently, you fight the urge to press up against him. “I’m going to go to the other end,” he says to Minyoung. “You and Noona come to me when you’re ready, okay?”

Minyoung hesitates then he nods. Anton gives him one more encouraging look before swimming backward toward the far side of the shallow end, giving the two of you space while still staying close enough to reach you in seconds if he needs to. You turn your attention back to Minyoung and adjust your hold so he can start to feel the floaties doing some of the work.

“Okay,” you say softly. “We’re not going to do anything scary. Just gonna start with the basics, floating.”

Minyoung looks deeply suspicious of this plan. “You promised,” he reminds you.

“I know and I meant it.” You smile.

Very slowly, you lean him away just enough that the floaties catch the water properly beneath his arms. He stiffens immediately, every muscle in his little body locking with the effort of trying not to sink, even though you’re still holding him.

“Bug, You have to stop fighting it.” You say gently.

“But what if—”

“You won’t. The floaties are holding you. I’m holding you. Your dad’s right there.” You nod toward Anton at the other end, where he waits with his arms resting along the pool edge, eyes fixed entirely on his son. “Nothing bad is happening.”

Minyoung swallows and tries again. This time he lets himself lean back a little more. Not much. Just enough for the floaties to bob properly. His mouth opens in surprise.

You grin. “There you go.”

He looks over at Anton immediately. “Daddy!”

Anton smiles. “I saw.”

The pride in his voice seems to do something for Minyoung because when he looks back at you, he looks a little less frightened and a little more curious.

“Again?” you ask.

Minyoung nods eagerly. This time when you lean him back, he doesn’t go rigid quite as fast. He still grabs for you at first but after a second he remembers what just happened and forces himself to loosen his grip and the floaties keep him up. “There you go, see? You’re okay.”

Anton smiles from the edge of the pool. “You’re doing great, buddy.”

You spend the next several minutes doing little more than that. Floating, straightening, letting him feel the water hold him. Eventually the panic leaves him. Once he’s managing to float you shift him upright again and say, “Okay. Now we try kicking.”

He looks at you betrayed. “You said this was just floating.”

“And now it’s just kicking.” You shrug.

He pouts but doesn’t argue. “Just kick behind you. Kinda like…” You pause, thinking. “Like you’re trying to splash your dad.”

That, more than anything, seems to do it. Minyoung kicks once, tentative and awkward then again, a little harder. Water splashes up around his legs in uneven bursts, some droplets making its way over to Anton.

“Again,” you encourage.

This time he kicks harder. His body stays afloat more easily now, especially with your arm steady beneath him and little by little his movements stop looking choppy and awkward flailing and start looking like something closer to swimming.

“There you go! Keep doing that.”